HAUNTING YOUR BED. Mike Schmidt

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.”

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!

can’t believe that the FNAF movie single-handedly multiplied and reawakened the thirst and everyone’s crushes on josh hutcherson. bro played the part of a traumatized pathetic man so good that now we all collectively want 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."

Evermore

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel’s your older boyfriend who your parents had a hard time approving of, but you’re engaged now and spending your first Thanksgiving with your family, and well, it’s always fun doing things you know you shouldn’t do under the roof of your childhood home.

-OR-

The Thanksgiving AU

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: No outbreak AU; Thanksgiving AU; Devoted Joel Miller; Established Relationship; Thanksgiving is the most boyfriend holiday and it needs to be discussed; Fucking in your childhood home shenanigans; Pretty soft and sweet; Needy behavior; Older man/Younger woman; Daddy kink; Unprotected PIV; Creampie; Breeding Kink; Oral sex; Fluff and Smut; Praise Kink; Come eating; PWP

A/N: Was thinking yesterday that Thanksgiving is the most boyfriendy holiday, and so this seemed entirely necessary after that epiphany. I’m sick as an old dog right now, and wrote this so quickly and just for fun. Any and all mistakes are property of my NyQuil induced high, apologies and enjoy and happy holidays :]

Word Count: 4.2K

Read on AO3

“You’re doing so good.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, baby. So, so good. It’s going so well.” You drag your nails slowly up the wide expanse of his strong back, feeling the divots and bumps of his spine, the thick padding of muscles that jump and shiver at your touch. He’d donned the nice green and red plaid button down you’d bought him for tonight, and he’s a little damp at the small of his back, giving away the nerves he’s trying to keep hidden from you, but you can tell anyways, sensed them as if they’d been your own fluttering within you. More attuned to another person than maybe is normal, perhaps, but you know this man, your man, your fiance now. You understand him. 

“You think he likes me?” And his voice goes a little gruff, sheepish, words lodging in his throat as he slowly soaps your mother’s special holiday china in the warm sink water. The two of you’d been relegated to clean up duty after you’d finished the beautiful Thanksgiving meal your mother had spent days readying in preparation for your first official visit with Joel as the man you’d soon marry. No longer just the older boyfriend who your father couldn’t stand to hear about, much less bear the sight of. And the come around had been slow going, undoubtedly, tireless work on yours and your mother’s parts trying to get him to relent, to accept the man who you’d chosen to spend the rest of your life with as a good man for his daughter. 

“Yes– yes. Absolutely. You made him laugh so many times. And he was so interested when you mentioned the house.”

You feel him suck in a shaky breath and move to wrap your arms around the strong breadth of his waist, resting your cheek against him, listening to the thud, thud of his beating heart. “Christ–” He gives a tremulous laugh that you follow suit warmly, palms splaying out over his belly. “He was, wasn’t he?” 

“So interested. Please, don’t worry anymore. My mom loves you, and dad’s on his way there too, I know he is, I promise.”

“He’s just protective,” he says, shutting off the water and pulling the plug on the drain. The both of you stand there in the silence together, listening to the little tornado of water suck away the remnants of the perfect dinner you’d just had with your parents and the man you were going to marry. It really had been perfect, and you’re telling him the truth when you say you really do think your father’s coming around. He’d been apprehensive at first, more than apprehensive, perhaps, with Joel being so much older than you, twenty years to be exact. And with a teenage daughter of his own, Sarah, who was spending the holiday with her mother. 

Your mother had always been the easy going one, and she’d taken one look at Joel, the dark, silver threaded curls, the thick shoulders and sparkly, hazel eyes, the too charming smile and had immediately understood. Your father had seen all those same things and seen nothing but trouble immediately deserving of mistrust. Things had been rocky for a time, but when Joel had gotten down on one knee and asked you to spend the rest of your life with him and Sarah, when he’d broken ground on the house he was building you with his bare hands from the dirt up out by the lake, well… your father hadn’t been able to withhold his approval for much longer after that was all said and done. 

