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the-kr8tor · 22 days

Note

Hi! I've just got back to ATSV and your Hobie fics made me felt like a school girl giggling to myself 😭🤍

I don't know if you still open for request but you may ignore if you feel uncomfortable!

I was thinking about long distance relationship with Hobie, maybe they met in some dating app ( I know this felt weird but like imagine him being bored and randomly download it for fun but then met the love of his life lol )

And one day Reader decided to surprise him on one of his concert 👀

Aww you're so sweet! Thank you so much! I hope you like this, sorry for the wait ❤️

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cw blood, band au, FLUFF

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

When your long distance partner said that he's in a band, you never expected that he's in one of those bands that plays in sold out venues. Granted that the concert also has other bands playing on the same day in different schedules, nonetheless his band is the one that's headlining the entire charity event. The venue is open air, trees lined around the park with dozens of booths selling merch, and overpriced burritos. At least the free water makes up for the expensive food and the long lines to the port-a-potty.

People are all dressed up for the event walk past you, they're in a complete ensemble, spikes, knee high boots, fishnets and hair that is taller than the luggage you're lugging around. It's safe to say that you stick out like a sore thumb in your comfortable airport clothes. If not then all the stares you're getting is because you have a huge bug on your face or something on your teeth. Maybe you should've gone with your original plan of waiting outside his houseboat like a creep.

You exhale, gathering your courage just like back when you were buying the plane ticket to Camdem. Clutching your bag tightly, you head off to the baggage lockers on the side to drop off your weekend bag before showing your concert ticket to the tired employee.

With a few flight delays on your belt, you were afraid that you'd miss his set. But lo and behold, the second you stepped foot inside, the loud booming speakers are announcing his band. You make your mad dash towards the front of the stage, excitement and trepidation fueling you while you practically squeeze yourself in between the growing crowd. After a few apologies to some people you've accidentally elbowed, you finally make it at the front with only a few bruises here and there. You don't care about the aches the second you see him appear from backstage.

Hobie, your long distance partner of two years and a half is finally in front of you. Well a few feet away from you as there's a bannister and a huge security guy guarding the fences. And yet, you haven't been this close to holding him. Signing up for a dating site wasn't your greatest moment but you're glad you did, if you hadn't, you might've not met the love of your life. You're also glad that his friends dared him into signing up, you feel incredibly lucky that the stars aligned for the two of you to meet.

His band waves to the crowd, faces you've come accustomed to whenever he brings you (his phone while you video call him) to band practices and hangouts throughout the years. Dare you say that they've become your friends too, if not for them encouraging you to finally buy that ticket to surprise Hobie, you wouldn't be standing here with your hands gripping tightly on the railings.

He looks amazing under the bright lights, the spotlight highlights all his best features. Clad in leather, spikes and metal, seeing him behind your phone screen doesn't prepare you for the real thing.

With stars in your eyes, you grin widely. Yet you don't call for him so you don't distract him. Instead, you listen to the first song as Hobie plays a familiar guitar riff. You unabashedly ogle him while you listen to the song you've personally seen the development of.

Sweaty, eyes strained to see him through the spotlight while your ears ring— you probably don't look your best while the crowd pushes the fences wildly. Maybe you should've thought this through, or at least wore something nicer.

Hobie still hasn't seen you amidst the crowd. Continuing to jump and somersault effortlessly around the stage while fans scream and screech his name out. You once again stick out like a sore thumb while you stay in place when everyone else is jumping up and down to the beat. Seeing the lone anomaly, Hobie shields his eyes from the lights to get a good look at the supposed disgruntled fan. He never expected to see your face, his heart feels like it stopped for a second, he tumbles towards a wire that trips him and in turn launches him towards a small amp that also trips him and makes him land flat on his face. If not for his quick reflexes, he might've broken his nose on stage.

The crowd makes an empathetic sound as silence spreads throughout the venue. Some reach out to him as if they would've caught him mid air, and you're one of those people. With a wince, you watch him sit up, trying his best to act cool while he's tangled around numerous wires. He looks silly and lovestruck at the same time when his eyes meet your own. Your name falls off his lips, eyes sparkling under the red spotlights.

You give him a small wave, smiling bashfully at the punk on stage. A stage hand helps him untangle himself while Ned helps back up on his feet. All the while, his eyes never left your form.

“Wanna take five, loverboy?” Ned whispers, patting his best mate on the back. “Fuckin' hell you're bleeding.” The crowd cheers as blood ebbs out.

Even with crimson flowing out of his nostril, pain ebbing through his face, he still manages to grin back at you. “Yeah, make that ten, Ned.” he clasps his hand on Ned's shoulder without leaving his eyes on you. You wink at him. “Better yet, make that twenty.”

Ned rolls his eyes, calling for the medics before gesturing towards you to come around backstage.

—

An organizer gives you a backstage pass, letting you roam around the performers area freely. You play with the lace as your nerves get the best of you. You kinda feel bad for being the cause of the delay, but when your darting eyes see his familiar silhouette, it all melts away.

“Can I get an autograph?” You say, standing under the medical tent while a paramedic tends to his bleeding nose. His head whips towards you so fast, you were afraid that he'd break his neck. “Hi, Hobie.”

A giddy grin spreads on his face, standing up from the plastic chair with tissue paper stuck up his nose. “Hello, love.”

You giggle, crossing the small distance, hands reaching to his sides, waiting for him to hold you. Hobie wraps his fingers gently around your wrists, pulling you close. Toe to toe, he guides your hands on his waist.

“You're taller than I expected.” You utter with fondness, fingers splayed over his shirt, eyes etching his face into the folds of your mind.

“You have legs, and feet attached to your legs.” He says nervously, biting his lip from grinning too widely. “You're as fit as I thought you would be.” Chortling, you pat his chest. Realizing that the tissue papers are still stuck up his nose, he yanks them away quickly, hiding it inside his back pocket as if nothing happened. “You surprised me.”

“That was very dignified of you, Hobs.”

Chuckling, he does what he always wanted to do; hide his face in the crook of your neck. “Was that a deal breaker?”

You scoff playfully, leaning into his touch as he embraces you fully, shyness melting off the both of you only to be replaced with affection. You do the same, face tucked on his neck. He smells like the perfume you sent him when he asked what perfume you always use. And in turn, you smell like his cologne he gifted you a week later.

“Nope, it actually made me more attracted to you.” You feel his knuckles trace circles around your back, nose pressed on your skin. “Sorry that I surprised you, and made you fall on your face in front of thousands of people.”

Hobie gives you a chaste kiss on your jaw before leaning away to cup your face. You feel like you're on cloud nine as he looks at you like you're everything to him.

“Nah, not even close to a thousand, lovie.” His thumb brushes along your cheeks, savoring your warmth like he always wanted to do. You smile, palms on his jacket lapels. “Y’know what's funny?”

“You landing flat on your face in front of hundreds of adoring fans?”

He pokes your side with a chuckle. “I'll never hear the end of that, huh?” You shake your head with a soft smile as he leans closer, you meet him halfway by pulling him by his jacket. “I bought a ticket to your place.” Your eyes widen, tearing up from his words. “I was supposed to fly after the concert and wait outside your flat like a bloody stalker.” Smiling, he closes the distance. “You beat me to it, love.”

“I won.” You kiss him just like how you imagined.

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lol-im-done · 10 months

Text

First Lady of Panem

Pairing: Young!Coriolanus Snow x Fem!Reader

Series Summary: When your family arrived to the Capitol from District Ten to secure their place as one of the most prominent and wealthy families of Panem you could have never dreamed fate would lead you into the arms of Coriolanus Snow. Falling in love was easy, watching him become President and becoming First Lady of Panem at his side would test your limits. Panem's history would forever be changed by this union.

AO3 Link

Author's Note: TW & Tags will be updated as each chapter comes out, first chapter is just to set up the story & characters. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Sky Blue Eyes

Those bluebonnets how sweetly they grow

For all the wide prairies they're scattered like snow

They make all the meadows as blue as the skies

Reminding me of my darlings blue eyes

The cow-filled prairies shifted to mountains signaling the train's entrance into District Two as you hummed to the tune of an old song from before Panem’s creation. The sprawling grass sea of District Ten, of your home, disappeared in the distance as you made your way to the heart of Panem.

“Darling, are you listening to me?”

Lifting your head from the rattling window you turned to see your mother looking at you with soft concern.

“Sorry Mama, what were you asking?”

Her hand smoothed over your younger sister Mellona’s curls, making her nuzzle deeper into her side. “I was asking if you were hungry so I could order lunch.”

“That would be nice Mama. Thank you.”

“Alright, call for Agnes if you need anything she’s in the next car,” your mother stands, lays a snoozing Mellona down, before making her way to the dining car.

“Homesick already?” Victoriosa, the eldest, asks from the chaise never taking her eyes off the magazine in her hands.

“Is it that obvious?”

“We always knew we’d have to move to the Capitol.”

“Why now? I thought at least another year or two,” you asked, sinking into the plush leather seat. Victoriosa pauses, looks up at you and for an instant you can see your father’s intense expression staring back at you.

“Papa wants to finally establish himself as a prominent figure in the Capitol. He needs Capitol support if he is to fully absorb the rest of the ranches, you know that,” she states. “This is also our opportunity to reach our full potential, choose our own paths. Once you finish your career you can always return to Ten if you wish but that would be a waste,” she returns to flipping through her magazine.

“Silva, what do you think?” you turn to your only brother who is seated next to you.

He gives a short shrug. “I don’t mind it much as long as I can continue my research,” Silva sighs from behind his thick textbook.

Victoriosa tilts her lithe neck backwards, “Yawnnnnn.” A snort leaves your lips and you’re grateful your mother isn’t nearby to reprimand you for your ‘unladylike’ behavior.

“Biodiversity is the pinnacle of our success as cattle breeders!” Silva scowls.

“I thought you’d be missing a certain milkmaid Carpathia,” Victoriosa smirks and a wild blush spreads under Silva’s glasses.

“Oh like you’ll be missing your ranch hand Bronco,” Silva snaps back.

“There’s always summertime. Plenty of time to catch up,” Victoriosa grins like the cat who got the cream. The three of you burst into a fit of giggles right as Mellona groggily rouses from her nap.

“Are we there yet?”

Another burst of laughter fills the private train car.

It would only take a few more hours before you arrived at the Capitol train station, nightfall falling over the city. Unlike District Ten, not all the stars were visible, the Capitol’s bright lights polluting the sky. Peacekeepers were already stationed to help move all the luggage into the waiting line of cars. Driving through the streets towards your new home, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe at the statues in the squares and the towering buildings. Most of all you were excited to finally see your father, it had been almost a month since you had seen him last.

“Papa!”

All of you crashed into Alicio Lupus’ awaiting arms, his rumbling chuckle bouncing off the high marble ceilings of the penthouse. Refugio joins in on the hug with teary eyes, reaching up to press a kiss on her beloved husband’s cheek.

“Welcome home my darlings,” he squeezes you all tighter. Any fear you held disappeared in an instant, as long as you had your family by your side, all would be well.

The first few weeks in the Capitol had been a whirlwind- meeting other Capitol families for dinner, registration for coveted internships and school courses, and endless shopping trips to assure your home and wardrobes were up to Capitol standards. Refugio Lupus wanted only the best for her children, which included constantly coaching you all to leave behind the District Ten accent that made certain words in your vocabulary drawl.

After dinner one day you thought you had finally caught a moment of peace before a knock at your door startled you from your book. Agnes, your family's nanny, rolled in a rack of dresses with Victoriosa in tow. Victoriosa was already dressed in a sleek blood red dress with a mink shawl wrapped around her shoulders.

“What’s all this?”

“We’ve been invited to a soirée to commemorate the end of the 13th Hunger Games. Papa thinks it’s a good chance to introduce us to others in the Capitol’s high society,” Victoriosa swept her arm towards the rack of glittering and ruffled dresses. Nerves made your stomach churn, mouth turning downwards into a frown as you remembered people’s faces this past week when it was revealed you had recently arrived from District Ten. Most look startled before looking at you like you were some exotic bird at the zoo.

“They’ll never accept us.”

A prideful look crossed her face, so similar to your father’s. No wonder your mother said they were cut from the same stone. “They will once we show them we are as refined as they are. As long as you lose that accent of yours you’ll blend in like a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” she grinned, canines glinting in the light of the chandelier. Rolling your eyes you step over to the rack, feeling the fabrics under your fingers. Stopping at a silver dress, the sequins twinkled like stars entrancing you. Agnes helped dress you before getting to work on sweeping your hair up into a fashionable updo. You waved away the highly pigmented makeup, not ready to delve into that side of Capitol fashion quite yet.

“Remember you’re a Lupus. We’re wolves among sheep,” Victoriosa pinches your cheek. The usual calluses that adorned her hands were gone, chemical treatments making them a long forgotten memory.

Wolves among sheep.

Victoriosa’s words replay through your head like a mantra as you step into the grand ballroom behind her and your father. Thankfully your sister was a gifted extrovert, introducing you to the friends she had already made. Soon you found yourself surrounded by members of the new Gamemaker class, a glass of posca in your hand. It took some time but slowly your shoulders loosened and your smile widened, confidence making you stand a bit taller.

Across the ballroom, Coriolanus Snow was repeating his own mantra to himself- Snow always lands on top. A reminder that showing up for another Capitol soirée wasn’t simply a waste of time but another way to show all these sycophants how high he had made it. Now heir to the Plinth fortune he was dressed impeccably. Tigris had helped style him, no more handmade shirts, and the final touch- Grandma’am’s rose pinned to his lapel. Like at most parties he was surrounded by his former classmates who were all desperate to remain in his inner circle- he was an esteemed Gamemaker after all. A glimmer in the distance caught his eye, distracting him from the meaningless chatter before him. He recognized the group as intern Gamemakers but not the young woman, fresh faced and glowing in the candlelight.

“Who is that?” Coriolanus feigned nonchalance as he tilted his head towards her.

Festus Creed followed his gaze, “Don’t you know?”

“How could he know? The Lupus Family only recently decided to establish here in the Capitol,” Pup Harrington said in between bites of hors d'oeuvres. The name rang a bell, stories and information from his various connections coming to mind.

“I believe that’s (Y/N) Lupus. I saw her the other day with her father, Alicio Lupus, at my mother’s bank” Livia Cardew said, inching closer to Coriolanus. “They practically own all the ranches in District Ten, Alicio Lupus’ brother is the Mayor of the District,” Livia whispered, lips coming close to his ear. Festus and Pup exchange an eye roll at her shamelessness and Coriolanus resisted the urge to shrug her off. Offending a Cardew would never bode well.

“She’s district, probably going back and forth from Ten to the Capitol like one of her family’s pigs,” Livia giggled, but it sounded like grating metal in Coriolanus’ ears.

“Don’t forget cows! Oh Panem, I dream about those steaks-,” Pup practically salivated.

“Imagine living all your life in that District, like poor Sejanus,” Festus tutted. Coriolanus immediately bristled at the mention of Sejanus, his icy blue eyes darkening like an impending storm. Festus must have realized his mistake because his eyes widened, apology on the tip of his tongue before Coriolanus cut him off.

“I should go make her acquaintance then,” he announces, ignoring Livia’s scowl. It was an opportune moment he thought as you now stood by the bar alone. Perhaps you would be desperate enough to try and get in his good graces, and offer to introduce him to your father. Coriolanus would be a fool not to recognize the Lupus family’s wealth and influence, they kept the Districts fed and the Capitol fat. Any potential relationship he could make was more support he could need when he would take a position in the Government.

As you took another swig of posca, you thought you had managed to escape more social interactions for the night until a voice made you jump.

“Hello, I’m Coriolanus Snow. Welcome to the Capitol.”

Turning around you looked up at the man’s captivating eyes, as blue as the sky back home. His pink lips curled slightly at the ends as if he was holding in a secret. Blonde hair pushed back in a neat fashion, accentuating his cheekbones. For a moment you were speechless. Remembering yourself, you gave him your name but you had a feeling he already knew it.

“Pleasure to meet you Coriolanus Snow.”

His stomach swooped. Coriolanus swore he heard a familiar lilt in your voice, but it was not as strong as Lucy Gray’s and those in District Twelve. No, yours was smoother and made your pronunciation of his name sound like it was dipped in warm honey.

“How are you finding the Capitol?”, he forces himself to ask, to ignore those dangerous thoughts.

“It's something...definitely not like back home,” you look around at the extravagant decor.

“Ah yes, District Ten. I’ve never made my way there but I’ve heard wonderful things,” the lie flows smoothly past his lips. “How grateful you must feel to finally be brought to us.”

Coriolanus would never miss a chance at making anyone District born feel inferior, all the posca he had been drinking making him loose lipped tonight. Indignation made your hands tingle, but you took a deep breath and clenched the glass tighter in your hands to ground you.

“I’m surprised you weren’t assigned there as a Peacekeeper. I suppose wherever the songbird called from you followed,” you replied, taking a demure sip from your glass, relishing in the way his jaw tensed. You knew who he was, his story with Lucy Gray Baird. Victoriosa had heard it all from a friend and had no qualms in passing the gossip down to you. If he was going to throw thinly veiled insults you’d have to show him you wouldn’t take them lying down.

“There’s that famous Lupus bite I’ve heard about,” he grins, taking a step closer to you. The scent of roses fills your nose, the sudden proximity to him making a blush rise up your neck. His hand reached out, moving to push a piece of hair behind your ear but the moment was broken when Victoriosa called out for you, pointing to your father who was making his way out the doors.

“If you’ll excuse me it’s time for me to get home. I’m sure our paths will cross again,” you murmured softly, dipping your head in farewell. Coriolanus stepped back with a slight bow, eyes never straying from your figure as you sauntered away. Oh yes, like two stars crossing in the night sky, you would meet again. Coriolanus would make sure of it.

