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fuckyeahdindjarin · 9 months ago

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Denim on Denim

A Seams x Grays crossover

Summary: Joel tries to get a haircut - but it turns out he can’t do anything in the QZ without getting into a fistfight, and you’re lucky enough to be in the audience.

Warnings: Mildly spicy thoughts, two sexy men fighting, language, reader was a hairdresser prior to the outbreak and has a nickname related to her job, no use of Y/N, no physical descriptions of reader, very lightly edited.

This oneshot can be read independently of the two series, but for the full experience, I recommend reading at least Grays. This is a post-outbreak AU of Grays, and is set before Seams Joel leaves the QZ. Part of the Shiv's salon drabbles.

Word count: 2.7k

Notes: A whole year after my random thoughts about how Joel's hair looks that good in an apocalypse and a random notif on this post that reminded of it, we finally get Joel to Shiv's salon... or do we? 🤷🏻‍♀️ I had a blast writing this oneshot - it's a bit silly, a bit spicy, I hope you enjoy it ❤️

‘Goddamnit.’

Joel swipes viciously at the curl hanging over eyes, like a boxer at a punchbag. Try as he might to slick it back, every time his shovel hits the dirt, the hair uncoils, bouncing obnoxiously in his field of vision.

He needs a fucking haircut. Tess usually does it for him every month or so, but she’s been in a mood - snapping at him, keeping him at arm’s length, she hasn’t even been to his apartment for two whole weeks.

This time of the year is hard for her. He knows all too well that he’s the same every September. They’re in each of their own time loops, a cage within the trappings of the QZ.

‘You look like you need a trim, bro.’

Joel barely glances up. He knows the guy, they share a surname after all. People call him Ben, or Benny, and even an old man like him knows he’s a good-looking son of a bitch.

They work the same shifts sometimes, and he knows Tess has crossed paths with him at the illegal fight nights. Joel has also seen him a few times at the bar, where he’s usually surrounded by even more good-looking motherfuckers.

Joel knows he’s a damn flirt too. He always has pretty words for Tess when he sees her. He’s harmless though, and he supposes that she deserves sweet nothings from at least one Miller since he’s no good at them.

Realising he hasn’t responded, Joel grunts noncommittally, self-consciousness prickling the back of his neck.

‘I know someone, she was a professional hairdresser before all this.’

Joel ignores him and keeps shovelling.

‘If you tell her you know me, she’ll give you a good rate.’

More shovelling.

‘Alright man, my shift’s up. See you ‘round.’

Five steps, and Joel sighs, digging the shovel into the dirt.

‘Wait.’

Joel stands on the doorway, and stares.

There’s an actual backwash in the corner of the dingy living room - well, living space. There are no doors in the tenement apartments.

‘You waiting for it to say hello back, or what?’

His eyes snap to yours, a scowl drawing his brows together.

Not that you look at all intimidated, one eyebrow arched high and an amused smile sitting lopsided on your lips, which he will admit throws him just a bit. He’s not used to having to work for it.

Giving you a tight nod, he takes two steps into the apartment. He recognises the layout, a mirror of his own, which is a few blocks away.

Closing the door with a flourish behind him, you ask brightly, ‘You’re here for a haircut?’

He’s about to answer when something winks at him, and he looks up, momentarily blinded by the reflection of afternoon light in the cracked mirror that hangs over a battered styling station.

Your apartment has windows that don’t look directly onto the next building, and sun floods the space. Even light is a real rarity in the shithole of a QZ, where everything indoors is dingy. He idly wonders if you had to bribe someone -

Distracted, he catches the sliver of a shadow moving from the corner of his eye a split second later than he would if he was on high alert. On reflex, his fingers find the hilt of his knife and he whips it out in a wide arc, swinging to his left where gunmetal catches the afternoon light.

‘Drop it!’ he barks, the same moment as the other man growls, ‘The fuck are you doing in my home with a knife?’

To Joel’s bewilderment, you chuckle somewhere to his right, amused. ‘C’mon guys. Dramatic, much?’

‘He snuck up on me,’ Joel growls defensively.

‘Frankie, put your gun away, dude’s just here for a haircut - I’m assuming anyway, he never did answer my question.’

‘Yes, I’m here for a haircut,’ he snaps, resheathing his knife. ‘Fuck would I be doin’ here if not?’

‘Fuck should I know, dipshit?’ retorts Frankie, tucking his gun in the back of his jeans. ‘You always bring a knife to your haircuts?’

‘D’ya always threaten to shoot paying customers?’

‘No, we definitely do not.’ You step into the space between the two men in case they get snippy with each other again. ‘Who sent you?’

Your customer crosses his arms, and you can’t help noticing the fabric of his shirt stretching across those broad shoulders. ‘Blondie.’

‘Blondie?’ you frown, confused. ‘Oh wait, you mean Ben? I thought I recognised you. I’ve seen you at one of his fights, with your wife? What’s her name now -’

‘Tess,’ he replies, then promptly looks like he wishes he’d stopped himself before he answered. ‘She’s not my -’ he trails off, and it’s clear he doesn’t like how you’re reading him at the moment, grumbling, ‘None of your damn business.’

‘Hey, you watch your mouth around my lady, old man,’ warns Frankie, ratcheting up the tension again.

Squaring his shoulders, the man seems to grow two inches. ‘Or what?’

Suddenly aware of being caught in the crossfire between your protective husband on one side, and this gruff, silvered stranger on the other, heat bubbles unbidden under your skin, the unexpected reaction from your body catching you off guard.

Biting your lower lip, you clear your throat, and somehow you sound steadier than you feel when you dispense the orders.

‘Ok, this is enough. Frankie, sit down over there,’ you say, pointing him in the direction of the couch on the other side of the room. ‘And you - since you’re Benny’s friend, two ration cards.’

‘’M not his friend,’ he almost spits out that last word, as if it tastes weird.

You give him a pointed look. ‘Three ration cards, then.’

He huffs, and hands you two from his back pocket. ‘Fine, I’m Benny’s friend.’

You grin. ‘If you’re besties, it’s one.’

‘Don’t push it.’

You back off with a chuckle. ‘Fine, not besties. Maybe next time. Now sit.’

Joel does as he’s told, awkwardly, in the styling chair, a relic from the pre-outbreak days. It creaks dangerously under his weight, and it wobbles, slightly off-kilter. The cracked leather is warm from the sun, which seeps into his skin, and he finds himself wondering when was the last time he went to a hair salon.

Sarah used to love cutting his hair. She always made an afternoon out of it on one of his rare days not working overtime, putting the music on, setting up her Barbie mirror on the dining room table, and having him pick out a hairstyle from a magazine (it never looked anywhere near like the photos). She’d even put a disposable raincoat over him like a hairdresser’s cape. She really wasn’t any good, there’s a reason why Tommy didn’t let her anywhere near his curls, but he always wore her handiwork with pride -

So lost in his thoughts, he reacts purely on instinct when, for the first time in decades, fingers other than his own find his hair.

Swivelling around, he’s out of the chair in a split second, fingers wrapped tight around your wrists. You yelp as he pushes you back against the wall, which he sees from the shape of your lips but doesn’t hear over the blood pounding in his ears.

Joel barely holds you there for a second before he’s yanked backwards by a hand on the back of his collar, and he stumbles, crashing into the adjacent wall. He barely misses the fist heading towards his face, ducking just in time to save himself what would undoubtedly have been a broken nose.

He barrels into the younger man with his shoulder, expecting him to tumble back, and is surprised when he doesn’t budge. Joel’s aware he’s got a few years on him, but he more than holds his own against punks that age on the daily. This guy clearly has a background in combat, and it’s taking Joel everything to stay on his feet.

In the meantime, you’re still plastered against the wall, dazed by your customer’s reaction. Heck, you haven’t even gotten his name yet before he literally jumped you. He’s a skittish one, that’s for sure.

You smile at the memory of Frankie’s first time with you at the salon - he’d give this guy a good run for his money. Lucky for him, you’ve always been good at wrangling the nervous ones.

Speaking of, the two men are now literally wrestling in front of you. If you had to venture a guess by the grays in the hair, you reckon your customer is pushing fifty. He’s built like a fucking tank though, and he’s giving everything he’s got.

So you decide to watch for a little while. Boys will be boys, best leave them to let off some steam. Leaning against the wall, you get comfortable, and you think wistfully to yourself that Ashton would have loved this view.

You’re not sure how you missed that they’re both wearing denim on denim, and you would struggle to pick out which is your husband if not for the hat on his head. Yes, the damn cap survived the apocalypse with him.

They are remarkably similar in build, though your customer seems to stand just a couple of inches taller. His biceps flex and bulge through the shirt sleeves as he scuffles with Frankie, teeth bared; meanwhile, your husband plants his feet, jeans stretched tight over his adorable little ass, trying to hold the man back long enough to throw a punch.

If the room was warm when they were trading barbs, it’s positively sweltering right now.

All you can see are broad shoulders and fabric bursting at the seams, grappling fingers and clenched fists. Back muscles rippling through denim, teasing slivers of skin and soft bellies when shirttails ride up and jeans fall low. The cheerful afternoon sun kisses their skin golden, casting long shadows across the creaking wooden floor.

And they’re not quiet. Throaty grunts as they jostle, panted breath peppered with cusses, fuck’s and sons of bitches as they wrestle for control.

Suddenly, you’re the one who’s out of breath despite not moving a muscle.

As much as you would’ve loved to stand and watch, you can tell both men are starting to get winded. You don’t exactly want the show to end, entertainment is hard to come by in the QZ, let alone of such a visually stimulating variety, in your own living room. But you think you hear the older man wheeze, their shirts are now stained with sweat, and the frantic energy they started with turns heavy with lethargy.

With a rueful sigh, you speak up, ‘Frankie, come on, that’s enough now.’

He growls, ‘No fucking way. He tried to hurt you!’

‘He barely touched me. It was just his PTSD acting out.’

‘I don’t have PTSD,’ the man protests, shooting you a glare before dodging an elbow.

‘There’s no shame in having PTSD,’ you admonish him. ‘Or in getting help.’

‘Why don’t you give me a hand then?’ he scoffs, tipping his head at Frankie.

‘Yeah, looks like you can use it,’ your husband taunts him.

‘Sure you can’t, asshole? Can’t even take down an old man on your own?’

‘I hope you're hungry, 'cause you're gonna eat your words, asshole -’

Hands on hips, you roll your eyes at the exceedingly average trash talk. ‘You know what? I tried asking nicely - I’m going in.’

It’s a tight squeeze, but somehow, you find a space between the elbows and shoulders and knees, and you wedge yourself in. It’s hot and humid between the two men, who are still trying to get at each other, despite the fact that you now have one hand on each of their chests, trying to pry them apart. Trapped between the two solid walls of chest, their raw strength vibrates through you, through harsh panting breath, the musk of sweat and man, and denim rubs rough on your bare skin where you’re pressed up against them.

It’s not hard to imagine being in this position in an entirely different situation, with the axis tilted, on a softer surface. Heat prickles all over you like needles, and unbeknownst to you, your thighs press together, and your panties start to feel sticky -

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asks Frankie, incredulous as he looms over you, still grabbing onto the other guy’s shirt.

You bat your eyelashes at him, then crane your neck over your shoulder to wink at the other man. A little spiral of a curl dangles over his eyes as he glares at you, puffs of warm air hitting the shell of your ear.

Knowing that your best chance of breaking off this nonsense is to wildly offend both men, you purr, ‘Making a delicious sandwich ‘cause I’m famished -’

Frankie flushes bright red instantly, and he roars, ‘Get your filthy hands off my wife, son of a bitch!’

Not that his hands are anywhere near you (a tragedy), nonetheless, the man jumps five feet back, as if you burned him. He may deny Tess being his wife, but the look of absolute horror of being accused of touching you speaks volumes.

You can tell he would have doubled over catching his breath, hands on his knees, if not for his pride. Stubbornly, he stands tall, hands on hips, chest heaving.

‘Bit jumpy, are we?’ you quip.

‘You always that handsy?’ he retorts.

‘Can’t help myself with beautiful curls like yours,’ you wink, and your smile widens when he flushes.

Frankie throws up his hands in disbelief. ‘Shiv, I’m standing right here.’

‘You always are,’ you tease, pressing a kiss to his pinched lips. ‘Now, go take a walk, you've made enough of a scene.’

‘I’m not leaving you here with him -’

The older man scoffs. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not interested in your woman.’

You feign indignation. ‘Hey! That’s hurtful.’

‘You should be, jackass!’ Frankie gripes, and promptly looks as confused as the other man at his own pronouncement.

Taking his hand, you pull him towards the door. ‘Go on babe, you were going to have a drink with Pope anyway. I got everything under control.’

‘Alright,’ Frankie relents, but not before he points a menacing finger at your customer. ‘If he tries anything -’

‘I know where the gun is,’ you finish his sentence.

Pressing one final kiss to your lips and throwing a glare over your shoulder, Frankie turns and leaves - and you preen at the knowledge that he trusts you can take care of yourself.

Once the door closes, you smile. ‘So… should we start over?’

The man snorts. ‘I’d say.’

‘I’m Shiv,’ you say, but you don’t offer him your hand. He doesn’t seem to be the handshaking type.

He picks up on your perception, studying you with curious eyes. ‘Joel.’

Pushing the swivel chair back to the styling station, you gesture at him to retake his seat, and this time, you make sure his eyes are on yours in the mirror while you stand over his shoulder.

‘Hair’s a bit long, huh?’ you remark, eyeing the ringlet over his eyes.

‘It’s drivin’ me nuts,’ he admits.

You hold up your hands this time, giving him plenty of notice. ‘May I?’

He nods, and you start small, wrapping the spiral around your index finger with a grin. ‘I wasn’t just saying it, y’know. You do have beautiful hair.’

He shifts awkwardly, the chair squeaking, obviously uncomfortable with compliments. ‘Dunno. I’m all gray and shit.’

‘As someone wise once said, grays are sexy as fuck,’ you assure him. Running your fingers through his curls, you study the texture critically, noting the blunt ends and uneven thickness. Nothing a professional haircut can’t fix. ‘Trust me, I’m very wise.’

He hums, unconvinced, but you can see the lines around his eyes crease in amusement. ‘If you say so.’

You wink at him in the mirror. ‘When I’m done with you, Tess will have the hardest time keeping her hands to herself.’

‘What makes you think she doesn’t already?’

It takes you a moment to unfreeze, stunned by his retort. At his arched eyebrow, you burst into laughter. ‘You’re a sassy one, aren’t you, Joel?’

He huffs, half-amused, and shakes his head. ‘It’s a haircut, not a miracle.’

You squeeze his shoulder, grinning when he doesn’t jump at the contact. ‘Trust me, I’m just that good at my job.’

More notes: If you enjoyed this oneshot, I wrote a series of drabbles of Shiv giving other Pedro boys haircuts - you can find them in the Grays masterlist 🩶 I may write more for this universe and some point if inspiration strikes again, thank you for reading!

And if you wanted an inspo shot of Joel's hair, here you go ❤️

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

#seams x grays #fuckyeahgrays #fuckyeahseams #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x reader #joel miller fanfiction

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simp4konig · 8 months ago

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𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭

𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠 𝐱 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫-𝐧𝐞𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

*𝐒𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7700+

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐁&𝐁. 𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠, 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧. 𝐀 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦.

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*𝐀 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨. ☁️😇

*𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐊, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐡.

*𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐲, 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝❤️‍🔥 + 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐨).

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“𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭„ ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @rustic-guitar-notes ♡ @best-soup ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @nightlyvoids ♡ @skeletalgoats ♡ @aethelwyneleigh27 ☆ @arrozyfrijoles23 ♡ @dobaddo ☆ @the-second-sage ☆ @wil-xyz ☆ @revnatheshadow ☆ @feelya

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König was tired.

Very tired.

So tired was he of being tired, that it was tiring to be tired. And he was exhausted.

How long he had been on deployment, he had no clue; initially, it was meant to be a month-long mission, but time seemed to be simultaneously zooming in double-speed and moving in slow-motion. A day, then a week, then another week, then three days. Day, night, night, and day — shifting from one to the other in the flick of a switch.

And, before he knew it, it had been over three months: in the barracks afterwards, those three months had felt like three years.

Still, the hours that he could recall were gruelling: hours upon hours — from morning, throughout the day, up until the night, unending — of syncopated staccato gunfire, of cacophonous voices roaring themselves hoarse, of humming helicopter blades as the bass accompaniment to the crashing cymbals of explosions, and of deaths, anticlimactic finales for those that had perished.

Of course, it was no coordinated orchestra: just chaos.

And König was tired.

What he needed was to collapse onto a mattress, face-first, and fall asleep instantly — to be possessed by a near comatose-condition, catharsis, and wake up, not knowing what day it was.

A hand reached weakly to his temple, where an intense migraine had been plaguing him for days, and held it there in vain to numb the pain.

What König needed was sleep. And actual sleep, not the kind of sleep he became accustomed to; laying idly, wide-awake, on the thin, firm barracks mattress on the metal frame, a bed too uncomfortably small and uncomfortable to accommodate for both his disproportionately gigantic size and battered, aching back. While being a Colonel had its perks, clearly the perks did not extend to an agreeable bed.

So, obviously, he was not going to lay on a bedding which, to him, felt like a plank of wood.

Instead of arriving back at the barracks — which was more than 5000 km away — in two days for a briefing he was intended to deliver, he figured that the pilot could make a detour and land somewhere in the UK as it was on his way anyway.

Besides, he could always insist that they had experienced heavy turbulence and had to land as a safety precaution. A day later than scheduled would not be a disaster — charm offensive tended to work, yet if few were charmed, he could just as easily go on the offensive and assert his authority as Colonel.

By now, it was far closer to the next day than it was today. Or was it early morning, and the day had already passed? 0500 read his watch, but whether it was dark due to the winter still lingering and prematurely enveloping the sky like a black, starless blanket, or dawn in a few hours, wouldn't have made any difference.

The pilot had landed fuck knew where, König thought, but all he knew was that the town was quite quiet: aside from the occasional drunkards at a pub or a single customer at a convenience store buying cigarettes, the town was asleep. König ought to have been too, but the thought that he would be soon was comforting.

König was too tired to research either hotels or motels nearest him as he usually would, as he was struggling to keep his eyes open as was. He just needed a bed, to rest, and that was it… perhaps some breakfast, too. But that wasn't the main objective.

König continued to trudge at a begrudging pace, back slumped over under the mass of his rucksack, his legs difficult to lift as if they each weighed a tonne.

At this point, a sofa would do, as long as he could stretch his sore legs on it.

As he turned the corner, he rubbed his puffy pink eyes, eyelids sagging. That's when the fancy, elegant letters of the “ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋғᴀsᴛ”, caught by his closing eyes.

At last — salvation had come!

“No vacancies — sorry!” said the sign in front, but König, choosing to ignore it, opened the door.

Given the hour, it was pitch-black. Aside from the weak fluorescent glow of a crescent moon casting a silver luminescence across the walls, a faint sliver of pale light was visible through the crack beneath the door. A shadow.

Running of water and the soft clinking of plates — the washing of dishes, as quiet as one can be. König wasn't going to consider why anyone sane would choose to wash the dishes at whatever hour this was. Frankly, he couldn't care less. What he cared about most was rest.

