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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 4: The House Of Glass]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, koi fish, smoking, drinking, drugs, kids, parenthood, Willis Warning, impractical architecture, angst, Adventures With Aegon, historical topics including war and discrimination, let's all give a nice warm welcome to Christabel! 🥳

Word Count: 7.4k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

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It’s dawn, but you’ve already been up for hours. The sky turns from indigo to embers to flames to a cool, cloudless blue; mourning doves coo, goldfinches chirp, swamp rabbits gnaw on blades of grass glittering with dewdrops like diamonds. As the vanilla bean cake bakes in the oven, you go to Cadi’s room, sit on the edge of her bed, lay a hand lightly on the indistinct knoll that is your daughter curled up beneath her Rambo-themed blanket.

You murmur as she stirs awake: “Bonjour, ma cherie.”

Cadi rolls over, blinking groggily. You don’t call her this often. It’s something you picked up from Willis when you were married. You have a vision—sudden, jarring, though not entirely unwelcome—of him pacing back and forth with Cadi in his arms, one month old, 1 a.m., Willis humming some Cajun folk song to lull her to sleep. “Mom? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I called Cascade Stables, there’s a spot reserved for you.”

“What? Really?!” Her face glows, Christmas lights, the Fourth of July. “But you said…how…?”

You can’t take the credit. You won’t give it to Willis if it’s unearned. “Actually, Aemond offered to pay. So you don’t need to worry about anything. The house is fine, the car is fine. No need to sacrifice your birthday presents.”

Cadi sits upright and ponders you, enigmatic childish confusion. “Mom…is Aemond your boyfriend?”

Well, honey, at first he was just some stranger from a kinky personal ad and then he was a delicious distraction and now I fear I might be starting to want more from him, something not so temporary, something forbidden. But I don’t know who he is. “I don’t think it’s quite that serious yet,” you say instead. “Would you like for him to be around more?”

She shrugs, and you recognize it not as true reluctance but rather as feigned, self-preserving indifference. “Yeah. I mean, I guess so. He’s okay.” Then she adds: “What happened to his face?”

“I honestly don’t know. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“Maybe he was in a war,” Cadi says, glancing down at her Rambo blanket, Sylvester Stallone armed and stern and shirtless.

“Um, yeah, maybe.”

“Can I have cake for breakfast?”

“No, you cannot,” you say, smiling. “But you can have some of Amir’s leftover jambalaya that’s still in the fridge.”

“Fine.”

“Get up. Get ready. Amir should be here soon, once he can watch the cakes I’ll drive you to school.”

“If you let me stay home, I could help you bake.”

“You definitely wouldn’t help. You’d just spend eight hours playing that Nintendo.”

Cadi grins. “Probably.” Then she rolls out of bed and shuffles towards the kitchen over the creaking, sinking floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh, what the fuck,” you hiss to yourself as you park behind Willis’ sheriff’s vehicle—a Plymouth Gran Fury—which just so happens to be towing a 20-foot jon boat. You step outside into glaring 90-degree sunshine, slam the door of your Chevy Celebrity, and jog into the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office. You are carrying a white bakery box full of cherry cobbler muffins.

“Hey sugar,” Willis drawls when he sees you. The holding cells are empty; the electric fans are whirring. Heather Locklear is simpering from where her poster is taped to the wall.

You throw the bakery box down onto his paper-strewn desk. “What the hell is that outside?”

“My new boat,” Willis says proudly. “Picked it up first thing this morning.”

“So you can get a new boat, but Cadi can’t go to horse camp?”

He throws his arms wide, exasperated. Men love to make a habit out of being exasperated by things that should be obvious. “She’s gonna get way more outta that boat than from spendin’ a week brushin’ horses! We’ll be fishin’ in it together ‘til she starts poppin’ out her own babies. If Lake Verret ain’t a puddle of oil by then. You know I’ve had three deputies resign in the past ten days? Three! I’m bleeding manpower. I can’t compete. With overtime, they can make twice as much workin’ security on the rigs.”

“I thought you voted for Reagan and his energy independence.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want them drillin’ in my neighborhood.” He flips open the box, grabs a muffin, and takes a huge, messy bite. Crumbs go flying everywhere.

“Well, Cadi is going to get to brush those horses after all,” you tell Willis. “She’ll be gone from June 24th to July 1st. Just so you know.”

His forehead crinkles as he chews. “Where’d you dig up a spare $300?”

He gave me $400, actually. “A friend offered to pay. Kind of embarrassing that they stepped up instead of you.”

Willis ignores this jab. It is uncharacteristically combative of you; but you’re hot, you’re exhausted, you have a splitting headache, you still have four cakes to finish before noon tomorrow. Sweat rolls in beads down the slope of your neck, the curve of your back. It will evaporate once you’re back outside again, once the sun bakes it off you like nightmares fade in daylight. “A friend, huh?” Willis is more fascinated than annoyed. He gnaws on his muffin, contemplating you. “The only friend I know of is Amir the Queer, and he ain’t got nothin’.”

He does; he’s just squirreling it all away for San Franscisco. “Don’t call him that. Don’t be a neanderthal.”

Willis’ thoughts are elsewhere. If not Amir, then who? Who? He asks, smirking: “You got a petit ami, sugar?”

A boyfriend, he means, a beau, a lover, a partner, a suitor. Do I? “No,” you decide. “No, he’s just a regular friend. Really.”

Willis chomps on his cherry cobbler muffin. His smirk stretches into a grin. “Sure he is.”

“Okay. You called and asked for muffins, and the muffins have been delivered. Now I gotta go. I have a hell of an order to finish for tomorrow. Which reminds me…” You take the folded piece of yellow legal pad paper out of your shorts pocket and open it to read the address of the Targaryen residence. “Where is 1066 Loch Raven Terrace? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Oh, that’s in a brand new development, real highfalutin, mansions and all. That’s where the Jade Dragon folks are livin’. You gotta go way down 401 towards Lake Verret. Turn onto Owlet, then Egret, then Loch Raven.”

You snatch a blue pen out of the mug on his desk—World’s Best Cop, it says—to scribble the directions down on your paper. “Great. Thanks. Why’d they name it that? We don’t even have ravens in Louisiana.”

“Maybe they got ‘em back in England and the Rockefellers want to feel right at home.”

You nod. This makes sense; this is a sufficiently egotistical explanation. You check the clock on the wall; it’s almost time to get Cadi from school. “You’re picking up Cadi tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah. ‘Round 8:00, as usual.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.”

Willis asks longingly, looking nowhere in particular: “Remember when we were gonna go to Mexico for our anniversary?”

“Yeah. And I remember when we didn’t.”

He shrugs, perhaps regretful, mourning some hypothetical versions of yourselves. “I got busy. I got lazy.”

“We would have ended up in the same place, Willis. It just might have taken longer.”

“Sure,” he mutters, but he doesn’t sound like he believes it. He’s reaching for his second muffin as you push through the glass door and step out into the sweltering afternoon sunlight.

Twenty minutes later, you’re rolling into your driveway: windows down, cicadas screeching, a flock of pelicans flapping by overhead, Cadi singing along to Jump by Van Halen. But when you cut the engine, you catch a glimpse of something strange in your rearview mirror. You have a visitor. He’s coasting down the driveway in his red Audi Quattro, displacing a grey wave of gravel. You and Cadi climb out of your Celebrity to greet him.

“Aemond?” you say, hands on your hips, a growing involuntary smile. You weren’t supposed to see him until Saturday night, until your talk about the future, a future you both disavowed before starting to get a taste for it. “What are you doing here?!”

“I only have a minute.” When he emerges from the Quattro, he’s dragging his neon teal duffle bag.

Cadi gasps. “More Nintendo games?!”

Aemond chuckles and shakes his head. “Sorry, not quite.”

Cadi groans dramatically and sprints off into the house, probably to devour an ungodly amount of baked goods.

“Don’t eat the Cap’n Crunch Treats!” you shout after her. “They’re for a customer!”

Aemond strolls over to you, wearing jeans, a white tank top, and his Adidas sneakers. His ever-present Marlboro jacket has been forgotten. His hair is a mess, he’s touching his chin restlessly; he really does look like he’s in a rush. “Hey,” he says softly, returning your smile.

You point to his duffle bag. “So you’re not here to tie me up.”

“Regrettably, no.”

“Cadi was really, really happy this morning to learn that you paid for horse camp.”

“I’m glad. Please don’t mention it again.” Aemond glances to his right and spies the alligator sunbathing a few yards away, a deep swampy green and fast asleep. “Oh, fuck!” He grabs your arm, pulls you to him, walks with you briskly towards the house. “You need to get that thing turned into a purse or shoes or something.”

You laugh. “She won’t go after you. She knows you’re bigger than she is.”

“I’m not going to take your word for it.”

In the living room, Aemond tosses his duffle bag on the couch, unzips it, and lifts out a Nikon F3 digital camera. Amir peeks out of the kitchen, flour and powdered sugar dusting his palms, his forearms, his cheeks. “What the…?”

“I need a white wall,” Aemond says distractedly, peering around. The living room walls are pink, the kitchen is mint green, Cadi’s room is yellow, the bathroom is a pale blue. Cadi watches as he darts around the small house, sitting at the kitchen counter and chomping on a ginger molasses cookie. Then Aemond snaps his fingers, remembering. He turns to you. “Your bedroom has white walls.”

