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jgmartin · 11 months

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HOUSE OF THE HOLY

It’s a scary thing, being apart from yourself— being a tool. Have you ever been possessed? I’m guessing not. Most haven’t. And they can thank their lucky stars for that.

I have though.

I’ve felt the suffocating grip of something closing around my mind, squeezing it until every last ounce of me was gone. I've felt the horror of knowing I'm not alone. The horror of knowing I might never be alone again.

Three days after I turned six, my life turned into confetti. It tore itself into little pieces, each less recognizable than the last. That night, my foster parents locked me in the attic. They told me that a monster was coming to eat me— a werewolf.

“We’ll let you out in an hour,” they laughed. “If there’s anything left to let out.”

It wasn’t real. Of course it wasn’t real. The whole thing was just a twisted power play, a means to scare me into obeying their overbearing rules. I was young, though. Naive. And the thing about being young and naive is sometimes you say and do things that you live to regret, and I’d done exactly that.

I’d confided in them my greatest fear: men that turned into beasts. Werewolves.

I gave them my vulnerability, openness. They gave me psychological warfare.

Betrayal cuts deep, but the betrayal of a parent— the person meant to protect you when the whole world turns its back on you— that cuts deeper than skin.

Those scars don’t fade.

I spent my first minutes in the attic screaming and crying, beating my fist against the door. They answered this with a volley of threats, beginning and ending with three hours standing in the corner, balanced on my tippy-toes, if I so much as dared to open that hatch.

“You deserve this,” Papa Joey told me. “You knew damn well to keep your eyes closed during that Sunday prayer, but you opened em’ anyway. You embarrassed us. Humiliated us, not just in front of the church, but Father Andrews too. People are gonna think we don’t know how to raise a child, or that we can’t keep a little boy in line. You think that’s funny? You think that’s fair to us?”

“Shame on you,” Mama Sharon said.

They weren’t lying— at least, not about me opening my eyes. I was a distractible child. Later, I’d be diagnosed with attention deficit disorder, so what was I supposed to do? That didn’t matter to them, though.

In their eyes, not only had I disrespected the law of the house, I’d disrespected the law of the Lord. That made punishing me easy. Necessary. It made punishing me an act of God.

“Do I really have to stay up here a whole hour?” I whimpered, gazing warily across the sea of darkness. The light in the attic hadn’t worked for as long as I’d lived there.

“That depends,” Mama Sharon replied. “If the werewolf gets you first, you might only be in there for ten or twenty minutes.”

“Who knows?” Papa Joey called as they left down the hallway. “You might just get lucky."

They descended the steps, chuckling to themselves.

The thought of opening the hatch and slipping out of there crossed my mind. It crossed my mind over and over again, as a matter of fact, but I knew it wouldn’t be worth it. As scared as I was, I’d lived with Mama and Papa for eight months by then, and I knew well what kind of punishment they were capable of doling out.

For this, I’d be in the corner for certain. On my tippy toes.

If they saw me resting my feet— even for a moment, they’d get out the wooden board with the nails in it. They’d slip that under my heels. I’d been there before.

I never, ever wanted to be there again.

So I did my best to swallow my fear. I took a deep breath and braced myself against the nightmare of the attic. “I’m not afraid of you!” I said to the shadows. “I’m a monster too, you know!”

It was a lie. I was no more a monster than I was an astronaut, or a dinosaur. I was just a scrawny kid who missed his mom, sitting in an attic that seemed to press upon you from all sides. But it was all that I had. See, the only thing I knew capable of harming a werewolf was a silver bullet, and I was fresh out of those, so I went with the next best thing: convincing the werewolf I wasn’t prey.

I began my punishment sitting near the hatch. It seemed the safest option, and vibrating with adrenaline and panic, safety was at the top of my mind. I waited silently, eyes closed, heart fluttering, listening for a growl or howl to meet my ears, for the sounds of my doom to rush out and greet me. But they never did.

Once I’d made it ten minutes without being eaten, I started to calm down. Maybe there weren’t any monsters up there, after all. Maybe I was just afraid of the dark. If that was the case, then that was a problem I could solve.

The broken lightswitch was far beyond my ability to repair, but I knew for a fact there were a couple of flashlights laying around here somewhere. I’d used them while helping Papa Joey put out mouse traps. Trouble was, there was enough junk in the attic to fill a small museum, so finding which teetering box those flashlights were in might take some time.

Still, time was one of the few things not in short supply up there.

Closing my eyes, I took a breath, steeling myself against the darkness ahead. Then I stepped off. Into the unknown.

My footsteps groaned as I crept through the attic. Much of my movement consisted of stumbling around blindly, holding my arms out like Frankenstein’s monster and praying I didn’t encounter anything with fur. A few steps into my journey I bumped into something. My heart jumped, but it was just an old table.

I felt its surface, figuring if there was a flashlight up here then it was probably somewhere on th—

Eight tiny legs skittered across my hand. I flailed, falling backward and knocking the spider off of my skin. Heart pounding, I sat there and caught my breath.

“You’re kidding, Franky!” The television echoed from below the floorboards. “Keep that up, and you won’t just be outta a job— you’ll be out of a wife!” A laugh track kicked in, joined by Mama Sharon shrieking in amusement and clapping her hands. From the sounds of it, they were watching their favorite sitcom again. I’d never seen it since I wasn’t allowed to watch TV, but I always wondered if it was as funny as they made it seem.

“It’s not.”

I jumped, startled by the voice. “What?”

“You deaf, kid? I said it’s not. It ain’t that funny.”

My heart struck my ribcage like a hammer. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. It’s just the dark, that’s all. There’s nothing to be afraid of in the dark because I’m all alone and there’s no such thing as monsters and it’s just the TV that I’m hearing and—

“You’re not alone, kid. And I ain’t Will or Grace, either.”

I scrambled backward, away from the voice as quickly as I could. Too quickly. My head found the downward slope of the attic’s roof and hit it with a crack. Pain exploded across my skull. “Stay back,” I groaned, my vision swimming. “If you don’t I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing!” the voice sneered.

“I—I’m a werewolf,” I warned, my voice shaking with counterfeit authority. “Stay back. It’s a full moon tonight and—”

“Ain’t no full moon, and you ain’t no werewolf.”

Something thumped a short way from me, and my mouth went dry. Another thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. The floorboards trembled. My eyes swiveled to the thin square of light that outlined the attic hatch. It was rattling. Somebody was knocking on it from below.

“You breaking things up there?” Poppa Joey shouted. “You better not be! Any more banging around and you can forget the werewolf. I’ll come up there and beat your ass myself!”

Even then, I could hear the voice whispering all around me, moving around the attic like an unholy breeze. “Please,” I said quietly, making myself small in the corner. “There’s something up here! I need you.”

“You think I’m stupid, boy?”

My mouth trembled, my entire body quaked. I recognized the tone in Papa Joey’s voice.

“I asked you a fucking question, didn’t I?” he bellowed. “Answer me when I speak to you!”

“N-no sir,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Papa.”

“Then why are you lying to me?” Something struck the bottom of the hatch and made it jump violently— his fist. “You just earned yourself another half hour up there. Keep up this shitty behavior and I’ll show you some shitty behavior of my own. Understand?”

I whimpered.

“DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND?”

“Yes sir!” I called, doing my best to keep the tears in my eyes. “Yes sir, I understand sir!”

“Good,” he muttered. His footsteps faded as he made his way back downstairs.

“What’s he broken?” I heard my Mama ask at the bottom of the steps.

“Nothing,” Papa said, raising his voice so I could hear. “If he doesn’t want me breaking something of his, it’ll stay that way. Lord knows I’ll start with the teeth. Ain’t nothing out of the ordinary about a young boy missing a tooth.”

Laughter rang out around the attic. “You’re not safe here,” the voice said, right beside me. “Not safe here at all.”

I recoiled, terrified, but careful not to make a sound. The voice sounded low, raspy and inhuman. It sounded hungry. “Please,” I said. “Leave me alone. I wasn’t kidding about being a werewolf you know.”

“Do you want to be safe?” the voice hissed, slithering all around me like a cockroach on my skin. “I can make you safe. I can make all this pain go away. Doesn’t that sound… nice? Just say the word and poof, you’re home free, back with dear mommy.”

“What word?” I said, confused.

The voice tutted in my ears, as if it were on both sides of me at once. “Oh, don’t play coy. You know the word. The one you say kneeling beside your bed every night, praying to the big cheese in the sky.”

“Amen?”

“Amen?” More laughter, this time sardonic, mocking. “Give me a fucking break, kiddo. I mean the other word, the one you whimper with tears in your eyes and fear in your heart— afraid Mama and Papa might hear you say it out loud.”

A terrible feeling was beginning to take hold in my gut. The voice sounded suddenly so much worse than a simple werewolf. It sounded sinister. Like it was manipulating me. Testing me. “I don’t have tears in my eyes when I pray,” I said defiantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

The voice — whatever it was — stepped forward then, and the entire attic rattled against its weight. Dust drifted down from the rafters. Floorboards shuddered.

It was loud.

Too loud.

“The fuck did I just tell you, boy?” Papa Joey hollered from below. “So help me God, if I have to get up from this couch you’re gonna wish there really was a lock on that fucking hatch!”

I slammed my eyes shut. “Go away,” I said quietly. “Please, whatever you are, just go away.”

“No.”

It took another step forward, and the attic shook again. This time, the frame of the house trembled with it, rumbling as it braced itself against the monster inside.

“I’m not playing around,” Papa growled from below, and this time his voice was different. Something had wormed its way inside of it. Something dangerous. Deadly. “One more time, boy. Try me one more time and I swear to you that it’ll be the last...”

“He’s mad,” I whimpered, clutching my hands to my ears. “He’s really mad and he’s gonna think it’s me. Please, you’ve got to stop. You’ve got to go!”

"I'm not going anywhere,” the voice whispered. “You're stuck with me."

My heart fell. My world was practically spinning, the situation had spiraled so far outside of my control and I knew that no matter what, once the television episode was over Papa Joey would come up here and show me just how angry he was.

“What's this?” the voice asked, bemused. A sound met my ears; dull and low, like a cardboard box sliding off of a wooden table.

My heart froze.

“Looks expensive.”

"No! Don't—"

My plea was cut short, interrupted by a symphony of shattered glass. A half-second later and another box tipped. Something tumbled out of it, obnoxious and heavy, rolling across the creaky floor like a bowling ball.

"I'm going to make you believe," the voice hissed. "No matter what it takes."

I sat, paralyzed with fear, waiting to hear Papa shout my name and tell me that was the last straw. But I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t hear Papa yelling, or Mama either. I didn’t even hear the television.

Something snapped from below. “... nothing in him this fucking belt won’t fix!”

Footsteps thundered up the stairs.

“Why are you doing this?” I shrieked into the darkness. “Why are you making them hurt me?” Tears poured from my eyes as I trembled in the corner, taking deep, heaving breaths as I prepared myself for the discipline I was soon to receive. For the pain.

“I’m trying to teach you a lesson!” the voice cackled. “Now say the word, boyo! Say the word or you’ll beg for it later, beaten and bruised!”

“No!” I shouted, shaking my head furiously. Tears stained my cheeks. “I know what you are! I know what evil monsters like you do, but I’m a good kid and I pray every night so just leave me alone!”

A fist pounded against the underside of the hatch. Then it rattled, like somebody was pulling on the handle, trying to get it open, but it wouldn’t budge. “Get your hands off the hatch!” Papa Joey roared.

“Say the word,” the voice hissed.

I plugged my ears, curling into a ball. “No! Just me alone and go away.”

“Do it now, before he gets you! He sounds so angry!”

Mama’s voice joined the chaos below. “What’s he done now, Joey? Locked himself up there?”

The hatch rattled, and I heard Joey grunt. “What’s it look like, Sharon?”

“Well just leave him there, then! If he wants to stay up there with the werewolves he can stay there all weekend if he pleases.”

"No he damn well can't, Sharon!" Papa shouted. "I've got valuable things in those boxes and the little shitstain's destroying them!" Joey heaved and the attic hatch squealed, sounding as though he were pulling against it with his entire weight.

“Running out of time,” the voice said, up against my ear. “Tick tock. Say the word, or you’ll pay for this in blood. Who knows when he’ll stop beating you? Hopefully before you drop dead.”

I screamed then, lashing out and throwing out my fists helplessly into the dark, doing anything I could to stop the voice from talking. From tormenting me. “Stop it!” I shrieked. “Stop it!”

In all my life I’d never felt so helpless. So afraid. There wasn’t any escape here. Threats surrounded me. Below, my foster parents were beating down the attic door, while all around me a voice taunted and jeered, goading me to turn away from God, to make me admit I didn’t have the faith I claimed to.

I just wanted them both to go away. Forever.

I just wanted to go to my room and play with my action figures and read my story books. I just wanted to be a normal kid again, with a normal family. I wanted to feel safe.

A sharp creak sounded, followed by a snap of wood. Light flooded the attic and I gazed in horror toward the now open hatch, feeling suddenly weak and helpless. Joey had broken the steps clean off of their hinges.

“Obnoxious little shit,” Papa snarled, stomping up the stomps.

“Don’t kill him, Joey,” Mama Sharon said casually. “Just smarten him up. He’s been nothing but disobedient since he got here last July.”

“Oh, I’ll smarten him up,” Papa said, face appearing above the floor line with bulging eyes. “I’ll teach him a lesson so good he’ll wish he was back with that drug addict whore he calls a mother.”

“Papa!” I called out, whimpering. “It wasn’t me! There was—”

“More lies, boy?” He reached for his waist and unslung his belt, snapping it in his hands. The metal buckle gleamed in the light. “This time,” Papa said, stepping forward, “I’m not gonna stop until you bleed.”

I recoiled, raising my hands defensively. “Please,” I sobbed. “P-please don’t, Papa. I’m sorry I—” A crack sounded and pain exploded across my hands. I gasped, instinctively scrambling away but strong hands grabbed me and dragged me back.

“This time I’ll give you the buckle,” Papa growled.

Tears gushed from my eyes. Blood leaked from my hands. A word fell from my mouth with all the force of an atomic bomb.

“Well, well,” the voice whispered, dripping with violence. “Took you long enough.”

_____________________

I woke up in a large, white bed inside of a pale gray room.

“Look who’s up,” said a familiar voice. I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the brightness of the space. A man in a robe with a crucifix necklace stood at my bedside, staring down at me with cold, calculated eyes. “It only took you four days.”

I blinked, bleary-eyed. “Father Andrews?” I mumbled. “I’ve been asleep for four days?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Where am I?”

He looked around, as though appraising the setting for the first time himself. “If I had to guess, I’d say we were inside of a hospital, weren’t we?” He shot me a smile. “It’s fine, I’ve got most of the curtains drawn so it’s hard to tell. Besides, I’m sure somebody your age hasn’t had many occasions to be here.”

I sat up, confused and disoriented. “What happened?”

Father Andrews frowned, his expression growing grave. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me, Alex. You don’t remember anything?”

“No, Father,” I said, shaking my head. Memories flashed in my mind— of a belt, of Papa’s angry face storming up the attic steps. “I remember being in a lot of trouble,” I began. “I remember feeling…”

“Feeling what, Alex?”

The word I wanted to say was afraid, but I knew I’d get in worse trouble for saying that. It wasn’t fair of me to make Mama and Papa look bad in front of the Father. Not when I did that so much already.

“I remember feeling tired,” I lied, before quickly changing the subject. “Why am I in the hospital, Father? Am I okay?”

“That depends. Do you feel okay?”

“I think so. I feel tired and I’ve got a headache but mostly I feel alright.”

Father Andrews moved closer to me, and a gravity fell across his expression. When he spoke, it was in a quiet, measured tone. “Do you feel like yourself?”

My head spun. Memories lurched out of dark spots in my mind, memories of a voice, of a malevolent presence tempting me to admit I’d been crying during my prayers. Now I was here, in the hospital next to Father Andrews. A priest.

“What happened?" I asked, more urgently. Even at six, I could connect the dots that something was very wrong. “Something happened didn’t it and—”

“Easy, Alex,” Father Andrews soothed. “The doctors have been in. You’ll be happy to hear that, as far as they can tell, you’re fine. A little worse for wear, but nothing that won’t clear in a few days. And the doctors will be happy to hear you’ve woken from your coma.”

“Coma?” The word was new to me, but I felt like I’d heard it before. It felt like something bad, like something you didn’t want to have happen to you. Terror shot through me. “Are Mama and Papa mad at me?” I asked.

A sinking feeling formed in my gut. The voice had destroyed so much stuff in the attic, and now that Mama and Papa had gotten a good look at it they were probably furious with me. I’d likely get a second-helping of discipline when I got home.

“Sharon and Joseph are dead,” Father Andrews said.

My mouth fell open. The gravity of the word was almost beyond my understanding. “What do you mean?”

Father Andrews sighed, then pulled the rest of the curtain shut around my bed, shielding us from view. “Alex, this is difficult to say... but they’re dead because of you. You killed them.”

I blinked. The situation felt like a bad dream, like a scenario so awful that it couldn’t possibly be true. “I killed them?” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “No… No I didn’t I—”

“You burned away every ounce of blood in their bodies and seared crucifixes into their foreheads. When the police showed up, they were husks. You were comatose."

I swallowed, my mouth dry. “No, that’s not right, I…” Horror wrapped itself around me as more memories unearthed themselves. This time, I remembered the attic, and the voice. I remembered it tempting me to break my vows to God by speaking a word. If I just spoke the word, it said, it could make the pain go away. “I loved them,” I said, my voice cracking with the onset of tears. “I wouldn’t hurt them because I loved them. I promise!”

Father Andrews folded his arms. “That may be, but they're dead now.” He reached into his robes and produced a small, clear vial. Unstoppering it, he held it above my head. “Now that you’re awake, let’s try this again.” He tilted the vial and doused me in the liquid.

I coughed and sputtered as it fell into my nose and eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Holy water,” he explained. He gave the empty vial a gentle shake in front of me. “Over the past three days I’ve poured various amounts onto you, but it’s never had any effect. Do you know why that is?”

Holy Water. It was something I once learned about in Sunday School: water that had been blessed to protect against demons and other terrible things. If he had been pouring that on me, then it was because he suspected…

I gazed up at him, horrified. “It wasn’t my fault!” I cried, shaking my head as though if I just denied it hard enough, then I could make it all go away. The demon. The dead parents. All of it. I just wanted a second chance.

“What wasn’t your fault?” he replied.

Guilt twisted inside of me. “The demon in the attic!” I blurted out. “I didn’t mean to talk to it, I swear! It just kept pressuring me and pressuring me and then I got so scared, and I accidentally said the word but I didn’t mean to, I didn’t…” I broke off into a long sob.

It was as though the entire experience had been bottled up before, whether because the memories still hadn’t caught up to me, or the guilt hadn’t, but now it was all falling out of me like a river.

Father Andrews grabbed me by my shoulders. “You said a word?”

I nodded, my lip curled up and snot leaking down my nose. “I didn’t mean to.”

“What word?”

“I…” The word sat on the tip of my tongue, but fear gripped me. What if the demon was waiting in here, unseen just like it had been in the attic? What if when I said the word, the demon would crawl right back inside of me and start killing people all over again? I couldn’t face that. I couldn’t risk that. “I… can’t,” I said.

Father Andrews brought his mouth next to my ear. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, deliberate. “What. Was. The. Word. Alex?”

“If I say the word,” I explained. “Then the demon might come back and hurt—”

“Say it!” he snapped. “Say the damn word!”

I slammed my eyes shut, pursing my lips and shaking my head. There was no way I could do it. No way. Not after hearing what had happened the last time.

The Father snarled and tore the crucifix from his necklace and pressed it against my forehead. He muttered words in a language I didn’t understand. “Enough excuses! Now say it!"

"Help," I whimpered.

"I'll help you once I'm sure—"

"No," I said. "That was the word. I asked for… help."

"Help?" He stared at me blankly, mouth hanging open as though processing something. “Did you say that you asked for… help?”

I nodded, shaken.

“Oh, Lord Almighty Above.” He heaved a sigh, pocketing his crucifix and sitting down in the chair next to my bed. “Thank God.”

The situation had only gotten more confusing. “I’m sorry, Father. Thank God… for what?”

He took a breath, then another. Eventually, he stood up and approached my bedside, placing a hand on my arm. “Things aren’t as bad as they seem.”

“They’re not? Does this mean I wasn’t possessed? That it wasn’t me that hurt Mama and Papa?”

Father Andrews’ smile faltered. “I don’t have much experience with this, so you’ll forgive my bluntness. But you deserve the truth.” He paused. His next words came slowly. “It’s clear to me that you really were possessed, Alex. And, for better or worse, that same force used you to commit violence against Joseph and Sharon. Through you, it killed them.”

My heart fell.

In that moment, my world, small as it was, collapsed around me in slow motion. I shrank before Father Andrews. I wanted to keep shrinking— become tinier and tinier until there was nothing left of me and I wouldn’t feel this horrible guilt and shame. My body quaked with the fresh onset of tears. “Am I evil now? Will that demon keep possessing me?”

Father Andrews stared at me as though dumbstruck. “Demon?”

I tried to respond, but it just came out as a torrent of ugly sobs.

A moment later, he seemed to have realized something. He shook his head as though chastising himself and then pulled me close, wrapping me in one of the warmest embraces I’ve ever felt. “You weren’t possessed by a demon, Alex.”

He squeezed me.

“You were possessed by an angel.”

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orpheuslookingback · 4 months

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Quote Collection: Farewell, My Lovely by Raymond Chandler (Part 1)

So I tend to underline book quotes I really like when I read, and I thought it'd be nice to assemble some of my favorite sets of quotes. These are from the detective novel Farewell, My Lovely, by Raymond Chandler:

I walked along to the double doors and stood in front of them. They were motionless now. It wasn’t any of my business. So I pushed them open and looked in (5) The hunch I had was as vague as the heat waves that danced above the sidewalk (20) "Oh yes. Let me see, your name is-" He paused and frowned in the effort of memory. The effect was as phony as the pedigree of a used car. I let him work at it for a minute, then I said; "Philip Marlowe. The same as it was this afternoon." He gave me a quick darting frown, as if perhaps something ought to be done about that (48) His aquamarine eyes had a faintly thoughtful expression, but his lips smiled. The kind of smile that goes with a silk noose. (50) Afterwards I thought I might have heard the swish of a sap. Maybe you always think that-- afterwards. (62) Twenty minutes’ sleep. Just a nice doze. In that time I had muffed a job and lost eight thousand dollars. Well, why not? In twenty minutes you can sink a battleship, down three or four planes, hold a double execution. You can die, get married, get fired and find a new job, have a tooth pulled, have your tonsils out. In twenty minutes you can even get up in the morning. You can get a glass of water at a night club--maybe. (65) "Somebody must have hated him to smash his head in like that." "I don’t suppose it was personal," I growled. "Some people just like to smash heads." (72) I filled a pipe and reached for the packet of paper matches. I lit the pipe carefully. She watched that with approval. Pipe smokers were solid men. She was going to be disappointed in me. (88) "Cops are just people." she said irrelevantly. "They start out that way, I’ve heard". (89) I was halfway to the elevator before the thought hit me. It hit me without any reason or sense, like a dropped brick. I stopped and leaned against the marbled wall and pushed my hat around on my head and suddenly I laughed. A girl passing me on the way from the elevators back to her work turned and gave me one of those looks which are supposed to make your spine feel like a run in a stocking.(106) She opened her mouth wide and laughed her head off without making any more sound than you would make cracking a breadstick. (115) Sitting there alone I felt like a high-class corpse, laid out by an undertaker with a lot of good taste. (144) The smell of sage drifted up from a canyon and made me think of a dead man and a moonless sky. (145) On the other side of the road was a raw clay bank at the edge of which a few unbeatable wild flowers hung on like naughty children that won’t go to bed. (146) His eyes were deep, far too deep. They were the depthless drugged eyes of the somnambulist. They were like a well I read about once. It was nine hundred years old, in an old castle. You could drop a stone into it and wait. You could listen and wait and then you would give up waiting and laugh and then just as you were ready to turn away a faint, minute splash would come back up to you from the bottom of that well, so tiny, so remote that you could hardly believe a well like that possible. His eyes were deep like that. And they were also eyes without expression, without soul, eyes that could watch lions tear a man to pieces and never change, that could watch a man impaled and screaming in the hot sun with his eyelids cut off. (149) He had my wrists now, instead of me having his. He twisted them behind me fast and a knee like a corner stone went into my back. He bent me. I can be bent. I’m not the City Hall. He bent me. (155) [He was] holding my open wallet in his hand, making scratches on the leather with his right thumbnail, as if he just liked to spoil things. Little things, if they were all he had. But probably faces would give him more fun. (159)

#raymond chandler #philip marlowe #detective fiction #detectives #mysteries #mystery novels #hard boiled detectives #noir #farewell my lovely #quotes #book quotes #literature

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casual-video-transcripts · 1 year

Video

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“Van Jones on racial justice” by Tara Brach

Click on the “Expand” button to read the rest of the transcript by CCKN

[0:00] Van Jones: I’m glad that we’re doing this this week.

[0:03] If we had done this

[0:06] a week ago, I probably couldn’t have...

[0:08] couldn’t have been a part of it.

[0:09] Just because there was so much heartbreak.

[0:14] I think the world saw something that’s been happening

[0:17] in our country for... centuries...

[0:20] saw a black man

[0:22] lynched by a white man.

[0:26] That’s what that was, that - that video.

[0:27] And it broke us,

[0:31] that broke the black community

[0:34] to watch something like that happen.

[0:37] One minute.

[0:38] Two minutes.

[0:41] Three minutes.

[0:44] Four minutes.

[0:46] Five minutes.

[0:48] Starts calling out for his mother,

[0:49] his mother’s been dead for years.

[0:51] Six minutes.

[0:53] Urinating on himself,

[0:55] begging for his life.

[0:57] 15 times, “I can’t breathe.”

[0:58] Community screaming in horror.

[1:00] Eight minutes and 46 seconds.

[1:07] These videos have been a part of American life now for

[1:09] almost seven-eight years.

[1:!2] IT was always so, “Well, it was a quick decision

[1:15] and cops gotta defend himself.

[1:16] He was talking back, he was fighting back.

[1:17] What’d you want?

[1:18] What’d you expect, you know?

[1:19] Can’t second guess the police,”

[1:20] But this one, this one.

[1:25] Filed from beginning to end.

[1:29] Stunned the world.

[1:31] And for all of the times that we have been lynched,

[1:34] we’ve never had a situation where

[1:36] a billion people could see it all at the same time

[1:39] on their smartphones.

[1:42] And it shoved a piece of glass into the eyeball of everybody on the planet

[1:48] and it hurt - it hurt them.

[1:50] People couldn’t sleep,

[1:53] having seen it, they couldn’t rest.

[1:57] And if we had tried to have this conversation a week ago,

[2:00] we probably couldn’t have.

[2:04] But a miracle is taking place.

[2:08] A miracle is taking place.

[2:11] A continent of new common ground has

[2:15] emerged from beneath the waves where

[2:19] there are twenty-thirty-forty million

[2:22] white Americans saying,

[2:24] “racism is real,

[2:26] more real than I thought.

[2:29] There’s something wrong with our justice system.

[2:30] It’s more broken than I knew.

[2:34] What can I do about it?”

[2:35] As an African-American man,

[2:40] it’s a miracle.

[2:43] It’s all I’ve wanted is to be acknowledged.

[2:49] That what is happening is happening,

[2:51] and that we need to do something about it.

[2:54] And now we are in the middle of something we don’t know what it is.

[2:58] We don’t even have a name for it.

[3:00] You know the Civil Rights Movement at the beginning.

[3:04] At first it was just people trying to fix a problem

[3:06] and later on they called it the Civil Rights Group.

[3:10] We don’t know what this is.

[3:14] NASCAR says they’re not gonna let confederate flags fly anymore.

[3:19] The NFL is apologizing

[3:22] for not supporting Colin Kaepernick’s peaceful protests

[3:26] years ago when he was trying to call attention to this.

[3:29] You have people, corporations

[3:31] across the world saying “Black Lives Matter”.

[3:37] What is this?

[3:39] We don’t even know what - we don’t know what to call this.

[3:43] 1964

[3:45] they called it Freedom Summer when those students

[3:48] went south to register voters.

[3:49] Some were killed, some were beaten,

[3:51] but they changed history.

[3:52] But they didn’t call it Freedom Summer then, they called it -

[3:55] it was two years later when a book came out

[3:57] called Freedom Summer.

[3:58] They didn’t know they were in Freedom Summer.

[4:02] So we’re in some awakening,

[4:04] some great awakening.

[4:06] We’re much more as possible

[4:10] than we had dared to hope for.

[4:21] Somebody killed a black man

[4:23] and everybody cares. It’s a miracle.

[4:30] It’s never happened, it’s never happened.

[4:34] Somebody killed a black man

[4:36] and everybody cares.

[4:40] [Van Jones sighs]

[4:42] I wish my parents were here to see this.

End of transcript

Video Channel: Tara Brach

Video Description:

This clip, from a recent online event, is featured in Tara’s talk on 6/17/2020, Sustaining Our Caring. You can watch the full talk at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8VoW8...

Listen in at: https://www.tarabrach.com/sustaining-...

For more resources on anti-racism, please visit: https://www.tarabrach.com/racism/

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

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Your support will enable us to continue to offer these talks freely. If you value them, I hope you will consider offering a donation at this time. Visit: https://www.tarabrach.com/donation/

With thanks and love, Tara

Disclaimer and preface: None of the videos I transcribe belong to me. They belong to the content creators and the crew behind the videos.

My transcripts may not be 100% as I am not a professional. I'm just someone who wants to provide video transcripts for people to understand and enjoy these videos.

For this video, I focused on the speaker. If there are any corrections you would like me to make, let me know in the comment section of the post.

If you like this video or any other video from Tara Brach, please support by watching her videos on the YouTube platform and through other means by her.

If you wish to support Van Jones, he has a website which includes his socials such as his YouTube channel.

Consider these sites below as a starting point:

https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/#

https://blacklivesmatter.com/resources/

https://www.archives.gov/research/african-americans/vote/freedom-summer

https://www.blackpast.org

https://www.horizonsfoundation.org/black-led-lgbtq-nonprofits-making-history/

https://blackfilmarchive.com

If possible, check out any organizations, bookstores, libraries, community/youth centers and more in your communities and outside of it.

If you know any other resources, please comment them below.

Personal Notes: This was the one I accidentally deleted. The funny thing is, usually you get a box that says like “Are you sure you want to delete this post?” or something like that and I must of clicked yes. Anyways, it’s back up. End of story.

#van jones #tara brach #racial justice #CCKN transcripts

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natashaandeyi · 2 years

Text

About Damn Time

When I walked into her life earlier that year, she didn't need me. Not even an ounce of me. But I stuck around because the voice that inspired the whole interaction was firm enough that day, and I didn't want to deal with the aftermath of ignoring my intuition: I knew better than that, once bitten forever shy. Since then I've had her back, many are the times I wanted to walk away but I take pride in being a woman of my words.

One month leading to another and suddenly she was all about my existence. When it came to my creative works, she was the muse behind the art. When I met a pretty face in town, she was the image reflected in mind. When I needed to call another's name, hers was the only one that came out of my mouth. Even when I desperately needed to have empty thoughts for the sake of a break, she was the only one that calmed my nerves to serenity. I tried to fight her adamant occupation in my mind. I went outside and met other kinds, but nothing could beat her rarity. I wrote other pieces that didn't have her as the main character or muse, but none of them gave the feeling of an inspired artist. I had these feelings that others called love, but I knew better because I was in the twenty first century kind of slavery, and of all the slaves, I was the most bound. I needed out. I desperately needed out.

Turns out it was easier said than done. Waking up everyday to the existence of her divine self and suddenly I forgot all about my slavery. The chains looked pretty on me despite the pain they clearly caused me. It was as if their shiny nature was the only thing my eyes could see, forgetting all that my mind was screaming inside. Months and months went by and this became my new life; despite the knowledge of the effect of her shadow. They say if you can't beat them, join them. I sure did join her team. I mean what was the point of fighting the thought of her or how she made me feel? Well... until some grenade was dropped on the other side of my life.

When my friend texted about the death of her romantic relationship, I offered my shoulder without thinking twice. What are friends for right? The shoulder was offered at a café nearby after her late coming despite requesting the meeting. I mean she had to come late, she was going through a break up, right? I continued being the friend indeed to my friend in need until the bill came by. Somehow my soul left my body despite my heart continuing with the pump. I could pay the bill, but it just occurred to me that no one, not even the so-called friend sitting across from me on that table would do the same had the cards been switched. Never before had I felt so cold and alone in a warm space full of people.

My drive back home was enough time to think, to have a thorough and honest reality check because something was gravely wrong with me. The constant faithfulness to people who wouldn't dare look my way twice. The availability I was practicing to everyone religiously but for the one most important being that needed it most. Me. The emptiness, the numbness, the selfishness I felt that night reflected the dark skies. So unbothered was I about anything and everyone that even I feared myself, but it was what I needed. It was all I've been needing all along. Suddenly it was all about me, myself and I: and the feeling was very aggressive and insistent. I was a completely different being for the next forty-eight hours. I barely recognized myself those two days, until the eleventh hour when the red pill finally kicked in, and I was grateful for its last minute rescue.

Despite the near identity shift into my least favorite demon, I was grateful for the small amount of time that I became that demon. I had a glimpse of how egocentric I could be if I decide to reciprocate the nature of those who take me for granted; whichever side of me I selflessly offered for their wellbeing.

It was time to accept my position in people's lives so as to never overplay my role. Instead of changing into some monster I could never recognize, it was better to accept reality as it was before my bare eyes.

This experience was the price I paid for the key that freed me from the chains of her effect. It was about damn time! That voice, those promises, the availability, the ever-ready shoulders and listening ears had to go, not for good, but to a rather different direction. My direction and the chosen few that earned it.

Took me some time but I'm better now. You truly never know how much you're bound until you have a taste of true freedom. This is to my inner child that almost died because I would rather have been a monster than accept reality as it was before my eyes. Thank you for hanging on and fighting hard for the both of us.

#short story #short reads #short stories #writing #writingcommunity #selflove #love #women writers #writers and artists #write #writer #female writers

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lloyd-got-a-knife · 2 years

Text

Five year old Bruno who just got his Gift and is just so excited and he can't really see big things yet, so the stuff he tells people about their future is still like "you'll find a pretty flower tomorrow" and cutesy small visions like that and the townspeople all think he's adorable because he's still at that age where being a little "weird" and "quirky" is considered cute and his visions are seen as a cute lil thing, especially since they're being told by this adorable, bright eyed five year old kid

But as he gets older and his Gift evolves and he starts to understand the world better his visions twist. Every once in a while he has to deliver bad news to people. Sometimes devastating news. He hates it, but luckily it doesn't happen that often.

When he's eight people start to look at him weird when he hides behind Alma. The other kids laugh when he panics after they "jinx" something. The adults start to whisper about how he's often playing alone. A girl asks him about her sick goldfish and he tells her the truth and makes her cry

One day when Bruno is ten he finds himself unable to breathe after having a vision about one of the old ladies from town dying. It takes his mamá two hours to calm him down. People don't ask him for visions for fun anymore and Bruno understands why. He doesn't really see the fun in it either anymore

Bruno is thirteen, an age he has really dreaded. Something has to go wrong at thirteen, right? He spends the whole year just waiting for whatever that might be

Bruno is fifteen. He got into a fight with his mamá after he said he hated his Gift. Pepa screamed at him after one of his visions made her thunder. Julieta said she knew he didn't mean to mess everything up, but he could tell by the look in her eyes that she didn't want him around either

Bruno is seventeen and he has started thinking about running away. People have started to avoid him on the street. They think he doesn't notice. The other kids call him names and treathening to push him into the river. Bruno secretly wish that they would.