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #tbosas

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glossysoap · 1 year

Text

ready to comply ii - пропал без вести

you get reported as пропал без вести, or missing in action.

warnings/tags: so much angst.

prev chapters here!

word count: 3,973

inclusivity note: no mention of flushing or hair type. the woman can drag you/lift you because she has super serum, so you can imagine any body type for the reader.

🏷️ : @viylikescats @warenai @fullmoon-94 @breadboyye @kiroshang @lunitalloronaa (if you’re not on the tag list it’s bc tumblr won’t let me tag you)

2 weeks.

It’s been two weeks since you left the team behind, riding in that helicopter. Two weeks since Simon and Johnny saw you, heard your voice, your laugh. The two men were practically crawling out of their skin, itching to see you again.

Not only that, but they were planning on telling you how they felt about you. They would finally confess that they loved you, that they were in love with you.

Today, the 141 were finally finished with their mission in Russia and the weather had improved just enough so it was safe to fly. Currently, the team was preparing to return to their home base in the United Kingdom.

Warmth filled Simon's chest as he remembers the last time you were waiting for them to return from a mission.

It was a few months prior to the Russian mission, and they were returning after a 3 week long mission in Germany. They couldn’t wait to wrap you up in their strong arms and feel your warmth against them after being stuck in rain for weeks. They always made a point to do that when they returned from missions without them with you. It was their little tradition.

The two men would immediately sprint to your quarters, day or night, and they would wrap you up in bear hugs.

Johnny would always squeeze your waist just before letting you go, sneakily rubbing circles on your hips at the same time. “Gotta make sure I don’t lose you. Precious cargo and all that.” He’d use something like that as an excuse for his handsy behavior, though judging by you biting back a grin, he was pretty sure you weren’t bothered by it.

Simon would always be leaning against the doorway of your quarters, watching the whole scene unravel with a grin under his mask. Seeing his two favorite people in the world in an embrace made warmth bloom in his chest.

Simon's dark eyes would always be burning into you as Johnny let you go, noting how you laughed nervously and your eyes crinkled at Johnny's comment. Simon cleared his throat to get your attention, making Johnny's eyes dart to his. You followed his gaze to meet SImon's eyes and if it were even possible, your eyes brightened even more when they landed on the Brit.

When you broke from Johnny;s tan arms and ran into Simon's, he hugged you without missing a beat. His tattooed arms would always wrap around your midsection and hold you tight. Your arms would wrap around his neck and you would breathe him in, all leather and smoke. All Simon. You would let out a pleased noise as you snuggled into the crook of his neck.

“Little clingy today, are we?” Simon murmured against the crown of your head, his smile apparent in his voice, even if he tried to seem annoyed.

“Not that we mind.” Johnny's voice crooned from behind you, a lot closer than where you left him. While you were hugging Simon, Johnny had snuck up behind you to almost sandwich you between their hulking bodies.

Ghost couldn’t think of a better position, in every sense of the word.

“I’m glad you guys are back. Safe.” You mumbled against Simon's vest, voice slightly muffled. You were still hugging the masked man, arms wrapped around his midsection now.

“Couldn’t keep us away even if you tried.”

Simon was pulled from his reminiscing thoughts by the loud noise of the plane landing at the hangar. Along with the rest of 141, him and Johnny were waiting at the hangar for the plane, luggage in hand. When it finally touched down, Johnny nudged Simon's side and threw him a cheeky grin that radiated his excitement.

“What’s on your mind, LT?” He asked as they all start heading to the chopper.

“Take a guess.”

“Thinkin’ about 'em waiting for us back home?” Johnny guesses as the two of them walk up the plane’s ramp, duffel bags slung over their shoulders.

“Smart man, Johnny. Smart man.” Simon mutters as they both sink down into their seats on the plane.

Once the team straps in, the overhead comms crackle to life for the pilot to announce wheels up. As the turbulence began shaking the aircraft, Johnny noticed how Simon's knee bounced and how he began fiddling with his hands. A nervous habit.

To calm his boyfriends’ nerves, Johnny entwined his fingers with Simon's gloved ones. Then he rested his head on Simon's shoulder to ground him with his weight, something akin to a weighted blanket.

“How’s that?” Johnny asked, eyelids feeling heavy as he glanced up at Simon. He noticed that Simon stopped fiddling with his hands when Johnny squeezed his hand, and his knee stopped bouncing when Johnny rested against him.

“You always know what to do, Johnny.” Simon hummed.

Johnny’s eyes fluttered shut and fell asleep against Simon's shoulder with a grin on his lips. Simon glanced down at Johnny when we heard his deep, even breaths.

A smile pulled at the Lieutenant’s lips as he admired his boyfriend’s relaxed face. Small breaths coming from his parted lips, all pink and plump. His full brows that were relaxed and unfurrowed. His tan skin was flushed pink from the cold weather and some snow flakes were still stuck to his mohawk. Carefully, Simon reached his free hand over to ruffle the snow out of Johnny’s hair.

Johnny’s eyebrows scrunched in his sleep, almost waking up because of Simon's touch.

“Easy.” Simon said lowly, trying to coax the Scot back to sleep.

The Sergeant hummed as he nuzzled further into the Lieutenant’s shoulder, breathing in his comforting scent of leather and musk.

While Johnny was asleep, Simon's mind ran wild with possibilities about you. He thought about how him and Johnny could confess to you and how you would react.

Would it be better to just come out and say it? Or ease you into it? He didn’t want to overwhelm you or scare you away. He wanted to do this right.

He bounced ideas around in his head while the time passed. He could pull you aside with Johnny and tell it to you straight, tell you that they both loved you with every fiber of their being.

If they were feeling especially bold, Simon or Johnny could just kiss you.

Sure, to you it might be out of the blue but he couldn’t help but ponder the idea. He couldn’t help but fantasize about your soft, plump lips against his scarred ones. Would your lips taste like the mint chapstick you applied religiously? What kind of kisser were you? Were you shy and timid, kissing him back with a gasp and glazed over eyes? Or were you confident and passionate, arms wrapping around his neck and teasingly bite at his lip? His heart pounded at the thought.

Ultimately, he decided against it, no matter how much he wanted to just pull you into his arms and smash his lips against yours without abandon. The last thing he wanted was to scare you away from them, especially after making so much progress in your friendship.

So with that, he started thinking about other options, safer options.

He thought about writing a letter professing his love for you and leaving it at your quarters along with a vase of your favorite flowers. Then he considered axing the flowers and giving you a new set of sparring gloves with the letter just in case you weren’t the flower type.

So many variables ran through his mind. After a few minutes of racking his brain for ideas, he gave up. He knew that once Johnny woke up, they would be able to create a plan together. Johnny was always the voice of reason.

Heaving a sigh, Simon glanced at his watch and noted that they were nearly an hour into the flight home. He resigned to closing his eyes and letting sleep take him for the rest of the flight.

In the short three hours that he slept, he dreamt of his two favorite people — Johnny Mactavish and you. His Sergeant and his surgeon. He dreamt of cerulean eyes and wolfish smile, and your sparkling gaze and shy grin. He dreamt of Soap’s booming laughter and muscular arms. He dreamt of your excited rambling about medical procedures and the scent of your (perfume/cologne).

He was woken a few hours later by Captain Price’s booming voice echoing through the plane, “Touch down in 2!”

Simon reached down to gently shake Johnny's shoulder, rousing him from his slumber. The Sergeant rubbed the sleep from his eyes before standing with Simon. Johnny stretched his muscles and cracked his neck before slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder.

The 141 jogged off of the plane and onto the solid concrete of the hangar.

The team stood at attention, lined up in a row while Price and Laswell stood off to the side.

“At ease. I know you’re all itching to wash up and rest but I expect you in the conference room in 15 for the mission debriefing. After that, you’re free to go.” Price informed, as it was custom to give mission reports to Laswell and Shepherd after a mission was completed.

“Yes, sir,” was echoed by all of 141 before they all started walking to the base entrance. Johnny gravitated back towards his Lieutenant and once they were inside the base, they both began the trek to your quarters. It only took about five minutes to get to your quarters so it would give them plenty of time to say hello to you before going to the briefing.

As he walked, Johnny fished his personal phone out of his cargo pants pocket before finding your contact. It was one of the first ones, as he texted you and Simon the most. He clicked on your picture, a candid of you smiling up at Simon, and began typing up a text to you.

> just landed. see you in a min.

He smiled to himself as he pressed send before pocketing his phone again.

Meanwhile, Simon's cool, calculating eyes were trained on Laswell, who he could still see walking with Price. The second he got off the plane, Simon immediately noticed her nervous demeanor. She was picking at the skin by her nails as she walked. She avoided eye contact with everyone except for Price, and even that seemed forced.

Alarms sounded in the Lieutenants’ head and Simon's eyes narrowed under his mask. This was more than just a personality quirk of hers, he thought.

After a few hallways, your two best friends arrived at your quarters. Simon raised his gloved hand and knocked on your door. The two men waited for a response for a minute before Simon knocked again, louder this time. Johnny was behind him, glancing down at his phone to see if you had responded. Only to see that his text bubble had turned green.

His grin dropped into a frown and his brows furrowed in confusion and concern. Had he done something wrong that made you block his contact? Or did you lose your phone in the last two weeks? Either possibility made his heart race with anxiety.

Minutes passed and Simon was still pounding on your door, raising the attention of a few privates walking the halls. Johnny stopped him.

“They haven’t texted back. Something’s not right, Simon.” Johnny muttered, making the Lieutenants’ heart drop.

The combination of Laswell behaving out of character and you being nowhere to be found, he knew there was something going on.

The two soldiers jogged to the elevator where they saw Price standing with Laswell. Price glanced away from Laswell to look at the men with a relaxed smile.

“You went to go see Doc? How’s our medic?” Price asked them, knowing you were their closest friend and who they spent most of their time with. At the mention of your name, Laswell’s eyes widened just a fraction, but just enough for Simon to notice.

“Funny you mention that. We were just at their room and no one answered. Matter of fact, they haven’t answered their phone at all. We were coming to ask you if you’ve seen them.” Johnny explained, hopeful that maybe his Captain had information on your whereabouts. Those hopes were quickly dashed when Price’s eyebrows furrowed and his relaxed smile fell into a confused frown.

“Haven’t heard a word from them since they left on that med-evac, I’m afraid. I’ll be sure to ask Shepherd in the briefing. If there’s anything going on, he should have an idea.”

With that, Price, Laswell and the two soldiers continued to the conference room.

After a few hallways and elevators, Laswell and 141 all arrived to the conference room where Shepherd was waiting. One by one, the soldiers plopped into different chairs, fatigue from the long mission catching up to them. Price had taken to leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

Laswell turned the projector on and connected her laptop before pulling up mission notes. She began the mission report by listing all intel that 141 collected as well as any supplies along the way. She listed all targets that were eliminated, whether they were arms dealers, cartel members or just Russian soldiers.

Once she was done using the projector, she turned on the lights.

Lastly, Laswell began rifling through different files to find more information, and Simon noticed how her fingers shook while she was skimming the documents. She found the manila folder for the next mission and haphazardly pulled it out of the stack and set it onto the table. So haphazardly, in fact, that another folder came out with it. A particularly thick folder that had a big, red stamp on it, reading “classified”. Your full name was written on the tab of that very folder.

Immediately the air in the room shifted. Price kicked off his spot at the wall and stomped to the table. His intense blue eyes were staring daggers as he glared at Kate and Shepherd. Kyle's usual grin was replaced by a frown.

Beside Simon sat Johnny, who’s usually bright eyes had darkened to a considerable degree. His jaw tensed at the mention of your name being in a classified file.

Simon's gloved hands were clenched into fists under the table, white knuckling with how tight they were. His nostrils flared under his mask.

Laswell cursed under her breath and scrambled to retrieve that folder but Price beat her to it, snatching the folder up with furrowed brows and a clenched jaw.

“Since when does my medic have a fuckin’ classified file? Hmm?” John waves the file in front of Laswell and Shepherd. Laswell crossed her arms and shot a conflicted look at Shepherd who gave her nothing back in return, effectively throwing her to the wolves.

“So let me get this straight. Not only is the medic of my fucking task force nowhere to be found but their name is plastered on a damn classified file.” He continued, all but roaring at Shepherd.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t concern you, John. It doesn’t concern any of you, actually.” Laswell forced out with a mask of faux professionalism. Simon could tell that she didn’t even believe what she was selling, not for one second.

“Don’t give me that, ‘doesn’t concern you’, bullshit!” John shouted, face burning red with unbridled rage, his index finger pointed in her direction.

She flinched at his finger in her face and his voice dripping with malice.

“Laswell’s right, Captain. This is purely need to know. And you all, don’t need to know. End of discussion.” General Shepherd interjected with a cold, detached tone.

“That’s the medic of the bloody task force! My task force! If anyone needed to know, it would be me!” John fired back, nostrils flared and lips pursed.

Throughout their Captain’s shouting, the rest of 141 had their hackles raised as they assessed the situation with clenched jaws and narrowed eyes.

“Negative, John. If they were still your medic, then you would need to know. But they’re not.” The room had fallen silent the second that the words passed General Shepherd’s lips. You could hear a pin drop.

In the blink of an eye, the room unraveled.

Captain Price’s eyes darkened as he turned his wrath completely towards Shepherd instead of Laswell. Curses went flying as he spat insults at the General, giving absolute fuck all about ranking at this point.

Kyle immediately followed suit, pointing accusatory fingers at the General and shouting across the room.

“What the fuck!” Johnny growled, his husky Scottish accent echoing across the room. He hits his fists against the table before jumping out of his seat.

Simon launched out of his chair and crossed the room in two seconds flat. He charged at Shepherd, gripping him by the collar of his uniform and dragging him out of his seat. No one made any move to stop him as he yanked the General to his feet. No one made any move to stop him as he spat in his flinching face.

“Give us answers now,” Simon spoke in his ear, dangerously calm, “or you’ll wish we still had a medic.”

Shepherd didn’t have a chance to open his mouth before Laswell finally spoke up, interrupting the chaos.

“They’re missing! They’ve been missing ever since the helicopter left that day.” Her voice shook as she spoke. “I couldn’t say anything until the mission was finished successfully. He thought it would be a distraction. I wanted to. I really wanted to, John.” She directed the last sentence to her friend, her voice breaking.

“Prove it, Kate. Prove it and tell me, us everything.” He pleaded. He knew deep down that she was just following orders from the bloody General.

“Laswell, don’t you d-,” Shepherd was cut off not only by Simon tightening his grip around his neck but by Laswell shouting at him.

“I am telling them everything, orders be damned. I have had this stuck in my head for two weeks and I couldn’t say a fucking thing because of you. None of them trust me anymore because of you.” She seethed from across the room. Somehow, even if she wasn’t screaming like the soldiers, her anger was vengeful and scorned. It was burning and searing, like fire and brimstone.

“I’m showing them everything.” Kate spat at Shepherd while she keyed a code into her laptop. She searched her computer to find the task force’s security page, which was filled with different cameras and protocols.

One camera she was searching for in particular, the recovered camera footage from the crashed helicopter two weeks ago.

Once she found it, she reached to turn off the lights for the projector, and pressed play on the footage.

The boys looked at the projector screen and were taken aback at the footage. For the first time in two weeks, the 141 team saw you.

Simon and Johnny saw you.

You had wheeled the female patient’s gurney into the helicopter before climbing in yourself. You said goodbye to your assistant before closing the door.

“You’re the 141’s surgeon, I presume? Nikolai at your service.” They could hear Nikolai say, a bit muffled but still audible.

“Yeah, Price talks about you a lot! It’s nice to have a friend in high places.” They heard you respond with a grin, which made the Lieutenant and Sergeant’s chest tingle.

You were soon strapped in and lifting off, making the camera shake a bit from the turbulence.

The team watched with bated breath as you looked down at your patient who was wincing in pain.

Simon felt his lips quirk into a grin under his mask as he watched you take the injured woman’s hand in your own. He admired how you were able to keep your warm and sympathetic nature after seeing so much bloodshed in your line of work. He loved how you never failed to comfort your patients while you treated them.

Johnny watched as you looked down at the injured woman with sympathy in your eyes and squeezed her hand in yours. He couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, chest warm at the pure sight of you.

The woman pulled you close in some newfound strength and whispered something in your ear, making your eyebrows furrow in shock and confusion.

The team saw Laswell take a breath and look away from the camera. They were confused but only for a second.

A metallic glint right next to you made Simon and Johnny heart drop to their feet. You didn’t notice it, at least not quickly enough, because your patient was soon jumping out of her gurney and twisting your left arm into an impossible angle. The crack that echoed from your broken bones and your cry of pain made everyone in the room wince.

“No, no, no..” Johnny pleaded under his breath, voice cracking at just the sight of you injured. He felt his throat tighten when he saw your eyes scrunched shut in pain.

Simon was frozen. He couldn’t blink, he couldn’t talk, he couldn’t move. All he could do was watch as another person he loved was hurt in front of him.

You had no reprieve when, to the teams horror, the woman shoved a knife right into your stomach. They saw how your eyes widened in horror and shock, much like Simon and Johnny's. They heard your initial noise of pain that quickly turned into a guttural scream when the woman yanked the knife out of you with a brutal twist.

Simon couldn’t fucking breathe. All he saw on your uniform was red. Blood fucking red. It soaked your tactical jacket and quickly trickled down your pants and onto your seat. You were going to die. He just knew it. Just like his mother. Just like Tommy. Just like Beth. And just like little Joseph.

