Dincember - December 11: Icicle

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Dincember - December 11: Icicle

character: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian)

prompt: Icicle

main masterlist • dincember masterlist

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙*̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆ ⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅*̩̩͙‧͙

"Din." Your voice was more commanding than it was pleading at that point. "Get out of the cold. Please."

Din sighed as he powered down his drill, his helmet tilting at you. "I can't." He gestured to the work he was doing on the fractured Razor Crest. "The faster I work, the faster we get off this frozen rock."

"I get that." You held your arms tighter as the unrelenting winds of Maldo Kreis brushed past you. "But I'd prefer to get away from here with you alive."

"I'll be fine." Din went back to his work, and he had the nerve to add amusement into his tone as he continued. "Just colder than usual."

You offered a response with no hesitation. "I can warm you up easy."

Din stopped, his helmet and his hand falling for a moment as he slowly swung his head back towards you. His voice was low as replied. "That's a dirty move." He adjusted his positioning and continued his work. "That's a promise you can't fulfill until this ship's in the air again, anyway."

You took a deep breath, fogging up the air around you as you made your way closer to him. Din's visor never left his work even as you reached forward and broke off a jagged piece of ice from the bottom of his helmet, just under his visor. You presented it to him with a raised brow. "An icicle, Din. A damn icicle."

Din powered down the drill again and turned to look at you. He held the drill between both his gloved hands. "Look. I'll rest for a spell before continuing the work, if that makes you feel better."

You smiled at him and nodded. "That would make me feel much better."

Din lifted a hand to the back of your head, gently urging your forehead against his iced-over helmet. "Good." His thumb brushed over your head. He took an uncertain breath, but ultimately spoke on his thoughts. "And about warming me up later..."

You laughed and nodded. "Once our passenger is gone? Yeah, I'll stick to it."

Din nodded back at you. "Good."

bro i knew it was coming but ARGHAHSGSGD

beautifully written as always

the magic school bus to mount olympus

part five — the killerverse masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x daughter of ares reader

summary: luke chaperones the winter solstice field trip to mount olympus, and you both have your own very interesting interactions with the olympians

content: talks about luke’s childhood and arguing

notes: set before tlt. enjoyy

“Eleven, twelve— Shit.” Luke’s brows furrow as he scans his crowd of campers again. “Connor, I swear I’ve counted you three times now.”

The boy is glaring. “I was in the bathroom, so that was Travis the first time, dickwad. And I think you’re just shit at counting.”

“Watch it,” you say absently, zipping up the boy’s jacket all the way to his neck. Connor unzips it again just to annoy you. “And there’s all fifteen, Luke, I counted.”

“How are you yelling at me for cursing?” Connor asks, genuinely confused. “You’re the one with an actual problem. Mr. D has threatened to wash your mouth out with soap about ten times.”

You make a show of turning around every which way, like you’re looking for something. “Well, good thing Mr. D’s not here, so he can’t say jack shit to me. And you’re younger than me, so you have to listen to what I say, asswipe.”

You add the last part just to watch him scowl.

“Hey—”

“Killer, stop arguing with the kids,” Luke says, chewing on the end of his pen. He checks a couple things off on his paper before tossing it haphazardly into his bag.

You stick your tongue out at Connor, and Luke tugs you away from him before the boy attempts physical harm.

“Then why don’t you listen to Luke?” Travis pipes up, materializing out of thin air. He’s grinning, because he knows he’s pushing your buttons. “He’s older than you, but you never listen to him.”

It’s your turn to scowl.

“He’s not the boss of me,” you defend, despite the way it makes you sound six years old. “But sometimes I listen to him ‘cause he gets this really scary and ugly look on his face when he’s mad at me.”

Luke laughs while he tries to wrangle one of the younger campers back towards the group. “Actually, she listens to me because she knows better.”

You make sure the brothers can see the way you roll your eyes.

“You got all yours, Luke?” Danny asks.

Danny’s one of the other older campers who agreed to come chaperone the trip. Victoria’s the other chaperone who’s standing a little further down the street with her pack of kids. Composed of the more well behaved campers, her group laughs quietly amongst themselves. You can practically see the mini halos above their heads.

Luke had drawn the short end of the stick. He yells at one of his siblings to not stand so close to the street before clearing his throat.

“Yeah, Dan. There’s all twenty—“

“Fifteen,” you correct.

“All fifteen of them,” he affirms.

Danny must be too tired to notice his slip up, because he gives him a nod before ushering his own campers through the revolving doors of the Empire State Building.

New York is absolutely frigid in December, and the wind bites at every exposed part of your face. It had snowed a bit ago, so there’s piles of brown slush packed by the sides of the street, making it a true Winter Wonderland.

You haven’t been to the city in forever, so you try and enjoy every second, no matter how bitterly cold. You’re so happy you even ignore how the wet ends of your nice pants stick uncomfortably to your ankles.

One of your brothers mumbles something about sneaking off to go to the restaurant down the street, so you take care to hook your finger in his hood and tug him in the direction of the rest of the group.

Victoria leads her kids through the doors after the last of Danny’s group files through, so you and Luke take up the back of the pack. It’s funny how clear the difference is between her group and Luke’s — her kids enter single file, quietly oohing and ahhing at the skyscraper or the pretty plants by the door. The second Luke’s group starts entering, a few of them run full speed through the revolving doors, forcing the ones already inside to try and dodge the spinning door coming to whack them in the back.

The inside of the building is nice and warm, and the entrance hall is glowing and gorgeous. You look around for Annabeth, who’s slack jawed at the sight of it. You think it’s pretty, but you’re sure she’s enjoying it in only the way an architecture buff like her would. Her eyes seem to glow at the sight of the details on the walls and all of the technicalities that probably went into it.

You aren’t quite sure what’s so special about it. It looks pretty ordinary to you, but you think the way her eyes shine is cute.

“We’re gonna have to drag her all the way back to camp,” you whisper quietly to Luke, and the corner of his mouth ticks up in a half smile.

Danny flashes some sort of card to a security guard standing off to the side, who gives him the most confused look imaginable. Sheepish, he moves a little further down to the elevators, where another security guard regards him and his little card with more recognition.

As the rest of your gaggle of children nears the elevators, Danny turns to address you all.

“Wait patiently for your turn, guys. No more than ten at a time, and Ben,” he says pointedly, narrowing his eyes at a boy in the crowd. “If you even think about mashing all the elevator buttons, you’re walking back to camp.”

He deflates, his plans foiled. “I wasn’t gonna.”

Luke’s barely paying attention, too busy flicking through one of the pamphlets he’d taken from the stand by the door.

“Good read?” you ask.

He grunts in response, and you know he’s not listening. You force yourself into his personal space, dropping your chin onto his shoulder.

“You’re seriously reading up on the history of this thing?”

“Dunno,” he answers, sounding far away. “Thought Annabeth might want it after me.”

His eyes stare unmoving at the page, so you can tell he’s just turning the pages without actually looking at them. As you stare more intently at the papers, you realize it’s not about the history of the skyscraper at all, but advertisements for NYC tour companies nearby.

That does it for you — you give in. “Are you okay?”

Luke’s been off since the bus left camp a couple hours ago. You would’ve assumed he’s just busy being a responsible chaperone, but you won’t pretend like he’s doing a super stellar job at that. At the rest stop earlier, he nearly let the bus drive away without one of the kids.

Quicker than he can process, you replace the pamphlet in his grip with one of your own hands, shoving the paper into your back pocket. He does that thing you hate where he crushes your hand in his, making your bones shift weirdly.

“You’ve been spacey ever since we got on the bus,” you push. “What’s up with you?”

He grumbles something that’s not quite a response, still working your hand in his own. His eyes look glazed over, and you have to tug him forward when the group in front of you steps closer to the elevator. He won’t meet your eyes, staring dead ahead where the security guard is talking to Victoria.

“Luke,” you groan, drawing out the syllables of his name.

After a second of silence, he lets his eyes scan over you. Thankfully, his vision looks clear and less like his head is up in the clouds on Olympus.

“Hey,” he finally answers, a few responses too late. He lets go of your hand to drape an arm around your shoulders, tugging you close. “You okay? I like your shirt.”

It’s peeking out from your now unzipped jacket, one of your nicer tops that isn’t riddled with cuts and holes from messing around at camp. “Thanks, hero. But I’m the one asking you that question. Are you okay?”

Your words disarm him. For a second, he looks genuinely nervous. It only takes you another second to realize what could be bothering him.

You drop your voice low, so your words echo only in the space between you.

“Is it your dad?”

It feels like he slips right through your hands again. His eyes slide skyward, away from your stare.

You let him sit with his thoughts for a second, deciding not to push it. You settle for watching the kids in front of you mess around and tease each other.

When Luke speaks again, it's both soft and bitter. “It’s kind of everything, I guess. I don’t know.”

You know all too well that Luke’s relationship with his father is more strained than normal demigod-parent relationships are. Just being here at the Empire State Building must be a lot for him.

“You could always go up there and then fake sick,” you offer. “We could stay in the cabin the entire time.”

He gives you a sad smile. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

You wish he knew that he doesn’t have to be okay when it comes to his dad. The hurt there runs a lifetime deep, and would likely take another lifetime to recover from.

You press the side of your face into his shirt. Luke is dressed nicely too, even if he won’t admit it. You wish you could describe the smell of his cologne like they do in the books your friends read, but don’t know how. You don’t know what the hell sandalwood smells like, and honestly, ‘patchouli’ sounds like a made up word.

But he smells nice. He smells like Luke, and you resist the urge to tilt your head and dig your teeth into his shoulder.

You haven’t seen Hermes since the one time your little group had needed to go back to Westport. You don’t know if Luke has seen him since, and if he has, he hasn’t told you. But you don’t blame him for keeping it to himself if he has, because you know how hard it is for him.

“Well, we’re here together,” you promise. “So don’t worry. I won’t let you fend for yourself up there.”

He tightens his grip around your shoulders before letting you go.

After another minute, the two of you crowd into the elevator with the last of the campers. As you watch the metal doors slide shut behind you, it feels heavy and final.

You smile back at him when a familiar song crackles through the elevator speaker. The familiar sounds of synth and Christmas time fill the small space.

“Which of the Olympians do you think queued this one?”

It’s Last Christmas. A respectable choice.

“My dad loves Wham!” someone chimes in. It’s one of Apollo’s younger daughters, smiling up at you.

Memories from his last visit to camp flicker through your mind. You remember the way you had Careless Whisper stuck in your head for weeks, and how loud the campfire sing-along had been that night.