A dulcet humming slid smoothly under the door; faint, yet audible, and soothing. Whether it was the melody of a song or an improvised tune, it sounded pleasant.

Drawn towards it like a moth to a flame, König chucked the rucksack into the darkness, alleviating the pain of his shoulders after carrying such baggage.

Realising that it would give the person behind the door a fright to see an uninvited guest — to them, an intruder — on their doorstep so late in the night, it would be wise to pose as little of a threat as possible. Starting with louder footsteps to alert them beforehand, and a gentle greeting as he opened the door:

“Hallo.”

Almost dropping the plate that you were washing onto the floor, you shrieked in surprise nonetheless. Turned off the tap, having heart palpitations.

At the sight of the intruder in front of you, you stifled another shriek, a hand shooting up to grasp the fabric of your tee tightly, almost collapsing onto the floor had not your left hand held onto the countertop for support.

The plate, dropped in your secondary shock, shattered, loudly clattering as porcelain pieces still foaming with the dish-soap bubbles scattered across the floor.

“Fuck!” you cursed, but before you could lean in to tidy the mess, the stranger was crouching down and scooping it all in his gloved hands — quite agile for someone his build.

Then König's back was protesting in pain, joints cracking embarrassingly loud.

“Nicht,” he hushed, accented voice hoarse from barking orders and yelling at the top of his dust-lined lungs. Not like you knew — to you, he sounded like he was a chainsmoker, croaking his final breath before his lungs collapsed. “Bitte. Allow me.”

This was… unusual. Unusual was an understatement, however — just what the fuck has happened in the last ten seconds?

The moment you saw him, head almost reaching the ceiling, hovering ominously in the darkness, your first thought was that this man had come to murder you.

Big, bulky, and brawny, as tall as he was wide — fuck, taller — heavy military gear, combat boots and all…

And if his appearance at a first glance hadn't made you faint, his veil was the cherry on the cake: even with the cutouts for eyes, his eyes were camouflaged by the cover of darkness, so that the holes were eerily resembling two empty caves; or even ravines, emptier, deeper, as an abyss.

Oh God, you thought. Maybe that's how and where he would dispose of your body; just dump it in a cave to be forgotten and fossilised, or into a pit, plummeting to the ground; unrecoverable.

Either way, the veil made the entity appear uncannily similar to an executioner…

Should you have called for help? Fuck, get it together, you fucking idiot, of course you should have! The man had murderous intentions! He had come here to murder you, he had! Why else would he be here at this ungodly hour? And— oh God— was that a pistol in the holster?!

In your head, you were calculating the seconds needed to stall for time after loudly shouting for help before your experienced guests would come running from the corridor and tumbling down the stairs from the second floor. Not only were there four of them, but they were soldiers, too — good men, and good soldiers.

So, your boys would definitely overpower this guy, outnumbering him and tackling each one of his limbs to the ground long enough for the Police to arrive, and…

…no. That's ridiculous. What were you thinking? This man has not given you any reason to think this way. Sure, his appearance left a lot to be desired, but aside from that, he was... docile. Polite.

Awkwardly hovering over him, quite literally twiddling with your thumbs and unsure of what to do — ...call for help regardless? — you hesitated when asking: “So, uh— what, um, brought you here then, sir?”

He grunted in acknowledgement, and, having scooped up the remnants of the plate, it all dwarfed in the palm of his hand. You gulped audibly as he stood up to his full height, and you didn't do a good job at concealing the way that you flinched when he leaned close to dispose of the ceramic pieces into the bin beside you.

As he took two steps back, he drew out a weary sigh, head sinking a little.

“I'm tired,” he said. “I need a room.”

Oh.

In your panic, your anxiety… you had totally forgotten that you ran a B&B. That this man was perhaps here because, you know, your business, your current career, was in hospitality and catering.

Yeah… You totally had overlooked that…

…But it's fine. It's totally not like you forgot that you were in the building that housed your guests or anything. Rather than realise that the people you were housing were your guests, your first instinct was to bring their profession into this.

Self-preservation had never been so selfish until this point. Yikes.

God. Had you been less afraid at the start, you could have spared a laugh at the absurdity of the situation and your irrational thought process, but as things stood, you were still pissing yourself from terror, intimidated by this unit of a man.

Now you were just standing there, expression stony and as still as a statue. The veil hovered over you, scrutinising you with squinted eyes in curiosity.

Your expression softened slightly at the sight of him; so pitiable and pitiful, evident exhaustion weighing him down.

Frowning, you were sympathetic. “I'm… sorry, sir, but there are no vacancies available. You must have missed the sign outside? I'm so sorry—”

“I didn't miss it,” he stated, rasping in the same assertiveness of a German (that's what you gathered his nationality was, anyways — what, with his accent). “I still need a room.”

Sighing in exasperation, you were less sympathetic: still, you were going to continue being polite. Just in case he took anything the wrong way. You prayed that he'd prefer his pistol over his hands.

“Sir, you— you must understand that I cannot possibly accommodate you. You— you do understand, right?”

The man's shoulders drooped, and light finally reflected off his eyeballs as his head dropped, too heavy to keep straight: his eyes were sagging, both in sadness and tiredness. Scleras were nearing crimson, and heavy bags under his eyes were burdened by dark half-circles. Some warpaint that hadn't been washed off well enough outlined his eyes, giving the impression that his eyes were sunken into his skull.

You looked away, overwhelmed by guilt and pity.

“Um…”

Biting your lip in consideration, your eyebrows furrowed.

Yet there was little to consider — this was a man desperate for some rest, and given his assumed soldier status, he was evidently deserving of some sleep. Besides, what sort of a person would you be if you refused to house a guest? The decision would remain in your conscience, reminding you of how heartless and inhumane you were.

Or it wouldn't, when you'd be murdered in your sleep and all of your meagre belongings and material possessions would be stolen, while your four other guests had their throats slit.

Because despite their similar profession, it seemed that this man was not in their faction. Your gut churned at the thought that you could be unknowingly housing two rival contracts.

As you swallowed thickly, you looked back at him, your unease easing by degrees the longer you listened to his slow breathing, yet persisting nonetheless.

“Well—” you hesitated. “—I do have a room—”

The light in his eyes became brighter, as his eyelids could barely remain open. “Ah, you do, do you?” he said, eyes crinkling in a small smile.

“Yes, sir,” you sighed, then offered a small smile of your own. “It's upstairs, though. Is that okay with you?”

“Ja,” he affirmed. “Lead the way.”

Wordlessly, he followed you up the stairs, the thump—thump—thump of his heavy boots following close behind, that would have otherwise thud—thud—thud’ded had they not been muffled by the fluffy carpet. You mourned the way that it would never be as fluffy again. The dirty dirt marks left behind with each footstep made you grimace, so unlike the ones left by the others. Did this guy even shower before coming here?

Finally at the door, a little awkwardly, you unlocked it, and ushered him inside, flicking on the light switch.

“Uhm, it's a little small… “ you murmured apologetically, voice trailing off. “I mean, it's a double, but it might not be big enough…”

König surveyed the size of the bed, taking long, thoughtful strides… then flung himself face-first on top of it, sinking into it.

Your eyebrows disappeared into your hairline, jaw dropping to the floor in amazement. His feet stuck out, but he didn't seem about to complain.

“Are— are you okay?”

“Perfekt. I have needed this.”

You crossed your arms, dumbstruck and rendered dumb by this… display.

“O—kaaayyy... I’ll—I'll leave you be then, sir.”

“Ja,” he yawned, not bothering to take off his shoes. You sighed, shaking your head sternly, but decided to hold your tongue.

As you were heading out, you glanced into the room, hovering in the doorframe. “Sleep well, soldier,” you whispered, flipping the light switch. The darkness enveloped the man like a blanket.

…

For four straight days he slept like a log. Literally, because he was like one in length and diameter, but mostly in the figurative sense. Of course, König didn't know that. Yet.

When he awoke, König felt reinvigorated, rejuvenated, revived… all synonyms of said words (he couldn't think of any more — funnily enough, he would use none of these when speaking to you).

The first thing that he noticed when he awoke was that the duvet was tucked in neatly into the covers around him, and that his boots were off.

He noticed that his rucksack was next to his boots second. Even if you were someone strong for your size, he doubted that your strength really could make up for your height — the footage of you struggling to lug his bag up the stairs brought humour to him. Or, maybe he was underestimating your strength, and you were stronger than you looked. Still, he found humour in the idea regardless.

Thirdly, the curtains were drawn tightly closed, but daylight penetrated unrelentingly through the material regardless, giving the impression that the room was feebly glowing with white. Heavenly.

Was this heaven? It sure felt like it. Surely, a few more moments of blissful shuteye would—

Wait. What day was it?

Springing out of bed, sprinting downstairs, he was about to rush outside…

…when he halted in his tracks halfway.

What the fuck was he doing? He was a fucking Colonel. Who fucking cares what fucking day it is. The idiots on base should be glad that he's even there, regardless of how belated his entrance is. Honestly, at this point, he's considering this his own vacation in the semi-countryside. He deserves it, after three months of doing his utmost not to let himself or his comrades die.

Walking down the steps, he overhead a familiar sound: the running of water, and humming. Humming a different tune this time.

Having woken up alert, not groggy like he had been that late night/early morning, he could appreciate the sound now.

In all actuality, that hummed tune was nothing extraordinary — quite frankly, it was one of the most ordinary songs he could have heard.

Clearly, you must not be a good singer; otherwise, your breath would not have hitched in your throat with every high note you'd have to reach. Your song was syncopated, despite you likely not having meant it to be.

Occasionally, you'd sing the words that you'd know — voice off-key and clumsy — then revert to humming once more, stealing quick breaths every once so often.

Then he saw you, and he could put a face to that clumsy voice. It was his breath that hitched in his throat.

There was nothing particularly pretty or handsome about you, either. From the profile, you were decently average — or annoyingly average — neither exceptionally beautiful nor exceedingly ugly. You were just… you.

And, yet, the sight of you washing the pyramid of dishes precariously balancing on top of each other, singing softly a song so out of tune, so out of sync, was… concerningly domestic.

Just for a split-second, König visualised you as his partner, waiting patiently for him as he was on deployment, and this being the morning after his return, this being one of those precious mornings you two could share. It would be nice to have something to cherish so much.

And as soon as that vision materialised, it disappeared just as soon. Too soon.

A little flustered by what he had imagined, he shook his head, shaking off the remaining pixels of that screenshot until they completely dissipated, disappeared. Now was not the time.

This time, he wasn't going to frighten you, Gott forbid all of those plates would come crashing down like an avalanche of porcelain; it would save breaking his back, secondarily, but primarily, he didn't want you to snap out of your trance, so innocently focused at the task at hand, only to react so strongly like you did the last time.

So he contented himself with waiting, despite hovering a little too awkwardly in the doorframe, unsure of what to do with himself.

After turning off the tap, you sighed — an anticlimactic conclusion to your encore — before drying your hands with a teatowel. Now was the time to introduce his presence.

Coughing quietly to draw your attention, König announced: “Guten tag.”

Whipping your head so quickly towards the source of the voice your neck nearly had whiplash, your eyes widened.

Sighing a sigh of relief after recovering from your surprise, you smiled politely.

“You're awake! Thank God. I was beginning to think that you had died or something. How are you? Do you feel better?”

It's been a while since anyone had asked him that.

“Oh— ah, Gut. Thanks.”

There was something so appealing about your face that König couldn't place; so easy on the eye.

Awkwardly adding: “I slept… well. Very well. The bed was the most comfortable I've ever slept on in ages.”

“I mean, I figured — what, with you there for so long!”

You laughed, and he swore he was floating. “I swear, you must have been hibernating or something. I was hoping that there wouldn't be a corpse I'd have to dispose of. But, you are okay, right?”

His hoarse voice had a hint of a morning rasp in it, as he whispered a quiet: “What… what day is it?”

“Day?” You looked to the side, thinking. “Uhhh, let me think— Tuesday, right? I think it is, anyways? Well, you arrived on Friday, so nearly four days a—”

“Scheisse.” König's voice was monotone. “I was supposed to brief subordinates. They were meant to commence training on Monday.”

You gasped. “Then why are you still here?! Go! Look, it's only two days—”

“Nein. If I am going to be late, I might as well be fashionably late. I hate it there. I am treated like I am elderly and coaxed to do paperwork when I am in my prime age for fighting. I hate it.”

“You sure do hate your job, it seems,” you mused. “How come?”

“I do not. I hate the people. I am a soldier for that precise reason, and I always get reprimanded for my brutality, when it is a thrill to me. Did I say I hate it?”

“...Oh. O-okay...”

You shifted from leg to leg, twirling your foot into the floor awkwardly, not knowing what to do with this information.

“...Well, how about some breakfast?”

He blinked. “Breakfast?”

You laughed. “Don't you know how a B&B works? Breakfast is included, you know.”

“Oh.” He blinked again, enlightened. “OK. I won't be long.”

“Please, take as long as possible.”

“How thoughtful of you,” he said, pleased.

“I mean— it gives me more time to prepare the food — which, by the way, what would you like? Any preferences? Allergies? I tend to hand out a menu, and offer a full English, but this situation is a bit—”

“Everything,” he interrupted, assertive. “And anything.”

“Mmmkay,” you mumbled. “I'll do what I can.”

“Thank you. Will be seeing you.”

The “will be seeing you” sounded a little too ominous for your liking, despite seeming to have no ill intentions. Goosebumps formed on your arms, but you skillfully hid your trepidation with a warm smile.

König walked up the stairs, leaving you behind to mournfully look into the fridge, praying that there was food enough to feed this guy.

(...This giant. Mutant, perhaps. It was hard to believe that this unit was even human.)

You were thankful for the fact there seemed to be enough food. What you were not thankful for was that it'd only be enough for one meal, or two if you scavenged for some more ingredients out of the cupboards.

A carton of 16 eggs, a jug of milk, two hams, a loaf of bread, some fruit, some vegetables, some leftover pastries… all fine and dandy; alas, this guy was probably going to chug the milk straight out of the jug and likely had some weird fixation with eating the raw egg yolk, as if it's the ultimate forbidden protein source, or something. Maybe you were prejudiced, based on your current experience with three out of four of the other soldiers not knowing how to make pancakes. The clean-up afterwards made you seriously consider abandoning your B&B and hiking to the next country by foot.

König on the other hand? He had already decided that he would never abandon this B&B. Your B&B.

He was making himself quite at home. Everything in this bedroom was so homely, and, come to think of it, it was exactly what König needed; a change of scenery. To be home. It was just a shame that he had not a place to call that — for now, at least.

Feeling refreshed and looking fresh out of the shower, he half-heartedly dried the mop of hair on his head. Slipping on some shirt he dug out of his bag, he cursed when he wore it back-to-front, and slipped it on again.

Finally dressed with no further discrepancies, he stole a glance of his profile in the reflection; grimaced; then quickly slipped his signature veil over his head. The thing was falling apart at the seams. He would fix the stitching when the night came.

As soon as he opened the door, an intense aroma — aromas — overwhelmed his olfactories. His stomach growled, and König remembered that it must have been almost 6 days since he had eaten.

Approaching footsteps drew your attention to the masked man advancing, so you turned off the running water, and dried off your wet hands, to pull out a chair for him. At least the largest load of the dishes was tackled; the rest could be put on pause. You didn't exactly find the prospect of more washing up promising.

“Hey, welcome back. I hope your shower was good!” you chimed, a cordial smile gracing your face.

The smile became lopsided as you followed the man's unspeaking gaze towards the food you prepared for him.

“O-oh, yeah— well, uhm, I didn't know what you'd like, so I put together all the scraps and then some to make you breakfast,” you said, rubbing your nape. “Come to think of it, is this even breakfast at this point? Is it lunch? Brunch sounds better, but it's past noon to call it that…”

König had tuned out your ramblings — not because the sound was like white noise; because he was mesmerised by the platter of food:

An omelette, colourful with diced peppers, tomatoes, and sautéed mushrooms, cheese melted on top of it, and presumably mashed together with mashed potatoes; a poached egg (which, by the looks of it, went wrong — but was still appetising nonetheless) on top of an avocado, tomato, onion corn, cucumber, and rocket salad; a fried egg in a bacon barm, with a toothpick through it and, also melting with cheese; two sausages, sprinkled with crispy onions, more mushrooms, with a ramekins of beam on the side. If that wasn't enough to whet his appetite already, the sight of two croissants and two muffins — warm, and fresh out of the oven — buttered and smeared with jam, and the fresh bowl of fruit, then he was surely salivating.

He was salivating. Coughing into his hand, he discreetly rubbed the drool off his chin with the hem of his mask.

“Mein Gott— this is—”

Amazed, he sat down in the chair that you pulled for him, in a daze.

“Scheisse.” His throat was dry. “Are you an angel, by any chance? Is there something that you've not told me?”

Laughing bashfully, you waved a dismissive hand, swatting the blush away from your cheeks.

“Aw, you're so sweet! I'm flattered.”

“No, really,” he insisted, the eye contact he was making with you intense. “If that's the case, maybe I should make you my own personal maid turned housewife. You'd fit in my suitcase, nicht?”

Your laughter became awkward and strained, yet you forced yourself to keep your eyes trained on his. “Ahhh, nah, ha ha… I'm not flexible like that. Such a shame, ha ha ha…”

His eyes crinkled in a smirk, and with the way that they did you instantly knew that he was taking the piss. “I'm joking. You can relax. I am sincere when I say I have no such ill intentions.”

“Wait— your… mask.” You gestured to the veil. “Would you, uh… rather I look away as you eat?”

Surprisingly — surprising himself more than he did you — König shook his head instinctively, decisively.

“No. I do not mind. I will only mind if you try to look under it.”

Holding up two placating hands, you reassured him that you wouldn't, and that seemed to please him.

After that, aside from the clinking of cutlery on plates chewing on crispy, crunchy food, it was silent.

The man appeared comfortable in your presence, and was too focused on his food. Still, out of consideration for keeping his identity private, you stared at the chipped paint on the wall that you hoped he hadn't noticed. You would paint over it at some point.

Antsy as you anticipated his answer, you were nervously strumming your fingers against your knee. “...How is your breakfast?”

He was chewing the food slowly, eyes closed, enjoying the tastes. Swallowing even slower, he finally whispered a shaky: “Fantastich.”

Your face lit up, and you couldn't contain your excitement.

“I'm so glad! I hope it's enough. I-I mean– you know what I mean! For a big guy like you, this must be a snack. If this hadn't been so short notice, I would have prepared something more.”

He hummed appreciatively, appreciating every bite of food and devoting more time than he usually did to eating: usually, he was the type to shovel food by the mouthfuls and set his plate aside with his mouth still full; but, to König, it would be disrespectful to do that. He was holding your culinary skills in far too high of a regard to do that.

After he had finished, he pushed the plates aside, satisfied. “Gott. That was delicious. Maybe I will smuggle you inside my suitcase after all.”

He laughed, and dismissed your concern with a shake of the head. You furrowed your brows sternly, unamused, and collected the dishes, eyes widening; the plates were totally clean, not a crumb of food left.