Bruno is twenty and his mamá is starting to push him about marriage. Bruno doubts she could find anyone interested which is confirmed when she stops pushing pretty quickly. Bruno is secretly relieved. He has started talking to the rats that lives in the walls of Casita and they all agree he's better off alone

Bruno is twenty three and he missed his own birthday party. He doesn't really care, but he's a bit sad that he also missed his sisters'. There were just so many people and he knew none of them wanted him there. He didn't wanna ruin Pepa and Julieta's day. Julieta left a piece of cake in front of his door, but he didn't touch it

Bruno is twentyfive, but looking at him you'd think he was at least forty. His forehead has deep wrinkles and the bags under his eyes look like he haven't slept in ten years. He certainly feels like he hasn't too so maybe there's something to it. His nightly ritual has started getting pretty long to avoid getting bad visions while he sleeps. His mamá once found him repeating his routine at 1 AM because it still didn't feel right and he didn't wanna risk it. She wasn't amused

Bruno is twentyseven and he just ruined his sister's wedding. He was trying to help, he really was... but as usual he made things worse. He didn't even stay the full ceremony. He knew showing up was a bad idea. He had snuck back out as soon as his mamá had taken her attention off him and he made sure to avoid all the cracks on the road as he made his way home

Bruno is twentyeight and he didn't show up to Julieta's wedding despite her insisting. Julieta didn't comment on it, but she also didn't speak to him afterwards. He knew it was shitty, but he would've just made it worse if he had shown up

Bruno is thirty and his two nieces are the sweetest kids he has ever seen. They're still too young to understand that they should keep their distance to him. Bruno does his best to keep that in mind for them

Bruno is thirtytwo and Julieta dragged him out of his room to met his new niece. She's the sweetest thing and Bruno almost says yes to hold her before he gets an uncomfortably strong thought about dropping her and quickly excuses himself

Bruno is thirtythree and his two oldest nieces have gifts of their own now. Isabela seems to be thriving and takes after her mother in quickly getting an idea of how to use her powers. Dolores has been keeping a lot to herself after her ceremony and people are starting to look at her weird for the way she flinches at the slightest sound. Bruno tries to help her work through it, but he can't help but worry that his sweet niece takes too much after him

Bruno is thirtyfive and he prefers to avoid the family altogether. The family is growing steadily and his sisters are expecting again. He has started having more involuntary visions, his rituals only doing so much to halt them

Bruno is thirtyseven and his mamá got mad when she found out he's not coming to Luisa's gift ceremony. She used some nasty words he wasn't even sure what meant, but after that she left him alone

Bruno is forty and Mirabel didn't get a gift. When his mamá asked to speak with him in private he already knew what she would ask of him. At first he refused. He didn't do visions anymore. She knew that. But, hearing the way her voice broke as she begged him, he obviously can't say no. He looks into the future and what he see is... concerning. There's no way Mirabel would hurt the magic or the family, but... he knew how it would look to everyone else. He couldn't let her grow up with a burden like that. He takes one final look at his door, before he leaves

Bruno isn't sure how old he is. In theory he should know. He has been listening in on every family celebration, but he kinda lost track. It doesn't matter anyways, what matters is that his family is safe... for now... as long as no one sees the vision

Bruno is fifty and he's finally home

#encanto #bruno madrigal

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harryspet · 4 years

Text

caged bird | s.rogers, p.parker & b.barnes

[Warnings] dark!steve rogers x reader, dark!peter parker x reader, dark!bucky barnes x reader, polyamory, prison au, noncon/dubcon sex, this plot scenario is very unrealistic but oh well, reader makes a deal so she can survive, hella manipulation, dominants/submissive, oral sex (male recieving), hella angst, shower sex, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

A/N: this is like a really f’d up situation so enjoy :):):) i also wrote this over the span of two weeks so i’m sorry if the pacing is weird and (also x2) this is nowhere near canon

In which you have to make a deal with three devils in order to survive in The Cage.

word count: 4.8k

main masterlist

Your eyelids were heavy though the bright light outside the bus was forcing you awake. Your limbs shackled to the seat, it reminded you that you had lost your freedom so quickly and that you’d probably never have a good night of sleep ever again, “How long?” Your mouth was dry, the heat from the wasteland you were driving through crept through the window.

“Twenty minutes, princess,” Officer Rumlow looked you over for the millionth time like you were fresh meat ready for the slaughter. His perceptions weren’t far off and that’s what scared you the most. You weren’t cut out for a place like the Cage.

A week ago you thought this place was fictional, a nightmare tale that was used to scare the new employees. It was still a nightmare but you were now living in it. You thought your heart might explode out of your chest as the facility finally came into view. Five stories of complete concrete surrounded by two, hundred-foot fences and surrounded by a barren wasteland.

You were the only one on the bus. The Cage rarely received new inmates due to the nature of crimes that the prison was built for. Vigilantes and government traitors. Many used to consider them heroes but they were unregulated and dangerous. That's how they ended up here and, your boss, Alexander Pierce had sold you out to save himself.

“When … W-When am I going to get my phone call?” You asked as the bus entered the gates of the prison, finally stopping at the processing center.

Rumlow chuckled, walking over to unchain your shackles from the floor of the bus, “Who are you going to call, princess? Mommy and Daddy?” He grabbed you roughly by your upper arm, pulling you out of your seat and dragging you down the steps of the bus.

You refused to accept that you had been erased. Your parents probably thought you were only missing, not that you had been wrongly accused of betraying the government and had been thrown into the most dangerous prison in the country.

“They can’t do this,” You winced as your arm stung, “No trial. No jury. T-This is illegal!”

Rumlow ignored you, and you had to pick up your pace in order to not fall down. Your eyes wandered around, the sun nearly blinding you and stinging your skin at the same time. You noticed in the distance a group of male inmates standing behind a wired fence, wearing the same navy jumpsuit as you, and even from far away, you could see cold and hungry glances.

You thought you were lucky for a minute since you were a woman but then you remembered what kind of women probably lived here. As you were brought inside, past several guards, through metal detectors and pat-downs.

When you got to the body cavity search, you expected to part way with Rumlow. Standing in a small, cold room, Rumlow stood in the doorway with his hands casually in the pockets of his pants, “Undress, inmate,” Your eyes widened and you quickly crossed your arms, “Slowly, if you don’t mind.”

“I-I do mind,” You said quickly, “I’m supposed to have a female officer-”

“You don’t get those kinds of privileges in the Cage. We don’t separate inmates by gender,” You shook your head as your eyebrows began to furrow.

“That’s insane-”

“Undress, inmate,” He said more sternly this time, “Or would you like me to do it for you? You’re lucky I don’t make you put on a show for the rest of the guards.”

You shook your head again, tears starting to form in your tired eyes, “Please don’t-” You tried to plead with him but, as you did, you watched him reach for his baton, “Okay, okay!”

Rumlow smiled a wicked smile, “Good. Bend over and cough, inmate. Let me see that cute, little ass of yours.”

When you finally got to see a female officer, she was escorting you to your cell. In your hands, you held the rest of your life which included one more set of clothes, bedding, and a toothbrush. You had to eat what the prison provided and you could only earn extra commissary from working. Hela tried to explain everything to you but you were only latching onto every other world.

You walked along a slim passageway which had cells to the right and a metal railing to the left. There were three floors of cells and they seemed to go all the way around in a circle. Passed the railing and in the middle of the dome was where it seemed most of the inmates were gathered.

The shouting, laughing, and fighting echoed through the dome and you couldn’t help but think those calls were for you. You could barely carry your bag of things and walk straight without stumbling. If they couldn’t send your weakness from your appearance then they’d surely sniff it out soon.

“This can’t be allowed,” You whispered to Officer Hela, though her dark hair mixed with the look of death in her eyes didn’t scream “empathy” to you, “There has to be some sort of rule-”

She stopped in front of an empty, six by eight-foot cell which told you that this would be your new home, “You can sit in solitary if you like,” She spoke coldly, “Your meals get brought to you and you don’t have to deal with the animals in here but there’s no time outside. It’s easy to lose track of the days and forget which voices are real and which ones are inside your head. If you prefer to go insane before you die then I’d recommend that route.”

There wasn’t much of a choice to make and you found your feet moving before your brain could register. You stepped inside the cell, setting down your things on the bottom bunk, “A girl like you is going to need to latch onto a group, pledge your allegiance, and do not let them question your loyalty. They live by a different code here and following it is life or death, do you understand?”

You slowly nodded as you listened and part of you was grateful that she wasn’t completely cold, “T-Thank you-”

She scoffed, “Such a precious little thing … I give you a week,” With that, she turned on her heel and you felt hopeless once again, “I’ll escort you to dinner-”

You shook your head, “I’m not hungry.” You were actually starving but you could not yet face the beast.

She only shrugged and pulled the door closed. The light above you flickered and you stared back down at your bunk. You were holding back your tears as you tried to make up your bed. Staring at the flimsy mattress material only made you more depressed so you decided just to lay down. Facing the wall, your tired eyes roamed over what was scribbled on the walls.

S.H.I.E.L.D. is evil.

S.H.I.E.L.D. is corrupt.

You hated that the words initially sent a wave of anger through you. You hated that you still felt loyal to that group of monsters. You were a low level worker with good standing and they had just sent you to die?

With your face tucked into your arm, you cried yourself to sleep.

The next day you had no choice but to face your fears. You couldn’t go any longer without food and, in a place like this, you needed to keep your energy up. Before the sun was even out, you heard the mechanical click of the cell door. Your favorite officer, Rumlow, made sure to stop by your cell during roll call.

“So you decided on general population,” He popped the gum he was chewing, looking you over, “I’m sad to hear it, I was gonna visit you every day in solitary but I guess we’ll get some alone time soon enough.”

You scowled at him and a shiver went through you as he continued pass your cell. You were now grateful that you had chosen general population.

That feeling didn’t last as inmates started moving from their cells down to breakfast. You stayed back, waiting to slip out of your cell when the crowd had passed. You lingered in the back of the line but no one seemed to notice you until you were in the kitchen line. The first reaction was a quiet murmur that went through the group of (mostly) men at the sight of you.

You didn’t quite match anyone's stature, not even the women. At least they looked like they could take care of themselves. You were sure that your face probably had dark circles and sunken in features. You looked down when you felt someone's eyes on you and you cringed at every word whispered about you.

“If I could just get my hands on her …”

“I wonder what a little girl like that could’ve done to get in here.”

“I’d be real gentle with her …” “I wouldn’t … I’d make her scream …”

“Move along,” Hela barked at the inmates in the line. You tried to tune them out as a staff member handed you your tray of food. A stale piece of toast, plastic-looking eggs, peaches, and what looked like could be oatmeal.

It was when you turned away that you felt a pinch on your bottom. You turned around quickly only to find yourself staring at a chest rather than a face. As you looked up, a man with long, dark black hair stared down at you, “Aren’t you adorable?”

“I said move along, inmates,” You looked towards Hela for some sort of help but didn’t receive any.

When you looked back again, the man had disappeared. You shook it off, figuring that was the least of what you were about to experience today. As you stepped out into the middle of the dome, you remembered the advice that Hela had managed to give you.

There were cliques formed at each circular, metal table and you looked each one over as you walked past them. Again, people stared and said vile things but you spotted a table where two women were sitting. They were much older than you but the look you got from them was not maternal in the least.

“Can I… sit here?” You knew the answer based on their thin-lipped scowls.

You weren’t like any of them … you were fragile. Besides that, you used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. and the organization was responsible for locking half of these people away. You kept walking, eventually finding an empty table to sit at.

All you could think about now was eating. You picked at your tray with your plastic fork, and with each bite of the food you cringed. The toast was also completely rock hard, “It helps if you dip it in water,” Your head snapped up as you felt a shadow over you before someone took a seat beside you.

You weren’t expecting someone so young and you certainly weren’t expecting a friendly smile. You stared at the handsome man with your mouth agape. You hadn’t realized what he meant until you looked back down at the bread in your hands, “Oh … I doubt anything would make this edible-”

He ran his hand through his light brown hair, before reaching into the pocket of his jumpsuit. On the table in front of you, he placed a twinkie. The entire room seemed to go quiet for a moment and you realized that everyone was watching the two of you.

“I can’t accept this …”

“Of course you can, it’s no big deal,” His brown eyes pierced into yours as he shrugged, “I’m Peter.”

The sugary, process food was calling your name but you still weren’t sure what his deal was, “T-Thank you,” Not wanting to come off rude, you accepted it, unknowingly beginning to seal your fate, “I’m … I’m-”

“Y/N Y/LN,” He finished for you which left your eyes wide with shock, “You’re already famous. The guards like to gossip and it’s rare we get new inmates so people get curious.”

“Oh,” You shifted uncomfortably in your seat.

“Don’t worry, some people in here care about your charges, how you got here, but not me,” He tried to reassure you, a smile tugging at his lips, “S.H.I.E.L.D. screwed us all and I don’t think there’s a point in playing who’s the better bad guy.”

You looked around. Now that you knew that people knew your charges and your history, you were starting to feel unsettled. The only thing keeping you grounded was him reassuring you that he didn’t care, “How long-” Your voice came out in a whisper, “How long have you been here?”

Peter took a breath as he thought for a moment, “Few years. Now I kinda forget that I was a normal teenager when this all started.”

Years. And he was a teenager when they brought him here? Did they have no limits to their cruelty?

“God,” You breathed out, overwhelmed, “I don’t think I can … do this-”

Peter reached out, placing a calm hand on your arm, “Hey, hey, you have to survive here. Whether you were meant to be here or not, you have to live like this is your reality. Looking like you’re about to vomit is not a good look to everyone else. I saw Loki over there … he’s an asshole touching you like that but it’s because he’s already sniffed you out.”

You nodded, trying to stay calm, “But I don’t know how to look … to look less weak.”

“For one, you’re going to have to start eating more and building some muscle,” You could tell by his grip on your arm that he was quite strong, “And the next time someone disrespects you, you have to stand up for yourself. You also can’t just bark like a little chihuahua. Maybe you could pick someone out, someone that you could win in a fight against.”

As Peter started to scan the room, you immediately started shaking your hand, “I can’t just attack someone,” You whisper-shouted, your eyes wide with worry.

Peter chuckled, “Not with that attitude. Maybe you could go for Heather over there,” He eyed a woman who was practically elderly, “She has a cane so even you could probably overpower though I’ve seen here use the thing as a weapon a few times-”

“Peter,” You spoke sharply, “There has to be another way.”

Peter looked into your eyes and you lost hope for a moment until he seemed to perk up, “I have some friends, we kind of run together in this place, looking out for each other,” Peter explained and you listened intently, hoping for a means of survival that didn’t require attacking an old lady, “I could probably convince them to start looking out for you too. But it won’t be easy, we take loyalty very seriously here, and it wouldn’t be without a cost to you.”

“What sort of cost?”

Peter shrugged, “Could be lots of things. They serve plums on Friday and Bucky loves those so maybe you’d show your support to the group by giving him yours. Something like that,” You followed Peter’s finger as he pointed two men out, one with dark hair and the other with light. Both were built like bodybuilders, “Steve’s a respected leader here and maybe you could help run messages for him.”

You nodded, “T-That sounds fair,” You paused for a moment as the men eyed you, “And for the twinkie? What do you want?”

“Now you’re starting to get it,” Peter grinned, “Eat it and that means you accept our claim. You’re one of us.”

“Can’t I have time to think about it?”

Peter seemed to hesitate for the first time, “I’m sure you won’t get a better offer,” Your face fell, “But sure. I’d be quick about it though. Those big, doe eyes aren’t going to work on everybody.”

The dark-haired one was following you. Loki, Peter called him, hadn’t taken his eyes off you ever since you parted ways with Peter yesterday. He and his greek god, blonde friend were now walking behind you as you made your way through the halls. They were pushing mop buckets, evidently taking a break from their cleaning duty.

You had gotten lost trying to find the hospital wing and now you were paying the consequences.

“Little bird … caged and unprotected,” He taunted you and your heartbeat quickened as you tried to keep from looking back, “Not even the guards want to save her. Poor thing.”

“It seems she’s in need of protecting, brother.”

“Protecting? If I got my hands on her, the last thing I’d think of is being gentle-”

You turned into the first room you passed, expecting to find somewhere to hide but you only seemed to encounter more people. It was the TV room, a staticy old television airing a baseball game was hanging in the corner of the room, and a bunch of men were sitting at different tables.

They all turned their heads to you as you interrupted and you immediately recognized the two men from Peter’s loyal “group”. Bucky and Steve. Your heart was out of your chest at the point and you found yourself whispering a “sorry” before turning back towards the door. Loki and his brother, however, were waiting patiently.

Loki leaned in the doorway, eyeing you like you were fresh meat.

“Is this jackass bothering you, hon?” Your eyes wide with fear, you quickly realized that it wasn’t Loki taunting you. The dark-haired man’s, you remembered Peter calling him Bucky, voice boomed through the room.

You froze.

“Don’t you have toilets to scrub, Laufeyson?” The light hair man with a thick beard spoke, and by the look on his face you could tell he was a man of power. Not so much power-hungry but someone that demanded respect and often received it.

Loki scoffed, looking over you again, “As far as I know, this one is free territory.”

“Well, this room is my territory and guess where she happens to be standing,” Loki’s jaw clenched at Steve’s words.

“C’mere, hon,” Bucky spoke to you, signaling to cross the room. She hesitated but only for a moment as you realized your choices were Peter’s friends or letting Loki, have you. You crossed the room cautiously towards them, everyone now looking at you. You paused awkwardly in front of the table but a small yelp left your lip as Bucky grabbed you by the arm, spinning you into his lap.

“See,” Steve said as you uncomfortably tried your best not to squirm, “Don’t touch things that aren’t yours, Laufeyson.”

You felt a hand clench your thigh and cringed.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

As soon as Loki stormed away, you stood up, brushing whatever wrinkles had formed in your jumpsuit. Amused, Bucky smiled at you, “You could at least thank us,” Bucky leaned forward and you tried not to scowl.

“Thank you,” You whispered.

“Good girl,” Bucky smirked.

“Lang, get Y/N a chair,” Steve ordered another man in the room. He was quick to obey the command and, even though you were in a new place, you felt you’d been transported into an entirely new planet.

“You don’t have to-”

“Sit,” Steve said as the chair was placed beside you, “You can leave when you give us an answer to the offer Peter mentioned yesterday.”

You had thought long and hard about Peter’s offer and decided last night that you wanted to reject it. It wasn’t until now that you realized your decision was a mistake. There was no telling when you’d be getting out of this place, Peter had been here for years, and it seemed you were already a target.

You’d even heard a rumor that the guards placed bets on how long you’d survive in here.

“Yes …” You nodded your head, “That’s my answer.”

Steve's lips pulled into a small grin as he eyed his friend across the table, “Good choice, doll.”

A week later and you were still alive and relatively untouched. Bucky was quite handsy but Peter reminded you that it was just protocol. Everyone had to know that you were a part of their group and that, if you were harmed, they’d have to deal with Steve and his minions.

Like Peter said, there were quite a few sacrifices you had to make. Your new job in the kitchen allowed you to provide the group with all the food they wanted and when you weren’t working, you were running errands for Steve. You got an idea of all the inmate leaders and how they functioned as a society.

Steve seemed to be at the very top and you realized the possible consequences of crossing someone like him. Still, you felt more pampered than like you were a part of some elaborate prison gang. Most of your wishes were theirs to grant.

They let you watch whatever you wanted in the TV room. Bucky always called you pet names that you were starting to grow fond of. Steve had some pull with the guards so Rumlow was never around to bother you anymore. Peter even found you a set of paints to occupy your time in your cell. As long as you followed them around like their cute little puppy, they were quite nice to you.

“C’mon, run a lap with me. You gotta build your strength,” Peter asked you, his face sweaty and shining under the baking sun. He was shirtless, the shirtsleeves of his uniform wrapped around his waist, and his magnificent physique was on display just like Steve and Bucky’s. During rec time in the courtyard, you’d become accustomed to standing by the fence and watching them lift weights.

“I’m good, thanks,” You smiled awkwardly, “I get tired just from watching you guys.”

“Peter’s right,” Steve let out a breath as he dropped his hundred-pound dumbbell.

“I just …” Your voice trailed off as Steve eyed you with his strong gaze. You knew that what he said goes but you were growing nervous, “I don’t want to get sweaty.”

“You’re serious?” Bucky chimed in, a curious look on his face.

“Is that like a girl thing I don’t know about?” Peter flashed you an amused look and your cheeks began to heat with embarrassment.

“Y/N?” Steve could see that you were hiding something.

You crossed your arms, sighing, “I just don’t want to have to shower, okay?”

“You haven’t showered since you’ve been here?” Peter asked incredulously.

“I have!” You quickly defended yourself, “I mean, I’ve just been using the sink in my cell.”

“I see what this is about,” Bucky had a knowing look on his face, “Dollface is scared of the communal showers.”

Peter’s mouth formed the shape of an “o” as he realized what was going on. You still felt so embarrassed. It was yet another thing that made you seem totally defenseless.

“Is that true?” Steve asked and you were beginning to feel overwhelmed by their concerned gazes, “Why didn’t you tell us? Next time, one of us will keep watch for you. No one’s gonna bother you.”

Maybe it was the isolation or the fact that your life would never be the same again. Maybe it was the fact that you’d never see your family again or that you cried yourself to sleep every night. That might be the reason you felt that they genuinely cared for you and why you wanted to fully embrace the comfort that they were providing.

Maybe that was why you wanted to belong to them.

For the first time, you were reminded of your old life. You weren’t sure how long you’d lost yourself under the water, letting time get away from you, as the warm water cascaded along your skin. The showers had a sorry excuse for water pressure and, despite the creepiness of the beige tiles and flickering light above, when you closed your eyes you were in paradise.

“All clean, beautiful?” Bucky’s voice brought you out of your trance. Suddenly you were back in the square room with showerheads lining each wall. You wiped the water from your eyes before turning off the water.

“Y-Yes, I’m almost done!” You shouted back, grabbing your towel from off the hook. You pressed it to your face, drying your skin. You were quite grateful that they’d taken the extra steps to make you feel protected, “Bucky-”

As you turned around, that feeling of gratitude quickly turned to something resembling fear. He was supposed to wait for you outside the bathroom and yet, there he was, only three feet away from you.

“What are you-”

He looked over you hungrily and you pressed your towel closer to your body, “You have no idea how long it's been since I’ve been with a beautiful woman like you … Steve too. And Peter, he’s just learning the ropes.”

You took a step back, towards the wall, and as you did you caught a glimpse behind Bucky’s towering figure. Both Steve and Peter were here, stalking closer.

“You said you’d protect me…” Your voice cracked, your hands beginning to shake.

“We will,” Steve spoke, determined, “No one else but us will touch you.”

“Nothing in here is without a cost, Y/N,” Peter seemed a bit solemn like his current life was not what he wanted it to be but he was just as hungry, if not more, as Bucky.

Bucky grabbed you then, his eyes impatient, and you wrestled for your towel for only a moment before he easily snatched it away from you. A helpless squeal left your mouth as he grabbed you by the arm with one hand and placed his other hand between your legs. He grabbed your thigh tightly and as his hand moved further up, you found yourself paralyzed.

“Good girl. You’re going to take all of us,” Bucky spoke quietly, shushing you, his grip growing tighter and tighter. Before you knew it, all three of them were surrounding you, their curious hands wandering over your wet skin. Grabbing your breast, your thighs, turning your face to bite at your neck.

“Get on your knees,” Steve grunted against your ear, growing impatient like his friend.

When you didn’t move, Peter was the one to push you down onto the cold floor. You hiccuped, trying not to hyperventilate as they overwhelmed you from each side. As they all started to pull down their clothes, you made one final attempt at trying to crawl away.

Steve grabbed you by your throat, making your efforts futile, pushing your face towards his crotch. You felt it, hard and throbbing against your cheek, “Open up, don’t make this hard, doll,” Through the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky stroking his own length, waiting patiently for his turn.

Steve grabbed you by your hair next, pressing your closed lips against his tip. He forced himself in your mouth, “There you go,” Steve grunted, pushing himself deeper, “Move that tongue around.”

Steve Rogers could make your life a living hell in the Cage. Was this really the price you had to pay in order to survive here? You couldn’t imagine it being any worse than this but Steve could make that possible. That’s why you started to swirl your tongue like he said, deciding that their orgasms would end your pain.

Bucky was much rougher than Steve, pinching your nose closed and enjoying watching your eyes widen and water. He practically touched the back of your throat and still commanded you to stroke Peter and Steve’s cocks with your hands while you took him in your mouth. Somehow, you managed.

Peter was much more gentle and you were grateful for that. His hands rested softly on the back of your head, guiding your mouth slowly up and down his length, “God, this is awesome,” He cursed, his head tilting back as he enjoyed the stimulation. When he finally finished, his warmth filled your mouth and before you could spit or catch your breath, Bucky grabbed you again.

He came so far down your throat that you were forced to swallow it but, unlike him, Steve took his time, “This little mouth. Is ours. Every single hole. Is ours. No one else, do you understand?” With each sentence, he thrust hard until he filled your mouth. You leaned over, coughing as you felt the stinging of your sore throat.

You were about to collapse onto the dirty cold floor when gentle arms lifted you up into a broad chest. You found yourself not fighting, only pressing your face into Bucky’s chest as you began to sob.

Steve didn’t have to say anything more. You understand your new position and there wasn’t anyone else there to save you from that fate.

That night you learned there was a change to your cell assignment. You’d sleep in Steve’s arms, a little bird that was safe and protected in it’s cage.

hope you enjoyed!! i’m posting this instead of sleeping because I have class in this morning :)

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ms-starflower · 2 years

Text

Young Survivors — Part 5 — Maribat

<Previous | First | Next > AO3

So. I had to fight with this chapter to write it. We had a couple of disagreements.

Thanks to @izanae and @jumpingjoy82, for reading over this and reassuring me when the only thing I wanted was to delete everything.

Still no Jason, tho, sorry guys. I was sure it would in this chapter but, apparently, Marinette is damn bent on meeting as many Batfam members as possible before Jason. And the chapter was getting really long, so I had to cut it.

Also, I wrote my first ever fight scene here. It’s short, and feels a little bit awkward, but it’s not all bad sooo... Mah.

Taglist:

@frieddonutsweets @imarivers8 @queenz-z @emistar0 @jayjayspixiepop @waffleyunsure @bigpicklebananatree @kking13 @redbullgivescaswings @ritacrow-blog @marvel--unsolved @redgemsposts @alexizlazy @toodaloo-kangaroo @gajer-1226 @adrestar @noisydeputyturkeybear @unoriginalmess

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

Gotham Academy was as Marinette remembered it to be. Well, the front yard was, at the very least.

The class was in the gymnasium, trying to socialize with the GA’s students, while their teachers were talking on the side about today’s proceedings.

They were there for less than twenty minutes, and Lila had already stopped three of her friends’ attempts to talk about Wayne.

Marinette found that way more amusing than she should, and Lila obviously knew it. She was glaring at her like it was her fault that her story was about to become ashes.

It’s not like Marinette was the one to propose Gotham in the first place, was it?

“Why Gotham?” A GA’s student asked loudly, looking around him with curiosity, and getting everyone’s attention in the process. “I mean, it’s really not the first city I think of for a graduation trip. It’s Gotham.”

“I was overruled,” Marinette muttered quietly, but in the silence, everyone heard and turned toward her curiously. She shrugged. “What, he is not wrong. I proposed Rome and London, but those morons wanted Gotham. They really think the city is ‘not that bad’, and it’s a quote.”

A couple of GA’s students snorted, looking at her classmates incredulously.

“Wait,” the guy that asked the question said, holding one of his hands up. “You chose Gotham over London or Rome. What the hell guys? Why?!”

“We did it for love!” Sarah, one of Lila’s friends and a romantic at heart, exclaimed with a bright grin, totally obvious of the panic she was making Lila feel. “A couple of years ago—”

“You grew up here in Gotham, didn’t you, Marinette?” Lila cut in, almost screaming over Sarah with a wide, falsely curious smile. She skillfully ignored the curious, and incredulous, looks people were giving her because of her non-sequitur. “I mean, maybe you prefer to go by Mei, now? I heard it was your real name?”

“It is the name that was given to me at birth, yes,” she said, turning around to look at Lila and ignoring the curious stares everyone was now giving her. “But you really don’t have to bother, Lila. Tom and Sabine chose Marinette, and I’m fine to go by that.”

“So, what advice do you have for surviving Gotham,” Lila continued as if she didn’t say anything, and Marinette wondered if she was the only one seeing the anger and contempt in her eyes. “I mean, as a street rat, you did grow up in the middle of Gotham’s criminals, you probably know a couple of helpful pieces of advice, don’t you?”

“Well, it was eight years ago, Lila, I don’t think any tips I give you would be really helpful today,” she started with a strained smile. “And I would really appreciate it if you would refrain from saying things like ‘street rat’, please.”

“Why? Isn’t it what we call people living in the street here?” Lila asked with fake confusion, trying to play innocent. “I mean, that’s what you were, living in the street–”

“Surviving,” Marinette hissed at Lila, eyes narrowed and hands clenched into fists at her side. “I survived life in Gotham’s street, Lila. And I would kill you before letting you insult any of the children doing the exact same thing! You don’t know anything about my childhood–”

“I know that you mother was a whore,” Lila said, her disdain badly hidden, and Marinette could see that a good part of her class were now looking at her with wide eyes. “And that you choose to live on the streets.”

“Wow, illuminating. Do you think I’m the only Gotham’s orphan with a mother who was a prostitute, Lila? Do you think I’m ashamed of her?” Marinette asked with a disbelieving laugh, before putting one hand in front of her mouth, ignoring the deafening silence and the staring. “And living in the streets was a hundred time better than living in an orphanage in this city, ten years ago. Well, at least if you wanted to survive.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad,” Alya started, trying to stand up for her friend.

“Oh, it was,” Marinette cut in, not wanting to listen to her half-assed argument. “What the Waynes, the three not corrupted cops of this city, and Batman did in ten years is astonishing, Alya. Just ask around you, Gotham is better than it was three months ago, let alone ten years.”

Alya looked around her with uncertainty, but didn’t open her mouth. Marinette sighed tiredly, letting all of the tension in her shoulder go.

“So,” a girl with blonde hair and red dyed tips, standing with a blond guy a couple of meters to Lila’s left, asked her with a thoughtful look at Marinette’s dress. “The embroidery…”

“Is for my mother,” Marinette finished, chin held up and with a bit of challenge in her tone.

She was going to go pay homage to her mother today, and she was wearing a replica she made of her mother’s favorite dress for the occasion; a vintage halter blue dress with white accents and a white bow around the waist.

The only difference with the original dress, and what the girl was talking about, was the black embroidery in the corset of the dress of a blooming camellia.

“I wondered, when I first saw it,” she said with a short nod. “I’m Ashley, by the way, sorry for your mother.”

“Thank you, Ashley,” Marinette only said, giving her a nod of her own in reply.

“Why?” Alya asked curiously, because she didn’t know how to mind her own business, apparently. Beside her, Lila grimaced at being the center of attention again. “Why are you sorry for her mother? What is so important about some black flower?”

“Tt. Do French people have any notion of privacy?” a black haired guy asked, from his place on the bench, looking at Alya and Lila with clear disdain. His eyes looked toward her, probably to assess her reaction, before looking back to Alya and rolling his eyes when he saw her open her mouth. “Black camellia are usually embroided in clothes to commemorate prostitutes that were murdered, and of which the murderer was not caught.”

“All of them,” the blond beside Ashley said with an eyebrow raised. “Said it like it is, Wayne, the GCPD don’t go around eluciding prostit—”

“Wayne?!” Alya exclaimed in a high pitched tone, somewhat echoing Marinette’s own thoughts, and getting the undivided attention from the classroom.

Though, now that she knew, Marinette could see it. His hair was styled differently, and coupled with the uniform, he was somehow different from the couple photo she saw on social media (when the filter she put on to block anything Gotham-or-Wayne-related failed her), but it was Damian Wayne.

Marinette had the feeling things were going to become a lot more interesting, all of the sudden.

“Yes?” he asked, and she really wanted to know how he could put this much disdain in one word. It was impressive.

“I— Uh, it’s just—” Alya paused, looking around her with a frown. She stared at Lila for a minute, but the girl only ignored her, gaze fixed on her nails. “Nothing, I was just surprised.”

“You are an awful liar,” he told her, matter of factly, like he didn’t just insult her. Alya spluttered, affront written across her face, and Marinette snorted quietly.

“How— What— How dare you? You can’t just—” she choked out, her face redder than a tomato.

“I fail to see what I said to cause such a reaction,” Damian told her, standing up from the bench, and the best part was that he looked sincerely confused. “Your excuse is subpar, and you didn’t even pull it off with halfway decent lying skills.”

All of her classmates were looking at him with shocked expressions, but the GA’s students weren’t really surprised, making her think that it was somewhat of a frequent situation.

“People tend to react badly when called liars to their face,” Marinette told him, her amusement clearly noticeable. She couldn’t help but look toward Lila as she said it, the girl only glaring when their eyes crossed.

“What should I have done? Letting her think that I believed her pitiful excuse of a lie?” Damian asked her, his eyes narrowed with disbelief, studying Alya like she was a particularly exotic insect.

Marinette was prevented from answering by the GA’s teacher clapping into his hand. Mlle Petit and Mr Marchand were standing at his right, and another GA teacher at his left.

“Alright children, my name is Mr Andrews,” he started with a beaming smile, looking over all of them. “And today we are going to play a little game. You will be put in pairs, and we want you to get to know each other until we make you change partners, like on a blind date. But, you have to speak exclusively in English, until we signal for you to switch to French only. No cheating, alright?”

Everyone agreed more or less enthusiastically, and he started to call out names, the other teachers making the students sit in front of each other, each pairs a couple of meters beside the other.

The first couple of discussions were very awkward for Marinette, the GA students were either trying to awkwardly, and very obviously, talk around her mother, or had an uncomfortable view on her childhood. That they very enthusiastically shared with her.

One girl even had the gall to tell her that she was lucky her mother was dead, or she would probably be a prostitute herself now. Marinette would have punched her, if the teacher hadn’t made them change partners at that moment.

“So, this girl doesn’t seem to like you very much,” Ashley said once she was sitting in front of Marinette, her eyes darting toward Lila.

“Seriously,” Marinette started in a deadpan. “What gave it away?”

“I like you,” she said with a smile. “But seriously, why did she expose your life like that? What's her problem?”

“She thinks I’m responsible for all the problems in her life,” Marinette said with a roll of her eyes.

“And are you?” Ashley asked, a bright grin stretching her lips.

“Only a couple, I swear,” Marinette said with a mischievous smile. “And she really had it coming.”

“What did you do?” Ashley asked, leaning forward, one of her eyebrows raised.

“Well,” Marinette said, holding her hands up to point at their surroundings. “I organized this trip.”

“Does she hate Gotham that much?”

“She has nothing against Gotham per se, more about–”

“Okay!” Mlle Petit cut in, talking in French. “I don’t want to hear anything but French now!”

“So, what does she hate about Gotham?” Ashley asked in an accented French just a little bit broken.

“Oh, good French!” Marinette told her with a smile. “And, honestly, you’re probably going to know sooner rather than later, I wouldn’t want to spoil the show.”

“You can’t flaunt a good story and then keep silent, it’s not fair.”

“I assure you, it would be better for you to hear about it from someone else,” Marinette told her with a smile. Ashley stared at her in silence for a minute, probably trying to gauge her sincerity, before sighing, her shoulder deflating.

“Give something, at the very least,” she said, looking at her with sad puppy eyes. “Please?”

“Just keep an eye on Wayne,” she finally said with a small smile.

“What does Wayne have to do with anything?” Ashley asked with a frown, before her eyes widened suddenly. “Is she one of those? I mean, usually it concerns his older brothers but—”

“Alright! Gotham’s students, move to the right!” Mr Andrews said with a smile, and Marinette only smiled at Ashley’s pout.

There were another couple of students, even some that were genuinely nice and funny, and then Marinette was face to face with Damian Wayne.

“Why are all of your classmates asking about my alleged ex-girlfriend?” Damian Wayne started as soon as he was sitting in front of her. Marinette only blinked, taken aback by the question and his sharp tone. He seemed to notice, because he closed his eyes with a sigh, before continuing with a scowl. “You seem less stupid than the great majority of your classmates, I was…hoping you had the answers to my questions.”

“Okay, right. That was the most roundabout compliment I ever received, and I grew up with Chloé Bourgeois,” Marinette said, looking at him with an amused smile. “But no matter, ask away, kid.”

“I’m not a kid,” he replied, his scowl deepening.

“You definitely are,” she told him, and it was true. It wasn’t as noticeable in pictures, but from this close she could see how young he really was. She couldn’t help but wonder how her classmates didn’t notice already.

“Whatever,” he said with the tone of someone who had an older sibling, and knew how to identify a lost battle. (The casual thought of Jason only hurt a little bit.) “Why do your classmates think that I have an ex-girlfriend that they know personally?”

“Because someone they know personally told them she was your ex,” she said, still trying to stay out of the situation as much as possible, but not willing to lie.

“It’s this Rossi girl, isn’t it,” he said with an almost scary scowl, probably aiming for a questioning tone, but missing it spectacularly.

“What?” She was genuinely surprised, how in hell did he guess that? “What makes you say that?”

“Father and Drake told me to be wary of her and her lying,” Wayne said, making Marinette open her mouth in surprise. Mr Wayne knew about Lila’s lies? Tim knew? How? “Altough, I didn’t think all of your classmates would be stupid enough to believe her.”