Apollo is the biggest George Michael fan. You should’ve seen that one coming.

—

A satyr ushers the crowd of you through the major sights. He walks you through the parks by the entrance, where he points out a very miniscule New York City in the distance. It reminds you oddly of some skyscraper Annabeth had told you about once, where you can stand on a glass floor and look straight down to see empty air and the hundreds of stories beneath your feet.

You all follow the satyr up a grand staircase (that the kids start using as a race track) that leads to a nice view of the countless gardens that decorate Olympus. And of course, he leads you straight to the grand palace itself.

You don’t know a word that could ever truly encompass the sheer size of the throne room. It puts everything into perspective — you and the other campers are pretty much insignificant.

The thrones, which are built like the size of houses, are rearranged around a hearth that burns bright in the center of the room. Everything here just radiates power, like even the slightest contact with a single pillar would send electric jolts through your body.

Annabeth’s eyes glitter at the sight of the domed ceiling, but your eyes are still trained on the sight of the thrones in front of you.

They’re empty, as expected. But you can’t help but feel antsy, knowing your father is around here somewhere.

Luke snaps you out of the trance you’re in, his tongue sharp. “Don’t worry. We have at least until the presentation before any of them even think about showing their faces.”

Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, and you can’t help but toss a wary glance over your shoulder. “You’re lucky Thalia’s old man isn’t here to smite you.”

It’s no secret to you that Luke isn’t the gods’ number one fan. But everyone knows they should at least be treated with some level of respect — unless you’re willing to test how far their kindness goes.

The mention of Thalia seems to shift something in his eyes. Luke brushes something off of your shoulder, his voice chilly.

“Lucky me.”

—

The presentation is over quickly, which you’re rather pleased about. You watch the Apollo kids that go before you put on their best show, glowing bright under the dark night sky. After they’re done, you and your siblings take your turn to throw around a couple of weapons under the watchful eye of your father.

You know you shouldn’t care too much about what he thinks, but still find yourself trying just the slightest bit harder than you normally would.

The moment your little show is over, the Olympians clap briefly. You think it’s just to be polite, because it doesn’t seem like anyone enjoyed it too much.

The satyr from earlier announces the beginning of the feast shortly after, and you turn your head to see a large collection of naiads, nymphs, and satyrs filling the center of the courtyard outside. They’re all crowded around a large table that’s filled with the usual foods that you see at camp — a massive variety of fruits, vegetables, cheeses, breads, and meats.

You’re surprised to see that none of the campers rush out the grand doors like they do at camp when dinner starts. Everyone gives each other tentative looks before walking at a snail’s pace out the door. Their usual rowdy behavior is no doubt mellowed by the presence of your parents. It’s funny.

A rough voice behind you says your name in a near growl, and your entire body moves to straighten like a conditioned soldier. The heavy hand that accompanies the words nearly tips you over when it lands on your shoulder, so you spin on your heel to face him, your back straight as a rod.

“Dad,” you rush out, trying to tamp down the surprise in your voice.

He lives here, you remind yourself. You were bound to see him eventually.

He’d at least been willing to come to you in his non-giant form, but you still have to angle your head to look him in the eye.

His chin is constantly tilted upward — a fact you hate. You always leave conversations with him with a strained neck and a tension in your bones. His black sunglasses are perched high on his nose despite the complete lack of sun, and his heavy boots seem to shake the ground when he takes another step closer to you.

He bares his teeth at you in a way that almost resembles a smile.

“There she is,” he starts, his voice loud and booming. “Camp Half-Blood’s mightiest warrior!”

A few stray campers turn to look at the commotion Ares is causing with the sound of his words alone. Heat rushes to your face.

“Have you been making me proud?” he continues. “Defeat another Nemean Lion? A drakon, maybe?”

You laugh as best as you can. “Uh, no. There haven’t been any quests since…” You don’t dare let your eyes stray from your father’s gaze to scan the crowd. “Well, there haven’t been any in a while.”

“I see,” he says, sounding disappointed, like you had stopped the flow of quests all by yourself. “Well, daughter, I’d better see you out and about soon. You’re a child o’ mine for a reason, yeah?” He takes his hand off your shoulder so he can knock you around with playful punches, miming an uppercut or two. “Don’t embarrass me.”

The first joking punch he lets graze you nearly knocks you back a foot, and you grin through it despite how sore your arm feels. “Yes, sir.”

A sudden wave of relief washes over you, and you can tell Luke is standing behind you before he even says anything. He presses a hand against your back, and you turn just enough so you can grab his other arm like a lifeline.

“Dad,” you begin, relaxing into a more normal stance. You didn’t even realize you’d been standing at attention, your entire body stiff. “You know Luke. He’s—”

“Hermes’ boy,” he finishes for you. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, scrutinizing Luke from over your head. He’s sizing him up, like he’s threatening the teenager to pick a fight with him.

The thought is ridiculous, but you hesitate for a second. Inspiring anger in people is something your dad is great at, and you wonder briefly about the possibility of Luke tussling with your dad.

For a second, recognition shows in Ares’ face. “Logan, was it? Or Liam?” he asks, despite you giving him his name seconds before.

“It’s Luke, sir,” he corrects, the usual traces of insolence wiped clear from his tone. You turn fully to face him, trying to keep the shock off your features.

Luke Castellan? Biting his tongue when disrespected? Who would’ve thought.

“You’re the boy from the failed Ladon quest,” your dad muses, stroking the thick hair of his beard in thought. “Hermes’ pride and joy, or whatever.”

Luke goes stock-still behind you. Your mouth goes dry at the mention of his father, and you flounder for something to say to get the heat off of him.

It doesn’t quite matter, though. The conversation ends immediately, because someone else is calling for you.

It’s practically a squeal, an affectionate slew of words. “Oh, my. Look at you two.”

Another form appears from behind your dad. The sight of a glimmering white gown makes itself clear, reflecting the fire of the hearth and turning it into pure starlight.

The sight of the woman takes the breath right from your lungs, and you know immediately who it is.

“You’ve both grown so big and tall!” you think she says, but you’re busy trying to uncross the wires in your brain. Her eyes have softened, and she presses a hand to her chest while she pouts at the sight of you, the way someone would look at little puppies at the park.

She’s gorgeous. Beyond that, actually. You fight for words to form.

“Hi,” you manage, trying to clear your brain of the haze that’s settled over whatever part forms rational thought. Aphrodite is glowing at your dad’s side, and you and Luke can do nothing but stare. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hi.” Her eyes twinkle when she looks the both of you up and down. “Oh, you two are just the cutest.”

She actually reaches forward and pinches Luke’s cheek, and the blush creeps up his neck so fast you worry his head will explode.

“Look how handsome you’ve gotten!” she croons, familiarity in her words and disposition.

Luke’s just able to school the confusion off of his features, though his face is still tinted red.

“I forgot how fast demigod children grow,” she adds, more for herself than for you. “I’m glad to see you’re both doing good. I’m so obsessed with you two.”

“You know who we are?”

The idea sounds so absurd. Your head is still spinning from her knowing your name.

She laughs, like she wants to say well, duh.

“Did you hear that? ‘You know who we are?’” she repeats to Ares in disbelief. Your dad is looking less than thrilled at the topic at hand. “I just adore young love, don’t you?”

You fight the way your jaw begs to fall open.

Jokes like that have followed you and Luke around since the start of time. It was embarrassing at first, sure, but you’ve gotten so used to it over time it stopped being such a big deal.

But for the goddess of love to be saying this? You wonder how disappointing your dad would find it if your cause of death was embarrassment.

Luke clears his throat, and you think a muscle in his face actually twitches. “Oh, uh…”

You wonder briefly if you should drop your hold on his wrist to save whatever scraps of dignity you can manage. “We aren’t dating.”

She waves you off. “Well, I knew that. But the early years are always my favorite!”

You lock eyes with Luke and know the two of you share the same sentiment.

What the actual fuck.

“There are so many juicy things waiting for you two, I just can’t wait!”

It’s like she’s waiting for the next episode of her favorite show to come out. All you can do is smile politely.

“How old are you two again?”

Luke is barely able to get his answer out before she squeals in excitement.

“Already?”

“Yeah,” you say with a bit of a forced laugh. Your dad is definitely judging you, so you try your best to wrap it up fast. “Aging, huh?”

Luke smiles politely at her. “It was… nice talking to you.”

His next words are directed towards you. “I’m uh, headed to the food. That deli sandwich from earlier wasn’t so great, and I’m starving.”

“Me too,” you say slowly, trying not to seem too eager to leave.

Luke squeezes your shoulder before nodding once at your father, a small show of respect. He slips away, giving you a few moments alone.

You’re more grateful than you let on. You and your dad aren’t close, but you have no idea when the next time you’ll see him is. You’ll probably be five years older and a lot different.

You turn your attention to your father first, extending your hand for him to shake. “Bye, dad.”

It’s the firmest handshake you’ve ever received. His hand envelops your own and whips it around. “Beat up those punk kids at camp for me.”

Your grin is genuine. “You got it.”

When you turn to face Aphrodite, you find your tongue tied in your mouth again. She’s really pretty.

“It was really nice meeting you,” you say, after a few moments of silence.

She smiles, and your face goes a little warm. She winks at you. “Goodbye. To you and your boy.”

When you and Luke walk away, he pulls you closer with an arm around your shoulders.

“Have you met her before?” he asks the second you’re at a reasonable distance.

You nudge him lightly. “I was about to ask you that, Mr. You’re-So-Tall-And-Handsome-Now.” He sighs with his entire chest when you pinch his cheek the way she had. “How sure are you that you’ve never met her before? She seemed to be really familiar with you.”

The two of you reach the table where the buffet is set up, and your conversation is paused for a second while one of the younger Hephaestus kids asks Luke what he thinks is peanut-free.

“She knew who you were too,” he points out, after the boy scurries away with a salad soaked in dressing. “I’m getting the feeling we’ve both seen her and just had no idea.”

“It’s not impossible, I guess. We’ve met a lot of people over the years.” You take the bowl he hands you filled with grapes the size of rocks and mangoes so perfectly ripe that the sight of them makes your mouth water. “It’s weird thinking that Aphrodite could’ve been one of them.”

He hums, but doesn’t say anything more about it. And though Luke may be pretty calm, you feel like you’re going to tear your hair out.

The goddess of love just insinuated that you and Luke were going to be something. About fifty times over.

You have no idea whether to believe her or not. But you have a hard time doubting the goddess of love on issues concerning your love life.

Is that really what was going to happen? Was that really you and Luke’s future?

“Hey. Are you coming?”