Johnny's eyes were so blurry with unshed tears that he couldn’t see the footage anymore. He almost didn’t want to wipe his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see your bloody figure again, or see how your crying face mirrored his.

They both wished they could just yank you through the camera and take you in their arms. They wish they could shield you from any knife or any broken bones. They would cup the crown of your head and shush your sobs the same way you comforted them so many times.

They needed you in their arms.

Captain Price watched in horror as the scene continued. He watched as the woman used the same knife that she stabbed you with to throw at his friend, Nikolai. He heard Nikolai’s quiet gurgle as the knife met his chest.

It was only a matter of moments until the aircraft started swaying from Nikolai being down. In those moments, the woman had leaped from the gurney altogether and grabbed a parachute and a tactical rope. She pulled your sluggish figure against her and tied you to her, your back pressed against her chest. Once she ensured that the rope was tight and secure, she pulled the parachute on and jumped out of the quickly falling helicopter.

That was the last footage the camera caught before being submerged under the dark ocean water below.

That footage would be the last Task Force 141 saw of you for one year. The last that Simon and Johnny saw of you for one year.

next chapter

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dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice · 7 months

Text

The Grim Reaper's Guide to Breaking Every Rule of the Universe /// Chapter 1

I just want to say thank you so much to everyone who showed love towards the prologue and the memes I made, I've ended up gaining more followers in the last week than I have in the last couple years lol. Unfortunately Alastor isn't going to make an appearance for at least two chapters, but I hope you like what I've written so far. Enjoy!

Summary: When touring America for the sake of it, you go to stay with your aunt in New Orleans for a while, taking up a peaceful part-time job restoring objects. But a few weeks in, a package arrives containing an old radio that's seen better days, along with a note seemingly written by someone who thinks they could fist-fight the Devil.

What you didn't know, was the hell of a path that was now set out in front of you. Not fist-fighting the Devil, but instead a very smug radio host who would have no problem spending the rest of his days driving you up the walls.

But two could play that game.

Tags: Demiromantic-Asexual Alastor x Demiromantic-Asexual OC/Reader - 1920s/30s New Orleans - fluff - angst - EXTREME slow burn - crack - Violence (It's Alastor what else)

Word Count: 5278

Warnings: Period-typical racism and sexism, Period-typical attitudes towards neurodivergency. MC'S RACE IS DEFINED DUE TO PLOT REASONS (also because she is based off my OC)

Taglist - comment or message to be added!

Now available on Wattpad and AO3 (please let me know if links aren't working)

< Prologue // Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 >

PART 1: Chapter 1

Congrats! You're Adopted

Impluvius (Definition): Soaked with rain. (Adjective)

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Tuesday, 11th June, 1929.

Arriving on your Aunt’s doorstep soaked to the bone in the middle of a hurricane was the last thing on your list of ‘crazy crap that could happen’. But alas, here you were, shivering and seething as you hauled your trunks up the steps to the front door. You were lucky enough that the area was only being battered by the edge of the storm, allowing you to find a sleeper train that was still willing to run from Montgomery to New Orleans, but it had left you in a sour mood when they had revoked their food services, because damn you were in the mood for a simple ham and cheese sandwich. And the mood only had to sour further when you found yourself standing outside the station for a good fifteen minutes waiting for a driver whilst you and your belongings were drowned by the ongoing summer downpour. Sure, you were used to the torrential downpour of the Yorkshire moors, where there were more wet days than dry, but you were prepared for that, not for the barbarous battering of the 70mph winds that forced you to stuff your useless hat away, leaving the once neat updo of hair that you had meticulously styled that morning to whip you in the eye whenever a gale flew past.

And, as if the gods had something out for you, the taxi that pulled up decided it would be hilarious to speed to a stop in the middle of the giant puddle that had accumulated next to the pavement, sending out a small wave that reached your ankles, soaking your frilly socks and favourite patterned heeled oxford shoes that your mother had gifted on your 18th birthday.

“Oh for Christ’s sake.” You hissed to yourself, lifting your foot to inspect the leather. The driver was lucky that they were already three years old, otherwise you would’ve given him a glare deathly enough to send him to an early grave. Or so you hoped.

Thankfully, the driver didn’t pay you much attention, clearly too tired for small talk, simply asking for an address. Though he had paused when you spoke, turning to eye you up and down where you were cramped uncomfortably between your luggage in the back seat, grunting out a “You English?”, to which you nodded, muttering that you were visiting your aunt. The drive was silent after that, the only sound being the loud sputtering engine and the rain that pounded against the windshield. Minutes passed and you were quickly outside the house, which led to now: trembling in your boots, rapping your knuckle against the green wooden door with wet hair clinging to your face and eyebags that could rival a chronic insomniac.

It wasn’t long until the sound of locks clicking and unlatching reached your ears, and the door creaked open, an eye peeking through the gap. After it landed on you, it quickly swung open, revealing your Aunt Agnes in a nightgown and robe, with an oil lantern in hand. At the sight of her, you gave a half-wave and shaky smile.

She gasped your name. “Oh, there you are my lovely! I thought you got lost in the storm!” Realising the state you were in, she hurriedly placed the lantern on the hallway cabinet, rushing out to help you haul your luggage in. “I was so worried your train had been cancelled by the hurricane. Here, get yourself out the cold – you can put your coat to dry by the fire.” She handed you your leather duffel bag before crouching down and lugging the largest trunk into her arms with a grunt. Making sure everything was in the hallway, she went to close the door, though you didn’t miss the wary scan she took of the street, or the diligent focus of making sure every lock and chain was in place. The wariness soon disappeared, however, as she spun around to face with a grin, her thick braid of long, brown hair whipping over her shoulder.

Giggling as she bounded over, she wrapped you up in a strong hug, and you reciprocated with matching eagerness, but also trying your best not to cringe at the squelching noises your waterlogged coat made.

“It’s so nice to see you!” You said exhausted as you released her, teeth still chattering from the chill. “The rooves were practically coming off in Montgomery, so I’m surprised they were willing to keep the trains running.”

“Well there’s no need to worry about that any more, you’re here now! Come, I must get you warmed up.” she asserted warmly, leading you with a hand rubbing against your back, down the hallway into the kitchen. Rummaging through a wicker basket, she pulled out a spare nightgown. “Go see if your spare underwear is dry, then head to the bathroom across the hall and change into this. I’ll go make you some warm milk and honey.”

Thanking her, you quickly made your way into the living room where your belongings had been left, unlatching the clasps of the trunk to reveal your damp clothing. Luckily, there was some underwear in the middle that had not yet been affected, so you grabbed them and returned to the hallway to try and find the bathroom.

After several failed attempts of opening the wrong doors, you finally came across the bathroom, eagerly shedding yourself of your dripping wet layers, welcoming the warmth of the soft, dry underwear and ivory coloured nightgown. Returning to the living room, you dumped your wet clothes on your trunk, before walking around the sofa. Planting your behind in the armchair closest to the fire, you melted into the cushions with a relieved sigh, sticking your feet out in front of the flames to try and get some feeling back in your toes.

It wasn’t long before the clinking from the kitchen ceased, and your Aunt came back through, meticulously balancing a wooden tray with two large steaming mugs sat on top. Placing them down, she handed you the one covered in purple flowers. Thanking her, you instantly took a sip, letting the sweet honey and heated milk warm your insides as you watched your aunt take a seat in her own well-loved armchair.

“Sooo,” she began with a knowing grin whilst tossing you a crocheted blanket. “How’s America been so far for you?”

You scrunched your face in thought. “…Surprisingly not as bad as I thought. I think Great-Auntie Beatrice had influenced my opinion a bit too much growing up.”

Agnes rolled her eyes. “A bit?? That old woman has despised the country since that American lad up and left her back in the 1870’s.”

You snorted over your mug. “Well, she certainly has taught me to not raise my expectations about the place, but, I’ve got to say it has allowed me to be more impressed by what I see – especially the Appalachian mountains, they’ve definitely got a unique charm to them. Thank you, by the way, for letting me use your cabin up there.”

She waved you off. “Oh, it’s no problem, really. I would give you the place if the twins weren’t so keen on going up there.”

“Speaking of the twins, how are the three of you doing?” you asked.

Agnes let a weary smile cross her face. “We’re doing better, now anyways. The twins had some issues when starting school here – starting fresh at 16 in a completely different country certainly has its cons. It’s died down now, but in the first few months they were followed home by some kids who would taunt them for the way they spoke. Hell,” she laughed in disbelief. “they even had a teacher who thought they were Scottish for the first three weeks until I came in for a meeting about their grades and spent ten minutes explaining to her that not everyone in England speaks the same way as those pompous Londoners who squeal at the slightest bit of mud on their shoes.”

“What?!!” you guffawed, trying to stifle a laugh. “Please tell me they at least beat some of the kids up.”

“I wish.” Agnes sighed, sinking back in her chair. “But I don’t want anymore attention on them than they already have. Anything else and those kids will go looking for dirt on them and the last thing I want is for them to find out who their father is.”

You looked up at her in surprise. “You don’t??” you asked, perplexed.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Agnes said sternly. “I loved their father to the ends of the universe and back, but the two of them being mixed English-Japanese will garner the wrong type of attention here. God forbid, if it gets out their mum’s a pagan witch it’ll be the end of peace!” She vented, throwing her arms up in frustration.

You pondered her words for a moment. “But I thought New Orleans was considered a safer place for things like witchcraft? Isn’t voodoo a popular religion and practice here?”

“It is, but it’s still kept more on the down-low. When you have a religion originating from a place like Africa, white Christians can get reeeaallll iffy about it, and it’s no different here – I believe there’s laws in place against parts of the practice.” She explained. “But it doesn’t stop them from keeping their shops open. Our neighbour Neliah runs a gorgeous corner shop near the outskirts – I can’t and won’t practice voodoo, but I do treat myself with a visit whenever I need new herbs, I could literally fall asleep in there with the lovely way it smells.” You smiled at the way she seemed to get lost in thought, though she quickly snapped herself out of it. “But anyway! How’s my sister doing? How did Emmett react with the news?”

You startled slightly at the sudden change. “Yea, mum’s actually doing alright. Dad… took a while to get his head around what was going on, you know, when he found her Grimoire and spell books, and the fact that we’d been hiding it from him for years, but he’s surprisingly calmed down about it. They still go to church, to keep up their reputation and all that, but he’s letting her hang up protection wards around the house, he even got involved with casting a spell with us at one point, even though he had no clue what he was doing the whole time.” You snorted, memories of your father’s wide eyes as he watched your mother wave a stick of incense around him, reminding you of the time when you were around six, you had returned from the forest by your house, covered in mud and brandishing stick-swords, declaring yourself as the deer queen as you dragged a shedded antler you had found among the moss through the back door – the look on your father’s face when he walked in from work to see you tying pink ribbons along the muddy, moss-covered bone was priceless.

Agnes let out a chortle, before sipping at her drink, her expression shifting slightly to one of mild concern. “And uh, how did they react when you were – ah – found out?”

Right, the whole reason you were here in the first place. “Not the greatest.” You said dejectedly. “Mum was distraught when they said they were thinking of taking me away – calling them every name under the sun the second they said ‘asylum’. So when dad suggested coming here, she jumped at the chance, but was crying the whole drive to the docks. I gave them an itinerary of where I was going to be and when, and they’ve been using it to send me letters and gifts, but it’s been hard being fully alone for the first time in my life.” You sank into your chair, tears building in your eyes the longer you spoke.

Agnes looked you up and down, her eyes filled with sorrow for you. “Well,” she began softly, standing up to approach you with a gentle hand on your shoulder. “you're not alone anymore, so you can forget about those stupid government officials and your, uh,” she squinted her eyes in confusion. “what do they call it?”

“Over action of the mind.” You forced out with a huff. “They don’t have an official name for it, but me being fidgety and forgetful is enough for them to call me insane apparently.”

She held her hand out for you to take, which you did, allowing her to pull you up. She said your name sternly. “You are not insane. You’re the loveliest, most intelligent girl I know – especially considering the amount of books you’ve read in your 21 years.” You gave her a small smile as thanks. “Now, I’ve readied your bedroom for you. It’s a little bare, but you're staying a while so I’ve left it to be up to your imagination, and with how fast your mind goes a minute, I’m sure you’ll make it the most fantastical and extravagant room in New Orleans.” She explained as she helped you pick up your luggage, leading you through the hallway and up the stairs.

Walking down the main upper hallway, you followed her down a second one to the left, until you came to a stop on the first door on the left side. Lowering her voice to a whisper, Agnes gestured to the door on the left further down. “That’s the bathroom. I’ve moved the boys’ stuff out and given them the second one across the main hall so you can have it to yourself.” She then gestured to the two doors on the right side of the hall, with a sign hanging on each, though the candlelight was too dim to make out the words. “That’s their bedrooms, so I’m afraid you’ll have to prepare for some loud wake-up calls.” She said with an amused smile.

Opening the first door on the left, she led you into a spacey room, that was, as described, quite bare, with only a four-poster bed pushed into the top-right corner, a dark, polished set of drawers and matching wardrobe facing the bed on the opposite wall, along with a familiar -looking changing screen in the bottom left corner decorated with storks flying above a Japanese landscape – you recognised it as one of the wedding gifts your uncle had gifted your aunt sixteen years ago. In the top left corner by the large open window was a vanity with clawed feet, holding up a large, ornate oval mirror, a cushioned stool pushed under it. Next to it was another door that led to the balcony. Nearer to the bedroom door was a large roll top desk, covered in drawers, shelves and pigeon holes, though the only object present was a small typewriter tucked under one of the shelves.

Excitement filling you, you strode across the room to the bed, the feeling of the fluffy rug under your feet a welcoming sign. Placing your trunk and bag down as gracefully as you could, you spun around to face your aunt with a wide grin on your face. “This is amazing!” you gasped quietly, mindful of the two other sleeping residents. “You didn’t have to give me all this.”

“Of course I did!” Agnes exclaimed, walking over to give you another hug. “Did you forget your mother and I practically lived and raised you and the twins together until just a year ago? I’m treating the three of you as equals until the day I die.”

Looking down at her, you observed the slight wrinkles appearing under her eyes, and the dark rings accompanying them that hadn’t been there the last time you saw her back when she still lived in York. Sighing, you stepped back. “I know.” You agreed warmly. “And thank you, for everything you’ve done so far.”

She ruffled the top of your head, your long strands of hair still clumped together with rain water and the clips you had failed to pin it back with. “Anything for you. Now get some sleep, it’s past midnight and the boys will be giving you the earliest and loudest wake-up call once they figure out you’re here.”

You agreed, bidding your aunt goodnight before taking the candle she left for you over to the vanity, where you spent the next ten minutes trying your best to find every pin and clip in your damp hair, then tediously trying to brush it smooth enough to then twist into a loose braid. You also quickly took out your belongings that were wet, hanging them over the screen and the drying rack you had found in the wardrobe. Satisfied you collapsed onto the double bed, bouncing slightly on the plush mattress. Burying yourself under the covers, you blew the candle out, bathing the room in darkness, and using the rain outside as white noise, you slowly drifted off, mentally preparing yourself for the twins when they would come to wake you up.

Oh, and wake you up they did.

New Orleans, Louisiana, USA – Wednesday, 12th June, 1929.

You were barely able to pull your heavy eyelids apart when the door in the far corner swung open, the door handle hitting the wall with a resounding ‘BANG!’, followed by a very loud “BOYS!!”, echoing through the house.

That wasn’t the end of it though. You had barely begun to turn over at the sound of several pairs of heavy footsteps bounding across the wooden floorboards, when two very heavy weights crashed on top of you, causing your eyes to fly open as the wind was knocked out of you.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!?!” you screeched, flailing about as much as you could until your arms were free, reaching over the covers to shove at the two long figure sprawled across you.

Loud giggling filled your ears, and you looked over your duvet to find two familiar identical-looking faces, with matching cheshire grins, peering over at you mischievously from where they laid across your body. Groaning, you flopped back down, choosing instead to stare at the forest green drapes strung across the poster bed. Though it was soon replaced by two mops of loose, curly hair as they peeked over the edge at you, one dark brown-almost black, the other a pale blonde. You were thankful of their opposite hair colour, because the only way you would’ve been able to tell them apart otherwise would be with the different freckles and moles dotted across their pale faces.

“Mum said you came in looking like a soggy rat last night.” Teased Allie, reaching out to prod at your cheek with a snicker.

Your own hand shot out, shoving his blonde head away. “Did not.” You responded groggily, as you tried to shove his twin off the other side of you. “Now get your fat arses off of me.”

They gasped in mock offence, immediately plopping themselves back on top of you, both reaching to poke and prod at your face. “You said a bad word ~” Ollie chimed in a sing-song voice, kicking his legs behind him playfully as he tried to shove a finger in your ear. Slapping them both away, you prepared for another onslaught, until determined footsteps drew closer to your door, and the two of them froze as their mother walked in, a wooden spoon grasped in her hand.

“ODESSEY. ADAGIO. Get off of your cousin before I send you to school WITHOUT breakfast!” She hollered, a thunderous look on her face.

The two of them collectively groaned. “Muuuumm, don’t call us thaaaat.” Whined Ollie, as he took his sweet time slowly rolling over your whole body before sliding off the bed to stand next to his equally grumpy brother. You followed not long after, sitting up at the edge to watch the ordeal with a smug smile.

“Call you what?! Your real names?! Well then, you better get yourselves downstairs!” she exclaimed, pointing at the door with the wooden spoon.

