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chilling-seavey · 3 years

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Passchendaele WW2 Extension - Apologies & Forgiveness

T/W Mentions of PTSD, suicidal thoughts, death, and way too many emotions that honestly made me cry while writing so good luck

Charles Christian,

...

August 10, 1942

Daniel sat at the writing desk in his bedroom, right under the window, with the curtains open wide so the mid-day sun streaked bright warm light over the surface. He stared blankly at the two simple words he had written at the top of the page. Charles Christian. Two simple words that meant more to him than just sixteen letters in a specific order.

He had written those two words a few months earlier, always finding himself returning to the desk and the same paper and staring down at his drying ink until the hours melted away into evening. Elizabeth didn’t push him – even when she found the paper with the two words while cleaning their room one day – and she just let her husband take his time. It was hard for him but they both knew it needed to be done.

Daniel held the black pen in his right hand, leaking a little puddle of ink onto the corner of the page dully, his forehead resting in his other hand. He breathed steadily. He was sick of himself. Sick that he couldn’t work himself up enough to write his own son for three years. Charlie hadn’t written nearly a word to him in a while and Daniel didn’t blame him that he was acting like he didn’t even have a father. It was what Daniel deserved; at least that’s what he thought.

With a heavy sigh, Daniel slid the pen to the left side of the page and let his hand write for him without thought.

I’m sorry that I have been too much of a coward to write you.

He blinked down at the blunt words that were scribbled in his neat handwriting. Daniel exhaled lightly as if writing that single line was emotionally troubling to him as he re-read it a few times before resting the pen back down on the paper.

I’ve dealt through so much loss in my life of those who were closest to me and I suppose my brain has been trying to convince me that putting space between us would make it easier to cope if – God forbid – something happened to you. I don’t want you to die. You’re my whole life…the reason my heart beats…the reason I get up in the morning…the reason I didn’t kill myself after the Great War. I would be dead and nothing without you and I have made the terrible choice to try and shut you out. I’m sorry.

Daniel sniffled back his tears as his hand scribbled over the paper like it had a mind of its own, pouring the pent-up emotions from his brain onto the paper like therapy.

I’m not a good father. I don’t say that to guilt you, I say that truthfully. I didn’t watch you being born into this world, I didn’t want to hold you while you took your first breaths, and I couldn’t even let myself be alone with you for the first near year of your life. I’m a broken man who somehow raised a son to be everything better than I ever could be. It’s been three years of you fighting for us and yet each of your letters sound just as sweet and joyful as the very first one from training. I was fighting for only barely months and I found myself shattered.

A tear dripped onto the paper and Daniel startled at the realization that he was crying. But he only wiped his cheeks with the back of his left hand and continued to write.

I never told you much about the war while you grew up. I didn’t want you to ever have to ever experience the things I did, even through stories. I didn’t want you to have to experience your friend bleeding out in front of you, or your best mate blowing himself up to save you until his blood dripped down your face, or having to hold your brother in your arms and see the fear in his eyes while he took his last breaths. I wanted to protect you from the horrors of the world and the terrible disgusting things that humans can do to each other. You’re my little boy, Charlie. I would have held you in my arms forever if it meant you’d stay innocent and untainted by humanity. But I couldn’t, and part of me feels like I failed as a father for that.

Daniel took a shuttering breath and he dropped the pen from his hand to hold his face in his palms, choking out a sob through the ache in his heart. Evelyn was at work and Elizabeth was hanging up the laundry outside and Daniel was alone in the house, staining a piece of paper in salty tears until the ink nearly smudged. He got up from the desk for a moment to compose himself, trying to take deep steady breaths like Elizabeth always told him to as he paced the wooden floors of his bedroom, raking his fingers through his hair until it was a mess on top of his head.

He stopped for a moment, eyes catching on one of the small photographs that Elizabeth had taped to the side of the mirror at her dressing table. She had many; some of her parents and sister and friends, a wedding photo, and plenty of their two children, but Daniel’s eyes locked on one in particular. It wasn’t anything large and honestly the lighting was quite dark in the composition but he shifted closer to the mirror and gently tucked a finger under the bottom of the photograph to get a better look.

It was a photograph of himself, standing by that very window in their bedroom that he now wrote a letter in front of, the winter sunlight casting him in almost complete dark shadows from behind but the camera was angled just so that his face was recognizable. He was younger – a good twenty-four years younger – and he held in his arms a tiny newborn baby boy. The hesitation on his face was obvious, the camera picking up the nervousness in his eyes and through his brows, but the calm smile that was forever set on his lips was overpowering. It was a smile of nothing but the strongest love.

Daniel tugged the photograph off the side of the mirror and took it over to the writing desk again as he sat down, tossing the image gently onto the paper as well before picking up the pen. He started a new paragraph.

I have to remind myself that your name carries power with you wherever you go. I hate the word ‘brave’ for my own reasons, but I suppose it’s truly at the root of your existence. Your Uncle Christian was more than my brother; he was my best friend, my comfort, and the one I looked up to most in life. He and I had a connection that I can’t even put into words, but I loved him, and I nearly idolised him, and he truly, in all honesty, was the bravest man I knew. War changed him and it took me until his death to realize that it wasn’t his fault that he became so cold. You have more than his name, Charlie, you have his heart. You have his good heart and his loving and protective nature and I see him in you every single day and, yet, I can so obviously see that war isn’t changing you the way it changed him and the way it changed me. You’re braver and stronger than both of us. You know this well as I tell you often, but he’s your protector, your guardian angel, and I swear to you he’s following you wherever you go to make sure you’re safe and that you will come home to us. He’s a part of you, Charles Christian. More than I am, I hope.

I pray you can forgive me. For not writing, for shutting myself away, and for not being what you deserved. I pray you know that no matter what, I love you. I may not know how to show it very well, but I do love you, so strongly. My heart beats for you since you saved my life. I only pray I could give you half of what you have given me.

Your protector, always and forever,

Dad

Daniel folded the paper into even thirds and slipped it in an envelope that he pulled from the drawer beside him. With one final glance at the photograph he dropped it in with the letter and sealed it, finishing with a steady hand as he wrote the RAF address he had memorized on the front.

August 18, 1942

Elizabeth greeted the post office attendant with a smile and her usual friendly ‘good morning’. They shared niceties as her mail was collected and passed over the counter to her before sharing farewells and Elizabeth was headed back towards home. She smiled down at the thin stack of envelopes in her hand as she walked, her name and address written on the top one in her son’s familiar printing. She flipped to the second, the only other piece of mail for that day, and stopped walking for a beat. Her husband’s name was staring back at her, also in her son’s familiar printing.

Elizabeth knew Daniel finally wrote to their son but honestly she was expecting a bit of a cold shoulder on Charlie’s part. He was, as usual, a very opinionated and passionate young man and if something angered him, he didn’t get over it easily. But she was pleasantly surprised and hurried home to read her letter and deliver the second to her husband.

Daniel was still in bed when she returned – it’s been mentioned it was always hard for him to get out of bed in the morning – and Elizabeth called for him as she slipped off her shoes at the front door and headed for the stairs. Daniel barely acknowledged her when she approached him still tucked up in bed.

“Your son wrote you.” she stated softly.

Daniel’s head whipped around to look at her, his eyes flicking down to the two envelopes in her hand.

“Did he?” Daniel went to grab them but she pulled them out of his reach.

“You can read it after you get up and get dressed and have a good breakfast.”

“Lizzie.” Daniel frowned.

“Up and at ‘em, darling.” Elizabeth leaned down to kiss his lips before heading back out of their bedroom.

Daniel huffed in annoyance but pulled himself out of bed to get ready. He was excited to hear that Charlie wrote him back but, at the same time, he was incredibly nervous. He was preparing for an angry response and by the time he got downstairs after being cleaned and dressed and shaved, he was contemplating not even opening it in fear.

Elizabeth set him at the table with tea and breakfast and watched him take a few bites before she would pass over the letter into his waiting hands. She returned to the kitchen to give him a moment to read his letter in private while she could have a moment to read her own too.

Daniel tore open the envelope and carefully slid out the paper. He took a deep breath before unfolding the paper and began to read.

Dad,

I missed you. I know I’ve sent you angry things these past three years and that was wrong of me. You probably know better than anyone the constant uncertainties that come with being away from home to fight and I was still trying to figure out how to get them all under control…hell, I still barely know. I don’t know if I’ll make it to see tomorrow’s sunrise yet alone the end of the conflict. You’ve always been the one I look up to most and I never saw you as less than a superhero. Maybe I was too young to notice, but I never saw your hesitation or your fears or your guilt as I grew up. I only ever saw my Dad. The man who was a bit over protective but the one I could go to when I had a nightmare or the one who would help me with my homework or who would eat the peas off my plate when Mum wasn’t looking because you knew I hated them. (Seems I had to force myself to like them anyway since the RAF canteens love serving peas on nearly a daily basis). You were my first best friend, my first protector that I could really truly feel, and honestly a bit of my partner in crime. I idolised you, Dad.

You hold Uncle Christian up on this pedestal and honestly, I don’t blame you; he’s your big brother and someone you lost tragically but who deserved to live a long life. I’m more than proud to have his name and I do truly thank you for giving me that, for loving me enough to pass on the one thing that honestly meant the world to you: your brother. But, Dad, you can’t hold him up to this angelic standing if you’re only going to tear yourself down at the same time. War is hard and terrible and really fucking sucks and you are so honourable to have survived that whether you were there fighting for two weeks or four years. It doesn’t make you less of a soldier that you lived and didn’t die; and it doesn’t matter that it left you with some scars – it certainly doesn’t matter to me because I still love you just as much now than I did when I was small and had no clue about the world. It’s not about you being able to protect me and keep me away from the horrors that humans can do to each other, but it’s about being there for me when I realise it, live through it, and come home scared out of my mind. It’s about you being strong enough to watch me walk into danger and still hold me when I get hit down. That’s what makes a father, and you are all that and more. You let me go to fight despite how fucking scared you were, and you read all my letters even if you didn’t respond, and you loved me enough to share your real, raw, uncensored fears and feelings with me.

You may say that I saved your life but, without you and your own strength to brave your hardships and trauma, there wouldn’t be me. You saved yourself, Dad. You have overcome a world of fear and terror and gave me a life that was happy and safe and loving. I don’t know much, and I don’t claim to know more than I do, but one thing I’m certain of is that I wouldn’t trade you as my father for anyone else.

I love you. Always and forever, Dad. I promise.

Your son,

Charles Christian

P.S. I already taped our first photograph to the dashboard in my plane. Uncle Christian may always be with me, but now you are too.

Taglist: @randomlimelightxxx @hopinglimelight @jonahlovescoffee @hiya-its-amber @chanelwonders

#✉#daniel seavey #christian seavey #why dont we #why dont we fanfic #daniel seavey fanfic #daniel seavey imagines #historical fiction

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yelenasdog · 4 years

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unknown desires (spencer reid x russell holmes) (i’m so sorry BFRHEKRB)

really all i have to say about this is what the fuck and why the fuck. I DESERVE NO RIGHTS. enjoy i guess??? if u found this while searching for some reid x reader there’s plenty of that on my account!!

i’m deleting this bye ok-

btw it’s set at the end of s9 ep18 and then ends probably around s13?? idk. also listen to billie eilish’s “i love you” to be extra sad bc this is lowkey kinda angsty and lowkey a mess but im throwing it at u ok bye!

🂦∙🂦∙🂦

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary”- Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven

Spencer shouldn't have been so drawn the first time he saw Russell in person. He shouldn't have been drawn at all.

He was a victim, someone who the young doctor had stared at a photo of for days while planning his rescue.

Although he didn't feel the initial electricity, he was far too buried in the case to think about Russell's kind puppy dog eyes or plump, rosy lips. Yes, far too busy to even fathom thinking of the way his raven locks that Edgar Allan Poe himself would be jealous of complimented his ivory skin, even for an inkling of a moment. He couldn’t bear to do such a thing.

But then, there was after the case, that day at the hospital. There was loss, it was hard to see. But yet again, he saw it every day.

His brain was fuzzy, and he seemed to be more heavily affected by this case than any previous endeavors. He wasn’t sure as to why.

It had him lost in his own thoughts, swimming in a pool of unknown desires.

So lost in fact, so drowned in his daydream, that he was barely aware of the person that had been wheeled over in his general vicinity.

It was him. His pink pout (that was more of a smile) was busted, no doubt, and his porcelain skin had cuts littered among it, but god, it was him.

He should have been disgusted, scared even. The man had rabies! And this was doctor Reid we’re talking about, the biggest possible germaphobe. But he couldn’t bring himself, he was too infatuated. Not that he would admit to it, though.

And he apparently had heard about Spence and his displeasure with even slightly unsanitary situations, as he chose to greet (and simultaneously say goodbye) to the doctor with a simple wave and bashful smile.

Spencer returned it in the same manner. The interaction was quick, too quick. It also warmed his heart to a full extent.

Russell was whisked away by a nurse, looking back reluctantly at the three agents that had saved his life, specifically a certain brown haired doctor, wanting to encapsulate his stunning image in his mind.

Spencer stuck to a cycle. Save, move on, repeat. It was easiest to do so rather than deal with any tag along, unwanted, painful emotions.

Because that’s all love was.

Crude and abrupt pain. But despite this, he found himself asking Garcia for Russell's current home address. His own actions confused him, but nonetheless, he held his head high as he exited the batcave towards the light, clutching a paper with the info in his hands.

He knew he didn’t need it. But he refused to face the (impossible) possibility to forget this information, to forget Russell.

The paper was wrinkled and dampened from his gorilla grip by the time he had arrived. He flattened it out with shaky hands, grabbing a fresh piece of parchment.

“Hello, I'm Doctor Spencer Reid.”

No, no, too formal. He erased it.

“Greetings, I’m Spencer Reid.”

What was he, an alien? Even though many members of the team thought so, he decided against giving Russell Holmes that opportunity. And then it was gone in the wind with a few swipes from his pencil eraser.

“Hi! I’m Dr. Spencer Reid, I was one of the agents that assisted on your case. I hope this message finds you well. I’m just checking in to see how you’re healing.”

Spencer scoffed at himself out loud. “just checking in”, his ass. He continued writing and with very low expectations, he sent off the letter.

------

“I'll be just a minute, Mom!” Russell hollered through his home as he went to go check the mail. He walked down to the mailbox, limping ever so slightly, still in recovery. He flipped through the various envelopes, doing a double take when he saw a certain name.

Doctor Spencer Reid

Apartment 23A

Wilcox Road, Quantico, Virginia, 22134

He tore into the message immediately, a growing smile resting on his face as he read.

“Hi! I’m Doctor Spencer Reid, I was one of the agents who assisted on your case. I hope this message finds you well. I’m just checking in to see how you’re healing. How's your mother been since her surgery? I hope she is doing well, too. If you need anything don’t hesitate to write back or call the number at the bottom of the page. Yet again, I'm glad we could get you home, perhaps to your boyfriend/ girlfriend, or wife/husband.

Best regards, Spencer.”

He was off the walls with excitement. There was a newfound pep in his step as he made his way up the driveway, no doubt planning on writing back.

“Dr. Reid, I appreciate you checking in on me. I do not regret informing you that there is no boyfriend or girlfriend here, just my mother and I while we both recover...”

-----

Glee and bliss. Those were the two things that could no doubt be used to describe the relationship between Spencer Reid and Russell Holmes.

Although it was nothing too formal, exchanges of news about mothers or about how work was going was going on either side soon became much more deep, bringing the two closer than imaginable, even from 689 miles apart.

Never meeting again in person, the situation reminded him all too much of Maeve, but nonetheless, to him, Russell was worth it. So they talked, and talked, for years and years on end.

They both felt a warm fuzzy feeling in their chest, quite able to place the cause on one another.

Then one day, they stopped.

Spencer had gotten home from a long case, and was very much so looking forward to an uplifting note from his distanced lover. But to his surprise, there was nothing.

Although he found it odd, he blew it off, considering the possibility of getting lost in the post, running some stat to calm himself. Pulling out his cell, he dialed the number that he had saved of Russell's if for some reason the letters were to become inadequate. Voice mail. And voicemail again, and again, and again. Spencer tried for days and weeks, but to no avail, he was met with radio silence.

Until one day, if it was fateful or not is up to you.

It was sunny in August, and Spencer Reid was not a fan.

After sweating around all day (he wasn’t sure what it meant either), he made his way to his apartment. He stripped down to his slacks and undershirt, waltzing around his apartment with a water bottle in hand.

knock knock

He squinted his honey eyes, confusion flooding his body. He cautiously approached the door, keeping his revolver in his peripheral vision, compliments of his paranoia.