Luke’s standing a few feet away, nodding in the direction of where the rest of the campers are. They’ve taken to making their own firepit in the center of a park a good distance away from the palace.

You follow dutifully behind him just to give your mind something to do other than ruminate over being something with your best friend.

The bonfire is louder than it’s been in a while — it’s like it’s the summertime when camp is at its largest. Even though you can barely hear anything they’re actually saying over the noise, your friends cheer when the both of you show up. Everyone scooches over to make room for you and Luke in the circle of campers, and you settle side by side against a log.

“You two!” your friend Alana nearly yells. She’s rubbing her friend’s back soothingly. “Mieka’s devastated. You could barely tell she went off key during the show, right?”

(It was totally noticeable. You had to elbow Luke to get him to stop laughing during the presentation.)

You play dumb. “You went offkey?”

There’s a chorus of people chiming in with various versions of, See? and I told you so.

Mieka gives you a bashful smile, and you know you don’t feel bad for lying if it made her feel better. “Thank goodness. I almost walked out of the throne room, ‘cause my face was on fire!”

“You guys were amazing, I promise,” you insist, and that part is honest.

“Wait! I almost forgot!” one of the Hephaestus boys exclaims. “Did anyone else see Gavin almost catch Kenny on fire?”

The boy’s face goes bright red. “That wasn’t my fault!”

It feels like the fire grows ten times warmer when all of you sit and listen to Gavin’s ridiculous story of what really happened, and how it was all Anika’s fault, technically.

It definitely wasn’t, but you all dogpile on her just for fun.

You all sit and talk for hours, trading stories and talking about your parents even though they’re just around the corner. And it must be the warmth of your heart that draws you so close to sleep. You yawn, your eyes sliding shut while you listen to someone’s awkward recount of the first time they met Athena.

When you open them again, you’re slumped against Luke’s side.

“Welcome back,” he teases quietly, trying not to disturb the peaceful silence around you.

The fire is close to dying out in front of you, and only you and Luke are left by the pit.

You almost knock into his chin when you sit up, looking around. You hear voices coming from behind a small cluster of oak trees, but it’s clear it’s been a while since anyone else has been here. “Where’d everyone go?”

“Danny yelled at us to go to bed a bit ago ‘cause we gotta wake up early, or something stupid like that.”

You yawn again, so you tuck yourself closer to Luke’s side. “And you didn’t wake me up?”

“Thought I’d let you sleep in for a little. You looked tired.”

“I was. Thanks, Luke.”

“I got you.” He squeezes your side. “Want me to set up for tonight?”

You kiss his shoulder, pouring as much of your gratitude into it as you can. You’re going to need a minute or two before you use your legs again. “If you insist.”

“Don’t get lost,” he jokes, nodding in the direction of the group of trees nearby. “The cabin’s just through there, and you can’t miss it. It’s the size of the White House.”

You promise him you’ll be able to walk the hundred yards all by yourself, and he winks at you when he disappears into the night.

You let yourself sit back against the log, a lot colder without everyone out here with you. It’s just you and the full moon and the wind and—

“Hey, kid.”

The voice inspires so much rage in you, you’d think it was the god of war himself, encouraging you to pick a fight. But it’s not.

You don’t bother hiding your scowl when you turn your head.

“Hermes.”

He looks like Luke. It makes you sad, because Hermes doesn’t deserve to. He’s not really his father, and doesn’t deserve to share any resemblance to him.

“You and my boy have grown so much,” he says quietly. He walks towards you, moving around the log so he can stand right across from you.

With your dad, you tend to stare straight into his eyes, something he treats as a sign of respect. Out of spite, you decide not to look Hermes in the face once.

You glare holes into his loafers and his tailored pants.

“So I’ve heard.” You cross your arms in front of your chest, already itching for the conversation to be over.

You haven’t stood up, and he hasn’t sat down, so it honestly feels like the both of you are talking to yourselves. You wonder when he’ll crack, because you know you aren’t going to stand up for him.

“I’m happy to see you two are alright.” His voice is light and kind and so genuine it stings. “Have you been doing better?”

You scowl harder than you ever thought possible. “The last time we saw you, we’d been running from monsters day and night for five years. I think anything would be ‘better’ than that.”

You triumph in the way he winces. “Right.”

The fire crackles slightly behind him, and you wish Luke were here. You wonder how long it takes to set up two sleeping bags.

You curl further into yourself when a breeze wracks the small clearing you’re in. The last of the fire is snuffed out.

“May I?” Hermes asks, gesturing to the grass in front of you.

That was faster than expected.

“Be my guest.” Your voice is chilly, but it doesn’t deter him from sitting down right in front of you.

Hermes shifts awkwardly, brushing his hands free from grass before crossing his own arms over his chest. He seems at a loss of what to say.

“Why are you talking to me?” you can’t help but ask. “I’m not your kid.”

You bite back your additional remark of how he doesn’t talk to them, either.

“Even though you’re not my kid, I watched you grow up,” he answers simply. He adjusts the sleeves of his button up again. He’s nervous. “May never stopped talking about you. I met you and your mother when you were just a few weeks old, you know.”

The mention of Luke’s mom stings like a new wound. But Hermes had met you as a baby — you hadn’t known that.

“And I’m also talking to you because you’re important to my son,” he adds. “Which means you’re important to me.”

Ah, there it was.

“I’m important because you want me to talk to him for you, right?”

When he purses his lips, you know you’re right.

Your laugh is bitter. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Look,” he starts slowly. “I know it’s hard for Luke to talk to me—”

“Of course it is,” you hiss, before you can stop yourself. How dare he come up to you, pretending to care about how you were doing, just so he could use you to get to Luke? “You’re a terrible father.”

Hermes’ lips flatten out into a straight line, his patience thinning. “Kid, I know you’re smart. You know we can’t interfere with mortal affairs.”

You hadn’t meant to start off so strong, but the words have started and you can’t stop them.

“I don’t care,” you seethe, anger warming your face. “Was it too much for you to ‘interfere’ when he would hide in his closet because he was terrified? Was it too much for you to ‘interfere’ when he decided he wanted to leave home forever? He was eight. Luke was a baby, and you did nothing.”

You clench your fists, trying to reign in the anger that's spilling over in waves. Hermes is taking every second of it.

“He would come crying to my house. Biked all the way there because he was so scared, and sometimes it was every night.” You practically spit the words in his face. “I was a kid, and I was all he had. Me and my mom are more of a family to him than you are.”

Hermes looks sad. His eyebrows crease the slightest bit, and you see the face of Luke Castellan plain and clear in his features.

Him and his son are so similar, and he’ll never know.

The thought of it is so sad that the kindest part of you wants to lay off of him. But then you think about holding Luke in your childhood room while he wondered why his dad didn’t love him, and the anger returns tenfold.

Hermes’ voice wavers when he says, “But you did it because you care for him. You love him.”

“Of course I love Luke.” There’s so much force behind your words it rattles your chest. “Do you?”

“More than anything,” he insists desperately. “But I need you to understand that I couldn’t. I couldn’t, no matter how much I wanted to. No matter how much I still want to.”

Luke calls your name from the place beyond the trees. He’s talking in the way that tells you he’d just been laughing about something, his voice amused. You know he must not be able to see the two of you with the way there isn’t a trace of tension in his voice.

Hermes has turned in the direction of where the sound came from, and he looks pained in a way you’ve never seen a god look before. There’s pure anguish amongst the calm he tries to wear on his face. He looks human.

For the first time, you meet Hermes’ gaze. You recognize the look in his eyes immediately.

It’s love, written all over his face.

You falter.

You understand what it’s like to have so much love for Luke Castellan that it hurts.

“I don’t think he’ll ever be able to forgive you,” you say honestly.

Hermes nods, his expression melancholic. “I know.”

Luke says your name again, louder this time. He’s going to come into view any second.

Hermes grips your shoulder firmly. There’s so much sadness there in the intensity of his gaze it makes you suck in a desperate breath. “Take care of him for me.”

“You didn’t have to ask. You know I will.”

“I know. But promise me. He’s going to need you. Stick together, no matter how bad it gets, you understand?”

It’s you and Luke until the end. Forever. You’d already planned on that, anyways.

“I promise.”

He smiles for a second, his tight grip letting up. “Thank you. For now and for all the years I was gone.”

“Don’t thank me,” you say softly. “I need him just as much as you think he needs me.”

Hermes is walking backward now, back in the direction of the throne room.

“Take care of each other, then. Luke’s sweet on you, he always has been.”

Luke’s father and his sly smile disappears the second his son appears between the grove of trees.

He’s grinning in the way Hermes had just been. “Gods. Took Danny fifteen fucking minutes to give up his spot.”

“Yeah?” You can’t speak loud enough for him to hear you because your head is spinning.

You study his face as he walks closer to you, his hands outstretched. The resemblance scares you.

A huff of air escapes him when you wrap your arms around his chest. He squeezes you so hard in return it hurts your ribs.

“It’s been less than twenty minutes,” he teases, but he keeps you trapped in his arms nevertheless. “Something happen? Or did you just miss me that bad?”

You have a good idea of how he’d take the idea of you getting into it with his dad on his behalf. He’s never been a big fan of other people fighting his fights for him, and his relationship with his dad is such a sensitive topic you know he’d be more than annoyed if you told him.

The lie almost chokes you on its way out. You hide from it in the crook of his neck.

“Just tired. You know how it is.”

You can do nothing but hope that he buys it. He always messes with you about how clingy you get when you’re tired, so you’re not really lying. Not really.

He scoffs, but it’s not mean. He just doesn’t believe you.

“Sure. I got us the spot by the door though, so you don’t have to wake up the entire cabin when you leave to piss fifteen times in the middle of the night.”

You groan, finally freeing him from your hug. “I don’t do that.”

“The amount of times I wake up to you trying to wrestle away from me is ridiculous.” He slips your hands together, and you squeeze. You’d been too embarrassed to do this in front of your dad and Aphrodite, but you’d missed him. So, so, so much.

He changes his voice in a bad impression of you as you head for the trees. “Luke, get off me. Luke, let go. Luke, you’re suffocating me. Luke, Luke, Luke—”

You pull his head towards you to rub your knuckles forcefully into his scalp. “I’m going to give Danny your spot instead. Quit it.”

He pushes you away, his laughter loud. “Bet you’d still find some way to sneak over to me though. Luke, I’m cold. Luke, I can’t sleep. Luke, I love you so much, will you ever so kindly hold me in your massive arms and lovingly run your hands through my hair—”

You think your face actually catches on fire. “Now you’re just making stuff up!”