Reluctantly, they complied, but that didn’t stop Allie from poking his tongue out as he disappeared through the doorway, narrowly missing a swing from his mother’s spoon. Facing your aunt, you finally noticed that she was already up and dressed for work, donning a cream blouse with a blue ribbon tied around the neck, along with a matching blue maxi pencil skirt that reached just above her ankles. Her hair was meticulously styled in an updo similar to the one you had yesterday, her chestnut brown hair twisted back in swirls that ended in a loose low bun, with some strands neatly framing her face. She approached you, the short heels of her shoes muffled by the rug.

“Morning! Breakfast is ready.” She explained with a smile that you returned. “Freshen yourself up and come meet us downstairs, ok?” You agreed, and she disappeared back downstairs.

Rummaging through you clothes that were now thankfully dry, you opted for a loose blouse, and a pair of wide-legged tweed trousers, taking them to the bathroom. Slipping a leather belt through the loops, you quickly wet your hair over the bath, scrubbing in some shampoo and conditioner before rinsing it out and rubbing a towel over the strands until it was no longer dripping. Happy with the light makeup you applied, you headed back downstairs, running a hand through the wet tangles until you reached the dining table.

“I see what mum meant by soggy rat.” You turned to see Allie smirking over the table as you sat down in front of a plate full of English breakfast.

“I’ll turn you into a soggy rat.” You muttered back, stuffing half a hash-brown into your mouth, whilst simultaneously trying not to sigh in relief after not eating for at least 24 hours.

“OoOoh shiver me timbers!” he mocked back, waving his hands in mock fright.

Ollie’s tall figure appeared as he walked over from the kitchen - bacon, eggs, hash-browns and baked beans piled excessively onto his plate. “Mum told us you were going to be staying in our cabin up in the mountains.” He said as he sat down. “Did you like the gift we left?” he said with a grin half lopsided by the food he was shoving in his mouth.

You glared up at them from your plate. “Yes. The excessive amount of fake cockroaches in the bathroom was a very welcomed surprise. Odessey.”

The grin on your cousin’s face fell into a pout at the use of his full name. Letting out a prolonged grunt, he returned to his breakfast.

“Besides,” you started. “It’s not like I’m the only one suffering here. Apparently you’re both Scottish now.”

The two of them let out a collective groan, slumping in their seats.

“It’s not our fault Miss Sammie has less intelligence than a hamster.” Whined Allie as he stabbed an egg with his fork. “She thought Japan was part of China the other day!”

You let out a sharp laugh. “I hope that doesn’t reflect on your learning, or your mum will end up with steam coming out her ears.” You snickered.

“Thankfully it doesn’t.” replied Ollie, rolling his grey eyes as he stuck a whole wad of bacon in his mouth, making sure to not get any grease on his uniform. “Otherwise we’d be begging mum to move us back to England.”

“Speaking of moving, how are you guys finding it here?” you asked, hoping the answers were positive.

“Meh, it’s been alright.” Said Allie with a shrug. “The alligators are cool, but apparently we’re not allowed to wrestle them, which is soooo boring.”

“And the summers are shit. Nothing but heatwaves.” Ollie added.

“Well that’s what you get when you’re used to living in the North-East of England, where one of the nearest land masses is Norway.” You pointed out. “Plus English summers can be unbelievably humid, so I’m not sure what you’re whining about.”

“Oho, just you wait until July hits, then you’ll eat your words.” He retorted. “Hurricane season can be a bitch, too.”

“Don’t remind me.” You groaned. “I barely experienced the tail-end of one last night and it almost killed me.”

The two cackled at you, much to your annoyance, but is was cut short at the sound of your name being called. Looking up, you watched as your aunt poked her head around the doorway, the handset of a rotary phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, beckoning you over with an eager look, before disappearing back into the hallway. Quickly, you got up, marching round the table. Turning the corner, you watched as she ended the call. “Yes, yes. Thank you so much Mr LeBlanc, I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Yes – buh-bye now. Bye.”

Placing the phone back on its metal cradle, she whirled around to face you, excitement prominent on her features. “Sooo, that was Mr LeBlanc on the phone…” she proclaimed, eyeing you with a growing smile.

All you could do was stare in confusion, silence filling the wood-panelled hallway. Agnes darted her wide eyes between you and the phone, clearly waiting in anticipation for your reaction, but you only knew two things about New Orleans: jazz, and that it had a river shaped slightly similar to the London Thames. So you continued to stare.

Seeing that you weren’t going to react, she let out a sigh. “Mr LeBlanc runs Héritage Amour Réparation D’Antiquités on Julia Street down near the Mississippi River, and he’s willing to take you on as an apprentice?” she said as if it was the most obvious thing on Earth.

You blinked. “Wait, you’ve been looking for apprenticeships for me??” You gawked. “Since when??? I don’t think I even mentioned that I would be looking for one in the letters I sent you.”

“Oh, you haven’t.” she assured. “Your mum told me in a letter about a month ago when you were up in New York, so I thought I would speed up the process by looking for one for you.”

You continued to gawk in silence.

“Careful,” smirked Allie from over your shoulder. “You’re gonna catch flies.”

You didn’t even turn to face him as you reached a hand back, ignoring his whine as you smushed it against his face, shoving him back into the dining room.

“You –” you pointed at yourself. “You got me an apprenticeship??” She nodded excitedly. “Jesus Christ Agnes. At this point I’m gonna be indebted to you for the rest of my life!”

She clasped her hands together, throwing her head back as she laughed. “It’s no problem, really. I just want you to get settled in as soon as possible. I told Mr LeBlanc that if you accepted, he’s welcome to come for tea on Friday to meet you, then, if he’s happy, we’ll go for a day out around the city centre, and maybe visit him in his shop during that time. Sound good?”

You blinked repeatedly, trying to wrap your head around what your aunt was saying. “I – uh, yea. That would be great, actually.”

“Great! I’ll give him a call back, and you’ll meet him on Friday.” She proclaimed, satisfied as she picked the phone back up, holding the headset to her ear whilst twisting the numbers into the dial.

Still in a small state of shock, you turned back towards the dining room, slowly making your way back to your seat. Plopping down, you were met with the smug smiles of the twins.

“Looks like you’re gonna have to splurge big time on mum’s birthday. Don’t ’cha think Allie?” said Ollie, turning to his brother with a shit-eating grin.

His brother returned his expression with equal enthusiasm. “Oh yea. I was thinking, perhaps a top of the range Gramophone? I heard they have the new model in down at that shop on Canal Street.” He turned to you. “What do ya think cousin? Ready to serve our mum for the rest of eternity?”

All you could do was flick egg at their foreheads.

——

Friday came running up on you before you even realised, and here you were helping your aunt prepare roasted duck and vegetables whilst simultaneously trying to keep the twins away from the desserts in the icebox – you figured the sneaky buggers knew exactly what creaky floorboards to avoid. When the doorbell rang, Agnes encouraged you to go answer it, so, putting on a smile, you opened the door to welcome in your guest.

Mr LeBlanc was a warm and chirpy type of man: 63 years old with white hair and a matching frizzy moustache and beard, dressed in a smart blue shirt and neatly ironed trousers and slacks. He was around 5’7 – around the average height for men at this time. Sticking his hand out, he gave you a wide smile, and feeling the welcoming aura ride off him in waves, you gladly grasped his outstretched hand with your own.

“Bonne soirée! I do hope I’ve got the right address!” he laughed, his accent a funny mix between French and southern American. You assured that he was at the right place, introducing yourself. “Oh, what a lovely name! I am Ralph LeBlanc, but I’m sure your aunt has already informed you of me.” He said expectantly, voice slightly croaky and hoarse from old age.

Giving him a smile and a nod, you invited him in, bringing him to the dining room where your aunt and cousins were just finishing the preparations for dinner, and you all sat down, tucking into the delicious meal.

The dinner was successful, Ralph happily agreeing to take you on as an apprentice whilst also assisting him with running the repair shop, as he was currently the only one managing it. You had informed him of your history degree, and your school awards in art, and after that he was very eager to agree, almost acting excited when he invited you to come to the shop next Monday for a ‘starter shift’ where he would show you the ropes and make sure you were settled. It was as if the gods switched up on your luck, turning it round from the horrific start you had arriving here, and you weren’t planning on losing this good streak anytime soon.

“Now,” said Mr LeBlanc as he stood putting his coat on by the front door. “Make sure you are wearing something comfy and flexible, preferably pants if you own any, as we don’t want any skirts getting trapped in anything.” You nodded, and he paused for a moment, looking up at you. “Odd question, but how tall are you and your cousins? I don’t think I’ve met many with your heights, especially a woman.”

You glanced at your feet, now conscious of the way you towered over him slightly. “Last time I checked I was 5’9, and the twins are 6 foot. I uh, got it from my dad – he’s 6’1, and they got it from theirs.”

His eyes widened as he puffed his cheeks out. “La vache that’s tall. And did you say the boys were only 16? Wow, I really ain’t trying to make this sound weird but those magazine people would snatch you three up if they knew you were here.”

You laughed shaking your head, albeit nervously at the thought of having your picture taken. Thanking him, you waved him out and said your goodbyes.

Closing the door, you let out a relieved sigh, grateful that the evening was successful, and you retreated back to your room for the evening.

Thought it didn’t stop your excitement for the Monday to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope you've enjoyed it so far! The ending’s a bit rushed, and Alastor's not going to appear for a couple chapters, but I hope I can make the wait worth it. See you soon for Chapter 2!!

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floral-force · 2 months

Text

Saddle Tramp - Chapter 1

ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST

simon "ghost" riley x f!reader - old west/cowboy/western au

summary: Anything is possible in the American West--unless your destiny is predetermined. When your fate as the heiress of a railroad magnate becomes entangled with that of a drifting bounty hunter, you ride into a world of opportunity. Despite your differences, something blooms between you and the masked man that is truly once in a lifetime. Saddle up for a journey west full of rugged terrain, kisses under the stars, smoky saloons, and finding love when you least expect it. (Loosely based on spaghetti westerns and the myth of Hades and Persephone.)

words: 2.7k+

warnings/tags/disclaimers: my work/blog is always 18+ only. I do not own any of the media I reference. alcohol and tobacco use, VERY brief and mild sexual imagery, cowboy ghost does something to me, bounty hunter/cowboy task force 141, references to westerns/media in western settings

a/n: at last...I RETURN!! and I come with the first chapter of a fic that has been bouncing around in my skull for nearly a year. I listened to saddle tramp and I finally fleshed it out. I hope y'all enjoy the ride <3 series masterlist | read on ao3 | join the tag list

The hiss of steam and excited chatter hit your ears as soon as you stepped off the train. The trip from Chicago to Denver was comfortable, but nothing beat stretching tight muscles on solid ground. You ached at the thought of sitting again soon and considered yourself lucky to have such a problem. This trip had been a long time coming, but now that you were standing in Denver and faced with its new terrain and the prospect of your fate, a pit grew in your stomach where a flower should be. The sun late-morning sky and the crisp air refreshed your eyes and lungs after nearly five days of gas lamps and poor ventilation. A luxurious trip came at a cost greater than money, you thought, wincing while rolling your shoulders.

You heard a man call your name and snapped your head to the right as he approached you with the two bulging leather bags you’d packed. You walked towards him, picking up your skirt so you could increase your pace. Despite the cool spring air, beads of sweat formed on your skin as you hurried towards the end of the train. You wiped your dewy forehead with the back of your hand and huffed, hoping nobody could discern your discomfort. You stopped at the middle of the train to meet the man carrying your bags in his crisp blue uniform. As he came into view, you recognized his short brown hair and lean frame—it was Douglas, your father’s assistant.

“Miss, you didn’t need to meet me here!”

You politely smiled and smoothed out your skirts. “Well, here I am, sir.”

He cleared his throat and looked to his right at the bustling station. “The stage is waiting for you.”

“Here, let me take these off your hands,” you said, reaching for the luggage.

“No, miss, I couldn’t let you carry them! Your father would murder me if he found out.”

You yanked them out of his hands and met his wide green eyes. “He won’t, Mr. Douglas. Now, I’d really love to get the last leg of my trip over with. Traveling is hell for my head.”

“Right this way,” he sighed, motioning for you to follow him through the throng of people.

This wasn’t your first time in Denver, but it was a one-way trip. Your rigorous education groomed you to take over your family’s business, and your father finally decided it was time to begin the hands-on portion of your training. Responsibility made it slightly easier to pack your bags and leave the bustling city you called home, but the expectations on your shoulders weighed your feet down. The only people waiting for you in Denver were Douglas and your father, and you doubted you’d be allowed to visit your aunts and cousins in Chicago within the next six months.

At least Colorado had scenic views and the scent of opportunity. It helped distract you from the bumpy ride in the stagecoach; the first-class passenger train car spoiled you more than you realized.

“Only a few hours before we reach town, miss.”

“I don’t know how you stand this, Douglas. This is worse for my nausea than a choppy day on the lake or at sea.”

“You’ll adjust in time.”

“I hope so,” you grumbled, “because this is unbearable.”

Finally, the stagecoach came to a stop. Douglas exited and helped you step out, then gestured to the wooden posts framing a dusty main street.

“Welcome to Steel Run!”

You forced a smile, then grabbed your bags from the driver. Just ahead of the posts, you saw your father speaking with another man on the shaded porch of what you assumed to be the sheriff’s office. Squinting up at the awning, a large sign confirmed your guess. Douglas snatched your bags before you could protest, then urged you to follow him towards your new life.

“Mr. Clarke!”

Your father turned at Douglas’ call, then beamed when he saw you. He abandoned the conversation and walked towards you with his arms out. You fell into his hug and savored the small comfort despite the conflict in your chest. He said your name and planted a kiss on the top of your head. You looked up at him when he pulled away, hoping that your expression gave nothing away.

“I’m so happy you made it here safely. I trust the journey here was enjoyable?”

“It was, until the ride in the stage.”

He laughed. “You’ll become accustomed to it.”

“That’s what I told her, Mr. Clarke,” Douglas chirped.

“Good man!”

Your father’s hearty laugh echoed in your head and bounced off the buildings. You leaned to the left and looked past your father’s shoulder at the man standing awkwardly on the porch. He met your eyes, his hair cut short on his head and his clothes perfectly tailored. A badge pinned on his vest glinted when he shifted towards you. You furrowed your brow and nodded your chin at him.

“Who is he?”

“Oh, that fellow?” Your father twisted to look back, then gestured for the man to join your clump.

When he finally reached your father’s side, he gave you a slight bow. “I’m Phillip Graves. It’s a pleasure, miss.”

You gave him a weak smile. “How do you know my father?”

“My father used some of the profits from his fur trade to fund much of your father’s railroad company. When he passed a month ago, I took over and I’ve been working closely with Mr. Clarke ever since.”

“Phillip, please call me George. We’ll be closer than business partners soon.”

Closer than business partners? What in the hell was your father implying? Your hands grew clammy.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Graves.”

“Please, call me Phillip.”

Your father clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your duties as deputy. I wouldn’t want you to upset Sherriff Ryan.”

“I will see you later then, George.” He gave you a nod and took your hand, kissing your knuckles. “It was a pleasure. I look forward to seeing you again.”

Phillip turned and marched into the building. Your father watched him, then snapped back to focus his wide grin on you.

“I apologize for the short notice, but I’m hosting a welcome party for you tonight.”

“Tonight?” Your eyes widened and you groaned. “Father, you cannot be serious. I look a mess and the clothes I packed need to be ironed!”

“I went to the trouble of having the seamstress sew something together for you.”

“You didn’t have to—"

A sudden hug forced the air out of your lungs with an oof. “Consider it a welcome gift.” He pulled back and sighed. “Now, let’s head home.”

As you marched down the road towards your father’s property—no, your new home—Douglas pointed out a few notable storefronts. The seamstress on the right, the general store on the left, the saloon on the corner where a new street intersects the main road—“We named it Providence Street,” your father noted—and the doctor just across the street from it. How convenient, you mused as you passed the door. You peered down the street while you walked through the intersection. Meek dwellings peppered it, the short, small cabins housing hopeful prospectors. The buildings lining the road started to spread apart from each other, only one property claiming the very end of main street.

Finally, your trio approached the two-story home, its slanted roof and warm brown wood suddenly imposing under high noon. You stopped to stare when your toes reached the brick path leading to a shaded porch, the awning supported by four solemn cedar posts. In the distance, mountains scarred the sky; scattered around the home were the trees you’d watched crawl higher and stretch wider throughout the years. Your eyes flitted over the rope swing you’d abandoned after adolescence as a gentle breeze swayed the wooden seat. Lush green leaves offered shade around the property and wildflowers dotted it with splotches of color—you were glad you’d convinced your father to let nature take its course.

“You’re staring as if you’ve never seen it,” your father chuckled, snapping you out of your daze.

“Just savoring the moment, Papa.”

“There will be plenty of time for that later, my dove. For now, let’s go inside—you’ve had a long journey.”

You nodded and followed him, Douglas trailing behind you. Your father opened the front door and held it open for you with a wide smile. Your knees were weak as you crossed the threshold, the sweat on your skin and soaking into your clothes suddenly overwhelming. Excusing yourself and promising your return soon, you hurried up the plain white staircase with Douglas following in your frantic footsteps.

Immediately to the right at the top of the stairs was the door to your room. You turned to Douglas and held out your hands for your bags; he obliged with a nod and rushed back downstairs.

As soon as you stepped inside your room and shut the creaky door, your bags slipped out of your hands and hit the floor with a thud. Afternoon sun flooded the room through the windows in front of you and to your right, its burning light filtered by sheer white curtains. The chestnut armoire in the middle of the wall on your left faced a matching bed with plush sheets and pillows. A sweet siren song called you over and pulled you onto the mattress, finally relieving the fatigue you’d been fighting since morning. It bounced as you flopped belly-first onto it with a groan and a curse.