Another two knocks sounded, but before a third could ring out, he swung the door open.

He gasped, his jaw water bottle falling out of his hand and rolling into the hallway.

“Russ?”

“Hi, Spence.”

He wanted to hug him, he wanted to kiss him, God, he wanted to-

“I felt like I needed to tell you in person.”

His heart dropped to his feet as Russell's own shaky hand presented itself, in it, a white envelope, similar to the one that started their not-so extravagant rondevu.

“W-what is this, Russ?” he opened with nimble fingers, sliding it from its encasement.

Join soon to be Mr. and Mrs. Russell and Jane Holmes-

He didn’t read the rest, he didn’t need to, and couldn't. Tears made their way to both men’s eyes, threatening with such a fierce hostility to spill.

“I’m so sorry, Spence.”

This warranted no response from the doctor. He looked blankly behind Russ, his mind running a million miles a minute. With his head hung in a terrible shame, Russell turned to leave.

He was shocked when he was stopped by Spencer grabbing him by his blue and red plaid shirt, pulling him back.

“Wait.”

He turned, his hazel eyes just barely meeting Spencer's own of the same color.

“Do you love her?”

He pondered for a moment, before nodding slightly.

“Yes, I,” he paused. “Yes.”

Spencer bit his bottom lip briefly, before making a choice he knew he would regret.

He gripped him by the collar of his shirt, smashing their lips together for the first time and the last.

It should have been sweet, it should have been everything he hoped for and more. It should have been a reunion as glorious as they both could have imagined.

But instead, it was a mixture of salty tears, as their lips moulded together like they were made for each other. He pulled away, trying to maintain a strong facade.

“Good.”

And with that, he took one more look, before committing him to a memory, and nothing else.

He shut his door, sliding down against it and silently sobbing, pulling at his curls as tears racked his body. He heard smaller footsteps pad up the staircase, stopping next to where he left a dumbstruck and emotion ridden Russell.

“Hey, sweetheart, is your friend going to be able to make it?” She rubbed his shoulder lovingly, so incredibly oblivious and unaware of the previous happenings.

He put a remorseful hand on hers, watching how her engagement ring shimmered, even in the dim lighting.

He put on a false smile for his future wife he thinks he loves. “I think he’s a bit busy, he said he needs to review the date.” He spoke loudly, hoping Spencer could hear him through the thick door.

She frowned, nodding in what was her understanding of it all.

“Well, I hope he can make it, he must be important if you came all the way here to deliver this for him!”

He smiled genuinely, thinking of all the letters sent and hours spent.

“Yeah, more than he knows.”

It wasn't until after he heard their steps retrieve, and their car start up and go, that he picked up the card to finish reading it.

He ran his finger over the gold raised trim, the feeling giving him goosebumps. He read the front and flipped it over, seeing an all too familiar hand writing underneath the date that the supposed union was to be held.

I'm sorry, I love you.

🂦∙🂦∙🂦

literally what the fuck was that ffwbfbfbkfw what do i even tag this?? im so sorry. also this is my first character x character be nice

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #cm #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #boy x boy fic

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danfanciesphil · 5 years

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too high (can’t come down) by @danfanciesphil

Suspending himself 7,000 feet above the rest of the world seems likely to be a sure-fire way for Dan to escape normality, and isolate himself for the foreseeable future. The Secret of the Alps, a small hotel tucked into the side of the Swiss mountains is too niche for most avid adventurers to have heard of, making it the perfect place for Dan to work as he sorts through his problems. Unfortunately, privacy is a coveted thing, and as Dan soon finds out, the hotel harbours one guest who values it more than most.

Rating: Explicit Tags: Enemies to lovers, snow, mountains, skiing, hostility, slow burn, secrecy, longing, repression, nobility, classism, cheating, eventual sex

Ao3 Link

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

Chapter Five

On Friday morning, after breakfast has been cleared, Mona is going over all of the things Dan needs to stay on top of over the weekend, when someone knocks on the front door. Both of them turn to the noise, obviously startled. They’re 7,000 feet up the side of a mountain. Visitors aren’t a frequent occurrence.

In the next moment, Mona gathers herself, smooths down her jacket lapels and goes to answer the door. As soon as she opens it, Kaspar bursts through, brandishing a pair of electric blue skis, a smallish parcel under his arm, and a pile of letters secured with string.

“My gorgeous Mona!” he exclaims, dropping everything onto the side-table nearby in order to pull her into a hug. He dwarfs her small frame with his big, beefy arms, but she doesn’t struggle, patting Kaspar politely on the shoulder and waiting for him to have had his fill. “Your eyes, they shine brighter than the sun glinting off the mountain snow. Your skin is the colour of a young fawn-”

“G-good morning, Kaspar,” Mona stammers out quickly once she’s been released. Her cheeks are now tinged a deep pink. “Shall I take these?”

She reaches past him to pluck the bundle of letters from the table. “My beauty,” Kaspar says, catching her by the arm as she attempts to grapple with the skis. “Allow me to lift your burdens. I will take care of everything. I can read you each letter one by one-”

“I’m perfectly capable of reading my own mail, Kaspar,” Mona interrupts sternly, though her cheeks are practically aflame at this point. Dan watches on in amusement, pretending to be busy on the reception computer. “Though I would appreciate your help taking the skis up to the top floor.”

“My angel, if you asked I would let you sail down the mountain on by back,” Kaspar cries, to which Mona rolls her eyes, but does let out a tiny smile.

Kaspar lifts the skis onto his shoulder, then reaches for the parcel. Dan jumps to his feet so abruptly that he knocks the computer mouse off the desk. Mona and Kaspar turn in surprise at the sound.

“I’ll take the other parcel,” Dan blurts, catching the mouse from where it swings from its cord, and placing it carefully back on the mousepad. “It’s for Mr Novokoric, right?”

Mona plucks the package from Kaspar and studies the name on the label, frowning. “How did you know that?”

“He... mentioned that he’d ordered a new phone.”

Something about this response makes Mona’s eyes widen. “He… told you that?”

“Yes,” Dan says, that niggling sense that he’s missing something rearing its head once again. “Is that strange?”

Mona shrugs, but gives him a once over. “No, no, that’s fine. Take the package. You can lead the way to Mr Novokoric’s room. Show Kaspar where it is.”

“Little Dan, you are my sherpa,” Kaspar declares, grinning. Armed with the skis resting over his broad shoulder, Kaspar appears rather menacing. “Lead on.”

Ducking as Kaspar turns to and fro, expressively admiring the lobby interior as Mona blushes and accepts compliments, Dan goes to collect the package from the table. Mona summons the courage to ask Kaspar whether he’d like a coffee before he leaves again, and Kaspar’s enthusiasm for this nearly severs Dan’s neck from his shoulders.

He scurries quickly towards the stairs, assuming that Kaspar will follow once he’s done fawning over the manager. As they begin the ascent, Kaspar prattles on about how the blizzard that was forecast for today is nowhere to be seen, and that Kaspar himself knows far more than ‘those baboons with their balloons and barometers’ ever will. Dan just nods along, unable to get a word in edgeways even if he were so inclined.

In truth, Dan’s rather glad of Kaspar’s non-stop chatter, as he himself is too busy trying to understand why he’s voluntarily hurled himself into this situation. On most days, he barely has to converse with Phil at all, and that’s just fine. The less they speak to one another, the less chance there is for Dan’s day to be ruined by whatever insult Phil lets slip as casually as Kaspar comments on the weather. Now, for some reason, he’s willingly placed himself in the line of fire. For the life of him, Dan cannot understand it, but something about watching Mona and Kaspar had shaken free an urgent desire to see Phil. To deliver the first bit of good news the man has probably gotten in quite some time.

“I think now we are another thousand feet up!” Kaspar jokes as they emerge on the top floor landing.

Dan manages a polite titter in response. “It’s room eight,” he says, gesturing to Phil’s door.

The hallway is silent apart from Dan and Kaspar’s breathing from the climb. Kaspar has an excuse, given that he’s lugging enormous skis; Dan’s parcel isn’t that heavy, but he is incredibly unfit. Part of Dan wishes he could take a moment to get his breath back before knocking on Phil’s door, but explaining this would probably only confuse Kaspar, so he decides to just go for it.

He knocks, just as Kaspar begins to sing breathily - something Swiss and jaunty that Dan is pretty sure is out of tune. The door opens after a while, and Phil stands there, his shirt half-buttoned, his hair ruffled and messy. He looks like he’s just been ravished in the enormous four-poster bed Dan can see behind him.

“We- our- Kaspar- um, we have a- packages for- um. Here.” Mostly to stop his mouth from doing whatever it’s doing, Dan pushes the box into Phil’s hands.

Phil gives him a curious look, then moves his attention to Kaspar and the skis. “Oh, awesome,” he says, then seems to remember himself. “I mean, that’s excellent, Kaspar. Thank you for bringing those up.”

He takes a step to one side in the doorway, letting a still-singing Kaspar swan through into Phil’s suite. Even from his limited viewpoint, it’s clear to Dan that this room is three times the size of his own next door, and far more luxurious. There’s a chaise longue, for one thing, and a window seat, and a huge wall-mounted television.

“And where would you like me to put these, Philly?” Kaspar asks in his loud, jolly voice.

Dan’s eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling. Philly?

It might be Dan’s imagination, but he thinks he sees a light blush skimming atop Phil’s high cheekbones. “In the cupboard, if you don’t mind, Kaspar.”

“Of course,” Kaspar replies, springing out of sight somewhere deeper into the suite.

Phil turns back to Dan, then looks down at the box he’s been given. “Thanks for this,” he says, unexpectedly. “I’m going mad without a phone.”

“No problem. I mean, Mona ordered it, I’m just the delivery boy.”

Phil nods, and a painful silence falls. Dan, having always detested awkwardness, cannot let it just sit on their shoulders, so for some reason says, “try not to chuck this one off a mountain!”

It’s a joke, of course, but Phil doesn’t laugh. Instead, his lips press together, and Dan remembers - idiot, idiot, idiot - that the information about what happened to Phil’s previous phone was gleaned from eavesdropping on a phone call he had with his husband.

“I hear we’re going to be alone over the next few days,” Phil says, swiftly changing the subject, to Dan’s relief.

“Mona and Louise are away, yeah,” Dan says, not bothering to hide the dread in his voice. “There’s another couple of guests, but yeah it’ll just be me in terms of staff-”

“I thought the other couple cancelled?”

Dan freezes, staring at Phil as a gelatinous glob of horror trickles down his spine. “W-what?”

“I was speaking with Mona last night,” Phil says. “I think she said the other guests called to say they were too worried about the forecast blizzard.”

Just then, Kaspar re-emerges, arms empty of skis, beaming away as he squeezes past them back through the door. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Philly. Come now, little Dan, let us leave him to his duties.”

The corner of Phil’s mouth twitches when he hears the phrase ‘little Dan’, which is mildly embarrassing, but Dan is too boggled to feel it too deeply. Instead, Dan nods vaguely at Phil, who says nothing more, and then follows Kaspar back down the hall, past his own room, towards the stairs.

“Well of course I was going to mention it, Dan,” Mona says distractedly, taking the coffee Dan made - courtesy of Louise’s careful tuition - and placing it down in front of Kaspar, who takes her hand and kisses it. She pulls free of him quickly, flushing for the umpteenth time, and turns back to Dan. “Honestly, I thought you’d be relieved! Now you won’t have to worry about keeping guests happy. You just have to make sure the place doesn’t blow up.”

“I think you’re forgetting one guest,” Dan can’t help but point out. “You’re leaving me alone here with- with- him!”

Louise’s snicker echoes through the kitchen behind him, and Dan makes a mental note to ‘accidentally’ spray her with coffee during their next lesson.

“What’s the problem, exactly?” Mona asks, a touch impatiently. Her eyes are flicking back towards Kaspar, who is patting the chair beside his emphatically. “Louise seems to be under the impression that you and Mr Novokoric had straightened things out.”

“He apologised to Dan very nicely for upsetting him!” Louise calls unhelpfully from somewhere behind him.

Mona gives Dan a satisfied smile. “There, nothing to worry about then. Besides, I doubt you’ll see much of him. Of course you’ll need to deliver his meals to his room if he wants them. Louise can show you what needs doing with that. But apart from that, the man barely ever makes a peep.”

Begrudgingly, Dan nods, and Mona turns from him, making her way back over to Kaspar’s table. Dan watches her being flirted with for a few minutes, bemoaning his decision to take this bloody job, which has landed him a whole two days with a spoiled member of Swiss Royalty. His stomach flips as he considers the length of time stretching ahead, with just the two of them, up here, all alone. Then, he sighs, heads back into the kitchen, and calls for Louise to come and show him how to make a macchiato again.

Kaspar stays until the evening, with the excuse that he might as well stay until it’s time to escort Mona and Louise down the mountain. Louise is leaving for the weekend in order to see her daughter, Pearl, who lives with her father in Sussex, England. The nature of Louise’s job, along with certain court sentences that Dan doesn’t have the heart to ask about yet, means that she only gets to see Pearl a few times a year. It’s understandable therefore, that even though Mona has to be away this weekend as well, Louise can’t be expected to give up one of her rare opportunities to spend time with her child.

Dan stands with the two women in the lobby, trying not to let his distress leak into his expression as he drinks in the sight of them, bundled in thick coats, laden with luggage, about to abandon him up here, alone. Well, almost alone.

“I took Phil some shepherd’s pie up to his room an hour or so ago,” Louise tells Dan. “So he shouldn’t need anything until the morning.”

“Just don’t do anything to aggravate him,” Mona says in a low voice, zipping up her coat. “Remember he’s our best customer.”

Before Dan can snort derisively, the front door opens and Kaspar walks through, strutting across the lobby to place a large hand on each of the women’s shoulders. “Your carriage has arrived, pretty ladies,” he says, beaming. “I will load your cases.”

Avoiding his eye, Mona primly hands over her suitcase to Kaspar, and Louise all but chucks her own bag into his arms. Dan bites his thumbnail; in just a few minutes, they’ll be gone entirely. For two whole days.

Sensing his quiet distress, Louise comes over and squeezes her arms around him. “You’ll be fine. There’s a week’s worth of meals in the freezer. Your macchiatos haven’t killed anyone in hours. And Phil’s about as scary as a honey bee, once you see past his sting.”

“Thanks, Lou. Have fun with Pearl,” Dan replies, forcing a smile. He chooses not to mention his acute fear (and allergy) of bees.

“I’ll see you on Monday, dweeb,” she says, releasing him.

Mona takes hold of one of Dan’s hands in both of hers then, her eyes round and desperately searching for reassurance. “You’ll be alright, won’t you Dan?”

For a brief moment, he thinks about saying no, and begging her to stay. But he could never be so cruel. A sick grandmother is a pretty damn good reason to cry off a job she works insane hours for, for a couple of days. “Yeah, of course,” Dan says, stretching that forced smile. “Don’t worry about a thing, I’ve got the schedule down. Breakfast served at three, right?”

Mona sends him one of the ‘not funny’ looks she usually reserves for Louise. In a strange way, this makes him feel a bit better, like he’s been accepted as part of her trusted team. “I’ll see you in a couple of days,” she says, then gives his upper arms a quick squeeze.

Kaspar returns from loading their luggage, and the three of them head for the door, squawking about how cold it’s going to be, and how Kaspar’s inevitably going to make them fear for their lives by rocking the car to and fro, just to watch them shriek. They call a final goodbye to Dan, and with a cheery wave, Kaspar pulls the door firmly shut behind them.

For a few long moments, all Dan does is stare at the place they just were. Then, his eyes lift towards the ceiling, as if he could see straight through it, all the way up to the top floor, where Phil is… well. Who knows what he’s doing in that room. Throwing darts at a smiling photo of Dan’s face, perhaps.

He sighs, then sits down at the desk, wondering what to do with himself. In half an hour, it will be ten o’clock, the time his shift normally ends. It’s unlikely that Mr Novokoric will appear before then, so Dan could just call it a night, and go to bed. If he was really needed for any reason, Mr Novokoric could knock on his door. He sincerely hopes that he won’t do this, however. The idea of Phil seeing Dan, in his mismatching pyjamas and red-eyed from his night-time cry, is a horrifying one.

