#And the words are just [empty howling] in my head. I have to draw Christmas gifts anyway so... tomorrow. I'll be here tomorrow. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mymoonagedaydream · 3 years

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Hey girl 💞it’s my birthday next week Wednesday and I have no friends 🙃so I’m hoping if you have any time/ and if you want to could you write a fluffy birthday for Reader and Bucky where he is being all nice and shit. I recognise how tragic this sounds lol but it is what it is 😂 hope you have a good week and keep up the amazing stories 💞

103 Candles

Summary: You wouldn’t have minded your birthday quietly slipping by without anyone noticing, but apparently that wasn’t allowed on Bucky’s watch.

Pairing: Bucky x y/n

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Language, much floof as requested

Author’s Note: Happy Birthday for Wednesday anon! I know things seem to be relentlessly shitty at the moment but I really hope you have a lovely day despite all that. And don’t be saying you got no friends cause I’ve just written a whole bloody story for you, cheeky thing. (I moved this one up the queue a little but hey, can’t miss a birthday.)

---

‘Mail call.’

Bucky was already standing inside your room, knocking on the door after he’d opened it. Apparently privacy wasn’t a word in his vocabulary, he’d caught you half-dressed more times than you could count but obviously still hadn’t learned his lesson.

He grinned and held a handful of envelopes out to you.

‘Thanks Buck. Glad to see you’re finally making yourself useful.’

‘Don’t get used to it, cupcake.’

He flopped down onto your bed, lying back with his hands folded under his head. Your gaze unconsciously wandered down to where his t-shirt was riding up slightly, your face starting to heat up before you caught what you were doing and quickly looked away.

In the couple of months you’d been at the compound, no-one had made you feel more welcome than Bucky. He was the first to offer help whenever you needed it and he always made an effort to speak to you when your paths crossed.

Plus neither of you really had friends outside of work, so you spent most evenings alone with him in the living room, doing your very best to educate him on some of the best films of the last fifty years while he fought tooth and nail to stay stuck in his outdated ways.

He still thought Charlie Chaplin was the height of cinema, bless him.

You’d really become attached, but you knew pursuing anything romantic meant risking the loss of your best friend, so you just buried that feeling alongside your weird fascination with bigfoot and your inexplicable attraction to Donny Osmond.

He propped himself up on his elbows. ‘Anything exciting?’

You lazily flicked through the letters, stopping when you came across a bright red envelope, sporting what you instantly recognised to be your sister’s handwriting.

Dropping the rest of the pile, you held it up to Buck. ‘Looks like a birthday card.’

‘Your birthday’s coming up?’

‘Yeah, Wednesday.’

‘For real?’ He excitedly jumped back onto his feet. ‘What are we doing for it? Party?’

‘God no, I can’t think of anything worse.’

His arms folded across his chest as he gave a loud huff, narrowing his eyes at you in suspicion. ‘Is this one of those lady things where you say you don’t want something but actually do?’

‘Definitely not. Could we just keep this between us? Please?’

The smirk that spread across his face sent a bolt of dread coursing through your veins. It was obvious that he was plotting something, but before you could probe any deeper he had his hands up in surrender and was backing out of the room.

‘Whatever you say, weirdo.’

---

Wednesday came around and, as you’d hoped, it felt like just another normal day. You woke up late, shuffled to the kitchen to assemble something resembling a breakfast and encountered no unwelcome surprises on your way.

Your optimism about getting through this day without drawing the attention of your colleagues was steadily growing but, just as you’d finished cooking and were about to escape back to your bedroom, Bucky strolled in looking very fucking pleased with himself.

He was wearing his winter coat, immediately rousing your suspicion because the crazy powerful compound heating made the place like a sauna, and holding something behind his back.

‘Hey! Happy b-’

You shoved your hand over his mouth. ‘I thought we had an agreement.’

He made a face and mumbled something into your palm, making you roll your eyes and reluctantly let go of his face.

‘Yeah, we agreed to keep it between us. I haven’t told anyone else.’ With a proud grin, he pulled a terribly wrapped gift from behind his back. ‘But you never said I couldn’t celebrate.’

You tried your best to look a little peeved, but you really struggled to smother your growing smile.

You just hoped that this was all he had planned.

Taking the present from him, you tried to tear it open, quickly realising that he’d used an ungodly amount of tape to hold the shambles together. You ended up having to ferret out the kitchen scissors just to get into the bloody thing.

Finally cracking it open, you grabbed your gift and held it up, becoming instantly confused.

‘You got me a Christmas sweater?’

‘Yeah. When you have a birthday in December, you gotta accept that you’ll get festive gifts.’ He excitedly reached for the zipper on his coat. ‘You haven’t even seen the best part.’

You couldn’t believe your eyes.

Under his coat, he was wearing a matching sweater.

The only issue was that they obviously didn’t make them in his size, cause it was the tightest piece of clothing you’d ever seen anyone wear, including Nat. He looked like a size two sausage stuffed into a size one casing.

You started laughing so hard you could barely stay standing, his confused frown just sending you further into your spiral.

‘What? What’s so funny?’

You just about managed to form words through your breathless howling. ‘You look like a sex offender.’

‘Is that right?’ He gave you a roguish smirk and pulled your sweater out of your hands. ‘Well let’s see how you look in yours.’

‘I think I should save it for Christmas.’

‘I think you should be more polite about the gift I spent ages picking out for you.’

You quickly spun round, taking off towards the door. You knew you couldn’t outrun him, but you hoped you could at least get back to your bedroom before he caught up, locking him out along with the sweater.

It didn’t work.

You didn’t even make it out of the room before he’d grabbed you and pulled the sweater down over your shoulders, trapping your arms by your sides.

With a reluctant sigh, you adjusted so you were wearing it properly, wincing at the itchy material rubbing against your neck. This thing would definitely give you a rash if you wore it for too long.

‘Ah, you were right.’ Bucky looked you up and down with a smirk before strolling out of the room. ‘They do look terrible.’

You quickly pulled it off before shouting after him. ‘At least mine fits.’

---

The evening came around and you sequestered yourself to your bedroom, hoping to ride out the rest of the day in peace. There’d been no big surprise party and no more weird gifts, so you were feeling pretty good about your chances, when a series of loud thuds sounded against your door.

You reluctantly shuffled over and pulled it open, a little shocked to see Bucky standing there holding two huge pizza boxes. This was the first time he’d ever knocked before entering.

Eh, he probably just couldn’t reach the doorknob with his hands full.

‘What is this?’

‘Birthday dinner.’ He strolled past you with a grin, jumping onto your bed and flinging open the top box. ‘I didn’t get anything for my birthday back in March either, so we can call this a joint party.’

Alright, if the only “party” you had to endure this year was pizza in bed with Bucky, you’d figured you’d gotten off pretty lightly. You might even enjoy it, just as long as he had nothing else hidden behind his back.

Crawling on next to him, you grabbed a slice and started stuffing your face, deciding for some reason to attempt conversation in between mouthfuls.

‘How old are you, anyway?’

‘If you count my time in deepfreeze I’m 103.’

You audibly gasped and inhaled a bit of cheese, immediately choking and coughing your guts up like a fucking idiot. Bucky just chuckled and whacked you hard on the back.

It didn’t help at all, but you appreciated the gesture.

‘I can see why we skipped it,’ you wheezed, ‘you’d need a fucking big cake for 103 candles.’

‘And an even bigger one for 104. I’m looking forward to seeing what you come up with.’

The two of you finished off the pizzas, Bucky wouldn’t admit it but he ate at least one and a half of them, and you threw the empty boxes onto the floor. Slumping back onto your pillows, you quickly had to dive sideways to dodge Bucky’s huge metal shoulder as he flopped next to you, obviously underestimating his own width.

You flicked on the TV. ‘What d’you want to watch?’

‘I’ll let you pick, since it’s your birthday.’

‘For real?’ This was unprecedented, the two of you had never managed to watch a movie without at least thirty minutes of arguing beforehand. ‘Can everyday be my birthday?’

‘Maybe. If you play your cards right.’

You gave him a wide smile and let your head fall onto his shoulder, adjusting yourself a little when his arm came up to circle your shoulders. This had become your usual lazy evening position, but it felt a little different in bed than it did on the couch in the communal living area. More intimate.

It felt a lot different when his arm fell to your waist and pulled you in closer to him, that’d never happened before.

But you definitely weren’t complaining.

You shifted onto your side slightly, slotting your head into the curve of his neck, smiling to yourself at how neatly it fit there. Your knee automatically folded up to rest on his thigh, a bolt of electricity shooting up your spine when Bucky’s free hand moved to start caressing it lightly.

He must’ve felt you twitching, because he let out a gruff chuckle and pressed his lips into your forehead, lingering there for a few seconds before shifting to rub cheek across your temple.

It was rough and stubbly, scratching against your skin like the sweater, but this sensation was different. It felt satisfying and strangely familiar, immediately sending you in to a deep, warm relaxation.

Eventually managing to pluck up some courage, you tilted your head back slightly so you were face-to-face with him.

His gaze was already zeroed in on you.

As soon as your eyes met, he lifted his hand from your knee to cup your face, brushing his thumb gently across your lips.

‘Good birthday?’

‘Yeah. Better than expected.’

He gave a slight smile and leaned towards you, your eyes fluttering closed as his lips pressed softly against yours. Your whole body tensed slightly, you pulled in a sharp, stuttering breath through your nose as your stomach tied itself in a knot.

It took a few seconds, but you eventually managed to compose yourself, relaxing and letting him lead the kiss while you just felt yourself begin to melt under his touch.

Your arms slid around his neck as his wrapped around your waist, the two of you steadily pulling each other closer until you were both on lying your sides with your bodies pressed together, limbs tangled up like electrical cables.

He pulled away slightly, whispering while his forehead was still pressed firmly against yours. ‘I was lying earlier, you looked great in that sweater.’

‘I’m still not gonna wear it.’

‘Fair enough.’

---

#bucky #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky imagine #bucky fanfic #bucky fic #bucky fanfiction #bucky fluff #Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff

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nosebleedclub · 3 years

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The Dark Suburb

((Posting again because the original post on June 11th, 2017 6:09pm is no longer available due to me deleting and re-making this blog.))

This is a compilation post of Nosebleed Club prompts from 2015-16 revolving around the concept of “the dark suburb.”

Family Melodrama

something is wearing your mother

oh god his intestines strung up on the christmas tree

your dog’s body all over the house

banging on cellar doors

a creaking sound in your dead sister’s bedroom

warriors with spears and shields painted on the dining room ceiling of a violent family’s mansion

a woman in an expensive coat and an expensive car headed to her nephew’s funeral

coming home to a completely alien mother

getting a doberman on christmas morning that won’t let you leave the house

the reason your parents fled the city to live in the suburbs

summers in palermo where your father was looking for something

mother’s breakdown in the supermarket

the supernatural car you and your twin got for your 16th birthday

parents strangely and deeply interested in the boyfriend you brought home

a mom urging her son to quit basketball; she senses something is not right

all the holes - dozens of them - your mother dug in your backyard

grandparents hiding the reason your parents are away during your winter holiday break

your best friend doesn’t want to go to your house anymore

grandpa’s ghost followed us into the new house

dad hates her bc she killed her twin in the womb and then her mother

Do I Love You?

your boyfriend’s basketball shorts, his boy-aroma, his ghost between your legs when you watch the video of his last game

girls kissing in a gas station convenience store and a third recording them on snapchat

the boy you like drawing flowers on your ap biology practice test when you switch tests with him to grade

walking across a supermarket parking lot by yourself thinking of a boy you love

red mouth

girlfriend scrubbing the blood off her arms in the bathtub

in a tiny white house in florida, sitting on a beer-can-covered counter, legs spread apart, a boy between them

in a drug-induced haze i left home for his semi truck

he never fucked me without his ski mask on

a girl and a girl and claw marks on the door“don’t ever take me back”

The Occult

the incantation that annihilated a whole suburb

a body that drags other bodies into an oven

the witches gathering in the red lake

inhuman sacrifice

dogs gathered at the edge of town refusing to cross the boundary to the outside

a 10 year old girl with memories of a serial killing spree that occurred when her parents were children

white shirts hanging on branches all over the woods

the town of three-eyed children

arrows raining down on a soccer field

feeding time

mysterious scratch marks on your back

a fairy ring in the field where your sister disappeared

Crimes

just throw it in the back

snap!

we found the body but not the head

clearing in the forest where police found a blessed severed head

jar of baby teeth as evidence

children dressed as angels at the crime scene

seeing a face you thought you buried ten years ago at the supermarket

half a fraternity frozen under a lake

fbi agents rolling into a tiny town in appalachia

a severed arm among the hydrangeas

young men howling on the bridge one year after the murder

police cars prowling through your neighborhood, one after another - watching this from your bedroom window

Teen Dream

getting whipped by a towel in the locker room

best friend making the varsity tennis team

taking a shot of vodka in the bathroom after second period

boy gets a boner during gym class

“i’ll be like helicase i’ll unzip them genes (jeans)”

drunkenly reciting the quadratic equation

fear-mongering homecoming queen

track star died in a car accident

dead bodies photography club

“sorry i fucked up here’s some ice cream” “i’m lactose intolerant you douche”

article about demonic possession in the school newspaper

last pool party before summer ends & her hand on your thigh in your dad’s sports car

the first day back from summer vacation & someone in your friend group brings the whole #squad starbucks

a bonfire, lana del rey & drake blasting, the moon

weekend road trips to the ocean

walking around on the track alone, contemplating some philosophical concept you read about on tumblr the night before

coming out to someone completely random - a junior varsity basketball player

the last homecoming dance

lying on the track at your high school after sunset

getting picked up really early in the morning to go on a spontaneous weekend road trip

the sunday after the homecoming dance where you’re kinda tired kinda still energetic from the night before

inside a fast food restaurant drinking milkshakes eating fries until it closes

chill basement party where there’s white balloons gold confetti / glitter two girls who love each other kissing

sitting in the backseat your parents occupying the front of the car you look out the window you see the rural countryside crawl by

pool pizza party at night simple pleasures like that

on the bleachers during a powderpuff football game

sweating so much you might as well have been swimming it would be embarrassing but all the other boys are sweaty too

lost in the suburbs at like 5am and the world is still pale blue

lost in the city at 5pm the sun sinks its head behind skyscrapers

fights on the lawn of an all boys private school

applying makeup the morning after a breakup

huge friend group made up of oracles + boys’ swim team + legendary heroes + valedictorian

aesthetic blogging on a sunday afternoon just chillin in your bedroom

feeling like you could be something big if you work hard enough at it

getting psychoanalyzed by your teachers and parents and extended family

school bathroom pale blue tiles

a dream with damien hirst-esque elements

sleepover at your friend’s villa and you’re the only one awake

looking out at a black sea from your dead cousin’s bedroom window, seeing a light in the distance

funeral mass

chill that runs down your friends’ spines when you enter the classroom the morning after they tried to kill you

the sickness that spreads through the high school

sometimes i was a body in a dump sometimes i was a saint

he said he’d snapchat my burning body to all his friends

my body was evidence she was trying to get rid of

poison disguised as an eighteen year old

a world war between us

$$$

first: “super rich kids” by frank ocean

fast cars flecked with blood

girls who know you won’t be prosecuted if you’re young and rich and pretty enough

snapchat of a boy with red eyes and a glass of dom perignon with the text IS MY LIFE FUCKING REAL

snapchat of a girl’s dad’s black amex with the words MONEY CAN’T BUY HAPPINESS BUT IT GETS CLOSE

taking your middle-class friends out to nice restaurants but knowing they’re with you mainly for the money

“dude i know you’re only a year older than me but sometimes i think of you as my sugar daddy”

traveling to punta del este to find yourself but losing yourself instead

identifying heavily with the versace logo

an imperial bedroom and all one feels is the weight of all that empty space

“even my funeral has to be luxurious”

Hometown Visions

three dead owls on the side of the road

trees bare, houses barren

lanterns lit up on the dirt road at night

moths in a forgotten shed

a dusty old attic filled with dead rats and flies

seeing half your face in a splintered mirror. washing machine making dangerous sounds

midwest: watching a tornado funnel form from a window that won’t shut all the way

grass in the yard growing tall

girls carrying stray cats home

a cellar door swinging open and a man you never wanted to see ever again stepping through it, into the light

snake skins and insect carapaces organized on a torn mattress

a lovely place god abandoned

bat-filled house at the end of the street

a girl crawling out of a burning car

birds in jars

Hide & Seek

not being able to find anyone in a dark forest because they actually left you and it was just a cruel prank

person seeking you is something much worse than what you thought they were

being trapped in your hiding space & no one can find you no matter how loud you call for help

hiding in your friend’s house and finding evidence of a vile crime their parents committed

finding half of your friend

#prompts #nosebleedclub #from the nosebleedclub archive #dark suburb

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jaeminlore · 4 years

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If The Moon Tells You Something | Taeyong

summary: if the moon tells you something, believe it.

words: 4.1k+

category: jack frost au, rise of the guardians references and easter eggs, taeyong is a cutie, also inspired by my ocs raven, bc i love him

Fairy lights are strung across your headboard. They keep slipping off of the left corner, though, because your window is wide open. Winter hasn't been kind to your university's campus at all. Snow has been pelting the ground since the early morning.

Wind howls through the open window, rattling the pane and sending your thin, white curtains to billow out.

"This is ridiculous," you mutter. You head toward the pane and struggle to push it down, wondering why your house has to be so old; so finicky in extreme weather. Soon, your upper body is shivering from you leaning outside to brush away some of the heavy snow that had accumulated around the pane.

You can see the edge of your roof from your uncomfortable stretching. Snow falls onto your face as if it had been kicked off, so you wonder if there's an owl or a squirrel trying to make a small home for the night.

Instead, a boy peaks over. He smiles.

You shriek and back into your room, scraping your back on the wooden pane. "Ow," you bemoan quietly.

Hesitantly, you peak back out and are startled once again to see that the boy has — assumedly — jumped down to the awning just under your window. "Hello!" He greets, as if he is nothing but a casual passerby on the streets.

His dark locks are covered in white frost, and his lips are a blueish-purple. His eyelashes seem to be completely covered with icy snow. When he blinks at you, some of the melted ice trails from his eyelashes down his pale cheeks.

To you, he looks ethereal. Almost too beautiful to be human. It unnerves you, even more than him showing up unannounced in the middle of the night. "What— Who are you?"

He smiles, teeth sparkling. The air turns white when he talks. "I'm Taeyong."

You furrow your brows. "Are you trying to be Jack Frost or something? Because I'm pretty sure he doesn't scare people just before they're going to sleep!"

Taeyong is sitting cross-legged beneath your window. His elbows are perched on the sill and his chin is rested upon his palms. "Jack Frost is just a pseudonym. Like John Doe. I've been out all night doing icicle runs."

"What are icicle runs?"

"It's where I run across everyone's roof and leave icicles in my wake. It's a vital part of winter, you know." He says it so seriously, and his brown eyes glint with nothing but sincerity.

"So the legends are real?" you manage to breathe out, teeth beginning to chatter.

He laughs, and it sounds to be the warmest thing about him. "Am I going to start nipping at your nose? Maybe." He reaches out and pokes your nose.

You scrunch up your face as the chilliness spreads throughout your body. "Why don't you go bother someone else?"

Taeyong pauses. He looks almost sad. "Not many people can see me, you know? Usually just children. Really smart children who believe in myths adults struggle so hard to understand. Maybe the belief has never outgrown you."

You blink. "Maybe not."

"So I'm bothering you for now." The corners of his eyes crinkle.

You think of your assignment. An art piece on something you strongly believe in. Something abstract and realistic at the same time. Something that makes people think. Something that makes people believe what you do.

Usually, you'd be up to your chest in anxiety over such a large project, especially with it being due over winter break. However, you're snowed in this winter break, with no flights going in or out for a few days. You and your family decided it would be smart to refund the tickets and try for spring break instead.

The thought of spending the holidays alone, without your family, breaks your heart.

All this to say that you're nearly done with your project, since there's nothing better to do besides wallow around in your dorm or snoop through your absent roommates secret candy stash.

You're a bit at odds right now, wondering if the boy in front of you is real, or merely a fatigue-induced mirage crafted up from your extensive research on mythical legends and other things the majority of people tend to believe — at least to an extent.

"I'm real," the boy says. He drops into your dorm, and as soon as his bare feet hit the linoleum, a thin sheet of ice ripples across your floor, breaking apart like lightening bolts. It almost looks as if your floor is now a frozen lake, cracking to reveal the cold depths beneath. "At least, to you."

"So you're just a figment of my imagination?" You rubs your eyes. Once, twice. Then you blink. "You're still here."

"I'm not a figment of anything," he laughs. His eyes crinkle at the sides and there's a certain purity that seems to escape him in that moment. "I'm a guardian. I'm real. But only people who believe can see me."

"I didn't know I believed that much," you mumble to yourself.

A chill creeps down your spine, making you jolt in shock. You spin around, and Taeyong is just behind you, his pointer finger pressed between your shoulder blades.

"This is crazy," he whispers, more to himself than to you. "Not many people believe in Jack Frost, you know. Especially not adults."

"I'm barely an adult," you compensate. "I'm a college student. It's not like I have no wonder left in me."

Taeyong cocks his head to the side. Then he grins. His lip draw upwards into a wide, joyful expression. His eyebrows knit together, and you notice very briefly, that his eyes shine a certain hue of blue in the light. "Wonder. What a wonderful thing, huh?"

"I suppose."

Taeyong leaps back outside, and that's when you notice he isn't standing on anything. He's flying; floating in mid air with no foothold or handle anywhere.

You rush to the window and lean out, eyelids squinted as you try to catch a glimpse of him before the wind takes him away.

For a moment, you notice that he now has a staff in his hand. A long, hooked staff that resembles a gnarled tree branch of some sort. He holds it up, points it at the sky, and then he's gone.

And in his place, snowflakes fall.

"Do you believe in Jack Frost?" You ask your professor the next day. You're sitting with the old man outside on one of the many picnic tables around the campus. He's enjoying his own peaceful lunch break.

You, however, have nothing to do, and this is his last day of work until after winter break is over. You're beginning to think last night was just a strange dream, and you need someone to back you up. Therefore, your art professor.

He's one of those jolly old men who look like a mix between a mad scientist and Santa Claus. Professor Joyce, for instance, has a short white beard and bushy eyebrows that just nearly cover his friendly brown eyes. Currently, he is wearing khaki shorts and hiking boots, leaving his calves exposed to the harsh incoming winter. He's munching on carrot sticks, pondering your question with a ruddy smile. "Why? Has someone nipped at your nose?"

"Not exactly," you say, struggling to laugh at the joke that has him in mild stitches. "It's just... he's in Christmas songs, and he has like, ten movies named after him. I just wonder where the legend came from, and if it's real."

"I suppose all legends are real as long as there is belief. Who is to say that what exists in your head is not just as real as what is right in front of you? The entire system of belief begins with faith; the ability to believe what isn't seen."

"Yes, but say you did see something. Something most people don't believe in. How do you know that it wasn't a dream?"

"What did you see?" Professor Joyce narrows his eyes at you.

"Nothing," you speak quickly. "Nothing. I'm sure of it."

You wish him happy holidays, and let the man finish his lunch in peace. On your walk back to the dorm, you realize just how empty the campus is once students begin to return home. Only a few classes are left before break officially begins tomorrow, and only a few people are staying over break.

You wish you had followed your roommates lead and took your flight a week early. Lots of students had done that, after reading the weather reports and deciding it was smarter to simply miss a few classes rather than miss their entire winter break.

But no, you were dumb enough to think the storm would simply cease rather than get worse. Now you're stuck on campus looking like a fool, while only a few others mill around, matching your dismal mood.

You walk up the steps to your dorm building. The steps are coated in a thin sheen of ice, and the moment your sneaker sole steps on the last step, you slip and fall backwards. You close your eyes and brace for the impact of steps against your back, when you fall into someone's arms instead. Someone's very thin, cold arms.

"Woah there, better watch your step."

You jolt, jump out of the boy's arms and turn around. "Taeyong?" Hesitantly, you reach out and touch his hoodie-clad chest, surprised to feel solid muscle beneath it. You had half-expected your hand to fall right through.

"Questioning your beliefs again?" His voice is quiet; there's small smile on his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm real, y'know."

You ignore him and continue to head towards your dorm. However, instead of taking the hint, Taeyong walks alongside you, steps spritely. Once you reach your door and stop, taking out your keycard, he stops too, and leans against his staff, simply watching you. "How interesting," he murmurs.

You avoid his gaze and push into your room. "What?"

"You don't want to believe in me, yet you do. That's not usually how it works."

"I don't believe in Jack Frost," you say. You notice the way the light dims behind his kind eyes, and for a moment you wish you could take it back. "But you're here. You're in front of me, and I can't say you aren't real, because it's obvious you are."

Taeyong raises his eyebrows. "I suppose. But I'm only visible to you because you believed beforehand. So you're lying to me."

"I'm not," you say. "I don't believe in fairytales."

"Hmm," Taeyong hums. He skips towards your desk and finds your laptop, open to your last researching topic before you went to take a walk. "The Legend of Jack Frost. You believe in me."

His sing-song voice irritates you only mildly. "I don't," you insist. "I'm studying you. It's for... its for an art project."

"An art project," Taeyong settles his arms across his chest. "So I'm your muse then."

"No," you say.

"Of a sorts."

"Of a sorts," you grit out. "But I was just looking you up after last night. I wasn't planning on you returning."

"And why not?" Taeyong pouts, leaning against his staff again. "You're the only one who believes in me for, like, miles. I want to hang out with you."

"Well, I have work to do, so if you're staying, stay quietly."

"I will!" Taeyong leaps onto your roommates bed and crosses his legs. Frost trails across the mattress and up the headboard. It creeps up the wall and covers the poster of your roommate's celebrity crush. "I promise."

"Okay." You resolve that even if he is just a figment of your imagination, you should still work on your project. You pull up your design page and begin brainstorming. There are many things you believe in, but none strong enough to convince others to believe as well. Nothing comes to mind, so you sit in front of your laptop screen, chewing on the end of your stylus.

You shiver.

"Sorry," Taeyong finally speaks up. "That's the unfortunate side of being my friend: it's always cold."

You grab your blanket off of your bed and wrap it around your shoulders, eyeing the small man as he sits still, just as you asked. He looks preoccupied, touching each polaroid on your roommate's wall and turning it to frost. You wonder briefly how much lasting damage that will have on the picture. But, then again, if he isn't real, then the pictures are fine. "Who said we were friends?"

"Aren't we?" Taeyong smiles lazily. "You believe in me, and I'm starting to believe in you. That's what friends do."

"You're "starting" to believe in me?" You make air quotes. "Why wouldn't you believe in me? I'm a human. I'm real."

"I'm real," Taeyong says simply. "I'm immortal, but I'm real."

"You're not in my history book," you say.

"You're not in mine," Taeyong sticks his tongue out childishly. "But I'm in that book."

He points to the shelf on your wall. There's a book there, one given to you by your great aunt, a long time ago. It's a book passed down through generations, with legends from different cultures. Saint Nicholas, the Easter Bunny, the Sandman, The Boogeyman, The Tooth Fairy, and of course, Jack Frost. Other myths like yetis and leprechauns and the fae... anything children tend to believe in.

Anything you believe in. Or, used to believe in. Things that seem so childish when spoken aloud. Because you can't go out for drinks and discuss fairy circles. You can't leave cookies out for Santa when your roommate will laugh at you for it. You can't hide a tooth under your pillow out of fear that one morning it might still be there.

"That's from when I was a child," you say. "It's more for nostalgia than anything else."

Taeyong hums and drifts over to it, leaving a chill in his wake. He grasps the book and opens it up, He begins to leaf through it. "Usually, one who doesn't believe doesn't write notes on the things they don't believe in."

You feel your neck heat up as Taeyong trails his finger down your notes. "Why, just last year, you stuck your wisdom teeth beneath your pillow. Why would you do that if you don't believe?"

"I–" You take time to answer. "I'm not supposed to–"

"Not supposed to believe? Not supposed to have fun?" Taeyong looks concerned, closing the book and leaning in close. His face is just in front of yours, and his breath is cold against your cheeks. "Why not?"

You shrug and look away. "I don't know. It's different when you become an adult. People look at you weird if you believe in stuff like that."

"What about angels and demons and ghosts and gods?" Taeyong says, "Don't adults believe in them?"

