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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

i want your last name

summary: it’s only a year...

word count: 16k+ (holy crap i’m sorry)

warnings: idiot-strangers to lovers, suggestive moments (not 18+ but be mindful), frightening situations & suspense, alcohol consumption and drunkenness, language, innuendo, timeline inaccuracies

a/n: please bear with me as this is my first time writing rog and i’m relatively unsure about it. anyway, have a vaguely spooky fic just in time for halloween! xoxo! also: big thank you to @ineloqueent for helping with this fic! y’all, she literally held my hand and walked me through every paragraph what a saint

january, 1982.

“you’re off your rocker if you think i’m going to go through with this, jim.”

from his place on the couch, john snorts. “what? afraid she won’t be pretty enough for you, rog?”

roger levels john an uncharacteristically dark look, jabbing his finger through the air like a knight brandishing his sword or a cowboy his gun. “watch your mouth, deacon.” john holds his hands upwards in surrender, and roger returns his piercing gaze to jim. “i’m not getting married. that’s absolutely out of the question.”

long-suffering band manger and unofficial rockstar wrangler, jim beach drops his face to his hands with a harsh groan. roger cringes in his seat, shifting uncomfortably. he knows what this is about; they all know what this is about.

the end-of-tour party in montreal.

god, he’d gotten so wasted. even now, two months later, he can barely remember that night.

brian, ever the diplomatic, is the first to break the tense silence. he leans forward from his place on the couch beside john and offers roger his most sympathetic look. it does nothing to ease the growing knot of dread in roger’s stomach. “maybe we should leave you and jim to talk, rog.”

jim lifts his head. “i think that might be best, yes.”

roger huffs and falls slack against his chair. he drops his head back, and the ceiling turns topsy-turvy. if jim and the rest of management get their way, his life is bound to feel the same: flipped upside down, all that he knows turned on its head.

john squeezes roger’s shoulder as he slides by, a silent expression of solidarity, but it doesn’t feel like much. john’s got a wife, a parcel of kids. he’s happy at home. roger—he’s never been that way, never seen the point in all the domestics. he isn’t about to join the bloody women’s institute just because a little fun upset a few highbrow jackasses who can’t tell a party from a funeral.

the door to jim’s office shuts with a soft click, and roger imagines the lid of his coffin closing with the same resolute noise. he sits up and runs a hand through his hair. from behind his tinted shades, jim stares across the expanse of his desk. he drums his fingers, worrying his lower lip. roger’s nose twitches to the side. jim isn’t playing around. the proposal typed and printed in the manila folder under jim’s hand is serious, deadly so.

roger removes his sunglasses.

“it was just a party, jim.”

there’s a heavy beat of silence. jim blinks once. “roger, you went streaking through a group of nuns and priests.”

roger squeezes his eyes shut against the words, thankful, for once, that he has no memory of the event. “did i?” he lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck. “honestly couldn’t tell you what i did or didn’t do that night.”

“you did.” jim opens the manila folder and reads from a crumbled newspaper article. “queen’s roger taylor bared all this evening after the explosive conclusion to the game tour, filmed before thousands in montreal’s biggest arena. in a rare display of vulnerability, taylor stripped naked and exposed himself in the hotel lobby where queen resided. he stood on a table and beat his chest like a wild gorilla, chanting about the success of the evening’s filmed concert. lookers-on included none other than a group of nuns and priests recently arrived to canada on special assignment from the vatican. john deacon, bassist for queen, could also be seen laughing in the background.”

jim’s hand thumps against the desk as he drops the article, his stare decidedly unimpressed. “do you have anything to say for yourself?”

running his tongue over his teeth, roger hesitates. not his best moment, he would give jim that. but if he remembers anything about that party, it’s that he wasn’t the only sinner present that evening. john had gotten into his fair share of antics; crystal, too. it seems arbitrary that he should be the one singled out for punishment—and with a strange, archaic, probably-unethical punishment at that.

he shrugs, tossing his hands up in defeat. “i’m not going to be able to say what you want me to say. it was just a party. it got a little out of control. that’s all. i’m sorry if i gave the nuns a little show. i’ll—i dunno—write a letter if you want me to.”

jim scoffs. “write a letter if you think it’ll make me feel better—which it won’t—but that’s not the issue here.”

“then what is the issue? and where the hell does marriage come into it? because i’m not seeing the connection.”

jim sighs. his desk chair creaks as he leans back. taking off his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose before meeting roger’s eyes again. “this isn’t the first time something like this has happened, rog. remember new orleans?”

roger holds up an accusatory finger. “you were in new orleans too, jim, so you can’t attack me on that front.”

jim leans forward, his glasses between his hands. he runs his finger back and forth across the top of the frames. “i’ll be blunt. some other people in the office think you’re becoming too—how shall i say it?—explicit for the band. you’re not twenty any more, and raucous parties don’t fit queen’s image. they’re concerned that if more incidents like this hit the press, there will be a drop in sales or concert attendance because nice, suburban families don’t want to go to a concert with a drummer who flashes nuns. do you get what i’m saying?”

roger itches his temple and pushes against the sudden pain behind his left eye. “yeah. yeah, i do.”

“the marriage thing—that was barnaby potter’s idea. if you have beef with it, take it up with him.”

it’s roger’s turn to scoff. he throws his head back on the sound and curls his hands against the cool wooden arms of his chair. when he looks back at jim, he is surprised to see the older man rifling through a filing cabinet in the corner, his back turned.

roger surges forward with his ire anyway. “of course i have beef with it! slap my ass and scold me, sure, but hitch me to a woman i don’t even know for publicity? you’ve got to be joking.”

“personally, i think it’s an idea that will work if you give it a chance.” jim returns to chair and hands roger a sealed packet. “we’ve already got it all lined up, picked the lass and everything. it’s just for a year or so, until the tabloids calm down. then you can get divorced and go your separate ways.”

“wait, hold on—you picked her? without telling me? before even approaching me with the idea?”

“roger—” jim’s tone borders on a warning, but roger ignores his better judgement and cuts the other man off.

“you won’t even give me the option to choose the woman i have to shack up with? god, jim, i’m getting fuckin’ railroaded here!”

jim clenches his jaw. “i’m sure it feels that way, and i’m sorry for that. but it’s this—well, to be frank, it’s this or you’re out. the montreal party was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.”

roger can’t be sure but he thinks he sees red. never in his life has he so badly wanted to wring someone’s neck. it takes every fiber of his being, every molecule in his body, to keep from lunging across the room and tackling jim to the floor. he bites his tongue hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. it coats his mouth in a metallic taste, but it’s nothing compared to the rage boiling in his stomach.

still, he knows what his answer must be. it’s this—a sham marriage, a year of hell—or losing the life he’s worked so hard to build.

he rips the envelope from jim’s hand as roughly as he can when he stands from his chair. he hopes he gave the man a papercut.

“i’ll do it, you bastard,” he mutters. “but i damn well won’t be happy about it.”

“you look beautiful, [y/n].”

with a playful roll of your eyes, you offer ivy a smile. “thanks, love, but you and i both know this is just part of the job.”

ivy laughs and steps closer to adjust the puffed sleeves of your dress. “it might be a job, but damn, if it isn’t a comfortable one. i just about fell out of my seat when you told me you were quitting the agency to marry roger fucking taylor.”

you slide ivy a bemused smirk in the reflection of the long, oval mirror before you. “we’re not really getting married, ivy. you know that, right?”

ivy frowns and jabs her thumb over her shoulder, confusion awash on her round face. “unless i’m mistaken, we’re at a church, you’re in a wedding dress, roger taylor is the groom, and there’s a priest waiting for you right outside. did you read the memo wrong or something? feels like a wedding to me.”

sighing, you turn away from the mirror and reach for your bouquet of flowers. the white roses interspersed with springs of green leaves smell sweet, their stems tied together with a long white ribbon. you adjust one of the wayward petals then sit on the edge of a cushioned chair to slip on your heels. ivy leans against the door, her arms crossed over her chest.

“are you happy?” she asks, her voice soft.

you look up and pause. the heel of your white mary janes squeezes around your achilles’ tendon, and you wince as you shove your foot into the shoe. “what do you mean—am i happy?”

“i dunno.” ivy shrugs. she picks at an invisible piece of lint on the shoulder of her blue bridesmaid gown. “when we were kids, you always used to talk about your wedding day. now it’s here and—”

“ivy.” you rise from the chair and cross the floor to grab her arm. when you speak, you keep your tone firm and stare into her wide, brown eyes. “i’m doing this for the money and nothing else. it’s not a big deal. i don’t even consider today my wedding day. when roger and i get divorced i’ll find some other chap and make my childhood dreams come true, but that’s not today, and i’m okay with it. so yes, i am happy. this is what i want.”

ivy doesn’t appear convinced what with the way she continues to gnaw at her lower lip and shift her concerned look about your face. but she relents when someone knocks on the door, moving to allow you to grab the doorknob.

“wait, [y/n].” you turn at the door, eyebrows lifted in expectation. “how much are you getting paid?”

you press your pointer finger to your lips. “handsomely,” you whisper, dipping your head as though you are about to spill a secret. ivy leans in. her eyes sparkle with interest, and you inwardly smirk. she’s always been a sucker for drama and intrigue, your cousin. “but,” you continue. “that’s for me to know and you not to know.”

before ivy can respond, you pull open the door to see none other than your future husband waiting for you in the vestibule of the chapel.

he stands poised to flee the premises. he’s half-turned toward the closed chapel door, his hands worrying before his waist, his gaze hinged on the flurry of life outside the chapel, visible through the windows on either side of the door. you realize he’s fiddling with an unlit cigarette, not merely rubbing his hands together in an external sign of nervousness. you can’t make out whether or not his eyes are wild with fear or anger or some other emotion; the black tint of his sunglasses obscures the majority of his eyes. he’s handsome in his suit, but, then again, he’s roger taylor. you would be surprised to find a time in which he isn’t handsome.

when you clear your throat, his head whips to face you, and his fingers stop fidgeting. “sorry,” he mutters. “i was just—” he rubs a hand across the back of his neck and sighs. “they’re ready for you.”

“okay.” you nod with a smile and hope the gesture will ease whatever consternation plagues him. “i’ll be up in a moment.”

“right.” he nods once.

from behind his shades, you see his eyes trail from the top of your head to the soles of your shoes. it’s not sexual, not lewd; he’s just inspecting you, and you don’t blame him. who are you to him other than the model pulled out of a catalog, prepared and willing to be his wife until his time served is complete? you’ve spoken only once before this moment, and that phone-call was terse at best. roger made it perfectly clear his opinions on the arrangement, and he wanted to be sure—no, he needed to be sure—you understood his feelings on the matter. you assured him you had heard him loud and clear; your ear had rung for the next hour if only to remind you of his extreme distaste.

“roger,” you say, pulling his attention back from wherever his mind has drifted off to, his stare gone vacant but hardly serene.

his eyelashes flutter as he struggles to focus. “hm?”

“i said i’ll be up in a moment. you can go in now.”

he nods again, this time his chin smacking his collarbone in his urgency. he rubs his jaw, mutters something unintelligible beneath his breath, and turns on his heel, slipping back into the chapel sanctuary with heavy footfalls. your brows rise on your forehead in the wake of his exit. ivy hovers behind your shoulder.

“that’s him?” she squeaks. “that’s roger taylor?”

“yes.” your mouth twists in pity. “poor dear. he really doesn’t want this.” after waiting the appropriate amount of time to be sure roger has made his way to the front of the church, you step towards the entryway, but not before you can ask ivy one last question. “do i look okay? the pictures taken today are bound to be published in the papers.”

ivy chuckles and shakes her head as she lightly pushes your shoulder. “you look gorgeous and you know it. now go get married to a rockstar, you lucky bitch.”

the actual wedding ceremony itself is a formality. truly, it cannot be called a ceremony. there’s no wedding march, no attendees gently dabbing their tear-filled eyes, no heartfelt vows or kiss to signal the joining of two souls. instead, there’s you and there’s roger and there’s a red-faced, balding priest who points to the solid lines on which you must affix your signature to make the marriage certificate valid. roger signs first, and his knuckles are white against the ballpoint pen. you sign second, and the pen feels overly-warm against your cool palms. the priest blesses you with a sign of the cross and promises the certificate will be notarized and sent to your home address within the week.

then it’s done. you’re married. you feel largely the same as you did this morning. if it weren’t for the giant rock on your ring finger and the recent transfer of seventy-five-thousand pounds into your bank account, you might wonder if this was all a product of your over-active imagination, run away with a plot stolen from a b-list film.

the most vital part of the day, the reason you’re here and dressed in a gown with your hair crimped and nails painted, comes right after the priest scurries away to tend to his more important duties. jim beach stands from his place in one of the pews and ushers a photographer forward. he points between you and roger.

“all right, get snug, you two.” jim chews on a large wad of gum, and his words are slurred with an excess of saliva. “just a few pictures and then we’ll go eat. we all know that’s the only reason john showed up today.”

lounged against a pew, john raises his finger in agreement, and his wife elbows him in the chest. he sputters, doubling over in pain, while freddie laughs in amusement. beside you, roger watches the interaction with a back as straight as the pew benches, his jaw tight. you push your arm around his elbow and tug lightly. he inhales before turning to meet your eyes.

“what?” his voice is not cruel or unkind; it’s just tired.

“try and look happy, yeah?” you say, offering him a gentle smile similar to the one you’d given him in the vestibule. it’s the only thing you have to give him other than your hand in marriage and a chance to salvage his reputation; yet, again, it does not alleviate the tension pinching his brow. “the faster we smile the faster we can eat.”

roger shifts, as though he wants to pull away from you, but knows he shouldn’t. his feet dance back and forth on the carpeted stairs leading to the sanctuary state. “i should be telling you to try and look happy. this is just as much an inconvenience for you.”

you shake your head with a chuckle. “hardly. i make my living pretending to be happy, or moody, or sultry. whatever the director wants. i’m a pro at this. and besides,” you add. “it’s my job to make you look good. though, to be honest, that’s not very hard. you look good all on your own.”

roger sniffs and rubs the underside of his nose. he ignores your compliment and keeps his eyes trained on the photographer setting up his equipment at the base of the stairs. “maybe i could use some tips…”

he’s being glib but you take the opportunity to try and break the ice—the rock solid, absolutely frigid, polar ice-cap style ice—between you both. holding up a finger to the photographer, you slide to stand in front of roger. he’s taller than you, not by much, but enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye-contact. his blue eyes very much resemble the ice with which he’s surrounded himself. you can feel the chill on his shoulders, even as you smooth the wrinkles on his tailored dress-shirt.

“whenever i have to fake a smile,” you say, adjusting his thin tie. “i always think about the thing that makes me happiest.” he doesn’t ask you to expand, but you do anyway. “for me, it’s when my cousin ivy moved in with my mother and me. i was seven and she was six and it’s been one giant slumber party ever since.”

“is that your cousin?” roger’s eyes flick to the girl sitting across the aisle from the band and management. ivy has her hands beneath her thighs, her head dipped, her dark black hair covering a curtain over her face.

you nod. “mhmm.”

“she doesn’t look like you.”

you lift an eyebrow. “she’s adopted.”

“right, sorry.” roger exhales deeply, and the weight of the world slips from one of his shoulders to the other, tilting his body in a stiff hunch. “i’m feeling out of sorts today, as you can probably imagine.”

“just think about what makes you happy, roger.” you dare to lift a hand and press it against his cheek. his skin is smooth beneath your fingers. he must have shaved his morning. he looks boyish up close, and you wonder if, like you, he had ever dreamt of what his wedding day might look like. you wonder if, like you, he had given up those dreams to make today a reality.

the photographer takes a picture of your hand against roger’s cheek, and the sudden flash of light has you blinking in surprise. you look over your shoulder, mouth slightly parted and eyelashes fluttering to clear the white spots over your vision.

the photographer just shrugs. “ready now?”

the shrill of a ringing telephone wakes you the morning after the wedding, and you groan, pulled from a heavy slumber by the incessant and high-pitched tone. there’s a dull ache at the base of your skull, and your tongue feels like it’s coated with a fine layer of sand. beside you, a man snores softly, his face pink and eyelashes soft on his cheekbones.

oh yes, that’s right. you’re married to roger taylor, aren’t you? you’d drunk so much at the celebration supper that you’d nearly forgotten. the evening itself is but a hazy memory, but you think you recall freddie imitating a russian style jig atop a table, and phoebe going into great detail about all the fabulous dress-up parties you’ll be expected to attend now.

one thing you can’t remember is how you ended up in roger’s bed, dressed in one of his oversized t-shirts. your hair is still stiff with sticky hairspray, your legs still encased in a pair of nylon tights, and you don’t feel… sated, for lack of a better word. it’s probably safe to assume that you did not sleep with roger; you merely slept beside him. why you didn’t take up residence in his guest room will be the first question out of your mouth once his day starts.

you might be his wife and he might be your husband, but you don’t want him getting any funny ideas about the nature of your relationship.

this is a job for you. nothing more.

the phone continues ringing and, lest roger wake before he is ready, you move to reach across him for the phone on his bedside table. you speak into the receiver on a whisper, adjusting your fist on the mattress to keep from falling flat on roger’s stomach.

“hello?”

“uh—hi.” there’s a pause, as if the speaker is uncertain how to react to your voice on roger’s line. “is this [y/n]?”

“yes. who is this?”

“it’s brian. we met yesterday.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. “yes, i know who you are, brian.”

he chuckles softly. “sorry—i can’t remember much of last evening. it’s probably best i make a second introduction if i can’t recall the first.”

“well then, i’m [y/n] [y/l/n]. [y/n] taylor now, i suppose. pleased to meet you.”

“brian may. the pleasure is all mine. ours, really—me and the guys. what you’re doing is—we appreciate it, truly. you’ve saved the band, in a way.”

“that’s kind of you, brian.” you glance at roger out of the corner of your eye. he hasn’t moved a muscle, and his face is the most serene you’ve ever seen it. saved the band? you doubt it. smoothed a few ruffled feathers? that’s certainly more likely. “it’s no trouble, though. it’s just my job. what was it you called for?”

“roger was supposed to be at the studio an hour ago. we have a recording session today.”

“shit, really?” pressing the receiver to your shoulder, you twist your wrist upwards, but find your watch missing. you scan the unfamiliar room. a digital clock glows red on a built-in bookshelf. “is it really nearly one o’clock?!”

“afraid so.”

“shit, i’m sorry. i only just woke up. yesterday was hectic—to say the very least. i’ll have roger out the door in half an hour.”

“thanks, [y/n]. you’ll find this happens a lot after a night out. but, hey, at least you’re not shouting at me like rog does.”

after passing pleasantries a moment more—brian asks you about ivy, who you are surprised he remembers, and you ask him about his stargazing habits—you reassure brian that roger will be on his way as soon as possible. you drop the receiver on its base with more force than necessary, but the crack of plastic on plastic and the slight ring of the internal bell gets roger moving.

he grunts, twisting his head away from the noise.

you shake his shoulder gently. “wakey wakey, sleeping beauty. the day is already half gone.”

roger yawns as his eyes blink open. he rubs a hand down his face and arches his back like a cat as he stretches. slumping back against his pillows, he stares at you for a moment, his eyes roaming your face.

“are you an angel?”

you laugh at this, and he winces, holding the heel of his hand to his forehead. “no. i’m your wife. are you still drunk?”

“maybe a little.” his eyelashes flutter rapidly as he adjusts to the sunlight streaming through the bedroom window. he waves his hand around your head, and you lean back slightly, away from the exposed skin of his chest and striking collarbones. “you look like an angel with the sun all around your head. ‘s like a halo.”

“that’s kind of you.”

he shrugs, shaking his head. “just sayin’.”

“i think you’re still drunk.”

as if to prove your point, he hiccups then falls to his side on the bed. “maybe.” his cheek is pressed firmly against the mattress, smushing half of his face flat. soft, steady breaths filter in and out of his parted lips, and his eyelids begin to grow heavy as he is dragged back to his dream world. he looks more tired child than grown man, but the sight is endearing. still, your current job is getting him out the door and on his way to the studio. you can’t let him be any later than he already is.

“oh no, you don’t.” grabbing his arm, you pull as you slide from the bed. roger resists your strength and moves to push his entire face against the mattress. he mumbles something against the sheets, but you can’t make out the words. “brian already called. you’re late, pretty boy.”

roger rolls over onto his back, and the movement causes you to lose your grip on his wrist. you stumble backwards then plant your hands on your hips.

“come on, roger. you’ve got to get up.”

“i don’t want to. yesterday was shit, and all i want to do is stay in bed.”

with a sigh, you gather your wedding dress from its heap on the floor. you lay it over your forearm and pull open the closet door. “nice to know you thought our wedding day was shit,” you say.

you mean it only as a joke, but roger sits up fast, swaying slightly with the movement. he catches your eye as you exit the walk-in closet, and you pause, turning the light off slowly, held by his angry stare.

“fuck off,” he says. “i don’t want this. i don’t want you.”

to say his words don’t sting would be a falsehood. no one wants to hear such a thing, least of all from their spouse. the words make your heart clench painfully in your chest, and you wonder what he sees when he looks at you. he doesn’t look at you, though; he cradles his forehead in his hands, his back hunched where he sits on the edge of the bed.

inhaling deeply, you reach up and begin to remove some of the pins lost in your hair. you head for the bedroom door. “well, while you sit and sulk, i’ll pack you a lunch. you’d better shower, though. you reek.”

from your place puttering about the kitchen, you hear the shower start up a few moments later. good—at least he’s moving. you haven’t the foggiest idea where anything is in his kitchen, but you make do with what you can find in the poorly stocked fridge, and pack him a light lunch. you start a pot of coffee, too, and lean against the counter as you wait for the pot to fill.

the ancient coffee pot takes too long, and you can hear roger humming in the shower down the hall.

your nails tap against the counter.

you’re antsy, unsure of what to do with yourself now that the wedding is over. how do you be a wife to someone who doesn’t want a wife? how do you be a friend to someone who doesn’t want a friend?

it’s too big of a problem to solve in the span of time it takes for roger to finish his shower, so you slip into the bedroom and peel off your stockings and his tee-shirt. you put on a sweater, some jeans, and wipe the day-old makeup from your face with a wet-wipe. the movements are tried and true, and they calm your racing thoughts.

you have an entire year to figure out how to live with roger taylor. you don’t need to have it all figured out this morning.

the coffee pot dings, its job complete, just as you and roger both enter the kitchen.

but he hesitates before taking another step, and so do you.

his hair is wet from the shower. a white sweatshirt swallows his torso. part of the hem is tucked into his white-washed jeans, and you’re struck by the narrowness of his hips. the weariness is gone from his face, replaced with a youthful sort of glow and stubborn cheekiness. you aren’t sure how he’s managed it, but he looks well-rested.

you lift a hand to your cheek. you must look a state. it takes a lot longer for you to put yourself back together after a night out.

he stares at you for a moment, then shakes his head and crosses the kitchen to fill a travel mug with hot coffee. gnawing on your lower lip, you lean your hip bones against the kitchen island as he putters about the room, quiet as the grave.

it’s only your first day as husband and wife, and under such unique circumstances, you shouldn’t expect him to—what? make conversation? ask about you and your life?

“so… what do you think you’ll work on today? in the studio, i mean.”

he glances over his shoulder then shrugs. “not sure. probably something related to the rest of the tour.” bending at the waist, he pulls a drawer out from beneath the sink. his ass looks good in those jeans, but you doubt he’d like you staring, so you look away, mouth screwed to the side. “do you know where the sugar packets are?”

you frown and push away from the island, rounding it to stand beside him. “no?” he turns at the sound of your confused voice, and his head jolts backward to see you standing so close. “i don’t live here, remember?”

“well, you do now.” he swivels on his heel and pulls a small white jar across the counter. lifting the lid, he sighs. “i can’t find the sugar.”

“actually, about living here now...” you follow as he starts for the door, grabbing his keys from a small table in the foyer. “the bedroom situation? i figured we’d have separate bedrooms but last night—”

roger opens the front door and silences you with a hard stare. “the only other bedroom is my practice room.”

your shoulders slump. “oh.”

“i wasn’t going to make it a guest room if you’ll be gone in a year.”

“but where will i—”

“fuck it all, [y/n].” he curls his hand around the doorframe, hanging his head. a cold winter breeze sweeps through the hall, and you pull your jumper tight around your waist. “just sleep in my bed, okay? i don’t fuckin’ care.”

you swallow hard, nod. you’d been prepared for some measure of hostility, some measure of resentment. what you hadn’t been prepared for is the way his rebuffs settle like dead weight in your stomach. he alone can be blamed for this; it was his actions that drove management to force you upon him. yet, he seems to look at you with nothing more than dread and disgust. perhaps it is because you are the physical embodiment of his wrongdoing. his antics created you, and he is powerless to wipe you from his eyesight as he might a clump of dirt. you are a permanent stain—at least for the next year.

maybe you can’t begrudge him his disdainful attitude, then.

you come to when a car horn blares outside.

roger is gone, the door open, void of his claustrophobic presence. leaning around the frame, you catch sight of him and his blond hair as he reaches his car parked on the side of the road. spinning on your heel, you grab his sacked lunch from the fridge and race after him.

“roger!”

he looks up from his car door, and you can’t help but note the way his shoulders lift, tensing at the sight of you running barefoot down the sidewalk. the winter air quickens your steps, and you’re out of breath and huffing when you reach his side. white plumes escape your mouth and drift towards the gray sky.

“you forgot this,” you say, pushing the brown paper sack against his chest. you curl your toes against the frigid bricks beneath your feet.

his brow pinches. “what is it?”

“a lunch. you haven’t eaten yet.”

for the first time since meeting him, the ghost of a true smile lifts the corners of his mouth as he stares down at the sacked lunch. he lifts a hand, and you are surprised by its warmth when he covers your knuckles with his palm. his eyes flick upwards, meeting yours.

“thanks, [y/n].” he tilts his head to the side. “i’m sorry i’ve been a prick. this is all… really new for me.”

you slip your hand from his grasp, sure that your smile is somewhere between girlish and shy. a sharp wind whips through the stitching of your sweater, and you shiver.

“we’ll figure it out,” you say, and it’s a message to both him and yourself. you will figure this out.

“yeah.” he slides his key into the slot on the car door. “yeah, we will.”

“oh. rog, wait.” you stop him by putting a hand on his shoulder. when he twists at the waist, you wind your arms around his neck before he has time to react. you squeeze tight, your toes skimming the ground. he feels firm, stiff like a board. “hug me back,” you whisper against his ear. “there’s someone across the street taking photos.”

the sound he makes in your ear—a grumble, a low growl—sends your blood pumping into overdrive. he’s angry, but he dutifully embraces you as any newlywed husband might. his arms are strong around your lower back, and you melt into him.

god, he feels good. you can’t remember the last time you were held like this. he smells like the soap from his shower, and his sweatshirt is soft. his hair brushes against your cheek, and your eyelashes flutter in response. you should pull away; you’ve hugged him long enough to appear the besotted wife, desperate for her husband to stay home the day after their wedding. the paparazzi surely got what they wanted.

so, why is it so hard for you to let go?

you shake yourself free of the feeling, whether it be longing or desire or something else entirely.

sliding your hands across roger’s shoulders, you drop from your raised stance. you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and without hesitation. just in case.

“go on.” you hurry to step back, to allow him the space the leave. “you don’t want to keep the boys waiting any longer.”

roger’s eyes linger a moment more, his stare somewhere between searching and assessing. then he mumbles an oath beneath his breath, wrenches open his car door, and slips inside. the door slams behind him, and the engine roars to life. you retreat further at the sound, wrapping your arms around your stomach when the car tires squeal against gravel in his haste to get away.

some blissfully wed husband he makes.

biting the inside of your lip, you turn back to the house. the front door remains open wide, and it’s likely the heat has long since left the warmth of the halls. you pause long enough to lift the paper from the front stoop. what you see beneath the fold makes you hesitate all the longer.

there’s a photo of you and roger on the left side of the page beneath the headline, roger taylor marries model. the grainy, black and white image of your wedding day presents you, the smiling bride, and roger, the smiling husband, joined hand-in-hand beneath a heavy wooden cross. to the untrained eye, all is joy in the taylor household. the article describes the ceremony, though the details are patchy and entirely false, as intimate and “drenched with love.”

you scoff before you can stop yourself. clearly, the author of the article has encountered roger taylor under duress.

but it’s not the article which holds you frozen to the front stoop, your exposed toes and fingers sticking like icicles to the newspaper. rather, it’s the smear of red paint slashed over your picture. it’s the word slag scrawled over the article, an arrow pointed in the direction of the wedding photo.

still, in a one-on-one meeting you’d had with jim beach prior to the wedding, he’d warned you of something like this. though all four queen members are undeniably attractive, it is roger who makes the fans go gaga.

maybe it’s his boyish good looks contrasted with his raspy voice. maybe it’s the frenzy with which he plays, his easy charm and sunkissed skin. whatever it is—roger’s fans are a possessive lot.

jim had told you to prepared for a few nasty letters or scathing criticism in the papers. he had told you it wouldn’t last long, just until the initial shock of the marriage wore off, just until roger’s fans accepted the reality that they were not be his lawfully wedded wife.

so, truly, the first incident does not scare you. you just hadn’t realized the scrutiny would begin so soon. if anything, the painted paper makes you chuckle. roger’s fans certainly don’t like to waste time.

you toss the paper in the bin beside the stoop, and it’s forgotten before the day is over.

a week bleeds into a month, and you find yourself falling into some semblance of a life with roger.

you cohabitate for the most part. he does not outright rebuff your attempts at friendship, nor does he accept any olive branch you extend.

conversation is stilted, his contributions terse and monosyllabic. he prefers your home-cooked meals be eaten before the television, and not at the dinner table, where he would be forced to engage with you. he doesn’t even give in when you ask if there’s anything he’d like to rant about. he just shakes his head and bangs on his drums well into the evening, despite having banged on them the whole day at the studio.

yet he sleeps beside you, allows you to sleep beside him.

without fail, he appears more at ease come nightfall. he sheds whatever protective shell he wears throughout the day in favor of something softer, something more tender. you’re not sure what changes him when he walks over the threshold of the bedroom, but something does. perhaps it’s the soft lamplight or the hum of the fan he insists be kept on despite the chill of winter.

there’s a part of you that wonders if it might be your very presence that softens him, but you’ve taken to silencing that part as of late. he’s long-since proven that you hold no sway over him whatsoever, and that’s okay. your job is to be a buffer between his antics and the all-seeing eyes of the public. nothing more.

two months to the day after your wedding, you’re stood in the hallway, slipping on a pair of earrings, and brushing away roger’s hurried attempts to get you through the door. he has one hand on the doorknob, the other wrist tilted to expose his watch face.

“[y/n], please!”

“roger, the party doesn’t start until queen arrives. give me just a minute more.”

tonight, the savoy hotel, the first music industry party you’ll attend by roger’s side as his wife.

you’re nervous.

your hands shake as you press the earrings into your ears, and you rub your lips back and forth, feeling the slick lipstick rub over the flesh. you’re thankful the dress you chose is a gauzy sort of chiffon. if you sweat, no one will be able to tell, thanks to the pale blue of the fabric.

impatient as ever, roger drags himself from the door to stand behind you, as though prepared to throw you over his shoulder. however, a smirk pulls at your mouth when he pauses in his frustration long enough to primp and preen his hair in the mirror. you catch his eye, your fingers paused in snapping your clutch closed. he sees your smirk, and his own lips pull on a wry smile.

the moment hangs in the air, thick with—what? tension? no. something else. camaraderie comes to mind.

your eyes remain locked with his, and his grin spreads until he is shaking his head with amusement. he pushes your shoulder, but the touch is friendly, almost brotherly in nature.

“come on,” he says. “i don’t want to miss all the good wine.”

nodding, you start for the door, trailing behind him to flick the lights off. darkness engulfs the house, the only light the white glow of the moon spilling through the window above the kitchen sink and a night light plugged in along the hallway baseboard.

but then the phone rings.

roger stamps his foot against the floor, the door already half-open. “fuckin’ hell!”

“let me get it.” you’re halfway down the hall before he can stop you. “i’ll tell them to buzz off. hold on!”

“i’m going to get the car started,” he says. his voice echoes through the hall to meet you where the phone hangs in the kitchen. “you have two minutes, [y/n]. two minutes!”

lifting the phone from the receiver, you press it against your ear. “hello?”

at first, you hear nothing on the other end.

but you’re sure you heard the phone ring, so you lean closer to the receiver and plug your opposite ear in a piss poor attempt to hear better. “hello? this is [y/n] taylor speaking.”

the sound of heavy breathing—deep inhales, hard exhales—meets your ear. deep inhale, hard exhale. over and over and over.

your throat tightens, but you push past the lump. “hello? who’s there?”

a stuttering of breath on the inhale, a shaky exhale. a croak, voice poised to speak.

only you slam the phone back on the receiver before the person on the other end can say a word.

for a moment, you stand still, eyes glued to the phone, mouth parted in shock.

but then roger honks the car horn, and you shake yourself free of the unsettling feeling. a missed connection, you tell yourself. a wrong number. a mistake. that’s all it was—a mistake.

still, you are shaking when you slide into the passenger seat of roger’s car. he glances at you before pulling into the busy street.

“are you cold?” he asks. he turns the heat up, blasting the air against your face. “you’re shaking.”

“no,” you say, and, truly, you aren’t. he loaned you an ostentatious fur coat for the occasion, lined with a smooth brown fabric, and you are comfortably warm beneath the heavy material. “just nervous.”

roger snorts, his eyes sliding to you. “nervous? surely you’ve been to parties before. you’re a model, for god’s sake.”

“i’m not sure what kind of model you think i was, rog. i did mostly print, never runway. parties were never a part of my nine-to-five.”

“oh.” his mouth screws to the side. “i guess—well, to be honest, i kinda thought models all did the same kind of work.”

“most people do. that’s in the past now, though.” you shift, glance out the window, and watch the streetlights blur in a hazy streak of orange and yellow. he’s driving fast, and you grip the side of the door, willing your heart to stop racing.

the car slows to a stop beneath a red light. roger taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and the silence in the car is deafening.

you should strike up a conversation. he seems willing tonight, and maybe that’s due to the cramped nature of the car, but it’s an opportunity nonetheless.

only you can’t stop thinking about the phone call, about the heavy breathing and the unanswered questions. you shut your eyes and find yourself mirroring the caller’s breathing patterns.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“so, you’re done with modeling?”

you open your eyes and turn to look at his profile. why he insists on wearing sunglasses in the dead of night you will never understand, but the sight alone makes you smirk. he knows he’s attractive; you have to give him credit for embracing it.

“that’s why i married you,” you say.

roger laughs—and you realize it’s probably the first time you’ve heard the sound. his laugh aligns with the light timbre of his voice, and the anxiety in your chest eases to hear him sound something other than malcontent.

“i knew you were a gold digger!” it’s a joke—you can tell by the quirk of his mouth and the lines around his eyes—but you rush to defend yourself all the same.