“And for good reason,” he continues, reaching for the dish towel, drying off his hands before covering yours over his stomach with his wide palms, pulling your arms tighter around him. He brings one of your hands up to his face, cupping his own mouth with it to press a kiss to the tender cove. “The man should take me out back and drag me through the mud,” he mumbles, muffled into your skin, dragging his mouth slowly from side to side, tickling your palm with his whiskers. 

You press yourself harder against him, shoving him into the edge of the counter, dizzy with the feel of your heart beating so hard against your sternum it reverberates against the ribs in his back. “No, baby. Why? Never.” You press a kiss right over the slope of his spine. 

He gives a soft laugh at the feel of your wriggling against him, trying to find friction anywhere and anyway, not very inconspicuously rubbing your breasts against his back, and he turns slowly in the circle of your arms with that humming laugh still caught in his throat, bending slightly at the knees when he wraps his own arms around your waist to pull you up and into him so that your feet are left to dangle above his own heavy boots. He nuzzles at the warm, fragrant skin beneath the edge of your jaw, a small kiss to the tender spot behind your ear, where he whispers, “‘Cause all I could think about at the goddamn table, sittin’ next to your father, was how pretty your tits look in that dress you wore for me – how much I wish I could kiss that pretty pussy to sleep tonight.” 

You whine low, desperate, needy, wrapping your arms behind his neck to press his face tightly to your throat, breath hitching at the feel of his teeth, sharp at your pulse. “Joel–”

He shakes his head slowly, a long stream of sighing breath warm against your collarbone before he says, “I know– I know, baby. I’m telling ya– your father should kill me for the things I wanna do to his little girl. For the things I do to her already.”

The visit had so far been everything you could’ve wished for, and what you’d appreciated more than anything, more than your father’s very approval of your fiance, or your mother’s happiness for you, was that Joel had found the perfect balance between being respectful, ingratiating even, while still remaining uncowed by your father. Walking into your parents home with your hand in his, a deferential kiss to your mother’s cheek, and a strong, self assured handshake for your father while he’d handed him the bottle of his favorite fine aged whiskey and a demure, I’m glad we could make this work for our girl.

Our girl, he’d said, and it had made everything that lived inside of you with his name on it, everything that was perpetually soft and wet for him, go molten. You loved him. You belonged to him. And you’d chosen him for yourself, and he was sure as hell going to make sure everyone the two of you came across knew what that choice entailed, what it meant to him. Your father had been forced into capitulation, all with the whiskey and the self assurance in Joel’s eyes, your own unbridled elation, and your mother’s giggles and blushing smiles like every other woman who’s ever met this man, unable to resist the charm of that Southern twang and the too gorgeous smile, no other recourse had been left to your poor dad. 

You think of this as you make your way on silent tiptoes through your parent’s dark, quiet home. It had been the one concession you’d not garnered from your father, the sleeping arrangements. He’d absolutely refused to allow you and Joel to share a bed under his roof, no questions asked. And no matter how much you’d pleaded and your mother had cooed and cawed and threatened him, he’d not relented. At this point, you were worried he’d not let you sleep in the same bed as Joel even after the two of you’d been married. But what your father didn’t understand, what even you yourself barely understood sometimes was that you needed Joel. You need him. No one, no one except for Joel himself understood how desperately that ran inside of you. He understood you, he always has. 

You pause as you reach the closed door of his bedroom, splaying a palm against the fine grained wood to take a settling breath, your heart beating so fast you feel it in your throat, chock full of excitement, lust, desperate yearning. To have him here, in your childhood home, where you’d been a teenager, a girl, grown into a woman, you want him so, so badly, inside of you, around you, beneath you. You can never sleep without him anymore, no comfort to be found in the too small bed of your childhood – you turn the knob and slip inside. 

