#this is one gift the cabin might have to keep a extra set of eyes on | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

azertyrobaz · 1 year ago

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Satellites (7/7)

The last chapter! And it's extra long, but also extra angsty before the promised happy end (I can't write sad endings). Hope you enjoy! I've wanted to write a reverse "Reckoner" (my first Mando fanfic) for a while, and I feel like I've finally managed that. See you soon for more adventures! :)

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What if Grogu hadn’t returned to Din in The Book of Boba Fett? What if he hadn’t been given a choice? – Modern AU setting: Grogu is now twelve, and he has to rely on his memories as a young child to track down the person who changed his life. The only person he knows who will be able to protect him from the bad man. The bad man who precipitated his separation from the only family he’s ever known. He embarks on a road trip to piece together his past, and reconnect with the people who might help him find his family again.

Read below or on ao3.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

************

They slowly settled into a routine. It was now the middle of summer and it grew hot some days in the cabin, but the nights were always cool. Some nights though, the stars and satellites he stared at before retiring to bed didn’t quite manage to keep the shadows at bay. The ones that would come to his mind, unbidden, around 3AM. The ones that had teeth.

“Up already?” asked his father, returning from his morning run, drenched in sweat.

Grogu shrugged, his mouth full of cereals. He didn’t want to admit that he’d been awake since before dawn, unable to find sleep again, and had finally given up when he’d heard him leave. But something in his dad’s eyes told him that he knew – a tensed sadness, and Grogu couldn’t look any longer. Instead, he stared at the tattoo at the center of his chest: one of the newer ones, a constellation almost perfectly in the shape of a diamond, right above his heart. Not for the first time, he realized that the wound it covered could have been fatal, given its location.

“Shower, then coffee,” his dad said, and Grogu nodded. Maybe one day he’d figure out how to ask him about it. The operation that had gone very very wrong. But anytime he tried broaching the subject, his father would smoothly brush him off. And Grogu knew better than to push – they’d finally found some kind of balance, and he didn’t want to ruin it. What they had worked right now, and his father hadn’t once mentioned that he needed to leave or go back to the institute – he wanted to keep things that way. Forever, if possible.

“I think I’ll be done with Winta’s computer today,” he announced over coffee later.

Part of his dad’s current work required helping setting up new identities for people under witness protection, which he did through air-gapped computers – brand new laptops that had never been connected to the Internet, for security reasons. But this meant they could only be used once. Usually, he’d then wipe their content and either sell them again if it was safe to do so, or keep some of the parts, but he’d agreed one could prove useful to Winta, who’d been saving up to buy a new one with the money she’d given Grogu.

He had listened, fascinated, as his dad explained what he did, and learned a lot about online security, IP addresses, fake identities and VPNs. For the past couple of days, he’d made sure the laptop was okay for Winta to use, and installed some software he thought would be useful to her for college.

“Sounds good, then we can ship it tomorrow or something,” his dad replied, and Grogu nodded. He’d told him that as long as they were careful to use an untraceable PO box as a shipping address, it was safe to use the post. He’d also confirmed it was fine to send her emails from here, which he had done after digging up her address on her high-school website. His friend had been thrilled to get news from him, and he’d mentioned he was sending her a gift, but he hadn’t said what it was yet. He’d have to email her the password to log into her – almost – brand new laptop, so that might tip her off sadly. This was one of the last things he needed to setup, and he was having way more fun with this than he expected.

“Want to go to the mall before lunch? Then grab burgers?” his father asked as he was clearing the table – they’d been eating mostly in silence, but that was their usual way. Grogu forced himself to smile but didn’t look up. He was still out of sorts after his short night, and he apparently hadn’t been able to hide it. His dad often suggested trips to the mall when he thought he was too bored or too quiet. And it was true that he always felt slightly better afterwards. They kept going to different malls, but it usually entailed getting a couple of new books for him or a Lego, and a greasy but enjoyable meal somewhere.

“I think I’d rather go for a ride this morning,” he eventually said. His dad had gifted him a bike – a sturdy, second-hand mountain bike with thick tires – which had proven to be a wonderful way to clear his mind, and to discover the many tracks surrounding the cabin. He’d gotten lost a few times, but it had been worth it. He hadn’t made fun of him either when he told him he wasn’t very good on a bike – that was just not something they did at the institute, and he’d never really learned how to ride – and simply gave him pointers and advice to find his balance and slowly get better at it. Grogu was now a lot more confident in his ability and even loved going for long rides on his own.

He risked glancing up. His father stared at him with his usual composure, brown eyes unblinking, but he’d mechanically picked up one of his small notebooks from the counter. It made a tap, tap, tap sound against the wood. He was nervous, and craving a cigarette.

“Alright,” he sighed, with a forced smile of his own. “Carson might call later so I’d better stick around anyway, but we can make burgers for lunch on the barbecue. It’s a scorcher today, so remember to take some water with you.”

“I will,” Grogu promised, exiting the kitchen to get dressed.

************

Grogu biked aimlessly for a while, but his father had been right – it was only a little after nine but the day was proving very hot already. He thus made his way to a large pond he knew, and rested under the shade of a willow tree. He’d filled up his water bottle and put his current book – The Odyssey – in his new backpack, but he didn’t feel like reading. He didn’t feel like anything, really.

“He’s only going to blame himself if I say anything,” he told a nearby frog, who was also enjoying the cooler temperature in the shade. He’d discovered the frog colony the first time he came upon the place, but they had never answered back. Still, it was nice to pretend their sluggish croaks were them agreeing with him.

“He doesn’t want to know about my nightmares, and it’s not like talking about them helped a lot in the past, not really.”

Grogu had talked to a counselor a few times at the institute, but his nightmares had faded away with time. He thought it was exceptionally unfair that his bad dreams would choose to return now, when he was finally reunited with his father, the one thing he’d wished for for years. But then the very fact that he was here – and that he had been allowed to stay – was linked to Gideon’s return, so he guessed it made sense.

“I know he still feels terrible about handing me over to Doctor Pershing that first time, but he didn’t know Gideon was behind it and yeah, I also know he wasn’t such a great person back then but he did come back. And he came to my rescue as well when I was kidnapped that second time. It wasn’t his fault.”

He wondered who he was trying to convince. Certainly not the frog, whose unblinking dark eyes were slowly starting to set his teeth on edge.

“I’m sure the nightmares will go away once Gideon is caught, and Bo-Katan and Ahsoka are probably getting close, dad said they were following several ‘promising leads’ the other day. I’m glad he’s letting them handling it. And then once that’s done we can have an actual talk and I’ll tell him I want to stay and he’ll understand. I think he’ll be open to it. I think it’ll work.”

Grogu exhaled and picked up a flat rock. Maybe skipping stones would help. Maybe it would calm his nerves. Maybe if Gideon caught him the tests wouldn’t hurt this time. Maybe he didn’t need his blood anymore. Maybe he’d plug him to a machine and ask him to move objects with his mind instead, like in that Netflix show he’d watched with other kids at the institute. Or maybe he’d open him up to look at the inside of his brain. Maybe that way he’d finally understand his so-called ‘powers’ – what a load of bull, he was smart not magic. But surely that wouldn’t hurt because then he would be dead.

Grogu launched the rock with all his strength and the loud noise it made when it dropped in the water scared the frog away.

“Sorry,” he said to no one in particular.

He tried reading for a while but couldn’t concentrate on the words. He felt lonely and sad and decided to bike back to the cabin. He’d be able to read there, he knew. Even if they didn’t say anything – and they usually didn’t – knowing his dad was nearby was the only thing he needed. And since he’d mentioned that Carson might call, it meant he could be away for the night. He’d only done that a couple of times but he’d always been there the next morning, so it was okay. And he knew the work he was doing was important and paid for his food and his things.

Grogu convinced himself he would be fine on his own as he pedaled back home. His father would be bound to check with him before agreeing to anything – Are you sure you’ll be okay here alone? – like he’d done the previous times, and Grogu had known just looking into his eyes that if he’d even seemed unsure, or worse, if he’d lied, his dad would stay with him and refuse the job.

The area was secured, and he’d been shown on the computer how to access and check the alarms and cameras that were hidden all over. He knew how to shoot, and his father had even entrusted him with a gun of his own, which he kept in a special pocket of his backpack. He’d been given the combinations of all the safes should be need more firepower. He’d learned how to use the satellite phone and the CB radio. Grogu felt safe here. He didn’t fear he would be attacked. Even if his father was away. The only thing he feared was what was in his mind.

************

Carson Teva was a US Marshall. As such, he oversaw the protection of key judicial assets, managed rescue operations of fugitives, and supervised the smooth running of the witness protection program in the state. Through Greef at first, he’d started employing his dad as a contractor on several tasks. It had actually been funny to hear him talk so uncertainly and almost bashfully about it, as if Grogu was going to admonish him or make fun of him for working – for lack of a better word – for cops. People his father had been careful to avoid back when Grogu was younger, if not openly bad-mouth.

But this had been then and this was now, and there was no mistaking the fact that his dad was and had always been very good at what he did – finding people. And thus, unsurprisingly, helping them stay hidden as well. Not only that, it seemed clear to Grogu that he liked what he was doing. And what he liked even better (obviously) was for an entity that had done its best in the past to try – and fail – to catch him red-handed in some unsavory scheme to now pay him actual money for his services.

He hadn’t met Carson yet, but he now recognized his voice, which welcomed him back when he returned to the cabin. Grogu couldn’t hear their actual conversation – his father had taken the conference call in his room – but he enjoyed the background noise it created as he settled on the small living room sofa to work on Winta’s computer. This was a safe sound.

Over lunch, his father predictably announced that he would need to be away for the night, but for the first time, when Grogu asked him if he would be back the next morning as usual, he hesitated before replying.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “This one might take a little longer, but you can of course call me on the sat phone if there’s anything. Is that okay?” Piercing eyes staring into his and making sure he wouldn’t lie.

“It’ll be fine,” Grogu replied calmly, scratching his wrist – the watch his father had let him keep felt heavy and uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I have food for days,” he joked – they’d cooked way too much meat on the barbecue.

“Sure?”

“Certain. As long as you promise to take Winta’s laptop with you, it’s ready to be shipped,” he added.

“Deal,” his father easily agreed, and finally stopped looking at him. Grogu had the vague impression that he also didn’t want him to stare at him too closely, but the feeling passed and they had coffee followed by an easy afternoon until his departure.

Grogu spent the night on the roof – it was still hot in the cabin, too hot to find sleep comfortably, and he wanted to be that much closer in case his dad returned early the next morning.

He didn’t.

With leftover burgers for lunch, Grogu decided it was still too soon to start to worry, but he kept the surveillance laptop open, so that he could see all the camera feeds from outside. Just in case. He tried to read, work on a Lego, figure out what to tell Winta in his next email…but nothing managed to hold his attention for long. He kept looking at the door of his father’s room, as if he would suddenly come out.

By evening, he decided to have a look inside. He usually didn’t venture there, even during the other times his dad had been away, feeling like an intruder, but today was different, and he was starting to feel a little scared. He hoped he’d be able to feel his presence there and ease his anxious mind.

He stared at the constellation map for a long time, tracing familiar patterns. He felt like he was missing something – something crucial. But he couldn’t focus on anything except his mounting worry. Sitting on his dad’s impeccably made bed, he took in deep, calming breaths. His eyes settled on the collection of small notebooks above his desk – the kind he always carried around, pocket-sized, with a plain black rigid cover. He knew he’d find his drawings in there, and he wasn’t disappointed. Doodles of creatures – real or invented ones – covered most pages. Neatly written notes of what he expected to be surveillance jobs. Sketches of places. Drawn maps. Random numbers and calculations.

There were no dates or addresses or important information that could be used in case someone came upon those notebooks, but Grogu still managed to find older ones, from several years back. The drawings clued him in – he could see how he’d decided which tattoos to get to cover injuries he’d sustained during the two years they spent together. There were even sketches of him – sleeping in the car, playing on the beach, eating a waffle… He’d forgotten those moments, but seeing them now on the page, he remembered.

In the next few notebooks, the doodles and sketches had disappeared. He saw a lot of gaps, strikethrough text, half erased words and incomplete sentences. The few drawings were messy and abandoned halfway through. Grogu didn’t have to figure out long when those entries had been made, as he came upon the start of a couple of letters, which had clearly been thought about and amended several times, but never sent:

Kid Dear Grogu,

Skywalker said I could write to you How are you? You must be learning tons and I hope you’re getting plenty of food and becoming smarter and bigger every day. If you want to I was wondering whether you wanted

Grogu,

Hopefully you’re not too angry I thought now was a good time to reach out, because I wanted to ask you if

Grogu swallowed hard and closed the notebook. He felt like he had just read something he definitely shouldn’t have. Something so private he wanted to burst into flames and disappear through the cracks in the floorboard. But he’d seen his name and –

Why hadn’t he sent those letters? Why hadn’t he reached out? Why hadn’t he said anything now that he was back? And where the hell was he? Why hadn’t he come back yet? Had something happened? Something bad? Was it all too late to say anything now? Was he injured? Dead?

Shaking with fear, hot tears blinding him as he stepped out of the room, he checked the surveillance laptop again. All the cameras. All the angles. Made sure all the alarms were working. He inhaled deeply and reached for the satellite phone. Its twin was with his dad. There was no answer after he let it ring for a full minute. He waited for 5 minutes then called again. Then again. Nothing. He couldn’t text or leave a message, but then he had no idea what he would say. Should he give him one more night or should he really start to freak out?

Grogu reached for the CB radio and used the code his father had taught him to call Greef. He hadn’t seen his dad, and he hadn’t heard from Carson either, but he was supposed to meet with him the next morning. He offered to come to the cabin, but Grogu refused – he could take care of himself.

He forced himself to eat dinner, then grabbed the binoculars and the surveillance laptop, and climbed on the roof. Grogu didn’t sleep and his father didn’t return.

At dawn, he put food, water, the sat phone, a change of clothes and extra ammo for his gun in his backpack, then waited until there was just enough light and climbed on his bike. He’d be in Nevarro in just under two hours.

************

“ – think that’s where he might be?”

A man was talking to Greef at the door of his office – his assistant had been kind enough to let him through, but then he’d probably looked quite the sight with his wind-swept hair, and she took pity on him. Grogu thought he recognized his voice.

“Are you Carson Teva?” he asked, unconcerned about the conversation he was interrupting.

“Who’s asking?” the balding man with the grey beard answered.

“I’m Grogu. Din Djarin’s…son.”

“I didn’t know he had a son, but I guess it makes sense.”

Grogu didn’t have time to ask him what he meant by that. He still hadn’t even told him if he was Carson Teva, but his voice was really familiar.

“If you’re Carson Teva, then can you tell me where you sent him? He’s not picking up his phone and he should be home by now.”

“I didn’t send him anywhere.”

Grogu started breathing a little faster – a feat, since he still hadn’t gotten his breath back from his bike ride. “The other day, your call, I heard you. And then he left. He said he had to work. Where is he?”

But Grogu already knew what his answer would be, because he’d just realized something – something that threatened to turn his worry into full-blown terror. His father had never explicitly said he was off to work on a job for Carson. Grogu had just assumed. As his dad knew he would. ‘This one might take a little longer.’

“I don’t know where he is, kid. I’m sorry. I’m also looking for him. I thought Karga would know, that’s why I’m here.”

“And I don’t either,” said Greef, looking pained, and this time Grogu decided he needed to sit down. Which he did. On the floor. Then ran his hands over his face and blocked his ears so that he wouldn’t have to listen to Carson and Greef’s panicked exclamations as they rushed to his side. He needed to think. And breathe. Not burst into tears.

He could do this. He could figure out where his father had gone. He was counting on him.

“I’m fine,” he eventually mumbled, standing up shakily, ignoring the two men pressing questions. They shouldn’t focus on him, they should focus on finding where his dad was. They were running out of time – he’d been gone for over 24 hours.

“What were you talking about that last time on the phone?” he asked Carson, staring at the floor through burning eyes.

“The next job I needed his help on. He was supposed to do some surveillance for me today.”

“So nothing about…” And there Grogu hesitated and looked towards Greef, who knew the most about his situation, but apparently he needn’t have worried.

“Nothing about Moff Gideon,” Carson confirmed.

“He didn’t say anything to me either, kid,” Greef added. “Only that Bo-Katan was still working on some leads in the Midwest.”

“I know Ahsoka Tano is on a job not far from here – ”

But Grogu had stopped listening again. This wasn’t helping. He didn’t have time to stop and wonder why Carson, Bo and Ahsoka all seemed to know each other either. Was his father investigating alone? Was he working on something completely unrelated? Had he simply broken down somewhere? Been in an accident? Was he injured? Dying in some random hospital?

“ – she asked me about abandoned or disused labs in the region.”

“Labs?” Grogu interrupted Carson again, the word one he disliked profoundly. That stopped his mind from going somewhere even darker – he’d been there before. He’d been certain his father was dead once already. He couldn’t go through it again.

“Tano seemed to think it was relevant,” the man replied patiently, keenly aware of his distress. “That Gideon might be trying to recruit a new team of scientists and rebuild. But there were so many possibilities. The state is full of places that would fit the bill.”

Grogu started walking again and let the two men talk, his legs stiff and uncooperative. He couldn’t stay still.

“I’ll call her,” Carson said, phone in hand, presumably talking about Ahsoka still.

He breathed out deeply and forced himself to stand still and listen to their conversation, hands deep in his pockets to stop them from shaking. He could feel tears threatening to spill from his eyes again – he couldn’t cry in front of them. If he showed weakness they’d start wondering what the hell a twelve-year old kid was doing here asking all those questions. Carson was a cop. He had the authority to send him back to the institute, or worse. His dad hadn’t told him about his existence or about him staying at the cabin, which had been the smart move. Even if it made him a little sad.

The conversation proved short, and Grogu knew what her answer had been even before Carson hung up, but at least she’d picked up. Greef was also on the phone, and equally unsuccessful.

“Tano doesn’t know where he could be either, he hasn’t mentioned he was investigating Gideon to her,” Carson related.

“Bo-Katan and her team haven’t heard from him,” Greef added.

“What do you think, kid? Would he be investigating this alone? Did he tell you anything?”

Grogu stared at Carson. Equally proud and terrified to be asked such a question.

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly after a beat. “But I do think he was hiding something from me.”

The half-truths. The stares. The worry.

Grogu’s right fist tightened around the crumpled bills in his pocket. He’d mechanically grabbed the cash he still had from Winta before leaving the cabin – just in case. How far could he go with $400 before he was caught? But that suddenly gave him an idea.

Winta.

“Let me use your phone!” he asked Greef, running towards him. The man didn’t question his request, seeing the wild look in his eyes, and handed him his phone, unlocked.

There was one program he hadn’t removed from Winta’s laptop, thinking she might find it useful, and it should still work with the credentials he’d used – unless she’d received the computer already, but Grogu doubted this very much. Or at least, he wished it wasn’t the case. And that his dad hadn’t had the time to ship it yet. With shaking fingers, he entered the account data he remembered well, and pressed the button ‘Find’.

Please don’t be at a post office. Please don’t be at a post office. Please –

“Here,” he showed Carson urgently. “Was there an old lab there?”

Carson looked at the map with a frown. The red dot wasn’t very far from here, in a wooded area. But there was no indication of any building, abandoned or otherwise. The US Marshall checked his own phone, looking for information there. This was taking forever, they had to go, now! The laptop was right there! So surely his father –

“Yes!” the man said eventually.

************

They saw smoke before they found his dad’s car and Grogu’s heart clenched. He was gripping the grab handle above his window so hard he was certain it would come off. Greef had already called for reinforcements and Ahsoka was supposed to meet them at the scene. But Grogu couldn’t wait – as soon as the car had slowed down enough, he opened his door and ran, caring very little about any remaining danger.

“Hey!” yelled Carson.

Grogu saw that the smoke was coming from an old building in the distance, but the fire seemed mostly contained by now. He guessed an explosion had caused it, since he spotted rubble and debris here and there, blackened or burned. He tried yelling for his dad but he couldn’t make his voice work, either because of the smoke or because of the panic tightening around his throat and making him deaf to the yells behind him as Greef and Carson made their way closer.

His car was here, intact. Winta’s laptop in its shipping box on the backseat. But no sign of his father anywhere.

Grogu kept running towards the destroyed building, his vision tunneling, stumbling on loose rocks and branches. The area was densely wooded and extra hard to navigate in his state, but he couldn’t wait. He saw a figure to his left but didn’t check whether it was alive or dead after ascertaining it wasn’t his father. He didn’t care.

A soft sound to his right – a mumbled word – and only then did he wonder if he should grab the gun from his backpack. A shape was half-hidden next to a tree trunk, partly covered in foliage used for protection or warmth. A pale hand was poking out, with a distinctive blue arrow tattooed on it.

“Dad!” Grogu breathed, coming closer.

Another whispered word, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying over his own loud breaths. He almost fell over him in his haste, moving the leaves covering him to see him better. His eyes were open and staring right at him. Breathing just as fast. Alive, but just. He was worryingly cold, his lips almost as blue as the tattoos on his hands.

“Over here!” he screamed over the lump in his throat, his voice hoarse and barely recognizable. “He’s over here! He needs help! Quick!”

“Grogu…”

“Shhh, it’s alright!”

But it wasn’t. He could now see that the arm he was cradling against him was at a weird angle, and that he’d taken off his shirt to cover a wound on his side. It was drenched in blood.

“How…did…”

“Don’t talk!”

“How…” his father repeated, his stuttered breaths worrying Grogu even more than the blood or the paleness of his skin.

“Winta’s laptop,” he said in a rush, in the hope that it would be enough of an explanation and that he would stop talking and straining himself. How long had he been lying there injured? A few hours? A whole day?

“Smart kid,” his dad smiled, and his eyes started to close.

“No, stay awake!” Grogu urged, terrified he wouldn’t wake up again. This couldn’t be their last conversation. It just couldn’t. There was too much he needed to say. His dad’s eyes snapped open and he groaned. Carson had reached them, checking his wound.

“I think you pierced a lung,” he provided unhelpfully, pressing his own jacket against the bleed.

“No…shit,” his father managed laboriously.

“Greef’s calling an ambulance.”

A nod, but that seemed to cause him more pain, and Grogu didn’t know what else to do but hold his free hand.

“He’s too cold!” he told Carson.

“He’s gonna be fine, kid, that’s just shock,” the man replied, but he didn’t sound convinced.

Grogu reached inside his backpack for his sweater, draping it over his father’s exposed skin. But not before he finally realized what he’d overlooked all this time. He felt a stab of cold terror pierce his brain, almost like an electric charge. The tattoo over his heart. The constellation in the shape of a diamond. Ursa Minor.

“I’ll be okay, little bear,” his father whispered, his eyes resolutely closing. And no matter how loud Grogu yelled at him, tears running freely on his cheeks by now, he couldn’t make him open them again.

************

Grogu only remembered glimpses of the ride in the ambulance. Greef’s insistence to take him to Nevarro’s hospital. The news that Ahsoka had found Gideon’s body in the ruins. His small hand clasping his dad’s much bigger one as the paramedics worked. Surely he should have been warming up by now. But he was still so cold.

He was forced to let go so that he could be rushed to the operating room – pneumothorax, broken collarbone, shattered humerus – and someone directed him towards a plastic seat in a waiting room. A hot chocolate was placed in front of him. A sandwich. Grogu was paralyzed. His backpack still on and his bloodied sweater clutched to his chest. His dad’s blood on Winta’s sweater. There was a burning sensation behind his eyes. Born of numbness and exhaustion. He’d cried all the tears he could cry for now. The Ursa Minor tattoo over his heart. The Little Bear. He’d been right there and he hadn’t known. All this time.

Hours passed. Greef showed up. Carson. Ahsoka. No, he was fine where he was. No, he wasn’t hungry. The surgeon came. His father’s heart had stopped during surgery, she said. He’d lost a lot of blood. But he’d pulled through. And he could go sit with him for a little while in the ICU, would he like that? And yes, yes he would.

He almost didn’t recognize him under all those tubes and white bandages. His hand was still cold. He was still pale. But all the machines were beeping just right, the doctor said. He was strong. And yes, Grogu knew that too. He’d be moved to another room later but for now he had to leave him. Greef convinced him to go eat something in the cafeteria. The sky was dark outside. It was nighttime. He looked at his watch and realized he’d left the cabin over 17 hours ago.

He didn’t feel like saying anything so he let Greef do the talking, but the man wasn’t his usual chatty self either. He was worried too, and it made Grogu feel better instead of worse. He wasn’t alone. Thanks to him, he was allowed to rest for a few hours on a cot in the staff room. This was a small hospital, and Greef had a lot of pull in Nevarro. No one bothered Grogu or asked what a twelve-year old was doing here unaccompanied.

Come morning, he showered and changed into the clean clothes he’d brought in his backpack. Bought a coffee from the vending machine. It tasted awful. He got a second one just as Carson showed up again. Grogu was ready to bolt if he so much as suggested he couldn’t stay here any longer. He knew very well he wasn’t supposed to be here alone. He was a minor. He’d ran away from his state appointed home weeks ago. He was at the mercy of Child Protective Services.

“I thought you should have this,” Carson Teva said instead, handing him the shipping box containing Winta’s laptop. “We had to impound your dad’s car for the investigation, so it will be safer with you.”

“Thanks,” Grogu replied blandly.

They sat in the uncomfortable plastic seats of the waiting room in silence.

“So Moff Gideon is dead?” Grogu asked eventually – this he wanted confirmed. Yesterday’s terror and numbness were slowly being replaced by a stark feeling of awareness. Maybe it was all finally over.

“We’re still combing the area and IDing bodies but yes, Gideon’s dead, as well as several disgraced scientists and con men we’d been keeping an eye on.”

“They died in the explosion?”

“Some also had gunshot wounds.”

Grogu hummed in reply and Carson thankfully didn’t add anything else on the subject. They both knew what his father was capable of.

“Think he might go to prison?”

Carson shrugged. “We found a lot of destroyed equipment in the lab. Dangerous volatile substances. Explosion could have been an accident.”

“And the gunshot wounds?”

“Maybe they had a disagreement before the explosion.”

Grogu bit back a humorless laugh.

“No one will mourn those people, and Moff Gideon was a dangerous, awful person.”

“I know,” said Grogu with feeling. That didn’t make it right exactly, but he could live with it.

His father was moved to his own room in the afternoon, and the armchair next to his bed proved a lot more comfortable than the ones in the waiting room. So there Grogu remained, and saw color slowly returning to his dad’s skin. By evening, his eyes started to open.

“Dad?” Grogu said, clasping his hand.

“Mmh?” he replied, gripping his hand back with more force than he’d expected for someone whose heart stopped beating on the operating table.

“I don’t want to go back to the institute. I want to stay here and live with you,” he told him quickly, having rehearsed the words. He couldn’t wait any longer.

“Okay,” his father said simply.

“Gideon’s dead,” Grogu reminded him.

“Good.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Sleepy.”

And he closed his eyes again. Grogu hoped he’d remember their conversation when he woke up. Exhausted, he fell asleep as well, his head resting over his crossed arms on his father’s bed.

************

“You don’t mind the cabin? It’s very small.”

Grogu slowly emerged from deep sleep and sat up against the armchair, the sun shining brightly through the window. He was achy all over. He’d woken up a few times during the night when nurses came to check on his dad, but this had still been the best sleep he’d had in a while.

“What?” he mumbled, thinking those words had been part of the strange dream he’d been having – he couldn’t remember it now. Something about wearing a robot costume. Probably his muscles complaining via his subconscious for the previous nights.

“The cabin. Do you want to move?”

His father sounded a lot better, almost like his regular self. If not for the many tubes still coursing through him, he could have pretended they were having a normal conversation.

“I like the cabin,” Grogu replied, happy that he hadn’t forgotten what he’d told him the first time he woke up.

“I’ve made a lot of enemies throughout the years, so we’ll have to stay hidden.”

“I know.”

“But we don’t have to disappear completely either, we can move around a little freely now that Gideon’s gone.”

Grogu wondered how long his dad had been awake, rehearsing his own words. Now that he was a little more cognizant, he could see a certain tenseness around his eyes and mouth. His free hand was clenching and unclenching around the bedsheet.

“You’re in pain,” Grogu realized. “Let me call a nurse – ”

“No, there’s a few things I wanna say,” his dad stopped him. “The drugs make me sleepy.”

“But – ”

“It’s important, you have to hear this,” he pressed, his eyes intent, and Grogu sat back down.

“The cabin, your room, your bed – it was always meant to be for you,” he started in a breath. “I didn’t know then if you’d want to see me again or stay for long, but it was for you.”

Grogu was stunned. Even if he’d guessed some of it through what he’d read in his notebooks. Or his general caginess when he’d asked about the brand new bed in his room. Or his grades on the fridge.

“That last mission with Bo-Katan and her team… It went badly. Really badly. I didn’t think I’d make it. And you were my one regret. I had to make things right. And then you showed up before I figured out how to get my head out of my ass and ask you. Skywalker was supposed to talk to you about it. I guess it was difficult for him too, I don’t blame him.”

“You asked Luke?” Grogu pressed, incapable to put a name on the emotions he was feeling at the moment.

“Of course,” his father frowned, sweat beading at his brow. He needed painkillers, but he was too stubborn. And Grogu knew they needed to have this talk. “He said he wasn’t sure you liked being at the institute anymore, but he would let you choose. And then the Gideon thing happened and…” A deep exhale.

It wasn’t betrayal, not really. Even if they’d both acted behind his back. There was even some relief there. Somehow, the two of them had known without him saying anything.

“Why did you lie?” he eventually asked in a small voice, because it was the only thing that still really hurt. “You never said you were investigating Gideon on your own, and I thought you’d just be gone for the night, on a job for Carson. Nothing dangerous.”

“I’m so sorry,” his father spoke through clenched teeth, his pain not only of a physical kind now. “I couldn’t bare seeing you like that. You were so scared because he was still out there. So worried. And you wouldn’t say anything. Wouldn’t talk about it. Your nightmares – ” he was out of breath. He exhaled slowly and started again. “It was too much. And when I found out it was actually him you’d seen at the mall – ”

“It was?” Grogu interrupted him, incredulous. His father nodded slowly, his eyes shining bright with unshed tears. This was ridiculous.

“Dad, let me call – ”

“No,” he said forcefully. “Let me finish. I was wrong to lie to you, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. But I had to get Gideon. I knew he was close since he’d managed to track us once. And I was right.”

Grogu knew this was the best he could hope for in terms of apologies. “I was really worried.”

“I know.”

“You could have died.”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, you can’t do that anymore, I need you to stay alive,” he tried to explain, badly, his tone rising, legs bouncing up and down against the seat.

His father sighed deeply, his eyes so full of pain it hurt to look at him directly. “I know.”

Grogu wanted to believe him. Desperately. Tears forming in his own eyes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Maybe this was how happiness started, he thought. With trust.

“Okay.”

And this time he didn’t stop him when he pressed the button for the nurse.

************

“Why did it have to be an explosion?”

It was mid-afternoon. His dad had been sleeping for most of the day, but Grogu didn’t mind. He’d unpacked Winta’s laptop from its box – he’d have to get it ready again, that was okay – and had made good use of the Wi-Fi provided in the hospital to do some research.

“I like a good explosion,” his father slurred. The drugs did make him sound a little drunk, but he’d known exactly what Grogu had been talking about. He’d been given a morphine pump and a remote to control his intake of painkillers and had been using it less sparingly since his surgeon had shown up earlier to tell him they’d be able to remove his chest tube the next day, and that yes, it was going to hurt. A lot.

“I just didn’t time it right,” he admitted.

“You messed up your calculations.”

“I did.”

“I wouldn’t have,” Grogu pointed out.

“I know,” he sighed, and pressed the remote once. Grogu gave him a few minutes before talking again.

“I just enrolled in Nevarro’s high school, I’m starting in September. Greef put in a good word with the principal.”

“I thought you already passed your SATs. Skywalker said – ”

“Yeah, and I’ve got an amazing GPA, I don’t care, I want to go to high school, do something normal. I can go to college later, I still want to be an astronaut, I just want to do it at the normal speed, you know?”

“And you’re not going to be bored?”

Grogu shrugged. “Maybe a little. So I enrolled in a couple of university courses as well, just in case.”

“You’ve been busy,” his father noted. But Grogu wasn’t done.

“I also checked the State’s requirements: you need a GED to get a private detective’s license, so I signed you up for next January, that should give you enough time.”

“What?”

“I don’t see why you can’t have one like Ahsoka, that way you’ll be able to find work more easily.”

And be taken more seriously. And stop thinking he was dumb just because he dropped out of high school.

“Grogu, I don’t know, I’m not smart like you, I can’t – ”

“Being smart is overrated, trust me. And I’ll help you. I know you can make it, dad.”

He was silent for a while and Grogu thought he’d fallen back to sleep. But looking up from the laptop’s screen, he noticed that his eyes were still open. He was staring in the distance, lost in thought.

“I know the morphine is making me a bit loopy, but it’s funny how easy it’s been to get used to that word. That name.”

It took a few seconds for Grogu to figure out what he meant but when he did, he smiled brightly. And decided he should perhaps press his luck.

“Once you’re better we should go to Sorgan. Winta deserves to be given her computer face to face. She saved you, after all. And I need to give her back her cash, too. But you bled all over her sweater so I think she’ll let me keep it.”

“Alright,” he agreed with yet another sigh.

“You’ll have to decide on your next tattoo as well. To cover the spot where they put your chest tube,” Grogu added, thinking the prospect would cheer him up a little.

“That’s okay, I’ve decided.”

“Already?” Grogu marveled.

“Well, it’s obvious. It will have to be Ursa Major.”

The Great Bear and the Little Bear. And Grogu nodded, because it did make perfect sense.

#the mandalorian #grogu #din djarin #carson teva #greef karga #fanfic #star wars #mandalorian #modern au #angst with a happy ending #found family #my fics

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pleasantanathema · 4 years ago

Text

Santa Daddy | Jean Kirstein x Reader

Pairing: Jean Kirstein x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Daddy kink, dirty talk, thigh riding, mutual pining, friends to lovers (or, rather, idiots to lovers), lots of holiday fluff

Word Count: 6k

A/N: This is my Secret Santa gift to @whats-her-quirk 🎄💕 June, thank you so much for being a wonderful friend; I was truly lucky and privileged to get you as my Elf for Secret Santa! I hope this fluffy (and dirty) little fic with our best boi Jean brings you some holiday cheer!

There were only a few things in the world that made you happier than watching Jean Kirstein smile. Like most of your friends, you’d met him through work, but there was always something so special, almost magical, about seeing his darling smile and hearing his boisterous laugh. And you rarely passed up on a chance to see delight spread across his handsome face, which is why you couldn’t say no when he asked you to join him on a get-a-away with your friends for the holidays.

The inquiry came after you mentioned how you wouldn’t be able to make it home for the holidays due to a winter storm blowing in. It would be the second season in a row that the weather kept you from visiting home.

You could still hear his voice in your head, “alone? For Christmas?”

He’d then insisted you join him and his friends at Sasha’s family cabin. It was tradition for them, a gathering of misfits finding communion together out in the wilderness for a few days before the new year. You had taken trips with your friends before to amusement parks, festivals, even to the beach at Armin’s request, but something about being invited to an intimate setting to celebrate holiday traditions had you anxious.

So, there you were, swaddled in blankets, listening to Eren bicker with Mikasa while Sasha and Connie bustled in the kitchen to make eggnog and treats. Armin had declined to join, citing that he’d seen too many horror movies about young adults alone in cabins to feel comfortable making the trip.

And, true to form, Jean was running late. He was always late, his mind constantly moving a mile a minute unless he consigned himself to much needed rest and relaxation. Though, this time, you felt a little lonely while waiting for him on the couch, like there was a small part of you missing as you watched the snow fall outside.

“So, none of you guys go home for the holidays?” You looked over toward the modest, plastic tree that Sasha had thrown down from her attic to bring a little holiday cheer to the living room, a few poorly wrapped presents and bags nestled under the branches.

“Well,” Eren cleared his throat, “we are orphans.” He pulled at Mikasa’s scarf for emphasis.

“Oh fuck, yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t worry about, he just always brings it up to get sympathy gifts.” Mikasa sighed, jerking the red cloth from his hands and scowling. Eren only laughed, brushing a stray hair from his face that had come loose from the bun at his nape.

You sunk a little deeper into the cushions, eyes glancing out the window in hopes you’d see headlights flash in the driveway.

“Do you think Jean’s okay? He should’ve been here a while ago and the storm is getting closer.”

“Jean, Jean, Jean,” Sasha trotted into the room, balancing a mountain of sweet-smelling cookies on a plate, “you’re always worried about him.”

“Someone should be, guy’s an idiot.” Eren chimed in, green eyes shining from the low flames rolling in the fireplace. He and Mikasa were sitting in the floor, a game of checkers spread out before them, with more stolen pieces resting near the cunning Ackerman’s side of the board.

Eren wasn’t wrong, but over the years you’d known your group of friends, you’d noticed just how much the man in question had grown. In his early twenties, Jean had been quite the bumbling fool, having literally met you by bumping into your shoulder while leaving work, only to look at you and mumble “god you’re beautiful,” before issuing a quick apology as he rubbed at his neck sheepishly. You’d never mentioned the moment again, though your stomach still churned with a slight thrill every time you thought about it.

But over the years he’d managed to turn that puerility into something much more charming. He was more refined, almost infuriatingly suave, easily gaining attention from anyone and everyone. And though you sometimes hated to admit it, he’d captured your thoughts as well.

You kept your budding crush on Jean Kirstein close to your chest, not admitting it to any of your close friends. You always figured he was out of your league, seeing that he had a new, more beautiful girlfriend just about every other month. But, despite your simmering feelings, you still allowed yourself to get closer and closer to him over the years—some might say he’s your best friend, but you might call him your most treasured vexation.

Another hour or so went by, your time spent nibbling at cookies and reminiscing with everyone about another year passed.

Then the door finally opened, cold air gusting into the small living room as Jean stomped his damp boots on the entry mat.

“Have you guys opened presents yet?”

You glanced over the back of the couch, heart tugging in your chest as you noticed snow dusted in his long hair and a sizeable red and white polka dot package in his hands.

“No because Christmas is tomorrow, or did you forget that too?” Connie said it with crumbs in his mouth, feet kicked up on the coffee table.

Jean laughed, running a hand through his hair before wrapping the gift in his arms like it was something valuable.

“I know, I know, and sorry I’m late, had something important to go get.” He smiled, bright and cheery, hazel eyes bouncing between his friends and the carefully guarded box, “I ask because…uh, this needs to be opened kind of soon.”