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed rich purple fabric draped across your reading chair in the corner, and something sparkled on the side table next to it. You decided to investigate later as your eyes fluttered shut, the siren of sleep pulling you into the sea of dreams.

A clang filled Simon’s ears when the bars of the town jail cell closed, the air thick under the bandana hiding half his face. Outside, there was a muffled whinny—probably Johnny’s impatient Pinto, Eejit. On his left stood Price, stroking his beard and watching the sheriff like a hawk as he counted out their reward. Johnny leaned against the doorframe with a hand in his pocket while Gaz looked over the wanted posters nailed into the back wall. The deputy stood over the sheriff’s shoulder across from Simon to observe the transaction. The bounty they’d brought in muttered in the cell, no doubt sending curses their way.

“Eight, nine, one thousand.” The sheriff slid the stack of bills across his desk. He tipped his hat. “Thank you kindly, gentlemen.”

“Happy to help,” Price said, pocketing the money.

“Bastards! My men will kill you!” The bounty yelled, knuckles white as he gripped the cell’s iron bars. The unbothered sheriff lit a cigarillo and offered one to the deputy, who turned it down.

“Not if we get to’em first, mate,” Gaz responded. Simon turned to see him rip a few posters off the wall and hand them to Johnny, his careful hands folding them one by one.

Price turned his back to the sheriff. “Let’s go, lads. Saw a pub down th’road.”

The deputy interrupted their exit with a scoff. “The saloon is at the corner across from the general store.”

Simon turned on his heel and sent a hidden scowl his way, eyebrows pressed together. The deputy withered under the searing gaze but to his credit, he barely showed it.

“I don’ give a fuck what you Yanks call it. If it serves whiskey and I pay for it, it’s a fuckin’ pub.”

He stormed out of the sheriff’s office and joined his group outside. Gaz and Johnny smirked at him as they untied their horses’ reins from the hitching rail, but Price shook his head. He started to count the money out and met Simon’s eyes under his hat when he gave him his cut. Even though no words were said, Simon could hear the older man scolding him for mouthing off. He smirked under his face cloth; Price knew that even a smack with the butt of his pistol wouldn’t change Simon. They joined the other two at their horses, untying them and urging them up the road single file.

A short walk up the road, and they were tying their horses up and then entering the town saloon. Jaunty music paused when Price parted the swinging doors and led the other three men inside, and it resumed once they swung closed behind Simon. Johnny wasted no time sauntering up to the bar and ordering a bottle of whiskey with four glasses while the others staked their claim on a table along the wall across from it. It was livelier than Simon had expected it to be in the late afternoon; the sun could still cut through the hazy, smoky air and shine on their sins. Gaz waved off a saloon girl and settled into the chair facing the wall, making sure not to block Simon’s view of the street outside.

Johnny arrived and set the whiskey and glasses in the center of the table with a grin. “Drink up lads, firs’ one ‘s’on me.”

Price poured the amber alcohol, and each man took a glass. He raised his in the air and said, “Cheers to a job well done.”

“May the next one be even easier,” Gaz added.

They shared a chuckle and clinked their glasses. The whiskey burnt Simon’s throat, but it was a welcome change from stale canteen water. The longer he lived in the States, the more he got used to their pathetic excuse for whiskey. Johnny refilled his glass as soon as he set it down. Simon raised his eyebrow, and the Scot only shrugged before taking a sip of his refreshed drink. He supposed this was Johnny’s way of telling him to relax—maybe tonight, he would.

But it would take more than a bottle of whiskey, that was for bloody sure.

“I’ll be right back,” Simon flashed his container of tobacco as he stood up.

Gaz looked up quizzically. “Why won’ya smoke in here, Ghost?”

Simon shook his head and pushed his chair in. “Too many people in here starin’.”

He cut off any protest before it could begin with hurried steps back outside and onto the creaky wooden porch. A deep breath of fresh air instantly calmed his nerves. He turned to the right where there was shade and leaned against a sun-bleached post in front of where their posse’s horses were tied up. After calming his flighty eyes, he tugged his face cloth down and under his chin. Finally, he placed a cigarillo he’d rolled just the night prior by the campfire light between his chapped lips and lit it with the steady hand he used to fire the pistol on his hip. The first drag was smoother than the ride into town, an unexpected treat. He was going to make this last and blame the long smoke break on the distant mountains piercing the sky.

He'd be lying if he said American scenery was blander than boiled potatoes.

Shadows grew longer as the sun descended towards the horizon, late-afternoon light trickling over the land. Another deep inhale numbed his mind, a smoky exhale danced towards the blue sky. Two men in crisp suits walked past and glanced at him, then quickly returned to their lively conversation after noticing the holsters on his hips. This town was perfect for a quick bounty and a drink, but not much more, Simon decided, flicking ash on the ground. He watched the smoke rise as the gray bits fluttered down and landed on the porch, robbed of the chance to meet freedom above, doomed to a fate they couldn’t change. He put the rolled tobacco back in his mouth and looked up.

Then, he saw her.

She stood in front of the general store fiddling with a piece of paper. The cigarillo nearly fell out of his mouth when the clouds parted and doused her in golden rays. She held her hand over her eyes and turned to her right, briefly scanning her surroundings and stopping on him. She returned his stare and made Simon her captive. If she walked over and demanded that he get on his knees and get under her skirt, he’d happily oblige. He shook his head and got the image out of his head—it was wrong to think of a lass like that, even more so when she looked that damn angelic.

When he opened his eyes, she had vanished, and his cigarillo was burnt out. He dropped it to the ground and snuffed it with the toe of his boot until it was ashy mush. He yanked the cloth back up over his nose and pushed the saloon doors open with a bang. His posse turned where they sat, watching him march to their table. His proposition would be a tough sell, but he had money in his pocket and would waste it all on squeaky beds and shitty whiskey if it meant they’d agree to it.

“We have to stay another night, lads.”

taglist: @johfaam0 @johfaam @nickangel13 @oliviagreenaway @sinfulsalutations @dheet @tizylish @sofasoap

#my fic #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost call of duty #call of duty fic #cod fic #cod mwii fanfic #f!reader #simon riley x f!reader #western au #cowboy simon riley #cowboy task force 141 #it heats up later do not worry my loves #saddle tramp #st

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ahqkas · 29 days

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♯ HIRAETH ; james patrick march

PAIRING! james patrick march x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! hiraeth (n.) — a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was, the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past

WORD COUNT! 6.8k

WARNINGS / TAGS! angsttt, reader is described to have hair, mention of love making + lmk of more if found !

NOTES! found a collection of podcasts that reminded me a bit too much of james , this work is inspired by dangerously yours’ masquerade !! all the credits to the devider below belong to @/menschenopfer

THE YEAR WAS 1927, AND LOS ANGELES WAS A CITY OF DREAMS, BEAMING WITH AMBITION, GLAMOUR, AND DARKNESS OF ITS OWN. The Hotel Cortez, with its imposing façade of carved stone and gleaming brass, towered over the busy streets below. It was a sanctuary for the elite, a place where luxury met mystery, and where secrets were buried deep within its intimidating walls.

The heavy doors of the hotel creaked open, and in stepped a woman whose presence commanded attention. She was the very meaning of old-world elegance, a figure that seemed to have stepped out of the newest magazine. Her [color] hair was styled in gentle waves that framed her face, and her eyes, sharp and enigmatic, glimmered with a secret knowledge. She wore a tailored traveling dress of navy blue, the fabric clinging to her form in a manner that was both modest and alluring. A black cloche hat sat atop her head, its wide brim casting a shadow over her striking features.

As you crossed the marble threshold, the polished floors beneath your heels echoed with each deliberate step. The hotel lobby was a grand room of the hotel, adorned with chandeliers that bathed the space in warm, golden light. The walls were lined with dark, rich wood paneling, and the air was filled with the faint scent of jasmine and the lingering aroma of fine cigars. Guests shuffled around in the lobby, their conversations a murmur of excitement, but their eyes discreetly turned to the striking woman who had just entered.

A hotel worker, dressed smartly in a bellboy uniform of crisp white and black, approached you with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to catering to the wealthy and powerful. He couldn't help but be taken aback by your appearance, the way you moved with an effortless grace that seemed to belong to someone your status.

"Good evening, madam," he said, his voice respectful but tinged with curiosity. His eyes darted briefly to your luggage — a single, exquisitely crafted leather bag, monogrammed with the initials that possibly belonged to you.

Without pausing, you handed him your smooth gloves, your tone cool and commanding. "Have my bag sent to Suite 81," you instructed, words clipped and precise.

The bellboy hesitated for only a moment before snapping to attention. "Yes, ma'am!" he replied, taking the bag with both hands as if it contained something made out of glass, something precious. He hurried off toward the elevator, casting a final, awed glance back at you.

You continued your way through the lobby and a low hum of conversation followed after you. Guests and staff alike seemed to recognize you, though none dared to approach you directly. Your reputation, it seemed, followed you as well.

"Good evening, Countess [Last name]!" came a cheerful greeting from one of the hotel's attendants, a middle-aged man with a handlebar mustache who had seen many notable figures pass through the Cortez's doors, but none quite like you.

You turned your head slightly in his direction, your lips curling into a polite smile that did not quite reach your eyes. "Good evening," you replied, voice smooth and cultured, with a hint of an accent that spoke of faraway lands.

The attendant bowed slightly as you passed, and within moments, another voice, this time a younger woman in the concierge uniform, echoed through the lobby. "Welcome back, Countess [Last name]!" her voice was filled with genuine warmth and you didn't understand where did this come from.

The evening had settled over Los Angeles. The grand dining room of the hotel was appearing in art deco luxury, with its dark wood accents, gold-leafed walls, and crystal chandeliers casting a warm, inviting light over the tables set with fine china and silverware. The clinking of glasses and soft murmur of conversation filled the air and created something nostalgic to your heart.

You entered the dining room with the same air of composed grace that had marked your entrance into the hotel. Your eyes swept the room, taking in the diners who were engaged in their meals and conversations and you felt a pang of jealousy upon the sight. Their lives were so normal in comparison with yours.

As you approached the maître d's podium, the head waiter, a distinguished man with a neatly trimmed mustache and a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, stepped forward. He recognized you immediately, the elegant Countess, and inclined his head in a deep bow.

"A table for one, ma'am?" his voice was practiced with the ease of someone who had served wealthy guests for years, though there was a slight quiver in his voice — perhaps a trace of the unease that always seemed to accompany you.

You, with your face expression as unreadable as ever, allowed yourself a brief pause before responding. Your eyes flicked past him, scanning the room once more, searching for something — or rather, someone.

"Is . . . James Patrick March dining?" you asked, voice soft but with an undercurrent of something that hinted at more than just casual interest.

The maître d' hesitated only for a heartbeat before answering, his gaze following yours toward the far end of the room. "Oh, he's at the table by the window, ma'am," he replied and a hint of curiosity crossed his tone as he gestured subtly toward the large, arched windows that overlooked the city's nightscape.

There, seated at a table clothed in the soft glow of candlelight, was James Patrick March. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and a tie that was just slightly loosened, giving him an air of a casual someone. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an intensity in the way he glanced through the room, as if every detail, every movement was a piece in a grand, invisible game. A game that belonged to him. His dark hair was slicked back, and his piercing eyes, though cast downward at the moment, seemed to take in everything around him.

Your gaze lingered on him, breath catching slightly as the history the two of you shared played out in your mind — something you've never been able to erase from your memories. Your hand tightened around the strap of your formal handbag, the storm of rage already forming inside you.

"Thank you," you murmured to the maître d', who, sensing that his services were no longer required, bowed once more and stepped aside.

With a final, steadying breath, you made your way across the dining room, your steps measured and elegant, drawing the eyes of more than a few guests who wondered at the purpose of your approach. You moved with the grace of a woman who knew how to command a room's attention without asking for it, but there was also a tension to your movements, a barely concealed edge that hinted at the true intentions of your visit.

As you neared the table, March's dark eyes lifted from his glass of alcohol, catching yours in a gaze that was both intimate and unreadable. He leaned back slightly in his chair and a slow, amused smile played at the corners of his lips as he watched you approach, as if he had been expecting you all along.

"Countess [Last name]," he greeted you, his voice smooth and rich with a hint of that accent you both despised and adored. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

You met his gaze evenly, your own smile small and controlled, but there was a fire in your eyes that belied your calm exterior.

"Mr. March," the way his name rolled out of your mouth shouldn't sound so lovingly. Your voice was steady, though your heart raced beneath your play. "I believe we have unfinished business."

March remained seated, watching your every move with the sharp, predatory gaze of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. The slight smirk on his lips hinted at his appearing satisfaction. He knew you’d show up, let it be few weeks or decades.

"If some kind fate wishes to send a beautiful lady to dine with me, I can only be grateful," the man said, his voice smooth and low, rich with the charm of someone who was well aware of his power. "You will do me the honor, won't you, ma'am?"

For a brief moment, the tension between the two of you hung in the air, taut and electric, as you studied him. You were fully aware of the game you were playing, the dangerous dance of wit and will, and you had no intention of backing down. This game would be his loss.

Finally, your lips curved into a small, controlled smile, one that spoke of your own understanding of the power dynamics at play. "I should be delighted," you replied, voice carrying the slightest edge of irony as you accepted his invitation.

March's smile deepened, pleased with your response. He gestured to the empty chair opposite him, a silent invitation for you to join him. The man poured a glass for you, the wine a deep, blood-red, before filling his own. He lifted his glass to you in a toast and his eyes never left yours.

"To fate," he said, his voice carrying a note of amusement. "For bringing such a captivating companion to my table."

You lifted your glass, clinking it lightly against his. "To fate," you echoed, gaze steady as you sipped the wine, the taste of it rich and complex on your tongue. It's been a long time since the last moment you tasted the sweet blood.

For now, the dance would continue.

And as you looked into James Patrick March's eyes, you couldn't help but wonder who would lead, and who would follow.

"What would you like for dinner?" his voice always seemed smooth, and you never knew if it was because of the accent or for the fact that he knew exactly what he wanted. A hint of amusement danced in his dark irises.

Your lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "What does the owner of this hotel eat? Pheasant wings and peacock breasts?" you inquired, tone playful yet edged with a subtle challenge. "And — what do you usually eat?"

His grin widened. "Ah, the usual fare for me tends to be quite varied, though I do have a penchant for the extravagant," he admitted, leaning forward slightly as he spoke and you knew his words hinted at something else as well. "But I find myself quite curious about what a countess might prefer."

Your gaze never wavered as you answered, your voice carrying a hint of wry humor. "Almost anything," the simplicity of your answer was belied by the layers of meaning beneath it.

The man's eyes sparkled with interest as he absorbed your response. He seemed to consider those words carefully before responding, his voice warm and teasing. "Well then, how about roast beef?" he suggested, his tone both casual and deliberate, as though he were making an offer that was both grand and intimate.

Your smile deepened and a glimmer of approval appeared in your eyes. James Patrick March had always had a rich taste. Especially in alcohol and women. "Roast beef sounds delightful," you agreed. "I appreciate your choice, Mr. March. It seems fitting for the occasion."

March signaled to the waiter, who had been hovering discreetly nearby, and relayed the order with a casual wave of his hand, all while his eyes never left yours. The waiter nodded and swiftly disappeared, leaving the two of you alone once more, the soft murmur of the dining room the only sound accompanying you.

With a slow, elegant movement of his hand, March poured himself another glass of wine. "I must say, Countess [Last name], it's a rare pleasure to share a meal with someone who possesses such . . . discerning taste," he said, his voice laced with both sincerity and a hint of irony.

"And it's a rare pleasure to find myself in such intriguing company," you replied to him, tone both warm and enigmatic. "I trust the evening will prove to be as engaging as the company."

March chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on you with an almost predatory satisfaction. "I have no doubt it will be," he said, raising his glass in a toast once more.

The night sky was a deep shade of deep indigo, flickering with countless stars that twinkled like diamonds scattered across velvet. The air was warm, with just the faintest whisper of a breeze, carrying the scent of blooming jasmine through the open balcony doors. The Hotel Cortez stood silent and still, its grand exterior bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, casting long, gentle shadows across the marble floors.

You stood on the balcony, the city of Los Angeles sprawling out beneath you like a sea of lights. Your gown, a delicate shade of silver that shimmered in the moonlight, flowed around you like liquid silk. Your hair was loose, cascading over your shoulders in waves, and your young face, bathed in the soft light, was a picture of pure satisfaction.

Beside you stood James Patrick March, his tall figure intimidating yet relaxed as he leaned against the ornate railing. His gaze, however, was not on the city below, but on the woman at his side. There was a softness in his eyes, a rare gentleness that few had ever seen, let alone inspired. In this moment, all the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you.

As you stood in comfortable silence, a sudden streak of light blazed across the night sky — a shooting star, burning its brief path before vanishing into the darkness. March, ever so observant, turned his gaze upward, his lips curving into a smile.

"Look, [Name], a shooting star," he said, his voice filled with a boyish wonder that was rare for him. He turned his head slightly to meet your gaze, his eyes reflecting the faint starlight. "Did you wish?"

Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of the star, you blinked and looked up just as it disappeared. Your expression softened, a faint smile touching your lips, but there was a wistfulness in your eyes as you shook your head slightly.

"Oh . . . I didn't have time," you admitted, voice tinged with a hint of regret, as though you had missed an opportunity that would not come again.

James' smile didn't falter, though there was a subtle shift in his expression — something deeper, more thoughtful. He stepped closer to you, his presence warm and reassuring. "And there is something you wish for," he said, more a statement than a question, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it falling from your own lips.

Your smile faded into something more serious, your eyes searching his as though you were trying to decide whether to speak the truth or guard your heart. But in the end, you could not lie to him — not in this moment, not when you felt so safe, so completely at peace by his side.