“Yeah, they are not the sharpest tools in the toolbox, I will give you that,” Marinette said with a wince. “I stopped caring about making people see her lies a while back, if I’m being honest.”

“I fail to see how that would be your responsibility,” he told her, and while he had a point, it was something she took so long to understand, the fact that he said it so matter of factly was somewhat insulting.

“Yeah, it took me a while to get it, though,” she just said, shrugging.

“In French now, kids!” Mlle Petit exclaimed with a handclap.

“How did she associate herself with the Wayne name, exactly?” Damian said, in perfect and still botherline snobbish French.

She internally repeated his sentence with a slow blink, wondering where this kid learned to talk French. After a second, she shook her head to clear her thoughts; rich people would simply never cease to amaze her.

“Nothing more than saying that she was your childhood friend, and that you became more than friends two years ago,” Marinette said quietly, not wanting her classmates to hear her.

“I don’t have childhood friends,” Wayne said with a sneer, his eyes moving toward where Lila was staring at them, before looking back at Marinette with a frown. “Wait, two years ago?”

Before Marinette could say anything more, someone laughing hysterically grabbed everyone's attention. She turned toward the sound to see Ashley, lying down on the gym floor, almost choking on her laughter.

The fact that she was talking to Jeremy-the-class-gossip, who was looking absolutely flabbergasted, probably meant that she was now aware of Lila’s story about Wayne.

“Miss Lewis, I am glad to see that you get along so well with your partner,” the GA’s teacher, the one who didn’t introduce himself earlier, started with an indulgent smile on his face. “But maybe try to keep your volume down, so as to not bother the rest of the students.”

“Yeah— Yes,” she choked out, her laughter dying down slowly. “Sorry Mr Seabrook, I won’t do it again.”

“Good,” Mr Seabrook said with a quick nod, before turning toward the rest of the students, who were still all looking toward Ashley and Jeremy with curiosity. “Get back to work, everyone!”

“Two years ago,” Wayne said again, still shooting looks toward Ashley.

“Yeah,” she said with a grimace. “In all…fairness, she didn’t know you were thirteen at the time.”

“That doesn’t really make it better,” he told her, unimpressed.

“I know,” she said with a small smile, just before Mr Andrews made them change partners again.

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

Being in Gotham for almost two whole days without being caught in an attack, Rogue or otherwise, had literally been a miracle. Marinette honestly didn’t expect it. It was more than she had asked for.

She was totally filing a complaint to the Rich Parents Club, though, because, despite her time pickpocketing GA’s students in her youth, she had genuinely thought that Gotham Academy actually had some sort of security.

Honestly, she had been betting on the museum, tomorrow, for their first attack in Gotham. And praying for a run-of-the-mill mafia boss or some wannabe-Catwoman.

Obviously, she had known it was too much to ask for. She had.

But, for fuck’s sake, did they had to be attacked by the fashion disaster of Gotham? She gets the enigma-riddles aesthetic; with the question marks, and all that crap, she really did, but that shade of green? That was inexcusable. There was no apology on earth, or beyond, strong enough to excuse the use of that shade.

“When I heard about Frenchies in our good ol’ Gotham,” The Riddler started, a frankly disturbing smirk on his lips, his question mark cane-staff-whatever twirling in his hand. “I had to come say bonjour, you understand. I even brushed off on my French! Am I not such a considerate man?”

Marinette gritted her teeth to keep herself silent, feeling like she was just about to snap. This trip was hitting her nerves way harder than she had anticipated.

She saw Alya make a move to grab her phone, and stared at her with the harshest glare Hyppolyta teached her. And, thankfully, the girl did have some survival instinct and aborted the movement.

“I will need a volunteer for the next part of the show,” he said with a large motion of the arms, pointing toward the thing his goons were installing with his cane. Marinette didn’t like the look of that. “I even promise to let them live! If they answer the question correctly, of course.”

He turned toward one of his goons with a nasal laugh, like he just did the best joke of the decade. The man, wearing weird purple underwear over some sort of catsuit in this awful shade of green, forced out a laugh at his boss’ ‘joke’. It was painfully obvious that his laugh was everything but sincere. Nygma huffed, before turning back toward his hostages.

“Well, I’m waiting,” he said, when nobody spontaneously volunteered. He made a motion with his cane and the four goons that weren’t busy with the machine-thing pointed their guns back on the hostages. “Tell you what, if I don’t have a volunteer in thirty seconds, I will shoot three people.”

Marinette internally cursed her time as Ladybug, her soft soul, Gotham in general, and the fact that Damian Fucking Wayne was opening his damn mouth. She cursed The Riddler’s fashion sense too, for good measure. Or lack of, in this case.

“I volunteer,” she said, before The Riddler could realize that he had a prime hostage specimen just under his nose. She was not about to let one of Bruce Wayne goddamn children put himself into the limelight, thank you very much.

“Ha! Wonderful!” He exclaimed with a twirl of his cane. Marinette could see the scowl Wayne threw her way, but skillfully ignored it. “Take a seat, dear.”

Swallowing, but keeping her chin up, Marinette walked to the complicated-looking chair he pointed her to. Once seated, she looked up at the box-thing that was suspended above her, her heart speeding a little bit at what she saw.

There was a trap door. It was closed, but something was leaking out. Something slimy and green – somehow, the same awful shade as Nygma’s suit. What the hell? What sort of obsession Nygma had with this color?! It couldn’t be healthy.

Well, neither was his obsession with death traps and riddles, but whatever. This green was almost worst, alright?

A drop of the thing fell toward her, and Marinette moved her hand just in time for the substance to hit the arm of the chair.

And eat through it.

Marinette looked up with the slimmest start of panic, only to find herself face to face with Nygma's smug look. It felt deliberate.

With how it fell just when she sat down? It couldn’t not be deliberate, calculated.

Despite how long it’s been, Marinette forced herself into Ladybug’s mindset. She took a deep breath, forcing down the panic and squared her shoulder. Nygma tilted his head slightly, obviously curious of her sudden change, before a gleeful, and frankly disturbing, smile stretched his lips.

“Oh, I can tell that you are going to be a fun one!” He exclaimed with a hysterical laugh, clapping his hands around his cane. “So, in honor of our French guest, I will start with a riddle dans la langue de Molière! Riddle me this! You can find me two times in the year.”

He said it in almost perfect French, a sadistically joyful gleam in his eyes that made Marinette pause. Why— Oh.

Oh.

He didn’t know she was one of the ‘French guests’.

She had felt cold during lunch, and Ashley lended her her uniform’s jacket. Marinette was still wearing it, and despite the fact that her dress’ skirt was the wrong color, if you don’t really pay attention to details like color scheme — something that The Riddler very obviously doesn’t do — she could pass for a Gotham Academy’s student.

He thought that he had her trapped.

It was going to be fun, indeed.

“You can find me one time in the week,” he continued, oblivious of her realization, still in an almost perfect French. “But you can’t find me on the day, what am I?”

“So,” Marinette started slowly, a small smile taking over her lips, making Nygma narrow his eyes with suspicion. “Deux fois dans l’année, une fois dans la semaine, mais pas dans le jour? It’s the letter N.”

“Good, good,” he said without the cheerfulness he had earlier, his eyes focusing down at her clothes, before looking toward another GA’s female student. His lips thinned when he noticed the difference, before stretching into another smile. “Another one! Since she is so good at it!”

He turned around, addressing the last sentence to his hostages. Marinette used the distraction of Nygma and his goons to glare at Wayne, who was making his way toward one of the armed goons, trying to make him telepatically understand to abandon whatever his dumb plan was.

He ignored her with almost as much skill as she had ignored him.

“Riddle me this! What can be used to sit,” Nygma said in English, probably hoping that she wasn’t overly fluent. “to sleep, and to brush your teeth?”

Marinette frowned at this one, not thrown off by the language but by the riddle itself. What the hell?

“I don’t have all day, little miss,” he said, his smile back on. “I will need a reply, or I will have to push this button here.”

Twirling his cane in an over dramatic move, he moved the question mark aside to display a red — obviously — button.

“A chair!” She blurted out, in English, and the way Nygma froze ever so slightly kept her going. “A bed, and a toothbrush.”

“How surprising. I like you,” he said with narrowed eyes, and a terrifying — if Marinette hadn’t been in Ladybug mode, at least — smirk. “Another one for the Frenchies!

“Riddle me this!” He exclaimed, pointing dramatically at her with his staff. “What is higher than the Tour Eiffel, but infinitely lighter?”

“Its shadow,” she replied without even blinking, the reply almost automatic. And maybe that’s why her next words flew out of her mouth — or, more probably, her survival instinct just took its vacation days. “You should try better ones, I’ve resolved this one in middle school.”

Nygma’s hand tightened around his staff, his thumb twitching, his lips thinning.

“Alright, alright, who am I to disappoint my crowd,” he said between his teeth, taking a menacing step toward her. “Riddle me this! The more you add, the lighter it is; what is it?”

“The more the lighter?” She repeated, distracted by someone discreetly getting in with one of the high windows behind Nygma. She almost let her surprise show when she realised it was Signal, but stopped herself just in time. She needed to distract the man, and there was no better distraction than anger. She huffed with fake derision, making his eyes narrow. “Holes. And here they said you were good with riddles.”

She could hear a couple of GA’s students gasp in shock, and she could see Wayne facepalm on the edge of her vision. Which was rich coming from him, seeing as he was reading himself for jumping a goon with a freaking gun.

“Careful, little girl, you wouldn’t want to outgrow your amusing value,” Nygma said slowly, before tightening his lips in thought. They were whitening from the pressure he was putting on them. “Alright. Riddle me this! If you ask me a question, I always say the truth, but can only reply with ‘yes’ or ‘no’. What question can you ask to keep me silent or making me lie?”

“That’s it? That’s your ‘hard’ riddle?” Marinette asked with a scoff and fake disbelief, internally thanking the kwamii, her Mom, and Jason for looking over her. She wouldn’t have the answer if her papa hadn’t had his riddle phase a year ago. This one stuck with her, for some reason. The phrasing was different, of course, but probably only because of the fact that she heard it in French before.

“Is this your answer?” Nygma asked, slamming down the bottom of his cane on the floor.

“No. My answer is; I ask you ‘Are you going to answer to this question with ‘No’?’” Marinette said with a falsely polite smile. She could see that Signal had caught on what she was doing, somehow, and gave her a thumb up to tell her he was ready. Probably. Maybe. She hoped, at least. Wayne — despite how dumb she thought his plan was — was also in place to take down his goon. She took a deep breath. “So, since your riddles are not that challenging, what about I give you one? Is that okay?”

“You— What?” Nygma said, blinking in surprise. He apparently decided to ignore my insult toward his riddle skills, because he just huffed incredulously. “Well, you can try to challenge me, of course!”

“This both describe a gorgeous person, and an excellent punch,” Marinette said with one corner of her mouth up in a smile, her muscles tensing in preparation.

“This?! You think this is challenging?!” Nygma said with incredulity, throwing his head back with a hysterical laugh. “A knockout, girl!”

“No, you misunderstood,” Marinette said slowly, making Nygma stop and all his goons stare at them with horror. Well, the distraction was a success.

“Wha—” She sprung at him before he could even finish, punching him quicker than he could stop, holding back only the slightest bit of the strength wearing the earrings for so long gave her.

“I was talking about your knockout, loser,” she told Nygma’s unconscious body, before kicking him again, purely for her personal satisfaction.

Before the goons could even get over their shock, Signal took out three of the gun-carrying goons, and Wayne — somehow — took out the last one. There were four other goons, the ones that had been busy with the chair-from-hell’s installation, and two of them sprinted at her with the intent to hurt.

But they didn’t take their guns out, the morons.

She saw the other two engaging Signal, and noticed Wayne — the stupid kid — make a move toward her, probably thinking it would help. Thankfully, for Marinette, not for the poor kid, Lila used this opportunity to latch onto him. This girl’s priorities would never not astonish Marinette.

She crouched low to avoid a punch, making goon number one — Liam, he had a Liam’s head — punch goon number 2’s — this one’s gonna be a Charlie — shoulder. Leaning back on her hand, she threw her leg out to trip up Charlie, who only jumped back to avoid it.

Liam tried to kick her, but she grabbed his leg and pulled at it, making him trip. She let go quickly, before he could use it as leverage, barely ducking under Charlie’s punch. Rolling to get back up, she kicked Liam in the face before he could get back up, making him see dark.

Only to be crowded by Charlie, who grabbed both of her arms. She saw Signal coming toward her, his goons probably already out, but took care of Charlie with a kick just there, before he could reach her.

Grabbing his crotch with both hands, Charlie let out a pained whimper before falling on his knees. Marinette smiled when she saw Signal wince, rolling her eyes and knocking Charlie out.

“Well,” Signal said in the gym’s silence, looking down at The Riddler. He then put one hand on his ear, and Marinette recognized the gesture as turning on a comm. “Tell the cops they can come in, the situation is clear.”

He walked toward Nygma as soon as he finished, taking out zip cuffs from his utility belt. Marinette smiled at him, before quickly walking toward where she had seen Ashley last.

She ignored the way everyone was staring at her.

“I’m so sorry about your jacket,” she started as soon as she found Ashley, grabbing the sleeve where Charlie had so rudely bled and showing her.

“What?” Ashley asked, staring at her with wide eyes.

“I put blood on it, and I know how much of a bitch it is to wash when it dries. I promise, I will pay for the cleaning or replacement!” Marinette said, just as the door of the gym burst open, and a bunch of cops entered the place.

One cop wearing glasses and a trenchcoat, somewhat vaguely familiar to Marinette, walked directly to Signal and Nygma’s unconscious body, two uniformed cops in tow. He talked with Signal for a second while the uniformed cops took Nygma, before they both turned to look in her general direction.

Marinette didn’t like where this was going. Eight years away from Gotham did nothing to curb her aversion to cops. She didn’t have to work with cops, as Ladybug, and had been massively grateful for that. And she didn’t want to add her cops-related anxiety to her already overfilled plate, thank you very much.

Her hopes were dashed when Trenchcoat called out to a cop talking to the teachers, talked to him for a moment, and sent him her way. She closed her eyes, letting go of Ladybug’s mindset with a breath — no way the tone she would take with him as Ladybug would fly with a GCPD’s cop.

“Miss?” The man asked her, somewhat politely, but with a dash of incredulous disdain in his tone. She opened her eyes just in time to see him looking her up and down, and obviously finding her lacking. Well, it seemed like the tone of this discussion had been set. “The commissioner asked me to take your statement, so if you could tell me what happened?”

“Of course, Officer,” she said with a polite smile faker than Lila’s stories, only to rile him up.

With how disdainfully he said the word ‘statement’, as if such a task was beneath him, there was no way the guy was an officer. Though, she would wager that his promotion was a very recent affair.

“Sergeant,” he corrected her with a strained smile, his grip tightening around his pen. Bingo. “Sergeant Brinley.”

“Oh, sorry,” she said with a slight chuckle, not actually calling him sergeant though. “You want to know what happened, right?”

“Yes, please. In as much detail as you can.”

“Well, The Riddler burst through the door of the gymnasium just after we came back from lunch. Lunch ending at 1:30pm, I would say it was twenty to two when it happened?” She said slowly, watching as he wrote that down. “There were goons, guns, and threats. My faith in fashion was threatened with green, The Riddler, surprisingly, asked some riddles, Signal came to save the day, punches were traded, and then you bursted through the doors.”

Brinley looked taken aback, probably not anticipating the abrupt change in her tone. He blinked, and she could see him go through everything she said again.

She had said a lot of things quickly, but, fundamentally, nothing of value or that he didn’t already know. It was a skill hard-earned in the streets, when she was seven, and one she was particularly proud of. (Jason taught her how to do it.)

“I will need more details for the statement, miss,” Brinley told her, tapping his pen against his notepad almost violently.

“What more details could I give you?” She asked with fake disbelief, watching a vein in his temple pop out.

“Tell me more about when the Riddler came in,” he said after a calming breath.

“Well, you wouldn’t believe it,” she said, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “But he walked through the door, and suddenly, he was there.”

“Miss, don’t force me to arrest you,” he replied, eyes narrowed.

“For what? Giving you a statement?” She said with a raised eyebrow. “I’m telling what happened in ‘as much detail as I can’. Nothing I said was a lie, was it?”

“What about the riddles?” He spat out, knowing that she was right.

“He asked a couple of those, some were even good,” she told him with a sunny smile, and he closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath.

“Who answered them?”

“Someone.”

“Miss—” He started in a hiss, only to be cut out by a hand on his shoulder. They both looked toward the owner of the hand, only to see Trenchcoat standing there with an amused smile, Signal a couple of steps behind him.

“It’s okay, Sergeant Brinley, I will take it from here,” he said with a soft voice, his amusement barely noticeable. Brinley’s shoulders sagged, in relief or defeat, Marinette wouldn’t know, and he sighed. “Why don’t you go back to help Braxton with the teachers?”

“Alright Commissioner, thank you.”

The three of them watched Brinley make his way toward the teachers, where they were talking to a woman, probably Braxton, in silence. Then Trenchcoat and Signal turned to look at Marinette, studying her for a moment.

“I’m commissioner Gordon, nice to meet you, miss,” he said, emphasizing just slightly the ‘miss’ to push her to introduce herself. And she suddenly realized that Brinley didn’t even ask for her name. What incompetence.

“Dupain-Cheng,” she said slowly, his name and slightly familiar air making her brain works overtime. Until it suddenly came back to her, the memory hitting her almost violently. “You’re James Gordon!”

“Yes? Do we know each other?” Gordon asked with a curious expression, the man was probably used to this sort of reaction, though. Signal was also looking between them, obviously curious.

“No. No, we never met,” she said slowly, still reeling from her realisation. “I saw you in the paper.”

Camellia Street was well known for its distrust of cops, it was far from being a secret. Her mom and all her coworkers would constantly warn the Camellia’s kids against them. But she could remember, almost vividly, of one glaring exception.

Over ten years ago, the Gotham’s Gazette made their frontpage about James Gordon, with his picture and everything — Marinette was even sure he had already been wearing a trenchcoat at the time. She couldn’t remember why, but she thought it was about a bunch of dirty cops he arrested.

This particular paper made the rounds in the Camellia for weeks afterward. And the Camellia people started to talk, between each other, about what Gordon did for them, how he helped some, and arrested others.

Marinette could remember her Mom, one finger pointed at Gordon’s face on the paper, talking with one of her friends and coworkers. “This man is probably the only cop in all of the GCPD I would ever talk to,” she had said, tapping the paper to emphasize her words.

“Alright, Miss Dupain-Cheng,” Gordon said, obviously realising that there was more she wasn’t saying. “I couldn’t help but notice that you weren’t really helpful with Sergeant Brinley.”

“I don’t have the best track record with the police force, Commissioner Gordon,” she said with a little smile, making his eyebrows lift in surprise.

“Will I find a criminal record for you, Miss Dupain-Cheng,” he joked, but she genuinely paused, frowning slightly.

“Honestly,” she started thoughtfully. “I have no idea.”

“How can you not know if you have a record?” Signal asked with disbelief.

“Listen, no offence,” she said, looking quickly at Gordon before turning her focus toward Signal. “But the GCPD, ten years ago, was petty enough to stick a record on an eight years old.”

“GCPD? You’re from Gotham,” Gordon said before Signal could say anything, she could see his eyes looking down quickly toward the mostly hidden black camellia on her dress, before looking back up at her. “That explains the weird accent.”

“I got that a lot this week,” Marinette said with a smile, somewhat amused that he didn’t mention her embroidery. She looked around, making sure that nobody was listening, before adding. “And, if you want to look up the record, you will need to look under Leyton.”

Saying her last name out loud was far from as weird as hearing people call her Mei. She got used to hearing Leyton used again, in the last four year, because of her commissions work, where she was known as Sandy Leyton.

As a way for her to honor both her Mom and Jason.

“Leyton,” Gordon said slowly, staring at her without blinking for a moment, his hands failing at his side. “Are you… Mei Leyton? Born on July 9th 2003 in Gotham General? To Margaret Leyton?”

“How—” She stammered out, taking a step back in surprise. “How do you know that?!”

“Kid, I thought you were dead,” Gordon sighed, taking off his glasses to pass a hand on his face. “I looked for you for years.”

“Why?” She asked incredulously, crossing back her arms in front of her protectively. “I was just another street kid that disappeared, one more or less, it didn’t matter. I was unimportant.”

“Not to Jason,” he said with a pained grimace, because he knew Jason was dead. Of course he knew. “He was at the station every week until… If Wayne didn’t keep him out, he would have camped in my office every day.”

“He did?” She asked with a wet chuckle, a small smile on her lips. She could see Signal go stiff with surprise, probably realising who they were talking about, but she paid him no mind. “He looked for me?”

“Of course he did, the kid loved you like a sister,” he told her softly, looking at her face carefully. “Can I ask what happened?”

“Human trafficking,” she said with a shrug. “They were caught in France, and the social service didn’t want to send me back to Gotham, so I was adopted by a couple of Parisians. Surprisingly, they weren’t really keen about letting me go back to Gotham, either.”

“I can see why they wouldn’t want to send you back, but they should have notified us,” Gordon said with a frown. Marinette winced slightly.

“Yeah, I think that’s my fault,” she said slowly. “I didn’t really give them my name, you know. No offence, but, cops. So, they didn’t really have much to go on, beside that I was from Gotham. And I wasn’t even the one to tell them that.”

Gordon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose just under his glasses, making them heft up. She had the feeling that Signal was staring at her, but it was hard to be sure with his helmet-like mask.

“I can’t even fault you for that,” Gordon finally said, passing his hand on his face, again. He looked at her for a moment, before adding softly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she choked out, swallowing the lump in her throat. “So! You wanted to know what happened with The Riddler!”

Gordon looked at her with a knowing look, but he let it slide and got back on topic.

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

“Did you hear that?!” Duke, the Signal, hissed in his comm as soon as he was out of hearshot. “Did you hear that or am I turning fucking crazy?!”

“I heard it loud and clear,” Oracle said, her tone clearly astonished.

“Calm yourself, Thomas,” Damian hissed quietly, because of course the kid would have put on his earpiece at the first occasion.

“Calm myself? Calm myself?! Gordon just said that Jason loved her ‘like a sister’!” Duke replied with urgency. “Am I the only one who want to know who the fuck she is?!”

“I remember Mei,” Oracle said almost absently, and Duke could hear the sound of her keyboard in the background.

“You knew her?” Duke asked, jumping on his bike and heading for the Batcave.

“Oh, no, we never met,” Oracle replied lightly, almost too lightly. “I remember the search for Mei. B still has the file as an open case in the Batcomputer.”

“Does Todd know?” Damian asked, as curious as Duke, even if he wouldn’t admit it.

“No, of course not. Why would B tell him,” Oracle said, sarcasm dripping in loads from her voice. The sound of the keyboard stopped suddenly, before restarting quicker than previously. “Fuck. Why does Dupain-Cheng have a file on the Batcomputer?!”

“What?!” Duke exclaimed with wide eyes, almost stopping his bike. “Did he know? B, did he know that she was Mei?!”

Barbara stayed silent on the other side for a while, making the tension in Duke grow. If Bruce knew where Jason’s sister was, and didn’t tell him… It was going to be bad.

Very, very bad.

“No,” she said finally, and Duke could hear the relief he was feeling in her voice. Fuck, Duke knew Damian was probably relived. “Thank god, but no. Nothing in there even implies that Dupain-Cheng has any link with Mei Leyton. Which is weird for a couple of reasons, but mainly because I can’t see why Dupain-Cheng would have a file in the Batcomputer if not for that.”

“We need to talk with Bruce,” Duke said as he entered the passage to the Batcave. “And Jason.”

“Yes,” Oracle said firmly. “But we need to talk to Bruce before we talk with Jason.”

“School is cancelled because of the attack, I will be there in twenty minutes.”

#maribat #street kid marinette #gothamite marinette #sibling jasonette #mlb x dc #lila rossi salt maribat #alya salt maribat #timari #timinette #marinette is so done guys

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havethetimeofyourstyles · 3 years

Text

in which harry is the right person at the wrong time.

a/n: hi lovelies! here is my christmas fic for @goldenbluesuit ‘s xmas challenge! i chose the song ‘baby, it’s cold outside’ and it’s my FAVORITE xmas song, so i’ve included bits and pieces of the song throughout the story! hope you all like it, and happy holidays! pls rb and send feedback bc they’re very helpful :)

WORD COUNT: 9.6k of ex lovers to lovers, teacher!harry x lawstudent!yn filled with slight angst, missing someone dearly, and fluff

WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol consumption

COME INTO MY INBOX AND LETS TALK ABOUT ‘BABY, IT’S COLD OUTSIDE’ i’d love to know your thoughts!

pls rb to share! <3

17 December 2020

A chilly and snowy night was upon you as you took a shot of hard liquor. The face of disgust appeared on your face as the liquid slowly went down your throat after you hammered the shot of tequila.

Normally, you wouldn’t pregame when you were going to your friend, Addie’s, house where you would drink some more, but you needed to shake off your nerves that you felt at the moment. You took a deep breath after taking your second shot and you had physically felt yourself starting to relax.

Rolling your head to stretch your neck out, you decided it was time to leave since it was nearing seven in the evening. You called yourself an Uber because of the alcohol in your system and you were planning to sleep over Addie’s place since she said she would bring you back in the morning before you had to go to work.

You waited for your Uber by the front door while you looked in the mirror, putting your black beanie onto your head. You were bundled up in a black university sweater, a camel color coat over, along with tan lounge pants and a pair of black boots. Once you got a notification that your Uber driver, Jason, was in front of your house, you grabbed your overnight bag and headed out the door.

You placed the hood of your sweater over your beanie so you got more warmth since it was quite cold. You were never one for the cold weather, which is unfortunate since you lived in London. You cherished the days where it was sunny and warm; the sun bright and warm as you laid on the grass in complete content.

You missed those days. You missed the days where you didn’t worry about a singular thing.

Looking out the window, on your way to your destination, you watched the snow slightly fall, hitting and building up on the ground while the pedestrians walked through the streets, bundled up in thick layers of clothing. Some people were with others, walking hand in hand or hugging each other through the cold. Even though it was freezing cold outside, there were smiles on their faces because the hold of one another was enough. They could get through the worst snowfall, but if they were in each other’s arms, it wouldn't matter; they could get through anything.

The cold had reminded you that you were missing a pair of strong arms that should’ve been around you through this season, but you were completely frozen—left out in the cold to warm yourself up.

You sighed and the car stopped in front of Addie’s place. You thanked your driver, wishing him a ‘Happy Holidays’ before you got out and buzzed your best friend’s apartment onto the buzzer system; hearing one back, you entered the complex while brushing your shoes onto the floor mat, so you wouldn’t slip while going up the stairs.

You were grateful the building was warm, and you’re sure Addie would crank up the heat for you since you would always complain how ‘bloody cold’ it is all the time.

Once you opened the door, you were met with your entire friend group who were all lounging around in the living area. They all faced the door once you walked in, seeing who the last friend to arrive. Greetings were sent towards you, Addie and Nic got up from their spots on the couch that they’re going to lose because behind them, Elijah and Niall were getting up from their spots on the floor to steal it.

“Hey! There you are! We were all waiting for you,” Addie said, giving you a hug.

Nic went in for a hug before she pulled back and looked at you suspiciously. You looked at her confusingly, wondering why she was looking at you the way she was before she said, “Did you party before you came here?” You furrowed your brows until you remembered that she probably smelt the alcohol that you took before you left.

“Oh, uh, just took a couple of shots before I came here.” The two girls understood quite well, thankfully.

“No worries! Come join,” Addie welcomed you in. The two went back to the living area, only to see that their spots were taken, so they grabbed the two boys’ arms, yanking them out of their seats. You chuckled as you walked to Addie’s room to put all of your belongings.

Once you did that, you exited her room the same time the bathroom door opened across her room. The person in front of you was the reason why you were so anxious before you left; why you needed to relax for a bit and mentally prepare yourself before going to Addie’s place.

The person in front of you was Harry Styles.

The person who had your heart.

The person you were deeply in love with still.

The person who was your ex boyfriend.

“Hi,” he said surprisingly, smiling a bit.

“Hi, Harry,” you replied, inching towards him as he met you halfway. He wrapped his arms around your shoulders as you did the same around his waist, resting your cheek onto his chest. The hug was warm and comforting, like it always was, and you looked forward to these kinds of hugs every time you saw him. But your heart ached every single time.

Pulling away, you gave him a small smile before you two walked out of the hallway and to where your friends were. There was laughter between the two girls and guys as Niall was telling them a joke. Nic was the one who saw you and Harry first, and her laughter died down. She looked at you concerningly, giving you those eyes as if they were asking if you were okay, and you nodded your head to reassure her. You and Harry join the group; you sat on the loveseat on one side of the rectangle wooden table, while Harry sat on the floor on the other side.

You tried joining in on the conversation and laughter, but you couldn’t help but take sneaky glances back to Harry, only to find him getting glances at you as well.

It was hard to focus on anything your friends were saying when Harry was in the same room, but you realized it was also difficult when he wasn’t in the same room because then you were wondering where he was.

It wasn’t easy being friends with Harry after the breakup, good friends, especially; and it pained you to actually act normal around him when all you wanted to do was scream, cry, and have him comfort you. But you did your very best to maintain a cool, calm, and collected mood whenever you’re around him, although inside, your heart was racing and everything you said seemed incoherent.

You tried your best to avoid him after you two split, and he did as well, but being part of the same friend group just didn’t go well with your wishes. You two had to suck it up and be normal around each other.

Being with Harry was possibly the best eight months of your life. To some, it’s not the longest amount of time, but he was one of a kind; you couldn’t find anyone out there like him--not like you were looking anyways. It genuinely felt like you’ve been together for years, and when you two were celebrating your six month anniversary, your friends had questioned you saying ‘It’s only been six months?!’

Your relationship with Harry was all things blissful. It was pure happiness and love, and you wouldn’t want it with anyone else. You two rarely got into fights, and if you did, it was most likely a petty and annoyed argument that would have you two back in each other’s arms only twenty minutes after. He was your fresh breath of air that made you laugh and orgasm…multiple times.

It was all smiles and laughs until it wasn’t.

You two had gotten together the second semester of senior year. Meeting at the library because you couldn’t reach a book, it didn’t take long for you both to get together. You had known him for two weeks until he asked you out on a date where he kissed you for the first time. The dates and kisses continued on for six months until you mutually decided to call it quits.

It wasn’t an easy decision, but considering that Harry was going to a different school that was in a different country for his master’s degree in education for the fall semester, and you were also in the midst of your career; interning at a law firm didn’t quite clear up your schedule, only making you busier by the hour. There was barely any time for the two of you to spend time with each other with how busy and hectic your lives were, so there would most likely be no calls coming in or distant texts that were sent out to make it seem like the void had disappeared.

Like two mature adults, you and Harry called it quits after the summer. He moved away to get his master’s and you kept yourself busy at the law firm. It wasn’t easy--still isn’t easy, but it was for the best. The both of you needed to focus on your careers and yourself before you two were ready enough to get back together. That’s if Harry wanted to get back together anyways.

Of course you wanted to get back together with him, but you didn’t know where he stood on that, or if he was even seeing someone. Throughout the two years that he was away, you only saw him during summer and winter breaks, so he could possibly be seeing someone whenever he goes back to school. But now that he had moved back again, your mind was spiraling because now you got to see him more.

Finally, you broke out of your trance, once again thinking about Harry, you saw him looking at you. The both of you completely tuned out to the conversation and laughter coming from your friends. You held your wine glass up, Harry doing the same while smirking before you both sipped your drinks, hoping the sweet wine would relax your bodies.

Nic was picking out a small paper out of the Santa hat Addie was holding. She took a quick peek at it before, smirking to herself before Addie moved over to you for your turn. As you chose your Secret Santa, you hoped it was a good one. It’s not like you didn’t love your friends, some of them were picky, and by some, you mean Nic.

You looked at the piece of paper, smiling before shoving it into your pocket. Addie moved onto Harry who was the last one to choose, and you watched him as he looked at the paper like it was a poker hand. He raised his brows, smirking before he looked up and started to fold the paper. Your eyes looked down at his polished hands, noticing that he still wears the same rings as he did when you first met him. Your favorites were his initial, thinking how incredibly sexy and alluring they looked on him as he walked around confidently. You’ve stolen them multiple times as well, even if they were too big on you, but the thought of walking around with Harry’s name on you just seemed so enticing.

Niall’s laughter brought you out of your sensual thoughts about Harry’s hands and you realized you were caught staring, and Harry knew exactly what you were looking at with the amount of times he’s caught you staring and fantasizing about his hands. Plus, you openly told him that you had a thing for his hands.

A smug smile was seen from Harry, so you took your attention away from him and towards your friends.

“So, what do we say? $50 limit?” Nic suggested, and Elijah rolled his eyes.

“Why are you trying to make me broke? You know I have a huge family, like, 15 cousins!” Elijah debates.

Nic gasped dramatically. “I’m offended you don’t consider us family, Eli!” Elijah playfully rolls his eyes again, turning his head to the side as he smiled into his shoulder, blushing a bit.

You chuckled at their playful banter. You’re a bit surprised they hadn’t gotten together yet because ever since you met them, you could practically feel the tension between them. They were just too stubborn to admit that they liked each other.

“Okay, how about we make it maximum $30?” Harry pitched in. Your eyes had immediately averted to him, and it was like he captured you just by the sound of his voice. “We have exactly six days to get our gifts,” he added. Your friend group has always been one for procrastinating. Everyone is so busy these days that it gets harder to plan hangouts where the entire group could go, but you were all family, so if the gatherings were at three in the morning, everyone would be there.

The group agreed, telling him that was a solid number. You caught Harry’s eye and he softly smiled at you. Giving him one back, you suddenly felt nervous as he smiled, so you chugged the rest of your wine and walked to the kitchen to open a new bottle to bring to the living area.

The bottle made a loud pop sound, which earned an in sync ‘Woo!’ from the group as it was a tradition you all created whenever a new bottle of wine was being opened. Smiling to yourself, you poured yourself a glass before downing it. As you were doing so, Harry walked into the kitchen with his own glass in his hand.

“Hogging all the wine, aren’t you, Y/N?” He teased to clear the awkward and anxious tension between you two, and luckily, you stifled out a giggle.

“You know me and my wine.” You refilled his empty glass while taking a sip of yours. Once you fill it halfway, he clinked your glasses together before taking a sip. His lips meeting the sweet but bitter taste of red wine that you so wished was your lips. The way he curled his lips into his mouth and licking his lips, tasting the flavor had you daydreaming such sultry things about his lips.

You cleared your throat, breaking yourself out of your gaze. “How are you, H? How’s work?”

Harry’s cheeks warmed up at the simple nickname. “I’m doing good, yeah. Work is good. The school is great.” This was Harry’s first semester teaching, and he absolutely loved it. He loved being in the classroom setting, interacting and making sure his students understood the material. He wanted to teach elementary kids, but that would require knowing various subjects when he wanted to focus more on ninth grade English.

“I’m happy for you,” you confessed. You were happy for him, but you wanted to be happy with him. “I know you’re a great teacher, and your students must love you.” You bumped him with your hip gently.

“They’re great. A couple of them have this weird crush on me for some reason.”

“I mean how could they not.” You realized you said that out loud, and you’re fully blaming the alcohol and the few glasses of wine that you already had, leaving you with a rosy cheek tint glow. Harry didn’t say anything but smug as he continued to sip on his drink. You slipped past him to join your friends, and Harry followed. Addie gave you a knowing look, hoping to communicate with just her eyes as she saw you and Harry walk out of the kitchen together, and you simply nodded, gesturing that you were okay.

The rest of the night went by quite fun as the boys helped Addie hang up the rest of her decorations while scoffing and rolling her eyes because they weren’t cooperating. You and Nic were sitting on the floor watching and laughed, pouring yourselves more glasses of wine. Your heart skipped a few beats as you watched Harry the entire time, laughing and smiling, and sometimes looking over at you just to get a simple glance at your face to suffice his heart from the heartache of not being able to hold or kiss you.

You’ve always liked shopping alone. Shopping with Nic and Addie could be stressful, no matter how much you loved them. You would only go to the shoppes with them if you weren’t looking for anything to buy, but since you were Christmas shopping and the stores were getting busier counting down to Christmas day, you had passed on their invitation to shop with them. There was nobody bugging or nagging you, causing you to get distracted; just you, a basketful of snacks, and Christmas music playing through your headphones.

You couldn’t wait to give your Secret Santa gift because you’ve put a lot of thought into it ever since you found out who your receiver was. You’ve been doing Secret Santa with your friends since the third year of college. At first, your friends group was only you, Nic, Addie, and Niall—you’ve known Niall since you were sixteen, and you met the girls your first year of uni—until Nic met Elijah during the second semester of junior year, who was quickly accepted, and then you met Harry.