You definitely never go into that much detail.

He’s grinning. “Sounded pretty accurate to me.”

Your sleeping bag is cold and dreary and not at all like your usual uncomfortable twin mattresses at camp.

You miss them. And you miss the way they let you turn your entire face into Luke’s shoulder when it was cold.

Luke’s sleeping bag is a few feet away from yours, and the distance feels weird. Though it’s not like the two of you never sleep without the other, it’s too cold to be by yourself.

Luke looks more than warm in his red sleeping bag, his pillow sandwiched between his arm and his head. His eyes are shut.

You hate to prove him right. But you’d rather humiliate yourself than freeze to death.

“Luke,” you whisper, careful not to disturb any of the other campers. The cabin is probably as long as an apartment complex is tall, but mostly everyone chose to sleep in the same area anyway. Old habits die hard.

After a few seconds, his eyes flutter open. “What is it?”

“I’m cold.”

He’s just woken up, but the smug look on his face is clear as day. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. Please move closer.”

“No way. It’s so warm in here, and you’re a clinger.”

“Warm? It’s December, and we’re on a floating island in like, the stratosphere. Come closer.”

The other campers seem to share the same sentiments as you. Everyone’s wearing an extra layer or two of clothing under their blankets.

Luke sits up, and you would cheer if everyone wasn’t sleeping. But he doesn’t move closer. He wads up one of his blankets and hits you in the face with it.

The black fabric is warm where he had been pressed against it. It smells like him, too. You pause before layering it on top of your mountain of blankets.

“Aren’t you gonna be cold?”

He yawns weirdly. “I won’t need it. It’s all yours.”

“Alright,” you say tentatively. You really did wish that he moved over and held you, but don’t want to be too annoying. “Thank you.”

“Course. Go back to sleep.”

—

You dream of glowing green eyes and a slamming screen door and sand sticking to every part of your body. Before you wake up, you dream of a hand on your face and pressure on your forehead.

You don’t sleep through the full night, and instead wake up a few hours after you fell asleep, feeling the opposite of well rested. Everyone else is dead to the world except for you.

And Luke, apparently.

Sometime in your sleep, you’d rolled closer to him, probably seeking his warmth. You’re no longer where you’d fallen asleep, but skewed to your left. His sleeping bag is mere inches from yours, though it’s empty. His other blanket has been added to the ones already piled on top of you.

You fall asleep waiting for him to come back.

—

You hand Luke your backpack and yawn. He shoves his hand into your mouth.

“What’s even the point of waking up this early?” you groan, after you push him away.

He huffs a laugh. He looks funny, carrying both of your bags at the same time. Yours is slung over his front while he has his own on his back. “Our parents probably wanted us gone as fast as possible.”

“What’re you talking about?” You feign a gasp. “I’m sure they’re stoked for the next time they’re forced to see us.”

“Luke?” Danny asks, leaning off the first step of the bus. “Got your kids?”

“All fifteen.”

You follow Luke onto the bus, everyone significantly quieter now that you’re up at the crack of dawn. “I’m so proud you remembered how many kids you were supposed to watch.”

“Thanks. Counted to fifteen all by myself.”

“Wow! That’s five more than last time.”

He nearly trips you.

Luke lets you sit on the inside of the two seater so you can go back to sleep without falling into the aisle. Your bags at your feet make it a tight fit, but you slot your head against his shoulder and look out the window as the bus starts down the road.

You’re happy to leave. The sky is dark and angry above you — no doubt Zeus’ doing. You wonder if he hated seeing you all that bad.

Sitting on the yellow school bus, you let yourself pretend what it would be like if you and Luke weren’t demigods, and just two kids on their way home from school. The mortals starting their days rush around on the streets next to you. They have no idea how much you want to be just like them.

Luke nudges you when the East River comes into view. “You tired?”

You shake your head as best as you can against his shoulder. He’s so stiff you have to readjust every few seconds, but it’s better than the vibrating window to your right.

“I just want to look at the view. It’ll be a while before we’re outside of camp again.”

He’s quiet when he lets his head come to rest against yours. The two of you look out on the water and watch the cars drive alongside you on the bridge.

You fall back asleep before you even reach Queens.

—

Luke studies your face, the sky rumbling furiously overhead.

He’d seen your father last night. He’d fought him. And he would’ve won too, if he hadn’t been so overconfident.

Luke shifts uncomfortably against you, but not without grimacing. The slash running up his side is superficial. Ambrosia will heal it fast, before you’ll even notice he has it. He’s lucky you’d been too tired to notice the way he’d been favoring his left side earlier.

His arms still ache from the weight of his sword in his hands. Your sword skills were something you’d clearly gotten from your father. He’d never struggled in a fight as badly as he had last night.

—

The gash that shreds the skin over his ribcage burns immediately, the adrenaline rushing through his veins not even enough to dull the pain.

Luke loosens his hand on the hilt of his sword for a fraction of a moment. But that's all Ares needs.

His sword clatters to the ground in a matter of seconds, and the cold point of Ares’ blade presses right into Luke’s sternum.

“Not the worst I’ve seen,” the god admits. It’s the closest thing to a compliment anyone will probably ever get from him. “I was skeptical of you at first, punk. But I’d say you’re even worthy of my daughter.”

Luke Castellan stares the god of war in the eyes when he spits at his feet.

Ares is being kind when he plants his foot into his chest and forces him to the floor. There’s a crack when Luke’s head collides with the ground, and he sees stars. He struggles to breathe in air for a few excruciating moments, but tries not to let it show. His vision is dancing with black spots.

When Luke meets Ares’ gaze again, it's like the skin is melting straight off his bones. Ares’ stare is pulverizing — so hot Luke feels like he’s being welded to the floor. He fights back a groan of agony.

“You made it all the way to New Jersey with these items of power,” Ares booms, his voice so loud Luke feels like he’s blasting a speaker straight into his ears. Is this a concussion? Or is Ares seriously just this loud? “This is as far as you go.”

Fear seizes Luke’s heart, his hand fumbling for something he knows is too far away.

This is it. This is how it ends. He’s going to die before he could even change anything, before he could make the Olympians even begin to pay for what they’ve done.

Just as Ares lifts his sword, a different kind of terror grips at Luke’s heart. It’s the familiar feeling of ice freezing over his body, starting at his head and working its way down to his feet. He hears the familiar rasp of death echoing in his head, and the words start tumbling out.

Luke watches as Ares falls for it almost immediately, like a fly to honey. He’s smug, his eyes gleaming with glee at the thought of it — a world-ending war between the gods, and all at his hands.

Your father lets Luke go with his life and with nothing but the gash up his side. He makes it back to Olympus before the sun even comes up.

Luke changes out of his bloodied shirt and shoves it to the bottom of his bag, settling back down in his sleeping bag. He doesn’t want to risk you waking up and catching him out of bed, or dressing this now unexplainable wound.

You’d moved closer to him in your sleep earlier, and it had taken everything in him to stop you from holding on too tight. But his mission is complete now. It was a success, so he lets you curl around him in your sleep.

Luke watches the sun paint your face in gold as it rises through the window by the cabin door.

Danny wakes up the rest of the cabin about an hour later. You groan, tired and unwilling to move, but find the strength to sit up when one of the kids tries rolling up your sleeping bag with you still in it.

Your eyes are still half-shut, but you still find it in you to smile tiredly at him. After he pokes at your messy hair, your hand comes up to flatten down the little bits of hair on his head standing up with static. “How’d you sleep?”

Luke looks into your eyes.

They hold the same fire as your father.

Unease washes through his entire body, and he coughs to try and dispel the unsettling feeling in his stomach. His head feels so light that he has to choke back the urge to vomit.

Facing you, Luke cracks a cocky smile. “Like a baby.”

explanation of the ending

the killerverse masterlist

notes: please so kindly let me know if u enjoyed :) it fuels my writing!!!! and this was 8k words i have no idea how or why bc this was supposed to be a shorter chapter omg.

i think the difference between their interactions with the other’s dad is so funny. killer yells at hermes while he tries to be nice and ares and luke have a fight to the death over the master bolt a few hours later theyre just insane

tags in the rbs!

so cute 🥺

good with my hands (joel miller x f!reader)

summary: you visit the christmas tree farm in the town you’ve just moved to, run by the mysterious miller brothers. joel is on hand to begrudgingly assist you.

notes: by far the longest piece i have ever written! i hate to sound like a broken record but thank you to @macfrog for providing endless inspo & @swiftispunk for believing in me. ♥️

warnings: age gap (30/56), reader has curves, mommy & daddy issues, past family trauma, brief mention of infertility, swearing, food, discussions of dementia and death, tommy gets a lil screwed over (sorry), gratuitous descriptions of joel, flirting, smutty thoughts, fluff, inaccurate (probably) mention of adoption & construction terms, this fic isn’t rly about christmas at all, ellie & sarah are discussed. 18+, mdni.

It’s cold. Your teeth are on the verge of chattering, but you don’t feel much like moving. The back porch of your new home is an oasis, calm and quiet as the sun breaks over the horizon.

The back yard is impressive; tall, leafy trees, grass unkempt and full of moss-covered statues you hadn’t inspected yet. The red streaks of dawn mark the end of your first week here, seven days you weren’t entirely sure you would see through to the finish line.

Ever since you’d gotten the call about this house, you weren’t sure it was a good idea. You, uprooting from the city you’d lived in all your life, to come out here: Oakwood Ridge. A tiny town you’d never heard of in a state you hadn’t visited, with a name like something you’d find in a Hallmark movie. It was beautiful in a way. Sleepy, but thriving.

The wildest part? A grandmother whose existence you weren’t aware of, finding it in her heart to bequeath her home to you upon her death.

You didn’t bother calling your mom to ask; the paperwork proved it was legitimate. You weren’t sure she’d answer anyway. The relationship between you both was strained to breaking point already, calls across the country on birthdays sufficing.

The less said about your father, the better. He’d left when you were five; you’d never known him as a real person. Memories of him consisted of half-hearted hugs accompanied by the scent of stale sweat and alcohol, and your mother offering up fragmented stories after too much wine. Memories you were happy to live without.

The coffee in your hands was doing little in the way of warming you up, but you drink it nonetheless. You think about the sweet lady next door who left it as part of some sort of care package on your doorstep; she’s well into her eighties, you assume.

You hadn’t had a chance to introduce yourself and say thanks yet, half-assed attempts at unpacking and browsing jobs on your laptop consuming your time. But you’d seen her, pottering around over the fence, a kind smile and knowing eyes.