You were beyond pleased. To describe your joy would have been impossible…

Yet, you had to wash all of those dishes. Again. Maybe you should seriously consider getting a dishwasher, but it was… oddly satisfying, to say the least. It was quite calming: the running water; the rubbing of the porcelain; the bubbles. And it was most satisfying seeing the plates in the rack stacked nicely.

“Every time I see you, you are washing dishes,” König pointed out, observing you from the few feet he was away.

You laughed at that. “Well, that's just how it is when you've got four adult men eating at your place, plus other guests. Trust me, this load isn't even half of what I wash most of the time.”

“Where are they now? The men, I mean.” he inquired, inquisitive.

“Gone,” you shrugged, elusive. “They always make a short stay anyways; they have places to be.”

“I see. Who are they?”

You bit your lip, wavering in your hesitation. “I'm… not in the position to divulge.”

“I don't see.”

Scoffing, you rolled your eyes. “They're soldiers. Just like you. They returned from deployment not too long ago, and are regular guests at my B&B, I guess. Not much to it.”

König let out a snort. “Regulars?”

“I don't know how else to put it!” You groaned, holding up your hands in exasperation. “Anyways, long story short, they returned from deployment, landed here, and seem to keep landing here, even though their barracks are miles away and this place is nowhere near any of their stops. Sure do wonder why.”

“I do not wonder; it's because your bed and breakfast are excellent, and you are an excellent host.”

Not knowing how to respond in your bashfulness, you contented yourself with washing the dishes, prolonging the process for as long as possible.

Time decided to defy you, and you were done in a matter of minutes.

“Well then. I better give you the payment, yes?”

The man pushed his chair aside, and sluggishly rose to his feet. “How much do I owe you?”

Cheeks still rosy, you considered for a moment. “Well… for four nights, it'd be £355.96, but given that you took my bedroom — by far the premium room — I gotta slap onto that an additional £50.”

“Still, since you were basically hibernating for three of those days, why not make it a nice and round £400?” You winked, smirking mischievously.

It took you a few seconds of him staring at you in order for it to register that he seemed to catch on to this revelation, and was appalled.

“Wh— what are you looking at me like that for?”

“I am… sleeping in your bedroom?”

“...Yeah? Look, it's not even a big deal. I don't mind, really! I'm happy to accommodate to your stay—”

“Scheisse! You should have said something, verdammt!”

“Like what? Tell you to shoo in the middle of the night and have you wandering around, only to end up sleeping on some bench? No! Besides, I've made the basement quite cosy, so no one is losing.”

Grumbling angrily in German, out from his wallet, he pulled out a crisp, crumpled — yet fat — stack of a wide array of notes, foreign currency from more than one country. “And I am in debt to you by how much again? Four hundred of those pounds?”

You nodded, smiling sweetly. “Y-yeah!”

“I have not the correct currency for this country, unfortunately.” He was apologetic, rifling through the stack and skimming through it. “Will this suffice?”

Your smirk flickered, yet remained flashing. It seemed a lot, but maybe other currencies didn't equate to as much as the Pound Sterling. God, what a chore it will be counting all this…

“Hold on… I can just Google the conversions, and add them. Good thing I've got a calculator on hand for these exchanges!”

After calculating the sums of all the equations, your jaw dropped.

It was over quadruple what you charged him, so you thought you had hallucinated and calculated the sums incorrectly. Maybe your maths wasn't as good as it used to be…

Inputting the numbers into the conversion rates in a different order gave you the same result, however. You were puzzled…

Unless…

“You— you've given me too much? Fuck, hold on another moment, please— I'm struggling to calculate, and I think I'm doing something wrong—”

“How much did it come out as?

“...£1417.”

“That little, it did? I thought it was over 1500. I guess I overestimated. Shame.”

If your jaw hadn't dropped, it was on the floor by now.

“I— what?” You contained your bulging eyes before they popped out. “Okay, u-uhm, you're not making it easy for me to give you back change, are you? I need a few more minutes to—”

“No. That is my payment.”

You couldn't believe in what you were hearing.

“What?! N-no, wait— it's too much! I can't accept this! Look, I—”

“Then I'll be staying for the rest of the week.” He stated, direct. “Consider that the payment upfront.”

Nearing hysterics, you insisted: “But it's still too much! P-please, let me give back the change—”

“Nein. Then I want you to consider the overpayment the tip, yes? For good service. Please.”

Tears brimming in your eyes, your lip quivered a little.

Despite denying him out of principle, the truth was that these sorts of gestures were too generous, and you couldn't handle such kindness. Even with the other four regulars that would slip in extra bills into your purse, this? It was all just—

And the fact that this man was so adamant made you tear up.

“I— o-okay… Thank you…”

“It is my pleasure.”

The fabric of his veil crumpled as his eyes crinkled and cheeks were made visible in a smile.

“I will go to your room and sleep some more, if that is okay with you?”

“Sleep? Haven't you hibernated enough for two consecutive winters?” You joked weakly, still overwhelmed by his generosity.

“True. But I need this,” he said, back hunched over and shoulders slumping. “I will be as fit as a young boy tomorrow, and will resume my workouts! I will be going jogging for most of the noon.”

“You— don't look so old,” you stammered, a bit bashful. “But I won't disagree with you. You deserve the rest, Colonel.”

The nickname amused him. “Don't call me that. At the barracks, yes, but I would prefer it if you would refer to me as König.”

“Okay then, Colonel König,” you repeated, a mischievous smirk on your face.

“You are a devious little thing, aren't you? How cute.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, and you groaned exaggeratedly, playfully pouting.

“Seriously though,” you began, eyes earnest. “I hope you enjoy your stay. And if you wanna sleep in all day today? Go ahead!”

“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “And you are sure that this is no trouble?”

“None! This is my business, after all. I'm happy to be here, and I'm happy that you're happy too.”

“Well, I will be seeing you. Bis morgen, Süße.”

Offering him another warm smile, König walked upstairs.

The rest of the day went without a hitch. Two guests filled the empty rooms of the previous four, and you booked them in. It was quite quiet, and when night came, the two guests tucked in their beds with a cordial “Goodnight”.

A sigh left you, satisfied that everything was in order, everywhere was tidy, and all countertops were spotless. Checkup done, you were pleased with yourself and your effort for the day.

The bed in the basement was still big; a small single — plenty of space to sprawl all your limbs and sink face-first into a pillow.

That night, however, the bed was strangely bigger than usual.

…

Rubbing your eyes with your yawn as you walked up the stairs to prepare breakfast for your guests the next day, you halted in your tracks.

“Guten morgen.”

The sight of him wearing an apron — your apron — so comically small, was hilarious. If it wasn't so hilarious, you would have been furious at the fact that your favourite apron was splitting at the seams, but as things stood, you were splitting your sides with laughter.

“I… what?”

“Good morning.”

“N-no, I mean— what are you doing?”

“Well.” He pondered for a moment, then turned to you, expression blank in its confusion. “Breakfast. What does it look like, little one?”

“That's…” You were at a loss for words. “...my job?”

“Ja, I learned. But I wanted to return the various favours you made to me.”

You were perplexed. “I didn't make you any favours?”

He chuckled. “Forfeiting a bed is one of the strongest favours, no? It's the easiest way to bring someone closer — letting them into your bed.”

“Oh my God, will you shut UP about that, PLEASE,” you groaned, embarrassed by his teasing. “And stop wording it like that. You're making it seem as if I brought you into my bed to have sex. So gross.”

“What is gross? Sex, or sex with me?”

“I— oh my God…”

“...Sooo, ha ha… h-how did you sleep?” you innocently asked, desperate to divert conversation onto another topic.

“Well.” König said, thoughtful. “I would have slept better if I had you to cuddle, of course.”

“You'll sleep even better when I suffocate you with a pillow. Then you'll never wake up.”

“Just admit it: you like me,” König asserted smugly. “Don't be shy, schatz.”

“I'm not shy,” you lied. “You're just wrong. I barely know you.”

At this, König cackled loudly, yet not mockingly — just obnoxiously.

“I know you well enough to say that I like you; why not say the same, hm?”

Laughter dying down, König was about to pull out a chair for you when you pulled it out for yourself and sat down without a second thought. A scowl was under his veil, but he didn't point it out.

“I still don't get why you're making me breakfast.”

Balancing two plates on his forearm as he placed a third in front of you, he said: “Hush. Genieße dein Essen, schatzen.”

Pretending you knew what any of that meant, you nodded eagerly, as you had a kid-like grin on your face at the sight of such food, especially being prepared by a hunk as handsome as he.

“König!”

So, why not impress him with your language skills?

“Gracias— fuck! Wait, no… uh—”

“Ah, it is me who was mistaken,” he teased. "Bon appétit.”

Why not? For that reason, you learned…

Rather than there being an awkward silence, König chuckled, and lovingly stroked your hair, careful in his way not to tangle it. Meanwhile, you were redder than the chopped tomatoes on your plate, and to you, this wasn't remotely funny. You just got nervous!

“You are so sweet, schatz. Such a treasure. Never change, ja? Now eat your food before it is cold.”

You huffed, then stabbed a fried egg with a fork, uneasy, and feeling queasy, your mind drifting back to that morning where those other four soldiers absolutely desecrated the pancakes they made and cooked an unholy concoction of raw egg and half-cooked batter. With chocolate chips on top.

Gulping, you opened your mouth, and took a tentative bite.

Eating it… it tasted quite good. Great, actually.

“See? I am a good cook. You would like an extra pair of hands to make your workload more… enjoyable?”

You choked on the egg. “An— extra what?”

“Help, of course.”

“You— you knew what you were doing when you said that.”

“Knew what, little one?”

“Nevermind,” you scoffed. Scarfing down the food was enjoyable indeed. Having had breakfast prepared for you was pleasant, for a change.

His breakfast gave you a run for your money, and you were silently seething.

Admittedly, his breakfast was a “man's” breakfast — hearty, full of food, and abominable presentation, cobbled together. The taste was phenomenal, though — nothing to fault there.

“Finished? Wunderbar. I can cook for the remainder of my stay—”

“Wooaah, there, big guy. Hold your horses. Are you replacing me at my own job?”

You smirked, touched. “I think it's sweet, really, but let this be a one-off, okay?”

König frowned, and even with you not being able to see it, you could sense his disappointment.

“It's not like I didn't appreciate this… but, König, c’mon. This is my job, you know.”

“OK…”

You sucked in a breath. “Another time, okay? When I have no guests. I'll reserve the establishment for you.”

He perked up at this. “OK!”

…

“Why is your Breakfast in Bed named “Royal”?”

You let out a snort. “Bed and Breakfast, König. And why? Well… to be honest… the only reason I did was to appeal to the Brits.”

“...Oh. That is the only reason?”

Contemplating it for a moment, you realised: “Yeah… don't get me wrong, I don't worship the Royal family — between you and me, I don't give two flying fucks about the King — but if I'm here, oughtn’t I cater to my target demographic?”

The mug of coffee — with a Union Jack flag and the text “ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴄᴀʟᴍ, ᴄᴀʀʀʏ ᴏɴ ᴅʀɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴇᴀ” printed on it — that he was about to take a sip out of, froze mid-air.

“...King? Not the Queen?”

“She's dead, König. I know that much.”

“...Oh.”

“I… figure you didn't know that much?”

“...No.”

You couldn't hold back a laugh, and burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Doubled over and splitting your side as you wiped a tear, you exclaimed: “Ain't it— funny!? How— how nice of a coincidence it is that— that you, a King, landed at the ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙ&ʙ?!”

Yeah, you had Googled what his name meant. Simply out of curiosity, nothing more.

“It must be fate,” König said dreamily, which went unnoticed as you giggled a little longer.

“Ye—ah! Oh my God, HELP— I-I can't breathe... fuck. Who knows? Maybe. Fuck.”

…

Before you knew it, the week had passed.

You took the liberty of doing König’s laundry and dry-cleaning folding the day before, his clothes folded neatly. Rather than wasting time going to the laundrette, you said, you would be more than happy to do it for him.

While awake, you wanted to bake him some pastries and prepare a few plastic containers of food — “...So you won't be hungry. Or go hungry, for at least 2 days or so.”

“At most. Your food is so irresistible that I will not be able to resist eating everything in one sitting.”

“Hey, be my guest! Not telling you how to live your life. 2 hours it is, then.”

König was no longer tired; and, although you were, you woke up earlier than usual nonetheless in order to ensure that he wasn't missing anything. What, with his meagre possessions, most likely wasn't, but the both of you refused to acknowledge anything.

“God — you're, like, almost a week past schedule. What are your superiors going to say about going AWOL?”

“They are not going say anything,” he proclaimed, confident “No one is superior to me, anyways. They will not say anything.”

“You're as full as yourself as the first day we officially became acquainted.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he said drily. “Did I say I like you?”

“You sure did. Like, a hundred times by now.”

…A hundred times, and he hasn't said “I love you” once. How humiliating it was for König. It didn't seem as if you caught on to his feelings, but that was for the better, he gathered.

“It will be two hundred when I return.”

“Sooo…” A little awkwardly: “Are you going to be a regular guest at my B&B? Asking for future reference, so I know when to reserve a bed for you.”

“Of course. There's no other bed I would like to sleep in than yours, meine liebe.”

Blush erupted on your cheeks like a volcano.

“It would be nice for you to sleep in it and join me, nicht? It is your bed, after all. Maybe you would like the company, and a helping hand—”

“Are you leaving already? Begone with you!” you hissed.

Hopeful:. “...But will you write to me? Send me letters, or a pigeon, or something!”

“I… cannot guarantee it,” he said sternly. “But rest assured, this will not be the last you will be seeing of me.”

“I hope so…” You sniffed. “When will you be back?"

“Soon.”

You gazed in each other's eyes for a few agonisingly short moments — the time was agonising short, this moment was too short. There was more that you wanted to say, more than you wanted to hear from him.

“Well, König… goodbye.”

König snorted, laughing his signature cackle, and you were confused.

“What is the reason for this “goodbye” or these “farewells”? Say “see you”. Or, in German: Ich werde auf dich warten, mein König. That will make me happy.”

“I… am not even going to attempt that. Thanks, but no thanks..”

König patted your shoulder, but he had to lean down in order to do it, and you pouted whenever he patronised you so.

“See you,” you said, eyes earnest. “And I will see you, you fucking bastard; you're so big that I wouldn't exactly be able to miss the mountain on the horizon.”

“Ja, ja, liebe. I will be seeing you. Wait for me.”

…

König was full of energy — dreading the barracks, yes, but rejuvenated by an intense vigour and excitement. Excited for the next mission.

Now, even on deployment, no matter how many of those months would be gruelling and no matter what that he will be eating the worst canned gruel imaginable, he would have some place to look forward to returning — “ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋғᴀsᴛ” — and food, homemade. That was a bonus.

Yet, most of all, to look forward to a familiar face; yours.

If what people say about long distances making the heart grow fonder, then by the time his return rolled around, his heart would be yours to keep.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/n — Been resurrected like Jesus Christ to bring this fanfiction to you after 3 months days. How fitting. 😊

This idea only came to fruition because I was Four In A Bed, which is a British TV show showcasing Bed and Breakfasts. 💀,, It could have been literally ANYTHING else, but it's fitting?? 🤨, so, i made i work 😩

I'll be honest, I was kind of unmotivated and have been REALLY struggling to write these past months, but this person somehow singlehandedly gave me all the motivation I've been needing to think of and finish a fic 🥹💓.

Because, like,,, THIS?????? 😭😭😭😭😭

It was such a surprise to wake up to in the morning — especially knowing that I would have to sit an WACK maths exam that day 😩 — and it honestly made my entire week! 🥲💘

I've never had anyone dive SO deep into all the little ins and outs of my fanfiction that I thought no one would consider memorable to bother commenting on. 😭🫶💞💞✨✨💖💓💞✨💕💕

(Sorry to call you out publicly like this LOL 🤖. Wass too shy to msg you, qnd I thought it would be better if i kept this quiet in case u didn't wanna be tagged haha)

Also thank you to this anon for this sweet message. After you sent this in, i was motivated to work HARDER !!!!!! (writing three sentences a day instead of two 😍😍). Seriously though, thank you 🥹🥹💓

////Also, totally irrelevant, but i got the platinum trophy for Ghostrunner 2 !!!!!! 😸😸🎉🎊.. (. 🥲🔫)

////Last trophy to get was the "Godrunner" and i wanted to kms 👍😁

////Beating the Dismantler without dying was the BANE of my existence 🧍🏼‍♀️, and it didnt help that I KEPT DYING UNFAIRLY IN "I Won't Be Back Today" level like BRUHHH 😭😭😭😭, I WOULD KILL ALL OF THE CREEPS I NTHE SECOND PHASE AND YET ID STILL EXPLODE????? AND THEN DONT GET ME STARTED ON THE SEQUENCE AT THE VERY END ,,, THE AMOUNT OF TIMES I DIED TO THOSE FUCKING LASERS AND TJOSE CREEPS ON THE CEILING IS TOO EMBARRASSING TO NUMBER) 😡😡��😡😓😟😭😭😭😭,

////, Its ok tho bc i have the bragging rights now — i have the platinum trophies for Ghostrunner 1/2, and hopefully 3 (if it ever is announced 😼) 🤧

//// NOO BC I LOVE THESE GAMES SO MUCH AND ESPECIALLY THE OST BUT THE STORY????? THE GAME PLAY??!!!!! THEFUCKING MECHANICS???!???!?!?!?!?!!!!!!! THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR INTERACTIONS ON THE COMMS??????????!???!!!!!??? JACK HIMSELF????! !!?????!!?!?!??????????... ... And THERES LITERALLY NO ONE THAT PLAYS IT SO IM LEFT DUMPING THIS INFORMATION ONTO MT FRIENDS WHEN THEY LITERWLLY DIDNT ASK LMAO 🤡 — So. I'm dumping it onto you guys instead. 🤯 Srry💔😭 not srry❤️🥵 but i adore Ghostrunner 👾

...

Anyways, I'll go back into hibernation after dropping one (1) fanfiction. I SO deserve it guys... 🥵🥵

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briaroftheroses · 3 months ago

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Right Here In My Arms Tonight

warnings: angst, grieving dead loved one, no happy ending // wc: 700+

spencer reid x fem!reader (no use of y/n)

A million thoughts flew through Spencer’s mind, as they always did, as if his brain was the superhighway. Rain pattered softly against the window, dark clouds looming in the night sky, as he cuddled himself further into the bed.

He replayed the previous few weeks in his head, recalling every small detail. He always thought it was a gift, that he would never forget the way your eyes sparkled when you were happy, the look of your hair in the soft morning sunrise, the image of your skin in the moonlight. Now, he felt as though it was anything but. Cursed to remember the feeling of your bodies tangled together, the sound of your melodic laughter, the memory of hushed whispers in the dead of night, hidden from the world in a cocoon of blankets, and knowing it was all gone.

He couldn’t help but wonder if it was all his fault, as self-doubt and pity creeped in. Could he have been better? Is there something he could have said, or done? Was he too dependent, too self-critical, or not affectionate enough? Or was it inevitable, like the last embers of a once warm and glowing candle dying out?