You’ve all become a close knit of friends, and each and every single one of you have met other people, but there was nothing like this group. With bonding and connecting so well, all you needed was each other, and you couldn’t be more grateful.

As you were looking at the collection of whiskey, you felt a body brush passed you, slightly bumping into you as they tried getting through the narrow aisle. You jolted forward a tad bit, making you take a step forward to let the person behind you pass through.

“So sorry,” the familiar voice said. The music playing through your headphones was not even halfway up since you still wanted to be aware of your surroundings, but you could recognize that voice anywhere.

Turning around to look at the person behind you, sure enough, it was the one and only.

“Harry?” You called out, taking out your headphones. He turned around, and once he saw you, he immediately smiled.

“H-Hi. I didn’t expect to see you,” he nervously blurted out a false statement. He knew that this was your go to store and you would always drag him there because they always had your favorite snacks in stock.

You chuckled. “Yeah, I didn’t expect to see you here either.” Unlike his statement, yours was true. When you were with him, he would always ask you why you couldn’t stop at any of the other shops because this one was on the other side of where you lived. But you simply told him that it was because you would feel like you would be cheating on this store with the others because this was your go-to place, and the employees here were just lovely.

“Shopping for yourself?” Harry asked.

You looked down at your basket. “Oh, no. For my Secret Santa. What about you? What are you doing here?”

“I, uh, I was on this side of town and,” he turned around to face the wine section before grabbing a bottle of Pinot Noir. “Just needed to get this,” he said as he held it up.

“Night in?”

“Hmm, yeah,” he nodded.

“With…someone, or?” You tried your best to not show your anxiousness when you asked him if he was having a night in with someone that’s not you.

Harry’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “No, no. Not with anyone…” Your shoulders relaxed and a small smile appeared on your face. You slightly nodded your head, containing your relief. “You look great!” He complimented. You were wearing your work attire; a black pencil skirt with a white silk, semi turtleneck long sleeve, and a black coat thrown over. You were also in nude heels, which weren’t the best to shop in, but you had forgotten to bring a change of shoes.

You blushed. “Thank you. I came here straight from work.” Harry’s brows raised. You were always one for a sense of style, so he wasn’t surprised that you would look this good going to work.

“Really? How is work going, by the way?”

“Good, actually. I’m still interning at the law firm, so I’m pretty busy. But overall it’s great! A lot of research, mock cases, and sometimes the interns get to sit and watch in the courtroom. It’s pretty thrilling,” you said excitedly. Harry smiled, missing how you would explain things so eagerly. “This is my last year interning, so hopefully I could work at the law firm I’m already interning at, and become a permanent lawyer there.”

“I’m sure they’d love to have you there. You’re great, really. They’d be stupid to let you go…” he trailed off. There was a double meaning to his words, and you were wondering if Harry thought he was dumb enough to let you go. Not wanting to dwell on his words any longer, you murmured a soft ‘Thanks’ to him and smiled. Harry nodded, mentally beating himself up over his words and how he was really the stupid one to let you go.

“I, uh, should go, or my sister will be suspicious,” you chuckled. “I hope you have a great night, Harry.” You grabbed a bottle of whiskey before walking passed him. You weren’t even done shopping, but you couldn’t be in the same room as him without thinking of the memories that had always lingered, making you nostalgic and sad because you don’t know if you would be able to make more memories with him.

Harry was left alone in the aisle as he watched you walk over to the register to pay for your items. Just when you were done, you looked up, giving him a soft smile and waving at him before you turned around and walked out of the store. Harry’s heart fluttered, but at the same time, it was pounding through his chest. He mentally cursed himself for being so nervous around you, making an awkward tension fill the air. He couldn’t tell you what you were really doing at your store--no, he couldn’t.

Because what would you say if he told you that he’s been going to your store ever since you two broke up and whenever he’s in town just because it reminded him of you. The four walls somewhat mended his broken heart as he felt comfort inside of the shop because some of his best memories of you are in this very store. And since he couldn’t step into your apartment to immediately feel at home, your favorite store would have to do…for now.

Right when you entered Addie’s home, you were met with the loud music of the holiday season, along with Addie, Nic, and Elijah singing the lyrics to one another as they jumped and danced with a glass of their preferred alcohol in their hand.

They hadn’t heard the door open since the music was quite loud, so you took the opportunity to take a quick video of them as you smiled at your lovely friends, who felt so careless at the moment. Once the song ended, you put your phone away, and Eli was the one who spotted you first.

“Ah, there she is!” He walked over to you, giving you a big hug. You giggled as he slightly picked you up from the ground and twirling you. You were sure that he was already buzzed, and you were wondering how many glasses he’s had already, or if he pregamed by himself to calm himself down for talking to Nic, just like you had done to prepare you for a night with Harry, which you hadn’t done tonight.

There was a part of you that wanted to take a shot or two to ease your nerves, but you realized that you needed to stop doing that because as far as you know, you and Harry are most likely going to be friends for a long time. So, drinking almost every week did not sound fun to you.

Nic poured you a glass of wine, clinking your glasses together as you took your first sip of alcohol that night. You helped Addie set up the food onto the table along with some Christmas designed plates and utensils. Just as you were counting the utensils, you heard a loud Santa laugh coming from Niall, making everyone turn their heads towards the door. Niall walked in, carrying a bag-full of presents and Harry followed with a three foil wrapped aluminum trays in his hands as he chuckled at Niall’s way of making himself known. Your face immediately heated up at the sight of your ex-boyfriend because he looked good.

Although you loved every version of Harry, there was something about Harry Styles in the snowy winter that made your knees weak. He was bundled up in a sweater with a coat tossed over, and he wore boots. His hair was slightly messy from the wind as he shook off the snow that had fallen onto his locks. His nose was always red too, and when he would press a kiss to your cheek, you would feel the icy cold tip of his nose, contrasting to your warm cheeks. And it’s a tragedy that you’ve never spent a winter season with him when you were together, only two Christmases after the breakup.

Winter Harry was your favorite, and all you wanted to do was snuggle up with him.

Niall and Harry made their rounds to greet everyone, and Harry would always make sure you were the last one he greeted, just so he could hold and hug you a little longer.

“Merry Christmas Eve, Eve,” you said once he got to you. He smiled and chuckled, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. You laid your head against his chest, taking in his scent and natural warmth, even though he just came from the cold. “What’d you bring?” You asked once you pulled away.

“I brought the cheesy garlic bread, brussel sprouts, and crab cakes,” he smiled.

You gasped. “Your specialty. My mouth is already watering.”’ You clapped your hands in excitement.

Harry giggled, leaning against the kitchen countertop. “Sure is, and it’s some of your favorite dishes of mine too,” he remembered. You blushed, heart fluttering as he didn’t forget your favorite foods.

Harry was always a chef of his own; he loved cooking. Learning from Anne, he made it his mission to make his own homemade food after he moved out, and she would always tell him that you could always show your love through food. From there, he learned more about cooking and seemed to love everything about it. Whenever the group has gatherings for special occasions and everyone agrees for a potluck, Harry always made sure to talk to everyone and see what they wanted him to cook.

When you two were together, he did the majority of the cooking. There would be times when you wanted to help, but he would simply tell you that you needed to let him do it and relax. That was something you loved about him—he was always a giver and didn’t expect to receive anything back, in more than one way.

You and Harry were definitely ones for staying in, and he would always whip up the best food that was filled with so much love and flavor.

“Once you two are done loving over there, we’d like some help over here!” Niall called out from the dining area. Your eyes widened as Harry’s cheeks turned pink. Harry held his arm out, gesturing you to go first, and you walked out of the kitchen as he followed behind you.

The group’s attention and eyes were on you and Harry, and your brows furrowed as you mouthed a ‘What?’ at them, and they instantly went back to setting up the food as if nothing happened. You turned around to look at Harry confusingly and he shrugged his shoulders, just as confused.

The music was playing, the decorations were lit up, and the food was settling into everyone’s stomach, followed by drinks as a warm feeling laid over everyone. It was overall a great time with them as it always was, and since Christmas was coming up in just two days, the merry feeling was always everyone’s moods.

As everyone was laughing and having a great time, Addie had gotten a knock from her neighbor, asking if everyone could keep the volume down. Everyone was holding in their laugh because you all hadn’t realized how loud you’ve gotten.

“I’m pretty sure they knew it was going to be a long night when it was just the three of them dancing and screaming,” you pointed out to Addie, Nic, and Elijah, and they all laughed, agreeing.

“Wait, what?” Niall asked confusingly.

“Right when I walked in, they were screaming at the top of their lungs. Wait, I have a video.” You pulled your phone out of the front pocket of your sweater and showed Niall the twenty second video.

He cackled. “Hey, thanks for waiting for us,” he teased, giving your phone back to you.

You leaned back onto Harry’s leg, since you were sitting on the floor and he was sitting on the chair behind you, and you looked up at him to show him the video. He leaned forward, placing his forearms on his thighs as you shifted closer to him so you were sitting in between his legs. Harry’s lips curled into his mouth, and he was grateful that you weren’t facing him because he was flustered. You pressed play, and he watched as he chuckled, watching his friends have a good time.

“Wait, I also wanted to show you this video,” you mentioned once the video was over. You scrolled through your pictures, and Harry was watching you go through your camera roll. He saw pictures of buildings, food, you and the girls, and some of them were just of you. Before he could really think about your own pictures, you found the video of your family dog and showed Harry.

As you and Harry were watching the video, your four other friends were eyeing you two and whispering things to each other suspiciously. Nic took a few pictures of the moment because the sight was just so cute, but everyone was wondering when you two were getting back together.

And you were wondering the same.

For a few minutes, you and Harry were in your own little world as you two talked about your family; never making the effort to change the position you were in--you had just turned your body so you could see him better. You’ve missed times like these where everything else, outside of the bubble you two created, didn’t seem to matter. The way his eyes gleamed when he talked to you had lulled you in, making you depart from every thought you were trying to create while the only thought that dawdled was Harry.

“Alright, let’s pass out our Secret Santa gifts before we’re all too drunk,” Niall suggested, popping yours and Harry’s bubble. You moved out of between Harry’s legs to sit beside him where you were before. You looked up at him, softly smiling and he gave you one back. His eyes looked like they wanted to say something, and you so badly wanted to crawl into his mind to know what he was thinking.

Everyone agreed, getting up to grab their gifts. Addie also grabbed the Santa hat that you had to wear if it was your turn to pass out your gift. The Santa hat had been through four Christamases with the group, and it was the little things that made you happy.

Addie decides to go first since she was the host. She put the Santa hat on before she started. “First one! My Secret Santa is…Elijah!” She walked over to him, giving him her gift as he smiled, thanking her. He opened her gift and gasped as it was a new headset for his PlayStation since he was always talking about how one side was completely dead. Addie placed the hat onto his head as he grabbed his gift.

“So, this one is for…” he smiled before walking over to the other end of the couch. “Nic.” Her eyes widened, taking the gift from his hands, and he took a seat next to her on the floor. She ripped open the wrapping paper before she paused, looking back at him. It was a large rectangle frame of pictures of her and Eli with a note in the middle saying ‘4 years as best friends, countless laughs, and one question unasked. Will you go on a date with me?’ Nic squealed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. It was like he was proposing to her because she screamed out a loud yes. “Life is too damn short. I can’t wait to go another day without calling you my girl, so I wanted to take my chances,” he told her. You smiled at them, realizing it’s been too long, and you were so happy for them.

It was Nic’s turn, which she completely forgot about because she was so overjoyed, and she walked up to Harry to give him her gift. He thanked her before opening it, receiving a set of nail polish, a few face masks, a vanilla candle, and a gift card to one of his favorite restaurants.

Harry was up, and he was a bit nervous for this one. You knew that it could either be you, Niall, or Addie since you were the three left without gifts. He stood in front of the fireplace as everyone looked at him. You thought he looked absolutely adorable in that Santa hat, which you think every single year. He slowly walked over to Niall, making him beam, but turned around and walked over to you, earning a ‘Hey!’ from Niall.

“Merry Christmas Eve, Eve,” Harry greeted you, handing you your gift. You smiled brightly, grabbing the box. It was a quite heavy box with brown wrapping paper with reindeers on it and a large red bow. “I wrapped it myself,” he smirked, playfully flipping his shirt hair, and you giggled.

You ripped the paper and opened the box, eyes softening. In the box, there was a graphic tee, your —and his—favorite fresh perfume by Jo Malone, five pens with your first and last name engraved in the middle, a Cravings cookbook from Chrissy Teigen and a yellow and white vertical striped apron with the words ‘Summer Lovin’ with a sun embroidered at the top. Your eyes watered at the words at the special but emotional meaning behind it.

Two months before you and Harry broke up, you knew it was the end. You both agreed that you would spend two months together before you had to part ways with one another. It was the most special and fun summer you ever had, but emotionally, it was the worst. Knowing that you weren’t going to be together anymore by the end of it was behind the facade of the endless laughter and love. You really didn’t want it to be over, but you understood and needed to grow separately and blossom with your careers.

The words behind the embroidered apron was from one summer night. You and Harry had a bonfire at the beach, and you were cuddled up with him as he held a blanket around the both of you. You had tequila disguised like water as you held your bottle up to the best summer loving. You wished the circumstances were different, but if it’s meant to be, then he’ll come back to you.

“You’ve always wanted to learn how to cook and I’ve seen that you’re starting to on your Instagram stories, so I thought these were the perfect things to get you so you could be a proper chef now,” he said with a soft smile.

Harry truly paid attention to the small details of your life. Together or not, he intently listened and observed without anyone knowing. He nailed it down to the small details; from the perfume, the pens, and the apron. The sentiment behind it was what made the gift so special, and the person who gifted it to you completed and made it so much better.

As your vision had gone glassy, you sat on your knees, reaching up at Harry for a hug. He bent down to your eye level, sitting on his knees as well as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders. You held him tightly, sniffling into his shoulder as a rush of overwhelming emotions hit you. Your heart fluttered and pounded at the same time—a feeling that was familiar to your body when it came to Harry.

“Thank you so much. This is the most thoughtful gift ever,” you said into his shoulder. This gift was number two on the list of gifts you’ve received from him, following Harry himself as your number one, of course.

Harry pulled his head back slightly to press a kiss to the side of your head. The gesture had made your heart swoon and you smiled against his shoulder. Everyone was watching you two interact, and they all thought this was finally the moment where you two would get back together again. They’ve all seen you two suffer enough being without each other, along with the heavy tension that there was. All they wanted was for you both to be happy.

You pulled away from him, looking up at his green eyes as they stared into you. He offered you a small smile that took your breath away before he wrapped one arm around your shoulder, bringing you into his side as he wasn’t quite done holding you.

After a few minutes, your friends had let you have your moment before Niall complained how he didn’t have a gift yet. You and Harry chuckled, letting go of one another, and he placed the Santa hat onto your head before you slowly started walking over to Niall. When you handed him his gift, he cheered happily before opening it. You had given him several customized guitar pics with his initials printed onto them, a leather notebook since he liked to write songs, and Proper 12 Irish Whiskey, which was fitting because he’s Irish and he likes Connor McGregor. He thanked you with a big hug, picking you up off the ground with one arm as he held the alcohol bottle in the other.

Addie was the last one who hadn’t received a gift, and Niall was her Secret Santa. He gave her a bunch of makeup with your help, and a tupperware set, which she had been asking for since everyone always took her containers because she liked hosting so many parties.

The rest of the night had gone on for a few more hours before everyone was pretty tired, deciding to call it a night. Everyone helped clean up, making sure to help Addie with the dishes and putting or throwing stuff away. Although you were cleaning, you loved your entire group. This was your family--the closest people to you. The ones who know everything about you and would laugh at you when you fall before falling with you. You were entirely grateful for everyone in this room, and you couldn’t have asked for a better group to spend more holidays and days with.

After the cleaning was done, Niall and Eli started to head out, not before Eli was satisfied with the amount of goodbyes he gave Nic with how long the hug was. Niall had to physically pull him off, telling him the Uber was outside.

You were washing your hands before Harry walked over next to you, handing you a towel to dry off your hands. “Thank you,” you muttered, shyly smiling.

“Uh, I wanted to ask if you wanted to come over?” He proposed. Your brows raised at his question. You and the girls had planned on having a sleepover after, but the prospect of going home with Harry had sounded much better (no offense to your friends).

“I was planning to sleepover here…” you decided to innocently tease, even though you knew you were going to say yes.

“I already asked them, and they said I could take you. I could drop you back off here if you want. So, the answer is up to you,” he smirked. A blush appeared onto your cheeks, admiring the fact that he asked your friends for permission if he could take you home.

“There’s bound to be talk tomorrow,” you teased, lightly nudging him.

“I’ll take my chances,” he smiled, a hopeful look presented on his face.

You breathed out a chuckle, looking at him for a moment before you nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go.” Harry’s eyes widened as the corners of his lips turned up. You grabbed your phone and your coat before walking over to Addie and Nic who were both cuddled up on the couch, saying goodbye to them. They sent you a playful wink, and you rolled your eyes as nerves startled to settle in your stomach.

You followed Harry out of the door, the cold air brisking past you as you walked to his car. He opened the passenger and you thanked him before getting in. Harry started the car and the song that was playing was ‘Baby, It’s Cold Outside.’ It was a song you loved ever since you were a little girl, and you remembered the times you and your mom would always sing it in the car. You smiled at the memory, humming as you hoped it would be a way to distract you from the anxious feeling that you have.

You started humming to the tune as quietly as you possibly could, but Harry heard it as he started to hum it as well. You looked at him through your peripheral vision, noticing that he started to tap his fingers against the steering wheel.

You were about to start singing until you noticed that he pulled into his driveway, so you contained yourself and closed your coat, getting out of the car as you followed him into his home. You’ve only been inside his home three times--those three times being when he would suggest everyone hang out there. It was a lovely place and whenever you were sitting on his couch, you had wished you shared the space with him.

Harry lit up the fireplace, placing the metal shield in front of it before turning back towards you and smiling. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to get us some hot chocolate, if that’s alright?” He asked, wanting to know your preferred drink.

“Sound good.” You hung your coat onto the coat rack before walking over to his turquoise velvet couch and taking a seat, getting comfortable to an extent, not knowing how comfortable you should get.

Not long after, Harry came back with a wooden tray, and he placed it on the coffee table in front of you. There were two mugs filled with milk, two hot chocolate kits, and spoons.

“I made these for my students, and I just so happened to have two extra kits, so this will be fun,” he smiled, and you gave him one back appreciatively. You thought that it was cute and sweet of him to give something to his students for the holiday season. Normally, teachers don’t give them anything, but Harry wasn’t just any other teacher.

A somewhat comfortable silence fell over you two as you both made your own hot chocolate, and you listened to the fireplace roar. Once you two were done, you clicked your glasses together before taking a sip. The warm and comforting drink made you smile and was overall delicious.

Harry didn’t know what to say or how to say what he really wanted to say. It felt like he had non stop thoughts running through his head, but when he opened his mouth to start, there was a delay. An overwhelming feeling took over him and he wanted to yell at himself for not saying how he really felt.

“Y/N-”

“Harry.”

Just like before, your minds had been in sync, causing you both to speak at the same time. A light laugh came out of both of your mouths.

“You go first,” you told him.

Harry took a deep breath. “How’re you doing?” He asked. Out of everything he could have said, that was the only question that came out of his mouth, but he figured it’s a good start to getting somewhere.

“Truthfully?” He nodded. “I’m doing okay. I’ve managed to distract myself from worrying about the future with work, and so far, it’s been helping.”

“What are you worried about?” Harry wondered curiously. He could feel his heart pounding through his chest, and if he’s being honest, it’s been that way the first time he saw you…ever.

“Worried if I’m gonna be where I want to be career wise, and…” you trailed off.

“And what?” He encouraged you to continue. His stare was so intimidating and deep that the words flew off your tongue, making them unforgettable. “Ba--Y/N?” He called out for you, noticing how he almost slipped up and called you ‘baby,’ and you so wished he hadn’t stopped himself.

You finally mustered up the courage to speak your thoughts. “I’m afraid that I’m gonna be alone,” you said honestly.

Harry’s brows furrowed, shaking his head instantly. “You’re not alone, no. You have your family, all of us--your friends, me-”

“You?” Your brows raised.

“Yeah-”

“Harry, you’re the reason why I’m so worried…” you confessed. You were starting to get frustrated--not at Harry, but at yourself because you had planned to have this conversation a different day. You tried to calm yourself down, and Harry could practically see that you were getting angry at yourself. You had a certain stressful and frustrated look that he would notice when you started to beat yourself up over things. And throughout the months of being with you, especially when you were in the midst of law school, he learned how to calm you down.

Harry placed his hand on your knee; the touch being unexpected to you, but it had brought you immediate comfort. He pulled you into his side and you rested your head on his shoulder, looping your arm under his, the one that’s on your leg, and hugged his arm. Harry’s other hand touched your arm, caressing and soothing you. His actions had felt very natural and familiar to him. He would comfort you like this when you were feeling stressed. Normally, he wanted to cuddle you tightly, but this was your preferred way to calm down because in a way, he was still holding you, and you were still in control and didn’t feel like you were suffocating if he had held you tightly.

You stayed like that for a few moments, and you had calmed down a bit already, but you just wanted to be close to him and cherish the moment.

After a few minutes, you pulled away and turned towards him, smiling softly. Your heart warmed at the fact that he remembered exactly what to do when you started to feel anxious, and you may have fallen in love with him even more…after all these years.

“Now, wanna tell me why you’re so worried?” He asked softly, not wanting his tone to be pressuring, and you’re grateful for it.

“I’m worried I’m going to have to live a life without you. It terrifies me to think about you going out and meeting someone, and I would have to watch you get married to someone else that’s not me. That you would be sharing this home with someone that’s not me.” Your eyes start to water, and you had mentally told yourself that you wouldn’t cry, but you didn’t believe yourself in the slightest. “Watching you love someone else is going to be the most difficult thing I would have to do.”

Your tears had fully fallen down your face, which is unfortunate because you both had such a good day with your friends and it was nearly Christmas. Quickly wiping your tears away, you got up from the couch, and headed towards the door. Harry was confused until he saw you grab your coat, putting it on. In a flash, Harry got up from the couch, walking towards you.

“W-What are you doing?” He asked.

“I really can’t stay…” you told him sadly. You had no idea how you were getting home or back to Addie’s since it’s snowing, so you don’t know if there were any Ubers out, especially at this time. “This evening has been…so very nice, Harry.”

“You don’t have to leave. Baby, it’s cold outside, c’mon,” he pleaded with worried eyes. Your heart melted at his words and the name that he used to call you, making you pause in your movement.

“Please,” he pleaded softly, taking a small step forward, and your breath hitched in your throat as you looked up at him. There was a dead silence between you two that was tension filled, and you had no clue what was going to happen next until he opened his mouth.

“Mind if I move in closer?” He whispered. The sound would barely be audible if anyone else was there, so he said those words specifically for you to hear.

You shook your head, and he took another step forward. Your bodies were a centimeter away from being pressed up against one another, and your heart was beating so fast, making your hands shake and tremble. He looked down at you so intently that you were under his spell, and you were conflicted as you wish you knew how to break the spell as his green eyes looked deep into you, luring you in even more.

You took a deep breath. “Kiss me already,” you breathed out. Harry’s heart nearly stopped at your words, but he slightly smirked as he blushed, brushing your hair behind your ears before taking your face into your hands and leaning down to place a deep and passionate kiss onto your lips.

This feeling, this touch, this man was what you’ve been waiting for these past two years. Throughout those years, you felt like giving up; accepting the fact that he wasn’t going to love you again. But he had proved you wrong in the simple brush of his lips and tongue that were in sync with yours, making the spark between you grow bigger and bigger. The spark that had never lost its power, but was on pause.

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt, pulling him closer as the other hand was wrapped around his back. Harry had you pushed up against his front door, and you had the urge to lift your leg up to wrap it around him, but you resisted.

Harry wanted more, too. His hands trailed down from your face to your back, closing the nonexistent proximity between you, and guided you back to the couch. You were walking backwards, completely trusting him that he wouldn’t let you fall as his lips never left yours.

You giggled once the back of your legs hit the couch, falling onto the soft material as Harry hovered over you, laying in between your legs. He looked at you for a moment, studying every freckle, the crimson color on your cheeks, the curve when you smile, your glimmering eyes, and your cute nose. He knew that it was exactly how he remembered. After a couple of years being separated, a beautiful face like yours was hard to forget.

“You’re quite crazy to think I’d want to live the rest of my life with someone else when you’re right in front of me,” he suddenly said. Your eyes widened at his confession. “Never wanna be without you ever again. Thought you didn’t want to be with me when I came back, so I just didn’t bother. But you have no idea how much I missed you. I missed you so much.”

He placed soft kisses all around your face as he spoke, leaving you feeling so tender and soft as he was so gentle with you. For someone who’s on her way to becoming a lawyer and always having to have an answer for everything, you were speechless. The words that you’ve been waiting for for so long were music to your ears. It rolled off his tongue so smoothly, slick like honey, and you connected your lips with his again, swirling your tongue against his as you devoured his words. Hands finding their way to his hair, you gripped on his locks and pulled just the way he liked it, earning a groan from him, and you smirked against his mouth.

You pulled back, leaving him breathless. Swollen lips, blushed cheeks, and smiles plastered on his face, you said the words you’ve been itching to say. “I love you,” you blurted out. The words had rolled off your tongue so effortlessly, making shivers run down Harry’s spine as his eyes watered up. “I was listening to Elijah earlier, and he’s right. Life’s too fucking short to not have what you want.”

He took one of your hands into his, bringing it up to his lips before placing a kiss onto the back of your hand. Your other hand was playing with the curls that laid delicately on his hands, scratching it lightly.

“Missed hearing you say those words.” He smiled, tears making their way down his face. “I love you too. So, so much that you have no idea how I feel when you walk into the room and I see your beautiful face. I love you. I love you. I love you, baby.” His affirmations had caused you to softly sob—the two of you a crying mess from the obvious but unspoken love that was finally being released again. “It’s always been you. You’ve always been my girl, did you know that?” You tilted your head a bit. “Never gonna go a day without reminding you that you are, because you’ve never not been my girl. Had to love and admire you from afar, but just wanted to hold you and kiss you.”

“You can kiss and hold me all you want now, my love,” you reassured him, and he dug his face into your neck, placing a soft kiss against your skin.

You smiled so brightly as your heart felt so happy and overflowed with love, and he matched your grin, feeling the same way.

The two of you kissed each other for a bit more, whispering sweet words, and laughed and talked about anything and everything—truly catching up with one another.

“Oh.” He got off of you, making you slightly pout from the weight of laying on you that you already missed. “I actually got you another gift.”

“Harry…you already got me enough.” It was true. Along with the thoughtful gift, he was your true Christmas miracle.

“I know. But this one, I wanted to give to you in private, and this is the perfect moment, so let me do this?” He looked at you with sweet and pleading eyes with a small smile on his face. Who could ever say no to that adorable face? Certainly not you.

You nodded, and he shot up, heading towards the stairs. “Give me thirty seconds,” he said before rushing up the stairs.

You heard him shuffling up there, and the sound of a drawer opening and closing. Thirty seconds later, he was walking downstairs, holding a white box wrapped in a red bow. He sat back down next to you, looking into your eyes as he spoke.

“This is what I wanted to give you when we were alone. It didn’t matter the outcome of how things turned out between us tonight, I just wanted to give you this because I think you’ll appreciate it. It reminded me of you when I saw it, and I knew I had to get it.” He handed you the box with slightly shaky hands.

You untied the bow, taking the top off. A gasp came from your mouth as you picked up the chain. It was a little gold sun pendant, symbolizing your summer together. You studied the charm for a moment, delicately touching it as you teared up at the meaning behind it. It matched quite well with your embroidered apron, and the two together would be quite the match.

“Thank you, Harry. This is so sweet of you.” You leaned forward, giving him a hasty kiss to his lips, smiling against them. “Help me put it on?” He nodded eagerly. You handed him the necklace before turning around, lifting your hair. You felt the cool metal chain hit your skin along with Harry’s lingering touches across your shoulders, causing your skin to pebble. He placed a quick kiss to your neck before pulling away. You turned around to meet his eyes as you smiled.

“Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.” He kissed your forehead. “I’m so happy. Merry Christmas Eve, Eve, baby.”

“Merry Christmas Eve, Eve, my love.”

You cuddled into his side as the silence took over. The only thing was heard was the pounding of your love-filled hearts along with the cracking of the fire. Sure, it was cold outside, but right here in Harry’s arms, you were warmer than ever.

please come into my inbox and talk about your thoughts and feelings on this! also feedback is appreciated, thank you for reading! <3

#GBSxmaschallenge #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #boyfriend!harry #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles imagine #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x yn #harry styles au #harry #harry styles

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fruitcoops · 3 years

Note

Hi!! I was wondering if you could do another fic involving jules and coops together? Just like sweet moments between the three? I loved the baby sitting series you did and could not stop thinking about it❤️❤️ Thank you!!

Yeah, of course! I love writing my boy at any opportunity. SW credit goes to @lumosinlove, but the relatives are my ocs!

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Sirius asked under his breath as Remus finally—finally—appeared from the mass of people.

“It’s fine,” Remus said around a forced smile to a middle-aged man across the yard.

Sirius hid his mouth by pretending to look down at the nearest casserole dish. He didn’t even know what was in it; nobody had bothered with labels, and everyone’s dishes were the same basic florals in different colors. “I love you, Re, and I totally get the whole ‘meet the parents’ thing, but this is a bit much if I’m being honest.”

“Honey.” Remus’ shoulder pressed against his own. “I’m sorry you’re not having a good time, but my Aunt Jen would skin me alive if I didn’t bring the man I’m marrying to the family reunion. We can leave tomorrow if you really hate—oh, no.”

“Remus!” a shrill, excited voice called. Sirius felt his fiancé straighten up as a tall, redheaded woman in star-painted jeans hurried across the grass with three other women in tow. She reached up and gave Remus’ cheeks a squish, then leaned in a planted a lipstick-stamped kiss to his forehead. “How are you, my duckling? Was your flight alright? Make sure you stay away from the salt or else your feet will swell.”

“Hi, Aunt Jen,” Remus said, grimacing a little at her rib-crushing hug. “I’m doing well, and our flight was fine. How are you?”

“Peachy keen,” she assured him. Dark brown eyes lasered in on Sirius half a second later and he felt his fight or flight kick in. “And who are you?”

“Aunt Jen, this is—”

“It was rhetorical, honey,” Jen interrupted with a pat to Remus’ arm as she stepped closer to Sirius and immediately hauled him in for a hug. She was as tall as Remus, but broader in the shoulders and hips; he had never felt so engulfed by someone. It was a strangely enjoyable feeling.

“Aren’t you a handsome one?” the shortest of the group cooed, as if she was talking to a particularly small dog in a purse. “Our Remus always knew how to pick them.”

Remus furrowed his brows. “Aunt Lisa, this is the first boyfriend I’ve—”

“But he’s not just a boyfriend!” Jen trilled, giving Sirius’ cheek a pat. “He’s a fiancé, something I learned from your mother. Not from your father—oh, I gave him a talking-to about that—and not from you, duck.”

Sirius bit back a laugh at the nickname and spared a glance to his left, where Remus had gone pink all the way to his ears. “Sorry.”

“Introduce us!” the shortest insisted, taking the other two by the hands as pulling them forward with an eager smile.

“Everyone, this is Sirius Black, my fiancé.” Remus gestured between them, and the four women beamed at him. “Sirius, this is Aunt Jen, Aunt Lisa, Aunt Allison, and Aunt Mary, my dad’s sisters.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Sirius said, holding a hand out.

“No need to be so formal,” the brunette grumbled with a teasing grin. “We have heard so much about you from Lyall. After those damned pictures—”

“Allison,” Jen hissed.

“—after the damned pictures,” Allison repeated with a pointed look. “I was about ready to drive up to Gryffindor myself and give that lousy son of a bitch a piece of my mind—”

“Allison!”

“—but Lyall talked me down and I have been waiting to meet you ever since.” She finished with a soft huff and gave his arm a quick squeeze. “Remus is a lucky boy to have you. It’s very exciting to see you in person at last.”

Sirius’ heart gave a happy little ka-thump and he smiled. “I’m glad to be here. Thank you for having me.”

“He is so polite,” Lisa said to Remus out of the corner of her mouth with a wink and a thumbs-up. “Good choice.”

“You know what I just realized? We haven’t said hello to Jules yet. We’ll see you in a few, yeah?” Without waiting for an official answer, Remus wrapped an arm around Sirius’ waist and practically carried him away from the table. Once they were out of earshot—and the aunts had busied themselves with one of the younger Lupins—Remus relaxed with a slow exhale. “I am…so sorry.”

“For what?”

“I had no idea they were going to corner you like that. I mean, I did, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be for another few hours. They tend to move in a pack at reunions, like sharks. Or wolves.”

“They’re really sweet.”

“They are,” Remus said grudgingly, though Sirius could read the affection dripping off him like his favorite book. “My dad’s the youngest of five, and I was the first nephew. You can imagine how that went.”

“Baby of the baby?”

“Exactly.”

“Can I ask one thing?” Remus nodded, visibly confused, and Sirius found he couldn’t keep his grin down any longer. “Duckling?”

“I hoped you didn’t hear that,” he groaned as they headed toward the kids’ play area beneath a large oak. “Long story short, it involved five-year-old me, a pond, and a sinus infection that made me sound like a duck when I sneezed.”

“Oh my god,” Sirius laughed, earning himself a light elbow to the ribs. “And the name stuck?”

“Considering she was the one that had to stay with me while my folks were working, she could call me whatever the hell she wanted. Please don’t ask her about it unless you want a thirty-minute TED talk about the ins and outs of my sinuses.”

“She’s a doctor?”

“No, she just overshares.”

“Sirius!”

Sirius looked up and saw a herd of small children racing toward them, led by his favorite person under the age of eighteen; Jules crashed into his legs and squeezed him tight around the waist. “Hey, I missed you!”

Jules propped his chin below Sirius’ sternum and stared up at him with the classic hazel-gold eyes that were far more common than Sirius believed before they arrived in the Lupins’ backyard. “I missed you, too! How’s the team? How’s Harry? Is he still super small or did he do that weird thing that babies do where their legs grow and the rest of them still looks normal? How was your flight? Did you have turbulence?”

Sirius thought for a moment. “Good, also good, growing normally, and yes.”

“Sweet! Come play cornhole with us!” Jules grabbed his hand and dragged him along the grass at the closest thing he could manage to a sprint with Sirius’ added weight—the pre-teen years had lent him gangly legs, though he didn’t seem quite sure how to use them yet. He looked more like a foal than a sixth-grader.

“What the hell is cornhole?” Sirius muttered as the flock of kids ran ahead to grab armfuls of beanbags.

Remus grinned. “Something I’m about to kick your ass at.”

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

By the time the sun set, Sirius was exhausted. He had been introduced to dozens of people who looked just enough like Remus to be eerie, as well as plenty who seemed to have been acquired by one Lupin or another over the course of their life. Jules fluctuated between laminating himself to Sirius’ side and disappearing for an hour at a time, only to return more grass-stained and rumpled than ever as he begged Remus to swing him around by the ankles again. His ass had been thoroughly kicked at cornhole and freeze tag; it was a true miracle he hadn’t already passed out into a food coma. For all of his earlier griping, Sirius couldn’t think of a time in recent months when he had been more content.

“You’re a brave soul,” Remus remarked as they sat in the grass together and watched the fireflies wake. Though it was a warm night, it seemed the citronella candles littering the tables were doing their job of chasing off mosquitoes.

Sirius leaned his head on Remus’ shoulder. He smelled like grass and summertime and sunbaked warmth. “Am I?”

“Mhmm. I’m sure most people would have run screaming by now.”

“I like your family.”

A beat of silence passed; Remus rested his temple against the top of Sirius’ head. “I’m really glad to hear that. They’re weird and loud, but I love them.”

“And I love you.”

“Are you saying I’m weird and loud?”

“On occasion.”

“Asshole,” Remus laughed, giving him a nudge that hardly qualified as more than a gentle sway.

“Language, there are eight million kids around.”

“They’re busy.”

Sirius watched as small group run by in a wave of giggles, all clutching mason jars of fireflies with their names written on masking tape. “Thank you again for asking me to come with you.”

“Like I said, Aunt Jen would—”

“Remus.” He fell quiet. Sirius didn’t remember the last time he said Remus’ full name aloud. “Your family loves you so much. They’re everything I ever wanted growing up, and it means the world that you wanted to share them with me. All they want is to see you happy. It was amazing to finally meet them.”