“no, i’m not!” you hesitate before shrugging with a rueful chuckle. “well… maybe a little. i won’t deny that the money i get from this arrangement really helps. i was looking for a way out of modeling, anyway.”

“really?” roger’s eyebrow arches, and, as the car turns into the savoy, the wrap-around drive clogged with limousines, sport cars, and photographers jostling for a good spot, you catch a glimpse of admiration on his face. “what do you want to do now?”

“i’m not sure. go back to school. i’ve got a head for maths, so maybe accounting or something.”

roger twists his head to meet your eyes, and his smile is earnest. it steals the breath from your lungs.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

“you don’t strike me as an accountant, dove.”

“why not?”

“accountants are stuffy, greasy men. you’re… you know…” he waves a hand, inches the car forward as the line moves. camera bulbs flash in the world outside, but within the car, all you can focus on is roger and his next words.

“i’m…?” you’re fishing, but this is the first time he’s given you more than the time of day, and you’re eager to get something, anything, out of your husband.

he shrugs, and his hands curl around the steering wheel. a muscle in his jaw ticks. “you’re too nice.”

you look away. “ah—nice.” not what you’d been expecting him to say.

he pulls the car to a stop along the hotel’s entrance, and a sharply dressed attendant opens the door. sliding out after roger, you instinctively reach for his hand. he spares you a short glance and squeezes your fingers together in a gesture of encouragement.

a black—not red—carpet lines the walkway from the drive to the open hotel doors. velvet ropes hold back the crowd of photographers, reporters, and fans lucky enough to have squeezed their way to such a prime viewing spot. camera flashes paint the inside of your eyelids with bright, white spots. despite the chill of winter, the air is hot, heady with glitz and glamor. it’s hard to distinguish any one voice over the plethora of people vying for attention, and your head swims in the chaos of it all.

roger moves easily from one side of the rope to another. he is in his element, grinning for the cameras and joking with reporters who grab him long enough for a quote. his moments with the press are short, few and far between. he much prefers the fans—their simpering smiles, tear-stained cheeks, and waving slips of paper begging for a signature. you don’t blame him. who could ever resist such unfettered adoration?

near the end of the carpet, a reporter snags roger’s attention with his waving arm. palm still clasped in roger’s, you trail behind your husband, hovering just behind his shoulder. the cool smile you perfected in your modeling days remains fixed on your face, even as the reporter acknowledges you with a tilt of his head.

“is this your wife, roger?”

the reporter has to shout to be heard over the sudden surge of excitement as a new celebrity takes their first step on the carpet. it’s kate bush, if you aren’t mistaken. you could be wrong, though. the reporter’s query pricks your ears, dividing your focus between the cacophony around you and the question at hand. thus far, you’ve remained nameless by roger’s side. no one—fan or press alike—has asked after you, and you’re happy for it.

roger turns to look at you, and his grin spreads. he goes so far as to slip his arm around your waist, tugging you against his side, keeping his gaze on your profile. a sudden rush of blood floods your cheeks, and you duck your head beneath his watchful eyes. yet you find your own smile widening. the action is not one you have to force or fake, though. it’s easy to smile when roger is smiling.

“yes, this is my bride,” roger says. “[y/n].”

the hand he’s placed on your waist squeezes the flesh of your hip, pushing you further against him. to keep from tripping over your own legs, you press a hand against his chest to steady yourself. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your fingers; his heart pulses to a steady rhythm. your own heart beats twice as fast.

the reporter checks something on his small pad of paper. “is it true that you used to be a model, [y/n]? there are rumors that this marriage is a publicity stunt.” he hesitates, glancing over his shoulder as someone bumps his back, pushing him against the velvet rope. once righted, he continues. “there are rumors that you were hired to get the press to stop talking negatively about the montreal incident.”

you open your mouth to speak, but roger jumps in before you can utter a single syllable.

“are you joking?” he tosses his head back in an easy laugh and pulls you even tighter against his side. you’re afraid if he draws you any nearer you will absorb into him completely. but with the way the lights dance off his eyelashes and his hair looks perfectly tousled and his body feels strong against yours, you aren’t sure that would be a bad thing.

“i’m crazy about my wife!” he says, and the words go straight to your heart like a wildfire. “you should get yourself one, mate.” he playfully slaps the reporter’s upper arm. “they’re great fun!”

the reporter arches an eyebrow. “it’s just that i know you’ve gone on record as not exactly believing in marriage and—”

“what do you want me to do? kiss ‘er? would that make you happy?” a shit-eating grin rises on his face, indignant and cocky all at once. he shoots you a look out of the corner of his eye; you bite your lip. “will that get you off my back?”

“that’s not really—”

“here.” he taps the wrist of a bystanding photographer then points to you, twisting his body so that you stand face to face. “put this in your bloody paper!”

grabbing either side of your face, roger dips his head to capture your lips with his. for a moment, you remain unsure. you hold fast to his wrists, your mouth unmoving. the blood in your veins stands frozen in shock, and your heart presses painfully against your ribcage. somewhere in the back of your mind, your conscious screams for you to react, to play along, but it’s not until roger slides one hand from your cheek to the small of your back that you register what part you must play.

thank god it’s not a difficult role.

with a tilt of your head, you wrap your arms around his neck and hold tight. he tastes faintly of cigarettes and the mints he uses to freshen his breath. his lips are soft, softer than you’d anticipated. you can hear the clicking of cameras, feel the blinding light of flashbulbs pierce your eyelids, sense the growing interest in your display of affection, but none of it penetrates the bubble—the bubble of you and roger, of his lips and your lips, of his arms holding you close, his very air becoming yours.

he pulls away entirely too soon, and his smile is all the more cheeky. you press your fingertips to your lips, lower your face, and draw in a sharp breath.

“there! that could enough for you?”

roger steers you away from the reporters and into the sanctuary of the hotel at last. a rush of cool air meets you and, though it is mid-winter, you sweat beneath roger’s fur coat. the gentle whoosh of air-conditioning is a blessing against your hot skin.

as you enter the ballroom transformed for the event, roger lowers his mouth to your ear. “sorry about that, poppet.” the low register of his voice and the feeling of his breath against the back of your neck sends a shiver down your spine. “i’ve dealt with that tosser before, and he really grinds my gears.”

“‘s fine, roger,” you manage to say through your tight throat. “it’s what i’m here for, yeah?”

he stops walking, and his hand moves from your back to your wrist. his eyes drift over your face, calculating, searching. you let him look. you aren’t sure what he’s looking for, but you get the feeling that he’s truly seeing you for the first time. even in the manufactured blue light of the room, even with the myriad of tables surrounded by producers and singers and agents alike, his face visibly softens and his hand curls around your wrist.

“roger! [y/n]! over here!”

three tables away, freddie waves his hand, beckoning you over. roger drags you along, his fingers intertwining with yours as you sidestep people already lounging at their seats. once at the table set aside for queen and guests, roger pulls out your chair, and you sit, smoothing your hands over your skirt. he sits beside you and leans to his side to whisper something to john. on your right sits chrissie may, and you offer her a smile in greeting.

the function—a charity benefit organized to bring awareness to the falklands disagreement—comes and goes without issue. the dinner is bland, but the wine is good. chrissie is pleasant, and it’s your first chance to speak to another band member’s wife since the wedding. you appreciate her advice, laugh at her stories, and enjoy yourself without restraint. it doesn’t hurt that as roger drinks more, he more pays attention to you. you really shouldn’t encourage him, but when he slings an arm around your chair and pulls you closer, when he turns his head to whisper a joke in your ear at brian’s expense, when he plays with a loose lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger, it’s all you can do not to melt like the ice-sculpture in the center of the room.

come the end of the event, you find yourself walking between chrissie and veronica, your steps slow as the boys stumble through the hall. roger and john cannot stop laughing, though no one has said anything remotely funny for the last few minutes. they cling to one another like koalas to trees, as though the other might drop to the ground if released. brian and freddie aren’t any better. they sing off-key, their voices bouncing off the empty walls and laminate floors. you aren’t sure what part of the hotel you’ve wound up in, but it’s certainly less plush than the ballroom. still, you smile when roger slides his sunglasses over his eyes and snorts at one of john’s inane comments.

your smile falters when the sound of veronica’s labored breathing, pregnant as she is, reaches your ears.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

in the flurry of the evening—amidst the kiss and the dinner and the joking and the drinking—you’d forgotten about the phone call.

chrissie reaches out to grab your arm when your steps stutter. “are you okay?” she asks.

you stop walking. if the boys get into trouble around the corner, you’ll surely hear it.

meeting chrissie’s wide eyes, you frown. you hate the put a damper on the evening’s chipper mood, but the memory of the phone call crashes to the surface, bringing with it anxiety and unease. roger doesn’t need to know, but perhaps the other wives experienced a similar phenomenon. perhaps it’s all in your head. either way, you’d like a second opinion.

“this is going to sound weird, but… have either of you ever gotten a strange phone call?”

“phone call?” veronica rubs a hand over her swollen stomach. “what do you mean?”

you explain the events prior to your departure earlier in the evening, and the concerned looks that settle on chrissie and veronica’s faces stir the uncertainty in your stomach.

“that doesn’t sound good, [y/n],” chrissie says.

you gnaw at your lower lip. “no, i suppose it doesn’t.”

“have you told rog?”

you shake your head. “i don’t want to trouble him. not if it’s just some practical joke. it very well could be our kid neighbor having a lark.”

another memory drifts to the surface: the newspaper, the red paint dripping across your photograph. slag, they’d written.

you’d forgotten about that too.

veronica pulls you back to the present with her even tone. “i think you should tell him. if someone is harassing you, even if it’s just the once, don’t you think he should know?”

“i guess but—”

“hey, party people!” john sticks his head around the corner, breaking the conversation with his over-loud voice. “guess what we found?”

“judging by your wet trousers, i’d say a pool.”

john trips down the hall to grab veronica’s arm. “have i ever told you that you’re brilliant?” he presses a noisy kiss to her cheek, and even veronica isn’t capable of remaining firm under such affection.

like a child who has found an interesting twig, john crooks his arm in a follow-me motion, tugging his wife toward the pool. “come on. come see!”

veronica follows john around the corner, but before you can follow, chrissie presses her palm to your shoulder.

“you should tell roger,” she says. “before it gets serious.”

you nod, promise her you will, then make your way to the indoor swimming pool, knowing full well roger won’t hear a word of the incident.

the savoy’s pool room is understated in comparison with the rest of the hotel. though the ceiling stretches high, skylights allowing moonlight to shimmer over the undisturbed water, the room is just as hot, just as stuffy, as any other hotel pool. you drop your coat and rog’s to a plastic lounge chair as soon as you enter, swamped as you are by the thick air.

all nerves, all worries about the phone call, fade away as you slip your shoes off and watch roger and john’s poor poolside rendition of abbott and costello’s “who’s on first” routine. roger can’t keep up with john no matter how hard he tries, but their combined effort is valiant.

laughing, you clap as they take their theatrical bows and only laugh harder when john trips over the edge of the pool mid-bow. he lands belly-first in the clear water, rising a sputtering, drenched mess, his hair and clothes sodden to the bone, though his eyes are bright with mischief. he swims to where veronica sits with her ankles in the water and, before she can sternly admonish him, has her pulled into the churning pool beside him.

brian is next in. he cannonballs in the deep end, and chrissie follows of her own volition. the impact of their jump launches a tidal wave of water in your direction, and you screech, nearly falling in your attempt to avoid getting wet.

but then a pair of arms wrap around your waist, lifting you from the cool, albeit slippery, floor.

“roger, no!” you twist in his tight hold. “no, roger, don’t!”

your voice echoes in the room, bouncing off the windows and walls; yet roger ignores your pleas for release. he shuffles to the edge of the pool at the behest and cheering of his friends, each treading water, watching as you struggle to break free.

the water beneath your feet rises and falls, sloshing this way and that. you can see the bottom of the pool from where roger holds you, and there’s a delicate, inlaid design of a turtle twelve feet down on the pool’s stone foundation.

you curl your nails in roger’s arm. “roger, i can’t—”

he tosses you in before you can finish the sentence.

you fall through the air with a scream, land on your back, and sink beneath the surface of the water. chemically-laced water fills your mouth, your nose, and your lungs scream for air.

for a moment, fear grips you, not unlike the way it gripped you in the hallway of your own home, the phone cradled against your ear. only this time, you know exactly what will happen if you don’t get help.

this is not a battle you can win yourself.

kicking to the top, you break through the water and cough, shaking your head. tears cloud your vision when you open your eyes, but the liquid that’s caught in your eyelashes disguises them, and for that you’re thankful. roger bobs beside you, a grin on his face, looking much too pleased with himself and his antics. without a second thought, you reach for him.

“roger, i can’t swim,” you say.

his face falls. “oh.” he blinks then, realization striking as you grab onto his shoulders. “fuck, [y/n]. i’m sorry.”

clinging to him, you wrap your arms around his chest, your legs around his waist. you rest your cheek against the back of his neck and sigh, inhaling deeply. “i tried to tell you,” you whisper.

beneath the water, his hand curls around the skin of your ankle. he squeezes, and it’s all the apology you need.

the band stays in the pool for entirely too long. freddie starts talking about the next album, and the other boys chime in, clamoring for their opinions to be heard over the others. despite their drunken state, music brings a sense of clarity to their speech and thought. it’s their life’s work and something about which they care deeply. there’s no denying that. even when brian tries his hand at a backwards flip and freddie challenges john to a diving contest, they are always thinking, always working, toward their next goal. you admire them for that.

roger remains steady where he stands. you cling to him like a barnacle, even though you just as easily could remove yourself and find a place where your feet touch solid ground. he feels nice, though. his body is a comfort against yours, and as the business talk continues, your head lolls to the side on his shoulder, a gentle smile on your lips.

you could get used to this.

at some point, veronica complains about her aching back and drags john from the pool. they are the first to leave, but brian and chrissie soon follow. you aren’t sure if you want to go, if you want the evening to end. if it means roger will go back to ignoring you, shoving you aside, you think you could stay in this pool until your skin wilted and dripped off your bones.

“we’d better go, love,” roger whispers.

you know he’s right.

“yeah.” you try to keep the disappointment from your voice.

he moves to the side of the pool, and you heave yourself over the edge. your dress is heavy, weighed down by the absorbed water. you wring out the skirt as best you can, but until you can give it a proper wash and dry, it’s really no use. gooseflesh breaks out on your arms where the cool air hits, and you shiver.

roger appears behind you, turns you gently with a hand to the shoulder, and lifts a fluffy white towel. “here. i found these.”

“oh!” you move to take the towel from his grasp. “thank you.”

“i’ve got it.” with a smile—a boyish, gentle sort of smile—roger unfurls the towel and wraps it around your shoulders. he tugs the corners beneath your chin and laughs through a short breath. “comfy?”

you nod, pressing your face against the warm fabric.

“you look like a marshmallow.”

lifting your mouth from behind the towel, you tilt your head with an impish grin. “you once told me i looked like an angel. so, which is it? angel or marshmallow?”

“oh, angel for sure.” he thumbs a finger over the end of your nose. “you always look like an angel.”

you roll your eyes and hope the action does not expose the sudden flutter in your chest. “you’re just saying that ‘cause you’re drunk.”

he shakes his head. “no. i mean it.”

he looks at you for a long time. you look at him for just as long. the unease cadence of your breath, the way his breath whistles through his nose, the lap of the pool against the tiled walls—it all sounds so loud to your ears, though nothing can compare to the beating of your heart. it fills your entire body: bump bump, bump bump, bump bump. your cheeks feel hot with blush, and you finally look away, casting your eyes to the floor. you wiggle your bare feet against the tiled floor; roger wiggles his toes back.

“we should go home,” you say.

“yeah.”

roger pays an attendant to ferry you home, and the drive leaves your entire body close to overheating.

the back seat of his car feels strangely intimate compared to the front seat, but that might just be your imagination. surely, roger didn’t sit so close to you on purpose. surely, his hand isn’t pressed against your leg because he wants it to be. his car is just… cramped.

“did you have fun tonight?” you break the silence, but when you do, your voice sounds strange—slightly strangled, nervous, earthy—and you wish you’d remained quiet. you continue toying with a loose thread on your coat, ignoring the way roger’s eyes traverse your profile.

“mhm. did you?”

you nod, but don’t look up.

from the driver’s seat, the attendant coughs, and your gaze shifts.

deep inhale, hard exhale.

chrissie’s words of earlier surface in your mind: you should tell him about the phone call. it’s only right.

twisting, you look to your right, meet roger’s eyes, and promptly lose all sense of direction. his face is so near, his mouth parted, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed. your throat runs dry, but you can’t look away.

“roger–”

“hmm?” his lips tighten, but his smile is just as sly as it had been the moment before he kissed you in front of the reporters. the touch still lingers on your mouth, but you will the memory away.

“there’s something i should—”

his fingers sift through a lock of your hair, and he moves his head almost in a nuzzling sort of gesture. you swallow hard. “i was wrong about you,” he whispers. when did his voice get so raspy?

“what?”

“i was wrong to judge you,” he says. his hand moves from your hair to the side of your neck, one long finger tracing the lines of your skin. “to be honest, i thought you were some cheap girl looking for a way into my bed, but i was wrong. you’re more than that.”

“what—” deep inhale. “what am i, then?”

his lips quirk upward. “my wife.”

hard exhale.

his mouth claims yours, and you don’t fight him. you melt against him, his chest pressed against yours in the narrow space of the car. you’re vaguely aware that a driver sits not two feet away, more than able to hear the way roger pulls a soft whimper from behind your lips and the rustle of clothes as you both scrabble for any exposed skin. but you don’t really care. you’re drunk off of roger, and have been since you met him. it’s his looks, yes, but tonight—tonight you saw him in his element. you heard him laugh and saw him smile and preened under his attention. you would go to hades and back to live in a world shaped just like tonight, every bit of it.

roger can’t keep his hands off you as you make your way from the sidewalk to the front stoop. his hands roam your body, skimming every inch, squeezing the parts he seems to like most. you giggle like young lovers experiencing one another for the first time, and maybe that’s because you are.

when you drop the front door key because you’re too focused on returning roger’s eager kiss, it doesn’t seem to matter. you just stand on the stoop and kiss beneath the light of the moon a little longer.

when you finally get the door open and his palm hits your ass at the same time, you squeal, and he dissolves into laughter.

when he fumbles with the hallway light because he’s too focused on getting your coat off, you tell him to forget it. you don’t need the light anyway.

halfway down the hall, limbs and lips tangled, the phone rings.

you laugh as you peel yourself from his grasp. he puckers his lower lip in protest.

“i’ll be just a minute,” you say, lifting the phone from the receiver. he sticks his tongue out, but then sheds his shirt, leaving it on the kitchen floor as he slips into the bedroom. you bite the edge of your thumb as you watch him go, your head as muddled as creamy soup.

someone clears their throat on the other end of the line.

“oh, sorry. hello?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

cold dread extinguishes any joy lingering in your chest at the sound of the sickeningly smooth voice.

your fingers curl tight around the phone. “who is this?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

angry tears spring to your eyes as you scoot to stare out the window over the sink. nothing but darkness meets your eyes, but still you try in vain to search for an answer in the inky blackness. “i said: who is this?” your voice cracks, but you push forward. “how did you get this number?”

“what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

“i swear i calling the fucking police if you keep this up!”

a beat of hesitation then: “what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?”

with a helpless groan, you slam the phone down for the second time in one day. your fingers creak as you let go and step back, chest heaving. your skin feels slimy—slimy with roger’s lingering touch, slimy with the possibility that someone had been watching you kiss your husband, slimy with the possibility that someone could be watching you now.

you don’t stop and admire roger, clad only in his boxers, as you make your way to the en suite bathroom. you can’t stand to look at him, to know that somewhere someone cares for him so much they would take to harassing you. god, it makes you want to vomit.

you don’t bother with the bathroom door so intent are you at getting in the shower and scrubbing your slimy skin raw. you struggle with the zipper at the top of your spine, the tears hovering over your eyes threatening to spill over if you can’t be rid of your soaked clothing. you stamp your foot with a grunt and drop your hands, hanging your head in defeat.

roger’s soft chuckle sounds from the doorway. you don’t turn to look at him.

your back stiffens when he undoes the zipper, the pads of his fingers pressing along your shoulder blades, your ribs, the small of your back.

“that eager, huh?” he presses a wet kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

you want him; you really do. there’s some part of you that wants to drag him into the shower and work out your fears with the aid of his body against yours. but you won’t do that. you won’t use him, not when he confessed he thinks you better than that.

you twist to face him, holding the dress against your chest. “rog, i…” you place your hand on his smooth chest, feel the small hairs peppering his collarbone. “you’re drunk,” you finally say. “you’re drunk and you should go to bed.”

he smirks and pushes his hips against yours. “so? you’re drunk too.”

you shake your head. “no, not anymore.” you push him away gently. “believe me, roger, i want nothing more than to go to bed with you but—”

he plays with a lock of hair beside your face, and your desire to resist him weakens. “but?”

“i won’t do it while you’re drunk. besides, you’ll be over this by morning. you’ll go back to not wanting me. so i won’t do it—not while you’re drunk.”

with a huff, he lets you go, but not without kissing you once more. a traitorous tear slides down your cheek, and your throat seizes with emotion. somewhere in the back of your clouded mind, you wonder if you love him. or, if at least you are on the edge of loving him.

but it doesn’t matter. you’ll be gone in a year, and he will move on to someone else, someone strong enough to withstand his rabid fans.

he pulls away first and kisses your temple. “goodnight, angel,” he whispers.

you wrap your arms around your stomach and, once stood beneath the hot water of the shower, let the sound of the creaking pipes drown out the sound of your crying.

roger is gone before you wake the next morning.

he leaves you a note on the kitchen island, scrawled in his plain script: “angel, i’m hungover now, not drunk. i’d still like you in my bed. – rog”

the note should send a thrill to your stomach, but it manifests itself in a ball of dread instead.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

it’s heaven, but the price is hell.

you crumple the note and toss it in the bin, jumping when the phone rings. you hesitate, your gaze locked on the inanimate object that has come to haunt your dreams.

eventually, the phone stops ringing, but the shrill sound echoes in your head as you go about the day.

after the second phone call, tension becomes your constant companion. the days pass, and you withdraw into yourself, scared by the slightest sound, the never-ending line of cars outside the front window, and roger’s growing interest.

he seems to like you now that he knows you. he makes you laugh, asks you questions, even goes so far as to help you research university entrance exams.

but when he comes home from the studio, your stomach takes to twisting with apprehension as you wonder if your faceless friend watched him drive home and wonder further if your faceless friend can see roger kiss the side of your neck.

you try not to push him away. his attention is what you’ve wanted all along, and, though the romantic turn of events was certainly unplanned, he does make your knees weak and your head giddy like a schoolgirl’s.

still, the phone calls persist. it’s not every night and every day. you can’t trace the caller’s pattern because there is none. you never know who will be on the other end of the line. it could be roger calling during his lunch break as he is wont to do; it could be the university to which you’ve applied; or it could be them, the phantom who chills the blood in your veins.

there’s a pad of paper tucked beneath your side of the bed. the words of your faceless friend are scrawled across the page in frenzied handwriting, the handwriting of a madwoman.

what’s it like to kiss roger taylor?

did he buy you those earrings?

will he ask john to help you study for the maths entrance exam?

you should stop answering the phone; you know you should. but each time the phone rings, you respond like a pavlovian dog. you rush to answer, to frantically write down the day’s comment just in case there’s some sliver of information that might shed light on your faceless friend’s identity.

the caller is a woman; that much you know. her voice is deep and gravelly, but she’d referenced herself as the better woman for roger before. she seems to cling to the idea that you will leave him and the position of roger taylor’s wife will fall to her. if only to spite her, you will remain married to roger until your dying day.

you should tell roger too; you know you should.

but he’s happy.

when you first met him, he was sullen, dragging his tail between his legs like a scolded pup after the montreal debacle. it took a while, but you see him now for his true self. he’s carefree in a grounded sort of way, sold out for his music and the lifestyle it affords him. he’s gentle and kind and surprisingly considerate. he picks up the groceries when you ask it of him; he cleans the dishes from supper without complaint. he doesn’t pressure you for anything more than a make-out session on the couch when the lights are low and a record spins on the turntable. you would go further, but you can’t—not right now. he doesn’t ask any questions.

it would break you to tell him about the phone calls, and you can’t bring yourself to do it. each morning, you imagine his crestfallen face. you imagine the anger and the shouting and him calling the authorities and—

it’s easier for him—for everybody—if you just stay quiet.

besides, you’ll be gone in six months.

one evening, after dinner at an expensive restaurant, you let roger to take you to bed. he’d looked so pretty in the candlelight, and he’d listened to you talk about your hopes and dreams for the future. you think you fall in love with him when he drags you onto the bed and whispers sweet praises in your ear the whole night long.

when you wake the next morning, he is still there, and you snuggle into his chest. you breathe him in, and it’s bar soap from the shower and dried sweat and lingering cologne. his arms circle your back, squeezing you tighter.

“mornin’, angel,” he mumbles.

for a moment, you don’t respond. you keep your eyes closed and think back to yesterday.

there’d been no phone call. a blessed reprieve from three days in a row of randomly timed messages. roger had held you, and he holds you still. he is a comfort amidst your turbulent sea.

you should tell him. he can handle it. you’re tired of running from him.

rising to your palm, you meet roger’s gaze. he stares at you through his lashes, a sleepy smile on his mouth. he lifts a hand to cradle your face, and his thumb skims your cheekbone.

“how come you get a halo every morning and i don’t?”

you ignore his compliment before the bravery rushing through your veins dissipates. “rog, there’s something i haven’t told you.”

“yeah? is it about the freckle by your left ass-check?”

gasping, you slap roger’s chest. though he laughs, a red handprint remains in the center of his sternum, and he clutches his skin in pain. once settled, he apologizes and promises to behave.

deep inhale.

“about a month or two ago, i started—”

the phone on the bedside table cuts you off with its sharp bell-like ring.

your stomach plummets to your feet.

your eyes widen as roger holds up a finger and reaches for the earpiece.

he lifts it to his ear. “hello?”

some part of you hopes it’s your faceless friend. roger could deal with her himself. the other part of you prays it’s just a wrong number or john or—

“yes, fred, i know.”

hard exhale.

you slump to the side, leaning your weight against roger’s hip. thank heaven.

roger’s eyes slide to you, and he grins, winking. he squeezes the point of your chin between his forefinger and thumb, his eyes locked on yours as he nods and hums in response to freddie on the other end of the line.

“no, we won’t be late,” roger says. “yes, she’s coming. i promise i won’t forget.” he leans closer to the bedside table in his effort to end the conversation. “okay, fred. yes, i will.” finally, he heaves a sigh. “oh, for fuck’s sake, fuck off! i’m trying to woo my wife, so scram!”

“now,” he says, once the earpiece is on the base. “where were we?”

tugging on the back of your neck, he closes the distance between his mouth and yours. even with a hint of morning breath, you dissolve in his capable hands. he kisses you earnestly, and you struggle to remember what it was you wanted to tell him. he has this way with his mouth and his tongue and his hands that makes you forget everything but the feeling of him.

pulling back a moment later, he mumbles against your mouth: “what was it you wanted to tell me?”

you blink rapidly. “i—” damn, he looks so happy, glowing with youth and perhaps an inkling of love. you press your palm to his cheek then shake your head. “never mind. it can wait.”

he cocks his head to the side. “you sure?”

“mhm.”

“you remember the movie thing tonight, right?” he asks as he slides from the bed, drawing up his sweats from the floor and padding to the window. “that’s what fred called about.”

he throws the curtains open. the morning sun shines through, piercing every hidden corner, and your heart trips in your chest. your hands shake as you lift one of the bed sheets to cover your naked chest.

someone could be watching.

roger grimaces. “oh, shit, sorry, angel.” he tosses you his shirt from the floor, which you gratefully tug over your head. “anyway, tron, you know? we’re supposed to go to the premiere. something about flash gordon and—”

“i remember.”

“good. wear something nice because i don’t give a fuck about this movie, and i’d rather be looking at you anyway.” he smirks as he presses his palms against the mattress and leans in for another kiss.

you oblige him without hesitation.

“gotta go,” he says, pulling away only to firmly kiss you once more. “be ready by six, okay?”

you nod, and he leaves.

the majority of the day, you putter about the house. there’s chores to do—laundry and bills to catch up on and research for university admissions. it’s domestic work, mind-numbingly dull and repetitive. it leaves far too much space for your thoughts to run wild.

you admonish yourself for once more failing to tell roger of your faceless friend. you’d had the moment, and you’d blown it. with his unreliable schedule, there is no telling when you’ll have the chance to sit him down for a serious conversation again. you consider going to jim beach for help, but know once roger hears wind of it, he will fly off the handle because you didn’t come to him first. perhaps rightfully so, too.

you resolve that until you can find another peaceful moment, you will continue to suffer through it. it’s a step in the right direction, though. at least now, you have plans to tell him.

by five-forty-five, you are ready for the event. you sit in the living room, gnawing at your lower-lip as your leg bounces in anticipation. you haven’t gone anywhere with roger since the charity function earlier in the year. your faceless friend will surely be watching tonight, and already you feel sweat gather along your underarms.

roger unlocks the door and sticks his head into the living room upon his arrival. “car’s running. ready to go?”

you lift your handbag from the floor, nodding as you make your way to his side. roger stops you with a flat hand against your stomach. he bends to catch your eyes.

“you okay?”

“yes,” you say, but your voice sounds too rushed and eager even to your own ears.

he doesn’t hassle you for a more illuminative response. he just leads you to the car, opens your door, and makes his way to the theater, foot hard on the gas pedal.

as soon as you see the carpet—red this time—stretched along the sidewalk leading to the movie theater, bile rises in your throat. you reach for roger’s arm and squeeze tight. his head whips to the side.

“roger, i don’t think i can do this,” you breathe.

he frowns. “what do you mean?”

“it’s just that i’ve been—”

he pulls the car to the side. an usher opens the door, sound and light and chaos breaking the comforting quiet of the ride. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

“[y/n], what is it?” roger’s voice is low, on the edge of irritation.

this is not the time. yet why do you feel like you’re going to pass out if you don’t—

“mr. taylor?” the usher prompts.

purging the emotions clawing at the front of your mind, you push roger’s shoulder and avoid his searching gaze. “nothing. go on! i’m right behind you.”

roger huffs as he slides from the car, but he dutifully offers his hand to aid you onto the red carpet. as he did before, he leads you toward the theater doors, stopping at the appropriate moments to pose for photographs. you hold on to the back of his jacket so tightly your knuckles crack. your eyes scan the crowd in search of your faceless friend. you will know her when you see her. she is a part of you now, like a demon on your shoulder.

roger rubs his hand up and down your back in a comforting gesture and leans to whisper in your ear. “you feel a stiff as a board,” he says. “what is it?”

you shake your head and nudge him further down the carpet. “we can talk about it later.”

“is it something i’ve—”

“no, roger. it’s not you.”

he studies your face a moment longer before nodding and returning his smile to the crowd.

near the entrance to the theater, a gaggle of girls wave their hands in an attempt to grab roger’s attention. he glances at you, and you nod, backing away to allow him one of the moments he so enjoys.

but one of the girls calls out your name. you lift your eyes to stop tracing the intricate weaving of the red carpet and stare at the girl in question until roger has to drag you over with a laugh. the girl shoves a newspaper in your face, your wedding announcement crinkled with affectionate wear-and-tear. she asks for your autograph, and you chuckle, feeling rather ridiculous as you scrawl your name across the page with a fat green marker.

it happens before you have time to react.

your head is bent as you sign the girl’s newspaper, your attention diverted from scanning the crowd for your faceless friend. but you feel her when she arrives, sense her eyes on your neck, and her fingers reaching for the sleeve of your dress. you have time enough to turn and catch sight of her long fingernails descending upon your cheek, but not time enough to stop her.

you scream more out of fear than pain as her nails scrape your face. truly, it does not hurt, though blood does begin to trickle down your chin and along the column of your throat.

it’s just that she’s there, before your very eyes, and she’s much smaller than you imagined. yet her eyes are dark with envy, and her nails are sharp. you recognize her labored breathing—deep inhale, sharp exhale—as she tries to move backwards and disappear within the crowd before she can be seen. you cannot look away from her, even when roger grabs your shoulders and wrenches you away from the iron gate. he’s shouting in your ear, cradling your uninjured cheek, but everything sounds like you’re underwater.

her face—round and childlike in its innocence—does not match the picture you’d created of her in your mind. she does not resemble the evil witch of your childhood fairy tales. she’s just a child, a little girl with a heart full of love for someone she cannot have.

your faceless friend is pointed out by the girl with the newspaper, and someone—maybe theater security, maybe queen security, maybe a good samaritan—drags her away.

roger grips your chin harder than he should considering the circumstances, but it brings your attention back to him. his eyes are ablaze with fury, and you suddenly feel the urge to cry.

“are you all right?” he demands. “are you hurt anywhere else?”

only my pride, you think.

“no,” you manage with a shake of your head. “no.”

“come on.” he slips his arm around your waist and pushes your head into the curve of his neck, away from prying eyes and flashing cameras. “we’re going home.”

the trip home is silent. your head moves back and forth across the passenger window, in time with the bumps and dips and curves of the road. there’s a fast-food napkin pressed against your cheek to stem the blood. you aren’t sure if it helps. roger keeps his hand firm on your thigh.

once inside the house, he forces you to sit in the middle of the bed as he scurries to retrieve the first aid kit. while he roots around in the bathroom, muttering to himself when he can’t find what he’s looking for fast enough, you strip yourself of your dress and return his old t-shirt over your head. you lift the collar to your nose and inhale his scent. when you draw the collar away, crimson blood and fresh tears stain the fabric. you sigh.

“fuckin’ hell.” roger drops to sit in front of you, his legs skewed to the side. a white, plastic box sits in his lap, and when he opens it, the contexts spill onto the bed sheets. “i’ve had this thing for ages. i think brian got it for me when i moved in.”

his hand returns to your chin; only his touch is gentle now. he looks over your wound, frowning at the sight.

“this is gonna sting, angel,” he warns.

it does. the antiseptic hurts, and you wince, but he keeps you from drawing away, his grip on your chin firm. he unwraps a butterfly bandage and presses it over the shallow scratch on your face. then he shakes his head, his face drawn tight.

“what is it you weren’t telling me?”

“there is—was this girl… and she kept calling, saying things.” you twist and unearth the pad of paper from under the bed. rubbing your eye, you hand it to him and watch his face darken as he reads the words.

he looks up, and you can’t bear to see the anger—the anger directed at you—in his gaze. “why didn’t you tell me?”

your first instinct is to shrug, to obfuscate, but he deserves the truth.

“you never wanted a wife,” you say. “you certainly didn’t want a wife who brought a stalker into the house. i figured—” deep inhale. “i figured i could live with it until our year was up.”

“oh, baby.” roger presses his forehead to yours. he cups your untainted cheek. “fucking up in montreal was the best thing that ever happened to me. it brought you to me, didn’t it?”