A part of Spencer didn’t want to believe that it was all over. He was a man of logic, facts were everything to him, yet you seemed to have stripped that all away. Facts meant nothing when he felt lost, half-convinced he would look up and you would be there, smiling down at him, looking like an angel sent from heaven. That’s what you were to Spencer, it’s what you always had been. His saving grace.

The team had been constantly checking over his shoulder, out of concern, and a worry he would return to his old habits. The thought almost made Spencer laugh. You would be so disappointed if he started taking dilaudid again, so guilty that you drove him to it. No, he wouldn’t do that to you. He wouldn’t let you see him like that. You would come back, right? And when you did, Spencer would be sure that he was ready, not hopped up on drugs.

“Sir,” woman’s voice rang out softly in the room, almost afraid of startling him, as if anything too loud would set him off.

Sir. He wasn’t Spencer there, not Doctor Reid. He wasn’t anything, not without you.

“Sir?” The same voice called as Spencer refused to look up, only burying his face further into the blankets. Spencer was sure it would work, that if he could just hide himself then none of this would be true, just a bad dream that could be warded off with a sheet.

“We need to prep the body,” those words seemed to somewhat knock Spencer out of his stupor of denial as he glanced up. He still refused to look at the nurse, his gaze trained solely on you, on the bruises and cuts maring your face. You were still beautiful, you would always be beautiful to Spencer. You could be covered in scars, and violent purple bruises, and be bald, for all he cared. He would never meet someone more perfect, more ethereal.

“She’s going to wake up soon,” Spencer voiced adamantly. The heart monitor had flatlined long ago, but it was as if Spencer never even heard it.

He did, he absolutely did. It’s what threw him into a pit of despair and agony, the sound being the final note in Spencer’s life, the soundtrack to the end. He couldn’t possibly go on, not now. Not while you lay still beneath him, body battered in from the ubsubs attacks, breathing stilling to a halt.

No, this wasn’t right. None of it was. You were supposed to wake up, hold him, kiss him, and marry him. Spencer’s fingers toyed idly with the shimmering ring on your finger.

“She’ll wake up,” he repeated, with such conviction you would’ve almost believed him, if not for the way his hands shook and you lay lifeless in the hospital bed.

Spencer always knew everything, something he took great pride in. He had his whole life planned to the moment. But, with every second that you remained unresponsive to his hushed words, and delicate kisses to your face, his future slowly swirled around the drain, leaving only blackness behind.

And the million thoughts in Spencer’s head finally stopped, replaced with only you.

written by @briaroftheroses, august 15th 2024

tags: @fear-is-truth @slutforgarlogan

a/n: woke up in an angsty mood today and made my first spencer fic 🤪

also i’m so sorry i haven’t post a fic in like five months 😭 i have been writing, just nothing’s been getting finished

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #matthew gray gubler #mgg #spencer reid angst #angst #my writing 🤍#cm #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you

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hold-him-down · 4 months ago

Note

😌 - Someone gently brushing their hair and/or ✋ - A hand carding gently through their hair- for Leo pls!! i love comfort! (is it rlly ok if i send a bunch? cause i will lol)

tw: creepy whumper, intimate whumper, withdrawal, drugs, human experimentation, institutionalized slavery, nonsexual/semi-sexual nudity

notes: not leo, not comfort.

✥ ✥ ✥

“My boy,” Handler Jake Ward says, regarding the usually-feisty brunette with all the sympathy in the world. “What they’ve done to you.”

River's wrists are raw where he’s pulled against the restraints at, reportedly, a near constant rate for the last two weeks. His breaths are so heavy, each one a victory in its own rite.

His hair is drenched in the sweat that covers every inch of his battered body. There’s still an obvious hatred in his eyes, but he does not have the energy to spew the vitriol that he normally reserves for their time together.

Jake runs his fingers through the worker’s hair, brushing it gently out of his face. He doesn’t even pull away. He doesn’t even fucking flinch.

When they send them to the A-wing for ‘projects’, they never quite know in what shape will return. Or when. Or how they’re coping with the whole thing. It keeps his job interesting, he thinks, but it also makes for stressful reunions sometimes.

He has a soft spot for River, a spirited little shit from day one who, when he breaks, it is only after weeks of fierce defiance. Even then, it only lasts a few hours before he decides he’s ready to roll again and pulls his nails back out.

Jake asked the director for the details of the project earlier that day under the guise of using the information to aide in reintegrating the worker back into daily life in C-wing, but he said it was fucking confidential.

Jake runs his fingers through the tangles over and over until the waves look right again, and wonders, idly, how long this part will last.

“They really weren’t messing around, were they,” he says to himself as he unbuckles each strap. A tear runs down the corner of River’s eye and buries itself into his hair, and while Jake doesn’t think for a second that it’s anything other than a symptom of the withdrawal, he pretends, for a minute, that the boy is so happy to see him that he’s crying.

“You’re doing good,” he says, lifting River’s head to comb through the back before gently lying it back on the table. “I’m gonna move you to the tub.” Jake stands back and looks over River's body, checking for obvious signs of significant injury. He finds none, which isn’t surprising. Drug trials usually cause more damage inside than out.

River tries to speak, but it’s almost impossible to understand with the hoarse edge of his massively over-used voice. His poor throat, Jake thinks, running his thumb along his Adam's Apple. Still, Jake is pretty sure he knows what the boy says. He leans in and whispers, “What was that?”

He sees River’s mouth form a 'ffff’ a moment too late and the 'fuck you' cuts through the silence.

Almost reflexively, he has his hand around River’s neck. He squeezes it tightly, just hard enough that River’s breath cuts off, and says, “Welcome home, baby. I missed you, too.”

#belleview #creepy whumper #institutionalized slavery #human experimentation #withdrawal mention #restraint mention #hospital mention #nonsexual nudity #this isn't leo nor is it exactly comfort #this was from 11/9/2021 #we're almost through 2021 asks #river london

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wzrd-wheezes · 1 year ago

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Moony's Song - Songwriter!Remus x Reader

AN - I have never spent so long writing a fic as I have this one. It's by far one of my favourite things that I have ever created and I hope that you guys like it as much as I do. This is a repost as I originally posted this fic a few weeks ago but it wasn't showing up in any of the tags so hopefully this time it works haha.

A really big thank you to @thepunisherfrankcastle for this incredible idea - i truly loved writing it.

Songwriter!Remus x Reader - Fluff

6.2k words.

Remus was slouched over on the sofa in the grotty basement of the house that he shared with his best friends. His elbows were resting on his knees as he peered down at the pad of paper that was clutched between his fingers. The page was covered in Sirius’s messy scrawl and the corner of Remus’s mouths tugged upwards as he read.

“’As black as a raven’s wing?’” Remus read, trying to supress a laugh, “I think you should maybe leave the songwriting to me, Pads.” Sirius rolled his eyes in response, walking over to Remus and snatching the paper from his hands.

“Let’s see what you’ve written, then.” He jokingly demanded, cocking a brow at him.

Remus reached down into the rucksack that lay by his feet. He fished around inside and pulled out a leatherbound notebook. The cover was battered, the corners were bent and he thumbed through it trying to find the most recent page. He handed it to Sirius and stared down at his hands as the other boy read the lyrics he’d written. His fingers were speckled with ink, the result of a whirlwind of thoughts that had taken over his brain.

“I don’t know why you don’t just join the band.” Sirius sighed, flopping down next to him on the sofa. He had handed the notebook to James who was now reading over it, idly twizzling a drumstick between his fingers as he did so.

“Because,” he started “I’m not musical like you two are.”

“Oh, come on, Moony. We both know you play the guitar better than Sirius.” James laughed.

“Yeah, well, that’s not hard, is it?” Remus grinned cheekily. Sirius swatted him on the back of the head.

“I’m being serious.” Sirius, who had never been serious a day in his life, said. Remus just rolled his eyes at him.

“It’s just not for me. Y’know, getting on stage in front of loads of people, being in the spotlight.” Remus grimaced. He took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and put one in his mouth.

“S’ a great way to meet girls though.” Sirius winked at him, reaching into his own pocket to take out a lighter and lighting the Remus’s cigarette for him.

“And the parties are pretty good.” James added.

“I don’t care about girls and the parties. I just like writing the music,” he shrugged, leaning back on the sofa, his head resting against the back of it as he stared up at the ceiling.

James, who was sat at his drumkit opposite them, shot a mischievous look at Sirius, who grinned back at him.

“The girls and the parties are the best part about being in a band!” Sirius pressed, taking the cigarette from between Remus’s lips and putting it between his own.

“You’re vile, you know that, right?” Remus smacked him on the back of the head, just like Sirius did to him earlier. Sirius barked out a laugh, unbothered.

“C’mon, mate, just one party.” James suggested, “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. It’ll do you good to get out of your comfort zone.”

Y/N laid across the sofa in the flat that she shared with her best friend. She had her legs curled up and her body leaning against the plush arm as her eyes fluttered shut. Her headphones sat snugly over her ears, the music she was playing humming softly. She would often sit like this, just absorbing the music, really appreciating every lyric as it washed over her.

She was distracted from her listening when her best friend burst through the door. Lily was stood in front of her, ginger hair cascading across her shoulders and her eyes shining wildly.

“Woah. Have you just won the lottery or something?” Y/N asked, removing her headphones and resting them around her neck, “What’s got you all excited?”

“It’s pretty much just as good as.” she grinned, taking a seat next to her on the sofa. She tucked her knees up and rested her chin on them as she spoke, “I think I’ve just got us invited to the party of the century.”

“What are you talking about, Lils?”

“So, you know that guy I work with that has a friend that’s in a band?” Lily explained, “Well, they’re having a big party tomorrow night and he asked if me and you wanted to come.”

“No way!” Y/N said, “That’s so cool!”

“Babe. There’s more...” Lily paused for dramatic effect, “the band is The Marauders.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped and her eyes widened, she sat up a bit straighter. The Marauders were a band that the two had listened to for a while now, after stumbling across one of their singles as they browsed a record shop one day.

“You’re joking. You have a friend who knows the Marauders and you’ve only just found out?”

Lily nodded quickly, her lips pulled into a huge smile.

“So, we’re going then, yeah?”

Lily glanced down at the piece of paper that her coworker had scribbled the address of the party on as she looked out the window of the taxi. The night was cool and the girls wrapped their jackets a bit tighter around themselves as they got out of the car. The house that they had arrived at was already bustling with people, the party well underway as Lily had insisted that they turned up fashionably late. People were spilling out onto the street and sprawling across the front lawn that was littered with empty cans and bottles.

As the pair wandered inside, music pumped from large speakers and the air was tinged with cigarette smoke. Lily grabbed on to the hand of her best friend and guided her through the house into the kitchen.

“There must be something to drink in here,” she muttered as her eyes roamed over the room.

“Lil, we can’t just come to a party and drink other people's beer!” Y/N laughed. Lily just giggled and rolled her eyes, turning her attention to the fridge. She swung the door open and rummaged around for a moment before spinning back around holding two beers victoriously in her hands.

“Just help yourself to those, it’s fine!” a voice spoke out from behind them.

Both girls' heads snapped round, caught red handed, beer bottles halfway to their lips. The voice belonged to a man who was stood with arms folded across his chest and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His dark hair just brushed his shoulders, falling down in messy waves and his glinted as he put to fingers up to his lips to remove his cigarette.

“You’re-” Y/N stood there in shock as she registered who the man was.

“Yep.” he said, cutting her off “And those are my beers you’re drinking.”

“Oh, come on-” Lily tried to argue with him but she was cut off when another man entered the room and interjected.

“Stop being a dick, Sirius.” the man walked in and nudged Sirius playfully as he walked past, “Help yourself to what you want, girls.”

He leaned back against the kitchen counter, strong arms bracing himself as he reached for another beer. Like his friend, he also had dark hair, but his fell messily in curls across his forehead. He was larger in build, his toned stomach and arms on show in the cut off t-shirt he was wearing. He took a swig of his beer as his eyes looked over the two girls stood in front of him.

“I’m James, by the way.” he flashed them a smile, “Ignore Sirius, he can be a proper diva sometimes,”

“I was only joking.” Sirius huffed, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“I’m Lily.” she introduced herself, “and this is Y/N.” she gestured to her friend.

“Nice to meet you,” Y/N smiled, “Sorry about the beers.”

“Don’t mention it. It’d be a pretty shit party if we didn’t let people have a drink.” James laughed, his eyes lingering on Lily.

“Help yourself to the stuff in the fridge,” Sirius said, apologetic smile on his face as he looked at James out of the corner of his eye. His vision quickly snapped to a girl that walked past the doorway and he hastily excused himself before walking over to her and wrapping an arm around her waist.

“He’s a menace, that bloke.” James chuckled, rolling his eyes at Sirius, who now had the girl tangled in his arms.

“S’not surprising, that’s the joy of being in a band, right?” Lily laughed. She looked at Y/N out the corner of her eye, sensing the fact that she was a bit awestruck. Y/N took a large gulp of her beer, hoping that it would calm her nerves. Lily was always so cool and collected in situations like this.

“I suppose you’re right,” he nodded, his fingers tapping against the bottle in his hand, “D’you girls wanna come with me and we’ll find a seat somewhere?”

They agreed, and Lily and Y/N shot an excited look at each other as they followed James in to the living room.

“Oh my god!” Lily mouthed.

“I know!” Y/N whispered back.

The living room was a whole lot busier than the kitchen, people were draped across sofas, leaning against the walls, smoking, drinking, chatting. The music blared out and the atmosphere was electric. James kicked a couple of people off one of the sofas and settled down on it, gesturing for Y/N and Lily to join him. They chatted for a while, Y/N explaining that her and Lily were a fan of his band and how they had discovered them. James beamed at them as they spoke, leaning forward intently to what they had to say. Y/N grinned at her best friend, noticing that James seemed to be staring a whole lot at the red-haired girl.

“I’m gonna go get another beer,” Y/N excused herself, winking at Lily over her shoulder as she left her alone with James.

She wandered back into the kitchen. It was surprisingly clean to say it belonged to a group of boys in a band. The overhead light had been turned off and the kitchen was only illuminated by the light spilling in from the hallway. Y/N jumped as someone opened the fridge, the light further brightening the kitchen.

“Shit.” she said, startled, “I didn’t realise there was anyone in here.”

The person at the fridge turned around and smiled, a bottle in his hand.

“Sorry,” he smiled smally, “Was trying to escape the crowds a bit. Beer?”

He held an open bottle out to her, and she took it, leaning against the counter.

“Thanks.” she smiled, “Not a big fan of parties, then?”

The man shook his head, hoisting himself up onto the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen. His long legs hung over the edge, his boot-clad feet a few inches from skimming the floor. He ran a hand through his hair, messily fluffing it up. His features were sharp in the low light of the kitchen, and he nibbled on his lip awkwardly.

“S’not really my thing, to be honest.” he admitted, “My friends wanted me to come so...”

“I’m here with my friend too, but she’s sat in there talking to James, so I thought I’d leave them too it.”

Remus smiled understandingly, he fiddled with the cap of his bottle in his fingers, turning it over and over in his hand.

“That’s why most girls come to these things, I think.” He laughed a little bit, “You haven’t fallen for their charm then, no?”

“Nah. Don’t get me wrong I absolutely love their music, I mean their lyrics-”

“Their lyrics?” Remus interrupted, the bottle cap dropping to the floor with a quiet clatter.

“Yeah? I’m assuming you listen to them, right?” Y/N answered, “Their lyrics are like, another level. You know that one line that’s like ‘I’d forgotten what it felt like to be alone.’”

“’But now I know how it feels to wish I never came home.’” Remus continued, “Yeah, I know it.”

“Something about that line, it just…I know it’s not the most crazy thing in the world but it just sounds like it really means something to them.” she explained, her eyes lighting up in excitement, “I just genuinely really love their music.”

Remus smiled, silently thanking God for the room being gloomy so that she couldn’t see the blush that had made its way onto his cheeks. Not many people knew that Remus wrote the songs for his friends' band, and he wanted to keep it that way. He hated being in the spotlight and he never ever wanted that to change. Though, something about the way that Y/N was talking about their lyrics, his lyrics, made him want to shout it from the rooftops. He smiled at the way her eyes seemed to be glowing and how she would gesture wildly with her hands when she made references to the songs that he’d written.

It felt like they had been talking for hours, holed away in the kitchen drinking bottle after bottle of beer. They exchanged bands that they liked, their favourite songs, recommended each other albums. Remus had never hit it off with someone like this before, it felt nice to have such a meaningful conversation. Their discussion only came to a halt when three familiar faces entered the room.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here then?” Sirius smirked, leaning against the doorway.

“We wondered where you’d gotten to, Moony.” James said, his arm wrapped around Lily’s shoulder.

“Didn’t want to intrude on you two,” Y/N laughed, gesturing to Lily and James, “You looked all cosy so I came in to get another beer and I met – wait, I actually didn’t get your name?” Her eyes snapped to Remus who had hopped down from the kitchen counter at his friends’ arrival.

“Oh, that’s Remus he’s our s-” Sirius started.

“Friend!” Remus quickly interrupted, “and housemate.”

Sirius and James exchanged a quick glance at each other, the curly haired boy jabbing his bandmate in the ribs.

“Right.” Sirius nodded, “Our friend. Best friend even.”

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom, want to come with?” Lily asked, looking at her best friend and cocking her head towards the door. Y/N agreed, and the two girls pushed their way upstairs into one of the bathrooms.

Locking the door behind them, Lily leaned against it, her face absolutely beaming.

“Oh my God.” she said, putting her hands up to her face excitedly.

“I know.” Y/N smiled, “Remus seems so nice, we seem to have really hit it off, you know.”

“Same with James and I.” Lily smiled, going over to the mirror and looking at her reflection, “He’s really hot.”

“Agreed. I didn’t realise that Remus was friends with them. Weird because all we’ve really talked about is music and he never mentioned it.”

“James said he was quite shy, he said he never usually comes to their parties and that him and Sirius had to convince him to come tonight. From the way he was looking at you, I bet he’s pretty glad that he did.” Lily looked at her friend excitedly in the mirror. She reached into her bag and pulled out her lipstick, reapplying it and quickly fixing her hair.

The morning after the party, the three boys were stood in the kitchen, James was holding open a bin bag and Remus was throwing away the empty bottles and cups that were strewn over the sides. Sirius, being his usual self, was being absolutely no help and was sat on the counter with a cigarette balanced between his lips and a cup of coffee in hand.

“Did you get her number then?” Sirius grinned looking at James.

“Lily? Yeah, I did.” James smiled, his mop of curls falling messily into his eyes, “she’s great, I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl like her, you know?” Sirius rolled his eyes playfully in response and pretended to gag.

“You’re so wet sometimes, Jamie.” he said, “What about you, Moony? You spent half the night sat in here with her friend.”

Remus frowned and shook his head, throwing yet another empty bottle into the bag.

“Nah. She didn’t give it me and I was too nervous to ask.”

“Not to worry, mate.” James clapped him on the back, “We’re seeing them next week anyway. I said to Lily that we’ll all go out for a drink on Friday.”

“You did? Why?”

“’Cause Lily is sweet and I want to get to know her better, and you were practically drooling over Y/N.”