“They really, really love you,” Remus said softly, his voice a little thick. “I had about twenty people tell me how wonderful you are. They all thanked me for bringing you, and not a single one mentioned the celebrity thing. Even my Uncle Jay didn’t say a word about hockey.”

“He was the one in the jersey?”

“I’ve known him for my entire life and I’ve never seen him without one.”

“Huh.” Sirius tucked his face closer to Remus’ neck and let the sound of the bullfrogs in a distant marsh lull him. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven. The adults will be up for a while, but the kids will start crashing soon.”

Footsteps on the cool grass rustled to their right and Sirius looked up. “Who wants pie?” Aunt Allison singsonged, breaking their quiet bubble with paper plates and utensils. “This one is blackberry, but we have peach, pumpkin, and a few others on the table if you’re still hungry.”

“Just a small piece, please,” Sirius said.

Allison paused and cocked her head, then burst out laughing. “Oh, you’re funny!”

“I am?”

“Don’t fight it,” Remus whispered.

“You are a growing boy,” Allison said as she cut a thick slice and plonked it onto his plate. “And there’s no such thing as too much pie.”

I’m 26, Sirius wanted to say, though he held it in. “Just a small one for me, as well,” Remus said.

“Ha!” Allison snorted. “You’re already too skinny. Eat your pie or you’ll end up a string bean like your father. The NHL might have given you muscle, but it’s useless if you don’t enjoy some of your favorite aunt’s—”

“—woah, hey now—”

“—pie once in a while.” Allison kissed the tops of their heads once both plates were secure and bowing in the middle. “I’m going to make sure the kids aren’t poking around in the river again. Sleep well, you two.”

Sirius stared down at his plate as she wandered away. “I’m honestly going to die if I eat this.”

“Yeah, please don’t make yourself sick on pie. You really don’t have to eat all of that. The aunts and uncles are convinced that none of us are eating properly once we turn eighteen.”

“Really?”

“I wish I was kidding. You’re going to sleep so well tonight, though.”

As if on cue, Sirius stifled a yawn with the back of his hand and cuddled under Remus’ arm again. A familiar shadow bounded over not two seconds later and he barely held down a groan. “Hey, can I join you?”

Remus shrugged. “ ‘course.”

“Sweet.” Jules settled himself across their laps, staring at the sky with his head pillowed on Sirius’ thigh. “Did you have fun? I’m really glad you could come.”

“I had a great time,” Sirius answered honestly. Now please move on so I can take a nap.

“Mom and dad and me got here yesterday, and Aunt Jen kept checking the door for you guys even though she knew you weren’t coming until today. She was worried you wouldn’t like us, I think.”

“That was never an option, Jules.”

“Yeah, I know.” A devilish grin flickered over his face. “Remus is the weirdest of all of us, and if you want to marry him—”

“Get off,” Remus grumbled, shoving Jules’ legs onto the picnic blanket. “You know, you were a lot nicer before you turned eleven. Can I return you and get a new one? I have the receipt somewhere.”

“Nope.”

“That’s all a birth certificate is, right?” Sirius raised his eyebrows. “If you bring it back in good condition, I hear they give you a ten percent discount.”

Jules scowled. “That’s so not true.”

“How do you think I got Regulus?”

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” Remus asked with a pointed look. “Run along, problem child.”

“Of the two of us, I’m the least problematic.” Despite his words, Jules clambered to his feet and dusted his hands off over Remus’ head. “I’m not the one that got a secret boyfriend and got engaged in a year. I’m so easy. Mom and dad want two of me.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Remus sighed as he stretched out on the blanket. “They had a second kid because they wanted two of me.”

“You’re adopted.”

Remus cracked one eye open in disbelief. “No, I’m not.”

“How do you know?”

“Because—y’know what, go to bed. Or go find the stampede, I think they’re by the river.”

Sirius whistled lowly as Jules scampered off again. “That was impressive. Isn’t your aunt over there?”

“Yep.”

Realization clicked into place. “She’s going to make him go to bed.”

“Yep.”

“You’re brilliant.”

Remus smiled without opening his eyes, and tugged Sirius down by the sleeve to lay next to him. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

The stars were brighter than anywhere Sirius had ever seen; for a moment, he was struck speechless by the endless rivers of sparkling white overhead. He stared until his eyes burned from dryness, then put his head on Remus’ chest and kept on looking. There was no way he could tear his gaze from it. A few shooting stars streaked across the clear sky and he felt his heart skip a beat in pure amazement when he realized there was nothing else he would wish for in that moment. He could listen to Remus’ heartbeat and the sound of his new family talking against a backdrop of the night, relishing in a full belly and cool wind, and simply stay there for as long as he liked.

#sirius black #remus lupin #julian lupin #coops #lupin family #sweater weather #lumosinlove #my fic #fanfic #family reunion

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jaceyneedsabetterusername · 3 years

Text

Aliit Be Cuur

Pairings: Mando x Reader

Summary: While waiting in the hospital in Mos Pelgo after you were inured in the attack on the Krayt Dragon, Mando accidentally learns some life changing information for the both of you. You’re pregnant.

Warnings: Description of injuries, Pregnancy, Talk about miscarriage, Mando sees a sonogram-like image of reader’s uterus while she’s unconscious, general discussion of pregnancy while reader is unconscious and unaware, made up Star Wars level medical equipment

Word Count: 2800

Read Part 2 Here!

________________________________________

Watching you lay unconscious, body littered in cuts and burns, had to be the most terrifying thing Mando had ever experienced, and that was coming from a man that had seen some horrific things in his life. It was his fault you were hurt. If only his plan to kill the Krayt Dragon had gone as it was supposed to, you wouldn’t be in this position. This was supposed to be what he was good at. Killing. Sure, he killed the dragon, but at what cost?

When the initial plan of luring out the dragon and detonating the explosive just at his weak spot under his belly had gone south, he knew he had to think of something else. He could not leave the Mandalorian armor with Cobb Vanth. He needed it back.

The plan to use the bantha as bait had come to him quickly but he should have known better than to not tell you what he was doing. There was just no time. Everything had happened so fast. After months of travelling together, he’d hoped that maybe by some miracle, you could read his mind and know that everything was going to be okay when he allowed the dragon to swallow him with the bantha.

You were with the villagers and Tusken Raiders, struggling to fix the devices you’d built to throw the harpoons so you’d have a fighting chance. Being so caught up in your own tasks, sweat beading on your forehead from the heat and pressure, you hadn’t known Mando had strapped explosives to the bantha and was using it as bait. A loud screeching roar from the dragon ripped your attention away from the trying to kick a piece of wood back into place just in time to see the dragon’s mouth open, massive teeth bared, as it plunged down, straight on top of Mando and the bantha.

You screamed in horror, running towards the beast, “MANDO!” About halfway there from your post, you whipped out your blaster and shot at the beast as it dove back into the sand. The lasers were useless and you knew that but it was the only thing you could think of to do. Your legs fumbled to a halt, the realization that Mando was really gone actually hitting you.

But then something else hit you.

There was a loud explosion and a wave of fire, rocks, sand, and dragon flesh hit you, throwing your body back. The last thing you saw was the wave of orange and red coming at you before everything went black.

Just as planned, Mando had managed to escape the beast’s clutches before the explosion but suddenly regretted every decision he’d ever made when he saw the little figure of your body running towards where you assumed Mando to be. Even from dozens of feet in the air, he knew it was you. He couldn’t imagine anyone else there willing to run straight at the monster to try and save him. The bombs were sure to detonate any second but by the time he’d noticed you, it was too late. The bomb detonated with a massive wave of heat and debris.

He watched in horror as your body flew back at least twenty feet before sliding another fifteen across the sand after the impact. Time seemed to stop around him as he jetted to you in less than a few seconds. He couldn’t breathe, fear that he had caused your death choking his airways. “Y/N!” He yelled, landing harshly on his feet right beside you before falling to his knees. You were lying face down, eyes closed. “Y/N, talk to me.” Mando looked over your body and, by some miracle, there didn’t appear to be any broken bones, at least not any that looked immediately disfiguring. With a nearly effortless nudge, he rolled your body over. Your clothes had been ripped and/ or singed in many places. Multiple large holes in your pants revealed reddening burns and blood dripping from sand scraped skin. Your shirt was torn in multiple places, the left strap of your shirt torn so severely it could barely count as a sleeve. The side of your face that was on the sand was also scraped up, thankfully not too deep, but enough to cause bleeding.

Now the two of you were in the little hospital in Mos Pelga, along with the rest of those who'd been injured in the attack. You slept now, bandages covering large portions of you body that was now largely exposed. They had had to strip you down to your underwear to reach all the wounds but had wrapped your chest in wrappings in place of a bra for the sake of your privacy. Mando had pulled his cape over the majority of your body, knowing you'd be upset if you were to wake up practically naked in front of everyone.

He hadn't left your side since the explosion. He carried you to the infirmary. He laid you down on the cot. He watched as both human nurses and medic droids worked to patch you up and take blood for tests. They had told Mando that they wouldn’t know anything for sure until the tests came back. Even with the bacta that they’d lathered on you, it would take time for it to work and there was a possibility for further damage that they couldn’t see on the outside.

The child had been sleeping in his little cot, sealed up safely inside the levitating metal object. Mando had just been sitting beside you on a crate, leaning forward on his knees. This was his fault. He should have known you’d run in. He should have known that something like this could happen.

“Mandalorian.” A robotic voice gently called for Mando’s attention.

He looked up at the awkwardly proportioned grey medic droid who stood on the opposite side of the bed. “Is she going to be okay?”

The droid spoke again, its body shifting unnecessarily to emphasize some of its words, “Patient 728, also known as Y/N. Female. Age: (Y/A). 2nd degree burns on the abdomen, arms, and legs. Superficial graze abrasions on the face, neck, arms, hands, abdomen, and legs. Bruising on face, back, hips, and legs. Probability of death: 7%. No damage to the fetus. Probability of miscarriage: 19%.”

Mando found a hard time finding any solace in the words of a droid. When a young male nurse walked up beside the droid, Mando immediately turned his attention to him.

“It’s a miracle the baby survived unharmed. I’ve seen much less cause a miscarriage.” The nurse mused, flipping through the clipboard in his hands.

Mando stood up, brows furrowed beneath the helmet, “That must be someone else’s chart.”

The nurse flipped back to the front page, “Patient 728? Y/N L/N?” The young man confirmed.

“Yes.”

He shook his head, “Nope, this is hers.”

Mando gestured to you, “There must have been a mistake. She’s not pregnant.”

The young nurse looked at the beskar helmet that he was actually slightly taller than and swallowed hard, “I’m sorry. I assumed that you were the father. If not, this is confidential information that I can’t share with you.” It was obvious that the man was afraid to stand up to a Mandalorian, surely hundreds of stories of their superior killing ability running through his head. Nonetheless, he held fast to what was right.

Mando’s head was reeling and all he wanted was to run and take off the helmet and take actual, non-filtered breaths. Instead, he was wide eyed and silent as thoughts ran through his head a million lightyears an hour. The beskar betrayed none of his emotions. To the rest of the world, he appeared frozen, standing strong and staring right at the nurse when in reality Mando had zoned out somewhere off to the side.

If you were pregnant, the baby had to be his. For the last few months, the two of you had had an unofficial relationship of sorts. Nothing was ever said, no official labels, but the two of you behaved like any other couple, or at least a much less touchy-feely version of one. After a night of confessions brought on by an unrelated argument, it had become an unspoken truth that you were only taken by each other. You were his riduur, no doubt, and, as far as he knew, he was yours. You would never lay with another man as long as you and Mando were together, that much he was sure of.

“If she’s pregnant, I am the father.” His voice was calm as always but he thanked the modulator for the slight distortion. If it hadn’t been there, he would have sounded shaky.

The nurse sighed, choosing to believe him because he really didn’t see much use in lying over something like this. He flipped to the next page on his chart and walked over to stand beside Mando, pointing at some numbers that meant nothing to him. “hCG is a hormone that’s created in the placenta and is only present in pregnant women. According to her levels, I’d say she’s about eight weeks.” He paused for a moment, allowing time for the new information to sink in. “You really didn’t know?”

“If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have let her fight the Krayt Dragon.” Mando snapped, almost angry at the mere suggestion that he would put his own child in that sort of danger.

The nurse put his hand up in defense before continuing, “Do you think she knows?”

Mando shook his head. He believed that you still would have jumped into battle even if you had known, at least from a distance. It was just who you were. But he really didn’t think you had any idea that you were pregnant. Mando had been trained to read people his entire life and surely such news would have brought about some change in your demeanor. Mando hadn’t noticed any change in your behavior. Besides, he would like to believe that you would have told him if you knew.

He couldn’t believe this. How were you pregnant? Okay, well he knew how you could have possibly gotten pregnant but the two of you had always tried to be as safe as you could to avoid this exact scenario. Neither of you were in a position for children, the Child being a special circumstance. Your life was full of danger and violence. How could Mando protect you for an entire nine months while pregnant and then for the rest of forever, while also protecting the Child against what felt like an entire galaxy that wanted him at any cost?

“Do you want to see?” The nurse’s voice brought Mando back to the present and his helmet tilted in curiosity.

“See what?”

“The baby. I need to do a scan to ensure that it's still doing alright. You can see the fetus on the screen while you scan.” He set the clipboard at the foot of your bed and procured a moderately sized glass panel with a metal border that he’d had pinned between his arm and side while he spoke to Mando.

With a few taps on the glass, bright blue words and images appeared. He tapped on one selection and the middle of the screen cleared, aside from a thin column on the right hand side that had stats and vitals. “See, if you put anything under this, it will show you an interior view of the body. This mode shows organs and blood vessels and stuff like that. See?” The nurse put his hand under the glass panel. The screen showed a light blue version of his hand but instead of skin and nails, it clearly showed the lines of his muscles and the veins that overlapped them clearly.

Politely as he could, he pulled the cape that had been draped over you down just enough to expose your lower belly, stopping just above the hemline of your underwear. The only thing indicating that you were even alive at this point was the deep inhale you took, drawing both Mando’s and the nurse’s attention. It was the only time Mando hoped that you weren’t waking up. He had no idea how to explain this new situation to you. Hell, he was still having a hard time understanding it for himself. Thankfully, a deep breath was all it was though. You were still asleep.

The nurse moved the glass panel over your lower stomach, just about where your belly button was, and the image began to form on the screen as he adjusted a few things. Mando’s helmet tilted forward as he leaned over to see the image.

A nearly perfect view of your reproductive system appeared as a blue digital image. Mando felt uncomfortable looking at the image, feeling like he was violating you in some way. He knew he shouldn’t be looking at this without your permission but then the nurse zoomed in on your uterus to the point where the only thing that could really be seen was a little being.

Mando’s first thought was that it looked like a little alien. There was an identifiable head that appeared to be looking down and the cord that was attached to you through its belly. The rest of the body was curled into a fetal position.

The nurse tapped something on the screen and there was a rapid thudding sound that emanated from the device.

“Is that the heartbeat?” Mando asked, knowing that the answer was probably obvious. For someone who was used to working under pressure, he felt like his brain was only receiving radio static.

“Mhm, nice and strong.” The nurse said with a warm smile. He tapped a few notes onto the board and then turned it off, the blue image disappearing and the amplified heartbeat ceasing.

Mando couldn't believe this was happening. How could you not know you were pregnant? He was no expert on the female body, aside from the basics, but weren't you supposed to be throwing up or missing periods or something? He couldn't wrap his head around how you were eight weeks along with seemingly no clue of your condition.

"Look, I can see that clearly this was something unexpected. I don't know if this is something you want to tell her or want me to, but either way, there are some conversations you two need to have." The nurse told Mando matter-of-factly while gathering the few things he’d brought over before leaving.

Mando shifted on his feet and reached down to pull his cape back up over your torso so you wouldn’t be cold and exposed, though it was mostly for the second reason. It was next to impossible to be cold on Tatooine, at least during the day. That was when he noticed the small, barely there bump on your lower stomach. It was such a slight variation from its normal size that he never would have noticed it had he not just learned about the life now growing inside you. It was so slight that he imagined you probably would have just attributed it to bloating perhaps, since you were unaware as well, considering all the less-than-pleasant food you both came across in your work.

Part of him wanted to place his hands over the ever-so-slight swell of your belly, just to see if by some chance he could feel anything. Mando decided against it, shaking his helmet at himself with a heavy sigh. He would wait until you woke up and the two of you had a chance to discuss everything before he did anything relating to the baby.

Gently, he pulled the cape back up over your body and sat down on the crate again, leaning his elbows on his knees where he sat with his thoughts for several minutes in a zoned out daze. His attention was only broken by the cooing from the Child’s metal pram. Mando tapped on the controls on his arm, opening the pram, and removing the little green baby who was now wide awake.

“Hey, buddy.” Mando breathed out, watching as the baby stretched his arms out to you, “I know, I know. She’ll wake up soon.”

The Child looked up at Mando sadly before snuggling down onto his lap, sitting there comfortably. The weight of such a small being had become comfortable and normal for Mando now after all this time with him. He was, by Creed, his son now. Mando was already a father. You had stepped up as a mother for the young child. So why did this feel different?

Mando imagined the new future, assuming you had decided to stay with him and care for the baby together. He had every intention of raising the baby with you and would do whatever it took to keep the two of you safe. He loved you more than he knew was possible to love another person and the last thing he wanted was to leave. Mando hoped that, one day, you would be officially bound by riduurok. Once the Alor approved it, Mando’s clan of two would become an aliit be cuur. Clan of four.

#mando x y/n #the mandolorian x reader #mando x you #mando imagine #the mandalorian #din dijarin x reader #din djarin #din djaren #din djarin fics #pedro pascal #dad!mando #mando x pregnant!reader #star wars #star wars imagines

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thejudgingtrash · 3 years

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11. “...did you just sniff me?” for percabeth pretty please 🙏🤍🤍🤍

Heya! I’m finally here to come back to this request 😄😄 It took me only a little bit in comparison to other requests, but I'm here!

Also since @percyheartsannabeth, @skaterannabeth and @not-optimistic-petrol-biscuit had asked about fluff. Here you go... Kinda? 😬 Anyway. Here's a monster sneak peek into may I introduce you to my beloved wife? 😋

It took me all day yesterday, but I managed to pump out 11k words. That's a record for a single session in one day (with like two breaks). And yes, that is still not the entire chapter. Here are roughly 9,2k for you to consume!

TW: alcohol, overbearing relatives not minding their own business, a tiny section talking about domestic abuse and Athena and Frederick Chase ain't shit but that's nothing new. Poseidon too, for once. Enjoy!

may I introduce you to my beloved wife?

(*absolutely not proof-read, my bad)

Annabeth sighed. You can do this. You can do this. You’ve already finished the week. Think about the money. Think about the move to California. Push through this day and next week, think about the money and the minute you’ll hand your termination in. She wanted to splash some water up her face, but the makeup that tinted her lips in a luscious rose and added some bronze to her high cheekbones was too expensive to be washed off and hastily reapplied.

It was pre-Dionysus Day, which meant it was merely the calm before the storm. The first sparkling sip of an impending disaster waiting to rollover the roomy Greek villa Percy forced her to stay in. Well not really forced. Forced and bribed her to stay in. That made it sound slightly better. Just think of the one-hundred seventy-five dollars he’s going to transfer into your bank account for your new start in California. I should renegotiate. California is also expensive. Make it two-hundred fifty thousand.

The tall blonde looked at her reflection in the mirror. A young woman full of life was the first thing she had seen in the morning but now she looked tired and annoyed, just how she felt. Something crashed in one of the dozens of rooms next to her and people laughed. Annabeth sighed again. It was the only thing she could do, otherwise she would scream like a banshee, making sure that at least Hermes and Prometheus would check her, if it wasn’t for Percy stuffing socks into her mouth to make her shut up before they got to her. The majority of his Greek relatives had been lovely if not terribly nosy and overbearing. It was the opposite of her family. His was warm and chaotic and for the most part welcoming. Hers? Cold, apathetic, disapproving of everything she did. She had no family in comparison, and neither would she want to compare this wholesome messy bunch to the cold-hearted Athena Pallas and the monster that was Friedrich Chase.

Annabeth respected Hera and Hestia, she definitely side-eyed Aphrodite who was cheating on her husband and she would definitely stay away from Zeus. Crossing paths with him occasionally in the New York office of Atlantic INC. was terrible, seeing him openly be flirty and loosen up during a forced trip was way worse.

This was a bad idea and I have a terrible feeling about this. The burgundy wrap dress that hugged her skin was soft and light but in the Thessalian heat it felt like a sticky cocoon caging her. She wasn’t a beautiful butterfly, ready to burst out and wow everyone. Neither was she a moth drawn to a flame. She was a bug that had been sprayed by Percy with a pesticide, wrapped in toxic chemicals which were slowly dissolving her body, piece by piece.

A knock shoved the horrendous image inside of her head aside. “Yes?” she asked with a firm voice. Too firm with a hint of annoyance, but she was not a professional actress and could not switch her emotions off as she pleased. She was a junior marketing manager for Christ’s sake. Not for much longer. Only two more months…

Percy opened the door. “Are you ready?“ he asked with his usual pleasant baritone reaching her ear.

He wore light linen pants that hugged his legs loosely and a light blue shirt with the first buttons opened up. She could see his defined chest and the swirls of black hair peeking through. The hair was styled into a disheveled curly mess which suited him way better than the gelled back corporate look and he forgot to trim his beard like the day before. Annabeth couldn’t deny what she saw – her tormentor was a very attractive man.

“Do you want to bail?” His sea-green eyes darkened a shade. Worry flashed through them.

Annabeth exhaled sharply for the last time. “I wish I could but then I’d leave you without a fiancé,” she smiled through the pain.

Her glance found her reflection again. The topknot was still intact, and a few strands carefully framed her heart-shaped face. She looked perfect on the outside and she wanted to commit manslaughter in the inside.

“Let’s get over with it,” Percy sighed and stretched his hand out. It seemed like Percy was the one that would rather bail.

Annabeth took it without any complaint. She was the happy girlfriend soon-to-be-wife and holding hands was way better than being forced into kissing him during Sports Day. The Theodoropoulos family truly had planned activity after activity during those two weeks in winter.

“Oh!” Sally peeked into the bathroom and saw her son holding Annabeth’s hand.

“There you are! Is everything okay, mija?” she asked with her sweet Dominican accent and looked at Annabeth.

Annabeth automatically smiled back. Sally was the mother she never had, and it broke her heart crumble by crumble by the sheer charade Percy and she were forced to display for the next six days. Sally Jackson deserved the best. She certainly didn’t deserve being deceived and lied to by her terrible son and his tag-a-long coworker.

“Yes, Percy was just making sure we’re arriving on time.” Annabeth got on her toes and placed a soft kiss on Percy’s stubbled cheek. It tickled but by now she had gotten used to it.

He rolled his eyes, smiled at his mother, nonetheless. Sally’s eyes sparkled and she clapped, clutching her hands tightly. “You don’t know how proud you’re making me, mijo,” she then said teary-eyed.

“You finally found a great girl and she is standing next to you.” Sally wiped a tear away and the awful feeling that sat on Annabeth’s chest and made everything heavier, amplified by a thousand times.

This was way worse than being referred to as the woman that would bear him three to five children presuming with the first one sired on this current vacation by Ares. Yes, Annabeth wanted two children at max, but not definitely now. She was twenty-eight and in the prime of her life! Note: Percy would certainly not be the father of said two children. Unruly blond waves and a mischievous grin blitzed through her head. Pale blue eyes came back from the deepest pit of her memory. Luke. Fuck no, that was even worse than Percy. His betrayal… Annabeth tried to shake the memory off and focused on the ongoing situation in front of her.

Sally truly hoped her son found love and not a quick fling. Oh shit, Annabeth thought and looked up to Percy whose face expressed similar thoughts. His conscience nibbled and guilt flooded his body.

“Mamá,” Percy began and released Annabeth’s hand in order to grasp the older woman’s shoulder.

Sally brushed his large hands off. “No, no! Off you go! You younglings should be downstairs celebrating your reunion with the entire side of Poseidon’s family.”

Annabeth appreciated the fact that Sally was invited and flown out each winter holiday by the Theodoropoulos’. Despite having been divorced from Poseidon for over twenty years, she was still a popular and welcomed guest, not just because of her son’s attachment to the Greek side and his tied division of the Greek family company.

Sally gave each of them a last smile before entering the women’s bathroom. Percy exhaled and pinched his nose. After ten seconds he released the nose and looked back at Annabeth. “Ready?” he asked a final time. Annabeth nodded.

The loud singing, yelling and talking that had been muffled by the bathroom hit her by a tenfold. The place had all the Mamma Mia vibes without the fun singing four days ago. Not anymore, as drunk relatives hit up the shore with loud music and talked loudly in their Pontic Greek dialect.

As the couple descended the stairs and walked through the parlor, a new wave of guests arrived at the same time. Three people that have just entered early adulthood looked up to them. Two men, one blond with a stoic face and bronzed skin, the other was shorter with spiky black hair and a beautiful grin on his lips. The woman next to him was the tallest out of the trio and possessed a high ponytail that would leave Ariana Grande dying out of envy. The dyed lilac hair swung around and nearly reached the middle of her thighs, meaning the hair was even longer without its tight prison on top.

“Thanatos, Zagreus, Megaera!” greeted Percy and gave each one of them a rib crushing bear hug. They looked pleasantly surprised at seeing Percy being accompanied by a pretty woman his age. It seems like the proposal didn’t reach all of the ends of the Greek world.

They fell into a short conversation in Greek and Annabeth smiled politely next to Percy as she fell entirely out of place. The evil Duolingo owl didn’t prepare her for this experience. Neither did her mother bother teaching her at least their Athenian dialect properly. She could introduce herself in Greek, order a beer, say goodbye and that was it. Thank you, Athena. For nothing again.

“Oh, you must be Annabeth,” Megaera eyed her carefully and Annabeth had the feeling that she could split her open with her hands. Weirdly enough, Annabeth was kind of into it. Megaera wasn’t only as tall as Percy but she was clearly the one with the toughest workout regimen as she displayed her muscular legs and defined arms with a short cocktail dress only a few shades darker than her hair.

“Yes,” Annabeth squeaked. She nearly added a ma’am towards the end. Megaera cocked her dark eyebrow. She had an aura that demanded respect.

“Interesting to see the woman who captured Perseus’ heart. It seems that he did develop a good taste after all. Calypso was as pretty as the crescent moon flower but sadly as dull as his corny jokes are.” Megaera’s deep smirk was a stamp of approval as her eyes roamed all over Annabeth.

“Hey!” Percy interrupted and placed a firm hand on Annabeth’s waist, as if he was trying to mark his territory.

“You have your own toys right to your right,” he then added with a playful tone.

Megaera actually laughed and waved dismissively. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t room for more.” A clear offer which left Annabeth’s face turn into a fiery tomato red.

“Anyway, we have some catching up to do,” Thanatos proposed as Zagreus and he silently watched the conversation blossom. He sounded as reserved as he looked.

“Indeed,” Zagreus agreed, surprising Annabeth with a posh English accent. “Father will murder me if we miss out on his moussaka. It’s to die for you need to try it, Annabeth, at least before Hephaestus gets ahead of himself.”

Annabeth laughed. The Theodoropoulos did have their positives. “I will, Zagreus,” she nodded.

“Oh please, if aunt Sally gave her go for you to stay here, you’re as good as family. We’re Than, Zag and Meg for you,” Zagreus offered.

“Annabeth is already my nickname but thank you for the kind offer!”

The three new guests went on to join relatives and friends at the party which seemed to get more chaotic by each passing minute as the volume seemed to increase.

“My cousin Zagreus from my uncle Hades’ side,” Percy explained as the three went out of his sight.

“Are they friends? Or…”

“Pretty sure they’re polyamorous. You know, I don’t know, and I honestly don’t really care, I see Zag once every twelve months at max. Just don’t stick to Meg’s side for too long otherwise she’ll turn you into her fiancé.” Percy’s tone suggested that he was not joking.

“Oh.” Annabeth didn’t know what to think of it.

Percy closed his eyes as if he was making a silent prayer, before his sea-green met Annabeth’s light gray ones. She smelled like lemon with a hint of lavender, instead of roses like normally. Delicious. If it weren’t for the fact that it was Annabeth.

“So, listen. You know I’ve talked about Dionysus Day and how his birthday brings out the worst side of everyone.”

Annabeth nodded as Percy went on to explain.

“Pre-Dionysus Day is basically same with the only exception that my great-grandmother’s house is filled with the entire family. Yes, we’re expected to eat, drink, laugh, drink, dance, drink, reminisce on our past, drink, make fools out of ourselves in order for them to take blackmail pictures and drink some more, but no matter how much they want you to open up… try to control yourself. Everything you say can and will be used against you.”

Annabeth’s stomach started to churn, and her knees slightly gave in. “Look, I’m truly sorry for the mess that I’ve caused,” Percy looked directly into her eyes and tried to ignore the rosy streaks across her flushed cheeks. “And my relatives can be overbearing. But if we manage to stick through this night and the next one tomorrow, we’re as good as done with playing games.”

“Fine,” Annabeth gritted through her teeth. She had agreed to the terms and condition. She didn’t need a reminder of the stupid decision she made two months ago.

“Let’s go.”

She placed her hand on the doorknob that separated the parlor from the huge living room. Percy followed her as she opened the door. A wave of laughter, wine, ouzo, discovered secrets, cigarettes, sweat and fun hit them.

“Oh wow, someone should open a window.” Percy suggested as he coughed. Luckily cousin Metis had the same idea. No, aunt Metis. Or was it Thetis? Why did Percy need to have so many relatives with similar names again?

“Oh, Annabeth, look at you!” Aphrodite had snuck up behind them and surprised the fake couple by hugging each of them and nearly spilling the expensive Greek vintage in her hand on Percy’s shirt. The red alcoholic liquid carelessly swirled in her glass and more than often seemed to want to escape from her clutch.

“Aphrodite, be careful!” Percy reminded her as she dug her fingers into his arm. Her nails were as fake and bought as was the bond between Annabeth and Percy.

“Oh, please cousin, you should learn how to loosen up!” She laughed, but it sounded more like the shrill sound a bird made when it got nearly hit by a car. The high pitch made Annabeth slightly frown.

“Take your girl upstairs and show her all the Zorbas moves you got!” She wiggled her badly overdrawn eyebrows.

Aphrodite had always been the poster child of perfection. She knew how to dress her curvaceous body the right way, she knew how to apply the perfect touches of makeup on her face and she was the most graceful being Annabeth had ever met. Seeing her so disheveled left the blonde American content. It showed that Aphrodite wasn’t one of the gods, she was a mortal mess like they all were. That, and it was kind of funny seeing the abrupt transition from oozing perfection to looking like a rough mess after a couple of glasses of wine.

“If you know what I mean, you two know what I mean, right?”

“Yes,” Annabeth and Percy answered. Unfortunately, they did.

“That reminds me, this is such a pretty dress that you got!” Aphrodite’s eyes widened and she tugged at Annabeth’s sleeve that went slightly over her elbows. “Percy needs to bring me a couple of those the next time he visits. Oh wait! You’re about to marry, Annabeth can take me shopping. I want to visit New York next summer. When was your wedding again?”

Panic filled Annabeth she tried to stutter a lame excuse like they had done the entirety of the stay. Aphrodite’s brown eyes found something else to focus on in the meantime. Her hand went out to poke the tall blonde’s chest as she went on to pull on the thin fabric.

“You should show the men what you got! Free the girls!” Aphrodite yelled over the loud music, pushing Annabeth’s C cup to its limits. “Let Percy stand in the corner with that stupid frown, all jealous and depressed while you’re out on the hunt!”

Percy did not look amused especially since he tried to pull Annabeth away.

“Yeah, just like that!” Aphrodite’s glass pointed directly at his face as Annabeth tried to shove Aphrodite’s fickle fingers aside. “Oh, if I were just a little bit younger and not tied to your cousin…”

“You mean cousins,” Percy corrected and made a step backwards as Aphrodite’s dreamy and drunk dazed focus shifted from Annabeth to him.

“Aphrodite, leave Percy and his future wife alone,” Hera arrived to save the stressed couple and rolled her eyes. “Go harass Hephaestus and try to be a faithful wife for once in your life.”

She still looked like she had a massive stick shoved up her ass by the way she stood entirely straight next to them, but Annabeth appreciated the gesture. If Hera didn’t like Aphrodite much, Annabeth would rather join Team Hera than stand alone by the bleachers and under Aphrodite’s charmspeak. Aphrodite pouted and stomped with her feet twice as if she were a toddler and not a grown woman marching towards her forties. Then she stormed off and ran into the arms of her lover, nother husband to spite her mother-in-law and embarrass her even further.

“Malàka,” Hera cursed and lost her cool for one second, before clearing her throat and focusing on the already tired fake engaged couple in front of her. Not even Hera seemed to be averse from drinking a glass of wine or two. “You two definitely need a drink.”

Annabeth agreed with her for once.

She pointed at the bar behind her, which was managed by Dionysus and his wife Ariadne. The number of relatives ganging up on them and demanding new drinks was frightening. Surprisingly Dionysus kept his cool and shoved drinks in people’s hands at an impressive speed.

“Yeah, let’s get over with it,” Percy sighed and took Annabeth’s hand again.

“Are you okay?” Annabeth asked him. She knew from Thalia that Percy rarely ever drank and that his family was to blame for most of it. Percy seemed stiffer and graver than usual as well. As much as she disliked his jokey nature and easy-going demeanor he displayed at work, she’d much rather have that Percy by her side right now. Dionysus Day and the day before seemed like it was hell on earth for him and walking through it each year must take a toll on him.

“Yeah, let’s just each grab a glass of wine. Let them be happy about me shoving this disgusting stuff down my throat.” He thanked Ariadne as she prepared two glasses of the same vintage Aphrodite seemed to have inhaled earlier.

“Thank you.” Annabeth took her glass and sniffed. The wine smelled sickly sweet with a hint of the bitterness that the fermentation process had left. The glass in her hand weighed surprisingly heavy, not because of the wine itself but because of the golden swirls decorating it. The glass transitioned from the crystal-clear transparency into a deep black. A lyre surrounded by a bigger laurel wreath decorated the middle section and a golden snake was wrapped around the stem. The golden rim gave it a nice finish.

“Into a fruitful night,” Percy darkly mumbled over the music. He was really not looking forward to it, which confused Annabeth immensely. She didn’t understand why he pushed himself through this if he really didn’t like the drinking activities. He surely had his reasons, hence her not starting a fight with him over it. It was his family and their tradition after all.

“Into a fruitful night,” Annabeth instead repeated.

Issuing a weird toast as well. Percy Jackson was clearly not a drinker. Their glasses clinked and each of them took a sip. Thankfully grandma Rhea made sure they were well-fed before the festivities began.

“Fuck,” Annabeth muttered. A fine vintage as well. Not as sweet as she thought, it left a hint of sweet cumin as the lingering aftertaste. Her lipstick left a mark on the glass, but she didn’t bother to care as she took another gulp. The wine was nearly finished. She slowly started to understand why ancient civilizations went crazy after this stuff.

As she looked at her so-called fiancé, she saw that his glass was already empty. A grimace rested on his face as well.

“Err, Percy?”

“What?” The dark brooding look on his face was no more.

“Shouldn’t you take it easy?” Annabeth carefully asked. His eyes narrowed.

“I am,” he stated and cocked his head towards his cousin who was still busy playing the barkeeper but kept an overall watchful glimpse on the guests that flooded the gates.

“Dionysus saw me drink. Most importantly he saw us have a drink. That should be enough for me, but if you want some more, be my guest.” He shrugged.

Annabeth felt that she should probably drag his mopey ass out of the party, but it was way too early to leave. “Fine,” she said and asked Ariadne for a refill. Annabeth went in for another long sip. She should definitely stock her wine cabinet once she was back at her shitty apartment. Before the glass reached her lips again, Hermes snatched it away and chugged the remaining wine.

“Hermes, what the hell?!” Ariadne grabbed the glass and pushed her husband’s cousin away. The bored postman was back with his shenanigans.

“My bad, dear wifey, but I’m on a mission here to abduct sweet Annabeth,” Hermes winked and placed his hands around Annabeth’s shoulders.

“What are you up to?” Out of all of the relatives she’s met so far, Annabeth was convinced that everything Zeus had ever sired was a mistake. Zeus himself was a mistake.

“Can you stop being German and boring for once?” he joked. Annabeth’s eyes narrowed. She did not like this one bit. She turned her head around and saw that Percy had been pulled into a conversation by Hypnos and Morpheus. He had completely forgotten about her. Great.

Hermes guided her through the crowd, towards the middle of the room. They had to dodge chairs, drunk relatives, a sofa, chatty relatives, the coffee table and dancing relatives before they made it.

“There she is!” greeted Achilles the confused marketing manager.