The blue darkness of the guest bedroom paints his form in shadows, big under the pretty quilt your mother has adorning the bed. You can see the heavy mass of his shoulder peeking from beneath the edge of the quilt, the ratty gray t-shirt you know has a faded longhorn stretched across the front; not able to sleep naked and wrapped only in you the way he usually does when under your parents roof. You turn the lock and step carefully on tipped toes, avoiding the creaky bits in the hardwood floor you’re so familiar with after a lifetime living in this house and lift the edge of the quilt to slip into the cocoon of warmth with him. Like a living furnace, you snake your arm over his flank slowly, enjoying the shiver and jerk of his muscles as you stroke him awake. Your palm, passing over thick ridged muscles and soft belly, digging beneath to feel the wispy scratch of hair there. 

He makes a deep sound, low in his chest, legs shifting as he comes to wakefulness, and then the gruff murmur of your name being whispered into the dark, his big, callused palm coming to wrap entirely around your fist beneath his t-shirt, keeping you from slipping it inside his sleep pants. “Baby, what’re you doin’?” He slurs, voice full of sleep and slow waking lust. 

You press your pelvis into his backside, hitching your knee up and over his hip to wrap yourself around him like vines. “I need you,” you mewl, baby voice trying to get ahead of his polite refusal before he’s able to get it out. He’d told you, before the two of you’d embarked on this weekend at your parents house, that there was to be no funny business on your part. As if he didn’t know that that was your favorite kind of business where he was concerned. You press a kiss above his scapula, then open your jaw to drag your teeth against the skin warmed cotton. You rub against him, clutching and pulling at his chest and stomach, biting and kissing as much of his back as you can reach, your foot somehow finding its way into his lap so that you can feel his quickly hardening cock against the sensitive arch of your foot. 

He groans roughly. “You’re gonna get us caught, sweet girl,” he tries to protest, but wraps his hand around the little foot in his lap anyways, pressing the arch of it into that half hard erection, rubbing against it. 

“I need you– I can’t sleep without you,” you whine, and he makes a frustrated sound, turning to face you, gripping your knee as he goes to open the cradle of your hips for himself, drawing your leg over his waist so that you’re suddenly chest to chest, sipping on each other’s warm breath. With a fist in your hair he gives you a hardly believable reprimand, little girl, and presses his lips briefly to yours, quick and damp, barely there, like he can’t help himself, like he knows that if he starts he won’t be able to stop, wandering hands already slipping up the hem of your nightgown, squeezing your panty clad ass. 

“Your parents…” he tries again, the roll of his hips against yours, coupled with a hitched whine, making his objections a little laughable.

“Don’t you miss me? Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me here with you?”

“Of course– of course I do–” You twist your fingers in his curls, the first real press of your mouths, his damp upper lip slotting between both of yours so that you can give it a little suck. Then the tip of his tongue touching yours, and you’re opening all the way for him, moaning wantonly into his mouth, letting him lick and taste behind the line of your teeth. “‘Course I want you here, baby.”

“I’ll be good. I’ll be quiet,” you promise. “Please, please, Joel. Please, just–” The hand squeezing your ass slides between your legs, finds the damp plaquet of panties. Fuckin’ soaked already, needy girl. “Please, just fuck me. I’ll be so quiet, I promise.”

“Baby…”

Please, please, please. He’s always had something about him that turns you into nothing more than a wet little girl desperate for the big, big man’s attention. The impropriety of your surroundings has no bearing on this, the desperation is as present as ever, heightened even, maybe, because of the wrongness of it, because you could be caught red handed at any second if you’re not careful, not quiet enough. 

“‘Course I love you so fuckin’ much. You even need to ask?” He rubs the flat of his palm over your pussy, the tip of his middle finger finding the nub of your clit covered by the soaked wet silk to press lightly on each pass forward.

“No, Daddy. I know,” you breathe soft and secret into his mouth, watch the slight widening of his eyes as you say it. You can picture the flush suffusing his cheeks at hearing you call him so, know the effect the sound of it has on him. 

“Fucking Christ,” he murmurs, pulling you tighter against him, tilting your head back by the grip he has on your hair so that he can deepen his kiss, taste you more thoroughly. “Better be quiet while I fuck you.” He pulls back, mock frown and a note of reprimand in his voice as his fingers dip beneath the silk of your panties to find the wet, swollen mess of you already. He moans into your open mouth, your name and I love you and wet fuckin’ pussy as he starts to pet at you slowly. His fingers swirling at your clit and then moving to your opening, dipping inside just a tiny bit, giving you almost nothing, forcing a frustrated whine up your throat. “I said quiet.”