“Is it perishable?” Sasha perked up, already ready to go make room in the fridge if something delectable was waiting as a gift.

“I mean…you could say that? It may or may not be alive.” He was laughing, that kind of infectious laughter that had everyone in the room grinning whether they wanted to or not.

Jean didn’t set the present down to even take off his shoes, instead tracking snow in with him and plopping onto the couch with flurries still on shoulders. He nudged your knee with his, pushing the present toward you. You pressed your lips together, hands getting sweaty as you pieced the puzzle together.

“Is that…?”

“Yeah,” his grin was pulling at his cheeks, eyes so sincere and happy and it almost startled you, “it’s for you.”

The top of the box moved, the green bow popping on top of the polka dots.

You moved the gift into your lap, pulling off the top to find perky ears and green eyes peering up at you—a kitten, grey and striped, with long, white whiskers and a pink bow around its neck greeted you with muted curiosity. You just stared at it for a moment, and it stared back, like you were both wondering just how it got into your lap.

“I just,” Jean was getting nervous, carding his fingers through his hair again as he waited for your reaction, “I wanted to make sure you’d never spend another holiday alone, you know?”

You carefully picked up the little cat, watching how it stretched and yawned as you pulled it from the carefully lain blanket inside its temporary home.

You smiled, pulling the warm little bundle to your chest.

“Um, Jean, this cat has six toes on her paws,” you said, pressing your thumb gently against one of the extra appendages in question.

“Six toes?!” Sasha was jumping up from her seat, bounding over to kneel in front of you and pluck one of the kitten’s paws into her fingers. The cat quickly pulled its paw back, little black toe beans curling to its chest.

“Yeah, it’s what drew me to her. She’s extra special…” you could’ve sworn you heard him mutter something under his breath, a little musing of “just like you,” but any hushed murmur was overshadowed by the ohs and ahs of your friends gathering around to look at the adorable little creature.

The kitten had been lulled to sleep by the car ride from the shelter to the cabin, content to just curl up in your arms as inquisitive fingers prodded at her little kitten mittens and the silky, white tufts in her ears. Even Mikasa was enraptured by the tiny animal, taking the time to retie the little pink ribbon around her neck to make a bigger, prettier bow.

You noticed how your friends were whispering, cheeky grins pressed against eager ears as they looked between you, the precious kitten, and Jean on the couch. You were starting to feel like you were missing something, or maybe that you were at the end of a joke you hadn’t caught on to yet.

“Thank you,” you whispered to Jean after the fuss died down, everyone returning to their seats and back to their previous fixations.

You’d mentioned perhaps wanting a cat a few weeks ago; it was just a silly, off-hand comment you made over coffee about how you’d once read that people with cats live longer because they pick up on the nine-lives of their feline partner. You didn’t believe it to be true, but you’d mused about the idea of having a cute kitten of your own to snuggle up with on lonely nights.

“I know it’s sudden and a lot of responsibility, so if you don’t want her—”

“No,” you cut Jean off, bundling the kitten a little closer in your arms, your heart singing as you felt her start to purr, “no, I want her, she’s perfect.”

Jean finally started to get settled himself, standing up and shrugging off his jacket. He was in a tight turtleneck, coal black threads stretched to their limit across his broad chest and shoulders, hugging his trim waist. You were careful not to stare for too long as he stretched his arms above his head to shake off the weariness of his drive through the snow.

He always looked like he stepped out of a fashion catalogue, fresh and so put together that sometimes you were tempted to snap his photo when he wasn’t looking; he just looked that good all the time. He loved to wear designer clothes and keep up with the latest menswear trends, and tonight was no different, that beautiful black turtleneck (that was covered in grey fur) undoubtedly belonging to a designer whose name you probably couldn’t pronounce.

“What are you gonna name her?”

He sat a little closer this time on the couch, a brawny arm outstretched behind you as he leaned over to scratch at the kitten’s chin.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, gazing down at the serene, sleepy face in your arms, “I’ll have to get to know her first.”

“Well, I’ve been calling her Frankie.”

“Frankie?” You smiled through your confusion, the name sounding oddly right.

“She was pretty wild in the car and kept meowing when Frank Sinatra was on the radio.”

“I see,” you laid the kitten down into your lap, sweeping your fingers through her fur and watching as she curled up into a tighter little circle, “well, I’ll consider it.”

You felt warm, heavy fingers brush against the back of your neck, Jean absentmindedly painting figure eights into your prickling skin. Heat flushed to your face as you realized just how close your bodies had become—his thigh was pressed against your own, dark jeans tight and hot, the scruff of his cheeks brushing against your own as he toyed with the sleeping cat’s tail.

There were voices all around you, the muffled sounds of your friends relaxing together falling almost on deaf ears. Your whole world felt like it just revolved around this couch, like nothing else mattered beyond the simple touches to your skin and the drowsy kitten beneath your hands. He never wanted you to spend another holiday alone, you replayed his words, the sweet sentiment finally settling into your spirit.

_______________

You could tell everyone was starting to get a bit sleepy, a few hours spent drinking spiked eggnog and chasing the new kitten around with a feather toy having left you especially exhausted. Your head was a little swimmy as you bid everyone goodnight, the grey tabby cat following closely on your heels to your bedroom where Jean had already brought in a litter box and a bed for her to sleep in. Jean, underneath all the designer bravado and smiles, was perhaps the most thoughtful person you knew.

But despite the heaviness in your head, you couldn’t seem to sleep. You tossed and turned in the bed, occasionally picking up your phone to scroll through it or just watch the time tick by. You had a lot of thoughts mulling around in your mind, most of them revolving around the man sleeping just right across the hall.

Never in a million years did you expect Jean to walk in with a beautiful, perfect kitten as a gift. The little thing was back to sleeping again, this time curled around one of your feet, each exhale a little purr against your toes.

You’d carried the weight of this crush around for too many years. You rubbed your palms against your eyes, sighing as you came to terms with your feelings for Jean for what felt like the thousandth time. Your pining was starting to take its toll, too, what with the sleeping giant so close yet so far away.

And you still felt like you were missing something.

Throughout the night, your friends had seemingly been playing coy, teasing Jean about getting you such a big, sentimental gift. Maybe they had all caught wind of your suppressed feelings and were poking at Jean for even daring to indulge you. Now you were just getting frustrated with your thoughts, sighing as you tried to squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to sleep.

But then you heard a little sound, the soft buzz of your phone against the wood of the night stand.

Jean: You awake?

Your heart skipped a little in your chest as you saw his name flash upon your screen. You texted him nearly every day, yet he never failed to send a little jolt of adrenaline down your spine.

You: Yeah. Can’t sleep.

Jean: Me either. Cabin is too fucking cold.

You: I have a kitty asleep on my feet, definitely helps beat the chill.

Jean: A warm kitty sounds nice right now.

Only a few seconds passed before the next message appeared.

Jean: Wanna come keep me company?

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard for a moment, your mind not even thinking about the words in front of you. Instead, you were picturing Jean in his bed, hair tussled with his own phone in his hand as he texted you, light spilling over his bare chest in the dark. You wondered what he was thinking—maybe he just wanted you to bring the cat over to see him for a bit, or maybe his mind was wandering in the same place yours was, which was picturing him naked beneath his sheets.

You set the phone down, momentarily starting to panic.

You hadn’t prepared for this, hadn’t prepared for the possibility that Jean might be asking you to come get in his fucking bed with him. Thank god you took a leisurely shower earlier—and you still smelled good, you checked.

You stood up from the bed, watching the kitten stretch and quickly fall back asleep on top of the blankets. You bent down to slip on your pajama pants, but then found yourself debating if you should just leave the flimsy material behind.

If this was what you were hoping it was, walking in without pants would send the “I got the hint, I’m here to fuck,” message loud and clear.

But if this was just “hey pal come keep me company, I’m bored,” walking into his room in nothing but a shirt and panties could be quite awkward.

You decided to hedge your bets, stuffing your pajama bottoms back into your bag as that lingering liquid courage from the eggnog set in. If worse came to worse, you could always say you forgot to pack them.

You carefully closed the door behind you, making sure the cat didn’t follow.

Then, it was literally just a few steps to Jean’s room. Conveniently, his door was cracked. Did he get up and leave it open for you? Did he always sleep with his door cracked? Or had he planned all along to ask you to come over?

You shook your head, taking a deep breath. Those inessential thoughts needed to be quieted.

The door creaked as you slid past it, the old hinges signaling your arrival and making Jean’s attention whip towards you. His phone was still in his hand, like was watching your messages and too-eagerly anticipating your reply.

“Hey,” you whispered into the darkness, wincing as the door kept groaning as you pushed it shut behind you. You leaned against it for a moment, too nervous to just waltz up to his bed and fall in. You chewed at the inside of your cheek as you waited for him to break the silence.

“Aren’t you cold?” He whispered back, shifting in the bed.

His figure was illuminated by the pale, grey light from window, the snow clouds still keeping the moon suppressed in the sky. Like you’d imagined, he was shirtless, all those hard-earned muscles on display from where he was propped up on his elbows, sheets low against his waist.

“I thought you were cold, Mr. No Shirt.”

“You’re not wearing pants.”

“I’m not wearing pants,” you parroted back.

You watched the smile spread across his face, that darling, infuriatingly pretty smile that made you a little too happy in this moment.

He pulled his sheets back in invitation, revealing that he, too, was not wearing pants, only clad in blue boxer briefs that were sinfully tight around his upper thighs, etchings of Calvin Klein pressed against his lower stomach.

His hands were on you before you even settled onto the mattress, warm and greedy and pulling you flush against his body. All those worried thoughts you had before vanished under his touch, the message you had been missing suddenly loud and clear: you weren’t the only one hiding your feelings. All those veiled emotions came alive beneath wandering hands, your fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders as his found the flesh of your thighs.

“Was this what you were thinking about when you invited me here?”

You breathed in the smell of his warm skin as you settled against him, notes of his cologne still lingering against his body.

“This is what I think about all the time,” he confessed, nudging his thigh between your legs.

You couldn’t stop the moan that fell from your mouth as the muscles of his thigh pressed against your aching core.

“Me too,” you were pulling his face down to yours, thumbs against his cheeks as you pressed your lips to his.

A satisfied sound rang from both of your throats, lips melding and slanting against one another hungrily.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” His words were lost within the kiss, being swallowed down as you kept drinking him in.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You echoed back, gasping as his hands slid underneath your shirt and began to wander across your belly, reaching up toward your ribcage.

You both knew the answer to that: you were idiots, too scared to admit feelings even though they were clearly on display for everyone around you. But now the question didn’t matter, all the answers you wanted about to be shared between your anxious bodies with starved kisses and touches.

You shamelessly pressed yourself a little harder against his thigh, sighing as your pussy found relief against his leg. He groaned at your action, moving his thigh back and forth a little bit to see how you would react. When you whimpered, your own thighs squeezing around his, he smirked, repeating the motion of sweeping his thick, sturdy thigh back and forth between your legs.

“You like that?” His head was tilting down, teeth nipping at your jaw and down your neck as your head fell back against the pillow.

“Y-yes, feels so good.”

His hands were still traveling, wandering across your heated skin like he wanted to map your curves into his memory. He groaned against your throat when he discovered you’d also forgotten to wear anything under your t-shirt, his thumbs lazily brushing the undersides of your breasts.

You felt like you were burning beneath his sheets, like he was painting fire against your skin with every touch. His large hands engulfed your breasts, carefully kneading and rolling your soft flesh in his palms. He was eager to kiss you again, to slip his tongue past your parted lips and get addicted to your taste.

Jean pinched and pulled at your hardening nipples, greedily taking your little mewls into his mouth. He touched you like he already knew you, pulling at your body like you were the perfect little sex doll on strings for him to play with; rocking you on his thigh, tugging at your nipples, tongue dancing in your mouth, his hair tickling your cheeks, his cock hard and hot against his stomach.

Your panties were getting more and more wet by the second, the soaked material sinking into your folds as you rubbed yourself against the downy hairs and rounded, solid muscle of his upper thigh. His boxer briefs were bunching closer to his hips, pre-cum already staining against the fabric where his cock was imprinted into the threads. You slipped your hand down his impressive chest, fingers dipping into the elastic of his briefs.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned against your lips, pulling back to suck in a breath as your fingertips brushed against the head of his cock, “fuck you’re so hot riding my thigh like that, so fucking wet.”

“You did say you wanted a warm kitty.”

Your words had him pinching harder at your nipples, making you gasp as he chuckled.

“Mhm I can’t wait to play with your kitty, make you mine,” he punctuated his sentence by bouncing his leg up, sending electric pulses of pleasure racing over your nerves.

You responded by pulling his cock from its confines, wrapping your fingers around it and tugging at the silken skin. God he was thick, barely fitting in your palm as you moved your wrist up and down. You suddenly felt so small against him, realizing that he was dwarfing you just by lying next to you in the bed. His long, thick fingers could spread across the entirety of your chest, the thigh sliding against your pussy was enormous, but it felt like it belonged there; you could get used to riding him like this.

You both fell into a frenzied, delirious rhythm, your bodies bucking and panting as you found bliss against each other.

His hands slid down your body, leaving your tender breasts and searching for a new home. He found your hips, fingers digging into your skin as he rocked you back and forth against his thigh himself, using the strength in his forearms to have your pussy pressed down against him in the most perfect way to have you seeing stars and whining his name.

“Gonna cum, baby? Gonna cum just from riding me?”

“Fuck, yeah, yes, please, make me cum like this.”

Your hand had gone slack against his cock, your mind almost unable to concentrate under the waves of pleasure building and coiling inside you.

It felt too good to have his rapacious hands on your hips, grip mean and tight as he basically fucked you against his thigh. You wanted to scream, your other hand clawing at the back of his neck for stability.

“Baby,” he breathed, peppering a few kisses along your cheek, “could…could you call me daddy when you cum?”

There was a hesitancy in his voice, like he was ashamed to ask such a thing.

Your lower belly clenched, heat racing across all your nerve endings like he’d just poured sin straight out of his mouth.

You nodded your head for him, uncontrollable moans and gasps getting in the way of your own words. The thought of calling him daddy, that sent something wicked down to your pussy, had your fingers squeezing and tugging at his cock again and your eyes falling shut.

It felt like your sanity was breaking, like reality was splintering and this wasn’t real—you were dreaming again, weren’t you? But then you felt his cock twitch in your hand, felt your swollen clit brush against your panties and his thigh, and you were thrusted back into the actuality of your situation. You were with Jean, he was groaning in your ear, and you were about to cum all over him.

“D—da…,” you were choking, so overwhelmed with a final cresting of bliss that you almost felt like sobbing.

But he just clutched you more tightly, pressed you harder against him, whispering your name in encouragement to let yourself go for him.

Then, you lost all of your sensibilities, euphoria washing over your body as you snapped and came undone with a little whine of, “daddy,” against his lips. You slowed the rocking of your hips, your heart beating out of your chest, your pussy pulsing and clenching as you rode out the last remnants of your orgasm.

“Holy fucking shit that’s so hot, you’re so hot,” he mumbled, one of his hands smoothing against your cheek.

“Wha—,” you smiled, shaking your head as you caught your breath, “what are you doing with a daddy kink, Jean?”

He mimicked your smile, hands moving to slide your ruined panties down your legs and removed the rest of your clothing as he repositioned your bodies. You let him move you around like a ragdoll, so delirious in your afterglow that you barely even registered how he was hooking your legs onto his shoulders.

“Do you not like calling me daddy?” There was a seriousness laced into his tone that told you he’d drop it if it made you uncomfortable.

“I like it,” you fisted one of your hands in his hair, bringing his lips to yours for a slow, messy kiss, “just didn’t expect it.”

“I’m full of surprises, baby.”

You felt the head of his cock nudge between your wet folds, his hands back on your hips where they belonged. Your head fell back against the pillow as he started to push inside of you, stretching your walls and making your toes go almost numb from the pleasure. You felt like you were splitting apart, like a fissure was forming down the middle of your body, stemming from where he was spearing into you.

With your legs on his broad shoulders, he was pushing you into the mattress, his hands urging your hips to relax and let him sink into your warm heat.

“Ohhhh fuckkkk daddy,” you couldn’t help but to whine, all your senses suddenly overwhelmed again. You were drowning in him, falling deeper and deeper into the throes of heaven with every inch of his fat cock slipping inside of you.

“God you’re so tight,” he presses his forehead to yours, keen eyes watching how your lips were falling apart and your eyebrows scrunching together in pleasure, “that’s right, daddy’s going to take such good care of you.”

It felt like all your history with him was being wiped away, like this moment wasn’t about two friends fulfilling all their years of mutual pining, but instead about a new relationship blooming between two bodies full of lust and desire. This was about Jean fucking you senseless, about him taking control and finally having what’s belonged to him for longer than he probably even realized. You wanted to lose yourself to him, lose yourself to his appetite and just let him devour you.

All the air left your lungs when bottomed out inside of you, your walls clenching and sucking him in. He stayed still for a moment, nearly lost himself at the feeling of your cunt wrapped so tightly around his cock.

“So fucking perfect,” he groaned, dragging his cock out of you slowly before pressing in again, your cunt greedily sucking him back in.

“I always have been,” you teased, one hand lost in his hair while the other slid down the expanse of his back. You bucked your hips in his hands, coaxing him to keep moving.

“Oh fuck. Good girl.”

His praise made you feel drunk, liquid heat rushing to your ears and between your legs.

He began to snap his hips, repeatedly burying his cock into your depths, the angle of your body making him hit that fleshy patch inside of you. You cried out at the feeling of being so stuffed, your walls burning from the intrusion but that coil inside your belly tightening again, hotter and more intense than before.

“Mhmmm, such a good girl, I promise,” you pressed your lips to his in reassurance, letting your breathy moans fall into his mouth as he started to get a little rougher. His pace was steady, solid, a hard motion of his cock thrusting in and out of you, each push and pull full of purpose and passion. Every plunge was making your lower stomach spasm, making pleasure burst across your body so forcefully that you felt that urge to cry again.

“Wanted to fuck you for so long,” his face was tucked underneath your chin, mouth trailing across your throat between his words. A particularly hard suck against your neck had your back arching, breasts flattening against his chest and your nails clinging to him.

Jean sat back on his knees, big hands smoothing down your thighs as he looked to where your bodies were conjoined, watching how your pussy enveloped his cock with every thrust of his hips, sweet skin encasing all of his length. He looked enraptured by the sight, groaning and hissing every time he pressed inside of you.

Then his eyes were flashing up to your face, softening as he took note of your blissed-out state, your face flushed and your lip between your teeth.

“So pretty,” he mused, a palm ghosting up to your chest to toy with one of your tits as he found a new rhythm.

You were ensnared by the scene before you as well, eyes wide with delight as you admired the man before you. Jean felt unhinged, electric between your legs, like he’d finally let go and was pouring all his clandestine secrets into your willing body. His chestnut hair was swept over his shoulders, the muscles in his arms and across his body rolling, rounded and thick like he was marble come to life. And his face was smooth, pretty, concentrated, cheeks dusky with a dark blush as he found euphoria from within your body.

Your hips began to match his thrusts, bucking up into him in order to feel his thick cock fall deeper into you. His strong hands encouraged you, gripping into the supple flesh of your thighs as he pressed himself into your wetness, faster and faster with every thrust.

“Daddy,” you called out to him, having to bite back a grin as you observed how quickly you earned his attention, “you feel s-so good,” your hand was traveling down your chest, trailing over his fingers on your breast before snaking down to your clit, “p-please let me cum again.”

You had an inkling that he would take over for you.

His thick, long fingers hovered over your own, carefully aiding in swirling over your aching clit. You hissed, recognizing the buildup to orgasm pooling within your belly.

Jean’s other hand slid higher upon your body, fingers lacing around your ribcage, framing the underside of your breast. He began to forcefully pull your body into his, sliding you upon and down the sheets and upon his cock. You cried out, legs tightening at his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, begging him to devour you and take what he wanted. His thumb was almost impatient on your clit, now circling so quickly that your body was shaking, lower stomach clenching and unclenching repeatedly like you were lost in a reckless tide.

“Shit, I’m not gonna last with you squeezing me like that, baby.”

Your mouth watered at the thought of him finding that ultimate pleasure inside of you. Your ears became tuned to the chorus of resonances between your legs, the sweet, wet sounds of skin against skin, of slick at the base of a fat cock, of Jean grunting your name like a lost prayer.

The final chord of your sanity was threatening to snap, you could feel it again, like he was pulling the strings of your body too tightly and you were going to splinter and break with just the right swipe of his thumb.

“I-inside,” you mewled, unable to keep your eyes open any longer as your thighs began to quake, “daddy—oh fuck, fuck—cum inside me, please,”

God you were so fucking close to falling off the edge, and he could feel it, using his grip to bring you even harder and faster down onto your cock to get you careening and falling again.

Your push into oblivion came when you heard him pleading, almost whining, above you, sweat dripping down his skin as his syllables flowed together, “please, please, please, fuck, cum for daddy, cum for me, please.”

You could both feel it, how you creamed around his cock, pussy sucking him in so deliciously tight that it caused him to lose all control. His fingers dug a little too deep, his cock throbbing and pumping deep inside of you with his release. It was like the world went quiet, like a blanket of snow fell onto your bodies and hushed your sounds and cooled your skin. You could feel the heavy weight of him inside of you, like he was meant to be there. Your body relaxed, feeling like you were sinking into the mattress and he was the only thing keeping you from being lost.

When he finally pulled his spent cock from inside you, he wasn’t gone long. His hands were back on you again, pulling you in for simple, affectionate kisses and rubbing tenderly at the places he’d perhaps explored too roughly.

“Jean…” you cut yourself off with a yawn, fatigued limbs winding into his own.

His thigh found its home between your legs again, both of you groaning with a mixture of lust and disgust as you felt his cum drip into a mess between your thighs.

“Whatever it is can wait until morning, we need to sleep.”

“Oh fuck, it’s Christmas.”

He nuzzled your cheek, lips searching for yours.

“Mhmm, Merry Christmas, baby.”

You laughed, laying your head against his chest.

_______________

You weren’t sure how long you slept, but it felt like you spent a small eternity in Jean’s bed before your eyes opened again. When you awoke, he was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with the kitten in his arms. She was ready to play, striped tail swishing as he dangled a toy mouse just out of her reach.

“What time is it?” You stretched, suddenly all too aware that you were still very naked beneath the sheets.

“It’s only eight, everyone else is still asleep aside from Mikasa who actually went for a run in the fucking snow.”

Jean smiled, hair tucked behind his ears, and you felt your heart skip a beat as you realized just how madly in love with him you were. You always aimed to make him smile, to hear him laugh, but to see him gazing at you in the morning sun with pure adoration shining in his hazel eyes had you practically melting into the bed.

“I meant what I said last night, you know,” he said, turning the kitten loose to run across the bed.

“You said a lot of things last night, daddy,” you teased, watching his cheeks turn a pretty pink at the mention of that name.

“I meant about you never spending another holiday alone. Because, you know, I’d like to…” he trailed off, rubbing at the back of his neck like he was genuinely nervous.

You sat up, running a hand down his arm before kissing at his shoulder, momentarily getting lost in the smell and feel of him.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

No one was surprised that the two of you, and the kitten, spent every single holiday together thereafter, mostly naked, and always smiling.

#jean kirstein #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein x you #aot jean #aot jean kirstein #snk jean #snk jean kirstein #snk fanfiction #snk x reader #snk #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #aot #jean aot #jean kirstein fanfic

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necros-writing-stuff · 3 years ago

Note

Can you do like being the Lis +1 at a wedding hcs

+wren and bailey+ leighton?

Yeeting Black Wolf and Great Hawk from this cause those two aren't going to weddings lmao.

Also this is my welcome back post after being flagged, pog.

Alex

Most likely a sibling's wedding.

Alex's parents will be happy to see you, pulling you over at the party to talk and ask about how things are while Alex says hi to the rest of the family.

You'll be hounded by their siblings. Who are you? Are you their partner? Are you getting married?

Will very much want to dance with you. Picks you up and twirls you around, even if they're clumsy.

You'll hear a lot of embarrassing childhood stories.

Avery

A business associate's wedding.

It is sophisticated and expensive, and Avery ensures you're dressed right for it.

You may have to deal with snide comments about how Avery should settle down and get married instead of playing with pretty young things.

Smile and be polite about it and Avery may just pay you extra.

Another chance to dance better than everyone else, to wow guests with your intelligence, or to stand and make the bride jealous by being prettier.

Bailey

You have no idea who this person is, all you're aware of is that this may be a mafia wedding.

There's an older man with rings watching everyone's move, and Bailey even disappears to talk with him for a while.

You're told to be polite, don't tell them anything personal, don't tell them anything about the orphanage.

There's free food and an open bar, knock yourself out. It's more than Bailey feeds you at home, so it's best to make the most of it. Bailey touches non of it.

You learn Bailey can actually dance pretty well when they get back from the meeting. They don't try to catch the garter/bouquet though.

All in all, a very strange, slightly stressful evening.

Eden

You were baffled when Eden held up the invitation. They know people? Apparently so.

You'll have to convince them to actually go.

On edge the entire time. Its so obvious they don't want to be there.

Will stick to you like glue and not let you out of their line of sight, unless you use the bathroom.

Happy to eat all of the food, though.

Will not dance. That's something you two do alone, at the cabin. An audience makes it scary, but they won't admit that.

Will pull you off into a closet for some... alone time. This is Eden, afterall.

Eden being taller than most of the other people there, having an unfair advantage in catching the bouquet/garter. You're already married, so there's no point in it, though.

Kylar

You know that John Mulaney bit where he talks about his ex-wife glaring at him during weddings because she wanted to get married? Kylar.

"Wouldn't this be nice for us, love? I bet we could have just as much fun as they're having."

Will ask questions to you about decor, flowers, dresses/suits, all to gauge what you like.

"The cake is chocolate. Do you like that or would you prefer another flavour?"

Eager to dance and let people know you're taken. Gushes over you to anyone that will listen.

Will of course try to catch the bouquet/garter thing. If they do, you'll never hear the end of it

Leighton

If anyone asks, you're not a student. You're a student teacher.

A risky move on their part, bringing a younger plus one. Will be asked many questions that they'll expertly deflect.

You'll see them put a mask on and be very different from when you're alone together. This is the Leighton school boards see, that officials see, not the sleeze-ball you've gotten used to.

Might have you wear some racy underwear beneath your outfit so they have something scandalous going on no one else is aware of.

Will get their phone out, take you to the bathroom, and ask you to lift your shirt/skirt so they can get pictures of the underwear before going back to the venue.

Robin

It's a distant relative, one unable to take Robin in after they were orphaned.

Of course they invite you to go with, who else would they take?

Saves up for a new outfit to wear to the event. Has a lot of fun going shopping with you, trying on things.

Takes the chance to go and unwind for the night. No orphans, no Bailey. Just having fun with you.

Making song requests all night, dancing really clumsily, stuffing your faces.

Gets withdrawn and shy when people start asking personal questions. You may have to jump in and save them a few times.

Sydney

One of Sirris' cousins is getting married, and on one drive home, the teacher asks if you'd like to come with them for the day.

Sydney will want to take you out shopping, just like Robin, and get ready for it together.

Both of you popping into the temple and letting them know that you won't be able to come in on that day.

If its out of town, being curious as to what other churches are like.

Sydney falling asleep during the ceremony and having to be woken up.

Syndey might sneak off for a nap, actually. They rarely get days off, and the band is very loud.

Save them some cake. They'll be back later, much more refreshed and eager to have some fun.

Whitney

Oh boy.

Whitney invited you because they want to have some fun. And with Whitney, that means trouble.

They don't tell you that they invited you because they hate how their family prods, asks invasive questions, looks down on them. You're their support system for the night.

Whitney might urge you to sneak under the tables and get them off.

Going outside and setting off fireworks.

Hiding shrimp in the hair-dos of the women that are around. There's so much hairspray they rarely notice.

Encouraging the younger kids there to go be chaotic and scream so no one notices Whitney taking a peak at the wedding gifts left unattended on the table.

You having to stop Whitney stealing gifts.

Wren

You're a bit shocked Wren would let you close enough like this.

It means a lot that Wren is inviting you places.

Similarly to Whitney, Wren is here to have some fun.

Will dance all night with you, if you let them. Can pull of some moves.

Of course ends up placing bets with people, and joining in on games of poker, blackjack, scabby Queen.

If its set at a casino? Keep an eye on Wren before they lose all of the money.

With no Remy around, they're even more daring. Might try to steak the veil or one of the rings. They'll give it back, of course...

Is going to try and catch the garter/bouquet, purely so they can tease you about it later.

#degrees of lewdity #degrees of lewdity alex #degrees of lewdity kylar #degrees of lewdity eden #degrees of lewdity whitney #degrees of lewdity bailey #degrees of lewdity avery #degrees of lewdity wren #degrees of lewdity robin #degrees of lewdity leighton #degrees of lewdity sydney

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wistfulcynic · 3 years ago

Text

The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a schoolteacher, respectable and respected in the small town of Haven, Wyoming. She does her job and minds her business, but she has a secret. One that brings meaning to her dull life and excitement to her restless soul. One that she knows could end at any moment.

Killian Jones is a man with a powerful enemy and nothing to lose. He’s prepared to sacrifice every bit of that nothing for the sake of his revenge.

Or, at least, he was.

I am THRILLED to be here, kicking off the @cshistfic Historical Fics event! I’ve always loved reading romances set in the past and Westerns are a long-time favourite. Given how deeply entrenched the Western genre is in American culture, it’s funny to think about how a) most of it was made up for dime novels and, later, radio and television shows and movies, and b) the actual historical period that we call the Old West only lasted roughly thirty years—from the post-Civil War westward expansion under the Homestead Act to around the turn of the 20th century. This fic is set right around the end of that time—late 1890s to early 1900s—in the waning moments of the open range and the “lawless” frontier and the start of the modern era with its trains and barbed wire and cars and world wars. I’ve tried to capture a bit of that sense of transition in the story, mostly with the way it ends.

Huge thanks to @shireness-says for coming up with and running this event, and to @thisonesatellite for Just Being Her.

Words: 4.9k Rating: T Tags: Western AU, historical, outlaw Killian, schoolteacher Emma, all the historical detail, I did so much research for this

on AO3

The Outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan):

The hour was late, afternoon edging into evening in the town of Haven, Wyoming. ‘Town’ as a designation flattered it, this tiny settlement tucked back against craggy and striated formations of rock and nestled amongst ragged brush, being, as it was, scarcely more than a handful of rough-hewn cabins, a church, a general store, a blacksmith and livery stable, a saloon with its attendant whorehouse, and a school.

The store and the smithy did the town’s most active business; unsurprisingly, seeing as they were the only examples of either within the radius of a good fifty miles. The residents—those who lived within the town’s scant limits—were certainly insufficient in their numbers to support either one, but the owners of those ranches that lay outside the town, they and their ranch hands, their wives, and their daughters, frequented both with pleasing regularity.

The general store doubled, as such establishments generally did, as a post office, in which capacity it served as the sole tenuous link between this stark western land and the fashionable cities of the east. The Sears and Roebuck catalogue and that of Montgomery Ward, both prominently displayed beside the till, were tattered and well-thumbed, and the monthly mail delivery never came without piles of brown-wrapped parcels containing the latest in fashion and technology from the wider world—hints at the wonders promised by the new century.

Very little of this prosperity touched the actual residents of Haven. The lives they lived were hard ones, scratched from unforgiving soil, but they were good folk, honest and hard-working. They lived simply and piously and for the most part happily. They tended their gardens and their livestock, read their Bibles, loved their children, and whenever possible sent those children to school.

The Haven school, a single room with two windows, one on either side, and a disproportionate bell-tower on the roof—both this tower and the bell it contained were gifts from a local rancher, who considered them a better use of his money than blackboards or books—was located well away from the town’s main street. It had no fireplace, only a tiny, smoky, potbellied stove, and in the warmer months no breeze blew through the unglazed windows. The pupils sat on simple benches and copied their lessons onto slates that sold at the general store for rather more than their parents could comfortably afford; lessons their teacher laid out for them on a thickly-whitewashed wall with a piece of charcoal, the dust of which stained her fingers and her clothing, and embedded itself beneath her nails so deeply there were times she felt she’d never be free of it.

This teacher’s name, the one she used, was Miss Emma Swan. A solitary and self-contained woman of about twenty-six, far too pretty for a schoolteacher most said, and if pressed these same would likely agree that teaching was not what folks might refer to as her calling. Though none could deny that she did her best and was kind to the children—a thing not always guaranteed from schoolmarms—she exuded such a restless air, an impatience with the tedium of her job and the pace of life in Haven which she did not trouble to conceal, that it was a subject of great curiosity amongst the residents why she continued to stay there.

“I have my reasons,” she would say, whenever anyone dared to broach the subject, “and those reasons are my own.” There it was and there it would remain as far as Emma was concerned, and as the townsfolk knew her to be a courteous woman but one who never minced her words when riled, they declined to press the issue.

By the time Miss Emma Swan had finished up in the schoolroom on this particular late afternoon, the floor swept and the board cleaned and lessons all prepared for the following day, the sun was already slipping behind the craggy rocks at her back and casting upon the town a peculiar sort of distended twilight—shrouded in shadows beneath a glaring blue sky. As she made her way the short distance between the schoolhouse and her own cabin—or rather, the schoolteacher’s cabin, perhaps the most compelling perk of her job—a brisk breeze ruffled the hem of her skirt and the few flyaway hairs that had escaped her tidy Gibson bun. The night would likely be another chilly one, and Emma wondered absently if she had enough wood left to leave the fire high for an extra hour or two or if she should resign herself now to another cold, dark evening spent alone.

The cabin where she lived, she and sixty years of schoolteachers before her, was small and rough like most in Haven and comprised only two rooms: a small bedroom to the rear and a larger space at the front used equally for sitting, cooking, and dining. In this front room was both a fireplace and stove, the latter surprisingly modern and another gift from a different rancher, to the previous teacher. Near this stove sat a small wooden table and two matching chairs; a soft and generous armchair had pride of place before the fire.

The bedroom was by far Emma’s preferred room. The walls in it were painted, in a pale and soothing blue, and on one of them a charming watercolour of forget-me-nots was hung. There was a white wardrobe with a mirrored door, a washstand and a vanity table, and a large bed with a sturdy iron frame. The curtains on the single window were of dotted swiss that Emma had sewn herself, and in the morning when she opened them she was greeted by the colours of the dawn.

Emma removed her buttoned boots the moment she was through the door; they pinched her toes and she disliked wearing them indoors. She replaced them with a well-worn pair of carpet slippers then headed for the bedroom, there to change out of her school clothes and into the more comfortable, loose wrap dress she preferred at home. When she entered the room she had already undone most of the buttons on her high-collared blouse and so made straight for the wardrobe, without so much as a glance at the bed.

The mirror on the wardrobe door as it swung open flashed the brief reflection of a face, just as Emma heard the sound of a chair leg scrape against the bare wood floor. She gasped and spun around, eyes wide and one hand pressed against her chest.

There could be no question that the man currently in occupation of her vanity chair, sprawled in it with an air as casual as it was deceptive, was one who had followed quite a different path of life than that afforded to the residents of Haven. His untidy hair and the thick scruff on his jaw might not be especially remarkable out in this still-wild corner of Wyoming, but the narrow cut of his coat and the embroidery on the waistcoat beneath it, the silver chain of his pocket-watch and the ostentatious knot of his tie marked him as a man who knew his way around a gambling table for both good or ill and could likely acquit himself equally well in both scenarios. A man who dealt with the hardships of life by shooting rather than working his way out of them—as the gleaming six-shooter currently pointed straight at Emma would most certainly attest.

Emma forced herself to breathe, slow and steady. Her heart was pounding. The man greeted her with a brusque nod, and cocked the hammer on his revolver.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, love,” he drawled, in an accent that suited this town less even than his clothes or his gun. “By all means, keep going.”

Emma swallowed hard and with trembling fingers undid the remainder of her buttons. Her blouse hung open to reveal the hooks of the corset underneath.

The man gave his gun a menacing wave. “All the way now, there’s a good lass.”

She shrugged off the blouse and let it fall to the floor.

“And the skirt.”

She unhooked her grey wool skirt and released it to pool around her ankles.

His voice rasped. “Take down your hair.”

Emma shivered.

Three pins and two combs held her hair in place. She removed them, dropped them into the pile of clothing at her feet; the bun tumbled down and over her shoulder.

“Shake your head.”

She did, vigorously. The bun unraveled further and strands of silky blonde fell across her face.

He swallowed audibly. “Now the rest.”

Emma hesitated, fingers hovering over the hooks on her corset. She wore nothing beneath it but a combination made of thin cotton lawn.

The man raised his gun and growled, “All of it.”

She tossed her head back, jutted her chin out high in defiance. Her belly churned with a dark thrill of anticipation as she unhooked the corset and flung it away. He chuckled, low and rough. Emma fumbled with the buttons on her combination as he uncocked his gun and set it aside, then undid the belt designed to hold it. His eyes locked with hers as he stood, pale blue and profoundly tired, eyes that had seen far too much.

She finished with the buttons but left the combination on, parted to reveal a thin strip of pale skin. Her heart thundered as he approached, her breaths short and heaving. He swaggered up and stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell the dust and sweat on him, so close she had to tilt her head again to see his face. His hand slipped beneath her shift to curl around her waist, fingers rough on her soft skin.

“I—” Emma gasped as he pulled her closer, flush against him. His voice was a rumbling growl in her ear.

“You what, love?”

“I was expecting you yesterday!” she snapped, and then she kissed him.

“Gold is dead.”

Emma’s head shot up from where it had been resting on the bare and hairy chest of Killian Jones. The most notorious outlaw in three states, or so the Wanted posters would have folks believe. Train robber, bank robber, high-stakes gambler—but only the trains and banks and gambling dens controlled by one particular man. A man in whose side Killian Jones had been an exceptionally troublesome thorn for near to six years. A man whose wife Jones stood accused of murdering. A man who was, it seemed, now dead himself.

Emma stared down at his face, at the sharp definition of his cheekbones and lines of strain around his eyes. Such heavy burdens he’d been carrying for as long as she’d known him, but now, despite the exhaustion writ plain on his face he seemed lighter. Relieved, in some intangible way.

“He is?” she gasped.

“Aye.” Killian nodded, grimly satisfied. “Shot him right through the place where his heart should be. That’s why I was late.”