"Those are different." You sit at your desk and put your head in your hands. "Those aren't just debate topics. They bring hope of an afterlife; of something more meaningful than life itself."

"And we don't?" Taeyong sits on your desk and closes your laptop. He leans onto his palm and circles the rim of your mug. "We don't bring hope?"

"Not to adults. Not when you start thinking about what life really means."

"What about to you?" Taeyong asks. His eyes are blown out, brown in color, but that familiar icy blue returns, creeping into his irises. He finally blinks, and frost drifts down his cheeks. "Do we bring hope to you?"

You suck in a breath and stare at him. "Yes. You do."

Taeyong doesn't return for two days, and you truly start to think he's found someone else who believes much more than you. You imagine that your heart, or soul, or wherever the belief is stored, is rather dim compared to the schoolchildren across town.

You stay on your bed, tossing a stress ball into the air and catching it, over and over again. The wind howls outside, rattling your window into opening, but you're too sad to close it. Christmas Eve is only a week away, and all flights in and out are still cancelled. The snow isn't letting up either, so you don't even want to risk walking out of your dorm.

You sigh and close your eyes. "I can't believe I'm saying this," you whisper into the empty room. "But Jack Frost, if you're near, could you come visit me?"

The wind whistles louder, and your window slams shut.

You jolt up, eyeing the window. "What the–"

"You called?" Taeyong is the in your doorway, leaning on his staff. He has a sort of shit-eating grin on his face. "I knew it wouldn't take long before you missed me."

You avoid his eyes and pick at the hem of your sweater sleeves. "I'm just... lonely here. That's all. I don't miss you, per se."

"I think you missed me." Taeyong says. His eyes shine with mirth and just as the room gets colder, you feel warmth flood your veins.

You don't deny it. "Come distract me from my project. I'm too upset to do anything productive."

You fall back down onto your bed, scooting sideways until your shoulder is pressing against the wall.

Taeyong lays down beside you. He conjures up a snowball, and begins to throw it up in the air, in the same speed that you throw your stress ball. "Distract you, huh?"

"Yeah. Anything."

"Hmm, should I tell you about me? How I came to be?"

"Yes, please," you set the stress ball down and turn on your side. You focus on Taeyong's side profile: his sharp jawline and the boyish slope of his nose. His eyelashes are still covered in frost, in an ethereal way that makes you think of snowflakes against a windowpane.

"My name is Jack Frost. How do I know that? The moon told me so. But that was all he ever told me. And that was a long, long time ago..."

Taeyong leaves after his story, but he comes around every so often after that, if just to tell you hello and ask about your project. You're still stumped, but it's easier to feel creative when he's around, so you mostly doodle sketches of him.

He continues his story every night, adding on as he remembers. You illustrate his stories, drawing rough sketches of the way he describes the elves and the easter bunny.

With each night your wonder grows, and you end up begging him to stay, if just to finish the story sooner.

Taeyong finally does finish it, the day before Christmas Eve, and you've hung onto every word. "So Pitch was defeated?"

"Yeah," Taeyong says. "I mean, as long as there is fear, he'll exist. But as long as there is belief, so will we."

He smiles at you, and you wonder if he's always been this handsome.

Christmas Eve is spent FaceTiming your family, and leaving them hints about what you've bought them. You even watch a movie with them through the screen, and you feel a lot better than you did before. They reassure you that Christmas in Springtime is most definitely a thing, and not something they made up on the spot.

You feel a bit better about spending Christmas alone.

Well, not alone. Realistically, all the other students who got snowed in will more than likely gather in the cafeteria tomorrow for cold pizza and a small gift exchange with the professors that also stayed over.

But you'll feel alone. No one you know is snowed in, and you've still got your project to complete.

You know exactly what you want to believe in now, even if your professor or peers might laugh at you.

With the radio playing a low hum of holiday music, you begin to sketch a rough outline of your project onto your tablet screen.

Your window rattles again.

You smile to yourself. "Come in, Taeyong."

You feel him before you see him by the cold frost that creeps across the windowpane and over to your feet, uncovered by your blanket. You shiver, and Taeyong finally makes himself known.

He stands beside your chair, watching you work. "It's me," His voice brightens. He leans down until his chest brushes against your shoulder.

Warmth spreads through your body just as quickly as the cold chill his skin brings. His chilly breath brushes against the shell of your ear, and you do your best not to let it distract you as you show him your project. "Yeah."

"Why?" Taeyong's voice has a sudden softness to it you haven't heard before.

"Because..." You trail off, wondering if its appropriate to tell an immortal guardian that you have a crush on him. It most certainly is, but Taeyong's eyes are a beautiful mix of brown and blue, and his eyelashes are a pretty cream color, mesmerizing as they fall against his opaque skin. "Because you're what I believe in most."

With Taeyong so close, you can hear his breath catch in his throat. "You admitted it," he whispers. "Like, properly."

"No sense telling myself any different," you conclude.

Taeyong doesn't answer; doesn't move, so you turn your head to check his reaction.

You heart lurches in your chest when you realize hes already looking at you. Your nose bumps against his. A chill spreads across your face, opposing Taeyong's cheeks, now rosy with a sort of frost bitten warmth one receives after coming into the house after a long day of playing in the snow.

You focus on his eyes. The reflection of the fairy lights behind the two of you flicker in his eyes, along with an emotion you can't name.

It disappears just as quickly, and it's replaced by a sort of serene glow. His gaze drifts down your face, landing on your lips. You bite your bottom lip nervously, and he watches action.

His hand, on your shoulder suddenly, like he's just decided he needs to steady himself. "I've never felt this warm before," he whispers.

"Does it hurt?" your lips brush against his, and there’s a jolt down your spine from how cold his lips are.

"Not really," he says, eyes closing. "It's nice. It makes me feel close to you. I want to be close to you."

His voice gets softer as he continues; the vulnerability fills your heart with affection.

"Taeyong," you hum, "you can kiss me."

Something like an expression of thanks escapes Taeyong's lips in the form of a sigh. He kisses you, lips cold and chapped against your smooth ones.

His hand stays on your shoulder, but it drifts slowly towards your neck. His nimble fingers play against the seam of your collar, and every time he accidentally grazes you skin, he pushes closer. Closer, until his chest is flushed against yours and your desk chair rolls back, breaking the two of you apart in a fit of laughter.

"Taeyong." You stand up and rest your palm against his chest. "Come here."

Taeyong nods, eyes on you the entire time while you turn him and push him towards the bed. He sits on the end almost obediently and looks up at you, eyes starry and wide.

You move your body between his spread legs and cup his face. You let the pad of your thumb brush across his jaw, cold and smooth. "You're really pretty," you say.

Taeyong blinks up at you. His lips, pale and purple, curl up into a smile. His eyebrows furrow, like he's unsure. "Really?"

You want to tell him that he's a snowflake personified. He's the sunlight on a patch of snow and the way a child lights up when a snowball in thrown. He's the cheer of a snow day and the cold nip at your shoulders when you open the front door.

You can't say it, not right now, so you bend down and kiss him again, allowing your mouth to melt against his.

His cold fingers grip the bottom of your shirt. He tugs you down: closer, closer, closer until the two of you are lying down, legs tangled together.

Taeyong stops to lean his forehead against yours, breath chalky in the warm air of the dorm. "I think I can hold off the snow long enough for you to fly over."

"What?" you sit up. "Taeyong, really? You'd do that?"

Taeyong nods, still lying down. He's smiling up at you, like you're something magnificent in a light he's never seen before. In reality you are just you, and there's a painting of him in the background, more beautiful then he's ever perceived himself to be. "As long as you promise to come back, where I — and a few extra weeks of winter — will be waiting."

#nct au #nct fluff #nct angst #nct scenario #nct scenarios #taeyong au #taeyong fluff #taeyong angst #taeyong scenario #taeyong scenarios #destwrites

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thoughtfullyyoungduck · 4 years

Text

family baking time

summary: can you do a reddie x daughter where she has a dream about eddie dying and then they comfort her? like basically how we would want them to comfort us about how our souls were crushed from watching CH2 lmao

The sheets stick to Luna’s body as she desperately tries to escape them, kicking her legs out, the same way a toddler experiencing a tantrum does, dislodging the sheets in the process. The remnants of the nightmare cling to the back of her mind, like clouds obstructing the view of her normal brain, clouding her judgment.

She escapes the muffed room and trades it for the living room, can’t stand to be alone any longer without any conformation that her dad is in fact not dead, but alive and kicking. The hallway is brightened by the distorted images on the television, the volume so low it’s nothing more but a murmuring setting taken advantages off by Richie to focus on his writing process.

Luna can hear the ticking sound his keyboard makes, furious and fast paced, the way he goes when a new idea pops in his head and he has to write it down in that very moment. Under normal circumstances, Luna would find something else to do or wait to interrupt him, finding it difficult and off putting for disrupting his lively hood. Not that Richie minds her intercepting his new materiel, in fact, some material only came to be after Luna gave her input, but she does mind. But the nightmare douses her in an unhealthy amount of adrenaline, and she has to get shake it off, to prove to herself and her traitorous mind, that her dad and pops are fine, and she’s just making things up.

‘Pops’, she whimpers, blocking his sight of the tv, not that he was looking in the first place. Richie peeks up at her, and freezes mid-tap, shoving the laptop off his lap and floundering over to his daughter. He fosters her with his arms, rocking them back and forth. Luna bawls harder, digging the heels of her palms in her eye sockets to will herself to stop.

‘Kiddo, what’s going on?’ Richie asks her panickily, mentally checking over any possible sort of information. She didn’t go to bed upset, and as far as he knew, he’s pretty confident his daughter tells him everything, she didn’t argue or fight with her friend either.

‘Talk to me Lu.’

Luna weeps in hurdle of sobs, shaking her head when it’s obvious she can’t explain with the way she’s acting at the moment. Richie, frightened of the whole ordeal, understands that he cannot do any of this by himself.

‘Eds’, Richie yells at Eddie, sleeping soundly and heedless to the drama unfolding, the name sounds shaky and breathy at first, not nearly loud enough to stir Eddie from his rem stages of sleep, and then Richie bites back his bile and calls out louder. ‘Eddie.’

‘Richie’, Eddie answers, instantly alert even with the bouts of sleep, something he does because he’s not fully sated with the idea that Pennywise will never come back. He scrams in the living room, weaponizing a vase, but leaves it behind when he sees the reason Richie howled at him was because of their daughter.

‘Luna what’s going sweetheart?’

Eddie’s fight or flight is instantly shifted in gear, hands fluttering all over Luna’s body to detect any visible injuries. When he can’t find any, he grabs her a tissue and hands it over to her, so Luna can dab her tears away.

‘Settle down, it’s okay.’ Eddie calms, shooing both Richie and Luna over to sit on the overweening soft carpet. The carpet was Richie’s pick, who specifically searched for something so Luna as a child could amuse herself without having to do it on the unrelenting hard floor. Now a days, it’s mostly used during her sleepovers, or while watching a movie.

There’s goosebumps all over Luna’s body, and they have nothing to do with the chill that comes sweeping in alongside a cool spring night.

‘Did you have a nightmare, Luns?’ Richie inquires gently, all too familiar with those himself. He recognizes the signs of one in Luna, but unfortunately clueless on how to fix it. Richie’s coping mechanisms are not ones he wants to pass on his daughter.

‘Yeah’, she sobs out, sagging backwards on the carpet so she’s laying flat down, staring up at the ceiling. After a beat of hesitations her dads mirror her position.

‘Oh fuck’, Richie complains mere seconds after upholding the stance, rolling his shoulders to work out the cricks developing in his upper back. ‘I’m too old for this shit.’

‘Since when are you suddenly too old? Yesterday you swore to us you could run a marathon in your sleep.’

Luna giggles, her dad and pops bickering like everything is normal and no one is hurt eases her mind off the edge of a breakdown.

‘I’m glad to understand that my suffering is funny to you young lady’, Richie utters, smiling himself.

‘It’s not’, Luna confesses, because even though Richie was joking, the mere visions of her dad being impaled is vividly being replayed and repeated in front of her very eyes. She blinks against the onslaught of tears and picks at the soft cotton under her to refrain from whipping her eyes again. They’re already burning, and the more she rubs, the more she’ll have trouble with it later.

‘Luna’, Eddie says miserably, taking her hand and holding it between his own, ‘We’re here.’

‘I had a nightmare. And you died dad’, Luna cries, flipping over so she cry in her dad’s t-shirt. ‘I’m sorry. Pops and me came home and the house was so empty because you were never coming back. I looked for you everywhere and expected you to be behind me at every turn but you never were.’

‘Listen to me’, Eddie explains firmly, sitting up and planting his hand on his hips to make himself as fierce as he could, ‘I am never, ever leaving you or your pops alone. Ever’, he says the last word slowly, drawing it out to allow it to sink in Luna’s head. ‘I will always come back to the two of you. Always.’

‘You big ol’ sap,’ Richie waves off, but his voice is slightly trembling despite his best efforts.

The family of three compile in a bear hug, staying there until Richie’s muscles begin protesting and he has no choice but to move positions, leaving the dog pile with a kiss to Eddie’s lips and one on Luna’s temple.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Her pops asks, shimmying his shoulders, coking his head towards the kitchen.

‘Pops I’m never thinking what you’re thinking. Your mind is a weird place.’

‘Well first off all fuck you, second of all you’re right, and third I’m talking about midnight baking,’ he swings his arms in the air and bows through his knees, like a child on Christmas.

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ Eddie agrees, struggling to get himself off the carpet and on both feet again.

‘The two of you are really getting old,’ Luna mocks, ‘But yes, midnight baking sounds amazing.’

The apple strudels are slightly burned, and Eddie mutters under his breath that he’s going to have to extend his visit to the gym the whole time, but Luna loves the family space, and is immensely grateful that her dad is still breathing to spend it with them.

#reddie x daughter #reddie fluff #eddie kaspbrack #eddie kaspbrak imagine #eddie as a parent #eddie as a dad #richie tozier imagine #richie tozier #richie tozier x daughter #richie as a parent #richie as a dad #My writing

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allyvampirelass29 · 4 years

Text

Obsession’s Chains

A NOS4A2 Fanfiction By: Allyssa J. Watkins

Ally watched the snow flurries hurl past the window of the Wraith, feeling its breathing anger as it tore through the oncoming blizzard, and yet the freezing bluster could not compare to the cold inside the car.

She could feel him, even though she couldn't look at him, that distrust, that wounded anger that screamed without him saying a word. I'm sorry, Charlie, I'm so sorry. You damned crazy chick....... Vic's fury ripped through her mind like a howling wind, as she watched the onslaught of the eternal winter, the way the frost formed, etching itself in sparkling trails across the window, shivering in the face of what she'd just done. You just made a deal with the DEVIL, Jane........ Vic hissed. She's right....... I was free....... We did it, we........ won. She thought with another full bodied chill. Damn straight. All you had to do, Ally, was freaking walk away, but you just couldn't do it, could you? No....... Why the HELL not!? Because I was free........ but he was dead.

Ally shuddered as the cool leather of his glove brushed against her feverish cheek, one hand drawing back her curls. His eyes were like black frost as he looked at her, seized with that bitter cold, and seething froth that could only come from the dry ice concoction of love and hate felt to a deathly extreme.

"Charlie-" She breathed his name in the most tender ache, the sweet beguiling sound, robbing him of his clung-to hatred even as he held fast against such audacious charm. Beware that voice....... He could feel it, that desperation to ease his torment, even while she was the one in the cage.

She gasped as his glove moved swiftly over her soft lips, pressing hard, his fingers curling, clasping her mouth tight, coaxing her hot breath against his palm, and his other hand twitched on the Wraith's steering wheel.

"Not so fast, Allyssa Jolene....... Whatever desperate apologies and pleads you have planned for my sake, after so loathsome a stunt, I beg you to spare me," He growled, swerving up to the entrance, met by the towering twin candy canes, and twinkling coloured lights of the Christmasland Gates, his return heralded by the splendid ache of, "Last Christmas," trumpeting through the frosty air. How fitting, he thought with a vicious smirk.

"Welcome back to Christmasland, Mrs. Manx," He snickered cruelly, firmly muzzling her trembling mouth, unmoved by her morose green eyes. "I regret to say you return not as our most beloved queen, but as a disgraced traitor......" He snarled leaning closer, his furious exhale catching in her hair. Thankfully, your slighted husband is kind enough to welcome you back with open arms. However, you may find your festive kingdom far less, shall we say, hospitable. You'll have to toil for my generous forgiveness, My Dear, not in soft, spoken words, but with your entire body, starting with that hand. The crown is yours to win back, but if you dare make a move against me again, I will strike it forever from your dear little head, and I fear you'll find yourself in chains. Take your punishment, like a good girl, however, and I, of course, shall reward you immeasurably."

He felt his injured hatred softening, as he looked at her, so willing to comply, so repentant, making no move to pull away, eliciting no cry of protest, no adverse intent to his will, submitting in silent grace. He gently withdrew his hand from her mouth, feeling that worrisome and familiar ache in his heart, losing yet again to the love of her. I love you, Ally, but I HATE what you do to me, how you rule me. Love....... brings out the worst in us. And yours could be the RUIN of me.

"Charles....... I accept my punishment, though I pray you do not harden your heart against me. That is an admonishment, I could not survive." She whispered, out of breath, as the gates parted to let them pass.

"Nor I," He whispered back harshly, hating that it was true. As badly as he wanted to punish his pretty wife for her unfortunate rebellion, he couldn't carry out the sentence she deserved, and banish her, not from his home....... not from his love.

As the Wraith rolled forward, Charles felt himself melt into a sly smile, and he had to admit, in spite of the scathing betrayal, he was impressed by how clever she'd been, coaxing him out of his gloves, commandeering his car. My Fearless Little Femme Fatale, who knew you had it in you? I'd be lying if I said I wasn't touched, you choosing me over your eternal freedom, not knowing what I'm going to do to you.

He slammed on the brakes, and the Wraith screeched along the snow covered road, an intrusion of loud, white static glowing brighter and brighter around Ally, until she disappeared completely from her seat in a blinding flash, the car door still firmly locked. He let out a furious scream, tearing out of the car, searching for her in the whirl of snowfall.

"ALLYYYYYY!!!! WHERE ARE YOU!?!? ANSWER ME, DAMN IT!!!!"

He howled, dashing through the snow, until he found her, stricken, fighting tears, looking bewildered at him as he grasped her forearms, his eyes murderous, the static still encircling her like a halo.

"Is this h-how you mean to punish me, Charles? Ripping me from your inscape, banishing me from Christmasland!?"

"No, NEVER!!!" He snarled, yanking her along after him. "What fresh treachery is this!? You PLANNED this, you and that BITCH, I'm a damned FOOL!!! What a show, what a performance-!"

"NO!!!! Please!!! Charles, listen to me, I-I'm not doing this- I would never- I don't know what's happening!"

"LIAR!!!" He seethed, his teeth bared, wrenching her arm, dragging her back to the car, when she slammed up against the empty air, colliding with it like an unyielding wall, falling back into the snow.

"CHARLES!!! Charles, I promise you, I'm not doing this!!!!" She sobbed, as he grabbed for her in a panic, trying to pull her through the powerful shield, and this time she managed to go further, the projected force bending slightly with a strobing white haze, but the moment he let go of her hand, she was thrown back.

It hit him full force, as the static and white noise intensified her outline, the glimmering guilt flooding his dark eyes, and he was all too aware of why his Snow Angel was rudely being denied entrance to his merry inscape. I've been doing a little dabbling with your soul, My Sweet....... It appears there are some severely adverse effects....... He flew to her, and she reached for him, wrapping her arms around his neck, and he grunted, pulling her with great effort through the resistant gale of the flashing white glow, backing into it, as he pulled her into him. The wall beating airily against his back like an angry wave.

"Charles!!!! Charles, I'm so scared!!!" She cried out, burying her curly head in his shoulder, and he clinged to the back of it, the wind resistance, sending his coif to skew, her curls to scatter, blowing them in his face, his long, navy coat billowing in the unforgiving wind, her dress snapping around her bare legs.

"Hold onto me!!!" He yelled over the thundering sound, and with one final tug, she broke through the invisible wall, both of them collapsing in a heap, her on top of him, the breakneck gale, reduced to deafening silence.

"Charles, I promise, it wasn't me, please........" She pleaded through her tears, her trembling fingers clutching the blue velvet collar of his coat, and he reached up to brush his lips against hers, swallowing his guilt.

"I believe you."

**********

Charlie Manx cradled his terrified bride in his arms, as she hugged his neck, her long white skirt trailing along the wood floor of the hallway, her bare legs dangling, and he paused at the threshold to their bedroom, struck by the sublime irony, with a sardonic eyebrow raise.

"Ah yes, the sacred tradition of carrying the blushing bride across the threshold into eternal wedded bliss. How amusing....... We neglected the act on our wedding night, and here we are, poised with a second chance. Call me a superstitious man, but I suspect this oversight was where our problems first began. Might I suggest we not tempt fate yet again........?"

Ally's trembling lip eased itself into a fond smile, and Charlie smiled his most charming, as he swept her into the room, with a spin, holding his young bride just as he would have that night, allowing her a taste of heaven, before he let the hell around them rise.

She felt a giggle escape her lips, her windswept curls falling in her alight green eyes, and for the most fleeting of moments, she was again the newlywed Mrs. Manx, her bliss perfect, a woman madly in love, the night alive with such promised passion.

"We did forget, didn't we......? What bad luck we invited into our marriage!!! Might we have fixed it with our cheerful re-enactment, Charles? I suppose there was one other sacred act that fell to the wayside that night.........." She whispered softly, and he felt a quiver in his own lip, as he looked down at her, wanting her even more badly than he had then, choosing to violate her creative power, over letting her bequeath herself to him, body and soul. If given the choice now, Victoria's near fatal collision would not have been his priority. Oh how it could have waited..........

"Surprising isn't it? On both accounts. We were so enamoured, so wrapped up in each other after the ceremony......... I couldn't stop kissing you, touching you........"

He closed his eyes, remembering it in a desirous, besotted haze, this beautiful girl made his forever, with no hope of escape, deliciously oblivious to the horror that lay waiting in her new husband's heart.

"I'm still wrapped up in you......" She whispered breathily, and he sighed deeply, fighting his vicious attraction, and losing. No, I will not be so easily swayed this time. Seduce me twice...... Shame on you, Wife. I'm in control now, I'm the one holding the pen.

He hastily set her down in front of the canopied bed, trying not to look at the curve of her white legs, slightly red with cold. He could feel her disappointment, as he moved away from her, thrashing back the tenderness that always seemed to bloom between them. And yet, she did not run to him, or beg, or plead, she handled the slight with quiet grace, and he looked approving as she hung those mangled curls in shame. Yes, My Bride, submit and show me just how sorry you REALLY are.

"How much BETTER to have waited, Mrs. Manx," he chortled cruelly, slowly starting to pace in front of her, his eyes fixed. "The gesture means so much more to me now, than the pretense it would have been. Now that you know exactly what you're in for........ The man you wed was a LIE, a fiction, a fabrication, created to better woo you. To better USE you."

Ally felt the sting of his words, as they struck, but she wasn't going to make it that easy for him. "No Charles........" She said tremulous in a half whisper, her voice bleeding with that tenderness he couldn't escape. "I see him........ The man I married, the man I loved Once Upon a December........ I see him shining behind coal black eyes, and I know, everything he said, everything he felt, everything he was........ is real. You're not half the monster you insist on being. He's there, and I can save him........ if you'll let me."

Charles turned on her venomously, his black eyes pure poison, watching her wither in the hatred of his gaze, his pacing becoming more violent, with a furious whirl of his coat.

"You SEE only what I WANT you to see!!! The man you seek to save does not exist, Ally, he could not survive the monster, and while his was the light that brought you here, it is the darkness you have taken as your lover."

He stopped pacing and narrowed his smouldering eyes at her, his intense brow furrowed with dark intentions.

"What am I going to do with you.......?"

"You're going to punish me.........." She whispered meekly, in sorrowful defeat, her curly head downcast, and there was that delectable tinge of fear. How intoxicating, for you to both love and fear me in the same escaped breath.

Charles felt his hunched shoulders relax, and his expression softened, gently moving in closer, and she trembled at his touch, his whisked forefinger across her cheek, using his thumb to bring her head back up, as he cooed. "Ohhh my Sweet Wife........ Of COURSE, I'm going to punish you...... He pet the back of her head in a slow stroke, bringing her closer, his voice soothing, "But first....... I'm going to reward you...... for coming back to me."

Before she could take her next breath, Charles forced his lips over hers, taking them mercilessly, kissing and kissing her with reckless fury. She gasped against his lips, and it was like the hypnotic dance in the snowglobe, she couldn't help herself joining him, mirroring his passion, kissing him back in a haunted trance, hungering for his lips.

He forced her up against the foot of the bed, feeling her chest rise and fall against his, both of them breathless, his forceful affection turning her head, as he took control of her lips the same way he'd done with her hands. Effortlessly. He kissed her harder, angry and suffocating, like a man possessed by the darker side of his desire, in such stark contrast to the gentleman bridegroom that kissed and held her like a glass figure. I'm going to shatter you, my porcelain bride, until you beg for me to do it again........ and again.

He remembered how sneakily he'd tried to undo the laces at her breast, to no avail, last time, and he felt the rollicking thrill as he realized no such quarter need be granted now. His nostrils flared, kissing her deeply, his lips possessive, stealing her air, and he tore off his glove, shoving it into his chauffer coat's pocket, his claws poised, yanking open her laces with an open mouthed murmur.

Ally gasped against the violence of the kiss, as she felt the release of the loosened laces, her hand flying to her clavicle to keep her neckline from falling open.

He stopped kissing her in a lustful exhale, his dark eyes darting to the covered indent, and he eyed her until she let her hand fall away, already guessing his demand. He grinned wickedly, eying now the soft, dove white cleavage, biting his lip.

"You are....... the most incandescently beautiful creature ever I have beheld."

The burn rushed to her cheek, and he watched her breath catch, using that moment to fling her back onto the bed, and she acquiesced, falling back, her eyes glittering, nervous, excited, a little...... well, physically enthralled, and he drank in the sight of it, her wanting him, just as he was, not only the pretty paper, but the duplicity wrapped therein.

He hunched over her, a devious glint in his eye, as his lips found the soft curve of her bare ankle, kissing with slow, euphoric relish, in so scandalous a manner, such as Cassie Manx would have found reprehensible. A woman's ankles were a forbidden article in his time....... How unseemly, Charles, do attempt some decorum!!! He could hear her grating chastise, even as his younger wife elicited her own murmur of utter, pleasurable delight. She always was the practical one, the most petulant realist, wasn't she? No open mind, never one to choose her husband's pleasures over her own. Selfish shrew. He felt his heart quicken, pressing his open mouth over her other ankle, watching her toes curl, as she breathed her stunned satisfaction. You're nothing so hatefully provincial, Allyssa, you're just like me...... We crave the elusive taste of the fantastical. We're romantics, impassioned souls, freed from the constructs of reality. She could never love me as you do, because she did not understand my particular magic. Nothing creative or inspired about that miserable woman.

"Charles-" Ally moaned his name, and he grazed his long, razor sharp nails up and down her bare leg, scraping across the satin feel of it, bowing his dark head to kiss behind her knee, granting the slightest little nip, feeling her skin prickle beneath his hands.

"Oh my God......." She whimpered, and he could feel her breathless ache, as he fed her addiction, running his nails up her body, as he crawled over her, clasping a dainty wrist in each of his encircled claws, forcing her head back with the power of his passion.

She kissed him back in a fever, crazed, surrendering her petal soft lips, letting his ease hers open, pulling free one of her hands from his grasp, to touch his face. He viciously broke the kiss, with a scolding growl, both of them breathing hard.

"Did I say....... you could move?"

She sank further back into the bed, and he watched shamelessly as the loosened laces at her opened neckline danced while her chest rose and fell with the exertion.

"No," She whispered, trembling, and he snapped up the wrist she had just pulled free, his eyes commanding.

"Good. Don't. I'm in control. Say it."

"You're- You're in c-control." Ally breathed, feeling disoriented, her head swimming, secretly enamoured by this forceful, domineering side of him, telling her what to do, not being careful with his breakable doll at all, so reckless, possessive, dangerous, it was an intoxication.