Mostly out of fear of Mr Novokoric needing him and Dan not being around, which could lead to him telling Mona he’s an incapable idiot, Dan remains where he is, rigid in his reception seat, until the clock strikes ten. Then, he gets up and begins doing all the things on the ‘end of the day’ checklist Mona went over with him numerous times. Lock the front door. Switch off the computer. Lock the door to the office. Turn off the lobby lights. Up to the mezzanine. Tidy any stray books, games or blankets left lying around. Lock the balcony doors. Go into the kitchen, turn off the oven, wipe down the countertops. Lights off. Up the stairs to the guest room floor. Lights off in the hallway. Up the final set of stairs. Open door to room. Linger in the hall staring at the light under the door of room eight. Go into room. Pyjamas. Clean teeth. Bed. Cry. Music. Stop crying. Listen. Sleep.

The snow is wet, but not as cold as he’d imagined. Dan is spread-eagled, on his back in the thick of it. Above him is an endless stretch of blue so pale it looks almost grey. He wonders if perhaps he’s laid in the sky, and is looking down at the Earth. To dispel this theory, a crow flies above him, circling once, before swooping down to perch on his chest. Dan breathes out a wash of steam.

“Hello,” Dan says.

The crow squawks. Hello.

“I’m not sure where I am,” Dan admits.

His usual state of anxiety is gone for now. Despite his ignorance of what’s happening, he’s quite enjoying not knowing what’s next. He feels buoyant and free. Unless someone were gazing down from a cloud or a very tall tree, they’d never spot him in the midst of this landscape of white. That thought is a comforting one.

The crow opens its beak again, and squawks several times. You will find yourself soon.

Dan nods thoughtfully. The crow stamps its small, twiglet feet on Dan’s chest. “It’s nice to have some time away,” Dan says. “I’m sad, but at least it’s just me that’s sad.”

The crow pecks lightly at Dan’s nose. You don’t make people sad, Dan.

“I feel like I disappoint people,” Dan says, honestly. “My parents. Beth. I’m sure I’ll eventually disappoint Mona too. And Louise. I’ve already disappointed one of the guests.”

The crow stretches out one wing, and tucks its beak into the crook, then squawks, people disappoint themselves. They expect things you cannot always provide. This is not your fault.

“Maybe.” Dan considers the crow’s point, staring into its mass of oil-slick feathers. A jet, beady eye pokes out, holding his gaze. “You’re very wise.”

The crow extends both wings. And you are stronger than you know.

Before Dan can say anything else, the crow flaps its wings, beating gusts of cool air into Dan’s face, and takes off, soaring into the pale sky. It flies higher and higher, until it’s nothing but a black speck, and then out of view entirely. The snow is melting from his body heat beneath him, and he is beginning to sink down. For a moment, Dan is tempted to let himself be engulfed, to disappear into the white plains of this place. But he knows the crow is watching him, even from wherever it flew. The crow is waiting for Dan to move, to fight the feeling of unworthiness that’s pushing him down. So, he sits up; the cold snow slides down his back. He grits his teeth, focused on a faraway melody, and stands.

Dan wakes up in his bed with a sense of vigour about him. His dream had been unusual, to say the least, but has instilled a determination in him. He’s got the lay of the land now; he can run this place for forty-eight hours. There aren’t even any guests to look after, aside from one. He gets ready quickly, shrouded in his new cape of confidence, and goes downstairs to set up for a likely needless breakfast.

As soon as he walks into the mezzanine lounge, he stops short at the sight of Phil Novokoric sat at one of the indoor tables, reading a book, a mug of coffee in his hand. The cape of confidence flies off Dan’s shoulders, sweeping off into the stratosphere.

“Oh. Good- good morning, Mr Novokoric,” Dan manages, only stumbling slightly as he edges towards the kitchen. “Um, Phil, I mean.”

Phil lifts his head from his book, azure eyes glinting. “Good morning, Dan.”

“You’ve… already got a coffee, then?”

Phil lifts an eyebrow, looking briefly down at the mug he’s holding. “It would appear so.”

“Great,” Dan says, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the sarcasm. It takes a moment for the implication of this to sink in, given that Louise couldn’t have made it for him, but when it does, Dan narrows his eyes. “How?”

“It’s an instant coffee,” Phil says, wrinkling his nose.

“Oh,” Dan says, then his stomach flips. He’s going to have to ask, isn’t he? Oh, crap. “Would- would you like a macchiato?”

Phil assesses him carefully, setting his book down. “Alright,” he says after a moment.

Oh no. Dan’s been practicing like mad for two days with Louise, but he’s still not totally confident about his aptitude with the coffee machine. Nevertheless, he’s offered now, and he has to grant the request of the customer, no exceptions. Bracing himself for ridicule, or possibly just a sneer of contempt, Dan nods, and disappears into the kitchen.

He makes four different macchiatos, each of which seem to turn out slightly differently, much to his dismay. He tries to time the frothing of the milk, to clean the nozzle rigorously each time. In the end, he just selects the one that most resembles Louise’s perfect macchiatos that she can seem to whip up without looking, and takes a deep breath before bringing it out to Phil. He’s trembling as he places it down on the table, which Phil definitely notices, but doesn’t comment on, thankfully.

Phil peers at the coffee, scrutinising, then brings it to his nose for a gentle sniff. “Remembered the caramel this time, then,” he mutters, and Dan only just stops himself from finding the caramel syrup in the kitchen and upending it over his head.

Phil takes a cautious sip, then another, and then an actual gulp. He lowers the mug, eyebrows raised, and places it carefully back on the table. Dan only realises he’s hovering, watching Phil’s reaction with hawk-like attention, when Phil fixes him with a bemused stare and says, “thanks.”

He turns his attention back to his book, and Dan realises he’s being dismissed. “Oh. No problem.”

He steps back with an absurd little bow of his head; Phil might let out a tiny smile, but Dan can’t be sure if it’s because he thinks Dan’s an idiot, or because of something amusing in his book. Either way, he needs to leave before he humiliates himself properly. He heads back into the kitchen and unearths one of Louise’s homemade loaves of bread, which he then cuts four thick slices of. He toasts them under the grill, then spreads them with butter and plum jam. He puts two on one plate, and two on another, then carries them out of the kitchen. He places one plate down in front of Phil, who looks up in surprise, and then scurries downstairs to reception with his own plate before Phil can say anything. Dan eats his breakfast in between chores - sweeping the lobby, unlocking the doors, and setting up for the day.

Eventually, he runs out of things to do, and though he really would rather not go back upstairs and make more embarrassing small talk with Phil, he has no other choice. He picks up his empty plate from the desk, and heads back up to the mezzanine area. Mercifully, Phil’s table is now devoid of Phil, though his book and mugs are still there. He’s taken two bites out of one slice of toast. It’s been a while though, so Dan assumes he must have finished, and takes the plate into the kitchen along with his own. It seems a waste to throw an entire untouched piece of toast into the bin, so Dan scoffs that one too, humming a Muse song as he chews, and washing plates. As he’s swallowing the last bit, he hears the sound of a throat clearing, and turns, only slightly choking on toast crumbs, towards the noise.

Phil is at the serving hatch, his big crimson ski jacket on, and a faintly amused expression on his face. He pushes the two mugs across the hatch. “What is that you’re humming?” He frowns, as if trying to place it. “Sounds familiar.”

“Oh, it’s a Muse song.” Dan’s hands are soapy, dripping at his sides. He shakes the suds off them, self-consciously.

“Right,” Phil says. “Never liked Muse. All their songs sound the same.”

Another reason to detest this fool. Clearly he has no taste in music. Aside from… classical, perhaps.

“Each to their own,” Dan says in an attempt at brightness, then walks over to collect the dirty mugs from him. Just as he turns to leave, Phil reaches out and catches Dan’s wrist. It’s a light, soft touch, and is gone again the next second, but Dan feels as if he’s been zapped with 10,000 volts. He freezes, just about managing to hang onto the cups. “Er-”

“Come skiing with me,” Phil says, knocking Dan out of orbit.

(Chapter Six!)

#phan #phanfic #too high #enemies to lovers au

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ratandphilgames · 6 years

Text

Our Lives Don’t Collide

{chapter 3: shake on it}

summary: Shit hits the fan when famous actor!Phil is caught smooching a boy in an alleyway. Only problem? He’s not out and what’s worse? The boy he was smooching was a journalist who set it all up to get a quick picture and now Phil is royally screwed. The only answer Phils management can come up with is a fake relationship to try and do damage control and famous actor!Dan is the perfect candidate.

chapter word count: 2562

total word count: 7458

rating: t

note: thanks for reading and leaving me all your love! everyone who’s sent an anon or left kudos or reblogged has absolutely made this worth it! ily :)

updates on thursdays!

{read on ao3}

{read from the beginning}

{next chapter}

—–

Sign on the dotted line …………….

The dotted line was definitely taunting him. All Dan had to do was write his name and then he’d be in a legally bond relationship. It was like a temporary marriage. No pressure or anything.

Dan was back in Sam’s office, 2 days later. The final contract was sitting in front of him, ready to be signed.

He’d been thinking a lot the past 48 hours about this decision.

At the beginning Dan was fairly sure he was going to sign the paper but then intrusive thoughts crept into his mind. Would he be able to look his mum in the face and tell her that he was in a happy committed relationship when he wasn’t? That was a lot of intense pressure, lying to your mom was bad. Baddddddd.

After thinking about how much lying to his mum would suck, Dan thought about how proud his mum would be that he’d gotten himself into a good relationship. She was always being the typical mother, worried that he was too lonely, constantly concerned about him. It would be nice to convince her that he was okay, even if only for a short period.

Besides, this was just commitment to a role for an extended period of time. Dan was an actor. It wouldn’t be unusual to pretend, it was what he did for a living.

The longer Dan spent thinking about it, the more he ignored the bad and focused on the good.

So there he was. Sitting in Sam's office, pen in hand, hovering over the paper. Was he really going to sign this contract that bond him to a role for 6 months?

Yes, yes he was.

His world was going to shift exponentially but almost every way seemed like it would be for the better. Maybe.

Maybe not.

At this point the only way he could find out was by signing the paper. He’d gone over nearly every scenario in his head and at this point the only way to really figure out was to put his name on that line.

So he did. Dan signed his name on the dotted line.

He was now officially and legally in a relationship. It felt weird, especially since the interaction with his ‘boyfriend’ had consisted of one sentence and a weirdly elongated staring contest.

“So, now that that’s out of the way, we need to make you two official on instagram.”

Shannon was right, that was part of the deal.

“How are we supposed to do that? I don’t have a picture of us together.”

Sam, who had stayed relatively quiet, simply stared at Dan as if he’d just said the dumbest thing ever.

“Daniel, you’ll be seeing him again. When you’re ‘in a relationship’ with someone, you tend to see them more than once.”

Oh.

So he was going to see Phil again. Soon.

Fuck.

Something about that fact was both startling and a tad bit titillating.

“Right, yeah, I knew that. I guess it just didn’t sink in yet. So when is he coming round?”

Again, Dan was met with a dumbfounded look from Sam. He seemed to be missing the obvious today. His mind a little preoccupied, he supposed.

“You can’t take the photo here, Dan. That will look sketch. You need to invite him to yours, so paparazzi see him and hype up the relationship.”

In order to avoid Sams snark, Shannon stepped in and talked. It hadn’t really occurred to Dan that him and Phil would actually hang out. That he would have Phil inside his house. Suddenly everything became overwhelmingly real.

“Oh, oh shit. Okay. How do I do that?”

Apparently it was ‘plan everything without Dan and then act like he’s dumb because he wasn’t let in on the plans’ day.

“Dan, there’s this lovely thing called a telephone that you can use. We just have to call his publicist. All you need to do is be at home, which isn’t hard for you.”

Wow. Okay. It was also roast Dan day.

Sure, Dan didn’t tend to leave his house unless he was filming something. It was just too much hassle to get out when it took so much planning. In public he was expected to keep up appearances. At home he could get away with wearing a baggy tee shirt and sweats with no eye bats.

Since ‘Switch Hitter’ was set to come out in 2 months and trailers were starting to drop, Dan was more relevant in the media than usual. If he wasn’t up to leaving his house during his usual schedule, he sure as hell wasn’t wanting to when there was handfuls of paparazzi camping outside his gate.

“Tomorrow. Phil will be coming to your house, you will take a photo together that is suitable for coming out on instagram. Nobody will be their to monitor you, I trust you will not need supervision. Please don’t fuck this up Dan.”

Out of the whole 5 years Dan had worked with Sam, never once had he heard him curse, let alone at him. Shit was serious, Sam was pulling out the big guns.

It was like he was being scolded on having girls (or boys, he’d be out as bi since he was 14) in his room as a teenager. “I trust you will not need supervision” sounded a lot like a threat. Even his mum wasn’t that passive aggressive about being alone with a potential lover.

Not that Phil was a potential lover. This was a business relationship, nothing else.

God this was getting awkward already.

Dan didn’t want to play the ‘ask a question and get a glare from Sam’ game again so he just nodded in response.

And with that Dan was excused from Sams office and told to go home and make his house ‘presentable.’ Shannon offered to help, but Dan assured her he could do it all by himself. He could manage throwing out the old pizza boxes without assistance. The amount of times the paparazzi outside his house had gotten excited that a car was pulling up, only to find it was a pizza delivery boy was astounding.

Andreas, per usual, was standing outside the door, just waiting for Dan to walk out. Maybe a day would come when Dan could feel safe going from his house to his agents office but quite frankly that day was not today. On more than one occasion he’d been attacked by paparazzi who took it too far and a couple of times he was met with some very homophobic bystanders who chased him. After all was said and done, he’d rather pay someone and count the money well spent for his peace of mind than be in constant fear with a little more change in his pocket.

“Any more stops today?”

“No, let’s just head home. You’re probably tired of waiting around for me.”

“It’s my job.”

No other words were said the rest of the car ride back to Dan’s abode. When they arrived Dan got walked to his house and then him and Andreas parted ways.

He only had one day to get his shit together. One day was not enough time to get shit together.

Dan contemplated hiring a cleaning service. He honest to god thought about searching one online rather than have to clean up his own filth so his fake boyfriend wouldn’t be so disgusted that he ripped the contract. It wasn’t that his house was that bad, it was just tedious and not how Dan wanted to spend his evening.

He started with the takeout boxes and random junk that he just tended to leave around when he was running to get somewhere on time. A pair of shoes, a misplaced watch, some miscellaneous jewelry.

Was it weird if he picked up his bedroom? It wasn’t like he was going to entice Phil into his bedroom, but what if he walked past? Maybe Dan would at least make his bed. Try to be semi presentable just in case.

Oh god. He sounded like a maniac that thought this relationship was real. He needed to do a quick reality check and realize it was all fake. It was staged. He needed to get that through his thick dick infatuated brain before he managed to screw everything up.

Shit. Sam had good reason to tell him not to fuck stuff up.

Dan made the executive decision to make his bed, using the excuse that he needed to anyways, to be a ‘functional human.’ His therapist would be proud.

As he was just folding down the edge of his duvet there was a buzz. The buzz that meant someone was trying to get into the gate.

This was… unexpected. For a brief moment Dan wondered if he had subconsciously ordered a pizza. Or maybe he was receiving a gift basket from Phil’s team from signing the contract. No wait, mail doesn’t get delivered at 5:43 at night.

Who the fuck was at his gate?

He made his way to the intercom near the front door, the little microphone that allowed him to speak to the person attempting to enter his home. More often than not it was a reporter requesting an ‘impromptu interview.’ Don’t get him wrong, Dan loved answering questions and interacting with people who cared what he said, but at his house, unannounced? That was just unprofessional and unsafe.

“Uh, how may I help you?”

He was really fucking awkward.

“I’m here to drop off Phil Lester.”

What. The. Fuck.

“Is this a prank?”

Phil was supposed to be by his house tomorrow. Sam had explicitly told him tomorrow. As in 24 hours, as in not right fucking now.

“No sir, this isn’t a prank.”

The driver sounded a bit annoyed with him but that was the least of Dan’s problems right now. Philip Lester was outside his house a day early and there was no way to prepare because he was asking to be let in right now.

“Uh, alright, I’ll open the gate.”

As soon as he typed in the code to open the gate he flew to his room to grab his phone. In the time it took for Phils car to pull up, Dan was able to send a quick SOS message to Shannon, asking what the hell was going on.

Ding. Dong.

The doorbell was ringing. They were there.

How did his hair look? Was what he wearing earlier appropriate for the occasion? What even was the occasion? First date with his fake boyfriend? Was this a date? A ‘fake’ date of course.

He opened the door. Standing there, true to the drivers word, was Phil Lester and a very tall, muscular man, that Dan had seen outside the boardroom door days earlier. This was the real motherfucking deal, no prank in sight.

Holy fuck.

“Uh, come in.” It took everything in Dan to make that statement not come out like a question.

The bodyguard stepped off to the side and Dan moved to the side, allowing Phil to walk into Dan’s home. Phil Lester. Walking into Dan’s home. Fuck.