“Oh, Killian.” It wouldn’t do to feel happy about a murder, even that of a wicked man, but Emma found that she too was grimly satisfied. “You did it.”

“Aye, it’s done. And now I have a price on my head so high I’d turn myself in if I could, and special team of bounty hunters hired by Gold’s son to bring me to him, dead or alive.”

“Oh.” Her fingers flexed on his chest and his tightened where they curled around her hip. “What—what will you do?”

“Leave the country.” He spoke as though the answer were obvious, and Emma supposed it was. “I’ve no choice.”

“Will you go back to England?”

“No. There’s nothing left for me there.” He paused and his hand slid up her back to tangle absently in her hair. “I was thinking South America. Argentina.”

“Argentina?”

“Aye. Land’s selling down there for cheap and I’ve enough saved to buy myself a ranch. I’ve never tried ranching before so it’ll probably be an utter failure, but the idea’s crawled into my head and made itself a nest there, so I think that’s what I’ll do.”

Emma slipped from his arms and out of bed. She could feel his eyes on her as she took her house dress from the wardrobe and wrapped it around herself, as she tied it at her waist with jerky movements.

“You must be hungry,” she said.

“I could eat.”

“Stew?”

“Perfect.”

In the front room Emma piled wood on the embers in her stove and coaxed a fire to life beneath the pot of stew she’d left on the hob. She swept the ashes from the fireplace, arranged the logs and the kindling, then struck a flint to light it. She could hear Killian in the bedroom washing and dressing in the spare clothes she kept on hand for him, and by the time she sensed his presence behind her the larger logs were catching nicely and the hearty aroma of stew had begun to waft in from the stove.

“Shouldn’t be too long before it’s ready,” she told him without turning around. “There’s cornbread too. It’s a few days old, but—”

“Emma.”

“—it should still be good if you dunk it in the stew.”

“Emma, love.” Killian’s voice was soft, full of the tenderness he showed only to her. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known this day would come, this one or another very like it. She understood the dangers of the life he lived, out on the edges of society, pursued by an influential man with a terrible grudge, and she’d done all she could to make her peace with it. Killian could have died any number of times in the three years of their acquaintance; she had always been aware that every time she bid him farewell might be the last.

And now she knew for certain that it would be. Nothing had changed.

She heard him pull out one of the dining chairs and sit down in it, and though she kept her back to him she he knew he would be leaning his elbow on the table and running a hand over his face. She could picture the gesture in her mind’s eye with perfect clarity, so often had she seen him do it before, and her heart hurt because she knew he only did this when he was deeply troubled.

“Emma, you know—you know why I spent so long trying to kill Gold,” he said roughly.

“For Milah.” Her voice hardly broke on the name. “To avenge her.”

“Yes. That bastard hunted her like an animal, shot her right in front of me then framed me for the crime, and all because she couldn’t bear to spend another moment as his wife. He took her life rather than allow her to live it free from him, because he couldn’t countenance her finding happiness with another man. And I swore to her as she lay dying that I would make him pay for that.”

“Because you love her.”

“I did.” In the silence of the cabin, she could hear the rasp of his scruff against his palm. “I did.”

Emma had been watching the fire, now dancing merrily in the hearth, and it took a beat or two for his words to register. When they did her heart gave a shuddering thump and she spun round to gape at him. “Did?” she repeated.

Killian’s lip quirked and humour flared briefly in his eyes before they became solemn again, and heartrendingly soft. “It’s a funny thing, revenge,” he remarked. “It begins as a simple quest for justice but so easily descends into obsession—almost before a man knows what’s come over him, it’s all he’s got left to live for. That’s how it was for me, for years. Until…”

He trailed off and Emma found she was holding her breath. “Until?” she prompted.

He looked up at her. “Until I met you.”

She inhaled sharply as their eyes met, his own warm and such a brilliant blue, full of an emotion to which she didn’t dare give a name. “I kept after Gold because of my vow to Milah, yes, but also because I had to, because it was him or me. His life or mine. When that bullet pierced his chest and I saw him fall, I realised that it wasn’t about Milah for me anymore and it hadn’t been, not for a long time. I was fighting for my life, my right to have it and to live it in peace. That’s all I want, just peace and a simple life. And you.”

“Me?” gasped Emma, blankly and ungrammatically, as she attempted to grasp what he was saying.

Amusement coloured the tenderness on his face, alongside a hint of exasperation. “Don’t you know, Emma?” he asked with a shake of his head. “Why do you think I kept coming back here?”

She offered a weak smile and an abashed shrug. “My cornbread?” she ventured, and he laughed.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, darling, but your cornbread is dry. Try again.”

Emma elected to ignore this ungentlemanly slur on her culinary skills. “Well… I suppose the town is quite secluded, good for hiding out,” she observed.

“It is that. But that isn’t the reason, love.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You know it isn’t.” Killian stood and moved towards her, slowly as if she were a baby faun he was apt to startle, or possibly a sleeping mountain lion. “It’s you, Emma Swan,” he said softly. “You are what I will always come back for. You are the reason my soul is hale and unconsumed by hatred. Because it wasn’t revenge I was after, in the end. It was the future I wanted with you.”

Tears clogged Emma’s throat and pressed insistently behind her eyes. “Killian,” she choked, “I—”

“Shh.” He closed what small distance remained between them and folded her in an embrace to which she clung tightly, face pressed against his shoulder so the soft flannel of his shirt might absorb her tears. “Emma, I know I have next to nothing to offer you.” Killian stroked her hair soothingly as he spoke. “A tenuous existence in an unfamiliar country, backbreaking work that likely won’t pay off, a struggle for everything we have. I shouldn’t ask this of you. I should have the decency to walk away and let you find happiness with a better man than me.” She could hear tears in his voice now, and when she looked up she saw them glistening in his eyes. “But I won’t,” he continued gruffly. “I can’t, because I am a selfish bastard and I love you. I love you so much, Emma.” His voice broke. “So much. And if you could see your way clear to coming to Argentina with me, I would spend every day I have left on this earth working to make you happy.”

A rush of joy filled Emma Swan then, joy such as she had never known before. Her tears fell freely and unheeded as she tightened her hold on the man she loved and pressed her forehead to his own. In that stance they remained for some considerable time, until Emma became aware that the silence had drawn out far too long and she must speak. There were words he needed to hear from her, crucial words, and yet Miss Emma Swan, despite being quite a competent schoolteacher in all respects including her vocabulary, had always found words failed her when in the grip of strong emotion.

“Did I ever tell you I grew up on a ranch?” she blurted, then shook her head. That wasn’t what she’d wished to say.

Killian’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve mentioned it.”

��My daddy’s place out near Casper,” Emma pressed on. “A thousand acres of cattle, mostly, and some horses.”

“It sounds nice.”

“It was.” She snuffled and shifted until her head was resting on his shoulder and she felt cradled in his arms. This wasn’t the speech she’d planned but now she found herself determined to give it. “I was his only child, his only family after my mama died, and he reared me all my life to take over from him,” she continued. “But then when I was nineteen he got married again, and had a son. And suddenly ranching was ‘no job for a woman,’ or so he said, and I should look into teaching instead. Or better still get married and become some man’s pretty possession. Preferably the son of a neighbouring rancher, ‘for the future of our family’s land and legacy’.” She paused, remembering, and rubbed her cheek against his shirt. “I told him to go fuck himself.”

Killian’s laugh rumbled through the both of them. “That’s my tough lass,” he said, with a pride in his voice that warmed her, and made her desperate.

“But you do know what I’m saying, don’t you Killian?” she persisted. “You hear what I’m telling you?”

“What I hear is that in addition to being beautiful and brilliant and tough as old boots, you also know how to run a ranch. Which would be bloody useful I must admit, as I haven’t got the first faint clue where to start. Is that what you wanted me to understand?”

She nodded in relief. “That’s it.”

He brushed the hair back from her face with fingers gentle as the wing of a butterfly. “And is that... all you have to say?”

She felt caught in his eyes, and like to drown in them. “There may be one more thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s that I—I—” Emma drew a steadying breath. “I love you too, Killian, and of course I’ll go to Argentina with you.” A smile broke across his face, that rare and brilliant smile of his that set her heart to soaring and broke the dam that held her words in check. “I’d go anywhere with you,” she declared, laughing as he squeezed her tight. “To the moon. To hell itself, and then back out again.”

“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary.”

He leaned down to her and she swayed up to him and their lips met in a kiss that sang of love and of hope and of a most solemn promise, if something of a dramatic one. He dipped her back and kissed her until she was dizzy and overcome with laughter, and then swung her up again and into a dance.

Emma put her head on his shoulder and leaned into him as they danced to music they alone could hear, all around the cabin with the aroma of stew in the air and hope for the future in their hearts.

The disappearance of Miss Emma Swan, schoolteacher and respected resident, shook the town of Haven, Wyoming as nothing had before. Even the escape and subsequent stampede down Main Street of Mr Murchison’s pigs had caused less consternation, since, as the residents all agreed, for that at least there was an explanation. A rusty gate hinge, investigation later revealed, had been the culprit behind the Spectacular Pig Hullabaloo of 1893, whereas Miss Swan had simply vanished, with no explanation given or obvious method of egress. She owned no horse and had not boarded the stage; no one matching her description had been observed at the train station in Casper or anywhere else that a woman alone on foot might reasonably have been expected to turn up. She had taken nothing with her save some clothes and a few books and left nothing behind but a brief letter hastily scrawled on a scrap of paper—her resignation from her position as schoolteacher effective immediately, and a recommendation for her replacement.

Haven residents were thoroughly baffled, and for many months afterwards the Fantastical Vanishing of Miss Emma Swan was the number one topic of conversation amongst them. Theories were dismantled nearly as quickly as they had been constructed, replaced by newer and ever more fanciful speculations, and each resident had his or her own pet notion as to how and why the trick was done. Rarely had they felt so stimulated or enjoyed themselves so thoroughly, however time, as it inevitably does, soon began quite noticeably to pass, and the town’s attention moved on to other happenings. For although new events in such a quiet place may never again be as deliciously sensational as the mystery of the vanished schoolmarm, they do possess the not insignificant advantage of being new.

And thus Emma Swan passed into Haven legend.

Some years later, on the eve of her wedding, Miss Mary Margaret Blanchard—soon to be Mrs David Nolan—sat at the very table where Miss Swan’s letter had been left and composed a letter of her own, to an old friend she’d first met at the State Normal School of Colorado. In her letter Miss Blanchard informed her friend of the imminent blessed day and thanked her for the recommendation that had not only brought Miss Blanchard many years of enjoyable work as schoolteacher to Haven’s children but also led, in that roundabout way life sometimes takes, to her current state of blissful happiness.

This letter travelled by mail coach from the Haven general store—where Miss Blanchard posted it to the care of a P.O. Box in San Francisco—to the main post office in Casper. From there it went via train to Cheyenne, where it was loaded onto the mail car of the Union Pacific Railway and thence made its journey to the west coast. In San Francisco its fortunes underwent a curious change, for it was redirected by a clerk there, in accordance with instructions, and placed back on the Union Pacific, headed this time for Denver. From Denver it voyaged onwards to Kansas City, then Chicago, and finally to New York, where it abandoned train travel forever in favour of a steam ship bound for Buenos Aires.

Upon arrival at port it was placed in the charge of a courier who carried it along with a scant handful of others over the rough roads of the Argentinian coast to Puerto Santa Cruz and then inland, where it finally, many months after its departure, came to rest at a tiny, dusty outpost in southern Patagonia. And it was from this inauspicious locale that the letter was collected, at long last, by its intended recipient—a woman none of the residents of Haven nor indeed the erstwhile Miss Blanchard herself would be likely to recognise as Emma Swan.

The clothes she wore were utilitarian in design and plain in colour, liberally coated in fine brown dust. Her pale hair hung loose and wavy down her back, and her face beneath her wide-brimmed hat was tanned and marked around the eyes with the fine lines characteristic of those who spend a good deal of time squinting into bright sunlight. But these were superficial changes. The woman who collected the well-travelled letter and rode with it back to her ranch, who sat at the table in her kitchen and read it with a wide smile and sincere pleasure at the news from her friend—this woman was happy, as Emma Swan had surely never been. It was a happiness born of deep contentment and the satisfaction of a life lived on one’s own terms. And it was the happiness of a woman who is loved.

Emma was reading the letter a fourth time when the sound of boots on the porch alerted her to Killian’s arrival; she looked up just as he came through the door with a smile on her lips the like of which neither Mrs Nolan nor any other in Haven could ever imagine her smiling.

Killian hung his hat on a hook and met its brilliance with a smile of his own. “What are you thinking about, love, that has you so radiant?” he inquired.

“A letter from Mary Margaret.” Emma indicated the sheet of paper in her hand. “She’s getting married. Is married now, I suppose.”

“To a fellow worthy of her, I hope?”

“A rancher, but not one of the arrogant ones,” Emma replied. “I think he is. Worthy of her, I mean. I think they’ll be happy.”

“That’s good news indeed.”

“It is.” She set the letter aside and went over to him, tucked her head beneath his chin as he enfolded her in his arms. “But that’s not why I’m radiant, as you say.”

“I say it only because it’s true, darling.”

“It’s because I’m happy,” said Emma softly. She nuzzled her nose against his neck; he smelled of sweat and dust and horses. “For Mary Margaret, of course, but also for me. It struck me just now, reading her letter, how happy I am. I’m so happy, Killian.”

His arms around her tightened and she felt him stroke her hair, and when he spoke his voice was gruff. “No regrets then, about abandoning everything you’ve ever known to live out your days on the lam with me?”

“Nope.” Emma pulled back just enough to look up at him, to caress his cheek with her fingertips and press her forehead to his. “No regrets at all.”

Historical Note: Emma in this fic is based loosely on a woman named Etta Place. Very little is known about her, but she is thought to have been romantically involved with Harry Longabaugh, a.k.a. the Sundance Kid, and to have accompanied him and Butch Cassidy to South America. However, verifiable details about her are scarce—even her real name is uncertain—and only one photograph of her remains. Some believe she may have been a prostitute but in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the writer chose to make her a teacher instead, and honestly I have always found that such a compelling tale. A “proper” schoolteacher having a secret affair with an outlaw, then running away with him to another continent? The romance, am I right?

And thus the inspiration for this story.

@ohmightydevviepuu @thisonesatellite @katie-dub @kmomof4 @killianjones-twopointoh @mariakov81 @stahlop @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @shireness-says @snowbellewells

#cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #cshistfic #captain swan #western au #historical fic #historical romance #Emma is a teacher #killian is an outlaw #many many historical details #like so many #i make no apologies for this #it's more of a warning #the outlaw Killian Jones (and the legend Emma Swan)#profdanglaisstuff

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watchmegetobsessed · 4 years ago

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First Christmas - VALERIE extra blurb (Harry Styles)

❄️ FANFICmas 2020 ❄️

Read more about FANFICmas here!

hiya! i’ve been dying to write a blurb for VALERIE and the time has finally come! expect a few more, im planning to do some in the future, just because i adore their story so... yeah. this is here the story of their first christmas together as an official couple and it’s super fluffy, so get ready!

word count: 2.3k

VALERIE MASTERLIST

masterlist

Sitting on your unzipped suitcase you huff to yourself, making another attempt to zip it, but it’s so stuffed, there’s no way you can do it by yourself. Just on queue, you hear the front door open and close, the soft humming of your boyfriend breaking the silence outside the bedroom.

“Baby?” he calls out as you’re still desperately trying to stay on top of the suitcase and move the zipper around, but it just wouldn’t.

“Bedroom!” you call out with a sigh and a few moments later Harry appears in the door, leaning against the doorframe with an amused smirk on his lips.

“Need any help?” he questions and you nod at him eagerly. “You do realize we’ll be back by the 28th, right? No need to pack all your stuff,” he tells you as he walks over, kneels down and motions for you to just sit on the suitcase while he zips it.

“I do know that, but you know I like to be prepared for everything!” you tell him and gift him with a satisfied grin when he finally manages to shut the zipper. You get off the suitcase and as you both stand up, you wrap your arms around his neck pecking his lips softly while his arms circle around your waist. “Are you excited?” you ask smirking at him.

“Very,” he chuckles lightly, giving your side a gentle squeeze. “Are you excited?” he asks back, keeping his tone delighted, but you can sense his seriousness through his tone, he just wants to make sure you’re not thinking it all over.

This is your first Christmas together. Well, not exactly, but the first one as an official couple. The two of you are staying with your family from the 23rd to the 25th, so you are leaving today, before flying over to the UK and you meet his family for the first time. You’d be lying if you said you are not a mess about that part, but he assured you that his mother already loves you just from what he has told her about you.

“I am excited and a little nervous,” you truthfully tell him. He returns your look with a warm, encouraging gaze. You’ve talked about this a few times and he is always quick to tell you it’s going to be alright, but you both know you’ll only calm down fully when you are finally over your rounds of introduction.

“Mum is all over the place already, she is doing a whole feast just for you,” he chuckles, his fingers gently rubbing your sides.

“She shouldn’t go all out just because of me!” you sigh shaking your head. “Just a simple dinner is perfectly fine.”

“I told her, but she is stubborn. She wants to celebrate that I’m finally bringing someone home,” he smiles down at you, pressing a kiss to your forehead before letting go of you to get rid of his work clothes he has been wearing all day.

“Wait, you haven’t brought anyone home?” you ask, not even trying to hide your surprise. Harry shakes his head no.

“Not since… I was eighteen? I think.”

“Now I see why she is making it into such a big deal.”

“Oh really?” he cocks an eyebrow at you, taking off his white shirt and throwing it into the hamper.

“I’m special. Your first serious girlfriend!” you beam, enjoying the feeling that’s taking over in your chest. Harry chuckles, placing a kiss to the top of your head as he walks past you towards the bathroom.

“Of course you are, baby. I always tell you,” he says before locking himself up in the bathroom to take a shower.

It’s around four when Harry closes up his own suitcase, much lighter than yours, you might add, and the two of you head out of town. This year, the family is going to the same cabin in the woods like last year. It fitted so perfectly previously that everyone agreed to spend another holiday there, so it was settled pretty quickly.

Sitting in the car, with one of Harry’s hands on your thigh you can’t help but smile to yourself. Just a year ago, you were in the exact same situation, but in a whole different setting. Only scraping the surface of your feelings towards Harry, while this year, you’re not only officially a couple, but you are already living together. A little fast down the line, but you couldn’t have it any other way.

“There you are!” your mom greets the two of you upon arriving, basically running down the stairs to wrap you in her arms before she does the same to Harry.

“Hi mom, sorry we are a little late,” you tell her. You were supposed to arrive an hour ago, but your plans fell when Harry emerged from the bathroom, all wet and almost fully naked. You just couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, so you left a little later than you wanted to. No regrets though.

“Don’t worry about it,” she waves in dismiss, helping to get your stuff inside.

Everyone is there, so you run your rounds greeting everyone and the kids don’t hesitate to basically attack Harry. He will not have a moment to himself with those little monsters obsessed with him, but you can’t blame them, you feel the same way about him.

“Oh wow, does this bring you back any memories?” you smile at him upon walking into the same room he had last time, only this time you are both staying in it and you won’t have to invade him to use the amazing shower the room has. Harry smirks at you dropping the suitcases to the floor before he grabs your hand and pulls you to him.

“Mm, that time you were so keen on sleeping next to me both nights? I remember that,” he smirks, so full of himself, you smack his chest gently with a dramatic gasp.

“Excuse me? I bet you were falling for me so hard just by sleeping in the same bed,” you roll your eyes at him.

“Oh, I was already in love,” he simply tells you.

“Really?”

“Mhm, like, properly in love with you. And sleeping with you was like torture especially after seeing you with that dumbface,” he snorts letting go of you to pack out his necessities from his suticase.

You didn’t think he was actually in love with you, but you had a feeling something major was already going on.

“You were jealous?” you ask tilting your head to the side, watching him grab his toothbrush and showergel to put out in the bathroom.

“Baby, I was raging,” he admits making your smile grow wider. “Worst fucking day after the one you rejected me.”

“Aw, I’m sorry,” you pout and kiss his lips shortly.

“S’okay. It was all fine in the end,” he smiles before disappearing in the bathroom.

Your heart is so full, spending time with your whole family and having Harry by your side. After everything that happened during the year it’s such a relief to just enjoy the company of your loved ones without a worry. It’s almost like last year, but now you know you are here with the absolute right person and you can’t get enough of Harry interacting with your family members, especially with the little ones. Though he is the godfather to only one of them, you are certain they all see him as a cool uncle and it just feels completely right. His favorite thing to do is to roam around the backyard with Valerie, who is now fast on her little feet and obsessed with going on little adventures with Harry.

This year, instead of drinking in the kitchen all night you choose to do something else to keep you up for quite some time and though you enjoyed playing that game with him a year ago, this version is so much better and satisfying.

Upon gathering around the tree to swap gifts you notice that Rosa looks a little nervous, but when you ask, she just says she didn’t have a good night sleep because Valerie kept pushing on her in the bed and you believe her.

You watch everyone opening their gifts one after the other, wrapping paper slowly covering every inch of the hardwood flooring. You’re sitting between Harry’s legs, one of his arms curled around your shoulders from behind and you melt into his embrace gladly, enjoying this loving moment.

All gifts have been opened when Rosa stands up and tells everyone to stay a little longer. When she returns she has two more, carefully wrapped gifts, She hands one to you and one to your mom.

“It’s for you and dad,” she points at the one at your mom before turning to you, “and this is for you and Harry.”

“We’ve been extra good this year?” you joke as you feel Harry leaning forward to see the gift on your lap over your shoulder and you and your mom start unwrapping it at the same time. You can tell Rosa is anxious about the gifts and you have no idea what to expect as your fingers work on the wrapping paper. Harry rests his chin on your shoulder, watching it curiously as well.

Opening up the box you immediately gasp when you see a little baby bodysuit with the text “I ❤️ aunt Y/N and uncle Harry” written on it. At the same time, your mom squeals in happiness, jumping right into Rosa’s arms as she understands the message as well.

“Rosa! Is this for real?” you ask, feeling your tears filling your eyes, pushing yourself up.

“Yeah,” she chuckles, clearly touched as well. “I’m four weeks along.”

The whole room gasps and soon they all start congratulating your sister on her second baby. You hold the little bodysuit up, feeling Harry’s arm tight around your waist as he takes a look at it as well. Turning around you see the warm smile on Harry’s lips and his gaze meets yours.

“Exciting, right?” you smirk at him.

“Yeah. Another little gremlin around,” he chuckles, but you can tell he is stunned, especially because of what’s on the bodysuit. It doesn’t say anything about godparents, but aunt and uncle. It means that Rosa and Steven already see him as fully part of your family and that they want him to stay for a very long time. You can tell it means a lot to him, having a family in the States, since he often tells you about missing his family throughout the year. He travels home about three times a year, but you can tell he would love to go a lot more often and you also know that your family can’t replace his, nor do you want it to, but it’s nice to know that he has so many people who care about him here as well.

The evening stretches long that night, staying at the dinner table until midnight, just talking and having a good time before you all start returning to your rooms. You let Harry take a shower first while you reply to some texts from your colleagues and after you are done in the shower as well, you find him already lying in bed, scrolling through his phone, waiting for you to join him. He places the phone to his nightstand when you crawl under the covers, curling up to his side as he wraps his arms around you.

“So, how was your first Christmas with us as my boyfriend?” you ask with a cheeky smile, resting your chin on his naked chest, fingers tracing his tattoos around his collarbones.

“Hmm, he hums to himself and you can already tell he is gonna say something dirty. “It definitely involved more sex than last year,” he states making you laugh.

“You’re such a pig,” you snort, but can’t bite back your smile either.

“I had a blast,” he answers then truthfully. “I loved it last year, but it was even better this time.” His beautiful green eyes meet yours as you push yourself up so your lips could connect with his.

“Can’t wait to have another baby around,” you tell him with an excited smile, knowing well your eyes are sparkling from the news you received today.

“Yeah,” he nods, a lot calmer, but you can tell he feels just the same amount of happiness as you do. “Our kids will have a shit ton of cousins and second cousins,” he chuckles softly, not even aware how his words just made your heart flutter.

“Our kids?” you ask back, smile growing wider as you stare up at him.

“I mean… yeah,” he nods, seemingly nervous that you caught his slip, he clearly didn’t think through what it really meant. “You want kids, right?” he asks, a little unsure.

“Of course. Do you want kids?”

“Definitely,” he confidently answers.

“And do you want to have them with me?” you ask, feeling a little shy. Though he didn’t give you any reasons he has different plans, you still felt the urge to ask.

“Yeah,” he softly says, eyes meeting yours as he is searching for any sign that what he said scared you away, but it’s clearly the opposite. “Is that… okay with you?” he questions and his uncertain, little anxious tone makes you chuckle.

“You’re asking me if it’s okay that you want to have kids with me?” you ask, finding his phrasing funny and he chuckles as well realizing that he could have said it in a better way.

“I guess,” he smirks.

“I’m okay with that,” you pat his chest and push yourself up to meet your lips with his again. “Not now though, but soon.”

“Yeah, I’m fine with that. I like that it’s just the two of us now,” he admits, eyes soft and loving on you, fingers gently caressing your arm that’s draped across his stomach. You return his smile before nuzzling your head back onto his chest.

“I like that too.”

VALERIE TAGLIST

@f-vasquezp @perspnhel @http-cherries @h-arrystyles @just-damn-bored @millennial-teenybopper @sarcasticallywitty15 @gwenlovesharrystyles @perfectywrong @do-youseeme @burberryharold @irwindoll @stylesfics-xx @sltwins @mellamolayla @funeral-7 @yourkidsfavbabysitter @nesiamenick @dontworrysunflower @rainbowbutterflyboy

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9layerdevilfoodcake · 4 years ago

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HelloGoodbye/Part 1:It’s The End Of The World As We Know It

Summary: it’s the last day of life as you know it at Camp Redwood when the apocalypse comes calling, but what does that mean for the souls shackled to this particular hellmouth?

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: mentions of death, implied-ish smut, the end of the world?

The day the world ended started out the same as any other.

You woke up to the sunrise, wrapped in a jumble of blankets, limbs and bleached hair.

Sleep wasn’t really necessary for the undead, but it just came naturally, like muscle memory. Plus it was a nice way to pass the time.

But it was what came after a good night’s sleep that was your favorite part of the day, more specifically it was waking up next to him.

There are few things better in life (past or present) than waking up in his arms.

Your lover? Boyfriend? Mutual sufferer in eternal purgatory?

You’re not really sure what you would call him. You and Xavier both agreed the afterlife was no place for labels.

But if you asked any of the other souls shackled to this hellmouth with you, they would all call you two the same thing; inseparable.

It had been that way for decades, you spent almost every reawoken moment together. He was the one thing that made your afterlife feel as though it’s axis tipped more towards heaven than hell.

He was the light at the end of the tunnel. And looking at him now, eyes closed, lips parted, and sleeping soundly without a care in the world. You might go as far as to say you are thankful you didn’t listen to your gut, and made the (what at the time you thought regrettable) decision to take your friend's extra ticket and step foot on the haunted site for a music festival, one that never even happened mind you.

You got stabbed in the face and she didn’t get to blow Billy Idol, you guess you would call the weekend a bust for the both of you.

You’re comfortably laying back and reminiscing, when you feel Xavier stir.

The long hum that leaves his lips, followed by their soft touch on your shoulder lets you know he’s awake and it’s followed by a mumbled “Good morning”.

“Good morning” you answer back. Leaning down to plant a chaste kiss on his lips. A little too chaste for his liking, so before you can pull away he grabs hold of the back of your neck and pulls you back down for more.

One perk of being dead, no morning breath. There’s no need to break the mood with a trip to the bathroom to brush your teeth. Not that that would stop him anyways, through your time with Xavier you have come to realize that there are very few things he won’t try, and even less he would determine “too gross” to kill his mood.

So much like countless mornings before this, it’s a good couple of hours before you two make it out of bed and decide to properly “get up”.

“What should we do today?” He asks as he’s rummaging through the luggage some ghost adventurer left behind in their haste to “get the fuck out of this place”. It had been years since anyone around here had partaken in any blood sport. But that didn’t mean there was still no fun in scaring the tourists. (And maybe occasional bets were taken to see who could get a camper to wet themselves first).

He pauses and holds up a pair of dark blue wranglers, waiting for your opinion.

You just shake your head in dismissal.

“We haven’t been in the lake in a while. We could take a dip...then maybe you could take a dip…” you say wiggling your eyebrows to insinuate your innuendo, while you make your way over to the stash, taking over the search for yourself.

“No”

“Why not?” You know the reason for his rejection, but can’t help giving him a little pout anyways.

“After what happened last time? Not happening.” His voice is stern but with the underlying playfulness that’s always present between the two of you.

“Oh come on...I won’t let that happen again.”

“Believe it or not, drowning is not fun, dead or alive. And you know what’s worse than drowning once? Coming back to and drowning again because the person with their legs wrapped around your head hasn’t even noticed!” He emphasizes his “anger” by snatching the green umbro shorts you’d found from your hands and proceeding to dramatically stomp his legs through the holes before pulling them up around his hips.

“You only have yourself to blame for that, if you weren’t always such a tease I would have known something was wrong. I just thought you were trying to work me up and build my anticipation, not give me some signal your foot was stuck in the mud” You argue back tossing him a cut off Duran Duran t-shirt, that despite its tag saying 2018 has been given holes and bleached to give it a “vintage” look. The irony of donning such items always makes you laugh.

As he finishes getting dressed you simply look at him with that same pout back on your face, although it slowly morphs into a smile as you see his resolve slipping away.

Who is he kidding, he could never say no to you. He would do anything you ever asked. He would drown every hour, on the hour, if it kept you looking at him the way you are now.

“Fine, but if I start slapping your thighs it is not to keep you in line, it’s me begging for oxygen.”

“Ok” you agree with a chuckle as you grab his hand and head to the door, but he holds his place, making you turn and raise a brow at him.

“And the next time those birdwatchers are in camp, you have to blow me in front of that Condor’s nest they all jizz their jeans for.”

“Sure” you answer, shrugging your shoulders, not a bad trade...

“While they’re taking pictures of it.”

You pause for barely a moment to think that over, who were you kidding, you’re just as whipped as he is.

“Deal”

You weren’t in the water very long before you heard it, a siren sounding in the distance.

Xavier had only just removed your bottoms before you were pulling him up by his hair.

“What?” He asks, as he emerges, shaking droplets out his face with a look of confusion mixed with some underlying self doubt. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you hear that?”

As you both listen the sirens start to get louder and new ones join in the cacophony of sounding alarms.

“Yea, they’re probably just testing the storm sirens?”

“All of them?”

Before Xavier can talk you out of worrying and let him “get back to work” you’re interrupted by Chet yelling at you from the dock.

“Hey! You guys should see this”

Once you both redress you make your way to the cabin which once upon a time was assigned to the male counselors, but now it serves as more of a clubhouse for the lingering spirits. Upon entry you see almost every soul in the camp crowded around the TV.

There have only been two occasions when you have all collectively been in the same place at the same time; when you got revenge on Margaret, and when you made plans for what to do about the “Ramirez problem”.

Something big must be happening.

“What’s going on?” Xavier inquires as you join the group.

“The end of the world” Answers Montana, in a voice so calm she almost sounds bored, it’s like that happens every week.

“Oh no did Belinda Carlyle die?!”

“No...not yet anyway”

Your attention is brought back to the flat screen television Jingle’s son Bobby had gifted you. After his visit, he had been kind enough to set up wifi around the camp, as well as pay for a cable package, with the help of Brooke and Rita (or whatever her real name was). After hours of trying to explain how a touch screen works, as well as the grappling concept of Bluetooth; he deemed the pursuit pretty much a wash. But you did all know how to work a television, so most days were spent watching reruns of Knight Rider or Press Your Luck, and checking in with the nightly news.

So now you found yourself surrounded by your fellow ghosts, watching the man on the tv announce the incoming missiles and saying a teary goodbye to his family.

“What does this mean? I mean for us?” The question came from one of the victims of the first massacre in the 70s, whose name you were now feeling a little guilty for never bothering to learn.

It was a good question nonetheless, your souls kept coming back after just about any obstacle thrown at you, staying attached to the camp, but would they stay attached to a camp that wasn’t even there?

Unfortunately this was also a question nobody knew the answer to.

“Should we go to a basement or something?” Chet chimed in

“I doubt a basement will win the fight against a nuclear bomb, at least this close to the blast radius.” Trevor now spoke up, making his way over to the television to check another news channel, before addressing the group. “Besides does that even matter for us?”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough”

As everyone is switching back and forth between intently checking the news and murmuring confusion between each other, you pull Xavier aside.

“Xavier, just in case we don’t make it. I just want you to know” you start, averting your gaze as you feel the tears begin to pool in your eyes. “...I just...I’m really...you’ve been…” you’re trying to find a way to tell him how much he’s meant to you, and the amount of gratitude you have for his patience and understanding, how he’s made every day a memorable one for you, how he’s the best person you’ve ever known, dead or alive. How you don’t believe you’ve actually been stuck wandering the earth together all these years, because when you’re with him you think you must have done something right in your life, because there is no doubt in your mind this is what heaven feels like. But you can’t, you can’t get a single word out if you want to keep any semblance of calm and keep the flood gates from opening.

Thankfully Xavier stops you before your nonsensical blubbering can go any further.

“I know, you have too.” He says this as he clasps your hands in his, before moving one hand up to wipe a stray tear from your cheek and bringing your attention back to him. As you look at him you see glassy blue orbs filled with tears that match your own, holding behind them eons of love and unsaid devotion. But he is much better at holding himself together so he marches on.

“If something happens and we don’t make it through this. Or we end up in some new shittier purgatory, I promise you I’ll come find you there! There is nothing in this life or any other that can keep me from you, okay? We’re gonna be alright though, I promise”

All you can do is nod your head, and muster up enough strength to get out a quiet “I love you”

“I love you too”

You and Xavier sit on the bunk that was once designated as his, all those years ago when he came here with the hope of a fun summer away from his troubles. Back then he was always running; running to something, running from something. There was never any certainty in his life, not even in his after life, not until you.

Now he’s starting to feel like that scared boy he once was. The one once found on the edge of death in MacArthur Park, trying so desperately to feel anything, and trying even more in vain to make that feeling last. He had nothing to loose back then in his desperate pursuit for euphoria. But he learned real fast that when things sounded too good to be true they most certainly were.

And that’s why he holds you closer now. Because you were the greatest good he has ever known, and there is certainly no way someone as wretched and cursed as him could ever keep someone as exceptional and pure as you.

He’d tasted bliss for too long now, and it must be time for the collector to come calling. But that didn’t mean he would let you go without a fight, because here in your arms is the only place that has ever felt like home, and he would protect his fortress come hell or high water (or the literal end of the world).

But that fight may or may not come and right now was about settling your nerves and keeping you calm. So he puts his resolve on the back burner and moves to pull you into his lap to whisper words of love and encouragement while you wait for the missiles to strike.

You feel them before you hear them, the impact on the earth, who knows how many miles away, before it broke the sound barrier. You didn’t even have enough time to process the incoming force before you were knocked out and everything and everyone you had known for decades was wiped away.

There is no way to tell how much time has passed when you wake in a pile of rubble and ash, with no discernable clue as to where you were in relation to the miles of identical rubble and ash that surrounded you. You weren’t sure where in the camp you were. The only thing keeping you believing this was even still Redwood were the semblance of remaining trees around you. Other than that there was nothing else insight but dirt and debri, and no sign of any other soul.

After you got your bearings you go in search of Xavier, or anyone else for that matter.

After a few minutes you come across a spot of land that seems vaguely familiar. Although there are no more cabins and no more dock, you’re pretty sure the crater that sits before you used to be the lake.

The lake where you died.

The lake you had no escape from for the past 30 years.

The lake you were swimming in only a few minutes ago.

The lake where you and Xavier spoke your first words to each other.

The lake where you sat on the dock dipping your toes in the water as you told one another that you loved each other for the first time.

The lake that you used to think if you never saw again, would be too soon.

The lake that you would now give anything to see full again.

After a couple minutes lost in your reverie, you hear a voice in the distance. One you’d recognize anywhere.

Without a moments hesitation you take off towards its source.

After tripping over countless branches and what you can only assume used to be one of the cabins you make it to a clearing and see Xavier bounding your way with Chet in tow.

“Oh my god! Thank god you're okay!” He breathes out as he pulls you into his embrace. You feel him exhale in relief as he holds you, before he lets you go in order to inspect you, searching for any signs of distress.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

“No I’m fine, are you ok?”

After looking him over in return to make sure everything’s alright and he gives you a nod, you look over to Chet, who you had quite honestly forgotten was there.

“You too?”

“Yea we’re fine, it’ll take more than one measly nuclear bomb to take down all this” he accentuates by raising his shirt and slapping his abs.

“I’m glad to see your modesty survived the blast as well” you answer giving him a wink and a nudge before you continue.

“we should find the others.”

It took a couple hours to track down the rest of your group. At least what felt like it, with the clocks gone there was no telling what time it was.

And the haze the bombs left kept it constantly looking like dusk.

After regrouping you all agreed you should look for any pieces of camp left behind, any signs of life, or just any signs of anything at all.

And that’s how it went for the next couple of days. You would walk around looking for signs of life, and finding very few momentos left behind by the camp. Then every once in a while you would all regroup in the middle of the crater that was once the lake, and switch between theories of what was happening out in the rest of the world and reminiscing about times when this place was still standing.

Almost everyone in your group of confidants, aside from Ray, was sitting at your usual meeting spot when he came barreling towards you all.

“You guys come here I have to show you something.” His voice was full of excitement.

“What?” Montana asked back, thoroughly unimpressed with his optimism. You had never met two people more different. To Montana, Ray was like a pesky mosquito, who she would often shoo away, that is when she wasn’t bossing him around and telling him to “make himself useful”.

“Just trust me it’s important.”

After a few minutes of grumbling and feet dragging. You and Xavier, Montana, Trevor, and Chet made your way to the empty piece of land Ray was pointing at. Picking up Bertie and the real nurse Rita along the way.

“What? What are we supposed to be looking at?” Bertie questioned, taking it upon herself to ask what you were all wondering.

“Right here.” He points to a spot on the ground, that aside from the line he had made with his shoe, looked the exact same as the rest of your surroundings.

“This is the entrance to Camp Redwood.”

“How do you know? There’s nothing here.” Xavier pointed out motioning around to the surrounding emptiness.

“I have measured the number of steps to the entrance, from just about every place in this camp.”