“I wasn’t drooling.” Remus protested.

“Rem, you literally went straight to your room after they left and started writing a song about her.” Sirius laughed and stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray by his side.

Although it was true, Remus couldn’t help the blush that spread across his cheeks. He was absolutely infatuated by Y/N. He’d never had a girl that was interested in him before. On the odd occasion that he did attend one of the parties that his friends hosted, no girls would ever make the effort with him like Y/N did, they usually just flocked towards Sirius and James, and he was just seen as their friend and housemate. He often wondered if he would be treated differently if people knew that it was him that wrote a lot of the songs that the band played, that it was his mind behind the lyrics that his friends sang. The lyrics that Y/N loved.

Remus felt a pang in his stomach as he thought about it. About how Y/N loved the lyrics but had no idea that it was him that wrote them. He hated how she didn’t know that it was his thoughts that spilled onto the pages of music, that rolled off her tongue like honey when she quoted them to him. He was so desperate for her to know that it was all him and he felt so stupid that he didn’t just tell her that.

Friday came and Remus was nervous as the three of them walked into the pub. He wiped his clammy palms on his trousers as they waited at the bar for their drinks. He didn’t know why he felt so anxious about seeing Y/N again when they had got on so well at the party.

The three of them settled on a booth table in the back of the pub, all of them cramming into one side so that the girls could sit opposite them when they arrived. Remus was leaning forward, his chin rested on his hand as he started intently at the bubbles that fizzed in his pint. His eyes snapped up when he saw Y/N arrive, sliding into the booth and sitting directly opposite from him.

“Hey!” she smiled brightly, “Nice to re-meet you all again now we’re all slightly more sober.”

“Not for much longer, probably,” James chuckled, picking up his pint glass and clinking it against Y/N and Lily’s.

“Sirius has only just about sobered up from the party.” Remus quipped, smirking at the dark-haired boy. Y/N laughed at his joke, much to Sirius’s annoyance.

“He comes to one party and now he’s giving it the big one.” Sirius rolled his eyes, smiling slightly. Remus’s hand that wasn’t holding his drink was resting on his lap, his fingers tapping away nervously as he tried to think of something to say. Y/N looked at Remus from across the table and smiled at him.

“I’ve only just gotten over my hangover to be honest. I feel like I singlehandedly drank all of the beer that was in your fridge.” Y/N laughed.

“I feel like I gave you a solid hand, to be honest.” Remus grinned.

“Yeah, I reckon I’ve found my new drinking partner. Sorry, Lil.” Y/N winked at her best friend. “Speaking of beer, I’m going to go grab one, d’you guys want anything?”

“Same again, please.” Sirius smiled, fishing into his pocket for a note and handing it to her, “Rem, you’re sat on the end, go help, will you?”

As Remus stood up to go to the bar, Y/N was already halfway there. Sirius shot a wink at him as he departed. Y/N leaned confidently against the bar as she ordered, resting her hand against her chin as she made small talk with the barman. Remus slid in next to her, his hip bumping against hers.

“It’s nice to see you again.” Y/N smiled, looking up at him.

“Yeah, you too. I’m glad you and Lily came, James seems really keen on her.”

“Oh, good because she genuinely hasn’t stopped speaking about him since they met.

“Yeah, he has that effect on girls.” Remus chuckled, reaching into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes and fiddling with the box as they waited for their drinks.

“I have something for you, actually.” Y/N took a piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it to him, her fingers brushing against his, lingering for a second before letting go. Remus unfolded it and his eyes darted across the page, quickly skimming over the words.

“It’s a list of all the albums I recommended to you at the party. I figured that you might have forgotten some with how drunk we were.” she explained, “Also, I hope you don’t mind but I wrote my number on their as well because I’m expecting you to call me and tell me your thoughts on each one.”

His cheeks turned pink and he quickly slipped the paper into his pocket.

“I did the same for you!” Remus exclaimed, pulling his own scrap of paper from his pocket and handing it to her, “There were a few albums I forgot to tell you about and I really think you’ll like them.”

Y/N’s mouth opened in shock, and she pulled Remus in for a clumsy hug. Over her shoulder, he saw James and Sirius grinning and giving him a thumbs up and Lily who had made a heart shape with her hands.

“She gave you her number?” Sirius asked excitedly as soon as they got home from the pub, “Well in, Moony.”

“You guys looked pretty cosy up at the bar as well.” James added. Remus shrugged, picking up his notebook that was laying on the table.

“I think you should just call her and ask her out on a date.” Sirius said bluntly, “What have you got to lose? What’s the worst that could happen?”

“My dignity? Being rejected by the potential girl of my dreams?” Remus said dramatically, scribbling something down, the pen scratching against the paper.

“What are you going to do then? Just write songs about her in the hopes that she one day hears them? C’mon, Moony!” Sirius exclaimed.

It was around a week later when Remus finally plucked up the courage to give Y/N a call – after much nagging from his two best friends. He paced his room nervously as the phone rang and rang and rang. His heart was pounding in his chest and he debated just hanging up.

“Hello?” Lily’s voice answered.

“Oh, er, hi Lily. It’s Remus, I was just wondering if-”

“Y/N!” Lily shouted cutting him off, “dream boy is on the phone.”

Remus blushed as he heard her say that. He heard a slap on the other side of the phone and Y/N’s voice hissing at her friend to shut up. Lily’s laugh rang out in the background.

“Sorry about that,” Y/N laughed nervously.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry,” Remus chuckled, “did you just hit her?”

“Yeah I did. She’s my best friend, I get full rights to hit her whenever she tries to embarrass me.”

“I didn’t know that. I’ll keep that in mind next time James and Sirius try to wind me up.”

“It’s a solid loophole.” Y/N said matter-of-factly, “So, why’d you call?”

“You gave me your number, that’s how it works isn’t it?” Remus joked, his shoulders starting to relax a little. He perched on the edge of his bed, twizzling the phone cord around his fingers, “I listened to the albums you recommended. I didn’t think I’d meet anyone with a music taste that’s nearly as good as mine.”

“Nearly as good?” She echoed, pretending to be offended, “are you questioning my music taste now?”

“I mean, yours is good. I’m just not sure it’s quite as good as mine.” Remus said, smirk evident in his voice, “that being said, I’m not done with you yet.”

Y/N laughed and Remus smiled to himself. He loved when he made her laugh. Girls never usually found him funny when he was with James and Sirius. James had a sort of silly charm about him that girls seemed to adore, and Sirius was viciously witty when he wanted to be. Remus's dry, sarcastic sense of humour had never really been a hit with girls, and it was refreshing for him to have someone that matched his energy.

They chatted for hours. Remus sprawled out over his bed, his records scattered around him as he pored over lyrics. They read snippets out to each other from their favourite albums, occasionally playing a song loud enough for the other to hear it on the other end of the phone. He imagined Y/N sitting in her room, cross legged on the floor, record player set out in front of her. He pictured her smiling, tapping her fingers along to the music she was playing, jotting down names of songs and lines of lyrics as he reeled them off to her.

Remus of course, was doing the same. His battered leather notebook resting in his lap, holding the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he scribbled down messily.

“It’s just... it sounds dumb but sometimes when I’m listening to certain songs, I relate to it so strongly it feels like it was written for me. Y’know, as if the artist had me in mind while writing it.” Y/N said.

“I know exactly what you mean.” Remus flicked back through the pages of his notebook, his eyes dancing over the lyrics and half-finished songs that he’d written about her. He frowned momentarily, an ache forming in his stomach when he realised that she might not ever hear the songs that he’d written for her. He barely knew the girl but the lyrics flowed so freely when he wrote about her. He wanted desperately for her to know exactly how he felt about her, exactly who he was. Remus’s mind started to run away with his thoughts, and for a moment, he lost himself in his fantasy. Imagining her listening to one of the songs, one of her songs, listening to the words he had written for her, singing along to the melody he had crafted while she was on his mind.

The pair’s phone calls became a nightly occurrence. They would take it in turns to ring each other, make polite small talk about their days and then spend hours upon hours chatting freely. Remus quickly became comfortable with her, his personality starting to shine through as his confidence grew.

Sirius and James started to notice this and began to invite Y/N to everything that they did, knowing that Remus would need a bit of extra encouragement before he actually asked her out on his own.

The five of them were currently sat in the boys’ basement. James and Lily snuggled up together on one sofa, Y/N, Remus and Sirius on another. This had become a regular occurrence since James and Lily had become a bit of an item, and how the rest of the group were trying to get Y/N and Remus together.

“Chuck my pack of cigs, James.” Sirius asked, gesturing to the box that lay beside the curly haired boy.

“S’empty, Pads.” James replied, not even bothering to check, “Rem took the last one.”

Sirius’ head snapped round to look at Remus, his mouth open in shock. He got up and grabbed the empty packet from the sofa and chucked it at Remus.

“You cheeky little prick,” an amused smile played on his lips “You know the rules. You finish ‘em, you buy ‘em.”.

“I’ll go.” Y/N said, standing up. “I can grab some snacks and some beers and stuff while I’m there. Anyone fancy coming with?”

Y/N glanced at Remus quickly, his gaze was fixed on cigarette packet that Sirius threw at him, he fiddled with it idly, flicking it open and shut repeatedly. Her eyes darted around the room before landing on Lily who quickly got to her feet and agreed to go with her.

“You’re so fucking thick, Moony.” Sirius said after the two girls had left.

“What?”

“She was making a move, idiot.” James laughed, sitting up straight, “she wanted you to go with her.”

“How’d you come to that conclusion then?”

“Let me re-enact it for you.” Sirius moved to stand in front of Remus, “Oh, I wonder if anyone would like to come to the shop with me,” Sirius acted dramatically, pretending to stare lovingly at Remus.

“Give over, Pads.” Remus sighed, “She’s not interested in me like that.”

“You’re joking, right?” James chuckled, “Have you actually lost your mind? Why do you think she keeps coming over with Lily?”

“Girls like that just aren’t interested in me, James.” Remus said, “She’ll just be here because of Lily.” He crushed the empty cigarette packet in his hands as he spoke.

“Remus. I’m speaking to you as your best friend-.”

“Oi!” Sirius protested.

“Sorry! Remus. I’m speaking to you as one of your best friends.” James corrected himself, rolling his eyes at Sirius. “You two speak to each other on the phone every single night. For hours.”

“She laughs at all your stupid jokes.” Sirius continued. “The last ten times her and Lily have been around here she can barely take her eyes off of you.”

“For the love of God, please just tell her that you like her.” James insisted.

That was how, in the twenty minutes that the girls had left to go to the shop, the boys had devised a plan on how Remus was going to tell Y/N about how he felt.

“Operation ‘Get Moony His Dream Girl’ is a go!” James said as he heard the front door open as Y/N and Lily arrived back at the house.

If there was one thing about James and Sirius, it was if there was an opportunity to meddle in their best friend’s love life, then you better believe they were going to meddle. That was how Y/N and Lily had ended up with tickets to the bands next concert.

“So, what’s the plan then?” Sirius asked, as he plucked at the strings of his guitar.

“We learn Moony’s song. We play it at the gig and hopefully Y/N realises that it’s about her and that he’s absolutely besotted with her.” James explained.

“He’ll hate that idea. There’s no way that he’ll agree to let us do it.”

“Yeah, that’s why we’re not going to tell him, Pads.”

“You’re such a little rascal sometimes. I love it.” Sirius grinned.

It was easy for the pair to practice the song without Remus knowing. They would sneak down to the basement while he was on the phone to Y/N and play it over and over until it was perfect.

“It’s hard work being match-makers, isn’t it?” Sirius said, grabbing some beers from the fridge and popping the tops off. He handed one to James who took a large gulp as he slumped against his drumkit.

“It’ll all be worth it.” He grinned, clinking his beer against Sirius’s.

James was right, Remus was none the wiser. He had absolutely no idea what the bands setlist was, he just put it down to the pair being extremely unorganised and indecisive. He didn’t even know that the girls were coming until James accidentally let it slip while they were sound checking.

“I spoke to Y/N on the phone last night and she didn’t mention that they were coming.” Remus frowned. He was sat on the edge of the stage, his legs hanging over the edge while his friends prepared their equipment for the concert.

“Maybe she just wanted to surprise you.” Sirius shrugged, his fingers skimming over the strings of his guitar as he tuned it.

“As a matter of fact, you didn’t mention that they were coming!” Remus accused, glaring at them both.

“Surprise?” James said cheekily.

While the concert was in progress, Remus usually watched from the side of the stage, not being one for big crowds of people. He leaned against the wall, looking out at his two friends whose stage presence seemed almost effortless. Sirius looked so at ease with a microphone at his lips and a guitar hanging at his hips. He spoke to the crowd easily, introducing song after song, dropping in the odd joke here and there. James was the same, microphone set up next to his drum kit so that he could sing along and interact with Sirius. His body sheened with sweat, and he winked at Remus as he locked eyes with him.

James jutted his head towards the crowd and Remus’s eyes followed in the direction of the front row. His eyes scanned across the barrier quickly before his gaze settled on two familiar faces. Y/N and Lily were stood front and centre, huge grins plastered on their faces. Y/N was leaning against the metal railing, her eyes fixated on the band and her lips moving in sync with the music. Remus thought that he’d never seen someone look so pretty. The way her eyes glittered with the reflection of the stage lights, the way her body swayed in time with the music. He was broken from his trance when he heard James and Sirius start speaking, his eyes snapping back to them.

“This is our last song and we’ve got a bit of a treat for you tonight, so you should all count yourselves lucky.” Sirius smirked, looking out across the sea of people.

“This is the first time we’ve played this song live. In fact, it’s the first time any of you will have heard this song.” James grinned, raking a hand through his damp curls.

Remus’s brow furrowed. He wasn’t aware that the two had written any new songs, let alone had them polished and practiced enough ready to perform live. He shot a quizzical look at his friends, who just smiled mischievously back at him.

His stomach dropped as he heard the first few notes that Sirius played, he thought he was going to throw up when the lyrics fell from his lips. They were playing his song. Y/N’s song.

He frantically looked over at Y/N, searching her face for any indication that she knew that the song was about her. He couldn’t see properly now the lights had dimmed and his heart was pounding in his chest as the crowd broke out into applause as Sirius and James walked off stage.

“James! Sirius!” he exclaimed, as the pair walked past him to set their equipment down.

“We only answer to ‘Cupid’ now.” Sirius said smugly, strapping his guitar back into his case.

“You can thank us properly later, Moony, yeah?” James said, flashing him another wink, “I’ve got to and find Lily. C’mon, Pads.”

Remus didn’t even have time to protest as he watched his friends disappear in the direction of the bar. He went to race after them, but he was stopped in his tracks as someone latched on to his arm.

“Was it about me?” Y/N’s voice spoke. Remus turned around slowly, a sinking feeling present in his stomach.

“W-what?” Remus stammered

“That song. Was it about me?” Y/N persisted. She was stood right in front of him now, barely inches away from him. Her eyes were twinkling but she had her bottom lip pulled between her teeth.

“I - I don’t - I didn’t know they were-”

Remus’s flustering was cut short by Y/N smashing her lips against his. He gasped as her soft lips enveloped his own, heart racing. He steadied his shaky hands by resting them on her hips.

“I didn’t know you wrote the songs.” Y/N breathed, finally pulling away. Remus nodded, at a loss for words. A blush had made itself at home on his cheeks and he knew that it wasn’t going to shift anytime soon.

“I didn’t know you liked me like that.” Remus choked out finally. Y/N’s eyebrows shot up and she let out a laugh.

“Here I was thinking that I was making it obvious.” she laughed, “Why didn’t you tell me that you were their songwriter? We literally spent hours talking about their lyrics, your lyrics!”

“Because I’m an idiot apparently.” Remus smiled, looking at her fondly, “I didn’t know how to say it. I don’t like the spotlight and the attention like the others do. Not many people know.”

“I’m glad I know now.”

“Me too.” He caught her lips with his again, for longer this time. Remus felt the tension leave his body as he melted into her. His hands on her waist and her arms around his neck. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as it dawned on him that she finally knew who he was.

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin fan fic #marauders band au #marauders fanfiction

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kayleighwinchester · 5 months ago

Text

Downpour

((It's been a long time coming, but I finally finished another of the drabble drafts I have rattling around for @artyandink's Jensen-a-thon! This one is meant to prelude Rocks and Rom Coms and Long Story, but can certainly be read separately! I present to you: Stanford-Era Dean being the socially-inept, ill-adjusted boy I maintain he would be.))

What would arguably be the most important day of your life, looking back, was an entirely average Monday; it was one that would even count as a bad day.

You went to class – you were running late, and it was only the first week. You had lunch at some overpriced cafe on campus; another several hours of classes that made a headache start to throb at your temples; as rain began to pour down as you walked home, you ducked into the nearest building – a run-down looking gas station that, really, had no business keeping their prices a solid ten cents higher than everywhere else in town – to wait it out.

He was leaning against the counter beside the display of brightly colored lottery adverts and scratch off tickets, brows furrowed as he stared out at the rain, grumbling about how he’d “just waxed the damn car–”, his eyes fixed on a sleek black muscle car safely hidden beside pump three from the sudden downpour. It seemed he was stuck there, just like you were, if his muttering was any indication. His green eyes darted to yours as the bell above the door jingled cheerfully, and the sour expression on his face lightened just a bit. “Kind’a wet out there, huh?” He asked, lips quirking into a lopsided grin as he took in your damp clothes and disheveled hair.

“Usually what happens when it rains,” You quipped, making a bee-line for the line of coolers, grabbing an overpriced bottled iced coffee. You heard him snort out a laugh behind you, and you couldn’t help but grin as well, idly wandering toward the aisles of snacks.

The sound of the rain on the roof was getting louder, not quieter, and the realization struck that, unless you wanted to arrive home entirely soaked to the skin, you were likely going to be stuck there for a while. Grabbing a bag of mini-donuts, you made your way to the register where he was still leaning, arms folded, on the counter, sliding your newly acquired snacks toward the register.

You reached into your pocket, digging for your wallet.

Nothing.

You paused, dropping your backpack down to one elbow, digging through each compartment.

Nothing.

As you wracked your brain to try to locate your missing wallet – and more importantly, your money – it hit you. You’d spent the batter part of the previous evening indulging in a bit of retail therapy, and your wallet was probably still on the coffee table, right next to your laptop. The realization was a welcome one in that you knew where it was, but an incredibly inconvenient one in regards to where it wasn’t.

You looked up at the cashier – a girl a few years younger than you, who was staring at you with a bored, unamused look. “I, uh – I’ll just put those back,” You offered sheepishly.

“I got it.” You startled slightly as the man beside you leaned forward, casting you a wink and another brilliant grin, sliding a ten across the counter. His eyes cut back to you, that million dollar smirk not fading as he offered his hand. “Dean.” He supplied.

“Y/N,” You introduced, before quickly adding, “Look, I left my wallet – I don’t have any way to pay you back.” You slowly took the bag the cashier offered, shaking his hand with your free one.

“‘S fine,” The man – Dean – waved your concern off with a hand. “It was, what, ten bucks tops? ‘S fine.” He flipped briefly through the change he’d gotten back, counting, and – “Yeah. Seven fifty. Not gonna miss it.” He smiled over at you. God, that smile was borderline disarming. “‘Sides, I can think of a few ways for you to pay me back.”