“you’re just saying that ‘cause—”

“no.” he draws back and grabs both shoulders in his hands. “i mean it. i never was one for marriage. didn’t make sense. but i get it now. it’s about partnership, yeah, but it’s about more than that. it’s about trust, too.” he smiles softly, pressing his thumb against your lip. “it’s about affection.”

he goes quiet then removes his hands from your shoulders.

“i wish you would have trusted me.”

“i’m—”

“don’t apologize. this whole arrangement is weird, and i don’t blame you for keeping quiet. i just wish you would have told me so i could help you.”

you sigh, dropping your head. “what do you want, roger?”

he lifts your chin, and you are struck by the love so firmly etched in his eyes. it knocks the wind from your lungs, leaves you breathless.

“i want you to keep my last name,” he says.

“what?”

“you heard me: i want you keep my last name.”

tears flood your vision, but not for fear or worry or regret.

you begin to smile, but the skin of your cheek pulls tight, and you wince, touching your injury. “ow,” you mutter.

roger laughs and pulls your fingers away from the bandage. he kisses each knuckle then rubs the wedding band along your ring finger. “can we give each other another chance?” he asks. “can we forget all the assumptions and just be us? i think we started on the wrong foot and somewhere along the way we switched—”

“yes.”

he stops mid-sentence, his brows drawing together in confusion. “what?”

“i said yes. i’ll keep your last name. i want your last name, roger taylor.”

he grins, and the happiness in every line on his face outshines even the sun’s rays. “god, you’re perfect.” he kisses you hard, and you laugh as you drop against the pillows, pulling him with you. he stops attacking your neck with his lips long enough to prop himself up and stare down at you. “but don’t you ever pull something like that again! if someone starts nagging you, tell me first thing. promise?”

you nod, stunned by his firm tone.

“say it.”

“i promise.”

he smooths the hair on your forehead, and your stomach somersaults to watch him examine you so openly “good girl,” he mumbles before lowering his mouth to yours again.

you lose yourself in him. he loses himself in you. somewhere along the way, you find one another, and all is bliss.

in the morning, legs tangled in the sheets and steady rain pelting the window, roger adjusts his hold on your waist. he’s still asleep, his chest rising and falling in time with his gentle breath. you pull his arm tight around you and smile into your pillow.

your cheek is still sore, and you’re sure there’s some poor nun who remains scarred for life after witnessing roger’s montreal incident.

but this morning you cannot find it within yourself to feel bothered by your faceless friend, nor by the scarred nun. indeed, you think, you should write them each a thank you card, because in a funny sort of way, they brought you to your husband. in a funny sort of way, they gave you love of your life. and for that, you are indebted to them.

you twist at the sound of roger’s yawn. taking his face in your hands, you smile at him. “good morning, husband,” you whisper.

he grins back. “good morning, wife.”

now this—this you could get used to.

taglist (italicized handles wouldn’t work): @im-an-adult-ish @bluewillowmom @deakygurl @aprilaady @dancingdiscofloof @six-bloodyminutes

#roger taylor #roger taylor x reader #queen #queen fic #j writes

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stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale · 3 years

Text

[that’s just what the cold really is]

Sometimes I wake up at one o’clock in the morning to drink some tea and write a briolet oneshot.

Don’t ask why because I don’t know what this is either.

Read on AO3

---

Frost kisses the glass, starting from the wooden frame and spreading across the window. Violet stares past the ice, allowing her mind to clear itself, content to exist and be. How long has she sat there, cross-legged on her desk, watching the stillness of the night? Who knows. Long enough for her nose to become cold enough it stung to breathe through it.

Pressing a finger against the foggy glass, Violet glides it across to draw two eyes and a smile. Dumb and lopsided, she thinks, before smearing away one of the eyes.

With a sigh, Violet climbs off the desk, stiff muscles wincing as her bare feet hit the hardwood floors, so cold it almost hurts to walk.

Another sleepless night in the beginnings of winter, not an unusual occurrence these days. Not when thoughts of the undead and loved ones long lost haunt the most inner workings of her mind, and not when the cold irritates her eye to the point where she could just rub it better.

If only she could put some pressure on it, warm it up enough to be uncomfortably comfortable, but the healing process for the loss of an eyeball is apparently a long and agonizing one. Possibly more so than the actual removal itself, though that’s debatable-- Violet doesn’t have nightmares about healing.

No, these days she still has nightmares about a cell much colder than her dorm, about disfigured faces holding her down as she struggles, spitting more curses than pleas. Lilly’s smug voice echoes in her ear from far away and a woman with a cold, dead stare hovers over her, knife in hand as she commands her to stay still.

Violet reaches her arm out to grab the bar belonging to the top bunk of her bed, the metal cold enough to burn her fingertips. She lets her hand drag along it as she makes her way closer to the door. She wouldn’t want to accidentally walk too close and stub her toe again.

The hallway’s just as dark and still, and it occurs to her that it might be dangerous to walk around here barefoot. Sure, the school’s clearer than it’s ever been thanks to Ruby putting her foot down about everyone being a bunch of pigs, but that doesn’t mean Violet won’t step on a missed piece of glass or a tracked in rock.

Does that scare her enough to turn around and head back into the forlorn darkness of her dorm to try and get some sleep?

Violet makes it down the hall with ease, keeping a hand dragging along to wall to steady her. Not that she really needs to do that. It’s not like she’s completely blind. She still has one eye that’s as good as new, but having only one good eye makes for some poor depth perception most of the time.

The outside chill cuts right through the thin material of her shirt, sinking down into her bones to bring involuntary tremors through her limbs. Rubbing her arms in an attempt to warm them, she ventures into the yard, setting her sight on the stairs leading into the admin building.

She doubts anyone will be in the music room tonight, though she is a little hopeful that Louis might be there. She’d enjoy a song or two tonight, she thinks. He could always was make her laugh, and perhaps that’s what she needed right now.

Louis has his fair share of sleepless nights, and like her, he wanders out here to the music room. Work out frustrations by ‘tickling the ivories,’ as he puts it, or to comfort himself after a bad dream. Violet just hopes that if he’s here tonight that he’s alone. While she enjoys the company of both Louis and Clementine, the two of them being in there together at this time of night probably wouldn’t be the most innocent outing. Violet’s lone eye can only unsee so many things.

“Jesus,” she curses. A particularly harsh gust of wind nearly knocks her down as she climbs the stairs. “Yeah, great, thanks for that.”

Well, if they are in there together, at least they aren’t freezing their asses off.

Violet glares up at the sky, wrinkling her nose at the thought.

Hell, even if they’re both back at the dorms, they’re still warmer together than Violet is out here by herself. Everyone who remains in their bed is warmer than her. Probably.

Her face softens, gaze falling down to the steps beneath her.

Maybe cold nights exist as a reason to drawer people closer to one another, to seek and feel the natural warmth only they could provide. Except what does that mean for those who are cold but lonely? Maybe that’s just what the cold really is, Violet thinks.

Loneliness. Huh.

Shit.

Maybe it’s her pride or the fact that she’s never felt weaker than she has the past six or so months after escaping the delta’s clutch, leaving her eye with them. Fronting that she’s tougher than she really is made her feel better, acting as though she’s content being alone or that she doesn’t need to rely on others for help even if she knows it’s bullshit.

Doing this always bit her in the ass on nights just like this one.

It’s silent within the admin building, so it’s safe to conclude that Louis isn’t here.

She’d never admit her disappointment aloud, but that doesn’t stop the feeling from tugging at her gut. She really hoped he’d be here, hoped they could talk for a while. For as loud and obnoxious as Louis could be, he could listen just as well, be just as quiet and sincere. It’s stupid now to think that she once thought him incapable of serious, deep conversation, not that she ever gave him much of a chance. Not that he gave her much of a chance, either.

Just a couple of dumbasses, she thinks. Oh well.

Violet turns the corner to see the door to the music room wide open, inviting her in. Moonlight leaks in through the curtain slits, reflecting off the floor and the old piano. Strangely, it doesn’t feel as cold in here. At least, not as much as it is outside, or even in the hallway.

She approaches the piano, contemplating if she should sit down. She has no idea how to play, nor does she have any desire to. Resting a hand on the worn-out wood, she curiously admires the inner workings of the piano with all its strings and doohickeys.

Louis offered to teach her once, and she told him that piano music sucks. He never made another offer.

“Vi?”

Violet nearly jumps a foot in the air.

Whipping around, she finds Brody curled up on the couch with a thin blanket over her leg and a mug in hand, wide eyes gazing up at her.

“Shit, sorry,” Brody apologizes, setting her mug on the table beside the armrest. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Just didn’t think you saw me and I didn’t want to be, well, creepin’ over here without ya knowin.’”

Violet presses a hand against her frantic heart, taking a deep breath and nodding.

“No, yeah, definitely didn’t see you. Y’know,” she motions to the patch over her eye, “blind spot.”

Brody seems to stiffen up, but gives an unsure nod, face falling as she glances down at her hands. She stretches out her legs, making like she’s going to stand but changes her mind.

Violet frowns, silently scolding herself.

“What’re you doin’ up?” Brody finally asks.

Violet gives a halfhearted shrug.

“Can’t sleep. Obviously.”

“Your eye?”

“Among other things.”

Brody nods once more, and Violet can’t help but stare at her, even though Brody can probably feel it. Even from here, and with her vision impairment, Brody’s scare is harshly prominent against her more delicate features. Right above her brow, long and discolored now, fully healed.

Violet almost scoffs aloud. Fucking Marlon. She hopes he’s freezing his ass off living down in the old train station now. After what he did to Brody, after finding out what he did to Minnie and Sophie, they kicked him out of Ericson. And even after everything with the raiders, after Marlon helped them escape the boat before it exploded, he’s still not welcome here.

Well, more so Marlon decided it’d be in everyone’s best interest if he didn’t live at Ericson anymore, instead settling in the train station so that he was close enough if they ever needed him. Everyone agreed, even Louis. That was a surprise, but he agreed that Marlon being here with them wouldn’t work anymore, and maybe knowing where Marlon was and that he was safe helped Louis be content with the decision.

Violet’s just glad she doesn’t have to see him every day, and that he’s far away from Brody, but even gone he’s left marks all over this school... all over Brody’s face.

“What about you?” Violet asks to break the awkward pause. “Can’t sleep either?”

“Nah,” Brody finally looks at her, tucking a wild strand of hair behind her ear. Bedhead, Violet thinks. Funny. “Tossin’ and turnin’ don’t suit me. If I’m gonna be awake, I might as well be outta bed and doin’ something.”

“Something like sitting in the dark like a weirdo?”

That gets a small smile from Brody.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” she says. “Just wanted some tea and a change of scenery. Wasn’t expecting company...” she trails off, but keeps her gaze on Violet as she quietly adds, “but it’s a welcome surprise.”

Violet almost smiles despite herself, having to bite the inside of her cheek.

Ever since they lost the twins, things have been rocky with Brody. After Clementine and AJ showed up, Violet felt for the first time in a so long that her friendship with Brody was salvageable, that maybe they could be close again. Clementine forced her to see what was really bothering her about Brody and why things were so shitty between them, and Violet found herself wanting to fix it.

Then the truth Marlon and Brody were hiding from them came out, and Violet was beyond pissed. Even with Brody lying in bed, bandages wrapped around her head and her skin sticky and pale, Violet hated her.

Yeah, hated her. Hated her for lying to her face for over a year, for keeping that secret to hide her and Marlon’s guilt, for trying to grow close with her knowing what she had done.

Violet never fathomed that she’d ever forgive Brody, but then Brody healed and could explain everything.

Then the raiders attacked, and she and Brody were taken away, forced to share a cell on the raider’s boat. When Violet failed to cooperate, and they... well, Brody was the one to hold her, sob into her shoulder from within that cell.

Suddenly, a lot of things didn’t seem to matter anymore.

“You want some tea?” Brody offers, holding up her own mug. “It’s minty.”

“No, no...” Violet shakes her head, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

“It’ll warm ya up. Can see ya shakin’ from over here.”

“Maybe I like the cold.”

“No one likes the cold.”

“Maybe I do.”

Brody rolls her eyes, throwing the blanket off and standing. Over by the fireplace, she lights a match to ignite her makeshift warmer to boil more water.

Violet abandons the piano, finding a place on the opposite side of the couch as Brody wanders about the room, humming to herself. She comes back with another blanket, this one heavier. Violet accepts gratefully, covering her body up to her chin.

Brody hands her to streaming mug, the scent of warm mint clearing her senses. Violet can’t help but groan after taking a sip, the heat spreading through her body.

“Good?”

“It’s okay,” Violet lies. ”I guess.”

Brody smiles. Violet wonders how close she’ll sit now that she’s here, but Brody doesn’t move to do so. Instead, she grabs one of the candles off the piano, flicking a match to light it. Violet raises a brow up at her, which Brody meets with a playful shrug.

“it’s cold,” she says simply, setting the candle down on the small round table.

Violet can’t help it. She laughs. That makes Brody smile.

Her laughter dies when the couch dips with Brody’s weight beside her.

“C’mon,” Brody grins, tugging at the comforter. “Don’t be a hog.”

Violet doesn’t bother putting up a fight, lifting the blanket to let Brody scoot closer. Shoulder to shoulder, they get comfortable.

“Y’know what I miss?” Brody asks.

“Summer?”

“No-- well, actually yes, I do miss summer, but that’s not what I was gonna say,” she brings her long legs us, tucking them beneath her. This makes her lean more into Violet and it takes all her concentration to not spill hot tea over her hands. “I was thinkin’ that I miss jerky.”

“Jerky?”

“Yeah. I used to go on these trips once a year with my dad to see my grandpa. Was always just to two of us, and we’d be on the road for hours, but we’d stop at this gas station-- the same one every time, and he’d get us these long sticks of spicy jerky that you could barely chew without feelin’ like ya were gonna break a tooth.”

“Gross,” Violet wrinkles her nose. “Ever break a tooth?”

“Nah, not really. Sure made my jaw sore by the time I was finished, though. Take ya about an hour to get through the whole thing properly. But Daddy said that was the point. Ya gotta chew it long enough to get all the flavor outta it, otherwise, it’s just a waste.”

“He couldn’t’ve brought you a hotdog or something?”

“You ever have a hotdog from a gas stop?” Brody makes a gagging noise. “Wouldn’t be surprised if those things were made of roadkill off the highway.”

“How’s that any different than what we eat now?” Violet asks, teasing. “It’s just in stew form instead.”

“I’ll tell him you compared his famous stew to flea-bitten roadkill.”

“Do it,” Violet challenges with a smirk, setting her tea aside. “I can take him.”

Brody snorts out a laugh, hand flying up to cover her mouth to muffle the outburst, managing an, “Oh god,” out.

Once Brody gets a hold of herself, Violet says, “Never had jerky like that. Though I didn’t go on many road trips.”

“We could go on one,” Brody suggests lightly, nudging her. “Get away from here, go find a beach somewhere and sit in the sun.”

“Only if I get to drive.”

Brody, a soft smile tugging at her lips, wraps an arm around Violet’s shoulders to pull her close, gently rubbing more heat into her arm.

Despite the heaviness in Violet’s stomach, it flutters at the feeling of her body pressed against Brody’s. She hesitates, but eventually leans into the warmth of her side, resting her head in the crook of Brody’s neck while slipping her arms around her waist.

“Can’t tell anyone we’re goin,’ though,” Brody mumbles. “I’m not spending days in a car with Louis and his singalongs.”

“Twenty-five bottles of beers on the wall, twenty-five bottles of beer-”

“Oh god.”

“-take one down--”

“No!”

“-pass it around-”

Brody’s hand presses over Violet’s mouth to silence her, all while the both of them laugh together. For the first time that night, Violet doesn’t feel a single chill prick at her skin. She pulls Brody’s hand from her face, holding it in her own. When Brody doesn’t pull away, she takes a risk in lacing their fingers together.

Brody squeezes her hand back in approval.

The laughter dies down. Brody pulls the blanket closer over them, and together they sit for a while.

Just as Violet’s eye begins to droop shut, the fatigue finally hitting her, Brody’s lips press against her forehead. Violet thinks to turn her head up to kiss Brody back, really kiss her, but doesn’t.

Too tired, too comfortable, too warm.

Violet allows sleep to take her.

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corie-the-writer · 4 years

Text

Ignite - Ch.4

Tag List: @talicat713 @letsstarsfalling @samantha-chicagos @shikshinkwon

Chapter 4

By the grace of God, Chloe and Adam were let into the night club by the bouncer who couldn't take his eyes off of Chloe's cleavage as she leaned against Adam, acting completely stoned out of her mind.

Being in the dimly lit building for about a half hour, Chloe and Adam quickly realized that they had walked into a sex trafficking and drug ring. It was for the rich men of Chicago, most of the women dressed as sexy as they could for their slender bodies, barely able to hold their head up as men flocked to them.

"This place creeps me the fuck out." Chloe whispered into Adam's ear since she had to acted stoned out of her mind.

"Bogie approaching." Adam spoke quietly to Chloe's forehead, making it seem like he had placed a kiss on her forehead, so the team could keep watch from the camera hidden in his blue dress suit.

"I haven't seen you two here before..." The man approached, sitting down on the other side of Chloe, his eyes scanning her toned legs, seeing the dress had rode up a little bit.

"Oh I'm here on business from Indianapolis, heard about this place through the grapevine, so I figured we would check it out." Adam explained, sticking his hand out, "Howie Douglas." Adam introduced himself.

"Vincent Matthews." The man shook his hand, "And who might this beautiful woman be?" Vincent questioned, using his free hand to run a finger down her leg.

"This is Brittney." Adam introduced her, "She's had a little too much fun." Adam chuckled, watching as Vincent grew interested in Chloe.

"Would she be up for a little more fun?" Vincent questioned gripping Chloe's thigh to get her to stir awake, "Hey sweetheart, you want to have a little fun?" Vincent questioned to Chloe and she mumbled incoherently but nodded her head, "Here Howie, why don't you get introduced to Ashley here, while I get to know Brittany?" Vincent suggested snapping his fingers, causing Adam to look to the red-head approaching, to see that it was in fact the woman Walters had been seeing.

"Okay." Adam nodded then leaned to Chloe, "Be have yourself Brittany." Adam watched as Vincent helped a heavy Chloe up from the couch she had been on, his arm going around her lower back, practically holding her to him as he disappeared behind a black door.

Ruzek, get Ashley out of the building. She needs to be questioned.

Adam heard Hank Voight's voice through the ear piece hidden, but he refused to leave Chloe alone in the building with the man, and turned his attention to Ashley, "Is there somewhere more private we can go?" Adam questioned to the red head and watched as she nodded her head.

Ashley took his hand, pulling him up from the couch and he had laid his glass cup on the small table and allowed her to follow him towards the same black door that Chloe had disappeared behind with Vincent.

Apples.

Breach Breach Breach.

Adam grew tense at Chloe using the safe word and before he could register what was happening, Intelligence and Chicago PD were running into the building with their guns draw. Adam immediately rushed through the black door.

"CHLOE!?" Adam shouted, pulling his gun out that was tucked in his suit. Adam was dodging women that were running out of rooms, men following pulling up there pants, and heard a loud crash coming from the end of the hall. Adam rushed to the door, not bothering to check the door handle, but kicked in the wooden door. Adam saw Vincent on top of Chloe choking her as she tried like hell to punch at the man's face. He rushed to the man and held the gun to the back of his head. "Chicago PD asshole." Ruzek growled watching the man let go of Chloe's neck, noticing that her lip was busted and her forehead was bleeding, "You good?" Adam questioned his gun still aimed at the back of Vincent's head and watched as Chloe gave a nod, "Vincent Matthews you are under arrest, put your hands behind your back." Adam instructed as Chloe crawled away from the man, and then helped herself up using the bed.

Adam handcuffed the man, turning him around to face him and noticed the broken nose he was sporting, along with the start of a black eye, extremely proud of his partner.

Adam led the man out of the room and Chloe followed, as they walked down the hallway Hank Voight met them at the black door and gave Chloe her gun, "You good?" Hank questioned noticing the bruising around Chloe's throat starting to form, her forehead bleeding and her lip busted.

"Yeah. Might need stitches." Chloe pointed to her forehead, from where Vincent had threw her into the corner table, causing her skin to rip open. Chloe had taken the cloth from her father to hold it against her forehead as she walked into the main club area to several men getting arrested, a large table filled with narcotics and several women crying, and Chloe immediately scanned the faces to find Cleo, Samantha and Veronica, and a sigh left her lips.

"Go to med and get checked out. We'll meet back at the district." Hank instructed, "Ruzek go with her, we got it from here." Hank added. . . Six stitches later, Chloe was walking up the stairs to see Kelly Severide still sitting at her desk, and the sight of her had him jumping out of his chair. "What the hell happened?" Kelly questioned, his cheeks going red at the sight of the dark bruises forming around her neck, her lip dried with blood, and a large butterfly band-aid on her forehead.

"I'm okay..." Chloe assured, "Just got launched into a table." Chloe tried to joke.

"You should see the other guy though." Adam piped up clapping a hand on Chloe's shoulder, "Proud of you for breaking his nose." Adam commented causing Chloe to let out a small laugh, "You need to fill him in, I'll go help the others, remember the deal." Adam added.

"Yes dad." Chloe rolled her eyes while Kelly looked at the partners confused.

"Deal?" Kelly questioned.

"Come on..." Chloe sighed, walking past Kelly towards her desk, and sat down, taking her high heels off, and shrugging off the leather jacket, and pulling the mic out from her dress as Kelly pulled up a chair.

"So what is going on?" Kelly questioned, resting his elbows against his knees, looking intently to Chloe.

Chloe had dug out her cell phone from her jacket and unlocked the screen to show Kelly the texts she had received, "This came in this morning." Chloe commented handing the phone over to Kelly for him to see. Chloe watched as Kelly's eyes instantly narrowed, the sound of the Marylin Manson's song playing for a moment, and then watched as his hand turned white around the device, "I also got flowers this morning and this card." Chloe reached for the card on the desk and let him read the note.

"This has got to be the same person who started calling me earlier." Kelly growled, reaching for his phone to show the number of calls from an unknown number, "I ended up blocking the number after the fifth call." Kelly stated.

"Adam and I tried tracing the texts but it kept bouncing between towers within a twenty block radius." Chloe explained, "I told Adam that I would tell Hank about it once this case got closed." Chloe added.

"So it's obviously someone I pissed off and is targeting you because of us." Kelly stated after a few moments of silence.

"Any idea who it could be?" Chloe questioned as she leaned back in her chair.

"I think it would be easier to make a list of who I haven't pissed off in my lifetime." Kelly tried to joke causing them both to let out small laughs.

"Adam said that you needed to talk to me?" Hank Voight entered the room, noticing that Kelly Severide was still sitting there with Chloe, "Isn't it a little late for work visits?" Hank questioned approaching the desk causing Chloe to roll her eyes.

"Actually, this involves him too." Chloe stated, grabbing her phone, "So this morning I got flowers with this card." Chloe handed the card to her father, "Then uh I got some texts from an unknown number. There was a photo of me and Kelly..." Chloe shifted uncomfortably, "being intimate, and then this creepy ass song..." Chloe opened her phone to play the song for a moment, "Then the same photo of me and Kelly, with a fire emoji over his face and then a big red X over it." Chloe sighed, "Then this was sent." Chloe handed the phone over, making sure that her father couldn't see the intimate photos, letting him read the final text that said Kelly was using her, that she needed to be saved.

"Any idea who this could be?" Hank questioned handing the phone back to Chloe as he looked to Severide.

"No idea." Kelly shook his head, "I started getting unknown calls and after the fifth one, I blocked the number." Kelly explained.

"Adam and I tried tracing the texts but it bounced between several different towers in a twenty block radius."

Hank handed the phone back to his daughter, crossed his arms over his chest after running a hand down his face, "Tomorrow we will start checking security cameras around your apartment, maybe we can catch something from the night of the fire." Hank spoke to Chloe and then turned his attention to Severide, "Can you get into the apartment to see what started the fire?" Hank questioned. Kelly gave a nod, knowing that the paperwork had been sent of OFI but had yet to get through because of being backed up, "I want you both to watch your backs until we figure out what we're dealing with." Hank added, "And Chloe, I don't want you alone at all."

"Okay..." Chloe grumbled but knew that she needed to play it safe for right now, "We're gonna head out." Chloe added, "I'm getting a killer headache."

Hank gave his daughter a nod and watched as she grabbed her things and headed out with Kelly Severide.

#nbc chicago fire #Kelly Severide #kelly severide imagine #kelly severide one shot #kelly severide x reader #kelly severide x oc #kelly severide series #Ingite Chapter Four

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drchiakinanami · 4 years

Text

Yours Truly (Kamijirou)

Rating: Mature

Chapter 1/?

read it on AO3 here!

Summary: Jirou moves in with Kaminari after struggling to pay for a two bedroom apartment alone, but after having a conversation with Momo on what he means to her, she starts to doubt if living with him is a good idea.

It wasn’t a surprise that Jirou stayed close to Kaminari after high school. They were close during high school, though their dynamic did consist largely of Jirou teasing the everloving daylights out of Kaminari. As time went on though, he’d started to give it back to her, surprising many of their classmates, and surprising Jirou most of all. Having someone who bantered back with her made her want to keep Kaminari around a little more, though. He was fun to tease, and she was able to take what she dished out.

Present Mic had gotten them both hired at his hero agency, admiring their quirks and the way they worked together. Their quirks were compatible, so they were paired up often on missions as well, to the point where when Kaminari grinned at her and asked Jirou if she’d wanted to be partners, she’d only hesitated for a moment before saying yes. They worked well together. It made sense.

Jirou sat at her desk, filing paperwork from their latest mission. The door opened and she sighed, knowing only one person would come in without knocking. She rested her chin in her hand, staring at the smiling man entering her office.

“I’ve got a question for you.”

“Yes, Kaminari, you can come into my office.”

He rolled his eyes and stepped outside to knock on her door before coming right back in. She huffed out a laugh as he repeated, “I have a question for you.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“So, Kirishima is moving out-”

“Did you guys have an argument?” She asked, sitting up straight.

“No? No, he’s just moving in with Mina. We’re not fighting! But… Um, that opens up a bedroom in the apartment, and.. And you said your lease was gonna be up soon, and Momo doesn’t live there anymore-”

“So you need a new roommate.” She regarded him carefully. “How do I know you’re not insufferable to live with?”

He grinned at her. “You don’t! But it might make work easier too, we could do paperwork at home! Then we wouldn’t have to stay in this stuffy office so much.”

She had to admit, it sounded nice. And living alone in her and Momo’s old two bedroom apartment was starting to give her financial trouble as well. They were still rookie heroes, not exactly drawing in a ton of cash yet, though their popularity was mounting. And she knew Kaminari well, so she trusted him. He’d be a safe bet.

She’d been sitting still and staring at him for too long, because he started to shift back and forth on his feet, uncomfortable. “Um. You don’t have to answer right now, and I’d prefer if you didn’t hit me, you know.”

She blinked. “No, I’m not gonna hit you. I was just thinking.” She looked down at her papers and back up at him. “I think it’s a good idea. When do you want me to move in?”

The grin he gave her made her stomach clench. “Great! Kiri’s moving out in two weeks, so then?”

“Great. Sounds good.”

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

The day Jirou moved in, the paparazzi were outside. They’d seen her coming and going from Kaminari’s apartment and were very interested in the development of them moving in together. It didn’t help that Kaminari was helping carry boxes for her.

“Charebolt! Did you ask Earphone Jack to move in?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the photographer he asked. “Uh, yeah? Rent’s not cheap!” He flashed them a winning smile. “You guys might wanna go bother Red Riot, though. He’s your best bet for juicy details.” He threw them a wink and took the box Jirou was handing him. He smiled at the blush on her cheeks.

“Hey, don’t worry about them,” he said softly. “This is the worst part about the hero work,” she said.

“I’m the one having to answer all their questions because you’re so mean,” he pouted at her, and she laughed.

Aside from the hounding of the paparazzi, hinting that their partnership was more than just for work, Jirou didn’t find herself too stressed out with moving in. Kaminari helped her set up her bedroom and sort her things, and while she adjusted her books on the shelves, he tied his hair up into a bun and laid back on her bed, watching her.

“Maybe moving you in during the summer was a bad idea,” he said, “It’s hot.”

She snorted. “Tends to happen in the summer.” “Yeah. I’m glad you said yes, though! I was really worried you’d say no and I was gonna have to ask Bakugou.”

She laughed, and looked over at him. “Who’d you ask before me, then? Sero?”

He frowned, confused. “You were the first person I asked.”

“Huh? Really?”

“Yeah, really. You were my first choice.”

She tried not to preen too much at that. They were partners. This arrangement made sense, above all else. They were also friends, but that didn’t factor into the equation as much when it came to logic. “Mm. Probably cause you knew I’d just find out you didn’t ask me first and I’d kick your ass.”

He sat up, laughing. “Yeah. You might still beat me up, who knows. Now that we live together, you could ambush me.”

She turned to face him, holding her hair back with one hand to take some of the heat off her neck. “Probably. I’d also be homeless if I tried to stay in that apartment without a roommate. Yours is closer to the office, too.”

“Yeah. Shame on our roommates, abandoning us for romance.”

She laughed, laying down across the bottom of the bed perpendicular to him, her feet on the floor. He poked her in the side with his toes and she smacked his leg.

“Yaomomo and Todoroki have been dating for like, ever, though. I’m surprised they didn’t move in together right after we graduated.”

“They’re responsible. Didn’t wanna move too fast, probably.”

“I don’t think they could’ve moved any slower. Living with her was torture when he’d come over. He’d just sit real far away from her and look at her like this lovesick dope-”

“Someday you’ll look at somebody like that.”

His words took her off guard, and she blinked, looking over at him. He was regarding her carefully, his face a blank mask.

“Maybe someday, I guess. I don’t exactly have time for thinking things like that right now, do I?” She arched an eyebrow at him, sitting up. “Besides, I’ve been told I’m very difficult to love.”

“Monoma said that. It doesn’t count.”

“Mm. Still, if he thinks it…”

“ Monoma is hard to love. Not you.”

“Hey, whoa, when did you get so serious?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I dunno, I don’t like seeing you down on yourself. You’re a great hero and a good friend, too.”

She’d softened up, true. She’d grown more afraid of scaring people off as she grew up. Especially Kaminari, though she couldn’t quite figure out why. She looked down at her feet.

“Thanks, Pikachu,” she mumbled. “Do you wanna get dinner, then? I’m starved.”

Sensing the moment had passed, he hopped up from the bed. “Yep! I’ll order something, there’s not a lot of food in the house right now.”

“Okay. You pick, I’m gonna finish some stuff.”

He flashed her another grin and disappeared from the room, closing the door softly behind him without her even having to ask. They finished each other’s movements, in a way, mimicking each other without meaning to. In their third year, Aizawa had called them ‘two sides of the same coin’, but he’d finished it with, “And only one of you has a brain at a time”. Jirou huffed out a laugh to herself at the memory.

She finished rearranging her bookshelf and sat down on her bed, glancing around her new room. It was nice, she decided. Cozy. She could put up posters and pictures tomorrow. She didn’t want the sun to set with her still working.

A knock came on her door a little later, and Jirou looked up from where she’d been spacing out. “Yeah?”

“Can I come in?”

She laughed. “Yeah.”

He cracked the door, sticking his face in. “Wanted to ask this time. Dinner’s ready.”

“Dinner’s here. ”

“Yeah, yeah, technicality, I’ll cook for you tomorrow.”

Her eyebrows shot up as she got to her feet. “You know how to cook.”

“Yeah, I know how to cook! Bakugou taught me! Actually, Bakugou yelled recipes at me until I got good at them.”

She followed him out to the dining room, where he’d set up the takeout containers on the table with two glasses of wine. She almost laughed at how it looked, but decided not to. It was clear that Kaminari was trying to make her feel welcome and she’d be damned if she made him feel bad about it.

They’d eaten together a million times before, and she’d been over loads of times without living there, so after silently cleaning up from dinner they migrated to the living room to watch TV.

“What time do you go in tomorrow?” Kaminari asked as she settled in next to him on the couch.

“Mm. Nine.”

“Ew.”

“What time are you in?”

“Eleven.”

“Lucky.” She pulled a blanket from the top of the couch over the both of them and tipped her head onto his shoulder. Maybe she was too comfortable around him. Maybe she should distance herself from him, to keep him from getting the wrong idea. She had a really tough time doing that, though. She didn’t know if it was because they’d been friends for so long, but being around him was comfortable, reassuring, in a way. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, letting her fall more into the curve between his shoulder and chest.

“So you can’t stay up and play Mario Kart tonight, huh?” Kaminari asked, sounding forlorn.

“Nah, not tonight. Try me on Friday?”

“You’re on.”

She bid him goodnight early, squeezing him in a hug before getting up from the couch. She was about to stumble blearily to her room when she heard him call out.

“Jirou?”

“Yeah?”

“I just… We’re gonna be good roommates. I can feel it.”

“I think so too, as long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

“Hey, when have I ever done anything stupid?”

She stared at him unblinkingly, and he winced.

“I mean- recently.”

She shook her head. “Still as hopeless as ever. See you tomorrow.” “See you tomorrow.”

#kamijirou #kaminari x jirou #denki x jirou #denki kaminari #kyouka jirou #my hero academia #eventual spice #wouldn't call it smut #oh my god they were roommates

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noodlecupcakeswritings · 4 years

Text

Ownership - Chapter 6 (A Kylo RenxOC AU)

Cora Ardmore and Kylo Ren work for rival companies, but they don’t know that until after they spend the night together. Once their identities are revealed to each other it’s a question of who will cave first?

This fic is pure porn, pure kinky porn.

Please leave comments, kudos and reblogs if you like it. If you would like to be tagged let me know. You can find my AO3 here

Warnings: Nudes, Unwanted dick pics (Yeah Kylo Ren is that kinda guy), Smut, Sex, Blindfolds, Bondage, Ice play, Oral sex, Dirty talk, Language, Alcohol, Non con elements, Filming sex without someone's knowledge, Kylo Ren is an asshole, Mention of butt plugs, collars and pet play

Chapter 6

Kylo Ren

Another slow day at the office. I could go home and continue my work, but I found I focused better in my office normally. Today was not one of those days. My thoughts kept wondering, debating what to do with Cora this weekend. I liked the idea of claiming her ass; it was the only one of her holes I had yet to fill. Maybe I’d tie her up too. Her ass would look good filled with a jewelled plug or maybe even a tail plug. Her collar should be ready soon. When it was, then we could try proper kitten play. All these thoughts had my cock straining against my trousers. I reached for my phone and snapped a photo before sending it to her. Within five minutes she was typing out a message.

Kitten: I’m at work! I smirked, quickly responding to her text. I know. Just thought I’d make your day more exciting. Show you what happens when I think about you. Besides, I could have sent you worse. Kitten: Don't! I’m busy. And I was bored and horny thanks to her. Glancing at my office door to check nobody was about to barge in I deemed it safe enough to loosen my belt and trousers. I pulled my cock out, taking another picture before sending it to her.