“God somebody needs to get laid. You have way too much time on your hands.” Xavier regards. And you can’t help but let a laugh slip out.

Narrowing his eyes at that comment, Ray attempts to defend himself. “We’ve been here for decades. Chet wouldn’t even talk to me for years, and before you met y/n, you and Montana only acknowledged me when I was cleaning up your messes, and I….you know what I don’t have to explain myself. What I’m about to show you will have you praising me for the way I chose to pass the time. You should all be kissing my loafers for this.”

Ray was really getting sick of still being the butt of the other counselors jokes and jabs. Even now at the end of the world, when he has made such a monumental discovery.

Deciding not to waste more time getting upset he proceeds.

“So as you know most of the camp has been destroyed and there aren’t really any notable places left behind? Well there is one. The tree we all signed our names on, well most of it anyways. But lucky for us I could still make out both Trevor and Xavier’s names. And exactly 644 steps straight ahead of those signatures is the entrance to the camp.

“You’re point being?” Montana snips, tired of waiting for him to get to the climax of his story.

“My point being. Right now I am in Camp Redwood.”

He says, before he slowly and dramatically takes one long stride over the line he had drawn.

“...now I’m not...”

“and I feel fine”

Notes: i wasn’t really planning on uploading any of my writing here, but I feel like there is more of an interest in Xavier content than on ao3 so why not? Basically the jist of this comes from speculating what would happen to the spirits stuck at the hellmouth’s after the apocalypse (which I know many people have wondered and we’ve never been given a definitive answer). So I wondered what would happen if the whole world became one large hellmouth and the spirits could roam free. This series follows you an Xavier as you eventually make your way to rumored Sanctuary. It will involve Michael Langdon, and as of right now might get kind of dark, so fair warning. Anyways, thank you for reading!

Tagging this supporting queen: @guiltyfiend

#Xavier Plympton #Xavier Plympton x reader #ahs 1984 #michael Langdon

138 notes · View notes

thewildomega · 4 years ago

Text

Star in the Sand Ch.23

Sitting on one of the rocks you winced as Chopper treated your injuries, letting out a deep breath as he cleaned the one slice on your shoulder.

"...You need to be more careful Y/n..."

Grinning slightly at the reindeer you nodded, "Yes doc." He had already checked on your baby, assuring you and Crocodile, who had not left your side that your little one's heart was still beating strongly.

As soon as the animal doctor had finished treating his little star he had requested a word with him. While he didn't normally care if people feared him this time he tried to sound a little more reasonable so that the 'Chopper' would agree to tell him everything he needed to know about the health of his soulmate and unborn child. When he nodded his head he kissed the crown of his darling's head and looked into her eyes. "You stay right here and rest while I speak to the... doctor." he told her in a firm voice, removing his coat once again and placing it over her thinly clothed body to keep her warm. Seeing her nod tiredly he looked to Daz and Bentham. "Don't let her out of your sight."

"Of course Mr. Zero." Bentham smiled as the ever imposing man turned away. Looking to his old co-worker he smiled even larger and clung to his arms for a moment before doing a spin, "It's it exciting Mr. One, We are going to be uncles!"

Giggling as both Daz and Croc rolled their eyes you looked down to your belly and rubbed it gently. You couldn't think to describe the weight that had been lifted from your shoulders nor the dark cloud that seemed to disappear now that you were back with your soulmate again. Your child would have their father in their life, they would have a family, looking up at the straw-hats you smiled softly to yourself, and plenty of friends as well.

"So you are the granddaughter of Big Mom and Kaido huh?"

Snapping your head to the side you saw none other than Law come walking over to you. Blinking you looked the man over, his voice and whole demeanor was everything you thought it would be. "So I've been told."

"That means that the child growing inside of you is also of their bloodline. Anyone that has anything to do with Kiado is my enemy. "

Noticing that the name of your Grandparents had caused heads to turn your way you licked your lips before looking back to the warlord. "I have no ties to either of them beyond blood. As far as I'm concerned all the family I have is here with me now."

Finishing up his conversation with the blue nosed Reindeer he turned back to see Trafalgar Law standing close by Y/n. In a flash he was materializing in front of her, staring down the man. "Do you have a problem Law?"

"He won't stop coming for you, he knows you exist now, both of them do. Sooner or later you will have to make a choice." Law spoke, continuing to address the woman behind the famous Crocodile.

"I've already made my choice."

Hearing this he nodded and looked o Crocodile now, "Doflamingo will no doubt be coming here himself, I would make sure she was far away by the time he gets here." was all he said before turning around and walking away.

Glaring at the man's back for sometime he finally turned to looked down at his woman as he stepped over to her. Stroking the side of her face with his hook he saw her smile lovingly up at him.

"Y/n princess I cooked you some delectable food packed full of proteins and vitamins." Sanji spoke.

"And I brewed you some lavender green tea with a hint of honey, just like you like it." Brook added, rushing over to hand the woman the steaming cup of tea.

"Yeah well I made her favorite vegetables as a side..."

"You are trying to win her over with vegetables, Who does that?!"

"I don't have to win her over, when it comes down to you and me there isn't even a competition."

"Yeah that's because she would pick me!"

Noticing Crocodile's lip twitch and seeing the vein in his forehead poke out you grinned slightly and grabbed his hand before he could use it to make both of your friends a pile of dust. After eating all of our food you were left even more exhausted than you were before. You had tried to stop halfway but Crocodile quickly told you to finish eating. As it came time to say goodbye you quickly gave your gator a pout and your best puppy dog eyes before he growled out and gave a small roll of his eyes.

"Bentham. " he called out, noticing Daz shaking his head from behind the flamboyant man. "...you are coming as well, I at least know you will help keep an eye on her." he spoke and saw Daz's shoulders drop in defeat.

"Of course Mr. Zero! I shall protect Y/n and little Croc with my life." Bentham declared with a over the top bow.

Smiling you hugged Crocodile's waist, feeling his hand rub your back. Looking to the Straw-hats you glanced up to Croc before moving over to your friends. Standing in front of all of them you smiled, "I don't know how to thank you all, I wish I had something to give you or... or something..."

"Don't mention it Y/n. We're friends right? That means we help each other." Luffy smiled and everyone else nodded in agreement. Although you coudl always name the baby after me..."

"Not a chance in hell." Crocodile grunted as he moved over to stand by his love.

Chuckling Luffy rubbed the back of his head. "Worth a shot."

"Here's your bag, I put the gift from Neptune in there as well."

Nami told you, handing over the small bag with the little bit of clothes she had bought you and some other things it looked like.

"There some other stuff as well, thought you might want something to remember us by."

"Oh yeah..." Taking off his hat Luffy ripped off a piece of paper and handed it over to his friend. "Here's my vivre card, that way you can come see us and we can meet little Luffy."

Hearing Crocodile growl you grinned and took the card from him. "Thank you Luffy, for everything."

Smiling he placed his hat back on his head. "Maybe next time we are together you can make that one dish as a thank you... you know the one with the meat and sauce and cheese..."

"Lasagna." you smiled.

"Yea that one."

Nodding you looked to the captain. "It's a deal, until then though I did make you something." seeing his confusion you smiled softly and tilted your head. "It's in your locker. I didn't really have all the details but maybe it will suffice."

Smiling he perked up. "Really?! Is it food? Is it meat?"

Giggling you looked to him, "I guess you'll just have to see."

"All Right! Oooo I hope it's those cookies with the nuts and..."

Watching hi run towards the ship you smiled. "Bye Luffy!"

"See you later Y/n... you too Gator!" Luffy yelled back.

Finishing telling everyone else goodbye you were lifted up into Crocodile's arms as he carried you back to the ship. Looking at all the familiar faces you smiled softy, especially when you saw Maverick smiling largely at you.

"Good ta 'ave ya back lass." the old man spoke in his thick accent.

"Alright get us off this block of ice." Crocodile spoke, giving the command to set sail. Going to take his darling into the cabin he stopped when he heard a loud yell.

""Y/N!!!"

Turning back when he heard the Straw-hat yelling Y/n's name he watched as an arm stretched over to the railing beside them. As the boy was pulled over to his ship he watched as he instantly wrapped his arms around y/n in a hug. He was about to step over and yank the his off but stopped when he noticed the few tears rolling down his cheeks and the picture frame in his hand. Glancing to the picture inside he saw a drawing of what looked to be three young boys.

"Thank you." Luffy said in a thick voice.

Smiling you hugged him back "Don't mention it." you spoke, repeating his words. As he pulled back you gave him one last smile that he returned.

"Don't you worry Y/n I'm going to take down Kaido and then Big Mom then there won't be anyone that wants to hurt you or your baby."

Giggling you nodded. "I'll hold you to that."

................................

Standing behind her in the shower he felt his cock harden but grit his teeth, now was not the time. Watching some of the water running down her body and down the drain he noticed the slight pinkish tint and swallowed hard. He knew she was tired, both her injuries and everything else taking their toll on her. Seeing her leaning against the wall he stepped up behind her and let his eyes take her in. It had been six months since he had last seen his soulmate. She was skinnier than when they had been separated, not as thin as she was when she had first joined up with the straw-hats though according to the doctor. Noticing the light scar running down her back from shoulder to the top of her left ass cheek he furrowed his brows, that was new. Lifting his hand he gently traced the thin mark with his thumb. As if knowing what he was thinking she spoke in a quiet whisper.

"Wouldn't hand over my locket."

A whip then. Clenching his teeth he took a deep breath before leaning down to kiss the scar. From what Chopper had told him her shoulder and forearm had been broken while she was imprisoned, neither of them healing right which now caused her slight pain occasionally. She had been subjected to the cold for months, her body would be sensitive to the cold now for the rest of her life. Basically starved she had lost a tremendous amount of weight, both her and their child now requiring extra proteins and vitamins. The reindeer had also told him that their child would likely be born smaller than it should be, that it would be underweight for a while. Chopper had spoken to him about many things he coudl do and he planned on seeing them through. He would care for her, massage her, keep her warm and feed the best of food. She would rest, grow their child while her own body healed.

The small creature's words rung in his head, making true fear fill him. "If she was to give birth now, in the state she is, she might not live through the birth."

He couldn't loose her, he wouldn't loose her, not again. Or their child. No he would make sure to take the very best care of them both.

Pouring some of the shampoo into her hair he placed the bottle back up before he started washing her hair. It wasn't an easy task, not with only one hand but when she went to take over he grabbed her wrist in a gentle grip and move it back to her side. Carefully he started washing her hair that was now longer than when they had last seen each other. He made sure to get as little soap in the fresh injuries on her shoulder and palms as he next started washing her body. Turning her towards him he saw a bruise forming on the side of her face, going up her temple before disappearing into her hair. Why was it she seemed to always be hurt one way or another. How he grew tired of seeing her beautiful body littered in bruises and blood. Glancing down to her breasts and slightly swollen stomach he again felt his arousal spike but pushed it away and finished bathing her. "Go get into bed little star." he told her, placing a kiss to her forehead.

Drying off you moved into the cabin and pulled on one of his shirts, leaving it only partially buttoned as you crawled into the large bed. Snuggling down into the comfy bed you sighed as his scent overtook you. Closing your eyes you turned your nose to the pillow and listened as he showered himself. By the time he was out you assumed you must have drifted off the movement of the bed starling you.

"It's alright." he spoke n his deep voice, moving to lay down beside her. Opening his arms for her as she moved to cuddle up to him he grinned softly, his eyes closing.

Cuddling up to him you felt his strong arms wrap around you, felt his one hand rub your back under his shirt. Hearing the sound of his heart made it all real, you were so afraid you would wake up and all of this would have been a dream, that you would still be slowly freezing and starving to death in Impale Down. As his lips softly pecked your head you nuzzled deeper into his chest, your eyes filling with tears and your lip trembling.

Hearing her sniffle and feeling the his chest become damp with her tears he continued rubbing her back while his left arm pulled her closer if it was possible. "Why are you crying little star?" he asked in a low voice.

"I'm scared your going to disappear again... that I'm going to wake up and you'll be gone." you whimpered.

"I'm not going anywhere darling." he promised her. Rubbing his hand around to her belly he stroked over the bump there. "I don't know how you did it, how you kept our child alive in that hell, how you even managed to stay alive yourself. You were there longer than I was and still.... everyday I woke up and expected to feel that emptiness take over, for you to have..." he couldn't even finish. Swallowing thickly he continued stroking her belly and side. "I am so sorry starlight..."

"Croc..."

"No, I need to say this." he told her and heard her become quiet. Taking a deep breath he started again, "I failed you yet again. It seems that is all I ever do, that I am unable to protect you. You are my soulmate, it is my responsibility to care for you... Not a day went by that I didn't think of you, that I didn't miss you. You don't know how worthless I felt knowing that the woman I love, the mother of my child was sentenced to that place."

It was strange hearing Crocodile become so emotional, something he always kept locked away but you wouldn't say a word. His hand stayed on your belly, stroking your skin softly.

Taking another breath he kissed gently at her forehead again. "When I got your letter I at first thought it was some trick, that someone was playing some cruel joke on me, I didn't want to believe it because I was so afraid of it being false but it wasn't." smiling a little he continued holding her close. "All the horrible things I've done in my life I can't imagine why fate took mercy on me but I will be forever grateful to have you in my arms again. I may very well never let you leave my side again." Feeling a light kiss to his throat he hummed.

The both of you stayed silent for a while, just basking in one another's embrace before he spoke again.

"Darling..." hearing her sleepy hum he continued rubbing her head and hair. "Earlier with Law, you told him you had already made your choice what did you mean by that?"

"You, I choose you Croc. I will never join Big Mom or Kaido because even though they are blood you are my family. You, me and our little Caiman."

Feeling his lips turn up into a smile he moved his hand to turn her chin up towards him so he could press his lips to hers. It was a long, slow kiss, there was no desire to take it further they were just simply expressing how much they had missed one another, how much they loved one another. When it came time to breath he pulled away but kept her chin tilted so he coudl look into her alluring eyes that he adored so much. "You believe it's a boy then, that we will have a son?" he asked, the soft smile staying on his face.

Nodding lightly you saw his eyes twinkle a little. Rubbing his bare chest you grinned softly and turned some to lay a bit more on your back but still enough to stay in his arms and look up at him. "A son just as handsome as his father and probably just as cunning."

Chuckling he moved his hand to unbutton the few buttons she had holding the shirt on her small frame. "A little boy with his mother's stunning eyes and temper."

Giggling you sighed as he rubbed your belly, "I don't think this world knows what it's got coming." you told him and heard him let out a small laugh. As his hand passed over your lower abdomen you felt a strange sensation and flinched, your eyes snapping down to your belly.

"Was tha..." another jolt hit the palm of his hand and he stared down at her stomach in awe. Grinning he rubbed his hand again slowly and felt his child kick at his hand.

"He knows we're talking about him." you smiled. "That's the first time I've ever felt him move."

Humming he smiled and looked back to her, "See he is already a daddy's boy."

Rolling your eyes some you smiled and reached up to stroke his jaw. You stared at his face until your eyes became to heavy to hold open.

Feeling her hand fall against his shoulder he looked back to her and saw her sleeping peacefully, a soft smile on her face. Grinning he pulled he blanket back over them and settled down beside her, placing a kiss to her temple. "Sweet dreams little star. I love you..." Feeling another hard kick to his hand he smirked, "And you, my son." he spoke in a low deep voice before joining her in the first peaceful sleep in months.

...........................................

He could only grin a little as she looked around confused but he didn't say a word. Keeping her tucked close to his side he led her down the correct street, thankful it was nighttime so not many people were out. As they came up on the home he saw her brows knit a little before she again looked to him. Paying her no mind he walked up to the front door and glanced down to her before opening it and smiling softly, "Welcome home darling."

Blinking your eyes went a bit wide and you looked back towards the large home that was more like a mansion before snapping your eyes back up to him.

Seeing shock on her face he chuckled some and led her inside, shutting the door behind them and locking it. Removing his coat from her shoulders he hung it on the coat rack and continued watching her as she just stood there looking around but not moving. Sighing softly he took her hand and moved her throughout the place. "I settled on this island a few months ago, took over the black market position here."

"Took over?" you asked but saw him raise a brow. "Never mind I probably don't want to know."

Humming he grinned and showed her room after room. "Truthfully there are more rooms than I know what to do with but at least now we will have a room for the baby." he said and saw her smile sweetly up at him. "You are free to decorate it however you please and anything you need you let me know and I will see you get it."

Smiling you leaned into his side. Ever since the other night when he had felt the baby kick he had seemed rather thrilled of the idea that he was going to be a father. Daz who you had spoken to when Croc had to talk with Bon on something said that it was likely that Crocodile had feared he would never see you alive again, that he would never get o meet his child but now that the both of you were reunited he wasn't taking it for granted.

"This is the kitchen, although I did have chiefs cook for me I was quite fond of your cooking and perhaps if you are willing and up to it we may share one of your delectable meals again." Seeing her nod quickly and smile he grinned but then thought of something. "I don't want you pushing yourself though, if you do not feel like it or you are too tired then I will get the cooks to make you whatever it is you want."

Next he showed you the two living room, the courtyard that had soft green grass and a few trees. Croc had quickly led you to one of the small plants and pointed out that it was your apple tree that you had sprouted on the ship. He told you how you were free to garden all you wanted. After that was the spare rooms, his office that homed many books. You could only smile like a child in a candy shop as you looked over all the books, not knowing he was watching you smiling.

At the end of the tour he led her down the hall to the large wooden door, opening it he checked it over for safety before turning on the lights and stepping to the side to allow her in. "And this is our room."

Walking inside you looked around the large room. There was the massive canopy bed in the center of the room with a matching dresser and side table on each side. A little sitting area was in the right corner with what looked to be a private door to the courtyard behind it. On the other side of the room was two more doors, closet and on suit most likely. The bedding and chairs were all done in a grey color that complimented the dark wood. "It's beautiful, all of it." you told him, turning to face him as he came to stand beside you.

Grinning he looked down at her, stroking her lightening bruised cheek with his knuckles. "I am glad you like it." Feeling that spark of arousal he swallowed and cleared his throat. "Come let me show you to the bathroom, I am sure you like a shower before bed."

The bathroom was no less grand than the bedroom or rest of the house for that matter. A huge soaking tub that would fit you, croc and probably another person set in one corner with a equally large walk in shower on the other. Crocodile had quickly started the shower for you, adjusting the temperature before saying he wanted to check something, asking you if there was anything you wanted or needed before he left you to bathe. You found it strange that he seemed to always have something to do anytime you needed to be naked. That over emotional side of you kept saying it was something with the way you looked now, maybe you were no longer attractive to him. While you tried to see reason you couldn't help but be hurt a little.

Removing your clothes and then the bandages you glanced up to the mirror and looked over your body. Bruises spotted your skin along with the healing sword slash across your shoulder. Injuries were here and there and you felt your lip twitch as your eyes moved to your breasts. They were still much smaller than when you had first went into Impale Down. Looking down to your small baby bump you sighed and rubbed your abdomen.

Taking a long shower you got out feeling much more refreshed than you had before. Drying off something caught your eye and you grinned when you noticed your silk pajama set folded on the bathroom counter. You were sure they weren't here before, he must have brought them in. Pulling on the shorts and shirt you brushed your hair and teeth before walking out to the room. Seeing Crocodile sitting in one of the chairs you moved over to him and curled up in his lap when he held his arm out. Humming you grinned and nuzzled into his neck.

Grinning himself he wrapped his arm around her, kissing her head. "I missed this."

"Me too." you told him, closing your eyes as his warm calloused hand rubbed your thigh.

Closing his eyes as his hand creased her soft skin he adjusted his legs as his pants grew tighter. Damn he wanted her, he craved her, so much it was taking everything he had to keep from carrying her over to the bed and taking her like the deprived man he was. He should have made her wear the pants. Not that it would have done any good. She coudl probably be wearing a burlap bag and he would still feel as horney as a teenage boy. He had to wait though, wait until she was healed. It had been six months and his body was aching for her but he wouldn't risk hurting her or his child. No he would just have to resist. Glancing around the room he saw her bag sitting on the table and rose a brow, a distraction is what he needed. "The Straw-hat woman, Cat burglar Nami I believe her name is, she mentioned something about packing you other things she thought you might want, what s it?"

Sitting up you smiled and grabbed the bag from the table, not realizing your dear Gator was staring at your backside, his hand trembling as he resisted grabbing it. Sitting back on his lap you felt him move your legs to rest over his other knee as you started picking out items to show him. "Pappag gave me these, well more like Nami talked him into letting them get anything they wanted." you smiled.

Glancing over the clothes as she pulled them out of the bag he saw she had a pair of shorts, a t-shirt with a star on it and the word 'Crimin' on it along with a black two piece bathing suit with the same design on one of the cups. Humming he rose a brow and leaned back some. "And who is this Pappag?"

"Oh he's a starfish that designs clothes. He's a really big deal on Fishman Island."

"A starfish." he asked and saw her nod. Grunting he listened as she told him about her time in Fishman Island with the Straw-hats. He had been surprised to find out that Jinbe and her father had been friends. While he didn't much care for the shark he was grateful for him helping his love send him the letter. Next he watched her show him the music box that King Neptune had gifted their child. As he listened to the soft tune he couldn't help but grin a little at the soft smile on her face as she talked about how they coudl play it to help their little Caiman go to sleep. When he saw her face light up he watched as she pulled out tangerines.

Looking to him you grinned, "Your child seems to like fruit just as much as you." Thinking of something you tilted your head. "You know these are from a tree Nami brought on the ship with her, from Conomi Islands, your home."

Raising both of his brows at that he looked to the fruit as she peeled it.

Taking one of the sections into your mouth you grinned and held another to his lips. As he parted his lips you placed the piece on his tongue and saw the corner of his lip turn up as he ate it making you smile.

"Still the best tangerines in the world." he said and saw her smile before offering him another.

For the next few minutes the two of you sat in the chair talking and snacking on a few more tangerines. You were quick to save the seeds, hoping to grow a tree of your own. Soon however though you were covering a yawn and he was standing.

Carrying her over to the bed he pulled back the covers and laid her down. He coudl tell she was sleepy based on how heavy her lids hung over her eyes. Tucking her in he kissed her brow before going to take a shower himself but only after making sure both the balcony door and bedroom door were locked. Getting out he glanced over to her sleeping form and sighed at the feeling. Quietly moving over to the dresser he pulled on a pair of pajama pants while staring at the neatly folded scarfs beside it. Reaching under them he grabbed the small velvet box hidden underneath and pulled it out. Flipping it open he stared down at the ring he had picked out over six months ago. It was beautifully crafted, only the best for his little star. The plan had been to give it to her that night in the hotel after they ate dinner but then she had felt ill and then that Charlotte had shown up. The whole night he had planed out had been ruined in an instant. Raising his chin he closed the box. This time everything would go right. Placing it back under the scarfs he closed the drawer, hiding it away for only a few days more.

#Sir Crocodile #sir crocodile x reader #one piece crocodile #crocodile fanfiction #crocodile x reader #one piece crocodile x reader #crocodile x ofc #One Piece Fanfiction #so much fluff

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thewidowsghost · 3 years ago

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The Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 9

(Y/n)'s POV

It doesn't take me long to pack. I decide to leave the Minotaur horn in the cabin, which leaves me only an extra change of clothes and a toothbrush to stuff in a backpack Grover had found for me.

The camp store loans me one hundred dollars in mortal money and twenty golden drachmas. The coins are as big as Girl Scout cookies and have images of various Greek Gods stamped on one side and the Empire State Building on the other. The ancient mortal drachmas had been silver, Chiron had told us, but Olympins never used less than pure gold. Chiron said the coins might come in for non-mortal transactions - whatever that might mean. He gives Annabeth, Percy, and me canteens of nectar and Ziploc bags full of ambrosia squares, to be used only in emergencies, if we were seriously hurt. It is god food, Chiron reminds us. It would cure us of almost any injury, but it is lethal to mortals. Too much of it would make a half-blood very, very feverish. An overdose would burn us up, literally, Fun.

Annabeth is bringing her magic Yankees cap, which she tells me had been a twelfth-birthday present from her mom. She is also bringing a book on famous classical architecture, written in Ancient Greek, to read when she gets bored, and a long bronze knife, hidden in her shirt sleeve. I'm sure the knife is going to get us busted the first time we go through a metal detector.

Grover is wearing his fake feet and his pants to pass as a human. He wears a green rasta-style cap, because when it rains his curly hair flattened and you can just see the tips of his horns. Grover's bright orange backpack is full of scrap metal and apples to snack on. In his pocket is a set of reed pipes his daddy goat had carved for him, even though he only knows two songs: Mozart's Piano Concerto Number 12 and Hilary Duff's 'So Yesterday,' both of which sound pretty bad on reed pipes.

We wave good-bye to the other campers, take one last look at eh strawberry fields, the ocean, and the Big House, then hike up the Half-Blood Hill to the tall pine tree that used to be Thalia, the Daughter of Zeus.

Chiron is waiting for us in his wheelchair. Next to him stands the surfer dude I'd seen when I was recovering in the sick room. According to Grover, the guy is the camp's head of security. He supposedly had eyes all over his body so he could never be surprised. Today, though, he's wearing a chauffeur's uniform, so I can only see the extra eyes on his hands, face, and neck.

"This is Argus," Chiron tells me. "He'll drive you into the city, and, er, well, keep an eye on things."

I hear footsteps behind us.

Luke comes running up the hill, carrying a pair of basketball shoes. "Hey!" he pants. "Glad I caught you."

Annabeth blushes, the way she always does when Luke is around.

"Just wanted to say good luck," Luke tells us. "And I thought . . . um, maybe you could use these."

He hands Percy a pair of sneakers, which look pretty normal.

Then, Luke says, "Maia!"

White bird's wings sprouted out of the heels. The shoes flap around on the ground until the wings fold up and disappear.

"Awesome!" Grover exclaims.

Luke smiles. "Those served me well when I was on my quest. Gift from Dad. Of course, I don't use them much these days...." His expression turns sad.

Annabeth stomps down the other side of the hill, after arguing with Percy, where a white SUV waits on the shoulder of the road. Argus follows, jingling his car kees.

Percy picks up the flying shoes and then looks up at Chiron. "I won't be able to use these, will I?"

Chiron shakes his head. "Luke meant well, Percy. But taking to the air...that would not be wise for you."

I nod, getting an idea, "Hey, Grover. You want a magic item?"

His eyes light up. "Me?"

Pretty soon, we'd laced the sneakers over his fake feet, and the world's first flying goat boy is ready for launch.

"Maia!" Grover shouts. He gets off the ground, okay, but then falls over sideways so his backpack drags through the grass. The winged shoes keep bucking up and down like tiny broncos.

"Practice," Chiron calls after him. "You just need practice."

"Aaaaa!" Grover goes flying sideways down the hill like a possessed lawnmower, heading towards the can.

But before I can follow, Chiron catches my arm. "I should have trained you two better, Percy, (Y/n)," he says. "If only I had more time. Hercules, Jason - they all got more training."

"That's okay. I just -" I stop myself.

"What am I thinking?" Chiron cries. "I can't let the two of you get away without these." He pulls two pens out of his coat pocket and hands one to me and one to Percy.

Looking down at it, I see a teal-colored gel pen. Maybe cost thirty cents.

"Gee," Percy says. "Thanks."

"Percy, those are gifts from your father. I've been keeping them for years, not knowing you two were the ones I was waiting for. But the prophecy is clear to me now. You two are the ones."

Instinctively I take off the cap, and the pen grows longer and heavier in my hand. In half a second, I am holding a shimmering bronze sword with a double-edged blade, a teal and silver leather-wrapped grip. This is the first weapon that feels balanced in my hand.

"That sword has a long and tragic history that we need not go into," Chiron tells Percy. "Its name is Anaklusmos."

"Riptide," Percy translates.

"I have never seen anyone use that sword that I'm aware of," Chiron says, turning to me. "Yours is named Τυφώνας."

"Hurricane," I translate, surprised that the Ancient Greek came so easily to me.

"Use them only for emergencies," Chiron says, "and only against monsters. No hero should harm mortals unless absolutely necessary, of course, but neither sword would hurt them in any case."

I look down at the wickedly sharp blade. "What do you mean it wouldn't harm mortals? How could it not?"

"Those swords are celestial bronze. Forged by the Cyclopes, tempered in the heart of Mount Etna, cooled in the River Lethe. It's deadly to monsters, to any creature from the Underworld, provided they don't kill you first. But the blades will pass through morals like an illusion. They simply are not important for the blade to kill. And I should warn you two: as demigods, you can be killed by either celestial or normal weapons. You are twice as vulnerable."

"Good to know," Percy says.

"Now recap the pens," Chiron says.

Percy and I touch the pen cap to the sword tips and instantly Riptide and Hurricane shrink to ballpoint pens again. I tuck it in my pocket, a little nervous because it's pretty easy to lose a pen.

"You can't," Chiron says.

"Can't what?" I ask, slightly confused.

"Lose the pens," he says. "They're enchanted. They'll always reappear in your pockets. Try it."

Warily, I throw the pen as far as I can down the hill and watch it disappear in the grass.

"It may take a few moments," Chiron tells us. "Now check your pocket."

Sure enough, the pen is there.

"Okay, that is extremely cool," I admit.

"But what if a mortal sees one of us pulling out a sword?" Percy asks.

Chiron smiles. "Mist is a powerful thing, Percy."

"Mist?" I ask.

"Yes. Read The Iliad. It's full of references to the stuff. Whatever divine or monstrous elements mix with the mortal world, they generate Mist, which obscures the vision of humans. You will see things just as they are, being a half-blood, but humans will interpret things quite differently. Remarkable, really, the lengths to which humans will go fit things into their version of reality.

I put Hurricane back into my pocket.

For the first time, the quest feels real. I'm leaving Half-Blood Hill. I'm heading west with no adult supervision, no backup plan, not even a cell phone - Chiron said cell phones were traceable by monsters; if we used one, it would be no worse than sending up a flare. I have no weapon stronger than a sword to fight off monsters and reach the Land of the Dead.

"Chiron . . ." Percy says. "When you say the gods are immortal . . . I mean, there was a time before them, right?"

"Four ages before them, actually. The Time of the Titans was the Fourth Age, sometimes called the Golden Age, which is definitely a misnomer. This, the time of Western civilization and the rule of Zeus, is the Fifth Age."

"So what was it like...before the gods?"

Chiron purses his lips. "Even I am not old enough to remember that, child, but I know it was a time of darkness and savagery for mortals. Kronos, the lord of the Titans, called his reign the Golden Age because men lived innocent and free of all knowledge. But that was mere propaganda. The Titan king cared nothing for your kind except as appetizers or a source of cheap entertainment. It was only in the early reign of Lord Zeus, when Prometheus the good Titan brought fire to mankind, that your species began to progress, and even then Prometheus was branded a radical thinker. Zeus punished him severely, as you may recall. Of course, eventually, the gods warmed to humans, and Western civilization was born."

"But the gods can't die now, right? I mean, as long as Western civilization is alive, they're alive. So...even if I failed, nothing could happen so bad it would mess up everything, right?" I ask, feeling rather uncertain.

Chiron gives me a melancholy smile. "No one knows how long the Age of the West will last, (Y/n). The gods are immortal, yes. But then, so were the Titans. They still exist, locked away in their various prisons, forced to endure endless pain and punishment, reduced in power, but still very much alive. May the Fates forbid that the gods should ever suffer such a doom, or that we should ever return to the darkness and chaos of the past. All we can do, child, is follow our destiny."

"Our destiny...assuming we know what that is," I say grimly.

"Relax," Chiron tells me. "Keep a clear head. And remember, the two of you may be about to prevent the biggest war in human history."

"Relax," I say. "I'm very relaxed."

When Percy and I get to the bottom of the hill, I look back. Under the pine tree that used to be Thalia, daughter of Zeus, Chiron is now standing in full horse-man form, holding his bow high in salute. Just your typical summer-camp send-off by your typical centaur."

Argus drives us out of the countryside and into western Long Island, It feels weird to be on a highway again, Annabeth and Grover sitting next to me, Percy on the other side of Grover, as if we were normal carpoolers. After two weeks at Half-Blood Hill, the real world seems like a fantasy. I find myself staring at every McDonald's, every kid in the back of his parent's car, every billboard and shopping mall.

"So far so good," Percy tells Annabeth. "Ten miles and not a single monster."

She gives Percy an irritated loo. "It's bad luck to talk that way."

"Remind me again - why do you hate us so much?" Percy asks.

"I don't hate you two."

"Could've fooled me."

Annabeth folds her cap of invisibility. "Look...we're just not supposed to get along, okay? Our parents are rivals."

"Why?" Percy asks.

Annabeth sighs. "How many reasons do you want? One time my mom caught Poseidon with his girlfriend in Athena's temple, which is hugely disrespectful. Another time, Athena and Poseidon competed to be the patron god for the city of Athens. Your dad created some stupid saltwater spring for his gift. My mom created the olive tree. The people saw that her gift was better, so they named the city after her."

"They must really like olives," Percy comments, and I stifle a snort of laughter.

"Oh, forget it," Annabeth grumbles.

"Now, if she invented pizza - that I could understand," I add, in a slightly teasing tone.

"I said, forget it!" Annabeth says, hitting me lightly on the arm.

In the front seat, Argus smiles. He doesn't say anything, but one blue eye on the back of his neck winks at me.

Traffic slows down in Queens. By the time we get into Manhattan, it is sunset and starting to rain.

Argus drops us at the greyhound Station on the Upper East Side, not far from my mom and Gabe's apartment. Taped to a mailbox is a soggy flyer with mine and Percy's picture on it: Have you seen these children?

Percy rips it down before Annabeth and Grover can notice.

Argus unloads our bags, makes sure we get our bus tickets, then drives away, the eye on the back of his hand opening to watch us as he pulls out of the parking lot.

I think about how close I am to the apartment. On a normal day, Mom would be home from the candy store by now. Smelly Gabe is probably up there right now, playing poker, not even missing her.

Grover shoulders his backpack. He gazes down the street in the direction I am looking. "You want to know why she married him, (Y/n)?"

I stare at him. "Were you reading my mind?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Just your emotions," Grover shrugs. "You were thinking about your mom and your stepdad, right?"

I nod.

"Your mom married Gabe for you and Percy," Grover tells me. "You call him 'Smelly,' but you've got no idea. This guy has this aura . . . Yuck. I can smell him from here. I can smell traces of him o you, and you haven't been near him in a week."

"Thanks," Percy grimaces from Grover's other side. "Where's the nearest shower?"

"You should be grateful, Percy. Your stepfather smells so repulsively human he could mask the presence of any demigod. As soon as I took a whiff inside his Camaro, I knew: Gabe has been covering your scent for years. If you hadn't lived with him every summer, you probably would've been found by monsters a long time ago. Your mom stayed with him to protect you. She was a smart lady. She must've loved you a lot to put up with that guy—if that makes you feel any better."

I soften, looking down a the ground. I'll see her again, I think. She isn't gone.

You will be betrayed by one who calls you a friend, the Oracle whispers in my mind. You will fail to save what matters most in the end.

The rain keeps coming down.

We get restless waiting for the bus and decide to play some Hacky Sack with one of Groer's apples. Annabeth was unbelievable at it. She could bounce the apple off her knee, her elbow, her shoulder, whatever. Percy wasn't too bad either, but I found that I wasn't that great at it.

The game ends when I toss the apple towards Grover and it gets too close to his mouth. In one mega goat bite, our Hacky Sack disappears - core, stem, and all.

Grover blushes. He tries to apologize, but Annabeth, Percy, and I are too busy cracking up.

Finally, the bus comes.

I am relieved when we finally get on board and find seats together in the back of the bus, Me and Annabeth in one row, and Percy and Grover across from us. The four of us stow our backpacks.

I glance over at Annabeth beside me, who keeps slapping her Yankees cap nervously against her thigh.

As the last passengers get on, Annabeth claps her hand onto my knee. "Look!"

An old lady had just boarded the bus. She is wearing a crumpled velvet dress, lace gloves, and a shapeless orange-knit hat that shadows her face and she is carrying a big paisley purse. When she tilts her head up, her black eyes glitter.

I see Percy slump down in his seat.

Behind her comes two more old ladies: one in a green hat, one in a purple hat. Otherwise, they look exactly like Mrs. Dodds - same gnarled hands, paisley handbags, wrinkled velvet dress. Triple demon grandmothers.

They sit in the front row, right behind the driver. The two on the aisle cross their legs over the walkway, making an X. It is casual enough, but it sends a clear message: Nobody leaves.

The bus pulls out of the station, and we head through the slick streets of Manhattan.

"She didn't stay dead long," Percy says, his voice quavering a little. "I thought you said they could be dispelled for a lifetime."

"I said if you're lucky," Annabeth murmurs. "You're obviously not."

"All three of them," Grover whimpers. "Di immortales!"

"It's okay," Annabeth says, obviously thinking hard. "The Furies. The worst monsters from the Underworld. No problem. No problem. We'll just slip out the windows."

"They don't open," Grover moans.

"A back exit?" she suggests.

There isn't one. Even if there had been, it wouldn't have helped. By that time, we are on Ninth Avenue heading for the Lincoln Tunnel.

"They won't attack us with witnesses around," I say. "Will they?"

"Mortals don't have good eyes," Annabeth reminds me. "Their brains can only process what they see through the Mist."

"They'll see three old ladies killing us, won't they?" Percy asks.

She thinks about it. "Hard to say. But we can't count on mortals for help. Maybe an emergency exit in the roof . . . ?"

We hit the Lincoln Tunnel, and the bus goes dark except for the running lights down teh aisle. It is eerily quiet without the sound of the rain.

"I need to use the rest-room."

"So do I."

All three demons start coming down the aisle.

"I've got it," Annabeth says. "Percy, take my hat."

"What?" he says with disbelief.

"You're the one they want. You killed one of them. Turn invisible and go up the aisle. Let them pass you. Maybe you can get to the front and get away."

"But you guys -"

"There's an outside chance they might not notice us," Annabeth says as she glances over at me. "You're a son of the Big Three. Your smell might be overpowering."

"I can't just leave you," Percy says, looking desperately at me.

"Go," I say, frowning and Annabeth hands him the cap.

The old ladies are not old ladies anymore. Their faces are still the same - I guessed they couldn't get any uglier - but their bodies had shriveled into leathery brown hag bodies with bat's wings and hands and feet like gargoyle claws; their handbags had turned into fiery whips.

The Furies surround me, Grover, and Annabeth, lashing their whips, hissing: "Where is it? Where?"

The other people on the bus are screaming, cowering in their seats. They see something, all right.

"He's not here!" Annabeth yells. "He's gone!"