“And of course he knows all about your bedroom,” Amir says.

“Come with me,” Aemond orders you.

“Okay…?”

“Cadi too.”

You and Cadi follow Aemond into the bedroom, Amir trotting close behind to satisfy his curiosity. Aemond shows Cadi where to stand against the wall, in a spot where the lighting is good, no shadows, no cracks in the paint, no paintings or photographs. He raises the Nikon and gazes through the viewfinder with his right eye.

“Alright, here we go…just from the shoulders up…yeah, look at me straight-on, just like that…big smile, one two three!” He takes a picture; you can hear the click. “Beautiful! You’re Cindy Crawford! Naomi Campbell! Linda Evangelista! Let’s go again…”

Cadi giggles as she poses: a few respectable smiles, a few silly faces, a few where Aemond asks her to act serious. Cadi says, with an exaggerated grimace: “Look, I’m Mom when Daddy tries to talk to her.” Amir guffaws from the doorway.

“Your turn,” Aemond tells you, waving you over. Aemond directs you like he’s looking for excuses to touch your shoulders, your waist, your face, making minute adjustments that can’t really matter. You’re good at the serious faces, but he’s not satisfied with your smile. “No, a real one. A real smile!”

“I am really smiling!” you protest.

Aemond lowers the camera and raises an eyebrow at you. “You can do better. I’ve seen it.”

And suddenly, effortlessly, you’re beaming.

“There you go,” Aemond says in approval, and snaps a few frames. “Done.”

“What do you need pictures of us for?”

“Just a little project I’m working on,” Aemond says, evasive. He ventures back to the living room without further explanation.

As Aemond zips the Nikon into his duffle bag, you go to the kitchen to see how far Amir has gotten with the Targaryens’ engagement party order. In a dozen different icing colors, he’s painted wildflowers—your favorite since you were Cadi’s age—all over the white buttercream frosting of the vanilla bean cake. You wrap an arm around his waist, rest your head against his chest. “You’re Picasso.”

“I’m a sad, single, four-eyes twink who lives with his Grandma.”

“You’re the love of my life.”

He laughs and smacks a noisy kiss onto your cheek. Aemond watches, amused, thoughtful. He has that same look he had when he walked in on Cadi and Amir dancing to Kyrie, like someone studying a work of art in a museum, something beautiful but arcane, crafted by a foreign stranger who’s been dead for centuries. You start chopping pecans for the hummingbird cake.

“Okay,” Aemond announces with a heavy sigh. “I gotta run.”

“Already?” Cadi says, more disappointed than she’s trying to let on.

“He’s a very busy man,” you tell her. “He’s an engineer. And a historian, too.”

“Just an engineer,” Aemond says, startled.

“Only a historian would think to quiz me about Napoleon to see if I was worthy of his time.”

“You should know something about the man your town was named after.” Aemond leans in close—smoke and cologne, sun and salt—and growls into your ear: “Bye, Cupcake. Taste you later.”

“Bye.” And you watch him leave with his neon teal duffle bag slung over one shoulder, so preoccupied you completely forget about the pecans. Your knife rests on the cutting board, your thoughts are tangled up in what you and Aemond need to talk about tomorrow. I want more than something casual. I do, I really do.

Amir whips you with a dishtowel. “Ho, we’ve got cakes to bake! Let’s go, let’s go!” And then he asks more sympathetically as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose: “How’s your headache?”

“Oh,” you say, only realizing it when he asked. “It’s gone now.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The driveway is long and meandering, brand new but meant to look old, cobblestones lined with meticulously manicured hedges and beasts carved out of marble: bears, dolphins, horses, dragons. On the shores of Lake Verret, out of sight of the rigs and surrounded by towering gnarled southern live oaks older than the United States, you find the Targaryen family residence—manor? estate? chateau?—and park your Chevy Celebrity amidst a sea of Lexuses, Audis, Porsches, Cadillacs, and Alfa Romeos. There are willowy whooping cranes tiptoeing their way across the lawn. A blue merle Great Dane, gigantic and glaring menacingly, lurks behind the white columns of the wraparound front porch.

“That is not a house,” Amir says, gazing up at it through the windshield. “That is a castle.”

“That is where we’re going to make a lot of money if we can impress the Rockefellers.”

“Whoo hoo!” he cheers, climbing out of the car. “San Fran, I hope you’re ready for me!”

You’re dragging the coolers out of the back seat when you are descended upon by a herd of servants, dressed in black so as not to distract from the festivities, so they can fade into the backdrop, so they can become invisible. You and Amir have missed the memo. Your sundress is from Kmart: white with pink zinnias, a cheap and unextraordinary flower for an undistinguished woman from an anonymous town in one of the most impoverished states in the nation. Amir is wearing neon orange shorts and a (very tight) t-shirt from Queen’s Magic Tour that he found at a yard sale.

“These are the cakes?” the head butler asks impatiently, a grim-faced man with salt and pepper hair and spotless white gloves.

“Yeah, that box has the coconut cake, and that one has the key lime, and there are the Cap’n Crunch Treats, and…hey! Wait!” You watch helplessly as the fleet of servants ferry the boxes up the porch steps and into the house. You and Amir stare at each other as you stand abandoned on the cobblestones. “What do we do now?”

“Do we just…leave…?!”

“You made it!” Alicent cries, sailing out of the doorway and swathed in a flowing cream-colored gown. Her large dark eyes are bright and ever-shifting, almost manic; sunlight shimmers on her auburn hair. There is music pouring out behind her, thudding but indistinct, rumbling bass, heady guitar strums. “Come inside. You simply must come in.”

“Oh, we couldn’t impose!” Amir says, already inching towards the house.

“I’ll hear no more of that. You rescued me in my hour of need and I shall not forget it.” Alicent beckons you closer. Her smile is broad and radiant but tight, like she’s having to remember to keep it that way, like her muscles are beginning to ache. “Enjoy some hors d’oeuvres, at least. We have shrimp cocktail, miniature quiches, vol-au-vents, clams casino, Swedish meatballs, little smokies, deviled eggs with paprika, and lots of champagne! Quickly now. There are some people I’d like you to meet.”

Amir glances back at you as you follow him up the porch steps. “People, huh?”

The Great Dane stalks over to you, sniffs, growls deep and low. You freeze, not wanting to provoke it. Its eyes—muddy greenish-brown and swimming with a cunning hostility—remind you of an alligator’s, not the five-footer that idles on your lawn but one of the true monsters of the bayou, old and grizzled and always hungry.

“Vhagar, no!” Alicent scolds, pushing the beast’s massive muzzle away. You imagine it chomping on her hand until it’s gone: one bite, two bites, nothing left but gristle and blood. “No! Bad dog! Go away, go!” The Great Dane reluctantly retreats, glowering from behind a column. “I’m so sorry about that. I’m utterly mortified. She’s terribly unfriendly, but she doesn’t bite. Usually.”

“It’s fine!” you say, heart still racing.

“She belongs to my son. My children…their obsessions confound me. But as mothers, we’re powerless to stop them, aren’t we?”

“I suppose so,” you reply, thinking of Cadi’s wildness, willfulness; though trying to change her would feel wrong.

“Now I certainly owe you a glass of champagne,” Alicent says, billowing like a cloud into the house, her gold heels clicking on the marble floor.

You pass through the doorway and into a vast, crowded foyer, all white and gold: a massive crystalline chandelier, oriental vases and sculptures of men you don’t recognize, paintings on the wall, servants flitting around with trays of hors d’oeuvres. On one table is a tower of champagne glasses, each with a single red cherry marooned inside. Guests mingle in their sport coats and suits and taffeta and sequins, and oddly, none of them are talking about the couple whose engagement is being celebrated. They talk instead about ski trips, polo matches, oil futures, the Soviets, the Saudis, the godawful humidity in this misfortunate corner of the world that they can’t wait to leave. There are stained glass windows everywhere, scenes of suns, stars, sunflowers, dragonflies, lemon trees, sand on beaches. It’s cold, extremely cold, frigid drafts gushing from the air conditioning vents. A Dire Straits song pours not from a Panasonic boombox but from a stereo system with a pair of speakers as tall as you are, Sultans Of Swing. There is a baffling dual chorus clanging around in your skull: Nobody needs this. I’ll never be able to give my daughter anything like this.

Amir whistles as he peers around, eyes wide behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “This place must cost a fortune to cool.”

“I Teleftaia Epithymia.” Alicent struggles with the pronunciation; she speaks slowly, effortfully. “It’s what my husband named the house. What we named the house, I mean. It’s Greek for The Last Desire. As in, no one could possibly want anything more than what this home can offer. Isn’t that poetic? I’ve fallen quite in love with it.” Still, there is that slight nervousness to everything she does, that over-eagerness to please, that restless rushing fidgeting. She wears large gold teardrop earrings that she keeps touching. “We knew we’d have to build something here for the new project on the lake. My son is overseeing it, and he’ll have to spend the next year here, at least. It’s a big step for him. It’s the first drilling operation he’s been given command of. And he—”

“Alicent!” A man comes striding through the crowd. He has shoulder-length pale blonde hair and is wearing a black pinstripe suit, a business suit, authoritative but not joyful. He doesn’t notice you or Amir. You don’t exist to him yet. “Where the hell is the ice sculpture? You said there would be an ice sculpture.”

“It’s on its way, darling. I already called.”

“It should be here now!”