Charlie simpered his approval, nodding with an eyebrow raise. "Good girl....... Free will is just an illusion, remember that, My Sweet. We tried it your way, and now we'll do it mine......... My gloves are the ones guiding yours, and deny it as you might, but you're BETTER for it," He besieged her lips again, pressing his thumbs against both of her wrists, feeling her breath hot against his mouth, as he applied pressure.

"I should CHAIN you to this bed, and never let you out of this room......" He rasped salaciously, rubbing his thumbs over and over her wrists, feeling her pulse quicken. "My, how entirely lovely these delicate wrists would look encircled in irons. The thought beckons........"

"Oh Charlie!" She mouthed back, and he kissed her a little softer, though he did not relinquish his hold, spreading her arms, as he pinned her flush to the white linen.

"Things are going to be much changed around here, My Pretty Prisoner........" He smirked, and Ally recoiled as the sharp edge of that hateful instrument of ink and hellfire, brushed teasingly against her lip.

"Do you see this?" He taunted, displaying it with sadistic flourish, releasing her wrists. "This belongs to me now, do you understand? You will use it how and when I want, but your knife is no longer under your control. I own it, and the hands that wield it."

She nodded solemnly, and watched him slip it back into the silk lining of his blood red waistcoat, feeling herself shudder as he pressed his lips hard to the back of her knuckles.

"Your unfettered freedom in my inscape is all but revoked, My Snow Queen. Until you can win back your crown, prove yourself worthy of my trust, you will need to be escorted by me, personally, any place you wish to go, pending my approval, of course......"

He leaned down, tenderly kissing her forehead, and she could feel the sincere apology on his lips, even before he gave it breath. "Forgive me this necessary cruelty....... but you will not be permitted to see your children, until such a time as I deem you do not intend to spirit them away from their home. I am sorry, but it must be this way......."

He gritted his teeth, his gaze a dark threat, his back arching with his ire, as he leaned over her. "And if you so much as touch my car again, or even THINK the name Vic........ I will be forced to take......... measures.

Ally shivered beneath his body, having no need for him to elaborate, and he relaxed against her, kissing her cheek in a soothe. "Nevermind that, for if tonight is any indication, your absolution is soon coming....... He whispered, his voice ripe with desire. Until then....... I am going to take such pleasure in your punishment........."

Her heart stopped in a seize, her surprised elicit escaping in a drawn out, breathy murmur, as he lowered his lips to her neckline, pressing them flush to her feminine cleft, kissing generously with parted lips, inching his kiss down into it, and then in easeful sigh, he nestled his head to her soft, sensitive breast.

She couldn't speak, couldn't even form words, her mind numb, and her hands cradled his head there, against her womanly curves, drifting through his silky, raven hair, stroking his strong, freshly-shaven jaw with her other fingers, her cheeks burning red. It may not be altogether ladylike to admit, but she loved him laying on her chest, so close to her beating heart.

"Don't you EVER leave me again." His voice began as an angry, volatile rasp, but ended in the broken sound of a desperate man.

"I'm sorry, My Love, I'm so sorry." She cried, green eyes miserable, stroking his silky, ebony waves and he hugged her body to his cheek, knowing how much control he had over her, how he could make her want him, make her dance, yanking her strings, and yet he also knew, to a distressing degree, how much control she had over him.......

She hugged him back, closer to her chest, and he loosened his crimson cravat, sweltering in the exquisite heat between them. That lingering, insatiable need to be closer.

"What Beautiful Wickedness, My Handsome Phantom, My Dark-Eyed Dream......." She whispered as she kissed the top of his head, and he felt himself melt beneath her lips.

He could have stayed like this forever, fallen fast asleep, pillowed upon so pleasing a swell, so soothed by her heartbeat's lullaby. Instead of indulging in this long-held fantasy, however, and giving into even more diabolical designs, everything within him sounded its protest as he pulled himself off of her, knowing exactly what had to be done, taking her wrist in hand, and concentrating hard as he encircled it in kisses.

Ally giggled, roving her fingers deeply though his soft, feathery black strands, leaving not even a remnant of his carefully slicked coif, beaming at him, with so much love in her heart that it physically hurt them both. He was so beautiful..... The most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, a miracle named Manx, drawn to his dark allure, and malevolent elegance, with a mad obsession. Punish me all you wish, especially if that punishment is this, but Charlie you cannot silence my love.

"You silly boy!!! Whatever are you doing?" She giggled as he whirled his hand airily around the wrist he'd just ringed in kisses, before snapping her other hand out of his hair, and pressing his lips along the curve of that wrist as well."

He smirked devilishly, his lip curling, his eyes intensifying, and his voice chilled her to the bone as he said it.

"Creating........"

She giggled again, but he sensed a wariness in that music that she tried so hard to hide, and his lips twisted up into a wry smile, satisfied with his work.

He coaxed her off the bed with another demanding kiss, pulling her up against him, as she pressed her lips to his, all too willingly, letting him lead her to the window, a luminous canvas of Christmasland at night.

He broke the kiss with a smug chuckle, playfully pushing her away, his eyes all mischief, stepping back slowly from her, towards the bedroom door.

"Somebody's in quite the playful humour, and I LOVE it!!!" She giggled, and he carefully brushed his finger under her chin, as she moved to follow him.

"As do I, Wife. Let's play. Come give chase. Let us see if absence cannot make the heart grow fonder, and chain anything so fickle as a woman's love."

She frowned, the edge in his voice giving her pause. "Charles, soft........ What mean you by this?"

"Come find out," He taunted with beckoning eyes, curling his finger flirtatiously as he brought it toward him.

Ally shook her loose curls, confused, but willing to play along, rushing to catch him, when she felt herself yanked back towards the window.

No no no, not again! She tried to pull free of the hold, yanking her arm towards her but something felt off, it wasn't a wall like before, it was airy, suspended, yes, but somehow almost..... tangible. She gave one more desperate pull before she saw them form around her wrists, ethereal white cuffs, glowing with a blue halo, appearing and disappearing just as fast with every frantic tug.

"I told you...... You'd look devastatingly lovely in chains, and these were made special just for you."

"CHARLES, NO!!! PLEASE, how CAN you do this!? Do not leave me, not like this!!! Please, Charles, have I not behaved as your perfect saint!?" Ally felt the stunned tears stream from her eyes, and Charlie snickered coldly, as she fought the floating irons, shaking them soundlessly, trying to pry one of the cuffs from her wrist.

"Save yourself the trouble, Sugar Plum, it's no use....... You'll only make yourself tired, and believe me, you'll need your strength for what comes next. My, yes, you have, and your pretty glowing bracelets will make sure you stay behaved."

He turned his handsome cheek inward, snidely, and she reached out for him, in a hopeless ache. "But I-I chose you.........."

He scoffed bitterly, his eyes black and biting. "No....... You chose HER first. You chose her, Ally, and for that you must be disciplined. So have I lavished my affection, now will I STARVE you of it, until you go so mad with the wanting of me, that nothing or no one can use you against me again!"

"Please, don't leave...... Keep me in these binds forged by your own imagination, but I pray you, My Charles........ don't leave me."

Charlie walked coolly towards her, and knelt, white silk stockings in hand, and she froze as he kissed his way up her naked leg, running his nails across her thigh, before sliding her stocking up over it, carefully tying the laces.

He did the same with her other leg, and then moved for the door, before stopping to look over his shoulder at her, marveling at such a pale vision bathed in moonlight from the window. "To keep you warm...... while I'm away........." He simpered, with another eyebrow raise, referring to both the kisses and the stockings.

"I do not understand you, Charles....... You said if I did exactly as you asked, submitted myself entirely to you, I would not end up in chains......." Ally pleaded softly, despaired to the depths, her voice aching, coaxing, and he held fast against the heartbroken sound.

The deed is done, Sweet Wife, your sin already committed. This........" He gestured grandly, twirling his fingers through the air, his eyes haughty, and full of black smoke, "Is your atonement. How magnanimous of your beloved husband to devise a compromise, so that you do not have to feel the shame and weight of steel. It'd be a shame to bruise such delicate porcelain, would it not? You're welcome."

Charlie raised his dark brow cleverly, bowing, mock genteel, with elegant flourish, waving his arm, and then he left her there, just a sad little doll, so forlorn and forgotten. No woman, be she lover or foe, or especially both........ makes a fool out of Charles Manx.

Ally sank to her knees, sobbing profusely, overwhelmed by the inflicted wonder and horror this fateful night had wrought, still feeling his frost on her skin, her lips burning for more of his, and already his dastardly plan was working its will to devastated perfection. Her body hummed with his lashed out passion, kisses smouldering in their trace, reckless caresses with drawn claws, and she craved him more than she ever had before, hugging her knees to her chest to quiet the thunderous pulse of her heart. What have you done to me, Charles? What is this wildness you have unleashed in my heart, this untamed passion and nakedness of thought. She felt like she was vibrating, she could feel it in her spine, tingling all over, breathless. No, no wait. That wasn't the intensity of the craving, that was real, something........ something WAS vibrating.

She reached her manacled hands behind her back, and this time she heard an impatient buzz, slipping her fingers twixt the laces to work it from under her corset. What is this, my surreptitious lover, my scheming husband? Another parting gift? I fear it cannot slake the absence of you that my body laments in every unsatisfied tremble.

She pulled it free, frowning as she held it before her, the screen dark. A mobile? No, no it couldn't be. I haven't seen mine in months, I left it at the library the day I was........ She shivered as she thought the word. "Taken."

She clicked it on to find an angry succession of choice word texts, the last one being,

"Damn you, Jane, just freaking tell me you ain't dead........."

"Vic......." She whispered softly, remembering when the tough, do-not-touch-me girl, had clapped her back in an uncharacteristic show of friendship. You clever thing!!! Her fingers fumbled over the keys, her hands still restrained by the thin air, but she managed to type well enough, with some difficulty.

"Not dead. Not yet. Restricted wouldn't be too far of a stretch........" She bit her bottom lip. "He bought it, Vic. You may despise me for my impulse in the heat of the moment, but I have no regrets."

The ding was deafening, frantic, and her eyes darted back and forth over the scathing reprimand.

"DAMN IT, ALLY!!!! WHAT the FRICK were you thinkin!? You've put me through HELL, worryin' sick about you!!!! THAT WAS SO DAMNED STUPID!!!! I thought you were done for........"

Awwwww, and Charlie swore we, with our unlike natures couldn't be friends. She smiled sadly, tugging on the chains as she tapped out her response. "What can I say? I'm just one doe-eyed, ditzy, damned crazy chick."

"Yeah uhhh sorry about that, I was so freaking pissed at you for changing the game, I got a little carried away there, Jane. You ain't stupid, you just fell in love with the devil, that's all. You're damn right that bastard bought it, hell I bought it. You were right, we didn't stand a chance without somebody on the inside. Congrats on your way too convincing reconciliation, GOD, I sure as hell wouldn't wanna be you....... Stay alive, Harlequin."

"You too, Hell on Wheels. My darling man's gone out....... indefinitely, and it appears I've been....... detained, but I will keep you apprised of the events, and get you an audience with the children, with their father none the wiser."

"Aunt Vicki's gonna take them on a one-way trip out of this hellhole." She replied with a winking face, making Ally smile, feeling hopeful.

"Oh I'm sure they'd adore such an exciting outing! How doting of you! Save them first, Vic........ Even if you must leave me behind to suffer the Wrath of Manx."

"Stop it. I'm getting you out, Jane, I promise. Don't you even talk like that."

Ally looked down, pulling weakly on her chains, watching their soft, transcendent white-blue glow reappear, and then fade, just as fast, her pale face dismal.

"I don't know, Victoria........ I fear I shall remain ever a prisoner of his love. Obsession's chains are not so easily broken."

#charlie manx #charlie manx x oc #vic mcqueen #christmasland #nos4a2 #the wraith #paranormal romance #paradise for the lost

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joelmillerthirstqz · 4 years

Note

Your writing is fantastic and it would be great to read some rough, shove-y sex with Joel 👀 also needy, clingy sex would be cool too

yooooooo hello these are 100% my interests, i will work on (them)!

Late-October Update: First part, Shove, is up on AO3 :)

Joel crosses his ankles as he leans against the porch railing, Molly predictably taking up Eugene’s offer to sneak out of the town Christmas party to smoke. How the hell he’d been dragged along as a bystander was beyond him, but his brow snaps into a line when Ellie and Jesse emerge from the other side of the porch, dulled music pulsing the walls of the church.

They sidle up to Eugene, who greets them warmly and offers them the lit joint, Joel’s mouth hanging open in protest, which, to his credit, he rethinks. Ellie gives him a look before taking a drag, and he segues his aborted comments into:

“I’m runnin’, if Maria comes out here,” he notes.

“Head to Jesse’s place and go down to the basement if you’re spooked, we’re just leaving too,” Ellie mutters, abundantly drunk, handing off to Jesse before disappearing inside presumably to give some form of goodbye.

Molly piques an eyebrow and Eugene beams.

“Careful, Molly, Alex’ll be excited to see you,” Jesse warns in his soft drawl.

Molly grimaces.

“What’s that possibly mean?” Joel tightens.

“You know how he’s lookin’. You’ll be fine,” Jesse slugs her on the shoulder and she looks at her arm and back to him, realizing the composure in his voice was not necessarily a sober man’s. Joel looks like he’s trying to fit his own smug smirk down the neck of his beer bottle.

—

Jesse’s basement is a smoky disaster zone, most of the patrol group burrowed in to drink, smoke, or evidently crawl all over each other. Joel has the sense memory of descending into a basement when he’d visited friends at school or been forced to go get Tommy from some A&M party.

Sarah’s mom was already gone by the time he got tackled into a wall by a pretty blonde a few years younger than him one night, in a hazy room like this. Fun-chasing as Tommy was, he saw the sliver of opportunity for a carefree night for his brother and sobered up, picked up Sarah and stayed the night at Joel’s, texting his brother to come home when he wished.

None of it feels particularly real now—someone else’s memories—until he refocuses on the Molly, forever baffled by the way she looks at him with her whole attention.

“Joel,” Molly urges, smiling at him from the bottom of the stairs and holding her hand out for his. She’d accepted his coat on the walk over, and tall as she is, the sleeves offer just the tips of her slim fingers.

He takes it briefly, still subtle enough, and meets her near the bottom. Ellie manifests from a corner, somehow having beaten them there.

“Best behavior. Welcome,” she grits, shoving a—flagon? Jug? Some type of container full of harsh whisky towards them. Dina watches her interaction curiously, chin in her hand. When Ellie rejoins her, Molly sees her mouth a “you did good!”

“You good?” Molly asks, taking the flask.

“I feel eight thousand years old, why?” Joel takes it back briefly for another hard swig.

Jesse’s steel toes thunder down the stairs behind them, hooking an arm over Joel’s shoulders.

“Anyone who goes out and shivs those motherfuckers is welcome. Also, this was Eugene’s idea, my place was just far enough from the—” his eyes widen in the realization of ‘I’ve said too much.’

Joel raises his hands.

“To my grave,” he vows, Jesse snagging the sloshing liquid Joel’s trying to steady and busting between them to slink into the dark opposite end of the room, from which raucous howling resounds.

“You think Tommy knows?” Joel glances around conspiratorially.

“Maybe. Want to get absolutely tanked?”

Joel can’t remember the last time recreational drinking in Jackson had been more than a few beers or a single whisky; some of his less adroit coping skills in Boston spring to mind readily. Molly’s dimples are showing as she smiles at him and he breathes deep and dives.

They work through three shots together, overhearing Eugene telling Firefly stories that’d make Tommy clobber him over the head.

“No, they called these body shots, idiot,” one of the patrol group younger than Ellie’s age emphasizes from the far corner. He takes a shot and slams his chest into his companion and Molly bursts out laughing.

“Outbreak babies. Christ,” she comments.

“You’re going to need to fill me in,” Joel admits, not fully recognizing the words strung together as a phrase.

Molly grabs him by the collar and whispers in his ear, his face tinging pink as she speaks, carelessly grazing his ear with her mouth. If anyone was starting to do the math around them, they definitely weren’t preventing much tonight.

Recognizing it quickly as she speaks and intimates what they could do later, “You don’t think Ellie’s—” Joel slurs together.

“Joel, yeah, I definitely do,” Molly nods, leaving him to put his hands on his head and feign stretching, scanning for his kid and finding an empty couch where she’d Dina had been progressively draping limbs over her.

“College, that right?” one asks, her patrol nickname less a sign of erudition and more a signifier of the younger group begging for stories of what they assumed had to have been a great time.

“Not even close,” she folds her arms.

Joel’s looking back over at her with an unfathomable expression.

Molly raises an eyebrow at him.

“Molly!” Both Joel and Molly snap around at the sound—an inebriated Alex, ever hopeful that Molly would take interest, ambling towards them.

“Alex,” Molly acknowledges.

“Look I’m juss gonna—” he gears up, puffing his chest out.

“Heyyy!” a chorus around the room lights up as Tommy comes into view, pausing at the stairs to beckon a more hesitant pair of jeans to finish the descent.

“Look what I brought,” Tommy announces, taking Maria’s hand faux-courteously and ushering her into the room. She takes a quick glance around the room for anything really out of line, but her eyes are back on Tommy.

Molly exchanges a glance with Joel, mouth turning down in a smile she’s clearly biting the inside of her cheek through. Tommy slots in by Eugene, squinting up at Joel like he can’t process his brother’s presence, Maria swarmed by red-handed occupants trying to earn her favor with the spectrum of tipple they offer.

“I think we’re skewing the demographic a bit,” Molly turns and starts, realizing Joel had pulled much closer and they’re inches apart.

If he leans in and whispers to her with an ill-contained smile, hand on her lower back, it’s not his business if anyone chooses to see it, even if it’s intentionally around the side visible to the whole room.

—

They barely make it back to Joel’s house in one piece, Molly fully face planting into the foot of snow twice. Joel almost offers to throw her over his shoulders but realizes he’s already swaying plenty and opts for an arm around her waist, which slows their progress considerably. Joel stops them every few seconds, guiding her momentum towards him to kiss her indiscreetly.

“Y’know, never personally did one of them body shots,” he murmurs, Texas inflection pouring out of him.

“How forward,” Molly teases back.

“I think you’re supposed to be lyin’ down, actually,” he jokes, getting his keys in on the fifth try and tugging Molly inside by the waist.

“Didn’t even make sense—” she complains, Joel’s hands on either side of her face as he kisses her. She grants him easy access, inviting the taste of the dark liquor into her mouth. He grabs her knitted hat and spikes it to the floor with far more force than necessary as he gets through her buttons with surprising dexterity.

They kiss messily between being successfully liberated from each layer of her clothing and Joel finally scoops her hips up, forcing her legs around his waist and into the dining room with the table they were already perfectly certain could handle a decent amount of stress.

“Pity my missed youth,” he implores, even as Molly is reclining and clearly interested in humoring him.

“Just get over here,” she falls back to her elbows as he hovers over her, balancing on one hand.

“You know, you’d usually come at it from the side,” Molly instructs.

“That so? I think I can do it this way,” Joel laughs, pouring the bottle he’d retrieved right onto her breastbone with no warning.

“Jooooel! Fuck!” Molly squeaks when the cold liquor slides uniformly down both sides of her abdomen, quickly chased by his hot tongue. He seems to get to her navel before the liquid can even pool there; thorough in laving the sticky liquid off of her skin, returning to her belly and swiping it clean with broad strokes.

“That was not nice,” she chastises, fisting his barely-long-enough hair in one hand, other hand pawing at the rest of him.

It makes Joel tilt his chin up at her, a look that would be sharp if they weren’t both so obviously besotted and hammered at once.

He twists free with next-to-no effort, moving back down and biting the side of Molly’s abdomen, tugging the skin a little as he pulls back.

Molly lets him look pleased with himself for a second, leaning heavily over her with a cocky smirk. She bites his lower lip, always searching for the appreciative grunt it earns, and isn’t surprised that he enjoys the pressure right up until she draws blood. Even in the low light (nobody drew the curtains against the reflective snow) his eyes are almost completely dark and he’s running them over her body and back to her face raptly.

Joel grasps Molly’s thighs, hard, and drags her roughly to the edge of the table, almost pinching.

Molly slaps him, not too hard, stinging on the ridge of his cheekbone. His mouth drops open for a second and she can’t help herself with how captivating he is, slowly tabulating what various replies may cost him with a clench of his jaw.

Joel watches her curious expression considerately and notes the flush along her front, returning the gesture with an extraordinary sense of control for being drunker than he’d been in years.

“Harder,” he challenges, eyes glinting in the snow-reflected light. Molly obliges, and they smile like they’ve stumbled on inventing a new art form together.

Molly lurches them together, grasping the back of his neck and kissing him feverishly, Joel reciprocating as their fingers overlap to get him out of his shirt. Joel shifts one knee next to Molly on the table, and the nervous groan it gives in reply makes him sigh and drag her down to the floor with him.

Molly straddles him as he kicks out of his jeans. It takes two seconds for him to flip them, slamming her back to the floor a little more roughly than he would’ve sober. He hooks the back of her right thigh over his shoulder and moves his mouth to suck on her clit without pretense.

“Joel!” Molly whines, arcing up on the chilled floor, interrupting it with a gasp when his first two fingers spread her. He glances up and tries not to break his pace, but Molly’s so fucking stunning, wreath of cropped auburn spilled on the floor, eyes boring into him with a soft upturn to her mouth.

“Hush,” he grumbles, smacking her thigh as he rises to his knees and drags her hips towards him.

Molly always feels as receptive as her demeanor towards him would suggest when he first slips inside of her, but tonight it feels like she’s thrusting into him somehow. Her shoulders stick to the floor as she’s far too wobbly to curl forward while he’s got her suspended well off the ground. Molly locks her thighs and shoves one heel into Joel’s lower back, knocking him off his knees enough to push forward into his lap.

“God damn it, Mol,” he protests thinly, gazing up at her as she grinds onto him, palms fanning over his broad shoulders.

“C-close,” she mumbles, throwing her head back and basking in the rough treatment he’s lavishing on her breasts.

Joel strokes the side of her face with a reverence she’s going to tease him for in the morning before lightly slapping her again and grasping her hair in a mostly connected movement.

Molly comes hard, exclaiming loudly enough that he feels compelled to cover her mouth with his opposite hand. Molly’s shivering pulls him over fast, certain and uncaring that she’s drawing blood along his back. Joel cries out between some kind of euphoric giggle as she nips his palm, absurdity starting to dawn on her.

They both rock for a long minute as he comes, Molly affectionately kissing along his high cheekbones and stroking where she’d scratched.

Joel strokes her back in kind, boneless and comfortably counting the thrum of their heartbeats against each other. He huffs a soft laugh first.

“Don’t start. Was that good?” Molly asks.

“If you’re good, yeah,” Joel can’t stop touching her face at the most restrained of times, and he cradles it in two hands now. He seems to beam up at her, thoroughly contented.

Molly kisses along his cheekbones once more and he nudges her with his nose.

“C’mon, put a drunk old man to bed,” he jokes, patting her lower back gently..

#prompts #pending prompts #pending asks #tlou fic #Anonymous

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haleruby · 3 years

Text

Forget Me Not

Characters/Pairings: established Malia/Lydia/Reader (Quim), Malia, Lydia, Scott, Stiles, lots of snow, and I never say it but the literal yeti.

Summary: Amnesia makes the mind go brrr, but in a bad way...brr (sad). [This not being a published imagine for my followers means I can mess with the summary and other info as much as I want. XD]

Word Count: 5.9k

Notes: I am using a sideblog that is empty and not tagging bc this is only for your eyes (hopefully and technically the gif maker’s...thank you @ gifmaker for the gif), so no need to reblog/like, etc.

Hope you enjoy and it gives you a boost for dealing with your aunt. :-)

I wrote this around October 11th 2019, so apologies about the style not being quite as fluid as my other writing. My other stuff is a bit more recent, if you maybe wanna read it. Most of my teen wolf phase was around here and then it re-sparked in 2020 towards the fall so I added a tiny bit to that one story I told you about with the warnings.

Also, apologies for the ending, lol. >.>

- - - - -

She is cold... So cold. It feels like a slab of ice is being used for a bed; her back aches all the way down to the individual vertebrae that compose her spine. Pain is slowly causing her other senses to return, enlivening them in cruel way so feeling anything means to hurt to some degree. A whooshing sound makes it hard to think, it rips across her mind dashing the thoughts that slowly trickle in through the haze and the ache. What happened...? Whipping wind continues to bear down on wherever here is. There is hardness under her, so she is probably on the ground and outside based on the frigid temperature. Moving an arm to check the hypothesis causes pain to lance through her shoulder so sharply a feeling of vertigo sets in. The firm ground suddenly tilts slightly. The leverage is increased almost mockingly, it edges up bit by bit like she is about to be slid off a cold metal tray to join the next batch of suffering. A choked whimper leaves her at the odd sensation of slipping. Just before the final plummet, she snaps back into herself viciously. Jolting does nothing good for her body, but now her eyes snap open with a slight burn as if they were sealed shut previously with chilled glue...At least she thinks they are open. Blinking confirms that her eyelids still function, which is good because she is trying not to think about how her arms and legs are not, though she can still mostly feel them. Everything is white. A flurry of white is all she sees after staring long enough to detect movement in what was thought to be a static image. Snow from what may be an impending blizzard continues to beat down on the surroundings, coating them in freezing rain, smatterings of hail, and ice. Why isn't she buried yet...? How long has she been here? A large conglomerate of flurries landing on her cheek causes her to wince, because it will not melt for a time, but the question remains. The left side of her face is stinging brutally, while the rest of her exposed skin only feels like a wind chap is starting to set in. Frowning makes it seem like there is something frozen to her skin; the downward curl is not reaching the left corner of her lips as if they are stuck. Is there something on her face? Staring blankly at the sky is not helping any of this make sense. Turning her head a miniscule amount causes her to feel sick, so she stops, trying to breathe evenly although the slight shaking is making it difficult. Being still is not an option, but the jolts of pain makes her wish it was. Evergreen trees were glimpsed in her peripheral vision; they looked towering and dark, not all fit for a happy Christmas. Woods plus winter with injuries does not sound good. Why is she even here? Working up the will power to try and get up is not something she has even entertained, since moving a single appendage hurt way too much. The snow fall is becoming less like the interior of a cheap snow globe and more like sheets of rain are freezing and then coating the forest solidly. Her right arm is no longer visible. Maybe getting under a tree would provide some protective covering? Don't get up, just shuffle. She can do that. Her feet ache in a disconcerting way like they fell half asleep. Digging her heels into whatever frozen packed dirt or snow is under her takes a few minutes, but little divets were clumsily formed. Now, she just has to leverage it. Her left arm is tucked close after what happened when she moved it. Shakily drawing her legs up again allows her to try and push back slowly, more so scrambling a few inches than moving back with purpose. Sliding against snow should be easy. The rocks and sticks that litter the ground seem to dig into her when she attempts the awkward dragging motion that causes a pull of tension across her body.