The Furies raise their whips.

Annabeth draws her bronze knife. Grover grabs a tin can from his snack bag and prepares to throw it.

Word Count: 3222 words

#percy jackson x sister reader #percy jackson reader insert #female reader #reader insert #fem reader

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verai-marcel · 4 years ago

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Holiday Surprise (RDR2 Fanfic, Charles x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Charles have been together for a few months, but after the two of you officially got together, all of your couplings had been rather soft and sweet. Despite how nice it was with him, you wanted something naughtier, something rougher, something more. And you knew exactly how to get it from him.

Author’s Notes: Secret Santa gift for my dear @fangirl-ramblings! A little naughty Christmas story about getting railed by a very giving, very loving Charles Smith. I’d say this takes place in 1907, after the events of the game, while Charles is making his way north towards Canada.

Tags: Charles x F!Reader, smutty smut smut, holiday feels, probably some holiday anachronisms, tied up wrists, light bdsm, some spanking, rough sex, doggy style, creampie

Word Count: 3139

--------------------

You were a fiery, passionate woman, with the wits and cunning for making money from any situation, although you drew the line at taking advantage of the poor and pitiful. Anyone else, however, was fair game. It was with this mindset that you had tricked dozens of men who fell for your charms, believing that you would spend a night in their arms. Instead, you just drugged their whiskey and left town with their cash stuffed down your corset as you traveled to the next town, galloping away on your horse and howling in victory.

But then you met your match, when, on your way through Montana, you ran into a man with black hair, a dark complexion, and the warmest brown eyes you had ever seen. His face had scars that told an intriguing tale, and you had longed to trace every line.

With every intention to fuck and run, you seduced him, riding his thick cock under the river of stars on a summer’s night. The sounds of your pleasure enraptured him, and he breathed your name as if it was his final prayer to the heavens as he spent himself all over your soft skin. When he awoke, you were gone, with his purse in your possession and lingering regrets in your heart.

He tracked you, chased you to the edge of the country, and when he finally caught you, he kissed you before picking you up and taking you into the forest, away from the road where a passerby might see you.

“Did you really think you could get rid of me, wildcat?”

You were taken then, hard and fast on the forest floor, giving in completely to his wanton possession. Wrapping your arms and legs around him, you screamed his name as you let go, your release taking over your body, your heart, your soul.

“Charles, Charles!”

He tied you down with ropes and dark, carnal words, and you never, ever, wanted him to let you go.

***

A few months later, the two of you had become inseparable. Charles was a good man to you; he treated you as an equal, able to do the same amount of work, if not the same type. And he never disrespected your abilities. Currently, the two of you live in a small cabin on a ranch in Montana where the two of you had met.

You had changed your ways, using your wits to help with logistics at a ranch, helping with scheduling deliveries, while Charles worked with the animals. His gentle touch had him working with the cattle and horses the most, and while that meant long hours, he still made time to take care of you almost every night, whether it was making you a meal if you were tired, or giving you a massage to relax you on nights when you had to do a lot of paperwork.

Many nights, his gentle care turned into slow love making, his hands and mouth worshipping your body until you pushed him down and rode him passionately, taking every last drop of him. But he never fucked you the way he did that night. He never tied you up, even when you begged for it. Sex was fun, but your thoughts always strayed back to that one night when he lost his calm and fucked you like a raging beast, holding you down, stuffing you full of his thick shaft over and over again until you cried from the number of times you released around him.

You hated to say it, but you longed for more passion, more lust from him. Charles was like a cute puppy, always eager to please you, but you knew deep inside of him, a wolf was just clawing under the surface, ready to leap out and dominate you. Perhaps he was afraid that he’d hurt you, or that he’d scare you with the intensity of his desire. However, you were not afraid; rather, you wanted to see this side of him, wanted him to lose control like he did that night.

You just had to bring it out of him.

With Christmas fast approaching, you were making secret preparations, on top of the small holiday dinner the two of you were already planning. Working on this ranch meant the two of you had your own little cabin on the land so you could be close to the barn, with relative privacy. For fun, you had decorated the walls with strings of popcorn and wreaths made with pine tree branches and pine cones. Charles had helped you hang your decorations, and had gathered whatever items you needed to make your home just a bit more festive. He got extra candles from the general store, cut a portion of a pine tree and brought it inside for you to decorate. He even bought you ingredients so you could make star-shaped cookies to adorn the tree.

He got you everything you wanted, except for one thing. You hoped that your secret gift would entice him into giving you exactly what you wanted.

***

“All done for the day?” you asked as Charles came in from the snow on the evening before Christmas, stamping his boots before taking them off.

“Yup. Cattle are all settled, horses are safe in the barn with enough hay for a few days.” He took off his coat and hung it on the coat hook next to the door, patting off the accumulated snow. “Looking forward to our day off?”

“Sure am,” you replied as you got up and walked over to hug him. “But first, look above you.”

Charles looked up and grinned at what he saw. “Mistletoe, huh?” Leaning down, he gave you a chaste peck on the lips. “As if I needed an excuse to kiss you.”

You pulled him down and kissed him again, forcing him to prolong the contact by digging your hands into his lush hair. Opening your lips, you licked his bottom lip, encouraging him to open his and invited his tongue to a dance, the kiss deepening as your desire heated your body.

But his movements were unhurried, his big hands sliding down your body slowly so he could enjoy the curve of your hips and your backside. He finally pulled back, making you whimper. “Sweetness,” he murmured, tracing your cheekbone tenderly, “you need to eat first. Then we can play.”

You huffed and pulled away from him, both annoyed that he was right and playing the part of being a brat, hoping that he’d lose some patience with you.

Raising an eyebrow, Charles said nothing more as he led you towards the kitchen, and the two of you made your meal and ate it peacefully at the table.

It wasn’t until after everything was cleaned and put away that you tried again.

“Charles,” you cooed. “I have a surprise for you.”

He looked at you, curious. “Oh?”

“Close your eyes.”

He obeyed without question.

You got up from your chair and went to the chest of drawers, digging into the bottom of the lowest drawer and pulling out one part of your special gift. Going back to stand before him, you undid the top three buttons of your blouse so that your cleavage peaked out. You took a deep breath to calm yourself, not because you were nervous, but because you were getting too excited. “Open your eyes.”

Charles did so, and his eyes immediately traveled to your chest. You could feel his hot gaze as if it were his fingers, tracing the curves of your breasts. It was as if just his stare alone could caress your nipples, for they suddenly ached with need.

Then he saw the rope in your hands. It was a horsehair rope that you had made in your spare time, diligently weaving and re-weaving it until it was strong enough to hold someone, but soft to the touch. He looked back up at your face in confusion.

“I want you to tie me up,” you purred, setting the rope down on the table and undoing your skirt buttons in front of him. He sat, entranced by the fabric gliding down your body, revealing your bare thighs. You had chosen not to wear any drawers tonight; you wanted to tease him as much as possible, to break his hold on his self-control.

You could see the outline of his bulge in his pants as he swallowed audibly. “Sweetness,” he rasped, “what’re you on about?”

Undoing the rest of your blouse, you revealed your other secret gift: a chemise and corset that pushed your breasts up. The chemise was dyed black to complement the dark red of the corset, with its black ribbons and lace.

Charles let out a low rumble. “Such a beautiful lady,” he murmured. “C’mere, let me touch you.”

You shook your head. Grabbing the rope from the table, you pushed him back on the chair and wrapped it around him twice. Tying a square knot at his chest, you smiled. “No touching.”

He tested the ropes, wriggling in his seat. It was clear to both of you that if he chose to, he could easily get free, but he decided to play your game. For now.

So you went down on your knees and slowly undid the buttons of his pants and then his drawers, looking up at him to smile and watch his reaction as you nuzzled his bulge. When you finally reached in and freed his cock, stroking him into full hardness, he was breathing heavily.

With your eyes locked onto his, you took him into your mouth. He groaned, his hips jerking upwards. You put your hands on his thighs and started to suck on him in earnest, bobbing your head up and down, slowing your rhythm when you felt him tensing, and speeding up when you could hear him catching his breath. After a while, you reached down to stroke your clit while you sucked on him, letting your own moans vibrate against his shaft. Your tongue swirled around the head of his cock, making him let out a prolonged moan.

“How long are you going to keep me on edge?” he asked, his voice rough with need.

You grinned as you gave him one last lick and stood up. Straddling him, you grasped his hardness and lowered yourself slowly, sinking onto him one inch at a time until he was completely sheathed in you. You felt him twitch inside of you, and you laughed gleefully.

“I’m warning you,” he rumbled.

“Warning me of what?” you sneered, lifting yourself off him until on the tip was inside. “What are you goin’ to do? You’re. Nothing. But. A. Cuddly. Puppy,” you taunted, punctuating your words with each bounce, sliding halfway down before moving back up.

Charles growled before flexing, the square knot that you had so haphazardly tied loosening like his self-control. He reached up and untied it, setting himself free before grabbing onto your hips and pulling you down to grind hard against him.

“A puppy, huh?” He picked you up, holding you close and walked over to the bed. He nearly shoved you down; his roughness made you shiver with anticipation. He ripped off his clothes in a rush before grabbing the rope and stalking towards you, that primal lust in his eyes, just like that wondrous night. You felt your pussy flow with your desire, as if it knew what was about to happen.

“You want this?” he growled, grabbing your wrists and tying them together. Without waiting for your answer, he flipped you over and folded you until you were on your knees. Slapping your ass, he uttered, “On your knees.”

You quickly obeyed, craving his command. Caressing your backside, he rubbed the head of his cock against your folds, dipping inside of you just a little bit before pulling out to rub against your clit. Over and over, he teased you until you were begging for him to fuck you.

“I don’t think so, sweetness. You tortured me so ruthlessly. I think I owe you the same.” Then he leaned over, one arm holding himself up as he gripped your chin and turned your head to the side to meet his gaze. “Or are you goin’ to be a good girl?”

You stuck your tongue out at him.

A feral grin grew on his face as he let go of your jaw. His hands suddenly grasped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. “Have it your way.”

That was your only warning before he plunged inside of you with a low snarl. Staying inside of you, he pressed you down onto the bed, his chest against your back. His hands slid up your body, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other digging into your hair. Moving his hips up slowly, he chuckled darkly into your ear before starting a ruthless pace. Charles fucked you hard, making the bed bounce with the strength of his powerful thrusts.

You cried out, your screams louder than the winter wind outside. Wrapping one hand around your mouth to stifle your sounds, he kept pounding into you, his deep moans of pleasure in your ear.

“That’s it girl, take what I give you,” he uttered into your ear. “It’s what you need, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes Charles, I need your cock inside of me, I need to be fucked!” you babbled when Charles let go of your mouth. You were losing your mind as he took you with an intense need to mark you as absolutely, decisively his.

He stopped long enough to roll the two of you over, his cock still sheathed inside of you. Reaching down, he stroked your core with one hand as he grabbed your breast and squeezed, teasing your nipple as he gave you shallow thrusts. Your body tightened when he slapped your breast before reaching around you to rub and pinch the other one, giving it the same treatment.

“I can feel your pussy tighten around me. You’re close, aren’t you?”

You could only moan as he rubbed your center harder, faster.

“Come for me, sweetness. Show me how much you love having my cock inside of you.”

You let out a strangled cry as your climax hit you hard, your legs straightening out, your toes curling, the sweat from your body making you slippery in his grasp as he tried to hold you down. He wrung every last spasm of pleasure from you, not letting up the sweet, sinful pressure on your core until you started begging for him to stop.

“You don’t want me to stop,” he teased, gently rolling you off of him. He got up to kneel before you, positioning you with your back on the bed, your legs spread wide open and still twitching from your last climax. Pressing his cock against your oversensitized clit, he rubbed against you, watching you writhe with too much pleasure, driving you insane.

“Oh my lord, fuck, oh god,” you rambled as your hips twisted back and forth, trying to avoid his touch. But Charles grabbed your hips and held you down as he rocked his hips back and forth, his shaft sliding around your sensitive areas. You could only whimper as you knew you were helpless to resist him now.

Not that you wanted to. Your pussy still dripped with how much you wanted him to fuck you.

Charles let you breathe for a moment before he leaned forward and pushed his member deep inside of you with one stroke. “You want my spend, wildcat?”

“Yes!” you hissed, lifting your hips up. “I want it, I need it!”

“Of course you do. And only I can give it to you,” he rumbled as he started thrusting, slowly at first, then moving faster and faster as he lost control of himself. He fell upon you, like a hungry wolf onto his prey, covering you with his wide chest, his big, muscular arms surrounding you and holding you close. “Tell me you want it inside.”

“Yes, please Charles, spend inside of me, I want it deep,” you begged.

Charles let out a guttural moan as he thrust hard, pushing inside of you as deep as he could, and stayed there as he released himself inside of you, filling you full. He let out a few more grunts of exertion, lifting his hips and pumping more inside of you until you felt his release spilling from your body.

“Fuck,” he sighed, contentedly. Then he suddenly lifted off of you and collapsed beside you. He reached up and untied your wrists, frowning at the red marks on your skin.

“You alright, sweetness?” he asked, kissing each of your wrists.

“I’m better than alright,” you replied, drunk on the intense afterglow. Cuddling closer to him, you hummed happily when you felt him wrap his arms around you and pull you into his chest.

“I’m glad,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “Guess I should’ve known you could handle me being… a little rougher with you.”

You looked up at him. “What stopped you before?”

Charles cupped your cheek and looked at you so tenderly that you nearly teared up. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured.

You gently flicked his nose with your finger. “You silly man. I’ll tell you if something hurts.”

“You usually don’t.”

You opened your mouth to argue before you realized that he was right. You usually didn’t complain about aches and pains, but he would see you stretching or groaning and would chastise you for not telling him. “This is different. But I promise I’ll tell you if I’m hurt from now on,” you said.

“Thank you.” He kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose. “Ready to sleep, sweetness?”

You nodded and yawned.

He chuckled as he nuzzled you with his cheek. “Good night, my love.”

***

“Happy Christmas, my sweet flower,” Charles said as you awoke, blinking your eyes as the dawn light filtered in through the one window of your cabin. Nestling into his chest, you wanted to sleep for a little longer, but knowing what an early bird Charles was, you grumbled and started to get up.

“Who said anything about getting out of bed,” he said, pulling you back down on top of him. You felt the long hard length of him against your thigh and saw the sly smile on his face.

Straddling him, you rolled your hips and coated his cock with your wetness. “My mistake,” you joked. “Guess you’ll need to teach me the right way to spend Christmas morning.”

He rolled the two of you over and slipped his cock inside of you slowly. “Gladly,” he said before kissing you and starting a gentle rhythm that sent you soaring.

------------------------------

End Notes: Merry Christmas @fangirl-ramblings! Hope you like your secret santa gift!!!

#charles smith #rdr2 #charles x fem!reader #nsft #writing #rdr2 fanfic #fanfic #lemon fanfic

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

Text

baby, it’s cold outside

summary: for too long you’ve been cooped up. perhaps they will be the ones to change that...

word count: 12k

warnings: mostly tropey-wintery goodness, however: accident related trauma and nightmares, language, innuendo, brief suggestive content, absolute timeline inaccuracy but i don’t care!!!!, could also be described as queen x reader but we’ll ignore that

a/n: this is a little different from my normal, but i hope you enjoy this slow and gentle fic as much as i do. happy holidays, dear ones!!

also thank you to @dancingdiscofloof for your help with this one! (if you aren’t reading rove’s deaky fic, you are sincerely missing out.)

december, 1981. montreux, switzerland.

day zero.

in the aftermath of the accident, the cabin in the alps has been your saving grace. though the home is overly large for just one person and a cat, you cannot imagine living anywhere other than here. it is a balm to your weary soul, having nursed your broken bones and shattered spirit better than any modern medicine. it is here you began again, rising like a phoenix from the ashes, and it is here you will remain—happily.

you cherish the cabin and all the memories etched within the handcrafted walls and sturdy pine beams. each morning as you make your tea and scratch behind marmalade’s ears, you hear the laughter of your childhood echoing through time and space to reach you in the here and now. each evening as you shut off the lights and secure the doors, you smell your grandfather’s pipe smoke, though the artifact is tucked away on the fireplace mantle, now cold with neglect.

your mother, father, grandfather—they’re all gone now. it’s just you and marmalade. you’re content, though, even as you crawl in bed and snuggle beneath the covers night after night and wake up morning after morning with the promise of another solitary day.

truly, the isolation does not bother you. after the accident, it’s people—crowds and gatherings and meetings—who have become the irritant. wherever people congregate, so too does danger. you’ve experienced your fair share of hazardous situations, so you prefer the quiet mountainside now. there’s less peril, less chance for heartache.

each year, after the last of autumn’s leaves have fallen and snow begins to blanket the alpine hills, you tuck yourself away in the cabin until the end of winter. the larder in your basement remains well-stocked with all the essentials—human, feline, or otherwise—and the weeks come and go without issue. you play your records in the afternoons to fill the silence and watch the television as you eat your suppers. marmalade makes for a good conversational partner when the loneliness creeps in—and it does on occasion. still, the orange tabby cat, fat with laziness and all the love you have to offer, tilts her head when you speak and meows softly when you lift your eyebrows in expectation of a response. she’s all you need, really; but the infrequent calls you have with your boss do make up for your lack of human interaction. editing manuscripts can be done anywhere, and, so long as you meet your deadlines, your boss doesn’t care where you get the work done.

early in december, on a dreary evening, the radio encourages all listeners to batten down the hatches in preparation for a nasty snowstorm due to sweep through the mountain and the valley overnight. you look away from your mug of steaming hot cocoa and shoot marmalade a grin.

“sounds fun, yeah?” you ask her, wiggling your eyebrows.

from her place on the yellow laminate tabletop, marmalade pauses her grooming session. her paw hangs midair, the tip of her tongue hanging over her small chin. she drops her paw as you move to curl your hand beneath her stomach and lift her to your hip.

“i know you like snowstorms just as much as i do,” you say.

leaving the kitchen in favor of the open living room, you nudge the overhead light off with your knuckle. it flickers before shutting off, but soon leaves the cabin illuminated solely by the lights of the christmas tree in the corner. the cocoa trembles along the lip of the mug, so you step gingerly. your socks snag against the faded carpet, but you make it to the sofa in one piece. marmalade hops from your arms and curls herself on the far side of the couch, her tail tucked snug around her body.

knees against your chest, you sip your cocoa and bounce your eyes between the christmas tree and the bay window overlooking montreux’s city-center at the base of the mountain. both the lights of the tree and the lights of the city twinkle in the darkness, rivaling any of the brightest stars. tree branches scrape against the roof, following the path of the wind, and, if you squint hard enough, the first of the snowstorm’s flakes are visible through the pale beam of the floodlight outside.

a sigh rattles your chest, and you smile.

it’s a quiet life. some might say a lonely one. but even if they’re right, you wouldn’t change it.

not for anything.

day one.

you wake up late.

normally, you rise with your alarm and keep to a consistent schedule. it helps with the monotony of your life and stops you from wasting time lounging in the comfort of your bed. some days, though, you allow yourself a few extra hours, and the morning after a snowstorm seems the perfect day to sleep in a tad longer.

it reminds you of childhood—the mornings you listened to the radio beneath your bed covers, fingers crossed your school would be announced as closed due to inclement weather. when the inevitable joy came, you would snuggle back in bed; though by then, the glee of a surprise day off of school was all too much too bear, and you were up and moving within moments.

you smile to yourself at the memory, at the way your mother made pancakes every snow day, without fail. you miss her pancakes.

when marmalade pounces onto the end of your bed, meowing sharply, you sit up. “what? are you hungry?” twisting, you glance at the analog clock across your bedroom. “it’s only nine, marmy.”

she presses your foot with her paw, meowing again.

“fine.”

slipping from bed, you cross to your dresser and drag a brush through your sleep-rustled hair. as always, a sliver of cold seeps in through the skylight overhead, and you lift your face, smiling at the sight of snow obscuring the heavens. your smile only widens as you hurry down the stairs, elbows fighting against the arms of your robe.

the world is drenched in snow. you trip to the bay window, press your hand against the cold glass, and grin. a layer of fluffy white powder clings to every nook and cranny of the mountainside. hints of evergreen peak through as the only spots of color in an otherwise white world. even the sky reflects the dazzling brilliance of the snow, and you have to blink rapidly to keep from going blind.

marmalade’s bell collar jingles as she makes her way down the stairs. she stretches at the bottom step, meowing again when she sees you.

“okay, okay, miss impatient.” you shake your head as you turn from the window. “we have the whole day, you know? ‘s not like there will be much else going on around here.”

you turn on the radio as you enter the kitchen. a soft melody—“merry christmas darling” by the carpenters—sets you to a gentle sway as you pour marmalade’s food and set about making your own breakfast.

karen’s warm voice distracts you from the first knock on your door.

keeping marmalade away from the bacon in the cast-iron skillets hinders you from answering the second.

the third, though—the third knock makes you scream.

it’s not so much of a knock as it is a hand slammed against the outside of the bay window, dark eyes peering into your sanctuary, winter cap pulled tight over any discernible features save a thick mustache. you screech, dropping the spatula in your hand to the floor. marmalade drives for the grease-covered utensil, and you trip over her in your haste to hide in the narrow closet beneath the stairs.

perhaps he hadn’t heard you? perhaps he hadn’t seen the streak of multi-colored fabric as you rushed across the living room in your purple robe and bright yellow socks?

who are you kidding? the bay window offers a glimpse into the majority of your home: the small living room, equally as small kitchen, stairs leading to the bedrooms on the second floor. he probably even saw you fling open the closet door and close it. if he did make it inside, he wouldn’t have to search for long in order to find you.

you press a hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut, at the sound of another bang against the door.

this—this was why your aunt in sheffield had pleaded for you not to take the cabin after the accident. she was so afraid you’d be murdered by a crazed hiker or wayward bear. you’d laughed at the thought back then.

but here you are now, cowering in your closet between a hoover and a winter coat, preparing to make her worst fear a living reality. you only hope marmalade enjoyed the bacon grease as a parting gift.

a muffled voice drifts through the walls after a beat of silence. “for god’s sake, we know you’re in there!”

we? your heart rate triples at the simple, two-letter word. we!

drawing in a deep breath, you root around in the darkened closet for a makeshift weapon. this is your home; you will defend it. or at least do your best to scare off the intruders with whatever fake bravado you can muster.

finding nothing, you inch out of the closet and crawl on your hands and knees toward the kitchen. you pause long enough behind the sofa to peer over the arm. another man has his face pressed against the window, his eyes narrowed as he looks over the room. he looks to his right, long curls bobbing with the motion. his mouth moves, but only garbled sounds meet your ears. while he’s distracted, you crawl into the kitchen and grab the cast-iron skillet. it feels hefty in your palm, and you judge the weight with a turn of your wrist. it could do some serious damage if handled correctly. flicking the oven off and dumping the burnt bacon in the trash, you curl both hands around the handle of the skillet and slink toward the door.

no one stands before the window as you make your way through the living room. no one bangs against the door. yet you can feel their presence on the other side of the flimsy piece of wood separating you from them.

you swallow hard as you grasp the cold doorknob, twisting the lock to the side.

steeling yourself, you grit your jaw, and, in one quick motion, throw open the door, brandish the skillet overhead, and roar like a lioness.

“oh fuck!” one of the four men on your front porch stumbles backward in surprise. his arms pinwheel as he loses his balance and drops to his backside on the snowy ground.

the one with the cascading curls can only stare at you with wide eyes and parted lips, stunned to frozen. for his part, the one with the mustache shields himself behind the one with the curls, shouting for someone named deaky to get her to understand.

it is the one with the straight, grecian nose and storm cloud eyes—deaky, you surmise—who speaks to you first. he holds his arms out in defense, his long fingers splayed wide. he glances between the skillet over your head and your face.

“we’re not here to hurt you,” he says. his voice is even and calm, though more unique than you would have originally guessed. you thought all bad guys had deep voices. his voice is too pleasant, and it sets you further on edge.

you deepen your frown, drawing in another breath. “isn’t that what they all say?”

he frowns. “i don’t know who they are.”

“thieves. murderers. criminals!” you lift your skillet slightly higher, and he flinches backward, hands raising a fraction. “i’m not afraid to use this!”

“i don’t doubt it!” he shakes his head, and his eyelashes flutter when a wayward snowflake catches in his vision. “really, though, we just want to use your phone.”

“my… phone?”

with an exasperated sigh, the blond who’d fallen to his rump in the snow shoulders past deaky. “yes, your phone. you do have one, don’t you? we need to get down this godforsaken mountain before our tits freeze off!”

deaky twists and scowls at his friend, hissing, “roger!”

roger waves him off with a dark look. “deaky, i nearly broke my ass with that stunt she pulled. i’m cold, my trousers are wet, and i want to go home. you’ll have to forgive me if i’m a little terse, you twat.”

the one with long curls and sharp facial features gently moves roger out from under deaky’s increasingly cold stare. he places himself between the pair, towering over the other two. despite his height, he holds his shoulders in a noticeable hunch, as though attempting to make himself smaller. he offers you a wry grin.

“sorry for startling you,” he says. his voice is soft and decidedly unthreatening; your tight hold on the skillet goes slack. “i’m brian. these are my friends—roger, john, and freddie. we’re kind of in a bind, and we’d really appreciate it if you lent us your phone. just for a quick call. then we’ll be gone.”

you glance between the foursome. though roger’s face is still shadowed by frustration, they seem harmless enough. maybe a little cranky, but mostly harmless.

unless, of course, that’s what they want you to think.

your aunt’s warning that you trust too easily plays in the back of your mind, and you consider that she might be right. you bite your lower lip, prepared to turn them away, when marmalade jingles her way into the conversation. she curls around your ankle, head lifted to stare at the four men on her porch. the bell around her neck sounds as she turns from side to side around your leg.

“you didn’t say you had a cat!” the one with the mustache—freddie—coos in delight. he crouches, clicking his tongue to gain marmalade’s attention. after a beat of hesitation, she inches forward to sniff the proffered hand. you watch, and when marmalade nuzzles her nose against freddie’s palm, the tension in your shoulders dissipates.

you sigh with a conciliatory smile. “well, if she trusts you, i suppose i will too.” stepping to the side, you nod to the living room. “come in and warm up.”

the men mumble various forms of gratitude and shuffle past you, sure to stomp their snowy boots against the welcome mat outside the door. they crowd around the low fire in the fireplace, and you hurry to toss a few logs on the dying embers. deaky takes the fire poker from your hand when you grab it from its place nestled along the extra pile of wood. his fingertips skim your knuckles, and you’re struck by how warm he feelings despite the weather outside. you meet his gaze, your eyes wide as you wait for him to explain.

“i can do that,” he says. “maybe you can show brian the phone?”

now that he’s shed his overcoat, you note the way his pale blue sweater brings out the pale blue of his eyes. he really is quite handsome. they all are, and it’s been a long time since you were in the presence of a handsome man, let alone four. who can blame you for being a little tongue tied?

you blink when you realize you’ve stared a bit too long. heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn away, scanning the small room for brian. “right, yes. the phone.”

you find brian stood between the living area and the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, stiff while his counterparts make themselves comfortable. roger lounges on the sofa, his legs spread toward the fire. freddie sits at the kitchen table, marmalade snuggled beneath his chin. and with the fire now flooding the cabin with warmth, deaky drops to the single armchair facing the kitchen.

you motion to brian’s wet coat. “would you like to take your coat off, brian? you look awfully damp.”

he shakes his head. “i’m alright.”

you decide not to press and instead point to the phone attached to the wall. “the phone’s just there. do you need a number? or do you have what you need?”

“actually, do you have a number for the gondola lift?”

“yeah, of course.”

you step past him to pull open a junk drawer. apart from a winding, perilous road, the gondola lift is the only way down the mountain for the few people who live mountainside year round. you’ve gotten to know the owner and operator—jimmy schmits—well after your several years living in the cabin. he or someone on his staff is only a phone call away should you need travel assistance, and you prefer the gondola ride to taking your beat-up car down the rocky, poorly paved road.

you hand brian a small, cardstock business card. “that’s the number there.”

he glances down then gives you a tight smile. “thanks.”

turning to allow him what privacy you can in the cramped space, you glance around the room at the three pairs of eyes staring back at you. the laugh that escapes from behind your lips is decidedly nervous, wavering and forced. “sorry. i just—this is a bit weird for me. i would have dressed the part had i known people were coming over.” you suck in a breath and nod to the refrigerator. “have any of you eaten?”

roger opens his mouth to say something, but deaky hurries to speak first, leaning forward in the armchair. “yes, thank you. we ate early this morning.”

roger’s face contorts to a frown, and, in what you assume is supposed to be a surreptitious move, deaky kicks his friend’s shin to silence any further protest. you look away when deaky’s eyes find yours again, his gaze apologetic.

“i’ll just make some tea, then,” you mumble.

the quiet in the room is thick, save for brian’s soft voice coming from the hall as he talks on the phone. you keep your back to the three men as you prepare a kettle for tea.

you spend much of winter in solitude, and truly, you like it that way. this sudden influx of company has you on edge, especially considering your less-than-becoming attire, bedhead, and sleepy eyes. you don’t know what to say to alleviate the discomfort in the room, aren’t really sure if it’s your job to make them feel comfortable.

really, you aren’t sure about anything this morning.

as you wait for the water to boil, you lean against the kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. the fuzzy neck of your robe rubs against your chin as you duck your head, and you study the worn tile floor beneath your long socks.

“what’s your cat’s name?”

you look up. it’s the one with the mustache—freddie. his brown eyes are warm, and he scratches beneath marmalade’s chin as he waits for your answer. for marmalade’s part, she purrs happily in his arms, seemingly more comfortable with your guests than yourself. “marmalade,” you say.

freddie grins, and you can’t help but find yourself smiling back. “perfect name. yet we seem to be missing one important thing…”

“what’s that?”

“your name. if we’re going to intrude upon your cabin and make you uncomfortable, i think we should know who to send the gift basket to once we’re rescued.”

your brow pinches slightly in confusion. freddie speaks with a certain air that you can’t quite place—one of regality, you think. you glance at deaky across the room, and he moves his eyes to the fire as he gnaws on his lower lip.

you look back at freddie, give him your name, then say, “and you’re not making me uncomfortable.”

“please,” freddie deadpans. “i know discomfort when i see it.” he lets marmalade go, who jumps to the floor, padding her way from the tiled kitchen to the carpeted living room. he stands from the table and points to the stove. “the kettle is ready, love.”

you hadn’t heard the sharp whistle, so engrossed were you in your own thoughts.

“oh!” spinning on your heel, you flip the stove-top off and remove the kettle, the whistle dying to a light trill. freddie arranges a ramshackle collection of mugs along the counter, pulled from the spinning rack in the corner. “thank you,” you whisper, as you divvy out the hot water and he drops the tea bags into the mugs.

freddie gathers the milk and sugar, making himself both useful and right at home, which you find you don’t mind too much, though it surprises you how he moves with such ease and command around a home not his own. he must be comfortable anywhere and with anyone, and you envy him that.

he carefully sets the tea tray on the low coffee table in the living room. “how do you take your tea, darling?” he asks you, bending over, his ass pointed near the fire, as he makes to prepare your cup.

you skirt into the living room, shaking your head. “oh, you don’t have to—”

he arches an eyebrow, and his voice is firm when he speaks. “how do you take your tea?”

with a small smile, you lower yourself beside roger on the couch, careful to keep a large space between you. “more sugar than milk, please.”

freddie prepares your cup then passes you the steaming mug. your smile widens in gratitude as you take the warm ceramic from his hands. he prepares his own tea before dropping to the brick ledge of the fireplace. he waves his hand in dismissal at roger and deaky.

“you two make your own,” he quips. “you’ve thoroughly pissed me off this morning.”

from behind the lip of your mug, you pull your mouth into an amused line. your eyes dart to deaky, who is bent forward, frozen as he reaches for a mug of tea. he skewers freddie with an unamused look.

“this isn’t my fault, fred,” he says.

from beside you, roger’s deliciously high voice pipes up. “nor mine!”

“no, of course it isn’t your fault, roger. we wouldn’t dare accuse you of—”

before freddie can finish his sentence, brian returns from the side hall. you shift, turning your head along with the others to hear what came of his conversation with the gondola lift owner.

brian rubs the back of his neck, his eyebrows tilted upward in apology. “well, the gondola is down today.”

“all day?” you speak a little too quickly, and you wince, dropping your eyes to the pale liquid in your mug.

brian nods. “yeah—at least until tomorrow. i guess a tree fell after we were dropped off this morning and struck a line on the lift. and the road isn’t clear, so… we’re stuck.” he glances between his friends, the hunch of his shoulders growing as the weight of their predicament sets in.

“well…” you start. you lean forward to place your tea on a worn coaster. “i certainly won’t turn you out with nowhere to go.” for what feels like the tenth time this morning, you draw in a deep breath through your teeth to steady yourself. “i suppose you lot can stay the night, then. that is, if you want to...”

there’s a beat, a moment of heavy silence, before brian says, “we couldn’t impose like that.”

you frown. “where else would you go?”

roger snorts. “brian would sleep beneath a tree if he thought it might make your life a little easier.”

you glance at roger, uncertain if his words are more jest than jab. the half-smile on his face fades under your questioning gaze, and he shifts. “i just mean,” he continues, “that brian is the most chivalrous out of all of us. not that we have any ugly intentions—”

“roger.” it’s deaky this time, and he sounds more than a little perturbed. “stop talking.”

you hesitate before explaining your offer further. “it’ll be a squeeze,” you say. “but we can make it work. i would rather you spend the night here then wander around in the cold and freeze to death. my closest neighbor is four kilometers off, and she doesn’t have electricity. you won’t be able to find her cabin if it gets dark.”

freddie shivers, though you’re sure his backside is nice and toasty from where he sits close to the fire. “oh good god,” he mutters, bringing his tea close to his mouth. “you people are insane.”

deaky catches your eye, and his brow arches. “if you’re sure…”

you nod. “i’m sure.”

“thank you. honestly, you’re a life-saver.” brian’s shoulders seem to straighten as a smile eases the lines on his forehead. he offers you his hand, which you shake, as he says, “and i’m sorry, but i didn’t catch your name while i was on the phone.”

you give him your name, and he grins, nodding to his friends. “in case you forgot: i’m brian may, and that’s roger taylor, john deacon, and freddie mercury.”

there’s something vaguely familiar about the names, particularly freddie’s, but you can’t quite put your finger on where you’ve heard that lineup before. frowning, you glance between the four men, who stare back at you with expectant sort of faces, as if they’re waiting for the lightbulb above your head to illuminate. you run through the rolodex of names in your brain, but come up short.

“are you performers or something? i swear i’ve heard your names before.”

“we’re in a band,” roger says.

you cringe in apology. “i’m afraid i don’t know bands very well. my radio—i only get one station up here, and it’s mostly yodeling. christmas is the only time of year i can pick up anything worthwhile. got any christmas songs?”

“no, and i’m not sure we will.”

“what band, then? maybe i’ve heard of you on the off chance, but don’t take it to heart if i haven’t.”

freddie leans forward in expectation. “we’re called queen. ring any bells?”

you consider before nodding. “i think so. there’s only one song that comes to mind, though. another one bites the… something? dust, maybe?”

with a laugh, freddie slaps his hand against deaky—john’s knee. “that’s deaky’s song!”

you find yourself smiling—and easily—for the first time since waking. “really? i like it!” shrugging your shoulders in time with the bassline, you do a poor imitation of the song’s opening. beside you, roger laughs, shoving john’s shoulder when a flush creeps up his cheeks. “it’s fun!”

john nods once, mumbling, “thanks.” he drops his cheek to his hand, eyes falling to the carpet, and your smile softens.

you look away, sparing him further embarrassment. “so, i’m in the presence of royalty, i guess, but all i have to offer you is my parent’s old bed, which can fit two, a trundle mattress in my bedroom, and a military cot in the basement.”

brian squeezes your arm in reassurance. “anything will suit us fine. we’re just glad we found you.”

“i’m glad i can help,” you say, and even if it were for this moment alone, you’re glad you never listened to your aunt in sheffield.

day two.

you wake the next morning with a gasp, panic shooting straight to your heart when you roll over and see a man lying on the floor next to your bed. your first instinct is to scream, to call for help, but then the fogginess of slumber lifts from your mind. you recognize the man on the floor, and your defenses drop in relief.

you’d forgotten.

the previous day’s events seem more like something out of a dream than reality. four men—four famous men—appearing on your doorstep? getting stuck in your cabin after a technological malfunction? challenging one another to a game of rock-paper-scissors in order to determine sleeping arrangements? surely you’d made that up, a dream produced by an overactive imagination and too much time alone.

but no—the presence of one john deacon, asleep on the trundle bed extended from beneath your mattress confirms your current reality. you run your eyes over his sleeping face and note the stillness with which he softly snores, one arm tucked behind his pillow. he looks peaceful.

you hope you didn’t disturb his sleep during the night. ever since the accident, nightmares tend to plague your dreams. at least twice a week, you shoot out of bed, drenched in sweat and crying out in the empty darkness of your room. you can’t remember if you’d dreamt at all last night, but you’d shrivel up and die of embarrassment if any of your frantic kicking or mumbling had woken him.

“do you always stare at people when they sleep?”

“shit!” you crash backwards against the wall in surprise at the sound of john’s sleepy voice. your head connects with the paneled wood behind you, and you curse again, rubbing the sore spot on your skull.

“do you always have such a dirty mouth too?” he’s propped up on his elbow now, eyes gleaming with a mischief you hadn’t seen yesterday. his curls lay askew on his head, and his shirt—a flannel pulled from the depths of your grandfather’s belongings—swallows his torso.

continuing to rub your head, you frown. “do you always insist on asking so many questions this early in the morning?”

“only when people stare at me while i sleep.”

you drop your hand, wrinkling your nose in embarrassment. “sorry.” although the tip of your nose is cold, your cheeks feel warm with a flush. “i didn’t think you were awake, and i was… thinking. i wasn’t really staring at you.”

half-truth. maybe a quarter-truth. your four guests are handsome—each of them in their own right—but john… he has the potential to make your knees go wobbly should he flash you one of his secretive and elusive grins.

but, in all truth, you were thinking of other things as you’d looked down at him: thinking about the day and your work and how soft his hair looked and the strength of his nose and—

john rolls off the trundle bed. when he stands, he swivels his arms back and forth, stretching his back muscles. “’s okay. i’m getting used to it.” before you can ask him what he means, he points to the skylight in the middle of your room. “i’ve got a feeling we’re in for a rude awakening.”

your gaze follows his extended finger, and you huff when you see the skylight entirely darkened by a heavy layer of snow. yesterday afternoon, you had still been able to make out the sun’s rays through the unmelted snow leftover from the recent storm. now, the skylight serves more as an extension of your stippled ceiling than an opportunity to glimpse the night sky.