“Viserys, please.” Alicent’s voice is low, embarrassed. “The driver got lost, you know our address is new. They stopped at a payphone and rang us and I straightened it out. They’ll arrive any minute.”

“They better,” the man grumbles. “It’s her family’s crest, for Christ’s sake. We need that ice dragon.”

“This is my husband,” Alicent tells you and Amir, forced smile, pleading eyes, trying to pivot. “Viserys, do you remember the wonderful people I told you about? From Hummingbird Bakery?”

“Bakery?” He seems to have only a vague recollection and even less interest. His gaze is already wandering to other guests. He flashes a grin and waves at a few middle-aged men in grey suits.

“They saved me. They were able to bake us six beautiful cakes with only two days’ notice.”

“And Cap’n Crunch Treats,” Amir adds.

Now Viserys Targaryen does turn his attention to you, and his forehead knits into perturbed wrinkles. His cool blue eyes skate over your Kmart dress, your forearms still dotted with flour and frosting, your cheap pink flats with bows on the front. “It’s a pleasure.” Then he looks to Amir—orange shorts, too-tight shirt that stops at his navel, dogwood flower in his hair—and seems to startle a little. “Alicent, you didn’t mention…uh…he’s…oh well. Too late now. It can’t be helped.”

You and Amir share a glance, polite smiles pasted on your faces. Alicent is abjectly horrified. “Viserys, he’s extremely professional.”

“There are the Lannisters. I must be off.” And the Targaryen family patriarch unceremoniously departs. You and Amir pretend to admire the stained glass windows. Alicent picks at the beds of her fingernails, her rings jangling against each other, her eyes misty.

Criston appears out of nowhere, wearing a white suit with a zebra print shirt underneath. Today his single earring is silver to match. He glides a hand around Alicent’s waist and leans in so close that his nose brushes her fiery hair. “What? What do you need?”

“The ice sculpture people—”

“I’ll wait outside for them,” Criston says, and departs as swiftly as he arrived.

“Please allow me to give you a quick tour of the house,” Alicent says, recovering somewhat. “I’m so grateful for your help. And things keep happening that only make me feel more indebted.” Then she hands each of you a flute of champagne, spins on her heels, and leads you out of the foyer.

Each room is a different color. The living room is red, furniture of lush velvet and Italian leather, bookshelves tall enough to need ladders, a brick fireplace that they’ll never use. Through a pair of French doors you can glimpse a garden and a pool with a water slide. The dining room is a cheerful butter yellow. The kitchen is teal, and like all the rest of the house has stained glass windows to match; these are shaped like a cathedral’s and run all the way up to the ceiling. Servants have arrayed your cakes on the counter, each with a label handwritten in cursive and a set of knives to cut it with. A plate of Cap’n Crunch Treats has been tucked away back by the stove like something they’re a little ashamed of.

Everywhere she goes, Alicent introduces you and Amir to the guests she crosses paths with. “Have you met these heavenly people from Hummingbird Bakery yet? Yes, they’re local, true Louisianans! I see you’ve already helped yourself to a slice of the key lime cake. Isn’t it just fantastic?! And a gorgeous shade of green! It’s so peculiar, you won’t believe what this sweetheart has living in her yard, a real-life alligator…”

You whisper to Amir: “Are we her pet poor people?”

“You might be. I’m proudly undomesticated.”

“Christabel!” Alicent shouts jubilantly as the girl scrolls into the kitchen. “There you are, dear! Come see your cakes.”

Christabel complies, shy but agreeable, peeking out from under a shock of feathery blonde bangs. She wears gleaming diamond earrings and a very bridal white one-shoulder dress, showing quite a bit of skin; you notice that some of the other guests milling about the kitchen cast her judgmental smirks. Christabel asks Alicent, as if she’s afraid of the answer: “He’s not here yet?”

“You know how busy he’s been,” Alicent says, apologetic. You think, remembering the drunk man from the holding cell: Yeah, busy committing misdemeanors. “Those rigs…the S&P 500…anyway, he’ll be home before you know it. In the meantime, let me get you a piece of cake. You’re disappearing, love.”

Christabel skims a palm down the front of her dress self-consciously. “Alright. Just a tiny one.” Then she acknowledges you and Amir. “You must be the masterminds then. Alicent told me all about you.”

Amir says: “About our excellent service and reasonable prices?”

“Yes.” Christabel isn’t skittish like Alicent, but there’s a sort of pensiveness to her, an impression that she is eternally woolgathering. Now she looks at you in particular with a small, warm smile. “And about how beautiful you are.”

Amir laughs at your stunned expression. Me? Beautiful? And the only other person to call you that in years has been Aemond, tangled up with you on your bed in your falling-down house, and you aren’t sure if that counts. “Oh, um, thank you,” you manage. “I really like your dress.”

“Really? I fear people think it’s too…revealing. I liked it fine this morning when I put it on. I didn’t have any notion it might not be suitable. Now I’m feeling like an idiot.”

“No, it’s so nice!” you say, pained for her, one misfit recognizing another. “I never would have thought there was anything wrong with it.”

Alicent gets a plate from the pile on the counter. “What flavor would you like, Christabel?”

“Whatever this one is.” She points to the vanilla bean cake, adorned with Amir’s frosting flowers. “Isn’t it stunning, with all the colors?”

“Amir is the artist,” you say. “I love wildflowers.”

Alicent asks: “Did you have them at your wedding?”

No one bothered. No one remembered. “I wanted to.”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely, Christabel?” Alicent passes her a slice of vanilla bean cake. “Wildflowers? It would be different. Everyone has roses or lilies or something. But wildflowers? I can’t recall ever going to a wedding with wildflowers. Especially if you’re going to get married here. It would fit with the scenery. This place is so exotic, so untamed!”

Christabel nods, taking nibbles of her cake. “Wow, this is delicious! Yes, wildflowers. We could use them for the bouquet, and the corsages…”

“Now we just need a venue.” Alicent sighs. “We’ve had such a terrible time trying to find a good place. Somewhere historic, but not rundown or unsavory. I mean, you can’t get married on an old plantation or something. Bloody hell. How tone-deaf would that be?”

“Very tone-deaf,” Amir concurs.

“There’s a church across the lake in Belle River that you might like,” you say. “The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens. It’s a historic site, I believe. It’s not very big, but it would make for nice pictures.”

“There’s an idea!” Alicent chirps, then she is stricken as a woman walks into the kitchen. Her fair hair is tied up in a messy bun. She wears a white t-shirt stained with dirt, denim overalls, and Converse Chucks. There is a bluish-green chameleon perched on her shoulder, goggling at everyone with its rotating, conical eyes. “Helaena, put your dress on.”

“Dreamfyre doesn’t like the silk. She won’t sit on my shoulder if I’m wearing it.”

“Helaena, it’s a lizard.” Alicent is exasperated. “Go upstairs, stick it back in its cage, and put your dress on, now.”

“Fine,” Helaena mumbles before wandering off.

“Oh, is that the ice sculpture?!” Alicent cries, peeking out into the foyer through the kitchen doorway. “At last! If you’ll excuse me…” She scurries off to attend to it, Christabel trailing her like a shadow.

You put your empty champagne flute in the sink. “I need to go find a bathroom.”

“I need some shrimp cocktail,” Amir replies. “Do you think I should try to explain the evils of gentrification to people?”

You giggle. “Yeah, definitely. Start with Viserys.” You part ways, Amir headed towards the foyer, you journeying down a mysterious hallway that adjoins the kitchen. The walls are flame orange and decorated with portraits of grave blonde people, each with an outlandish name etched into the plaque beneath its likeness: Baelon, Alyssa, Jaehaerys, Alysanne, Aenys, another Alyssa, Aegon, Rhaenys, Visenya. “This family is so fucking weird,” you mutter to yourself as you continue down the hall.

You find a bathroom, but there’s already a hoard of glamorous, ornamented women waiting outside of it. They’re chattering about which is the superior place to take a holiday, the Canary Islands or the south of France. They stare at you like you’re vermin, a nutria or a raccoon. You keep moving.

At the top of a spiral staircase, you find another hallway. The first door you try is a home movie theater complete with a popcorn machine, neon signage, several rows of seating and a plethora of bean bag chairs. Behind the second door is a bedroom, but it’s not unoccupied. You are greeted by the sight of the man who must be the groom. He looks much like he did when he was detained in a holding cell of the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office: slicked-back hair, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, flushed cheeks, tiny shorts, flip flops. He’s hunched over a desk with three lines of white powder on it. There’s an HP computer—something you’ve never seen in person before—in one corner of the room, a television and collection of hundreds of VHS tapes in the other. His walls are black and cluttered with posters of punk rock bands, the Ramones, the Clash, the Misfits, Minor Threat, Social Distortion, Bad Religion. His Akai stereo is blaring Fight For Your Right by the Beastie Boys.

“What?” the man says agitatedly. There’s powder on his fingers and his nose. “What? What? Who are you? What do you want?”

“Um, sorry, I was just…uh…” There’s some kind of rodent running around on his unmade bed. Its fur is a sandy yellow color, its body freakishly long and four legs stumpy. What the fuck. “I was looking for a bathroom.”

He blinks, muddled recollection. “You’re the cake lady.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Delivering cakes.”

“Oh. Right.” He points directly across the hall. “There’s a bathroom.”

“Okay, great, thanks.” He starts snorting another line before you’ve even shut the door.