Fuck it. You don’t know anyone in Oakwood Ridge, let alone have anything close to a friend. You’ll go over today and introduce yourself, maybe take some flowers, find out a little more about the place you now call home. Hell, this lady knew your grandmother.

Her house looks well-loved, lived in, in the way that yours doesn’t. And yet, you’ve never seen anyone else there, even visiting. Perhaps she’s as lonely as you are. It’s that thought that has you wandering over there after lunch, anxiously pressing the buzzer.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Annette Harris, she introduces herself as. Call me Annie, she adds with a wink. You warm to her instantly. She fusses around you, asks about your life, pinches your cheeks and invites you to stay for dinner. Which you do, considering you have no other offers on the table.

The soup is delicious and fills you up better than any takeout you were thinking about buying - if you could find anywhere out here, that is. You surprise yourself and manage to work up the courage to ask about your grandmother.

“Valerie and I were close for a long time,” Annie sighs, pushing the remains of her food around her plate. “I feel awful for not being there for her near the end, but I was going through so much myself at the time,” she admits, and you nod quietly, not wanting to push her.

“My husband.. He had dementia. I was his full-time carer.. We could never have kids, y’know? Friends in the town tried to help, but I was too proud,” she goes on. “We’re so isolated out here too, not that Roy would’ve had it any other way,” she smiles. “He was born and raised in Oakwood. I met him on one of his trips to the city, and I came here and never went back,” she says, the memory misting her eyes over.

“I bet you miss him,” you offer awkwardly, and Annie’s hand, veins spiderwebbing across it, falls over yours and squeezes. “More than you know. Anyway, enough of that,” she braces herself, righting her shoulders. You fight back a chuckle, watching this tiny old lady reprimanding herself.

“Valerie showed me lots of pictures of you. She was proud of her granddaughter,” she hums, and you try to hide your surprised expression. “I don’t even remember meeting her. My mom.. I don’t know if they had the best relationship. Must run in our genes,” you laugh bitterly.

“Yes, well.. Valerie never told me the full story,” Annie tuts, “but I remember the fallout. Your mother yelling on the lawn, terrible things.. A real shame. You can’t have been more than two years old. I used to make cookies for you, y’know” she smiles, and you’re grinning back.

Suddenly, you find yourself not wanting to continue the sad story of your early years. You’d spent your whole life running from it; it’s the reason you’ve come to this town. You’re desperately sorry about your grandmother; wishing you’d known her, felt her loving touch again. But Annie was here; lonely, frail, and living right next door to you.

“D’you need help with anything?” you ask tentatively, not wanting to overstep. She sure doesn’t look capable of much, but you have a feeling looks could be deceiving in this case. “I’m ticking along just fine, for the most part,” she spreads her hands out, looking around the spotless kitchen, as if to prove her point.

“There is one thing, though,” she says shyly. “Mmm?” you hum, spoon in your mouth. “Roy always used to sort our Christmas tree. It was his job to get it home,” she laughs. In the haste of packing up your life and leaving in less than two weeks, you’d totally forgotten Christmas was in less than a month.

“Sure. You want me to head to Home Depot, pick one up?” You ask, wondering where in the hell you’d even find one in a hundred mile radius around this place. “We always had a real one,” she offers with a small smile, “we used to go and pick it out together. I’d go myself, but my joints freeze up if I’m out too long in this weather,” she says as she stands, knees clicking on cue. “Of course,” you nod.

You don’t have the first fucking clue about real Christmas trees, but it’s the least you can do. “Is there anywhere local I can go? Or is it far out?” you ask as you carry your bowls over to her sink.

“Oh no, darling. There’s a farm a little way out of town. You’ll see the signs” she points a bony finger in the direction behind you. “Two brothers run it. Joel and Tommy Miller,” she offers with a sweet smile. “They’re good boys. They’ll help you out, sure they will,” she hums, rinsing the soup from the bowls.

“I’ll head there in the morning,” you say, thinking about the amount of shit that’ll need clearing from your beat-up old truck’s bed to fit it.

“You’re too kind,” Annie rubs a hand up your arm, eyes crinkling. “Tommy’s the younger brother, closer to your age. Perhaps more.. Approachable,” she tips her head with a wink.

“What about this Joel, then?” you ask curiously, “He a monster or something?” Annie laughs, clutching her sides. “Not at all. Joel’ll take good care of you, I know it,” she says. “He just takes a little warming up to, I suppose,” she muses, turning away, and you’re left wondering about the mysterious older Miller.

You know the way your luck tends to turn out: you’ll be stuck with him, whether you like it or not.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Morning comes round too quickly for your liking. The alarm batters your ears, fingers fumbling to shut it off, wanting nothing more than to burrow back down in to the covers and sleep some more. You’ve got a promise to keep. It’s Annie’s instant hospitality and gentle eyes that push you out of bed, heading into the bathroom that desperately needs a remodel.

The weather here is no joke. You can see your breath in the air as you eat a modest breakfast of Cheerios - you may have hot water, but the heating system had packed up before you arrived.

You think, fleetingly, of your warm apartment back in the city, the job you’d struggled up the ladder for five years at, the ex who left you for someone six years younger.

You decide you wouldn’t trade this for anything; determined to make a go of it. You’re stood on the precipice of a new decade in your life. Another chance, a fresh start. Small town life had wormed its way inside you in the space of a week, the slower pace of it all bringing you more peace you’d felt in a long while.

The house would take some dedication, but you’d get it there. With or without money. You were no quitter - not that anyone had raised you that way. You’d made sure of it yourself.

Wrapped in an old boyfriend’s college sweater and two scarves, soon enough you’re in the cab of the truck, grimacing as it shudders to life. Another expense you won’t be able to afford if it gives up on you.

You turn the radio up to distract yourself, Fleetwood Mac reverberating round the truck. Your favourite. You hum softly as you follow the wooden signs for Miller’s Farm; passing adorable storefronts, statues in the town centre, a quaint church and several cafes, a few patrons spilling into the leaf-strewn streets.

The sky is a freezing cold blue, the sun rising sleepily over the horizon. You leave the town behind as you follow a single-track road downhill, through white gates that lead you towards the farm. The house to the right is a gorgeous building: weathered, uneven and rustic.

On your left, you see a field sloping down from the thick green of a forest, rows and rows of trees standing to attention side-by-side. Turning left into the designated parking lot, you switch the ignition off, taking in the views.

You’re nervous: something you didn’t wholly expect. The lot is a little empty, before you remember it’s a weekday, kids in schools and people at jobs. You must be one of the only customers, which you hope will make your search a little easier. Annie’s words come back to you: Joel just takes a little warming up to. Sure. You’re gonna grab the first fucking tree you see and head out.

Heading over to the wooden outbuilding with a ‘Reception’ sign nailed to it, you notice it’s a working farm too. Cattle make themselves heard in a barn behind the house, and for a moment you’re overcome by the serenity of it all, the way something in your breath hitches. How at home you feel.

Your reverie is interrupted, however, by a voice. “Mornin’, ma’am,” come the honeyed tones, and you turn to be faced by what can only be described as a denim lover’s wet dream.

He has beautiful curls dripping to his shoulders, twinkling eyes and a mischievous countenance, walking towards you with a grin. He looks a little older than you, and he’s gorgeous. Tommy, you assume. “Hi there,” you sing, “I was hoping to purchase a Christmas tree?” you try for a smile.

“Well, I’m sure hopin’ you’re not lookin’ for Easter eggs,” he jokes, and you feel yourself laughing, at ease already. “‘m Tommy Miller,” he introduces himself, holding out a hand for you to shake.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Tommy checks you in, tells you the trees have numbered tickets and explains the process in full. He teases you mercilessly for being a city girl, and you bite back at his Levi’s ensemble. The conversation flows easily, and you find you don’t want it to end.

“So, now you can head out and take your pick. That is, if you’re up to the challenge,” he winks, and you feel yourself melting just a little. “I’m sure I’ll be just fine,” you assure him, equally flirtatious. Why not? It’s fun. “‘F ya want, I could come with ya. Make sure you’re not leavin’ without the best,” he continues, and you shrug, biting back an instant yes.

“Is this the service you usually offer?” you tease. Before he can respond, the radio on his hip crackles to life. Something about a calf being stuck in the river over the way, and you see Tommy’s brow furrow, serious for the first time since you’d met him.

“Sorry, darlin’. Gonna have to take a rain check. I’d ask my brother to go, but his back ain’t doin’ too good,” he mutters, and you feel your heart sink just a little. “It’s okay. I’ll be alright here,” you reassure him.

He grins and pulls his phone out; asking you for your number, if you’d like to go out with him some time. The transaction is almost successful, until a gruff voice comes from behind you.

“Tommy? You plannin’ on pullin’ your damned finger out today?” you hear as Tommy flushes, and a man who could only be the elder Miller brother materialises next to you, bow saw in hand.

“With a customer, Joel,” he says through gritted teeth, nodding at you. “I can see that. Apologies, young lady,” Joel addresses you, and for a moment you forget your words. Christ. If Tommy was handsome, he’s nothing compared to him.

Joel Miller is broader than his brother, thick shoulders, barrel chest and burly arms snug in his tan jacket. The same dark curls; but his are much shorter, messy, threaded with grey. His eyes are harder, framed by the intense crease between his brow and the scowl painted on his face. His jaw is sharp and littered with scruff, nose angular and beautiful. Something coils warm in your belly at the sight of him but dissipates quickly. He’s chewing his lip angrily, like he wants to take off imminently. Not get stuck here, with you.

“Tommy? Bill can’t manage it on his own,” Joel implores, after a beat. “Yeah, I heard ya,” his brother grumbles, hand lightly on your arm as he sweeps past you. “You let him know if you need any assistance, alright? Bark’s worse’n his bite. Hope to see ya real soon,” eyes twinkling again as he strides off in the opposite direction. Leaving just you and Joel. In silence.

“Well, I’ll just be outta-“ you start as Joel nods awkwardly. “Right,” he mumbles, before taking a moment to study you properly. You feel yourself subconsciously draw yourself up to your full height, straightening your shoulders. “So - would ya - do ya need assisting?” he asks finally, teeth in that full bottom lip again.

You’re trying not to laugh at his obvious discomfort as his fingers twitch at his sides. “Something tells me you’re not usually customer-facing,” you say lightly, and Joel shrugs. “Tommy handles all of that stuff. You can usually find me out there,” he thumbs over to the trees beyond.

“‘m just good with my hands,” he adds, now holding them in front of him as if to illustrate his point. They’re huge, calloused; silver scars decorating his knuckles. You drag your eyes away, clearing your throat.