“I trust the premise is secure?” Phil’s bodyguard was speaking to him about security. Dan didn’t know anything about that other than Andreas always said he was safe in his home. Nobody had ever broken in, so there was that.

“Yep, super secure.”

“Alright, well, call when you need a ride.” This time the bodyguard was addressing Phil. They had gone from a high security professional to a parent dropping off his stepson at a sleepover. At least Dan wasn’t the only awkward one here.

Phil nodded, clearly embarrassed by his bodyguards choice of words.

And then Phil’s bodyguard closed the door and it was just Dan and Phil, alone, in Dan’s big house. They were just both stood awkwardly by the front door.

“Uh, we can head into the lounge if you want.”

So they did. Dan led Phil into the lounge and they both sat down on the sofa and they both did that awkward thing where they push their knees together because they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

Something had convinced Dan that the great Phil Lester was going to be the talkative, explosive personality he saw on the screen. Dan should’ve known better than anyone that what you saw in the interviews wasn’t the full truth. Phil was just another introverted awkward guy who had a knack for pretending.

“I’m going to go make a call real quick, I’ll be right back.”

Shannon had texted him back with a simple ‘call me.’

Dan stepped into his kitchen and dialed Shannons number, having it committed by memory at this point.

“Shan, what the fuck is going on. I was told tomorrow. There is one Philip Lester sitting in my lounge right now.”

He was doing the hushed whisper thing with his voice just in case Phil could hear him from the other room. He didn’t think he could hear him, but it was always good to play it safe.

“His publicist just must’ve gotten mixed up on the phone, don’t panic kid. Just play it cool and don’t forget to take the instagram photo.”

Somehow Shannons words comforted him, they always managed to.

Okay. Cool. Play it cool. He could do that.

“Okay, I’m gonna go now Shan. I’ll play it cool. I’ve got this.” He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Shannon or himself more.

“Have fun. Do not forget the instagram picture Dan.”

Right. Get that picture.

Dan hung up the phone, feeling much better about the situation now that he had Shannon’s wonderful words of wisdom.

Despite the newfound confidence, Dan was not too keen on heading back into the lounge and striking up a conversation with his new ‘boyfriend.’ Still, he did the honorable thing and went back into his lounge.

“Uhh hey. Thanks for coming.”

Phil, clearly startled by Dans reappearance, jumped a bit at the words and dropped his phone onto his lap.

“Oh uh, thanks for having me. I mean, thanks for everything. Sorry the situation is- well that this is how we meet.” Phil looked so anxious as he spoke and Dan couldn’t help but feel bad. For the first time he wasn’t thinking about how this would affect himself, Dan was thinking about how shitty Phil must feel after being publicly outed without his consent and then being forced by his management into this ‘relationship.’ Dan had a choice, Phil really didn’t.

“What? You mean you don’t meet all your friends through fake relationships to save your reputation?”

The humor certainly lightened the mood, both of them had a little chuckle. Dan felt a small sense of accomplishment for lifting the awkward tension.

“No, I’d have to say this is a first. So we’re friends?” Phil asked, still sitting on the sofa as Dan stood by the doorway.

“Well I hope so, otherwise the next few months are gonna be hella awkward.”

Again Phil laughed a little, making Dans stomach do that flip thing. This was going great, Phil didn’t hate him yet.

Dan crossed the room and sat down on the sofa next to Phil.

“Friends?”

Sticking out his hand, Dan waited, hoping Phil would shake on it.

“Friends.”

And they shook on it.

#our lives dont collide #phanfiction #dan and phil #phan #please reblog/ like if you enjoyed!#dnp #phandom

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scaplivingtogether · 5 years

Text

~A Evillious Christmas Carol~ Act 5

By: TomboyJessie13

Act 5

"SPIRIT! LET ME! GO! LET ME GO! LET-" Marlon woke up, trapped in his own blankets. He popped his head out of the blankets, his hair was a mess. He looks at his surroundings, and found that he's back in his bed, he moves the curtains to find that he's back in his own room...It was morning, and on top of all that, his face was wet with tears from what he had experienced...but he isn't sad anymore, he was happy. "Heh heh heh heh...HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" He let out a laugh that he hadn't let out in years, it was a warm and hearty laugh. "I'm finally home! The Spirits have given me another chance!" He said in a elated tone as he jumped out of bed. He went into his closet to put on his clothes, he comes out still wearing his sleepwear, only with his suit jacket. "Mmmm, something ain't..." He looks over at the hat rack and puts on his top hat. "Ah, much better...HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I haven't felt this good in years! I feel as happy as an angel! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" He fell back on his bed, rolling and laughing hard. Once he had calmed down, he realized something: "Wait...what time is it? How long was I asleep?" He asks to himself as the bells started to chime outside.

He got out of bed to open a window, the air was cold, but the sky was clear and that there's no fog anywhere, the sun was also rising from behind the buildings and birds also flew by, it's so beautifully breathtaking. Just then he sees a boy walking by his home. "Hey you, boy!" Marlon shouts to him, it got his attention.

"Huh?"

"What day is today?!"

"It's Christmas Day!" The boy answered.

"Christmas Day? Terrific! I haven't missed a thing!" He said to himself both relived and ecstatic, he then turned to the boy. "Listen boy, I want you to do me a huge favor: I want you to go to that butcher shop nearby with the huge prize turkey and buy it!" Marlon then took out a silver coin. "I'll give this half crown coin if you do!"

"Yes sir! Thank you!" The boy said enthusiastically as he hurries to the shop. Meanwhile, Marlon slides down the rail of his stairs to the first floor before falling down, he stood up no problem as he wasn't hurt. He then sees the portrait of his late-partner Cheru Marley, Marlon took it down just to hug it.

"Thank you much, Marley!" Marlon said in a jovial tone in his voice. "Thank you for showing me your face! And thank you for showing me the light!" The door knocks, Marlon goes to the door to open it, it was the boy from earlier with the turkey.

"I got the turkey you asked for, sir." He said.

"Excellent! Thank you so much!" Marlon gives the boy a half crown coin as promised.

"Your welcome sir, have a Merry Christmas!" The boy said as he ran off.

"You to, lad!" Marlon said. As he was giggling, he put on a coat and scarf and ran out of the house. He was dancing around with a Turkey in hand, everyone around him were quiet surprised by his behavior. He reached a Mail Carrier. "Are you heading to the Cratchit home today?"

"Uh yeah, you're Mr. Marlon right?" The Carrier said. "I was gonna deliver your letter to him." Marlon looked and realizes it's Keel's debt to replace the frozen ink, how could he have forgotten that? Marlon took the letter and tore it up in front of the surprised Carrier. "Forget about the letter, I want you to give him and his family this Turkey! But don't tell him it's from me, I want it to be a surprise." He gave the Turkey to him, then he took out a bag of coins. "I'll pay you handsomely for it."

"Understood sir, thank you!" The Carrier took the coins as well as Marlon goes skipping down the road. "And a Merry Christmas!." In town, Marlon couldn't stop laughing, he was shaking everyone's hands and greeting everyone warmly.

"Good morning!...Top of the morning!...Merry Christmas!" He was greeting everyone like a flash. They were baffled by his changed behavior, but seeing as he was treating everyone with respect, they greeted him back. Just ahead of him, he sees a man with platinum hair and red eyes watching the children; it was one of the detonators who came to him yesterday. "Merry Christmas, good sir!" He cried out happily, startling the man.

"AH! Oh it's you!" He responded, recovering from the surprise. Marlon goes up to him.

"Ok listen, I know that my name is not pleasant to you, but all I ask is for your forgiveness about my rudeness yesterday and my years of greed." He explains, he voice was filled with remorse. "I'll make it up to you, here!" Marlon took out 5 bags of money. "100 shillings for the poor! No thanks is necessary but I'd be more than happy if you and your green headed friend to come visit me anytime! YAHOO!" Marlon jumps and runs down the street again, The platinum headed man was stunned by the man's generosity, but was grateful about his charity, he picks up the bags.

"This will help the poor for sure sir, thank you so much!" He calls out. "And a Merry Christmas!"

Throughout the day, Marlon walks through the town, greeting and talking to people. The people soon began to realize that the man is not crazy, and that he's changed his greedy and cruel ways, hopefully for good. Marlon soon stops in front of a house he knows, it was his Nephew's house. Marlon took a deep breath, bringing about his courage to knock on the door.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

He composes himself, the one who opened the door was a woman with long white hair tied into a ponytail and red eyes. She was surprised when she realizes who he is.

"E-E-Ebenezer!?" She let out a gasp at his arrival.

"Good day, Ma'am. May I speak with my Nephew, please?"

"...S-sure." She moves aside and allows Marlon inside.

"Thank you." He says, he goes into the parlor where his Nephew and his family are, Ayn was having some tea when he saw his Uncle, causing him to spit out his drink in surprise.

"UNCLE MARLON?!" He exclaimed in a surprised tone, wiping the tea off of him.

"Merry Christmas, Nephew!" Marlon proclaimed loudly, this surprised his relatives even more. "I came to tell you that I will be excepting your invitation to the Christmas dinner!" Ayn looks at his wife.

"I don't believe it." He said to his wife in disbelief, he then turned to his uncle. "You're actually coming!?"

"But of course! You know how much I enjoy roasted turkey and mined pies."

"W-wow...this is amazing! Uncle Marlon." Ayn stood up to hug him, Marlon hugs him back as his other relatives and servants cheered. Rapidly they made him feel at home, and he enjoys an evening that is just as wonderful as it was in the Ghost's of Christmas Present's vision. From food to stories, from music to games. Soon the day went by, and he returns home at night, finally experience the joys of Christmas that he thought he lost.

The next day, Christmas is over, everyone was getting their decorations down to be saved for next year. Marlon goes to his Counting House, he sat by his desk, but instead of having his usual scowl, he was grinning largely. He noticed that Keel hasn't showed up yet. "Hmmmm, he must be running late." He said to himself, just then he began hearing panting outside the building, quickly Marlon composed himself, deciding to play around with him for a bit. He makes his usual scowl. Sure enough Keel runs through the door, panting.

"Hah...hah...I'm sorry...Hah...Mr. Marlon...Something came up..." He panting.

"...Something came up, huh?" Marlon made a fake sneer. "Just another excuse for your laziness." He got up from his chair and walked towards him, Keel was starting get nervous as Marlon started to raise his voice. "When I say be here first thing in the morning, I mean it...And I had just about enough of this "Day off" business." Keel was sweating, thinking that he's going to lose his job. "Thereby, you leave me with no choice but to...but to..." Marlon's seriousness is starting to crack, Keel raised an eyebrow. "But to...PFFFFFFFFFFFFTHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Marlon started to laugh loudly as he hugs Keel tightly, startling the young man. "I'm gonna give you a-"

"Pink slip?" Keel asked.

"Yes..wait, no no no no! I'm giving you a raise." When he said that, Keel's glasses fell off of his face. Marlon was able to catch it for him.

"...A-a-are you serious!?" Keel said in surprise.

"Yes! And I'm also making you my partner."

"P-Partner?...I don't know what to say, this is so sudden!"

"How about: "Thank you for the turkey you delivered, Mr. Marlon"."

"...That turkey...you're the one that..."

"Yes, Crat- I mean Keel...I want to help your family get back on their feet, and help pay for your daughter's medication, this is my apology for all the things I did to you in the past." Keel was surprised by what his boss was doing and how he's behaving, but at the same time he is happy to learn that he's getting the help he needed, not to mention his boss changing his ways.

"Ebenezer...you're apology is excepted...thank you for your generosity." Keel said, smiling widely.

As time went on, Marlon does all that he promises, treating his peers and their peers with kindness and generosity, helping the less fortunate, and making amends for all the wrong things he did in the past, until soon enough, the memory of his greed and cruelty is starting to fade, becoming popular among most people, of course there will be people who distrusts him, he doesn't care, he has becomes known for his Christmas spirit and forgiveness. As he was walking on the street, Marlon greeted the People around him as they greeted him back.

"Ebenezer! Ebenezer!" Marlon heard a small voice behind him, he turned to find his new partner Keel with his youngest daughter Aile, who no longer possesses a crutch, she also walks more normally as she is cured of her illness, she runs to Marlon with open arms to hug him, he hugs her back, his kindness towards Keel's family has earned him a spot as a family friend and a second father to the children. Marlon puts Aile on his shoulders as he and his partner continue their walk, wiil Aile proclaiming once more:

"God bless us, every one!"

End of Act 5

#evillious chronicles #fanfiction #crossover #a christmas carol #christmas

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porkchop-ao3 · 6 years

Text

RickCon’18: Part 1/3

Part two, Part three

Thank you to @hoodoo12 and @ricksanchezbae for this idea and for encouraging other people to give it a go, I had a lot of fun writing this :)

My take on RickCon focuses mostly on two OC's, one I've written for before and one I haven't. This could be seen as sort of a sequel to my Tailor Rick fic, so I’d recommend reading that if you haven’t already just for some context :) also, I drew him here, so you can check that out if you want a visual! A couple of people wanted to see him again, so I hope you like this.

This series will be SFW, just some implied sex (not involving reader) and some Rick-like flirting :) Enjoy!

“Absolute bloody pricks.” Rick muttered, inspecting the cuff on my arm with a clear expression of distaste. “Th-that ruins the whole ensemble.”

The stylist who had been applying my eyeshadow turned away momentarily and I took the opportunity to look down at the cuff for myself. While the wristband didn't do my outfit any favors, I wouldn't go as far as to say it was ruined. I read the neon code once more; HF-002, and tried to swallow down the sensation of disbelief. I hadn't had an awful lot of time to adjust, it'd been months since I'd heard from Rick Sanchez after receiving my custom gown in the mail, and suddenly I was here. In some strange place away from earth, entirely populated by Ricks and Mortys. I hadn't been expecting to hear from Rick ever again, but when a letter slipped through my door requesting that I visit him at my earliest convenience, I'd been too curious to ignore it.

That's how I found myself at RickCon. Apparently, Rick hosted a number of events at the convention, including a charity clothing auction to raise money for… trunk people in need? I'd quickly learned that he was a very generous person, though only for his own benefit. When I first met him, he'd gifted me a one of a kind, custom made dress worth thousands, purely so that he could feel good about himself. He'd made no attempt to hide that the charity auction was no different. Anyway, he needed models, and for some reason he thought I'd be suitable. I'd laughed in his face at first, but when he explained the citadel to me; infinite realities and alternate versions of him all gathering in one place, I had to see it for myself.

“I don't understand why they can't just make an exception for me. I assume it's because they're jealous, n-not many Rick's make a name for themselves in their original dimension. There's far too much hopping around for my liking.” He continued as the stylist returned to applying my makeup.

“Almost done, sweetie.” the stylist said almost boredly. He was another Rick, dressed in pink with the sides of his head shaved, the rest of his hair swept upwards to make for a particularly striking hairstyle.

“I-I-I explained to them that this is a fashion show. I'm aware that the majority of Rick's wear the same grotty lab coat day in, day out, but surely they understand that that.” Tailor Rick pointed accusationally at the wristband. “Is the opposite of fashion!”

“Relax! It looks fine. Nobody will even care and anyway, this is for the uh, the… what are they? The trunk people.” I said, trying to move my face as little as possible as to not disrupt the stylist.

“Oh, right.” He scoffed. “Of course, the trunk people.” I didn't need to see him know he was rolling his eyes.

“All done.” The stylist said, leaning back and giving me a once over.

“Finally. W-we have about five minutes until we're starting. Cutting it a little fine, aren't we?” Rick said, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at the stylist.

“I'll have you know I'm the president's personal stylist. If you want the kind of perfectionism I deliver, you need to give me more than half an hour.” The stylist quipped, turning his back on the other Rick as he bent over to gather the various brushes and makeup products on his desk. I glanced over to the tailor, raising my brows when I caught him checking out the ass on his alternate self.

“You shouldn't need more than half an hour to paint some slap on her face. The real time consumer is teaching her how to walk, since her parents clearly didn't do a very good job-”

“Oi! I can walk just fine when I'm not tottering around on stilts!” I said defensively.

“Stilts? They're mere kitten heels.” He scoffed. I very nearly growled. My initial attraction to him had quickly disappeared with prolonged contact, at this point I couldn't understand how he'd made me so wet and flustered throughout that dress fitting. I must've been hormonal… or something. “Anyway, get up, we're starting soon.”