“must have been another storm last night,” you say, slipping out of bed.

you don’t miss the way john’s eyes immediately flit to your legs and your exposed thighs. your nightshirt falls to the middle of your thighs, a long pair of socks pulled over your knees your only leg coverings. his eyebrows shoot up his forehead, his lips slightly parted, but he looks away when you shift uncomfortably with the hem of your shirt. damn your mother for passing on her penchant for hot sleeping!

he gathers his clothes from a chair in the corner and nods to the door. “i’ll just go… change downstairs.”

your nod is too enthusiastic to be anything but embarrassed. “yeah, okay. i’ll be down in a moment. help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen.”

john, holding his clothes to his chest, leaves the room in a hurry, his head down and eyes averted. when the door shuts, the lock giving a soft click as it slides home, you drop to your bed with a groan.

it might be a long day.

after fixing your hair and pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and sweater, you make your way down the stairs and into the living room. a chill hangs in the air, one much deeper than the general winter cold. it goes straight to your bones and makes your teeth chatter in your skull. shivering, you circle your arms around your waist, prepared to go start a fresh fire in the hearth, but something in the corner of your eye stops you.

your guests—all four of them in a line, their mismatched heights on full display—staring out the bay window.

“what is it?” you ask, bending to lift marmalade from the floor when she jingles her way over from the kitchen. “did it really snow that much?”

roger looks over his shoulder, and the disappointment shadowing his face gives you pause. “come see for yourself.” he drops to the couch with a defeated groan, cradling his forehead in his hand.

holding marmalade against your shoulder, you tiptoe to the window, the floor beneath your feet unusually frigid. you exhale at the sight of the fresh snowfall, and your breath clouds the windowpane. a thick layer of white powder covers the mountainside. as far as your eye can see, there’s nothing but pure white. it’s blinding in the morning sun, and you blink against the glistening snowflakes.

“it’s got to be at least one meter,” brian whispers. “maybe more.”

freddie shakes his head back and forth, gesturing to the side. “i can’t even see the bloody porch steps. they’ve been swallowed!”

john shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “no power either.”

you twist to stare at him in shock. “what? no power?”

he gives you the briefest of glances then returns his gaze to the window. “i checked the breaker. it’s all out.”

from the couch, roger groans again. “which means we are stuck for the foreseeable future. brian called the gondola and they couldn’t even pick up, so that’s out of the question.” he slumps further down the couch cushions. “i had a fucking holiday party planned for next week.”

“now wait a minute.” brian turns from the window and reaches over to give roger’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “the snow will clear up before then. it’ll just be a few more days. that is”—his eyes slide to you—“if you’ll let us stay?”

you glance between your guests before laughing in indignation. “you didn’t really think i’d turn you out, did you?” marmalade hops from your arms when you plant your hands on your hips. “honestly, i might be somewhat of a recluse, but i’m not completely rude.”

freddie skirts around john to place both hands on your shoulders and steer you toward the kitchen. “no one thinks you’re rude, darling. we just didn’t want to assume.” he jerks his head toward john. “now, john will start the fire and we’ll all get cozy and perhaps play a game of scrabble. roger found the board downstairs last night. how does that sound?”

you meet john’s eyes over freddie’s shoulder, and he smiles—ever so slightly, but enough to drop your defensive stance. you nudge freddie with your arm and nod. “scrabble it is.”

after breakfast, you are quickly bested in the shortest game of scrabble you’ve ever played. it seems your guests are quite the experts, so you leave them to their fun in order to complete a series of edits on your latest manuscript. from the kitchen table, you can hear them bickering over whether or not freddie’s addition is a dictionary defined word or whether or not john can go twice in one turn because roger knocked his letters from the coffee table.

the gentle hum of conversation—of life—warms your chest. it’s been a long time since your home felt lived in. for so long you have simply subsisted, moving from room to room to change the scenery, leaving the mountain only when necessary, never truly engaging with the outside world. it’s easier to live alone—there’s less risk in it, less wondering if today could be the last day you interact with a loved one because fate has some cruel trick up its sleeve.

but, damn, if having roger and john and brian and freddie grace your living room doesn’t remind you of how irritatingly necessary other people are to living a truly fulfilled life.

brian asks if he can prepare a light lunch, and while he does, you gather your work and set it aside. you have a deadline—the first of the year—but for the moment, you’d rather engage with others instead of shoving your head deep within the made-up realms of your novelists.

with a dramatic stretch, you raise your arms above your head and groan as the muscles pop in your back.

“all done, then?” freddie asks.

“for now,” you say.

he pats the open spot of the couch between himself and john, and you squeeze between them, tilting your socked feet toward the roaring fire. you find yourself still shivering slightly, despite the extra layer beneath your sweater and warm wool socks. if you remember correctly, your father had complained of poor insulation in the attic. you wish, perhaps a bit selfishly, he’d gotten that fixed before his passing.

“here.” john shimmies one side of the blanket draped over his shoulders around yours. “we can share.”

“thanks,” you whisper, grabbing the corner he offers and pulling it around your back. the movement draws him closer, the outside of his thigh pressed tightly against yours. he feels warm, though, like your own little space heater, and you resist the urge to lean into him for further comfort. instead, you focus your attention on freddie, who explains how he and his bandmates came to be stranded on a swiss mountainside.

“so, really, it’s roger’s fault that we’re in this predicament,” freddie says. “he was the one who wanted to go skiing.”

you tilt your head to the side, confused as you glance toward the front door. “where is all your gear, then? you didn’t bring any in.”

john sighs with a shake of his head. “we forgot that in the hotel.”

“no one is brilliant at five am, dear. except for maybe brian, but even he failed to remind us that the first rule of skiing is you need skis.” freddie shrugs his shoulders. “oh well. it brought us to you, didn’t it?”

smiling, you nod. beside you, john shifts a little closer. his free hand rests on his leg, but his pinky finger extends outward, brushing along the outer seam of your jeans. your grin widens.

“yeah, i suppose it did.”

day three.

it’s just past midnight when you tumble from the depths of your nightmare.

the accident—replaying—over and over and over. the twist of the car over the edge of the ravine. you, powerless, helpless as you watch from the safety of your grandfather’s truck. the crunch of metal against rock and tree and—

—and the ultimate knowledge that there was no way your parents could survive such a fall settling over your heart like a three-ton brick.

you jerk awake with a barely-contained screech. clamping your hand over your mouth, you squeeze your eyes shut, willing away the images that flash through your mind like some sort of cruel slideshow. blood and guts and screams and—

a warm hand on your shoulder, soft voice in your ear saying your name, pulls you back to reality. “hey. hey, wake up.”

your eyes flutter open, sleeve of your shirt caught between your teeth where you bite down hard. in the dim light of the room, you can make out the angles of john’s face, the line of his nose, pout of his lips. a soft glow—from the nightlight in the corner, you think—shrouds the curls on his head, giving him the curve of a halo.

your ribs shudders as you exhale. he looks like an angel, an angel sent to save you perhaps. never in your lift have you so badly wanted to embrace someone in relief.

instead, you drop the hand from your mouth and lean closer to the wall at your side, away from him. “huh? wha—oh… john, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to wake you.”

his grip on your shoulder tightens, and he ignores your apology. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing. just a nightmare.”

“some nightmare.” john’s hand slips from your shoulder to your elbow, and he rubs his cheek with his opposite hand. “you hit me.”

“fuck, did i? oh hell, john.”

scrambling to your knees, you frown into the darkness, searching for a welt or bruise blossoming on his cheek. it’s too dark to see clearly, though, and you sigh in defeat, hanging your head. embarrassment swells in your stomach, wrenching it side to side, and you turn your face away, hoping against hope that he can’t see the evidence of your fluster.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

more than anything, more than the embarrassment roiling through your system and the nerves wracking your chest, you find yourself feeling frustrated. two day—two days with queen in the house, and two days you’ve felt a magnetic pull towards john. maybe you’re just lonely and maybe you’re just reading too much into the stolen glances and brushes of his hand against yours, but having him here in the house with you? tossing your sideways looks when freddie says something that makes you laugh and helping you pull the biscuit tin from its place on the top of the shelf? you’d thought that maybe—just maybe—he might see something worthwhile in you, too.

but no rockstar could put up with you. surely, he must see that plainly now. your fear of crowds and loud noises and your night terrors—that’s not made for the high life. he would go once he got the chance, forget about you and you cat in the cabin on the mountainside. why you ever considered for a moment he would do otherwise further stokes the shame threatening to consume you.

you fiddle with the sheets and blankets gathered around your knees. “you can sleep downstairs, if you like,” you say in a rush. your grip tightens on the quilt binding, and you rub your thumb back and forth across a frayed string. “i won’t mind.”

john remains still and quiet for so long you think he must’ve fallen back asleep. but then he stands, and he gently nudges your shoulder.

“scoot over,” he urges, and you find yourself inching closer to the wall without a second thought. john slides into bed next to you, his body warm and strong. “is this okay?”

you nod because, truly, yes, it is okay with you. very much okay.

“when i was little,” he starts, adjusting the quilts around his chest, his ankle brushing your leg. “i had this dog, and any time i had a nightmare, he would crawl into bed with me, help it all go away. i know i’m not as fluffy as a dog, but… well, i thought maybe we might see if this helps it go away.” he pauses for a breath and asks again, “is that okay?”

“yeah, yeah, it’s okay.” your voice is a puff of air, and if it were any colder, you’re sure your breath would crystalize.

“good.” he settles deeper into your shared pillow, and you catch a whiff of your shampoo in his hair. it makes your stomach clench, not from embarrassment, but an entirely different emotion. beneath the covers, one of his hands slips over the curve of your wrist, and his fingers tangle with yours. he gives your palm a squeeze. “go back to sleep.”

you do—easily.

john’s heartbeat is steady beneath your ear when your eyes flutter open for the second time. you’d rested without struggle for the first time in a long time. your shoulders feel loose, your eyes free from heavy circles.

and it’s all because of john.

your cheek is firm against his chest, and the fabric of your grandfather’s flannel still smells like his cigar smoke, but there’s something else, something distinctly john, and it’s all you can do to not turn your face further into his chest and snuggle closer to his side. he’s warm, and you’re still cold despite the heavy blankets cocooning you. his arm is slung over your back, drawing you tighter to his chest, his face turned to the side as he breathes softly in sleep.

you should get up, go downstairs, and find something to eat, check to see if the power has returned. you’d rather stay here, in this quiet, still moment, until the rest of the world fades away and you are left with him and him alone. your wish isn’t meant to be, it seems, because just as you are prepared to lean further into john’s warmth and return to sleep, freddie bursts through the door.

you jolt upwards at the sound of the door slamming against the wall. john is right behind you, and his arm instinctively tightens around your back.

the grin on freddie’s face is positively shit-eating, and he puts his hands on his hips as he looks between you and john with something between pride and amusement. “oh! well, well, well, what do we have here?!”

“fuck, fred.” john releases his hold on you, moving to run a hand down his face to cover his yawn. “damn near pissed myself.”

“yes, i’m sure.” freddie chuckles to himself then cocks his head toward the open door. “make yourselves presentable. we’ve got decorating to do.”

he exits without further explanation, leaving a ball of confusion and uncertainty in your stomach and a proverbial elephant in the room. you fiddle with the end of your sleeve, wondering if john thinks the silence is as thick as you do.

“you seem to have slept better,” he says at last.

you turn, and his face is so near yours you could kiss him. instead, you just nod and say, “yes, i did. thanks to you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “i’m a selfish guy. i didn’t want to get hit again. seemed the easiest way to spare me the pain.”

somehow you know he’s joking. you know he slept as well as you because of your body pressed against his. you know he feels the spark, and he’s waiting for the moment to light the flame.

perhaps it’s the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, or the quick wink you nearly miss, that tell you you’re not crazy, that he feels it too. or maybe… maybe he’s the other half of the string that’s tied beneath your ribs. the string is no longer stretched and pulled taut, but relaxed, made light by fate and nature conspiring to bring you together.

or maybe you’re reading something that isn’t there again.

you look away first, but can’t keep the giddy smile from your face. he makes your heart feel weightless. and after being weighed down for so long, you feel as if you could do anything.

john gathers his clothes and changes downstairs while you get dressed for the day. by the time you make it to the living room, brian hands you a warm-ish glass of orange juice and a bowl of cereal while roger tends the fire and freddie sits on the floor, marmalade sniffing around the open boxes of christmas décor at his feet.

unbidden, tears spring to your eyes, and you tighten your hold on the glass in your hand.

three christmases you’ve been alone. three christmases you’ve avoided the tried and true rituals of your childhood. three years you’ve missed this, the warmth of friendship and togetherness.

your heart gives a painful lurch at the thought of all you’ve missed out on, all you’ve neglected in order to save yourself from pain. only, perhaps you’ve driven yourself to much more pain, shutting yourself away on the mountain as you have.

john appears at your side, and his hand comes to rest on the curve of your neck, his finger tracing the edge of your jaw. “what is it?” he whispers, low enough so only you can hear.

clearing your throat, you grin up at him. “i’m just happy.”

his eyes scan the room before he dips his head and presses his lips to your temple. his grip on the back of your neck tightens as he lingers against your skin. your eyes flutter shut, and you lean closer to him, warmth spreading from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet. he releases you after a moment, nudging you forward with a hand to the small of your back.

you drop to the carpet beside freddie and take a bite of your cereal. “where did you find all this? i didn’t know i’d kept it.”

“i found it, actually,” roger says from his place in the kitchen.

“and you found the scrabble board too… if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you were snooping around my house.”

“so what if i am?” roger shrugs. “i’m bored as hell without the tellie. there’s loads of stuff downstairs just waiting for me to snoop through.” he finishing tacking something to the archway of the kitchen before stepping into the living room, hands in his pockets.

“roger, stop your griping and sit down.” brian nods to the open armchair. “we haven’t had this much time off in ages. enjoy it while you can.”

“really, why do you keep all this marvelous stuff downstairs?” freddie asks. he sifts his hands through the box on his lap, filled with tinsel and ribbons your mother collected over the years. “you have a tree, but that’s it. your entire cabin could be dripping with christmas cheer if you wanted.”

“it’s just me,” you say. as if understanding, marmalade gives a petulant meow. you smile and scratch behind her ears. “and marmy, i guess. there’s no reason to go above and beyond if it’s just me.”

brian’s brow furrows in concern. “your parents? siblings?”

“my parents died about five years ago, my grandfather shortly after. there’s no siblings. just me.” rising from your place on the floor, you gather your empty breakfast bowl and the leftover plate sitting adjacent.

it’s quiet as you deposit the dishes in the sink. the story of your parent’s tragic accident and grandfather’s health decline has never been a mood booster; this you well know. still, you feel obligated to tell your guests. no—not obligated. willing. you love your parents and your grandfather, but you’ve neglected their memory too long.

you turn from the sink. “why don’t we put the decorations up? in their memory.”

freddie’s smile is soft, affectionate. he nods resolutely. “a lovely idea.”

brian puts a christmas record on the turntable, and the house seems to sigh in relief as life, happiness, and festive cheer fills the rooms after so long. roger tosses handfuls of tinsel upon the sparsely decorated tree, his hips swaying to the beat of the music, and freddie directs brian in hanging garland over the mantelpiece and around the staircase banister. you sit beside john on the floor, stringing popcorn along a piece of string. your hands are salty and warm from the popcorn, and his shoulder brushes yours as you work.

“you know,” he says. “my dad died when i was young.”

you pause, an unpopped kernel between your fingers. “really? sorry—i don’t mean to sound so surprised. i just—you didn’t say anything, so…”

he brushes your hurried apology away with a shake of his head. “i was eleven. changed me forever. i don’t really remember much of my childhood, you know, ‘cause of that.”

“oh, john.” though your fingers are slick with salt and butter and grease, you cover his hand with yours. he looks up from the half-filled bowl, and leans closer, his shoulder pushing against yours. “i’m sorry. that—no child should have to lose their parent at a young age.”

“i don’t tell you to feel sorry for me.” he removes his hand from beneath yours and continues to string the popcorn, but there’s no malice or hostility in his words—just truth. “i’m just saying it because i know how it feels to lose a parent early. it’s… devastating.”

you nod, twisting your mouth to side and looking away from his searching gaze. “yes, it is.” drawing in a deep breath, you face him again. “i think i dwell too much on the sadness, though. there’s happiness in their memory, and i forget that. but you lot helped me remember. you helped me remember.”

john ducks his head on a shy grin, his cheeks pink with blush.

heart tripping in your chest, you stand and return to the kitchen to refill the popcorn bowl while he drapes the first completed string around the tree. as the popcorn pops, you tuck your face near your shoulder, smiling to yourself. three days ago, you’d gone to bed thinking you knew what christmas would look like this year: desolate and lonely, with only your cat by your side and work to fill your days. how could you have guessed? how could you have known what nature would bring your way?

when you turn, the freshly filled bowl cradled in the crook of your arm, you stop short. roger, a sideway grin on his face, stands in the doorway of the kitchen. he jerks his chin upwards, and you follow his eyeline to the sprig of faux mistletoe tacked to the ceiling.

you roll your eyes. “so, that’s what you were doing. you really are a trouble-maker, roger.”

“come on, it’s tradition, love. just one kiss?” he opens his arms slightly, beckoning with a wave of his fingers.

you huff with mock indignance, but your cheeks warm at the thought of roger taylor wanting to kiss you of all people. the little you know of queen and their stardom is knowledge enough to tell you that roger has kissed far worthier people. they all have, probably. you—you’re just a country bumpkin, hardly interesting or captivating enough for his—or any of their—attentions.

that, at least, is what you would have told yourself three days ago. today, the thoughts tumble through your head, but you push them aside with a newfound sense of confidence. it doesn’t mean anything, anyway. it’s just a mistletoe kiss. and you think you’d regret it forever if you turned him down.

before you can stop yourself, you step forward, and roger rightly takes the movement as an agreement. he kisses you soundly, one hand feather-light in the center of your back. you don’t let the connection linger too long for fear you will lose yourself to the moment. roger is kind and charming, but he’s not… well, he’s not john, and the thought of john and whatever it is he means to you makes you pull away after a few seconds.

from their place in the living room, freddie and brian cheer, clapping in response to the good-natured fun. you duck your head, but smile all the same and drop to your spot beside john. you hand him the bowl of popcorn, but he doesn’t start stringing the new line. he just looks at you, his eyes roaming your face, barely so much as a frown pulling his brow tight or downward tilt of his mouth wringing his lips in a scowl. he just… stares, openly, without pretense, and you suddenly wish you’d turned roger down. though the feeling of roger’s lips still lingers on yours and the kiss wasn’t unpleasant in the slightest, john’s arms around your waist while you sleep leaves much more of an imprint on your skin. his soft breath when he sleeps, the perfect rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear—it all is so much better than a silly mistletoe kiss with roger.

a muscle ticks in john’s jaw, the only evidence of possible frustration. you look away and continue stringing popcorn along the line.

“i wanted to be the one to kiss you.”

at the sound of john’s mumbled words, you trip over a mislaid shoe in the middle of your darkened room. he’d gone to bed earlier than everyone else, leaving you and the others to play another round of scrabble until well after the sun disappeared. you’d considered following him when he made his exit and explaining your kiss with roger, but you’d decided it against it.

neither roger nor john could stake any claim over you or your actions, and you’d wanted to kiss roger. not to piss john off, not to push him away, but purely because you’d wanted to. maybe you wouldn’t do it again, not after seeing the crestfallen look on john’s face. but you’d done it, and there was no shame in it.

you grip the edge of the bed frame, bent at the waist, frozen in the way you’d tripped. “what?” the word is a sharp exhale in the already tense room.

“you heard me: i wanted to be the one to kiss you.”

you aren’t sure what to say, so the first thing that comes to mind slips from your mouth. “well… you didn’t.”

john huffs and hops off his spot atop your bed. the snow covering your skylight has started to melt in the last day or so, allowing slim rays of moonlight to pierce the darkness of your room. the moonlight coupled with your nightlight illuminates only the sharpest features on john’s face, and while any other evening you might think the line of his jaw or definition of his nose might be alluring, tonight, coupled with the scowl on his brow, you wish you could see him clearly. he stands in the center of the room, hands on his hips, and you straighten, run your fingers through your rumpled hair.

“you could have,” you whisper. “but you didn’t.”

“beneath the mistletoe?” he scoffs like the mere implication is an offense. “no. that’s not what i meant.”

“what did you mean, then? you can’t just say you wanted to be the one to kiss me with no explanation. i’m not some plaything, john. you boys might be used to that, being famous or whatever, but—”

“no.” his voice is stern, commanding, resolute. you shut your mouth with a snap. “you drive me crazy, you know that?” he steps forward; you step back. “you think you’re so insignificant, that you’re not good enough for anybody.”

your frown and retreat another step when he advances. “i don’t know what you’re—”

he cuts you off as though your protest went in one ear and out the other. “you’re shy, sure, but you’re brave. i mean, dammit you live all the way up here by yourself, and you nearly fought us off with a fuckin’ frying pan.”

he sighs. but then his arm extends, his fingers hovering over your cheek. when you don’t flinch, don’t so much as move a muscle, he covers your cheek with his palm, his fingertips tracing the edges of your hair. “you’re a lot like me. we have a lot in common.”

your heart lurches—not out of pain or regret, but anticipation. a lump of excitement clogs your throat, and it’s hard to swallow, hard to think, hard to breathe, with john so near and his words so intoxicating.

“john…” your eyelids flutter shut, your head tilting into the warmth of his palm. “i—”

“i wanted to kiss you because i like you, not because you’re the only bird here, but because i like you and i think we have a lot—”

you surge forward on a burst of assertiveness. grabbing the edges of john’s night shirt, you drag him forward and slot your mouth over his. his lips are smooth, and once he registers what you’ve done, he responds with equal parts ferocity and tenderness. one hand bunches the fabric of your shirt at your waist, the other grips the back of your neck, holding you against him like you might be blown away by the wind at any moment.

after a moment, he pulls away, rolling his forehead over yours. “tell me to stop and i will.”

you kiss him again, chaste and fast enough to draw back and murmur, “don’t stop,” before losing your nerve.

john circles his arms around your back, then, resuming his careful but hungry attack on your mouth, your cheeks, your neck. you wind your arms around his shoulders, drawing him tight, and you don’t make it to the bed before collapsing to the floor in a heap of passion.

day four.

the power comes back on the next day, and by late evening, jimmy schmits from the gondola service calls to tell you everything will be back up and running by morning. your guests are pleased. they’re eager to get back to the comforts they’re accustomed to, and you don’t blame them. four days in an unheated cabin with rapidly spoiling food in the fridge is not typical rockstar accoutrement. still, they tell you they’ve thoroughly enjoyed their break from reality, and you respond in kind. it was as much as break for you as it was for them.

on that last evening, the lights are kept off for the final time. the fire in the hearth permeates the room with its light, though you don’t need its warmth as much now that the heater is back on. the christmas tree sparkles in the corner, and a few candles flicker in the kitchen and hallway. brian sits in the armchair, your father’s old acoustic on his lap. roger, of course, had found it buried in a spare closet, and he suggests brian play to close out the night.

you lean your back against john’s chest where he sits on the couch. his arm is draped around your body, his fingers running nonsensical patterns over your waist. the back of your head rests against his shoulder, and you feel like you could walk on water you’re so light. all the stress, the aches and pains you’ve carried for so long, have melted like the snow. john is to thank for that, as are the others, but mostly him. he’d pegged you quite right with his speech the night before: shy and unsure of yourself and entirely unconvinced of your own worth. but you’re on the mend, you think.

insignificant? you? no, not anymore. not when he looks at you and holds you close.

brian cringes when he gives an experimental strum of the guitar and something akin to a high-pitched whine hits the air. “oh wow. this hasn’t been played in a while.” he looks up, pulling his mouth to the side in a wry grin. “sorry,” he says when he meets your eyes. “i just have to tune it some.”

“go ahead,” you say. “do what you have to.”

brian adjusts the tuners at the top of the guitar before plucking and pulling the strings in time to a gentle rhythm. when he opens his mouth, he begins to sing. “have yourself a merry little christmas. let your heart be light.”

freddie joins him, scooting forward on the other side of the couch, marmalade snug in his lap. “from now on our troubles will be out of sight.”

when roger jumps in for the bridge, the trio’s voices mingle together in the air like pieces of a puzzle. each part is distinctive and unique, but no less important to creating the larger picture. you snuggle closer to john and feel the vibrations of his chest against your back as he hums, his finger tapping along your shoulder.

“once again, as in olden days, happy golden days of yore. faithful friends who are dear to us will be near to us once more.”

tears cloud your vision, and you tighten your grip on the arm draped over your stomach.

tomorrow your guests will return to their normal lives, lives of fantasy and extravagance. you will return to your hum-drum existence, and the holiday will come and go with little fanfare. but if this is the only gift you will receive this christmas—this time with the hodge-podge musicians that make up queen, this time with john—you will take it with no expectation for anything more.

you’d forgotten what it was like to live with joy and freedom, some semblance of your life prior to the accident. john, freddie, roger, brian—they’d helped you remember, and for that you are forever indebted to them.

clearing your throat, you twist slightly in john’s arms, enough to tilt your head back and let your eyes roam his face. he looks down at you, lips caught in a serene smile. you brush your fingers along the line of his jaw.

“merry christmas, john,” you whisper.

he hums in approval, grinning, before lowering his mouth to kiss you softly. “merry christmas, darling.”

six months later.

it’s hot out, the summer sun roasting you through the thick glass of the gondola. you could drive your car down the mountain, but you prefer the gondola. the gentle sway of the hanging car, the way the buildings in montreux slowly grow taller as you inch closer to the city—it’s all a part of the journey, and you enjoy it, find a comforting rhythm in the predictability.

today, you have an empty basket on your lap, your ankles tucked beneath the bench, as you make your way to the farmer’s market that pops up once a month. it’s a simple little thing, and you often only leave with a few ripe fruits and handful of fresh-cut flowers, but ever since your christmas with queen, you’ve been venturing out more. not enough to truly consider yourself a social butterfly, but you enjoy the odd afternoon at the farmer’s market or dinner in one of the pubs where you listen to the local bands play. you’ve made a friend—your first friend in ages—and heather only further helps to draw you out of your reclusive nature.

then, of course, there’s john. he helps too, always does.

when he’d left in december, he made no promises, and you didn’t expect him to. after all, you’ve only really been with him in person for four days; that’s hardly enough time to build a lasting sort of connection.

still, he calls when he can, and you catch up, but there’s no real agreement between you both. yet he continues you to encourage you to get out more, going so far as to ship you a bicycle you can ride the mountain trails on. he promises to come ride with you one day, but you won’t hold him to it. it’s the thought that counts.

for the first time in years, you’re happy, sincerely happy. you once thought that living by yourself, away from the world so you couldn’t be hurt, was enough to be content, and for a time, you were content. but then you’d been forced to remember, to remember how much you need others, and now that you can accept that, loneliness no longer pervades your home or your person. you walk with purpose; your smile comes naturally; your shoulders sway with ease.

it’s still a quiet life, but a much happier one.

you disembark the gondola with your eyes scanning the small list of items it would be worthwhile to buy—a new vase, a bouquet of flowers for the dinner party you’re hosting for heather and her siblings in two days, a necklace to replace the one marmalade broke—and you barely noticed when you bump shoulders with someone boarding the gondola car. you startle, though, when a hand wraps around your wrist and someone says your name.

you turn, lift your eyes, and gasp, your heart leaping to your throat. “john deacon!” it’s practically a squeal, and john shushes you with a fast hand over your mouth.

he glances around to see if anyone heard you or cares, and it seems the world is too busy with their own affairs to study john deacon and the girl he has pinned against his chest, his arm around her back and hand over her mouth. his eyes sparkle when he returns his gaze to you. “hush! don’t blow my cover!”

you swat his hand away, but don’t move out of his grasp. “what are you doing here?!”

he nods his head to the gondola car, now filled, the doors shut and prepared for departure. “i could ask you the same thing.”

you flush unwillingly and shrug your shoulders. “i actually leave the house now.”

“really?!” john releases his tight hold on your back, giving you breathing space, but doesn’t move his feet. when he speaks, his breath—recently freshened with a mint—fans your face. “i was actually on my way up to surprise you, but it looks like you’ve beaten me to the surprise.”

your heart, still lodged in your throat, skips a beat. “you were coming to see me?”

“’course i was.”

“i didn’t know you were in montreux.”

he nods. “we’re recording. should be here a month or two. just got here yesterday.”

you grin. your cheeks pinch in a slight ache, such unrestrained joy still uncustomary to your muscles. “and you were coming to see me?”

while you grin and reach forward to toy with the edge of john’s shirt, he frowns. “’course i was,” he repeats. “you say that like you’re surprised.”

“well, it was your intention to surprise me, right?”

“of course i would come see you if i was in town.” john nudges your shoulder with his hand then covers your bicep with his palm, squeezing lightly. “you’re my girl.”

you tilt your head to the side. “your girl?”

he nods, steps closer, and holds your other arm. “yeah,” he says, his voice gone deeper, gravely. “my girl.” this thumb brushes along the exposed skin of your shoulder, tanned by the sun. “i told you in december: i like you. the last six months have been… hectic, but i was always going to come back.”

tucking your lower lip between your teeth, you narrow your eyes as you wind your arms around his neck. the hair at the nape of his neck is soft as you play with it. “i would say really and not believe you. but i seem to remember someone telling me that i’m a lot more significant than i give myself credit for.”

john laughs, and the sound pierces your heart like cupid’s bow. “what genius said that?”

you shrug your shoulders, rolling your eyes. “i dunno, but i took it to heart.”

“did you? good. then maybe you’ll be more inclined to say yes when i ask you to come on tour with me, with all of us.”

“oh, you were going to ask that?”

“part of my surprise.”

leaning forward, you feather your lips over john’s. “ask me, then,” you whisper, grinning even further when you feel a shiver run down his back.

“come with us. come with me. let me take you around the world.”

the you of six months ago flares in your chest, telling you to say no, to stay home where it is safe. the you of six months ago tells you that john is just being nice, that he doesn’t see you as anything serious.

but the you of today…

the you of today just smiles and kisses john soundly. you move your mouth over his like he is your dance partner, like you were made for one another, and maybe you were. he tastes sweet, feels even sweeter against your body, and you wonder if this is what your parents felt like when they first fell in love. as your mother tells it, she thought your father had hung the stars in the sky, and when you pull back to look at john, the same thought comes to mind.

“so is that a yes?”

you nod. “i’d go anywhere with you, john deacon.” another thought pops to the forefront of your mind, and you fist your hand in john’s shirt with a frown. “but wait: who will watch marmalade?”

#john deacon #john deacon x reader #queen #queen fic #queen x reader #j writes

131 notes · View notes

writingsbychlo · 4 years ago

Text

starry night | chris beck

word count; 9241

summary; chris beck delivers flowers to you five times.

notes; this was originally called ‘candy cane lane’, but I changed it up a little.

warnings; none!

When Chris had started working in a flower shop, it was to pay his way through college. He was getting a degree in medicine and it wasn't cheap, and he needed a simple and easy way to make cash that wouldn't take too much out of him. He wasn’t big on anything social, and so working in a bar or restaurant didn’t seem like the best fit, and unfortunately for him, all the library jobs had been snapped up at the beginning of the year. Supermarkets were a no go, he hated the people that came through and how rude some of them could be, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to get a job in a coffee shop.

Working those machines might as well be rocket science.

The little flower store on the end of his campus road had been hiring, and eventually, he’d become desperate. It wasn’t his usual gig, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it, to begin with, but it offered decent money, reasonably flexible hours, and the boss actually let him study on shift when it was quiet, and so it actually gave him more free time than he had before getting a job.

Then, he’d started to warm up to it. It was always cool in the summer and warmer in the winter, keeping it temperate for the plants, and it always smelt good. He made friends with a man named Mark who came in every so often to buy new plants to study, he was becoming a botanist, and they bonded over the serene quietness of flower shops for studying and bad jokes.

Little old ladies pinched his cheeks, the tips were good, and it helped him clear his thoughts to be able to do menial tasks like spray the flowers with water every other hour to keep them wet enough, and to sit behind the cash registers. It was a simple Christmas present from said botanist friend that really inspired his passion, though. More of a gag gift, he was sure that was its intention, but he’d started to take it seriously. Chapter after chapter on the meanings of flowers, how to send hidden messages through plants, and something about the way of communicating in ways other than words had spoken to him.

After that, he’d been able to offer a service of sending messages through flowers. He’d become a more popular salesperson, and he’s shifts had increased, and he loved doing it. He loved the physical way that a message could be conveyed, beautiful explosions of colour to mean ‘I love you’ or ‘Happy Anniversary’, and so he’d started to invest his time in that. Nobody had been all that surprised when the older man who ran the shop had left it to him when he passed, not even Chris himself, and so he’d finished up his degree and started working at the flower shop full time.

Mark had taken on a part-time job there, as well as his internship in a clinical research lab, and they’d hired an extra hand at the register. It made him happy.

Less so, when he had an influx of orders overnight, and instead had to focus on building bouquets to be shipped instead of the garden expansion he was making, but happy nonetheless.

He was twenty-seven custom orders in, Mark already out running the standard bouquets for delivery, and he was stacking them by the garage door, wrapped in ribs and pretty vase-boxes, all ready to go. Licking the tip of his finger to flick the paper over, he let out a sigh, two sets of flowers on one page, his rows raising. It wasn’t unusual for there to be multiple sets on one order form, but as his eyes scanned over the list of preferences, scents and colours, as well as the messages they were wishing to convey, one of his brows rose up.

One request for the pretty set of pink roses and lilies that he’d loving crafted himself, a collection of flowers that signified an apology, and he was always happy to offer advice to any guys who came into the store to buy that set. It was usually a guy fresh to a relationship, messed something up by refusing to unfollow another girl on Instagram, or just saying the wrong thing in front of his friends, introducing a girl as his friend, that one always made him giggle. The second was curious, though, and it made his lips quirk up in a slight smirk at the insinuation of it. Red roses and tulips, a darker and more seductive bunch; new beginnings and early love, and he was willing to place his last dollar on it being an affair.

It felt even more sure when he noticed that the delivery address was that of an office block, and not a home address, a man’s name instead of a woman’s. In the personal notes section, there were no names, and so that was an option ruled out for getting to the bottom of the situation, but he wrote out gift cards, one with swirling writing for a heartfelt apology and the other with a sickly-sweet pick-up line and what he assumed to be an inside joke.

Curled ribbons and plastic wrapping, and the two bouquet were standing side by side for delivery, the van chugging as it was pulled back into the driveway, reversed up, and his blond-haired friend rounding the vehicle, looking utterly worn out, and it was only halfway through the day.

“You’d think it was Valentine’s Day, or something. This is crazy, it’s November!”

He took off his cap, running a hand over his hair and scratching lightly at his scalp, before placing the embroidered garment with the company logo back onto his head. “I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up!”

“Oh, yeah? Is it the rest of the day off?”

“Uh, no.” He deadpanned, his friend laughing as he came to stand by him, and he motioned towards the collection. “However, it is a rather exciting combination. These two-” He tapped at the boxes holding them firm at the base. “-are going to the same place.”

“And that is exciting why, exactly?”

“Because one is supposed to symbolise asking for forgiveness and all that, and the other symbolises new love and beginnings and all that. They’re being delivered to an office block, not a home address.” It took Mark a minute to process it, and Chris watched the gears turn in his friend’s head, before his jaw was dropping, and he let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Oh, and you think it’s a.. y’know.” He only nodded, and he began to load up the other orders into the van, a printout sheet of new addresses and order numbers on the tags, the delivery sheets loaded onto a clipboard to be signed for at each location. The empty van was once again teeming with bright flowers and artfully arranged bundles. Securing them all down and making sure they wouldn't tip over or get crushed during the ride there, he was confident they were ready to go, almost all of them set up, before he was staring at the two he’d recently made once again, his curiosity getting the better of him. “You want me to try and find out while I’m there?”

He almost agreed, it would have been so easy, a simple way to put his questions to rest, but he was invested in it now, and so he already knew what was coming. “No, I’ll deliver these ones myself.

Mark only nodded, slamming and locking the back of the van doors, double-checking the hatches for fresh air were open to stop them from wilting in transit, and then he was back up into the main cabin. The loud sounds of disco music exploding from the van radio as he started it back up, reversing from the driveway and setting off on his next round of deliveries.

Scooping up the first set in his arms, Chris patted down his pockets in search for his keys, finding them in his left side back pocket, unlocking his car with a click of a button, and setting the first batch on the passenger seat. The second soon followed, and he used the seatbelt to secure them in place, rolling the windows down as he set off, programming the address into his SatNav.

It was a short drive, twenty minutes maximum, even with traffic, the tall and shining office building one that he was vaguely familiar with towards the inside of the city, harsh rays of winter sun reflecting off of clean glass windows, all the way up to the top floor, and it was so tall that as he stared at it, he swore the building was swaying. With a bouquet in each arm and the clipboard tucked under one, he backed his way through the polished glass doors, a company insignia printed onto the glass, and he almost wanted to check his shoes for traces of at the appearance of the clean white lobby.

Large tiles of marble flooring, specks of grey flickering throughout them, and white leather couches along some of the walls on one side of the lobby, a waiting room. The other had various coffee and tea machines, recyclable cups and sugar packets, as well as a range of fruits and muffins, and he wanted to scoff a little at the ostentatious nature of it all. The desk was empty as he finally approached, though he could hear chatter in the background, behind reflective glass panels that he couldn’t see through, one-way glass he assumed, and as he balanced the bouquets up on the counter, an older woman, approaching her fifties he presumed, came out, a wide smile on her face as she brushed down the material of her skirt.

“My, my, aren’t those beautiful? Unfortunately, I don’t think they’re for me.”

“Well, ma’am, unless you’re a ‘Mr Robert McKinley’, I’d have to agree.” She chuckled, nodding her head as she looked at them before picking up the phone, and typing in an extension. Lifting it to her ear, she balanced it there against her shoulder, smiling at him once again.