Three dots appeared for a while for disappearing again. I tucked myself away and waited. I could picture her now, sat at her desk completely flushed, biting her lip. I messaged her again. I think it's only fair I get one back, don't you? This got a fast-typed response from her. Kitten: I didn't ask for either of them in the first place. Plus, I’M AT WORK!!!!! My eyes narrowed at the text. That was not the response I had wanted from her. That defiant side of her was back. It seemed to always make a reappearance, no matter what I did to her.

I’d give her one chance. Kitten, I’m only going to ask nicely the once. Send me something nice to look at. Cora responded within 30 seconds. Kitten: No. Well, she’d had her chance, I hit the green call button next to her name and held the phone to my ear. She answered on the fourth ring. “You can't just call me at work all because I didn’t send you nudes,” she whispered, clearly pissed off. “Why are you whispering? Where are you?” I asked. “In my office…but people are walking around outside I don’t want them to hear I’m having them hear this pointless conversation.”

“Pointless? Well if you’d just given me what I’d asked for in the first place we wouldn't be having this conversation Kitten.” “What do you not understand about ‘I’m at work’?” “I’m at work. If I can send you two pictures, you can at least send me one. Even if it's just your cleavage.” “Kylo, I said no. I’ll see you Friday night.” With that, she hung up. She was lucky she wasn't here, or I’d have her over my knee again. Never had I had a submissive be so defiant. Nor would they ever dream to talk to me like that. She still thought she had some form of control in this relationship. I would prove her very wrong this weekend.

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Cora arrived at 6pm on Friday, parking her car in the garage and heading upstairs. Just in time for dinner too. Cora kicked off her heels, dumping her overnight bag on the floor. She noticed me dishing up the chicken carbonara and smiled softly. I’m guessing it had been a difficult day at work…that's a shame. “Hey,” she greeted. She hopped up on to a barstool, eagerly awaiting dinner. I returned the greeting and handed her, her plate. “Wine?” I offered. “Please.” After deciding on a white wine, I poured us a glass each. She took the glass and took a few long sips. I sat down next to her and started on my own dinner.

“Long day?” I asked. “Yeah. My source fell through and that's like half of a story gone.” Personally, I didn’t share her stress over this. She was nothing but a nosey journalist when we weren’t together. But I had to seem somewhat sympathetic to not look like a complete asshole. “Well, it’s a good thing your here so I can take your mind off it,” I suggested. “Oh? And how do you plan on taking my mind off of it?” She asked curiously. “You’ll find that out after dinner.” Instead of pressing me for more like I had expected, she seemed to speed up eating her dinner. I smirked, amused by her eagerness. Her plate was soon empty, and she finished her glass of wine.

Once I finished my own dinner, I dumped our plates in the sink to worry about later. Cora grabbed her overnight bag and followed me upstairs. Once in my bedroom, she put the bag back down before sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for an instruction. “Undress, Kitten,” I directed. Cora unbuttoned her blouse and dropped it to the floor before unzipping the back of her skirt and pushing it past her hips. Underneath was the royal blue lacy bra and panty set I’d brought for her. It fit her perfectly and further proved that I had good taste. It was a shame I didn’t plan to enjoy it on her. “And the rest, Kitten.” Cora removed the lingerie without question, waiting for her next instruction. “Lay on the bed, make yourself comfortable, Kitten.”

She did as she was told, climbing on to the mattress and laying down amongst the sheets and pillows. Entering the wardrobe, I searched the toy draws for supplies. After gathering rope and blindfold, I returned to the bedroom. I bound her wrists together before securing them to the bedframe. She gave them a test tug; the rope holding. Next I pulled the blindfold over her eyes and leaned down, kissing her softly. She craned her neck for more as I pulled away. Smirking, I kissed gently across her neck and shoulders. “Don’t move,” I joked. I headed back downstairs and filled a glass with ice cubes. Returning to the bedroom, I placed the glass down on the bedside table.

I opened up the camera app on my phone and placed it beside the glass, hitting the record button. Taking an ice cube between my lips, I trailed it down between her breasts, Cora gasping at the cold sensation. I let the rest of the ice melt across her stomach, some of it pooling in her bellybutton. Taking another ice cube, I teased her nipples with it. Cora whined my name, arching and her skin quickly turning to gooseflesh. Once that one had melted, I retrieved a third. This one I took between her legs and pressed to her clit. Cora jerked against her restraints, cursing and gasping as the ice melted quickly against her heat. I lapped at her clit, Cora moaning louder at the now warm sensation against her bundle of nerves.

I pulled away, earning a disappointed whine from her. I wanted her to beg without having to prompt her. I undressed and pressed myself against her, teasing her with the head of my cock. Her hips bucked for more, for me to finally fill her with my cock. “Please, Sir. Please fuck me,” she pleaded. Smirking at her neediness, I slowly pushed into her, making her feel every single inch of my cock sink into her wet, needy cunt. Cora moaned as I filled her, her wrists straining against the rope. Gripping her hips, I continued the teasing, my pace slow and soft. Cora’s hips buck again, her breathing heavy, her whimpers higher and needier. “Whats the matter, Kitten?” I asked mockingly.

“M-more, please,” Cora begged. Grabbing my phone quietly so I could film this from a better angle, I finally gave her what she needed, fucking her hard. Cora wrapped her legs around my waist, throwing her head back and moaning shamelessly loud. I watched as my cock slipped in and out of her with ease, shiny with her slick. The sight was pornographic and I’m sure it would be even better when I watched this all back later. Perhaps she’d even like to watch it back too. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. With how much of a prude she was, she’d probably demand that I delete it. My free hand squeezed her throat gently, her breasts bouncing with every snap of my hips against hers.

“You look so fucking good taking my cock, Kitten,” I sneered. Cora only moaned in response, struggling to form words at this point. It was a shame I couldn’t film her choking on my cock. Being able to listen to the sounds of her choking on my cock whenever I wanted. Perhaps eventually I’d have my own personal Cora collection, filled with all sorts of videos and pictures. Pornhub be damned. Her moans are louder now, her walls starting to clench around my cock. She’s close and I wasn’t going to miss a second. “Cum for me, Kitten,” I growled.

A few more perfectly angled thrusts and Cora came screaming my name. I worked her through every last wave before pulling out and cumming across her chest and stomach with a guttural groan. I stopped recording, but I still wasn’t completely done with her yet. I took a few pictures of her laying there fully spent, covered in my cum before taking a few of her wet abused hole. That would do for now. I put my phone down before freeing her wrists and pulling off the blindfold. I leaned down and kissed her before massaging her wrists to increase the blood flow. The rope had left red indents into her pale flesh. It was a shame I hadn’t bound all of her body; she’d look even better covered in rope marks.

Eventually I lay down beside her and Cora shifted closer, resting her head on my chest, still breathing heavily. I wrapped an arm around her, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “When I can walk again, I’m gonna take a shower,” Cora breathed. “I think I might join you.”

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anubislover · 4 years

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Welcome to the Heart Pirates, Nami-ya chapter 9: Mark of Property

She was back in her room. Not the comfortable bedroom she shared with Robin, which smelled of mikans, fresh flowers, and old books and was full of colorful, girly furniture and cute clothes. There was no golden glow from the lamps or cups of tea steaming on the coffee table. No calls from Luffy to come play a game or strands of Brook’s latest song floating in through the open window.

This was her room in Arlong Park.

Her prison.

Sea charts covered every available surface—tables, chairs, piled in stacks on the floor, hanging from the walls. All of them meticulously hand-drawn, but not on paper—the parchment was made of skin, the ink blood, the pen in her hand a human bone. Furiously, she mapped out her latest chart on a piece of freshly flayed-and-dried skin, Mr. Genzo’s scarred stretched out flat and lifeless, staring up at her.

Her hands were wet with blood, palms torn apart and fingers so twisted it was miracle she could even hold the pen, but she knew she couldn’t stop. Shackles bound her to the hard metal desk, harshly cutting into her thin wrists. The room was swelteringly hot, like a sauna, and sweat mixed with the blood dripping down her fingers onto the parchment, staining it and smudging the details.

“Still alive in here, Nami?” a cruel, deep voice chuckled, his dark shadow casting over her. “Got everything you need? I’m happy to head to town to pick up more paper.”

“I—I’m fine,” she croaked, hand trembling. “I have everything I need.”

Cold, rough fingertips combed through her hair. “Shahahahaha! Of course you do! I’ll always provide for my cute little navigator.” Without warning, a large, webbed hand grabbed her orange locks, slamming her head down onto the desk, smearing the wet blood across her cheeks.

“Look at what you’ve done, you nasty girl! You messed up your chart!” he sneered. Out of the corner of her eye, Nami could see a long, jagged nose and shark teeth viciously grinning down at her. “Guess you’ll need new parchment after all. Take your pick—the rubber boy, or your sister?”

“No, please!” she screamed, frantically trying to claw at his arm, struggling to get free. Her shoulder burned like it was being pierced by a thousand hellfire needles, the swirling, vicious shark insignia once more being slowly etched into her arm. “Don’t hurt them!”

“You’re one of my most trusted officers, Nami—I’ll do anything to help you achieve your dream,” he laughed mockingly. “You’ll stay in this room and draw your charts forever. That’s your place in the Fishman Pirates!”

“Leave me alone!”

“Leave you alone? I could never do that.” Arlong leaned forward until the tip of his saw nose lightly dented the fragile flesh of her cheek. His eyes were like those of a Sea King’s, full of predatory malice. “After all, you’re mine.”

“Nami? Nami! Nami wake up!”

Brown eyes snapped open as Nami was jerked awake, arms instinctively crossing over her face in defense. She tried to kick her assailant, but her legs were tangled in the blankets.

“Whoa, girl, it’s me!” Ikkaku said worriedly, concern written all over her face as she gently stroked her shoulder, hand gently encircling her wrist to pry it from her eyes. “It’s ok, you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Heart racing while sweat dripped down her back, it took her a minute to register the engineer’s voice. “Wha…what happened?” she rasped, throat tight and dry. She gratefully accepted the glass of water Ikkaku offered her, the cool liquid fully waking her up. Rubbing her eyes, she took in the room around her. It was the one she shared with Ikkaku on the Polar Tang. There were no charts drawn on the skin of her friends, no blood, no Fishmen looking to enslave her.

“You tell me. Sounded like you were having one hell of a nightmare.”

With a tired groan Nami tried to push away the image of her former captain by focusing on untangling her feet. She glanced at her left arm, grateful to see the pinwheel and tangerine instead of the primal shark. “Yeah. A nightmare. Barely remember it now, though.”

The older woman frowned, clearly not believing her, but she’d learned in the two months they’d spent together that it was best not to pry into the navigator’s past and thoughts. “If you do remember and want to talk, I’m here for you. Or, Penguin’s kind of an amateur therapist—got his work cut out for him on this ship, but he’s a good listener if you need to get something off your chest.”

“I’m fine,” Nami insisted, running a hand through her damp hair. Though not as bad as the dream, the small bedroom felt stifling. “Really, it’s nothing to worry about. Probably just something I ate last night.”

“Alright. Why don’t you grab a shower and we’ll head to breakfast? I’ll strip your bed and toss them in the hamper for you.”

Looking down at the yellow sheets, she was shocked at how sodden they were. Had she been sweating that much? “Good idea. Thanks, Ikkaku,” she sighed, grabbing a pair of short shorts and a low-cut crop top and heading towards the women’s bathroom across the hall. The ship felt stuffier than usual, even though they’d surfaced just the other day. Nami was pretty sure it was because it had been nearly three weeks since they’d made port—Law had insisted on waiting before selling off their stolen goods, more interested in putting distance between themselves and the Marines first to play it safe. It was a fair point, but the thief had argued that the longer they waited, the more time the Navy had to put out descriptions of the various art pieces they’d stolen, which could also put them in danger.

Eventually, after much quarreling, a compromise was reached—they’d fenced Kujakumaru’s watch and melted down the squid statue at Knox Island, and also faxed a photo of Nami burning the blackmail ledger to the nearby Marine base. This would lead the authorities to assume they were making their way down the most southern path of the Grand Line, but in actuality, the Polar Tang would go north, cutting through two of the routes to instead reach the Isles of Grimm. Such a feat would be impossible to do on a normal ship, but the submarine’s high-tech navigational equipment, paired with an eternal pose, made it child’s play.

At first, the navigator had absolutely loved that Law was smart and cautious enough to avoid trouble, but after nearly three weeks, Nami was getting stir-crazy. As much as she’d complained about Luffy getting the crew into unnecessary danger in the name of adventure, she was starting to miss it. There had been no attacks, no mysterious phenomena, no royals in disguise that needed their help. Deep as they were underwater, even the Grand Line’s sudden storms barely affected them.

Somehow, that made her more anxious. It was like being in an isolation chamber, unable to feel the wind and sea in her bones. Or maybe she’d just gotten so used to Luffy’s mad pace that her body didn’t know what to do with itself now that he life hadn’t been endangered in almost a month.

Standing under the cool spray of the shower, she groaned. Part of her also wondered if her anxiety was because of the new birth control Law had put her on. The last one hadn’t been working as well as she’d liked, so he’d given her a shot of a new, stronger drug he’d developed. It wasn’t unusual for her body to react to new meds with a fever or mild insomnia for the first few days, but she was certain once her hormones adjusted to the new chemicals she’d be back to normal. Until then, she’d just have to endure feeling too hot and the occasional bad dream.

Just don’t dwell on it, she thought as she massaged shampoo into her short, mikan locks. Arlong’s gone. Luffy kicked his ass, and he can’t hurt you anymore. Absently, her hand rubbed her shoulder, fingers lightly tracing the thin scars beneath her new tattoo.

What she needed was a distraction. So long as she had something else to occupy her mind, she could push away the unease tingling beneath her skin.

Clean, cooled down, and wide awake, she threw on her clothes and shoes before joining Ikkaku, making their way towards the galley in companionable silence. She appreciated that she didn’t pry—she was beginning to consider the older woman a friend, much like Robin, but that didn’t mean she was ready to talk about her time with the Fishman Pirates. In fact, she was leery about getting too close in general—once the year was up and Luffy’s life debt was squared, their crews would be rivals at the very least.

What if they ended up clashing over the One Piece? What if their captains fought? Would she be able to stand against Ikkaku and Bepo and the others?

Sitting down at the table and shaking those thoughts from her mind, she decided to instead contemplate how different the Heart Pirates were from the Straw Hats. On an average day, by this time Zoro and Sanji would be well into their early morning squabble, Luffy’d be stuffing himself with meat, Usopp would have awed Chopper with his tall tales, there’d be deafening crashes and clangs from Franky’s workshop, and Nami would have punched at least three of her shipmates for any number of reasons.

In contrast, mornings on the Polar Tang were subdued, mainly due to the captain’s terrible insomnia. The lively crew knew better than to cause a ruckus before Law got his morning coffee, respectfully keeping their voices down until he gave them leave to talk.

In some ways, it was nice to have such a well-behaved crew, but it also made the sting of her nakama’s absence that much stronger. Sure, Luffy was a reckless idiot who was always trying to steal her food, but his carefree smile always made mornings a little brighter. Zoro and Sanji’s bickering and Usopp’s boasts were noisy yet comforting after years of traveling alone. Robin and Brook’s very presence was calming, even if the archeologist’s sense of humor was disturbing and the skeleton’s requests to see her panties drove her insane.

I wonder how they’re all doing? Nami wondered, absently pushing her scrambled eggs around her plate. Are they getting enough vitamin C without my mikans? Who’s keeping Zoro from getting lost? Is Robin ok being alone again? What about Brook? It’s not fair that he spent fifty years alone, just to lose his new crew after just a few days.

Brought out of her melancholy thoughts by Bepo taking his place next to her, she gave the bear a smile. “How’re the plans for the garden coming along?”

He returned the gesture shyly. “Pretty well. We’ve picked out a storage room to convert that should be empty once we’ve cashed in the treasure. Clione and the engineers have made some great progress with the sun lamps. Of course, they need to run some tests to make sure plants can really thrive under the conditions.”

She hummed in agreement. “No sense wasting money on seeds and stuff if everything dies right away.”

Bepo nervously twiddled his claws. “I was actually hoping you could help me figure out what we’ll need and work out the costs, since you’re good with money and have real gardening experience.”

It was funny how she wasn’t even tempted to charge him a consultant fee. Scary as she would have thought traveling with a giant bear would be, Bepo was the one she had developed the biggest soft spot for. Maybe it was because it was nice to finally have a fellow navigator to talk to and the Mink was so shy she couldn’t even imagine him as a threat anymore. Or maybe having a talking animal around just made her miss Chopper slightly less. “Sure thing, though I’m no expert on growing plants indoors.”

“Still have more experience than the rest of us,” Penguin pointed out as he kindly refilled her coffee cup.

“True. It’s why I told Captain Law to put you in charge of the garden,” Clione said from the far end of the table.

She frowned at the science officer. “I’m happy to help, but shouldn’t you be in charge of it? You’re Law’s chief biologist.”

“I specialize in marine biology—my knowledge of land plants and animals isn’t nearly as advanced, and that doesn’t mean I can grow anything. You’re honestly the only one here that can get this whole greenhouse experiment to work.”

Teeth worrying her lip, she felt her stomach twist in a knot. The thought of being given such a big project on her temporary ship didn’t sit well with her. What if it wasn’t finished before the year was up? Would they have to abandon the whole thing, or would they insist on keeping her around until it was done? “I’ll teach you what I can before I leave. Ten months should be enough time for you to develop a green thumb,” she insisted, forcing optimism into her voice.

His brow furrowed beneath his blunt bangs at the mention of her leaving. “We’ll see. Before we do any of that, though, we need to get the actual room set up. Aside from sun lamps and fertilizer, we need to set up a sprinkler system, temperature control, and a ton of other stuff.”

“So, we should wait to decide on what to grow, huh?” the bear asked gloomily.

“Oh, cheer up, Bepo. Law always says it’s never too early to plan. Grimm has that great bookshop, so pick up a guide to plants and see which ones will do best in lower light and damp conditions,” Shachi offered, shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth. His broken arm was healing nicely, a sling no longer necessary and the cast scheduled to come off tomorrow. Everyone knew he planned on keeping it, though, since Nami had signed it, the little hearts added around her name coaxing a heavy blush from the ginger.

“Assuming we ever make port,” Nami grumbled.

Sympathetic, he patted her hand. “Hey, we’ll get there; we’ve got you and Bepo as our navigators, right? How much longer is it supposed to be?”

“I actually checked this morning,” the Mink said. “If we stay on course, it shouldn’t be more than three days.”

She immediately perked up. “That’s not so bad. New clothes here I come!”

“Shhh!” Ikkaku shushed, peeking through the doorway. “Captain’s coming—chatter ends now.”

Mouths snapped closed and the crew became extremely focused on their breakfast as Law, groggy and sour, meandered into the galley, making a beeline for the full coffee pot. Penguin had prepped a fresh batch only minutes before, and without even hesitating, the captain raised the glass pot to his lips, gulping down the caffeinated elixir, barely taking a breath between swallows or even seeming to notice the brew was scalding hot.

Two months ago, the sight would have astounded and horrified Nami, but now she just rolled her eyes and let him drink without comment.

Instead, she took the chance to observe him out of the corner of her eye. She could tell he’d been getting less sleep than usual; his hoodie hung off him a bit more, the circles under his eyes were darker, and his already angular face looked narrower. The rest of the crew insisted that Law simply went through worse periods of insomnia once in a while, but Nami was certain it was because he was up late studying those ledgers. He’d spent most of the past three weeks locked away in his quarters or mucking about in the lab, and the few times Penguin had managed to drag him to the galley he’d barely paid attention to what he was eating, his amber eyes fixated on his notes. Once, Nami tried to sneak a piece of bread onto his plate to see if he’d notice, but Shachi snatched it away before the captain could accidentally take a bite.

After a few moments Law blinked away the last specks of drowsiness and turned to the crew, holding the half-finished coffee pot like a mug. “I have good news; we should be making port soon, there’s been no sight of Marines, and my contacts on Grimm are eager to take some gold off our hands.”

The pirates cheered while he fetched his morning onigiri from the fridge, strolling over to take his place at the head of the table, right next to Nami. It had become an unspoken agreement among the crew that she sit at Law’s left side during meals, though she wasn’t sure whether it was due to her status as a guest or because they had ulterior motives.

“Just gold?” she asked under her breath.

He smirked at her. “Well, gold, jewelry, paintings, and a few jewel-encrusted trinkets that I can’t actually discern the purpose of, but you get the idea. Far easier to fence than, say, chemical formulas.”

“Like the one you’ve been working on?” she accused lowly. She hadn’t been able to steal many glances at his notes, and what she had seen had been either in code or nigh-indecipherable scribblings, but with how fixated and secretive he’d been, she was suspicious.

“Why, yes, exactly like the formula for hyper-nutritious fertilizer I’ve been working on with Clione,” he replied smoothly, grin widening at her shocked expression. “Turns out Dr. Vegapunk’s work isn’t all weapons of mass destruction. I know how eager you are to set up that garden, so I thought I’d try to get that finished before we made port.”

Nami glanced at the biologist, who gave a nod of agreement, and she instantly felt reassured. Clione had a terrible poker face, so she knew it had to be the truth. “You didn’t have to exhaust yourself over that,” she scolded lightly. Now that she knew he wasn’t trying to start a war, she felt a little guilty about how much he’d pushed himself over such a minor thing.

“I wanted to have it completed so we’d know what to pick up while in Grimm. I assume you’re going clothes shopping?” he asked around a large bite of onigiri. It was kind of funny how such a fierce pirate had a habit of stuffing his cheeks like a chipmunk, but it was more relieving to actually see him properly eat again.

Mood lightened, Nami flashed a wide smile. “Yup! I’ve got belli burning a hole in my pocket and a wardrobe that needs filling. Nothing makes a girl feel better about being attacked by a giant squid like retail therapy!”

“Speaking of clothes, were you ever supplied a uniform?”

“…yeah, why?”

He shrugged, taking another bite. “Well, considering how Grimm is an archipelago with one of the most dangerous black markets on the Grand Line, you’ll be required to wear it if you plan on leaving the ship.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, eyes narrowing dangerously.

“It’s for your own safety, Nami-ya. The place isn’t as nice as Sabaody—it’s full of brothels, drug dealers, back-alley doctors, pirates, bounty hunters, and slave traders. My uniform basically tells everyone you’re off-limits.”

“Not. Happening,” she sneered through clenched teeth, grip on her fork tightening like she might stab him with it.

There was no way in hell she was going to let Law stick her in one of his gross jumpsuits. Ikkaku might have been able to pull it off, but that was because she had that tomboyish energy; Nami preferred showing off her skin and feminine figure. Plus, she was still leaning on the theory that the Dark Doctor has some kind of weird fetish for fully clothed people, and that uniform basically covered every inch of skin south of her chin.

Most of all, the redhead despised the idea of anyone telling her what to wear. Clothing was more than just a luxury—to her, it was an expression of freedom. Her childhood had been full of hand-me-downs, and then Arlong’s horrible tattoo had further limited her wardrobe, preventing her from wearing certain shirts for fear of people seeing the shameful brand.

That jumpsuit, with the Heart Pirate Jolly Roger plastered all over, was basically a mark of ownership, and Nami would not be another captain’s property.

Law glared down at her, unimpressed at being refused. “I’m giving this order to everyone; if we were heading to a safer island, I wouldn’t care, but the last thing I need is for you to get kidnapped because you’re not recognized as a member of the Heart Pirates.”

Tension simmered in the air as she matched his stare. “I can take care of myself, Trafalgar, and I’m not a member of the Heart Pirates. We agreed nearly two months ago that you weren’t going to subject me to your crew’s dress code, and I’m holding you to that.”

“That was before I realized just how much of a trouble magnet you are. If I left you to your own devices, I’d find you in the grasp of a giant squid monster again. So, if you want to get off the ship, you’re going to wear the damn uniform and stick with at least three of your shipmates.” Taking another swig of coffee, he met her angry eyes unflinchingly. “Otherwise, I’ll have to keep you on my arm the whole trip, and I promise I have no intention of going clothes shopping. So, what’s it gonna be, Nami-ya?”

She glanced around the galley, hoping for anyone to back her up. She knew the guys loved watching her prance around in her skimpy outfits, so surely they wouldn’t want Law to cover her up and make her wear such a conservative, ugly jumpsuit, right? And Ikkaku was always cheering her on when she sassed the captain, so of course she could count on her for backup.

But she found no support among the crew. Everyone was either nodding in agreement or not even paying attention.

“Seriously?” she growled.

“We get it’s not your style, Nami, but he’s right—safety comes over fashion,” Penguin said, voice gentle but expression stern. “You’re a wanted pirate whose face is known all over the Grand Line—of all of us, you’d be the most tempting target for low-life bounty hunters.”

“You’ll appreciate it when you get there,” Ikkaku added. “It’s always damp and cold there, and it’s not like any of my warmer clothes fit you.”

“It’ll just be for a few days,” Jean Bart supplied helpfully. “And maybe if things go well, Captain Law will ease up and let you wear your normal clothes.”

Said captain gave Nami a considering smirk. “Maybe. So long as everyone is on their best behavior.”

With no backup and no alternative, the navigator knew she had no choice but to give in, even as she seethed inside. Part of her argued that she was making a big deal out of nothing, that it was just an outfit, but it just didn’t sit right with her. He’d assured her when they first made their deal that he wouldn’t make her wear the uniform, but here he was going back on his word.

Just like Arlong had.

She shook her head, banishing the thought. For all his faults, Law was a far cry from Arlong, and an ugly uniform was nothing like selling her out to the Marines for the sake of denying her freedom. Hell, she even had three days—more than enough time for him to change his mind. It was such a little thing, after all, so surely if she complained enough he’d give in to her demands to save himself the headache.

XXX

Three days later, the Polar Tang had successfully docked, and Law was leading Nami and half the Heart Pirates through the shady port. Jean Bart, Bepo, Ikkaku, and Uni all carried heavy chests filled with gold bars, artwork, and other goods Law’s contacts could easily fence, while the rest of the group carefully guarded them, keeping an eye out for pickpockets, enemy pirates feeling brave, and undercover Marines.

Appearance-wise, the Isles of Grimm certainly lived up to its name—a thick miasma of fog settled over the port, while narrow streets were lined with buildings made out of dark wood and stone, giving a very claustrophobic feeling. Scantily dressed women called from brothel balconies, and shady figures beckoned unwary travelers into shadowed alleys. Yet despite the atmosphere, it was unquestionably a thriving, bustling port, and the large assortment of shops were to die for. Clothing, books, tools, weapons, cartography equipment, gardening centers, souvenirs, food stalls—the place was practically bursting with places to spend money.

Unfortunately, Nami’s excitement was thoroughly dampened by her outfit. Despite the island’s cool temperature, she felt way too hot in her thick, canvas jumpsuit. Bulky, cumbersome, and unflattering to her gorgeous figure, she was positive it was what she’ll be forced to wear in Hell. It wasn’t even vibrant orange like Bepo’s, but bland off-white like everyone else’s. She was at least able to unbutton the neck and roll up the sleeves show her cleavage and vent the heat, and she’d taken in the waist a bit, but the material still felt coarse and heavy against her overheated skin. Worst of all, there was nothing she could do to hide Law’s Jolly Roger on the back and left breast pocket, branding her a Heart Pirate for all the world to see.

It made her left shoulder sting with a phantom pain, a harsh reminder of her years as one of Arlong’s officers.

“Whoever designed these uniforms should be dragged out into the street and shot,” she grumbled as she pushed down the anxiety her dark memories coaxed to the surface. She didn’t care if Law or anyone else heard her—hell, she’d been plenty vocal of her distaste over the past few days and he still insisted she wear the damn thing!

“At least they have pockets,” Ikkaku pointed out helpfully.

“Literally this thing’s only good point.”

Uni’s quiet voice beside her chimed in, “I know you don’t like it, but trust me, if Captain didn’t feel it was completely necessary, he wouldn’t go through the trouble of making you do it. At the very least, save your complaints until after we’ve cashed in our treasure—we don’t need the extra attention.”

She rolled her eyes but bit her tongue. Uni wasn’t a big talker, but when he did speak, it was usually sound advice. And given how a large group of uniformed pirates carrying goods naturally drew the eye, he definitely had a point.

That didn’t mean she wouldn’t silently pout, though.

As they strolled past the display window of a curiosity shop, Nami saw Law glance at something, then literally walk backwards to get a better look.

“Commemorative coins from the past six Reveries,” he murmured with hushed reverence, nose nearly pressed against the glass. “I’m missing a few of these.” Without even a glance back at the crew he sauntered into the store, Kikoku propped on his shoulder and wallet already in hand.

Surprised, Nami raised a curious eyebrow at Ikkaku, who giggled behind her hand. “Captain’s an avid coin collector,” she said.

Bepo added, “Every time we find treasure, he inspects every single coin in case there’s something he can add to his collection.”

“Seriously?”

“See, you have something in common,” Ikkaku laughed. “You’re both obsessed with money!”

The thief elbowed her in the side, quietly growling that she had “nothing in common with that jerk.”

“Yeah, you do,” Shachi chuckled. “Neither of you like taking orders, either, and you’re both really stubborn and irritable when you don’t get your way.”

“I am not!”

“Then what have the past few days been?” he retorted with a victorious smirk.

She glared but couldn’t quite argue the point. Admittedly, she blamed some of it on the fact that she’d still been feeling hot and anxious, and sleep had continued to be plagued with bad dreams. None so terrible that Ikkaku had to wake her up again, and half of them she honestly couldn’t remember once morning came, but it was at the point that every time she went to sleep, she woke up feeling more exhausted. She had nearly exhausted her supply of concealer covering up the circles that were forming under her eyes. So yeah, she’d been irritable, and maybe the uniform wasn’t the best hill to die on, but their captain was a grump when his insomnia got bad, so maybe they should cut her some slack!

Uni’s blunt tap to her shoulder kept her from bringing this up, as her attention was diverted to the newspaper in his hand. “Thought you might want to take a look at this—seems the world’s caught wind of our connection.”

Russet eyes widened as they landed on the headline, and she felt her heart stop as she quickly read the article.

HAS A STRAW HAT DEFECTED TO THE HEART PIRATES?

As the dust settles on the chilling attack on the Harpin mansion on Tokken Island, many are now claiming that the Heart Pirates did not act alone but were in fact aided by “Cat Thief” Nami.

A member of the Straw Hat Pirates with a bounty of 16 million belli, this elusive burglar was believed to have vanished with the rest of her crew, but several eyewitness reports claim that it was she who assisted “Surgeon of Death” Captain Trafalgar Law, a pirate with a bounty of 200 million belli, in his assassination of former Head of Navy Intelligence Baron “Gorudotako” Harpin Gerald.

“Of course, it was her!” states Inebura Kujakumaru, the late Baron Harpin’s nephew. “She may have struck me down when I valiantly attempted to stop her, but not before I got a good look at her tattoo. Every man’s seen her wanted poster, so I’d recognize it anywhere.”

“I don’t know how those pirates got into my brother’s party, but it had to be her,” confirms Inebura Beatrix, his mother. “Who else could have gotten past Gerald’s security? She and Trafalgar Law are in cahoots, yet the Navy hasn’t done anything about it!”

If such bold claims are true and it is “Cat Thief” Nami, could this be a sign that the Straw Hats are, in fact, dead? Is she the sole survivor and has chosen to defect to a new crew and aid them in their reign of terror?

Despite his family’s statements, Harpin Reginald, who is due to inherit his brother’s estate and become the new governor of Tokken Island, disagrees that the woman seen was really the infamous thief.

“The Straw Hats have been missing for months, but that doesn’t mean they’re dead,” he says. “Moreover, even if they were, why would one of them join a rival crew instead of an ally’s? It seems more likely that it’s an imposter or—excuse the pun—a copy-cat. I would not put it past the Heart Pirates to employ an imitator for the sake of throwing off pursuers and sending the world into an uproar.

“My brother had many enemies, however I doubt the Straw Hats were among them. Her presence makes little sense, and with his abilities, what would Trafalgar Law need a cat burglar for? I believe the young woman is merely an imposter whose presence was designed to send the Marines on a wild goose chase.”

Harpin adds, “However, whether or not the young lady was indeed ‘Cat Thief’ Nami is irrelevant to me. I leave it to the authorities to bring my brother’s killers to justice—my focus is on repairing the damage done to the island, both that caused by the Heart Pirates and Gerald’s gross mismanagement.”

Marine Captains “White Chase” Smoker and “Black Cage” Hina, who were both on the scene and battled the pirates to protect the trapped partygoers, were unavailable for comment, though Navy Headquarters assures the world that they are out hunting the culprits.

“Whether ‘Cat Thief’ Nami has defected to the Heart Pirates or the woman who aided Trafalgar Law is an imposter does not matter,” their formal statement decrees. “She will be caught and stand trial for her crimes of burglary, assault, murder, and piracy. Justice will be served.”

“You know, the biggest surprise in that whole story is that Reginald got the estate instead of the nephew,” came Law’s voice in Nami’s ear, startling her.

“Don’t sneak up on people!” she snapped, hand whipping out to strike him, though he easily dodged.

“But it’s so much fun,” he chuckled.

“You have a twisted idea of ‘fun,’” she growled, cheeks flushing as the stress made her temperature rise further. Part of her knew she couldn’t keep her connection to the Heart Pirates a secret forever, but to see the world speculate on whether she’d switched sides and if Luffy was dead was more painful than she’d imagined.

Her throat tightened as a thought came to her—did the others have access to the news? What would Sanji or Usopp or Robin say if they saw this? Surely they knew her well enough to know she’d never side with another pirate, right?

Taking a deep breath, she told herself to calm down. Of course her nakama wouldn’t believe those lies. Luffy had faith in her.

Her captain had never doubted her loyalty, and he wouldn’t start now.

Calm returned, she gave Law an unimpressed frown. “And seriously, that’s what you’re surprised at? I’m sure the Navy just seized the land and turned it over to Reginald to keep him from telling the world that Harpin had been leaking secrets.”

“Do you really think a man like him would take a bribe?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“If it’s for the sake of the villagers his brother was willing to frame for terrorism and aiding pirates, then yeah, I do.”

“Hate to interrupt, Boss, but don’t we have an appointment to get to?” Shachi asked, not bothering to hide his amusement at their exchange.

“Yeah. Let’s cash our treasure in, then I think we can go our separate ways.” He tossed Nami a wink. “Hate to delay our Cat Thief’s shopping spree, after all.”

“You are in way too good a mood,” she groused while stomping past him, but she didn’t get far as a long, tattooed arm draped over her shoulder, lanky legs easily keeping pace with her angry strides.

“Cheer up, Nami-ya. Soon you’ll be swimming in cash and clothes,” he said smoothly. He looked much better than he had three days ago—with the fertilizer research done he’d clearly been sleeping better, and he was back to taking regular meals with the crew. The circles under his eyes were still unsettlingly prominent, but he seemed livelier and more alert, which was good considering how they were about to meet with people who regularly did business with pirates. “And personally, I think you look good in my uniform.”