It hurts. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she mumbles hoarsely. Anger at not knowing why, where, or what lead to this prompts the pain signals to be ignored, instead she attempts to continue the mutilated crab walk back. Powdery snow sticks to the black of her pants with less finding purchase on the plastic shell of the navy jacket. A bit of red is spotted in the snow, but checking for the source of bleeding is secondary to getting away from the flurries. A trail of blood spottily forms from where she started to where she has hauled herself to. She is practically panting, which causes the cold air to stab her lungs like multiple knifes each time a ragged breath is drawn in. Her movements become out of sync, bordering on frantic. Less than a few meters of progress has been made... A foot digging in is mistimed with the curl of her back and placement of her arm, so that the stretch wracks through her painfully. A gasp muffles the cry of pain. She ends up off balance, crashing to her side heavily. Snow forces her to reflexively turn her head slightly to the side, but she still feels it burning in a way only ice can against her cheek. Throbbing stemming from her left temple encapsulates her head in a vice and is likely what makes the white dance with undulating blots of black for a while until her vision slowly clears back up. She could just rest and then try again. Maybe she should just close her eyes... Lean back and try to conserve warmth until the effort to move again seems possible. A cat nap could work? She tried and is tired; it's deserved. A sudden shrill howl barely stirs her, but a primal part of her mind urges her to become slightly more alert. That kind of sound belongs to a predator. Laying semi-buried in the snow with the inability to move may as well be an open invitation for dinner to whatever can survive the harsh conditions of the forest; it is probably a wolf or something canine. The tree line is watched between too slow blinks for whatever just made that noise. Nothing happens... She didn't imagine it. The cold has penetrated her gloves, it has penetrated her to the very center of her being, but fingers weakly search for something of use. A large rock? A stick? A phone? A conveniently placed gun? There is nothing she can use for defense, so her right arm stops extending outwards from her side to come to rest with her useless left one. Guarding her vital organs may at least help a little... Another howl sounds, but this one sounds deeper and echoes across the space; it sounds low, haunting, and mournful. There is more than one... They could play tug-a-war with her. She can barely make it to a tree for makeshift shelter, so climbing one to impede them locating her is also a 'no'. No weapon or means to deter the animal was magically found in the snow. The state she is in is yet another limitation, because she could not fend one off in perfect health either. ...What does she do? A short yip sounds like an announcement that her time to wrack her weary mind for a solution has trickled away. The source of the sound is located immediately as a small wolf with large, rounded ears makes a bee line for her. She vaguely thought it would have white fur or maybe a light gray, but a tawny brown sticks out against the snowy surroundings and looks distinctly out of place; it should be in a rich pine forest with browns and greens. Mentally critiquing the animal is not what she should be doing. Fear laced adrenaline causes her to clench her right fist tightly as she attempts to shift upwards to appear less prone—less weak. Gathering snow in her palm is so she has something to throw, even if a snow ball is a poor choice against a predator. The animal skids to a stop a little ways away, raising its head towards the sky to scent the air. Is it smelling her blood and judging that she is easy prey?

Teeth grit at the thought, because she has no idea about wolves or whatever dog thing this is. Could noise scare it away or only incite it further? How do you deter a canine? Looking it in the eye may be taken as a challenge or as a warning, but she still stares into its' eyes sharply, trying to project an intimidating aura as she narrows her own. The little quakes racking her paired with the fact she is on her back does not make her cut an imposing figure. A slow step forward is taken as the small wolf lowers its body more to the ground; it must be savoring how easy a kill this will be. Her arm draws back in warning. Will the wolf call her bluff and edge closer? "Go away," she seethes, knowing that saying something to it is a lost cause, but it is eyeing her oddly for an animal, almost thoughtfully. Lunging for her throat or springing forward to pounce should have occurred by now. Why isn't it attacking? Ears fall back, almost dropping at the tone, rather than being pressed flat against the skull in anger. Another step forward is taken and then another, until the wolf is close enough that she thinks she can hit it...The snowball is poorly compacted and falls apart, but some of it lands on its fur, which causes the wolf to shake its head at the action, giving a disgruntled chuff at the coldness. ...Did she expect that to go any better in her head? No. But it was her only real projectile. The wolf does something unexpected, it sits down like a dog and stares at her with those too human eyes. The forest in summer again comes to mind; a rich hazel that borders on brown like wood bark aside from the lightness around the iris is trained on her. She glares right back. Maybe its not a wolf, because it looks small and lean with a body that seems more agile than powerful. A long snout reminds her of a fox, and those ears that are still down are not really that wolf like either, too floppy... Maybe it's a special breed to this area or something else, not that it matters when it definitely has vicious claws, sharp teeth, and she can't get away. A decision must have been made as it creeps closer with tentative footfalls that barely displace the snow. Her arm is pinwheeled to kick up the remaining snow at her side at it in a last ditch effort for distance, but it keeps coming closer heedless of the weak icy barrage. The coolness likely does not seep through its thick fur. "Stop! Please, just go back!" She raises her voice sharply, distilling a hardness to her tone that causes the near hyperventilating quality of her breathing to abate for a moment as she tries to issue a command to a wild animal. Surprisingly, the wolf does halt its progress, but what it does next has her trying to get away as if the promise of being eaten was only a slight offense. Hazel just flashed a brilliant, glowing electric blue that seemed to pierce through her. Its an unnatural wolf thing. There may be worse things than death. Scrambling away using both hands and legs was a mistake, one that was made more than once as she groans. Her jaw locks like a steel trap as she continues, now on her stomach rather than side to crawl away. Tears feel momentarily warm against her frozen cheeks, before causing the burning to redouble from the wind. Everything hurts. She claws desperately at the snow, trying to get away, because there is no explanation for what she just saw or how odd the creature is in general. Her vision seems to be becoming the view used for wide screen movies; darkness creeps around the edges. She is struggling to make sense of things other than the need to move away, because that creature goes against the natural order.

Its too intelligent, it knows too much. Those eyes. It won't just kill her... Something grabs a fistful of her jacket, tugging backwards to prevent the flagging forward motion. It must have a mouthful of her jacket. She kicks out. Her legs feel like lead weights that she only has a minor degree of control over and no contact was made with a furry body, instead only the inevitable collision back with the hard ground occurs. The additional jolt is nothing compared to the rest of the pain that is maddening at this point, because the adrenaline rush is failing at dampening it. Her actions are catching up with her. An angry sob leaves her when she inelegantly falls face first in the snow. Her arms are shaking and she can't support herself anymore while also resisting the wolf. The grip on her jacket is suddenly replaced by a clamping sensation on her shoulder. There is no tearing or teeth burrowing. What feels like fingers squeeze her shoulder, until another hand is placed flatly on her back. What the Hell? What. The. Fuck. Being turned over slowly causes her to whimper; her eyes screw shut because nothing makes sense and she hates it all. Fighting has gotten her nowhere. Something warm settles on her cheek, and she should look to see what is going on, but she is too cold and tired to care. The whipping wind gains an additional sound, though she can't process what it is except that is softer and more pleasing to the ear. A voice? No, that isn't possible. The falling sensation comes again; this time she does not try and stay upright or grounded against it, allowing herself to go along with it. She gives up. . . . . . . "-the blizzard is only increasing; it took out the power lines. We can't go out in that." "You can't, but I can." A dull bang sounds like someone hit something wooden with their fist. "We can't!" This is half shouted in clear exasperation that may be hiding anger. "Losing anyone else isn't an option, ok? I want to know where he is too, but you can't see, smell, or even hear when it's this bad out, and we don't know what is out there that did that to her. You're not thinking it through, Scott." "He's a part of the pack." Listening to the argument unfolding any further is prevented when warm fingers graze her neck. She stops playing possum. Her eyes snap open to meet startled green ones that reminds her of emerald gemstones. A strawberry blonde girl is sitting on the burgundy upholstered couch she lays on, and may just be checking her pulse, but her right hand wraps tightly around her wrist just in case the action is not so innocent. Only a cursory glance is given to the surroundings, since she feels on edge. Where is she? A ski lodge... Thick wooden logs make up the walls, though it is hard to tell how large the space is when only candle light provides light. She does spot the underside of the A-line architectural support that is made of exposed beams. A few mounted deer heads leer at her with glassy black eyes. One wall boasts a large crackling stone fire place that has ancient crossed ski poles above it as a decoration; this is the main source of warmth and brightens the large 'U' of couches that could fit a dozen or more comfortably. This must be a lobby, not a home, based on the few informational areas and posters she saw. Was she out skiing? Returning her attention to the girl has her pausing, because she is being watched so closely, but there may be fear to that gaze too. Pale skin seems to lack much color, even though the fire is casting warmth on both of them and making the red to her hair more vibrant. Her grip is not that tight, and she was touched first, so why is she being looked at like that? Releasing the hold after moving those probing fingers away occurs; she did not mean to frighten her... "She's up! Thank God." The sudden announcement breaks the silent stare off. A guy with spiked brown hair dashes over to the couch alongside a taller guy with black hair that is somewhat obscured by a beanie. These were the two who were arguing. She simply observes them, unwilling to be the first one to speak, because she has no clue how she got here and would rather not be at a deficit by admitting that. Letting them do the informing is a smart move. "We set your arm back in place, but you may need surgery for the cuff," Stiles explains, coming to kneel beside the couch. Soft brown eyes sweep over her form that has less snow and blood caked on it; however, he is still worried about the injuries, especially when they only have a small first aid kit and makeshift sling on hand. "We bandaged what we could. Also, you will probably need a CT scan because your head has a crack in it like Humpty Dumpty. We will figure it all out, Quimmie." He seems pretty caring, so she nods stiltedly in agreement for him to continue speaking. The taller one, who must be Scott, draws closer, fiddling with a walkie talkie in his hand, before sighing. She waits for him to muster up the will to speak. "I know you're hurting, and I'm sorry, but where is Liam?" Once one question is asked it seems that it breaks the dam so a deluge of them come forward as his dark brown eyes narrow at the faint popping of static that comes from the device. There has not been a check-in in a while. "What happened to your team? Was it the ridge that you investigated or did it come after you on a trail? Were the hikers right, and it's just a crazed wolf or something else?" "You can't ask her all that at once." "Stiles, the temperature is dropping further and he is still out in it." "Yeah, and she just woke up, Scott. So back off." A hand finding her own diverts her focus from another brewing argument between the two. Fingers interlace with her own one at a time with a gentleness that confuses her after how hard everything else has been, so she doesn't immediately resist it. A pinky edges over the row of her digits until her hand is covered and then a hold is formed that she does not return. The question must be evident on her features, because a sad smile of understanding is given; it looks like the girl is trying not to crumble, which she accomplishes, but the underlying cracks are still there for all to see. What did she do to be looked at like that? "Malia is right..." Stiles practically rounds on both of them, knocking his knees against the edge of the couch at the softly spoken statement. "No, Lyds," he disagrees immediately, before locking eyes with impassive (Y/E/C) that watch him, but do not really take him in or express much emotion. He thought it was from the pain and shock, not because... "What is my name?" "Stiles," she answers correctly, because it was spoken already.

"Scott said it earlier," Lydia points it out calmly. Stiles runs a hand down his face, not wanting to test the theory that Malia suggested because of what it could mean, but he also knows he needs to. There is a reason the werecoyote is listening from behind the couch and not present with the rest. The earlier fear towards her cut her to the bone. Explaining it away as confusion or discombobulation did not convince Malia, who he tries to not glance directly at, even though he can see the glowing blue to her eyes, because this is upsetting to her. He balls his hands into fists; it can't be that. "What school do we all go to?" She says nothing, but wishes the couch cushions would absorb her into it. "What does our dad do for a living?" He asks it more sharply at the silence that seems to say more than any answer could. No, no, no. A hand is placed on the edge of the couch to keep balance as he sinks to his knees, rather than kneel; he meets her eyes squarely. "Come on, try and answer." Her brows furrow at this, because she does not look particularly like him for them to be blood related. His features are mentally compared to what she intuitively knows to be her appearance. The skepticism is not voiced. Being stared in outright disbelief by Stiles makes it clear that anything she could say about the situation would make it worse. "What is your name? Where are we from? What is the year? Who is she-" A hand gestures quickly to Lydia, though he quickly unfolds his fingers so he is not rudely pointing at her, but his palm shakes, "-to you? Malia, come over here and-" "Stiles." Lydia's voice holds a firm warning as she places a hand on his shoulder, pushing him slightly away from the couch edge before he looms closer. She scoots to be blocking his stare that practically tears into them with its desperate edge. He probably does not even realize he was raising his voice, almost shouting out each question so it warped into a demand. "Don't push her; it's not her fault." "She isn't saying anything!" Stiles counters. "It wouldn't be what you all want to hear..." That causes the pack to grow quiet for a moment as they each consider the matter of fact statement. "So, what? You were just going to go along with it?" Scott asks, confused. The realization that they have no idea what they are facing or how Liam is doing also weighs on him in addition to how this amnesia will affect the pack. Did they just lose two friends tonight? He sits down heavily on the coffee table, shooting Malia a sympathetic look to try and silently communicate she needs to dim down. "There are five of you and one of me, not great odds, so-" "We aren't going to hurt you." The vehement interjection causes her to reword the point, though green eyes practically blaze as they meet her own; any of that fear has burned away, replaced with conviction. "I don't know anything about anything," she admits softly, glancing at the red and black plaid blanket draped over her legs to cope with so many people staring at her. Her head still aches and this is tiring. "Waiting to see what you had to say was the logical thing to do. I don't know your intentions, but I wasn't going to lie to you. Thanks for helping me out of the snow..." "That was Malia," Scott supplies automatically. She has the feeling that none of the ones in the seating area is this Malia person, so a nod is given. Stiles rises from the stone floor, trying to figure out how to fix the situation. This is no broken bone that can be set or a cut that needs to be stitched up; her memories are not murky or mixed up, but are completely gone. "Can you please tell us what you do remember?" "Why?"

"So we can help you and our other friend." Scott answers honestly, before Stiles losses the bit of composure he just re-gained. He is in older, adopted brother mode and is obviously upset. "We can answer your questions too." "I didn't say I had any..." "You don't know anything, so you should. Unless being amnesiac is how you want to reinvent yourself before senior year." Stiles snipes, but backs off when his best friend gives him a warning look that does not compare to the one he will get from Lydia and Malia, if he keeps pressing it. He is mad at what happened not her...But she is not acting like his adopted sister, who has been with him for years, but someone else entirely. Fingers pull at the worn tassels of the blanket for a moment as she considers the alternatives, turning them over in her head given how tense things are and her own deficit. They did help her, so being difficult is not her goal. She can't shake that there is something not quite right about them, especially Scott, it makes her feel on guard like there is a potentially hidden deadliness. Why are they in an empty ski lodge? The owners should be present or at least the other customers. She is mostly laying down aside from a pillow that elevates her back, sitting upright would put them more on equal terms, but the pain that will come with moving is considered. "Okay, one quick question: why are you all here alone? This place does not seem to be in operation, so did you break in...?" Scott shares a look with Stiles. Telling the full truth would only work with someone acquainted with the supernatural and all of that must have been wiped away too. He runs his hands down his thighs to stall. "We got, er, permission to come up. There's an unsolved mystery that we are trying to crack. The resort is temporarily closed down, because of it and the blizzard..." He trails off, trying to balance the truth with the lies. "We are trying to help." "You do seem the helpful type," she observes dubiously, before crossing her right arm carefully with her sling encased left. The position helps her feel a bit more distant from their prying eyes; it feels like they are judging her, though that makes sense when she is expected to actually be someone, not a blank slate. She turns her attention to the fire. "I don't know a Liam. I don't know why we were on a team or what our objective was. All I remember is snow: white, cold, burning snow. I was on the ground trying to get up, but failed because everything ached. I actually felt like I was falling..." She presses her lips together, mulling over what else can be said. Those glowing, unnaturally blue eyes come to mind so vividly, it feels like she is staring at the creature again. They probably already think she is crazy enough without mentioning it. "There was a wolf, or maybe it wasn't a wolf, that kept coming towards me. I assumed it would maul me, but it didn't...I'm not sure how it was going to kill me, it seemed too patient and smart, not really like a typical animal. I freaked out and tried to crawl away when it got too close, which made all the pain a lot worse. I fainted. I'm assuming Malia scared it off or dealt with it, because I think I would remember it biting into me...Then I woke up here." Lydia wants to reach out to her, but prevents the urge with how previous attempts were received. She can tell that she is still struggling with the pain on top of everything else; however, the far off look in her eyes must mean something is not being voiced. They still have not shared her name...

"Okay, so everything before the snow is blank?" Stiles confirms, getting a curt nod in response that makes him want to throw something into the flames of the fireplace. This is not how the weekend's mission was meant to go. He is pacing in front of the hearth, chewing on the cap end of a pen as he thinks about where to go from here. She was also their only lead with Liam and the creature. How will his dad react? He's older--the older sibling, and feels responsible for her, and now she's a very familiar stranger..."You're sure that's it? So like an hour or so comprises your entire, new existence?" "Yes, Stiles." He ignores the slight irritation to her tone, because he is busy thinking. "Maybe we can jog her memory?" This is posed to the pack, like his sister is another murder case or mystery that he can add to his pin and red string laden board to puzzle out the connections and causes. He can solve this. "We should wait until my mom sees her and the doctors run legit tests. There may be rules on how to deal with head trauma patients," Scott disagrees gently. "Maybe the head trauma is not the cause...It could be something else?" "She is still healing and we don't know how bad everything is." Scott sees the way Stiles crosses his arm abruptly at the disagreement, annoyed. "I want to help her. We need to find Liam too." "The answer could lie with her if we just try and remind her who she is!" "That could make it worse." Lydia is unsure who she sides with between the two guys, but knows talking about the one in question like she is not present in the room is almost always a bad idea. Malia getting up from the wooden chair that was pulled from behind the receptionist's to rest behind the couch is mostly ignored. Supple leather comprises her winter boots that only make a faint clack against the wood floor. She moves purposefully, ignoring Lydia's questioning look as she rounds the couch and stands in front of it to peer down at its occupant. The lack of recognition causes her to feel a deep ache in her heart, while the early fear left a ragged wound behind. Taking a knee, she tilts her head slightly as she watches (Y/E/C) eyes look her over cautiously, rather than softly, because the one in front of her does not know her. "Uhm, thank you for saving me?" Malia ignores the tentative gratitude. "Malia, I-" Scott's concerned warning is stopped short when Stiles holds up a hand, silently asking for him to let whatever is about to happen unfold. He locks his jaw, knowing how affected his beta was when she arrived back at the lodge. She was practically incoherent in describing what happened, instead whimpering and growling when anyone got too close to the two and unwilling to let go of the one bundled up in her arms. She was more coyote than human... Scott slides to the very edge of the coffee table to intervene, if needed, as a precaution. She looks kind of angry...Hazel eyes are not nearly as searching as the green ones that were first on her, rather they seem to be invasively prying without hesitation. The shoulder length cut to her brown locks frames her face nicely, which makes her gaze that much harder to look away from. Being stared at like some sort of freak show is grating on her patience, so she eventually manages to glance away to look back at the fire, though her view is soon occupied by Malia shifting closer with a challenging look. A lightly tanned hand rests on the back of the couch, effectively caging her in. "If you have something to say, then please go ahead," she requests calmly. "How could you forget about me?"

"It wasn't a choice." "Then why aren't you remembering?" Malia almost snaps out the question. A scoff almost leaves her at the presumption, because this girl is really blaming her...Are they all placing the fault on her alone? Maybe the inkling that something is not right with some of them is because they are actually a threat; the lodge is becoming more inhospitable by the second. "I can't. It's not like I'm repressing it," she replies sternly. "I don't know my own name, so it's definitely not personal. Get over yourself." "Quim. That is your name" Lydia offers, trying to mediate between the two, though she knows this is hard for Malia. It is hard for her too, but someone has to be on Quim's side as a source of support. "Oh, okay..." Fingers burrow deeply into the upholstery of the couch, nails threaten to extend and rip out the plush stuffing. Her coyote aspect howls in her mind. Malia grits her teeth against the hurt those words just stirred, trying to let anger mask it because she would have never thought this would happen to them. This is not how it should be. Relying on instinct, she surges forward, placing a hand firmly over Quim's heart to pin her in place as she joins their lips without asking for permission. She is her's, so she should not have to. The kiss is forceful, demanding and not at all how a kiss should be...It is also one sided. She is doing all the action, while her partner is frozen and unresponsive, though that stasis eventually breaks for Quim to turn her head away abruptly, before a hand is against her shoulder, pushing away. Trying to move away from Malia causes a sharp pull in her back that earns a wince. Fucking oww. "What the hell are you doing?!" "I was trying to jog your memory!" Malia counters. "You can't just kiss people!" "We've done way more than kiss, Quim!" That causes the indignation to leave her in a rush, making the anger feel unwieldy and too large for her to handle. She retracts her hand from Malia, re-crossing her arms as best she can to serve as a barrier between the two of them. Now, she is more confused. "What...?" "Maybe now isn't the time for this..." Scott attempts to reason with his beta. "Mal-" "My soulmate forgot me!" "Not on purpose." Lydia pipes up, earning a huff from the werecoyote, but at least she is listening to her. She links their hands to try and pull Malia away from the couch edge. "We need to be patient." "How are you handling this well? She forgot you too--both of us!" "Not. By. Choice." "I have two girlfriends...?" Stiles runs a hand down his face at the turn in conversation; this is not going to fix her memory, but of course that is what his sister takes away from the conversation. "Yes," he answers at the perplexed expression, rolling up his shirt sleeve to show his blank wrist. "Soul identifying marks. Ring any bells? No, well, you have two of them, so you have two soulmates, even though it is rare to have even one. Lucky you." Oh... Green and hazel eyes no longer meet in a silent, tense stare off, settling back on the occupant of the couch. Quim falls silent under their attention, unsure what could be said when forgetting your literal fated other halves.

#for quim who is awesome and nice!#i could just put gibberish in these tags #i also use this side blog for my very few pics in AO3 for fics.#alsoooo bc i had a fixation on ruby hale and that is what sparked that super long OC laden work i mentioned to you...kind of OC.#really i adapted different characters from different things and put them in one verse. anyway.

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thevampireauthoress · 5 years

Text

One-shot fic: Decaffeination

The good doctor slouched over his desk, bullets of November rain pelted against the window and the glaring light from the screen was making his head ache. His chest heaved in a sigh as his head lifted to look at the clock. The numbers swam as he squinted, it was past eleven. His hand shook as he reached behind his laptop and found a host of forgotten mugs in varying states of emptiness. Drawing one out, he peered into the ageing liquid, the smell made his stomach turn. Pushing it hastily away, he took a moment for his gag reflex to settle before he reached back again. Grasping as many half-finished beverages as he could, he rose and strode with as much purpose as a newly risen corpse across the moth-eaten carpet.

The kitchen was lit by a stark, unshaded bulb, accentuating the white paint and cracked linoleum all around him. Watching the rancid brew swirl down the drain; he thought back to his vacation, it seemed so long ago. Listening to the dull, continuous stream of droplets against the windows, he wondered if he covered his ears just enough the rain would sound like waves. Perhaps if he turned on all the lights and the oven he could recreate a portion of the sun he had lounged in. He could sit on a raggedy deckchair he’d brought in from the balcony before the miserable weather set in and block it all out, at least for a while.

With a sigh that made cheap blinds clatter; the doctor dismissed the lingering longing, what was the point? It would only affect his electricity bill. Switching on the kettle, he reached into the cupboard, scanning labels for the instant liquid life he craved.

It wasn’t there.

He’d forgotten it.

A groan welled up from the depths of him, a mournful howl for his productivity. He snatched the next best thing and slammed the cupboard door, ripping open the box of tea like an animal.

While it brewed he stared at the mug. No.1 Best Teacher Doctor, it proclaimed. Chase had given him the mug as a gift, on his better days it could make him crack a smile. Sighing again, he lost track of how much sugar he spooned into his tea. Removing the teabag and adding the last of the milk, he went back to his desk. The words on the screen danced a tarantella in front of his eyes, his vision protesting his destructive work ethic. An annoyed growl rose in the back of his throat as he snatched up his tea and opened the door to the outside.

Exiting onto the balcony, his breath misted the glass for a moment. The precipitation had cleared somewhat, enough to lean on a balcony door without worrying about wind direction. Sliding the door shut behind him, he gazed across the skyline, lights winking over the city.

Something caught his eye on the street below, it was about the size of a large bird and a shadow was hot on its heels. It took the doctor a moment to realise what the object was as the strong winds carried it. It was a hat and a man who clearly belonged to said hat, desperately chasing it through the rain. As the doctor watched the cat-and-mouse game the man and his hat seemed to be playing, he found himself smiling, the man’s exaggerated physicality reminded him of movies from a bygone era.

Henrik stifled a cheer as the gentleman caught his flyaway headwear and dashed off into the night.

He continued to look down at the street. The city already had the decorations out, tiny fairy lights flashed in the bare trees, glittering like diamonds on the pavement.

A lighted banner with WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS was hung over the street, as it had been every year since Henrik had moved here. The good doctor did not celebrate Christmas himself but his ex-wife and children had loved the season.

He wondered idly, as he sipped his cooling tea; if he cleaned and put up the few decorations he had, whether his children could spend Christmas with him. Were they too old now for toy stethoscopes and fake thermometers? Maybe, if he was lucky, he could get the big day off. Roast a crown of turkey, and some frozen potatoes and parsnips.

Or if that was beyond his cooking capacity, he knew of a bagel place run by a Jewish family who were (rightly, Henrik noted) proud of their salt beef, he could teach them about Hanukkah in the process, maybe... maybe...

Doubt seeped into his mind, the hospital was already short-staffed and his vacation had used up all of his holidays. Stress creeped up his shoulders as he set down his half-empty mug and fell back into his habit of pacing, remembering the holiday accidents that happen without fail every year.

Henrik shook the thoughts from his head before they could take root, even if he couldn’t have his children for Christmas, Chase would probably be up for a stiff drink and a game or two after he finished work at the ER. They could order a pizza and shoot the shit until one of them fell asleep on the sofa, that would suffice and it would keep Chase out of trouble.

In his absentmindedness, the good doctor found himself in the doorway of his bedroom. He considered going back to work, but stopped himself; the unmade bed looked comfortable and the pillows soft and inviting. Pulling off his clothes and stepping into flannel pyjamas, he collapsed onto the mattress. No matter how much caffeine and sugar may have been in that tea; the good doctor fell into a sleep that was deep and, for the first time in so long, dreamless.

......

Jameson / Jackie / Marvin / Chase / Anti(?)

......

Okay, I’ve never written fanfic before (and this was longer than I intended); I’m so much more confident using my own characters, but it was good practice for sticking to characterisation. I’ll be honest, Schneep isn’t my favourite ego, but I tried my best using what I knew for sure about him. I’m 4 weeks too late for his week and I haven’t edited properly but I’ve been very busy... so there!

(Schneep doesn’t mention Jack being in a coma because I couldn’t figure out in my 3am writing sessions how to make it work without being super sad)

..... get ready for other ego one shots coming soon, any constructive feedback you could give would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.

Um... I’m tagging everyone who said they’d like to read it/liked the post asking if people would read it, so Geronimo I guess: @kate807 @drunkpmacultist @sptgd @lilakennedy @kcarrollworld @khushiudasi @luvstoriesatstoplights2 @flamingarbagecan @rozapast @aaliyah-j-hall

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye community #jse egos #henrik von schneeplestien #youtuber egos #fanfic #ego fanfic #the good doctor #jacksepticeye fanfiction #the vampire talks shit #the vampire writes #schneeplestien #dr schneepelstien #scheep appreciation week #decaffeination one-shot

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reality-warp · 5 years

Text

CM Chapter 17 “Preview”

Merry Christmas guys!

You read right, it’s a look inside the next chapter of CM! <3

I’ll be honest, I really wanted to have this chapter done for Christmas day, but realistically I’m not going to have it polished before New Year thanks to the family holiday I’ve found myself on (and trust me, this is one chapter you guys will really want me to get right.) But I still wanted to give you all a little gift this holiday, so please consider this the usual Tumblr-exclusive teaser--only slightly longer, and with much more to come. :)

Here’s hoping you enjoy the sneak-peek. And I hope you all have had a very happy Christmas and a wonderful holiday season. Much love from me and my family to yours,

Rella xx

Helm’s Deep was a monster of a fortress, though you wouldn’t know it at a glance.

Sarra had told me during our walk that over half of it was actually below ground, dug straight into the side of the mountain it was built against. But as Aragorn, Benvolio and I crested the final hill that brought the valley into view, the parts that were visible were breath stealing all on their own.

The Hornburg—the main fortress of Helm’s Deep—stood out from the sheer wall of the cliffs like the bow of a ship, its two levels and internal walls formed entirely from the same dark grey stone of the mountains. It had been built so that it was slightly raised above the valley it overlooked, the only access via a long, narrow causeway leading up to a set of heavy wooden gates.

Unless of course, you felt like scaling the enormous Deeping Wall that stretched literally from one side of the valley to the other, with only a thick steel grate at the base to let the stream flow through.

It wasn’t quite dusk yet, but the sun was hanging low enough in the sky to cast a forbidding red hue over the cliffs as we cantered past the empty trenches and ramparts.

One tiny, stupid part of me was almost reluctant to guide our Benvolio up the stone walkway towards the entrance, the intimidatingly huge walls of the citadel looming up over us like some kind of sleeping giant that would swallow you if you got too close.