“I don’t doubt it, Mr Miller,” you smile as he pulls his gloves on. “None’a that. Mr Miller makes me feel older’n I already am,” he says, shaking his head, and for the first time you’re struck by how old he actually might be. Fifty? Older? Not that it bothers you. Quite the opposite.

“Y’know what you’re looking for?” He asks, turning away from you to nod at a staff member hanging around the makeshift till point. “Oh, yeah. Your brother took care of me,” you say sweetly, enjoying the way his eyes roll. “Sounds just like Tommy,” he comments wryly, before pointing in two directions in front of you, “Pines to the left, firs on the right.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You head for the sea of green ahead, boots crunching in the frost. The smell is overwhelming; heady and lush. There’s a serene silence settling as you wander deeper, something you’re certain is usually not to be found here. In your mind’s eye, you can see the families, the dad with a kid on his shoulders, pulling at his hair and babbling for the biggest tree. The moms with their baby in a sling, choosing just the right one for their first Christmas with their newborn. The fresh young couple, red-faced and excited, starting up a new tradition in their first home. It makes you smile.

You wander for half an hour, not entirely sure what you’re looking for. The trees are comforting, statuesque and non-moving. Beautiful to look at, a calming presence. Perhaps not entirely unlike the man who keeps them this way, you think to yourself as you round the corner and - yelp in surprise, colliding into something thick and solid, face smushed into it, into him.

“Jesus, girl!” Joel peels you off of him and holds your shoulders firmly. “You tryna give me a goddamn heart attack?” he says incredulously, eyebrows in his hairline. “It’s not like I meant to walk into you,” you spit back with a little more venom than you intended. You watch as Joel’s lips quirk in a smirk, something like respect settling in his eyes.

“No, I guess you didn’t,” he concedes, folding his thick forearms across his chest. “You gettin’ on okay?” he asks, and you shrug. “Not to be rude, but aren’t they all kinda… the same?” you gesture around you, and he chuckles; a deep, warm noise.

“To some people,” he nods, “others can be very specific about what they’re wantin’. This your first time choosin’?” he asks, and your shoulders roll again. “Uh, I guess so. Didn’t do much of this growing up,” you admit, deciding this guy doesn’t deserve your trauma dump. Joel, to his credit, doesn’t push you; instead explaining the measurements, asking the rough size of the space you have in your home for the tree.

“It’s not for me,” you admit, and tell him the story of your recent move here, your neighbour and how this is a favour to her. The crease in his brow furrows as you go on, before he holds up a hand to stop you. “Where’d you say you lived?” he asks, and you narrow your eyes jokingly. “I didn’t. I don’t make a habit of giving out my address to strange men I just met.”

Joel turns to face you, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips again. It cracks open something in your chest, makes your heart flutter. He’s devastating to look at. “Very good, sweetheart,” he drawls, and you try your best to ignore the swooping feeling in your belly at the name. “‘m only askin’ because I think I know who you’re talkin’ about,” he says, “wouldn’t be Annie Harris, would it?”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joel sticks with you after that; knows the exact kind of tree you need, measurements and all. He tells you stories of Annie and Roy, how they’d been coming here for years. “After Roy passed.. I mean, we tried to help Annie any way we could, but I guess you got the measure of her already,” he says fondly, and you agree, remembering her words from last night. Friends in the town tried to help, but I was too proud. It makes your heart ache.

“She must’ve seen somethin’ special in you,” Joel says, shooting you that lopsided smile. “Well, she wouldn’t be the first,” you tease, determined to crack the stoic nature of this man, quietly observing the way he’s carrying tension in his shoulders.

You think of Tommy’s comments about his back, wondering what the cause is. What you wouldn’t give to have him spread out beneath you; running your hands lightly over those broad shoulders, fingers carefully rubbing out the knots. Your mind drifts to the noises he’d make; whether he’d moan, if it’d rumble through his chest..

“Hey, no wanderin’,” Joel’s voice calls you back to him, realising you’d turned a left fork without even knowing. The authority in his tone makes you want to clamp your thighs together, especially after the vision you’d just seen. “It’s not like it would’ve been hard to find me,” you tell him, gesturing to the fact it was just the two of you in the great open space. Joel rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue, falling in step beside you.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You want to know more about the farm; the gorgeous building you’d seen across the road. He tells you how it’d been in the family for generations now, he and Tommy continuing on best they could. The Christmas tree aspect was a much later addition, the commercialisation of it all not something that Joel was particularly fond of. “So you’re just a salt of the earth kinda guy, huh?” you ask, and he huffs in annoyance.

“I like my cows,” he shrugs, the two of you reaching the fenced-off entrance to another part of the farm. “They’re quiet, and do what they’re told,” he adds, stopping to turn to you. You feel hot under his gaze; his eyes assessing, stripping you.

You swallow, blinking back at him, hoping your knees don’t buckle. He’s turning the tables on you; there’s no mistaking his tone. It’s laced with the promise of something more. You think he likes what he sees when he looks at you. It’s fucking hot.

“Morning, Joel!” a voice calls out, ice water over the blistering heat between you. “Mornin’, Frank,” Joel clears his throat, waving a hand toward the smiling man behind the gate, pushing a barrow full of chopped wood.

You watch as Joel reaches deftly for the lock on the gate to the paddock beyond; something he’s obviously done a thousand times before. He stows a set of keys in his pocket, something small falling into the dewy grass without him noticing.

“Hey, Joel..” you begin as he turns around, bending down to retrieve it. A string threaded with beads, letters you can’t make out. A friendship bracelet? “That’s cute,” you say as you hand it over, biting back a smile. “Oh, yeah,” he clears his throat. “My daughter Sarah, she made it for me. She’s crazy for Taylor Swift,” he tells you.

Interesting, you think to yourself. You’ve already decided that Joel is the reserved type, yet there’s a twinkle in his eye - just like his younger brother’s - at the mention of his kid. You hadn’t noticed a ring on his left hand before, and wonder how you can find out if he’s spoken for.

Your phone buzzes with a text: you tap the screen to see it’s from Tommy. Nice to meet u, hope my brother didn’t give u too much trouble. Let me know about that drink. Watching Joel stride ahead, now, you’re not sure you will.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“How old is your daughter?” you pry gently as he leads you towards rows of fir trees. “Thirteen,” he smiles, “and she’s always braggin’ about growin’ up here on the farm, just like Taylor did. Or, so she tells me,” he continues gruffly, and you find yourself laughing. “She sounds great,” you say, and you mean it. “She is,” he agrees, before continuing on, twisting his gloved hands over.

“My other daughter.. Not a fan. But she’s just as great,” he says as he holds his hand out, helping you cross a ditch. Butterflies erupt in your gut as you notice the size difference; his glove swallowing yours whole. “Other daughter?” you ask lightly, inviting him to spill more. “Yup, that’d be my Ellie. Same age. Not twins,” he says simply, and you’re not satisfied.

“Care to expand?” you grin mischievously, and he rolls his eyes. “I, uh, adopted her. She’s mine, for all intents and purposes,” he hums, and you feel something warm and syrupy seeping through your bones. Joel’s turning out to be all heart, huh? Who knew. “‘S kinda a long story,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck absently.

“I’d like to hear it. Y’know, eventually,” you tell him as he finally comes to a stop in front of a particular tree, checking it over and crouching down.

You take note of the fact he said his daughter is his, not ours. Definitely single. “Too goddamn old to be doin’ all of this,” he grunts from below you, mostly to himself as his head vanishes underneath the branches. “My back went to pieces the moment I hit my late twenties,” you offer sympathetically.

Joel resurfaces, straightens up beside you, and you don’t miss the way his gaze tracks for a second on the curve of your ass, your legs. “You ‘n me both,” he murmurs, the register of his voice so low; pure velvet rolling off his tongue, your toes curling.

“You’re falling apart,” you joke, jabbing his forearm. Joel’s tongue pokes his cheek in annoyance, arms folded in front of you. “I’m the wrong side of fifty, and my hearin’ ain’t too good in my right ear. That’s about it,” he informs you curtly, but you notice him beating back a smile.

Joel calls Frank over, introducing the two of you and explaining that they’ll drop the tree to Annie’s place after closing time, no purchase necessary and free of charge. You try to argue and let him know you’re more than capable, but Joel won’t hear it.

“‘S the least I can do. Besides, can’t have you takin’ all the credit for pickin’ the best one,” he smirks. You say your goodbyes to Frank, and you expect that this is where you’ll part ways with Joel, despite the fact you really don’t want to.

“I can, uh, walk ya to your truck. If you’d like,” he says, his impressive shoulders rolling in his jacket as he shrugs. You bite back a grin, trying to play it equally as cool. You like Joel Miller. He’s guarded, sure. But the layers are peeling off of him willingly; he’s funny, knowledgable, and you can tell he cares about Annie.

Hell, there’d be worse people to have as a real friend in this town. It’s just a total bonus that he’s sinfully beautiful. Right?

You meander slowly back to the parking lot, Joel quietly asking what’s brought you to Oakwood Ridge. He’s a good listener; so much so that you end up spilling more than you need to, the flow of your life trickling freely. You apologise, but he shakes his head, urges you on, nods here and there.

“I feel like.. I just want to be rooted somewhere, y’know? All my life, I’ve moved around with my mom, boyfriend after boyfriend. No solid foundations, no real friendships. Even in the city, as I got older.. It just never felt like home. I’m not even sure what home is supposed to feel like,” you admit, tapping the hood of your truck as you both come to a stop beside it.

“Think it means somethin’ a little different to everyone. Might not be a place, could just be a feelin’,” Joel surmises. “Home for me is bein’ with my girls on a Sunday, makin’ pancakes,” he smiles at you, so genuine it could bring you to tears.

“For Tommy, though? Probably someone else’s bed,” he chuckles, eyes twinkling. You hit him lightly on the arm.

“Tommy asked me out for a drink, you know,” you tell him, eyebrows raised. “You gonna go?” he asks, and you’re acutely aware of the small space between you, a threshold you could so easily cross. “Depends,” you grin, “I’ve got no other offers on the table right now.” Joel looks at his feet, shuffles a little from side to side.

“Pretty girl like you? ‘f ya want my advice, don’t waste your time on my brother,” he chews into his lip, and you feel desire bloom in your belly at the notion of him finding you pretty.