“Please, Daddy. Please,” you beg, but he returns to your clit, ignoring your whining, pinching the bundle of nerves lightly before he’s back to teasing the mouth of your cunt, dipping the tip of a single finger in shallowly to pull your wetness from you and spread it over your mound, slicking you up for him. 

“We’re gonna go nice and slow. Gonna take my pretty cunt nice and slow, and you’re gonna be good for me, aren’t you? Gonna be quiet – not get us caught, right? Say yes.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you whisper, pressing kisses all along his face and jaw and throat, needy fingers twisting in his curls, scratching at the back of his neck and the hills of his shoulders. He make an approving groan of a sound, rolling the two of you over so that you’re on your back, splayed out beneath him, and he pulls the vee of your nightgown down, bearing your breasts to him, sucking on each nipple, first hard then soft, then with teeth and tongue, slicking you in his spit, and you try and stay quiet, you really, really do, but it’s so hard not to cry out at the sight of his jaw hinging wide, seemingly trying to take the whole heavy weight of your breast into his mouth in one go. 

He always has you like he wants you more than anything else in the whole world, like he’s never wanted anything else in his whole life more than he wants you, and nothing feels better than that, nothing makes you crazier for him than the way he wants you so desperately. 

He makes his way down the length of you with kisses to your breasts, your ribs, your belly, the mound of your pelvic bone, before he’s gathering your knees together and bending them to press against your chest, pulling the lace and silk of your panties over the curve of your bottom and diving nose first into your wet cunt, taking in a deep drag of your scent and then dragging the broad, flat of his tongue from your asshole to your clit in one long, slow swipe. The groan he ends on has you almost coming on his tongue just like that, the sound so hungry it would scare someone who doesn’t want to be wanted as badly by this man as you do. And he eats your cunt like he’s angry, like he’s in love with you, like he doesn’t care if you get caught or not. Tongue plunging into your pussy, sucking on your clit, shaking his head, quick and hard, from side to side so that the obscene sound of your wetness against his mouth is all you can hear over the cacophony sounding in your ears right before you gush for him all wet and sweet and sticky, covering his tongue and beard. His lips wrap around your swollen clit again while it still pulses for him, and you have to shove your fist into your mouth, drooling around it to stifle the sound of your cries for his cock while he sucks you into a second painfully fluttery orgasm, your womb cramping hard and tight around nothing, your cunt clutching desperately at air for the cock it’s about to gladly take. The hum of his movements, of his whines and moans, don’t match his promise for nice and slow. They tell you this is going to be hard and deep and might even hurt, and that you’ll like it all the more for that. This is, after all, what you’d snuck in here for, just exactly this. 

He pulls away from your cunt with a loud, wet suck, popping your clit from his puckered mouth like a piece of too ripe, too sweet fruit, before crawling up the length of you, pulling your soaked panties and your nightgown from your body as he goes, shucking his own sweat soaked shirt over his head and kicking his pajama bottoms away. When he takes your mouth again, his face and beard are wet and sticky with your slick, all sweet sugared musk and the angry thrust of his tongue, his fingers, too hard and too tight wrapping around your jaw, grunting into your mouth as he sucks on your tongue. His burning hot cock thrusts between your wet cleft, the sound of your leaking pussy loud enough to be heard over the sound of your mingled panting breaths. You feel him grip himself, stroking once, twice, wide, blunt head bumping against slick soaked skin, before he’s notching at your cunt and shoving in, hard and fast. Not giving you a chance to think about it before he’s bumping at the mouth of your womb, a muted bruise you never tire of; his too big cock that still pinches every time, that presses in just on this side of too deep to always be comfortable, but you don’t care. The proof is in the hurt, and you need constant reminding that he’s real, that this is real. It’s your greatest pleasure, after all, the reassurance of him, of the two of you, and he never tires of giving it to you. You know that giving you the things you need and want from him, turns Joel on more than anything else.