But deep down, I knew exactly why I was truly reluctant to enter, and who I would face inside…

That feeling of dread quickly disappeared the moment the lookout guards began pointing and shouting all along the battlements. Eventually one had the presence of mind to bellow for the gates to be opened, and the colossal wooden doors began to swing outwards. Benvolio—who had carried us the entire way without so much as a snort of complaint—staggered inside before coming to a shaky stop only a few steps past the threshold. Tired soldiers and nervous refugees lining the walls of the first courtyard, all of them turning to watch open-mouthed as Aragorn slid off the horse (indecently spritely for someone who’d been on horseback all day, in my bruised opinion). I carefully swung my creaking legs off Benvolio’s back too, trying to ignore the clamouring, pointing people beginning to surround us, and immediately fell face as my knees gave out.

My annoyance at Aragorn’s supposed lack of exhaustion disappeared as he caught and steadied me.

“Can you stand?” He asked, no trace of judgment in his tone. He obviously knew how much the journey had taken out of me by how naturally quiet I’d been. It took a moment to properly get my feet under me, and even then they were barely steady enough.

“Yeah, just give me a second.”

He nodded, slipping an arm gently around my back. The action was partly to disguise the fact that he was still mostly holding me up from the growing crowds around us, but also to make sure I was the only one who could hear him whispering.

“Don’t say anything about what we saw. We must tell the king before anyone else.”

I nodded, trying to keep the look of dread off my face. The last thing we needed was to panic the civilians with the news of what was really coming our way.

A gale of furious shouting erupted suddenly from the back of the crowd, cutting off any reply I might have had. I couldn’t immediately see who it was coming from, but I’d have to guess. I’d have recognised that angry Dwarven baritone in a crowd of a million people all shouting at once.

“Where are they?! Get out of the way! Out of my way, I said! I’m going to bloody kill them!” Gimli was howling as he literally shoved his way through the crowd, almost kicking over a gawking young soldier when he didn’t move fast enough. Aragorn and I both just gawked as our resident dwarf appeared in the gap he’d created, his fuming, helm-less face almost as red as his beard…

And bloody hell, there were tears in his eyes.

“Gimli—?”

“You two are the stupidest,” he shouted, cutting me off and jabbing a thick finger at us with every ground-shaking step towards us, “the luckiest, canniest, and the most reckless pair of sodding lunatics I’ve ever known in all my days!”

I’d barely had time to draw air to spout some kind of fumbling apology before he drove into us, arms as strong as tree roots coming around to pull us into a hug so hard my breath left me all over again. “Bless the both of you bleeding basket cases!”

The embrace was clumsy, warm, and made every one of my bruises scream with protest, but it was by far the best thing he could have given me right then. I let my body fold over with the force of the hug, my arms automatically returning it as hard as I could.

Well, crap. Now there were tears in my eyes too.

“I’m so glad you’re ok,” I managed to mumble through the knot in my throat. Aragorn let out a soft laugh that I could hear the tired smile in, giving us both a comforting pat on the back.

“I too am glad to see you well, master dwarf,” he said softly, the weariness beginning to creep into his voice at long last. “Are the rest of you well?”

“Aye, for the most part,” Gimli answered, releasing us with some reluctance. “A few bumps, a few bruises. We all made here in one piece at least. But what by Mahal happened to you two fools?” He jabbed a finger straight at my face, his glare like stone. “And you, lass. What in the ‘byss were you doing in the middle of the bloodbath? And losing your knife, again!”

I suddenly had the unsettlingly familiar feeling of being scolded by an affection but exasperated kindergarten teacher.

“I—”

I didn’t get the chance to finish my train of thought, let alone my sentence because I suddenly felt a pair of familiar eyes on me, and turned to find an equally familiar face staring straight at me.

Though granted, not the one I was both hoping for, and dreading all at the same time.

Boromir was standing open-mouthed at the foot of the stone steps learning up to the upper battlements. He looked as if he had been awake far too long, and on his feet for even longer, and if the expression on his face was anything to go by, I either looked truly amazing or like I’d just crawled out of my own grave—probably the latter.

I felt myself give sheepish smile and an awkward little wave, and his face split into a wide, joyous smile. He pushed his way through the gap in the crowd far more gently than Gimli had, but the hug he wrapped around me was no less strong.

“We thought you both dead,” he mumbled quietly against the top of my head.

“It was a near miss,” I admitted, hugging him back as hard as my shaking arms were able before pulling back. He had a few new cuts and bruises from the warg fight but otherwise looked as healthy as I’d left him. If anything, there was a renewed spark in his eyes that I was sure I hadn’t seen before. “Are you alright?”

“Am I—?” He threw his head back and burst into a loud rumbling laugh, pulling me into another one-armed hug. “I’m quite well, you tiny madwoman. Next time, for once, worry about keeping yourself in one piece before fretting over protecting the rest of us.”

I couldn’t quite hide my surprise at the warmth of his reaction, but I also couldn’t hide the wide grin that came with it. I gave an exhausted but genuine laugh as I rested my forehead against his shoulder.

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

The Gondorian warrior released me and turned to face Aragorn with equal relief as he had shown me if a little more restrained. He clapped the ranger hard on the shoulder, the nearest battle-worn men like them ever seemed to get to an embrace, but they both looked genuinely pleased to see each other alive.

“We found the Orc who saw you go over. You have much explaining to do,” Boromir started to tell us, but Aragorn raised a hand to him.

“Later, right now we must see to Theoden, urgently.”

Both Boromir and Gimli’s faces fell at the severe tone of his voice.

“You saw something?” Gimli guessed, and Aragorn nodded, eyeing the surrounding crowds who were still shellshocked at the reappearance of two of the supposedly dead.

“On our way here. It’s imperative we’re all prepared.”

Boromir had taken one look at the expression on Aragorn’s face a nodded, immediately flagged down a couple of passing soldier. Less than a minute later Theoden’s lieutenant—who I recognised as Gamling—had appeared at the bottom of the steps leading to the second level. After a brief moment of shock at the sight of me and the ranger still alive and walking around, he started conversing in urgent, hushed tones with Aragorn and Boromir while the soldiers started dispersing the crowd and led a knackered Benvolio off toward the stables.

I couldn’t help but scan the crowd with a searching gaze as the curious soldiers and Edoras refugees started to lose interest and move away. I hadn’t intended to voice my thoughts as my eyes failed to find who I was searching for, but my mouth moved before I could stop it.

“Where’s—” I cut myself off, but Gimli saw the look on my face and knew instantly who I meant.

“He’s not here, lass,” he told me gently. My stomach dropped at the words, icy dread forcing its way past my flimsy composure.

“Oh God, he’s not—?!”

Gimli threw up his hands in a calming gesture.

“No, no, he’s alive,” he reassured, seemingly not at all surprised to see the fear on my face, “though I wouldn’t say he’s well, exactly. He’s assisting the women and children down into the caves.”

I felt my whole body sag in both tiredness and sudden relief.

He was alive, and helping. At least that meant he wasn’t injured. The weight that knowledge lifted from me was a surprise. I’d been so focused on keeping myself and Aragorn alive after our fall I hadn’t stopped to realise Boromir had been right—I had been worrying about them all. Not knowing whether they had been hurt in the fight, whether they were even alive…

I felt sudden, humiliatingly exhausted tears stinging the corners of my eyes, and I had to clench them shut to stop them falling.

Gimli cleared his throat and gave me a gruff pat on the shoulder.

“Here,” he said, reaching into his spare scabbard and withdrawing a familiar looking blade with a clumsily carved handle (now slightly stained with Orc blood). He took my hand and pressed the handle into my palm, pointing a warning finger straight into my face. “And I swear by Mahal, you lose this again and I’ll have the smithy weld it to your side.”

I hiccuped and laugh, and it was just what I needed to get myself under control again.

“I do have the worst luck with that knife,” I agreed, clutching it to my chest once before stowing it safely back in the sheath at my waist. “Thanks, Gimli.”

“Bah,” he waved me off, but I saw the smile lurking behind that beard.

Just then, a woman appeared out of the crowd still moving around us. I wouldn’t have otherwise noticed her, she blended into the other refugees so seamlessly in her dusty travelling clothes, wavy blond mane and tired look. But the moment she spotted us she made a bee-line straight for me, dark brown eyes intent.

“Pardon, m’lord and lady,” she said as soon as she was close enough, her voice holding a similar Rohirric accent to the one Sarra had. She still had her gaze fixed on me, eyes flicking occasionally up to my ears. “I don’t mean to intrude, but, you are the one called Eleanor?”

“Aye,” Gimli answered before I could even open my mouth, clapping a solid hand on my back and almost collapsing my spine. “This is she.”

The woman never looked away from me, and there was something uncannily familiar about her…

“M’lady Eleanor, my name is Etain,” she told me solemnly with a slight bow.

And suddenly I realised why I felt like I’d seen her before. Her hair might have been threaded with grey, but it was exactly the same as Eothain’s sandy blond. And her eyes mirrors of Freda’s warm brown.

“You’re Eothain and Freda’s mother,” I blurted stupidly, but she smiled, the expression weary but warm as a midsummer afternoon.

“That I am,” she confirmed. “My children tell me you are responsible for their lives.”

I fumbled for some kind of response, suddenly feeling—against all reason—truly embarrassed by the blunt statement that made me sound far more heroic that I was.

“I, well…”

She hugged me.

Crossing the small distance between us in one smooth stride, she wrapped me in an embrace so similar to my own mothers it almost floored me. I suddenly found myself fighting back the sting of tears a second time.

“Thank you,” Etain whispered, her own voice thick with her own unshed tears. “I am in your debt, m’lady. Thank you.”

I hesitated a bit before giving her a gentle pat on the back in acceptance of the hug, honestly unsure of how else I should react.

“You don’t owe me anything, Etain,” I told her gently. She released me and gave me a disbelieving look.

“Of course I do! You are the reason my son and daughter have not joined my husband in death.”

“I was… only doing my job,” I said feebly, and the overly humble reply seemed to amuse and please her because she beamed, taking both my filthy hands tightly in hers.

“Whatever your reason, should you need anything, any request I can grant, it is yours.”

“I—” I was about to try and deny that she should offer me anything, but something about the look in her eyes told me that refusing her graciousness would be deeply insulting. Or worse, ungrateful. So I swallowed the impulse, hoping I wasn’t too red-faced and ducked my head in a small bow. “Thank you, Etain. Where are Freda and Eothain anyway? Are they alright?”

“They are both well. Already safely down in the caves,” she said, a questioning glance from me to where Gimli had joined the grim conversation with Boromir, Aragorn and Gamling. “Will you be joining us, m’lady?”

I quickly promised her I would come and check on them once I’d seen to my companions. She’d just moved off towards the archways leading down to the catacombs below the keep when Aragorn appeared at my side again.

“Theoden is preparing the keep for defence. We must inform him of what we witnessed,” he said with a pointed glance at the retreating Etain and the other refugees. I blinked at him, more than a little surprised.

“You want me there too?”

Aragorn eyed me as if the answer was obvious.

“Of course. You saw them as clearly as I.”

“Likely clearer, depending on how hard you hit that river,” Gimli added dryly, to which Aragorn threw him a dirty glare. The dwarf simply smirked, clapping the ranger on the arm.

“Go. We will continue with the preparations. Come find us after,” Boromir urged.

So we left them to the refugees, making our way up towards the main hall of the keep in Gamling’s footsteps. I couldn’t help but peer back over my shoulder as we left, glancing at Boromir’s back as he assisted an elderly couple carrying their provisions towards the caves.

‘Something’s different about that one,’ Tink piped up from the back of my head, eyeing the smile the man offered his charges as they left. I made a silent noise of agreement, turning to catch up with Aragorn and Gamling.

‘How’s definitely a little closer to the old Boromir I remember.’

‘Not just that. He feels… lighter somehow. More so than even before Lothlórien,’ she told me seriously, though she didn’t sound displeased by the observation. I smiled to myself, suddenly glad to have that second voice echoing around the inside of my mind again.

‘Well, that wasn’t cryptic at all. Glad to have you back in the land of the living, Tink.’

‘Likewise, boss. Here’s a thought, let’s never do anything that again,’ she suggested in the driest tone I’d ever heard from her. I resisted the urge to chuckle aloud and give the watching refugees even more reason to stare as we passed.

‘Don’t hold your breath. We’ve still got an oncoming siege to survive, remember.’

‘Right, an army of badass monsters. It’s all coming back to me now…’

The rest of our silent conversation devolved to tension easing jokes as we moved up the keep towards the Hornburg’s main entrance.

If I’d been in any doubt before about the magnitude of the fortress from the outside, the climb up through its levels cleared it right up. The keep was laid out kind of like the tiers of a wedding cake the bottom one housing the front gate, lower courtyard, and the stables. The second was accessed via a curved set of wide stone steps that levelled out to hold the armoury, barracks, upper courtyard and entrance to the caverns. As we passed through the throngs of loitering refugees I spied what I assumed was the smaller rear gate of the keep, its door open to show the steep, winding stairway leading down to the gully behind the Deeping Wall. The final level rose up only a little higher than the second and was almost entirely devoted to the entrance to the king’s hall, the stone watch tower holding the horn of Helm Hammerhand looming up above it like a spear piercing the gap between the mountains. When we finally reached the doors to the main hall, Aragorn shoved them open onto a room the size and hight of a cathedral. Carved wooden arches and stone pillars made for a cavernous room, and at its centre, a war table had been set up—surrounded by grizzled, tired looking Rohan soldiers, and one stunned king.

The moment Theoden saw us standing in the entranceway he was out of his chair and striding around the table, passed his shocked advisors. He’d barely managed to utter a word before Aragorn started speaking over him, no time or patience left to stand on formalities.

We had one hell of a bomb to drop.

I was mostly content to stay quiet through the briefing as Aragorn filled everyone in on what was coming, only speaking up to confirm his descriptions and add in details of my own. Surviving the fall into the river, the journey to catch up with them, the army we’d seen: the king took it all in with a grim expression, the hand resting on the pommel of his sword flexing with agitation. When Aragorn finally finished telling them about the horde of sunlight resistant Uruk-hai marching with siege equipment an unsettling hush fell over the entire hall. I wasn’t even sure anyone was breathing.

“How many?” Theoden finally asked, piercing the silence.

“Ten thousand strong,” Aragorn answered.

“At least,” I added.

Theoden just stared at us, looking as if someone had just danced the foxtrot over his grave.

“Ten thousand…”

“They had the white hand of Saruman on their helms,” I told him, glancing around to see the king’s expression of shocked dread mirrored on almost all of his men. Aragorn made a sound of agreement.

“All of Isengard has emptied. They will be here by nightfall if they’ve kept their pace.”

Theoden looked as if he needed to sit down, but instead, he only hunched forward over the war table, resting heavily on his arms.

“Why?”

“It is an army raised for a single purpose;” Aragorn said without any preamble, or sugarcoating whatsoever. “Ending the race of Men.”

For what felt like minutes Theoden just stared at us across the war table, gauging the weight of Aragorn’s expressions and the consequences of the info-grenade we’d just thrown at him. Then he very obviously buried his own fear and dread, stood straight, and met the expectant looks of his men with renewed confidence.

“Then let them come. We shall be ready for them.”

The soldiers surrounding him didn’t quite appear to share in his confidence. Some of them even looked alarmed by it.

“My king, we do not have the numbers to fight that many,” one older captain with greying hair said.

“Even within the mouth of the valley we would be swarmed in minutes if we manned the ramparts,” another added.

Theoden ignored them all, leaning back over the war table to observe the map of the valley spread over it.

“We will do as we have done before. We endure the barrage from within the Hornburg as a cliff withstands the sea,” he told them, his tone brokering no argument. “We have enough supplies stored in the caverns to last us at least two weeks. This army will doubtless pillage and burn as they go. But homes can be rebuilt, crops resown. As long as we are within these walls we will withstand them.”

“Withstand them?” Aragorn repeated under his breath, and I think it was the first time I’d ever seen him truly lost for words. I was kind of stunned too. Had Theoden completely missed the part about them toting battering rams and thirty-foot scaling ladders?

“You really think an army raised and armed by a wizard will come unprepared to storm a keep?” I asked aloud before I could think better of it.

The king of Rohan looked up barely long enough to throw me the kind of look normally reserved for finding dog shite on the sole of your boot.

“I think, as King I know how to defend my own fortress from those who would see it burned to the ground, my lady,” he said, emphasising the title as if it was something beneath his concern.

I felt my temper flaring, the sudden urge to smack that expression off his face so great I was kind of glad for the sprawling table between us. Beside me, Aragorn was no better; looking as if he was about to burst a blood vessel.

“This horde does not march on us to destroy crops or building, they come with the will and means to wipe out its people,” he argued, stepping up so he was leaned over the opposite head of the war table from the king. “Your men are right. You cannot repel this threat alone. You must call for aid, my lord. Send out riders to your allies.”

Theoden fixed Aragorn with a toxic scowl.

“And who will answer us? The old Alliances are long dead, and if what you say is true, then there is no time left even if we did have the men to spare.” He shook his head, blond hair with its white streaks falling to hide the wavering confidence in his eyes. “No, we must devote all our resources to the keeps defence.”

“Gondor would answer if—” Aragorn started to argue, but was cut off as Theoden slammed a fist onto the table with a thunderous bang, making the candles flicker and several of the younger soldiers (plus me) jump in alarm.

“Gondor?!” He spat, eyes furious on the ranger. “Where was Gondor when my people cried out for aid as the Westfold burned? When our enemies closed in around us and families were murdered in their beds! Cloistered in an ivory city behind thick walls and thicker politics!”

Aragorn didn’t respond. He simply absorbed the king’s vitriol with the same stony look I’d seen him wear in combat, not contradicting of defending native people, but not backing down either. The silence hung thick in the air for a few moments before Theoden managed to reign his temper in again, breathing deeply and shaking his head. “No. I will not place a fools hope on aid that will never come. We are alone in this, Lord Aragorn. As we have ever been.”

‘Bleeding hell. This man’s pride is going to get everyone in this keep killed,’ Tink muttered from the back of my exasperated thoughts.

‘We’d better hope Gandalf makes it back in time with some kind of help then,’ I agreed.

“We will need to repel any who come close to the walls. Station archers along the battlements. I need every man and strong lad armed and ready for battle by nightfall,” Theoden was saying, directing his captains to begin putting the plans into actions. Aragorn—despite still being incensed by Theoden’s refusal to even send a raven for help—looked as if he intended to stay and at least put his strategic skills to good use. I, however, had had quite enough of everything going on in that hall. And anyway, when it came to war plans, I’d probably be as helpful as a shot of brandy to someone dying of heat exhaustion. So, with my witnessing job done, I turned for the exit, hoping to slip out and off to find Sarra unnoticed.

At least until the king’s voice stopped me.

“M’lady Eleanor.”

I halted in my tracks, feeling a dozen sets of eyes suddenly focusing on my back, preventing me from pretending like I hadn’t heard him.

‘Busted,’ Tink groaned.

I turned slowly to see Theoden frowning at me again, though with mildly less distain and more caution than before at least.

“Yes?”

The king shifted to stand a little straighter as he regarded me.

“I hear from Gamling you near smashed in the face of one of my junior soldiers before we left Edoras,” he stated in a deliberately neutral tone that didn’t match the faintly disapproving tilt to his expression. I saw the mirror of that same silent judgement reflected in several of the other captains as I looked around, and the shadow of a grimace cross Aragorn’s face out of the corner of my eye. He obviously knew the reaction that comment delivered in that tone would garner from me…

And he was right.

That anger that had sparked earlier kindled into a searing flame. In the past few hours, I’ve been attacked, shunned, dropped off a cliff, almost drowned, ridden bareback for miles with an unconscious man strapped to my back—and all in the knowledge that the person I’d grown closest to in the past few months never wanted to speak to me again.

And I had exactly no patience left to spare on subtlety.

‘Right, fuck this!’ I thought, anger pulsing through me. I turned away from the door so I faced them all head-on, raising my chin partly in a challenge, but also to clearly show the ring of bruises still fresh around my throat.

“I hear that same soldier of yours tried to sexually assault an unwilling young woman in an alleyway whilst drunk off his rocker, my lord,” I replied, loud enough so the entire room heard every word.

The hall went suddenly, deadly silent—enough that I could hear the roaring of my own furious heartbeat in my ears. Half the younger men visibly cringed back in shock, clearly unused to hearing some of those particular words said aloud, let alone as an accusation of one of their own. The older ones that didn’t either averted their eyes gave me genuinely looks of shame. But to my surprise, not one of them attempted to contradict me or call me a liar. Theoden himself looked faintly stunned behind his poker face.

I probably should have left it there, but my flaring temper was long gone, and my mouth just kept on going without me.

“I also heard,” I continued, holding the king’s gaze hostage, “that soldier only backed off when one of the woman’s companions heard the commotion and came to intervene. And that if he hadn’t, she would have been justified in beating your junior to a pulp to defend herself from such a violation.”

‘Drag him, girl!’ Tink was hollering at the back of my mind, but I ignored her in favour of watching the king's reaction like a hawk. I might have been counted as a guest and friend of his court, but I was acutely aware that if his pride was truly too great, he might treat this outburst as a great insult. Or worse, a threat to his authority.

Turns out the king of Rohan was many things, but someone who tried to belittle ugly truths was not one of them.

Theoden watched me for an agonisingly long moment of complete silence. Then he straightened, placed his hand to his heart and bowed low to me—a gesture I recognised as a deliberately Elven mannerism.

“I beg you to accept my humblest apologies, my lady. There is no excusing such an act. Under normal circumstances a shame of this magnitude would be met with banishment at the least, the headsman’s axe at worst,” he said, and despite the anger still beating through me, I couldn’t sense any deceit or insincerity in his voice. A look of regret with a tinge of guilt coloured his expression. “Please know he will be dealt with severely when this crisis has passed. But given our number and what we are now up against, we will need every hand we have to defend the keep, and the innocent people within.”

I stared long and hard at the king of Rohan across the table, mine and Tink’s mingled fury a silent storm beneath my skin.

What he said made perfect sense. But that didn’t mean the part of me that still raged at the injustice had to like it.

I gave a single sharp nod of acceptance, not trusting myself to keep from spitting venom a third time if I opened my mouth. I needed to get out of there before my anger got the better of me.

“Please excuse me,” I managed to get out from between clenched teeth. The king nodded.

“Of course. You are excused—”

But I was already out of the doors before he’d finished speaking.

‘Mother fu—!’ Tink was still yelling, but a second voice drowned her out before she could finish the obscenity.

“Eleanor, wait!” Aragorn called, following me out of the hall before I’d made it halfway down the steps. He caught up with me just as I reached the courtyard. The soldiers had already started hearing the last of the women and children into the caves, and the young men towards the armoury and several curious heads turned to watch us as I stopped and spun to face him.

“What you said in there—” he started, but I cut him off. I could barely deal with the idea of a lecture right then, let alone enduring one.

“Aragorn, I swear if you tell me I should have held my tongue and said nothing I’ll—”

“I was going to tell you that it was deeply brave,” he interrupted me. My outraged counter argument fizzled out along with the anger. I blinked stupidly at him.

“What?”

Aragorn gave me a lopsided smile. The fond, borderline affectionate kind I’d seen very rarely from him. It threw me off balance almost as much as his next words did.

“Not many could have said what you did to whom you did. Let alone in a room full of that boy’s brethren and friends. It was brave of you to do that.”

For a moment I couldn’t think of a damned thing to say, torn between genuine shock and crippling relief that he was on my side. Truly on my side this time.

“It… needed to be said,” I replied, at last, giving a feeble little shrug that really didn’t feel adequate. “It was me that guy went after this time, but it could have been another girl later. One who didn’t have a Maia and posse of warrior friends backing her up. I just said what they all needed to hear.”

His lip twitched in a micro-grin at the word friend, and I couldn’t help but mirror it.

“Never the less, I wished you to know,” he said, and his face fell slightly as he glanced back up at the entrance to the main hall. “It is… surprising sometimes, the lengths good men will go to avoid painful truths.”

I thought back to the king’s mask of confidence, and faces of the older soldiers inside. The ones who had said nothing to stop me, but also had turned their gazes away when I’d voiced what had been done. And also of the younger ones who had appeared shamed, but had not once condemned the actions of their fellow.

“I guess so,” I muttered, heaving a heavy sigh and turning from the hall, the last of my outrage vanishing to be replaced by weariness. I was suddenly so bloody tired. “Anyway, I thought I’d see if I can help out down in the caves. See if anyone was injured in the warg attack who still needs help.”

I imagined Sarra would be down there somewhere along with Freda and Eothain as well, all of them likely sick with worry by now.

I felt Aragorn rest a warm hand on my shoulder, substantially gentler than Gimli had.

“A good idea. Your skills will be greatly valued among the refugees,” he said, then paused, eyeing me with a suspicious raised brow. “And you plan to stay down there during the fighting?”

I chuckled, lightly batting his hand away.

“Oh, I will. I’m barely any help in a fight, let alone a siege.” I pointed a warning finger at him. “But make no mistake, I’m doing this because I know I’ll be more useful there. Not because some beardy horse king orders me to.”

“Noted,” he smiled again, but then something over my left shoulder caught his attention and the expression fell into shock. Confused, I turned to see what he was looking at…

And found Legolas standing on the other side of the courtyard, staring at us as if he’d seen a pair of ghosts.

I honestly wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find when I saw him again, but it wasn’t what I got. I remembered all too clearly the outward signs of worry I’d noticed on him after waking from healing Boromir at Amon Hen—the disarray where there had normally been composure, dark circles under grey-blue eyes…

But the person I saw staring back at me for that tiny fraction of time looked as if he had just worked from a horrendous nightmare, and wasn’t certain if he was still trapped inside his own torment. His dark gold hair was mussed and dark with dirt and blood from the warg attack as if he hadn’t even touched it since the fight. There was sill Orc blood staining his hunting leathers and hands, unwashed, and untreated cuts dotting his knuckles. The circles under his eyes were back, but they were dark restless bruises this time, exacerbated by the bloodless pallor his face had taken on.

But the worst part was the look in his eyes.

He looked haunted, disbelieving—a raw emotional wound open to the elements.

My mouth just kind of fell open. I think I meant to call out to him on instinct, but the sound caught in my throat. For that split second, I couldn’t look away from the ruin that Aragorn and my supposed deaths had left in its wake.

Was this was the effect I’d had on someone I'd grown to care for so much?

It was true I had never considered the repercussions of becoming emotionally attached to someone who quite literally would live forever unless killed in battle, what it would feel like to care so deeply for someone who would be around long after you were gone. But I also had not considered—at least until our fight at Edoras—what such a loss would mean for him. I at least had led enough of my human life to know death firsthand; what it looked like, how to deal with it, and how to shield my heart against it.

He didn’t.

And this is what that loss had done to him.

That terrified me—more than I was entirely able to understand.

The horror inside me turned to terrible sadness, guilt and panic, and it was more than I could handle…

“Mellon nín…” I heard Aragorn murmur, and the sound of his own shock only brought my own emotions down harder, crushing the air from my lungs.

I couldn’t handle this…

But my inner turmoil hurricane was abruptly cut short by the sudden sound of a familiar warhorn, along with the chaotic shouts of the watch guard cut through the air, and the moment shattered. I realised with a strangely disjointed rush that I recognised that sound of that horn—I’d heard almost every day back when we had still been in Lothlórien when the Galadrim had been running drills in the training grounds.

The crowds filing into the caves surged with sudden alarm at the noise and the clusters of shifting bodies momentarily blocked Legolas from my view, and us from his. I didn’t know if the feeling that washed over me was relief or frustration, one part of me desperate to charge through the crowd after him, the other unable to bear the thought of seeing him…

Knowing that I would break apart right now if I heard the same pain in his voice that I saw in his face…

The storm of things going on inside my head and heart was suddenly too much.

Everything was suddenly too much.

‘Boss?’ Tink’s voice brushed hesitantly against my awareness.

‘I… I can’t…’ I felt my own chaotic thoughts echo through my head in response. ‘I can’t… I can’t handle this. Not now. I can’t do it…’

‘Boss, are you ok? Your emotions are going all over the place.’

I didn’t even try to explain what was happening inside me. Instead, I took one last look back at the place where I’d last seen Legolas’ haunted form—the person I both wanted to see again more than anyone else, and yet the one I couldn’t bear to look at right then for the ruin I’d made of him…

And I turned and ran for the battlements, leaving a stunned Aragorn behind in my place.

“Eleanor?!” He called after me, but I didn’t answer, my feet barely touching the stone as I flew down the steps towards the lower courtyard.

‘You coward!’ Tink shouted, her outrage returned and firing through my head like a banshee’s howl. ‘You utter fucking coward, Eleanor Dace!’