“Of course you would, pervert,” she grumbled under her breath. She didn’t bother trying to shrug off his arm; there was no point, as he always seemed to find some new way to have his hands on her. At least the thick fabric of the jumpsuit dampened his hot, possessive touches.

Either he didn’t hear or simply decided to ignore her as he continued, “If it makes you feel better, you won’t be required to wear it when we go out for dinner tonight. You can wear whatever tiny scraps of clothing you want—just don’t complain when you inevitably get cold.”

“Oh, how generous of you!” she sneered quietly, keeping Uni’s advice in mind but unwilling to stand by and let Law tease her. “Really, it’s so sweet of you to give me permission to choose which of my clothes go on my body!”

Though she refused to look at him, she could feel his disapproving gaze. “Throw all the temper tantrums you want, Nami-ya; I’m not budging on this. It’s for your own safety. Of all of us, you, Bepo, and Ikkaku are the most likely to be targeted by slavers, so I’m making sure they realize that messing with you invokes the wrath of the Surgeon of Death.”

“Then why don’t you just stamp ‘Property of Trafalgar Law’ on our foreheads and be done with it?”

“Keep up your backtalk and I will,” he growled in her ear, leaning in so his hot breath danced across her sensitive skin. “At least for them. You, I’m thinking a collar and leash might be more appropriate, especially if it comes with a muzzle.”

Such a threat should not have made blood rush to her cheeks or her stomach clench, and once again she felt far too hot. “You know, for all Luffy’s flaws, at least he never forced his weird kinks on us,” she sassed, resisting the urge to open up the jumpsuit more so she could fan her flushed chest.

Law scoffed. “That’s because I’m not even sure he knows what sex is. Boa Hancock could throw herself at him wearing nothing but a smile and he wouldn’t even blink.”

“That’s not true,” she insisted. “At the very least, he seemed to appreciate seeing me naked.”

Next to her, the Supernova actually stumbled. “Wait, what? When did he see you naked?”

“Does it matter? Actually, he still owes me money for that.” Numbers adding up in her mind, she nodded to herself. “Add on two years of interest and I’ll be making a tidy profit off him.”

“I’m sorry, you charged him money to see you naked? I thought prostitution wasn’t in your repertoire?”

Craning her neck to glare up at him as she smacked his chest, she snapped, “Watch it, Trafalgar. He and the boys decided to spy on me in the bath, so I charged them 100,000 belli each. If you ask me, I was being nice for such a gross violation of privacy!”

His arm left her shoulder to raise up in surrender. “Ok, that’s fair. Considering what Ikkaku’s done to anyone dumb enough to peek on her, charging them is pretty light. My comment was out of line, and I apologize.”

“Are you sorry enough to let me wear my regular clothes?”

“Hell no, and if you keep trying to wheedle your way out of it, I’m going to make you wear it back on the ship, too.”

By that point, they’d left Grimm’s cramped shopping quarter to arrive at the meeting place—the much more open fields of the warehouse district. Gold eyes scanned the area before leading the crew inside an innocuous grey building that smelled faintly of spoiled vegetables. A few gas lamps allowed just enough light to see the dozen men waiting on the far side of the building, all muscular and rough looking, save one.

“Ah, Captain Law,” the scrawny man in front welcomed nasally. He wore a pinstriped, dark purple suit and silk top hat with a bejeweled buckle, straw-like hair sticking out in haphazard clumps as he gave a yellow-toothed smile. “So good to see you again.”

“Jinzo,” he replied with a curt nod, removing himself from Nami’s side to shake the man’s hand. “Where’s Kimo-ya?”

“Ah, my partner was victim to an unfortunate…accident just a few days ago. No clue whether or not he’ll recover, so I’m here in his stead. Really, it’s for the best; he may be well-versed in the organ trade, but I’m the one who specializes in gold.”

“If you say so,” he replied. He appeared bored, but Nami could see from the way his stance widened slightly that he was prepared for any sudden attacks. He was a smart man, and past black market dealings had taught him to never underestimate a man willing to regularly do business with pirates.

“Speaking of, I heard you amassed quite the haul on Tokken Island, and I see the reports weren’t exaggerated!”

Jerking his head, Law signaled for Jean Bart to open his chest. Even in the dim light, the gold bars gleamed like the sun. Belli signs appeared in Jinzo’s eyes as he eagerly took in the remains of the gold squid statue. After a moment, Jean Bart closed the lid with a snap, bringing the broker’s attention back to the captain.

“You’ve got the amount Kimo-ya and I agreed on?” Law asked.

“Ah, about that—you see, while your wares are certainly impressive, I’m a man of business. Kimo may have had a soft spot for you since you supplied him with so many…fresh goods, but I can’t allow his bias to affect my profits. I’m afraid that with the fees Mr. Giberson will charge me for using his warehouses to store the goods, plus the time and effort I’ll have to go through to fence off the individual pieces, your asking price was a bit high. So, I’ve decided not to give you a belli more than 200 million.”

“Excuse me?” Law snapped at the same Nami exclaimed “What?!” The rest of the Heart Pirates appeared just as outraged, with more than a few hands dropping to their weapons.

“It’s a perfectly fair price!” Jinzo insisted. “I’m even being charitable and including the bribe you’d inevitably have to pay me to keep me from selling you out to the Marines.”

“There’s more than that amount in a single chest,” the Surgeon of Death growled. “Kimo-ya and I agreed on 655 million.”

“I’m under no obligation to honor such a ridiculous price. I have warehouses fees, employees to pay, officials to bribe, and more. 200 million is fair.”

“Yeah? Well I’ve got a crew to pay, provisions to purchase, and a high-tech sub like mine isn’t cheap to maintain—655 million belli was me being generous, and that’s because I had such a good working relationship with your partner.” Gold eyes narrowed dangerously as his grip on Kikoku shifted. “As a businessman, I’m sure you understand that changing the price so drastically tends to sour a deal.”

He scoffed. “From what I heard, this isn’t even your full haul—I’d say I’m the one being cheated. Technically I’m paying 400 million belli, since I’m also giving up the chance to turn you in for your bounty.”

“Are you threatening me?” Law growled, the brim of his hat casting his eyes in menacing shadow.

“Oh no; I’m just saying that you should pick your battles carefully. Now, I have no time to barter like a fishmonger—I have other appointments after you. If you don’t like my offer, go peddle your wares to someone else.”

“That’s a great idea,” Nami chimed in, sauntering up next to Law, eyes narrowed in determination and a Cheshire smile on her lips. She hadn’t originally planned on getting involved, but if there was one thing she hated, it was watching someone try to cheat her and her associates out of their hard-earned money. “We do have other brokers lined up, don’t we, Captain? So, what’s stopping us from turning around right now and selling all this off to them?”

“Nami, what are you doing?” Shachi whispered behind her, but a signal from Law told him to back down.

“My subordinate is right,” Law replied, wrapping a long arm around her waist, squeezing her side gently in a silent show that he understood what she was doing and willing to play along. “We came here first as a favor to Kimo-ya, since he’s always been so good to me. I wanted to keep our working relationship strong, but if you’re taking over and won’t honor his price, we’ll have to take our business elsewhere.”

“You won’t find anyone on this island willing to pay you better,” Jinzo sneered. “I practically own the black market on these isles. Hell, I’ve got enough clout with the Underworld at this point that I could ensure no one this side of the Red Line will so much spit on you if you’re on fire.”

With a nonchalant shrug, he countered, “Then I’ll just head to the New World and open my trade there. If you’ve got so much influence, then my usual customers won’t retaliate when business from their favorite heart stealer suddenly dries up.”

“And your other appointments will have no issue working with a man who would turn a client in to the Marines,” Nami added with a cat-like smile.

Paling, Jinzo’s entire body went tense. Nami didn’t know much about the organ trade, but she’d wager that the type of people who specialized in buying and selling body parts wouldn’t have much problem with recouping their lost profits from the man who drove away their best supplier. Pirates she did know, though, and they definitely wouldn’t stand for government snitches.

“Perhaps…perhaps I could bump my offer up to 400 million,” he stuttered. “As a show of good faith.”

“Mmm, sorry, but that’s just not good enough,” Nami sighed, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. She was in her element—belli and bartering. When money was involved, she barely even noticed the stuffy heat of her jumpsuit, and the tension in her bones practically vanished. For the first time all day, she was calm and in control. “I mean, we went through a lot to get this gold, and you just threw that hard work back in our faces. Months of planning, injured crewmembers, emotional trauma, transportation fees—it all adds up. We won’t part with a single piece of gold for less than 730 million belli.”

“What?!” Jinzo shouted as Law gave her a curious glance.

Smirking, the thief winked at her partner. “Captain Law was giving a generous discount to Mr. Kimo, but as you’ve so astutely pointed out, you and he don’t share such a close relationship. So, your price, Mr. Jinzo, is 730 million.”

“I won’t pay that! Perhaps I could accept 523 million without the bribe, but you’re being simply outrageous! And I’m not haggling with some rookie upstart’s whore!”

“And just for that insult, you’ve upped the price to a cool 750 million,” Law cut in, voice low and dark, sending a shiver down the spine of everyone in the warehouse. His grip on his nodachi had noticeably tightened, and even a man as arrogantly foolish as Jinzo could tell that he was on dangerously thin ice. “That’s my final offer, by the way. Try to talk me down or degrade a valued member of my crew again, and I’ll not only walk away, but I’ll take your heart and a few other major organs for my trouble. Kimo-ya and I got on so well because he respected my abilities and knew not to play games with the Surgeon of Death. So make your choice: belli or body parts?”

Nami could see that while the guards tensed, they looked more ready to run than defend their employer. It wouldn’t surprise her; she doubted Jinzo was paying them enough to risk getting their hearts ripped out, and if they knew anything about Law’s abilities, they’d know even running wouldn’t do them much good.

Seeing he was outgunned and outmaneuvered, the dealer clenched his fists but finally gave a stiff nod. “Fine. Men, hand over the cash.”

Grunting, three men lugged over five large briefcases. Cocking an eyebrow, Law activated his Room, scanning their contents. “You’re 25 million short,” he said, tone belying mild amusement.

“This is all the money I brought for the next three deals I had scheduled for today! Thanks to you, I’m going to have to reschedule so I can get more,” he snapped with a deep scowl. “My next client in particular will not be happy about that, and I won’t hesitate to inform him of exactly whose fault it is,” he sneered, eyes burning holes into Nami’s skull.

“I’m quaking in my boots. Still, since you can’t pay up, we’ll just keep some of the treasure.” Leading Nami over to Ikkaku’s chest, he opened it, the diamond necklaces and gem-encrusted trinkets twinkling in invitation. “Nami-ya, you’ve got a good eye for appraisal—see which of these can be removed to better match Jinzo-ya’s budget.”

Nodding, she carefully studied the contents of the chest, clever brain rapidly crunching numbers before she finally reached in, carefully removing a small, egg-shaped music box, its alabaster surface studded with pinhead-sized sapphires and spiderweb-thin seams of rose gold. Admiring the craftmanship and beauty for a moment, she carefully handed it to Law. “This is easily worth 25 million.”

With a smirk he shoved the music box into his hoodie pocket, snapped the lid of the treasure chest shut, and activated his Room again, switching the chests in his crews arms with the briefcases full of money in the guards’. “Then it seems our business is concluded.” Turning to leave, he flipped Jinzo off over his shoulder. “Bit of advice, Jinzo-ya; don’t try to cheat pirates, especially those of the Heart variety. It’ll get you killed one of these days.”

Eager to escape the off-putting stench and stuffy heat of the warehouse and hateful glare of the underworld broker, Nami didn’t even mind when Law’s hand settled on her lower back, gently but firmly pushing her towards the exit. Though Law had gotten in the last word, it was obvious that Jinzo’s vitriol was focused on the woman who had managed to nearly quadruple what he’d planned to pay with just a few words. It sent a cold shiver down her spine, which would have been a welcome relief if her stomach wasn’t twisting up in anxious knots.

Once outside and making their way down the road, the Dark Doctor grinned proudly down at Nami. “From now on, I’m taking you to all my business meetings. That was a thing of beauty.”

“Damn straight it was!” Ikkaku cheered from behind them, pumping a fist in the air. “Son of a bitch will think twice before trying to screw us again!”

Jean Bart chuckled. “Wish I’d had someone like you on my crew back when I was a captain—could have bought a private island and retired early instead of getting enslaved.”

Nami shrugged but glowed under the praise, mood further improved by a cool breeze fanning across her heated skin. “Oh, it was nothing special. I did all the negotiations on the Sunny, so I’ve had plenty of practice. When Luffy, Usopp, and I traded in our gold from the sky islands, a banker tried to offer us only 100 million belli, but I convinced him to triple the price,” she said with a saucy wink.

“How the hell was Straw Hat not swimming in cash?” Shachi asked, astounded.

She sighed, brow twitching in irritation. “Half the time he’d leave the treasure behind because ‘the villagers needed it more.’ I mean, he was usually right, but it drove me crazy.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that with us!” he said with a grin. “With you on our crew, the Heart Pirates won’t even need the One Piece!”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Law said. “The One Piece isn’t just treasure—it’s the only way to become King of the Pirates. I’m not going to settle for riches when the ultimate prize is out there waiting for me.”

Right, he wants to be Pirate King, too, Nami thought, frown deepening in concern as her muscles tensed. It’s one thing to help a guy to square a debt, but I can’t help him steal Luffy’s dream! “I’m kind of surprised you guys are still on this side of the Red Line, then—aren’t you worried someone else will get to it before you?” she asked cautiously.

“Nah. With Whitebeard dead, the New World’s in absolute shambles—hundreds of pirate crews are going to sail to their deaths while the Emperors fight over territory. I’ll let those underprepared idiots take themselves out, then cross over when the time is right.”

A small, relieved puff of air escaped her lips. With luck, he wouldn’t take that leap until she was back on Weatheria, though she was now nervous about what kind of chaos she’d be sailing Luffy into.

The cooling breeze vanished as they once more entered the sheltered streets of the shopping quarter. Ushering them off to the side so they wouldn’t draw too much attention from curious vendors, Law finally removed his hand from Nami’s back to activate his Room. Quickly and quietly, he teleported a few wads of cash into each crewmember’s pockets. Weird as it felt, Nami had to appreciate that it was far safer than handing out wads of money where any onlooker could see and pick out an easy mark.

“Alright, I suppose this is where we all head off to enjoy the fruits of our labors. Jean Bart, Uni and I will head back to the ship to get everyone else their share and lock up the rest of the cash. As for the rest of you, avoid fighting unless necessary, stick to your groups, and don’t make yourself a target.” With a smirk, he took Ikkaku’s briefcase before glancing down at Nami. “Enjoy your shopping, Nami-ya, but no ditching the uniform.”

“Good thing you won’t be around to stop me,” she quipped. Without the breeze, Nami was once more close to sweating in her jumpsuit, and despite no longer being under Jinzo’s penetrating stare, the anxious knot hadn’t quite managed to untwist in her belly. Her body was still on high alert, her senses sharp in anticipation, which just made every brush of heavy fabric more abrasive. Without thinking, she grabbed the collar of her suit to fan herself, only to stop upon realizing she was inadvertently giving Law a better view of her cleavage.

“Good thing Ikkaku, Bepo, and Shachi are under strict orders to make sure you behave yourself,” he shot back, tone laced with amusement as he eyed the flushed mounds of flesh, causing Nami to heat up further with embarrassment.

She cursed under her breath. Not only had she basically flashed Law—which he’d probably assumed was her flirting—but he’d successfully backed her into a corner. If it were just one of them, she might have been able to talk her way into a change of clothes, but with all three she knew she was shit out of luck. One Heart Pirate could be reasoned with, but when they were in a group, the captain’s word was law.

Seeing the despairing expression on her face, Ikkaku wrapped her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders, inadvertently rubbing the uncomfortable fabric against her scars. “Cheer up, Nami—Boss is just worried that two stunning pieces of ass like us will captivate the whole island with our insanely good looks. He doesn’t want anyone carrying away his two hottest subordinates.”

The redhead had to chuckle a bit at that, even if her stomach twisted further at being so earnestly referred to as “Law’s subordinate.” It was unsettling how everyone acted as if this was more than just a temporary alliance.

“I’m happy to carry your bags, Nami,” Shachi offered with a boyish grin, hoping to raise the navigator’s spirits.

Law frowned. “Your cast just came off; don’t over-exert yourself.”

“I’ll be fine, Boss! How heavy can clothes be?”

“Well, if you insist,” Nami cooed sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes. With luck, the time she took to try on clothes would be enough to cool her down, and she would never say no to someone else carrying her things. “Thank you, Shachi-kun.”

His cheeks turned as red as his hair and he rubbed the back of his head bashfully. “A-anytime, Nami.”

Glancing over at Bepo, Law sighed. “Anything goes wrong, find me immediately. Marines, enemy pirates, angry mobs with pitchforks, whatever. And don’t let Nami-ya out of your sights. I’m counting on you.”

“Aye-aye, Captain!” the trio shouted as Nami rolled her eyes.

They’re like a bunch of eager puppies, she thought as they led her away, eagerly chattering about which store they should hit first.

Feeling an intense stare, she turned her head slightly to see Law watching her go, a satisfied smirk creeping to his lips. Realization hit her quickly and her entire body tensed up—he was staring at the Jolly Roger on her back.

His emblem. His trademark. His property.

It was the same way Arlong would stare at her, only hungrier.

Unnoticed by her companions, her muscles remained tense even as they walked away, heart pounding so loud she nearly didn’t hear Ikkaku when she asked, “So, where to first?”

“How about the bookstore?” Bepo offered, poking his long claws together.

“Hey, it should be Nami’s decision!” Shachi scolded, to which the bear offered a weak apology.

“The bookstore’s fine,” she choked out, willing her racing heart to calm down. There was no need to panic—Law was probably just staring at her like that because he was a weird pervert who got turned on by people in baggy clothes. Somehow, his anti-nudity fetish was a lot more comfortable than the idea that he saw her the way the Fishman Pirates had—a tool to be used and kept at any cost.

“Books it is,” Ikkaku declared, looping their arms together and dragging them down the winding roads. Luckily, the further they got from the intense captain, the easier it became to breathe, her heartbeat nearly back to normal by the time they entered the bookshop.

The smell of paper, ink, and leather binding finished the job, as it reminded Nami of the library on the Thousand Sunny, and even more of Robin. Looking around, she had to grin at the tall shelves of books that made the store a veritable maze. Robin and Chopper would spend hours in a place like this, browsing and picking out an enormous stack of medical tomes, novels, historic texts, and more to fill the ship’s library with. The memory brought a smile to her face as her anxiety receded like an ocean wave, and the cool, dry air against her skin allowed Nami to regain her enthusiasm for shopping.

“If anyone needs me, I’ll be over by the ‘How To’ manuals and laughing,” Ikkaku called before disappearing into the stacks.

Shachi shook his head, but there was a hint of an affectionate smile at the corner of his lips. “Someone’s really got to tell her one of these days that those books are supposed to be serious instructions, not comedy.”

“But not you?” Nami joked.

“Not a chance. I’m going to grab the latest issue of Sora, Warrior of the Sea, then check out the fashion magazines. The other day Penguin said my hat’s the ugliest thing in existence, so by the end of today I wanna find something so ridiculous he’ll beg me to change back.”

Down to two, Bepo gave a shy smile. “Want to check out the horticulture section with me?”

It was almost physically painful to deny any request for the bear, but there was something she wanted to grab first, and she didn’t need him finding out her guilty pleasure and potentially spilling it to his captain—that jerk did not need any more ammo to use against her. Patting his arm, Nami replied, “I’ll meet you there later—I realized during the long, boring trip from Knox that I was in desperate need of good literature, and no offense, but your ship’s library just doesn’t have anything to my taste.”

“Not even my navigational books?” he asked sadly.

“Oh, those were fine, but I mean reading for pleasure. You know, a good, exciting novel. Without Luffy around, I’m actually starting to miss the thrill of adventure.”

The bear scratched his snout. “Huh. Personally, I like that Law doesn’t take unnecessary risks, but I guess everyone’s different. I can wait while you pick out your books.”

Waving her hand nervously, she insisted, “Oh, no, it’s ok! You start checking out the books on plants and I’ll join you in a bit!”

“But Law told me not to let you out of my sight.”

Exasperated, she rolled her eyes. “I know, but I’m not going to run off or ditch the uniform—knowing my luck, I’d run into him the second I walked out of the store.”

Cocking his head in thought, Bepo finally nodded. “Ok, but you’d better keep your word—if you disappear, Law’ll be really mad at me,” he said, ears drooping and grey clouds forming over his head at the mere thought.

“I promise I’d never intentionally do anything that would get you in trouble,” she said earnestly, provoking a happy grin from the massive Mink.

“Ok! Just don’t take too long!”

Sighing in relief as Bepo jogged off to the gardening section, the coast was finally clear for Nami to creep to the back corner of the store where she’d spotted her prize.

Romance and Erotic Fiction.

Though most assumed she only read cartography books, fashion magazines, and almanacs, in truth these were her guilty pleasure. Running her fingers down the spines of the paperbacks—many sporting a half-dressed woman wrapped in the passionate embrace of a shirtless, unnaturally chiseled man on the cover—she wracked her brain for the list of novels she’d read and which ones she’d been looking for. Her tastes were fairly specific; the setting had to be interesting, the sexual tension palpable, and the leading lady had to be smart and sassy while the men were sensual and mysterious.

“Aha!” she squealed, eagerly plucking the book she’d been searching for from its place on the shelf: To Catch a Turtle Dove. It was about a beautiful and resourceful thief who decided to rob the royal palace but was caught by the dark and dangerous ruler. She’d bought a copy back in Saboady, the first few chapters having captivated her when she’d read them in the store, and she wasn’t going to wait nearly two years to find out what happened. The thief had just made it to the royal ball, and if the intense eye contact she’d made with the lord from across the room was anything to go by, it was worth buying a second copy.

“What are you doing back here?” a voice from behind asked, making her nearly leap out of her skin.

“Damn it, Ikkaku, don’t scare me like that!” she growled as her heart started palpitating again. What was with Heart Pirates and sneaking up on her, anyway? Did Law order them to do it to mess with her, or was it an unconscious habit they’d picked up from their captain?

The older woman looked at the erotic fiction novels around them, raising a dark eyebrow. “Didn’t think you were into this kind of stuff, Nami,” she teased.

A faint blush warmed her pale cheeks, though the teasing tone did calm her down. Ikkaku really was like Robin in the strangest ways. “Shut up,” she grumbled. “A girl’s got needs, right?”

“Hey, not judging—if anything, it explains how you’re able to hold your own against the captain. Most girls swoon at just a few of his lines, but you’ve probably seen them all before, huh?” she said with a wink.

Nami giggled, glad Ikkaku was laughing with her, not at her. “Something like that. Besides, why bother with real men and all their flaws when you can get the same result from a good book?”

“If all it takes is words on a page to get you off, you’re even more repressed than I thought,” Ikkaku sniggered, easily blocking Nami’s indignant punch. “And trust me, men may be idiots, but a good, hard fuck is worth more than any book.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she scoffed, turning around to pick out a few more paperbacks.

Casually browsing the titles beside her, Ikkaku said, “You know, it’s pretty obvious that the captain’s into you—”

“Nope!” Nami cut her off, cheeks going crimson. “Don’t even suggest it! Ours is a purely business relationship and there are so many ways getting physical with him could go wrong. I’ve got ten months left with you guys, and I’m not putting myself in an awkward position.”

“Make all the excuses you want, but I know you’re just mad that he’s beating you at your own game.”

“Not true.”

“Please, Bepo told me how you managed to give Law that sunburn, and the hickey you came back from the gala with says he paid you back with interest. What’s awkward is watching you act like such a tsundere about it.”

“I’m not—like you said, I’m just a little pent up. A few steamy novels and it’ll be out of my system, without the messy consequences that come with sleeping with your captain.”

“If you’re not going to indulge, at least consider investing in a decent vibrator,” she sniggered. “Because I can tell you, when Law wants something—or someone—he does whatever it takes to get it. If you think he’s a massive tease now, it’s only going to get worse as time goes on, and I’ve seen stronger pirates than you fall at his feet. If anything, those books’ll just make you hornier.”

“You know what, Ikkaku—” Nami started, annoyance and embarrassment making her temper flare.

“Miss Nami, when you’re done, can I get your opinion, please?” Bepo asked shyly, fuzzy white head poking around the corner.

Reigning in her emotions while quickly hiding her books behind her back, she flashed him a smile. “Sure thing, Bepo! Just give me a minute!”

He returned the smile, disappearing back into the store, surprisingly quiet for a creature his size.

With a grin, Ikkaku shook her head and took the naughty paperbacks from Nami’s hands. “Here—I’ll grab these for you while you help our favorite crewmate. I’m sure you don’t want him asking awkward questions about what you’re reading, right?”

Coughing into her fist, Nami looked away bashfully. “Thanks.”

“We’ll finish this discussion later. I saw a flyer for Ladies’ Night at one of the local bars tomorrow. Wanna join me?”

“Sounds fun, but only if you promise to go five consecutive minutes without talking about your boss while we’re there. I don’t want our whole friendship to be based around your matchmaking schemes.”

“And here I thought teasing you was fair payment for letting you steal my clothes,” she laughed, bumping their hips together. “Remember you owe me an outfit, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nami laughed before taking off to find Bepo. Despite her teasing, Ikkaku was a good friend. She just really needed to lay off the insinuations that she and Law needed to get it on.

XXX

Three hours and eight clothing stores later, Nami was completely ready to ditch the boiler suit. The boutiques hadn’t been as pleasantly cool as the bookshop even when she stripped down to try on new outfits, and every time she had to put back on that hot, confining garment had felt like torture. Parts had even started becoming damp with sweat, furthering her discomfort. The heat was exhausting, too, yet she still felt anxious, trapped energy thrumming under her skin like she’d drank too much coffee.

The uniform was ruining her shopping experience in other ways, too. Thanks to its completely unflattering silhouette and drastic lack of sex appeal, flirting her way to better discounts was harder than usual. Sure, her cleavage and fluttering eyelashes had gotten her down to 50% off in the shoe store, but the clerk at the lingerie boutique had barely given her 30%! Plus, every time she caught a glance at herself in a mirror, dressed head-to-toe like a Heart Pirate, Jolly Roger grinning at her from her left breast pocket, she felt her scar throb. No matter how many cute outfits she tried on, all she could see was that damn insignia mocking her, declaring she was once more some sick pirate’s property.

“I hate this thing so much,” she groaned, irritably tugging the zipper down to her sternum, hoping to vent just a little more of the heat trapped beneath the thick canvas. “Please, can’t I take it off now?”

“Sorry, hun, but it’s for your own safety,” Ikkaku replied with a frown. She couldn’t understand why Nami was complaining so much; yeah, it wasn’t the sexiest ensemble, but it kept Grimm’s damp chill and the scumbags at bay. “Just hold on a bit longer, then we’ll head back to the ship and you can change out of it.”

The thought of going back to the ship made her whine pathetically. The submarine would be even hotter—she was wholly starting to sympathize with Bepo. Hell, how was he not dying in his own jumpsuit? He had fur, shouldn’t he be suffering just as much?

“Cheer up, Nami!” Shachi said from behind the mountain of boxes he was carrying. His healed arm was certainly being put to the test, but Nami couldn’t feel too guilty—after all, he’d offered. “I think you look great in the uniform!”

“Yeah,” Bepo added with a smile. He had also been roped into carrying the girls’ purchases, the dozens of shopping bags looped around his arms sticking out like colorful wings. “You really look like one of us.”

She froze in her tracks as her heart stopped. “…excuse me?”

“You look like an official member of the Heart Pirates,” he said, cocking his head in confusion at her tone. Surely, that was a nice compliment, right?

“Soon enough you’ll be sporting a tattoo!” Ikkaku teased, not noticing how pale Nami’d become due to the dark shadows cast by the buildings.

The redhead’s blood went cold. She knew they were kidding. She prayed they were kidding. Her hand unconsciously gripped her shoulder, clutching at the phantom tattoo. The mark she still had nightmares about.

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” Shachi exclaimed, certain he’d found the solution to keep both the pretty navigator and their captain happy. If not, hopefully it would make her appreciate the jumpsuit a bit more. “If you got a tattoo, maybe Law’ll ease up on the dress code. We’ve all got one—it’s how we can show we’re Heart Pirates even out of uniform.”

“I don’t,” Bepo pointed out.

“That’s because you can’t tattoo fur, idiot!”

“Sorry.”

Not wanting to deal with an argument between the two males, Ikkaku cut in, “Sounds good to me. How about it, Nami? I happen to know an artist who’ll give you a great discount,” she added with a wink.

“Of course she wants one! The real question is; where should she get it?” Shachi joked. “Law’s got it on his back, and Penguin’s is on his shin. Don’t ask where mine is—at least, not without buying me dinner, first!”

“Tramp stamp. You’re definitely getting a Heart Pirate tramp stamp,” Ikkaku laughed, deviously rubbing her hands together. “I’ve already got the design sketched out!”

Though it was said in jest, all Nami could hear was cruel cackling as she was overwhelmed by the memory of being helpless and in pain, branded by a sick and possessive monster.

“Hold still, human!” Chew sneered as the needle pierced her skin.

“Stop it! It hurts!” Nami screamed, her tiny fingers desperately clawing at the table Kuroobi pinned her down on. His enormous hands easily spanned her entire back, but she refused to just lay there and let them brand her. Tears rained from her large, childish eyes, lip bleeding from the slap Chew had given her earlier.

“Smek. Who cares if it hurts? Quit wiggling around so I don’t mess up.” The clammy, webbed hand on her arm tightened, cutting off the blood flow and threatening to crack the fragile bone beneath as he continued to ink the design.

“Shahahahaha! You should be honored, Nami! You’re the only human in the world to be graced with my mark,” Arlong laughed from his chair, watching her futile struggles like a shark would an injured baby seal. “Consider it your official welcome to the Fishman Pirates!”

“I don’t want it!” she screamed as another wave of agony wracked her tiny body. In all of her ten years she’d never felt such pain, and she was helpless to do anything about it. “Make it stop!”

Kuroobi’s hands pressed down harder against her back, forcing the air from her lungs. “We don’t take orders from worthless humans,” he sneered, blue-tinged face twisting in a sneer.

“It’s for your own good, girl,” Arlong said with a twisted smile. “Someone with your raw talent is a valuable commodity. Pirates the world over are gonna want you—I’m just making sure they know to keep their hands off.” Getting up, he strolled over to the pinned girl with the casual grace of a barracuda in the water. Course as sandpaper, the tip of his finger stroked across her tear-stained cheek. “I’m keeping you safe—after all, you’re part of my crew.”

“Nami, are you ok?”

Pulled from the horrible memory, the navigator stepped away from her companions, russet eyes wide with fear. “You’re not tattooing me,” she gasped. It felt like Kuroobi’s hand were still crushing her chest, and her nails dug into her left shoulder so hard they threatened to dig through the off-white canvas.

“Hey, it’s just a—”

“I’m not letting you fuckers brand me like cattle!” she shouted, fear replaced by fury as she pulled out her Clima-Tact, brandishing it as threateningly as she could despite her shaking arms. Nami was a wild animal backed into a corner, desperately showing her claws in hopes of scaring off her hunters.

The Heart Pirate trio froze, jaws dropping in shock. “Whoa, Nami, that’s not—”

“Quit acting like I’m one of you! Quit acting like I’ve betrayed Luffy! I’m a Straw Hat, not a Heart Pirate!”

“Hey, no one’s saying you betrayed anybody,” Ikkaku assured, hands raised in hopes of showing she was no threat to the young navigator. “We’re just trying to make you feel welcome.”

“I don’t want your welcome!” she shrieked. Cold sweat ran down her back, her heart was racing, and her body was on fire. She felt trapped, both by the people across from her and by the stifling jumpsuit. “I don’t want your fucking tattoo, or your uniform, or—”

“The uniform’s to keep you safe!” Shachi insisted, silently motioning for Bepo to sneak around and subdue her before she hurt herself. He took in her flushed cheeks, ragged breathing and glazed eyes, and his tone softened with concern. “Look, why don’t we head back to the ship? You don’t look so great, and I’m sure if you talk it out with the captain—”

In her panicked brain, she didn’t register that they meant Law, not Arlong. “I’m not going back! I’m not that monster’s property!” she screamed as she blasted a heavy gust of wind from her staff, knocking the trio back hard into a nearby fruit stand. The tower of clothing and shoe boxes collapsed, falling on top of them, and vendors nearby shouted as their carts were upended.

Using the chaos to her advantage, Nami dashed off, ignoring the worried cries of the Heart Pirates behind her.

28 notes · View notes

stereksecretsanta · 4 years

Text

Merry Christmas, @bewarethesmirk!

Words: 5155

Rating: Teen and up

Tags: Sterek Secret Santa 2019, Christmas fic, miscommunications, broody!Derek, college student Stiles, enemies to lovers, yoga instructor Derek, AU – no werewolves, mention of dead family members, minor angst, happy ending, fluff tropes, kissing, cuddling.

I didn’t write a coffee shop AU, but I hope you will enjoy a broody Derek teaching yoga, featuring a feud over a quilt…?

*****

Yoga to take your chances with me

There is a twink formerly known as Mieczyslaw ‘Stiles’ Stilinski standing outside the yoga studio, making Derek’s life miserable. Stiles would argue (if he got the chance to) that he’s technically already inside the studio, and he’s making Derek’s afternoon miserable, ‘because perspective, Derek. That’s your whole shtick, isn’t it?’. He can practically hear Stiles argue in his head. Some days Stiles’s voice drifts in and out of his stream of consciousness like an ocean tide - always there to offer a running commentary on Derek’s goings.

Maybe it’s his brain preparing him for what is bound to happen if he lets Stiles through the door; reminding him sternly that it’s a bad idea. He’s ten minutes into a class, not the best circumstances for removing Stiles from the premises. He hopefully glances over at Boyd, whom he knows from the regular gym and considers a friend. Derek raises his brows asking (30% rhetorically, 70% pleadingly… 0.01% desperately) ‘Should you or shall I?’.

Boyd looks back with a serene smug ’Nah, you’re on your own on this one’.

Derek returns his glare to Stiles, who’s leaning against the glass partition that separates the lobby from the training area. A glass partition which Stiles now presses his obtuse face to, mashing it against the flat surface. Not for the first time post the Stilinski infestation Derek reminds himself that he teaches anti-violence for a living. If his clients ever got access to a running transcript of his inner monologue he’ll be committed, but he doesn’t see that as a legitimate reason as to not vividly fantasize about running Stiles’s head through the glass.

Derek takes in the eighteen students in his beginners’ class, a rag-tag group of Beacon Hills residents ages 18 to 75, varying from seasoned athletes to those who barely made it through gym class in school. They’d surely vote in favor for Derek packaging Stiles up and FedEx him to his home address.

He wisely decides to ignore Stiles for the time being (he knows why he’s banned) and picks up the instructions where he left off:

“When you follow your in-breath, you are able to use the awareness of your current breath to anchor yourself in your body; in this present moment. Notice the pause where the breath turns… and breathe out slowly. Good.”