Paris, Helen, Patroclus, Hermes and Achilles stood in a circle around a table. Dozens of shots of all sorts of colors were displayed. Annabeth had a terrible feeling about this.

“What is this and why are you pulling me into this?” Annabeth asked and did not like the mischievous grin they all shared. She wanted to go back home and cuddle with Daedalus on her sofa and push his cat ass out of the way before the next steamy Outlander scene hit the screen. Yes, Annabeth was that much of a single that seeing some on-screen action was the best she could get. She hoped that the mangy cat didn’t bother Thalia all too much while she was staying in Greece. She owed her so much already.

“Well, I stayed in your country,” Paris started. “And they have a weird tradition with ouzo. They don’t drink it the way we do, watered down and slowly at lunch and what not…”

Annabeth was still American for the most part and had nothing to do with Germany. The last time she stayed there was nearly thirteen years ago. She didn’t want to have anything to do with Germany. Friedrich Chase lived in Germany. And she fucking hated Friedrich Chase. Therefore, she hated Germany. Things that would never change. Okay, Hamburg was a cool city and she was glad her father moved to Cologne. Should she feel the urge to travel back to Germany for a week or less, she’d go to Hamburg, take ten thousand pictures, and post them on Instagram the minute before she was boarding her flight back to New York. Helping her to enrage her stupid father was all Germany had to offer.

“Germans do ouzo shots,” Patroclus cut to the chase. “And since you’re the newest member of our family…”

“And German!” Paris and Hermes added simultaneously.

“We’ve decided to play this little game,” Achilles added.

“What’s the name of the game?” Annabeth asked. She was only slightly curious. Emphasis on slightly.

“Last man standing. Oh sorry, ladies. Last person standing,” Hermes corrected himself as he placed four shots in front of each person. That was way too much hard liquor to handle. But if she did Jägermeister bombs in her sophomore year of college without any issues, this should be fairly easy.

“What are the rules?” They all looked at her in silence. No rules. No prize. Just drink.

“Oh wow.” The urge to roll her eyes and walk off came back with a force.

“I think I’m going to pass,” Annabeth said and already turned to her right.

“Why?” Helen asked innocently. “Need your man to look after you? The one who’s having an amazing time back there with his third glass of wine?”

Foul game. Annabeth’s head shot to the right. Helen was right. Percy was laughing and looked like he was having a great time chatting with Oceanus and his wife Tethys. Tethys refilled his glass as her husband and Percy broke into laughter once again.

If that’s the case…

“Fuck it, I’m in,” Annabeth agreed. She swallowed the bait and she knew it. There was no reason why she should feel upset about Percy opening up all of a sudden. He desperately needed it. Why she wished to be a part of that, Annabeth did not know.

“Great!” Helen threw her brown mane over her shoulders and grabbed the first glass.

“Για μας!” they all yelled and chugged the liquor. Gia mas, the Greek toast, was repeated every time and it seemed to brighten the mood, despite resting heavily on Annabeth’s stomach. Her college days were over, but she was glad she resisted coughing repeatedly.

Patroclus clutched his stomach after the second shot, Helen ran out after the third, Paris and Achilles were laughing maniacally after the fourth and Hermes mysteriously disappeared after the first one. Annabeth was the last person standing. She placed the crystalized shot glass back on the table and examined the messes around her. The only thing that had happened to her, were that more golden locks escaped from her bun and her lipstick needed some reapplying as she left marks on each glass.

Annabeth tried to take a step away from the table and felt how the world slightly shifted around her. The fact that she would curse and hate herself for her behavior in just six hours, was something drunk Annabeth gladly put aside. The headaches that definitely would haunt her for the rest of the trip didn’t matter, she won and that was all she cared about.

“Hell yeah!” she yelled as all inhibition faded away, leaving pure and raw life force behind. Unbeknownst to her, Annabeth had moved right into the circle of dancers.

“Perseus, get your bride before she breaks her legs!” someone laughed. Was it Iapetus? Or was it Hyperion? Who even cared at that point?

The next two hours were a blurred mess. A blackout slowly crept through her mind, leaving foggy memories behind. Annabeth felt how she was dancing with people and how people were laughing. Were they laughing at her or with her? Did it really matter? Why was her hair repeatedly slapping her face, didn’t she tie it up?

She danced with different people, men and women. She really hoped that the guy that looked like a naked Danny DeVito with longer black hair was not Zeus who had lost his shirt and pants. Who was the guy with the sea-green eyes again? Why was he clapping and laughing whenever she was busting a move next to Hermes? Was he important? Why did he remind her of work? The shots might have been a short-sighted idea after one and a half glasses of wine. She probably overestimated the amount of food she had consumed at dinner prior. Wasn’t she supposed to try someone’s moussaka?

“There you are! Ares, stop dancing with her for once. We’re about to leave.”

Ugh. Ares. Not Zeus, but still yucky.

Sea-green eyes. Percy, of course. How could she have forgotten the asshole that brought her into this whole mess? He seemed fairly sober, didn’t he have a glass or three of wine? Annabeth was certain, she’d be able to drink him under the table. His height and his build might put him at an advantage, but if he wasn’t used to drinking, she might have a fair shot.

A rock song was the next song that appeared. Percy wanted to drag Annabeth off the dance floor.

“Oh no!” Aphrodite intervened with a shrill screech. “Give the two lovers some room to show each other affection!”

Hera actually raised her glass for once to show that she actually agreed with one of Aphrodite’s wild ideas. Someone fumbled with the playlist and a Greek slow jam roared through the old speakers.

“Are you guys fucking serious?” Percy muttered under his breath. But roughly eighty pairs of eyes were all but watching the soon-to-be betrothed and waited for a romantic dance which reminded Percy more of the horrors that the eight-grade dance was.

Annabeth drunkenly hiccupped and looked at him in surprise as she felt one of his hands around her waist and the other one taking her hand. They rocked as if it was the final dance at prom. Annabeth barely remembered prom. Oh right. Her mother had forbidden her from going. She never attended prom.

A casual glimpse through the crowd showed her that people were actually filming this nonsense and some women were actually cooing. Did… did they seriously think this back and forth with sweaty clothes on was romantic? Her eyes found Percy’s again.

“So…” he began.

“So…” she repeated.

“Careful!” he warned her before twirling her through the tight circle. People screamed and applauded. A camera flash blitzed through the darkness twice.

“Oof,” Annabeth groaned. Her stomach and equilibrium did not appreciate that sudden movement.

“I’m sorry, I won’t do that again,” Percy swore. The rocking motion made both of them sleepy. Annabeth suppressed a yawn, rested her head on his shoulder. Percy could make the perfect comfy bed, if he wanted to.

Percy, sensing that people were awaiting some action from either of them, placed a finger under her chin and lifted her face up. Annabeth’s eyes widened. Is he going to kiss me in front of them? Again? her panicked brain asked. She was turned into stone, not by Percy’s distant cousin Medusa who had eaten most of the truffles, but by the tenderness of his actions. He was one solid actor.

Percy placed a soft kiss on her forehead, before moving on to a temple. Annabeth blushed and buried her heated face in his chest as he released her. Intimate, soft and sweet. The screaming relatives disrupted their comfortable silence yet again. The slow song came to an end and the next upbeat one invited everyone back to the dance floor. Annabeth released herself from Percy’s tight embrace and just bolted. Damned be nausea. A wave of coldness hit her. She felt something she didn’t like the minute Percy had softly kissed and soberness woke her at a start. What was it? Anger? Disappointment? Longing? She didn’t know and she didn’t want to know.

“Annabeth!” Percy shouted, but the amount of people standing in his way made it more difficult for him to keep up with her. His hand brushed over his own lips.

Annabeth opened and closed doors left and right. The kitchen, the dining room, the smoking room. She hasted through the first floor until she found another lost soul in the fireplace room. Why the villa had a fireplace room in the first place, she did not know. It had been super-hot the entire time but what Annabeth understood as heat and what native Greeks deemed as hot temperatures didn’t have to correlate.

Great-grandmother Gaia’s humming faded away. The eldest of the Theodoropoulos looked up from the pair of socks she was knitting. When she came to find out the intruder was Annabeth, joy spread over her face.

“Come, come!” The broken English that she softly spoke reminded Annabeth of her own grandmother. She hadn’t seen Elsbeth Lilienthal-Chase since she had left Germany. And since her mother didn’t give her a chance to say goodbye, she didn’t have a phone number to reach her with. The only way would be through that asshole Friedrich Chase, and the only time she’d willingly let someone contact that man was if she had been six feet under and he would be forced to show up for one important family event for once.

“I was unable to sleep. Parties aren’t something for me. I’m too old and boring for my children and their children,” Gaia sighed as Annabeth took a seat on the green sofa next to the light blue armchair. All of the cushioning seemed to have been made by Gaia as the socks had the same pattern as the pillow that Annabeth leaned against. Balls of wool surrounded the older woman as if she sat on a field of fresh tulips.

“Drink, drink! You need water. I’m pretty sure you danced a lot.”

Annabeth kindly took the offer, grabbed the carafe and poured herself a little bit of water into a small glass. The water was surprisingly cold and refreshing.

“My children deem me crazy,” Gaia continued. “The war with the ottomans. Deportation. Fleeing and seeing death everywhere. Losing my father in the chaos. Then the big world war after that twenty years later. They don’t want to listen to the same stories. They only want to have fun. So, they sent me away.”

Annabeth felt terrible for the old lady. It looked like she had been through hell and back in her youth. She didn’t look like she needed much, only someone to listen to her.

“I won’t bore you much,” promised Gaia.

Gaia’s tanned leathery hands continued working on the little socks. “Don’t worry about tomorrow, dearie. We have plenty of acetaminophen and other hangover remedies. Tomorrow will be even worse, because Dionysus wants to celebrate his birthday with even more wine,” the old woman laughed, and her green eyes twinkled full of life.

“I also was young once…”

The two sat in comfortable silence, only interrupted by Gaia’s humming or Annabeth refilling her glass of water.

“So,” Gaia began.

“So?” repeated Annabeth.

“You are the woman that tamed my little Perseus,” the older woman grinned.

Oh no.

Annabeth had a lump in her throat and drinking water to solve it, didn’t work. She wasn’t just lying to Zeus and his wife. She was lying to an entire clan, from the youngest to the oldest members. What Percy and she were doing wasn’t right, neither was it fair. Sure, Percy’s shitty uncle didn’t help much by forcing him to marry the next person, but did the rest of the family deserve to be deceived as well? No, they didn’t, and that truth rested heavily on Annabeth’s narrow shoulders.

The fact that Gaia looked so much like her great-grandson was crazy. They possessed the exact same shade of sea-green. It was passed onto Rhea, Percy’s grandmother, and then Poseidon, Percy’s fucked up father. Always full of intelligence and calculation. Shifting easily from delighted and full of life to the crashing anger of a storm. Power and knowledge were key features of Gaia’s eyes.

“How did you meet my sweet Perseus again?” Gaia innocently asked but Annabeth knew that there was some sort of ulterior motive behind her question.

“At work,” she honestly answered, and Gaia smiled. The old lady was able to sense the truth.

“He’s not my direct boss, but we run into each other a lot. And we hated each other from the moment we saw each other.” Annabeth remembered how she accidentally spilled her hot coffee all over his shirt. She had been public enemy number one from then on.

“He’s an excellent boss, as much as I hate to admit it. He knows his ways around and is passionate about the ocean and its inhabitants. Definitely more passionate than me, I’m just there for the money. He actually wants to make a difference. And he’s extremely annoying, might I add.”

Gaia burst into laughter and needed a minute to calm down. Annabeth cracked a toothy grin. “Ah yes, I can see how you fell in love with him.”

Doom. Uneasiness. Discomfort. The lump in Annabeth’s throat grew bigger and bigger. Why was her vision so blurry all of a sudden? She looked down at her dress. Dark dots appeared. More sprinkled across her lap as Annabeth realized she was crying.

“I’m so sorry,” Annabeth sniffled. “I… Percy… I…”

Gaia put her knitting utensils aside and set herself upright in the armchair. “Oh no, what is going on, Annabeth?”

The calming hand on her back did not help the young professional at all. No, Gaia’s honesty and curiosity made it way worse.

“Percy and I… we’re not engaged. We did it because Zeus-” Annabeth tried to confess, but Gaia brushed her off.

“It’s okay, Annabeth. I know,” the old woman smiled.

The tears that smeared her foundation or rather what was left of it ceased to fall. “You what?!”

Shock widened Annabeth’s light gray eyes.

“I knew from the minute you stepped into my house. I’m pretty sure Rhea knows as well.”

Annabeth’s jaw fell open. “B-but how?!” she stuttered and felt like an utter and complete idiot. The first few days had been rough and difficult, but now she thought that Percy and she conveyed the illusion of being a happy couple.

“You were scared of everything including him the minute you arrived,” Gaia warmly smiled. The infectious warm smile of a grandma looking out for her little chicks. Was Annabeth now one of them?

“I knew something was off with that sudden engagement of yours with the way you two behaved. Either you were pregnant, or it was a ruse. Since you are heavily drinking and paper thin, it was clear that there was no pregnancy. You young people truly don’t eat enough anymore,” Gaia shrugged, patted Annabeth’s knee and went back to knitting the sock.

“But now… it all makes sense. You do feel something for each other. Even if you are blind to it for now.” She continued to hum. “I just hope that my dear Perseus will be the young and carefree boy he was all those years ago one day again. And I do believe that you are the key in finding him hidden underneath all those layers and walls he had put up due to his father.”

Annabeth didn’t even close her mouth during the elder’s monologue. Did Gaia seriously connote that she… that Annabeth Chase… might feel something for her soon-to-be boss? Madness. Absolute madness. She took everything she had thought of the friendly old woman in front of her back. Maybe her relatives did have a point, when they decided to brush Gaia off due to her old age.

Annabeth? And feeling something for Percy? If that something was hatred and the utmost rage, absolutely yes. But… anything else? She would receive a hefty sum on her bank account and would put in her two weeks the minute she found a better job in California.

“You know… there is a tale I’d like to tell about men.”

And Annabeth would prefer to place the glass back on the table, throw the heels away, storm out and run to the next airport.

“They are stupid vapid creatures,” Gaia carried on.

Annabeth snorted behind her glass. “That is certainly true,” she agreed and earned an honest grin from Gaia.

“My dear husband Ouranos with whom I had all of my dear children decided one day that one woman was not enough. And that twelve children were not enough.”

Twelve children?! Annabeth's womb just twisted and turned in protest. The shocked expression on Annabeth’s face made Gaia chortle loudly.

“Oh yes, back in my day we were all very fruitful,” Gaia affirmed.

“That sounds horrible,” Annabeth interjected.

“Oh, only the birth part and the eighteen years after it,” the older woman dismissed her which made Annabeth in turn laugh again.

“My father was a farmer and he had one piece of advice: never let someone toy with you. You are not a doll; you are a person with morals and dignity, a person with feelings and dignity. Let no one, especially not a man, treat you like a commodity or something to kick around. Well… when dear Ouranos left me and sought our neighbor with bigger breasts… I taught him that lesson. And I did so with my father’s trusted knife that I hung on the wall afterwards.”

There was no knife displayed on the wall. It was a fucking scythe. Large, frightening, brutal. A golden great long sickle with jagged teeth rested on the wall as if it were ready to cut you up into one thousand pieces. Was there really dried blood stuck on the teeth or was Annabeth’s drunken mind making things up?

“The minute our youngest turned eighteen he took off and was never seen again. And now, should a person, in that case my Perseus, not know how to treat you properly, you know what to do,” Gaia advised and took a sip out of her own glass.

“Uh… you mean threaten to cut his genitals off with a large and sharp family heirloom?” Annabeth’s eyes widened again.

“No, dearie…” Gaia gave it some thought. “Well maybe so, dearie,” she then went on. That made Annabeth chuckle again.

“But demand absolute respect from him. Don’t ask him for it. Demand it. I don’t know how but he has dragged you into our family and expects you to play the perfect fiancé. This will eventually blow up in his face and he will drag you along with him. Teach him a lesson, however.”

“You know what? I will!” With Gaia’s official blessing, Annabeth was all smiles and scheming new plots. If the head of the family gave her the approval of kicking Percy’s ass, she definitely would.

Steps echoed in the fireplace room and Annabeth and Gaia’s heads turned to greet the intruder. They didn’t even realize the door opened and closed again.

Gaia’s younger twin who still had some black streaks in the braids marched into the hall, curious about what the two women in front of her were previously talking about. Gaia’s youngest daughter Rhea had joined them. The large blue floral dress made her seem like she never left the late 1960s and the two long braids only added to that sentiment.

“Mamá, what is going on? By the way Percy is looking for you, Annabeth,” Rhea informed her grandson’s alleged fiancé before taking a seat in front of her and grabbing one of the many balls of yarn in front of her mother. Rhea then went on to play with it as if she was a six-year old.

“Oh no, Rhea, Annabeth and I were just chatting about love and life,” Gaia batted her eyelashes.

“You see, I gave Rhea the same advice about her disgraceful husband when he went out to seek another woman.”

Rhea rolled her eyes behind the large pentagonally glasses. “You and your stories about the scythe, mother,” she sighed.

“I have to make sure the younger generation knows!” Gaia huffed. “I won’t be here for much longer and then-”

“We'll regret all the things we’ve said and done to you, I know mamá, you have been telling me this since I was four years old and spilled my apple juice,” Rhea completed her mother’s sentence.

Rhea’s attention shifted to the smiling blonde in front of her. She grew to like Percy’s fiancé. She had a fire within herself and a backbone, all great things to handle a Theodoropoulos man.

“But my mother is right when she says that the scythe is a trusted tool. Zeus, Poseidon and Hades did scare Kronos with it after he tried some foul things with their sisters. Treated them worse. Did overall horrible things. He never wanted daughters, only sons. Didn’t seem to accept the fact that it was out of my hand.” Rhea squished the ball of light blue yarn in her hand.

“My children were always looking out for me and I will be forever grateful for them. I do hope that you will have the same feelings and love for your children.” It was clear who their father was supposed to be.

“Yes, I hope so as well,” Annabeth squeaked. Did it get hotter in here all of a sudden?

The door opened, and a worried Percy stepped into the fireplace room. “Oh, there you are,” he sighed as he immediately sighted Annabeth’s blonde unruly curls. He had been running from the basement all the way to the roof searching for her. Relief washed over his face like some shower gel from a cheap commercial. Only then did he realize that Annabeth had been cornered by both his nosy grandmother and his even nosier great-grandmother.

“Whatever they’ve been telling you, it’s a lie, it’s wrong and it never happened!” he warned her as he took a seat right next to her.

“Oh please, relax,” Rhea rolled her eyes and threw the wool at her grandson. “We have been talking about mamá’s scythe.”

“Hey!” both Percy and Gaia complained. At least they hadn’t dished out embarrassing stories of him taking off in diapers at night.

“This is expensive! You young people show no respect towards others' belongings,” Gaia cursed.

Annabeth took the blue yarn and placed it back on top of the pyramid of other colors.

“Thank you!” Gaia smiled before she focused on finishing the sock.

“You’ve found your fiancé, Perseus. Now go off back to celebrate and let us old people reminisce about the past and talk.” Rhea lazily waved at them whilst Gaia didn’t even look up from her craft.

“We will,” Percy said while getting up and casually dragging Annabeth along. He kissed both Gaia and Rhea on the cheek, Annabeth threw a hasty “See you in the morning!” over her shoulder before the couple left.

“Are you okay?” Percy asked as he pulled Annabeth aside for a small breather.

She nodded. “It’s just a bit overwhelming with the amount of people that either want to take pictures of us, hope I remember when their youngest kid’s birthday is, or they tell me they hope we have our first baby preferably in less than a year.”

Percy blushed. He didn’t think it was that bad, but then again, men are mostly left out of the baby talk until their mother’s saw that their best friend’s children had their first grandbaby. He truly didn’t have any intention of having a child before the age of forty. He had to save a business from his damned uncle, run and manage said business and preferably find a woman he tolerated enough to marry before he could even think of children.

Percy apologized again. “One week,” he promised her.

“One week,” Annabeth repeated and nodded.

“We’re going in, you’ve missed the high of the party with your talk with my yai yai, but that’s perfectly fine. The first have already left, let’s just mingle for ten minutes or so before we can-”

The door flung open. “There they are!” yelled Hermes who was followed by Zephyrus and Hercules.

None of them had any intention of letting the party stop before five in the morning. It was merely two. The minute Hermes had his sights on Annabeth, he knew that he had found his best drinking buddy aside from Dionysus himself. Oh no, Annabeth thought and rightfully so.

The minutes of calmness and rest next to Gaia did their wonders because Percy and she were thrust back into the party at full force. She didn’t exactly remember when the blackout happened, but it was roughly thirty minutes later. She was drinking, she was dancing, she was completely making a fool out of herself. The hair? A mess. Annabeth herself? Don’t even think about it. She had been dancing with Hermes and Patroclus, Aphrodite accidentally stepped on her foot one time when Ares approached her.

Percy broke his own promise and accepted a fourth glass of wine from Dionysus who insisted on it. That glass was his doom. The last droplet touched his tongue and his world turned into a flashy mist, his consciousness was broken into pieces, fragmented and sprinkled across the floor. Where he was, when he was and who he was were things he couldn’t remember. The only thing that popped up in his mind were waves of solid gold. Was it hair? Could hair truly move like that and possess that texture? And a whiff of lemon with a hint of lavender crawled up his nose. It was an odd combination, but it felt safe and like home. He liked this smell. Where did he smell this before?

Percy didn’t care, he had other matters to attend to. The first thing on the docket was finding the bathroom, he had drunk way too much. The house had weird rules in regard to bathrooms. Was it the left side or the right side that the young men could use? Why did his uncle Hades have to break two sinks in a span of a week when he was sixteen again? Why were women and others allowed to do whatever they wanted? His great-grandma and her weird plans were always set to make him fail somehow. Things that she had thought of decades ago still bore fruit today.

Percy stumbled upstairs and turned right and prayed the doors he was opening were empty bathrooms and not relatives making out. That was just what he needed. The first door he opened was of his great-uncle Oceanus and Tethys who had a face mask on her face and pink curlers up her hair. At least the old people still knew how to behave. He hoped his mother had left the party hours ago. He apologized and closed the door. The next one was an empty bedroom, his even maybe. No, his bedroom was on an entirely different floor. Or was it?

The next bedroom was closed off thank god, but from the sounds on the inside it seemed like cousin Eos and her newest catch Orion had some fun. Disgusting, Percy thought before he moved on. The next door was what he was looking for. A bathroom. Lit up, clean and empty. Empty if it wasn’t for this one woman who was clutching the brims of the polished sink. She was tall, the golden hair equaled a rat nest and her red dress seemed to have witnessed a lot.

“Ugh,” she muttered and looked into the mirror. Her eyes found his immediately.

“Percy?” she turned around.

Oh right. He was Percy Jackson, thirty-one, single, hopefully the new CEO of Atlantic INC., he had a fantastic apartment in the Upper East Side with an amazing view and he was in Greece to impress his family with his fake fiancé in order to secure his father’s legacy. His fake fiancé being Annabeth Chase, a woman he loathed, had to pay a little hush money and hoped would leave the company fairly soon after.

“You’re in the men’s restroom,” Percy then stated.

Annabeth looked around. No, it was not the same bathroom she used in the morning. Oh yeah, Gaia’s weird bathroom rules.

“Honestly who cares?” the junior marketing manager complained. “A toilet’s a toilet, no matter who uses it.”

Percy shrugged. Annabeth had a point but it wasn’t their house so they couldn’t dictate the rules.

“I wanted to retouch my makeup, but I didn’t find my makeup bag.” She walked steadily to Percy, but it was clear to both of them that she had her fair amount of shots in her system.

“Yeah, it’s probably in the other bathroom. Wait, let me use the bathroom for a second and then we can head back to our room and you can look for your makeup.”

Annabeth nodded and waited on the outside while Percy was tending his business. After drying his hands, he opened the door and found Annabeth yawning in front of one of his yai yai’s paintings. It showed the scythe from the fireplace.

“In all honesty, your great-grandmother is an amazing woman. I admire her. Showing kindness and strength each day. How old is she?”

“Turning 106 next October,” Percy smiled at her. “She always said she wanted to live long enough to see her favorite descendants find their own happiness, whatever it may be.”

The softness in his voice made Annabeth’s heart ache. She turned her head back to the painting. She was a nobody. She had no family, no traditions she could upkeep. She didn’t even have a steady relationship in the past five years. Fucking Luke Castellan. He also had to take that from her as well. Make her suffer. That’s what Athena, Friedrich and Luke all thought at the same time. And they all had nearly reached their wicked goal if it hadn’t been for her stubbornness and will to eventually blossom into something else. The first step towards that something else resided within her move to California. She wanted to leave everything and everyone behind and start a new life, somewhere where no one knew her.

A thumb brushed over her cheek. Annabeth looked up to Percy. She hadn’t even realized she was sobbing again.

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay,” Percy assured her. His hands found her sides, pulling her into a soft hug.

A true fiancé level hug. Annabeth had never felt that comfortable within a man’s reach. Percy might have been an awful and annoying coworker, but he truly cared about his fellow people. The way they slowly rocked and kept hugging each other reminded her of the school dance work they had put on the floor earlier. But this time it was real. This time there was no one taking pictures or yelling into their ears, or the demand to see a kiss.

Annabeth rested her face in his chest and Percy leaned his head on hers. It was like they had been made for each other. A welcoming scent greeted Percy. Lemon and lavender. The person stuck in Percy’s crumbled mind had been Annabeth. She was his anchor in the havoc his relatives had created in such a short time. He took a deeper breath. It felt reassuring.

“Did you just sniff me?” Annabeth laughed as she pulled away from him.

“You do smell good!” he defended himself with a stupid grin on his mouth.

“Oh, wait you’re super drunk,” she giggled again as she saw his widened pupils that had pushed the darkened sea-green iris away.

“Well, look at you,” he retorted.

They looked at each other. Aside from the bumping music and the noises people made downstairs it had been completely silent. He missed her warmth; she missed his comfort. Neither would have guessed that a simple embrace could offer so much. Neither would have thought they would take it to the next step within a split second.

One last look. A last time sea-green and light-gray met before each set of eyes closed and their lips met with a brutal force in the middle. Their teeth clacked but it didn’t matter to them. What mattered now, was the moment. Forgotten was the alcohol, forgotten were the troubles of past, present and future. Forgotten were the friends and relatives in the building and back in New York.

So... what do you think? 😄 Like I said, this is not the entire chapter 🤷🏾‍♀️ I honestly feel bad for cutting the chapter off because it's really getting more interesting from that point on 💁🏾‍♀️ I'll probably continue working on this once I've published the next act of The Fool 🥳

Also Greek people, if something seems off with this (aside from random English at times lol) hit me up, I definitely have to do more research!

#mel answers #pjo #percy jackson #Annabeth chase #percabeth #percabeth fanfic #may I introduce you to my beloved wife #mel writes #hoo #heroes of olympus #percy and annabeth #pjo fanfic #percy jackson and the olympians #mel spoils

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sierraraeck · 3 years

Text

Control

JJ x John B

Masterlist

Summary: JJ likes losing control, and there is no one safer he can do that with than his boyfriend, John B. But after a particularly awful week, JJ just needs something he can be in control of.

Category: Smut, angst

Warnings: Cussing/slurs, JJ’s home life so abuse and violence, allusion to sexual abuse, rough sex, choking, safe word used. Look, this gets dark, so this is your warning.

Word Count: 3.4K

A/N: I agree with a lot of other people that in their relationship, John B is usually the dominant one because JJ likes losing control, but I’m convinced that after a really fucking bad week, he just loses it and needs something he can control. This is what I imagine that would look like.

•••

It had been a bad week. It felt never ending, getting roughed up by the Kooks, running from the cops, taking the fall for Pope, and now this.

If you keep going down this road, you’re going to end up just like your dad.

Maybe his best friend, and within the last year or so his boyfriend, was right. Maybe he, and everyone else on the island who constantly reminded him of his blood, was right. Maybe he was destined to be a complete fuck up with no future other than three cement walls and a grid of bars. Not like JJ’d ever imagined his life going any differently.

We’re sick of your shit.

Those were the words echoing in his head as his feet made the decision before his mind did.

You are a worthless piece of shit.

He remembered something Pope had told him once, that the brain can’t differentiate between the truth and something that has been repeated to you over and over.

You’ll be back here one day. You good for nothing piece of shit, that’s why your mamma left. Stay down, boy. I don’t care where you’ve been. Really living up to your name, Maybank. You’re just like your daddy. Fucking bastard. Worthless.

Must be true, right? If everyone is saying it, including the only people he’s ever really thought cared about him, it must be true.

As he opened the door to the run down shack, he already knew what he’d see, but a shutter of fear still raced down his spine. His dad was sitting on the couch, all kinds of beer and pill bottles scattered around him.

“What the hell you doing back here, boy?” the gruff voice of JJ’s nightmares asked.

“Dad, I-”

“The least your worthless ass could do is get me a beer.”

JJ complied, because, what else was he going to do? Weak.

As he walked over to his dad, the smell of beer was overwhelming. It always was, but the smell seemed stronger than he remembered. His dad's tolerance must be higher than it was a few weeks ago.

“Open it,” Luke demanded.

JJ tried, he really did, but his hands were shaking too damn much. Come on, don’t be such a pussy.

Apparently he couldn’t do it fast enough, so Luke ripped the bottle out of his hands, causing it to shatter on the floor. JJ flinched at the sound.

“What are you, retarded? Can’t even open one goddamned bottle!”

JJ didn’t even try to duck. He felt Luke’s knuckle make contact with his cheekbone, head whipping to the side. We’re sick of your shit, JJ.

“Dad-”

“Don’t fucking beg you weak, worthless piece of shit!”

Flames enveloped his gut, followed by another fire lit over his ribs. We don’t want you around.

The voice he was hearing sounded an awful lot like John B’s.

“Fucking pathetic! Just like your mother!” JJ was on the floor now, not completely able to remember how he got there. As his body screamed in pain with each new kick, his mind was getting farther and farther away from where he was.

Our lives would be better without you in it. I would be so much happier if I had a boyfriend who wasn’t such a burden, such a fuck up. Someone without so many fucking issues.

He could feel the blood dripping down his face and leg, but refused to make himself consciously aware of it.

This is what you deserve, JJ.

This is what you deserve.

•••

Twenty-eight hours. That’s how long it’d been since John B last saw JJ. The moment he walked out the door John B kicked himself for it.

He couldn’t believe he’d actually said that to JJ. ‘You’re going to end up just like your dad.’ He couldn’t think of a worse thing to say to JJ.

It’d overall been a shit week, and John B knew that he was sleep deprived and irritable from everything that’d gone on, not like that was any excuse for what he’d done.

As time ticked by, John B just kept going over everything he’d done wrong in the past week.

You’re going to end up just like your dad. We’re sick of your shit.

Not to mention the time he grabbed JJ by the collar of his shirt and shoved him up against the wall. The way JJ flinched and seemed to shrink into himself, immediately casting his eyes down, was an image John B couldn’t get out of his head. He knew better than to touch JJ without explicitly asking or giving him plenty of forewarning, let alone grab him out of nowhere while he was angry.

God, JJ looked so scared in that moment, and John B couldn’t even believe he’d just made the person he cared about most in the world feel threatened by him. And JJ didn’t even look like he’d fight back. He looked like he was bracing himself, ready to take whatever harm was to come to him.

JJ put so much trust in John B, letting him be in control of their most intimate time together. JJ once told him that he felt the most safe when he was around John B, and he heard all of the words not said in that one sentence. I trust you. I trust you to have power over me, emotionally and physically. I trust you enough to be vulnerable, knowing that I won’t get hurt. Knowing that you won’t hurt me.

And John B felt like within the span of a week, he’d destroyed all of that.

Just come home, just come home, just come home. Please, JJ, just come back to me.

The sun was starting to set, and John B was getting even more antsy. They’d never had a fight that kept JJ away for longer than a day or so, which meant that John B already knew where JJ was, even though he didn’t want to believe it.

Shit, shit, shit…

John B headed toward the door of the chateau, flinging it open on a mission to save JJ when he looked up.

Oh thank god.

JJ was standing on his porch, hand clutching his side and a couple butterfly bandages over his eyebrow and cheek. His shirt was torn, displaying the three developing bruises John B could see, meaning there were probably at least twice as many he couldn’t see.

John B’s mouth was hanging open, stopped dead in his tracks, unable to find the words to tell JJ how sorry he was and how much he wished he could’ve been better and how-

But his train of thought was cut off when JJ took two big strides towards him, smashing their lips together like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His hands were gripping onto John B’s sides, wadding up the cloth in his fists, and moved the pair of them back into the chateau, kicking the door shut with his foot.

JJ backed John B into the nearest wall, the intensity of the kiss momentarily distracting John B from the bigger situation at hand. JJ tugged John B’s shirt up, helping him out of it.

As they parted to remove the garment, John B tried to get JJ’s attention. “JJ-”

He didn’t let him get any more words out, though, pressing their lips back together the moment he could.

John B knew that JJ had a lot of pent up anger toward his father, toward the kooks, toward the world. He knew that JJ put on a show of being powerful, untouchable, even. JJ wanted others to think he was always in complete control, and while unhinged at times, a force to be reckoned with. JJ wanted others to think he was strong, and John B knew that was because of how frequently he was told he was weak.

John B thought JJ was as tough as they came. He was sure that if anyone else had been dealt the hand JJ had, they’d be doing a hell of a lot worse, and was impressed by his boyfriend on the daily.

But John B always thought JJ was the strongest when he was the most vulnerable, when he was with him, making this new dominant side of JJ concerning. JJ liked losing control and letting his guard down when he was with John B, letting John B take the lead. Right now, though, JJ was putting his walls back up, the tough act coming out. That’s how John B knew shit had really gotten bad, and he couldn’t help but blame himself for it.

John B tried again, “JJ.” He got the same reaction he did the first time, a non answer. John B delicately placed his hands on JJ’s shoulders, creating just a few inches of space between them as he finally got his attention. “JJ, JJ, slow down. I’ve been worried about you. What is going on, what hap-”

“John B,” JJ cut him off with a low, abnormally calm voice. John B stared in silence, growing even more concerned and confused by the look of intensity in his eyes. “Shut up.”

John B knew that at the end of the day, he’d do whatever JJ asked of him, but it didn’t stop him from trying to get more information. “JJ, I just-”

“Please,” JJ almost pleaded, gazing deep into his eyes. “Give me tonight.” John B stared at his boyfriend for a few more seconds before nodding his head. “Tell me if things get too-”

“I know,” John B assured, remembering the safe word they’d established early on in their relationship, South, and the one time JJ had to use it. He’d had a panic attack, mumbling something about a flashback, but John B had never gotten anything more than that.

With the green light, JJ slipped his tongue back into John B’s mouth, cool rings on his hand pressing into his neck, using his body to push John B back against the wall.

JJ was running his hands all over John B’s exposed chest, John B slowly moving his hands up to place on JJ’s waist. The moment he made the slightest contact though, JJ flinched away, grabbing both of his wrists and pinning them to the wall.

His grip was unfaltering, and stronger than usual, and JJ held his wrists there as he started kissing down John B’s body, pausing to suck and graze his teeth over a few spots.

Reaching the waistband of John B’s shorts, JJ moved his grip from John B’s wrists in order to yank his shorts and underwear down. John B’s hands started to tingle, unaware until just then that JJ had been gripping so tight it started cutting off blood flow.

JJ, now on his knees, started pumping his hand slowly up and down John B’s half-hard shaft, the contact sending a shiver down his spine.

At one point, John B couldn’t stop the small jerk of his hips toward JJ, which was the wrong thing to do, as JJ’s crushing grip was back, both hands holding onto his hips and slamming them back into the wall. JJ resorted to using his mouth instead, lips wrapping around the tip and hollowing his cheeks. John B tossed his head back, harder than he intended, making a somewhat painful contact with the wall. JJ started bobbing his head up and down at a faster pace, only breaking contact once to wet two of his fingers which he circled around John B’s hole.

John B could see the contractions of JJ’s biceps, and almost felt his fingers shaking against him. He was confused at first about what it meant, but soon figured out that he was holding back. JJ had always been the dominant one in his flings with girls, but had never been in this position with John B before. He could tell that JJ wasn’t going as far as he wanted to, that he was restraining himself from taking what he wanted.

John B wanted to know everything that JJ had to give, and acknowledged, in almost a challenge-like way, “You’re holding back on me.”

Within a flash, JJ stood up, threading his fingers through John B’s hair to yank his head back, his other hand keeping it’s harsh grip on his hip. John B whimpered at the sensations.

Looking down on him, JJ demanded, “Is that not what you want?”