“I’ll just have his assistant come down to collect them and sign for them for you, lovely.” He nodded his head, turning away to be polite as she chatted away on the phone for only a moment, confirming that there was a package to be sorted out, and he twisted back to look at her as she put the phone down. Manicured nails tapped at the desk for only as second, an awkward silence forming, and one of the elevators let out a small ‘dinging’ sound as it was clicked into use, the numbers on the screen above the floor counting down, coming all the way from the twenty-eighth floor. “Would you like a candy?”

He jumped a little, turning back to look at the woman who had now sat down a little distance from him, behind the computer at the desk, and she turned to him, raising up a bowl of neatly wrapped candies, and placing it up on the glass counter for him to reach. He didn’t, but she was staring at him expectantly, and so he plucked the first one from the bowl, offering her a simple nod of his head, and tucking it into the pocket on his shirt.

When a chime sounded throughout the lobby, the sound echoing off of every hard surface, Chris’ attention was drawn to the clicking of heels on the smooth stone flooring. A pretty blouse that looked like it cost more than his entire outfit and a fitted pencil skirt that was sitting just below your knees, your were a professional vision. Except, your hair was a little messy, and there was a wide grin on your face as you typed rapidly on your phone, not even needing to look up to do the walk, but your expression made you look much more approachable than the usual businesswoman.

You clicked off your phone only a few feet away from him, looking up as your gaze went straight to the flowers at his side instead of him, but it gave Chris the chance to take you in just for a moment, and fully observe you, Up close, you were even prettier, soft skin and pretty hair that shined under the lights, and whatever the shade of lipstick was that you were wearing was perfect, because it suited you like it had been made for you.

You reached out, straight past him for a second, and the receptionist gasped, reaching for the bowl of candy, but you were quicker, your hand scooping up a little collection of the sweets and pulling them back, a sound of victory sounding from you, and she mumbled under her breath playfully, rolling her eyes and threatening to start hiding the treats before she ran out, but you only chuckled, unwrapping one and placing it against your tongue, lips brushing your fingers as you turned to him, and he forced his eyes away from your mouth, a blush on his cheeks.

“Oh, wow. Check these out.” You turned to the receptionist, motioning to them, and she only nodded her head, the sounds of a printer firing up in the back room, and she disappeared to collect the sheets, leaving the pair of you alone. “For Mr McKinley?”

You leaned over the counter, snatching up a pen from the other side, and he only nodded, producing the collection sheet, and pointing out the spot that needed singing, the scraping of the pen on paper filling the silence as you signed in both boxes, handing it back to him and tucking the pen behind your ear. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Fire away.” You grinned, unwrapping another candy, leaving the wrapper on the glass alongside the other one, a cheeky move he was sure you’d get reprimanded for by the receptionist who kept a beautifully organised and clean desk and foyer.

“There are two bouquets here, both with flowers that have very different meanings. Can I ask why?”

You hummed, staring at him for a minute as you chewed slowly, before swallowing the sweet in your mouth and smirking slightly. “I’ll answer your question, but only if you answer mine first; what do the flowers mean?”

Chris grinned, unable to hold it in, because he loved getting to talk about his passions, especially when he could show off a little in front of a pretty lady, and he nodded his head. “Pink roses and lilies are an apology, but red roses with tulips are for new love.”

“And do you have any theories?”

“Just the one, but I’m waiting for it to be confirmed.” He chuckled a little at the devious look that flashed over your features as you pulled the red roses bundle toward you, nose pressed into them for a second as you inhaled deeply, a little sigh leaving you afterwards.

“I’m trusting you here, but you’re cute, so I’ll tell you.” Heat rushed to his cheeks, head ducking for just a second, before he was looking back up to catch your gaze, brows raised as he waited excitedly, leaning in to meet you as though a scandalous secret was about to be told, and he supposed that’s exactly what it was. “There’s another receptionist, and intern back in there, fresh out of college, just a year below me, and he’s definitely fucking her.” You tapped a finger against the red roses, before your gaze was flicking to the second bunch, still by his arm as he leaned on the counter. “However, a couple of days ago he had a lunch date scheduled with his wife, and he missed it. I couldn’t find him anywhere, and I couldn’t find the intern either. Not hard to connect the dots.”

“Oh, so he’s covering both of his bases?”

“For sure.” You grinned, backing up a little bit to grab the second bundle, and adjusting them in your arms for balance. “Angie had probably realised too, and dashed in there to tell the girl that she’s got flowers coming.”

You were making your way over to the elevators, and he followed after you, pressing the button to summon the lift, and it hummed to life behind closed metal doors. “You know, since we just became partners in crime, maybe I should get to know your name?”

“Well, that was smooth.” You laughed, the doors opening up, and you stepped inside, placing one bouquet on the floor at your feet and holding onto the other. You caved, giving him your name as he placed his hand over the door to stop them from closing, ad he repeated the name to you, testing it on his tongue as he learnt it. He gave you his own in return when he asked, and when you said it back, his smile widened, already liking the way his name sounded coming for you.

You typed a code into the pad on the wall of the elevator, the screen flashing green as your programming was accepted, and he stepped back, grinning as you waved your fingers at him, the doors closing as you disappeared from view. He snatched up his clipboard on the way out, unable to contain the smile on his face.

Chris Beck hated making deliveries, but this one hadn't been so bad.

There was a genuine smile on his face as he stepped through the glass doors of the lobby, smaller and simpler bouquets this time, both matching and nothing special, but he’d tasked himself with delivering them personally because he’d recognised the name and address immediately, his encounter with the cute assistant he’d met only two weeks prior flashing through his mind as he’d insisted on delivering this order himself, Mark smirking and helping him gather the flowers as soon as he’d spilled all about you.

Now, he had two sets of pretty pink flowers in different shades, and a single red rose in a sleek plastic wrapping, all wraith ribbons wrapped around them were bundled in one arm, the other holding onto his clipboard, and the desk was once again empty as he approached. A bell, sleek and shining silver, and it was a new addition, definitely not present last time, and he eyes it suspiciously for a moment, before pressing a finger against the top lightly, just twice, a little ringing sounding out around the lobby.

A head of curly hair popped out from around the glass, much younger than the previous assistant, and wearing a much tighter skirt, and she grinned widely as she stepped forwards. He couldn’t deny that she was beautiful, fiery red hair and a wide smile, lips painted with red lipstick, and she seemed sweet, but far too intimidating for him to ever consider. Her heels were so tall that he wondered how she even walked in them, long and thin points creating the stilettos.

“Flowers?”

There was an eager tone to her voice, and he put the pieces of the puzzle together, assuming this to be the intern, his eyes flicking down to her name badge for a second, reading it as ‘Clara’. “For Mr McKinley. Is his assistant free tom come and sign for them?”

The woman paused, rolling her lips a little and nodding her head, a coy look on her features before sitting down in the chair and spinning in it to face the phone, lifting it up to her ear and dialling a short connection number. He didn’t seem to need to wait long, before she was summoning you, a ‘flower delivery’ to be claimed, and she was far too excited, only confirming his doubts that this was definitely the mistress. “She’ll be right down.”

“Fantastic.” He wasn’t sure she even processed his words, before her eyes were closing in on the flowers, and he ignored it, turning back to look at the elevator, waiting for the number on the twenty-eighth floor to light up, a number flashing over the screen. It paused on its descent this time, stopping at the eighteenth floor, and then again at the twelfth, and he assumed that somebody else had joined the journey for a short while.

When the doors finally opened, you weren’t built typing away this time, a grin on your face as your eyes swept over the entrance for him, and he waved his fingers again, straightening up from the desk.

“It’s my partner in crime, back again.”

“Missed you too much, just had to return.”

“Of course, you did, because I’m awesome.” You came to a stop before him, peering up at him through bright eyes, and he swallowed thickly, a little nervous but very excited, and he tried to remember any of what Mark had taught him, his friend being far better with the women than he was, and everything from the last-minute crash course he’d been given upon leaving the shop forty-five minutes ago seemed to have gone blank. “So, what really brings you here today?”

You gasped a little as he shifted to show you the collection, sliding the clipboard closer, and you were presented with a pen from him, floral patterning woven along the body, your thumb clicking it on to sign for them. When you passed it back, you shared a look with him, both of your glances flicking over to the intern who was still admiring the flowers, completely oblivious.

“Hey, Clara?” Her head snapped up, pale skin heating with colour as she flushed, and he suppressed a chuckle. “Mr McKinley is in meetings all afternoon, but he’ll want to approve these flowers. Can you put them in water, and I’ll call to have them sent up when he’s ready?”

She only nodded, more than happy to take a gift that she knew one of was for her into the back, hands reaching over to gather them all up. He almost missed it, watching as all of the flowers were taken, too busy watching the way you rolled your eyes at her when she looked away, fond but still a little cool, and he bit at the inside of his cheek to contain his amusement. It was just as she was leaving that his mind cleared, and he cleared his throat.

“Wait, wait, hold on!” She turned back, brows raised, and he reached over, letting her take a step forwards so that he could reach, plucking the single rose from where it was laying over the top of the two. “This, uh, this is actually for you.”

He presented it to you, your eyes widening a little, and you looked between him and the flower several times. His heart was in his throat, worry you were going to reject it, before you were giving him a different smile than he had seen yet, something softer and more endearing, and you plucked it from his hands, bringing it to your nose. “You’re just a big flirt, huh, Chris?” Your eyes fluttered for a moment, before you were looking back up to him through your lashes. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem, honestly. I own the shop, the least I can do is give my partner in crime a pretty flower.”

You scoffed, but it was out of friendship and playfulness, not judgement or rejection, and silence fell between you both once again. The plastic in your hands wrinkled as you twirled it, wrapping the curled ribbon around your finger for a second, and letting it jump back into place when you let it go. “You busy? Got a packed store to run back to?”

Your question caught him off-guard, and he struggled to find words for a second, before clearing his throat and shaking his head. “No, uh, no. Clear day, actually. This was the last order.”

“So, you’re free for an hour or so?” Chris nodded his head, licking at his lips as he became a little nervous once again. “Well, why don’t I give you a tour? We’ve got some pretty cool stuff here, and I’ll fix you up with a drink from the coffee bar before you go.”

“This building has a coffee bar?”

“You bet it does.” You teased, turning on your heel as you took his question as acceptance, and he scooped up the clipboard, following after you as you made your way to the elevator, and this time when it opened, he stepped inside with you. As soon as the keypad lit up, prompting you to enter your four-digit authorisation code and make a floor selection, and you paused, finger hovering over the electronic selections. “What do you wanna’ see first, then?”

“You got an office?”

“I sure do.” You grinned, tapping for the twenty-eighth floor, and the machinery soon hummed into life, gears jerking smoothly into motion and soft music playing over the speakers in the background.

The ride was quiet, and he twisted his head as though the walls were interesting, just to take them in and hide the expression on his face as he watched you twirl the rose he’d given you between your fingers. There was a tag, one that he hadn't yet seen you read, and while all it contained was his number and a sign of his name, he was still a little nervous for your reaction to it, so he was glad to watch you place it onto your desk to be returned to later as you showed him around.

The building truly was impressive, large floor to ceiling glass windows on one wall of your office, staring out at the city below and giving a view so stunning and far that he could see all the way out to where the concrete faded away into greenery along the horizon, and he was a little taken aback by it all. Dipping the rose into a mug of water from the office kitchen, you promised to transfer it to a vase when you got home that evening, and you showed him all around.

Up and down on the elevator, proudly showing him every aspect of your workplace, and somewhere between the in-house gym and the coffee bar you’d boasted of in the staff food courts, you’d made him promise a tour of the flower shop sometime.

Way over an hour had passed in total, and he would’ve been more than happy to let that go on and on, for the rest of the day until the sun was setting, just to sit on the stools at the high tables at the coffee bar, getting refills on his coffee as he watched you drink herbals teas and chat about everything you got up to in the day, but your boss was paging you again to ask where you were, and he had his own job to return to at some point. You seemed hesitant at first, but had eventually divulged him with a guest security code for the elevator, logging him under your name, so that in future, he would be able to bring the flowers straight upstairs to you, and come and see you whenever he stopped by.

With a to-go cup in hand that had your number written on the cardboard holder, you’d escorted him all the way back to the lobby, pressing a friendly kiss to his cheek as he stepped between the doors, waving a little with what he knew was a goofy smile, waiting until he could no longer see you as the metal doors slid shut to reflect his image back at him, before he was bidding the two women at the reception desk a goodbye, and pretending not to know that they were eavesdropping, because he was floating far too high to care right now.

Chris hadn't been surprised at all when the next batch of flowers had come through, because you’d told him days prior that he could be expecting another batch of apology flowers to come through. Your work had been busy lately, you’d told him so yourself the few weeks that had slid past since you’d exchanged numbers had been filled with an abundance of texts.

Sharing texts had rapidly become phone calls in downtime, exchanging social media and sending one another dumb jokes and funny pictures throughout your workdays. He knew that your job had been getting harder lately, the run down to Christmas making everything a little more difficult, and that you’d been swept off of your feet because your boss had been, too. Eight-hour shifts had become twelve, day through to night, never seeing the light of a winter day unless it was through the windows of your office as you worked, and he had a sympathetic guilt twisting in his gut.

Two bouquets to make up for the lack of time that your boss had been able to spare for either of the women in his life and you’d looked positively exhausted as you came out of your office to greet him at the top of the elevator. You had a frown on your face that barely lifted into a smile as you saw him, even though he knew you were happy to catch sight of him. The usual shade of lipstick that projected boldness and power was gone, your face free of makeup entirely, and styled hair now just pulled up into a bun.

He wondered how long it had been since you’d had a full night’s sleep.

“Hey, sweetheart. How’re you feeling?” You only shook your head, sniffling a little as you suppressed a yawn, before taking one of the bouquets from his arms, and inspecting it carefully.

“These are beautiful.”

“I put a little extra ribbon on them, just for you.” He winked, and that had earned him a little chuckle, glancing at him over your shoulder as he followed you through to your office, and placing them down on the cabinet near the doorway to be distributed when your boss had a free second to look at them. Chris felt his own eyes widen in shock as he looked around, the stacks of paperwork littered around the surfaces were astonishing, and there was other mess scattered among that.

Stationary littered the desk, clearly trying to get everything sorted, and almost every draw in the room was half-open, your heels kicked off by the edge of the desk and there was a clear spot against one of the walls where you’d been sitting, a patch clear with papers spread out around you, wording and statements on them that made his head spin as he looked at them. Business definitely wasn’t his forte.

You rubbed a hand over your forehead, cursing a little as you tried to find a pen that wasn't a highlighter, and he didn’t miss the crack in your voice as you scoured the paper stacks. Leaning down to pick one up from the dropped pen pot on the floor, and offering it to you. A little sigh passed your lips, before you were taking it from him, clicking it into action and signing your name on both of the forms to confirm the delivery, a simple ritual of habit by this stage, as he knew that even if you didn’t he wasn’t risking any legal action from you.

You rubbed a hand over your forehead afterwards, rolling your shoulders and shaking yourself down as you tried to hit that reset button on your mood, but it wasn't working, it didn’t take a genius to see it, and so he reached out, placing a comforting squeeze to your forearm, fingers slipping a little lower to latch onto your wrist loosely.

“Okay, you’re a little overwhelmed in here, huh?” You let out a weak laugh, glancing around yourself and nodding. “It’s time for a break. Take your lunch break now, we’re getting out of here.”

“I can’t leave, I have too much to do. I’ll just get something from the food courts, a sandwich, maybe.” You slumped down into your desk chairs, the wheels on it carrying you backwards slightly, and he placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head at you.

“You have to go. It’s doctor’s orders.”

“Which doctor?” You scoffed, rolling your eyes at him, and he gasped a little, hands finding your own and pulling you to your feet, despite the whine that you let out.

“This doctor. I went to medical school, I get to give the orders. You, my dear, need one hour of rest and relaxation from your workplace, stat.” You started up at him for a second, seeming to weigh it out in your mind, but he wasn’t backing down, and he swore he saw that realisation click within your eyes, because you caved.

Slipping your heels on and grabbing your jacket from the back of the door, you logged your timeout of the building in the lobby with Angie, who cooed at you a little as she watched you go, a pitiful look on her face as she knew just how hard you were working too, before his hand was settling on your lower back.

A ten-minute walk, finding a table in a small pizzeria on the corner of a street, one that he’d been dying to try for months now, and a quick order, and you were slumping down tiredly against the table. The workload always increased at Christmas, sales shot through the roof, all the expansions of your company were filing for Christmas bonuses, parties, annual reports and then, of course, there were the usual rises and falls in statistics over the year that needed to be dealt with.

It was chaotic, to say the least.

Over a hot and freshly baked pizza, your selection of toppings, and a soda that made you wrinkle your nose from the fizziness within, you looked like there was a little more life within you when you’d been leaving.

You spilled it all to him, telling him every struggle you’d been facing, and while he didn't understand half of what you were saying, he was more than happy to just to listen. He couldn't offer much advice, or anything of the sort that might be helpful, but it seemed that just being able to talk to someone had made the day a little brighter.

The chill in the air and the biting winds had made you wrap your coat around yourself even tighter on the walk back to your work, but there was more of a pep in your step and a lighter tone to your voice, a little more chipper and slightly less drained as you began to make your way back across the carpark. His arm was sitting around your waist, keeping you pulled up to his side against the cold of the winter. Instead of guiding you over to the door, though, his first stop was his car, ensuring that you couldn't see what he had placed on the passenger seat until he was ready for you to see it.

Leaning yo back against the cold metal, he unlocked the car, making you promise to cover your eyes, and while making a few jokes about how you were sure this was how friendly guys would kidnap a girl, you did as he’d asked. You gasped a little at the rustling of fabric in the wind and under his hands, seeming to guess what it was before ever seeing the gift, because a wide smile spread over your features.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Depends, what do you think it is?” He teased, making you wait a little longer, and you dragged your lower lip through your teeth, a hopefully look spreading over what half of your face he could actually see.

“Flowers, maybe?”

“Then you would be correct!” Your hand fell away from your eyes, taking a second to blink back into adjustment of the rays the winter sun gave off, before you were brightening up even further at the bundle he was holding in his hands.

Soft petals in different shades of yellow, some duller and some standing out to shine like the sun, but it was a stunning bunch all over, and he’d been sure to pick the freshest and best-looking plants from each pot as he built the bouquet especially for you before leaving for his delivery. He let you stare at them for a second, running a finger over some of the petals, sniffling the collection carefully, and admiring each individual plant, before finally looking back up to him, a brow raising as you waited for an explanation on the plants.

“I just thought yellow was a bright colour. Nothing particularly special about these ones, I wanted to cheer you up.”

He scratched nervously at the back of his neck, and you hummed happily, bringing them up to admire once again, before letting out a happy little sound from the back of your throat, one that made his cheeks flush with embarrassed warmth, bringing a pink tinge to the pale skin. “Don’t yellow roses mean friendship?”

His stomach dropped a little, but he swallowed thickly, and nodded. He was impressed that you knew that, a random fact to know, but he almost felt like he was being friend-zoned by the statement, even though he was the one who’d given you the flowers. It was only a few days ago that he’d realised he might have feelings that weren’t going away any time soon, the original fascination and infatuation was becoming something a little deeper, he often found himself thinking of you when he was at work and filling or orders, or at home cooking, or even letting his morning coffee. You seemed to be on his mind a lot nowadays, and he was beginning to regret the yellow rose choice, worried he’d sent the wrong message. How ironic.

“Well, I’m really glad you consider us friends, Chris. I think you’re great, and I hope we’re friends for a long time.”

He tried to contain his disappointment, nodding his head as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. Walking you up to the front door, both of the receptionists made a point of fawning dramatically over the flowers in your arms as you signed back in, exactly an hour later and perfectly on time for the end of your lunch break, but with a lot more joy and a rejuvenation for the work you were doing, enough to carry you through the rest of your day.

Standing at the elevator and waiting for it to arrive, his cheeks were warm enough as it was, the attention you were getting front he not-so-discreet spying of the receptionists making him even more nervous, but if Angie and Clara were watching then that's their choice, because he didn’t have much left to lose, now.

Cupping your cheeks in his hands, he made sure that you were looking at him, a soft and shy smile on your lips as he thumbs smoothed over your skin, trying to reassure you without using words. “Chin up, sweetheart. You’re gonna’ be just fine, okay?”

“Okay, Chris.” You nodded your head, words whispered as you agreed with him, and when he pulled you a little closer, you tipped your head to meet him, his lips pressing to your forehead in a tender kiss, his heart leaping in his chest as you did. The elevator dinged, and he snapped away from you, both of you lingering for a moment longer, something unspoken laying between you, but it was broken as a colleague stepped out of the box, excusing himself as he squeezed past you, and the moment was over.

Waving goodbye, he wiggled his fingers in response to you, and he took a moment to himself to steady his racing heart once the doors had closed with you inside. He bid his farewell to the two women ogling him with wide eyes from behind the desk, trying not to let his nervousness show, to be confident like Mark had taught him to be, and it lasted all the way to the car, before he broke it with a ragged sigh and a little cheer to himself, immediately dialling his best friend on the car’s phone as he pulled out of the parking lot.

It was the kind eyes of Angie that met him as he stepped into the building, palms sweating a little and a shake to his breath, and the flowers in his arms were practically vibrating with nerves as he approached the front desk. Placing them down on the glass surface, she admired them quietly, taking a look at them all before he was being offered the candy dish that she usually had hidden, and he took a peppermint gratefully, red and green swirls along it through the clear wrapping, the festive theme of the late December days was shining through.

“Only the one bouquet this time?”

“They, uh, they aren’t for Mr McKinley.” He mumbled, unwrapping the hard sweet and shoving it wrapped into his pocket, placing the treat on his tongue and sucking on it lightly for something to do, sweetened mint flavours exploding over his senses.

“Oh, so these are a pretty bouquet for our lovely (Y/N), then?”

He could only nod, wondering absently whether or not sweat was beginning to physically show through his shirt, and just how fast his heart was going, because he felt like he was about to pass out. “I think she’s in a meeting right now, but I can get them sent up for her, if that works for you, my dear?”

“Can I just go and drop them off in her office? It’ll make a nice surprise for her to come back to.”

She considered it for a moment, mulling over the security risk and all other options, and he was ready to give up, before she eventually agreed. “Alright, but only if you tell me about the flowers. She’s been telling me all about the pretty bouquet you make with meanings, even showed me your website.”

“She did? She does?”

Pride flushed through his system at that knowledge, and Angie seemed to pick up on it, her face cracking in an even wider smile. “Yes, and they were all beautiful, but I don’t remember this set on there.”

“It’s new, I made it. It’s a personal one, I suppose.”

“It got a name, yet?” He mulled it over, staring down at the pretty bunch in his hands. Dark shades of blue and black, splashes of purple that were speckled with white, and he decided it resembled the night sky rather nicely.

“What do you think of ‘Starry Night’?”

“Very fitting.” She confirmed, and his heart managed to slow a little in his chest as at least one thing on his to-do list became sorted. “So, blue roses, but what are the rest?”

“They would be black pansies and gypsophila.” She hummed, continuing to fix him with that curious gaze, and he knew that wasn't going to cut it. “The blue roses are for mystery, and gaining the impossible. I dye them myself. Black pansies mean broken love, which, I guess isn’t totally suitable here, but combined with the gypsophila, it’s more like the chance of a new beginning, and not necessarily unrequited feelings.”

“You really like her, huh?”

“That obvious?” He grinned, knowing that his feelings may as well be lit up with a neon sign above his head. “You’ll get them to her after her meeting, then?”

“Of course, I will.” She took them over the desk, writing down a memo on her notepad so that she didn't forget, and he watched as the pretty bundle was carried away. “Did you leave a card, or do you want to write a note?”

“Just tell her to text me if she likes them?” She beamed, nodding her head, and he backed away, turning on his heel, a little disappointed that he didn’t get to give them to you himself, but simultaneously relieved at the fact, because he could feel his pulse racing right to the tips of his fingers with how intense it was.

You’d clearly had a busy day, because it wasn’t until Chris was shutting up shop that he finally felt his phone buzz, doing his last check over of all the systems and machines, when a text from you came in, diverting every ounce of attention that he had.

[stardust 🌌 ✨] so, do these flowers have a hidden meaning, or did you just put them together because they look good?

He grinned at his phone, shaking his head slightly as a laugh left his lips, and he leaned on the wall, fingers hovering over the keyboard as he thought out his response.

> a little bit of both.

It was a few minutes before you replied, this time, a photograph coming through, of you carrying your flower out of the building, setting off towards the elevators from your office, if he was depicting the background correctly.

[stardust 🌌 ✨] gonna tell me what it is, or do I have to google it?

He paused, not quite having got that far, and the relief of not having to explain his feelings or you before had drowned out the fact that he’d have to tell you at some point, and his heart was leaping into his throat.

He gave himself a minute, checking over the locks and windows to make sure everything was sealed up, setting the thermostat and setting the alarm, not yet activating it, but making sure that everything was done, right down to holding his keys for the main door in his hands. Locking up the building, he sealed down the metal guard, triple checking the padlock, and making his way to the car.

Engine on, heaters up, his lights being the last to flood the parking lot as he tried to man up, before finally bringing back up the unopened message, taking the notifications and opening his texts.

> long story short, I’m trying to ask you out. using flowers, because words normally fail me in times of importance.

He let out a slow breath, running a hand over his face and just hoping that it was acceptable, his phone buzzing before he’d even managed to start up the car property for his journey home. His hand hovered over where it was laying on the passenger seat, considering whether or not to pick it up, before forcing down his nerves and reaching for it.

[stardust 🌌 ✨] friday night work for you?

He stared at the message for a few seconds, confirming that they were real, and he wasn’t just making it up because it’s what he wanted to read, before letting out a loud and victorious set of cheers for only him to ever know about.

> I’ll pick you up from your work at 5.

Chris was sitting in one of the white leather chairs that had been scattered around the lobby, shifting slightly awkwardly, nerves getting the best of him. He knew you wouldn't stand him up, but as the clock ticked over past 5:10 PM, he worried a little that you were trying to find a way to let him down, having decided that you’d changed your mind on wanting to go out with him, and he tried to steady his nerves.

Brushing over the flowers in his hands, he adjusted his grip on them a little, not wanting the plastic to become damp with his sweaty palms, and swallowing thickly again. Finally, the elevator doors chimed, and he let out a nervous sigh, taking a deep breath and sliding his eyes shut as he calmed himself down, certain that his heart no longer had a rhythm and was just beating erratically and rapidly like the seismograph in a disaster movie.

Twisting his head a little, he let out a deep breath, watching as you came toward him, looking far more casual than he had ever seen you ever had before. Jeans and jumper, a striped scarf that looked suspiciously handmade in the sweetest of ways, and sneakers on your feet instead of heels, dropping your height down by a few inches, and he was so used to looking straight at you, never needing to look down, that it caught him a little by surprise.

“I’m sorry I’m late!” You looked a little flushed, sounded slightly out of breath, and he realised you must’ve been rushing, not stalling, and he felt a little calmer at that thought. Placing down the flowers on the chairs, he stood up properly, letting out a slow breath.

“Don’t worry about it. You look beautiful.”

“I thought I’d change, heels and pencil skirts are great for work, but not so comfy for a first date.” There was a bag on your arm, which he assumed your business-wear was stuffed in, and he gave himself a moment to take you in. He liked you better this way, you looked more like yourself, the version of you that he knew you to be from hours of late-night calls and texting, weeks of getting to know one another, both in-person and via messages, and the formal outfits he was so used to seeing you in were just a cover for the real you.

He realised he’d been staring too long, jumping slightly in his panic, before turning away and grabbing the bundle that he’d brought with him. “I brought you flowers. Not as special as normal guys, since I own the flower shop and it's not the first time, but I did create this bouquet design just for you.”

“I think it’s pretty special.” Your words were whispered, taking the bundle of flowers and bringing them into yourself to admire delicately, a combination of red and white roses, with green bells peppered throughout. “Okay, so, let me guess on this one.”

He only nodded his head, watching as you considered the bundle, licking over your lower lip and taking it hostage between your teeth as your thoughts whirled before his very eyes.

“White roses are innocence, right? Seems fitting for a first date. Red roses are romance, of course.” You smirked a little then, glancing up at him through your lashes, and he grinned, feeling totally at ease now that he was under your gaze. “What about the green ones?”

“Green bells. They’re for good luck.”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll need any luck, you’ve pretty much already got me wrapped around your little finger, Chris Beck.” You adjusted the flowers in your arms, taking his hand with your other one, and lacing your fingers together, and he squeezed back in security as heat flooded over his face in a warm blush. “However, I do think it’s sweet, so I’ll accept it.”

“I wanted to do something Christmassy for you, but I didn’t want to go with any of the typical ones. Holly, mistletoe, poinsettia, they didn’t feel unique enough.”

“I don’t know, I think mistletoe can be good.” You leaned in a little, his brows raising slightly as your wide smile dimmed down, the humour of the moment changing, and his free hand found your waist, fingers playing with yours on the other, and he pulled you a little closer, taking the hint that you were laying down.

“Maybe just this once.” He teased, nose bumping against your own, and he could still taste the sweet honey on your breath from the herbal teas you were always concocting, warm breath shared between you. As your head twisted to close the gap, he became acutely aware of the lingering feeling of not being alone, the both of you jumping and snapping apart a little when the loud crashing of a mug on the floor sounded out loudly.

Two sets of voices cursing followed it, Angie’s and Clara’s heads both ducking down behind the desk as they looked at the mess on the floor, and his jaw dropped as he released the two had been watching on eagerly this whole time, and he’d been so wrapped up in you that he hadn't realised there’d been an audience all along.

He would’ve been embarrassed, had it not been for the way your face pressed into his shoulder as you tried to contain your laughs, and he found the amusement in it too, his arm slipping around your waist as he matched your laugher, shaking his head as he watched the two women try and clear up the split coffee and smashed mug.

“Hey, ladies, I’ll see you Monday!”

The popped back up, sheepish looks on their faces as they nodded, and he gave them both a little wave, letting you tug him along by the hand that was still connected to your own, towards the open doorway of the building, a chill rolling in. As you stepped out, a chill took over, and his hand slipped from yours to sliding around your waist instead, pulling you closer to him, and you guided him over to where your car was parked, and he was more than happy to simply follow.

“So, what do you have planned?”

“I thought something a little more relaxed would be fun. How do you feel about a tree lighting ceremony, and some street food?” You curled into him a little more, a happy sigh leaving you.

“Sounds perfect to me.”

Unlocking the car, he let you go, long enough to put your back in the trunk and lay your flowers out on the front seat, locking it back up as you deemed yourself ready to go. “Ready to go?”

“Yes, but just one thing, first. Something I’ve been waiting weeks for.”

His brows raised, lips parting to ask you waist it was, but your hand latched onto the front of his shirt, tugging him forward as you leaned up, and he groaned a little, a soft sound but vibrating through him as your mouth closed over his, soft and warm, lips pressing together, and a shock ran along his entire body. His hand slipped to your waist, one cupping your cheek as he pulled you a little closer, pressing you back into the car as your bodies came flush up together, and he felt like his legs were going to give out underneath him as you sighed out against his mouth, a breathy moan carried with it.

Twisting his head to the side, he barely pulled back for breath before he was diving right back into you, more confident and passionate this time with his movements. He took control, feeling the way you sagged into his hands as he did, lips working with yours in an intimate dance of their own making, slow and teasing movements, before finally he was pulling away, just far enough to press his forehead to your own as the two of you panted lightly, trying to catch your breath.

“Worth the wait?” He mused, feeling your breathless giggle wash over his lips, before you were leaning up just enough to peck his lips once more, and his lips were still pouted, chasing after you as you backed away for a second, before he was licking over them and cracking his eyes open to look at the adoring expression on your face.

“Definitely worth the wait.”

#chris beck #chris beck x reader #chris beck/reader #chris beck the martian #sebastian stan chris beck #sebastian stan the martian #sebastian stan #Seb Stan #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan/reader #12 Days of AUmas

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pixie-in-trebleland · 3 years ago

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Just Another Manic Monday

“Chaser, I don’t think that’s how the hinges work on a door.” Jackie stood off to the side of their kitchen table as he watched his husband fumble with the building plans that were covering its surface.

Chase rolled his eyes and straightened his ball cap on his head. “Listen, Jacks, we managed to build the whole fucking building. I don’t know why the fuck this, of all things, is giving me as hard of a time as it is. I mean, seriously, how fucking hard is it to just anchor in the bolt?!”

“Well, maybe having it hooked onto the door might be a great place to start?”

“I didn’t want to put it on the door in case it didn’t latch properly! The guy down at the shop said this would do the trick!”

“Do...you still have the packaging for it?” Jackie asked. He reached for his silver thermos on the counter behind him, smiling a little as he noticed the packed boxes tucked semi-neatly against the cupboards.

Chase sighed and searched for a moment before grabbing the cut plastic package that was once the home of the hinge. It was only a matter of seconds after reading the package’s label that Jackie started to laugh.

“Chase, this isn’t for a standard door.” he explained.

“What?” Chase narrowed his eyes as he grabbed the package back from Jackie, reading it carefully. He couldn’t help the groan that escaped his lips before he threw the package down to the floor.

“How did you not see it was for one of those cat doors?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that those bloody doors have a whole separate hinge to them?!” Chase brought his hands to his face at an attempt to hide the shame.

“Well…” Jackie chuckled and took a sip from his thermos.

“Well what?”

“The hinge is way smaller, mon realta.” Jackie picked up the door part in his hand, eyeing in closely. “I don’t think this little piece is strong enough to hold a normal sized door in any way, shape, or form. Maybe the doorknob, if it needed a hinge at all, but...not the door itself.”

Chase slumped in his chair and rested his head against the paper-covered desk, exhausted. It had almost been a full year and six months that they had been working on their new place, and the finishing touches were all that was left. After the honeymoon that had been long overdue, the newlyweds had taken a long, painful look at their apartment and realized that it wasn’t enough for their ever-growing family. With funds set aside for their future endeavours together, the two decided that they were going to build their own place, their way.

Between the cafe’s traffic and the house being built, it was the understatement of the century to say that both Chase and Jackie were tired.

“Listen,” Jackie smiled as he walked towards his husband. He placed one of his hands on Chase’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “We get the truck in an hour, and everything is packed. A hinge is nothing to worry about.”

Chase sighed, leaning into his husband’s touch for a moment. “I wanted everything to be perfect.”

“Who’s to say it isn’t?”

“The hinge. The doors aren’t on yet on any of the rooms. I mean, the front door is on tightly, and the backdoor to with that weird fucking lock you chose for both of the doors, but the doors to the bedrooms and stuff aren’t on.”

“How many doors is that, exactly?”

Chase paused for a moment and closed his eyes in an attempt to count. “There are two for our bedroom, one for Critter’s room, One for Ari’s, another for Ryder’s, and the one for the guest bedroom on the main floor. So...six?”

“Coincidentally an even number?” Jackie teased. Feeling strange towering over his husband for once, he sat down next to him and opted to bounce a leg instead.

“Listen,” Chase chuckled. “I know Jack is a part of this now and he’s opted to stay with his cabin and Ricky Roo Ra, but the extra room will be handy. We can actually have the other kiddos come and visit, or ta mère and sister, or Skye...anyone. We will actually have the space, Jacks!”

Jackie couldn’t help but smile as he watched his husband talk. Chase’s dark brown eyes were alight as he spoke about his plans, his dreams, his motions getting more and more lively as he spoke.

“I really...really hoped it was going to be perfect.” Chase’s voice softened as he spoke. “I haven’t taken Critter yet to see it. I just...man, I really want this to go smoothly.”

“Hey,” Jackie took Chase’s hand gently, the papers rustling beneath their now intertwined hands. “It’s perfect the way it is. The little details that you made sure are in there? I’m sure she’s gonna love it. I’m sure we are gonna love it. Our nesting spot, yeah?”

Chase smiled and squeezed Jackie’s hand gently. “Yeah. Our...our nesting spot.”

------------

With the final boxes in the back of the truck, and the bikes and other necessities they decided to keep from the storage space in their apartment complex, Jackie, Chase, and Critter loaded themselves up into the car and moving truck. The cityscape quickly changed to the lush, autumn hues of trees as they drove into the woods. Critter, in total surprise, was glued to the window in the car with Jackie.

“We’re moving out here?!” she tried to keep her excitement contained as she felt her tail wagging gently behind her.

Jackie chuckled and took a quick glance at his kiddo through the rearview mirror. “He really didn’t take you out here to see?”

“Nope.”

“Well, he’s...pretty excited.”

“That’s not how he looked on our way out.” Critter chuffed, getting comfortable once more in her seat. She gave Ducky and Lucky a couple rubs before she turned her gaze back to outside the window.

“There’s been a few hiccups, kiddo, but I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

They drove the rest of the drive in silence, the radio blasting some kind of energetic music. Jackie didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was coming off a playlist that Chase, or Jack, had more than likely made during one of their blaze sessions. It wasn’t long before they pulled into a stone driveway that was connected to a house that would have stood out in the city like a sore thumb.

“We’re here, I guess!” Jackie beamed as he turned the key in the ignition and swung the door to the car open, dodging as his kiddo whizzed by him.

“This is our house.” Critter screamed as she stood in front of the large home with the wrap-around porch. With ash-toned panelling and dark accents along the outside the home, it almost resembled the cottages that would be seen on postcards. To the left of the home, a large tire swing swung gently in the breeze, the moving truck parked near the large shed to the right of the home.

Chase was already working his way through the contents of the truck, moving box after box down the metal ramp with sharp thuds from his work boots. He smiled as he saw his family. Wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he made his way over to his daughter.

“So?” he panted and dusted off his ripped jeans. “What do you think?”

Jackie bounced over and jumped onto the ramp of the truck, getting to work. He’d been idle for too long anyway, but he couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face. This was their home, now. “It’s amazing, Chaser.”

“Not you!” Chase snorted. “We built this together. I’m asking the kiddo.”

Critter, to say the least, was in awe of the home in front of her. Her tail wagged violently and she swung on her heels, trying to get the excitement out. “This is ours, dad?”

“All ours.” Chase smiled, “Took us sixteen months, give or take, and some heavy duty planning, but...yes. The Brody-Byrnes Burrow. Do you wanna see inside or...are you just going to pitch a tent out here? Cause I think the camping gear is...very, very buried in the moving truck.”

Critter rolled her eyes and gently punched her dad before she leaped up the three stairs, onto the porch, and through the open front door.

Most of the furniture had already been moved in days prior to the rest of the truck being packed, but it still warmed her heart to see just how large and cozy the home was on the inside. With earthy, neutral tones, and furniture that both of her fathers had picked, the living room was set up with two, chocolate brown couches that hugged the edges of the beige rug on the floor. A TV was anchored to the wall, the walls themselves of the hallway and the living room a cape cod blue to compliment the brown tones. The stairway leading to the upstairs was closer to the back of the house, with the kitchen and backdoor also in that direction.