He opens the driver’s door for you, and you hop in and turn the key. The truck wheezes, groans, and promptly dies. You feel your face screw up, scrubbing a hand over your eyes. You turn it again; nothing. Just a deadly ticking noise. Joel taps lightly on the window, grimacing. “Forgive me, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re goin’ anywhere fast in that.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Of course. Of course, your phone is dead too. You’d fallen asleep promptly last night, belly full of a warm dinner, and totally forgotten to charge it. You couldn’t even call for a tow truck even if you wanted to: Joel hands you his dented mobile, to find he has zero signal.

“Sorry. I don’t use it much, truth be told,” he says, running a hand through the scruff along his jaw. You notice his lockscreen; him and two girls, who must be Ellie and Sarah.

“That’s very sweet,” you offer, tapping the screen as you hand it back over to him. “Yeah, well,” he says gruffly. “They made me set it as my wallpaper,” he shrugs, but you note the way his lips twitch in a grin as he points each daughter out to you.

Sarah has his eyes; she’s taller, cuddled into her dad’s right side as he grips her shoulder. Ellie’s on his left, on her tiptoes, tongue out cheekily as she poses with her sister and father as he pulls her in.

The orange hue over them mirrors the happiness emanating from the shot, the same warm feeling echoing in your heart. “They’re gorgeous, Joel,” you tell him.

“I’d just had keys cut for Ellie,” he says, explaining why they’re dangling from his hand over her shoulder, “We went for dinner to celebrate, y’know? She was ours for keeps.”

It’s a picture of perfect peace; a proud father with two daughters who know just how loved they are. Something you never had.

“I bet they keep you in check,” you laugh. “Yup. My two little big bosses,” Joel agrees, stuffing his phone back in his pocket. “Anyway. Long old way for you to get back, ‘f you’re walkin’,” he murmurs, big hand smacking the hood of your useless truck.

“Can’t even call Tommy for help,” you giggle, patting your pocket where your equally useless phone lies. Joel’s eyes narrow a little; you find that it pleases you, wondering why he doesn’t like the idea of his brother giving you a ride home. “Come on, princess,” he tuts, “I’m takin’ you home.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

You study Joel’s side profile as he drives, hands sure and steady on the wheel. Thick fingers, large forearms, strong nose, eyes fringed with dark lashes. You can see a little collarbone, smooth skin, a neck you want to sink your teeth into. Curls of chest hair, creeping over his shirt just so.

Joel tells you that he and Tommy can look to fix up your truck tomorrow, that he’ll call you. If he can get your number. You tell him you’ll think about it, flash him a wink, enjoy his pursed lips in response. “How’re you findin’ the house?” he asks, and you feel yourself slump a little.

“It needs a lot of love, but I’m in for the long haul, y’know? There’s a lot that needs doing. I wish I could completely renovate the downstairs,” you say wistfully, watching as the pretty streets flash by the window. “Well, I’m also a contractor on the side, ‘f ya need a little help,” Joel tells you as you see the house coming into view.

“Joel Miller. Jack of all trades, master of…” you tease, and Joel chuckles: that noise again, the one that slides down your spine and bubbles in your stomach. “Everybody loves contractors,” he says, pulling up outside and turning to face you. “I’m sure they do,” you say quietly, “but not everyone can afford them.”

Joel holds your gaze for a beat; chewing over his words, eyes wide and beautiful. “How about.. You buy me a drink, and I’ll take a look at remodellin’ your kitchen. Sound fair?” he asks, and you find yourself grinning. “I don’t need your pity, Joel,” you say kindly, touched that he’d be willing to do that for you.

“Never said you did. I’d like to take you out,” he says softly, and your blood is singing at the prospect. You want to be taken out by Joel; maybe he could bring you home again, fingertips straying under your skirt, over the buttons of your shirt, cab full of messy kisses and impatient groans.

“We’ll see what you can come up with for the kitchen first. I might want my bathroom done, too,” you tease him, and Joel just shrugs. “Like I said, angel. ‘m good with my hands.”

And boy, if you don’t believe him.

oh yeahhhh

SAFE AND SOUND. coriolanus snow

description. coriolanus has finally received the life he deserved. and he will do anything to keep it.

includes. 17+ fem!coded reader (clothing wise) but no pronouns, dark!coriolanus, allusions to being robbed, allusions to non-con (absolutely no non-con involved), controlling!coriolanus, sex, spitting in mouth, pet names !!, possessive!coryo, breeding kink, slight pregnancy kink, manipulation

wc. 1.2k+

a/n: this is a req that got out of hand so it's a full fic now yay !

Coriolanus has finally gotten the life he believed he deserved.

He has an apartment on the Corso not far from his childhood home, yet it's like he's entered an entirely new world. No water damage along the ceilings and walls, there's no need for rat poison that could harm either himself or you, the bathroom walls aren't chipped for tesserae for his shirts. Instead, everything is pristine, the four walls showcasing a perfect harmony between you two.

He has a spot at the University, he studies under Doctor Gaul, his voice matters when it comes to the making of the Games. 

And most importantly, he has you.

Someone by his side who trusts him, and in turn he trusts them. Someone to play with his hair late at night and style it back to perfection in the morning. Someone to come home to in the evenings, smelling like the finest of meats prepared by the cook and not like cabbage prepared in order to suffice.

You're always there, standing in the kitchen with a book, wearing a pretty outfit that Coriolanus always compliments. Of course he liked them. He was the one to buy them, even going as far as to alter everything to fit you perfectly.

The bum of your bottoms always fit snug. The hem of your dresses and skirts were always low. The sleeves of every top and sweater stopped at the wrist, as to not cover the ring that would soon be on display on your left hand.

Coriolanus has everything he could ever want. and he's not going to let it get away from him.

"I was thinking about going out next week maybe. There are a few girls I see in the gym and they invited me out for lunch." You tell him in the bathroom, sitting on the counter while Coriolanus brushes his teeth.

He's staring at his own reflection as you speak, but he can clearly see how nervous you are from his peripheral vision. You're playing with your nails, starting to dig into the small chip in the polish that Coriolanus noticed this morning. He wants to tell you to stop, but his mouth is full of toothpaste foam.

Coriolanus doesn't respond until he's spat into the sink and rinsed his mouth out. "Really?" It's all he says at first, prompting you to lift your head to look at him as he approaches you. He stands just a few feet in front of you, and your legs instantly part to welcome him in.

You've been well trained.

While he hadn’t disagreed outright, you still respond as if he has. 

"Why not, Coryo?" Your head tilts and your eyes watch him. The pair shines in the white light in the bathroom, making you appear even more pretty and innocent. His to contort into whatever image he desires. And right now, he wants someone to always be there for him.

His hand cups your cheek. "I mean you can. It's just ..." He takes a second, pretending to be hesitant enough to make you ask him to speak. "It's dangerous out there, my star. Just yesterday, a woman was attacked by two strangers. they robbed her, my love. I just wouldn't want that to happen to you."

He catches sight of himself in the mirror behind you and his face is a perfect mixture of sadness and worry. He has to fight off the smile that threatens to spread across his lips.

You rest your hand over his, leaning even more into his embrace as you turn your head and press a kiss into his palm. "I'll be careful."

He internally sighed, already upset since he was going to have to take matters into his own hands. Still, he says, "promise?"

Your smile almost makes him reconsider. Almost.

"Promise."

When you're in bed later the same night, slipping off into a peaceful rest, Coriolanus slides out from your embrace and makes his way to the living room. He dials a number he never thought he would need to use, speaks the directions clearly into the receiver, makes an arrangement for payment, and then hangs up only to go back to you. You snuggle further into his side, humming gratefully with no idea of what's to come.

Coriolanus comes home earlier the next day, prompted by your almost hysterical tears on the other end of the phone. He reaches your shared apartment quickly, letting you run into his arms without truly caring about the tears that stain his pristine shirt.

When he asks you what happened, he sits there patiently as you walk him through it. He sees it all in his head: you in your pretty dress with your hair and makeup completed for the day, heading out of the apartment complex to meet your friends. Only getting five minutes down the street before some men pulled you into an alleyway, holding a knife a respectable distance from your body (Coriolanus had made sure of that with threats that were prepared to be filled) as they forcibly took the purse from your arm. You walk him through the fear in your body, the terror racing through your mind, and how you desperately wanted to see him one more time, still intact with your purity, still having the ability to choose who you open your legs for. 

Only him.

"It's okay now. You're safe with me. I won't let anyone hurt you." The words spill so easily from Coriolanus' mouth that he even believes them himself. Because although your afternoon of fright was his doing, he had not let anyone hurt you. Your body was still as pure and beautiful as it was last night, and the night before that. You still possess your autonomy, and you choose to use it now.

Pressing your lips into Coriolanus'. Letting him lead you back to your bedroom. Allowing him to take your clothes off of your body and thanking him throughout, satisfied that the man you trusted with your entire being was the one doing this to you.

And while he rocks his hips into yours, pushing you up the bed with strong thrusts, he whispers promises into your ear.

"I could never hurt you, my star. I'll always protect you. you know that, right? As long as you're with me, nothing could ever hurt you." And when you've nodded and agreed with his affirmations, he adds on to them. "Would never let our child be hurt either. Would you like that? Having a baby of our own?"

You're fucked out, still attempting to subdue the remnants of adrenaline that coursed through your body. You seem confused for a second, perhaps wondering how you'd gotten here, but you agree after a second.

"Yes, Coryo," spoken in a whine as you arch your back, your hand wrapping around Coriolanus' forearm. He slips a free hand between your legs, probing your already full entrance with his fingertips. He starts to stretch you out even more, and your hiss melts into a whine. Your mouth falls open, with a gasp, and Coriolanus stares stares deep into your eyes. He purses his lips, and a drop of saliva falls into your cavern.

It's not until you've closed your mouth and your throat has bobbed with a swallow that he continues:

"Yeah? You want me to put a baby in you? Fill you up? I think you would look so pretty like that, baby." The use of the pet name has you mewling. It's one Coriolanus only pulls out for times like this, when he's fucking you to the point where you're no doubt close to seeing stars.

Eventually he can't help how his words start to reveal his true motives. "It'll give you something to do, my love. Keep you busy in the house. You'll never have to go out again. You'll never have to worry about being attacked again. Just keep you inside of here. Safe and sound."

HAUNTING YOUR BED. mike schmidt

description. you, mike, and abby bake a chocolate cake and mike gets to taste it from your lips

→ pt 2 to nothing real

includes. GN! reader (i think), simp mike, abby !!!!, fluff galore, more pining, more domesticity, kissing, one boner mention

wc: 2.2k+

a/n: finally wrote a pt 2 to something who would've thought. title from haunt//bed

When Mike opens the door, he’s too tired to see straight. 