There it was.

You grimaced slightly, and he seemed to realize his misstep, holding up his hands immediately in surrender. “Not what I meant,” He said quickly, a sheepish expression immediately darting across his face – you got the immediate impression that wasn’t a line he’d tried before, nor one he’d actually thought out before he used it.

God, he had no idea how to talk to women, did he? “Alright,” You said slowly, reaching into your bag to fish out the bottled coffee, giving it a few shakes before you opened it. “What did you mean, then?”

“I was just thinkin’ – I dunno. Coffee, maybe? Real coffee, not that,” He cast a stare at your bottle like it had personally offended him somehow. “And – hell, it doesn’t look like ‘s gonna stop rainin’ any time soon. Maybe I could give you a ride home.”

Your first instinct was the logical one – a very firm thank you, but hell no – but the words didn’t come out. Instead, you let your eyes wander over his expression. If you had to guess, he was around your age - give or take a year or two. He didn’t seem threatening. He seemed awkward. Not for the first time, you were reminded of the boys you’d had classes with the last two years – freshly out of high school, full of faux self-confidence and one-liners they’d snagged from suave action heroes that always got the girl.

You glanced out the window at the rain, which seemed to have no intention of slowing – let alone stopping – any time soon. “Weren’t you just complaining that you just waxed your car?” You pointed out, taking a sip of your coffee.

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, leaning his weight against the counter. “S’pposed to give it an hour – she should be fine.”

“She?” You quoted skeptically, earning another sheepish grin. You took another sip of your coffee, glancing down into the bag at the paper bag of mini-donuts, considering your options. Your shoes and socks were already soaked through, squishing uncomfortably as you shifted. You could wait out the rain – which didn't seem like it would stop any time soon – or you could take your chances ending up on some daytime crime show like your mother loved to watch so often.

You glanced back up at him – he'd gotten a scratch off ticket and was slowly working his way over it, one of the quarters from his change gripped between a thumb and finger, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his eyes flitting back up to yours. “Yeah, alright.” You finally conceded. “Any funny business, and I'm tucking and rolling.” You warned.

Dean gave a wide grin, one that sent a flutter of butterflies through you. “Deal. I won't even lock the doors.” He raised one hand – the one still holding the quarter between two fingers – in a teasing promise. “Just let me finish this –...” His face, scrunched up (adorably, though you would never admit as much) in concentration, lit up as he scratched off the remaining few squares of his lottery ticket, one fist pumping briefly in the air. “Score!” He grinned over at you. “What’d’you say we stop for that coffee first?” He asked, proudly holding up the ticket.

He was still grinning ear-to-ear as he held the door open, the bell jingling overhead, before he followed you out into the rain.

#supernatural fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester drabble #dean winchester fan fiction

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cha-melodius · 26 days ago

Note

Hello hello! Firstprince at a trashy American fast food or fast casual restaurant of your choice please!

(Idk if Waffle House counts as fast food or fast casual, but it had the right vibes. 😂 Thanks so much for the fun prompt, carrot!)

Infinitely Late at Night

(T, 2.7k, read below or on AO3)

Alex can’t pinpoint the first time he truly notices the man who sits at the third stool from the end of the counter. It’s almost as if he’s always been there, just outside of the periphery of Alex’s vision, until finally something about him sticks in Alex’s mind. Perhaps it’s that, from the back—which is how Alex mostly sees him—he’s not very notable. Tall, blond, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, wearing the most boring and nondescript clothes you could imagine. But then, one day, as Alex is taking a little break to stretch his back after hours of being hunched over a computer, his eyes catch on the man and he thinks: Huh.

There aren’t a lot of people who regularly come to this Waffle House in the wee hours of the night during the week, which is one of the reasons Alex likes it. There’s Joe, who comes in at 5AM the end of his overnight shift, and Cindy, who stops in around 2AM for a cup of coffee in between bus routes. Then there’s Alex, who started coming here during his first year of law school for all-night study or writing sessions, and who still finds his way here when he can’t sleep and needs to get out of his apartment. Which is regularly. He always camps out in the same booth in the front so he can watch the night sluggishly move by through the front window when he’s not working. There’s something comforting about the smell of frying bacon and waffle batter, and Pamela who works overnights always keeps his coffee topped up.

He likes his routine. He’s not expecting it to change.

Once he notices the new(?) blond man, though, he can’t seem to stop. The way he hums softly sometimes, snatches of melodies Alex can’t place. The curve of his full lips, just about the only things that are flushed with color on his otherwise pale face. His long, elegant fingers first, drumming idly on the countertop as he bends over a book to read, or curling around a ceramic mug. The lilt of his British accent when he exchanges a few words with Pamela. And once, Alex accidentally caught his gaze when he got up to leave, and he got briefly trapped in the most stunning pale blue eyes he’s ever seen. The man never eats anything, no matter how long he stays, only orders a cup of tea and leaves an enormous tip when he departs.

Alex is fascinated despite himself, even though everyone knows you mind our own goddamned business in the Waffle House at 3AM. Where did he come from? What is he doing here? Not even Pamela knows—he’s asked, on nights when the man hasn’t shown up—and Pamela knows everything.

Then, one day Alex is coming back from the bathroom and not paying attention to where he’s going, and his shoulder collides with a very solid body. The mystery guy barely moves, but he lets out an oof as Alex bounces off of him, only narrowly keeping his feet.

“Fuck, sorry man,” Alex apologizes, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he stares. He’d known the man was tall, but it still surprises him how far he has to look up into those startled blue eyes. Up close, he seems to be about Alex’s age, though it’s very hard to say. There aren’t any obvious creases marking his skin, but there’s something that feels oddly ancient in the man’s gaze. Mesmerizing, even when his eyes drop to follow the movement of Alex’s tongue. Alex feels caught in it.

Something had hit the ground when they’d bumped into each other, and Alex finally tears his eyes away and looks down to find a worn leather notebook on the floor. It falls open when he picks it up, the pages full of dense, elegant cursive in an unusual red-brown ink, but he doesn’t have a chance to look at it closely before the man snatches it away, holding it close to his chest with clear alarm.

“That’s mine,” he says sharply, his eyes wide.

“I know,” Alex replies carefully. “Just picking it up for you. Y’know, since I was the reason it was on the floor.”

The man swallows. “Right. Thank you.”

“I’m Alex,” Alex says, sticking out his hand. Perhaps predictably, given his odd behavior, the man just stares at it. “You’re a regular now, huh? I’ve seen you around.”

The man blinks slowly, making no move to shake Alex’s hand, and Alex is just about to drop it and give it up for good when he finally reaches out. His hand is soft and cool to the touch, his neatly trimmed nails standing in contrast to Alex’s bitten-down ones.

“Henry,” the man says. “I just moved here a month ago.”

“Night owl, or night shift?”

Henry hesitates. “A bit of both, I suppose,” he answers after another few beats. “I do work nights.”

“Better than just not sleeping,” Alex laughs self-deprecatingly.

“Perhaps if you didn’t consume coffee at quite that rate,” Henry says with a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, which surprises him. Alex hadn’t realized Henry had been noticing him, too.

Alex grins. “Everyone’s a critic.” He lets a moment of silence pass; the faint clatter of dishes filters out from the kitchen. “You were heading out?”

Henry nods. “My next shift.”

“I’ll let you go, then,” he says, even though he wants to ask doing what. Henry didn’t offer, and he’s not pushy enough to ask. Yet. “See you around, Henry.”

~~~~~

He does see Henry around after that, quite a bit. Sometimes they just exchange greetings and stick to their own business. Sometimes Henry sits with him in his booth, after Alex invited him one time and it became a bit of an irregular habit until eventually Henry sits with him more often than not. He learns that Henry is a year older than him and he’s been living in the US for a while, but only recently moved to Texas. That he came here to escape the family business and ended up in it anyway—though Alex doesn’t find out what that business is.

He also learns that Henry is witty and smart and really fucking charming. When he fixes Alex in that pale blue gaze of his, it’s like nothing else exists in the world. Alex is, for lack of a better word, entranced. He wants to spend more time with Henry. Get to know him. Kiss the coy smile off those full, pink lips.

“Hey, uh,” Alex ventures one evening, fidgeting restless in his nervousness. “You ever do things in the daytime? Like, maybe we could have a normal meal together? Go for a walk?”

Henry smiles at him, an odd wistfulness to the slant of it. “Not usually, no. I mostly sleep during the day.”

The thing is, Alex is also pretty sure Henry is a vampire.

Vampires aren’t real, of course. Everyone knows that. But the list of evidence Alex compiles is pretty damning. Extremely pale skin. Only active at night. Never eats regular food. Seductive as all hell. Preternatural reflexes—Alex once saw him catch a falling teacup at a speed that shouldn’t be humanly possible. Sometimes talks like he’s from an earlier century. And more than once, there have been little dark splatters on his clothes. Henry said it was ink, but it could have been blood.

Alex doesn’t want to think about why none of this seems to matter to his interest in Henry. Maybe it’s Henry’s vampire mind control powers. Maybe it’s just Alex’s tendency towards shitty self-preservation. Regardless, Alex still wants him. Wonders how to broach the subject. Hey, just so you know, I’m a blood donor. That’s probably too cheesy. He’s workshopping it.

For now, they spend time together, and Alex catalogs every time Henry’s gaze lingers on his hands, or on his body, or on his lips.

Alex is pretty sure Henry wants him, too. Hopefully, for more than just a meal.

~~~~~

Their visits to the Waffle House don’t always overlap. Alex isn’t there every night, and some nights, Henry doesn’t show. Alex tries not to worry. They’ve never exchanged phone numbers because they see each other so regularly. It’s not lost on him that Henry could just disappear and Alex wouldn’t know how to find him again, but he still hasn’t gotten up the nerve to ask. He’d need a reason, wouldn’t he? And every time he tries to suggest they do something else outside of sitting at a Waffle House in the middle of the night, Henry brushes him off.

It’s fine. He’s perfectly happy like this.

It’s nearly 4AM, which means Henry’s most likely not showing, and Alex decides to call it a night. He’ll go home and scrape together a few hours of sleep, then come back tomorrow. So what if he’s getting less sleep than ever before because he doesn’t want to miss the chance of seeing Henry at the Waffle House? He’s managing.

By this time of night, the air has lost all of its lingering heat, but somehow it feels closer than it did when he came in. The sounds of traffic from the highway nearby are muffled, and everything is unnaturally still. Alex picks up the pace as he heads toward his car, hunching over a little as his hand tightens on his satchel.

“Alex.”

Alex’s steps falter and he looks over his shoulder, but there’s no one there. “H?” he calls out. “Is that you?”

A shadow moves near the rear of the building, slowly resolving into the shape of a person. Tall, lanky, broad shoulders. His face is shadowed, but the harsh streetlights cast a glow around the edges of his pale hair. It’s gotta be Henry, because no one else matching that description should know his name. At least not anyone who’d be at a Waffle House at 4AM.

“Anyone ever tell you it’s kinda creepy to hang out in the dark?” Alex asks with a nervous laugh as he takes a few steps closer, glancing over his shoulder into the darkness pressing in around them. “What’re you doing out here?”

The man-who-might-be-Henry doesn’t move, and Alex keeps approaching, drawn in despite the warning bells going off in his head. Something pulls him in, inevitably and inexorably, and his feet move without his permission until he stops in front of Henry—or, not Henry, because when the man finally looks up his eyes are completely black in the low light, and his mouth is hard and cruel as it splits into a vicious grin.

“Waiting for a meal,” he growls in a voice full of gravel and nails.

With a speed that definitely isn’t human, his hand darts out and closes in the front of Alex’s shirt, hauling him nearly off his feet as he swings around toward the building. The back of Alex’s head slams into the brick wall when he’s shoved up against it, and he gasps as stars burst in his vision. Trying to blink them away, he struggles against the man’s hold, but the single hand might as well be pressing with a thousand pounds against his chest.

“Mm,” the man hums, leaning in close to Alex’s neck as his other hand comes up to press just above Alex’s collarbones, icy cold where they dig into soft flesh. “He’s always had good taste, I’ll give him that.”

Alex digs his fingernails into the unyielding wrist, choking as his vision swims. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of gleaming white. Fangs.

So vampires are fucking real. Alex would feel vindicated if he wasn’t scared absolutely shitless. Fuck, if he gets himself turned undead, June’s never going to let him hear the end of it—

The vampire jerks backward, as if struck by an invisible blow. A second later, Alex realizes that he wasn’t struck but dragged away by another person. Tall. Blond. Blue eyes almost glowing in the low light. And absolutely covered in blood that’s spraying everywhere as he draws a gleaming knife across the vampire’s neck. A horrible gurgling keen pierces the night for a split second, only to be cut off when Henry drives a wooden stake up under the vampire’s ribs and into his heart.

The only sound that breaks the dreadful silence that follows is the ragged sound of Alex’s breathing.

“What,” he croaks out, “the fuck.”

Henry kneels by the vampire’s supine form, an odd sort of regretful expression on his face. “I’ve been hunting him for a long time,” he mutters before he glances up at Alex again. “You’ll want to look away for this part.”

Alex doesn’t need to be told twice, nor does he let himself think about what Henry might be doing back there. He hums to himself to drown out any sounds, staring up at the stars, until he feels a gentle hand brush his shoulder.

“I thought they turned to dust when you staked them?” Alex asks. The vampire’s boots are just visible out of the corner or his eye.

“A common myth,” Henry says, a little wryly. “Are you all right, love?”

Alex clears his throat and narrowly resists reaching up to touch his own neck as the endearment lands squarely in the middle of his chest and sends out warm fingers that chase away the lingering chill from the vampire’s grip. “Fine,” he says. “Though it’s possible I have a mild concussion? I don’t know how else to explain what just happened. Are you some kind of vampire hunter?”

“Monsters, more broadly. Vampires are the most common, though.” Henry gives a small, humorless laugh. “The family business.”

“Fuck,” Alex says. “I just thought y’all were in, like, marketing or something.”

“You thought I worked nights… in marketing?” Henry asks dubiously.

“I didn’t really think about it that hard, ok?” Alex huffs. “Can we go back to the part where you saved me from a vampire?”

Henry’s face crumples. “I’m sorry, Alex. I should have known he’d go after you.”

“Hey,” Alex says gently, “it’s not your fault.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Henry says, his lips twisting bitterly. “He had a penchant for turning people that I… care about. I think he liked the sport of it. It’s part of why I’ve not let myself get too close to anyone in years.”

“Oh,” Alex breathes as the implications of all of that sink in. “You care about me.”

Henry gives him a look like he’s being ridiculous. “To a rather dangerous degree, as it turns out. I nearly got you killed. Or worse.”

Alex moves before he even knows what he’s doing, grabbing Henry on both sides of his face and hauling him into a bruising kiss. It’s a little awkward because of the angle and the fact that Henry freezes, but a second later he’s kissing Alex back just as desperately. He does not, however, put his hands anywhere on Alex’s body, which is as disconcerting as it is disappointing.

“Why aren’t you touching me, baby?” Alex nearly whines, his lips still brushing Henry’s. He’s shaking now, whether from the adrenaline crash or the terror of realizing how close he came to death finally catching up to him is hard to say, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to die if he allows more than an inch of space between them right now.

Henry makes a sound like he’s been wounded. “I’m covered in blood, darling,” he protests, though he punctuates it with another kiss. “Don’t want to get it on you.”

“I don’t care about the fucking blood, hold me, please—”