“You should head upstairs while we grab some boxes, kid.” Chase beamed. “Your room is the second door on the left. First door on the same side is the loo!”

“‘Kay, Dad!” Critter smiled as she made her way up the stairs. She called out behind her as she continued upwards, “I’ll be down to help, too. Don’t think that I’m letting you and Dad Two do all the lifting.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, kid.” Chase chuckled and stepped outside towards the truck, grabbing the boxes he had already moved.

Critter, in an attempt to not break anything in excitement, paced herself as she moved towards the room Chase said for her to go to. She couldn’t help but notice that none of the bedrooms were missing doors, but she decided to pocket the question for later. When she reached the room, she froze in place at the sight in front of her.

The room, to say the least, was simple in design, but spoke volumes to her. With soft blue walls and sheer, white curtains blowing gently from the breeze outside, the room was quite large for its location in the home. A Queen sized bed was tucked in the corner near the window, the crisp, white footboard of the bed meeting with the edge of the windowsill. A matching white desk was adjacent to the door, with paint splotches strategically splotted across the surface and legs. It had been a summer project that she and her dads had done as a way to cure summer boredom, but she couldn’t help but smile at the small, blue handprint that was slapped on the side. Critter giggled, remembering Ryder running to place his paint-covered hand on the desk as a gift to his sister.

She stepped inside the room and was overwhelmed by emotion at the sight of a small, silver and gold locket sitting on the desk. Overwhelmed enough, that she hadn’t noticed Jackie standing behind her with a few of her boxes.

“You found our gift, huh?” he asked quietly, a relaxed expression on his face.

“Huh?” she picked up the locket gently, opening it to see a small, black and white photo of her and her two dads on their latest camping trip.

“We wanted you to have something special.” Jackie explained, “It was supposed to be here for your birthday, but as always, there were complications with the order that Chaser did. He said they were the wrong colours or something.”

Tears began to escape Critter’s eyes and she held the locket close to her chest. “Thank you.”

Jackie placed the boxes to the side of the door, and in one fell swoop, pulled his daughter in for a hug. “We got you, yeah?”

She nodded against his shoulder, the warmth filling the room. They both were so full of love as she pulled away.

“We should...probably help Dad out.” She smiled, “Don’t want him getting himself into trouble.”

Jackie couldn’t help but laugh. “He’ll more than likely get stuck between boxes or something.”

As if on cue, Chase could be heard from outside, his voice echoing from the inside of the truck.

“I’m...going to take a guess he got stuck.” Jackie sighed and made his way towards the stairs. Critter was right behind him, giggling.

They were home at last. The Brody-Byrnes Burrow did, after all, have a nice ring to it.

The End.

#Masks ARG #Dudecell #the Aftermath

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pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years ago

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νοσταλγία (Chapter 7)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3.0k

Warnings: The usual

A/N: Ik I’ve been uploading a lot of chapters out of schedule, I’m sorry. The Saturday’s ones are never gonna falter, but I wanna upload a lil bit more and a lil bit more often. And on every two weeks on tuesdays I’ll keep uploading spinoffs, but I might upload an extra chapter during the no-spinoff week if the story is going too slow lol.

Anyways, idk if anyone reads these lol, but I’m gonna ask anyways that you please let me know what you think, and hope you enjoy this chapter/story. Thank you!

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927

King Ivar talks in his sleep, who would have thought? His voice rouses you from a restless sleep, thinking for a moment he calls for you but it’s just rumbles as he tosses and turns. You sigh in the darkness, and suddenly it feels like the shadows are heavier than before, more suffocating, more…more real.

You don’t know where you are walking to, but you don’t stop until your bare feet touch the wet and cold sand.

With your knees pressed to your chest you keep your eyes on the waves breaking near the coast, closing your eyes and imagining the lull of the ocean is the same as the one you heard from the temple in Eleusis.

But the sand is rougher under your bare feet, the waves louder and more enraged, the wind is more biting and less forgiving. And you are alone, alone and defeated on a foreign land of cold and death.

So you open your eyes, because this isn’t home, and reach with cold fingers for the gifted knife you kept in your person despite the knowledge if anyone here wanted you dead you would be so.

Keeping your gaze on the horizon, you take a hold of the wind-swept tresses of your hair and cut a lock at the end of it. A mark of mourning and a mark for all the deaths you are responsible for.

Holding on tightly to the strands of grief, you extend a hand, a farewell to the Greeks that are not to return, an offering to this land that has brought you nothing but sorrow and heartache.

When you open your hand, the hair flows in the cold winds away from you, and you allow yourself a small prayer in Greek to Macaria to bless their sacrifice, to Thanatos for safe passage, to Persephone for warmth, to Hades for mercy.

And, in a selfish moment, you pray to every God in the Underworld not to summon you home just yet. For if the Fates allow it so, you will see to it yourself that the blood spilled is paid forth.

Because if the King’s word is to be trusted, sooner or later you will walk out of his land a free woman. You will return to Greece, even if you have to wade through blood to do so.

You close your eyes, and the faint smell of snowdrops fills your nose, reminding you of spring and loneliness, of teardrops and homesickness.

A part of you tries to follow the tug on your heart and listen to what the Gods try to tell you, but you’re left cold and alone when you try reaching for the Pantheon you’ve come to know your whole life.

The sound of gravel ruffling behind you startles you, and you turn around with a gasp and a strong grip on the knife Ivar gifted you, ready to at least leave whoever is coming to hurt you with a scar to remember you by.

But it is Ivar who approaches you, strong arms dragging him forward as he moves over the cold sand. His eyes stay on yours as he moves, reminding you for a moment of a serpent approaching its cornered prey.

Still, even if your mind refuses to accept it, your heart lurches in relief, and you loosen the tension in your body. Still you remain quiet as he finds a place sitting at your side, moving his legs with ease to stretch them in front of him.

You lower your gaze to your hands, and only then notice the wrong hold of the knife made you injure yourself. The faint streaks of blood in your pointer finger and near your thumb bring to the front of your mind the sting that comes with the wound you opened by holding the hiltless knife the wrong way.

After a moment of consideration, you bring your hand to your mouth and lick off the blood, letting the knife fall on your lap.

Stealing a quick side glance to the Viking has you finding his eyes on you with a strange sense of intensity in his gaze, a quiet sort of…something. You shrug it off, and stay quiet, but his irritated question is quick to break the silence.

“I woke up and you weren’t there.”

You’re startled and annoyed at the entitled tone of his voice, but you still shrug.

“I am a free woman, am I not?”

“So you were trying to escape?”

“You would stop me.” You reply without hesitation.

“And yet you still don’t fear me.”

“If you wanted to kill me you would have already, if you wanted to use me as leverage for court games you will need time to do so,” You swallow the shame, the dread, and continue as your eyes look blindly ahead, “And…and if you wanted to take me, you could have avoided all this and just asked.”

Silence stretches between you, and in a moment of weakness you turn your gaze to find his clear eyes already set upon you, seeking and demanding as they always have been.

“You wanted me.”

The tone of surprise, the slightly parted lips that draw your gaze down to his mouth, the way his eyes search your face; it all makes your foolish heart see him in a new light for a fleeting moment, in the light of the man you met in that moldy cabin that was never yours to begin with.

But you remind yourself of what brought you here, of what he truly saw when he looked at you: a foreign witch to conquer.

So, you remind him that the woman he met, the woman that lingered for moments too long on the lure of his eyes, on the curve of his smile, on his expressive gestures; the woman that thought foolishly she could be anything other than the name and titles bestowed upon her; the woman that started to trust him; that woman was gone the moment he put chains on you.

“I wanted the man I met in Aneridge, I have no idea who you are.”

And with just a few words, any trace of softness, any trace of vulnerability, any trace of that strange boyish glances he used to throw your way when you were just a Priestess and he was just a Viking, are gone.

King Ivar curls his nose in anger, lifting his head a bit as he warns you,

“I’m growing tired of your games, Priestess.”

“Kill me, then.” You bite out, even as your voice wobbles. Because you have heard the stories, you have heard the tendrils of voices not quite human reaching your ears. You know he is as cruel and as dangerous as the whispers say, you know he carries the favor of the Dread Lord, you know he was born to be ruthless, to die and return, to suffer and conquer.

But there’s a part of you that wants to test him, dare him.

Use your strength against me, hurt me, kill me. Make me know what I am to feel for you, make me disgusted, make me fearful. I’m tired of hope.

But Ivar just smiles, a cold and angry smile but a smile nonetheless, and turns his eyes head, choosing silence to reign between you until the sun comes up over those distant waves.

____

You approach the city encased in tall walls, and though awe at its size and life pulls at your heart, you cannot help but feel you are walking blindly into a cage.

There’s so many pale and distrusting eyes set on you, gazes persisting on the things that make you different to them: your dress, your hair, your face, your skin.

And you’re not stupid enough to ignore that even in the way you are brought to port you are separated from the other prisoners, from the Christians the Varangian has brought from across this sea. You sail in the same boat as their King, there’s a distance between you and the rest of the men and women in the ship, you are washed and unbound.

You stay silent, and watch raptly as the King moves away from you as the boat docks, discarding the crutch so he can lift himself up to the pier, and standing up again with help of the crutch and a nearby barrel. He lifts his gaze and immediately finds your own, and a cruel smile starts to spread over his face as he stretches a hand in a mocking gesture to help you up.

“Priestess.”

You take your eyes off his instead, and look down at your dress as you grab your skirts and lift them so you can safely move towards the pier. Standing at the King’s side -because you know he would not hesitate to call you to order, to demand your presence where he deems it so, to tug on the invisible chains around your wrists- you take a moment to look over the lively pier, filled of families reuniting, stands of fishermen selling their captures, slaves carrying baskets of goods around, lives blossoming past the winter that seems to pierce the air of this place.

“So this is to be my new prison?” You ask instead of voicing any other thought, a little delighted in the way you put the King on edge.

He doesn’t hesitate in reaching down and grabbing onto your arm, lifting your wrist between the two of you, his blue eyes challenge yours.

“You’re not a prisoner,” He repeats the lie, and although the mark of your struggle against the chains once set upon you is still there, he seems to want you to believe you are free. “You are my guest, Priestess.”

“Guest.” You repeat, and his eyes narrow, his nose furrows. It is too easy to draw out his rage, to get to see ragged edges and bled truths. And you will always prefer rage, prefer anger and chaos, over the mocking cruelty that’s the mask of the King of Kattegat.

He starts walking and the people move as to open a path for him, and considering your only option is to be left alone surrounded by these intimidating and foreign people, you bite your tongue and follow.

“You should be grateful, Priestess, your life could be so much worse, were you at anyone else’s mercy.”

“I know this is a mercy even if you have none,” You acknowledge, and the King stops walking, looking at you over his shoulder as you calmly walk to his side. You meet his eyes, and clarify, “I will still not thank you.”

He grunts as he turns back around, a movement of his head as he arranges his legs to move with the help of his crutch, and even if his back is to you, you still know he is gritting his teeth, the anger written in the lines of his back, in the huffs of air that leave his lips.

“I know, you still choose to hate me.”

“Ivar,” You call out with more softness than you intended to. After the King hesitates for a moment, enough for you to know he is listening, you reach his side again and in a voice that is almost a whisper you offer, “I will never look upon you with anything other than hate, as long as you are the one with all the power and I’m relegated to following your commands.”

____

You are given time as the King addresses his people to clean yourself up and dress up in some fresh clothing. The dresses that are offered to you, the hair ornaments, the earrings and the bracelets, they all scream of foreignness, of being away from home; so you choose to keep your old and stained red dress.

You are brought to the loud and vibrant main hall at the King’s request, and it is with a gesture he orders you to take a seat on one of the tables by his side, though he remains on his throne. You eye the people around you, laughing, drinking, dancing; the world around you moving on and on as if yours hasn’t flipped upside down.

And the stupid, childish, reckless part of you that has made you commit so many mistakes along the way; that part of you wants to refuse him, wants to stand your ground and deny him of any power over you.

But the ambient presses down on you, like the air when you reach a mountaintop, and the people are too loud and too foreign, and the only thing you’re familiar with in this cold and strange place is the eyes that burn like Greek Fire of the King.

So you take your seat at his side.

The way his cruel smile widens, regarding you like a dog that performed a good trick makes your blood boil. Your hands curling into fists and your lips pursing without your intent only seem to entertain him further, which makes the silent interaction a vicious circle you cannot seem to break out of.

“Good girl.” He mocks, because of course he does, because you are an open book and he is a cruel and insufferable man. But you refuse -and so does your self-preservation- to run your mouth, and instead play a game, like you were taught to.

“There’s a first time for everything.” You answer around a smile that the King starts to return, but a voice from somewhere further back in the hall brings your conversation to a close.

“The witch seems fiery. I wonder if she is that hard to tame.”

You were meant to hear those words and the laughs that follow, you were meant to feel the threat, the humiliation. You know this, but even knowing it cannot keep the crawl of your skin, the shame clogging your throat.

The Christians called you a Heathen. These Vikings call you a Witch. There may be a difference, but you cannot see it. Both will try to beat you or rape you into submission, both will see foreign as inferior.

Although you may not see the man that said those words, it seems that that King Ivar does. The cold eyes of someone that has killed for less and would again set on the warrior behind you, and even if curiosity begs for you to turn around and see their expression, you hold your place.

A mumble of apology reaches your ears, but it is not meant for you, so you say nothing. The King shows a quick and purposely false smile before raising his voice,

“Leave us.”

A multitude of questions arise, but again a glare from the volatile King silences any real questioning, and the room feels so much larger and cavernous once the men have left.

Ivar turns to you, studying you.

“So, Priestess.”

The tales your father used to gift you with of unarmed prisoners being thrown into a coliseum against lions and wolves and all kinds of predators are brought forth to your mind as you stand alone in that empty and cold hall.

“So, Viking.” You quip back, crossing your arms to hide the nervous tremble of your hands.

He studies you for a moment, finally asking, “What will you use your freedom for?”

“For the gift to choose, without fear you selling or giving me away like a barn animal.” You reply dryly.

“I can still do that.” He is quick to say, dangling threats over your head like it truly entertains him.

“Not without breaking your promise.” You say, not aware of how much relief his word gives you until this moment.

The King narrows his eyes, annoyance clear in his pale gaze, and stands up from his throne.

You hold your ground as he approaches you, but he instead chooses to sit in one of the chairs in the now empty table. Ivar motions with a bloodied hand for you to take a seat as well, the movement a flourish in mock recognition of your noble birth.

You sit, albeit stiffly. Drinking what you assume to be mead from a goblet, the Viking King regards you sideways.

“And what are these choices you will make, now free?”

You answer with the first thought that comes to mind, realizing too late you give away a little of yourself in the process.

“Find out what the Christians have done with Attica’s ashes.”

“Your kingdom?”

“My kingdom.” You sentence, and even after over a year of denying the people that traveled with you the right to call you Anassa, you realize now that you have been, albeit crownless, acting like it for so long.

After a few moments the Viking narrows his eyes, “You will not return there anytime soon.”

If it’s a taunt, if it’s a threat, you can only hear the stubborn possessiveness of a child refusing to let go of a new toy.

“But I will return.” You promise.

“How are you so sure?”

Looking to the hall around you, you ask, “You returned here, didn’t you?”

You could swear the King looks intrigued, impressed even, for a moment before he dismisses you with a gesture of his hand. He believes you, though, of this you are certain.

But he says nothing else, shrugging his shoulders and drinking deeply before engaging in discussion with one of the men at his other side.

You keep your eyes on the King, and although for a moment you are distracted from the braces around his legs, and the way they do not seem to work normally, when your eyes continue a path upwards and reach his shoulders and arms, you realize he does not need his legs to fight like the men that decimated Stithulf’s army.

You continue your path to his face, and study the braids that trail through the top of his head to the back of it, the proud edge of his nose, the shape of his lips, for a moment tainted with mead his tongue licks away.

The sound of tables and chairs being dragged brings your attention away from your…ogling. You lift your gaze to see two men in the middle of the hall shake off their upper armor and in the midst of laughs and cheers from the others, struggle and wrestle for victory in the middle of the hall.

It seems you are no longer the novelty in the room, and you allow yourself to relax in your seat for a moment.

_____

Hi, hope you enjoyed! I use flowers and animals a lot to point towards the Gods, either Norse or Greek, so: snowdrops are, according to where I searched, symbols of Freyja, created from her tears when she was first brought to Asgad from Vanaheim, and in her homesickness when the tears fell to the earth the flowers bloomed as snowdrops.

Also friendly reminder this Tuesday I’m uploading Ivar’s PoV of the Prologue! I would love for you to read it and tell me what you think. If you want to be added to the taglist, of course please let me know.

Thank you, hope to hear from you, and hopefully I’ll see you Tuesday! :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #vikings imagine #vikings #νοσταλγία masterlist

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kookie-doughs · 4 years ago

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Y/N L/N AND THE HALFBLOODS

Percy Jackson X Reader -Y/N L/N met Percy Jackson and everything was now ruined.

CHAPTER 10: The Wheels On The Bus Goes Skrt Skrt Skrt

It didn't take me long to pack. I didn't have anything at all, which left me only an extra change of clothes and a toothbrush to stuff in a backpack Grover had found for me and Percy. Both having nothing to carry we decided to share a bag. The camp store loaned us one hundred dollars in mortal money and twenty golden drachmas. These coins were as big as Girl Scout cookies and had images of various Greek gods stamped on one side and the Empire State Building on the other. The ancient mortal drachmas had been silver, Chiron told us, but Olympians never used less than pure gold. Chiron said the coins might come in handy for non-mortal transactions—whatever that meant. He gave Annabeth, Percy and I each a canteen of nectar and a Ziploc bag full of ambrosia squares, to be used only in emergencies, if we were seriously hurt. It was god food, Chiron reminded us. It would cure us of almost any injury, but it was lethal to mortals. Too much of it would make a half-blood very, very feverish. An overdose would burn us up, literally. Annabeth was bringing her magic Yankees cap, which she told us had been a twelfth-birthday present from her mom. She carried a book on famous classical architecture, written in Ancient Greek, to read when she got bored, and a long bronze knife, hidden in her shirt sleeve. I was sure the knife would get us busted the first time we went through a metal detector. Grover wore his fake feet and his pants to pass as human. He wore a green rasta-style cap, because when it rained his curly hair flattened and you could just see the tips of his horns. His bright orange backpack was full of scrap metal and apples to snack on. In his pocket was a set of reed pipes his daddy goat had carved for him, even though he only knew two songs: Mozart's Piano Concerto no. 12 and Hilary Duff's "So Yesterday," both of which sounded pretty bad on reed pipes. We waved good-bye to the other campees, took one last look at the strawberry fields, the ocean, and the Big House, then hiked up Half-Blood Hill to the tall pine tree that used to be Thalia, daughter of Zeus. Chiron was waiting for us in his wheelchair. Next to him stood a surfer looking dude. According to Grover, the guy was the camp's head of security. He supposedly had eyes all over his body so he could never be surprised. Today, though, he was wearing a chauffeur's uniform, so I could only see extra peepers on his hands, face and neck. "This is Argus," Chiron told us. "He will drive you into the city, and, er, well, keep an eye on things." I heard footsteps behind us. Luke came running up the hill, carrying a pair of basketball shoes. "Hey!" he panted. "Glad I caught you." Annabeth blushed, the way she always did when Luke was around. I looked at him with a frown. "Don't look at me like that. I had to find out from the others you're going on a quest." he glared. "So much for the option you won't die at." "I would've told you if you were at the cabin when I got back. Now what's with the shoes?" "Just wanted to say good luck," Luke told Percy. "And I thought... um, maybe you could use these." He handed him the sneakers, which looked pretty normal. They even smelled kind of normal. Luke said, "Maia!" White bird's wings sprouted out of the heels, startling me so much, Percy dropped them. The shoes flapped around on the ground until the wings folded up and disappeared. "Awesome!" Grover said. Luke smiled. "Those served me well when I was on my quest. Gift from Dad. Of course, I don't use them much these days...." His expression turned sad. I didn't know what to say. It was cool enough that Luke had come to say good-bye. But here he was giving Percy a magic gift.... It made me a bit jealous. "Hey, man," Percy said. "Thanks." "Listen, Percy..." Luke looked uncomfortable. "A lot of hopes are riding on you. So just... kill some monsters for me, okay?" They shook hands. Luke patted Grover's head between his horns, then gave a good-bye hug to Annabeth, who looked like she might pass out. The three went to Chiron about stuffs while Luke and I had a staring contest. "So Percy got a present and I only get an I don't know... a hug? Here I thought I was your favorite." "What made you think you are?" He laughed and ruffled my hair. "And no you don't get a hug." "Suddenly I'm not coming back." He smiled and from his back he pulled out a sheathed knife. "I meant to say you won't get only a hug. I noticed you're not a fan of swords. So, I made this my self. I am no Hephaestus child but hey..." He handed me the knife. The sheath was plain colored with a metal chap and locket, it had chains attached to the locket where I could probably put it on something to make sure I bring it with me. Pulling the knife out of the sheath, its knife was around 15 inches. On the blade, Ancient Greek was engraved on it. I think it's my name and the other side is his. "What is this?" I grinned. "I don't know. I ran out of good ideas! I swear I looked up some of Plato and Socrates for that." "And you settled for that?" I laughed. "I am going to take that back now." "Hey, that doesn't mean I don't like it. Thanks." "It's celestial bronze... Half of it at least." "Half?" "I'm sure Chiron won't appreciate it. It will harm both us and humans." "So... It'll hurt both side?" "Yup. And I'm not sure but according to a Hephaestus kid but it's supposed to glow when its near something." "Its not glowing now." "We never said no backsies. I'd like it back now." "I'll take good care of..." I stopped to think of a name and almost immediately remembered a perfect one, "Sting." "I would ask but I already know." Luke shook his head. "Be careful with Sting. It---" "He. Sting is a he, thank you very much." "HE, is lethal. He it can kill us, others close to our kind and normal humans." "Oops I accidentally stabbed myself." With a worried look he pulled me in a hug, "And whatever happens. Put your safety above all. No need to be the hero. If you die in this quest I will get the lord of the dead revive you or kill me." "Ew how sentimental." "Be careful... okay? All of you. Promise me that." "Fine, I promise. On the knife, I'll come back not dead, with everyone." After Luke was gone, I placed the knife on my waist. I went back to Percy. "Okay, that's extremely cool," I heard him say. "What's cool?" I grinned standing behind Percy overlooking his shoulder. "My new pen." He showed me his pen and uncapped it only to show a sword. "I can't loose it no matter what! Its called Riptide." "But what if a mortal sees you pulling out a sword?" Chiron smiled. "Mist is a powerful thing, Y/N." "Mist?" "I just keep hearing that over and over can someone finally explain?" "Yes. Read The Iliad. It's full of references to the stuff. Whenever divine or monstrous elements mix with the mortal world, they generate Mist, which obscures the vision of humans. You will see things just as they are, being a half-blood, but humans will interpret things quite differently. Remarkable, really, the lengths to which humans will go to fit things into their version of reality." Percy put Riptide back in his pocket. For the first time, the quest felt real. We was actually leaving Half-Blood Hill. We was heading west with no adult supervision, no backup plan, not even a cell phone. (Chiron said cell phones were traceable by monsters; if we used one, it would be worse than sending up a flare.) I had no weapon stronger than a knife to fight off monsters and reach the Land of the Dead. "Chiron..." I said. "When you say the gods are immortal... I mean, there was a time before them, right?" "Four ages before them, actually. The Time of the Titans was the Fourth Age, sometimes called the Golden Age, which is definitely a misnomer. This, the time of Western civilization and the rule of Zeus, is the Fifth Age." "So what was it like... before the gods?" Chiron pursed his lips. "Even I am not old enough to remember that, child, but I know it was a time of darkness and savagery for mortals. Kronos, the lord of the Titans, called his reign the Golden Age because men lived innocent and free of all knowledge. But that was mere propaganda. The Titan king cared nothing for your kind except as appetizers or a source of cheap entertainment. It was only in the early reign of Lord Zeus, when Prometheus the good Titan brought fire to mankind, that your species began to progress, and even then Prometheus was branded a radical thinker. Zeus punished him severely, as you may recall. Of course, eventually the gods warmed to humans, and Western civilization was born." "But the gods can't die now, right? I mean, as long as Western civilization is alive, they're alive. So... even if I failed, nothing could happen so bad it would mess up everything, right?" Chiron gave us a melancholy smile. "No one knows how long the Age of the West will last, Percy. The gods are immortal, yes. But then, so were the Titans. They still exist, locked away in their various prisons, forced to endure endless pain and punishment, reduced in power, but still very much alive. May the Fates forbid that the gods should ever suffer such a doom, or that we should ever return to the darkness and chaos of the past. All we can do, child, is follow our destiny." "Our destiny... assuming we know what that is." "Relax," Chiron told me. "Keep a clear head. And remember, you may be about to prevent the biggest war in human history." "Relax," Percy said. "I'm very relaxed." When we got to the bottom of the hill, I looked back. Under the pine tree that used to be Thalia, daughter of Zeus, Chiron was now standing in full horse-man form, holding his bow high in salute. Just your typical summer-camp send-off by your typical centaur. I took Percy's hand and we gave each other a reassuring nod. I wish us luck. Talking whilst at camp drained me. I apologize if I won't be much help. You have stamina? So you aren't a bigshot all powerful god? Without you and I as one. I am nothing. I have given you my everything.

Argus drove us out of the countryside and into western Long Island. It felt weird to be on a highway again, Annabeth and Percy was sitting next to me as if we were normal carpoolers. After two weeks at Half-Blood Hill, the real world seemed like a fantasy. I found myself staring at every McDonald's, every kid in the back of his parents' car, every billboard and shopping mall. "So far so good," Percy said. "Ten miles and not a single monster." She gave him an irritated look. "It's bad luck to talk that way, seaweed brain." "Remind me again—why do you hate me so much?" "I don't hate you." "Could've fooled me." She folded her cap of invisibility. "Look... we're just not supposed to get along, okay? Our parents are rivals." "Why?" She sighed. "How many reasons do you want? One time my mom caught Poseidon with his girlfriend in Athena's temple, which is hugely disrespectful. Another time, Athena and Poseidon competed to be the patron god for the city of Athens. Your dad created some stupid saltwater spring for his gift. My mom created the olive tree. The people saw that her gift was better, so they named the city after her." "They must really like olives." I interjected. "Not you too! You know what? Forget it." "Now, if she'd invented pizza—that I could understand." "I said, forget it!" In the front seat, Argus smiled. He didn't say anything, but one blue eye on the back of his neck winked at me. Traffic slowed us down in Queens. By the time we got into Manhattan it was sunset and starting to rain. Argus dropped us at the Greyhound Station on the Upper East Side, Percy and I didn't let go. Taped to a mailbox was a soggy flyer with Percy's picture on it: HAVE YOU SEEN THIS BOY? He ripped it down before Annabeth and Grover could notice. "They could've at least gotten a better picture." I smirked which caused him to roll his eyes. Argus unloaded our bags, made sure we got our bus tickets, then drove away, the eye on the back of his hand opening to watch us as he pulled out of the parking lot. Grover shouldered his backpack. He gazed down the street in the direction Percy was looking. "You want to know why she married him, Percy?" I stared at Percy then at Grover. "Were you reading my mind or something?" "Just your emotions." He shrugged. "Guess I forgot to tell you satyrs can do that. You were thinking about your mom and your stepdad, right?" Percy nodded. I missed my parents of course, but I had Luke and Grover to talk to which made me less lonely. Percy became an outcast when we got to camp and had no one to talk to. I squeezed his hand and gave him a smile. "Your mom married Gabe for you," Grover told him. "You call him 'Smelly,' but you've got no idea. The guy has this aura.... Yuck. I can smell him from here. I can smell traces of him on you, and you haven't been near him for a week." "Thanks," Percy said. "Where's the nearest shower?" "You should be grateful, Percy. Your stepfather smells so repulsively human he could mask the presence of any demigod. As soon as I took a whiff inside his Camaro, I knew: Gabe has been covering your scent for years. If you hadn't lived with him every summer, you probably would've been found by monsters a long time ago. Your mom stayed with him to protect you. She was a smart lady. She must've loved you a lot to put up with that guy—if that makes you feel any better." I knew what Percy was thinking. He was thinking of the fact we'll get his mom and my parents. How we'll save them all. We got restless waiting for the bus and decided to play some Hacky Sack with one of Grover's apples. Annabeth was unbelievable. She could bounce the apple off her knee, her elbow, her shoulder, whatever. I wasn't too bad myself. The game ended when I tossed the apple toward Grover and it got too close to his mouth. In one mega goat bite, our Hacky Sack disappeared—core, stem, and all. Grover blushed. He tried to apologize, but we were too busy cracking up. Percy pulled me to a corner, after excusing ourselves for a bathroom break. "You finally going to tell me about this quest?" "The truth is," He started. "I don't care about retrieving Zeus's lightning bolt, or saving the world, or even helping my father out of trouble." I gave him a look that reassured him to continue. "The more I thought about it, I resented my father for never visiting me, never helping my mom, never even sending a lousy child-support check. He'd only claimed me because he needed a job done. All I cared about was you and my mom. The underworld god had taken her unfairly, and he is going to give her back." "Percy, we don't even know what's going on. Yeah, he might have her. But what is there's another reason? We don't exactly know anything. I don't even think my parents are with him." "Well, no matter where they are. We will get them back. The least I could do is get them back." He rested his head on my shoulder. "Don't "You will be betrayed by one who calls you a friend," "What?" I froze. "Percy... I would never---" "You will fail to save what matters most in the end." "What are you talking about?" The rain kept coming down. "The rest of the prophecy. Y/N, I don't want you to betray me. Please... don't." I could hear his voice breaking. "Of course I won't. We'll get this quest done. We won't loose anyone and we'll get our parents. Don't worry." I hugged him. "I will stay with you. I won't leave and I won't betray you." "Hey Bonnie and Clyde, we need to go." Finally the bus came. As we stood in line to board, Grover started looking around, sniffing the air. "What is it?" I asked. "I don't know," he said tensely. "Maybe it's nothing." But I could tell it wasn't nothing. I took Percy's hand and started looking over my shoulder, too. I was relieved when we finally got on board and found seats together in the back of the bus. We stowed our backpacks. Annabeth kept slapping her Yankees cap nervously against her thigh. As the last passengers got on, I immediately clamped my hand onto Percy's knee. "Percy." It was Mrs. Dodds. Older, more withered, but definitely the same evil face. I scrunched down in my seat. Behind her came two more old ladies: one in a green hat, one in a purple hat. Otherwise they looked exactly like Mrs. Dodds—same gnarled hands, paisley handbags, wrinkled velvet dresses. Triplet demon grandmothers. And I was now sure, Mrs. Rudolph was one of them. They sat in the front row, right behind the driver. The two on the aisle crossed their legs over the walkway, making an X. It was casual enough, but it sent a clear message: nobody leaves. The bus pulled out of the station, and we headed through the slick streets of Manhattan. "She didn't stay dead long," Percy said, "I thought you said they could be dispelled for a lifetime." "I said if you're lucky," Annabeth said. "You're obviously not." "All three of them," Grover whimpered. "Di immortales!" "Who knows maybe they just want to play?" I said nervously. Annabeth gave me a look of irritation, "Not now," she said, obviously thinking hard. "The Furies. The three worst monsters from the Underworld. No problem. No problem. We'll just slip out the windows." "They don't open," Grover moaned. "A back exit?" she suggested. There wasn't one. Even if there had been, it wouldn't have helped. By that time, we were on Ninth Avenue, heading for the Lincoln Tunnel. "Maybe a nice chat would help?" "They won't attack us with witnesses around," Percy said. "Will they?" "Mortals don't have good eyes," Annabeth reminded him. "Their brains can only process what they see through the Mist." "They'll see three old ladies killing us, won't they?" She thought about it. "Hard to say. But we can't count on mortals for help. Maybe an emergency exit in the roof... ?" We hit the Lincoln Tunnel, and the bus went dark except for the running lights down the aisle. It was eerily quiet without the sound of the rain. Mrs. Dodds got up. In a flat voice, as if she'd rehearsed it, she announced to the whole bus: "I need to use the rest-room." "So do I," said the second sister. "So do I," said the third sister. They all started coming down the aisle. "I've got it," Annabeth said. "Percy, take my hat." "What?" "You're the one they want. Turn invisible and go up the aisle. Let them pass you. Maybe you can get to the front and get away." "But you guys—" "There's an outside chance they might not notice us," Annabeth said. "You're a son of one of the Big Three. Your smell might be overpowering." "I can't just leave Y-- you guys!" "Don't worry about us," I assured him. "Go!" His hands were trembling. But I took the Yankees cap and put it on. And he simply vanished. Mrs. Dodds stopped, sniffing, and looked straight at a spot. My heart was pounding. Apparently she didn't see anything. She and her sisters kept going. "Maybe if they approach us, I could try talking? I really was Mrs. Rudolph's favorite..." I stammered. "Yeah stage is yours." Annabeth answered. The old ladies were not old ladies anymore. Their faces were still the same—I guess those couldn't get any uglier— but their bodies had shriveled into leathery brown hag bodies with bat's wings and hands and feet like gargoyle claws. Their handbags had turned into fiery whips. The Furies surrounded us, lashing their whips, hissing: "Where is it? Where?" The other people on the bus were screaming, cowering in their seats. They saw something, all right. "He's not here!" Annabeth yelled. "He's gone!" The Furies raised their whips. "Don't!" I stepped in front of them shaking. "H-Hi Mrs. Rudolph. W-What could you need?" Annabeth drew her bronze knife. Grover grabbed a tin can from his snack bag and prepared to throw it. To our surprise the bus jerked to the right. Everybody howled as we were thrown to the right, and I heard what I hoped was the sound of three Furies smashing against the windows. "Hey!" the driver yelled. "Hey—whoa!" The bus slammed against the side of the tunnel, grinding metal, throwing sparks a mile behind us. We careened out of the Lincoln Tunnel and back into the rainstorm, people and monsters tossed around the bus, cars plowed aside like bowling pins. Somehow the driver found an exit. We shot off the highway, through half a dozen traffic lights, and ended up barreling down one of those New Jersey rural roads where you can't believe there's so much nothing right across the river from New York. There were woods to our left, the Hudson River to our right, and the driver seemed to be veering toward the river. The bus wailed, spun a full circle on the wet asphalt, and crashed into the trees. The emergency lights came on. The door flew open. The bus driver was the first one out, the passengers yelling as they stampeded after him. The Furies regained their balance. They lashed their whips at Annabeth while she waved her knife and yelled in Ancient Greek, telling them to back off. Grover threw tin cans. It was as if I didn't exist which was kinda offensive. "Hey! I'm also here!" I yelled pulling out my now glowing knife and helped Grover. "Hey!" A voice from the door way echoed. "Percy you idiot! Run!" I yelled. The Furies turned, baring their yellow fangs at him. Mrs. Dodds stalked up the aisle. Every time she flicked her whip, red flames danced along the barbed leather. Her two ugly sisters hopped on top of the seats on either side of her and crawled toward him like huge nasty lizards. I don't know how but I managed to parkour my way to avoid them and get to Percy in no trouble. I raised my knife and stood in between of them. "Perseus Jackson," Mrs. Dodds said, in an accent that was definitely from somewhere farther south than Georgia. "You have offended the gods. You shall die. I suggest you step away from him Y/N L/N." "I liked you better as a math teacher," he told her. She growled. Annabeth and Grover moved up behind the Furies cautiously, looking for an opening. Percy took the ballpoint pen out of his pocket and uncapped it. Riptide elongated into a shimmering double-edged sword. The Furies hesitated. Mrs. Dodds had felt Riptide's blade before. She obviously didn't like seeing it again. "Submit now," she hissed. "And you will not suffer eternal torment." "Nice try," I told her. "Percy, look out!" Annabeth cried. Mrs. Dodds lashed her whip around my sword hand while the Furies on the either side lunged at him. I managed to keep one of them and parried with her using my knife., which turned out to be Mrs. Rudolph. "I hate to admit it but you were my favorite teacher. Why go mean now?!" I struck with the hilt of my knife against her, sending her toppling backward into a seat. I turned to see Percy had sliced the Fury on his right. As soon as the blade connected with her neck, she screamed and exploded into dust. Annabeth got Mrs. Dodds in a wrestler's hold and yanked her backward while Grover ripped the whip out of her hands. "Ow!" he yelled. "Ow! Hot! Hot!" Mrs. Rudolph came at me again, talons ready, but I dove in and got in range to swing Sting at her and she broke open like a piñata. Mrs. Dodds was trying to get Annabeth off her back. She kicked, clawed, hissed and bit, but Annabeth held on while Grover got Mrs. Dodds's legs tied up in her own whip. Finally they both shoved her backward into the aisle. Mrs. Dodds tried to get up, but she didn't have room to flap her bat wings, so she kept falling down. "Zeus will destroy you!" she promised. "Hades will have your soul!" "Braccas meas vescimini!" Percy yelled. I wasn't sure where the Latin came from. I think it meant "Eat my pants!" Thunder shook the bus. The hair rose on the back of my neck. "Get out!" Annabeth yelled at us. "Now!" I didn't need any encouragement. Taking Percy's hand, we rushed outside and found the other passengers wandering around in a daze, arguing with the driver, or running around in circles yelling, "We're going to die!" A Hawaiian-shirted tourist with a camera snapped my photograph before I could recap my sword. "Our bags!" Grover realized. "We left our—" BOOOOOM! The windows of the bus exploded as the passengers ran for cover. Lightning shredded a huge crater in the roof, but an angry wail from inside told me Mrs. Dodds was not yet dead. "Run!" Annabeth said. "She's calling for reinforcements! We have to get out of here!" We plunged into the woods as the rain poured down, the bus in flames behind us, and nothing but darkness ahead.

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UwU Haha this is what the knife looks like since I'm not sure if I describe it that well... Omg I just realized my brother changed the chapter title lmao -kookie-doughs

Just imagine it has your name on the blade.

Taglist?

@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @the-natureofme @booknerd-3000

#Percy Jackson #Percy Jackson X Reader #Percy Jackson X Y/N #percy jackon and the olympians #luke castellan #Luke castellan x reader #Lightning thief #Y/N L/N #Y/N L/N and the halfbloods #pjo #X Reader #Book 1 #Chapter 10 #Fanfiction #fanfictions

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