His voice is low and assuring. He likes to teach the beginners class the most. Prefers it over the intermediate class, because he does a lot of slow-pace guiding and abandons most of the technical talk; not pushing any physical or mental limits the participants aren’t ready to face.

Stiles leans both his palms against the glass – smearing it with his palms – his eyes sweat-blinking with indignation, as if he’s trying to laser-carve the words I’m offended on Derek’s forehead.

“Now, we are going to check in with your posture. The next time you inhale, follow your in-breath up, through your neck, and breath out through the top of the head. As you breathe in, straighten your back to assume a posture of” – Stiles’s hands slips down the glass with a protracted squeal – “dignity.”

“Who’s that?” The complaint comes from Victoria, a middle-aged woman who carries herself like a drill sergeant.

“Remember,” Derek re-directs, “use any potential distractions as opportunities to actively choose where you direct your attention. Back to your breath.”

Victoria’s daughter, who occupies the mat to her left, lets out an amused snort – she’s the most diligent and attentive student in his class. Allison looks to him now as if she’s waiting for him to make the next move, and Derek knows he’s been out-voted. Damn it.

Stiles flinches when Derek reaches the lobby.

”You’re banned,” Derek states calmly. He’s aware that he’s had this exact conversation a thousand times before.

“THAT” – Stiles points accusatory to the note Derek has attached in the center of the partition. The note where he’s scribbled Stiles, you are banned. Go home – “is a particularly shitty way of announcing it.”

“You have repeatedly broken the membership guidelines, for months. You’ve wounded half of my clientele by now,” he hyperboles just to see Stiles’s eyes comically widen. “A truer false statement has never been spoken.”

Stiles splutters. “What, I’ve barely—“

“Isaac; two nosebleeds and a black eye.” Derek counts off his fingers. “Erica; elbowed twice, one busted lip. An average of seven complaints from costumers who you’ve intimately prodded with your foot without noticing. Mrs. Argent gave me five ultimatums about you per month. You need me to continue – or do you need them to tell you?” He indicates the audience they are attracting behind the glass. “If you wanted to be here so badly you shouldn’t have repeatedly disrupted my classes.”

Stiles draws an angry, shuddering breath. “You were supposed to teach me how to yoga, so technically my failure is your failure.“

“I can’t teach you ‘how to yoga’, I don’t think no one can.”

”Oh ha hah, Yoga Mulaney, everybody!” Stiles laughs cruelly. “Too bad insults don’t exclude my right to defend myself in the court of law.”

”There’s not a lawyer in the country that would touch your case.”

There’s a hint of amusement breaking through Stiles’s exaggerated fury. “So you’re really not going to let me in? What if I—“

He makes a half-assed attempt to run past, but Derek is faster – all it takes is a firm hand on Stiles’s chest.

There’s a beat, where Stiles’s just gaping and processing the betrayal, looking between Derek’s face and his hand before boiling over. ”BUT IT’S CHRISTMAS!”

Derek tells himself not to laugh. “That’s not an acceptable defense speech. I have to get back to my class. You should leave.” Or hang back here so I can talk to you.

”I don’t think… you’ve never been mad over that stuff before.” The crease in Stiles’s forehead deepens in suspicion. “Wait. That’s what it is? You’re mad that I stole your pillow, because I… yeah, you know what? I’m keeping that, and I still have beef with you about the quilt.” He fold his arms.

“You have beef about the quilt,” Derek repeats flatly. That’s about the most discouraging thing Stiles can say to him, but he supposes he can force himself to understand Stiles’s motivation.

“Uhm, yeah. If I’m banned for life, I’m not walking out of here empty-handed.” Stiles slides his hands inside his pockets; steps back. It’s a retreat, and they both now his absence will be permanent.

“How about I give you the quilt after you apologize like an actual adult.” Derek looks, really looks at him to convey that he’s still here if Stiles decides he feels the same thing, but Stiles’s gaze is alive with indignation and flickering uncertainly to the rest of the class. And the note stuck to the glass. “You apologize first, asshole. I’m the wounded party here.”

“In that case,” Derek says tersely, and stomps back to take his place in front of the class to teach some goddamn peace of mind.

A few months ago…

The first time Stiles shows up in Hale’s yoga studio he’s nervously hovering on the threshold, looking like he’s about to rob the place with a lacrosse-stick. Derek steps around the reception desk.

“First time?” he asks civilly.

”Huh?”

”Yoga?” Derek’s eyes do a tour around the facilities in case Stiles wasn’t aware of his location. ”Are you here to sign up for the beginners class?”

Stiles squints at a spot on the wall for ten seconds straight, grimacing like it physically hurts to come up with an answer. His face is weirdly hypnotizing, holding Derek’s attention in the meantime. ”I could be? I mean, I never saw myself doing that stuff, y’know. But here we are?”

Okay... Derek decides to go forward with the standard questions. “Do you have any injuries I should be aware off? Do you work out regularly? Any sports?”

“Nah. Lacrosse, in high school, now not so much. My best friend is an assistant teacher so we use the facilities sometimes for old times sake.”

“You’re in college?”

“I come home when I can. Have some peace and quiet.” He flexes his long fingers, joints popping, and grins cheekily when Derek frowns, “I really should dilute my Internet addiction with some physical exercise. A bit of Zen.”

His words make less of a sense but he’s also cute.

“You’ll need a mat and a few other things.” Derek leads his new client to the supply closet and hands them to Stiles, one by one. “First class is free, and starts in five. Can you do that?”

Stiles nod quickly, and grapples his mat-roll. “Totally.”

Turns out Stiles, occasional Lacrosse enthusiast, might have the muscle strength to hold his body in the asanas Derek guides the class through, but doesn’t have the flexibility or range of motion to survive even the beginners class without losing balance and dealing out blows with his flailing limbs.

By the end of it Stiles is left crying into his yoga mat in the child’s pose, cradling his waist, and getting mocked by Erica.

Here’s the kicker though: Stiles comes back a week later, and then on Thursday in Derek’s advanced class. It’s a disaster. Yet another accidental bitch-slap when Stiles loses his balance and domino-tumbles over Isaac Lahey who happens to be innocently reaching Nirvana behind him.

On Friday morning (does he even go to college?) he shows up to inexplicably join Derek’s yoga class for women on maternity leave and their babies.

“Yo, you said it would be much more chill,” Stiles accuses from the floor, where he’s languidly patting a small infant on her back.

Derek halts by his mat, “I meant the Kundalini, which was the class an hour before this one.”

It’s a challenge to sound admonishing when there’s a fuzzy baby head snoozing right under Stiles’s chin. He looks like he’s secretly terrified that the baby will slip down his chest like a slippery bar of soap if he sneezes. Derek wonders if he should offer Stiles a bean-bag to care for once the mother returns from the bathroom. It looks like an effective way to keep Stiles in check. Or, Derek hopefully looks around, is someone else willing to donate their child? Throwing human infants at Stiles unfortunately sounds like an emergency solution, though.

Stiles keeps showing up and he keeps going at it – teeth gritted, relentless, and occasionally guffawing so loud it disrupts Derek’s instructive monologues. Derek finds himself tracking Stiles’s progress. His non-linear progress, but progress nonetheless. Stiles sneaks into an intermediate class and when Derek looks over Stiles is in his sweats, standing in the advanced warrior pose. Stiles is ‘surfing’ his mat, as he likes to refer to it. He has the body of an athlete, long-limbed and by November he’s way more limber than before. His torso stretches gracefully when he cants his hips and reaches for the ceiling. By Derek’s instruction he applies pressure on his heel to further stretch his hip flexor; arches his back instead of staying in the safe position and slips his left hand around his waist to rest on his right inner thigh - a sight which Derek has a quiet aneurysm over – before Stiles promptly falls over like a cardboard cut-out of himself caught in a breeze, socking Isaac in the eye as they both go down. Derek laughs – the one time he failed to laugh internally, like a professional.

He can’t help but look forward to the times when Stiles lingers after class. Mostly recovering on the floor while Derek tidies up.

“Can you chalk like, around me while I lay here?” Stiles circle-motions his hand. “We can play CSI! I’ll be the victim. You’ll be the coroner.” He piano-taps at his sternum with two fingers.

“Tempting,” Derek says, causing Stiles to look up with hope written across his face, “But I would probably just step over you if I found you dead in the street.”

“That’s cold.” Stiles scratches his throat. It’s distracting how he’s always doing something off-beat with his hands, the motions catching Derek’s attention and holding it hostage.

“Hey, do you know this used to be a dance studio?” Stiles asks.

“Speaking of nothing. I think there was one before the building was closed for renovation. How do you know it was a dance studio?”

Stiles leisurely points to the nearest wall. He’s tired. “You haven’t noticed there’s still barres over there? And there, and there, and there.”

Of course Derek has noticed the handrails lining the walls in the loft. “I didn’t think you noticed them. Except for using them as a towel rack.”

Although he suspects Stiles takes notice of a lot of things.

Derek averts his eyes when Stiles yawns and scratches under his shirt. Stiles‘s gaze jumps to the spiral staircase. “So, what’s up there? Your office? Can I have a tour?”

For a moment Derek thoughts screech to a halt. The space up there is where he sleeps; it’s the equivalent of a small studio apartment. To have Stiles up there, walking around and touching his things, no, that would feel too much like a date. And Stiles isn’t flirting – he’s asking questions.

“I live up there,” he admits, unsure if it’s personal information he should share. “No, you’re not ever allowed up there, ever.”

“Not ever, ever? Don’t flatter yourself, Hale. As if I have the energy for stairs,” Stiles mutters glumly.

They keep having these little chats, and Derek actually enjoys them – he’s relieved that there’s at least one person in Beacon Hills he can talk nonsense with without feeling like Derek Hale, the guy who burned down his parents’ house with the parents still in it. That’s the neat summary of what Derek reads in people’s faces every time he’s in a store and notice how he’s being rubbernecked by the residents of Beacon Hills. It’s a small town, and he should’ve known what to expect when he moved back.

One evening Derek find himself re-telling his own first time in a yoga class as an eighteen year old, how he had been dragged inside by the neck by his sister Laura, who hissed at him to relax! He’s secretly proud of her efforts to bring him back to life by dragging him to yoga retreats and encouraging him to take instructor courses. When she left New York for Europe he decided to check out the town where they grew up, and open up a yoga studio of his own.

“So, what are you guys doing for the holidays?” Stiles asks, lounging in the sofa in Derek’s studio.

Derek raises his head, realizing he’s got four stragglers now: Stiles, Boyd, Isaac and Erica, who all refuses to leave at an appropriate hour and leave bags of chips in the corners. The loft is not a YMCA and he will not tolerate Isaac and Erica dragging in chairs from the lobby, or Boyd installing a fridge behind the counter. He doesn’t voice his concerns, instead noticing how unusually subdued they are in the aftermath of the other participants chatting amicably about Christmas plays, family dinners and finding that perfect last minute gift.

Boyd shrugs. “I will do what I always do. Spend Christmas at my parents’ house.” He sounds far from happy about the fact.

Isaac squirms, and it’s unlikely he has plans for Christmas. Derek knows a bit, well, enough to suspect that Isaac doesn’t have family to visit.

“I’ll be here,” Derek answers curtly, with enough finality for the topic to be dropped.

Stiles lets the melancholy prevail for almost thirty seconds.

“We should decorate this place with garlands and stuff.”

“No.”

“Yes!” Stiles grins.

Derek rolls his eyes in exasperation. “I swear I’ll throw a baby at you.”

“Dude,” Stiles says. “That makes no sense.”

Here’s the thing. Stiles can’t help himself, but he notices stuff about Derek and suddenly he’s addicted. Or crushing. Crushing hard.

He notices how Derek care individually for the other stragglers: Boyd, Isaac and Erica. Initially they are fiercely loyal, instinctively on Derek’s side after the chips incident (so he opened a bag of chips in class, big deal, it was boring and he had the munchies) (so he choked on a mouthful when Derek told him off big deal) (so he suffered through a coughing fit for twenty minutes straight which happened to also be the duration of Derek’s guided meditation).

But they dislike Stiles only for like two seconds, and then they fake-dislike him and deep down they love him, he’s sure. They start to bring snacks to the studio, which lead to a lot of grumbling and extra triple compulsive late night-vacuuming of the floor for Derek. Stiles stays late to help, saint that he is.

But, Stiles also notices, Derek never tells them to stop hanging around. Okay, he never stop asking them to leave, but he doesn’t force them to, and he’s getting softer. There lies a important distinction.

Furthermore. Stiles is objectively and subjectively finding Derek attractive. Yes. Have you seen Derek in black compression shorts flexing his hamstrings? Stiles has. Stiles has been guilty of peering through the glass when Derek has private sessions, where he and some other superman or -woman balance on their forearms and head. He has seen Derek’s death-defying acrobatics where he touches the soles of his feet together while in the headstand. He wouldn’t be surprised if one of these days he caught Derek levitating under the ceiling like a freaking bat.

Stiles also knows Derek always wears baggy basketball shorts over his compression ones to all his regular classes, overly concerned about not flashing his junk when he lifts his legs, and the man hates attention. Stiles knows by the stiff way Derek holds himself when he’s walking around before and after class that he much rather be handing out advice from a Skype call. Derek is secretly an introvert, but alone with Stiles? He’s relaxed, funny, and Stiles is addicted to his cynicism.

There’s a lump in Stiles’s throat when he finally decides to be done with the bullshit and finally tell Derek why he showed up that very first day. Rip off the truth-bandage.

Stiles drives back to Beacon Hills on a Thursday and makes sure he is the last man standing (laying down, star-fishing the floor, lamenting) after the end of the evening class. Derek is hovering over him with a soft expression (accentuated by the warm light from the still burning candles), and Stiles feels warm and buzzing with anticipation and nerves.

“Why are you still here?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Stiles sits up, gingerly when his wrung-out muscles protests, panics, and starts to ramble the thing he wasn’t suppose to reveal until he’d said the other thing. “I want… I want to ask you out, on a date. Because I think you are funny, and admirable, and hot when you’re holding babies and vacuuming, but also – your ass is fine, but that’s not... I neglect my studies and go home every opportunity I get just for the chance to see you.”

It’s not at all what he was planning to begin with. More like the last thing, the concluding remark. He stares at Derek, pulse rushing, caught between telling Derek the truth and shut up and just, just—

Derek kneels down in front of him, very, very close, and Stiles freezes in place. Derek nods, “Do you… want to come upstairs so we can talk about this?”

Stiles agrees with a foggy notion that that will give him enough time to explain why that won’t be the first time he’s been up there.

Derek throws caution the wind here and grabs Stiles’s hand. He leads the way up the winding staircase, mentally wondering if Stiles’s impression of him will shift when he sees where Derek lives. He doesn’t require much after five years on the east coast and three years in Beacon Hills. Shitty apartments have been a constant in his life ever since he left the first time, but this one he genuinely likes.

Stiles stares at the handmade quilt he’s got covering the bed, at the grotesque but matching throw pillows on the floor by the window where Derek occasionally reads or meditates, then back to the bed and the photos on the shelf above. Derek’s earthly possessions are scarce since the fire that burned down his home, and the framed photos are donated from friends of the family. There’s the graduation picture of Laura, arm confidently slung across Derek’s shoulder, and a picture of all the kids sitting on the hood of their parents’ car back when they went on a vacation to lake Michigan.

The rest of the stuff in Derek’s place can be sum up by a dead plant, a floor-fan covered in dust, and the mentioned quilt and pillows which Derek found in the cabinet when he moved in.

Stiles draws a shuddering breath and touches the quilt almost reverently. And is he... is he sniffing back tears? Fuck, Derek wouldn’t have brought Stiles up here knowing his apartment was such a downer…

Stiles starts to forcefully pull the quilt from the bed. There’s definitely a piece of vital information Derek’s missing here. “Stiles… What exactly are you doing?”

Stiles’s picks up the pillows from the floor too. He gathers them protectively against his chest, the quilt spilling over in his arms. “Fuck my life. Fuck my life, man. I should go.”

Derek craves a few more words of explanation, but Stiles is already stalking back to the stairs. “Is there a reason you’re stealing my bedspread?”

“I know, I know, I’m a horrible person. I’ll reimburse you,” Stiles yells, half-way down the staircase already. A beat later there’s a loud, metallic resonance from his collision with the railing, and a crash.

Stiles is sitting on the floor when Derek rushes downstairs, legs entangled. Derek gently removes the hand Stiles presses to his left temple, inspecting the damage.

Stiles groans. “Okay, fine, you might as well know before this building kills me. I never planned to come to your classes, alright. You asked what I was doing here and I didn’t know what to say. I want to remember my dead mom? You asked me if I wanted to sign up, so I just went with it.” He picks guiltily at the frays of the quilt. “My mom made these, so people could use them when this was her dance studio. I used to nap under this blanket, up there in her office, when I wasn’t crashing her classes. From what I remember she really loved this place.”

“I had no idea.” Derek wants to gather Stiles in his arms, to wrap him up in the quilt burrito style and get him upstairs and patch the gash in his head – but Stiles retreats. The quilt pools to the floor between them when he rises to his feet.

“I should go. I just…” He waves tiredly at the offending quilt, “I’m sorry, I panicked.”

“Take it. It’s yours, not mine,” Derek states. “Do you want to use my bathroom? I’ve got a first aid kit.”

Stiles shakes his head, bites his lips thoughtfully. “Not, not a good idea. I have to go home. Talk to my dad.”

Derek nods. The weird thing is that Stiles is usually so amicable with the information-oversharing. Yet Stiles kept the fact that this was his mother’s dance studio for three months. His thoughts goes to the image of how Stiles was looking at him that very first day in the lobby. The expression on his face which Derek finally can identify correctly: bafflement. Stiles was here to get a glimpse of his mom’s former practice, nothing else.

Stiles doesn’t come back the day after. Or the day after that. He’s a no show for two weeks straight, and the semester is ending on Friday. Erica kind of hints she has Stiles’s number, but Derek’s convinced Stiles wouldn’t appreciate Derek bothering him. The realization that Stiles up and left the second he got what he wanted (closure?) is tough to swallow. The bitter taste is still there when Stiles shows up to the last class late December, and sees the note Derek has stuck on the wall.

Stiles blowing up and Derek being defensive, all in front of an audience, is not how Derek thought the reunion with Stiles would go.

Derek spends the weekend before Christmas running new tracks in the woods north of town. When the morning of December 25th arrives he brews coffee and drinks it sitting cross legged in his bed in a sliver of pale sunlight, facing the shelf.

“Merry Christmas.” He drinks from his cup.

He calls Laura and they talk for a while, then tries to meditate but the head-space he’s in resumes the quality of empty and alone when he listens to the silence in the loft below. Derek wonders if he should feel angry. He is finally out of fucks to give, except maybe when it comes to his yoga studio. At least he has—

A rattle downstairs brings him abruptly out of his thoughts.

The distinctive sound of patting feet crossing the floor of the studio. Several feet.

When Derek descends the staircase he’s dumb-struck by the sight of Boyd, who should be celebrating Christmas with his parents; Isaac, who Derek should’ve given an extra thought to; Erica, whose family life Derek doesn’t know that much about, and three others whose presence he has no idea how to reconcile with: Allison, a dark-haired boy holding her hand, and Stiles.

Derek descends the last two steps in Stiles direction before he thinks better of it, looking around and feeling caught in the spotlight.

“What are you doing here?”

”Do you honestly think I want to spend the holidays stuck at my parents’ house?” Boyd wonders.

Derek doesn’t know how to answer that, except he does, in his mind: Of course you would.

Boyd gives a short and dismissive head-shake. “Not so much. I doubt they’ve noticed I’m not in my room, and their idea of Christmas is too close to a wake for my liking. We were hoping we could spend it with you. Use the kitchen Stiles tells me you got up there.”

Derek nods an affirmative, and that’s enough for the confident smile to return to Boyd’s features – and okay, now they’re hugging.

It sets of a chain reaction. Isaac hugs him. Erica hugs him. It’s awkward, it’s weird as heck, but he humors them, even Allison’s boyfriend who gives him a bright “Hey” and an energetic shoulder-pat before he’s pulled back by Allison and stumbles over the huge net filled with volleyballs he’s holding (Allison’s boyfriend is an assistant gym teacher and also Stiles’s best buddy).

Allison hugs him and kisses his cheek: “My mom wishes you happy holidays. You know she would never say it in person.”

Derek will process this at a later date because Stiles is in his line of vision, with a sheepish look and a blush that deepens when Derek pulls him in instinctively. Derek lets go of Stiles after the first squeeze and light pressure of Stiles going lax against his chest. Stiles grins wryly and bounces his fist on Derek’s shoulder awkwardly, and it’s stated then: Stiles is back at pretending his feelings confession never happened. Derek thinks he’s conveying understanding – it’s okay, he’s happy they’re friends.

The day transpires a lot more cheerily after that – different than any other Christmases Derek has had, counting the ones in his childhood. Because the Hales never spent Christmas decorating a condemned loft turned yoga studio with garlands and candles, cooked an entire Christmas dinner in a tiny kitchen or by the way, used said Christmas decorated yoga studio to play dodgeball.

The dodgeball tournament turns out to be the bloodbath Derek’s yoga studio has been accustomed to lately. They have revolving team members and re-evolving teams due to small numbers, disloyalty within the ranks and frequent injuries: some sprained wrists, several head traumas, and a groin-hit that requires a long convalesce for Stiles, in fetus position on Derek’s bed upstairs.

They let him rest, but after twenty minutes Derek gets antsy and heads up the stairs.

“Are you cold?” he asks, holding the folded quilt in his hands.

Stiles looks wary and hopeful when Derek drapes it over his body, tugs his feet in and then – by the grip Stiles suddenly has of his shirt-chest – Derek lays down on the mattress so that they are face to face.

“I’m sorry I ran. I’m a coward who’s never asked someone out before.”

“You’re not. You came back. That—” I have no idea what that means, “—means a lot. I’m sorry for banning you.”

Stiles carefully grips his hand.

“The note was the most childish thing I’ve seen you do – I think I’m rubbing off on you. Message received, though.”

Derek looked at their interwoven fingers. “Can you explain to me again why you invade my privacy with Christmas cheer?”

Stiles grinned. “I had no choice. I would’ve come either way, but then I thought why sneak in like a criminal when I can do it in style? Your friends were more or less hanging on the lock already.”

“They’re not my friends,” Derek says, but the jolt he feels in his chest suggests otherwise.

“Then do you still want me to leave?”

Stiles looks at him, hopeful, and eagerly licks his lips. Derek reaches out to wipe sweat-crusted hair from his forehead, carefully minding the bruise he’s sporting. Stiles pulls him closer by the wrist, and they kiss, almost shyly.

“No,” Derek says, “but you’re on probation.”

The kisses last longer and longer, and Stiles arranges Derek’s arms around him before he throws the quilt over them both, along with a cautionary “mind the groin”. Heavy, warm fabric falls over Derek’s head, robbing him of his sight and swaddling them both in their own cave of intimacy. To keep his weight off Stiles’s sore areas proves difficult, so they roll over.

“Ready to make some new memories in this room?” Stiles makes himself comfortable on top of him, hips supported by Derek’s hands, ”I think I feel my junk recovering.”

That’s when Stiles’s head meets a projectile that smacks his forehead into the ridge of Derek’s nose. Stiles throws off the quilt and catches the red volleyball before it rolls down to the floor.

He raises it threateningly.

”Shit.” Erica ducks behind the stairs. “I was aiming for Derek!”

Stiles knees Derek in the stomach in effort to get off the bed. “Oh, it’s on, Reyes. Derek, you’re with me!”

“Coming.” Derek remains still for a moment, gazing up towards the ceiling and trying not to smile. He loses that fight.

#bewarethesmirk #stereksanta19 #*fic19 #*gifts19

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gospelofthechosen · 5 years

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story: Dean had started it. Or maybe Kat had. In the end, it didn’t matter who had started it. Only who got the final word. Because Sam was right: This prank stuff is stupid, and it always escalates. summary: Someone’s been messing with Sam’s laptop... word count: 2.3k warnings: language, alcohol, references to porn a/n: Happy anniversary to Gospel of the Chosen! This is a short mini series between Act I and Act II. Love and miss my kids, love and miss all of you.

Kat was on top of the world. After a week on lockdown at Bobby’s, two days trapped in the car with the Winchesters, weeks under Ellen’s watchful eye at the Roadhouse, and days crammed in the Impala before that, she was finally, finally alone in her own car.

After their faux-family dinner, they’d stayed at Bobby’s for a few days. Kat would never admit it, but she’d been a little nervous. She’d been to the house on more than one occasion, and spent enough time talking to Bobby to feel comfortable with him. At least, she was pretty sure that he’d dropped the threat of kicking her into next week for hurting the boys. But spending downtime at Bobby’s felt different.

Singer Salvage was clearly home to Sam and Dean. Sam helped himself to any books in the library, and Dean spent most of his time out in the yard working on his car. At night, they all drank beer and watched old cowboy movies on Bobby’s crappy TV. Kat excused herself as politely as she could. She could still hear their laughter and light-hearted arguing from the spare bedroom where she stayed curled up with her laptop. She might’ve learned all the ins and outs of Bobby’s linen cabinets and kitchen drawers, but she didn’t belong here. She desperately wanted to escape out on a case, but that wasn’t exactly the deal she’d made with Castiel. Sam and Dean were her bodyguards now. So she just had to suck it up and deal until their batteries were recharged and they were ready to hit the road.

Sam had obviously picked up on her discomfort. He tried to bribe her with bagels and burgers, whiskey and wings. Most afternoons she’d sit with him in the library just so he’d stop annoying her. All of Bobby’s manuscripts and notes were very interesting, of course. But it wasn’t exactly her idea of light reading. She wasn’t interested in diving into thousands of accounts of pain and misery without an objective. She just wanted something to do.

Bobby had been the one who’d come to her rescue.

“Here,” he’d said on day four, shoving one of his duct-taped phones into her hands. “Answer it, deal with it, make a note of it. Aliases are labeled on the wall, so just make sure you don’t mix ‘em up.”

“Mike Kaiser?” Kat asked, peering at the note over the FBI receiver. “I’m not a bad actress, Bobby, but I don’t think I’m that good.”

“Just say you’re my secretary and take a message. Or better yet, tell them DC has jurisdiction and they can shove their complaints right up their own ass.”

Kat raised an eyebrow at him.

“Usually works for me,” he offered with a shrug.

It wasn’t exactly a shocker that it didn’t work for Kat. Men in high government positions didn’t take kindly to being told to go fuck themselves by an uppity secretary. Kat didn’t have a real job she was worried about losing, but the last thing she needed was for some fed to file an HR complaint about a woman who didn’t exist and blow some hunter’s cover. So she used her most polite tone for as long as she could, and practiced drawing devil’s traps from memory while the bureaucrats droned on about stolen cases and career integrity.

“Of course, Agent Sadusky,” she said sweetly, on one of their final afternoons. “I’ll pass on the message. And if Assistant Director Kaiser thinks it’s worth a response, he’ll give you a call.”

She hung up before the man could reply.

“Don’t hold your breath, asshole.”

“You good?” chuckled Sam as he wandered into the kitchen. “You look uh…”

“Murderous?”

“Frustrated.”

“Yeah, well that’s not a surprise,” Kat groaned, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but sometimes I’m glad we’re not actually working for the federal government.”

“I’ll drink to that.” He passed her a beer from the fridge, which she took gratefully. “Which one’s worse? Working for the feds or working for Ellen?”

“Ha. Tough call. Hunters tip, but only if you let them brag. At least the feds can’t see me rolling my eyes over the phone. They also can’t grope me, which means I don’t need to assault someone every couple hours.”

“That’s a downside?” Sam asked cheekily. “But you love kicking the crap out of guys.”

Kat frowned thoughtfully, but gave it to him.

“What about you?” she asked, returning the phone to the hook. “What are you up to?”

“About to make a supply run. You need anything?”

“Nah, I’m good. But if you’re going out, can I borrow your laptop? I got a call about some bodies in Florida. Might be a case.”

“Hey, knock yourself out. Just don’t work too hard.”

He jogged out the front of the house without a second thought. Kat waited until she was certain he was gone. Then she wrapped up her notes from the phone and moved into the library.

She settled herself behind Bobby’s desk, feeling even more out of place than she did in the rest of the house. She tried not to think about how ornate the desk was, or how old the papers and books on top were. All she needed was Sam’s laptop, and her tiny case notebook.

The call she’d gotten hadn’t been from a hunter. It was something more of a tip line Bobby had set up, where feds and cops he’d worked with in the past could call with their questions. Kat had spoken to a very concerned deputy who had was dealing with a pile of bodies. All women, all heartless, all buried in shallow graves in a park. Kat would have assumed werewolf, if it weren’t for the graves. They didn’t often double back to hide their victims. It very well could be a run of the mill serial killer, but she wanted to do some research before she passed on the case. And possibly take the asshole out anyway.

It was an hour or two before anyone interrupted her.

“What’s the word, Tinkerbell?”

“Beer,” Kat said without looking up. “Gonna need another word.”

“Please.”

The fridge clinked, and a few seconds later a bottle dropped into her vision. She accepted it wordlessly, still scanning the crime scene pictures in front of her. There had to be something she missed.

“Whatcha working on?” Dean asked, peering over her shoulder. “Yeowch. Eat your heart out.”

“It’s not a werewolf,” she muttered, more to herself than him. “Wrong part of the lunar cycle, no blind kills. But it’s still just the hearts.”

“Could be a skinwalker,” he suggested. “Or just about anything else that eats long pig. Just because some monsters can eat anything don’t mean they don’t have preferences.”

“A monster with standards and taste. Just what I need.”

She took a couple more notes, but closed out the pictures. She didn’t want to look at their faces without any solutions.

Dean was still hovering behind her. His ring made a clinking noise against the glass as he tapped his fingers on the bottle. “So uh…you wrapping up soon?”

“I guess. Why?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just wanted to hop on the computer.”

“Alright. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

“Uh huh…Could I just borrow it for a hot sec? Give it back in ten minutes?”

Kat cut her eyes to him suspiciously. “Why?”

“None of your business,” he said stoutly. When she continued to glare at him, his frown turned into a familiar, leering smirk. “Look, a guy’s got needs. I need to do some stuff I’m not proud of…well, actually I’m really proud of, but you’re not invited.”

“God, you’re disgusting,” she sighed, pushing back from the desk. “Take it.”

“Thank you!” he said in a singsong voice, snatching it up and hightailing out of the room.

“Just sanitize it for the love of God! And if Sam asks, I didn’t see this!”

He didn’t answer her. Just slammed the door to the bathroom. She slipped on some headphones and did her best not to think about the conversation she’d just had.

The next day, they were packing their bags. Sam had agreed that her find was interesting enough to merit a visit to Florida. Bobby passed off a few of his more helpful books, and then they hit the road. Kat hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it until they hit the interstate. She could sit back in her Prius and enjoy the silence. She didn’t have to tune out the shitty cassettes or put up with the smell of stale beer and fast food wrappers. There were no annoying side glances or pervy jokes. Just her and the open road and the wind in her hair.

They drove until nightfall and stopped at a motel in Tennessee. Sam and Dean took care of the rooms, and Kat volunteered to pick up dinner. By the time she was strolling up to the Winchesters’ room with their takeout, the screaming had already started.

“Dean, how many times do I have to tell you not to touch my stuff? It’s my one thing! You have your own laptop! So use your own damn laptop!”

“How many times do I gotta say I didn’t do it? Cool your jets, man, it wasn’t me.”

“Oh, right! And I guess my computer searched Busty Asian Beauties on its own?”

“Maybe it did. Your laptop’s got better taste than you.”

Kat let herself in, trying very hard to keep her face impassive. “Grub’s up. What’s going on?”

Dean made a beeline for the food, while Sam rested his hands on his hips like a suburban mother.

“Someone messed with my laptop,” he said snidely, “and now I can’t get it to work.”

“It’s frozen?”

“No, it’s—I have no idea what’s wrong with it. I’m typing and none of the right letters are coming up. I can’t write emails, can’t search online. All I can do is click.”

“You think it’s a virus?” she asked, passing him his food.

��Ha, probably. Considering my browser history is full of porn sites.”

“Oh, gross.”

“Hey,” Dean interrupted defensively, a few noodles hanging loose from his lips. “Watch your step, man. Last time you accused me of fucking with your stuff, it was the Trickster.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Sam laughed. “When the bodies start dropping I’ll be sure to issue a full apology.”

“I’m just saying, man. Might not be me. Kat, you like bustyasianbeauties.com?”

“Uh, no,” he chuckled, plopping down on a free bed with her rice. “Not exactly bookmarked on my homepage.”

“Well then, we’ve got our answer. It was Bobby.”

He smiled proudly. Kat smothered her laughter with more rice. And Sam looked positively on edge of breaking something in half. He closed his laptop with an incredible amount of self-control. Then he grabbed the closest thing—a half-empty water bottle—and hurled it across the room at Dean’s face. It hit the mark with a thunk, and Dean yelped while Kat burst into laughter. Sam stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

“Fuck,” Dean groaned, rubbing at his head. “Not funny, Kat.”

“Of course it is,” she giggled. “You sound like a startled pigeon.”

“Alright, yeah. Laugh it up. Guess this was you, right?”

“Uh, no? You were the one defiling Sam’s computer, remember?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t download any viruses,” he defended. “I’ve been surfing porn sites long enough to know how to avoid the dodgy stuff. And if I didn’t do it, then it must’ve been you.”

“I wish. But I don’t know anything about computers, just like I don’t know anything about cars. I figured it was you.”

Dean frowned at her for a few seconds, but ultimately shrugged and went back to his food. “Huh. Maybe it was.”

Kat gaped at him. “You…don’t even remember?”

“Nah. It was heat of the moment, you know. And I’m uh—usually less discerning when I’m on someone else’s laptop. So you uh, might wanna throw a password on yours.”

She wrinkled her nose, and Dean smirked. Kat threw a napkin at him.

“Laugh now, Dean. But if you infected Sam’s computer, it means he’s out of service. Which means you and I are gonna be on research duty.”

That made him groan, and he slunk down in his chair. “Damn it. The price I pay for getting off.”

He grumbled into his food, grabbing the paper so he could start reviewing the details of the case they were heading toward. Kat speared one of her dumplings and kept her smile to herself. This prank war was going to get messy.

#supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #ocappreciation #fyeahspnocs #fyeahsupernaturalocs #prank wars #prompt #prompts

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fantasyfandommaiden · 5 years

Text

ML Counsellor AU: Nathalie Sancoeur’s begining And divergence

In one universe, Nathalie Sancoeur, had no close friends in university, joined no clubs, focused solely on graduating top of her class and getting a job, where she would eventually work for Gabriel Agreste as his assistant. In this universe, she still did not join any clubs, still graduated top of class, and still became Gabriel Agreste’s assistant, however, she did get one very close friend. This is the story of how one little event changed Nathalie Sanoeur, hopefully for the better

Introduction

Nathalie had requested to have her own room upon her acceptance into her first choice of university. She knew that her request could be denied, but she had high hopes they would accept it, and she would have her own room to study in in peace.