"Yes," you whispered to him, barely more than a breath.

March's gaze softened further. He reached out with his hand and gently enveloped your own in his, the skin of his palm warm and grounding. "What did you wish?" he asked, his voice low and intimate, as though the words were meant for your ears alone.

You hesitated, the answer so close to escaping, yet so difficult to say. Your heart ached with the weight of it, with the knowledge of the life you wished for but could never truly have. Looking down at your joined hands, your fingers lightly curled around his in response to his question, and then back up into his dark eyes, which were watching you with such intensity, such sincerity. They seemed a lot darker now, under the night sky.

"I was wishing that we were two other people," you finally confessed, your voice filled with a quiet longing that spoke of dreams unfulfilled. "Two people who need not say goodbye."

The words hung between you, heavy with meaning. You could not bear the thought of losing him, of this moment being just a fleeting memory in the string of your lives. The depth of your love for him was overwhelming, a love so pure and untainted by the shadows that would later consume you.

James stepped even closer, his hand gently moving to cup your cheek and his thumb brushed tenderly across your skin. "Perhaps it can be that way," he murmured. March bent his head, his lips hovering just above yours, as if the very act of kissing you might seal the promise he was making. "Perhaps we can be those people, if only for tonight."

Your breath caught in the back of your throat, heart pounding in your chest as you searched his eyes for the truth in his words. And this time, you allowed yourself to believe it — to believe that the two of you could escape the world that would inevitably tear you apart, that you could be just a man and a woman, free from the burdens of your lives.

You were the one to close the distance between you, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was soft, tender, and filled with all the love and hope you held in your heart for him.

And for that night, under the watchful eyes of the stars, you were just two people who did not need to say goodbye.

The present moment was completely different to the warmth and tenderness of the past. The air in the room was thick with tension, the kind that clung to the walls and settled in every crack of the Hotel Cortez. The grand suite you occupied was dimly lit, the once-gilded decor now seemed dull. Outside, the night became alive, the city's lights a distant blur beyond the heavy curtains, but inside, the atmosphere crackled with the remnants of an argument that had yet to reach its peak.

You stood near the window, your back to the room, while you stared out into the darkness with attention that wasn't really there. Your once vibrant spirit now seemed dulled by the weight of time spent in this cursed place, your elegance marred by the sorrow etched into your features. The memories of what had once been — of the love you had felt for him — were a distant echo. His betrayal hardened your heart.

Behind you, James Patrick March paced around the room restlessly, his usually composed demeanor frayed at the edges. The man who had once been a picture of controlled arrogance now seemed almost desperate, his eyes locked onto your figure as though you were the only thing grounding him to this world. His tailored suit was as impeccable as ever, but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders, a strain in his voice that betrayed the depth of his emotions.

"[Name]," he began, and his voice was urgent, almost pleading as he tried to bridge the growing wall between the two of you. "I offer you the three things most dear to me: my heart . . . my hotel . . . and my dream."

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of promises that no longer held the meaning they once did. He took a step toward you, his hand outstretched as if to pull you back to him, to recapture the love you had shared before everything had gone so terribly wrong. Before his mistakes happened.

But you remained unmoved, back still turned to him, posture stiff with resolve. The pain in your chest was such a familiar ache, one that had become a part of your very being, but you had long since learned to live with it. Now, it was a shield, protecting you from the man who had once held your heart so completely.

"You are too generous —" you began with your voice full of coldness, as if you were speaking to a stranger and not the man you had once loved with every fiber of your being.

"[Name], you must listen to me!" March's voice cracked with desperation as he allowed himself to interrupt you, his frustration spilling over. He stepped closer, his presence almost suffocating in its intensity. "Since that first hour we met, I've been completely yours. There's never been anyone else for me . . . There never will."

His confession, raw and unfiltered, was the truth — at least, the truth as he saw it. To him, you were everything, the only light in the endless darkness that had become his existence. He had built this world all for you, and now it was slipping away, crumbling before his eyes because he could not reach you, could not find a way to make you understand.

You finally turned to face him, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of sorrow and resignation. The words he spoke were like daggers to your heart, reopening wounds that had never truly healed. You had once believed in his love, had once shared his dreams, but that time had passed. What had once been your shared world was now a shattered illusion, a dream that had turned into a nightmare.

"Please," you whispered, voice trembling with the effort to maintain your composure, but you felt the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. "Please don't say any more. There are worlds between us, worlds that can't be bridged with words."

Your gaze bore into his, pleading for him to understand what you could not bring yourself to say out loud.

"You are dead. And I am me."

He was trapped in this hotel, in this half-life of his own making, while you remained bound to the world of the living, a world that he could never truly be a part of. The love you had once shared, as powerful and all-consuming as it had been, was now nothing more than a painful memory.

March stood frozen, the weight of your words crushing the last remnants of his hope. He had always been a man who believed that he could bend the world to his will, that nothing was beyond his reach if he desired it enough. But in this moment, he was confronted with the one thing he could not control, could not change — the inexorable march of time and the finality of death. Was he really though?

His expression was a mix of anguish and determination, the usual smoothness of his demeanor shattered by the knowledge he had carried for so long. This was a truth he had avoided speaking aloud, perhaps out of a twisted sense of mercy, or perhaps because he could not bear the thought of breaking you more than it was needed. But now, the time for silence had passed.

"You said one night that you wished we were two different people," March began to remember, his voice low and measured. His eyes never left your form. "I think you may have that wish, [Name]."

His words seemed to hang in the air. For a moment, you did not move, your mind struggling to grasp the meaning behind them. You felt your brows furrowing in confusion, the flicker of doubt that had long been buried now rising to the surface.

"But what do you mean?" you asked in a quiet voice, almost trembling. There was something in his tone, something in the way he looked at you, that sent a chill running down your spine. It was as if the ground beneath you was beginning to crumble, threatening to pull you into an abyss you had refused to acknowledge.

James stepped closer, his gaze softening as he saw the uncertainty and fear in your eyes upon hearing those words. The man who had always prided himself on his control, on his ability to manipulate and bend others to his will, now stood before you, stripped of all secrets. He could not protect you from this truth now, could not shield you from the reality that had been so carefully hidden away by him.

"[Name]," he started gently, as if to not scare you any more, "you are not who you think you are. You've been living in denial, clinging to the idea that you are still part of the world of the living."

You recoiled slightly, with your heart beginning to race as a cold dread settled against your rib cage. Your mind fought against his words, refusing to accept what they implied. You had always felt different, out of place, but you had attributed it to the strange nature of the hotel, to the dark energy that seemed to carve every corner of it. Not this. Never this.

"No . . ." you whispered, shaking your head as if that could wake you up from the nightmare that was taking shape before you. "No, that can't be true. I'm . . . I'm alive, James. I'm here."

The man's brows furrowed in sorrow and what seemed like guilt, his heart breaking for you when you struggled to hold onto the last shreds of your denial. He reached out, gently taking your hands in his, his touch warm but offering no comfort from the truth he was about to reveal.

"You are here, [Name]," he said softly, "but not in the way you believe. You died, my love . . . years ago. You've been here, in this hotel, ever since. Your spirit, your essence — trapped, just like mine. But unlike the others, you've refused to see it. You've built a world around yourself, a world where you still believe you can leave, still believe you can live."

The room seemed to spin around you, the walls closing in as the truth clawed its way into your consciousness. You tried to pull away from him, tried to reject the reality he was presenting, but his grip on your hands was firm, grounding you even as everything else fell apart.

"No . . . no, that's not possible," you insisted still, your voice rising in pitch as panic began to take hold. "I'm not dead, I can't be. I'm . . . I'm real, James. I'm standing here, talking to you."

"Yes, you are," March replied, his voice steady and calm, though his own pain was evident in his eyes. "But you're not alive. Not in the way you think. This hotel . . . it's a place where the dead linger, where they cannot move on. You've been here with me all this time, believing you were still part of the world outside, but the truth is . . . you're not."

Tears welled up in your eyes as the reality of his words began to sink in, your carefully constructed world shattering around you. You could feel the coldness creeping into your bones, the weight of your existence pressing down on you like a leaden shroud. It was as if you were seeing yourself for the first time — truly seeing — and what you saw terrified you.

"But . . . but how?" asking, your voice broke as you looked up at him, searching his face for answers, for anything that might make sense of this horror. "How could I not know? How could I . . . how could I forget?"

Your past lover's expression was filled with sorrow as he gently cupped your face, wiping away the salty tears that spilled down your cheeks. He had never wanted this for you, never wanted you to suffer as he had, to be trapped in this purgatory with nothing but memories and regrets to keep you company.

"You loved me," he stated simply. "You loved me so much that you couldn't bear to let go, even in death. Your love for me, your denial . . . it kept you here, in this place, unable to see the truth. But now . . . now you know."

You were his. Perhaps you had always been. And now, as the truth of your existence settled into your bones, he knew he could not let you go, even if it meant holding onto a ghost, a shadow of what the two of you once were.

Gently, he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still cradling one of your cheeks. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your face paler than usual, but in that moment, you were still the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. The love he had felt for you had not waned, even in death; if anything, it had only grown stronger, more desperate.

"You may as well take my heart, [Name]," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "It's already full of you. You walked into it the day we met."

A blink was all you managed to give. You had felt his love from the beginning, had known how deeply he cared for you.

"You're a fool, James Patrick March." There was no anger in your words, only a sorrowful resignation. You knew what he was trying to do, knew he was trying to hold onto something that had already slipped away. But there was no future for the two of you — not in this twisted world, not in this half-existence.

He smiled sadly, a flicker of the old charm that had once captivated you. "Oh, but isn't any man who falls in love?" He ran his thumb gently across the apple of your cheek, wiping away the last traces of your tears. "Do you know what you are to me? You're something to believe in again. You're the type of person that had ceased to exist for me — a fine and honest woman."

His words were like a knife twisting in your heart. The depth of his feelings, the sincerity in his voice, all served to remind you of what you had lost, of what could never be. You wanted to believe in his love, to find comfort in the fact that he still saw you as something pure and good. But the truth was that you weren't that woman anymore, and perhaps you never had been.

"Oh, my darling. You're such a child.”

James' face fell, the hope in his eyes dimming as he saw the resolve in your posture, heard the finality in your voice. He had feared this moment, the moment when you would push him away, when you would reject the only thing he had left to offer.

"Take your foolish little dream in your heart and go," you continued with your final decision and your voice broke on the last word as you fought against the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm your every sense. You wanted him to leave, to take his love and his dreams and disappear, because you knew that if he stayed, you would both be dragged down into the darkness that surrounded you.

You didn't need to turn around to know he was still there. You could feel him, like a shadow that never left your side.

"What is it? What's wrong, my dear?" his voice was gentle, almost tender, but you could hear the underlying concern.

You wanted to lash out, to tell him to leave you for good, to demand that he let you be. But the words caught in the back of your throat, tangled with the truth of what you felt — what you had always felt for him, despite everything.

"You know nothing about me," you said, voice shaking with frustration, but also with a hint of despair. "You've known me only three weeks!"

March blinked, caught off guard by your statement. Three weeks. Had it really been so little time? To him, it felt like an eternity, and at the same time, like no time at all. Every moment with you had been etched into his mind, as if you had always been there, a part of him that never left.

"Three weeks?" he repeated after you. "[Name], I've known you all my life."

"All your life?!" the words were nothing but a distant echo, incredulous. How could he say that? How could he claim to have known you, when you yourself barely understood who you were anymore?

James took a step closer, his eyes locked onto yours. He could see the turmoil in your gaze, the confusion and doubt that swirled around you like a storm. But he had to make you understand — had to make you see what you meant to him, what you had always meant.

"It's true," he insisted, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "I've seen you in a thousand plays, read you in as many books. While I've heard beautiful music, I've thought, 'She'd like that.' I've looked at flowers and known that one day I'd give them to you."

To him, you had always been there, in his thoughts, in his dreams. Even before the two of you met, you had been a part of him, an ideal, a vision of something pure and beautiful in a world that had long since lost its luster.

Your breath caught in your throat as you listened, heart pounding in your chest. You had heard words like these before — sweet nothings whispered in the dark after you've made love, promises made and broken — but this was different. There was no lies in his voice, no empty flattery. He truly believed what he was saying, and that sincerity shook you to your core.

But it also terrified you. Because you knew that if you allowed yourself to believe him, to accept the love he offered, there would be no turning back. You would be lost to him, bound by the same chains that held you both to this place.

"James. . ." you began with your trembling voice as you struggled to find the right words. You wanted to tell him that it wasn't real, that what he felt was just another illusion, another trick of his twisted mind. But even as you thought it, you knew it wasn't true. His love for you was truly real — so real that it had brought you back, kept you from moving on.

But was it enough? Could it ever be enough?

You felt a cold sweat on your skin as you grappled with the turmoil building inside you. The love you felt for James was undeniable, a force that had bound you together in life and in death. But with that love came a profound sense of duty, a discipline that you had clung to as a way to maintain some semblance of control over your fractured existence. Now, that discipline was being tested in a way you had never imagined.

The man himself could see the conflict in your eyes, the way your emotions warred with your duty. He had always admired your strength, the fierce determination with which you had approached everything in your life. But now, he wondered if that strength would ultimately be the thing that tore the two of you apart.

"If I betray you, I betray myself," whispering, your voice trembled with the weight of your confession. You had always prided yourself on your unwavering commitment to your principles, to the discipline that had guided you through even the darkest of times. But now, standing before the man you loved, you realized just how fragile that commitment had become, all because of him.

"If I betray myself," you continued, "I betray my discipline. My discipline is very dear to me."

The words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. You had built your life around that discipline, around the principles that had defined you. It had been your anchor, your guiding light in a world that had often seemed dark and chaotic.

"Dearer than I?" James' voice was soft, almost pleading. He could see the struggle in your eyes, the way you fought against your love for him with the discipline that had been the foundation of your existence. He knew that he was asking you to choose between two parts of yourself, and the thought of losing you because of it was almost too much to bear.

You looked up at him, heart breaking in million pieces at the vulnerability in his voice. You had never wanted to hurt him, never wanted to put him in a position where he had to question your love. But the truth was, you were questioning it yourself. Not the love itself — no, that was as real as anything you had ever known — but whether you could truly allow yourself to give in to it, to let go of the discipline that had defined you for so long.

"No," you whispered into the dark while the soft breeze blew past you. "No, not dearer than you. But I must leave."

James Patrick March stood there, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you like a death sentence. You were leaving him — this time, forever. The love you had shared, the bond that had once seemed unbreakable, was now shattered, and there was nothing he could do to stop you from disappearing into the void where he could never follow.

For a moment, he said nothing, his heart a cage of grief, anger, and desperation. He had always prided himself on his composure, his ability to remain calm and in control, even in the face of the most dire situations. But now, with the woman he loved standing before him, ready to walk out of his life forever, all that control began to crumble.

"You gave me your heart, you know?" James finally spoke, his voice low and strained, as if each word was being torn from the depths of his soul. "And now you'd like me to hand it back to you, whole again. But I won't."

You flinched at the bitterness in his tone, but you held your ground, soft eyes betraying the sadness that mirrored his own. You had made your decision, but it was clear that it was one that pained you just as much as it pained him.

"You will live a long time yet, [Name]," the man continued, his voice growing stronger, more resolute, as if he were steeling himself against the inevitable. "An eternity without me."

He paused for a moment, hoping to find any sign that you might change your mind, that you might see the madness in what you were about to do. But there was nothing — just the same quiet determination that had always been a part of you, the same unyielding strength that he had fallen in love with.

"You will look into the faces of passersby, hoping for something that will, for an instant, bring me back to you. But it won't. You will find moonlit nights strangely empty," he went on, his voice now a haunting whisper. "Because when you call my name through them, there will be no answer."

Your breath hitched, and you looked away, unable to meet his gaze any longer. James felt a sharp pang in his chest, a sense of helplessness that he had never known before. He was losing you for real, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Always your heart will be aching for me," he said, his voice trembling with the intensity of his emotions. "And your mind will give you the doubtful consolation that you did a brave thing."

He took a step closer, reaching out to gently lift your chin so that your eyes met once more. The pain in your gaze was almost too much for him to bear, but he held it, wanting you to see the truth in his own eyes. He wanted you to feel his own pain.

"But know this, my dear," the whispered affection left his lips so naturally when it came to you and that was why it all hurt too much. He'd never change. "You may think you're doing the right thing, the brave thing, by leaving. But there will come a time when you will question it — when the loneliness becomes too much, when the nights grow too long, and the silence becomes unbearable. And in those moments, you will remember me. You will remember what we had, and you will wish, with all your heart, that you had chosen differently."

He let his hand fall away, stepping back as the finality of your decision settled over him like a blanket. There was nothing more to say — nothing that could change what was about to happen.

"You will never be free of me. No matter how far you run, or how long you hide. I will always be a part of you, just as you are a part of me."

You swallowed hard, tears now spilling freely down your cheeks again as you took one last look at the man you had loved with all your heart. The man you were about to leave behind.

"Goodbye, James," you whispered, voice breaking. "Goodbye."

And with that, you turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows, leaving James alone in the suffocating silence of the room you had once shared.

As the door closed behind you, the reality of your absence crashed over him like a brutal wave, and for the first time in his life, James Patrick March felt truly, utterly lost.

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hyperfix-wip · 1 month

Text

Webbed Together

Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Author's Note: Credit goes to @the-kr8tor for their original characters Ramona and Billie as well as their recurring character Ned. I'd also like to credit ❄️ anon from @the-kr8tor 's blog for their idea of Pom-Pom the rabbit!