You spend a minute or two in the Targaryens’ lilac-colored bathroom, paintings of the night sky hung on the walls—comets, moons, stars, galaxies—and amethyst geodes on the sink, a stained glass window with a scene of a lavender field. By the time you navigate back down to the kitchen, the man is there. He’s eating a Cap’n Crunch Treat, cocaine still streaked across his pink face and caught in his wisp of a mustache.

“You did this,” he says. “I know you did. It’s too good to be anyone but you.”

With his hand that’s not holding the Cap’n Crunch Treat, he’s cradling the lean rodent against his bare chest like an infant. “What is that? A weasel?”

“It’s a ferret. His name is Sunfyre.” The man nods to a photograph pinned to the refrigerator with magnets shaped like miniature oil rigs. There are two people in the frame, a woman and a girl, their cheeks squished together as they laugh on a pink sand beach of some topical island you’ll never visit. “That’s my dad’s first wife.”

“He’s divorced?”

“Widowed. She died in a car accident.” He taps on the girl in the picture, perhaps Cadi’s age. “That’s my half-sister Rhaenyra. She’s an Olympic fencer. She lives in the Lake District and fucks our uncle.”

You shake your head. You must have misheard him. “She what?”

“Yeah, I know how it sounds. I’m not kidding. She lives in a castle and fucks our uncle and has kids with him. Fucking sick, man. And I’m the screwup? Because I like coke and strippers? I’m supposed to feel bad about that? Bite me, Viserys.” He grabs a second Cap’n Crunch Treat and gestures for you to follow him into the foyer. “Come on. You need some champagne.”

You chuckle. Mental or not, there’s something likeable about him…though you can’t say you envy Christabel. To be married to someone like this man must be hellish. Now, to be married to someone like Aemond… “I’ve already had a glass.”

“Okay, well I need some champagne, and I don’t want to go out there alone.” His flip flops slap noisily against the marble floor as he plods out of the kitchen. He looks back to see if you’re following, and then you hurry after him. The heir to the Jade Dragon fortune weaves through the crowd, ignoring everyone and being ignored in return. In the packed foyer, he plucks a flute of champagne from the tower and chugs it. He eats the cherry and holds up the stem. “You know how to tie these with your tongue?”

“No, I definitely do not.”

“I do,” he announces proudly. He shoves the stem in his mouth, wiggles it around for a while, accidentally swallows it and has to hack it back up. He spits the cherry stem onto the pristine white floor, attracting a few grimaces. “Wait. Wait. Let me try again.” He reaches for another glass of champagne. The opening notes of Asia’s Heat Of The Moment boom from the speakers.

You give him a sympathetic smile. “Pre-wedding jitters?”

He snorts. “I’m not the one getting married.”

“Wait, you’re not?”

He cackles, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “I already have a wife. Stephanie, she’s a princess from Monaco. Right now she’s in Ibiza or something. I haven’t seen her since New Year’s. This New Year’s? Last New Year’s? I’m not sure. Maybe it was the Grand Prix. I remember a lot of confetti.”

You gape at him. “So who’s getting married?”

“My brother Aemond.”

“Who?!”

He points with his Cap’n Crunch Treat. Across the foyer by the front door, Aemond is grinning and accepting congratulations from a gaggle of men in suits: black, grey, navy, tan. Aemond himself is wearing emerald green, dark and luxurious and striking and expensive, because he’s a Targaryen who’s marrying a noblewoman and he’s an oil tycoon and a millionaire and he is most certainly not single and not looking to change that.

“You fucking liar,” you hiss.

The man with the coke in his mustache peers over at you. “Huh?”

You can’t tear your eyes away from Aemond. You feel scarlet rage soaking into you drip by drip, you feel the blood turning hot beneath your skin. You shouldn’t be this upset over a man you barely know, you don’t understand why you are. Except part of you does, and it’s heartbreaking, and it’s humiliating beyond words. Of course he’s marrying someone like Christabel. Of course he’d never choose me.

Aemond bids farewell to his well-wishers, and as he turns away from them his right eye catches on you. From across the room, his face shifts from disbelief to astonishment to horror. His jaw drops open. The flute of champagne he’d been clasping shatters against the marble floor. Immediately, a flock of servants materialize to clean up the mess. You flee from the foyer to the living room, through the French doors, into the garden. It’s midday and hot as hell, humid, swampy, suffocating to the British aristocrats that fill the house. You don’t see anyone else outside. You run past the swimming pool and through cobblestone trails bordered by blue cardinal flowers, orange coneflowers, coral honeysuckle, resurrection ferns, maypops, white sage, firewheels, magnolias, cinnamon ferns. You stop at the edge of a fish pond larger than your kitchen and glare down into the water, trying not to let tears blur your vision as glimmers of scales—red, orange, black, white, gold—dart beneath the transparent rippling water.

I have to go back inside. I can’t leave without Amir. I can’t leave without formally saying goodbye to Alicent and thanking her for her hospitality and licking the boots of these people so they’ll throw just enough cash at me to keep a roof over my daughter’s head.

You hear hurried footsteps; Aemond appears on the cobblestones. He’s found you, but that’s as far ahead as he’s planned. He holds his hands open, not knowing what to say.

“You told me you didn’t have a girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“She’s your fiancée, that’s worse, don’t you get how that’s worse?!”

“Okay, this looks bad, but it’s not what you think—”

“You’re marrying her, right?” you demand, and he hesitates. “Right?!”

“Yes,” Aemond admits, and it feels like knuckles to your stomach.

“Then you’re a liar and a cheater.”

“It’s not…it’s…” He gestures frantically, not knowing how to explain, how to translate it into words you’ll understand. “There’s not an expectation of fidelity.”

“Does Christabel know that?”

“That’s the thing, that’s what you don’t get, it’s not like that between us. We don’t discuss it, we’re not…” More vague, frenzied gestures. “We’re not…um…” He groans, rubbing his scarred forehead. “We’re not fucking. At all. Nothing close to it. It’s not a physical relationship yet.”

“But she doesn’t know about me.”

“No, God no, of course not.”

“So she thinks you’re…abstinent…?”

He sighs, defeated. “I don’t know. I don’t really care, honestly.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping with her?”

“Because we can’t until we’re married.”

“I’m sorry, are you Pilgrims?! Are you time travelers from the 1400s?!”

“It’s her family’s standards,” Aemond says. “It’s not uncommon for women of her…status.”

“Girl,” you pitch at him. “She’s a girl. How old is she? Eighteen?”

“Nineteen.”

You’re furious that she exists; you’re furious on her behalf. “And she’s planning her fairytale wedding while you collect local women to act out your kinky fantasies with.”

“One woman,” Aemond says softly.

“What?”

“There’s one woman currently. Just you.”

You shake your head, swiping enraged tears from your cheeks. “Why are you marrying her?”

“It’s sort of an…arranged thing.”

You stare at him. “Someone set you up?”

“My father knows her father. They think it’s a good match. Her family needs money, my father wants ties to the nobility. She’s one of probably five people on this planet that he would approve of. And she seems enthusiastic about it, so it’s happening.”

“Aemond, that is an insanely bad idea.”

“I have to do it.”

“You’re marrying her because your dad told you to?!” You explode. “Are you serious?! Everyone with the sole exception of Amir told me to stay with Willis, my friends, my family, my neighbors, my bakery customers, the checkout ladies at the Piggly Wiggly, my goddamn mailman, my father was in the hospital dying of lung cancer saying that his last wish was for me to never get divorced, and I still went through with it because I knew it was the right thing to do and no one was going to stop me!”

“I don’t want to talk about Willis,” Aemond snaps.

“Well, he’s kind of an inescapable aspect of my existence, so if I can get over it I’m sure you can too.”

“I hate that guy,” Aemond seethes, and you have no idea how to respond. You gaze down into the pond and watch scales and fins and tails fly like bullets beneath the surface.

“Those are the biggest goldfish I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“They’re koi,” Aemond scoffs.

“Oh, is that what they teach people about at Imperial College in London? Fancy fucking fish?”

“Don’t be a bitch to me, just…just give me a second, I didn’t think I was going to have this conversation until tonight, this is not how I wanted it to go.”

You say quietly, betrayed: “You’re a robber baron.”

“What? Like Vanderbilt or Rockefeller, that kind of robber baron, that’s who you think I am?!”

“That’s who you are! You hoard and exploit and use and pollute and destroy! I don’t destroy things, I create them!”

“You bake cupcakes!”

“And I don’t hurt anyone by doing it!”

“You are so goddamn delusional, you are completely insane—”

You start counting out crimes on your fingers. “I don’t kill people, I don’t endanger the Earth, I didn’t irrevocably screw up Ketchikan, Alaska—”

“So I’m terrible because I want to bring jobs to your pathetic, dead-end town?! Because I want there to be a few less pregnant teenagers and more high school diplomas? That makes me a war criminal, that puts me right up there with Jaruzelski or Pinochet?!” He realizes what he’s said when he sees the wounded fury unfold on your face. “Oh fuck. Come on, I didn’t mean you.”

“No, you just meant people who are exactly like me in every way.”

“You know what? I take it back,” Aemond says, knife-sharp, wrathful. “I did mean you. Because you are wasting your life here, and you’re too stubborn or too scared or too much of both to recognize an opportunity to have something more. Don’t you think you deserve better? Don’t you think your kid deserves better?”