Those hopes were quickly squished upon entering her dorm room to see a woman already in there, unpacking her clothes into one of the two drawer units. She had dark red hair that was in a high ponytail, and wore worn out blue jeans and a plain white tee shirt with a dark grey sweater tied around her waist.

The woman looked at Nathalie with her green hazel eyes and gave a warm smile “Oh, hello! You must be my roommate!” Nathalie noticed she had a slight accent when she spoke French, guessing she wasn’t actually from France. The woman held out her hand and smiled “My name is Carmine. Carmine Regal!”

Nathalie looked at the hand momentarily before letting out an internal sigh, taking it weakly and giving it a small shake. So much for having a peaceful university experience, maybe she was lucky and this girl was at least quiet and not a party animal. “Nathalie Sancoeur.”

Bonding

Nathalie had been lucky it seemed, and her roommate was indeed fairly quiet and wasn’t the type to come bursting into the room at four o’clock in the morning, drunk off her ass and making a huge racket. She did sometimes come in late at night, but she was alway fairly quiet and simply got dressed in the dark before going to bed.

Nathalie simply referred to the woman as ‘Regal’ to avoid the other woman from getting overly familiar with her. She came here to get top marks, graduate at the top of her class and get a good job, not to make friends and get distracted. (She in turn referred to Nathalie as ‘Sancoeur’).

In all honesty, the first time the two woman had a proper conversation didn’t come til roughly half way through the first semester, when Nathalie was honestly on her way to a nervous breakdown.

She had three major assignments due, one of which was due in two days, which honestly did not feel like enough time. She was running on five hours of sleep (for the entire week), as well as nothing but coffee and protein bars.

Regal, who remained quiet about this for the longest time, finally put her foot down.

“Get up.” She commanded to Nathalie who was slumped in her desk, desperately writing away at her notes for her essay.

“Not now Regal.”

“Yes, now Sancoeur.” Regal insisted, sitting down on Nathalie’s desk to look at her “Your going to have a nervous break down, and possibly pass out due to lack of sleep, food and just overall stress. You need a break, and some real food.” The woman said to Nathalie, who continued to glare at her. “An hour, that’s all I ask. Come out with me for an hour, have some food at a diner, drink some water, relax for a bit. One hour, and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Look Regal.” Nathalie said, looking at the red haired woman with a stern glare “I’ve got three reports to finish, one of which is due in two days. There is nothing you can say, or do that will make me leave this chair.”

Said red haired woman gave Nathalie her famous deadpanned stare before replying in a dull tone. “Your out of coffee.”

“...”

“... you get one hour.”

~~~~~

Connecting

The two woman went to a small diner about a ten minute walk from the university, and sat down. Regal insisted that she pay, and told Nathalie to order whatever she wanted.

Nathalie... hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she smelled all the different scents of food, and her stomach lurked violently for food. She ordered a simple salad at first, only for Regal to give her a glare, and she than ordered a salad with a hamburger and fries, as well as a large milkshake.

Regal had ordered a tomato soup with grilled cheese, and a glass of ice tea. Once the waitress left, Nathalie sat in her seat and looked out the window at nothing, her mind still on the endless things she had to do once this hour was up. She was going to leave once this hour was up, whether she was finished her meal or not, one glance at the clock told her that an hour from now would be 7:24.

Her gaze turned back to the window, her mind on that damn essay due in two days when Regal spoke softly so that only Nathalie could hear.

“He is writing out a contract for an assassin to kill his worst enemy.” The red haired woman said softly.

Nathalie’s head whipped towards Regal so fast she almost had whiplash. “Wait-What-where’ve?!” She said, her mind in a panic.

“Shh!” Regal said “Not so loud, you’ll draw attention to us!” She said, before descretly gesturing towards a man who was furiously writing away on a piece of paper, before crumbling up the paper and trying again.

“... or he’s mad about some work assignment, and can’t get the right word.” Nathalie said in a dull tone, rolling her eyes.

Regal shook her head, smiling “Well, obviously he is, but where is the fun in that?” She asked, smiling mischievously. “This is a game I play with some of the people in my program, we call it ‘Story Time’. We pick a random bystander we see, observe one random thing they are doing and than make an outlandish story about them.” She grinned widely “You try it!”

“This sounds childish, and I refuse.” Nathalie said in an even, bored tone.

“Why? Afraid you’ll be no good?” Regal asked, still grinning mischievously.

Nathalie’s eye twitched, before sighing, figuring the fastest way to stop her roommate from speaking is to actually play along.

She looked back at the man furiously writing away “He’s not writing out how he wants the assassin to kill his worst enemy, he’s...” her mind was drawing a blank, this seemed to be harder than she thought “Writing out... his best mans speech.” She said lamely, feeling stupid having said it.

Regal just continued to smile “Oh yeah?” She said in an encouraging tone “Why does he look so pissed than?”

“Because....” her mind was racing, trying to think of why someone would be mad about writing a best mans speech “The groom... is marrying the love of his life, but he’s too nice to say anything?” She said, more in the form of a question than an answer.

Regal smiled widely “Oh man, that would suck.” She said letting out a soft chuckle. She glanced out the window, and both woman saw a man running by at full blast wearing an old duster jacket. Nathalie didn’t get a good look at the man however. “Why is he in such a hurry?”

“Running away from the woman he just proposed to because he found out she was a black widow.” Nathalie said, causing Regal to look at her shocked. Nathalie froze “I-I thought we were still playing-“

“That is dark... I love it!” Regal said, looking around “Okay, my turn, pick someone for me!”

Nathalie blinked slowly, before a small, almost invisible smile spread across her face “Okay... how about...”

~~~~

They continued to the game even after they finished their food, Nathalie didn’t realize it was almost ten o’clock at night, well past the time she said she would leave at. The man in the duster jacket ran up to both of them, they were still sitting at the same booth now having a cup of coffee, Nathalie recognized the man instantly as her professor, who informed her that the submission date was wrong and the essay she thought was due on the first (two days from now) was actually due on the seventh.

Part of Nathalie wanted to go back and finish her assignments, and get some sleep, but she looked at her roommate, who hadn’t said a word since her professor left about a minute ago. She was contented drinking her cup of tea.

Nathalie didn’t need to continue her thought about going back to finish her assignments.

“Hey Re.... Carmine, do I lose a point if it turns out he wasn’t being chased by a black widow?”

~~~~~~

Transformation

Nathalie’s personality doesn’t really change much from how it was at the start of her university life. She was still fairly serious, and didn’t show much expression. She thrived on efficiency, and hated disorder and chaos.

Some things however did change. Her sarcastic sense of humour would sometimes shine through, surprising those who didn’t know her. She made a small group of friends, thanks to Carmine, and they all played dungeons and dragons together once every other week.

After doing some soul searching, she found that she identified as a biromantic lesbian, she also found out that Carmine identified as bisexual, although she had a preference towards males.

She realized she had romantic feelings for her best friend, however quickly squashed that feeling. She may not be able to read people like Carmine could, but she could tell that any feelings she had for her were purely platonic, and she wouldn’t change that for the world.

~~~~~

Morals and Obligations

She still graduated at the top of her class, with honours. She still found work right away after graduating, working at Gabriel where she would eventually become the personal assistant of both Mr. and Madame Agreste. She would than be the care taker of Adrien once his mother disappeared, and she would go through hell and fire to keep him safe. She had grown fond of the boy in her charge, even if she never outwardly showed it, she was still professional... but if she went behind Gabriel’s back a few times so Adrien could be a kid once in awhile, she made sure he never found out and no one was the wiser.

So when Gabriel chose to become Hawkmoth, Nathalie’s morals screamed at her to quit and report him to the authorities... than she heard his reason, to bring his wife out of her coma. So they could be a family again.

So, she made a promise to herself. She would stay, she would comply with her bosses plans, but she would never give any input unless it affected Adrien. She was there for Adrien, and no one else.

She also made something very clear to Gabriel, if his plans ever endangered Adrien, or if he ever even attempted to Akumatize her friends, especially Carmine, he would find out why you should never cross her.

#ladybug au #ml au #counsellor au #nathalie sancoeur #cannon divergence #carmine regal #ml nathalie #she is not a doormate

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itsclydebitches · 5 years

Text

Diving Deep

Hello, @badluckcharm-exe! It’s finally done! Sorry this took forever and a day. Inspiration decided to take a vacation for a while... Regardless, I hope you enjoy this. I’ll be sure to get it up on AO3 tomorrow 💚

Prompt was for a Mermaid AU.

“Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream! Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily life is but a dream. Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream—”

“Holy shit, kid, you’re twelve. Don’t you know any other songs?”

Oscar blinked, finally drawing his gaze away from the aquarium. The hallway they stood in had water on both sides as well as above, a dome that never failed to leave Qrow’s stomach queasy because good god what happened if that glass ever broke? Oscar had no such reservations. He pressed right against the barrier—things with teeth passing him by—until the water rippled off his skin and there was a green tint to his eyes.

“I’m fourteen,” he said, head cocked strangely against the glass.

“That’s worse.”

Oscar shrugged. “I like it. The song I mean. Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream. If you meet the kelpie’s eyes then don’t forget to scream.”

…What the actual fuck?

It wasn’t the first time the kid had said something totally off the wall. Qrow leaned on his mop, watching Oscar tap the glass until, coincidentally, a bright orange fish swam up to where he stood. Qrow had worked at Atlas Labs nearly a year now and knew that, no matter what Ozpin claimed, they were only surrounded by a bunch of dumb animals. You couldn’t train a fish to come when called, no more than he’d been able to train Oscar to be marginally less annoying. Honestly, what the ever loving hell was a kelpie?

“Hey.” Qrow tapped his boot until Oscar finally looked his way. The fish immediately swam off. “If you’re just gonna stand there how about you help me wipe down the glass?” That way Qrow didn’t need to go near all that nonsense. “All boys your age should have chores. Builds character. Or something.”

For reasons unknown to him Oscar’s eyes strayed to the bucket full of water next to Qrow’s feet. He split into a grin.

“Nope! Tell Dad I said hi!”

And Oscar scurried off, boots squeaking on the tiled floor as he disappeared around a corner. He’d left smudges on the glass and a scuff where he’d stood. Great.

Another bug-eyed fish bumped against the glass parallel to Qrow’s head. He scowled.

“What the hell are you looking at?”

***

Atlas Labs. Renowned world-wide for their cutting advancements in marine biology. Not exactly the sort of research that got Qrow all hot and bothered, but what could he say? People were weird. Apparently while most looked to the skies for answers to Earth’s problems, the real scientists were turning to the many mysteries of the seas. Our origins, future, even a chance at immortality—all of it was hidden somewhere beneath the waves. At least, that’s what Ozpin claimed.

Not that Ozpin was any less weird than his son.

“Your brat says ‘hi.’”

Lithe and tall enough to hit his head on the occasional hanging lamp, Ozpin Pine presumably had his picture printed next to the dictionary definition of ‘eccentric.’ Qrow had never seen him in anything other than a wrinkled green suit (not the same one every day… surely?) and a lab coat stained with all sorts of things that he never needed identified, thanks. A mop of white hair looked perpetually windblown despite the fact that the man rarely stepped outside and Oz wore these teeny tiny glasses that couldn’t possibly help a flea see, let alone a grown-ass man. He wore rings on his fingers, a long line of earrings, and had hidden tattoos that Qrow sometimes caught peeking out from beneath the cuff of his shirt. It hurt to look at him. In the same way it hurt to look at an ongoing car wreck while being blinded by the sun. Ozpin was, simply put, an oddball.

And Qrow would have laid down his life for him.

Heh. Not to be dramatic or anything, but there weren’t many world-renowned scientists in this place who’d design to speak kindly to their janitor. Or speak to him at all. His first day Ozpin had slipped a sweet from his pocket into Qrow’s hand, made some horrendous joke, introduced Oscar as “My much beloved offspring” (what?), and capped it all off with the warmest smile Qrow had ever had the privilege of soaking up. Those scraps of kindness would have bred devotion on their own, but Ozpin genuinely seemed to like him, as ridiculous as that seemed. Qrow had thought this job was going to be the worst of the many he’d grabbed in the last three years. Instead it was…

Interesting. Yeah. It was something alright.

Ozpin had no inkling of Qrow’s inner judgement. He was too busy comically looking around the floor, or roughly around the height where a pint-sized teen might stand.

“My brat?” he asked, smiling so wide the florescent lights glinted off his back teeth. He took another candy from his pocket and munched it, seemingly thoughtful. Qrow had heard the other scientists bitching about Ozpin bringing food into the labs, claiming that it would attract animals. Like they weren’t already surrounded by animals. Duh.

Qrow eyed the tank in the far corner of Ozpin’s office. Like every other room in Atlas it was a space with aquarium tendencies, though this tank wasn’t listed on any of the public tours. The fish in there were clearly some special experiment of Oz’s, with bright neon strips on top and transparent bodies below. Qrow caught a glimpse of fish skeleton and swallowed back a gag.

“Yes, your brat. He kept bugging me while I cleaned the entryway. Don’t you have a leash for him or something?” Qrow started emptying the trash bins while Oz watched, gaze so focused it seemed to sizzle a hole in the back of his uniform. He did a lot of that. Watching. Qrow had also heard the other nerds complaining about Ozpin’s overly observant nature, saying he wasn’t just intense, but downright creepy.

Weren’t science types supposed to be curious about everything though? If Ozpin wanted to examine the slope of Qrow’s ass, then by all means.

He bent a little farther while picking up the next can, just in case that really was what Oz was interested in. Gray slacks and beige boots weren’t exactly the height of style, but Qrow was confident in his ability to work even the saddest of outfits. Besides, it wasn’t like Ozpin had room to judge. Today he had a stack of jelly bracelets on his left wrist and an octopus pin on the collar of his coat. The man was a hodge-podge of strange adornments, wearing each and every one like they were actually fashionable.

Months he’d been at this job and Qrow was still trying to figure out if the man was just that dense or just that indifferent. Besides, none of this even touched on Ozpin’s tendency to—

“I’m afraid not. I tried a leash of kelp once and Oscar slipped right out of it. He always was such a nimble little fry.”

—say weird shit.

Like father, like son. Apparently.

Qrow paused in the act of dumping five billion used tissues into his cart. He pinched the bridge of his nose. It was 10:00 at night and he didn’t have the energy to tackle whatever the hell a kelp leash was. Instead Qrow raised a single finger, letting it flop. “Nimble fry? Should I serve Oscar up with ketchup tomorrow?”

Which resulted in Ozpin throwing his head back and laughing—literally, like something out of a cartoon. His desk was a mess of papers covered in rainbow highlighting and the bookcase next to that was organized by color rather than genre. Or heaven forbid, last name. Between those and the fish (and his iffy fashion sense) Ozpin was surrounded by color in the otherwise sterile room. It was like this wherever he went. Ozpin blended in with the vibrant life of the tanks around them; always looking like he was more at home with the water just out of reach. Qrow supposed that was a good thing for a man who’d devoted his life to marine biology. It did make one wonder about stupid, sappy things though. Like fate maybe. What kind of man was born with eyes the color of sand and a smile that lit you up like a glimpse of the horizon?

Sometimes Qrow wondered if he’d hear waves if he listened for Oz’s heartbeat. Would he taste salt on his lips?

Right now Qrow had neither. All he could smell was trash.

“A fry is a juvenile fish,” Ozpin said, still wiping tears from his eyes. “Ah, but you’re a fry too, aren’t you, Qrow? So very young. I wouldn’t expect you to know such things.”

Ozpin came up and actually gave his cheek a pat, like some doting grandmother humoring her young charge. Qrow got a close look at his unlined face and could see how soft his hair was, with none of the wiry texture that usually accompanied gray strands. For a man who loved teasing him about his age (not nearly as young as people tended to assume), Ozpin didn’t look a day over thirty himself. It was just one more of his oddities. Qrow had stopped bothering to count them long ago.

Instead he leaned into Ozpin’s touch when his hand decided to rest on his cheek a moment, like some rare bird designing to visit. Ozpin’s fingers were cool as their pads lightly took in the texture of Qrow’s skin. He thought he saw Ozpin’s pupils dilating, blowing black against brown, though that may have just been a trick of the light.

“Is anyone gonna let me do some actual work around here?” he finally groused. A moment longer and Qrow might not have let Ozpin go.

“You should be very proud,” he said, voice carrying a touch of awe that didn’t sit right with the rest of the scene. Ozpin was looking at a bio waste bag. “You have such a wonderful job.”

Qrow stared. Then he looked down to make sure that yes, he was still a janitor and yes, those were drops of day-old coffee on his shoes. A smear of something vile-smelling on his sleeve. Everything else was disinfectant.

“I do?”

“Of course! Why, it’s a service. You keep things neat and sterile. You help make sure my family has a lovely home to keep coming back to.” Ozpin rested his hand on the tank and all the fish congregated around his reflection. Must think it was time for food or something. Qrow was used to the term ‘family’ getting thrown out when Ozpin was speaking and slimy, big-eyed fish were involved. That hardly fazed him nowadays.

The idea that someone found janitorial work impressive? That was something out of left field. Qrow could feel the blush now staining his cheeks.

“Guess I’m not the worst at it,” he muttered, taking up his bag again because damn, he couldn’t look Ozpin in the eye when he got like this. He was expecting another non-sequitor into the new book he was reading, or maybe the fact that Oscar had started collecting forks again (don’t ask). Instead Qrow felt a touch at the crook of his arm, as gentle as when Ozpin had touched his cheek. He stepped closer.

“You truly are marvelous,” Ozpin whispered.

“…Do you hear the stuff that comes out of your mouth?”

“Oh yes. Sometimes I’m the only one who hears. Except Oscar, of course…and you. You’ve always heard me, haven’t you, Qrow? Tell me, do you enjoy the music?”

Must just mean music. In general, like. Qrow suspected that Ozpin was foreign, slipping articles in where none where needed because there certainly wasn’t any music playing now.

…Right?

He wasn’t holding the trash bag anymore. It was thrown haphazardly across his cart, now replaced with Ozpin’s cool, surprisingly smooth hand. Qrow stared down at the appendage, reeling, wondering when that had happened and why. How many times was the man going to touch him tonight—freely—when he’d kept some sort of distance all these months before?

“You do hear,” Ozpin murmured, seemingly to himself. “And Oscar is so very fond of you…why, we both are.” His contemplative look suddenly split like ripe fruit, revealing a blinding smile beneath. “Come, Qrow. Let me show you.”

“Show me what?”

Don’t ask too many questions. You’ll spoil the fun. Ozpin had said that to him once when Qrow had feigned an interest in all his nasty fish, figuring that maybe he’d have some sort of chance if there was a shared interest between them, even a faked one. Instead his words had been rebuffed, Ozpin seeming to stare through him to the lie beneath, finding it all very humorous. Qrow wasn’t surprised that his questions weren’t answered now.

Instead Ozpin led him down the long corridors of Atlas labs, their steps echoing and their breathing overly loud. The aquarium around them shifted with dark blues and greens. The fish seemed to follow, waiting.

It occurred to Qrow then that they were the only ones here. He was the late-night janitor. Ozpin was the workaholic who never seemed to sleep. The only thing that broke the isolation was Oscar’s voice drifting faintly down the hall as he sang that insistent song. Row, row, row, your boat. Where to though? They were the only ones here and suddenly that seemed as much a possibility as a threat.

Don’t forget to scream.

Qrow opened his mouth, but all that came out was a soft, devoted sigh. He stepped into the water.

…water?

“There you are,” Ozpin said. It came out as a coo. “Quite lovely, isn’t it?”

He’d taken him to one of the wading pools. Into the wading pool, where the wildlife swam free, providing the scientists with a place to get up close and personal with their research. A tiny part of Qrow’s mind expressed surprise that Ozpin had stepped in with him—he and Oscar had always had such a strange aversion to touching water, despite their love of it. Filled boots. Wet pants sticking to his ankles, now his thighs. A slightly larger part of him was sending off panicked signals, claiming that he never ever wanted to be this close to a bunch of fish. There were little guppy things scurrying about. Rays with long tails. What might have been a small shark. Everything circled around them as they moved forward, a whirlpool of all the things Qrow had wanted to avoid since taking this position.

Except for Ozpin. Qrow waded deeper, moving towards him and him alone.

“You heard, Qrow. Do you see too?”

Dumbly, Qrow stared down at their still clasped hands. There were membranes between Ozpin’s fingers now and when he smiled his teeth had grown sharper. He’d grown more.

There was a ledge where the pool connected to the tank, a space between the two worlds just large enough for the kinder animals to slip through. Or perhaps two men. One man and… Ozpin; who pulled Qrow under with a forceful, determined tug.

He’d always thought it would be boring under the water. All dark and silent. Far from it though. When Qrow first jerked in panic Ozpin was there, his tattoos, his scales bright within the pool’s gloom, casting little prisms between them. His tail pulled Qrow close while his pupils narrowed into slits. There were tender, clawed hands bowing his shoulders.

There was a moment of suspension then, poised somewhere between bobbing and swimming. Qrow caught Ozpin’s gaze and gave himself up to drowning in those eyes.

Well done, they seemed to say. A mouth filled with teeth and fierce possession leaned in for what might have been a kiss.

Qrow had always taken his chances. He met Ozpin halfway and what do you know.

He tasted salt.

#rwby #ozqrow #rwbyfic #mermaids #badluckcharm-exe

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caroline18mars · 6 years

Text

A Man On Fire - Chapter 17

“So, I guess that means I've still got a job?”, he rolled his eyes and took a deep breath “getting me on the next plane to New York is still part of your notice, which is still a couple of weeks by the way! I'll be gone a couple of days, so use them to think really hard and long about what you've done, and try not to destroy anything else, is that clear?”, stupid, stupid, arrogant girl! “I just don't understand why you're following her to New York, I mean..”, what? Really?. “That's none of your fuckin' business, Shayla! Besides who said I'm following anyone? I need a break and I'm gonna spend some time with a friend, that's all you need to know! Just make sure my room at The Bowery is booked” he disconnected the call and had to stop himself from throwing his phone out of the window, that's how frustrated he was, PA my ass, godawful tormentor more like. Anyway, he was on his way to New York, he bit his thumb, she had a point though, was he going for Harper or for Coco, did it matter? Why not kill two birds with one stone? he needed to find out Harper's address, a last name would be nice too, but first Coco, he would deal with the rest later. His phone vibrated in his pocket, she never disappointed, did she? Whaaaatttt??? oh it's so on, girl! So fuckin' ON! Get me on that plane right now! He had another day to recover from the jetlag and then...oh he had so much to look forward to all of a sudden, I'm on my way, Coco, I'm on my way! And just like that the thought of Harper was being pushed to the back of his mind, how much longer to that goddamn airport?

8 hours by yourself in a metal tube in the sky, with nothing else to do than overthink stuff was a long time..didn't matter, she was home, or at least closer to home than she was hours ago, come on, grab your bag, look forward to your own, warm and comfy bed and sleep off this horrendous jetlag that was already kicking in. Waiting for customs, she switched her phone back on that lit up like a christmas tree with notifications of Sean..Sean again,and more Sean..and of course, the one she had been waiting for, Joe, don't cancel on me, Joe, don't you fuckin dare!

From: BJLCubbins

To: HCDeRobiano

Subject: Re: re: Trouble? Who? Me?

Coco, sweet, funny, magical Coco,

1PM, I would tattoo it on my body straight away if I could, but I can't as I'm on my way to New York right now and needles and liquids are still prohibited on a plane last time I checked. Talking about tattoos, the best idea just popped up in my head, I want to get a tattoo of one of your paintings, like you could draw something and I'll get it tattooed? Just imagine, I would walk around with a real Coco De Robiano on my body, who else gets to say that?

I gotta run too, I'm on my way, Coco, on my way to...YOU!!!

Excited much? I am!

Joe

Oh thank god, he wasn't cancelling, she just couldn't handle any more disappointment right now, “thank you, Miss..Countess De Robiano..” the customs officer checked the name on her passport and raised his eyebrows checking her rock 'n roll attire with heavy combat boots, her khaki army pants, ripped Slayer T-shirt and her eternal leather jacket. Yeah, take a good look, not everyone with a noble title lives like a queen or is a stuffy old fuddy duddy, “ok..if you could just stand on the right for me?” the officer looked at her and before she could move, two gorillas walked up to her “right this way, Miss” and steered her towards another custom's desk where her bag was thoroughly searched while being questioned about the title on her passport, don't you think I would erase that stupid hereditary title on my passport if I could?

Helllooooo home! She nearly wanted to kneel and kiss the ground as the door slammed shut behind her, for a second there at the airport she thought they were never gonna allow her into the country again. She shuffled the bag off her shoulder and let it fall wherever it wanted as she stomped over to her fridge, and poured herself a glass of wine before she dropped down on her couch, hmmm, how good it was to be home again, just her, everything that could be fucked up safely out of reach. The silence, that incredible silence here..was gonna drive her crazy soon enough so she was going to enjoy it as long as she could, sipping her wine she looked at her painting, she should be checking her bank account, hopefully he had deposited the money, because she was running low on paint, and something good had to come from all that stupid mess. Her stare drifted further to the picture of her and Sean that she kept on the huge fireplace, did she miss him? In a funky way, yeah, he was always good company, and he was the only one who knew most of her secrets, but now after what he had done..she just couldn't forgive him, part of her wished he didn't come back, that once he got off the road, he would stay in LA with Shayla. On the other side of the ocean, Sean was finishing up securing the rods for the lights after the last test run of the day, finally he was alone, no Shayla who kept constantly nagging him to dump Harper as a friend, ok he had crossed a line and yes he regretted doing it, he had called her countless times to apologize..he could only hope she would find it in her heart to forgive him because he missed her..and knowing he fucked up a close friendship was..unbearable, that and the fact that Jared was now flying home to look for her..urhggg, so what if he was jealous? With a little bit of luck, he wouldn't find her or if he did she would just tell him to get lost.

And..touchdown..in this amazing city that was a home away from home, he so needed to start looking for an actual house here, imagine things going really good with Coco, then he could go out for breakfast or dinner with her, clubbing, shopping..didn't matter, as long as he was close to her..he unclicked his seatbelt, stop thinking about her, there's Harper to consider as well, torn between two women..typical! Right, pull your hood up and get your ass off this plane, the most amazing woman was waiting! He switched his phone back on that melodically overflowed his screen with notifications, but none from Coco..hmm..please don't try to get back at me, not now, not ever, I need to see you, woman!

Huh!? What? Where was she? Couch, NY, phone..right..message..she rummaged, oh there it was, sighing she pulled the phone from behind her back

From: BJLCubbins

To: HCDeRobiano

Subject: Hellooooo???

Coco,

Is everything ok? I guess I'm not used to not getting a quick reply from you..Please tell me you're in New York and you're looking forward to us meeting up, as much as I am? I've just landed and I was about to sleep off this gruelling jetlag, so I'm going to bed thinking that you might be right across the street from my hotel, or two blocks down and that is a happy thought.

Let me know you're ok, yeah?

Regards

Joe (who can barely oontain himself anymore)

Yeah, yeah, he could write whatever he wanted, but was what he said really true? Was he actually here or was he just in need of attention? What if she stood him up this time and gave him a cookie from his own dough? Nooo, no, of course not, she couldn't do that, but what she was gonna do was protect herself, this time she wasn't gonna stand around and wait for him, no she would wait at a safe distance, because then if he didn't show up she wasn't gonna look like such a fool. She snuggled back into the couch while on the other side of the city, a man did exactly the same, two hearts and two souls staring at a ceiling, hoping not to get their hopes and heart smashed to pieces, because without realizing it, each other was all they had right now.

After a couple of hours of tossing and turning and a mind that was spinning out of control, she got up and jumped back on her scaffolding, painting would take her mind off things, but crawling up there, she heard a loud 'crack', and just when she looked around, the scaffolding started swaying dangerously, what the...? oohhh, this wasn't good, not good at all, but before she could jump off again, one of the boards dissapeared from under her feet and with a bloodcurdling scream she crashed a few metres down to the floor, together with the scaffolding, landing flat on her back. AAAWWWWW, oooooh, my back..my back..she could hardly breathe, stay calm, how could someone stay calm with what felt like a broken back and being buried under steel and wooden boards? Slowly she tried to move her hand, she needed to call someone, him..she..but the pain overpowered her and everything around her went black. Ok, this wasn't normal anymore, still no mail from her, did he fly all the way down here to be stood up by her? Or maybe something had happened? “earth to Jared, something on your mind?” his friend who he met up with each time he was in New York, asked him. “What? no..yes..it's complicated” he came back to reality and nodded and shook his head at the same time, “what isn't these days?..so, come on, out with it, who is she?” his friend asked, coyly sipping his coffee, wait, how did he know this was about a woman? “she's a painter..she's..just amazing..look” he quickly scrolled through his pictures and showed him one of her paintings. “Oh-kay!! how come I've never seen this? First this Harper who's so talented with light? And now this one? Who the hell is she? She could be the next big thing in my galery” he nearly drooled over the picture. “Her name is Coco..and we're meeting up tomorrow” or at least he was hoping they were, with the current radio silence he wasn't so sure. A dull ringing penetrated her thumping skull, what happened? It was really difficult reaching for her phone with the collapsed scaffolding still on top of her “Harper? Oh thank god, listen..I'm sorry and..” Sean launched right into a series of apologies but she couldn't care less about who she was talking to right now. “Sean..I fell..I can't move” he heard her say and he felt his blood run cold when he heard her stutter and stammer about what had happened, “you can't move at all? Just try, Harper, try and move your leg, come on, you can do it”. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus and with a deep groan she was finally able to pull her leg from under the boards, “aww, ohh, awawawaw” oh thank god, she wasn't paralyzed, but her back, oh, her back was killing her. “Who are you talking to?” Shayla came walking out of the bathroom, raising her eyebrows when she noticed the distressed phonecall her lover seemed wrapped up in, why did she even bother? It was painfully clear that he was talking to Harper, the one and only reason her job was hanging in the scales right now, oh no there was no way that vixen was getting her claws back into her man. Sean felt the phone being yanked out of his hand and turned in shock towards Shayla who barked “you leave my man alone, I'm not telling you again, you little piece of shit” and disconnected the call.

#jared leto #jared leto fanfic #jared leto fanfiction #fanfic #fic #fanfiction #30 Seconds To Mars #30 seconds to mars fanfic #30 seconds to mars fanfiction #a man on fire #chapter 17 #caroline18mars #Harper Coco #harper and jared

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kmp78 · 6 years

Note

All those echies who are dreaming about working for Jared have read to many of those fanfics where he falls madly in lust with his PA & makes excuses to keep her in the office late so he can bend her over her desk ....

“Jared! Your keys are on the table by the door, phone is charging, tomorrow´s calendar on the kitchen counter and food is in the oven, timer will ring in 20 and then it´s your dinner time, okay?!”, Alice called out from the hallway as she put on her coat and grabbed her bag.

It was her first night off for almost a month and she was excited to finally catch up with friends and get her drink on. God knows she could use a friendly ear and a stiff drink after all the shit she has put up with from her boss…

Yesterday he had a screaming fit when he couldn´t find his slippers which Alice had put in the drier following his impromptu dip in the pool while still in his pj´s, and last Sunday she had spent almost 2 hours trying to get him to stay still so she could give him his eyedrops for the pinkeye he managed to catch from… something or someone, it´s just better to not ask too many questions, as she has come to learn.

Needless to say, this boss was a handful alright!

“Wait did I hear someone yelling…?”, Jared wondered while sitting on his toilet going #2. He stopped grunting for long enough to listen.

No, there was nothing. Probably just the wind.

He could be forgiven for thinking he did actually hear her yelling, because she yells. Oh boy, does she yell! Always hollering out instructions and reminders… Beaming at him with her piercing blue eyes that sparkle like diamonds… Long curly hair always tied up in a messy bun, making her look like a frumpy Mary Poppins… Cute and perky breasts which she always hides under a thick coating of clothes but he has managed to catch glimpses of her lacy black bras on a few occasions when she has bent down to pick up his socks… Even her button nose is too cute to not wanna pinch! And those lips…! Oh man, those lips which practically call out for his…

On many lonely nights he had laid in bed, imagining her lips pressing against his… then slowly moving lower… on his chest… kissing her way further down… Her delicate fingers pulling his boxers down… lips finally, after an agonizingly long wait, reaching his pen-

“JARED! I`M LEAVING NOW!”, Alice´s voice snapped Jared back to reality.

Okay this time he DEFINITELY heard her yelling.

“What? Leaving? Where the fuck is she go- oh shit that´s right I gave her the night off FUUUUUCK!”

Jared started pushing and grunting at lightning speed and managed to squeeze out a decent size turd in record time. He leaped up, barely having time for a good wipe. Doesn´t matter anyway, he wore black undies today so any collateral residue will be lost in the folds so all´s good!

He quickly ran his hands through the faucet and with slippery hands he yanked open the bathroom door and rushed downstairs three stairs at a time - only to see the door drawing close behind her.

He managed to shove his foot in the doorway quick enough to stop it from closing fully.

“WAIT!”

Alice yelped as she turned around hearing his voice booming so close to her ear.

“Jesus Christ, Jared! Now I´m gonna go deaf! Wasn´t it enough you almost blinded me when that button came flying off from your Gucci jacket when you threw it at the pizza delivery boy for forgetting pineapples from your pizza?”

Jared glared at her but on the inside he was smirking.

Her constant jabs at him were starting to make him all warm and fuzzy on the inside…

“Well sorry but… do you have to go? I mean… I… well I have this headache coming on and… I don´t know where the medicine cabinet is anymore and even if I did know I think it´s locked anyway and I´m not allowed to have a key since the last time when I took all the bandages and made myself a mummy and… well, can´t you just reschedule? Pleeeeease?”

He stared at her with his puppy dog eyes and batted a few times.

Alice looked at her boss at the doorway, looking all disheveled and pouty and like he could use a good hug. He was an annoying twit for sure, but damn…

He sure knew all the right moves.

“Well… I suppose I could call my friends and tell them I´m gonna come a little late…”, she stuttered and Jared´s face immediately sparked up.

“Great! Go get me some aspirin, I´m gonna go lay down, come give me a back rub!”, and he took off like a young calf seeing spring fields for the first time.

That headache of his sure seemed to fade fast…

Alice sighed and took off her coat and made her way to the medicine cabinet. Maybe the aspirin will wear out His Holiness enough so that he´ll be fast asleep in an hour and her night off can finally commence!

She walked up the stairs to find an almost nude Jared sitting on his bed, wearing nothing but his undies and socks.

Not just any socks tho. Gucci socks, made of real human eyelashes. She shuddered every time she had to pick them up from the floor, but thankfully Jared doesn´t smell like anything even tho he only uses soap in the shower, so at least there´s that.

He smiled at her sweetly as she hesitated at the doorway.

“Gimme my pills,” he snapped at her and she made her way towards him. She handed him his pills along with a glass of water from the nightstand, and watched as he gulped them down.