Tags: Parent Trap!AU, Dad!Hobie AU, Twin!AU, Billie and Ramona!AU, Older!Hobie, Mom!Reader, Older!Reader

Chapter 2: Billie

The moment Billie steps foot into the bustling Camp Feast in her father’s lucky red vest, she knows she’s right at home.

Dark eager eyes roam around the campgrounds, lighting up at the sight of kids around her age running around with their own luggage and instruments. The clashing of different sounds send shivers down her spine while her lips curl up into a cat-like grin. With her fingers fidgeting with the Union Jack patch on the vest, itching to take out and play her violin, Billie sets her small leather case down on the hood of the car, the metal edges of the case clanking against the metal, before her thumbs unlatch the bronze hinges on the sides.

“Oi, Billie!”

A deep British timbre of a voice breaks Billie out of her reverie as her uncle Ned pops his head out from the side of the open trunk, his pierced eyebrow raised in feigned annoyance while he lugs out a large suitcase. “Be careful, yeah? This car’s a rental, damn it.”

Billie rolls her eyes in amusement as she innocently grins back at him. “Oh c’mon, Uncle Ned,” she chirps with her own British accent breaking through the background noise as she pulls her violin out of the case, “you’re not the one paying for it. Dad said to relax and let him take care of–”

“Silly Billie, I love you, but I refuse to take what your dad says at face value,” Ned snorts while he sets Billie’s suitcase down on the ground before slamming the trunk shut. “Besides I’m the one who handles the expenses for the band, not your dad, so I do haveto worry.”

Billie’s bottom lip juts out into a small pout, making Ned snort before walking over to her and ruffling her hair. “Oh c’mon, put that away. You’re a big girl now, yeah? You’re already ten—“

“Eleven!” Billie huffs out with an annoyed glare, “I just turned eleven, Uncle Ned—“

“Yes, yes, you’re eleven,” Ned snickers again with a teasing glint in his eye, ruffling her wild curls some more. “You’re already growing up so fast, you little beanstalk.”

Billie huffs out again as she swats Ned’s hand away, but he only laughs it off before pulling her into a hug.

“You really are growing up so fast, mac…”

Billie’s face drops as Ned’s voice trails off into a sentimental hush before she wraps her arms around his waist with a soft sniffle.

“…I’ll make sure to write,” Billie mumbles into Ned’s shirt, earning another quiet snort from Ned.

“Hm, that’d be nice,” he replies with a teasing huff. “You already have the address for the airbnb?”

“Yeah.”

“And your stamps?”

“Yeah.”

“And your notebook and envelopes?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And your pencils and rubbers—“

“Uncle Ned.”

Ned chuckles again as Billie looks up at him with a deadpan before rocking her back and forth in his arms. “Alright, alright. When your camp thing is over, either your Aunt Yuri or Uncle James’ll pick you up, okay? Your dad and I’ll hafta deal with the venue before our concert in New York at the end of the summer.”

Billie nods along as she looks up at Ned with a broad smile. “And I’ll be backstage this time, right?”

“Of course, little beanstalk,” Ned ruffles her hair one more time before gently pulling away. “Now go on, get your stuff put away before I change my mind and drag you back into the car.”

Billie’s eyes widen at his faux-threat before quickly grabbing her open violin case, eliciting a squawk from Ned as the metal edges nearly scratch the rental car, and her suitcase before she runs off towards the crowd of kids and counselors. “Bye, Uncle Ned!”

“You damn brat!” Ned huffs out while he watches Billie stumble and waddle away with her luggage. Despite the annoyed rumble in his voice and the narrowing of his eyes, a tender smile curls up on his lips as she slowly disappears into the crowd before he reluctantly walks around and heads back into the car.

——

A loud grunt forces its way out of Billie’s mouth as she tosses her suitcase on top of her assigned bunk, her violin on top of her pillow. She puffs a breath to blow a loose curl out of her face before it flutters back down, resulting in her face scrunching up and her pushing her curls away with an annoyed pout. Her eyes warily glance down at her suitcase, with its latches barely clutching each other and holding in the contents bulging within. With her head turned away and with only one eye cracked open, her thumbs inch closer to the bottoms of the silver clasps in slight apprehension. As soon as her thumbs gently push the latches up, her suitcase instantly erupts into an explosion of clothes and trinkets flying around her.

“Oh bloody hell!”

Billie groans at the mess before she kneels down to grab her things, oblivious to the sound of door hinges squeaking behind her as she tosses her belongings on her bunk. Crawling on the hardwood floor with her hair fluttering down over her scrunched up face, she continues to mutter more expletives under her breath before a pair of off-white sneakers peek through her curtain of curls and enter her line of vision. Her head snaps up as she pushes her hair out of her face again, revealing a bespectacled girl with confused amusement behind her thick frames.

“Uh…is this yours?”

The girl holds out an old stuffed white rabbit to Billie. The plush animal has a pink stitched nose on its protruding muzzle, as well as a missing button eye and mismatched patches scattered across its body. Billie’s eyes light up before she grabs the toy from the girl.

“Pom-Pom!”

Billie hugs the stuffed bunny against her chest before she looks up at her newly-decided friend. “Thanks by the way,” she laughs before pushing herself up from the floor, her height almost towering over the short girl by a few inches as she holds her hand out with a cat-like grin. “Billie Jean Brown, nice ta meetcha. But you can call me Billie.”

The girl lets out a small laugh of her own as she pushes her glasses up before grabbing Billie’s hand with a shake. “I’m Annie.”

Billie’s smile grows even more as Annie puts her duffle bag and a small skinny case down on the bed next to Billie’s bunk. Annie then flops down onto the mattress with an ‘oof’ before she unzips her duffle bag.

“So you’re, like, from England, right?” Annie casually asks while carefully pulling out some pictures and other trinkets. “Do you live next to the Royal Family or have you seen them? Do you guys really drink a lot of tea and have those fancy tea parties over there?”

A snort slips through Billie’s nostrils before she barks out a hearty laugh, flopping down on her own bedding as she hugs Pom-Pom against her chest. She pushes her curls out of her face again, revealing small glints of silver lining along her ears.“I mean, yeah, I live in London, but not near Buckingham Palace. More up north if anything, further into Camden.”

Billie then leans back and gestures to her outfit with a flick of her wrists- her dad’s red leather vest, lined with silver studs and countless colorful pins, over an old punk band shirt tailored to her size, denim jeans with handmade patches over her knees, and scuffed converses. “And do I really look like I go to fancy tea times?”

Annie rolls her eyes with a cheeky smile before she props her hands behind her, the metal springs in her bed quietly groaning under the weight. “But you do drinktea?”

“...yeah.”

A snicker slips through Annie’s lips before she pushes herself off her bed and holds her hand out to Billie. “Well either way, you’re definitely not in London anymore, but I’m pretty sure you’ll like it here.”

A mischievous smirk curls up on Billie’s lips before she grabs Annie’s hand, setting her Pom-Pom down on her bed before following Annie out of the cabin.

“By the way, Annie, you know how to play poker?”

Annie laughs a little more as she shakes her head, and Billie lets out a feigned disappointed sigh.

“What a shame,” Billie shrugs before her smirk curls up more. “Off topic, but how much money did you bring for this trip?”

The cabin door then slams shut while Billie continues to lure her new friend-turned- potential victim into a sense of security.

#dad!hobie #parent trap au #hobie x y/n #hobie x reader #atsv hobie #hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #hobie brown x you #the kr8tor

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nazleatherexport · 1 year

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tutumydear · 8 months

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Official Princess Tutu Luggage Tag 🦢

The design for this piece was taken from the story’s closing illustration: “Auf Wiedershen” 🤍

As for the tag itself, it does fit a single, standard size plastic ID with just a few centimeters sticking out. It’s a faux, light brown leather on the back and white on the front with the printed design. Visible stitching in white thread. The chain is a steel ball style, not super secure, so I’d switch it out for something else if you plan on using it as intended!

#princess tutu #ptutu #princess tutu official #princess tutu merch #princess tutu fanmerch

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vibratingskull · 7 months

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What would you think of maybe Thrawn x Reader on a camping trip to somewhere scenic and isolated? Maybe on vacation, away from the stresses of work? I'm definitely imagining Thrawn shirtless and chopping firewood, for some eye candy. Maybe like, half fluff/half spicy?

🥺 pretty please?

(my love as a gift, regardless of if you write this!)

Of course, anything for you my sweet ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

ThrawnxF!reader

Tags: Winter vacation, fluff, fingering

“Ch’acah, we have arrived.” Thrawn pats your thigh to wake you up.

You rise up in a jolt, still half asleep. You were so comfortable pressed against Thrawn's back, holding him tight on the speeder, his body's higher warmth still spreading to you past the thick leather jacket he wears.

You rub your eyes and wipe a bit of drool off your mouth and discover a wooden cabin under a thick layer of snow. Thrawn already jumped off the bike to get the luggages as you hug yourself to shield yourself from the biting cold. He was so warm…

“You are shivering, Vir. Let’s get inside.” He invites gallantly.

You jump on the ground, leafing through the bunch of keys you have. You haven't come here in decades, you almost forgot your grand aunt bought that cabin in the middle of nowhere.

You would have come in summer under a blazing sun but you saw how Thrawn's eyes were shining when you told him everything froze in winter in the region. You hoped for a resort near a beach for those vacation, but seeing him getting excited by the prospect of living through a cold climate for some weeks made you cave in, for your Chiss…

As much as Thrawn shows excitement of course, which is always in moderation.

But enduring the cold and wind is worth it if Thrawn gets something reminding him of his homeworlds.

You enter the key in the door and push the heavy block of wood to enter the modest abode. It is completely dark and cold. You search for a lightswitch on the wall until you find it and flip it.

Nothing.

You flip it again.

Still dark.

“We may have an electricity problem.” You annonce.

Thrawn puts the luggages down in the largest room, consisting of a kitchenette, a sofa, a double bed and a fireplace.

Real small cabin, you see.

You mingle with a heater mounted on the wall, to no avail.

“Let’s start the chimney.” Thrawn says. “Let’s get some light and warmth.”

You go around the cabin in search of the wood reserve, finding the ax in the meantime. You find back Thrawn securing the bike in the nightfall against a tree. You don’t know who would come lost themself in this forest to steal a speeder bike, but security first you suppose.

“No cutted logs, but I found the ax.”

He nods, standing up. He is only wearing his leather jacket while you're wrapped in the puffiest winter coat you ever saw, a heavy lana scarf and some gloves.

“I will see the wood, go collect some ice.” He instructs

“Why?” you tilt your head, blowing hot air on your hands.

“For the bath.” He says with a thin smile.

You take a hammer from the top case and a very large bucket. You wave at Thrawn as you go, looking at him chopping wood with application and venture a little bit deeper in the forest. If your memory serves you right there must be a lake not too far away…

You break the ice with the hammer and collect enough to fill the bucket. It is a really, really large bucket and it gets really, really heavy. You have all the pain in the world carrying it back to the cabin, especially with this hindering coat. You take double the time it took you to reach the lake to come back.

But you’re not disappointed, far from it.

Because when you finally reach the cabin, you raise your eyes from the heavy bucket to discover Thrawn, still cutting logs, bare chested and muscles glistening with a thin layer of sweat shining under the rising stars.

You are so surprised and enthralled you stop dead in your tracks, completely hypnotized by that scene. You cannot help but admire his form, his powerful muscles flexing so wonderfully under the new moonlight.

You remained silent, eyes wide open, arms holding on desperately on the heavy bucket that started trembling in your hands. He catches a glimpse of you mid swift, sliding a log in too with such force and power the two parts fly on the side. He lays down the ax to turn to you, gasping for air, his breath forming steamy clouds at his mouth. You see his large chest rising up and down rapidly and you imagine his heart beat racing in his rib cage.

You close your agape mouth with a gulp, shaking your head back to reality.

“I found ice.” You inform gingerly, trying to keep your eyes to his ember eyes and not his mouth watering chest and abdominals.

Maker… He is such an athlete! He has been carved by the gods in pure marble!

“Good.” He nods, already getting back his breath under control, “Put it in the chimney, we are going to melt it for the bath.”

You greet your teeth as you carry the bucket inside. Right behind you Thrawn gathered the wood he cut and places them in the fireplace. He starts the fire as you get rid of your heavy coat. You take one of the furry plaid and lay it on his naked shoulders, he raises his head to meet your gaze, a silent ‘thank you’ in his eyes.

“You’re going to catch a cold in this outfit.” You smile gently.

You just see a drop of sweat rolling from his pac to roll on his muscular stomach, making you gulp again. He doesn’t close the plaid over him, only holding the sides with the tip of his fingers, letting you appreciate his whole carved bust as he rises back on his feet. The red and yellow flames bounce beautifully on his deep blue skin, creating delightful tones and shades dancing on his skin. You breathe deeply through your nose, trying your best not to drool at that sight.

He turns his head to you, completely lost in your admiration of his body, and smiles thinly before booping the tip of your nose with his knuckle. You wince and wrinkle your nose in reaction, almost sneezing.

“I think we still have some hot cocoa in the thermos. You are shivering, Ch’acah.”

He invites you to sit on the sofa in front of the burning fire and brings the two cups and the thermos bottle, pouring you a cup of the fuming drink. As you blow on the steaming cup in your hand he sits beside you, throwing the side of the plaid over your own shoulders. You smile and snuggle against his warmer body with a sigh of contentment.

“I know you wished to go to the beach for those vacations.” Thrawn says after a very long moment of comfortable silence, “I am sorry, Ch’acah.”

You kiss his shoulder before laying your head on it.

“No need Thrawn. I saw how happy and interested you were in this location.”

“And I am thankful to you for accepting.” He brushes his cheek against the top of your head.

“If you are happy, it is good enough for me.” You assure, sighing contented as you finally started to warm up.

“We will go to that resort you saw, cheo vir, I promise you.”

“And we could come back here each winter, if you wish!” You propose.

“Thank you, love.” He kisses your hair tenderly.

You press yourself against his warm body, feeling his arm circling your shoulders, pressing you tighter against himself. You deeply inhale the natural musk of your Chiss with glee, letting it invade your lungs with great pleasure.

He is so, so warm…

And smells so, so good.

His thumb comes caressing the plump of your cheek softly.

“I love you, Thrawn.” You let escape in the softness and intimacy of the moment.

“I love you too, Ch’acah.” He responds with a melodious tone.

You sip your cups, letting the heavy and thick chunks of ice slowly melt in the bucket over the fire. He keeps caressing your cheek with his thumb, softly, lightly, tenderly…

You hear him purring lowly, feeling the waves through the skin of your cheek. You close your eyes, comfortable and relaxed.

“Do you like it here?” You ask.

“It is quite rudimentary, but yes. It brings back some soft memories.” He admits.

“Good, that’s what I wanted for you.” you press your cheek on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Ch’acah. You take such good care of me.”

You raise your head to look him in the eyes. His so beautiful crimson eyes.

“Because you do it too…” You whisper.

His fingers travel from your cheek to your chin, tilting it to give him a better access to your lips. He leans forward and captures them delicately, pressing sweet kisses on your lips, purring deeply at the sensual contact. In place of purring you moan for his ears, mewling alluringly for his pleasure.

He parts from you with a satisfied sigh, looking into your eyes. His face is stern and unreadable but his eyes are spilling love and adoration. He gently puts a strand of your hair behind your ear before taking your cheek in his palm. You mewl and snuggle against his warm palm.

“I could drown in your eyes.” He murmurs with his deep baritone voice.

“Your eyes set fire to my soul.” You respond.

He kisses your forehead lovingly.

“We should take the water off the fire before it boils.” He simply says, leaving your embrace.

He lets the plaid fall off his large shoulders like a cap in a regal movement, letting you admire his magnificently sculpted back and well defined shoulder blades. You feel your throat drying at that simple sight.

“Will it be sufficient?” You ask tilting your head.

“It is plenty.”

You hardly see how it is enough to fill a bathtub…

He seizes the heavy bucket, flexing his powerful biceps just for you and easily carry it to the ridiculously small bathroom.

This room is hilariously small.

There is no bathtub, not even a shower. There is only a larger than usual metallic barrel next to a crude, but serviceable toilet. Thrawn easily lift the bucket and pour the fuming water in the barrel, filling it up.

“Oh this is really, really rudimentary.” You concede.

“We will be a bit squeezed in here, but it will be quite… pleasant.” He turns to you.

Your gaze travel between the barrel to Thrawn, eyes round.

“You want us to take our bath together, in… this?”

“Will it be a problem?” He asks, opening his pants.

You purse your lips.

You hardly see how Thrawn could squeeze his large and tall body in this barrel, so your two bodies at the same time…

“Hum…”

“I thought it would be agreeable to bathe together, in each other's arms.” He presents his argument.

“I mean…” You hesitate.

You turn back to him to see him naked in all his glory and immediately avert your eyes, suddenly shy.

Which is quite weird, you've been seen naked more than once. And you always loved it, a lot!

You feel him come to press his naked form against your body, gently opening the buttons of your thick lana cardigan.

“Come bath with me, Ch’acah.” He whispers in your ear, making you shudder instantly.

You gulp, feeling your body temperature skyrocketing by the second. He pulls the cardigan off your shoulders gently, nibbling at your ear. You gasp at the touch of his breath on the shell of your ear, sending shivers down your spine and pussy. You bite your lips and take your shirt off while he unbutton your pants before pulling them down, letting you in your bra and tights. You fill his warm hands snaking their way back up your legs, caressing and squeezing the flesh as they rise.

This is not an alluring stocking but lana tights with extravagant colors and patterns as they tend to be. You hear a low chuckle behind you.

“I am sorry, you may have hoped for a thin shaded stocking.” You mumble. “I am sorry.”

“Not at all, Ch’acah. I know you cannot endure cold climates as well as I. These eccentric patterns and colors are also pleasant to see.”