He groans long and low into the crook of your shoulder when he bottoms out and holds there for several drawn out moments, both of you enjoying the pulse and throb of your connection. He’s so deep and you’re so wet for him, taking him so, so well, like he always tells you that you do. You’d felt, from the first moment that you’d laid eyes on him, like you’d been made for him. Put on this earth just for him to find and keep, and doing this, having each other like this, even after all the times you’ve done it, always feels like further proof of it. He grinds against you, hips shifting from side to side, tip bumping against the deepest part of you, before he’s clutching at your ass and flipping the both of you over suddenly, cock never slipping from your tight clutch when he settles you on top of him, buried to the hilt. You feel him in your stomach like this, and you tell him so, little hand coming to rest low on your belly where you’re holding him inside of you, pressing down so that the both of you can feel your connection from the inside out, groaning in tandem all wide and sparkly eyed as you look at each other. And he’s nodding his head at you as you start to shift your hips slowly, feeling the wet slide of his length, the grind of your clit against his pelvis, one hand pressing down on your belly, the other anchoring yourself on his own stomach so that you can rock yourself on him. 

He pulls one of your knees up, resting your foot flat on the bed to open you to his gaze, so that he can watch the way the thick root of his cock splits your cunt open for him to fuck up into. The two of you find your rhythm, you rolling your hips down on his upthrust, and he’s still nodding his head at you, mouthing words made of only air at you while you gasp and gulp for breath, I love you and you’re so pretty and yeah, ride that cock, baby. All you can do in return is mumble his name at him over and over again, Joel, Joel, Joel, nonsensical. Your brain doesn't work when he’s got his cock wedged this deep inside of you, it just doesn’t.

There's sweat pooling in the divots of his collarbones, the sun grizzled notch of his throat, and you fold over forward, changing the angle, deepening it, to lick up those little pools of salt, sucking on his neck until he’ll surely have incriminating bruises tomorrow. You don’t care, not even a little bit. He’s so yours in this moment, always really, but right now, Joel feels so, so incredibly yours, and you love him so much, and he’s going to be your husband one day soon and nothing else really matters besides that. 

He wraps both arms around your back, squeezes you to himself tight and starts to fuck up into you, fast, brutal, again, nothing nice and slow about it like he’d promised, and you’re forced to dig your teeth into his shoulder so hard you’re scared for a moment you’ll taste blood on your tongue. You can feel your orgasm crawling up your spine, pooling like liquid heat in your pelvis while everything goes tight and fluttery inside of you. “How mad would he be if I knocked you up right now? If I fucked his baby girl full’a my baby under his roof?” He grunts into your ear, and there’s the dip in your restraint. As much as you want to hold off and wait for him, you clench down hard around him with a sharp cry, mouthful of his skin to muffle you only barely. “Huh? What’dya think he’d say?” He continues, changing the angle so that his pelvis bumps against your clit on every punch in, balls slapping wetly against the curve of your ass while he pets at the tight ring of muscle back there, tempting you with more than you think you can take right now. “If you go all pretty and round and soft for me before our wedding.” 

You can't speak, you’re nothing but air and sticky, sweet wet in the shape of a girl made just for him. Too tight grip in your hair, and he’s jerking your face towards him, grunting into your mouth as he starts to spill inside of you, burning hot come milked out of his cock and deep into you, and he tells you again how much he loves you, tells you that you’re his pretty little wife because it’s already felt like that for so long. A marrying of your very selves despite the lack of legal nothing that means so little to the both of you when you have all this between you already. Tells you that he can’t wait to see his baby all full of his baby. 

When he’s finished pumping you filled to the brim he turns you over again, pulls out slowly so that the both of you can appreciate the sound of his heavy cock slipping wetly from your well used pussy, and when he bends to eat your mingled come out of your puffy cunt, only to then wedge your mouth open so that he can spit your fluids onto your waiting tongue, all here, taste how good we are, the only words left when it comes to this man and this thing you have between the two of you is always simply thank you. 

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