He was being very brave boy today, usually his medicine must be chopped up into tiny pieces and hidden in his food or else he´ll fight you to the death before swallowing, but this time he managed them whole and all in one go.

“All good?,” Alice asked.

“Very good,” Jared replied, and as she turned towards the door, he suddenly grabbed her wrist and pulled her next to him on the bed.

They stared at each other for a few moments. Alice was not sure what was happening - but she liked this sudden closeness.

It´s not like she had not fantasized about this before… A few times when she caught him walking out of the bathroom wearing only a towel, she had been left gulping a few times quite excessively… And that one morning when she went in to wake him up and he had the most massive tent pitched up, she almost had to collect her jaw from the floor along with a puddle of her own drool…

He was a god among men, that cannot be denied.

After what felt like an eternity, Jared finally spoke.

“Alice, I… uhm… I…”

He couldn´t quite get the words out but he was never a man of many words anyway. Hell, he has even used the same lyrics for 17 different songs.

Action was always his forte. Direct action.

He leaned over and pressed his lips against her.

Alice froze and almost stopped breathing. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it might actually vomit its way out right on Jared´s face.

The kiss ended as abruptly as it had begun, as Jared pulled away.

“I… uh… sorry…,” he muttered as a slight blush started growing on his face as he fidgeted on the bed. His eyes darted all over the room, as if he was trying to will himself invisible.

Perhaps this was a big mistake… He shouldn´t have put his lust for her so bluntly out there… She´s obviously not into him the same wa-

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted when he felt Alice´s lips on his again.

She was way more forceful this time, almost taking charge of the situation with her eagerness to get more, more, more - and for once in his life and to much of his surprise, Jared actually enjoyed it.

She climbed onto his lap and pushed him to lay down on the bed as she followed, positioning herself right on top of him. She could feel that massive tent thing starting to rise again but this time her nervousness in its presence was long gone. She was enjoying every single moment of this sudden delightful turn of events.

The eager kissing seemed to only intensify and get more and more lustful with every moment until Alice pulled away and started stripping off her clothes.

Jared laid back with his hands behind his head, enjoying the view with a gleeful smirk as Alice continued her private striptease for him.

Slowly unbuttoning her shirt and letting it fall to the floor… Yanking down her jeans, revealing her lacy undies…

Jared was so lost in this vision of beauty standing in front of him that Alice had to snap her fingers to get his attention again.

“Jared!,” she commanded.

“Yeah,” he cleared his throat.

“I want you to fuck me on that desk,” she boldly stated to him, pointing to his desk by the balcony doors.

“Wh- what?”

“You heard me, cowboy. I want you to press my ass cheeks onto that table and fuck me.”

There was a moment of silence in the room.

Maybe a few more.

“Uh… well… I also have this bed… Oh and there´s a mattress on the floor ´cos you know bad back and all so maybe we cou-”

“DESK, Jared.”

Alice grabbed Jared´s arm and yanked him up from the bed. He obviously needs some encouragement, bless his heart…

She kissed him, perfect amount of tender and forceful. She knew he would not be a match to her seductive ways, and she was right. She could feel him relaxing in her arms, and that tent thing was continuing its growth spur quite nicely too…

Suddenly he grabbed her by her waist and hoisted her up. Alice quickly wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing herself against his chiseled body as close as humanly possible. She could feel his heart pounding against her and small beads of sweat dripping from his forehead as he slowly moved towards the desk while at the same time trying to free Alice from her bra and by the time they managed to reach the desk, her perky bosom was finally there for him to latch onto.

He sat her on the desk and had to almost tear himself away from her lips but he simply had to, as her delicate skin was almost calling out his name.

He moved his lips from her lips down to her neck… then further down her heaving chest… reaching her perfectly pink nipples… further down… he reached the waistband of her lacy undies and grabbed it with his teeth… painfully slowly he yanked the last piece of clothing shielding Alice´s modesty down once millimeter at a time… one… two… three… fou-

AAAAAND THAT´S ALL FOR NOW, FOLKS!

THANKS FOR READING MMMKAY BYEEEEE!

- 👸🏼 -

(Disclaimer and rules)

#fanfiktion

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midgardianwinchesters-blog · 6 years

Text

Century Secrets

Summary: Bobby’s having One Of Those Kind Of Days when Dean Winchester calls about a woman on a case.

Pairing: None.

Warnings: None really? Like wow, in all my time of writing, I’ve never really written something with no warnings. I guess alcoholism? Allusions to depression maybe? Like seriously I’m basically scraping things together here.

Word Count: 2057

A/N: Having a rough go of it and I realized that I should really post at least something besides my one (1) drawing. So I was writing something just to write and vent. I kinda like where it’s going, though? If I have the energy to, I may turn this into a series. For now it’s just a stand-alone insight to the life of Bobby Singer. (And also a kinda behind the scenes of Dean?) (Also this does count as a reader insert, but it’s kinda hard to make out. As if the reader were a fly on the wall, listening to Bobby Singer and Dean Winchester talk about her. Kinda weird, I know. Oh well.)

Bobby Singer was not a man to be easily disturbed. With patience a mile wide, the old hunter had weathered things other men his age would have-- quite sensibly-- had a heart attack over. He preferred not to think on those things, especially on days like today, when every phone in the house rang back-to-back; there were a few times that Bobby had a phone at each ear, balancing two different conversations while he tried, sometimes unsuccessfully, to drink at a tumbler of whiskey. Sometimes there were just those days, when the supernatural world seemed to be especially active and Bobby was left to hop between textbooks, internet sources and phones to help the contacts that called in for assistance. Today was one of those days-- magnified by a hundred.

It was somewhere around ten-thirty when Bobby finally found himself not talking to someone. The house seemed to press in on him with the sudden silence, momentarily reminding him of just how lonely the place could be, and how secretly thankful he was to be needed, to be too busy to dwell on exactly why the house was so empty. He blinked back to the present and put down the phone he’d been holding to his chest after the woman on the other end hung up, momentarily lost in the intrusive thoughts that sometimes gnawed at him. He closed his eyes and puffed a short breath out through his mouth, disturbing the hairs on his upper lip enough to make his nose crinkle with the sensation. On nights like this, when he could feel the weight of the hunting life bearing down on him, it was easier just to grab a whole bottle of spirits and find a place to sit outside on the porch to watch the stars float endlessly, listlessly by. So that’s what he did.

Bobby sat down on one of the porch steps, idly swirling the contents of the cold glass bottle in his hand as it hung between his knees. His back crackled and popped as he slumped backwards and rested against the porch post, eyes cast upward. It was a good night for stargazing, for sure. The breeze skittered by, tracing along his skin lightly enough to raise goosebumps along his arms where the sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows, but it was an otherwise pleasant evenin-- RingRingRing. . . RingRingRing. There was a long moment that Bobby continued to sit, listening to the shrill pitch of the phone as it rang persistently, almost as if he’d planted himself on the porch for spite. He quietly counted the rings, hoping that the problem-- for once-- wouldn’t be so urgent that he was actually needed. But the phone continued to ring, and he knew it was close to the last ring before it went to voicemail. He finally pushed himself to his feet with a low groan, the world tipping under him before he righted himself and made his way to the landline. It was on its last ring when he picked it up.

“What?” Bobby asked, the irritation in his voice echoing tauntingly around the cluttered tomb of a living room. The voice at the other end of the line took a long time coming, as if put off by the greeting it received. When Bobby finally heard who it was that was calling after the long pause, he sat down heavily, the couch cushion swallowing him up. His joints welcomed the soft reprieve.

“. . . Er, if it’s a bad time, I can call in the morning,” Dean Winchester said. Bobby could hear the confusion in his voice. He let out a long breath and propped his bottle on his knee to watch the dim ceiling light reflect off of the cloudy glass.

“No, it’s fine. You’re fine. Just been a long day.”

“You been desk jockeying all day?” There was shuffling in the background, and another voice, faint but noticeable: Sam, asking something or another, to which he was shushed.

“‘Fraid so. But I don’t s’pose you called to have a late night chat,” Bobby grumbled. “What do you need?”

“Maybe another night, Bobby. Right now, if you can, I need you to look up a name for me: Clarke O’Clarice,” Dean said. There was a sound of scrunching paper, as if he were unfolding a note or crumpled piece of stationary close to the phone. The growl of the Impala engine echoed faintly in the background. The growl of Bobby’s stomach, however, was loud as it flipped in his abdomen. He’d dreaded the day anyone uttered that name again. He didn’t notice he’d not responded until an impatient “Bobby” came from the other end of the line. He cleared his throat to loosen the knowledge that had suddenly clogged it.

“Where’d you run across that name?”

“Sam and me are working a vamp case in Columbus. Went into the morgue this morning as some feds to look at the vic and there was a chick already there. Gave us the badge-- which, despite the circumstances, actually looked pretty good for a fake-- and the whole ‘I’ve got this one covered, don’t need your help’ spiel. Sam and I booked it pretty quick from there, ‘cause most of her stuff checked out at a glance. But I got to thinking about it all again, and she looked bangin’ in a pantsuit, right? Especially from the back, like, this woman’s ass--”

“Dean,” Bobby could hear from the background. Sam’s exasperated chastisement started the brothers in on a momentary lapse of familial bickering, to which Bobby quickly snapped them out of.

“Whatever,” Dean huffed away from the phone-- probably at Sam. “So anyway. Point of that was, when she was turned around, with her hair all pulled up and whatever, I could see the top of an anti-possession tattoo on the back of her neck. It hadn’t really registered until we were on the two-seventy loop out of Columbus. At first I thought she might’ve just been one of those Edlund fans-- y’know, we’ve met a few people here and there that have the tattoo because of his books. Or. . . Our books? The books. But I figured I’d call you just to make sure. At this point in our life, you’d think we would’ve heard of all the hunters around, but guess not.”

Bobby rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, eyes shut tight against the rest of the house. It was a struggle of conscience to decide whether or not to tell the boys the knowledge that thumped at the inside of his skull with every beat of his heart. . . But then again, it was probably the booze doing the thumping more than anything. He suddenly wished he was soberer and less sleep deprived. If he was going to lie around this one, he’d want to do it clean, with no holes for the boys to rip through and call him back about. But as it was, he couldn’t make himself muster the energy to lie to them. Not today. After everything that had happened. . . He trusted them. Of course he trusted them. Of course. But did he trust the rest of the hunting community if word got out?

“Bobby? You still there?-- man, this prepaid card sucks. Phone says I’ve got full bars. . .” Dean’s voice went from loud to soft as he pulled the phone away to check it, but Bobby finally hummed in confirmation after he’d tapped the mouth of his bottle against his forehead a few times. It took another huff and a long swig of whiskey before Bobby was really ready to answer. Or as ready as he could be, he supposed.

“You’ve probably never heard the name before because it’s a pseudonym.”

“How do you know it’s a pseudonym?”

“Because I know her real name, and it’s definitely not Clarke O’Clarice. She usually uses Jowan McGonagall, and from the way you’ve described her, it’s definitely her.” Oh, yeah. There was no going back now. A part of Bobby felt guilty about even mentioning her existence-- but it also felt nice to finally acknowledge her after so many years.

“Who is her, Bobby?”

“[Y/F/N] [Y/L/N]. And you’re right-- she’s not a fed. She’s. . . A hunter, of sorts. Vampire hunter, mostly, but she’s done it all. Probably racked up more kills than you boys put together; she’s a tough cookie. If she’s in town, you don’t have’ta worry about the case.”

“What do you mean of sorts? And what do you mean that we don’t have to worry about this case? Of course we have to worry about the case-- that’s our job,” Dean said, sounding thoroughly exasperated in light of this new information. Bobby wasn’t sure if Dean was more insulted by the fact that he’d said [Y/N] had more kills, or by the fact that he’d said they didn’t have to worry about the case. Either way, it wasn’t rubbing Dean’s fur the right way.

“I mean that she isn’t your conventional hunter--”

“Well, I mean, neither are we--”

“Yeah, but you aren't vamps, are you?” He sneered. The words slipped out of Bobby’s mouth before he could stop them, agitation bubbling behind his sternum. There was a long, stunned silence on the other end of the line. Bobby could hear Sam, faintly in the background, frantically asking what was wrong.

“What do you mean--” Dean choked out, but Bobby didn’t let him finish. He was too far in now, so he might as well spill all.

“She’s not-- she’s not full vamp--”

“Those exist?” Dean’s voice had pitched up to an octave that Bobby, under different circumstances, or with a little more whiskey, would’ve found funny.

“Yes, and if you’d shut your trap for more than two seconds, I could fill you in a little bit.” Bobby inhaled deeply, as much as his lungs would allow, while Dean grumbled an apology. He took another breath, and another for good measure, before he put the phone back to his ear and continued. “Yes, they exist. But she’s the only one I’ve ever, ever known of. And she’s never bumped into any like her, neither; she’s been around long enough that you’d think she might’ve, but nope. Just been her.”

“Well. . .” It sounded like Dean was finding it hard to swallow on the other end of the line, but he finally got his tongue around the words he was trying to say. “Vampires live for like, ever, right? So how old is this chick? If she’s not very old, then maybe there’s more around, she just hasn’t--”

“From what she’s told me in passing, she met George Washington.” Another long pause followed this. Then, disbelief.

“Like-- The George Washington? Like, American Revolution, one-dollar-bill, took teeth from his slaves George?”

“Yes,” Bobby sighed. “She hasn’t told me precisely when she was born, but if she’s at least that old, I think it’s safe to say that she’s had plenty of time to bump into another one of-- whatever we’re gonna call her kind.” Dean blew a breath out through his mouth against the phone and Bobby jerked his own phone away from his ear as a fizzle of static accompanied the rush of air. “Look, it’s getting late. That’s the skinny on [Y/N]. She’s nothing to worry about, n’less you get on her bad side. Just stay out of her way: she’s got a good track record of getting the job done. Especially vamp cases. Just promise me one thing?”

“Anything, Bobby,” Dean said.

“Don’t breathe a word of what I just told you-- to anyone. ‘Cept Sam, I guess. But if this kinda thing gets out. . . Well, you should know. You and Sam were hunted and killed for the same reason that she would be. I’ve kept her secret my entire life. Don’t need her dying on the account of me bein’ too drunk to keep my mouth shut.”

Dean sighed again, and there was a long pause that followed. It was quiet in the background. They must’ve parked somewhere; Bobby couldn’t hear the Impala in the background.

“You got it, Bobby. It doesn’t leave this car.” Dean murmured.

For some reason, Bobby believed him.

“Thanks Bobby.”

“Goodnight, Dean.”

#Supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spn #spn fanfic #spn fandom #dean winchester #bobby singer #vampire #half vampire #reader insert #sam winchester

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lesbiansteveharrington · 7 years

Text

OH, TO BE ALONE WITH YOU (PT. 1)

Pairing: Stenbrough with minor Reddie on the side

Word Count: 3,986

Prompt: Stan Uris moves to Derry, Maine following the death of his father and gets a job babysitting a little boy named Georgie who just so happens to have a very attractive older brother. (Modern High School AU)

Warnings: Mention of death, depression (not a major theme), anti-Semitism, struggles with faith

Link to part two: https://jamespottev.tumblr.com/post/166443144647/how-would-you-feel-if-i-told-you-i-love-you

__________

Sometimes, Stanley Uris didn’t know what was up and what was down. Sometimes, it felt like the world was moving but he was stuck in the same position, day after day. And it sucked. His mother thought that a new start would be good for them, that it would help them move on.

Stan wanted to scream. He wanted to call bullshit on her logic. It wasn’t that he didn’t mind moving. He wasn’t exactly popular back at his old high school in Bangor ( once upon a time, his father had asked him if it was because of them being Jewish – but it wasn’t an anti-Semitic thing, aside from the occasional, always unfunny, holocaust joke, it was more so the depression thing and the OCD thing and the gay thing that drove people away ) so it wasn’t like he was going to be all that missed. Even his Jewish friends didn’t seem like they were gonna miss him that much. And it bothered Stan how little he cared about it.

But after his dad died, everything just seemed so… pointless. His father, a man who had never smoked a day in his life, ended up dying of lung cancer. It made Stan furious. At the world. At God. At everything. After watching his father shrivel up into a shell of what he had once been, Stan’s already complicated relationship with religion had turned sour. It infuriated him that his father could be dying and still praising that almighty presence above. Stan wasn’t even sure if he believed anymore.

“Stanley,” his mother’s voice called. “Come on, you’re going to be late!”

Gulping, Stan gave himself a once over and straightened the collar of his shirt before grabbing his backpack. As he left his room and shut the door, he found himself cringing. So, he went back, turned the bedroom light on and then off before shutting his door. Stan repeated that three more times before he was satisfied. It made him feel sick, wrong.

“I think you should start going back to therapy,” his mother told him on the ride to school.

“Mom—”

“No arguments, Stanley,” she said, her voice sharp like the cracking of a whip. “I know you, I know my son. You’re not okay, sweetheart. All I want is for you to be happy. I don’t want to send you off to college in two years with you…”

She trailed off and sighed. Stan could tell that if she hadn’t been driving she would’ve pressed a small kiss to the top of his forehead and hugged him tightly. Stan licked his lips and closed his eyes. He hated how unhappy his mother was. He despised that part of it was caused by him.

“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” Andrea Uris said, looking at her pale, skinny son.

“Yeah,” Stan agreed, nodding.

“We can talk about you getting that job. How’s that sound?”

Stan smiled at that. Since his freshman year of high school, he had been begging for a job. He liked the idea of working – the responsibility, the experience, the money that he could save up to buy all the books he’d ever want to read. Stan just really wanted a job. He wanted something to do with his life.

And he also needed to start saving up for college. His father had been a Rabbi and his mother was a kindergarten teacher, so it wasn’t like there was a lot of money in either of those professions. If he didn’t want to leave college with an obscene amount of debt, Stan would have to save money while working his ass off for good grade.

“Hi, I’m Stan Uris,” Stan said in a quiet voice to the lady sitting at the receptionist desk.

“Oh, the new boy!” the receptionist said in a too-loud, too-cheerful voice.

Stan winced a little and smiled.

“Here’s your schedule, and your student guide will be down any minute to take you around!”

The receptionist had an odd accent that Stan wasn’t very fond of, and when she snapped her gum he thought his head might explode.

A minute later, a very clean cut looking black boy with broad shoulders, short hair, and a wide smile walked into the office.

“Hey, you must be Stan,” he said, walking straight over to Stan and offering his hand to shake. “I’m Mike.”

“Hi,” Stan said, shaking Mike’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

As it turned out, Stan and Mike had all the same classes which was why Mike was chosen to give Stan the school tour. Within five minutes, Stan had decided that he liked Mike a lot. Mike was soft spoken, intelligent, and kind. He might have looked like all the football players at Stan’s old school that gave him hell for being gay, but Mike was nothing like that.

So, maybe Derry wouldn’t be that bad.

At lunch, Mike led Stan past the table filled with boys wearing the same kind of jacket as Mike and towards a different table in the corner of the room. At that table sat a very pretty girl with freckles spattered across every bit of visible skin and short cropped red hair. Beside her was a broad boy with dark blonde hair and a shy smile. Another boy sat across from them, lanky and thinly muscled with thick glasses and rather gorgeous dark hair. His arm was slung around the shoulders of a shorter boy with neatly combed chocolate curls. It was a ragtag bunch, but as they greeted Mike with wide smiles Stan could tell that they all loved each other a lot.

“Hey guys,” Mike said, sitting down and gesturing at the empty chair for Stan. “This is Stan, he’s new. Stan, this is Bev, Ben, Eddie, and Richie— where’s Bill?”

“Out sick,” Richie, the boy with glasses, snorted, ducking his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck.

Richie’s body convulsed with laughter Stan didn’t really understand. He stayed silent and began unpacking his lunch.

“What did you do to him?” Mike sighed, looking towards Bev.

“Hey, he agreed to drink with us,” Bev said defensively.

“They’re ridiculous,” Mike murmured to Stan, drawing a small smile from the new boy. “Don’t hold them against me?”

“So, I found a job for you,” Andrea told Stan that night after setting out dinner.

“Yeah?” Stan asked.

He held his breath for a moment, unsure if he was willing to trust his mother’s judgement on this.

“Yes. A woman named Sharon at my work was saying how she needs a babysitter for her son Georgie on Thursdays and Fridays,” Andrea said, stabbing her fork into her salad.

“Babysitting?” Stan asked, trying his best to hide his annoyance. “Mom. I don’t want to babysit.”

“It’s fifteen dollars an hour, Stanley,” Andrea said. “Sharon said it would be for at least five hours each night, so that’s at least a hundred and fifty dollars every week.”

Stan quickly did the math. If he kept fifty dollars every week for himself ( though, he didn’t have friends or much of a social life so why would he really need fifty dollars a week to do things? Well, Mike and his friends had been welcoming enough… maybe he’d finally have some friends… ) he could put away a hundred bucks each week. If he kept that consistent for two years ( and who knew what this kid’s parents would need over school breaks and the summer ) Stan could have a significant amount of money saved when he needed to get to college.

Suddenly, babysitting didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

“So, when do I start?” Stan asked.

Andrea beamed at her son.

“I have her number written down. You can call her after dinner and ask.”

As it turned out, Sharon Denbrough needed Stan to start ASAP. And tomorrow was Friday, meaning that Stan would be babysitting ten-year-old Georgie from 5:00 to 11:00.

When Stan shuffled into school, head down, he went straight to his locker. The girl to his left and her friends shot him a weird look, though Stan wasn’t all that sure why. He wasn’t that weird looking.

“Stan!” Mike’s voice boomed cheerfully.

Stan looked up and smiled at the approaching boy. Mike was walking with Ben and a boy Stan didn’t meet yesterday. But, boy, did he wish he had. The stranger was tall ( probably a little over six-feet, which definitely didn’t make Stan a little weak in the knees — no siree! ) and had light brown hair combed and styled very neatly. And his eyes—they were the bluest blue Stan had ever seen.

“Hi Mike, Ben,” Stan said in his typical quiet fashion, quickly glancing at the other boy before shifting his eyes down to the textbook in his arms.

“Stan, this is Bill. He was sick yesterday,” Ben said. “Richie mentioned you and Bill was anxious to meet the new kid on the block.”

Both Bill and Mike snorted quietly as Ben’s mouth lifted into a small smirk. Stan didn’t get the joke.

“It’s nice to meet you, Stan,” Bill said.

His words were slow and deliberate, and Stan really liked that.

“You too, Bill,” Stan replied, hoping that he wasn’t blushing.

If he was, no one said anything.

At lunch time, Richie clapped Stan on the shoulder and loudly proclaimed that his algebra teacher was a homophobic piece of shit.

“Why is he homophobic, Rich?” Bev asked, smirking at the boy.

“He told me I would never accomplish anything in life and is making me serve detention on Monday! This is gay oppression!” Richie exclaimed, flabbergasted.

Stan chuckled quietly.

“So, Stan, do you want to see Kingsman with us tonight?”

Stan’s heart bloomed within his chest, filling him with a warmness he had never felt before. He sighed, silently cursing his need for a job.

“I can’t,” Stan said, scratching behind his ear. “I have to babysit tonight.”

The rest of the group shut up about the movies after that. Stan realized that they were doing it for him—so he wouldn’t feel bad about missing out. The thought made him smile.

As a matter of fact, he was still smiling about it as he walked to Georgie Denbrough’s house.

“You must be Stan,” a tall, handsome man said with a warm smile as he opened the door. “It’s nice to meet you, son. I’m Zack Denbrough, Georgie’s dad.”

“It’s nice to meet you as well, sir,” Stan said politely, shaking his hand.

“Georgie!” Zack yelled up the stairs. “Come down, please!”

Seconds later, a small boy was sprinting down the stairs with a manic smile on his face, laughing as a tall, slightly muscled, shirtless boy ( Georgie’s brother, Stan assumed ) chased after him. Stan froze when he saw that the boy was Bill from school.

“Georgie, g-give me my sh-shirt!” Bill yelled.

Georgie was laughing still, loudly. The laughter was echoing around the house. Georgie and Bill sprinted past Stan without sparing him a second glance. A moment later, there was a loud scream followed by laughter as Bill, while laughing, called Georgie a twerp.

“My sons are rather… hyperactive,” Zack told Stan with an apologetic glance. “Once Bill leaves, Georgie will calm down, though. The two rile each other up.”

Stan swallowed thickly and nodded. His throat felt very dry, and his hands were beginning to itch. Slowly and deliberately, he dragged his blunt nails up and down the material of jeans that covered the outside of his thighs.

“Georgie, come meet your babysitter,” Zack said, walking out of the entrance hall and into the kitchen. “And, Bill, for God’s sake, put on a shirt.”

After a second’s deliberation when Stan seriously considered booking it out of the Denbrough house, he made his way into the kitchen. He caught Bill’s eyes and gulped.

“Stan! Hey!” Bill exclaimed happily, pulling a black t-shirt over his head. “When you said you had to babysit, I didn’t realize you’d be babysitting Georgie. I thought you had a younger brother or sister.”

“No,” Stan said, shaking his head and trying to remember not to stare at Bill. “I’m an only child.”

“Ooh, I wish,” Bill chuckled, sticking his tongue out at Georgie who reciprocated the motion.

Stan laughed dryly.

It wasn’t long before Zack and Sharon left for their date night, letting Stan know that they left forty dollars on the counter for him to order food and that he was welcome to keep the change. Bill was still there when his parents left.

While Georgie was showering, Stan took his opportunity to talk to Bill.

“So, uh, why aren’t you babysitting your brother?” Stan asked.

‘Really, Stan?’ he thought to himself. ‘What a stupid fucking question.’

Bill’s face went a little pink and he began to rub the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I’m not really allowed to do that anymore,” Bill said, his words paired with an awkward laugh. “Last time I babysat Georgie, it was pouring r-ruh-rain and I let him go outside, and he ended up getting wicked sick. My p—parents were really angry with me.”

Stan hadn’t noticed Bill’s stutter earlier. He didn’t say anything about it, though. Instead, he merely smiled a little.

“Well, if I’m ever babysitting Georgie and it rains, I’ll make sure not to let him go out.”

Bill threw his head back and laughed loudly. As his laughter died down, he bumped his shoulder softly against Stan’s and bit down on his lip. Yet again, Stan was gulping because of Bill Denbrough.

“I should get going,” Bill said, a look of regret crossing over his face. He stood up and patted Stan on the shoulder, but his hand lingered for a moment. “I’ll catch you later, Stan. I’ll probably be home before my parents.”

Georgie was a cute kid, and very sweet. He made a lot of meme jokes, which he told Stan he had learned from Richie. One time this past summer, Georgie told Stan, he ran into Bill’s room and dabbed with two fidget spinners in his hands. When Bill found out that Richie had been the one to tell Georgie to do it, Bill didn’t speak to Richie for a day and blocked him on all forms of social media.

At 9:00, Stan had to put Georgie to bed. After that, he had two hours to spare before he got to leave. And considering he was in someone else’s home, he had no idea what to do. So, he just grabbed a book from his bag and sat down in their living room to read.

Bill came home at 9:30, and when he saw Stan curled up on his couch reading a book on birds ( of all things ), he couldn’t help but laugh a little.

“What?” Stan asked, a little defensively.

“Nothing,” Bill assured him, sitting down next to him on the couch. “It’s just— well, a book on birds?”

“I happen to like birds,” Stan said, eyes narrowed. “They’re interesting.”

“Yeah? How so?” Bill asked, genuinely curious.

And so, for the next hour and a half, Stan talked to Bill about all different kinds of birds and the best places in Maine to go bird watching. And Bill seemed really interested too, he was asking questions and just looked completely earnest. By the time Sharon and Zack came back home, Stan hadn’t even realized that it was 11:00.

“I noticed you didn’t drive here,” Bill said, sneaking up on Stan as he put his coat and shoes on. “D-do you want me to drive you h-h-home?”

Stan almost protested, but he was feeling selfish. He wanted to spend more time with Bill, even if it was only for a ten-minute car ride.

“Thanks, Bill,” Stan murmured once Bill pulled into his driveway. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Wait,” Bill exclaimed, grabbing Stan’s wrist. “Give me your number.”

Bill wiggled his phone in front of Stan’s face, blue eyes wide. Stan thought his face was going to split in two from how big his smile was. Eagerly ( maybe a little too eagerly, but Stan didn’t know much about this kind of thing ), Stan punched his number into Bill’s phone. If he was a more confident kid, he might have put some kind of witty, suggestive emoji next to his contact name… but Stan wasn’t like that.

“So, who’s the boy?” Andrea asked with a coy smirk on her face, watching as her blushing son stumbled his way backwards into the house, waving goodbye to the boy who was sitting in his car.

“There— there’s no boy. What are you talking about?” Stan blustered.

Andrea rolled her eyes.

“Stan, I’m your mother. You’re supposed to tell me these things.”

Stan sighed and relented, rolling his eyes.

“His name’s Bill,” Stan said.

“Do you like him?”

“I met him this morning, Mom!”

“Okay. So, what?”

Stan groaned, rubbing his eyes.

“He’s Georgie’s older brother and offered to drive me home because I don’t have a car. That’s all.”

Andrea hummed suspiciously, but didn’t press Stan further.

“My brother thinks you’re hot.”

Georgie’s statement was so bluntly presented that Stan choked on the slice of pizza he was eating.

“I heard him talking with Bev and Mike about it the other day,” Georgie added, grinning at Stan.

“Oh,” Stan said in a high, uneven voice. “That’s nice.”

“Do you think he’s hot?”

Stan’s face was burning.

“Georgie—”

“What?” Georgie asked, putting on his best angel face.

“I’m not talking about your brother with you,” Stan snorted. “And you’re ten, which is just— no.”

“I’m gonna be eleven next month,” Georgie whined.

Stan wasn’t amused.

“Eat your pizza, Georgie.”

“Do you think he’s hot yet?”

“Georgie, you need to go to bed!” Stan exclaimed, trying his best not to laugh at Georgie’s persistence.

All night, he had been pestering Stan about his thoughts on Bill. Like, yeah, Stan thought Bill was hot. But he wasn’t about to tell Georgie that. If he said anything, Georgie would definitely repeat it back to Bill ( Stan wasn’t ignorant to Georgie’s hero-worship of his brother ) and then Bill would think Stan was weird. Though, Georgie did say that Bill thought he was hot.

“Did he really say— agh! Never mind! Go to bed!”

Stan seriously considered throwing himself in front of a bus then and there. Was he seriously just about to ask a ten-year old about that? UGH!

Georgie laughed.

Bill arrived home not long after that, grinning. Georgie shut his mouth about Stan finding Bill hot.

Three weeks after Georgie asked Stan if he thought Bill was hot, Stan had the weekend off. Bill’s parents were going away for a few nights for their anniversary and Georgie was going to stay with Sharon’s sister in the next town over. That meant Bill had the house to himself.

If Bill was a different kid, he would’ve been instantly sending out invites to a party. But Bill was Bill, and he wasn’t like that. Instead, he invited Stan over for a movie night.

Andrea drove Stan over to Bill’s house and quickly lectured Stan on practicing safe sex. Stan wanted to die.

“Mom! Holy, crap!” Stan exclaimed, his face beet red. “It’s not— we’re not— no! Anyways, the rest of our friends are gonna be there!”

The rest of their friends ( ‘The Losers Club’ they were often referred to by a senior named Henry Bowers and his gang of asshole friends, but Stan didn’t pay them much attention ) were, in fact, not there.

“I didn’t realize it would be just us,” Stan muttered, glancing around Bill’s dark house.

“Oh,” Bill said, rubbing his neck. “I didn’t— are you upset?”

“No,” Stan said, smiling. “I just thought— you know what? It’s not important.”

Bill smiled that breathtaking smile of his and Stan found himself wishing for a puff of Eddie’s inhaler.

“Richie was saying I should throw a party this weekend,” Bill snorted. “And Bev was saying we should utilize my empty house and my father’s never ending liquor supply and get drunk.”

Stan didn’t think that sounded too awful. Well, the getting drunk part at least… so long it was only their group of seven. He wouldn’t want other people around. Just the seven of them… ‘the lucky seven’ had Mike called them a couple weeks ago. The thought made Stan smile a bit.

“Would getting drunk be that bad?” Stan asked Bill, a smile on his face.

“Not if it was just the two of us,” Bill replied easily in his slow deliberate voice.

The voice that made Stan’s knees go weak and stomach tie in knots.

Not if it was just the two of us… Stan flushed a deep red.

“So, I ordered us pizza,” Bill said, gesturing to a box on the table. “Normally I go with pepperoni or barbeque chicken, but I know it’s not kosher for Jewish people to eat pig or meat and cheese — that’s the right word, right? Kosher?”

Stan had barely thought about his faith in months. It had seemed so insignificant, so unreal for him after his dad died. And when it came to eating kosher— well, that had been the way he lived his life for the past sixteen years so he never even really thought about it. But Bill had thought about it.

Stan suddenly felt the urge to kiss Bill, but he had enough will power to stop himself.

“Is regular cheese fine?”

Bill was being so casual, acting as if nothing was wrong. Well, not that anything was wrong… but he had just made a significant impact on Stan and was acting as if nothing had happened.

“Cheese is perfect,” Stan said softly.

Bill beamed and Stan felt like his heart was going to explode out of his chest.

Stan really wanted to kiss Bill. But he didn’t.

After they ate their pizza, Bill suggested they watch something. And by something, Stan knew that Bill meant Game of Thrones. Bill was a die-hard Thrones fan and nearly had an aneurism when he found out that Stan didn’t watch it. Last week, he finally convinced Stan to start watching it. Stan was already on season three.

Bill sat down next to Stan, but in an unnecessarily close way. Stan sat curled against the arm of the couch and Bill sat right down beside him. There was only a small inch or so of space between them. Stan said nothing because he didn’t want Bill to move away.

“You know, I feel bad for Theon,” Stan confessed.

Bill didn’t say anything.

“I mean, I understand why he did what he did. He just wanted his father’s approval. I don’t agree with his actions, but I understand the motive. You know? And, wow, he really does not deserve… that.”

“You’re cute.”

Stan’s eyes went wide, and so did Bill’s. From how red Bill’s face was, Stan could tell he most definitely did not mean to say that out loud.

“Thanks,” Stan found himself saying. “You too.”

And then he kissed Bill. Holy shit. He was kissing Bill. And Bill was kissing him back.

WOW! WOW! WOW!

Even for a first kiss, it was pretty awesome. Stan had no idea what he was doing with his mouth, but Bill seemed to have some experience so he took charge. His right hand went around the back of Stan’s neck, while the other propped himself up against the arm of the couch that Stan’s back was pressed against.

Stan was in paradise, his hands wrapped around Bill and digging into Bill’s soft hair.

When Bill pulled away, they were both panting, gasping for air. Bill’s eyes were peering into Stan’s, and both boys smiled before Stan pulled Bill’s face down, crushing his lips to Bill’s once more.

____________________

#maggie writes things #stenbrough #it fic #reddie #mike hanlon #benverly #ben hanscom #beverly marsh #bill denbrough #stan uris #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #henry bowers #the losers club #it #it 2017 #it the movie

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