I rose to my feet, straightening out the dress I was wearing. I had another six lined up for me to change into throughout the course of the auction, and two Ricks lined up to help me do so. The gown I was going out in first was a lovely, deep burgundy cocktail dress. I'd questioned Rick about why he thought it was a good idea to try and flog cocktail dresses to a room full of men. Initially, he'd reminded me that it was also a room full of alcoholics, and they'd pay attention to anything with the word cocktail in it. Or course, that was his idea of a joke and the real reason was that apparently there wasn't just going to be Ricks at this convention. They often brought along any significant others they had, and some just happened to be women.

Now that was a comforting concept and definitely gave me another reason to agree to being his model for the afternoon. At least if I was going to a Rick and Morty convention, there would be other people like me attending too, it'd give me some allies once my job was done and I'd have time to explore the convention while Rick hosted his panel; More than just a lab coat: Style tips for the working Rick.

“I'm going out there first to introduce the event, your Rick-sistants will send you out on cue.” He told me, taking me by the elbow and guiding me towards the entrance to the stage, where the two Rick's that'd be helping me change were standing, both of them suited up semi-formally, their hair a lot different to Tailor Rick's in that it was spiky, sticking out in all directions.

“Oh God.” I said as I caught a glimpse through the gap in the temporarily erected wall that separated the dressing area from the main stage. I could see the crowd, and although it was no Royal Albert Hall, it was more people than I was accustomed to standing in front of. “Remind me why you chose me instead of an actual, professional model?”

“For the same reason I chose you to create a dress for. Your figure is…” he trailed off, glancing down at my chest. “You will be appreciated here more than my regular ladies.” He said, and I flushed.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Well, most of the audience members ha-have no intention of buying anything.” He said, peaking out at the crowd. “Normally it's the same three Ricks buying anything, and half of the audience disappears once all the women's wear has been sold.”

“So they're just here to ogle?” I asked, and Rick turned to smirk at me.

“Of course.” He told me. “Apart from those with Sugar Babies in need of gifts.”

“I thought this was a nice thing. You know? For charity.” I frowned, crossing my arms.

“Oh, but it still is, isn't it? The charity will get their money, the Ricks will get their entertainment. Everyone's a winner.”

“Except for me.” I pointed out, he turned and looked me directly in the eye.

“Quite the contrary. Now you'll have an opportunity to seek out a Rick who's willing to satisfy your cravings.” He told me, leaving me confused.

“I'm sorry?”

“You have quite the appetite for me, correct? I-I-I seem to recall you were going to ask me on a date after your dress fitting. I'm sorry that my professional ground rules prevent me from accepting, but I'm sure many of the Ricks here will have no such qualms.” He smiled politely, and my face flushed in a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“Appetite? Are you mad? Perhaps when we first met I was taken by your charisma and charm, but let me tell you, my appetite has been more than filled over the past few days of incessant complaining, rudeness and bossiness.” I scolded him, jabbing my finger into his chest. My words seemed to amuse him.

“It’s time. Carry that boldness with you out on stage, my dear.” He said, and with that, he turned the corner onto the stage, and I heard him addressing the crowd and willing them to settle down.

It was barely a minute before I was being ushered on stage. I stepped out into the open, momentarily freezing as I scanned the crowd, every face was almost identical, row after row of Ricks. I noticed a couple of other faces too, the occasional Morty, a few Summers here and there, but it was mostly Ricks. Barely a second had passed when I got ahold of myself and walked forwards. Of course, I completely forgot how to walk; well, in the way that Rick had taught me, so I simply strolled and stood at the edge of the stage with my hand clasped behind my back so nobody could see how much they were shaking. My face felt hot under all their eyes, I noticed the leering smirks from the audience members, and noticed how they whispered to each other. I made eye contact with a few of them, gaining a wink from one, and a brow wiggle from another. I found myself giggling, enjoying the attention despite the initial nerves.

Before I knew it, the dress had been sold, and I was given my cue to leave the stage and get changed. A model Rick took my place on stage, wearing a hot pink suit. I wondered about the kind of Rick that would consider buying such a loud outfit.

“Quickly, baby. Let's get you out of th-that dress.” One of the Ricks waiting for me said, coming up behind me and unzipping the garment. The other Rick held onto my hand to keep me stable as I stepped out of my shoes. One dress was stripped off of me, and just as quickly another was being shimmied up my hips. I didn't have time to feel exposed, and the two men made me feel more than at ease with their professionalism.

“Wow, you look fantastic in this one. This oughta fetch a g-good price.” The other told me as he buttoned up the front of it. The Rick behind me was tying up a bow in the back, pulling it taught. I glanced down at the dress, all black silk with white buttons going up the front of the bodice, sleeveless with a boat neck and a ribbon running around my waist. I felt very sophisticated wearing it.

And fetch a good price it did. Standing out on stage, I felt a little more confident the second time around, and turned from side to side, giving the audience a three-sixty view of the dress. The numbers called out by the auctioneer just went up and up until they were in the thousands, and even though I had no idea what currency was being used, I was surprised at how much people were willing to pay for a single item of clothing. It sold for seven and a half thousand, and Rick was right when he'd said it would be the same few Ricks bidding, I only saw about four different hands going up throughout the whole thing.

The third dress made me nervous. It was the shortest of them all, hitting at mid thigh; a lot shorter than I would usually go for. It was also practically skin tight, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination; though it had a high neckline and long sleeves, so at least I had some modesty in that department. It was navy blue with a wide white stripe going across the bust. Rick had pointed out to me that it was one of his apprentice's (coincidentally his grandson, Morty's) designs and he was only selling it to get it out of his studio; he preferred a more refined, classy style.

I noticed his blatant eye roll when I stepped out on stage, and the room roared with wolf whistles and undeniably carnal sounding cheers. He snapped something about reeling it in, you bunch of animals, to the crowd, which was mostly ignored. A Rick in the front row dressed in pastel colours, a bow-tie around his neck, stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out an ear piercing whistle, and when I looked at him he blew me a kiss and called out something that sounded Spanish, I caught the phrase bella dama in there somewhere.

“Thank you, to the gentleman in pink shirt, starting us off at six hundred!” The auctioneer called, and the Rick who'd whistled to me went pale.

“What the fuck, no! I-I-I didn't!” He quickly stammered, earning a collective howl of laughter from the entire room.

“I'm sorry, sir, all bids are final. Anyone for seven hundred?” Was the response he got. Not a single hand in the room flew up.

“Come on! Y-you fucking bunch of assholes, someone wants that! You're just- you're just-” He growled, glancing around the room, a few snickers could be heard. I'd never seen such a large group of people working together just to screw some guy over. It was actually quite impressive. A classic case of cutting one's nose off to spite the face, it was obvious by the dress’s reception that there would otherwise be a bidding war.

“No? At six hundred, then. Going once, twice…” The auctioneer announced, then the hammer came down.

“Fuck you guys!” The Rick in pink spat, crossing his arms and slamming his back against the chair.

“Lighten up, buddy. It's for the trunk people!” Some Rick from the back called through unrestrained laughter.

“And fuck you especially!” He retorted. I offered him an apologetic smile, feeling somewhat responsible, before I left.

The rest of the auction went off without a hitch, and once all of the dresses were sold I was left to change back into my own clothes as the designer gear was packaged up ready to be distributed to the buyers at the end of the auction. I was tasked with helping the assistant Ricks with the packaging; each dress was wrapped up in a garment bag inscribed with Tailor Rick's logo, then folded up neatly inside a sturdy, fancy black box with magnetic clasps on the lid, which was again decorated with the logo in silver metallic foil. Also inside the box came a certificate of authenticity and a thank you letter from the charity. Finally, the box was placed inside a gift bag and a note with the dimension number of each buyer was stuck to the side, then it was taken off to a different room ready to be collected and paid for.

I waited around until the end of the auction to see Rick, only for him to bypass me and go straight into a private dressing room. I tried not to feel irritated by this; I didn't have a private dressing room, I'd had to change out in the open with at least three Ricks standing around. When he came back out, he had changed into a more casual suit; something cooler and more stylish than the traditional black and white number he'd been wearing beforehand. This suit was covered in a Paisley pattern, and it was a deep teal colour. Underneath, his shirt was black, as were his shoes and tie. He looked very chic and handsome. He approached me, straightening out his tie and adjusting his collar.

“You did well out there, aside from the fact you walked like a baby rhinoceros.” He teased, though he was smiling.

“Bit of an exaggeration.” I pointed out, looking him up and down and feeling extremely dowdy in my jeans and t-shirt.

“Not at all.” He smirked, then plucked a piece of lint off my shoulder. “I have my other event in an hour, so I'm going to have to stay here to h-help prepare the room. Y-you're free to go, however.”

“Oh? What shall I do?” I asked stupidly and he held eye contact with me for a moment before answering.

“Well, you could always go and enjoy the convention.” He suggested with an amused tone. I rolled my eyes.

“Why didn't I think of that?” I said sarcastically. “I mean, on my own? Just… just walk around this place?”

“Yes. You're a big girl, aren't you? You're capable of independence?” He raised his brow.

“Yes, it's just…” I trailed off and chewed the inside of my mouth. “It's a little daunting.”

“You'll be fine. You can't leave without me with you, so if you're worried about some other Rick trying to snatch you away, don't be.” He said all too casually.

“I wasn't worried about that… but I am now.” I furrowed my brow and stared at him, he simply chuckled in response.

“Go, attend some of the panels, try some of the food, and if you get overwhelmed there are plenty of places for you to go and catch a breather.” He said, taking my shoulders and turning me around to push me towards the exit.

“Okay, you have your phone with you, right?”

“Yes. But don't try to contact me.” He said bluntly.

“But what if there's an emergency?” I asked, turning around to face him once he'd got me out the door.

“Then I suppose that's an exception. But you'd better be dying, otherwise I-I don't want an interruption!” He rolled his eyes again. “Meet me back here in two hours. Have fun. Oh, and I put some money in your purse, g-go wild.” He added flatly, before the door was closed in my face.

I stared at the frosted glass for a while before taking a deep breath and turning around.

“Fuck.” I breathed, staring out at the mass of people in front of me, a sea of blue white and yellow with barely anything in between.

Tbc.

#rick and morty #rick sanchez x reader #fanfiction #rickcon #oc ricks

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myselfinserts · 4 years

Note

❝ you are lucky to have a family, that’s all i’ve ever wanted. ❞

“Damn, stupid, fuckingneck trap.”

“Relax, Regi, it look fine onyou.”

Regi let out a sigh, finishingadjusting his tie as the elevator ascended to the top floor. It was ReginaldGladstone’s first day in court as a defense attorney. His uncle was only actingas aid this time. It was a murder case. Definitely not what anyone else wouldhave taken as a first. But the accused was an old friend of the family, theirneighbor and local mailman Mr. Clifton. The old man didn’t have a violent bonein his body. Regi couldn’t leave this case to anyone else. Still, thatdidn’t stop him from being terrified. First case nerves, he supposed.

In hindsight, perhaps he shouldhave taken Elbert’s advice on leaving this case to someone else.

Ohwell, hethought. Too late now. I just have to fight hard.

Elbert let out a huff as theirelevator finally arrived and rolled out. “Honestly Regi. No need to getall flustered.”

“I’m not flustered, I’mnauseous.” Regi sighed, gripping the handle of his suitcase tightly as hefollowed after his uncle. “I just hope I’ll manage to surpass expectationsand save Mr. Clifton. He doesn’t deserve to be put behind bars. He’s such a sweetold man.”

“It is strange someone decidedfor him to be the fall guy.”

“I don’t think it was just that,”Regi said. “There feels like there’s a piece missing. Like, isn’t it kind of weird there wasn’t any mail in the house? Even the most immaculate home owners leave junk mail out. And Mr. Clifton said he’s been having to deliver strange packages to for sale houses lately...”

“Now you’re thinking like a defense attorney.” Elbert reached up and pat him on the back. “Keep that in your back pocket. It might come in handy.”

The two came to a stop justoutside the defendant’s lobby. Out of all the people he expected, he didn’texpect Madame Rosine to be waiting for them. He especially didn’t expect her ina soft pink suit jacket with a black skirt and a cravat. Last time they’d runinto each other was at a charity event, where she wore a black velvet dressthat accentuated her red eyes and soft white hair. No matter what she wore, sheterrified him.

Elbert, on the other hand,seemed almost mesmerized. Almost. Hard to staymesmerized when your longtime rival shows up unannounced.

Rosine gave the two a politenod, raising an eyebrow. "So, today's your first trial and you bring anold man and a green suit. Not exactly what I call a well prepared look,Gladstone."

Regi felt his face heat fromembarrassment. "I…it's the only suit I have, Madame. Plus, forest greenlooks good on me."

"Ésme, stop it," Elbertgrumbled. "Kid's already nervous enough as it is. Doesn't need the ChiefProsecutor criticizing his wardrobe before his first case. That's what thatAllard kid is for."

"Hey! Don't talk aboutÉtienne like-"

Rosine scoffed, looking themboth over. "You sure you're in a position to talk, Manabu? Last I checkedpolka dot ties and graphic shirts aren't allowed in courtroom 1202."

Elbert pouted. His eye began totwitch at the sound of his given name. "This is a protest for the lack ofaccessible ramps in this fucking building! As you can clearly see-"

"The shirt says 'where's myfucking ramp'. Yes, I understand." Her stern gaze turned soft. "Didyou file a complaint with the city council?"

"Of course!"

"I'll take care of it then.I know who to kick to get shit done. Expect the ramps by the end of themonth."

"Oh." Elbert's faceturned a deep shade of violet. All anger, vanished. "Well, uh. Thanks, Iguess."

"Not a problem,"Rosine assured. "Anything for an old friend."

Regi looked between thembriefly. He wasn't sure why, but by the looks on their faces and the way Elbertwas blushing, he was sure he was seeing something he wasn't meant to be seeing.Something tender. Something secret.

Definitely somethingI'll have to ask Marianne about later.

He quietly tried to tiptoeaway, before getting tapped on the shoulder by Rosine's teacher's pointer. Hefroze, slowly turning to look at her. "Y-yes, ma'am?"

"I just stopped byto wish you luck," Rosine assured. "No need to be so nervous aroundme. Just focus on taking this case through to the end." She smiled."You can handle this, Mr. Gladstone."

Regi relaxed, resistingthe urge to hug her. "Thank you, Madame. I'll do my best." He paused."Uh…if it's not too off limits, you wouldn't happen to know who I'm goingup against?"

"Just Evelake.You've met before, right?"

"Yeah, we used tobe classmates. Been a while." He tried his best to hide hisdisappointment. Milon Evelake was a fine prosecutor, he wouldn't deny. But hewasn't the person Regi had been envisioning as his first opponent. He expected someonemore…

Oh, who am I kidding? hethought. I was hoping for them. Not him. Dammit.

"Knock themdead," Rosine said, turning to leave.

Elbert lookeddisappointed. "You're not gonna stay and watch?"

"I have to sit inon another prosecutor for their evaluation coming up. Were I not needed there,I'd be happy to watch your protégé in action. Good day, gentlemen."

Regi watched her go for but a moment before holding the door open for Elbert. “Do you think the person she’s observing is-”

“Focus on your client,” Elbert chided. “Don’t make me have to take over for you mid-trial because you’re pining.”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk.”

“EXCUSE ME?! ELBERT SILVERSON DON’T DO PINING!”

Regi let out a groan. Between the case, Evelake, and Rosine, he was not ready at all.

I need a miracle.

Yep. I need a miracle.

Regi was panicking, going over the evidence again. The testimony given by Rally d’Villaine was almost airtight. No contradictions. It wasn’t hard. Everyone in the neighborhood knew Mr. Clifton’s daily routine. It wasn’t that hard to recall. But unlike Evelake, who seemed more or less content with the evidence, Regi knew it would be easy to lie about this.

“I saw Mr. Clifton walk up to Vicky and Tim’s house around 11:45 in the morning on Thursday while working on my car. They let him inside after he knocked, like usual. Vicky always makes him a cup of coffee while on his routes. He exited the house about ten minutes later, blood on his clothes and a pained expression on his face. I panicked and called the police before locking myself in the garage so he wouldn’t kill me too. The police showed up not long after that.”

Evelake snickered. “As you can see, your Honor, Mr. d’Villaine’s testimony lines up with the autopsy report. The defendant was scene going into the house around the same time as the time of death. He was covered in both victims’ blood, and his fingerprints were on the murder weapon. I’d say that’s sufficient enough. He even has a key to the house!”

There has to be a contradiction here. Something is really really off about this. What could it...wait...he said it was Thursday...That’s it!

Regi slammed his hands on the bench. His blood boiled and his voice was tight as he managed to shout at the top of his lungs.

“OBJECTION!!!”

Everyone stared at him. The audience was whispering rapidly. Rally seemed near terrified. The judge was in shock. Elbert was smirking knowingly. Evelake, however, almost seemed smitten. He tried to ignore that.