“I built something here, I made a future for myself and my daughter here, and you’re going to work our people to death and poison the lake and then pack up and leave when it all goes wrong because that’s what oil tycoons do! The opportunity is for you, not us! More mansions, more champagne, more coke, more demented pets!”

“Then leave! Get in your car and drive back to your sad, structurally unsound house and live happily ever after with whatever braindead barbarian you marry next.”

“I will,” you pitch back. “Enjoy being married to your marquess.”

“She’s not a marquess. Her dad is the marquess. She won’t inherit the title until he dies.”

“Enjoy being married to your future marquess, you pretentious prick.”

“Women can’t be marquesses. They can only be marchionesses.”

“Yeah, you’re so smart. I’m really impressed. At least I don’t have to tie people to beds to delude myself into thinking I have some semblance of control over my life.”

You storm through the garden and back into the house as Aemond watches you, violently disappointed. You yank open one of the French doors and slip into the midst of the festivities. Illustrious guests are still mingling, toasting, boasting, scrutinizing you skeptically when they notice you at all. In the archway between the living room and the foyer, Amir joins you, sipping a flute of champagne.

“Hey, ho! Did you get lost? Did you find the cellar where they keep the bodies of their political enemies?” He has eaten so many hors d’oeuvres he’s basically waddling. “You look stressed. How about a nice shrimp cocktail?” He follows your eyeline to where Aemond is trying to sneak covertly into the living room through the French doors. Christabel intercepts him, relieved that he’s finally arrived, beaming, sparkling, entirely unaware of any conflict. Aemond conjures up a smile, fond yet guarded. She doesn’t touch him, and he doesn’t touch her either. He clasps his hands behind his back instead. “Is that…?!”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s…?!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Amir says. “Oh.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, his dark eyes wide and shellshocked. “We should have made him buy all of us Nintendos and a week at horse camp.”

“I want to go home.”

“You got it, let me just grab a few more of those Swedish meatballs—”

“Amir,” you say, tears brimming in your eyes. “I really want to go home.”

“Okay, okay.” He slings an arm around your shoulder, smacks a kiss against your temple, walks with you towards the front door. “Then let’s go home.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you

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parkerpeter24 · 4 months

Note

Arguing about what Christmas movies to watch with any Peter you want! And maybe

“I may or may not have left some….marks.”?

It doesn't need to be smut💖

this fic was exactly 777 words for some reason? 😭 i loved writing it!!! i made it my baby ps4 pete

pairing: PS4!peter x reader

winter blurbs 3.0 ❄️

peter was home alone. he was supposed to go over at may’s today but she was busy at the feast centre. the only thing peter could think of was to go over to your place and hang out with you.

so he changed quickly into his spidey suit, packing his clothes into his backpack. singing it over his shoulder and he was off to your place but when he reached your window, the room seemed empty and cold. he knocked anyway, receiving no reply. he sat down on the railing, pulling out his battered phone from his backpack he typed in your contact name and called you.

after a few rings, you picked up, your voice breathy.

“you’re out?” he asked.

“went grocery shopping.”

“in this weather?” peter asked, voice amused.

“i wanted to eat ramen, pete. you know i’d do anything for some good ramen.” you giggled and peter heard your front door open.

“well, can you open the window?” he asked, hearing shuffling from your apartment until he saw you opening the door to your room.

“i thought you were going over to may’s?” you mumbled into the phone still as you made your way over to the window, unlocking it for him.

peter quickly stumbled inside, hanging up and giving you a shrug, “she’s busy with martin, feast work.”

you gave him a smile, “fancy some ramen?”

after a while, the two of you were cuddled under the bed, finished ramen bowls kept on your bedside table as the two of you browsed through movies to watch on your laptop.

peter’s arm was lazily draped around your shoulders, his hand playing with your hair, “nightmare before christmas?”

“a little too late for that, parker.” you chuckled, looking at him.

“wanna watch a christmas movie?” he suggested and you nodded your head, “which one?”

you scrolled through the options, “silent night?”

“i’m sorry, i thought you said it was too late for that.” he gave you a look, making you roll your eyes.

“it’s not a halloween movie.”

“keep scrolling.” he said, not giving you the chance to do so as his finger met the screen of your laptop, scrolling past ‘silent night’, “maybe something classic like love actually or jingle all the way?”

you scrunched up your nose in disapproval, “we’ve seen it too many times.” it was peter’s turn to roll his eyes.

“it’s classic for a reason, babe.”

“how about we watch something new?”

peter gave it a thought and shrugged, “go on.”

“willy wonka?”

“that’s old-”

you cut him off, “i was talking about the new one.”

“that’s not exclusively a christmas movie.”

you groaned and looked back at the screen, “holidate?”

“cliché”

“christmas with you?”

“even more cliché.”

you looked at him with a straight face and he just kissed your forehead. you rested your head on his shoulder and just clicked on the next movie you found, “we’re watching family switch.”

“fine with me.”

the two of you watched the movie and you tried to keep your focus on the movie even though halfway through it peter was nestling his face into your neck, his lips grazing your skin. you kept your eyes trained at the screen, feeling him place butterfly kisses along your neck, “what are you doing?”

“got bored.” he mumbled back to your question, placing more kisses along your neck and collarbone, relaxing against the bed. your focus was breaking once peter’s hot tongue swirled against your warm skin. you gasped a little, feeling his teeth nip at your collarbone.

“it’s a nice movie.” you claimed.

“this is better.” he continued leaving kisses over the spot he bit before trailing kisses from the base of your neck, up to your jaw. his teeth biting into your skin every once in a while was followed by him soothing it by swiping his tongue over it.

it must’ve been almost ten minutes before you shut your laptop, pushing it away. your hand travelled to the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss.

peter gasped a sound of surprise but kissed you back, his hands flying to your waist and pulling you closer to him. you pushed him back onto the bed, haphazard with the blanket as you straddled his lap.

when the two of you parted for air, peter’s eyes ran over your skin and he chuckled. you gave him a questioning look, “what?”

“i may or may not have left some…. marks.”

your hands went to the skin of your neck, dragging your fingers over the slightly sore spots.

“well…” you mumbled, smirking down at him, “it’s only fair if i return the favour.”

masterlist

#peter parker x y/n #peter parker x reader #ps4 peter parker x reader #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker imagine #peter parker fluff #peter parker #ps4 peter parker #ps4 spiderman #insominac #insomniac spider man #insomniac peter parker #insomniac peter parker x reader #winter blurbs 3.0 ❄️

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delopsia · 5 months

Text

Silver & Gold | Bob x Reader x Rhett

Word Count: 7,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, Bob's in deep internal debate, mentions of wedding planning, setting up a Christmas tree (no religious themes included, we're doing it for the ✨vibes✨), domestic fluff, protective Rhett if you squint, usage of a ribbon for light bondage purposes, cunnilingus, hand jobs, and thigh fucking. Brief Summary: Bob's having a crisis over whether he wants a silver or gold wedding ring. All you and Rhett want to do is set up the new Christmas tree. Shenanigans on the couch involving a ribbon ensue.

There goes that damn snowman again. Moving across the screen in all of its vintage, stop-motion glory, strumming his banjo, singing that infuriating song about silver and gold. Like it's so simple. Like you just get to up and have both. All willy-nilly, fully embracing the concept of childish indecision, ignoring the constraints of society, and normalization of picking only one.

...or maybe Bobby has simply fallen into the curse of overthinking.

It shouldn't be that hard. Silver or gold? It's simple until he's once again struck with the fact that he will wear this ring for the rest of his life. He had such an easy time picking metals for you and Rhett; he knew your favorites inside and out.

So why can't he make a decision for himself, the person he should arguably know the best?

"You're lookin' at that phone awful hard," Rhett grumbles from his left. Snug against the naked mattress, jeans clinging to his hips, tattered cowboy hat resting atop his belly. An offhandedly placed thing that both adds to his rugged, cowboy glory and conceals the softness he's acquired, hard muscle a little squishier now. Thicker.

Healthier.

"Like you haven't had your nose in that notebook all month," there's a pop in Bob's neck as he tilts his head, muscle, and bone protesting movement after being still for so long. "What are you working on, anyhow?"

Rhett's mouth closes, teeth audibly clattering together. Soft blue eyes darting up to the ceiling, "It's nothin'."

Those furrowed eyebrows suggest otherwise, but in the back of his mind, Bobby supposes he'll leave it there. Rhett'll talk about it when he's ready. It doesn't alleviate the genuine curiosity that has been brewing ever since that notebook appeared last month, but alas.

Door hinges squeal. Bare feet padding across the floor, a bundle of sheets concealing the face of the third person in the room. But he recognizes those arms as well as he does the ring on that dainty little finger—perfection, in your favorite metal and all.

"I thought one of you was gonna fix the door?" You chirp, dropping the sheets onto the bed in an unceremonious heap. Pillow cases and a stowaway face cloth spilling out, still warm from the dryer.

Rhett's eyes dart to meet with Bob's. Who's plan was that, anyway?

"I'll take a look at it in a minute," Bob's thumb blindly feels its way to the power button of his phone. Turning the screen off before he can be caught staring at rings for the umpteenth time this week.

But even though he's no longer staring mindlessly at his phone, those little rings sit in the forefront of his mind. Burned into his eyes, as he helps pull the sheets onto the bed. Silver and gold, and a make-believe third option, rose gold. All of them menacing with their ridiculously high numbers; within a reasonable price range, but still strange to think about. That much money for a uniquely shaped hunk of metal.