I didn’t deny it.

I was a coward. But right then, much as I loathed myself for it, the only thing I could bear to let myself focus on was the last person I’d heard create that horn blast.

And the hope that he had brought an army that might save us with him.

More to come in the completed Compos Mentis: Chapter 17 ~ Mîr Nín

#mine #my writing #COMPOS MENTIS #ravame's bane trilogy #ravame #ravame's bane #aragorn #eleanor dace #tink #this hasn't been sent through my beta yet #so be warned #some of this might change between now and the full chapter #hope you enjoy lovelies #<3

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xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx · 5 years

Text

Dec 24

Words: 1 941 Prompt from @fanficy-prompts

You leant back against the counter of the empty coffee shop, adjusting the black apron which was tied around your waist. It was Christmas Eve, and since you were the only employee of the small coffee shop who did not have any big Christmas dinner plans, you had been given the last shift of the day, which tied you to the cozy, but now lonely shop until midnight. Then you could close up, and go home. Your family lived half way across the country, and this year there had not been enough money left for you to fly over for the holidays, so you had decided to stay here.

You wondered why you were even longing to go back home after this shift. What was waiting there for you except the halfheartedly decorated Christmas tree, and the now cold Chinese take-out from lunch? Your bed, with soft, cozy but cold blankets, no one to keep them warm while you were at work, no one to welcome you home, not even a cat who would cuddle with you when you sat down, or a fish who would completely ignore you. But the way it was, the flat was as empty as this shop, but less decorated. Well, Christmas this year officially sucked.

None the less, you automatically put on your customer smile and turned towards the door as you heard the bell ring. The artificial smile was immediately replaced by a real one though once you recognized the red-brown hair, and the icy gray eyes of one of your favorite regulars.

“Merry Christmas,” you smiled as Andy walked over to the counter, “The usual?”

He nodded, and strode over to a table in the corner next to the window. You furrowed your brows. Usually the tattooed drummer was quiet but cheerful, and always up for a little chat. Today seemed different though, and remembering that it was not the normal Christmas Eve tradition to go to a coffee shop, mind on your own, made you understand him better. After all you had not been in the best of moods either before he entered. And you could not expect to have the same effect on him as he had on you, considering you had grown quite fond of the man.

You prepared two cups of cappuccino with almond milk, one for him, one for you, and emptied a bag of vegan Christmas cookies that were on sale, onto a small plate before stepping out from behind the counter, and strode over to him.

Andy looked up, his gaze softening as he saw you, and even a smile tucking at his lips when you sat down opposite him. You pushed his cup over to him, and placed the plate with the cookies in the middle between the two of you.

“On the house,” you winked, making him finally smile properly.

The coffee shop was dimly lit, mostly relying on the many candles that were spread over the tables and the atmospheric lighting across the counter.

“Sooo…” you dragged out the word, looking at Andy who took a sip from his coffee, “what brings you here?”

He sighed quietly and shrugged.

“Family dinner spontaneously got canceled because my dad broke his ankle, and I got nowhere to be really,” he answered.

“So you decide to go to a coffee shop of all places,” you asked, raising your eyebrows at him.

“I was lonely,” he defended, “and I was kind of hoping you would be the cursed one to do this shift.”

You smiled at his confession which had made him look away in embarrassment.

“Since I got no Christmas party to attend to either, and sitting here with you is a lot better than sitting at home on my own, I doubt this shift is really cursed,” you joked, before quickly taking a sip of your hot beverage as well, hoping to play over the fact that you had been a lot more confident with your words than you felt. It had not been a lie, no, not at all, but usually you were not one to say these things out loud.

Andy did not seem to mind, because he only smiled softly.

With him as company time passed quickly, and the conversation you were having made you almost forget how sad your empty apartment would seem when you returned home. He was the only customer over the entire evening, the city seemed like a ghost town, not a single person walked past the shop windows, and only one car sped down the road with howling motor. It felt like the two of you were in your own little, private bubble, surrounded by the warm glow of candles, and the rich smell of ground coffee with cinnamon. There was lots of laughing, jokes, funny stories, sometimes even the one or the other shared painful memory, but tonight it seemed alright, tonight it was okay to share these things, to talk more than usual, to open up to one another, to lay bare your hearts.

Honestly you had no recollection when, how or why Andy had taken hold of your hand, but it did not matter. His tattooed hands were wrapped around your cold fingers, and it felt like your skin was sucking up every last drop of his warmth that was possible. Your chin was resting in your free hand, supported by your elbow resting against the table, and Andy was leaning over the table as well. Only a few inches were between your faces, and your talking had died down to a whisper, which slowly subsided after hours, leaving you to stare at each other.

You had never looked into anyone’s eyes for as long as you were looking into Andy’s now. Every detail of his face seemed to burn itself permanently into your memory, and if you had not been in love with the drummer before he entered the shop this evening, you sure as hell were now. Sometimes you had to remind yourself that breathing was an, admittedly annoying, but necessary thing to do, too engulfed were you by Andy’s eyes, which seemed to see right through you, into the bottom of your soul.

You did not know what to think of this, but then again you were not properly thinking at all anyway. It felt like you were hypnotized by the man in front of you, and all you really could think of, was how beautiful and kind he was, and how lucky you were that you did not have to spend Christmas Eve entirely on you own.

Your trance was rudely interrupted by the small alarm clock on the counter that signaled the end of your shift.

“Seems like you made it,” Andy grinned, suddenly sitting back, drawing his hands away from yours, which left them colder than before.

“Seems like it,” you nodded, and got up.

“Want me to help you clean up,” he offered, but you shook your head.

“It’s fine, there’s not much left to do,” you explained while picking up the cups and the now empty plate, carrying everything behind the counter.

You somehow had expected Andy to leave, maybe say good night, or even hug you, but instead he waited patiently while you cleaned the dishes and the coffee machine. He even grabbed a towel and insisted on whipping the counter clean.

Once you were finished with all the cleaning and preparing the shop for opening in the morning, you grabbed your coat, and joined Andy at the door, where he had waited.

“Are you going home now,” Andy asked, holding the door open for you as you stepped outside, pulling your keys to the shop out of your pocket.

“Not much else to do, is there?”

With experienced fingers you looked the door.

You really did not want to return home. After having spent so much time with Andy, the empty flat seemed to repel you more than it had at the beginning of the evening. Did you really want to go back to the cold Chinese take-out, the halfheartedly decorated Christmas tree, the cold blankets? Secretly you hoped Andy would ask to join you home, to do something together, so you would not have to go home. Should you ask him to come home with you, invite him for another coffee, maybe tea or mulled wine? You were certain you would even face the embarrassment of rejection just to be sure you had tried everything possible. Your thoughts were interrupted by Andy.

“Anyone waiting for you,” he asked.

The question surprised you. You were sure you had mentioned that you were alone, without partner or any kind of family. Quickly you shook your head, wondering what he was up to.

A small smile spread over Andy’s face as he continued talking.

“Good,” he whispered as he stepped a little closer to you, taking your hands in his.

They were warm, just like you remembered them from when you had sat inside. His fingers were gentle as they closed around yours tenderly, not at all holding on too tightly. Your own hands responded without much consent of your brain, intertwining with his.

You wanted to say something, tell Andy how much you had enjoyed tonight, how thankful you were for his company, how much it meant to you that he had come to see you, but your voice failed you, no words coming out of your mouth.

Andy’s eyes were fixed on yours, and he seemed to sense your sudden muteness, but only smiled a little, shaking his head.

You were not sure who had leant in, maybe both of you at the same time, but suddenly Andy and you were kissing underneath the lamp post in front of the coffee shop. It was slow and gentle, careful, almost scared, but so perfect, so warm and loving, and you felt like all the sadness of having to go back to your flat was melting away, all the worries were suddenly just gone. Andy was kissing you, and holding your hands, and it felt like this was all you had ever wanted.

When you broke away, cheeks and lips red, rigid breath from excitement, and eyes closed, you gently leant your forehead against Andy’s, not yet willing to give up the warmth and comfort he was radiating.

“Come back to my place,” he whispered, and you could tell he was nervous.

A smile tucked at your lips, and you nodded against his forehead.

“’d love to,” you answered, finally opening your eyes and meeting Andy’s grey ones, that shone with such happiness, that it warmed you all over again.

“Then let’s go,” he decided, letting go of your one hand so you could walk side by side.

You adjusted your grip on his fingers, shoving your now free hand into your coat pocket. Andy smiled and did the same, before he lead you down the street, past windows with Christmas decorations and past the square where a fir tree had been decorated extensively.

Quietly you sighed in contentment, and rested your head against Andy’s shoulder. The long day had exhausted you, and now that you even had someone by your side, tiredness started to spread through your body. You were glad to have taken the night shift for Christmas Eve, you realized; otherwise Andy and you would never have ended up here, together. You closed your eyes, allowing your feet to carry you blindly, and trusting Andy to safely lead the way. This Christmas had not at all been as lonely and sad as you had expected it to be.

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#andy hurley x reader #andy hurley fluff #andy hurley x reader fluff #andy hurley #fanfiction #fanfic #coffee shop au #cute #fluffy #fluff #christmas #christmas eve #25 days of christmas #25 days of writing challange #advent #advent calendar #advent calendar 2018

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avengersnthings · 6 years

Text

Baby, It’s Cold Outside (Pietro Maximoff x Reader)

Summary: You get stuck in a cabin during a blizzard with a certain speedster.

Word Count: 3,686

A/N: Hello, everyone! It has been so long since I have wrote an imagine about Pietro so here it is! This just popped into my head so I hope that you enjoy it. FYI, (E/C) means ‘eye color.’ As always, if you want to be added to my Tag List just let me know. None of the gifs in this imagine are mine, full credit goes to the owners.

Tag List: @mp938368 @generalantiope @thatgirlsar@jumperswellies @quicksoldier @kitkatgaming @marvelfandom-stuff @itsmaytimetosaygoodbye @agentraven007 @marvelgoateecollection @thaniya82 @thats-so-rhyan@hymnofthevalkyrie @themanwiththemetalarm @mslaufeyson

MASTERLIST

The steady snowfall came down in flurries through the bitter cold air. The mission should have been quick and easy: get in and get out without anyone seeing you. While you did get in and out easily, the coming blizzard stopped all of your plans of flying back home to be with your family for the holiday season. While you did love your job as an Avenger, sometimes it was really annoying. Especially when you were forced to hide in a cabin in the middle of the forest during a blizzard with the one man you never wanted to be stuck in a room alone with: Pietro Maximoff.

Now, don’t get me wrong. There were definitely certain aspects about the older Maximoff twin that you very much liked: his rugged good looks, soft blue eyes, perfectly tousled silvery-blonde hair, his voice that absolutely drooled charm...

But there were also certain aspects that made you want to push him away: his selfishness, his huge ego, that way that his smile crooks up just a little bit when he teases and embarrasses you in front of everyone. Yeah, you could say being in a room alone with him was a double-edged sword.

“Printesa, I just don’t understand why you are worrying so much,” The silver-haired speedster said as he lounged across the only available bed in the small cabin.

Shooting him a sharp glare, you shut the curtains on the window as you turned around to face the handsome speedster before you. “Because this was supposed to be a two-day mission, tops, and now I am stuck in the middle of Switzerland during a blizzard when I should be heading back home to my family. But instead, I am in this drafty cabin stuck here with you.”

You hadn’t meant for those last few words to come out so harsh. After all, you didn’t totally hate him. No matter how much you didn’t want to believe it, some part of you did harbor feelings for him. Whether they were very large or infinitesimally small feelings, you couldn’t deny that they were still there. Sneaking a glance at him, you saw that he had a smirk plastered on his face as he looked at you.

“Ouch, that hurt my feelings, printesa,” Pietro smirked as he zoomed up to open the curtains once again. Strolling up to you, he crossed his arms across his chest as he looked down at you. “But it can’t be all that bad, right? You’ll have me to cuddle up to when it gets too cold.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you playfully hit his shoulder as you walked across the room to once more close the curtains. “Let’s keep the curtains closed so it keeps in all of the warm air that way it doesn’t have to come to that, alright?”

As the smirk grew on his face, he dashed over and opened the curtains up once more. “Ah, but I want it to come to that, printesa. Besides, the snow looks so pretty, doesn’t it?”

Flushing at his words, you turned around hoping he didn’t see your embarrassment. “Yes, it is a beautiful prison right now. Also, don’t call me that.”

Laughing lightly at your words, Pietro watched your retreating form. “Whatever you say, draga.”

The blizzard didn’t lessen up as the day went by. Dusk was fast approaching and you needed supplies if you were going to stay in this little cabin for a couple of days at least. Donning your jacket and snow boots that you thankfully thought to bring with you, you reached for the door.

“Where are you going?” Pietro’s voice sounded through the small cabin. Eyes meeting his, you couldn’t help but be swept in by the tide of his ocean blue eyes.

“I was going to get supplies. If we are going to be here a couple of days, we’ll need them.”

“We have plenty of supplies here,” Pietro stated as he grabbed your hand, pulling you towards the center of the warm cabin. “Besides, it’s cold outside. You’ll get frostbite out there, and we can’t risk that. So how about we build up a fire and I’ll find some soup for us?”

You were slightly taken aback by the protective tone in his voice as he pulled you back into the cabin. While he was right, there were plenty of supplies, you just wanted the cold air to clear your mind. You had only been cooped up in this cabin with him for about seven hours and your mind was already becoming fuzzy with him around. When you were with others, it was clear why you didn’t allow yourself to be with him. But when you were all alone with him... the line didn’t seem as prominent before. The line was blurred now, allowing your feelings to creep back in to your guarded heart. “Uh, yeah. That sounds great.”

With a warm smile on his lips, Pietro led you towards the fireplace. As he built up the fire, your eyes drifted to the blizzard that was raging outside. You really shouldn’t stay here with him. In the physical sense, it was necessary for survival. But in the emotional sense... Could you let yourself fall for him?

The fired roared as you sat near it, wrapped up in blankets as you sipped your soup. The past hour or so wasn’t so bad, being with Pietro. He was really a funny guy and wasn’t so selfish when it was just the two of you. As the logs cracked and popped under the fire, you felt yourself feeling happy as you leaned up against the couch.

“Okay, let’s do something fun. I’m getting bored,” Pietro said as he took your empty bowls away in a dash.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know... How about truth or dare?”

“What, are we 14?” You laughed as you playfully nudged him. Laughing along with you, Pietro lightly shoved you back.

“Got any other suggestions, draga?”

“Hmm,” You hummed. “Guess not. Okay, you start.”

“Truth or dare?” The speedster asked as he wrapped his blanket around him tighter.

“Truth.”

“Ugh, you’re no fun,” Pietro teased as he thought about what he was going to ask you. “What was your first impression of me?”

“Oh, easy,” You smirked as you turned to face him. “I thought that you had a huge ego and that you were full of yourself.” As you paused, Pietro couldn’t help but roll his eyes at your answer. “But, I liked how you made your sister laugh and how you really lifted her spirits. I thought that it was really sweet how you are always there for her.”

“You thought I was sweet?” Pietro asked as he looked down at you.

“Nope, my turn. Truth or dare?”

Rolling his eyes once more, they settled on you. “Truth.”

“Boo, you’re no fun,” You teased back as you thought about your question. “What was your first impression of me?”

“Oh, easy,” Pietro said in a teasing manner as he looked at you. “I thought you were quite the feisty little thing. You let no one give you any crap and I thought that was very attractive. I also liked how you tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear when you introduced yourself to me. It was very cute.”

“You thought I was cute?” You quietly asked as you felt yourself flush again.

“Nope, my turn,” Pietro smirked as he quickly changed the subject. The next few hours followed this fashion, Pietro asking truths about yourself and you asking truths about him. You had learned that Pietro’s first kiss was with a girl at the orphanage that was much taller than him, so much so that he had to stand up on a brick to kiss her. This had earned a laugh from you, causing Pietro’s face to flush red. When Pietro asked about your family, you gushed over how much they meant to you and how much you missed being with them right now. When you told him this, Pietro had gazed down at you sympathetically.

“What is your favorite thing about Christmas with your family?” Pietro asked as he scooted closer to you as the fire burned low and steady.

Glancing up at him from under your eyelashes, you too found yourself drawing closer to him. “I guess seeing everyone. With being away so long, I never get to see them. It seems like every time I go back one of my cousin’s is getting engaged or is having another baby. Being away, you miss those sort of things.” The room fell quiet as your words sunk in, your own sadness sinking into your bones. Quickly glancing up, you see that Pietro was intently staring at you. With a silent chuckle, you sat up straighter. “Besides, I kind of miss how my whole family would tease me about being single. Isn’t that sad? I miss being teased by them.”

“That’s not sad, you miss your family,” Pietro shrugged as he looked down at the burning embers. The two of you fell into a comfortable silence as the wind howled outside and as the fire popped. “Do you think your family would like me?”

“What?” You stuttered as your eyes grew wide. Looking at Pietro, he blushed as he shrunk away.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it, draga. It was a stupid question,” He mumbled, averting his eyes.

Slightly intrigued, you couldn’t help but reach out for his hand. Cold hand touching his warm one, his blue eyes soon found yours as he met your gaze. “No, it wasn’t a stupid question. You just startled me, that’s all.”

Offering up a small smile, Pietro entwined his fingers with yours. “What do you think they would think of me, then?”

“As what? As a friend,” You listed, slightly afraid of adding this last bit. “A boyfriend?”

With a small raise of the corner of his lip, Pietro looked back at the fire. “Yeah... for the sake of the argument, let’s say boyfriend.”

“Well,” You started, getting slightly distracted by your thumping heart and by his thumb that was tracing small patterns on the back of your hand. “I think they would really like you. I know for a fact that all of the kids would love you. You would be the only one that could keep up with them. My dad and uncles would no doubt give you a hard time, along with my cousins, but I think in the end they would think you would be good for me.”

Silence followed your last words as you let that realization sink in. Would he be good for you? The once prominent line that stood between you being with him and not being with him was merely a wisp of an idea now. Thinking about it now, he would be good for you. On multiple occasions he had protected you, even risked his life for you. And yes while he did tease you, it was always in a playful manner; he never did it with malicious intent. As he had told you about growing up in Sokovia, what you once thought to be a selfish man turned out to be a caring man that tried his very best to provide for his sister and himself. Overcome by the dam breaking inside of you, releasing your torrent of feelings for the silver-haired speedster, you quickly dropped your hand as you stood up.

With a confused look on his face, Pietro went to grab your hand. “Printesa, where are you-”

“We are out of firewood, I’m going to go find some outside,” You answered quickly, pulling on your boots and coat. “Be right back.”

As you yanked the door open, you were met with the blizzard that was outside. Immediately you wanted to turn right back around and go back to the warmth that Pietro brought. Shaking away the thought of Pietro, you trudged out into the snow in search of logs of wood that would be far to wet to ignite. What were you going to do?

The rest of the night passed in mild silence between the two of you as you raged against the feelings in your heart. At every glance at him, every brief touch, you could have sworn that your heart was going to leap straight out of your chest. The light outside quickly turned to pitch black as the snow continued to fall down. The wood that you had brought in was way too wet to hold a fire, as you had presumed, so the cabin became colder with each increasing moment. You sat on the couch with blanket upon blanket wrapped around you to keep in what little warmth you had. You softly laughed to yourself about how ridiculous you must look right now. What once had been the shape of you now closely resembled a burrito as you sat in your cocoon on the small couch. Pietro kept pacing the cabin floor without any blankets, his powers keeping him plenty warm right now.

“Printesa, you are absolutely freezing. How about we go crawl into bed and get under the covers so that you can warm up?” Pietro offered as he stood in front of you.

Numbly shaking your head, you tried to ignore your heart aching for him. “No way. I know what happens when you get girls into your bed and that is so not happening right now.”

Rolling his eyes at your little stab of a joke, he kneeled down in front of you. “That is not what I meant. I’m just thinking logically, draga. Y’know, the first rule in survival 101 is that if you share warmth you can generate more.”

The idea of being warm again was tempting, but not nearly as tempting of being able to cuddle up next to him. All the more reason that you shouldn’t.

“I don’t know...”

“C’mon, printesa,” He whined as he tilted your chin up so he could look into your eyes. Seeing you not moving a muscle, he huffed out a sigh as he resorted to his last option. In a quick blur, Pietro had picked you up and ran you to the bed.

“Pietro!” You exclaimed as you felt the old mattress hit your back.

“Printesa, you’re lips are turning blue. I’m doing this more so for your own good than my desire to be with you, okay? So just shut up and cuddle up next to me, okay?” He said with authority, staring at you with those pretty blue eyes.

Finding yourself entranced, slightly taking a notice of his last few words, you nodded as you began to shed your layers of blankets so that you could lay them over the top of the both of you. Snuggling up next to Pietro, you couldn’t help but notice just how good he smelled. It was such a unique blend that you couldn’t put your finger on it. He smelled faintly of fire since he was sitting by the fire but the most abundant smell you just couldn’t name. It was so painfully obvious that it was just him.

“There, feeling better already?” He asked as he wrapped his arms around you as you snuggled your face into his neck.

“Mhm...” You sounded as you breathed in his scent. “You are really warm.”

Smiling at you cuddling up to him, Pietro let himself drop a small kiss onto the top of your head. With that loving kiss, he could faintly smell your lavender shampoo. Exhaling softly, he smiled as you held onto him tighter. “Printesa?”

“Hm?”

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” He whispered into your ear. When he received no answer, he slightly pulled back to see that you had fallen asleep in his arms. Your hand that was resting gently on his chest had grabbed a handful of fabric from his shirt in your sleep. “Goodnight, printesa. Sleep soundly and dream of me, because I will certainly be dreaming of you.”

Burying his face into your hair, Pietro soon fell fast asleep as he listened to your steady breathing, lightly tracing patterns on the small of your back as the blizzard continued to rage on outside.

The old antique clock in the cabin rang out as 6 o’clock rolled around. The incessant chiming of the clock woke you from your peaceful sleep, causing you to try to sit up. You were quickly pulled back down by the arms that were wrapped around you. Confused, the memories of last night flooded your brain as you realized that you were cuddling with Pietro. As you tried to escape the arms wrapped around you, a low groan sounded from Pietro’s chest as he dragged you back down once again to the warm bed.

“Where do you think you are going, draga?” Pietro sleepily mumbled as he snuggled further into your neck.

You could feel yourself flush as his stubble gently scratched against your neck as shivers ran down your spine. “I was, um, trying to-”

“Trying to leave?” Pietro’s raspy voice sounded as he pushed himself up. His arms were still around you, so he was slightly leaning over you as he looked at you. “Baby, it’s cold outside.”

“I really can’t stay,” You mumbled as you tried to avert his gorgeous eyes. “It’s been nice, but..”

“Baby, your hands are as cold as ice,” Pietro once again interrupted as he wrapped your freezing hands in his warm ones.

“The group is probably really worried about us, I should go try to see if we can get a signal again.”

“Beautiful, what’s your hurry?” Pietro lazily smiled down at you.

“I really should go...”

“Beautiful, please don’t hurry...” Pietro gently whispered to you as he gently turned your face towards him with one finger.

“I wish I knew how to break this spell...” You found yourself silently whispering to yourself as you gazed at his loving face. You didn’t even realize that you had said it out loud.

“Your eyes look like starlight now,” Pietro mumbled to himself as he brushed a piece of hair away from your eyes.

“I ought to say no,” You mumbled to yourself halfheartedly as you found yourself reaching up to play with his silvery-blonde locks.

“Mind if I move closer?” Pietro whispered to you as you lazily looked up at him. With a soft shake of your head, Pietro smiled as he brought himself closer to you.

“I really should go, y’know,” You said as you continued to play with his locks.

“Baby, it’s cold outside,” Pietro said as he cupped your cheek in his hand.

“Your sister will be suspicious,” You breathed out as you too brought your hand to his stubbly cheeks.

“Gosh your lips look delicious,” Pietro hummed as his thumb drifted over your bottom lip. Gazing into your (E/C) eyes, Pietro’s thumb kept swiping over your bottom lip. Slowly leaning in, his breath fanned over your face as his lips got closer and closer to yours. With one last look into yours eyes to ask if this was really okay, Pietro’s heart fluttered when you gazed up at him and nodded your head ‘yes.’

Not wasting another moment, Pietro’s lips met yours. He tasted like mint as his lips glided over yours, and you couldn’t help but reach up to grab his face to pull it closer to yours. Following your suit, Pietro too pulled your face closer to him as his fingers tangled into your hair. With a swipe of his tongue along your bottom lip, the kiss deepened as his tongue explored yours in a breathtaking kiss. Pulling away abruptly for air, Pietro gazed down at you and noticed your swollen red lips. Pietro smiled at you as you reached up once more to bring him back down to meet your lips in another amazing kiss. This one lasted longer than the first as you both took your time in kissing each other. Swinging one leg over your body, Pietro drew you closer to himself as you continued kissing. Your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck as his thumb brushed over your cheek.

When you two finally pulled away, Pietro laid down next to you as one of his hands played with the hem of your shirt as your hand cupped his stubbly cheek.

“I’ve been waiting to do that for forever,” Pietro whispered to you as he drew circles on your exposed skin. The blizzard had begun to slow down outside, finally allowing some visibility that was once not available.

“Me too,” You replied as he took the hand that was cupping his cheek, placing a gentle kiss to it. Soon your phone buzzed due to the signal being acquired. Lazily reaching behind you, you brought your phone to your face and read all of the messages that the team had sent you wondering where the two of you were and if you were okay.

“I suppose they want us to come back, don’t they,” Pietro sadly sighed out as you read off the messages.

“’Spose so,” You answered as you shut your phone back off. Seeing Pietro’s sad face at your once icy-prison turned blissful vacation ending, you tilted his chin up to face you. “But that doesn’t mean we have to leave just yet. It is cold outside, after all.”

Going along with your idea, Pietro cracked a smile. “And it is up to our knees, we wouldn’t be able to get to the quinjet.”

“Exactly,” You smiled as you brought yourself closer to him. “So,” You began, placing a kiss right under his jaw. “There’s no way,” another kiss, this time on his cheek. “That we could possibly leave,” yet another one, this time closer to the edge of his lips. With each kiss, Pietro’s smile grew wider and wider. “Since it is far too dangerous.”

“I completely agree, printesa,” Pietro grinned as he finally brought your lips onto his, continuing your blissful vacation as he inevitably fell deeper in love with you with each kiss.

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nyangibun · 6 years

Text

Merry Christmas to all of my Jonsa fam! Here’s a little present for you guys! I hope you enjoy it and thank you for making the past year so fun for me in this fandom. Love you guys!!

Jon has never actually met his neighbour before. She only moved in two months ago, but already, he knows far too much about her than he really needs to.

She has a dog that howls every other night, which sets off Ghost, who howls back, and for five minutes, their two dogs have some kind of 101 Dalmatians Twilight Bark conversation.

She loves to bake because he can smell it every time he comes home after a long shift at the station. This is more annoying than the howling because Jon can’t bake for shit and it’s not like he can go next door and ask her for whatever she’s baking.

She also has a seriously unhealthy relationship with Amazon because he gets a delivery guy knocking on his door looking for her every now and then. That’s how he also knows that her name is Sansa Stark.

He also knows that she’s single and he actually feels guilty for knowing this, but it was hard not to overhear the explosive breakup she had with her ex a couple weeks after she moved in. They were practically screaming at each other and these walls are too fucking thin. He feels bad for her, even considered knocking on her door and asking if she needed anything, but that’s definitely verging on creepy neighbour territory and Jon isn’t exactly the outgoing type. He reassures himself that she’s better off. Her ex sounded like a right prick.

But aside from his sympathy for having to deal with a breakup, Jon dislikes Sansa on principle. Her stupid dog gets his stupid dog too excited; her damn baking makes him crave pastries so much he’s put on several pounds since she moved in because he keeps stopping at pastry shops on the way home; and for god’s sake, he really doesn’t need to be woken up from his mid-afternoon naps to the delivery guy because she still can’t properly remember her address.

As Christmas rolls around, his less than high opinion of her takes a serious nosedive when he realises that Sansa is a huge fan of Christmas carols. At first, it’s innocent. He hears her singing ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’ in the shower, which is just the weirdest fucking song to be singing in the shower, but he puts it to the back of his mind as he gets dressed to go on another blind date that Sam’s set up for him. It’s when he gets back from said blind date in a very sour mood that he decides he definitively hates her carolling because the last thing anyone wants after accidentally spilling wine down their date’s dress is to hear a very loud rendition of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’.