Turns out, there’s nothing in the world that feels better than being wrapped up in Henry’s strong arms.

~~~~~

“I can’t believe you thought I was a vampire.”

“C’mon, baby. You kinda fit the profile.”

“Only because the entirety of your knowledge of vampires comes from films.”

“And Buffy.”

“Oh, of course. An unassailable source. Why on Earth do I put up with this?”

“Because you love me?”

“Mm.” Henry kisses him, soft and slow. “That must be it.”

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #firstprince #rwrb fic #firstprince fic #rwrb fanfic #firstprince fanfic #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #my fic #chamel's fandom fest

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chloe-caulfield94 · 1 year ago

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The Last Temptation of Max Caulfield

Max’s nightmare in Episode 5 (by that I mean the sequence of events beginning with Max losing consciousness at the beach and ending with Max’s confrontation with herself in the Two Whales Diner) is in my opinion one of the most thematically important parts of the game.

The nightmare presents a warped version of reality, where everything is backwards, opposite to the truth.

In Mr Jefferson’s classroom, when Max is presented with a set of dialogue choices, she emphatically says she would never say any of those things.

In the hallway, Kate is resentful towards Max for saving her, even though in reality she was grateful.

In the labyrinth, even characters who have been nothing but friendly to Max, like Warren and Samuel, are hunting her down.

In the bathroom, Max has to enter a code reflected in the mirror – a clever bit of visual storytelling, signifying that everything in the nightmare is backwards.

The entire nightmare is designed to prime Max towards sacrificing Chloe.

The nightmare version of Kate scorns Max for using her power to save her, in an effort to convince Max that sitting idly by when a friend is being murdered is the right thing to do. In the real world, Max made a difference. She saved a life. In the nightmare, she is told she did the wrong thing by helping and she changed nothing.

The nightmare version of David says “it’s pretty ironic he ended up being right about everything”, suggesting that Max and her power were irrelevant to solving the mystery of the Dark Room. While David’s help was instrumental in Max’s escape from the Dark Room, David only got there by following the clues found and pieced together by Max. He even expressed respect for Max’s detective skills. In real life, Max used her power to solve the mystery of Rachel’s disappearance and Kate’s abduction. In the nightmare, she is told it was all for naught.

In the warped version of the Two Whales Diner, the townspeople are accusing Max of murder, pleading for their lives. Even when it makes no sense. Why is Nathan, who is already dead at this point, pleading for his life? Why is Joyce pleading with Max to sacrifice Chloe? Would the real Joyce want to survive at the cost of her daughter’s life? Even more puzzlingly, she says that Max is going to take her away from her family. But her family IS Chloe.

Max’s nightmarish reflection is the personification of all her fears and doubts. She's trying to make her doubt everything she’s done and everything she feels. She’s trying to convince her she chose wrong at each turn. That Max is not good enough for people to like her for who she is. That there’s no way Chloe would want to be her friend if she didn’t have some ulterior motive.

Everything in the nightmare is trying to guilt-trip, bully and strong-arm Max into sacrificing Chloe. No part of the nightmare is designed to sway Max towards sacrificing the town. Even the nightmare version of Chloe is working against the real Chloe, mocking and insulting Max. The real Chloe called Max the “smartest, most talented person she has ever met”, a hero, her best friend. She said Max was kind and caring and that nobody could ask for a better friend. She said Max made her feel like she had a reason to stay in Arcadia Bay. In real life, Chloe admires Max. In the nightmare, she is contemptuous towards her.

The nightmare represents the darkest, most repressed, guilt-driven part of Max’s mind. The part of her mind that always tells her she’s not good enough, she’s a loser, everything she does is pointless, nobody will ever genuinely like her, all the people around her are just using her.

It’s also the part of her mind, so battered with the vile things she experienced during the week, that dreamt up Mr Jefferson talking about digging up Rachel’s corpse to engage in necrophilia. It’s not the most rational part of Max’s mind, to say the least.

If Max chooses to sacrifice Chloe, she capitulates before the darkest, most irrational part of her mind. The part that is usually subdued, but reared its ugly head when Max was at her most vulnerable. She admits that all the apparitions wearing her face and the faces of the people she knows were right. Everything she fought for was pointless. She chose wrong every time. So she might as well take it all back. Her fears and doubts will always defeat her. Just like they convinced her to tear up a photograph that would've won the contest, they now convinced her to reject a relationship that could’ve blossomed into something beautiful, no matter if romantic or platonic.

If sacrificing Chloe is, as some players would argue, the obviously more moral (or at least less evil) choice, why does Max need to be tempted, bullied and guilt-tripped into choosing it? Since when does one have to be tempted to do the right thing?

If sacrificing Arcadia Bay is such an evil and selfish choice, why is the darkest part of Max’s mind hell-bent on convincing her not to do it? Shouldn’t it be other way around?

In what story is following what you were told to do in a terrifying, angry nightmare the right thing to do?

In what story a hero confronted with the dark side of their own mind should capitulate to it instead of triumphing over it?

In contrast to the warped vision of the world in Max’s nightmare, her memories of Chloe, which she goes through before waking up at the lighthouse, are pure. Unedited. Just the way they happened. There’s no anger, resentment and guilt when she goes through the memories of Chloe.

It's a memory of Chloe that stops the nightmare. It was Chloe’s touch that pulled Max out of a dark vision she had at the end of Episode 1. When Max crosses the nightmare version of the junkyard, the only safe haven is a portion of Chloe's hideout.

In my mind, Max’s nightmare represents a last challenge for her to overcome. She is being tempted to commit the gravest of all sins. To reject love (once again, doesn’t matter if romantic or platonic; even if Max has a low romance score with Chloe, she writes in her diary that Chloe is like family to her and that she is about to find out if what’s between them is friendship or love).

Max is being tempted to choose fear over love, doubt over hope, inaction over heroism. To take back everything she has fought so hard for.

At that moment, Chloe has no advocate, save for the memories Max has of her. She even absolves Max of killing her, accepting that it would save some greater purpose.

Hardly a fair fight. On one side all the pent-up anger, guilt, fear and doubt, which spawned a terrifying nightmare. On the other – just memories.

Given that the entire nightmare sequence is designed to guilt-trip the player into sacrificing Chloe, that there’s no equivalent sequence designed to pull the player the other way and that Chloe herself okays her own murder, I’m in awe that 47% of LiS players were able to see past the bullshit. Past the dehumanizing view on morality that reduces lives to numbers, to resources that can be spent to achieve goals.

Max’s nightmare is her last temptation. Something terrifying and malicious, be it a portion of her own mind or some external entity, is tempting her to commit the ultimate sin – to reject love.

In one timeline, Max overcomes this temptation. She withstands the barrage of anger, fear, doubt and guilt unleashed upon her.

In another, she is defeated by a demon wearing her face.

Now tell me, which ending is the good one?

The one in which the hero comes face to face with the sum of their fears and doubts but overcomes it?

Or the one in which the hero comes face to face with the worst version of themselves but instead of rejecting it does its bidding?

#max caulfield #chloe price #nightmare #life is strange #lis #pricefield

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lumpsbumpsandwhumps · 2 years ago

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WHAT IF WHAT IF post torture cuddling bc poor jonie is so touch starved

Everything hurt.

This was not a sensation that Jonas was unfamiliar with, but it was still far from pleasant nonetheless. Dealing with the constant ache of muscles and stiff joints and stinging open wounds had almost become something of a routine for him. By the time old bruises had faded to yellow, new ones were blooming from red to purple elsewhere. Scabs were ripped off faster than they could scar close. Headaches and stomachaches woke him hourly, only occasionally placated whenever Malik remembered that human bodies need sustenance to survive. Really, the pains that throbbed in varying intensities should be nothing new to his battered self.

But this was much worse than he had endured over the last six weeks. The coldness that drenched him was bone deep, icy water soaked in his clothes and hair and plastering them against his trembling skin. His teeth clattered painfully behind blue lips, feeling like he was chewing on ice cubes instead of his own exhales. Not even his breath could keep him warm if he tried, though it would hardly do him any good at this point. Shaking limbs couldn’t pull in to huddle at his core for warmth, instead having to seek out relief in the form of a southern serial killer with a new fascination with ice water submersion.

Though maybe it wasn’t all bad considering how much worse Malik could have made it. The heir could have been left in the drained metal basin when he was done the impromptu photoshoot, surely succumbing to hypothermia overnight as a result. Malik could have refused to give him a towel for him to clumsily dry himself off with, barely making a difference for his sorry state but still removing most of the droplets running down his face. He could have been left to fight through the cold on his own, struggling to procure any amount of body heat no matter how tightly he curled into himself on the floor.

No, rather than prolonging his suffering like the older man was prone to doing, Malik had scooped the soggy boy up and dropped him in his lap, forcing Jonas’s bound arms to loop over his neck in a strange hug. The position had him flush against his captor’s chest, his thick sweater helping to absorb more of the freezing liquid off of his person. Beneath the black material was a delicious body heat that Jonas greedily tried to steal, nestling closer to the source as if he could merge with the warmth. If his icy skin bothered Malik from the few points of contact they had, the other man didn’t show it, content with having a trembling pretty boy caged within his crossed legs. Malik’s arms circled around him, further trapping in his wonderful heat to share with his favorite victim while he idly clicked through the pictures on his camera. Fond memories of mere minutes ago.

“I like this one,” Malik said, though Jonas moreso felt the comment from the vibration against his cheek. “You look so cute with your li’l nose all scrunched up like that.”

That was because Jonas was desperately trying not to inhale anymore water when he was able to be dunked under for a fourth time. Rather than acknowledging whatever sinister photo was displayed on the viewfinder, the poor boy squeezed his eyes shut as if he was hoping to conserve warmth in his orbitals as well. He pushed closer into Malik’s sternum, shuddering when he felt a burning hand card through his wet locks, separating a few tangles now that the knots had been loosened. It felt heavenly to have another touch melting away the freezing pain that gnawed every square inch of his body right down through the tissue. A few water drops were displaced from the petting, feeling like tiny electrical shocks each time they landed down his neck, but it was a small price to pay at this point.

“We should send this one to your parents,” The hand that had been stroking Jonas’s hair trailed down to rub the back of his neck, fire hot fingers helping to create a wonderful friction of heat against the knobs of his spine.

Jonas hummed, more accurately groaned, too enthralled by the warmth beating through him. Sure, whatever Malik wanted, as long as it meant he could soak up the offered comfort for a few more minutes. Regrettably, the hand left to tap through the rest of the picture catalog, eager to pick out a few more Pulitzer Prize winners to be shown off to clients and Jonas’s family alike. Or perhaps Malik would keep them all to himself, a personal treasure trove. It didn’t matter to Jonas. Nothing mattered to Jonas right now. All he cared about was his tormentor and his unfairly high body temperature.

“What’d’ya think it’d be like if we tried boiling water next time?”

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sabrinariverdalefan · 2 years ago

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I’ve Got My Eye On You

Xavier Thorp x Original character

(This is going to be many chapters long. I’ve been having this plot bunny in my head for weeks. It was time to put pen to paper.

Chapter Two

The next time Xavier made it into town was with Ajax, Enid, and Wednesday Addams who was hell-bent on solving yet another mystery. Straying away from the others he couldn’t help but think about that beautiful girl standing outside an AA meeting. What he certainly didn’t expect was to see her at the Weathervane at the counter with a couple of friends. They seemed to be in some animated conversation with one of the older employees who worked whenever that imbecile Tyler didn’t work. He tried to not seem obvious that he was staring at her, but his friend quickly noticed and jabbed him in the ribs. Xavier glared at him “What?”

“You’ve been staring at that girl for like fifteen minutes,” Ajax said with amusement in his voice. Here we go; some idiot remark in the making. “I bumped into her a couple of weeks ago. That’s it.”

“You’re staring at her like she’s your prey…” Wednesday commented idly as her own eyes never left the menu that they were inspecting.

“Am not…” He scoffed, but shut up as he noticed the employee walk away from the boys and girl only for the blonde to shout out in their direction “Hey Mike! It’s your birthday today right?”

Elizabeth watched her older friend turn around with a frown.

“Now Lizzie you know damn well I don’t want to be reminded of that.” A loud sigh left his mouth “You’ll get it when you turn thirty. And don’t you dare start singing happy birthday.” The guy warned in a low voice.

The blonde smirked as she got up and walked to the other side of the diner past Xavier and his friends. Not evening noticing him she sat down at an old piano and started pounding out a strange tune that certainly wasn’t ‘happy birthday’.

“Stop the clock, take time out. Time to regroup before you lose the bout. Freeze the frame. Back it up. Time to refocus before they wrap it up. Years are getting shorter. The lines on your face are getting longer. Feel like you’re treading water, but the riptides getting stronger.”

At least Xavier wasn’t the only one paying mind to the girl now. ‘Elizabeth…her name is Elizabeth…’ He let her name bounce around his head. Looking at back at the counter Mike had his hand over his mouth laughing. There was pure joy on his face as he called out “Come on Lilibet!’ Xavier couldn’t help but be slightly jealous. When was the last time he felt joy in his life? Still, the girl kept playing and belting out this strange song that became quite catchy.

“Don’t panic! Don’t jump ship. Can’t fight it, like taxes. At least it happens only once in your life! They’re singing ‘Happy Birthday’. You just want to lie down and cry. Not just another birthday. It’s 30/90! Why can”t you stay 29? Hell, you still feel like you’re 22! Turn thirty, 1990.”

“What an odd way to wish someone a happy birthday…” Wednesday remarked, yet she looked intrigued. “But it’s accurate…” Enid and Ajax simply were baffled at this impromptu performance. Xavier could see that the rest of the diner didn’t exist. She was singing this song for her friend. The way she’d move from standing to sitting as she pounded away at that piano like a professional was simply breathtaking. Yet she didn’t even notice him, how badly he wanted her to look his way, but her eyes remained glued to the person she was dedicating this tune to.

“Clear the runway. Make another pass. Try one more approach before you’re out of gas. Friends are getting fatter. Hairs on your head are getting thinner. Feel like a clean-up batter on a team that ain’t a winner. Don’t freak out, don’t strike out. Can’t fight it, like city hall. At least you’re not alone. Your friends are there too. They’re singing ‘Happy Birthday’. You just wish you could run away. Who cares about a birthday? But 30/90 hey!”

Elizabeth hit the high notes as the song wrapped and felt slightly dizzy. Smoking affects your lung capacity, but her voice never wavered. Even coming down from an early high, she still looked clean to the outside world. She had gotten so good at hiding. Fingers then left the keyboard as clapping could be heard from the other customers.

Turning around she took a bow before she headed back to the front counter. That’s when she saw him. Giving him a small smile Xavier watch her walk past and followed her with his eyes. He couldn’t help but follow her. Why did he wish she was singing to him instead of someone else? He didn’t even know her name until he heard Mike say it, and yet he found himself annoyed and jealous. The teen wanted to know what she felt like; what she tasted like. He knew that he could walk over to her anytime he wanted, but for now he watched in the distance, completely fascinated.

#xavier thorpe #xavier thorpe x reader #wednesday fanfic #wednesday netflix #fanfic #yadare #writing #wednesday addams

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silkendandelion · 1 year ago

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Mirage In The Desert - Chapter 10

Summary: After weeks of searching, River believes he’s found the answer to his question: a boy with a straw hat and his friends.

Rated Teen and Up Audiences for language, implied violence. Cross-posted to Ao3, same username. Send me a DM: yell at me, send flowers. Cheers.

~*~

They believed the hardest adjustment would be the heat.

For Oasins, community and family were foremost, and for the mighty 35 that traveled to join the rebels, now separated by hundreds of miles for the first time in centuries, the heat was injury to insult.

Upon arriving to Yuba, they were instructed to abandon their clothes. The long, blue linen wraps called shen were worn by all Oasins to protect their legs from the sun, and yet could be tied to the waist by the bottom hem to stay dry while wading in the ocean. Their gold, while thankfully wasn’t confiscated, was ordered to be shipped back to the island.

They chose to package their shen as well, piling a single crate full with earrings, piercings, necklaces, gold from their hair, from their mothers, some of which had never been removed since parents years ago covered their babies in sun beams and stars.

So they stood naked in front of the love of their ancestors, covered in the rags of the rebellion, and nailed the crate shut.

Mercy, is that they would be in Yuba when the island receives their burden, never to see the tears of the mothers and brothers that open the crate, believing this would be the only box they receive if their loved ones do not come home.

“I promise it’s for your safety,” Koza said, unable to meet Esai’s eyes for more than a glance.

“I would never—,” he took a deep breath. “I understand how difficult this must be.”

“You can’t.” Esai’s conviction burned his face, unflinching and unafraid. “But I can. So promise me one thing, leader.”

“Of course.”

“That 35 Oasins will return to our island when this war ends.”

Koza met his eyes finally, torn between an earnest but naive speech of devotion, and an apology that would mean too little as he watched his men begin handing out guns.

“I promise.” ____ ___ __ _

Avoiding each other should have been harder, in the casino.

The tourist city went on, festivities uninterrupted, an unstoppable wheel of commerce incapable of slowing for the pain of a battered victim like love. And so they went on too, comforted by the memories of stolen whispers behind the hands that sheltered the flame of a cigarette, of uttered promises to meet when only the candlelight is left.

River couldn’t recall the last time they more than spoke, and Crocodile knew it was the morning he was too selfish to tell him goodbye.

“Sir, someone is here to see you,” Mila said, gesturing to a young man at her side that carried a loosely wrapped parcel under one arm, his hand already extended for a handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you, Crocodile, sir. My father’s tells me you’ve been his customer for ages.”

He dismissed Robin beside him with a wave of his hand, idly pocketing the papers she delivered before he acknowledged him, though without shaking his hand.

“Your father’s a talented craftsman.”

Another small gesture offered the man a seat at the bar next to him, and he realized Crocodile must live most of his life with his ambitions fulfilled by only a turn of his hand or the words he spoke.

“You’re too kind, sir. I have your order here. You know, I believe our best work is custom made—pieces of our customer’s vision, a shared creation.”

“Do you always prattle on about romantic things without introducing yourself? Or do I make you nervous?” His cigar cutter, thik, broke the silence.

The apprentice’s sentiment skidded to a halt, face suddenly hot, and he fidgeted with his shirt to dispel the embarrassment under his collar. “I—of course not. I mean, I’m not used to meeting the customers. I usually sew most of the day—”

Crocodile was content to smoke while he studied him, his chin on his hand while he waited as patiently as he was capable. He stammers like the fool.

“Crocodile,” came the voice of said fool, and River appeared at his side to offer an envelope in his first two fingers.

“Hm?”

“For you.”

A report, now tucked into his breast pocket beside Robin’s papers, but he couldn’t take time to admire the deliverer when River vanished, off to blackjack or some other, probably to avoid either of them saying too much in front of company.

He opened the tailor’s parcel to distract his restless mind and unfolded a silk scarf, Oasin blue, warm from the walk over as it slipped between his cool fingers.

Will he even accept gifts when we are so far apart?

“I made that coat.” The young man’s voice broke him from his thoughts, and he turned to see him watching River coddle the tourists at a card table.

“It took me a week and all the faux sable we had. I told my dad ‘I want to meet the person who could order such a beautiful coat’.”

Crocodile didn’t care for the fondness in his eyes while he studied him adjusting his hair pin, hands no longer fidgeting with his shirt and now ringing themselves for courage.

“Lulusian crystal buttons, cashmere and silk. He’s an associate of yours, isn’t he, Crocodile? Will you introduce me?”

The young man turned back to him but found Crocodile’s previously bored gaze overwhelming, a warning to flee before he loses his temper in front of the customers. How the warlord managed to keep his voice level baffled them both, though he knew the man’s instincts must be ringing alarm bells.

“Why would I do that?”

“Well, I was hoping—”

“Hoping for what? Dinner? What can a tailor’s apprentice offer eminence?”

The shrewdness of his words, his irritated rumble, lit a glimmer of realization across the man’s face, his shoulders wilting and eyes in his lap, obedient. “… I have overstepped. I’m sorry, sir, I hadn’t realized you two were…”

“Leave. Take that with you.”

He gasped, “Please, sir, I truly meant no offense! Take it, free of charge!” And offered the box above his bowed head.