His shift ended earlier than he originally anticipated and since he’d clocked out, his body was begging for a shower and sleep. Maybe even just sleep, depending on how comforting his bed looked. If he could tolerate it, maybe even a few bites of a frozen meal. 

This is his original plan. 

But somehow due to the sleep induced haze, Mike had forgotten that you were babysitting Abby tonight. Not the sitter that had taken your place for a couple of nights, completely incomparable to you to the point where Mike didn’t even waste his time. Abby, though, spent a solid ten minutes each night complaining about the temporary sitter and another five minutes longing for you. 

(Mike felt the same but he would never let Abby know lest he wanted you to find out within 2 business days) 

So truthfully, whenever Mike opens the door, he’s too tired to see straight, and then as soon as he steps into his home, his vision clears up just enough to see you in the kitchen and his body introduces a burst of energy spurred on by your light squeal and suddenly he can tolerate an hour spent with you and Abby. 

“Shit!” your swear shocks Abby as much as it does Mike, the word foreign to his ears from your mouth but it sounds completely natural when you say it. It’s small, a tiny detail, but it reminds Mike that he doesn’t know you. At least, not the you that exists out of the four walls of the Schmidt household. 

He doesn’t know what you wear when you’re not babysitting, or what your nonprofessional personality is like. He’s sure you’re more or less the same, but for some reason, Mike wants to consider the opposite. 

Despite his rampant overthinking, Abby points at the jar sitting on the end table towards the entrance of the home. 

“Swear jar!” she alerts you. Or maybe it’s more of a command. Either way, you shamefully step away from the counter, wipe your hands on the apron you wear, and start to walk out of the kitchen. 

Mike guesses you’re heading for your purse, which he assumes is most likely sitting on the bench in front of the window where it usually is. Your plans are halted when you’re made aware of Mike’s presence, and when you say “oh”, Mike feels like he’s living his days over again. 

Just a few weeks ago, a similar circumstance, a similar feeling. 

Mike touches his hair at the memory, hoping it’s long enough to warrant another cut from you, but it’s the perfect length and he drops his hand. 

“Hey,” he greets you first, trying to remain calm and behave how he usually does. But suddenly he doesn’t know how to. Does he usually say ‘hey’? Or has he been saying ‘hi’ this entire time and didn’t realize it? Maybe even ‘hello’? 

You seem to care less about that than Mike does, greeting him back casually and then continuing your journey to your purse. Mike watches as you dig around in it for a second, pull a dollar out, and then slide it through the created slip in the top of the mason jar. 

Then, you reenter the kitchen and Mike suddenly realizes that time has been moving around him and he’s been stuck between it all, too enamored by you engaging in minute movements to do so himself. 

He throws his keys in the bowl and slips his shoes off. 

“What’s uh …” He steps into the kitchen, attempting to get a glimpse at what Abby is doing. She’s staring down at the counter, standing on a small step stool that makes her a lot taller than the counter instead of being a few inches off. “What’s going on in here?” 

Abby turns around, and Mike gets a glimpse of a big plastic bowl in front of her, along with the carton of eggs, the jug of vegetable oil, and a cake mix box. 

If he needs even more clarification, Abby happily declares: “We’re making a cake!” 

“But I dropped the shells into the bowl.” Which explains your out of character swearing. 

Initially, Mike’s upset. His logical (grumpy, in Abby’s words) side comes out and he’s thinking about how at least two eggs that could’ve been used for breakfast has gone down the drain and cake provides no nutritional value so not only is Abby going to be hungry, she’s also going to be bouncing off the walls from the sugar intake. 

His thoughts show on his face, just like they always do, and then Mike is looking over at you from where you’re grabbing the whisk out of the drawer and your head lifts. “But I dropped the shells into the bowl,” you add, initially oblivious to Mike’s inner turmoil. Your mishap explains your out of character swearing, and Mike would comment on it but instead he’s trying to make his face neutral. 

But you see it, the exhaustion and slight frustration and worry. 

You send him a smile that’s nothing more than one side of your lips pulling into your cheek, pronouncing the apple of it that presents a complimentary color to your skin tone. You look … upset? Are you upset? 

Mike can’t tell and this makes him feel worse. 

He decides that instead of pouting and grumbling about it, he unzips his jacket, throws it onto the kitchen table, rolls the sleeves of his thermal up, and then steps to join you two. 

“Let me help.” 

Mike ends up wearing a pink apron that he knows for sure does not belong to the Schmidt household. At least, it didn’t whenever he left for work. 

Mike attempts to hide his surprise whenever Abby excitedly tells him that you brought the apron for him. His eyebrows lift, he looks over at you, and you’re suddenly really focused on the written instructions on the back of the cake box even though they really are incredibly simple. 

“Really? She did?” 

Abby hums and Mike hopes you’ll look over at him, but you don’t, instead gnawing on your bottom lip and squinting as you concentrate even harder. 

“Mm. It’s cute. I like it.” And that’s when you lift your eyes, sending them over to Mike to give him a quick once over. 

“It suits you,” you compliment, just before putting the box down and grabbing the cake pan. 

Some time has passed. The cake has been baked, decorated (white frosting with pink, green, and yellow swirls from Abby), and eaten with slightly freezer burnt ice cream. Abby has pouted when Mike declared one giant slice was enough for her. 

The shower has turned on and off, Abby has run into the living room to give you a hug and say goodnight, and now comes the part that Mike hates the most. 

He’s still tired, maybe minutely more energetic from the sugary cake, but his body is still begging for a good rest. Yet, he doesn’t want you to leave. 

You start to grab your things, jacket pulled back on, purse thrown over your shoulder. Just before you can slip your shoes on, Mike stands from his spot on the recliner. 

“Do you want another slice?” He gestures lamely at the cake on the kitchen table. “We can’t eat this all on our own and I refuse to let Abby try.” 

A small laugh from you as you shake your head. “No, it’s okay. Abby should be able to enjoy the fruits of her labor.” 

“She’ll enjoy it too much until she has a cavity and I have a dentist bill.” A pause where your eyes shift over to the cake, then back to Mike. 

“I really don’t want to overstay my welcome.” 

“If that’s what you’re worried about then you’ve got it all wrong.” Mike replies as he walks to the cabinets, pulling out two small plates and then two forks right beneath it. He slices the cake, the pieces almost proportionate but you seem to have gotten just a bit more. 

Maybe it’ll take you longer to eat and Mike will be in your presence for just a bit more. 

It’s silent for just a few moments before you’re talking about everything and nothing all at the same time. 

Raves about the cake the three of you made turns into reminiscing about the triple chocolate cake they used to serve at Sparky’s before they underwent new management. The talk of new management turns into you ranting to Mike about the manager at your day job and Mike listens intensely, thrilled to have a new piece of information to add to the puzzle of your life. When you apologize, a little shy and maybe even embarrassed, Mike shakes it off instantly. 

“Don’t apologize for speaking your mind,” he tells you. You joke about the line being poetic and Mike finds himself revealing that he used to write teenage angst poetry in his bedroom at night. When you laugh, it’s not as if you’re belittling him, it’s different. Light, airy, filled with enthusiastic shock and a little bit of wonder. 

It makes him laugh, too, and for a moment he forgets that his sister is sleeping just down the hall. 

You both seem to remember at the same time, laughter tapering off into small intakes of air and then fizzling off completely in the vibrant night air. 

He glances at the clock on the wall. 

10:47. 

“It’s getting late,” Mike thinks out loud. 

When he turns back to you, you look a little sadder. “I guess I should get going then, yeah?” 

Shit. Mike wants the opposite. He wants you to stay over for the night. He’ll take the couch if it means you’ll take his bed. He wonders if the small space would smell like you afterwards. He pictures you sleeping in his clothes, forced to wear them instead of the jeans and sweater you wear now. 

He’s thinking too far ahead. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

You stand anyway, taking a final bite of your cake before you set the fork down. There’s still a tiny piece left, waiting for you, just as Mike is. 

He stands too. 

“No, it’s okay. You have work in the morning and I shouldn’t be on the road this late anyway.” Your jacket is zipped up, your purse is back over your shoulders. 

Mike says your name, firm despite the low volume. It’s vulnerable, a plea almost. It stops you, makes you look at him with wide and wondering eyes. 

It’s on him now. He’s the one who has to speak. 

He takes a breath. He licks his lips. 

“I would like it if you stayed. Honest.” 

His admission has weight to it. The words are that of a concerned friend, but the way his hands nervously play with his jeans and the way his eyes bounce around the room with your frame as a continuous anchor says much more than the eight words could have. 

Your voice just barely shakes when you speak. “Tell me I’m reading this wrong.” 

He shakes his head. “You’re not.” 

In the nervous energy that rakes through Mike’s body, it’s unclear to him who moves first. All he knows is one moment he’s staring into your eyes, and then the next his lips are against yours. 

The kiss is soft, nothing more than the lengthened press of lips against lips. His hand cradles the side of your face, yours bunches the fabric of his thermal around his bicep. And while it might be nothing objectively, it’s so much to Mike. For him to finally feel your lips against his, rougher than he imagined but even that means something to him. 

It’s euphoric. 

Your lips pull back from each other, but neither of you move. So, Mike is clear this time whenever he initiates, giving you one more safe kiss before he starts moving his lips against yours. Still, it’s polite, just like you deserve. 

His free hand presses into your middle back, pulling your chest into his. He tilts his head just a little for comfort. He’s holding back. 

You, on the other hand, aren’t. 

You pull Mike impossibly closer to you by his shirt, your other hand digging into the short hair at the back of Mike’s head. You turn the kiss into one of more desperation, parting your lips to introduce open mouthed kisses instead, slipping your tongue against his. 

Mike is trying to keep his composure as he reciprocates. He’s trying to muffle his little sounds before they even come out, push them down his throat. But they climb up anyway, jumping from his mouth to yours with the access. 

He can’t control himself whenever your body is pressed against his. He can’t hold back when he tastes the chocolate cake on the tip of your tongue and the mint leftover from the gum you’d been chewing earlier in the night. He presses his hips against yours, shamelessly displaying the tent that’s growing. He runs his hands along your sides and back and hips, feeling every curve he has analyzed with only his eyes from afar. You’re softer up close and it makes Mike want to feel you as you are, devoid of any clothing to cover you. He hopes he’ll get his wish soon. 

You pull away and Mike has to restrain himself from following your lips. 

“If I stay over,” his ears instantly perk up. “Can I wear your plaid pajama pants?” 

The grin he gives you is genuine. It hurts his cheeks and heals his soul. 

“Of course.”