But it’s Christmas, right? What kind of an asshole would he be if banged against the wall to someone just getting in the Christmas spirit? So Jon does what every twenty-something bachelor does: he drinks a six-pack of beer by himself and passes out in front of the telly.

Or Read More on Ao3

A week of house calls leaves Jon too exhausted to notice if she’s still singing in her flat. He assumes she’s probably gone back home for the holidays, and so Christmas Eve, Jon settles down in front of his telly, a pizza in front of him and another six-pack to get him through this miserable holiday. It’s not as if Jon doesn’t have any offers for the holidays. His dad’s family invited him weeks ago. Sam and Gilly invited him too; even Tormund invited him round to spend it with his new girlfriend; but Jon is determined to be miserable this holiday. So what if Ygritte dumped him in August? Does moping have a time limit? Jon thinks not.

He’s just nodding off when abruptly something draws him back to reality. At first, he’s too drunk and groggy to really realise what woke him up, but then, there it is… Sansa bloody Stark is singing ‘All I Want For Christmas is You’ at – Jon checks the clock on the wall and immediately swears out loud – three in the fucking morning!

What the hell is this girl doing?

Jon swings his legs over the sofa and storms out of his flat to her door, pounding a little forcefully. He doesn’t care if she’s got her entire sodding family over. It’s three in the morning and he really wants to pass out in peace. Is that too much to ask for?

His mental rant peters off when Sansa reaches a high note in the song and completely nails it, begrudgingly earning his respect despite the fact that he’s still pissed as all hell. He makes a note to tell her she sounds good at a later date when he’s not about to scream at her. Jon knocks again, and thankfully, this time she hears him as the music cuts out and her dog starts barking loudly.

He hears the door rattle as she unlocks it, so he decides to get a head start.

“Listen, I don’t care if this makes me the Grinch, but it’s three in the –”

Sansa Stark is quite frankly the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on and Jon suddenly forgets why he’s there but to stare at the smooth expanse of skin on display, the fiery shine of red hair and that guilt-ridden face with those rosy pink lips.

Jon clears his throat. “It’s three in the morning,” he says with a little less vehemence. “If you and your friends could just keep it down, I’d really appreci –”

“It’s just me,” Sansa cuts in. Her eyes drop down to the floor and her expression immediately melts into something else, something that makes him ache a little to see. “I’m really sorry. I’ll… I should probably just go to sleep anyways.”

“What do you mean it’s only you?” he asks, unable to keep the curiosity at bay. It’s then he glances into her flat and realises it’s empty save for a white and grey Siberian Husky sitting in the corner by the tiny Christmas tree like some kind of Hallmark postcard.

Sansa chuckles softly and shrugs. “I was…” She inhales deeply and looks up to catch his eyes as if steeling herself for whatever she’s about to say. “I was supposed to spend it with my ex, so my family are all in Spain right now for Christmas and it’s just… I guess singing Christmas songs makes me feel a little less lonely.”

Well, fuck… Jon feels like a right tit now and maybe it’s the guilt or maybe it’s because he just really wants to see her smile, but the words are out before he has any idea what he’s just said. “You should come over.”

Sansa blinks, startled, and so he powers through.

“I mean… it’s Christmas now, right? And I’ve got a large pizza I haven’t finished and a bottle of wine someone gave me at work. I can’t promise you I’ll sing with you, but I’m pretty sure our dogs could sing together for us.”

Slowly, tentatively, her lips twitch and before he knows it, Sansa Stark is beaming at him, all toothy and gorgeous and utterly breathtaking, that all he can do is smile dumbly back.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, let me… I baked cookies so I can bring that. Oh, I have Christmas crackers too! And…” She looks away bashfully. “Sorry, I just really love Christmas.”

He laughs. “You don’t say…”

Sansa giggles, as she goes inside to grab her things, and that’s how five minutes later, Jon finds himself on his sofa beside her, finally tasting one of her cookies and deciding that he definitely wants to marry this girl, if only for the baking alone.

He tells her so, to which she just blushes and giggles. “Thank you, but I think you’ll be rethinking that when you see how crazy my family is.”

Jon grabs another cookie and purposefully bites into it while looking at her. “Worth it.”

“Flirt,” she mumbles and rolls her eyes. Sansa tucks her feet in underneath herself and leans her head against the back of his sofa. “So I have a confession to make…”

Jon swallows and nods. “Go ahead. It’s Christmas after all. Time for confessions.”

“Well,” she fingers the hem of her red cotton dress. “I’ve been purposefully sending my post to you in the hopes that you’d come over.” She looks away and shrugs. “If I’d known all I had to do was sing Christmas songs really badly at three in the morning, I would’ve just done that.”

“I… what?” It’d be an understatement to say that Jon is speechless. He’s completely baffled. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” Sansa glances up, a furrow between her brows. “You’re hot and you’re a firefighter. That’s like every straight girl’s dream.”

Jon’s mouth is suddenly dry as he laughs awkwardly. “Uh… is that why you order so much crap from Amazon?”

Sansa laughs, surprised. “What? No, that’s… You’re going to think I’m such a grandma, but that’s just my knitting supplies. I’ve been making scarves for my family. Oh my god!” She suddenly jumps up from the sofa. “Do you want one?” Before he has a chance to answer, she’s racing out of the room and he hears her door bang open.

He should really be taking this time to mull over what she’d just said, but it’s too surreal for Jon to even fully comprehend. One minute, he’s fuming and raging a full on tirade against his faceless neighbour, and the next, he’s spending Christmas with her drinking wine and eating cookies, chatting about their lives like they’re old friends. How does something like that happen?

“Okay, so it’s just a stupid scarf, but…” She trails off as she comes barging back into his flat and jumping onto his sofa, causing it to dip slightly towards her. Sansa leans forward as she offers the scarf up to him, showing him the detail she put into it. “Here, you have little wolves on it. It was supposed to be of Lady, but it could be Ghost too, you know?”

Jon takes the scarf from her and stares down at the dark grey wool scarf with the little dancing wolves on each end. His throat feels tight and he’s overcome with such a rush of gratitude and affection that he just closes the gap between them and pecks her on the lips without thinking. Jon draws back, wide-eyed and immediately apologetic. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. This is just the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me. I’m sorry.”

Sansa is silent for a few seconds before she’s suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her lips insistently against his, practically crawling onto his lap. Jon is not complaining.

“Merry Christmas, Jon,” she murmurs against his lips. “Thanks for making it feel like one again.”

Jon kisses her again after he realises that she tastes far better than her cookies. “Merry Christmas, Sansa.”

Yeah, he’s definitely going to marry this girl one day.

#jonsa #jon x sansa #actuallyjonsa #jonsaff #jonxsansaff #jonsa xmas au #merry crimbo you filthy animals <3 #this is so fluffy #my fics

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usuknetwork · 6 years

Text

USUK Christmas Countdown 2017: December 13

Title: The Song of a Heart Day 1: Music Summary: It’s almost Christmas. Arthur is deaf and is given a chance to restore his hearing, but little does he know that a certain street performer knows exactly what he’s going through. Rating: T, for mild language Warning: Angst, Comfort

(Written by: @birb-draws and Art by: @lily-clare)

The wind whistled sharply down the narrow London alleyways, ushering people into their homes and sending their windows flying shut; anyone caught outside was given a fierce reminder of what was yet to come. Winter had arrived and thick pools of slush were already piling in the dips of the pavement, promising children a lousy upcoming Christmas with not enough snow to roll around in.

Up ahead, the distant ringing of bells seemed to beckon very few brave souls out of their houses and into church, but to some it only seemed as though people were emerging from their warm homes for no particular reason...

Arthur didn't hear the bells. He didn't hear the windows slamming shut. He didn't hear the howling wind. He didn't even hear the sound of his own footsteps.

He heard nothing.

It was like an emptiness had invaded his ears, won the battle and stood guard, scaring off any noise that dared to pass by. Perhaps Arthur couldn't hear, but he could feel. He felt all the slightest touches of the wind as though it had weaved its way through his skin and buried itself into his bones.

Ever since the British student turned eight and onwards, all of his senses had become more susceptible, but one of them less so. Whatever had affected him hadn't exactly been for the best, some would say, since the poor blond had lost all traces of his hearing. Eventually, he had grown tired of people pitying him; telling him how everything was going to be alright even though there wasn't much of a problem to begin with. It's not like he was on the verge of death, so why over-exaggerate? His family would always make such a big fuss, and whenever a problem would arise, they'd bring up his complication and use it to defend themselves. Something like 'my son's deaf, you can't say that' was a pretty popular choice among his ménage.

At first, waking up to complete silence and watching your mother mouth mute words was a scary experience, but after a few months or so it became a routine for the scrawny blond, though it did take a while to get used to his flashing alarm clock, specified for people with similar problems.

It was as though he was all alone in this world... No one would treat him the same as they used to. There were more of those stupid fake smiles being thrown around him, more of the people who'd help him with even the most simple of acts as though he had not only lost the ability to hear, but to play out basic tasks too. He wasn't stupid, he was simply deaf.

Arthur breathed out a long and slow breath, his eyelids drooping midway as he watched the hot fog emit from his mouth and fade into the air around him.

He understood people were just being nice, so why not take the hint when he'd insist he could take his own plate back to the kitchen rather than have four people offer to do so? He was sick and tired of it, being treated like a child. The urges he'd get to scream and shout at people to stop driving him insane were always unbearable, but could he do it? What a silly question...

I'm eighteen, for God's sake, Arthur thought to himself with his signature frown playing on his lips. And I'm so lost...

Wrapped up in thick layers of clothing, Arthur pulled his crimson red scarf farther up his face, just enough to cover his pale lips. What have I become?

Whether or not he'd ever find the answer to that question was beyond him.

Who was he?

The journey to the grocery store was taking a reasonable time judging by the displeasing weather. Usually it was quite difficult to tread through thick layers of snow, but with a bit more willpower to get to a warm shelter much sooner than later, Arthur seemed to have shortened that period pretty drastically.

With rosy, flushed cheeks and minuscule snowflakes setting on his lashes, the Brit just about managed to pick his way correctly through the vast expanse of pure white.

Turning on a sharp corner, the blond felt a familiar sensation tingling in the air... It felt like music. A steady, perhaps a bit out-of-tune, beat weaving its way through the cold city. As he neared the source of vibrations in the air, Arthur's eyes found themselves set on a man - huddled a little way by the entrance of a store - in rags and seated on a few pieces of long, thin cardboard.

Peering a little closer, the Brit was able to catch a glint of blue from beneath those constantly squeezing shut eyes with every strained note the other seemed to be singing. At least, that's what Arthur expected he was doing. A few golden strands of hair had protruded from under his wooly hat and framed the stranger's face very, very nicely.

At the sight of Arthur, the man slowly came to a stop, his fingers ceased their movement on the guitar he held in his hands, and he peered up at the Brit expectedly through his thick bundle of clothes, just as he always did.

Yes, this street performer was no exact stranger to Arthur. Over the course of a few weeks of moving into his flat, Arthur tended to take this route throughout the week to get to his favourite (and closest) store which of course was always accompanied by this... Man.

Arthur had never even taken the moment to learn his name. It was quite a simple world, really; you threw a coin or two into a beggar's hat and ignored them in any other situation you'd see them in. But, for Arthur, his world was a little different... He was very much aware of the hardships in life - especially in this dreadful weather - and was more than willing to help a guy out. Of course, he hoped this blond wasn't spending his money on drugs or alcohol, and instead on real necessities like access to food and water.

He could never be sure, although this performer did seem very promising.

Despite the rather huge lack of savings the other would get for each of his performances, Arthur still continued to give him some change whenever he got the chance.

In fact, that thought lead him to wondering as to why exactly this man didn't get much money? The Brit had seen other street musicians with twice as many hats full to the brim of notes and shiny coins. So why didn't he?

Arthur huffed from under his thick scarf, feeling the heat vanish against the red material almost as soon as it appeared. He furrowed his brows somewhat at that eager look the other seemed to taunt him with before plunging his hand into his pocket and fishing out a five pound note. He leaned forwards, having to bend a little, so the 'stranger' could take his offering.

The blue-eyed man reached forwards, his fingers brushing against Arthur's own whilst he took the note. A giddy smile began to bubble amongst his lips whilst he excitedly traced his thumb and index finger over the thin piece of paper, peering rather intently at it for a while.

Soon after that brief moment of contact, the shorter of the two quickly withdrew his hand back towards his own chest, rubbing both of them together as if to warm them up. Arthur noted that the other's hands were (oddly enough) quite warm compared to his own - especially in this dreadful weather... He cleared his throat and let the familiar vibrations against the skin on his neck distract him for a moment, his gaze averted towards the store just a little ways ahead of him.

I should go... What am I doing, wasting time? Arthur took a step away from the other, sending him a curt, acknowledging nod before taking a couple more steps towards the store.

That was, however, until he felt a sharp tug pull him back to where he last stood. Instinctively turning on his heel, Arthur stared incredulously at the other blond, wanting so desperately to ask what on Earth his problem was. He couldn't. For a heartbeat, they each stood in an uncomfortable silence, just staring at each other as if they hadn't even a word to say. Arthur was close to fuming and marching off in the way he was supposed to be headed, but was unexpectedly caught off guard when the street performed released the fabric of his coat and his lips began to form words. The movement of his mouth seemed slightly off, and Arthur struggled to keep up with what he was saying - which he deemed to be quite strange considering he had nine whole years to practise and master lip reading…

Instead, the Brit arched a curious brow, staring at the man's lips the hardest he could. He could make out a few words, but it was difficult to piece them together, and so he merely linked it with the closest reason as to what the beggar could have meant. He had given him money just now, hadn't he? That must be what it was. Something like a 'thank you' of sorts.

Arthur sent him an off smile, dipped his head in gratitude, and continued to walk off.

He didn't see him on his way back.

Arthur arrived home later than he had intended that day. After his encounter with the fellow in the streets, the Brit found it more difficult to navigate his way back to his house. Not only was he exhausted by the time he got there, but pretty cold too. Apparently, wearing a few layers of clothing didn't aid him as much as he had originally hoped it would. The blond stumbled around on his front porch, trying not to tread in any seemingly deep areas of snow to avoid getting any colder than he already was.

Coming to a stop at the door, the Brit rummaged in his pockets for a key.

Where is it, where is it...?

Without looking like too much of a fool, he finally managed to find the damn thing and was quick to shove it into the door's lock, twisting the small article in the uniquely designed hole and hastily pushing it open. Once inside, he shut the door yet again and let out a loud sigh of which he himself could not hear. The heat of his home came flooding to him in a warm greeting and at no point did it ever become even somewhat overbearing. If Arthur could, he’d embrace it right then and there. Shrugging off his coat, the short blond hung it on the hanger just by his head when his fingers lost their grip of the key and - after failing to grab it mid air - had to resort to looking for it on the floor. Arthur spluttered in annoyance and reached for the shining item, however, his eyes caught sight of something else instead, and he curiously reached for a light brown envelope laying beside the metal object.

Forgetting about the key that stayed isolated in its spot on the wooden flooring, Arthur carried the envelope towards the kitchen whilst continuing to inspect it carefully on his way there. Walking into the said room, the Brit pulled out a chair, settled down, and began to slowly tear away at the paper of the enclosed letter.

Once he had it opened, Arthur slowly tipped the contents of the envelope onto the kitchen table. His eyes widened at the sight of… He reached for the stack of money, fingers flipping through each individual note. Of a little over two thousand pounds?! Clasping a hand over his mouth, the Brit hurriedly reached for the letter that had fallen on the table along with the few thousand notes.

It read:

Dear Arthur,

I’ve been saving up for over a year now… You deserve this more than I do.

Please meet Dr. Yao on Monday at 8am at your local hospital. I want this to be a surprise, so he’ll tell you all about it. Don’t you dare forget to bring that money with you.

Talk to you soon,

Scott. SK

Arthur’s head was reeling. A doctor? Why on Earth would he need to see a doctor? And what was so important that he needed to bring with him so much money? Questions were flooding his mind by the minute, and Arthur eventually realised that he felt tired and deserved some much needed rest. Oh, God, what was Scott planning…

Monday, 7:45am.

Arthur was already dressed in sub-formal attire, downing the last of his tea and internally promising himself that no, it wasn’t burning his mouth, and yes, he was running late. He should have been registered in by now, and yet here he was, an eighteen year old deaf boy, pushing the time as if he was Superman.

Grabbing his keys from the kitchen table, Arthur hurriedly pulled himself away from where he sat, almost tripping over his chair in advance and hissing a silent gasp.

Outside, a taxi waited, honking its horn every few minutes, completely oblivious to Arthur’s condition.

What seemed like an eternity later, the door to the small house’s entryway flew open and Arthur briskly made his way out, shutting it behind him. Approaching the taxi, he signed ‘sorry’ whilst holding an apologetic smile - the solemn face of the man at the wheel couldn’t seem to care any less. Entering the vehicle, the Brit handed the man a note with the location of his local hospital of which he read it over and began to drive to said place.

Arthur buckled himself in and huffed, letting his head loll to the side and gently thump against the window. He stared blankly out at his surroundings, watching tiredly as houses, leafless trees, and a few people whizzed by. Briefly, he wondered what exactly he had gotten himself into... Whatever it was, Scott had worked hard for it (a few years for goodness sake!). He must have felt very strongly about this. He shouldn’t get his hopes up though; a trip to the hospital could either mean a good thing or a bad thing, there was almost never any in-between in such situations.

They drove by a store he was very familiarised with, where he noticed a figure who was poorly dressed strumming heavily at his guitar. A noise of amusement slipped past the Brit’s lips, recalling their last encounter. The driver on the other hand, rolled his eyes at the performer and promptly muttered something under his breath. For a moment, Arthur watched in silent thoughtfulness, his brows furrowing to an extent. He was tempted to ask if the taxi driver knew anything about the beggar, but alas could not. His speech was probably clumsy, and he doubted this guy knew how to sign, so where was the point in asking?

They arrived at the hospital within roughly ten minutes, meaning Arthur had only five to get registered and have his appointment. He quickly paid the taxi driver, scribbling out another note and asking for him to wait to which the man nodded, switched off the engine, and went on his phone whilst he waited. The smaller of the two double-checked that the money provided by his eldest brother was still in his pocket before leaving the safety of his car and making his way to the hospital facility.

The building was tall, many stories high in fact, but instead of wasting time feeling intimidated, the British teenager hurried indoors and towards reception.

He approached a petite woman who adjusted her glasses when he neared the desk. Her mouth began moving, and Arthur read her lips perfectly.

”Hello sir, may I have your name please?”

Right… Arthur stared blankly for a moment and motioned his name with a flustered expression, hoping she would catch on that he could, in fact, not hear.

The lady’s mouth formed an ‘O’ and she excused herself for a moment, returning later with a plump older man who gave Arthur a slight wave and signed, “What’s your name?”

Oh, an interpreter.

For the second time that day, Arthur told them his name. ‘Ar-th-ur Ki-rk-land.’

The man proceeded to tell the woman what he read and she began typing away at her computer. Arthur’s attention was back on the man who told him to “Sign this form, please”. He took the sheet of paper handed to him and wrote down all the necessary information it asked for before handing it back and watching as the woman skimmed over his writing.

The man asked, “Who will you be seeing?”

Arthur signed, ‘Dr. Y-a-o’.

The man translated to the lady once more who sent Arthur a sickly sweet smile and motioned towards the corridor. “You’re his only patient this morning, feel free to enter to him through the first door down the corridor on the right. Thank you.”

Arthur gave her a brief, appreciative nod and made his way towards where she had motioned. The corridor was mostly empty of people, but the walls were littered with vibrant posters with some consisting of facts or encouraging people to ‘use medication’. Though the place generally looked quite sterile, Arthur had read that despite the multiple health precautions (for example the amount of hand sanitizer dispensers at every door), hospitals were actually full of bacteria. Whether that was true or not wasn’t up to him to decide however, and he doubted scientists would look into it as if to give hospitals a bad reputation.

The blond brushed some hair from his face, watching as his shoes walked out in front of him. He wondered what sort of sound they made. Was it quiet? Or loud? Did they click or did they sound muffled? Arthur furrowed his brows in thought but was soon interrupted by coming face to face with the door described to him by the secretary. Glancing around for a brief moment, he finally reached for the knob, but just as he did, the door was already pulling itself open. Arthur stumbled back in surprise, but when the door continued to open wider and reveal a man in uniform, the smaller blond found his face flushing with embarrassment. For a moment he thought the damn place was cursed.

Raising a hand, he waved a greeting and Dr. Yao (thank goodness) gestured for him to come inside. Arthur slowly entered, taking a moment to look around. There were all sorts of gadgets organised around the room, ranging from big to tiny ones, and an uncomfortable looking - seemingly adjustable - bed lying against the wall. Arthur took a seat at it and fixed his gaze on the Asian who shut the door behind him and sat at a chair in front.

The doctor pointed towards his lips and began to mouth words slowly. Arthur caught on within seconds.

“I’ll speak slowly so you can read my lips.”

Arthur nodded.

“Latest technology allows us to do something very special,” he explained, brown eyes boring into forest greens.

“Do you want to be able to hear again?”

Arthur stared, frozen to the spot. What Dr. Yao said wasn’t something someone could say so easily. Arthur had gone through a lot of trouble being unable to hear, and all of a sudden he asked such a blunt, emotional question? He frowned, getting to his feet and signing, ‘What is this?’

The doctor stood with him, stepping forward and motioning back towards the bed. “Sit down, Arthur, let me explain.”

Arthur shook his head hastily; he wouldn’t allow himself to get mocked by such a man. He probably had all the privileges one could ever wish for - and yet Arthur had been deprived of a good job just for something so little that he had been stuck with for nine years. His actions were sharp. ‘Tell me to sit down one more time-’

The doctor started to look distressed. “Please, I know it’s a lot to take in. Look, your brother went through so much to allow you to do this.”

Arthur’s expression softened to an extent.

“Do it for your family, yes?”

Family. Family… He wondered what they were doing now, whether they actually still thought about him anymore. Scott did, sure, but maybe he did all this to get Arthur off his mind and to move on. The Brit glanced down sheepishly. He didn’t have any reason to do this. He was strong as he was, and was getting along just fine, but what about all the little things? It was true, he wanted to hear his brothers’ voices now that they’d grown. He wanted to hear his own footsteps. He wanted to hear the soft breeze on a beautiful day. He wanted to hear birds singing. He wanted to hear his breathing before he slept. He wanted to hear music.

Music…

Arthur cautiously made his way back to the bed. ‘Go on,’ he signed.

Dr. Yao smiled warmly, this time taking a seat beside his patient. He placed a hand on the Brit’s shoulder. “We can do this together. We’ll bring back your hearing- wouldn’t you like that? We’ll restore it as much as we can. You’ll be one of the first people to try this out, Kirkland. What do you say?”

With a bit more of that reassuring smile and the comforting hand on his shoulder, Arthur found his head moving, nodding. He waited for a moment and slowly signed, ‘I want to hear again.’

He hadn’t expected to say that, not now, not ever, and yet here he was.

‘I want to hear again,’ he repeated, tears welling up in his eyes.

The day had come for Arthur’s surgery. Dr. Yao had repeatedly explained to him how the procedure worked and what part of the ear they would be focusing on. He mentioned that there was a low chance of something going wrong, however if something within the operation did occur, then to not worry as he would get refunded for the amount he paid to get this treatment done and they would look into the issue and possibly try again.

Arthur breathed in and out in a chaste, nervous manner. His whole body was wracking with nerves and he had no idea how to feel about the whole ordeal. On one hand, he’d regain his hearing, whereas on the other he felt anxious about doing just that. He hadn’t been able to hear for nine years. Nine years. What if his body couldn’t take it? What if he embarrassed himself bursting out into tears in front of the whole team who would work so hard on giving him something he had once thought to have permanently lost?

The door to the hospital room was gently pushed open and Arthur rose his gaze a little less steadily than he had hoped for to meet with the man who entered.

Dr. Yao smiled, a glint in his eyes. “Are you ready?”

Arthur made a noise of unease and buried his face into his hands, shaking his head violently, but a simple tap on his arm was enough to coax him out of bed and soon enough out the door.

He was going to fucking hear again and there was no turning back.

Thursday.

It was cold outside, and the streets were even more empty than they had been days prior to this. Each day was getting colder, however… And each day it was harder to hold on, harder to keep on going. Pedestrians had become a thing of the past now, rarely ever seen. Each day, he’d awake thinking ‘I wonder how much longer until I die’ rather than ‘I wonder how much longer until Christmas’. He didn’t even know if it had passed yet, or how long it would be until it did. Regarding either option, would he be alive to ever know?

His fingers were like ice, and his once tan complexion was almost as pale as snow. It became harder and harder every time to play guitar and set a performance… He’d stop thinking about what chords came next and instead how hungry he felt, how cold he was, and dear God, how lonely, too. He supposed that’s why most people would ignore him; because he kept messing up the song?

He shuddered, a cold shiver running along his spine. He wondered how many doors he’d have to knock on asking for help until he dropped down dead. Not many, perhaps. He was already halfway gone, or at least, it felt like it.

The blond slowly picked up his instrument, pulled it to his chest, and let his fingers run free. They strummed and plucked, and with each vibration that ran along his fingers, he sang a part of a song he’d made up over the years.

He didn’t know how it sounded to be honest, but hopefully it was good.

Hopefully…

A figure in the distance was emerging through the fog and he promptly shifted his empty hat forwards as if to put it on show so the other knew what to do if or when they saw it. He internally wished they had a kind enough heart to spare some change.

When they neared closer, the performer could make out their features, and he felt a heavy weight lift off his chest. He ceased his song and expectantly held out his hand, grin widening.

Arthur stood in silence, listening. It had been two days since his successful surgery and with the help of some hearing aids to enhance his hearing, he had managed to restore quite a bit of it. It was a surreal experience, and it still was. In fact, this was his first trip outside after getting such a thing done! He was even getting language classes too to help him get back on track with proper speech. But this... This was all he had never hoped for.

It was heartbreaking to see a man suffering with the same problem he had carelessly spent over two thousand on, lying in the streets near Christmas time, near death... This performer needed what he had most, and yet he still selfishly spent it on himself. Arthur shook his head slowly, a saddened smile on his face. This beggar was deaf. His singing and guitar wasn’t exactly on point, which explained his lack of money. So did his slurred movement of his mouth the first time they had spoken. He was throwing out every sign he could think of, and yet Arthur stayed oblivious, too engrossed in his own ‘problems’.

The shorter blond carefully dropped to his knees and shuffled towards the other. He signed to him, ‘What’s your name?’

The beggar signed back, a little hesitantly, ‘Al-fr-ed’.

Rummaging in his pockets for a moment, the Brit pulled out some earphones and plugged them each into Alfred’s ears, his fingers gentle and warm against the taller man’s face. ‘Listen,’ he signed.

Alfred’s expression was a clear display of confusion. Arthur didn’t blame him. Since when did the deaf use earphones? He himself would have found it ridiculous.

The shorter of the two took the end of the cord and wrapped it around the man’s finger before pulling his hand over to lay on his chest. The steady thrumming of his heart could be felt through the American’s fingertips and they both knew it.

Alfred’s eyes were gradually growing wet with tears, possibly on the verge of a breakdown, but Arthur was there, and Arthur always would be.

Because sometimes, actions spoke louder than words.

And sometimes, music wasn't enough to express the true meaning of love.

#usuk #ukus #usukxmascountdown #day 1 #aph america #aph england

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artistic-writer · 6 years

Text

Between Now and Nether :: Ch 15 :: A CS AU

Title: Between Now and Nether by @artistic-writer [full res fanart]

Summary: On their way to a Nolan Charity Gala, tragedy befalls Emma and Killian who is given just seven days to set things right. Can he make Emma believe and escape the Nether before he is lost forever?

Rating: T+/M (this one has swear words!)

AO3 Chapters: [1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] - [8] - [9] - [10] - [11] - [12] -[13] - [14] - [15] Fanart Full Resolution: [1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] - [8] - [9] - [10] - [11] - [12] - [13] - [14] - [15]

A/N: This is officially my last completed chapter. Which means, that if I do not get my life in some sort of order before Christmas, the last 3 chapters might not be posted until afterwards. I am sorry, and I know how much people are enjoying this fic, and for that, i thank you all, but I have to complete my CSSS, my csfestivegiving and then there is the little problem of the pile of gifts that need wrapping in my lounge. I hope you guys will understand and know that I will make sure this fic is finished with a flourish, just for you guys! Writing isn’t the part that takes the time - It is the fanart, which can very often take me hours!