“You claimed that my client was at the Rosenbelle house on the day of the murder for coffee,” Regi stated. “While that’s a very common occurrence even I can attest to, Mr. Clifton and the Rosenbelles don’t do coffee on Thursdays.” He walked up to the evidence table, holding up a bag of receipts. “These are the receipts Mr. Clifton keeps from every trip he takes to the Rose Dust Cafe, which his wife owns and runs. On Thursdays, however, she volunteers at the local senior center during the lunch rush-”

“Objection,” Milon cooed. “Why is any of this relevant?”

“I’m getting to that, your Honor.”

The judge nodded. “Very well. Continue, but get to the point.”

“Yes, your Honor.” Regi opened the bag, laying the receipts out in order of date. “Mr. Clifton drops off his wife at the senior center before returning to the cafe and ordering the Hero’s Heart Lunch Special, Tim’s favorite. And he brings it over by noon so Tim can have it with his medication!” He holds up the receipt for the day of the murder. “As you can see, his signature is clearly legible on the receipt, which is marked for 11:48 am. Considering it’s almost a twenty minute walk from the cafe, there’s no way that he could have been there when Mr. d’Villaine claims he was!”

Rally’s hands started to shake. “B-but he, uh, took his car! Yeah! That’s it!”

“Mr. and Mrs. Clifton don’t have a car. Mr. Clifton walks all over town and avoids being behind the wheel for his health. Poor eye-sight plus high cholesterol and diabetes? He wasn’t going to chance it. Even has a doctor’s note for work allowing him to continue his job with the postal service on foot.” Regi grinned, feeling a rush. “Pretty easy to do, given how small Elspie Village is. If you want, we can call his doctor and the employees of both the cafe and the post office on shift that day. As well as the staff at the senior center. Pretty sure a whole lot of people would be willing to testify, given that Mr. Clifton is the town’s only reliable mailman.”

“Th-that doesn’t mean shit!” Rally shouted. “What about his fingerprints?! Huh?! They’re all over the murder weapon!!!”

“He’s got you there, Regi-poo,” Milon teased. “What do you say to that?”

Regi shrugged. “Of course his prints would be on the wrench. It’s from his tool kit. That he lends out frequently to his neighbors and uses to help them with repairs on his off days. It’d be stranger if his prints weren’t on it.” He held up the wrench, pointing to a mark on the handle. “His initials are right there on the handle. Narrowing down who else used the prints would take us through the whole neighborhood.” He leveled his eyes on the witness. “Though according to Mr. Clifton, Vicky said she lent the tools to one of the other neighbors for a car project. And there’s only three people on that particular street who own cars.” He aimed a finger at the witness, eyes ablaze with a strong determination. “And YOU claimed you were working on your car that day!”

“W-wait-” Rally started.

“You live right across the street-”

“Wait a minute-”

“You know Mr. Clifton’s routine-”

“I said wait-”

“You’re one of the only people who own a car on that street-”

“Shut up-”

“It would have been easy for you to get into the house and kill Vicky and Tim Rosenbelle!”

The witness let out a long, choking squawk of a groan, pulling at his hair and shaking his entire upper body side to side. The court was starting to errupt from shock. The judge smacked down the gavel to try and bring back order. Regi felt confident he was on the right path.

Evelake, however, couldn’t stop laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Regi asked.

“Nothing really,” Milon shrugged. “Just that I don’t see why little ol’ Rally here would wanna kill Vicky and Tim. Everyone loved those old coots, right? Why would Rally kill them?”

“....Yeah,” Rally said slowly, regaining composure. “Why would I wanna kill them?”

Dammit, Regi thought. I thought I almost had him. But the motive. They want a motive. Why would he wanna- Wait, that’s it! I got it!

“It’s because of the mail!” Regi declared. “Mr. Clifton mentioned that he’d been delivering strange packages to that street to various houses marked as ‘for sale’ as of late. However, as stated before his eyesight is failing. While he is the best mailman in the village, even he wouldn’t be immune to sometimes accidentally delivering the wrong package to the wrong house. Whatever has been coming in the mail might have been valuable enough to kill for. At least, to the killer, anyway. And the entire Rosenbelle house was cleared of every piece of mail, right down to the junk mail and magazines.” He tried to hold back from marching up and punching the man. “If I had to guess, based on your little hobby and the fact you work at a dealership, I’d say you’re smuggling illegal or stolen car parts, but guessing isn’t what need to be doing. I’d like to request Rally d’Villaine’s mail be brought in as evidence-”

“There’s no need for that....” Rally sank to the floor, shaking as he gripped the podium. “No need at all.”

The judge raised a brow. “Meaning?”

“...It’s over...I confess...I did it.” He sighed, tears filling his eyes. “Vicky and Tim opened one of the packages when they heard something break. I’d come over to collect them without being noticed but they saw me and asked what it was ‘since I’m so tech savvy’ and asked if it could be fixed. I panicked. I had the tool belt on. By the time I came to my senses...” He looked over at the defendant. “I’m sorry, Mr. Clifton. I never meant to frame you.”

“I forgive you, dear boy.” Mr. Clifton gave him a sad smile. While the apology sounded sincere, and probably was, Regi knew that Mr. Clifton would never fully accept it. His best friends were gone. That was a pain he’d carry for the rest of his days. But he had too big a heart to let the man go to prison without hearing those words.

The bailifs took Rally d’Villaine out of the courtroom in cuffs. The room had gone quiet. Regi returned to the bench to hear the verdict.

Mr. Clifton was declared ‘Not Guilty’.

Regi stayed in the defense lobby for nearly an hour after the trial, sipping on the cheap coffee served there. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t believe he won his first case, but it was bittersweet. He’d known the Rosenbelles. He’d known their friendship with the Cliftons was one of the most important parts of the village. Everyone would be mourning for a long time. The community would probably never emotionally recover from his. They still hadn’t from the even over a decade ago.

“Come on,” Elbert said softly. “We better get going before we hit traffic. I’m sure Tanith wants to update us on her training.”

“...Okay.” Reluctantly, Regi got up from the couch and followed his uncle to the elevator.

Elbert reached out and took his hand. “Hey. You did good, youngblood. I’m proud of you.”

Regi nodded. “It hurt.”

“It does sometimes.”

“Does it get better?”

“No...but it gets easier.”

“Better than nothing, I guess....”

They got into the elevator, descending in silence. Soon he’d have to take another case. He’d proved himself today. There’d be expectations now. He’d meet them as best he can.

I just wish I’d not gone against Evelake. I’d rather it’d have been-

The elevator made it to the ground floor. The doors opened.And Regi couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped him.

Milon was standing in the lobby, talking to someone in a white mask covered in flowering red vines. They were holding a poncho in on arm, a suitcase in hand, and a stack of papers in the other arm. They wore a lovely white shirt with a wine waistcoat and black trousers. Regi knew that puff of blue hair anywhere.

“Luci! Hey, Luci!”

The masked person looked over at the sound of their name, quickly turning back to bid goodbye to Milon before hurrying out the building. Regi felt his heart sink.

“What was that about?” Evelake asked. “Normally Adaire sticks around to check out the newbies.”

“No idea,” Regi sighed. “I wish they’d talk to me...”

“Probably intimidated by your psychic-lawyer family.” Milon shook his head. “You are lucky to have a family. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. And I’m sure they want it too. Under that weird mask, that is.” He gave Regi a wink before heading to the door. “If you’re interested, you know where to find me.”

Regi watched him go, sighing in defeat. “This is gonna be a long career...”

#myselfinserts #mybnhaocs #friends ocs #class of aus: attorney aces #Regi is so done with everything and just wants to talk to a specific person #poor regi has to deal with pining uncle and flirty prosecutor man #Anonymous

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sillyfudgemonkeys · 7 years

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How I think P3D should go down pt 3.

(prev/pt 2) Wow, part 3 so fast after we had to wait 2 months for part 2? Welp when Atlus says they have new announcements planned coming up….I realized I gotta write this as fast as possible (good thing this is just a general idea/summary instead of a fanfic 8U) Plus I still have to do those (2) P5 Arena game summaries (which will be a lot shorter as I just only have the general plot, but I can’t do it till I finish the P3D thing). But yeah be this prediction right or wrong, god forbid that at least one thing in here is predicted and I didn’t get a chance to write it down (and I don’t want that to happen again so yeah 8U)

Ok so the scene opens up with a montage of the SOs investigating the city. They later meet up to debrief on what they’ve found. In the end they didn’t ifnd anything, tho Junpei, who was assigned to a museum, makes a quip “I hope this place burns to the ground so I don’t have to go in there ever again.” Aigis/Labyrs will also make a quip that she met a talking dog/cat while investigating. Mitsuru states that maybe they should rendezvous with Yu, Naoto, and Rise tomorrow (as Yu and Naoto will be arriving/free tomorrow evening, and Rise will also have a break tomorrow evening as well), she says according to Rise they will be welcomed at the studio so they will meet up there. And the scene ends.

(hey hey anyone picking up on my hints as to where the setting takes place? 8U)

The next scene is a montage happening over at Ni’s side, where she is running around yet again (going from training, to teaching lessons, to showing off assignments, doing coffee runs, to even taking up new assignments cause her fellow coworkers are like “ehhh you can do it better anyways, btw I need it by next week”) She has an energetic smile on her face as she accepts each request, tho you can hear in her voice get a little more tired each time. At the end you hear her mumbling about still not getting the letter. The scene ends, ending day 3.

(ok ok, phew set up is about done guys I swear, now we’re getting to the catalyst that starts off what’s going to lead into the dance battle shadow stuff I swear ;w; )

The scene opens up with Ni feeling a lot more upbeat. She states she has a good feeling that her letter will arrive today (she also arranged her mail to be delivered/forward to her at the studio as opposed to her apartment that day). Everything is going great at work too. Later in the afternoon she has a lesson with Maiko, which goes over very well. As the leave the room they were in, the front desk secretary runs up to her and gives her a letter, the letter Ni had been waiting for. Ni, excited, is about to open a letter when a fellow coworker storms up to her. He starts yelling at her where was the stuff she was suppose to work on for him. Ni claims she didn’t have anything assigned to her by him nor had he asked her to do anything. Her internal monologue states that her coworker is probably trying to cover his own ass by pushing the blame onto her (I should note that up until this point, she kept all her negative emotions out of her internal monologues). She attempts reason with her coworker in a calm manner but in the end he pushes all the blame onto her. She keeps a calm façade but in her internal monologues she is fuming. Trying not to be shaken and to get away from the stares that her fellow coworkers were throwing at her, she darts off to a different part of the building. She begins to open up the letter (now this is where I wouldn’t mind an animated cutscene, or at least a partial one towards the end but yeah):

Ni: Finally! *opens letter* Now let’s see…. We have regret to inform you that- Ni: *shocked ellipses* Ni: *now panicked/in turmoil* W-what? I…I don’t understand….I got the top mark on the exam….W-wh-why didn’t I get in???? Ni: *racing thoughts* Nononono calm down there’s still time, it’ll just take a little longer than planned-BUT I DON’T HAVE TIME! Each precious second that slips away makes it that much farther out of your reach-But if I graduate both undergrad and grad school at the top of my class while acing the exam a few more times all while maintaining this demanding job it’ll show off my work ethic and maybe courry favor with-NO! Have you learnt nothing, this kind of thing has happened before and you know how that turned out. Padding that resume of yours won’t do you any good, they’ve already made up their minds about you-Nonono if I just work a little harder I can still do this, there must be another way maybe-THERE IS NO OTHER WAY! You’ll never get it now, you might as well end yo- (Familiar, probably Rise’s) nearby voice (which cuts off Ni’s thought process): Kirijo-san! It’s so great to see you again. Ni: *snaps out of it, shocked* What? A coworker/boss’s voice: Ahhh, Kirijo-san it really is a pleasure for you to come by, may I give you a tour? Mitsuru: No that is quite alright, Kujikawa can show us around just fine I believe. Rise: Ahhh yeah I think I can manage that. Ni: *still shocked* No way….*as if possessed she slowly starts to walk towards the voices that are around the corner* Ni: *thinking* No way…so….so soon? Junpei: *whose voice starts growing closer* Well let’s get this tour going Rissette! Here I’ll lead the wa-AHRG! *junpei had rounded the corner and slammed into Ni* Junpei: Nnnnggg HEY! Why don’t you watch where your go-oh! Oh um, sorry about that Miss. Ni: *looking down at her butt and rubbing it, thinking* Ow, hey you were the one running indoors….. Aigis: Junpei-san, I believe this was all your fault. I think you need to apologize more properly. *leans down with her hand out* Hello, can you stand? Ni: Hm? *slowly looks up and meets Aigis’ eyes* Ni: *gasps as intense fear and panick flood her eyes* Aigis: *finally looking into the girls’ eyes, matching her intensity with her own confusion* H-huh? Ni: *we see flashes of fire and a wrecked car flood her mind, with a far off blonde figure amidst it all* Ni: *starts to back away like a cornered animal* No..NO! STAY AWAY! *starts to scramble to her feet* I DON’T WANT TO DIE! *runs off* *The rest of the SOs plus Rise round the corner wondering what the fuss is about* Yukari: What on earth was that?! Junpei, what did you do? Junepi: I-I didn’t do anything damnit! Akihiko: W-who cares let’s just go after her! *everyone starts to run off after her but Aigis* Aigis: That girl….where have I….? *shakes it off and runs after Ni as well*

Back to Ni, we see her running through the halls frantically (even passing by Maiko on the way). She ends up near a private bathroom and flings herself into it and locks the door. She leans over the sink, she’s starting to visibly sweat. Her mind keeps flashing between Aigis, Mitsuru’s name, the fire-y car, the rejection letter, and it just keeps going around and around faster and faster (as this also happens, it flashes to the SOs who are still chasing after her, but now the world is flashing between the normal world and the Dark Hour at a rapid pace) until it’s broken by someone placing two hands on her shoulders. The problem is that the hands are coming from in front of her, you know…..where there is a sink and a wall…and a mirror. She slowly looks up and sees the disembodied arms leading to the mirror where supposedly her reflection is. Her reflection looks at her, eyes turning yellow, with a twisted smile. “Oh you poor child….. You’re hurt, so so hurt. Those horrible people…..but don’t worry…..I can help you.” With that she pulls Ni inti the mirror as Ni let’s out an ear piercing shriek.

(this Mirror scene is suppose to reflect P4D’s diary-Kanami remembers scene)

Seeing that the door is locked, the SOs break it down the door to see Ni is nowhere to be found.

End pt 3

(really gonna end it there? Yeah well the next one or two parts I’m gonna blast through and it’ll be even more summarized so yeah…trying to finish this before March 26 so yeah sorry ;w;)

pt 4

#persona 3 #p3 #persona 3 portable #p3p

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sunflowerseedsandscience · 7 years

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X-Files Fic: Reminiscence, Chapter One

Timeline: Post-revival, but assuming that “My Struggle II” never happened. Rating: PG, for language only. Summary: This fic was prompted by an awesome video by the amazing @mulderswaterbed, which you can watch here. Mulder wakes one morning to find that Scully has disappeared, and is told- by those he trusts- that she has been dead for over twenty years. All of the evidence- and even Mulder’s own memories- seem to back it up. But is it true? Or can Mulder not trust anyone- himself included?

A quick note: Plenty of y’all are going to be SCREAMING at me when you finish this chapter, but please, stay with me! I promise not to steer you wrong!

In his dreams, there are flashing lights, loud noises, the high, keening sound of the wind, and, he could swear, someone calling his name in a panic... though it could have just been more wind. He wakes once, barely, just enough to register that it's storming outside, raining instead of snowing because it's been a warm winter.

When he wakes for the day, hours later, her side of the bed is cold, empty, the covers pulled up to the pillow and tightly tucked in. He tries to think back to the conversation they'd had before bed- had she said anything about leaving early? He could have sworn they'd decided to drive to work together today. He retrieves his smartphone from the nightstand, but there are no new texts, no missed phone calls. He rolls onto his back with a groan, staring up at the badly cracked ceiling that he's been meaning to re-plaster for years.

He tells himself that maybe she'd discovered, upon waking, that she'd forgotten something important at her apartment back in DC, and she hadn't wanted to wake him up when she'd realized she'd have to go home before heading to the Hoover building. Or maybe she'd discovered that he'd run out of coffee earlier this week, and she's making a quick Starbucks run so that she doesn't have to begin the day sans caffeine.

Maybe she's on her way back here, even now.