“I was so cold on the ship.” You admit. “I needed a new layer.”

“I will make sure you remain warm during our stay.” He says lowly, darkly, seductively…

You feel his lips on your lower back brushing the thin sensitive skin like a butterfly, making you shiver again. He stands back to his full height and opens your bra expertly, with a snap of the hooks and his warm hands come forth and grabs your tits delicately. You breathe through your nose, mouth agape as he gently kneads the round mounds of flesh, before making your nipples roll between his master fingers, tugging on them softly.

“I love unclothing you.” He whispers again, “I know really well what I will found, but it is like I am rediscovering our body each time, like a new first time.” and he bites down your ear.

You yelp, to his pleasure.

“Come in with me, sweet thing.” He kisses your shoulder and leave you to enter the barrel.

Somehow, someway he does enter the barrel entirely, sitting down in the warm water, his legs wide apart to leave you space. He extends his hand to you invitingly.

You get rid off your tights and panties quickly and enter the fuming, hot water. Miraculously you manage to both fit in the barrel, squeezed against the other, but surprisingly comfortable nonetheless. Your back is pressed against his chest as you sit between his legs.

“How is it?” He asks.

“Hot.”

“Too hot?” He worries.

‘Against a body such as yours? It is scorching hot’ you think.

“It is agreeable.” You correct, getting comfortable against his chest.

You sigh of comfort, slowly relaxing in the fuming water.

“See? We could fit without any difficulties.”

“I wouldn’t have bet on it!” You retort.

He kisses the top of your head, pecking your hair, hugging your body tightly in his arms. He crosses his legs before yours, imprisoning you between his embrace completely.

“Lay on me, Ch’acah, I am warmer.” He invites.

You let your head fall back on his shoulder with a moan. One of his hands starts drawing circles on your arm while the other one sneakily traces its way on your stomach and goes south. He keep kissing your ear and temples as his hand keeps going until it scoops your sex in his palm. Air gets stuck in your throat as you feel him dressing down your cunt with his large hand. One single finger curls up, trailing your slit until it flicks your clit at the top. You immediately jolt back, and in doing so compress his cock between your two bodies. He hisses in return in pain and pleasure.

“I’m sorry!” You immediately present your excuses.

“Do.not.move.an.inch.” He orders. “Remain here.”

“O-Ok…”

He trails your slit once again, before going at it seriously, pushing past your folds and massaging your entrance with the pad of his finger.

“You are already gaping, I can feel you pulsing against my finger.” He notes satisfied.

“You are teasing me, of course I am going to react!” You defend yourself.

He adds a second finger at the circles he traces around your entrance, applying sweet pressures here and there, titillating your cunny from time to time. His fingers rise to your pearl and knead it thoroughly, adding pressure, making it roll, flicking it repeatedly. Your legs start trembling and you try to close them, but it only imprison his hand in place.

He licks your ear with his warm, wet tongue and a guttural growl. His second hand leaves your arm to caress and grope your breast, kneading it lovingly, weighting them in his hand, appreciating their roundness and fullness with a hum of approval.

His fingers go back south and one enters you, gently, letting your entrance time to embrace the girth of his digit. He pushes it further, knuckles deep and immediately grazes at your gummy spot, caressing it and crossing it without missing a beat.

You can feel all your south muscles contracting at the shockwaves of pleasure currently spreading in your body, squeezing his finger inside.

“That is the kind of reaction I enjoy…” He says amused and pleased.

To prove his point a second finger enters you deeply, stretching you wide open. His fingers are like his hands: large and long, and a trial to take in, but they give you so much pleasure they are worth any struggle. He spreads his fingers wide to stretch you more and more until your cunny muscles are at their maximum. Shuddering terribly, you hold on his arms for support.

“Can you take a third one, Cheo vir? For me…” He purrs deeply, enjoying himself tremendously.

Mouth agape, gasping, only a strangled moan escape you as an answer. He kisses your cheek and decide for you.

“Yes you can, sweet thing.”

And he pushes the third in. This time you are at your maximum. You are fully stuffed and feel your pussy compressing his three fingers tight, threatening to cut the blood flow in them.

“I love how your tight pussy always struggles to take what I offer you. Even fingers are too much… Somedays I wonder how you can take my cock in your sweet little cunt. But you always do. To my utmost pleasure.” He praises, licking your neck all the way up. “You are so good for me, Ch’acah, always pushing your limits to please me.”

He thoroughly massages your pussy as he speaks, caressing and stroking any hidden spots inside your pussy, sending powerful waves of pleasure in your core.

“I am so stuffed!” You manage to let out in a gasp.

“Are you?” He muses, “Already?” And he pushes his finger deeper until their whole length is inside.

You pant terribly, digging your nails in his arms. You are so stretched! So full! So filled! You cannot take anything more, it is impossible, you would explode in a million pieces!

“You are strangling my fingers so much, sweet thing.” He breathes lowly, “This is so… delectable.” You feel his hips moving behind you, his big, lengthy cock brushing your lower back from side to side, getting as much friction as he can.

He circles your G spot, scratching the itch and resumes the flicking of your clit, he is not one to neglect such an important aspect of womanly pleasure, quite the contrary.

You moan and mewl uncontrollably under his caress as he deep massage your pussy while licking and kissing your neck and shoulder.

“Maker!” You cry out.

You feel your pussy clenching and convulsing furiously around his large fingers while your nervous clit pulsates powerfully.

“Come for me, Ch’acah. Come hard for me...” He whispers seductively in your ear.

You come in a jolt, the pleasure suddenly exploding in your sex like fireworks forcing you to curl over yourself, but Thrawn holds you down with his mighty arm. Your eyes roll inside your skull and your toes curl deliciously as the fire spreads in your veins slowly to your nerves ending.

You tremble, but not of cold, but of pure, raw shock. The aftermath of your climax slowly subsiding, you relax bit by bit, relaxing easily in his arms with a sigh, slouching in his embrace.

“Thank you, Cheo vir.” Thrawn praises you, “You came hard and good. Just as I wanted.” He kisses your cheek again, purring loudly, so much you feel vibrations in your back.

As much as a hard, long warm shaft in your back…

Oh.

Oh…

He rolls his hips again, brushing his erection against your back gently with a hum. You slide your hand between your two bodies to stroke and caress him but he stops you.

“No. Leave it.”

“Are you sure?” You ask nicely. “You made me cum, I should reciprocate.”

“Not now.” He decides, pressing you tighter against him, “It is so nervous and sensitive like that, it is really pleasant.” He moves his hips back and forth gently, “I quite like it. Let me appreciate it a bit longer…”

@bluechiss @thrawnalani @justanothersadperson93 @al-astakbar @thrawnspetgoose @readinglistfics @elise2174 @debonaire-princess @twilekchiss @pencil-urchin @ineedazeezee @mssbridgerton @dance-like-russia-isnt-watching @Cortisolcosplay, @obbicrystaleo, @germie2037

#thrawn x reader #thrawn x you #thrawn x f!reader #thrawn smut #thrawn #grand admiral thrawn #mitth'raw'nuruodo #fanfic #vibratingskull

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blossom-works · 1 year

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Home For My Heart: It’s a Family Thing

More of my Mbappe stories can be found here

---

Since you and Kylian are from two different countries and cultures, you love to mess with each other. When you really want to mess with him, you will purposefully call football, “soccer”. Without fail it annoys Kylian and you take great pleasure in it. One time you put on an American Football game and called out to your then boyfriend, “Hey, babe! Let’s watch some football!” Kylian glared at you when he came downstairs. He snatched the remote from you and put on a true football game.

It is no surprise that the Mbappe family loves football. Heck, all their sons play the sport. It will not be long until the Mbappe family line is full of professional athletes. You have no idea what the family talks about more than football. Whenever his family gets together, Kylian and his brothers will have a 1 v 1 v 1 game. Their father, Wilfriend, will act as the referee. Sometimes they will drag you and Melissa into their game.

When your nephew found out that you were dating a professional footballer, they did not know how to react. Especially when they met Kylian in person for the first time. Your boys were shy and even shyer when Kylian asked them if they wanted him to teach them how to play “soccer”. After they warmed up to him, Kylian ended up teaching them a couple of tricks. Your oldest nephew ended up joining his school’s soccer club too.

You remember going to one of Kylian’s matches as his girlfriend for the first time. It was a game in England against Manchester. Kylian told you to clear your schedule for one week and he flew you to the British country. It was also the first time you met his family.

---

Landing at Heathrow Airport, you try to navigate your way through the big building. When you eventually reach the bagging area, you feel like you are playing “Marco Polo”. You think you found your bag, but it is someone else’s. Spotting another light gray suitcase, you check the tag and yes! It is your bag! Hauling it out of the luggage carousel, you head to the main exit and find a man holding a sign with your name on it.

“Mr. Lewis?”

The uniformed man smiles. “May I see an ID ma’am?”

“Sure.” You pull out your wallet from your carry-on backpack and take out your driver’s license. Still smiling at you, the man hands you back the card.

“Allow me, miss.” He takes your suitcase and starts leading you to his car. “Mr. Mbappe has instructed me to take you directly to the hotel. He has also instructed me to tell you that you’ll be having dinner with him and his family. Six I believe.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

Man... this feels weird. Never have you had someone take your luggage for you and tell you what your agenda looks like. Not only that, but to have a total stranger chauffeur you around (you are not a fan of Ubers or Lyfts).

Mr. Lewis opens the door for a Mercedes for you and once closed, puts your luggage into the truck. The vehicle has leather seats and looks brand-new. It even has a parting window in it. You feel like Mia Thermopolis from “The Princess Diaries” when you think about playing with the buttons.

The ride to the hotel is smooth. Mr. Lewis even starts a conversation with you without getting personal. He tells you that he is from the countryside, but he moved to the city for work. He even met his wife here and they now have three children. When you arrive at the hotel, bellhops open the door and takes your luggage out. Mr. Lewis tells them your name and to your surprise, the bellhops know who you are. Like they have been expecting you.

‘God what money can do.’

One of the bellhops escorts you to the front desk and before you can thank Mr. Lewis, his car is gone. The receptionist checks you in and hands you a keycard. She informs you that your luggage should already be in your room, and that another employee will bring a refreshment to you soon. When you get to your room, you are amazed at how big it is. Most of your hotel stays consist of Holiday Inns or The Marriott. Kylian did not let the opportunity to impress you slip by. There is even a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers on the dresser with a note that says, “Welcome to London, bébé”.

You remember Mr. Lewis telling you about the dinner plans and scrambling to get your phone out. You have about five hours until you have to leave your room. Enough time for a three-hour nap. Taking your shoes off, you plop your bodyweight on the comfortable bed. Just when you are about to lose consciousness, someone knocks on your door. Opening it, an employee with a cloche and tray greets you and places the snack on the table. He asks you if there is anything you need and you tell him no. Thanking him, you shut the door and open the cloche. A cup of hummus with fresh pita bread and vegetables is beautifully arranged. As good as the snack looks, sleep is what you really need. You set a timer for three hours and knock the fuck out.

Thank goodness you decided to put your ringer on full blast or else you would not have heard it. Though, it does make your heart race from the sudden, loud noise. You have to coach yourself to not fall back asleep. Feeling an uncomfortable wetness, you lift your cheek and smell saliva on the pillow. Way to go you...ruining a perfectly good pillow in less than half a day. Shaking your head and wiping your cheek on your shirt, you roll out of bed and open your suitcase. Luckily Kylian told you to pack at least three pairs of nice clothes and maybe a dress or two. Pulling out whatever you think is nice, you set it on the bed and get started with your makeup. You opt to keep your hair simple by just straightening it. You put on some dainty earrings with a matching necklace. Your dress is a modest, black body con dress. From the top compartment of your suitcase, you pull out a pair of Jordans Kylian got you for your birthday.

As you are checking yourself out in the mirror you realize that you have no idea where you are supposed to go. Fuck! You forgot that you are meeting his family all together! Jumping back, you make sure that your attire is appropriate enough to meet your boyfriend’s family. Is your makeup too much? You like to keep it natural and minimal as possible, but everyone has their own definition of natural. Maybe wearing shoes Kylian got you is a bit much. His family might think that you are showing off Ky’s money. Oh, God, you hope they at least like you.

Before you can continue playing your own Devil’s Advocate, someone knocks on your room door. On the other side of the door is a nicely dressed woman.

“Hello, miss. I’m here to escort you to the restaurant.”

‘Oh, thank goodness.’

Thanking her, you make sure you have all you need, not forgetting the key card, and follow the lady to the elevator. She leads you up to the fifteenth floor and makes a sharp right. The restaurant she takes you in has a modern and dark look to it. Instead of leading you to a table, she takes you down a secluded hallway. Opening one of the doors to the left, she motions you to enter. You quietly thank her with a racing heart.

Kylian is the first to spot you and he smiles.

“Bébé!” His taller figure appears right in front of you, and he gives you a couple of pecks.

“How are you doing? How was the flight? I’m sorry I couldn’t get you myself. We had to practice once more before the game.”

“C’est bon.” It feels good to finally see Kylian after being months apart. He plants a final kiss on your temple and moves to the side so he can introduce you to his family. You give them an awkward greeting with a small wave, hoping that you do not look stupid. It’s alright.

His mother, Fayza, gets up and greets you with a hug. His father, Wilfried, is next. He gives you a handshake before hugging you. They both say “Hi” to you in English. Kylian’s brothers give you a wave and Melissa offers you a hug. She tells her kids to say “Hello”, which they obey. It is kind of crazy to see them all grown up. You remember seeing them on Kylian’s Instagram years ago when they were only two or three. Holy crap...Does that make you old? Needless to say, meeting Kylian’s family is a surreal moment for you.

Kylian’s family asks you about your family life and job in America. You tell them stories of your childhood and they told you Kylian’s in exchange. He tried to stop his mother from showing you a picture of his baby self in the bathtub, but it did not work. She just slaps his hand away and shows you the image in her phone. Wilfried and you talk about your education. What schools you went to and about your internships. You even expose that you are a history nerd. It takes you a while for you and Ethan to get comfortable around each other, but you find some things to talk about.

Jires and Melissa ask more about your family. You come from a big family. Four older siblings while you are the abby. You and Melissa bond over feminine topics and even your experience with kids. Since your whole dream job deals with children, you ask her about tips you can put to use. All the while you talking to the Mbappe family, Kylian cannot keep his eyes off you. Nor can his smile leave his face. Yeah. You will fit in just fine.

---

Excited that your package has arrived, you run to the kitchen to open it. Pulling out the product you awe at the craftmanship. You start to get a little emotional over the sentimental value of the product. Getting a mailer box you got a week ago, you jazz it up. Placing the crafted items right on top of the fillers. You close the box and leave it on the wooden table.

You decide to take a walk around the area where you live. Ever since you moved to Europe, you have fallen in love with its architecture. Unlike the US, European cities are more condensed, so people prefer to walk rather than drive. You love that you do not have to drive at least fifteen minutes to a shop, bakery, restaurant, or park. European cities are like a cleaner and less noisy Washington D.C.

Going to a nearby fresh market, you pick up a few small desserts and fruit. With two bags in hand and a cup of gelato, you head back home. Your apartment building doubles as a hotel. The hotel consists of the bottom three floors and the upper four are apartments. Residents use separate elevators than the hotel guest. Their elevators are right in the front lobby while the resident’s elevators is in a private lobby that is closely monitored.

When you and Kylian got married, you agreed that you two will wait to buy a house when you have two kids. It is not that your penthouse is small (it is far from that), but you have always wanted to have a backyard. One that your children can run in. You prefer real grass, but faux grass is fine too. As you walk inside your home, you put the desserts and fruits in the fridge. Every now and then on Instagram, you see these moms who buy organizers for their fridges, and you just cannot bother. The same can be said for your pantry.

You throw your gelato cup in the trash and put on your favorite show. It has been your favorite for a long time, and it never gets old. Kylian does not understand how you can watch something over and over again in a one-week period, and then do the same thing the next week. You get lost in a couple of episodes when the front door opens.

“Hey, bébé.”

“Hey. I accidentally opened one of your packages. I left it on the kitchen table.”

Kylian is not bothered that you opened something mailed to him, but he is confused because he is not expecting a package to come in. Maybe a company sent him a PR package. Kylian kisses your cheek from behind the couch and sees the white box. Pulling the tabs out and lifting the top. It only takes a couple of seconds for him to register what the “package” is. Jumping in joy, he whips his head to the couch and sees you leaning against the back of it, widely grinning.

Your husband of just four months takes out the plastic stick and makes large strides to you.

“Amour! Are you serious!”

“Mm-hmm.” You nod.

Kylian hugs you by your shoulders. If you could, you would bet that Kylian is happier than when he wins the World Cup. Truthfully, no trophy can top what the “package” contains. Inside the white box is a pair of small crochet cleats, a small crochet football, and a positive pregnancy test. It looks like football really does run in the Mbappe family.

Two Months Later:

Your pregnancy has been easy to hide since your stomach has not grown a lot. It only looks like you just overate a bit. Kylian has been waiting to tell his family and friends about the exciting news, but you asked him not to. You know and know people that have had a miscarriage early in their first trimester. Plus, doctors say that the first trimester is the most critical because most miscarriages happen during this stage. After your first trimester ended, you and Kylian decided that now is time to tell your family.

There is no major holiday coming up so you cannot announce the pregnancy in one go. Getting creative, you decided to copy the way you told Kylian. Just a little different. You made a list of all your immediate family members (Kylian’s combined) who have their own residence and made a coordinating number of boxes. Each box contains copies of your latest ultrasound photo and a note that says, “Little Kicker, Coming August 20XX.”

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