Forever thanks to @kmomof4 for beta’ing the shit out of this thing! You are seriously the best! And a massive thank you to @hollyethecurious who i very often whine to and for making me go do that thing last night…it made me feel so much better :)

Taglist: @mariakov81 @rouhn @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke@hookedonapirate @galadriel26 @aye-captn @the-captains-ayebrows@yayimallamaagain @i-nvr-wrote-it @officerrogerss@kiwistreetswan @wellhellotragic@depechemode75 @distant-rose @yrellow-bugs-and-pirate-ships @courtorderedcake @wellhellotragic @followbatb

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The interrogation room was as it always was; cold and dark, the only light from a soft orange fluorescent bulb hanging over the metal table. Even the furniture, or lack of it, was hard and uninviting. Often used to make a perp feel more than uncomfortable, a tactic often used to draw out the most stubborn confessions. Paint was peeling from the top corner of the room exposing the mold and grime underneath. It was the perfect metaphor for most of the people who had passed through here, none more so than the short, tubby excuse of a man who was currently fidgeting across from Captain Lucas.

“So let me get this straight,” Leroy began with a huff. “You want me to wear a wire and get Gold to confess to blackmailing me?”

“If that is what you are calling it,” Emma spat, folding her arms across her chest. She stood behind the Captain, a scowl on her face and venom in her words.

“Easy, love,” Killian warned her softly, rubbing her shoulders with his hands. “Don’t let him get to you.”

Emma sighed slowly and relaxed. Killian was right. Leroy was just a pawn and even though he was arrogant, he was just a small fish in a pool of much larger catches. Gold was their prize. Captain Lucas sat back in her chair, the metal creaking under her weight and she peered over the rim of her glasses at Leroy.

“I’m sorry,” she said sweetly, staring at the man before her. “Did we give you a choice? I don’t think you understand how serious the charges are against you, Leroy.”

“And I don’t think you understand that I don’t care,” Leroy laughed and the grating sound of his voice made Emma shiver.

“Detective,” the Captain offered sympathetically, sitting forward and smacking her tongue against the roof of her mouth making an audible tutting noise. “Let’s be realistic here…”

“You want to talk realistic?” Leroy spat, wide eyed and agitated. He pulled against his restraints, the cold metal of the handcuffs digging into the flesh surrounding his wrists as he tried to stand. “Gold already knows I am in here,” he growled, jabbing his finger into the brushed metal surface of the table. “It’s just a matter of time for me now, sister. I am a dead man.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. Leroy’s words were the first honest thing he had possibly ever said, and she realised it. He was insinuating something that both Emma and the Captain knew; that he was not the only crooked cop on Gold’s books. As disgusting as he was, and as much as he deserved to pay for what he had done and the pain he had caused, he was more scared of a single man than the entire weight of the police force. They had to find a way to make him more afraid of them than he was of Gold.

“We can protect you,” Emma bit out, the words foreign and filled with hate, her entire being fighting with the urge to override the cop side of her that would have used the line on anybody else with ease.

“How about you say that again, with just a little less hatred,” Leroy rasped with a roll of his eyes, falling back into his chair which slid across the concrete floor with a scraping noise.

“You don’t really have a choice,” Captain Lucas repeated quickly. She shuffled some of the papers in front of her, pulling out a crime scene photo of Liam’s murder, and slid the glossy photograph towards him. It stopped when it hit his hands and Leroy eyed it suspiciously, swallowing hard. “We know you did this. You know it and we know it.”

It wasn’t the first time Emma had seen the cold, dead eyed gaze of a corpse before, but what made Liam’s even more heart wrenching was that not that long ago, she was looking at the similar expression of Killian as he bled to death in her arms. The Jones brothers were so alike with the same sapphire stare that could melt right into your soul, but in death, the spark behind them disappeared and left nothing but an emptiness that settled right into her bones. Emma couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear her eyes from the blood splattered face of the fallen cop on the page, instead frozen to the spot, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

“Emma, love, look away,” Killian soothed, twisting her on the spot and making her face him. To anyone else in the room it would simply look like she had turned to face the small, barred window, but Emma immediately locked eyes with Killian. She smiled at him, her lips quivering with the memory of the moment she saw his own light fade from behind his eyes. “It’s alright,” he whispered softly, rubbing his hands up and down her arms and resting his ethereal forehead against hers.

Emma fought to compose herself, sliding her hands down to her still flat belly. There was nobody else but them in that instant and she inhaled hard, quickly wiping a tear from her eye.

“Bullshit,” Leroy spat, shaking her from her moment.

“I believe it was actually a gun,” Captain Lucas twisted in her chair and looked to Emma for clarification. “Right, detective?”

“Right,” Emma agreed. “No bullshit anywhere at the crime scene, although,” she paused, her brows pulling together in thought. “Did we make sure crime scene did a thorough sweep?”

“Says here they did,” she shrugged. The Captain checked the folder for some notes once more, the photocopied scrawl almost unreadable on the page before her. “Nope,” she announced, flipping the paper around so Leroy could see it. “No bullshit. Just a gunshot with your name all over it. So why don’t we revisit the idea of you wearing a wire, Detective, huh?”

She was taking her time in mocking Leroy, making sure that they were the ones in charge of this little dance, making sure that he knew he was in for a nasty future should he decline their offer. Captain Lucas and Emma had already agreed on their ‘Good Cop, Bad Cop’ routine, making sure to only pull out the biggest of guns in their arsenal if Leroy absolutely outright refused to help. The man was selfish and cruel but on the very top of his list was self preservation. He would not want to end up a statistic on death row.

“Bite me,” Leroy spat at them, his lips curling into a snarl.

“You really think Gold will protect you? You really think he cares what happens to you?” Emma moved around behind him, slapping his shoulders with both of her hands and making him jump a little. She looked up at the Captain over his head and shook her head with a snort when Leroy gave no reply. “This guy thinks Gold cares about him.”

“Awww,” Captain Lucas pouted, shuffling in her chair and crossing her legs one over the other. Her skirt covered her legs like a curtain and her gun rubbed against the metal chair, the leather holster squeaking as she moved. “That’s so sweet,” she pouted at him and cocked an eyebrow.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Leroy howled, looking between them, his eye flicking over Emma and then the Captain. “Once Gold gets his claws into you, he owns you. He owns your job, he owns your free time. He owns your family,” he sighed.

If Emma looked hard, really hard, she could see the years of anxiety on Leroy’s face. He was tired and worn, the bags of skin under each of his eyes testament to years of sleepless nights and worry. He was right, Gold was ruthless, and Leroy was lucky Gold still considered him an asset, but if Leroy’s confessions were anything to go by, Gold had plenty of dirty cops to do his bidding. Losing one, especially one who was stupid enough get himself caught, wouldn’t matter one bit.

“What about my family?” Killian snarled.

“And what about my family!” Emma yelled, moving beside Leroy so fast he didn’t have time to register she was even there before her words crashed into the side of his face. Emma slammed her flat palm down on the table beside his cuffed hands and he flinched away from her. “What about my brother-in-law? My boyfriend?” Emma growled, her face so close to his she could feel her breath warming her own face as it bounced off of his skin.

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Leroy snarled back at her.

“Son of a…” Emma grabbed Leroy’s shirt, pulling his face to hers with every intention of head butting him.

“Emma!”

“Detective Swan!” Captain Lucas warned quickly and Emma pushed Leroy away from her, stalked away from the table and ran a shaking hand through the hair that had fallen over her face.

“Love,” Killian was at her side instantly, whispering sweet nothings into her ear that only she could hear to try and calm her down. “Think of the baby,” he begged her softly when she looked up at him and took a deep, calming breath.

Leroy began to chuckle, his whole body bobbing up and down in the chair he was sitting in. He shook his head, looking down at his hands. “You think I don’t know what you are doing?” He laughed. “Your little good cop, bad cop routine is not going to work on me,” he said firmly. “You two forget who I am.”

“Have we?” Captain Lucas looked at him sternly, her face as still as stone. “Or have you, Leroy? Do you even know who you are anymore?” She reached forward once more, picking up another file that looked newer and like it had been well stored. It was Leroy’s personnel file and when she flipped it open, she tossed page after page of commendations and promotions towards him. Finally, when Leroy looked away in disgust, she tossed the crime scene photo of Liam’s murder back across the metal surface, making sure it landed exactly where he could see it. “Are you a good cop gone bad, or have you always been a son of a bitch?”

Emma looked up at the Captain’s curse, never having heard the seemingly sweet old lady say much more than ‘shoot’ before. In a way, Emma wasn’t sure why she was surprised.

“She’s not the Captain for nothing,” Killian smirked at Emma, reading her mind.

“We know you killed Liam Jones,” Captain Lucas said seriously, pressing her fingers together in front of her. “We know you did it for Gold. You are finished, Leroy. Done. You are not a cop anymore. After today, you are nothing,” She looked up, catching Emma’s eye. “Isn’t that right, Detective Swan?”

The signal. There it was. Time to bring out the big guns.

Emma nodded and moved to face the short, bearded man once more. “That’s right,” she agreed, moving around the table. Leroy watched her nervously when she reached for the photograph and shoved the paper in his face. “And you see that?” She pointed out a small, green square in the not so distant background on the photograph. “That looks like a sign, wouldn’t you agree, Captain?”

Captain Lucas lifted her head so her glasses fell backward up her nose and she squinted at the image. “Oh yeah, that’s the Maine state line sign,” she nodded confidently, letting her glasses fall back down her nose. “On the Piscataqua River Bridge, I’d say.”

“The Maine/New Hampshire state line...Swan, what are you getting at?”

“Oh,” Emma feigned surprise and stepped back. Maybe it was the start of morning sickness, but the rotten stench of corruption that eliminated from the man beside her was too much. “Doesn’t New Hampshire have the death penalty?” She gave Killian a gleeful smirk.

“Bloody brilliant!” Killian exclaimed.

“Sure does,” Captain Lucas agreed with a grin, watching a bead of sweat roll down Leroy’s forehead as realisation set in.

“And this photograph looks pretty close,” Emma tossed the photo back onto the table, pacing beside it, tapping her lips as she pretended to think.

“I think you are right,” Captain Lucas grinned wider, watching her young prodigy work. She had always known Emma would be one of her best detectives, but watching her take on a seasoned veteran of the force, making him sweat under her interrogation just confirmed it.

Emma gasped out loud, clapped her hands together and Leroy jumped about a foot from the chair he was sitting on. He landed back down with a clatter, his handcuffs and chain rattling through the metal loop welded to the table. “Do you know what?” Emma turned to the Captain, snapping her fingers and pointing at her with a wide eyed grin. “I bet the New Hampshire boys would love this! Catching a cop killer!”

“I can give them a call?” Captain Lucas offered, planting her hands on the edge of the table and readying herself to rise.

“Wait!” Leroy shouted, slamming his balled fists on the table. “Just...wait a second…” He sounded panicked and Emma enjoyed the rush that flushed over her body.

“Swan, I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again, you are a marvel and I love you!” Killian declared gleefully, rushing to her side. “Scare him with the death penalty! Perfect!”

“So what’s it going to be, Leroy?” Captain Lucas’s voice was harsher, her ultimatum clear. “Your life or Gold’s?”

Leroy sighed, hanging his head. “Set it up. I’ll wear the wire.”

The tape itched under his shirt, pulling against his chest hair every time that he took a step down the ever lengthening hallway towards Gold’s office. It never seemed to get any brighter, instead enveloping him in the darkness that had taken over his life for so long. Leroy was nervous, the tension in the hall palpable as he finally reached the end of the dimly lit corridor and reached for the ominously marked door to Gold’s office.

“Ah, Detective,”Gold said cheerily without even looking up from the desk in front of him. He was signing some documents, untoward no doubt, and Leroy knew not to take too much notice of them. Gold’s pen swished across the paper effortlessly, the dull thud of the end of his signature shattering the silence in the room. He closed the green, leather bound document holder and handed it to Hyde, finally looking up to meet Leroy’s gaze with a sly grin. “What can I do for you?”

“I need a favour,” Leroy said confidently, striding into the office even further once Gold’s henchmen had made themselves scarce. He knew that the mob boss couldn’t resist the chance to make a deal. Gold loved to be owed and Captain Lucas had told Leroy to appeal to his greedier side.

Gold motioned to the chair opposite his huge, hardwood desk and Leroy took a seat. The luxuriously soft leather squeaked and groaned under his weight and it felt supple under his fingertips that clutched at the arm. It was expensive, obviously, and Leroy realised that no one was ever going to be better than Gold. He would always be fodder, easily dismissed with the crack of a gun and sting of a bullet.

Gold’s face lit up and he sat forward in his high back leather chair. “A favour, you say?” he leered with a grin. “I like the sound of that.”

“The cop…” Leroy stopped mid sentence, heeding the Captain’s instructions not to implicate knowledge of Gold’s deeds outright.

“Remember, we need him to say it, not you…”

“The cop that...died,” Leroy emphasised the last word with a nod of his head.

“Terrible accident,” Gold feigned sympathy. “Such a shame,” he lied.

“Yes, well, his girlfriend is sniffing around,” Leroy lied, trying desperately to hide the threat of a stutter in his words. Gold narrowed his eyes and calmly rubbed his thumb against his fingers, a nervous twitch that Leroy had noticed before.

“That pretty little blonde thing?” Gold smirked and his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. “What does she want?”

“She thinks it was a hit,” Leroy shrugged casually, eyes dropping to watch the shake that had developed in his leg. “She keeps coming to the precinct going on and on about how her boyfriend was murdered. Frankly, it’s getting annoying,” he huffed.

“I am failing to see how I can help you,” Gold said slightly annoyed that Leroy was wasting his time with such a frivolous story. He was smart, he hadn’t been a crime boss for so long without intelligence after all, and Leroy knew it wouldn’t be easy to get anything from Gold that would send the barrage of armed police officers waiting outside crashing through the door. It was time to play dirty.

“Your name came up,” Leroy said.

“My name? In what context?” Gold prodded, well and truly intrigued.

“She has files, proof, connecting you to some murder back in the day. Says it was her boyfriend’s parents,” Leroy swallowed hard and when he looked up, Gold was staring at his own hands that were clenched tightly together in front of him.

The underarms of Leroy’s shirt were already soaked from his interrogation but were even more so now. If Gold found out what he was up to, there would be no need for a murder trial. He would be dead before he even reached the door. Leroy gulped hard, lightly scratching his beard and snaking his hand to rub at the back of his neck.

“Don’t worry so much Leroy,” the Captains words echoed in his head. “You’re not dead until you are cold and dead.”

“She thinks you…” Leroy began but was silenced when Gold lifted his gaze once more and pressed a finger to his lips. The muscles in Gold’s jaw ticked as he clenched his teeth and he inhaled hard. If it wasn’t one cop causing so many problems in his life, it was all of them. How many would he have to rid himself of before he was free from their torment?

“Her name,” Gold said darkly.

Leroy’s brow furrowed in confusion for a second and he shook his head. “Her name is Emma Swan,” he said, still confused. “What are you going to do?” Leroy shocked himself at his own bravery, the prickly heat of adrenaline surging through his body and covering his skin.

“Oh Leroy,” Gold sang eerily. “I am not going to do anything.” He pushed himself back away from his desk, the wheels of his chair moving across the floor silently. Gold reached for his cane and once he was on his feet, he began pacing behind his desk, tapping the brass tip of the walking aid onto the floor.

“But what if the Captain decides to take a look at what she has?” Leroy offered into Gold’s thought process.

“I didn’t say you were not going to do anything about it,” Gold sneered, pointing the shiny tipped point of his cane towards Leroy’s chest. A few more inches and he would make contact, undoubtedly prodding the microphone of his wire and blowing the whole operation. Leroy gulped hard and shot a look at the cane hanging between them.

“What do you mean?” Leroy stammered.

“You are going to make her go away,” Gold whispered, his voice deeper and full of a mixture of anger and resentment.

“But you said we were even, when I killed Liam Jones for you,” Leroy’s voice turned into panic, albeit faked, but he figured that if Gold suspected anything about being recorded, confessing to the murder of another officer might seem like he was a little bit more genuine.

“And now we are unbalanced once again,” Gold sneered, pulling the cane back to his side and stamping it onto the floor once more. “Emma Swan has to go and you suddenly owe me.”

And there it was. Gold’s deal. All Leroy needed now was for him to confirm it as per the Captain’s orders and he would be spared the death penalty. Leroy shuffled awkwardly in his chair and teetered on the edge of the soft, red leather. “You want me to kill Emma Swan?”

There wasn’t even a paused before, through gritted teeth, Gold snapped his head to look at Leroy once again and gave him a slow nod. “Kill Emma Swan. Make it look like an accident. Make it look like she blew her brains out through grief, I don’t care. And get me those files she has,” Gold added quickly, his thumb rubbing the side of his finger again as he contemplated what they might contain. “I want Emma Swan dead and I want those files.”

The next five minutes of Leroy’s life were a blur in slow motion. There were two doors to Gold’s office and they simultaneously burst open, each kicked nearly off their hinges by a SWAT officer dressed head to toe in black kevlar and velcro straps. Gold was tackled to the floor, the shouting and barked orders coming from the SWAT team leader lost in the hum of silence as Leroy went deaf, his hands were wrenched behind his back and the cool metal of handcuffs met his wrists.

Captain Lucas strode into the room with Emma in tow, both of them wearing a ballistics vest and wry smiles. Gold watched the scene with an arrogant smirk, still believing he was untouchable. He had been raided before but nothing had ever stuck. Everybody had their price and Gold had the means to meet each and every sum of money that stood in his way. That was, until he had failed to corrupt a certain, almost elderly Captain and her young wolf cub prodigy who he had now come to realise was Emma Swan. The SWAT officer yanked him to his feet and he tried to shake off his grip with a weak shrug as, standing eye to eye with Captain Lucas, he smirked slyly.

“Captain,” he said, the words slithering from his lips like the snake he was. “What a surprise.”

“The only surprise here is how stupid you are, Gold,” Captain Lucas shot a glance at Leroy as he was led from the room, head hung low as another officer fiddled with removing the recording device and microphone from his body, slipping them both into an evidence bag and sealing it shut. Gold watched, his jaw hanging open slightly as he realised what had just happened.

“Gold,” Emma began, stepping forward and catching his attention with a commanding voice. “You are under arrest for the solicitation of the murder of Emma Swan. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you by the court...”

“This is a mistake. Laughable, really,” Gold interrupted with a chuckle..

“Still an arrogant bastard I see,” Captain Lucas smiled sweetly at him.

“Still a dried up has been of a cop I see,” Gold retorted with a spiteful tone. Captain Lucas simply smiled, wrinkling her nose so that her glasses moved up the bridge a little more, and stepped forward until she was almost leaning against him.

“We got you Gold. You’re finished,” Captain Lucas spat at him, her face so close to his she could almost feel his dread. “Get him out of here!” she shouted into the room before Gold’s cries of protest fell on the deaf ears of everyone as he was dragged out of his office to the waiting police car.

#cs ff #cs fic #cs fanfiction #cs halloweek #between now and nether #ch15 #nearly done!#myster #crime #supernatural #fanart #fanart for fanfic #cs fanart #manip

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martianmaddie · 6 years

Text

Month of Prompts

December the Sixth prompt: Cold / Cozy

Pairing: Destiel, Dean Winchester/Castiel

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 1779

“Son of a bitch.” Castiel griped, peeling his gloves off and ripping his hat from his head as he entered his tiny, two-man dorm room. “I walked all the way across campus, got out of bed, only to find out classes are cancelled.”

“Could you hold your complaints?” Castiel’s friend and roommate, Dean, asked from under a pile of blankets. “I’m still asleep.”

Castiel continued to grumble, albeit quietly, as he threw himself into his computer chair and unlaced his snow-covered boots. It was Thursday, two weeks before finals, and he’d stayed up until three studying. He’d barely rolled out of bed in time to wrap himself in as many layers as he could and trapse to his freshman comp. class by eight a.m. He’d lost feeling in his face and toes from the biting wind and what was building up to be three feet of snow. He should have known that classes would be cancelled in a blizzard.

A soft, pale light lit up their room from the small window that separated Castiel’s bed from his roommates’. Though the sight of the snow was hidden behind the yellow curtains Castiel had hung up, he could hear the wind whipping outside and howling through the seal of their window. Even in the safety of their room the air was chilled, the slight tickle in Castiel’s nose from the cold reminded him of childhood snowball fights with his brothers.

Castiel loved winter; he loved Christmas, the snow, baking cookies, and spending time with his family. Now that he was away at university, though, Castiel was having a hard time feeling his usual joy about the holiday season. Maybe it was the stress of upcoming finals, maybe it was the complete lack of decorations in his dorm room (they didn’t even have a tree). Or maybe it was the knowledge that now that his parents split up he’d never have another Christmas with his whole family. They’d waited until all the kids left the house to get a divorce, Castiel was the youngest, so they’d been waiting on him, he hadn’t been at university for a month when his mom called and told him the news. Whatever the reason, Castiel felt a distinct lack of holiday cheer, an emptiness that left him in a foul mood.

He started shivering as he pulled his sweater over his head, throwing the formless lump of knitted fabric onto the foot of his bed and crawling under his covers. The soft cocoon of his blankets had already lost his body heat since he’d rolled out of bed, and Castiel continued to shiver, tossing and turning and trying to rub some warmth back into his limbs.

“This is ridiculous.”

Castiel picked his head up, peering at his roommate from under his blankets. “What?” Castiel asked grouchily, squinting in the harsh light that the curtains didn’t keep out. He hadn’t fallen back to sleep yet, he hadn’t been able to get warm. He’d spent the past hour with his head under the covers, curled in a ball and willing the howling of the wind to stop.

“I said this is ridiculous,” Dean repeated, grabbing a towel from a hamper on his side of the room and shoving it into the bottom of the windowsill. “Our damn window is letting cold air in, and the heating in this building sucks. I’m freezing.”

“Me too.” Castiel moaned, tucking his face back into his blankets again, only to have those blankets jerked off of him.

“Hey!”

“Move over.” Dean commanded, already half into Castiel’s bed. Then Castiel’s knees were being crushed by Dean’s ass.

“Get off, you assbutt!” Castiel objected, shoving at his roommate with little effect. Dean collapsed on the bed, pulling the covers over both of them and curling into Castiel’s side of the bed. No, not his side of the bed, the whole bed was his.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He demanded, shivering again from the blast of cold air he’d received when Dean pulled his covers to the side.

“Not cuddling.” His friend replied sharply, pressing icy fingers against Castiel’s shoulder, making the dark-haired boy yelp.

“It sure seems like cuddling.” Castiel accused, slapping Dean’s arms away as he tried to pull Castiel into his chest. Castiel was trying very hard not to think about how he was only wearing a tee shirt and thin pajama bottoms, or how Dean was only wearing boxers, or how he’d had a crush on his football-player roommate since the start of term.

Castiel didn’t have any hope with Dean, though, the guy had gotten in on a full scholarship for football, had an amazing season despite being a freshman, and had ladies tripping over themselves to be with him. Just because Dean hadn’t gone out with any of them didn’t mean that he wouldn’t, Castiel had seen first-hand how big of a flirt his best friend could be. Castiel had also gotten in on a full scholarship, but it was for math. And skinny, dorky college Castiel was shaping up to be as big of a dweeb as high-school Castiel. In short, Dean was out of his league. Miles outside of it, actually.

“Cas, I’m cold, you’re cold. Neither of us slept last night and I can’t sleep ‘cause my fingers are about to freeze off.” Castiel’s breath hitched as Dean managed to arrange them so that Castiel’s back was nestled into Dean’s chest, his butt was pressed against his roommate’s hips and their thighs touching as Dean curled around him.

“Dean,” Castiel protested weakly as his roommate wrapped his arms around his shoulders.

“Go to sleep, Cas. It’s not weird if you don’t make it weird.” Dean murmured, and Castiel felt goosebumps rise on his arms and back when Dean’s hot breath ghosted over the back of his neck.

Castiel bit his lip. It was weird, despite what Dean seemed to think, and a little awkward. But he was warm, and he hadn’t been warm since sometime yesterday. Castiel felt himself relax into Dean’s arms, wiggling closer a bit and sighing as Dean held him just a little tighter.

Maybe not weird, but still awkward.

But nice. Cozy, even. Castiel hugged his chest, and Dean’s arm with it, and tried not to feel silly about the small smile that was lifting the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t Christmas with his family, and it still kinda sucked that it was so cold, but cuddling with Dean was almost enough to lift his bad mood.

Any awkwardness fell away once Dean started snoring. The sound wasn’t obnoxious, Castiel found it endearing, and he wished he could see Dean’s face. Dean mmm’d in his sleep and squeezed Castiel tighter when the dark-haired boy shifted onto his back. Castiel watched Dean’s relaxed face for several minutes, until the warmth of his and Dean’s combined body heat pulled him into unconsciousness.

“Do you have plans for the break, Cas?” Dean asked.

Castiel finished fastening the front of his jeans before looking up at his roommate. Waking up had been awkward, as had dressing afterwards. Which was weird, because it’s not like either of them had been particularly modest around the other all year, Dean sat around their room in boxers all the time. It wasn’t like they’d done anything, they’d just fallen asleep. But honestly, (and Castiel had no experience in this area, he was just drawing conclusions from movies) it was a bit like waking up the morning after a one night stand.

“No, I told my mom I’m taking a winter class.” He didn’t say that it would be downright depressing to go home, to spend time with his now-broken family. He didn’t like to talk about it, about how his dad was probably happier now that he was out in the world doing god knows what. Dean knew, to a certain extent, because Castiel didn’t have to say anything for Dean to know.

“Do you want to come with me?” Dean asked, not looking up at Castiel as he sat on the edge of his bed and laced up his boots. “I’m just going to my uncle Bobby’s, but he’s going to wait for me to get there before going out and chopping down a tree.”

“Your family chops down their own Christmas tree?” Castiel asked, surprised. That sounded like fun.

“Yeah, it’s a Bobby tradition.”

“I’d like that, Dean. Thank you.” Castiel exchanged a smile with his roommate, and watched as Dean pulled his coat on.

“Do you want to go to dinner with me?” Dean asked, pausing by the door.

“Sure.” He said lightly. “Where do you want to go?”

Dean’s face pinched as he studied Castiel.

Castiel ignored is roommate, Dean was always staring at him all intense-like. At first, it had confused him, made him think that there was something going on between them, but now he knew his attraction to Dean was one-sided. Dean’s staring just meant that Dean was just especially deep in thought about something.

“Do you want to make it-.” Dean started, but cut himself off.

“Wherever you want to go is fine, Dean.” Castiel said after a moment. “You’re driving, anyway.” Those were the rules: Dean’s car meant Dean’s music, Dean’s choice of restaurant, ect. Castiel didn’t question it anymore, he was just glad he didn’t have to eat at the buffet on campus.

“We should go on a date.” Dean said confidently, making Castiel hurt his neck from looking up at him so fast. “Maybe not tonight, but we could get coffee or dinner, and I could take you to the movies, and-.”

“You want to go on a date with me?” Castiel interrupted, half to shut down Dean’s rambling, half because he was pretty sure he’d completely misunderstood his roommate.

Dean’s usual cool-guy facade faltered a bit. “I, uh, yeah.” He said lamely, and Castiel felt his jaw drop as he stared at his friend.

Dean took in his disbelieving look, and his lips pulled down at the corners. “Sorry, that was stupid. Forget I said anything.” Without another word, Dean bolted, making for the door of their dorm room. Castiel only just managed to catch Dean’s wrist before he disappeared down the hall.

“I’d love to go on a date with you, Dean.” Castiel said earnestly, looking up at his roommate with wide eyes. “I’d love to.” He repeated.

Castiel saw Dean examine his face carefully, as if looking for any indication that Castiel was joking. After a moment, Dean broke into a smile. His happiness was blinding, and Castiel guessed that he hadn’t been the only one crushing on his roommate all year.

#December month of prompts #fanfic #ficlet #supernatural #spn #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #dean/castiel #martianmaddiewrites #coolbeans

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