John B thought it wasn’t, but seeing him now, and knowing how much darkness he has, there was a fraction of a second where he wanted to change his mind. But the second passed and John B still wanted to see all of JJ, every dark and twisted corner, everything he hadn’t seen before. And he could tell that it was taking a lot of effort for JJ to restrain himself, too much effort. John B wanted him to let go.

He shook his head, voice coming out as only a small whisper, “It’s not what you want either.”

It was like flipping a switch. With force, JJ dragged him by his hair to the bedroom, and once inside, threw John B onto the mattress.

It felt a little unfair, John B completely exposed in front of JJ while he still had his shorts and shirt on. It was getting dark now, the sun having completely set over the water, leaving only the light of twilight to illuminate JJ’s face as he climbed over John B.

He quickly coated his fingers with the lube from the bedside table before shoving them into John B. With his other hand, JJ was tugging his own shorts down and reached for a condom. He had to remove his fingers from John B to put it on, causing John B to squirm in his absence.

Without any forewarning, and barely any time to adjust, JJ was pushing into John B, drawing a small whine from his kiss-swollen lips.

JJ set a bruising pace, leaving John B gasping for air. “JJ-” he choked out.

“Is this what you wanted?” JJ hissed, hand snaking up to wrap around John B’s throat. “You wanted to see just how fucked up I am?”

JJ’s grip was getting tighter, his pace faster, as he kept talking. “Well, Maybanks are only good for one thing, so you’re right. I will end up just like him some day. I already am like him. A fucked up monster.”

“J, no, that’s not-” John B started to say, as he reached a hand up to grab JJ’s wrist in an attempt to loosen his grip.

“Don’t touch me!” JJ yelled. John B removed his hand like he’d been burned. “Don’t you get it? I ruin everything I touch!”

John B’s face was starting to flush, his head getting fuzzy. He could only concentrate on the cool rings digging into his neck and the words JJ was saying, sounding farther and farther away.

“Have you ever experienced death before?” JJ whispered like a threat next to his ear. “Because I have. I can show you.”

“Jayj-” John B pleaded, using his last reserve of breath. “S..so-south.”

And just like that, JJ was off him, backing himself against a wall as far away from John B as possible. John B took a deep, shuddering breath and swallowed, closing his eyes until the fuzziness in his head subsided.

When he felt like he could think again, he sat up and looked around the room for JJ. He was crouched in a dark corner of the room, head in his hands, knees trying to block his face.

“JJ,” John B said with a scruffy voice, standing up to walk over to his boyfriend. He slid down the wall until he was seated next to JJ, sure to leave enough room for him to move without touching him. JJ curled into himself even more, leaning away from John B. “JJ, please look at me.”

JJ did as he asked, alluring blue eyes shimmering with tears, a dramatic difference from the dark, intense orbs of only a few seconds before.

“I’m okay,” John B assured.

JJ shook his head, eyes roaming over his hands, and hiccupped, “I hurt you.”

“You didn’t, I promise. I’m okay, I’m right here,” John B told him.

JJ’s eyes were panicked as he scanned over John B’s body. John B followed his gaze, evaluating the already forming marks on his hips and wrists. He was sure that JJ’d left a handprint on his neck, too, which was where JJ’s gaze lingered the longest. “No. I hurt you. I need to leave.”

JJ stood up, making a noise of discomfort as he did so, and hurried toward the door. John B was behind him in an instant and put his hand on the door. JJ stopped in his tracks, taking a step back from John B and looked back at the ground.

JJ was shutting down, John B knew that, and he knew that he had to reach him fast before he went completely under. “JJ,” John B whispered, “Can I… Can I touch you?”

JJ didn’t answer, but he didn’t back away or say no. John B slowly raised his arm, hovering his hand before JJ. “Is this going to be okay?”

JJ nodded, and before John B could fully process it, JJ was throwing himself into his arms, clinging to him like he never had before. He started sobbing, forehead pressed against his chest, and John B couldn’t hold back the tears that slipped down his own cheeks.

“How can anyone ever trust me if I can’t even be trusted around you?” JJ choked out. John B wasn’t sure if he’d heard him right, because he was speaking so quietly, but he thought he heard him ask ‘how can I trust myself?’

John B walked the two of them backwards toward the bed, sitting down as gently as possible. He attempted to pull away from JJ, but JJ held onto him. Tilting JJ’s head up, he pressed a kiss to his forehead, then promised, “I’ll be right back.”

John B walked over to put on a new pair of boxers before grabbing the first aid kit, and returned to where JJ was on the corner of the mattress. He lifted JJ’s shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

It hadn’t been this bad in a while. There were four purple, fist-sized bruises littering JJ’s torso, a yellowish one on the back of one of his shoulder blades, and a cut along the top of JJ’s shoulder down his tricep, not to mention the cuts he’d already bandaged himself over his eyebrow and cheek. John B coaxed JJ out of his shorts, which displayed something even worse.

There was a giant stack of gauze covered by a poor wrap job below JJ’s hip, reaching down the side of his thigh. “J… what… what happened?”

“He uh… he um… uh,” JJ trailed off, swiping at his nose. John B stayed silent, giving JJ time to put the words together in his head. “He called me… he said I was a dirty fag and that anyone who wanted to be with me was lying and using me because who would ever actually want to be around me? And then he made me…” JJ shuddered out a sigh and shook his head. “And then he tore his beer can in half and jammed it into my leg.”

“And you tried to bandage this up by yourself?” John B asked, concern dripping from every word. They both heard the real question, ‘You didn’t come to me?’

JJ shrugged. “I don’t know, I thought… I thought you might be getting tired of having to deal with this.” Having to deal with me.

“I will never get tired of being around you,” John B guaranteed. To emphasize his point, John B placed a kiss on JJ’s lips, then both his cheeks, his closed eyelids, down his neck. “I love you, JJ. There will never be a moment when that is not true.” Kissing across JJ’s cut shoulder and down his shoulder blade, John B felt him start to relax. He brushed his lips as delicately as he could over the bruises he found there, then traveled down his torso to do the same. “I love every inch of you. Every corner of your mind.”

“That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard,” JJ said with a small laugh.

John B smiled, looking up at JJ through his eyelashes. “I know. Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

JJ brought John B up to kiss him, a finger under his chin, pulling him as close as he could.

When they parted, JJ whispered, “I love you too.”

They stayed sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at each other with small smiles for a while before John B said, “Let’s get you patched up.”

•••

Thanks for reading. Let me know what you thought, feedback is appreciated. :)

Find me on AO3 at the same username.

#jj outer banks #obx fanfiction #outer banks imagines #jj maybank imagine #jj x john b #outer banks #jj maybank x john b #john b routledge #outer banks imagine #obx #jj obx #john b obx #obx imagine #jj maybank #john booker routledge #john b outer banks #smut #angst

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badgersprite · 3 years

Text

Fic: Twenty-Eight (1/1)

Fandom: Critical Role

Characters: Imogen Temult, Laudna

Pairing: Imogen/Laudna

Story Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Immortality Angst, including Character Death

Summary: Laudna is twenty-eight when the Briarwoods murder her. She’s twenty-eight when she wakes up in her own grave. She’s twenty-eight when she meets Imogen, and falls in love with her. She’s twenty-eight when she goes to Jrusar. And she’s going to be twenty-eight forever.

Author’s Note: Because fuck your feelings, that’s why! Another idea that I had to get out before it gets contradicted by canon. This is an unofficial companion piece to ‘Hospitality’. You don’t have to read these stories together, but this fic treats the meeting for Laudna and Imogen I wrote in Hospitality as canon.

(AO3 Link)

* *. *

You’re twenty-eight when your screams are silenced as the rope goes taut around your neck, strangling you under the weight of your own body.

It’s not quick. There’s no snap of a broken neck. You don’t fall far enough for that.

It takes minutes to asphyxiate. For your world to go dark. Just enough time for you to think of everything you’ll never get to be. Never get to do.

You’re twenty-eight.

Your life is being stolen.

You don’t know why.

Life under the Briarwoods is shitty, random and cruel. There’s rarely a reason. They simply take people sometimes. You don’t know why they chose you to swing that day. The closest answer you ever got was that you looked like someone.

It should be the end.

But it’s not.

You’re twenty-eight.

Your bones ache as breath fills your crushed oesophagus. Your shoulders snap. Your ribs. Your spine. Everything cracks and contorts as life surges back into you. Ligaments that were once rigid and stiff become limber.

It feels like an eternity in the dampness and the dark. The pain is unbearable. You’re alone. Scared. You don’t know why it hurts so much.

Until you realise you’re buried underground. The weight of the dirt squashes your organs like jelly. The pressure threatens to break your bones.

You panic.

You scramble.

You need to get out.

You dig. Your palms bleed, but you don’t stop. You can’t. Your mouth is full of earth. Your skin, stained with mud. You swallow it. You choke.

Nails rip from your fingertips as you frantically claw in the direction you think is up. You can’t tell. You push other bodies out of the way. Tearing the limbs off whoever or whatever is in your path to clear space for your own.

You dig. You can’t stop. You can’t. You can’t breathe. There’s no space. No air.

And then you emerge.

You emerge from your own grave.

The sensation of air filling your lungs hits you with such force that it echoes like a howl in the night as you finally inhale again. You collapse, your arms against the recently disturbed earth, the lower-half of your body still in that hole.

You weren’t even buried in a box. Just covered in dirt. And corpses. A mass grave.

Spots cloud your vision as you gasp for breath. Your limbs are so weak. Each exhale feels like a dagger in your throat. You can’t see. It’s so dark. You’re practically blind. You can hardly make out the moonlight. As you fumble, your fingers latch onto something. A rock chisel. For crafting tombstones? It’s not a conscious decision but, as the first thing you grab, you cling to it.

Somehow, you pull yourself to your feet. You stumble beneath the stars.

As you stagger, a figure catches your eye in the distance, bathed in lantern light. A gravekeeper, perhaps? You go to them. You reach out. You try to speak, but your windpipe is too damaged. Your voice comes out as naught but a groan.

They turn.

They look.

Their eyes widen in terror.

They scream.

“C-CORPSE! A WALKING CORPSE!”

You can’t respond. You try. No words come out. Only a faint whisper. You don’t understand. Why are they looking at you like that? Why are they screaming?

You’re you. Don’t they recognise you?

The Briarwoods tried to kill you. Somehow, you survived.

You’re cold. You’re frightened. You just want help.

“Away, vile creature!” Your eyes widen as the gravetender grabs a pitchfork out of the garden and thrusts it at you viciously. You step back in alarm. You’re so frail. Unfamiliar whispers fill your head. Phantom voices that aren’t your own.

They tell you to attack. To defend yourself. To cave his head in with the rock chisel you hold in your grasp. To kill. But you don’t.

Instead, you run. As far away as you can. Far from the people who killed you. From the place that’s been your prison these past five years. You never look back.

You run through the night. You don’t know how you manage to keep moving with your strength failing you, but you don’t collapse until the first rays of morning light pierce the clouds. You feel so faint. Like little more than a shadow.

Your fingertips graze your neck. Is this all some vivid nightmare? It can’t be real, surely? If it is, then how are you alive? You should be dead. They hanged you.

But, as you lie there in the rotting leaves, you don’t awaken.

Flowing water catches your ears. Through the muck, you drag your body to a river. You drink in a vain attempt to cleanse the agony plaguing your throat. It does nothing to restore your voice. You cough, splutter and choke the water down.

Then you freeze.

For the first time, you see yourself. Your reflection. You see your face.

You would scream if you could.

You’re twenty-eight years old.

And you’re dead.

You’re a corpse.

A corpse that got up and walked out of its own grave.

At that realisation, something inside you breaks, and is never quite right again.

You’re not sure what you are. How you are. Why you are.

You don’t...feel dead. Or maybe you do. But you no longer look quite like you. Or, rather, you do look like you, if you’d been dead for ten days.

You think you can feel your heart beating in your chest, or something like it. Maybe not quite as it did before. As days pass, your body begins to heal some of the decay and rot that had set in before you awoke. Your wounds gradually start to fade away, mending naturally the same way cuts heal on fingertips.

There must be some mistake. It can��t be what you think. What it looks like.

You can’t be dead. Can you? If you are, there must be some way to cure you. Some way to bring you back. Surely. This can’t be the end for you. There has to be a way to reverse it. To give you your life back.

You’re lost. In denial. You need answers. You need help.

You’re twenty-eight.

You’ve scarcely been outside Whitestone. Especially not these past five years. But you keep walking. It doesn’t matter what direction. Just away from where you’ve been. Anywhere but home. You seek the first assistance you can find.

When you see smoke rising above the tree-line, you head for it like a beacon of hope. Sure enough, you spy a campsite, surrounded by adventurers. This is your chance. You still can’t speak. But if you can just write something down, they’ll listen to you. These travellers will pity your plight and offer you aid. They must.

Your footstep snaps a twig. At once, they jump up, weapons drawn.

“What’s that?” They look about, alert for danger.

You’re prepared to emerge with your hands raised, to show you’re unarmed, and no threat. But before you even have the option of doing that, a paladin in the group mutters some words to his divine.

His eyes narrow. He aims his blade directly at you through the trees. “Undead!”

An arrow looses and strikes you in the chest. You feel the impact more than the pain. You don’t know how to react to the blow. In a stunned stupor, you touch the shaft, as if it will disappear, and prove to you this can’t be happening.

Footsteps race towards you. A flash of steel. Then it goes dark.

You pop back to wakefulness while the adventurers discuss building a pyre on which to burn you. You manage to crawl away in their distraction without making a sound, and slip into the river. You pass out as it carries you away.

You pull yourself to shore after floating to safety. You wince as you break off the arrow that pierced you.

It’s not lost on you that your blood is black on the arrow tip. Nor does it escape you that, again, somehow you’ve survived something you shouldn’t have. You’re not sure what it means, nor how you came to after being struck down.

Someone must know something. Someone must be willing to help.

A few days later, you come upon a town, and approach some children picking flowers by the lake. When they lay eyes on you, they flee in terror.

Within hours, a mob of villagers with flaming torches pursues you into the wilderness. Somehow, the rumour seems to have spread that you were there to drown the children. Damned fools. You’ve done nothing of the sort!

You love children. You always have.

The townsfolk surround you with hate in their eyes. You know in your heart, even if you could speak, there’s nothing you can say that can convince them not to slaughter you. You’re certain this is where you will meet your final end.

But then you hear that voice inside you. The one that tells you to resist.

You close your eyes. And open them. You draw on something you can’t explain. You feel your body crack and contort. Black sludge seeps from your eyes. Your jaw unhinges. If these people are scared of you, let them be really scared.

And it works. By some miracle, your unsettling presence scatters the townsfolk long enough to allow you to make your escape amid their horrified hysteria. You don’t know how you did it, but it saved your life, and nobody got hurt. If this curse can become your gift and help you survive, perhaps you can embrace it.

By now you’ve gotten the message that nobody will offer aid to you. Getting near anyone only leads people to lash out violently against you.

You’ve already died once. You have no desire to repeat the experience.

So you hide from the world. You withdraw.

You become a recluse. A hermit. A solitary wanderer in the wilderness, travelling from place to place before you overstay your welcome.

Everywhere you go, you're chased away, no matter how great of a distance you keep from nearby communities. Your voice recovers. It doesn’t matter. You quickly learn that talking to people doesn’t change their minds any more than approaching them when you were mute.

You’re alone.

You’re alone for a long time.

You’re twenty-eight.

You don’t know how long you’ve been twenty-eight.

Time passes. And yet it doesn’t.

You see the sun rise and set, but it means nothing to you. Each cycle is no different from the one before. Some feel as short as a minute. Some as long as a hundred years. Your time in isolation could have been the world’s longest day, or its shortest millennium. You’d have no means of telling one from the other.

Every moment blurs together, indistinguishable from the last. You can’t remember what you did a day ago, versus a week ago, versus a month ago, versus a year ago, versus ten years ago. They may as well all be the same.

Nothing means anything when you’re alone.

When you have nothing.

But yourself.

And failing memories.

And this voice.

You try not to go insane. You try. But you’re pretty sure you already are.

You talk to shadows on the walls. You make friends out of inanimate objects, dead rats and birds. Even sew one onto another. You move every time you sense you might be in danger, which you usually are. Every time you’re hunted.

You scavenge things, and scrounge them, and break them with how often you have to move. You’ve gotten very good at mending things.

But not your mind. Minds can’t be mended. Not with simple spells.

You can barely remember the person you were before you died.

You even start to forget your own name, because you have no use for it. Even in the conversations you have with your puppet friend, you stop saying it. You can’t remember if the last time Pâté used your name was a month ago, or ten years ago. How would you be able to distinguish?

And then she shows up at your door.

When you meet Imogen, she’s twenty-two.

And you’re twenty-eight.

You don’t know what year it is. Haven’t known the year for a long time.

You’re so used to being attacked by any real person who stumbles upon you that for a moment you almost can’t quite believe the colourful young woman in your grove isn’t simply another hallucination - another cruel trick of your imagination.

But Imogen is different from the others. You can tell she is when she doesn’t greet you with violence. She’s sweet, and kind, and good. You’ve rehearsed your lines for the day you actually interact with another person (you know, just in case). You don’t want to fuck it up.

Even if she is wary of you the first time she lays eyes on you in your hovel in the woods, that doesn’t stop her from being civil with you, polite to you, coming into your home and drinking tea with you. She’s the first person to do that since…

Since you died.

Frankly, you’re simply delighted just to have company after all this time, however long it’s been. Just to talk to someone again. Someone who isn’t a dead raven-rat puppet you made yourself. To have one day where you’re not alone.

She tells you why she’s there. That, ever since she was little, she’s been able to do things she can’t understand. Your heart aches for her when she mentions being in pain. “Anyway, I heard about you bein’ in the area and, well, seein’ as you might know a thing or two about magic, I wondered if you might be able to help.”

You ask her to show you what she means. What she can do. And she does. She touches your mind with hers. And you let her. Even when she presses further than she should, showing a side of her which surprises you, you don’t resist.

“Should I stop?” she asks, testing how far you’re willing to let her go.

It’s a scary thought. You know how people react to you. What you are. What they perceive you to be. If Imogen realises that you’re perhaps not technically truly living, will she revile you like everyone else? Will she flee in terror once she knows you’re little more than a walking corpse?

Probably, yes. And that is a sad thought. You do like her so very much.

But then, if she abandons you to your solitude, that wouldn’t leave you anywhere different than you already are, would it? So what’s changed?

So you smile an unsettling smile. “No secrets between friends, Imogen,” you say. And, with that, you fold any last layers of resistance, completely exposing yourself to her. You want her to know everything right away. It will hurt so much less if she despises you immediately. If you shatter all your hopes sooner rather than later.

Imogen accepts the invitation. She probes into your darkest secrets.

And she sees you. She sees everything you are.

And she understands.

Her breath hitches. You blink in confusion as tears fall from her face. This isn’t the reaction you expected. You kneel down by her side, concerned for her.

“Imogen? Are you alright? What’s wr--?”

Your question is silenced when she throws her arms around you. Hard.

She holds you. She touches you. She embraces you.

For a moment, you forget to breathe as the alien sensation washes over you. You don’t even remember how it feels to be held. It’s so overwhelming you feel like you’re going to snap under the contact, as fragile as you are. But you don’t.

Imogen warns you that you’re not safe there. You expect it, of course. You’re never safe. Once people know of you, they always fear you. Always drive you out.

But what you don’t expect is what Imogen says next.

“I’m coming with you.”

Your mind shuts down when she tells you that, drawing a complete blank. It takes a while for you to accept that Imogen wasn’t joking, and that her desire to stay with you isn’t part of some elaborate prank. Although you haven’t yet entirely ruled out that this could all just be a dream.

But, as it is, you keep waking up every morning. And, each time you do, Imogen really is still there by your side. She hasn’t left yet.

And, whenever Imogen catches you making sure she’s not an illusion or that she hasn’t absconded in the night, she never comments on it. She just flashes a contented smile at you, and asks you what’s for breakfast.

You’re twenty-eight.

She’s twenty-two.

And you’re no longer alone.

Having Imogen in your life changes everything. Days of the week have meaning again. You have purpose. Direction. All because of Imogen.

She is your focus. Your sunrise and your sunset. The first person you talk to when you wake up. The last person you speak to before you sleep. The crux of your thoughts all day. How she is. If there’s anything you can do for her. It’s incredible, how her laughter lights up the forest. How her voice is like a song.

It’s the first time since you died that you genuinely feel alive again. You’re not merely...persisting, as the residue of whatever you are, or once were. With Imogen, you once more know your own mind. Your own soul. You feel like an actual fucking human being, whatever that means. Not a shadow of a thing, but a person.

Your undeath is over, as far as you’re concerned. This is just life.

It’s hard. It’s still hard. You wish it wasn’t. You wish things could be easier for her. But every time Imogen reads your thoughts and senses you worrying that she regrets her choice of living with you, she looks at you, touches your face, and smiles and insists this is happier than she’s been in a long time.

It makes you a little sad that you believe her.

You help her with her magic, to the extent that you can. You’re not exactly an expert yourself, but at least with the two of you together you can practice things as a pair. Imogen is supremely talented. Quite the natural, as you love to tell her. She was never confident about working on her abilities where she used to live, surrounded by so many people, but with you she feels safe. She knows you understand, and won’t abhor her for experimenting with her abilities, nor her you.

She practices putting her thoughts into your head, until the two of you are able to hold full telepathic conversations (although you can only do it when you’re looking at each other; perhaps you’ll break that barrier someday). You’re so impressed, you clap and cheer every time she masters something new. She’ll shyly brush it off like you’re talking her up too much. But you’re not. You mean it. She’s special.

Besides which, you helping Imogen doesn’t even come close to fair compensation for how much she’s aided you. Just her companionship alone is more than you could ever possibly repay. Words can’t express how lonely you were before she came along. And now she’s here, it’s like the world is colourful again.

She’s brought light to your darkness. Lavender to your blackness.

She’s opened doors for you that you didn’t even remember were shut, that’s how accustomed you were to your isolation. You wonder if she truly appreciates just how many. Just how radically she’s changed your life. You think, in a way, she must grasp it because of the little nudges she gives you in those directions.

For starters, you can do things with Imogen that you couldn’t do before.

With her by your side you can venture into towns and buy things when you need to now. You never used to be able to do that alone, but when she’s at your hip, people no longer find you to be as immediately frightening as they once did (provided nobody tries to sense the presence of undead anywhere near you, at least). You’re even starting to remember how to talk to people. Gradually.

Imogen encourages you in these endeavours. She always smiles at you being you, no matter how poorly your interactions with townsfolk go off the rails. She gives you ‘tips’ if you ask for them (although she assures you she's not great at talking to people, either), but she never once asks you to change who you are, or how you act. She’s never patronising about your mannerisms. You get the sense she’d be quite happy for the world to adapt to you, and not the other way around, even though that isn’t the reality of things.

“I envy you a little actually,” she tells you one night at home when she’s had a little too much to drink. It’s just the two of you sitting by the fire, as ever. “I wish I could be so…” In place of finishing that sentence, she just gestures with both hands, as if to say ‘out there’, ‘in your face’ or ‘up front’ about who she is.

You snort. “I don’t really get a say in the matter,” you point out. You did not always look and act as you do. Although, in truth, you no longer remember another way of being. The person you were before is a figment of your imagination now. “But I enjoy being whatever I am vastly more now that you like me,” you respond, giving her an affectionate pat on the head as you make your way inside.

“I like bein’ me a whole lot more now that you like me, too, Laudna...” you hear Imogen softly murmur back. You’re not sure whether you were supposed to.

The next time you go into town, Imogen clings to you when you inadvertently get too close to an approaching crowd. You link your arm with hers and let her lean on you. You don’t even need to ask. You can feel the tension in her body. The anxiety. That apprehension. That fear of a headache. She only eases up when they pass, and the thing she’s afraid of never happens.

“Sorry,” she says, instinctively moving to give you your space back.

“Don’t be silly.” You latch onto her, keeping her close. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

She musters a smile, feeling reassured. Your arms stay linked all afternoon.

For as much as things have improved, your presence is still unsettling, and villages don’t tend to like it much when you linger too long. Which works out well, actually. With the way you and Imogen live (out in the wilds, you being as you are, and her with her condition), you can’t exactly find gainful employment. Sometimes you have no alternative but to utilise less than savoury methods to get by.

You get the sense Imogen wishes there were another way, and wouldn’t resort to crime if it weren’t a question of survival. She prefers only to target people who deserve it. She seems to think it’s a lesser theft if they attack you first, or if they provoke you into stealing by being dicks. For you, it’s a grand adventure compared to the way things were. Using your wits, cunning and daring to make ends meet. It’s all quite exciting and dramatic, like something out of a show!

Besides, you don’t think Imogen should feel guilty. At the end of the day, if it puts food in her belly or provides more medicine to potentially help with her headaches, or buys another book she can read that might tell her something about her abilities, it’s all worth it to you.

It does help to keep moving, though. You learned that lesson years ago. You’ve lived that way for a long time, even before Imogen came along.

You don’t even know how long you lived that way.

You’re twenty-eight.

She’s twenty-three.

Imogen wasn’t joking about the severity of her condition when you met. It’s why she likes being around people much less than you do. She hears whispers. She gets overwhelmed. Then come headaches. Severe ones. They hurt. And she’s so sick of the pain that she won’t even say anything when one comes on. So fed up with this being her reality. Of being overcome. Being weak. Being a burden.

You notice, of course. Even when she doesn’t tell you, you know when a migraine is on the horizon. A concerned frown comes to your face. Whether she wants you to or not, you gently usher her home, wherever you’re living at the time. You make sure she lies down, you put her feet up, and fetch her a hot cup of tea.

“Thank you, Laudna,” she whispers through the pain when she eventually feels a little better, “for taking such good care of me.”

“Don’t mention it, darling,” you say back, the affectionate pet name just slipping out without you even thinking about it. It’s the first time you’ve called her that. Imogen’s cheeks turn a shade pinker. You hesitate, but decide the best thing to do is simply not acknowledge it. “Are you up to eating anything tonight?”

“Uh. Yeah. I think so,” she stammers a little. Sometimes the headaches are so bad she can’t keep any food down. But this isn’t one of her worst ones. Thankfully not. It breaks your heart to see her in so much agony, when there’s really nothing you can do to ease her strife, except wait for it to pass.

Night falls. You both lie down to sleep. But neither of you can.

For as long as you’ve known each other, you’ve always lived in one-room huts, or huddled together for warmth in more hastily-constructed lean-tos while building said huts. By necessity, you’re compelled to live close together. And it’s not the first time you’ve been aware of a tension in the air between you in the silence. This is just the most palpable it’s ever been.

It’s been building. Slowly.

At least it has on your end.

You’re not blind, nor stupid. You know how you feel about her. You have for quite some time. You like to think you’ve hidden it well but, every now and then, when you’ve been controlling Pâté, a flirtatious comment or two will slip out.

You can never completely control what Pâté says. He does have a mind of his own. But, then again, the puppet can always be more brazen than you can. At least you can blame any bawdiness on him instead of you, naughty rat that he is.

You’re not sure Imogen buys that it’s Pâté that fancies her and not you.

Especially since she’s a bloody telepath.

Every day you resign yourself that your feelings are unrequited, and that’s perfectly okay, and you’re fine with that, and you’re never once going to be jealous or possessive, and you’ll support Imogen as her loyal friend no matter what.

But then Imogen does things like hold onto your arm every time you go into town, and blush when you call her ‘darling’, and very obviously suffer the same sleeplessness you’re suffering right now because she’s aware of the exact same tension, except she’s doing an even worse job than you of pretending to sleep.

And you wonder why you lie awake at night thinking about her.

Imogen shifts back and forth in her bedroll so many times you lose count. Eventually, she stops and sighs in exasperation. “Screw it,” she mutters to herself.

She gets up. She gathers her courage. And then she moves over to you.

You’re still pretending to sleep when she kneels down beside you.

“Laudna?” she whispers your name. You only open your eyes when she reaches down and brushes stray strands of hair from your cheek.

Your eyes lock in the dark. You can barely see each other.

If Imogen was planning on saying anything, she doesn’t.

After a few seconds of gazing at you, she leans forward. And she kisses you.

Your breath catches. The contact is gentle. Not demanding. You wouldn’t even describe it as a question, so much as a polite statement. If you were to translate it into words, you would phrase it something like, ‘I hope I haven’t caused any offence, but these are my feelings. And I can’t hide them anymore. Do with them what you will.’ How very Imogen.

After a few moments, she pulls away. You can see just enough in the deep shadows to tell that she’s nervous, awaiting your response.

You’re surprised by the kiss, but not entirely shocked. After all, you’re not oblivious. Part of you has suspected something like this might be coming, even as the rest of you has shot those thoughts down, because why would someone like Imogen ever want this with something like you?

If this ever happened, you always thought you would do something noble and self-sacrificing. Imogen is so special. And you...you love her too much to hold her down. If she can just figure out what’s going on with these headaches, she can go live an extraordinary life, unburdened by you. Love whoever she wants.

Besides, given what you are, you’re not even sure you’re physically capable of this sort of relationship. Or, rather, you weren’t sure. But, considering the way the heat pooled between your thighs the moment Imogen kissed you, you’re increasingly confident that isn't an issue.

You hear Imogen utter a chuckle in the dark.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you liked the kiss,” she drawls, her forefinger tracing yours.

Your eyes widen. You give her a playful thwack on the arm. “You minx. You’re reading my thoughts.”

“Sorry. Habit.” Imogen shrugs. You can’t blame her. If you could tell what she was thinking right now, you would too. “But I do want this, Laudna. I do,” Imogen insists, shifting closer. “I’m not gonna...run off with anyone else, even if you tell me to. I don’t want them. I want you.”

“Why?” you ask, struggling to accept it. Imogen could have anyone. Why you? Why someone...weird, and isolated, and borderline insane?

“Do you have to ask me that?” says Imogen, still reading your surface thoughts as her fingers curl beneath your chin. “You love me as much as you do, and you have to wonder how I might possibly love you back?”

Tears well up in your eyes. Black tears.

Love?

For a moment, your world stops.

It doesn’t seem real.

How could a word as beautiful as that possibly be meant for you?

Imogen’s hands cradle both sides of your face. You hear her voice in your mind.

I love you, Laudna. I do. And you never need to say it back to me. I already know how you feel about me. I’ve always known. So let me show you.

You believe her. Not because you feel worthy of her love. But because it’s Imogen. The light in your darkness. And you trust her with your heart.

You draw Imogen in to kiss you again before she can see you fall to pieces.

You don’t say anything else. Nor she. You don’t need words. You just gently pull Imogen on top of you in the dark as she takes off her clothes.

She’s twenty-four when you arrive in Jrusar.

You’re twenty-eight.

You can’t possibly imagine the things that fate has in store for you when you arrive in that city. Chance encounters that sweep you off onto whirlwind adventures beyond compare. The friends you make. The friends you lose.

You come so close to losing each other, so many times. But you don’t. When it seems like you might, you shift the very fabric of reality itself to ensure you don’t.

Sometimes it’s hard. Things happen between you that test you. Test your love.

At times, you fight. At times, she hides things from you, or you from her (which, bloody difficult to do with a telepath, you must say) which puts up barriers between you, and causes conflict, and threatens to undermine your connection.

But you never abandon each other.

Never.

Everything you ever do for one another, it all comes from a place of love. In the end, no matter how deeply others would seek to divide you, it only serves to remind you why you trust each other so, and strengthen the love between you.

By the time your journeys are over and all world-altering crises have been averted, Imogen has the answers she was looking for. So do you.

Imogen is only two years older, but feels like she’s aged about ten.

And you’re still twenty-eight.

And some would say you can’t technically get married. Because you’re dead. But since when have the two of you ever given a fuck about that?

You ask her anyway.

Fresh Cut Grass performs the ceremony, in sight of your friends who made it through the fires of fate with you. It’s small. Private. Almost secret. You exchange rings. And you promise to be with her, and she with you, til death.

Time keeps passing.

Life goes on.

The winds cast each of your allies off on their own paths once more.

You and Imogen set off travelling together again. What else would you rather do with your lovely wife after surviving the calamitous events fate thrust upon you? What else to do but go everywhere and see everything in style?

You visit so many places. Meet countless people. It seems like the least you deserve after enduring the things you’ve endured together. To you, it doesn’t seem like that long of a honeymoon. After all, you’re still only twenty-eight.

Before you know it, she’s thirty-five.

And you’re twenty-eight.

You’re in Nicodranas.

And she’s angry with you.

And you don’t know why.

“Did you not enjoy the food, Imogen, darling? I thought you liked that restaurant last time we came here,” you continue the conversation you’ve been having on the carriage ride home as you enter your hotel room.

“The restaurant’s fine, Laudna,” Imogen answers in a strained tone that says everything is not fine. “Although service was fuckin’ slow. Food was ice cold by the time it got to me,” she mutters under her breath as she takes her coat off.

“Well, I’m dreadfully sorry about that, dear. You should have said something. I would have warmed it up for you,” you offer.

“I didn’t want you to warm it up for me, Laudna,” she stonily fires back.

You’d say you’re taken aback but, by this point, you’re not.

Imogen has been so unlike herself in recent weeks. She’s been so…grumpy. So short with you. It’s like every moment of every day is a test, and you’re failing. Honestly, it’s as if she expects you to read her mind, which is her gift, not yours.

You’re so confused.

Frankly, you’re well aware that her sullen mood has nothing to do with the restaurant. She’s been giving you the cold shoulder all day, long before the two of you ever got there. And she’s been sniping at you over all sorts of little things for…hell, not even weeks. It's closer to months, in truth. That behaviour has only inexplicably gotten worse as time has progressed.

You’ve no end of patience when it comes to Imogen, but even you have limits.

“What is it, then? What have I done?” you ask, desperate to know what’s changed all of a sudden. Why the sweet, kind, loving Imogen you know has seemingly disappeared and been replaced with someone so cold. So bitter.

“What do you mean ‘what have you done?’” she sourly shoots back.

“I don’t understand. Imogen, darling, we’re not doing anything different, but it’s as if…it’s as if I can’t do anything anymore without you looking to pick a fight over it,” you elect to be blunt. You wouldn’t normally be so direct with Imogen, or lay the fault with her (because you still struggle to think she can ever be wrong), but this has been going on for so long. You can’t keep walking on eggshells.

It’s not fair. If you’ve wronged her in some way, you need to talk about it at least.

Imogen gives a ‘tssk’ and shakes her head. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“No, I don’t. So, help me,” you implore her, reaching out for her.

She looks at you. Studying you. And then you feel her probing your mind. You let her. If that’s what it takes to resolve this, you don’t care. By all means. You’ve never kept any secrets from her. Certainly not on purpose.

After a moment, all the anger and resentment fades from Imogen’s face. She softens, and dissolves into tears, crouching down on the ground as it all becomes too much to bear, and the unseen weight consumes her.

You go to her. Comfort her. She tries to resist you, as if she doesn’t deserve it. You don’t let her pull away. Eventually, she surrenders to your soothing embrace.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats a dozen times, even before she’s in a state to talk.

“It’s alright, my love,” you assure her.

She never needs to ask your forgiveness. She always has it.

It takes Imogen about a good thirty minutes and a cup of tea to properly calm down and formulate what she wants to say. To give voice to what’s been on her mind, and why she’s been acting so callously towards you.

“I haven’t been communicating with you very well, have I?” she begins. You don’t say anything, but no, she hasn’t. “I apologise. I just...Things can’t keep going the way they are, Laudna. I’ve needed a change for a long time. I’m not the same person I used to be. And I know it’s not fair that I’ve just kind of been...hoping and waiting for you to pick up on that signal, or express the same thought but...” She sighs, regretting the passive-aggressive way she’s handled things.

“What are you saying?” you ask, not quite following, putting your arm around her on the cabriole. “Darling, whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

“...I’m thirty-five. I’m ready to move onto the next stage in my life, Laudna,” Imogen answers, meeting your eyes. “Travel’s been nice, but...I wanna settle down somewhere with you. I have for years, honestly.”

You can’t help but frown a little. Did she say years? She’s been keeping this inside for that long? “Oh, Imogen, why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“You always get so excited every time you get an idea in your head about travelling to a new place. Or an old one. What am I going to do, shit all over that?” Imogen mutters guiltily, feeling bad that her dreams no longer align with yours, and she has to be a downer on your sense of adventure.

You shift in your seat and gently cup her cheeks. “Imogen, my sweet, look at me.” She does. “The only reason that seeing those places is any fun at all is because I’m with you. Travelling alone would be dreadfully dull. I would certainly hope you know by now that the only place I want to be is by your side, wherever that is.”

Imogen fights the tears from welling up again as she nods. “Yeah, I do know that. I’m sorry. I’m a dumbass. I just...” She fidgets with her fingers.