But when seven-thirty has come and gone, and Mulder has showered, shaved, and donned his suit for the day, and there's still no sign of Scully, he has to conclude that, whatever the reason, she must have decided to leave the house before he'd woken up.

Without telling him.

Mulder tries to remember if there's anything he might have said, at work or after, the previous evening, that could have offended her, could have made her decide to leave in the middle of the night... but, oddly enough, he's having a hard time remembering anything that happened at work at all, and nothing from when they'd arrived back at the house. He remembers her sitting across from him at the desk in their office, frowning down at something- a report?- and pushing a lock of long hair out of her face, rolling her eyes at something ridiculous he'd said.

Wait.

Long hair?

He shakes his head sharply. He must not be getting enough sleep, if his brain is this scrambled.

At seven-forty-five, with his tie done up and his briefcase packed, Mulder concludes that he can't wait any longer to see if Scully is coming back before work. Just to be safe, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, holds down the home key, and instructs it: "Call Scully."

An electronic chime, a beat, and then the infuriatingly unhelpful digital voice states, "I don't see 'Scully' in your contacts. Should I look for a location by that name?" Mulder swears and fully unlocks the phone, goes to his contact list, and scrolls down, to find...

...nothing.

There's "Scully, Margaret," because he's felt an awful pang every time he's gone to delete Maggie's number (and it's only been a couple of weeks, anyway), but no "Scully, Dana." Swearing again, he switches to the keypad and enters her number from memory.

"The number you have reached is not a working number. Please hang up and try again." He frowns at his phone, completely mystified now. Has he mis-typed it? No, there it is, clear as day. What the hell?

One way or another, he's got an hour's drive to get to work, and he needs to leave now. Whatever's going on, he'll get to the office, see Scully, and get it sorted out. Knowing his luck, his phone's malfunctioning again. He's never quite gotten the hang of operating these things; he'd liked it much better when all he'd had to do to get connected to his entire world had been to hold down the "1" key and wait for her to pick up.

------------------------

Mulder's beat-up pickup truck pulls into the parking garage five minutes after nine o'clock. He'd made a stop for coffee, both one for him and one for Scully, and had needed to step out of the line for several minutes because, suddenly, he couldn't remember how she takes it. Black? He didn't think that was right. Cream and sugar? Nonfat milk, no sugar? That last had sounded the most likely, so he'd gone with that. But to forget his partner's coffee order after twenty-four years... something is clearly wrong in his head this morning.

The office is locked and dark when he reaches it, and his sense of unease deepens further. Scully is always on time. Has been as long as he's known her.

With worry over Scully forming a tight ball in the pit of his stomach, Mulder fires up the computer and checks his e-mail. Nothing out of the ordinary is waiting for him- Agent Miller has sent him an article on cryptids that he'd found interesting, as he's done a number of times since their meeting after the bombing in Texas, and there's the usual warning from the system administrator that his inbox is over its capacity, advising that he needs to delete older messages. He gets the same notice at least once a month; he's terrible at cleaning out his e-mails. Normally Scully has to remind him to do it.

Scully.

He frowns to himself. It's already nine-thirty and she's still not here. He glances at his phone again, but there's nothing. On the exceedingly rare occasions she's been late or taken a sick day before, she's always called, once to him and once to Skinner, to let them both know ahead of time. He tries her number again, but gets the same non-working number message. He opens his texts, preparing to ask her if she's okay (even though she won't so much as look at it if she's on the road- no matter what sounds her phone makes, if she's driving, it remains in her purse, on the floor), but is further confused when his entire text conversation with her is nowhere to be found.

He nearly hurls the phone against the wall. What is going on with this thing? What else has it randomly decided to delete? Mulder has other important things on here, saved e-mails and bookmarked websites, documents he's forwarded from the office so that he can have them on hand whenever he needs them, and if his phone is going to suddenly start losing information, it's going to be a problem.

Mulder enters Scully's number manually, and types, "Where are you? Everything okay?" into the window. After a moment's hesitation, he adds a little worried face (or at least, he thinks it's a worried face; emojis are a foreign language to him), hoping to keep the tone light. He doesn't want her to think he's obsessing, freaking out and jumping to the worst possible conclusion, when there's probably a perfectly rational explanation for all of this.

Seconds after he sends the text, it bounces back, with a message: "Error: not delivered."

It must be the phone. Clearly, he needs a new one. He reaches for the office phone sitting on the corner of his desk, gets an outside line, and dials Scully's number.

"The number you have reached is not a working number. Please hang up and-"

He slams the phone down.

What the hell is going on?

Mulder glances up at the clock again. Nine-forty-five. Screw it, he thinks to himself, standing abruptly and grabbing his overcoat. He's driving over to her apartment. If nothing is wrong, if she's just late and hasn't called, or she's taking a sick day, she's going to be annoyed with him for overreacting... but he'd rather risk her wrath than have something really be wrong, have her needing his help, and not be around to provide it.

He's prepared to throw a half-baked excuse at Skinner, or anyone else he might run into on his way out to his truck, but no one takes any notice of him. He manages to stay reasonably close to the speed limit, and to his great relief, there's a parking space big enough for his truck readily available right in the front of her building. He kills the engine, leaps out, and jogs up her front steps. Someone is exiting the building as he's entering, and he manages to catch the door before it swings shut, eliminating the need to have her buzz him in- as well as the need to use the keys that, he realizes, he's left in his briefcase at work.

The elevator is on another floor, and rather than wait for it, Mulder jogs up to the third floor and down the hall, stopping at Scully's door. He raps sharply, but for a moment, there's no answer. His heart in his throat, he knocks again. "Scully, it's me," he calls. "Open up, okay?" There's still no answer. Could she be in there, injured? Fell in the shower this morning, maybe? He pounds on the door again, aware that he's probably disturbing her neighbors. "Come on, Scully, open the door!"

He's just turning away, deciding to find the super and flash his badge to get him to open the door, when there's the clunk of locks turning, the rattle of the chain being removed, the creak of the door opening. "Thank God," says Mulder, turning back. "I was just about to-" His words freeze in his throat.

It's not Scully.

Standing in the doorway, looking completely bewildered (and not a little afraid), is an elderly woman Mulder's never seen before.

"Can I help you?" she asks, not opening the door all the way.

"I... I'm sorry," Mulder stammers. "I must have the wrong...." He glances back at the number on the door. No, this is definitely Scully's apartment. "Are you a relative of Dana's?" Maybe the woman is an aunt who's dropped in for a surprise visit, and that's what's keeping Scully. But no, the woman looks politely confused.

"Who?"

"Dana Scully," Mulder says insistently. "The woman who lives here."

"I think you have the wrong apartment," the elderly woman says, and begins to close the door. Mulder throws out an arm to stop her.

"No, please, I know I have the right address!" he insists. "I'm looking for my partner, Dana Scully. She's lived here for the past year and a half, and she didn't show up to work today, and I'm trying to-"

"I've lived here for the past four years, young man," says the woman, pushing the door against Mulder's arm. "Please leave, or I'll have to call the police." Mulder withdraws his arm, reluctantly, and the woman slams the door. He hears the locks falling back into place, and he steps back, pacing up and down the hallway, completely at a loss. What had started out as unease is quickly descending into full-blown terror.

Scully is missing. He has no idea where she is. And someone else is living in her apartment.

Mulder's head is spinning. He feels sick. He races back down to the lobby and out the front doors, hoping that the cold February air will shock him back to sanity and make everything make sense again... but all he feels is a rising sense of panic.

Skinner, he thinks to himself, racing to his truck and jumping in shoving the key roughly into the ignition. He has to find Skinner and tell him what's going on. If something has happened to Scully, Skinner will want to get to the bottom of it as quickly as possible. He'll throw the full resources of the Bureau into it, Mulder knows he will.

Skinner will help him figure it out.

-------------------------

Skinner's assistant (Kimberly left ages ago and Mulder can never remember her replacement's name) isn't at her desk, so Mulder goes straight to the office door and pounds on it.

"Come in," calls a gruff voice from within, and Mulder throws open the door and races in. The Deputy Director is seated at his desk.

"Sir," he says. "There's a problem." Skinner frowns.

"What is it, Agent Mulder?"

"Scully's missing," he says, struggling to keep the panic out of his voice. "She was at the house last night when I went to sleep, but she was gone when I woke up this morning." He can't read the expression on Skinner's face at all, but it's not a good one. He's not sure why the idea of Scully being with him last night would be upsetting; hadn't they lived together for years before she'd moved out? They have a son together, for Christ's sake. Now is not the time for Skinner to suddenly have a problem with all of this. Mulder forges ahead. "I thought maybe she'd just left early to get ready for work at home, but she never showed up this morning. Never called or anything. I couldn't get through to her on her cell phone, so I drove out to her apartment, and...." He shakes his head, still unable to make sense of the morning's events. "There's a woman there, in her apartment, a total stranger, and she says she's been living there for four years." Skinner is still silent, still looking at him with that unreadable- but frightening- expression. "Something's happened, Sir. She's in trouble. I can feel it. We have to-"

"Agent Mulder," Skinner interrupts, his voice icy cold, "is this some sort of sick joke?" Mulder's mouth drops open.

"A joke? Sir, I don't-"

"Because if it is," Skinner continues, standing slowly, "I assure you, it is in very poor taste." Now Mulder understands: Skinner thinks he and Scully are pranking him, pretending something's happened to her in order to rile him up. And Mulder has to agree that if that were what he's trying to do, it would be in poor taste. Scully's gone missing before, after all.

"No, Sir, I promise," says Mulder urgently. "It's not a joke. I would never joke about something like that. Scully's missing and we need to find her before something-"

"Agent Mulder," says Skinner, walking out from behind his desk, exuding a cold fury Mulder hasn't felt directed at him in over twenty years, "Dana Scully was shot and killed twenty-three years ago in 1994."

The world around Mulder spins alarmingly. He reels back as though Skinner's words have literally struck him. Staggering slightly to the side, his hand comes to rest on the arm of one of the two chairs sitting in front of Skinner's desk, and he looks down at it, uncomprehending.

And suddenly, Mulder is assaulted with a memory. Distant, hazy, but still there. Skinner's old office, when he'd been assistant director, their boss for less than a year. Mulder closes his eyes as the images flash before him.

A much younger Skinner, sitting in the other chair, hanging his head. His hand on Mulder's shoulder... because Mulder is sobbing, his entire body shaking. His suit jacket has been lost somewhere along the way, and his dress shirt is covered in blood. Blood that's not his. His chest is aching, is heart is completely broken and shattered, because Scully is... Scully is....

No.

Mulder shakes his head, and the image dissolves. Skinner is standing in front of him, looking more concerned now than angry.

"Agent Mulder?" His voice is cautious, worried. "What's going on?" But Mulder scarcely hears him. Skinner reaches out to clasp Mulder's arm, but he rips away, turning and tearing out of Skinner's office.

Just like at Scully's apartment building, he foregoes the elevator and flies down the stairs, not stopping until he reaches the basement. He pounds along the hallway, digging his keys out of his pocket as he goes... but when he reaches the office door, he finds it standing open, the lights on. He catches his breath. Is she here? No, the office is empty. Maybe Skinner had come down earlier, looking for him.

Mulder dashes to the file cabinet in the corner and jerks open the bottom drawer. Everything prior to 1998 had been lost in the fire, but he and Scully have spent years retrieving backup copies from every possible source. And the one he's searching for had been so important, had touched so many different divisions and individuals, that getting their hands on another copy had been no problem at all.

It's filed in the S's, under "Scully, Dana." Initially, it had been in the B's, under "Barry, Duane," but later, after the episode with Jerse, after her cancer, after Emily, and Ruskin Dam, Mulder had consolidated everything into one file so that Scully would not constantly be stumbling over her own history, no matter which drawer she opened.

Even as he seizes the file in his hands and rips it out of the drawer, he knows something is wrong. The file is much, much too thin. He flips it open, and the first thing he sees is that hated photograph, the enlarged, pixelated, black-and-white picture of Scully stuffed into the trunk of a car, staring up in abject terror at her captor. He shoves it to the side, unwilling to look at it for a second longer than he has to. Underneath is a typed-up report, one whose opening paragraphs he recognizes, and he pulls it out.

The beginning is familiar enough: Agent Dana Scully was abducted from her apartment by Duane Barry following his escape from the hospital earlier that same night. She had been in the process of leaving a message for Mulder at the time, and her abduction had been recorded on his answering machine. Lifting the report slightly, he can see a copy of the tape resting underneath. Barry had come back on the FBI's radar after killing a police officer who had stopped him while driving, and camera footage had captured Scully in the trunk of Barry's car. Mulder had deduced- correctly- that Barry had been taking Scully to Skyland Mountain, scene of his own earlier abduction, and had raced there to try and intercept him.

But here, the written account diverges from what Mulder remembers.

In Mulder's memory, he had arrived scant moments too late and had found Duane Barry shrieking his victory to an empty sky, with Scully nowhere to be found. He had taken Barry into custody, where the man had eventually died.

In the report, Mulder had come on the scene and had found Barry waiting for him, Scully clutched in front of him, a gun held to her temple. Mulder had tried to talk to Barry, to calm him down...

...and suddenly, it's happening again, just like in Skinner's office, moments ago. The memory is foggy and distorted... but he can see Duane Barry, standing in the hilltop clearing, his face wild and deranged. Scully stands before him, bound and gagged, a livid bruise on her cheek and tears in her terrified eyes. Mulder tries to keep his voice calm, soothing, but it's hard, so hard, with his partner standing there, looking as though Barry's arm around her chest is all that's holding her up.

He says something wrong.

Mulder doesn't know what it is that sets Barry off. All he knows is that the gun in Barry's hand fires, there's the bright flash of the muzzle, and Scully slumps. Barry releases her and she falls ungracefully to the ground, and less than a second later Barry, too, falls, as Mulder shoots him straight through the forehead.

Mulder sees all of this in his mind, but he does not believe it. He can't believe it. That's not how it happened.

But there, at the bottom of the report, is his signature. He wrote this. He signed it. He tucked it into this file, with....

"Oh, Jesus," Mulder moans to himself, as he looks into the bottom of the file. They would have given Scully's personal effects to her family, of course, but this, this they could not have given back, because technically, it's the property of the FBI.

From under all of the papers, Mulder withdraws a slim, leather case, and opens it.

Scully's FBI badge. Her identification. Her young, earnest face, just as it had looked when she had shaken his hand in 1993.

Mulder lurches across the office, falling to his knees in front of the trash can next to his desk and vomiting into it. He feels too weak to stand, and breathing through the pain constricting his chest feels almost impossible. He's barely aware of the sound of high heels clicking down the hallway outside, barely cognizant that someone is standing in the office doorway, until they speak.

"Fox?"

There are very few things that could penetrate the state of shock that Mulder is in... but this voice is definitely one of them. Because he hasn't heard this voice since 1999. He jerks to his feet and staggers back, against the wall. He shouldn't be hearing this voice. He can't be hearing it, because its owner is-

But she's not dead. She's standing in the office doorway, looking at him with concern and worry in her eyes.

"Fox," says Diana Fowley, "what on earth is going on?"

#x-files fanfic #my fic #reminiscence #please don't hunt me down with pitchforks #just trust me

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anavoliselenu · 7 years

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Creighton chapter 5

“No, Mr. Karas, I’m not a stripper.”

I could swear he breathes a sigh of relief at my answer, but his expression never changes.

“You have me at a disadvantage then. You clearly know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

Here we go. “My name is Selena Wickman, but most people know me as Selena Wix.”

I’m not a big enough deal that I would expect recognition to light his features, but I’m slightly disappointed at the continued lack of change in his expression.

Finally, one arrogant eyebrow lifts as if telling me to continue. I stay quiet.

He fails to keep a slight edge of frustration out of his tone with his next question. “And why do most people know you as a name other than your own?”

“It’s my stage name. I sing. Country music.” The explanation comes out in a disjointed tumble of words.

Knowledge flares in his eyes. Has he heard of me? For some reason, that sends a shiver up my spine.

He frowns and his eyes turn hard. “I have heard of you. My assistant is a fan of yours, and your boyfriend who was . . . supposed to propose tonight?” He turns and reaches for my coat. “I make it a policy not to fuck other men’s women. And I sure as fuck don’t marry them. I would’ve married a stripper, but even I draw the line at a cheating whore.”

The complete one-eighty in his mood throws me for a loop, and I cringe. “Please don’t call me that.”

“If the cowboy boot fits . . .” His expression is no longer blank, but filled with ugliness.

My stomach drops to my toes, and I take my coat from his outstretched hand.

Well, that was quick. And now I’m screwed.

“I knew it was a mistake to come here,” I whisper.