"Bobby."

Whatever happened to simpler traditions? A fancy rock would do him much nicer. Free of their metal confines and special in their own natural way, unhindered by the standards of man and artificially constructed value. Blue lace agate would quite suit him, or a nice geode, picked out with the vague guide of what felt right, then split into three.

"Bob?"

What ever happened to simplicity? Marriage sounded awfully simple as a child. Why couldn't it have stayed that way? Who can even settle on just one flavor for cake, and who the hell decided that more than two flavors were too many? Why can't there be multiple small cakes that each suit them, rather than fighting to even out clashing styles? Why must there only be one big cake?

"Robert Benjamin Floyd!"

"What?" Lifting his head, not quite expecting to find you and Rhett staring back at him. Rhett's hand is still outstretched, offering up a corner of the comforter. "Oh."

"Thought we'd really lost ya this time," Rhett's chuckling, a softened tease that he's uttered three times today. A newly formed habit, triggered every time Bob's mind slips down the slippery slope of what-ifs.

Your eyes narrow a little suspiciously; always have been the one to catch on to his internal stresses before Rhett does, or anyone else, really. The voice in the back of his head openly wonders what triggers the alarm bells, if it's the spacing out in thought or some minute shift in his expression.

For a couple of hours, he's able to forget about the concept of wedding rings entirely. Preoccupied with tackling the task of fixing the squeaky doors that were supposed to have been repaired before the house was sold to the three of you. Jumping from that and straight to dinner, bustling about the kitchen, gingerly guiding Rhett's wary hands in a feeble attempt to teach him how to knead dough.

Then there are the dishes to be cleaned, flour that needs to be ruffled out of a cowboy's hair, and the movie you three agreed to watch under the assumption that someone else had one picked out. As it panned out, nobody had a single title lined up, and it fell back on Rhett's number one Christmas default.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

In fact, Bobby doesn't catch himself thinking about the rings for the entire night. Until two tiny rings clank against the bedside table as you and Rhett remove them for the night.

Will his ring sit on that table, too?

"You're thinking again," he doesn't remember when you got into bed, but you're right here next to him. Pawing at your nose with the side of your hand after an itch that seems to have been bugging you all afternoon.

The pains of getting dusty Christmas decor out.

"I'm always thinking," he murmurs, blindly reaching out to curl a hand around your cheek. A daunting task without his glasses. Can see just enough of your face to know where all of your important features lie, but the finer details have gone blurry. Left with no choice but to move based on the terrain of your body, roaming up the soft skin of your cheekbone and up the hill of your nose.

There's movement from behind his back. The weight of a cowboy settling down, throwing a heavy arm around Bobby's waist, as he squirms closer. "Ain't we s'posed to be always thinkin'?"

Your eyes roll so hard that Bob worries they'll get stuck in the back of your head. "Something like that."

Rhett hums, the soft whiskers of unshaven scruff tickling Bob's shoulder, his head perfectly snug in the cap between shoulder and neck. In the very place he will stay for the rest of the night until Bob inevitably pries himself free come morning.

For now, though, he's not going anywhere. Making it so, so easy for you to snuggle in, your legs tangling with his and Rhett's, just close enough to steal some of their body heat but not enough to melt. A comfort that has taken you months to perfect and only works when Bob's body is there to block Rhett's burning velcro hands.

But you do take the liberty of blindly stroking your cowboy's arm beneath the covers, soft ups and downs that trace an exposed vein until you're certain he's smiling.

Sleep comes early, but then again, it always does when all three of you are here. Free of life responsibilities and the incessant call of the Navy, determined to take your favorite backseater away. Dreams burn a little sweeter when the three of you are crammed up against each other, even with all the space granted by this oversized Alaskan king mattress.

You're caught between the edges of sleep when you feel Bobby's hand against your cheek. Gingerly stroking something free of your skin, an eyelash, you suppose. A movement that sealed with a soft kiss, like it'll keep anything else from disturbing you.

Rhett whines. Bob shifts. Audibly giving him a kiss, too. Always keeping things equal.

It feels like your eyes are only closed for a couple of seconds. One moment, Bob is sliding his arm over your waist, and the next, you're snug as a bug in his arms, squinting against a bright beam of light. Aren't quite sure what woke you, but you're more than content to sleep a little bit longer. Squirming closer, readjusting your head against the pillow.

Thump thump thump.

One eye opens.

Thump thump thump.

Is someone at the door?

You don't have a clue who it could be. Nobody mentioned coming over for a visit, and you're more than certain nobody would invite themselves over without asking first. Not after you've made it clear that this weekend is reserved for setting up the—

shit.

The Christmas tree is here.

Your feet hit the ground before you can even comprehend what you're doing. Stepping into the pajama shorts you left on the floor as you scurry out of the bedroom. A slow-motion race that you're hardly awake for, darting down the stairs, through the living room, and past the kitchen.

The front door opens so quickly that the delivery driver jumps. Caught halfway off of your porch, ready to head back to his truck and mark it to redeliver another day.

You can feel his eyes raking across your body as you sign the little box on his tablet, but you're quite frankly not awake enough to find the words to do something about it. Sleepily resting against the door frame as he begins to head back to his truck, chirping that he'll even carry the box into the house for you.

His smile drops before he's finished turning around.

Rhett.

Forearms crossed over his chest, a protective, looming shadow that settles up behind you. His palm bracing against the frame next to your head, scruff tickling as he leans in to press his lips to your cheek.

"I'm glad you heard 'em," he grumbles, voice still at that deliciously low tone, rough with sleep and unspoken perfection, "'cause I sure didn't."

"That's because you could sleep through the rapture," you're speaking through a yawn, halfway into leaning against him when the driver comes back around the corner, oversized tree box in tow.

He leaves it right on the doorstep.

Evidently, carrying boxes into the house is a courtesy reserved for the single-folk. Yet, you can't complain too much because now you get to watch Rhett's biceps bulge as he lifts the box. A sight that could damn near make you drool this early in the morning. It's almost unfortunate that he doesn't have to carry it further. Is it too late to request to move the tree upstairs?

The box hits the ground gently, right by Rhett's feet; you wonder if he's realized that he only has one sock on.

Based on how he's hardly got his eyes open, you're beginning to wonder if he's even awake. His jaw pops as he opens his mouth, "'Y reckon we should wake up Robby?"

"He'll wake up soon enough," though you're the only one speaking, you're fairly certain that both of you are sharing the same thought.

Bob's always been quiet, keeping to himself on most occasions, but the silence that's overtaken him as of late isn't the kind you've come to know and love. His eyes going unfocused when he thinks you're not paying attention, wandering off into his own sort of world. There are no rules defining when it may happen: in the grocery store, in the middle of a movie, hell, he's done it in the middle of a conversation.

Just like he did it last night, with making the bed.

Surely, it can't be second thoughts about this whole wedding thing. No, that wouldn't make sense; he's the one who proposed.

You'll have to worry about it some other time; him, his thoughts, and Rhett's curious notebook be damned, there's a Christmas tree that needs to be set up, fluffed, and decorated.

A very big tree. Ten feet sounds a lot smaller on the screen.

"We either get one too big," Rhett's eyes flick over to the tiny tree sitting on your left. Scrawny, hardly two and a half feet tall, and happens to be last year's lesson about reading the dimensions, "or too small."

Your head tilts up. Straining to get a look at the top, still crooked from its time spent crammed in the box. "Do we still have them ornaments in the garage?"

Rhett's sigh echoes. "We're 'bout to find out."

Locating the ornaments is the easiest part; they're still sitting in a neat stack on a shelf, stacks, and stacks of unopened bulbs and a box of garland—silver, gold, fake popcorn,, all tangled with the neverending red ribbon and faux pine that decorated the banister last year. It's a lot, but it felt like so much more when it was just a memory.

"Where did the silver come from?" You don't remember those making their way onto the list of ornament colors, but unless your eyes are playing tricks on you, those on the bottom right are certainly silver.

In an instant, Rhett's face drops. "Was I not s'posed to buy silver?"

"We were only doing red, pink and gold, remember?" The color list Bobby wrote out last year is still taped to the box of ornaments you're holding. A long ranking of colors, all crossed out until it left you with three. Silver never even made it onto the list.

Rhett's eyes dart away, suddenly too embarrassed to look down at the offending color of bulbs he's collected in his arms. "Oh."

"Did you..." you're still connecting the dots as you speak, eyes flickering between Rhett's fading smile and the plastic decorations, "want silver?"

Wordless, he nods.

Okay. Silver it is. But as you go to put your armload of gold decor back, his frown only deepens, like that's not what he was expecting in the slightest.

"Why can't we do both?" He asks, brows furrowing.

You don't get what he's on about. "Silver and gold?"

His head tilts to the side, and you can almost see the puppy ears flopping with the movement. All big blue eyes and pure confusion. "Ain't they s'posed to go together?"

"What makes you think that?" Maybe it's the sleep still clouding your mind that's making it so difficult to understand what he's on about.

"They got that song," he's nodding in the direction of the living room, like that'll help him explain, "in that Rudolph movie."

So it's a Burl Ives song that gets a fourth color added to the tree—red, pink, silver, and gold.

Two dozen bulbs were perfect for the strangled excuse of a Christmas tree that you had last year. But with every bulb that you take from Rhett's hands, curling its brand-new hook into an artificial branch, you begin to wonder if there are even enough. The boxes of red disappear quicker than planned. Then come the pink, and now you're grabbing for the silver and soon the gold.