Tourists lifted their heads to notice the commotion at the bar, their eyes scratching across Crocodile’s already thin patience.

“Keep your money and your product. It no longer suits me.”

His disapproving finger silenced the man’s protest, the box again tucked under his arm as he fled.

From where he had witnessed the altercation across the casino floor, River’s hard stare burned a hole in his temple. He endured, regardless, unwilling to let his mask slip on a weakness as coarse as jealousy.

Would he make you happy? He’s just a boy, liable to break your heart when he proves he is as selfish as the rest of the world.

Could you love him if he never broke your heart the way I did? ____ ___ __ _

Days to Operation Utopia: 3

Aboard the swan ship business continues the same, the errand runs and treasure hunting of Mr. 2 and Mr. i, both finding peace in routine even as the latter is hyper-aware of the clock, ticking down hours in the back of the mind.

“Newspaper, Mr. Faustina.” A crew-mate found him smoking by the open window, and went over to the hand he offered.

“Thank you,” he said while blowing the smoke away. “Has Mr. 2 decided on what he wants for dinner?”

“You know how the captain is—”

“I’M IN THE MOOD,” came a sing-song voice from outside the door.

“Speak of the dancer, and they appear.” River laughed quietly. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?”

“Well, not exactly—”

“FOR A SEAFOOD SURPRISE, YES SURPRISE!” Mr. 2 sang as they fluttered into the room, spinning wide before they got into River’s space to put a boop on his smiling chin, a playful ‘bleh’ on their tongue when they spotted his cigarette.

“A meal fit for a king. OH, by the sea, I see, with a beauty to rival the ocean. Yes, the one sitting here by the window, whom I wishwouldquitsmoking forever and ever moreeeee.”

“Hey, I think I’m in this song somewhere,” River said around his cigarette, though he gently pressed it into the ashtray anyway.

“Mr. 2, I’m starving. So how about this: anything you catch, I’ll cook. Yes? I’ll make—” His offering was cut off by the okama’s delighted screech, and the door slamming shut while they raced to begin fishing, no doubt.

No reason to be alarmed, Mr. 2 was known for flouncing about as they pleased, and River leaned back in his chair, wondering whether to relight his cigarette when a muffled splash came from the window.

“Mr. 2?!”

The crew all scrambled to lean over the railing, everyone except the helmsman and River, who ran to the bow to track the bubbles of a foolish devil fruit eater, bound to sink. He braced on the railing, ready to dive in after them, before a mighty wave of water burst upwards to nearly soak them all.

“Yahoo!”, came Mr. 2’s excited yell, their manicured hands holding tight to the back of a species River didn’t recognize, a slippery, porpoise-looking animal that wasn’t large enough to be a sea king—but still probably shouldn’t be ridden.

“I’ll be back with a feast for us! Wait for me, baby!” The beast rocketed off with a pink blur attached to their back.

“You can’t swim!!” River called after the racing split in the water that approached the horizon.

“Full speed after the captain!”, shouted the crew as they clamored to their posts, and River gave an exhausted but not unhappy groan.

“What a mess. Well, he’s sure to make a friend wherever he ends up.”

No doubt about that, and the Strawhat pirates that fish them out of the ocean, half-starved but in good spirits, are no match for the ballerina’s cheery candor. Well, at least the less suspicious ones are.

“You all are too trusting,” Nami sighed, though she couldn’t hope to compete with the one man show and their lively audience.

“That’s an incredible ability!” Chopper cried, delighted, when the ballerina mimicked them with a carbon copy of their furry face, down to the broken antler and blue nose.

“I have a memory function too. With my other hand, I can—” They touched their face with a pop, flipping through a variety of faces, though it seems their signature twang required actual effort to suppress.

Even the King.

From where she watched, the princess Vivi froze, a pang of fear shooting through her stomach when she recognized her father among the catalog of faces. The novelty of the ballerina’s show ripped away, she knew immediately the identity of the intruder they had fished up and brought aboard without a second thought.

“Impossible—”

“Oi, pay attention! There’s another ship coming up on us!” Sanji said to their captain and commander.

The swan-like ship, matching her owner, approached the Merry at a leisurely pace, crowded along the railing with a worried crew hoping to spot their missing captain.

“And that’s—” Vivi nearly bit her tongue, pushing down her instinct to say the name of the man on the bow, his dark hair waving behind him and wearing a regal suit that separated him at sight from the plain pirates beside him. What could have been a prince from one of her storybooks was just another proof of danger, and she knew they might have to fight before they even reached Alabasta.

“Time to say goodbye already…?” The ballerina suddenly mounted the railing, trailed by the affectionate little crowd of young pirates.

“But not forever, I’m sure. We’ll meet again, friends, and don’t forget—Friendship has nothing to do with how long we’ve known each other.”

The glittering tear they brushed away had the kids cheering, even their captain, also in tears. Outrageous, if you asked the others.

“Don’t cry for me!”, was the stranger’s last hurrah, muffled by the distance traveled from bow to bow, and intermingled with the prince shouting something about “Mr. 2, you idiot”, and “what do you mean you didn’t catch any fish?”

“MR. 2?!” The Strawhats cried, but could only stare helplessly at the swan ship as it sailed away.

“Like, Baroque Works, Mr. 2?” Usopp croaked.

“Yes,” Vivi said. “I’ve never been allowed to meet Mr. 2, but I’ve heard the rumors. Of a tall, broad ballerina with a pink coat that reads ‘Bon Clay’ on the back—”

“You really should have noticed sooner,” Zoro and Luffy groaned.

“—And their partner, Mr. i, who was brought on as an officer a little over a year ago, and carries twin swords of chased silver. While the prevailing rumor is Mr. i used his feminine beauty to secure his rank, I don’t believe Crocodile would take such a risk.”

Lighting his cigarette, Sanji stood unimpressed by the railing. “We shouldn’t underestimate either of them.”

“Mr. 2, he—” Vivi paused to avoid tears. “He has my father’s face in his memory. The king, Nefertari Cobra.”

The silence that followed only confirmed Vivi’s fear was shared by the young crew, as well as that they were firmly within enemy territory now, much sooner than they had hoped.

“You could wreak a lot of havoc with a power like that,” Zoro said.

“It’ll be problematic if we run into them again, since Mr. 2 now has several of our faces.”

A handful of guilty Strawhats wilted under Nami’s pointed stare.

“And Mr. i will be protecting them,” Vivi said.

“Then it’s a good thing we ran into them now, so we can make a plan.” Zoro touched Luffy’s shoulder to reassure him, and hopefully everyone else.

“We’ll be ready next time.”

The outline of the desert island had been visible for hours, but never felt closer than when they stepped over the puddles left behind by the fantastic Mr. 2, an enemy who minutes ago had been close enough to touch. For such a young crew, a hopeful collection of friends, they never struggled to believe they were ready to face a Warlord of the Sea and the people under his command who had killed before and were prepared to do so again upon order.

They didn’t know how it would open their world, from villains who pillage to usurpers who the world is the goal. ____ ___ __ _

Back on the swan ship, River hung up Mr. 2’s sopping wet coat to dry by the window, offering them a dry one, identical, of course, while the latter corrected their makeup with a damp rag.

“You’re awfully excitable for a devil fruit eater that was just fished from the ocean,” he said and brushed some invisible dirt off their sleeves while they turned to embrace his hands with theirs.

“I made new friends.”

“No wonder you’re so lively. Their sail seemed familiar, actually,” he wondered aloud, only half-listening to Mr. 2 rattle on about the pirates, something about a tenuki, cute girls, and a boy in a strawhat.

Until he gasped.

“Mr. 2, that’s it. You—you’re a genius!”

“Of course I am, wait wha—” They spluttered when River placed a firm smooch to their cheek, head spinning wild like a runaway roulette wheel.

“I’M A GENIUS!”

River dashed away to his room, ignoring the shouts from the deck about the feast, and snatched the newspaper from the table. The papers were no match for his impatient flipping, now rumpled, torn at the corners, but the bounty pages remained intact, and he held up the printed smile of a cheery boy in a strawhat.

“Monkey D. Luffy: 30 million. A devil fruit eater.”

I’ve never hired a pirate… Can I ask this of him? How much money will it take?

His wallet thudded on the table, spilling coins that were only a fraction of his stash at the casino. Between his jewelry and extensive wardrobe, he would make the Strawhat a very wealthy kid if only he agreed to help them. And if it’s not enough, well, they can have his labor too. Wouldn’t be the first time.

Pirates won’t refuse money. That much I know.

Nearby in Nanohana, a collection of Billions were surprised to see their snail phone light up with violet eyes and a shiny, lapis blue shell wrapped in gold station chains dotted with gems the color of a sunset sky.

“Who?” The highest ranked among them wondered before picking up.

“Hello? It’s Mr. i.”

Some gasped, others groaned, but the one holding the receiver gave a sinister smirk. They had come to the city to hopefully remove Mr. 11 from their roster, and to them it appeared a second leader spot was about to open.

“Ah, long time no speak, Mr. i. What can we do for you?”

“A ship with a ram’s head mast is coming to land. I want to know when it makes port.

“Is that all? Should we greet them—”

“NO, no. Do not approach. That’s an order. He steeled his voice to seem commanding, enough to deter all but a few.

“Expect a call then.”

“Don’t keep me waiting.” Click, went the receiver as the snail fell sleep.

“Tch, how spoiled,” The Billion griped. “You heard him. Find the ram’s head ship, and the rest of you: the marines are on their way. Let’s greet Mr. 11 appropriately.”

River hurried to tuck away his snail and throw on his coat, carefully pulling his hair out of the way of the furred collar. The time until Operation Utopia was down to hours, and he wouldn’t get a do-over if their plan failed.

Perhaps I should change clothes. I can’t be recognized in the port by any of the Billions if I’m going to try to meet the Strawhats.

“River baby! Come eat, the fish is almost—” The ballerina stopped, suddenly struggling to swallow the bubble of wine in their throat when they saw him emerge in Alabastan linens, limbs decorated with gold, and face veiled by Oasin blue.

“I’ve never seen you look like such a local.” They placed noisy, lipstick smooches on the back of his hand.

“Easy, Mr. 2,” he deflected, though his cheeks were already pink. “I’m afraid I won’t be joining you for dinner.”

“Be still, my heart—WHAT?!”

“Something’s come up, an emergency. I have to get to port immediately.”

“But we aren’t docking until the other side of the island.”

They and the crew followed the flutter of his linens to the bow, watched him brace a sandal foot on the railing to hoist himself up.

“You’re not going to JUMP, are you? Let’s talk about this, baby, let me take you—”

“It’s okay, Mr. 2.” He crouched to return their gentle boop to his nose. “You keep going to Rainbase, and I’ll meet you there. Yes?”

His easy smile, tacked with a wink, disarmed any hope to convince him to reconsider.

“Be safe! Oh, please, be safe!” Mr. 2 watched him go down into the water with barely a splash from the experienced swimmer.

They turned back to their crew, many of whom leaned over the railing, curious to witness the strength of his stroke, as fast as any fish even against the drag of his clothes.

“We’ll rejoin him in Rainbase. What are we waiting for? Full speed!”

‘Yes, Mr. 2!’ ____ ___ __ _

His snail phone began to ring as he rung the seawater from his clothes on the shore, and he waved awkwardly to the people standing at the port that witnessed him emerge from the ocean like a merman who’s been gifted legs in exchange for a wish.

“They’ve arrived in Nanohana. They must be planning to travel along the shore after they resupply,” said the snail from beneath the little feathered cap of the Billion on the line.

“I’ve arrived myself. Thank you, sirs.” He clicked off the receiver, though he couldn’t spot the ram’s head ship among the other boats at port.

They must have dropped anchor inside one of the alcoves, attempting to stay hidden.

Shouting from the shore startled him to hide his face, securing his veil while he watched marines bark orders at each other from the blue warship that took up most of the length of the harbor.

Best for me to stay hidden too then.

Marines were likely the last place Baroque Works would attempt to infiltrate in their schemes, but he supposed he can’t be too careful. After 15 months, he struggled to understand the extent of Crocodile’s influence, as well as imagine what would become of the island if their operation went unhindered.

The sun began to bear down as the afternoon went on, and after hours of winding up street after street, chasing glimpses of the crew’s path through the city, he rested in the shade between buildings to stretch out his sore feet.

“I haven’t worn sandals in forever... Where did they go?” He sighed.

From his hiding place, he leaned out to see a boisterous merchant walking the market in front of his stall, waving around a poorly painted piece of fruit.

“A relic of ancient power! One bite offers one thousand years of life, and you, yes YOU, can take home the entire apple for only 1000 berries!”

“Not this bit”, River groaned as he peeked around the corner to attempt to spot the Strawhats among bargain hunters and pushy merchants. There they stood, the long nose and tenuki, the most willing customers he’s ever seen, in shambles over the apple merchant’s impassioned spiel.

”Nami! Nami, can we have 1000 berries? This man is selling magic apples!”

“Absolutely not!”

River blanched, suddenly woozy, and not from the sun. “I… may have overestimated them.”

Shik. A sharp blade pressed against his throat from behind.

“You’ve been following us since port,” a male voice said, his short green hair and dark eyes visible in the blades reflection.

“I really haven’t,” River’s chuckle hitched when the blade pressed tighter, “I mean, you’re right. I have been looking for you all… You must be the Pirate Hunter, Roronoa Zoro. Though I’m not a pirate.”

“That won’t save you.”

“I have a question to ask your captain.”

“Captain’s not here.”

“Are you kidding me?” He felt Zoro tense against his back, but River just groaned a loud, dramatic sigh. “It won’t mean anything unless I ask the captain. Where is he?”

“He got held up. And I never said you could.”

“I want to ask for his help. He’s strong, isn’t he? As you must be.”

“Zoro, don’t wander too—oh!” Nami gasped in alarm when she saw him at River’s throat. He let him push the sword away with a finger, only after he had a moment to process his request.

“He says he wants our help.”

“The newspapers say your captain is the strongest pirate in the East Blue. I want to hire him to defeat the strongest man on our island.”

“You mean—”

Vivi’s appearance from behind Nami took the word’s from all of their mouths. She and River stared for a moment before she averted her eyes, fear overridden by shame to face the man she helped to kidnap from his island.

“So it’s true you’re a traitor, Miss Wednesday,” River said, and relief fell from his lungs. “Thank goodness.”

Sanji appeared at her side, too close. “You know the princess—?”

Nami’s fist came down hard on his head. “SANJI!”

“Princess?” River looked back to the young girl.

“I’m sorry… Mr. Faustina.”

He smiled after a long moment, a bittersweet thing. “Strong girl. Abandoning your throne to slum it with us, and searching for a cure for our sick island... If you’re here then I’m too late. You’ve already secured their help.”

“Why are you here, Mr. Faustina? You’re Crocodile’s left hand.” She said, her distrust of him coming back to furrow her brows.

The darkness that washed over his face laid heavy over his eyes, sorrowful and bleeding vengeance at the corners. “Crocodile must be stopped, and I will play my part to the end. I can help you, but only a little. Get to Rainbase on your own and maybe we can win before the war begins.”

“There’s no way we can trust you,” Zoro said.

”It’s not your decision, is it—” River was interrupted by a resonating crash from the street over, the sound of Captain Smoker being hurled through rows of houses with the force of a rubber boy’s feral hunger, and taking a Whitebeard commander with him through every wall.

”Luffy!” Nami cried, correct in her assumption that explosions and commotion usually pointed towards their captain.

“It’s his,” River said, his smirk doing nothing to comfort their distrust of him. ____ ___ __ _

Gone before the Strawhats could further protest his involvement, the streets pushed against him as River rushed into the gaping hole that was the newly made front door of the restaurant.

“I’ve found you, Strawhat Lu—where’d you go?”

He looked around the destroyed diner and finally at the flabbergasted server. “Where did he go? The strawhat boy.”

“That way, I think. He and his friends all ran off without paying.”

“You’re joking… Okay.” River scratched his hair where the sun wore on his nerves. “A minor setback. How much do they owe?”

The server choked on his own spit when he pulled out his heavy wallet, the sun glittering off the coins as it drifted in the camel-sized hole. “They… also broke my wall.”

“Ah, of course. This should cover your expenses.” He grabbed more, and held out a handful of coins that tried to escape from between his fingers.

“And… and my friend’s wall. Next door.”

River raised an eyebrow.

And the server stared back.

Pleading eyes, and a vein in River’s forehead.

“Just—Take the whole thing, I don’t have time for this!”

“Oh—” They caught the wallet where it was shoved into their hands, cradling the handfuls of gold that spilled out of the pouch. “Come back anytime, stranger! You eat for free!”

But River didn’t hear him, tearing down the busy market street to attempt to catch Strawhat and whoever chased him. Friends? Unlikely, unless their version of hello was property damage.

Passed stalls, over stoops, under clotheslines, he finally came across a man his age that browsed a fruit stand with a brindled owl on his shoulder.

“Excuse me? Please tell me, did a boy with a strawhat run by here?” He stopped to question him, not a local if his baggy, foreign clothes were telling, along with the sharp, angled face of both the exotic bird and their owner.

If River had been educated elsewhere, or possessed more experience with the outside world, he would have paled to realize the bands on his arms were made of seastone.

“Strawhat boy? You don’t need to know where he went,” the man said plainly, deciding himself the conversation was over and both bird and owner went back to examining the fruit in the cart.

“But you did see him. Tell me which way he went, I’ll p—I can’t pay you. But I asked you a question and you admitted to knowing the answer.”

“Go home.” The man’s plain, almost bored voice turning hard to command obedience.

His answer startled River to silence, both men staring at each other for what must have been uncomfortable if not frightening moments for the fruit vendor.

A burst of flames to the sky broke their standoff, as well as answering River’s question without anything more to do with the strange man. He refrained from curling his lip, if only to not find out what his anger looked like, and chased the fire as he filed away the man’s appearance the way mice remember the smell of an owl.

Dispiriting eyes, the color of old, spilled blood, that burn from behind the lenses of his sunglasses. Dark hair slicked back over the crown of his head. And an owl.

River ran after the source of the fire but the flames and smoke easily outran him, unnatural, like they were people and not phenomenon.

“Shit! Where did they go?” He stopped at a cross street.

“There he is! Mr. i!” A crowd of Billions appeared to point at him.

“Ah! What is WRONG with this city?!” His robes flapped in the wind of his—yet another—hasty retreat. He couldn’t have known the Billions were chasing Strawhat too, though Ace and Luffy made quick work of the first wave, and luck pushed all of the separate parties towards the common ground of the harbor.

“Luffy, most pirate captains know where they parked their ship,” Ace scolded him gently while they walked.

“My navigator, she knows where I left it.”

“You’re a mess,” he laughed as they left the city streets to a series of stairs that led down to the pier.

“Get him!” The humiliated Billions yelled from atop the hill.

“Man, those guys don’t know when to quit, do they?” Ace looked back over his shoulder.

“WAIT! Wait, Luffy! Strawhat Luffy!”

The brothers turned to see River waving his arms as he sprinted at them from a side street, the Billions almost overtaking his voice when they yelled ‘Get Mr. i too! The Number seats are ours!’

“Mr. i? Like Mr. 2?” Luffy bristled, suddenly so unlike the cheery boy in the poster, and River skidded to a stop. He showed his empty hands to prove he was unarmed, well, at least he wasn’t holding his weapon.

“I come in peace! Peace, please. I want to ask you a question.”

Rubbery arms fell docile at his sides, the fire gone faster than it came. “Oh. Go ahead.”

So strange, River thought while he caught his breath.

Meanwhile, on the deck of the Merry, Nami pointed towards the sidewalk. “Look, there’s that guy! And Luffy, he’s with his brother!”

“I’ll get him—hey!” Zoro nearly snapped at the cook that put a hand on his shoulder.

“Not yet, stupid, those two can handle themselves. You’ll just be in the way.”

River paused to acknowledge the yelling coming from the ship in the harbor.

“… Anyway—My name is River Faustina.”

“Vivi told us who you are.” There it was again, that indifferent voice from the bright Strawhat boy that had sweat beading on his temple.

“Of course. I’m sorry… Crocodile has betrayed me. I will help you defeat him, if you’ll let me. Please, I would like to help you, and I can offer you—”

“Oh, sure! Why not?” Luffy cut him off, grinning wide as his arm was already reaching out into the harbor to grab hold of his ship, gone in a rubbery snap and a wild cackle.

“Wha—just like that?!” He called after the rubber boy, feeling a hot flush of embarrassment on his cheeks when Luffy waved goodbye like River was the one being outrageous and strange. Beside him, Ace just laughed, so pleased to be back among the absurdity of family.

“After all the running I’ve done today,” River sighs, too tired to notice Ace studying the side of his face.

“Would you like me to take you to the boat? Sounds like those guys don’t like you too much,” he jerked his thumb at the Billions racing down the hill, and River found himself smiling at the show of chivalry in Ace’s offered palm.

“They’re nothing I can’t handle,” he said, pleased his smirk was returned. “I’m going a different way.”

“Catch you later, River.”

Ace disappears with a mock salute on the back of a flame, his back, River realized, somehow more spectacular than Luffy’s cartoony stretching, and the sight of an ally, a real ally sailing down the coast beckons him to wonder if the spark behind his ribs is hope.

For months, laden by despair, he had been willing to accept comfort in traces of optimism moonlighting as joy, but that wasn’t good enough anymore. Not when they were so close. And though he knows the journey back to Raindinners will be hell on his feet, hot on his scalp, he welcomes the little fire beginning in his belly.

#one piece #sir crocodile #sir crocodile x oc #sir crocodile x reader #mirage in the desert #ao3 fanfic #oc fanfiction #male reader #silkendandelion #x reader #x oc

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