“Then why did you?” he asks. “And why the hell did you leave that bar with me on Christmas Eve if you had a fucking boyfriend?”

I walk to the door, static buzzing in my head. I just bet it all on him, and lost.

What am I going to do now?

I grasp the handle, twist, and tug before I realize the door is still locked. I flip the dead bolt and pull it open an inch before a large tanned hand slaps against the door, slamming it shut.

“Answer me,” he demands.

I don’t care if he is a billionaire, I won’t let anyone speak to me that way. Spinning around, I find myself trapped in the cage his arms have formed around me.

“You really want to know why I did what I did on Christmas Eve?”

“Obviously.”

He bites the word out, and now that I have nothing to lose, I want to slap the expression off his face. Instead, I go for as much honesty as I can offer.

“Because sometimes you just need to escape from reality. And what better way than to let someone screw you into oblivion? And it’d been fourteen months since I’d been with anyone. I was overdue, and you were there. I considered you my Christmas present to myself. That’s how I justified it.”

I turn again and reach for the handle as his arm wraps around my waist. It’s the same move as when I was sitting on a bar stool downstairs. Before I can protest, he hauls me back against his hard, hot chest. I struggle, ready to elbow him to let go.

A harsh whisper in my ear doesn’t still my movements.

“Fourteen months? You don’t get to throw out something like that and then not explain yourself.”

I continue to fight against his hold, and his arm pulls tighter.

“You’re not leaving this room without giving me an explanation.”

I can feel the ridge of his erection pressing against my lower back, and I’m battered with memories of Christmas Eve. I need to get out of here and fast, because I’m liable to do whatever he says. There’s something about the man that I just can’t stay immune to for long.

“I’ll probably get sued if I tell you more,” I say.

His hand spreads out across my stomach, his thumb sliding up and down beneath my breasts in another move I recognize all too well.

“I’ve got top-notch lawyers, Selena.” His lips brush my ear, and heat gathers between my legs.

I have to get out of here. I tug again at his hold—unsuccessfully.

“Good for you,” I say. “I hope you and your lawyers are very happy together.”

His tone loses a fraction of its edge when he replies, “They’ll be your lawyers too, if you’d just explain yourself.”

Those words finally still my struggle because they hit on the exact reason I chose him—my hope that he has enough power, leverage, and blood-sucking lawyers to uncoil the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

I took one leap of faith tonight, and I have no other alternatives. What is telling him really going to hurt now?

I suck in a deep breath before I whisper the truth that only the label execs, JC, Tana, and Mick know.

“My whole relationship with JC is a PR stunt organized by the record label, and I had no choice but to go along with it. JC and I . . . well, let’s just say that we’re both into male equipment.”

It’s as if I can feel the leashed anger drain out of him. He steps away, turns me back around to face him, and takes my coat from my hands, holding it up and open as if expecting me to slip my arms into it.

“Now you’re throwing me out?” He really is the complete asshole his competition makes him out to be.

My thoughts are stolen straight from my head when, for the first time tonight, he smiles. And my panties are a lost cause.

“No, Selena. We’re going to Vegas.”

Holy. Shit.

I look down at the diamond on my left ring finger. You could buy the entire trailer park I grew up in with this thing, and still have money left over to buy a brand-new F-250 to park in front of it.

I lean against the plush leather of the limo delivering us back to Caesar’s Palace, unable to believe I actually went through with it. I’m officially Mrs. Selena Karas, and tonight is my wedding night—or maybe to be more accurate, my wedding morning, as it’s New Year’s Day in Nevada now too.

I look at the man seated across from me. Justin Karas.

I just married a billionaire. Granted, the prenup I read on the jet during our flight made it very clear that those billions are largely to remain his, regardless of the outcome of our marriage. If things fall apart, I’ll have to refer to Section 39, subsections (a) to (zz), which list possible causes of the “dissolution” and the accompanying formula to calculate what I walk away from this union with.

Nearly fifty pages, and I read the entire thing. I was screwed by one contract, and I wasn’t looking to get screwed by both this man and his contract. With my community college drop-out status, it isn’t surprising that reading it mostly confused the crap out of me. If my adrenaline wasn’t continually dumping into my system due to the looks Justin kept giving me, I probably would have fallen asleep. Regardless, I’m guardedly confident that I understand enough to hope that I’m not missing anything obvious.

Justin made a call to his lawyers as soon as we walked out of the twenty-four-hour wedding chapel. They now have their hands on a copy of my contract with Homegrown, courtesy of the e-mail I forwarded Justin, and are going over it with a fine-tooth comb.

Apparently now that the task is in competent legal hands, he considers the matter handled. And for tonight, I don’t think there is anything more I can do either. My phone has stayed off because I don’t want to face the voice mails that surely wait for me. So instead, I focus on the present.

It’s my wedding night.

Oh my God.

What the hell am I doing?

Aside from my one night with Justin, I’ve been with exactly two other guys—my high school boyfriend, and a friend with benefits who was a regular at the bowling alley. With my high school boyfriend, I was lucky that he got it in the right hole on the first try. It hurt the first time, and all the times after that weren’t a heck of a lot better. My friend with benefits was an improvement, but nothing like the night I had with Justin.

Because of my prior lack of positive experience in the bedroom department, I’ve never considered myself a very sexual creature. Which is why agreeing to the label’s crazy scheme with JC wasn’t a huge problem in the beginning. But as the months wore on, something changed inside me. It probably has something to do with all the sexy books I read on the road while I’m touring. And the sinfully hot—and taken—man I’m touring with.

My Christmas Eve one-night stand was supposed to be just that—one night. And now I’m married to him. Every time I think about my current situation, I wonder if I’m crazy.

“You’re awfully quiet over there, my darling wife,” Justin drawls.

“Please don’t call me that if you’re just trying to make fun of me.” My voice sounds small, even to me.

His eyebrow lifts, and perfectly formed lips lift into a smirk. “Why would I make fun of you?”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head, trying to throw off his spell. “It’s been a long day, and I’m still trying to catch up with everything that happened.”

His playful expression fades, and I brace myself for whatever he’s going to say next. Justin’s behavior hasn’t exactly been warm and fuzzy so far, and his words have been decidedly no-bullshit.

“You don’t need to catch up with anything except sleep for the rest of the night.”

Shock courses through me. “We’re not . . . I mean, you’re not planning on . . .”

Goose bumps prickle my skin at his appraising look.

“The next time I fuck you, Selena, I want to make sure you’re with me one hundred percent. I will accept nothing less than all of you, and right now your mind is a million miles away.”

He’s right. My thoughts are on the other side of the country, wondering what kind of hell I’m going to have to pay for this decision. And also a little at home, wondering if I’ll end up on a bus back there if I fail to please my new husband.

I don’t want to see this look of disappointment on his face. I want to see the heat that brought me almost to the edge of orgasm before I even followed his commands to strip naked. There’s nothing I can do right now to deal with the fallout of the decision I’ve made, but I can try to make whatever we might have here work for both of us.

“Besides, I have all the time in the world to wring orgasm after orgasm from your body until your legs are so weak you can barely stand.” His expression heats. “And plenty of time to train you to take my cock exactly the way I want—in every way, but first between those fuckable lips of yours.”

All thoughts of anything but the forbidden things he offers are wiped from my mind. I want to see the approval I saw in his eyes that night, and that I heard in his voice when he opened the door at the Plaza. Something in his dominant nature snapped the pieces of my sexuality into place, and I want to revel in that feeling. Now.

I slide off the seat and drop to my knees.

Justin stares down at me, and that dang eyebrow of his rises. “You praying, Selena?”

I shake my head. “No, sir. I’m taking your cock exactly the way you want it.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, just reaches up to press the limo’s intercom button. “Keep driving until I tell you to stop.”

Anticipation. Nerves. Excitement. And a unique and new sense of power. They’re all flowing through my veins and controlling my actions.

Justin settles into the seat and rests his big hands on his spread thighs. He’s unreadable, but his words hide nothing. “I like having a wife who wants to suck my dick in a limo.”

Shivers race across my skin, and my nipples pucker against the cups of my bra. Even though my body is screaming yes, I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve and look more ridiculous than I did before I started this.

“Would you please tell me to?”

He tilts his head to one side. “You are so fucking perfect.” He reaches out and cups my jaw. “Selena, suck my cock until I come down your throat. Because even if I don’t fuck you tonight, I want my wife sleeping with my cum inside her.”

My inner muscles clench, and my panties are instantly soaked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

I reach for his belt and unfasten it before sliding down his zipper. He lifts up and adjusts, allowing me to pull his boxer briefs down to free his cock.

If ever a man’s penis deserved its own entrance music, it would be Justin Karas’s. It’s long, thick, and perfectly veined. His heavy balls are already rising up to the base of his shaft.

I slide my hands up his thighs and lean forward. Pausing, I look up into Justin’s hooded eyes as I drag my tongue from base to crown. Salty precum beading at the tip urges me on. I make my first attempt at taking him in my mouth. On Christmas Eve, he whispered promises about fucking my face after he was sated with my pussy, but those promises never came to pass because of my stealthy early-morning departure.

But I’m going to give it my all now. I wrap my lips around his cock and suck him in. My progress is pathetic, but he shows no concern that I can’t take him very deep. The stroking of his thumb along my jaw makes me want to try harder.

I adjust my position and take him as far as I can, gagging slightly on his length. He groans as I retreat. The tears streaking down my cheeks show just what a beginner I am at this. Justin’s thumbs wipe them away.

“Don’t hurry it. It’ll take time for you to get used to me.”

Time. The one commodity he doesn’t seem to waste much on women. But then again, he actually married me.

Regardless, his reassurance buoys my flagging confidence, and I take him further again and again, tongue working him over with each stroke. His groans of pleasure make me wetter and wetter until my legs are pressing together to soothe my ache.

I’m ready to climb on him in this fancy limo when he says, “Hold still, Selena. I’m going to fuck that pretty mouth of yours.”

I still, and he guides my face to the most advantageous angle. And then his thrusts resume, picking up the pace until his rhythm slows and a wave of cum is unleashed in my mouth. I swallow as fast as I can, but I can’t keep up. It dribbles down my chin.

When he finally pulls his softening cock from my mouth, his thumb catches the drips and paints my lips with them.

“Can’t have my wife missing anything I give her.”

The word wife is said with such possessiveness, I shiver and lick my lips. Reality sets in when he presses the intercom button on the ceiling.

“You can head back to the hotel now.”

Justin tucks himself into his pants and rights his clothing before I have the presence of mind to stumble back into my seat.

I can’t believe I just did that. I push off the floor, intent on returning to my own side of the limo, but Justin grips me by the upper arms and hauls me into his lap.

“Jesus, woman. You could wreck a man with that mouth.”

His lips descend on mine before I can respond. His tongue delves into my mouth, fucking it just as surely as his cock had. I give myself over to the kiss, shocked that he’d kiss me after he just came in my mouth.

But he must not mind, because he doesn’t pull back until the limo slows and stops. When the door opens, he carefully sets me on the seat beside him, steps out, and reaches inside to lift me into the cradle of his arms.

My confusion must be branded across my features, because he says, “A bride doesn’t cross the threshold except in the groom’s arms.”

I harden my heart against the erratic thump-thump his words produce. It means nothing. It’s a gesture of possession, just as surely as the ring on my finger is.

As I tell myself these things, the exhaustion of the day sneaks up on me, and I rest my head against his shoulder.

I’ll just close my eyes for a second, I think.

I’m out before we even reach the elevator.

“The country music world is reeling to learn that Selena Wix, a still-new addition to the scene who got her start on the show Country Dreams, married billionaire playboy Justin Karas in Vegas last night. The couple was first photographed leaving an off-Strip wedding chapel, and then a short time later entering Caesar’s Palace, where Karas is known to have a villa on reserve. When asked for a reaction, JC Hughes’s representative responded with ‘no comment.’ Wix and Karas’s representatives were unable to be reached. But we might as well acknowledge the question on everyone’s mind: how long have Wix and Karas been sneaking around behind Hughes’s back?”

I turn my head from the TV to the gorgeous woman passed out in my bed. In sleep, she looks even more innocent than she normally does. But she didn’t look shy after she took my cock between her lips in the limo. It ranked as the top sexiest sight in my life, as well as a perfect way to kick off a new year.

My cock pulses at the thought. I picture myself waking her with my head between her legs. But for all that we’re married, I’m guessing it would still freak her the fuck out. I’ll give her until tomorrow.

My wife.

I didn’t truly expect to go the marriage route again, but once I locked on the impulse, it was impossible to shake it. But even with a wedding ring on her finger, I know I won’t get attached. I don’t ever get attached. This is about continual repeat performances of the hottest sex I’ve ever had, and the added bonus of keeping the gold diggers off my back. Nothing more and nothing less.

My cell buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it and head for the bathroom. Shutting the door, I glance down at the screen as I answer.

“What do you want, Cannon?”

“Selena Wix? You’re the luckiest fucking bastard on the planet. You knew all along, didn’t you? I mean, how could you not? Her face has been on TV enough lately that even I know what she looks like, and I hate country music. And then Jeanette doesn’t stop talking about her and that cowboy-hat-wearing man of hers. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, you fucking asshole. Had me and the rest of the world thinking you didn’t have a clue who might show up last night. I should’ve known . . .”

I grit my teeth as he refers to JC Hughes as her man. Selena fucking belongs to me—not him. There’s no disputing that as of the early hours of this morning. Even though I know the story behind it, I dislike the idea of another man thinking he has any right to lay claim to her.

Shifting, I lean against the granite countertop. Leave it to my second-in-command to jump to the conclusion that I actually knew who she was.

“And that’s where you’re wrong. When she’s not covered head to toe in sequins, fringe, and ten pounds of makeup, she doesn’t exactly look the same as she does on TV.”

“Seriously? You really, truly had no idea?”

“None. At least, not until she told me.”

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Indeed.” I’m already impatient with this conversation. “Anything else, or can I go about my morning?”

“Sorry. I’m still processing.” Another moment of silence, and then Cannon asks, “Have you heard what the media is saying?”

“I only caught a few seconds of the news this morning. Why?”

“They’re tearing her apart on every station, and all over the Internet. You should probably care that they’re calling your wife a cheating whore. But then again, some of them are saying she made the right move because Hughes has apparently been fucking around on her since the beginning.”

Rage burns through my veins, which might make me a hypocrite because I jumped to the same conclusion at first. But she’s my wife, and that’s fucking unacceptable. Selena said this would happen, and I told her I’d handle it. I’m not about to drop my end of the bargain.

“Get the PR team on it. Now. Crush anyone who says a negative word about her. I don’t care what you have to do.”

“How are you going to spin it?”

I fill him on the story I want fed to every major media outlet in the country—fuck, the world—and the accompanying threats.

Before we hang up, Cannon adds, “Since you’re in Vegas, you should probably know that they’re taking odds on how long this is going to last.”

“They take odds on everything.”

“Just saying. If you have any inside information, I’ll happily go place my bet and rake in some easy money.”

“Are you asking me to bet on when my marriage is going to end?”

“Come on, man. We all know this isn’t going to last. So, what do you think? I give it six months at the outside before you’re sick of her pussy and will be dying for some variety.”

I grit my teeth because I don’t have time for this shit right now. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

“Seriously, Crey—”

“Fuck off, Cannon. Go fix shit.”

I hang up, my morning mood turning dark as I open the bathroom door.

“How bad is it?”

Selena is sleep-rumpled and still wearing the undershirt I dressed her in last night after she passed out on me. Her legs and feet are bare, and her dark brown hair is tumbling down around her shoulders. She looks all of sixteen years old. Which apparently makes me a dirty old man, because I want that fresh-faced beauty staring up at me from her knees with my cock between her lips again.

“It’s not good, but it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it,” I reply before asking, “How old are you?”

“You didn’t google me?” Her eyebrows inch up toward her hairline.

“I prefer the truth, and not some shit made up on Wikipedia.”

She looks down at her feet, and I almost miss her answer. “I’m twenty-two.”

I’m too fucking shocked to school my expression. My eyes feel like they must be bulging from my head. I rub a hand down my face.

“Are you fucking serious?” I never considered she might be that young.

Her shoulders go back, and she straightens to her full height, a whopping five foot six or so. “If my age was important, maybe you should have asked me last night.”

Selena has a point. Last night, I was so caught up in the hype of my own making that it didn’t occur to me to ask. When she’s wearing makeup and more than just my T-shirt, she easily looks several years older.

She narrows her eyes. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

Her mouth forms an O. My morning wood rears up in my boxer briefs, and her attention drops to waist level.

A hesitant smile flits across her face. “Do you . . . um . . . want me to . . . ?”

She really might be the perfect woman.

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