You can tell from the way she avoids your gaze that she’s not being entirely forthcoming. You don’t know about what. You don’t share her abilities.

“Is there anything else?” you ask in a chipper way. You’re not good at prying.

Imogen swallows and musters a smile. It partially reaches her eyes before she wills herself to look at you. “You ever thought about havin’ kids?”

You grin and bring your hands together beside your face. “I love kids!”

If nothing else, your heart sings when that response makes her laugh.

You do stop travelling.

You settle down.

She’s forty-seven.

You’re twenty-eight.

You have plenty of children. Some are permanently adopted. Most are fostered.

You talked about it. You knew it would be hard but, given what you’d both been through, you both wanted to take in kids with special needs. Unique struggles, magical or otherwise. Problems that most families thought were ‘too difficult’.

Even after all the travel you’d done, you had plenty of cash left over from your past adventures to afford a large multi-story house, to the point where the hard limit of how many kids you can have under your roof at any given time is around ten - and that’s more down to the limits of you and Imogen as people rather than the number of rooms in the house. Plus, selling a few leftover rare magical items you’re never going to need again also went a long way to ensuring you’ll never have to worry about having enough coin for your very large family, put it that way.

It hasn’t always been easy, but that’s not why you signed up for this. It’s not about you, or Imogen. It’s about the kids.

Imogen relates a lot to children with sensory issues. Kids who get overwhelmed by noise, or touch. She’s great with them. She doesn’t force them to do things that hurt. Doesn’t force them to be conventional. Gives them spaces where it’s quiet. Those are the kids you tend to get at the earliest ages. But not always. Sometimes you get them older. It can be hard to get them to trust again, after having so many adults treat them so badly.

But Imogen is so patient.

So kind.

So warm, empathetic, and understanding.

You relate best to the ‘problem’ kids. The outcasts. The troublemakers. You can’t count how many times you’ve bailed those abused loner foster children out of jail. And you never once yell at them or get angry with them. You just ask them if they’re okay, or they’re hurt, and try to make them smile or laugh, often by breaking out Pâté in front of the arresting officers - which, seeing the guards be absolutely terrified of their foster mother rarely fails to elicit a chuckle from the kids.

And it’s usually around the time that the kids realise it doesn’t matter how many times they swear at you or yell at you or try to get negative attention out of you (because it’s the only type they know), it’s not going to stop you loving them, hugging them and packing them lunchboxes with adorable little homemade Pâté stickers on them that it scrambles the absolute shit out of their defence mechanisms and they start slipping up and accidentally calling you ‘Mum’.

It’s your favourite feeling in the world.

Imogen still gets headaches - in a house as crowded as yours, how could she not? But at least it’s in service of something she finds emotionally fulfilling. She doesn’t mind, if at the end of the day it helps her understand a child who can’t speak, or stop a fight between two brawling teenagers who would otherwise be out on the street. And you’re attentive to her needs. You’ve gotten the knack of bringing her her tea at the end of a long day down to a fine art.

“Thank you,” she murmurs to you.

You manage to grab five minutes to curl up in her lap and are almost about to fall asleep to the comforting sensation of her fingers in your hair before you get word that one of your wards has been arrested again. Not unexpected.

Imogen comes with you this time, leaving your adult children who still live with you in charge while you’re out (they tend to come and go, but they’ll always have a place in your home, especially when you can spare the room).

This is certainly not an unfamiliar cycle for you and your quote unquote ‘problem’ kids, especially when they’re new and very eager to prove to you that they’re the biggest, baddest kid you’ve ever faced (they all think that, it’s adorable). Even when you physically drop them off at school by flight, sometimes they don’t want to be there. They have ways of sneaking off because they’d rather go hang out with a gang and steal than be ‘bad’ at learning. Or school will be the place where they act up, and get into fights, or light fires. Either way, you end up here.

Again, though, you’re not angry with the children. Why would you be angry at them for symptoms of difficulties they have that you’re here to help with? You just need to find a way of taking the negative feedback cycle these children are trapped in, and redirecting that energy to something constructive. Something positive. Something they like. That's usually when the breakthrough happens.

There’s a little confusion when you get to the guardhouse and introduce yourselves as the foster family. The desk clerk looks over at Imogen. “Right, so, you’re the foster mother.” Then looks over at you. “And you’re the foster sister?”

You balk. “No, actually, we’re both foster parents,” you reply, veiling your offence.

The desk clerk blinks, looking between you again. “Oh, sorry. I just assumed…”

Imogen waves any assumptions away. “She keeps me young. Let’s just worry about why we’re here,” she redirects the conversation back to what matters.

You arch your brow, failing to get the comment. The sequence of events that just transpired is rather like an alien language to you. Words that don’t connect.

It doesn’t make any sense to you.

Until one day it does.

But it’s a very long time before you do figure it out.

You’re twenty-eight.

And she’s sixty.

You still dress the same as you ever did, visiting the same boutique shops that fit your own personal style and sense of fashion that you have for decades. Other young girls in their twenties who share your aesthetic frequently come up to you and ask you how you did your makeup to look like that. Each time they ask, you invent some different bullshit. It’s easier than giving the real answer.

The last time you went, you bought a lavish layered black dress with lace embellishments and a matching parasol, and you came home that day and twirled to Imogen to show off your new look. And the corners of her eyes crinkled with a smile when you did, because she loves seeing you happy.

But you wondered why there seemed to be a shadow there. A creeping melancholy looming faintly behind her irises, clouding her ostensible joy.

It’s not the first time you’ve observed that dark, almost imperceptible veil.

Sometimes, you catch glimpses of Imogen gazing off into space when she thinks you’re not around. When she thinks you’re not looking.

There’s a wistfulness to her in those moments. A bittersweet sorrow. You noticed it, but never confronted it. Never thought it was your place to pry. You had your theories. You always figured Imogen would confide in you if she wanted to.

But time eventually catches up to you. And, one day, as you’re in a shop trying on a new dress in the mirror, out of nowhere, the truth hits you like a tonne of bricks.

It took you so long. You were ignorant for so long. But you finally understand something Imogen has recognised a lot longer than you have. Something she’s been living with in her heart for decades. A fact she’s known, and you haven’t.

She’s known it since she found her first grey hair among lavender tresses. Since she started waking up with random aches and pains that would fuck her joints up for the rest of the day all because she ‘slept wrong’. When she glanced over at you, and saw you were completely oblivious to such moments, because you weren’t going through the same things. When it hit her that this should have all been happening to you first because you were older than her. But it never did.

And it was then the puzzle pieces connected about how much older than her you actually were. Or, rather, how much older than her you should have been, based on when you were born. When you died. How many years had passed.

Because, as things stood, you weren’t older than her.

You had been, once. But now you weren’t.

And, when you and Imogen met, you should have been in your late fifties.

But you weren’t.

You were twenty-eight.

You’ve always been twenty-eight.

And you'll always be twenty-eight.

The frustration boiled over after Imogen connected the dots. She began to take it out on you, because the realisation of what this meant and what the consequences would be was too much for her to process. She didn’t believe you didn’t know, or hadn’t thought about it.

Until she read your mind.

Because the truth was, you really hadn’t known. You hadn’t thought about it.

You hadn’t, until just now.

But Imogen did.

Imogen had seen the signs as far back as when she was in her thirties.

That she was changing.

And you were staying the same.

You’re twenty-eight.

And she’s sixty.

But now you finally see it too. Now you know. You didn’t even think about it until today. What’s happening to you. What it means. To you, this is just your life. But it’s true. You haven’t aged a day from the day you died. The day you and Imogen met. And that has implications you’ve never dared to ponder before.

Your heart physically aches as it all comes crashing down upon you, so much so that you drop your dress and let it fall to the floor at your feet. Why did it take you this long to figure it out? For the reality to finally click inside your mind?

You haven’t changed from the day you and Imogen met. But she has.

She’s changing.

And you’re staying the same.

She’s aging.

And you’re staying the same.

And you didn’t even notice.

Perhaps it’s been obvious to everyone else in the world, but not to you. How would you know? Your reflection is your reflection. Your face is your face. Your life is your life. Nothing seemed abnormal to you. Why would you ever question it? Especially when you’re so happy. And, to you, Imogen hasn’t been aging any faster than you are, nor you any slower than she. To you, she’s still Imogen. She’s always just been Imogen. The woman you married. The woman you love.

Whether she’s twenty-two, or twenty-four, or thirty-five, or forty-seven, or sixty. You’re as in love with her now as you ever were. To you, she’s never looked any ‘older’, per se. She’s only ever been one day different than the last day, just as you are. She’s your Imogen. Your perfect, beautiful, sweet, kind, good, Imogen.

Panic rises inside you. You have to tell her. You have to make sure she knows. How you feel about her. That your heart hasn’t changed. Not once. Not for one single day has it ever faltered. So you do. You tell her when you make love to her.

Perfect.

Beautiful.

Sweet.

Kind.

She is everything good in your life. She has been since she found you. You never want to let her go. If anything ever happened to her, you’d--

But, as you whisper that to her, something inside her breaks.

“Stop.” She puts her hands on your shoulders, and gently pushes you back. You pull away, and see the tears staining her cheeks. “Laudna, don’t. I can’t…”

“Imogen?” You tilt your head in questioning, not sure what you’ve done wrong.

“I can’t hear you say these things. I’m sorry.” She draws the sheets around herself, and retreats to the bathroom, leaving you concerned, and confused.

She’s hurt. And you don’t know why. But it seems like your fault.

Because she’s changing.

And you’re not.

And there’s nothing you can do about it.

She’s seventy-four.

And you’re twenty-eight.

Imogen no longer has any kids at home. Not that she looks after herself. Hasn’t been able to take on any new ones for years. Not when she’s not sure she’ll be able to ‘be there for them in the long term’, is how she phrased it.

You still foster older kids. But you do it mostly on your own. Solely in your name.

You can handle it.

You’re twenty-eight.

Even so, you’re thinking of cutting back. Once this last group of kids leaves home, you probably won’t take on any others. This will be the last lot.

You haven’t said it out loud. Neither of you have. But you’re getting the sense that Imogen will need you more, as she’s able to do less for herself.

You’re twenty-eight.

And she’s seventy-four.

People no longer mistake you for her daughter anymore. They’ve started to assume you’re her granddaughter, instead of her wife.

When they do, you just hiss at them and link your arm with hers even tighter. Imogen smirks when you do that. Even though she knows she shouldn’t encourage you, part of her still likes it when you lash out and show your wild side.

“Imogen…” you think aloud one day over tea. “Just a thought, but...once the kids are out of home, would you like to go travelling again?” you offer. Imogen’s eyes glisten as you stir your cup. “Visit Jrusar perhaps? It has been so long…”

She reaches out and covers your wrist. “Laudna, I would love that.”

It’s a good thing you travel when you do. Catch up with old friends. You don’t know it at the time, but it’s the last opportunity Imogen will ever have to do it.

Because, after that, things start to get worse.

Fast.

You’re twenty-eight.

Imogen is eighty-three.

And she forgets things.

It starts happening subtly. So subtly that you’ll probably never even know what the first sign was that things were starting to go downhill.

At first, small things happen, like she’ll go out one day on an errand and come back a few hours later having done something completely different than the thing she left the house for in the first place. Of course, this might be entirely normal behaviour for someone other than Imogen, who is usually so organised. However, it’s easy to brush off as just regular forgetfulness in old age.

But then it gets worse. She gets disorientated. Gets lost, even in familiar places. She loses track of what she’s saying mid-sentence, and starts calling people by the wrong names, or forgets why she was talking to them at all. She’ll offer to cook meals she’s cooked a thousand times before, then lose her place mid-recipe. She’s not able to remember all the steps. You walk in on her once about to eat raw chicken, because she forgot how to cook it properly.

Then little things turn into potentially dangerous things, like she forgets to turn off the stove while making tea. Or she leaves candles burning near curtains.

Needless to say, by that point, you’ve already noticed something’s wrong, much as Imogen wants to deny it, and say everything’s fine. She never wants to worry you. But something is definitely affecting her. And she keeps deteriorating.

Eventually, she no longer just forgets things she’s in the middle of doing. Instead, she loses entire swaths of memory. Gone. Ripped out, like they were never there.

People. Places. Things she’s done. Things she’s seen. Things that have happened. Stolen from her, by something beyond her control.

She forgets so many things. Half the time when the children she’s raised come to visit her, she can’t remember who they are. Sometimes she does. Those are good days. It’s not her fault. Most of the kids understand that. Some can’t.

Most days, she doesn’t remember the names Orym, and Dorian, and Fearne, and FCG, and Ashton, and Bertrand. Anything that transpired after you left Jrusar might as well never have happened to her, except on her very most lucid days.

Like grains of sand through a sieve, the pieces of her past slip away from her, abandoning her to her fate, leaving her bereft of even the very knowledge of the amazing life she lived to bring her here.

It’s all just...falling away from her.

Everything.

Everyone.

But not you.

Never you.

Because she’s eighty-three.

And you’re still twenty-eight.

“Oh, Imogen!” you sing out to her to announce your arrival. “I’m back!”

“Laudna!” Imogen’s face brightens into a grin when she hears your voice, and sees your face. “My goodness, I didn’t know where you’d gotten to.”

She’s eighty-three.

Today, she thinks she’s twenty-four.

You’re twenty-eight.

And you’ve never changed.

For as long as she’s known you, you’ve never changed.

You still look exactly the same as you did when she was twenty-two, or twenty-four. Sixty years you’ve been together now. Longer since you met. And you’ve never aged a day. Not a single day in her life. So, yes. Imogen remembers you.

Imogen forgets so many things. She forgets everyone, and everything.

But she never forgets you.

“The eggs didn’t get cracked again, did they?” Imogen asks, a slight groan in her voice. “Zhudanna hates when the eggs get cracked. She’s been so nice to us. I feel so bad, I can’t deliver eggs from the market without makin’ a mess.”

“The eggs are perfect. See?” You pull one out and show her, kneeling in front of her. “I was egg-stra careful on the way home today. Just for you.”

Her expression softens as her eyes sparkle at you. “You’re so good to me, Laudna,” she says, stroking your arm. “Thanks for comin’ all this way with me.”

“Oh, pish.” You flop your wrist to dismiss the thought. “As if I would let you go anywhere without me. Come now. Enough talk. It’s time for cake!”

You clap your hands together as you get up and head to the kitchen.

As soon as you turn, your cheerful façade crumbles into dust. Imogen can’t see it, because you don’t wipe the tears from your cheeks as you start preparing the eggs and the flour. You diligently keep your back to her, only stopping to brace yourself against the counter when the shaking becomes uncontrollable.

You’re twenty-eight.

She’s eighty-three.

She’s getting older.

And you’re staying the same.

And that never used to be a problem.

You never used to notice. Or think about it. You likely wouldn’t have cared if such things had been pointed out to you when Imogen was young.

It never sank in that it mattered until you pieced together something Imogen figured out decades ago. Until you realised why Imogen carried that shroud of sadness in her secret, quiet moments, even when you were at your happiest.

Because Imogen knew. Even in her thirties, Imogen knew that, eventually, a day would come when you’re going to wake up. And she’s not going to be next to you.

Imogen will be gone. And you won’t know what to do.

You’ll still be twenty-eight.

And you’re going to be twenty-eight forever.

Moreover, Imogen knew you didn’t know. She knew you hadn’t thought about it, because she looked into your mind and saw that you hadn’t. That you had never fully grasped that you weren’t aging at all, or what the ramifications of that would be. And she didn’t want to tell you. She wanted to spare you the pain. So you could be blissfully, ignorantly happy with her for as long as possible.

Imogen never wanted your years with her to be tinged with sorrow. That was a pain she was willing to carry for you. Because she loved you, as you still love her.

“Laudna? What’s wrong, darlin’? What’s the matter?” Imogen calls out to you. She may forget things, but she’s no fool. You crumple against the kitchen counter as it all becomes too much to bear. Sobs tear at your throat.

But you can’t surrender to it. Not while she’s here. There’ll be time for that later.

You pull yourself together, and fight back the onslaught, summoning a cheerful smile as you turn to face her. Black tears smudge the corners of your eyes.

“Nothing, dear,” you assure her. It would be cruel to tell her the truth. She can’t fully understand it, in her condition. She won’t even remember it, if you say it to her. It would only serve to cause her pain. You want to spare her, the same way she spared you. “Cake is forthcoming, my love. Now, why don’t you tell me about this essay you wrote? The Starpoint Conservatory sound like a bunch of dicks.”

“Ugh. Can’t believe they don’t even have the courtesy to write me back,” Imogen grumbles. “I mean, maybe it just got lost in the mail, I hope that’s all it is…”

You listen to her talk about things that happened sixty years ago as you stir the cake batter. Imogen gets details wrong sometimes. Mixes up things from decades long past. You don’t correct her. You just like hearing her happy.

You’re twenty-eight.

And she’s eighty-three.

She thinks she’s twenty-four.

And you’re going to take care of her.

You’re going to be with her, every single day, until her last day.

You’ll never let her see how much it hurts, and how afraid you are of losing her. You never let her hear you sneak away into the furthest rooms of the house and stifle your agonised screams into the cushions as the dread looms with each passing day, watching her get sicker and sicker, knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop the slow torture of having time rip her out of your arms.

Because you’ve been with her for sixty years.

She’s the one who found you. The one who made you whole. The one who brought light to your darkness and made you feel like a living human being again.

She’s your everything. You don’t even know who or what you are without her.

You can’t lose her. You can’t. But you’re going to. And you’re fucking terrified, because you know it’s going to destroy you when you do.

And then it happens.

You’re twenty-eight.

Imogen was eighty-six.

Was.

She’s not there anymore.

Imogen is dead.

She’s gone.

You’re alone.

And everything’s different.

When Imogen leaves, life leaves with her.

You can’t cry.

You can’t feel.

There’s nothing.

No Imogen.

No love.

No light.

No colour.

No song.

No laughter.

No you.

Only emptiness.

Hollowness.

Silence.

Nothing matters anymore.

In an instant, you’re back to where you were before you met her.

Worse, even.

Back then, you talked to yourself.

You thought.

Now you just...linger.

A shadow.

You don’t move.

You don’t speak.

You don’t think.

You don’t feel.

You just lie down.

And stop.

The bed you once shared with her becomes your tomb.

Time means nothing.

Days mean nothing.

You don’t know how long you lie there.

Weeks?

Months?

Years?

You can’t tell.

You have no purpose.

No reason.

You’re twenty-eight.

But you’ve never felt older.

Never felt more like your one hundred and twenty-three years.

Never felt more like a corpse.

If it’s even possible for you to form any conscious impetus anymore, anything resembling a will or a desire, it’s this - it’s that you just want to lie down in the darkness and waste away until you die, if you’re even capable of death.

And that’s precisely what you do.

You lie in your bed.

And rot.

And waste.

And wither.

And starve.

Or at least that’s what you would have done.

Until you hear a noise downstairs.

It doesn’t even register on the fringes of your awareness. Nothing does anymore. You’re so decayed. So listless. So lifeless that you don’t even function.

The only thing that rouses you from this torpor is the vaguely familiar warmth of a healing word patching up the damage to your flesh from lying there unmoving for however long you’ve languished there in ceaseless despair.

You stir, eyes flashing in outrage as you arise.

“Smiley day to ya,” Fresh Cut Grass greets you.

“What are you doing?” you all but hiss, your plan to wither away and die unceremoniously foiled against your will. “Leave me.”

“I will, if that’s what you really want. Lying down and wasting away to a skeleton? Always an option. If you tell me, ‘Fresh Cut Grass, I’ve thought about it, and I’m making an informed decision on how I want to die,’ I’ll respect that, and I won’t stop you. But I figure we should explore alternatives first. You know, just to make sure you don’t want other things you might be missin’ out on,” they say.

You sigh. You don’t have the strength to argue. You’re just tired.

When you don’t resist, they wheel on over to you. “I’m sorry about Imogen.”

Your heart hurts at the mere mention of her. Your head falls into your hand, and the tears start. You cried so much before she died. Your mourning and grief began years before she passed. You didn’t have any tears left once she was gone. The devastation cut so deep that weeping would have...diminished it somehow.

Until now.

“I can’t do this.” You inhale sharply, your body so frail. The only thing more devoid of life is your soul. “She...She was my person. Before she came into my world, I was nothing. I was alone. I was insane. I...I don’t know who I am without her. I don’t know how to live without her. I don’t want to, I…”

You swallow heavily, your long fingers, still wearing your wedding ring, tangling in the sheets of the bed you shared with her for so many years.

“If I had known that this is what my undeath was going to have in store for me, that I was to doomed stay the same forever while she moved on without me, I would have found a way to undo it. I would have found a way so we could age and die together. Because I don’t want this,” you reject the curse you once came to embrace. “If I’m bound to an eternity without her, then I don’t want it.”

“I understand that. I think. I know how much you loved her, at least. It’s not easy for me knowing that everyone I come across is going to go away eventually, too. Well, everyone except you. Unless you decide to,” FCG points out.

“Is that why you came to me?” you ask.

“I came because you’re hurtin’. Because you’re broken. And you miss her. I wondered if there was anything I could do to help,” says FCG. “Obviously, nothing can ever replace her but, when I think of Imogen, the brightest she ever smiled was when she looked at you and saw you just bein’ you. What made her happiest was knowin’ that you were happy. That’s what love is. If she could talk to you right now, I don’t think she’d want you to stop livin’ just ‘cause she’s gone.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” You shrug your shoulders, an act you barely have the energy for. "But I already have." FCG makes it sound so easy, but the road ahead of you is just so fucking bleak. So dark and empty without Imogen in it.

FCG pauses for a moment, thinking inside their little automaton brain. “Well, think of it this way. You got to spend over sixty years being happy with the woman you loved. Those years were pretty great, right?”

“Yes, they were,” you hollowly confirm.

“And they don’t stop being great just because she’s no longer here. Nothing can stop the memories that make you smile from making you smile. Nothing can take away the warm and fuzzy moments you had together. They still get to make you warm and fuzzy. You get to hold onto those forever. Which means, in a way, Imogen is always gonna be with you. Because you know what she’d think. You know what she’d say. She’s livin’ on right there, in your heart, as long as you carry her with you.” FCG gives your chest a little tap to drive his meaning home.

They aren’t entirely wrong, you think, squeezing your breast. Although other people who remember Imogen may still be out there, you are the only person who truly understood her. You are the one who loved her best, in all her complexity. If you want to honour her memory, and keep her alive, and make sure other people know of the beautiful, good, sweet, kind woman who came into your world and saved you from shadow, the only way to do that is to live on, and speak of her.

“You wouldn’t have got those years with Imogen if you’d’ve died when the Briarwoods meant to hang you, would ya? You never would’ve met her. Or, at best, if you had been a regular person, you would have been, what, in your late fifties when you met Imogen?” he reasons. “If things hadn’t happened the way they had, I wouldn’t have met you or Imogen. And, well, I suppose I wouldn’t know what I was missin’, but I sure would have missed out on a lot. I wouldn’t even still be here right now if not for you two. So, for me, I sure do feel like things worked out for you the way they were meant to. I think it is a blessing that you’re undead.”

You sniffle as you take in their words. Losing Imogen has broken you in a way that feels like you can never fix but, if you could, would you go back and trade away so much as a single day of the life you lived together? No. Of course you wouldn’t. Even your worst days were worth it, when she was in them. You would give anything now to have even a horrible day with Imogen back again - a day where she was angry with you, or argued with you, or forgot things or…

Any day.

Anything but this.

“Besides, plenty of other folks out there don’t have anyone, or anything like the special love you and Imogen had together. There are a lot of damaged, broken people out there. I know you know; you’ve raised some of them,” FCG says smartly. “Now, personally, all going well, I’ve got a very long life ahead of me. And I find it very fulfilling to use the time I’ve been given to find those people and try to help them in whatever way I can. Seeing as you’re someone who knows what it’s like to, you know, have that connection in your life, and since you’ve done this sort of thing before...this is just something to consider, but maybe you’d like to come with me for a while? At least until something else comes along.”

In your misery, you’re tempted to just refuse and lie back down in your bed.

But then you stop. And you pause.

You’re twenty-eight.

You haven’t aged a day since the day you died.

And FCG hasn’t aged a day since the day they were built.

In theory, he can keep running forever.

Kind of like you.

And you picture it, with a little twinge of sadness, your earnest automaton buddy going out there into the world alone, choosing to help people, for the rest of eternity, even as they have nobody else, because that’s just who FCG is.

And you can’t do that to them. Abandon them to that lonely fate. You can’t do to FCG what was done to you. Not today. Maybe someday. But not now.

Not without trying, at least.

“...You know, helping kids does feel rather...rewarding,” you admit, your voice cracking as you think back to all those times so-called ‘punk kids’ (who reminded you way too much of younger versions of Ashton) accidentally let their defences down around you and called you ‘Mum’ when they had been so intent on not ever actually getting attached to you. “I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

“Well there ya go. We got a plan,” FCG enthuses.

You pause, your nose wrinkling as you finally take note of just how stained the sheets have become under your body, and just how wretched you smell. “Ugh. I should definitely clean myself up…” you comment, not sure just how long you’ve been decaying in that bed, if your skin could discolour it that much.

“I wouldn’t know. I can’t taste or smell,” says FCG, oblivious.

You’re twenty-eight years old.

Imogen is dead.

You can’t age. Neither can FCG.

But for the first time since you died, you no longer feel twenty-eight.

You’re finally starting to feel your age. But they do say that with age is supposed to come wisdom, or some other such nonsense. If this is what that is, then maybe that’s something you can put to good use out there in the world.

But no matter how far you travel, or however many years pass, you’ll never stop talking about Imogen, and you’ll never stop paying forward her kindness and her love that brought colour to your world. The light in your darkness.

That’s how you remember her.

That’s how you keep her memory alive.

As long as you do that, there’ll always be a hint of lavender in the blackness.

#fic #critical role #southern gothic #imogen temult #laudna #femslash

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rowanaelinn · 3 years

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Fire on Fire - chapter four

chapter three // chapter five

Aelin slammed her car door harder than necessary, sighing once she was comfortably sitting in her seat. She buckled her seatbelt and turned her head to the man sitting next to her in the passenger seat. "I'm not going to buckle your seatbelt for you, you're an adult, not a child."

Arobynn just chuckled and did it himself. “Always a delight to deal with you, darling.”

Aelin had to take a deep breath or she would snap. Getting mad at him wouldn’t work, it never did. It would just make him mad at her, and it wasn’t worth it. “Call someone else next time, then.” She said as she started driving. Aelin wished she had drunk a coffee before or taken anything that could help her stay awake. Arobynn lived one hour away from this bar, the night was going to be very long. “I forgot, you have no one else.”

“Be careful how you speak to me, Aelin.” His words were harsh even if they were slurred by the alcohol. Aelin hated the part of herself that was scared at his threat. So she didn’t answer, focused on the road, and put on some music to try to distract herself.

Aelin thought about last night, how bad her night of work was until she danced with Elide. Aelin had always loved to dance, she remembered all the times she forced her parents to sit for an hour so she could show them everything she learned that week at the dance studio.

When she turned eight, Aelin started doing dance competitions and she was good, very good, actually. She went to nationals twice, the first time she ended up in fourth place, not good enough. The second time she was in second place, it was better but still not good enough. Aelin Ashryver Galathynius was born with the need to be the best at everything she did, she didn’t understand why. Maybe it was because her parents had always been first in their own way and Aelin wanted to be like them.

After an injury at fifteen, she had to stop dancing. She still remembered crying in Aedion’s arms for an entire night. If Aelin thought about it, she would realize that’s the moment everything started to go downhill in her life. But she tried to avoid thinking about it, if she didn’t think about the problems, they didn’t exist.

“Why are you dressed like a whore, anyway?” Arobynn broke the silence and Aelin’s heart clenched. She hadn’t been hurt when Rowan made comments on her outfit because as much as she hated him, she knew he respected women and just wanted to hurt her. Arobynn never had an ounce of respect for women, he had proven it multiple times, that’s what made his comment horrible. “Not that I’m complaining in any way.” Aelin’s eyes left the road for two seconds to see him with a disgusting smile on his lips and his eyes fixed on her thighs. It took all her self-control not to vomit right there.

“I was working,” she simply said. She didn’t have to justify herself but Arobynn didn’t like to be ignored.

“You work at a strip club now?” He snorted. “Why do you even want to work? I told you I could pay for everything you need.”

He did, and it had been generous. Too generous from Arobynn to come without a price. “And I told you I could do it on my own.”

“Well, you don’t seem to earn a lot of money wherever you work since I’m still the one paying for your college tuition.” He said with a light tone but Aelin caught what he really meant. You’re only here thanks to me, be grateful.

“How many times do I have to thank you for it?” She asked with a sharp tone. Aelin had never been very good at staying calm. “I told you I would pay you back-”

“Bullshit,” he tapped his foot on the floor of the car, almost screaming. Unusual for him to lose his temper. When Arobynn was mad he favored hurting people with words. It was very rare for him to be physically violent. She jumped in spite of herself. “Do I look like I care about the money?” No, of course not. The money he used to pay for her college was like pocket money for a ten-year-old child, he didn’t see the difference in his bank account before and after paying for it. “I don’t understand why you want to work and live in a shitty apartment when you could be cared for and live in a manor.”

“ Your manor.” She said coldly.

“Yes, mine. How is that a problem?” He was angry, Aelin could see it at the way his hands clenched on his tights, the way his right leg kept fidgeting, or at the way he pronounced every word that came out of his mouth as if they were full of venom.

“You are my professor, Arobynn. I am your fucking student and not only this but I am also your teaching assistant. Do I really need to explain how wrong it is?”

“I am trying to take care of you, Aelin. I would expect you to be nicer.”

“Right now I am the one taking care of you!” She screamed, done with his bullshit. If someone had told Aelin five years ago that her favorite author was like this, she wouldn’t have believed them. “Even if I don’t want to.”

“I’m waiting for the day you crawl for my help, Aelin.”

She didn’t answer, instead, she kept her eyes on the road. She thought about her favorite books and how happy they made her. Maybe she would read one when she gets back home, it was too late to sleep anyway. Twenty minutes later, she parked her car right in front of his house. It was big, too big for a single man.

Aelin looked at her professor as he unbuckled his belt. “Have you graded the papers we gave you last month? Students will need them this week.” She asked but knew the answer. He just smirked at her and winked.

“You know me better than this, sweetheart.”

Aelin sighed and got out of her car, following Arobynn. He wasn’t walking straight and somewhere in the back of her mind she hoped he wouldn’t get hurt. Aelin knew Arobynn wasn’t a good man, he was a real piece of shit. But he had been there for her when she was at her worst, he didn’t do a lot but he had been there. He gave her opportunities she would never have had alone. And even if his interest in her was bad, he believed in her. He read every single one of her stories, gave her advice to become the best writer she could be. He let her access his contacts. If she ever made it on the best-seller list, it would be a little bit thanks to this man.

He opened his door and Aelin didn’t wait before going to his study, not caring about what he did. She quickly found the folder full of papers. She went through all of them and left hers and Lysandra’s on Arobynn’s desk. She couldn’t grade them, even if she wished she could grade Lysandra’s, but Arobynn didn’t want her to play favorites.

She turned but found Arobynn watching her at the entrance of the study. He had a glass of whiskey in his hand, of course, he would start drinking again the minute he got home. He walked towards her and she was struck by the size difference between the two of them. He pinned her with this lover’s gaze. She looked at the face she once found beautiful and swallowed. She wanted to move but couldn’t.

“What would I do without you, sweet Aelin?” He purred, letting one of his knuckles caress her cheek and before he could brush her lips she turned her head to the side. This gave him just more room to lean in and place a kiss on her cheekbone, his lips were soft and warm. Slowly, Aelin pulled back. “Tell me what I have to do for you to let me lay the world at your feet.”

Aelin said nothing as she walked away from him.

The moment Aelin entered her bathroom she fell on her knees and threw her guts up in the toilet. She could still feel Arobynn’s hand brushing her thigh in the car, could still feel his eyes on her or his hot breath on her ear.

When she closed her eyes she could remember the first time she saw these grey eyes four years ago and how different it felt to have them on her.

Aelin couldn’t hear the music over her friends’ laugh and her own.

When a waiter passed her she took the opportunity to take another glass of champagne and give him her empty glass. Her head was already spinning in the most delicious way.

"Ten bucks says he goes back with him tonight," Nehemia said, her eyes fixed on Aedion and the handsome blond man he was talking to. They were at a charity event, Aelin had agreed to accompany her parents only if she could bring her friends. Her three friends practically lived at home, so they agreed.

“Ten bucks?” Aelin asked as she took a sip of her drink. “How boring you are. Five hundred says they make out in a cupboard here.”

“You’re the only rich girl here, you know that?” Sam asked as he took her under his arm, forcing her head to rest on his chest. Aelin laughed loudly as she pushed him away, trying not to spill her drink on either of them.

“You are so loud, Aelin,” Lysandra complained but she wasn’t better. If anyone drank as much as Aelin did it was her best friend.

“I think our little Aelin,” Sam said, his voice full of fake seriousness, as he took her head in both hands, Aelin giggled at his fake frown. “Is slightly drunk.” Sam finished, and before Aelin could say anything he bent to kiss her. She lost herself in him, putting her arms around his neck. After a few seconds, they pulled apart but Aelin rested her head in his neck, breathing deeply in his lavender scent. She would kick his ass later for using her soap.

“Fireheart?” Aelin heard her mother call, she turned around but tripped on her long dress. Sam caught her before she could fall and the group of four friends exploded with laughter. They had all had a little too much to drink if they needed so little to laugh.

Aelin hid her glass behind her back, remembering that her parents had forbidden her to drink. They didn’t want their sixteen years old daughter to be seen doing inappropriate things. Sam took the glass discreetly and she knew he would get rid of it as soon as possible. Aelin's parents would never suspect Aelin's perfect boyfriend of helping her disobey her parents.

What her parents didn't know was that her three friends were her partners in crime, especially Sam.

“Aelin, honey.” Her mother said as she stopped in front of her. Sam’s hand rested quietly on her hip, a silent reminder that no matter how the conversation turned out, Aelin was not to get upset.

But Evalin was not alone. "My dear, I'm sure you know Mister Hamel?" She asked, knowing full well that Aelin knew him. She had dozens of copies of all his books all over her room, his writing was just amazing.

Aelin turned her head to admire her idol's face. He was handsome, for a thirty-seven years old man. If Aelin was honest, she had always had a thing for men older than her.

When her eyes met his gray ones, Aelin tensed. Absolutely everything about this man screamed power. From the way he stood to the little smile on his face as he held out his hand for Aelin to place hers in. His hand was warm but not soft, she could feel several scars. He placed a kiss on the back of her hand before saying softly, "It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Galathynius."

The memory of that night made her throw up a second time as she fought against tears. Everything about this memory was painful. She had worked so hard to keep these emotions locked inside of her for years, she couldn’t break now. Not after everything she did to forget.

“You got drunk?” A deep voice asked and Aelin whipped her head toward that voice only to find a shirtless Rowan, arms crossed, watching her from his doorframe. She didn’t secretly marvel at his muscles like she usually did whenever he was shirtless, tonight, another proof of how bad she was feeling. “Is that why you’re so late?” His voice was hard, the same voice he usually used whenever she was around.

“Were you worried?” She asked, sarcastically. She didn’t have the strength to fight now, and yet… She couldn’t help when he was around.

“Your cousin and best friend were worried sick. Are you so selfish that you don’t care?”

“I’ll talk about that with them, then. I don’t need you here.” Her voice was as hard as his, while she usually was more teasing. Aelin saw him frown at her tone but she didn’t give a shit, she needed to be left alone. “But if you want to know, I wasn’t getting drunk, no.”

“Then what were you doing?” He snapped and Aelin didn’t understand him. Why did he want to know that? Shouldn’t he have been happy she wasn’t here? Why did he even come into the bathroom? Aelin supposed he heard her throw up, it’s not like she was a very discreet person. Did he come here just to mock her? “What has put you in such a pathetic state?”

“Get the out,” her voice was weak, trying not to think about one of the worst nights of her life. You look pathetic , Arobynn had told her two years ago. But Aelin couldn’t help it, everything about that night disgusted her. When she looked up at Rowan she thought she saw concern in his eyes but she probably was hallucinating because a second later, his eyes were cold as ice.

He laughed, even if his laugh didn’t have any humor in it. “You know what, Aelin? Keep throwing up all you want. You’re worthless.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

There was a long pause and when Aelin thought he wouldn’t say anything else, he opened his mouth. “I understand why your parents cut you off. Who would want a disappointment like you as their daughter?”

“Don’t ever talk to me again.” She said silently, and when he closed the door, Aelin let the tears run down her face. For the first time in his life, Rowan hurt Aelin.

-----

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