And it's still not enough. This tree is so large that it swallows up every ornament you hang from its branches. The massive gaps between bulbs are impossible to ignore, even from across the room.

"Y' think puttin' the garlands on will make it a little less...?" Rhett doesn't need to finish his sentence. You already get the picture.

"It can't hurt?" What's the worst that can happen, you make the tree look a little less baren?

Though it's easier said than done.

The bottom half of the tree is relatively simple: passing the garland back and forth, trying your best to keep previously placed bulbs from dropping to the floor. They fall regardless. One after the other, clanking across the floor and rolling every which way.

Then comes the middle portion, and suddenly, you're standing on the tips of your toes. Have long since given up on caring about what being knocked off, the muscles in the back of your neck straining to keep looking at what you're doing. Then comes the top of the tree, and neither of you can be bugged to even begin to try that without a second ladder. Instead reaching for the silver garland, beginning to wrap it in the opposite direction of the gold.

"Getting festive without me, huh?"

That isn't Rhett's voice.

And it certainly wasn't yours.

"G' mornin'," Rhett's smiling at the half-awake figure standing in the threshold.

Bobby's eyes aren't even halfway open, leaning his weight up against the wall. His sleepy grin doing nothing to distract from the short hair sticking in every direction, cheek still imprinted from a fold in the sheets.

He's heard Rhett. You know he has because his eyes dart right to him. But he doesn't react. Staring aimlessly at the shimmering tinsel in Rhett's hands, eyes seeming to conceal every thought in the world and nothing at all.

Right as you're about to call his name, his mouth opens.

"What if we got rings in both metals?"

Your hands freeze. "I'm sorry?"

"I mean—" His eyelashes are fluttering, pale pink tongue darting out to lick his chapped lips. "Rings in silver and gold."

"You fixin' to put another ring on us, Robby?" Rhett's quicker to catch on than you are, thin lips twisted into a wild grin. Slowly spreading across his cheeks until his eyes curl with it.

Your attention darts back to the tinsel in your hands, silver overlapping gold, then to the thin golden band clinging to Rhett's ring finger. Your own is still bare, the ring sitting safely in its dish on the bedside table. Forgotten again.

Nobody ever talks about how hard it is to work up the habit of keeping a piece of jewelry on.

Bob doesn't realize it, but his thumb is idly stroking his empty ring finger. Not yet brandished with jewelry like you and Rhett because he hasn't even answered your question about what metal he prefers for his ring—

"Is that what you've been thinking all this time?" You blurt, hardly able to fight the urge to spring to your feet.

He doesn't need to even open his mouth. You know you've gotten your answer the moment his face turns a brilliant shade of ruby. Socked foot kicking at the floor, suddenly unable to look at you or Rhett any longer.

"I didn't..." his face only seeming to grow redder by the second, as he shakes his head back and forth, "you..."

You're so fortunate that this isn't your first speechless rodeo with Bobby. Have seen him fight to translate thoughts into words so many times that you have already put together what he's trying to say.

And you've only got a half second to realize that Rhett is bolting across the room before your ears are being met with an earth-shattering thunk. The house rattles as Rhett all but tackles Bobby to the floor, with no regard for the fragile decor sprinkled about around them.

Bob's feet are scrambling for purchase on the hardwood, socks giving him nothing but a smooth glide as he squirms beneath Rhett, squealing something you can't interpret. His big hands clutching Rhett's biceps, knuckles whitening as he tries to shove him off. But Rhett's got the upper hand, downright smothering with his weight.

"That's what you've been on about?" Rhett's shout is broken apart by his own giggles, knees thumping against the floor as he tries to straddle the wriggling hips below him. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Bobby's still kicking up a fight, hips bucking up hard enough to lift Rhett with it, if only for a second. "Like you ain't been secretive with that notebook, Abbott."

"It ain't secretive. It's a surprise!" Rhett's arms cross in front of his chest, frowning.

Did you miss the memo that you were supposed to have a secret project to be working on, too?

"Baby," Bobby begs, reaching aimlessly in your direction as if he has any hope of reaching you from a few feet away. "Help me."

But you're not entirely sure if you can do that. As you scoot closer, Rhett's attention darts to you, excited eyes daring you to try him. He's figured out how to win recently, and it's only a matter of time before he has you pinned on the floor, too.

You can't be bugged to even try fighting him for Bob's honor. Not only because you would lose horribly but because you're already preoccupied with leaning down and pressing your lips to the side of his cheek. Feeling the warmth of his flushed skin, the way his face wrinkles with that content smile.

"'s this what we're doing?" Rhett's asking as if he's not already leaning in, too. Audibly pressing kisses to the soft underside of Bob's jaw, where he's garnered the slightest bit of stubble overnight. "Kisses?"

And this room is far too quiet for Bobby's soft inhale to go unnoticed, his uneasy hand gliding up your arm. Always has to be holding on to something. In the corner of your eye, you can already see his other hand making a grab for Rhett's bicep, greedily squishing the thick muscle between his fingers.

Rhett's blindly reaching off to the side, mouth only briefly leaving Bob's flushed skin as he produces a thick, red ribbon. The silky soft one that had been hiding in the box of garland.

"Huh?" Bob's nose wrinkles, unable to do anything but watch as Rhett collects his wrists together, wrapping them in that smooth material. Only begins to squirm when it's too late. Rhett's already cinching the knot closed, forcing those pale arms back together as he finishes it off with an obnoxiously fancy bow. Perfectly pinned over his head.

"There we go," Rhett's grinning, leaning back in to nip at Bob's jaw, "first present of the year."

Bobby's eyes roll so hard that you briefly lose sight of those pale blue irises. Arms flexing as he tests the strength of Rhett's handiwork, frowning when he finds no give at all.

Not a word spoken, you flip to the same page that Rhett is on. Resuming your peppering kisses, tongue poking out to lick down Bob's pretty neck, working your way down to his collar. Nibbling where he's most sensitive, relishing in that surprised grunt. There's hardly any room for Rhett to fit, but he's squeezing in any way. Shoulder bumping into yours as he torments the opposite side, peering at you through the corner of his eye.

"In the middle of the floor?" There's no way Bob could have seen that look, but he's already understood what you two are up to. Wasting no time, with the way your unruly hands dip beneath his shirt, roaming over the soft expanse of his belly. Not quite as defined as Rhett, but equally loveable and squishy.

Rhett's beating you to it, shoving Bob's shirt up without a single shred of grace. "Y' got a problem with that, flyboy?" Thin lips wrapping around a soft pink nipple, yanking a gasp out of him.

"My back does," Bob's words are more of a mumble than anything else. An uneasy confession of the one thing he's guaranteed to suffer with in his career.

There are a number of solutions to this. Migrating upstairs to the comfort of the bed, grabbing a couple of the many decorative pillows off the couch and propping them beneath Bob's back, or even standing up and backing him up against the wall, perfectly cornered while you and Rhett have your way with him.

That list of solutions did not involve you sitting on the edge of the couch, with Bobby kneeling between your legs and Rhett sidling up behind him like the minx that he is. Wasting no time with peeling that thin t-shirt from Bob's pale body, exposing miles upon miles of lightly freckled shoulders and pale skin. And all Bob can seem to think about is getting his mouth on your inner thighs, daring to start right where the fabric of your shorts ends.

"'s this better?" Rhett downright purrs with those half-lidded eyes.

He doesn't get much of an answer. Just a weak 'uhuh' that's muffled by your inner thigh.

Idle, your hand combs through Bob's short hair. Has had enough time to grow past the rigid constraints of Navy regulations, the perfect length to curl around your fingers, tugging gently. Drawing his eager mouth closer, hot tongue trailing along your skin. Sending superheated bolts of lightning rippling up your nerves. Familiar warmth blooming between your legs, head beginning to spin the slightest bit.

That soft mouth of his is the definition of heaven. Sucking gently, adding his handiwork over top of Rhett's extensive assault from a few days ago, so dark that they've hardly faded at all. A mottling of patches that only worsen the further he works, all too eager to mark you up.

But it's a far cry from Rhett's vigor, working away at the crevice of Bob's neck. Loud. Reckless as he sucks a darkened mark into the thin skin stretched over his collarbone. Crafting a sinful trail leading down his back, a soft mark over every little knob in his spine.

Fingers curl into your waistband. Wordlessly urging you to lift your hips to let them slide past the soft curve of your ass, yanking the fabric down your legs and tossing them off to the side, underwear and all.

But Rhett's hands are on Bobby's hips, and they're certainly not yours. Which can only mean...

You're cut off before you can even begin to speak. Bob's flat tongue stroking between your folds, peering up at you from beneath his lashes. Dark, hardened gaze daring you to call him out on his antics.

He's slow. His hands dropping onto his lap, quietly concealing his newly found freedom, working with his mouth alone. Leaning in until his glasses fog with his own breath, lazily lapping at your sex, roaming feather-light over your clit, a ghost of what he could be giving you.

"Bobby," you gasp, and though your thighs are squishing his cheeks, it's impossible to miss the way his lip upturns into a grin.

Rhett bumps into him from behind, and that's all it takes to have the tip of his tongue pressing directly into that rapidly swelling button. A sudden pressure that damn near makes you squeal, yanking a hand out of his hair to muzzle yourself with. That darkened gaze hardens into a glare. Craves the sound of you whimpering his name, but there's not a damn thing he can do about it. Not if he doesn't want Rhett to see his untied hands.

He's pushing harder now. Aggressive strokes, swiping invisible x-shapes with this audibly wet noise that threatens to make your head float right off your shoulders. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that's a lot all at once.

Rhett's hand bumps into yours as he tangles his fingers in Bob's hair. Gently yanking him back with this absurdly loud pop, chin already glistening as he's hauled back to lean against Rhett's chest.

But it's not to torment Bobby or for Rhett to steal his fair share of attention. No, he's shoving Bob's pajama pants down his hips. Half-hard cock bouncing the moment it's free of its confines, a sight so distracting that you can't bring yourself to look away.

Until you realize that Rhett has long since lost his pants, that is. Your thighs squeezing together from the sight of them alone.

Rhett's brows knit together, suddenly perplexed with a realization you've already made. "When did y' get your hands—"

The end of that sentence never comes. Cut short by Bob's sudden burst of energy, blindly reaching behind himself to grab a handful of Rhett's dark hair. And it's like the fight immediately dissolves from Rhett's bones. Face softening as he's held in place until Bob can get behind him. Nothing but an unruly puppy that got put back in his place.

"Thought you knew better than to tie a sailor with a basic knot," Bob's chuckling into the shell of Rhett's ear, reaching forward to wrap Rhett's pliant arms in the ribbon. Not as decorative as before, opting for an intricacy that has you tilting your head, unable to keep up with what his nimble hands are doing.

You should have seen it coming. But quite frankly, you can only think about one thing right now, and it's certainly not the intricacies involved with tying a ribbon. Speechless as Rhett's pretty head is pushed between your legs. The scruff of his jaw scraping your mottled inner thigh, peppering it with a kiss.

"Sweetheart, can you look under that pillow for me?" Bob's pointing toward the decorative throw in question, the small square one that used to sit in his apartment, "Think we left the lube under there last time."

Blindly, your hand reaches behind it, patting against fabric and cushion until your fingers graze the cool plastic of the bottle.

But then Rhett's tongue darts to lap at your clit, suddenly too hungry to wait anymore, and you're fumbling with it. Nearly dropping it onto his back before Bob can even reach out to take it from you.

"Jesus, Rhett," you breathe, falling back to rest against the couch cushion, gazing down at the new, messy sight you've gained. The too-eager cowboy who doesn't have the strength to string you out like Bob does, so content that his eyes seem to smile as he gently sucks on your clit.

"'m sorry," he grumbles directly into your pussy, unable to draw himself away for even a second, "couldn't help it."

He's everywhere. Laving your clit with all the attention he can give and then dipping down to nudge his tongue against your neglected entrance. Shallowly working his tongue in and out, downright drooling into you, short little jabs that make you flutter around him. Only for him to break away the moment he's found a rhythm. Licking his way back up and over your clit once more. Collecting every bit of you, and yet he's still not satisfied.

Your hand settles against the back of his head, tangling your fingers in those long locks, pulling until you can guide him right where you want him, holding him in place. "Right there," you murmur with a shiver, "right there."

Though your grip is strong, it's not enough to stop him from jumping at the sudden appearance of Bob's lube-slicked hand dipping between his thighs. Carefully spreading the cool substance against the thin skin there, working his way up to his balls and the underside of his cock.

"What..." the rumbling of Rhett's voice sends sparks racing up your spine. Sends you involuntarily jolting up into his mouth, "are y' doin'?"

Your eyes are just open enough to catch the way Bob grins. "You'll see," is all he provides. Kneeling down to place his hands on the sides of Rhett's thighs, pushing them together so quickly that Rhett squeaks.

The first pass of Bob's cock between Rhett's thighs is a thing that surprises all of you. Rhett at the sudden appearance, you with the obscene sight, and Bob's muttering something about those pretty thighs being so fucking soft. His dick just long enough to brush against Rhett's heavy balls, gives him the slightest amount of attention.

And oh, does it have him whimpering into you. "Keep doin' that," he stutters, pushing impossibly closer into your cunt. Working you in earnest now, swirling his tongue around that swollen bud, punctuated with a soft suction that has your heart jumping in your chest. His body rocking with Bob's deep thrusts, bound arms helplessly pinned against the couch.

It's so much. Oh, it's so much. Your hips are beginning to squirm, legs clamping down around his shoulders, squeezing impossibly tight. Yanking on his hair, pulling him closer, only to try dragging him away. Don't know if you want more or less or exactly what he's doing right now, or, or—

"Untie me," Rhett's babbling all of a sudden. Sounds as far gone as you feel. "Please. Want, want...wanna hold..."

His biceps flex, straining against the thin ribbon with everything he can muster, the threads of the fabric audibly ripping as it's stretched beyond its limit. And it's all Bob can do to lean down and yank on the knot. Undoing it before it can be torn in two; technique doesn't always outweigh pure strength.

Rhett's arms are around your hips in an instant. Hugging you close like a man starved, and it's all you can do not to fall apart right here and now. Frantically pawing at his biceps, pushing at his head, unable to stop his hungry mewl from vibrating up your core. Impossible to avoid the pleased smile that plasters across his face, lightly sucking on your clit like it's his favorite candy.

"Rhett," you're whining, squirming helplessly as he downright eats you alive, tongue so sloppy that it's loud, has a sickly wet noise ringing in your ears,"Rhett I...I'm—"

"Cum on my face," pleading in that hopelessly deep voice of his, "Please, please, please."

You hardly feel it hit you. All you know is that your head is falling back against the couch cushion, and you're cumming on his burning tongue with a strangled whimper. Legs damn near locking around his scruffy face as your back arches up, fingers pulling so hard on his hair that it has to hurt. And yet he licks you through every jolted spasm, hot breath fanning out against you, humming in tune with your noises.

Bobby's pulling him away right as you grow oversensitive, pulling on those soft brown locks of hair, but you hardly expect him to haul Rhett up onto his feet. Blindly pushing him forward onto the empty space next to you, his back flat against the cushion, head falling haphazardly into your lap. Unshaven jaw glistening with you as he pries his eyes open, gazing up at you with that far-gone emptiness you've seen so many times.

Doesn't react as Bob squeezes into the little bit of space available, pushing Rhett's thighs up and together, guiding his cock through the small gap in them. Pretty pink cock head bumping right where Rhett's weeping length begins.

And Rhett's whimper sounds like your name. Big hand pawing around until he can get ahold of yours, squeezing it gently.

"Ain't you two a sight," Bob's grunting. Has only just begun to find his pace, but he's already begun to shake. Too close. Too fast.

It's enough to get Rhett's eyes fluttering, hips jolting upward, "Y' like my thighs too much." And he's going to be so sensitive once Bobby's done with him, thighs red and tender from the abuse, but fuck is all of that worth this. The sight of his trembling legs being held together, flushed cock leaking against his belly as his thighs are fucked for all he's worth.

On its own, your free hand lifts, traveling down to wrap around his neglected length. Letting the weight of Bob's thrusts push him in and out of your grasp. A shallow, lazy motion that makes his mouth fall open.

"You like that, cowboy?" You're teasing, voice a touch hoarse. Thumb finding its way beneath his plush head, swiping back and forth at the precum-covered underside.

"T-tighter," his hand squeezing yours a little harder as if to demonstrate what he's craving. And as soon as you follow his instruction, his back is arching off the couch. "jus' like that, jus' like—fuck."

But that's not enough. No, no, he's opening his mouth again. "Harder," he begs, pale feet defiantly kicking where Bob's got them held in the air, "Robby, fuck me harder."

"You're purty demandin' for a pillow princess," you don't know what's made Bob's accent slip out so suddenly, but it damn near makes your head spin. And though he's complaining, he wastes no time hardening his pace. Balls smacking against Rhett's flushed skin as his thrusts become heavier. Rough, just how Rhett likes it.

Knocks the rest of Rhett's words right out of his mouth, silences him right and proper. Dissolving into nothing but pitchy whimpers and hitched breaths. Noises growing higher and higher, until he's beginning to twitch in your grasp, your only sign that he's close.

"Cum for us," Bob's egging him on, pulling those shivering legs up to his chest, drawing him back into every thrust, "c'mon, be a good boy 'n cum."

Rhett's head lolls backward, eyes rolling, gazing up at you and nowhere at all. Eyelashes beginning to flutter and fall closed, cumming with a feather-light gasp that ought to knock you off your feet. Ropes of white paint his spasming belly and your hand, coating his spasming length.

And Bob's still fucking him, rhythmic pace dissolving into something sporadic, rubbing right against Rhett's oversensitive balls with every push and pull. Rhett's whines rising into hopeless cries, squirming, fighting to escape the way Bob's still railing into him.

Only takes a few shaky jerks of his hips for him to stall, too, staining Rhett's thighs and cock with rope after rope of cum. Glasses obscuring the way his eyes roll, head tilting back to show the new mottling of marks on his collar.

Everything is still. Quiet, except for two labored breaths, intertwining like the tinsel on the tree. Bob's shaky hand dips down, collecting some of the mess he's made of Rhett's thighs, lifting his cum-covered fingers to Rhett's swollen, parted lips. And all your cowboy can do is open his mouth and lick it off, too far gone to fuss.

Two pairs of exhausted eyes peer up at you as if to check that you're on the same page as them.

"What 'bout Floytt?" Rhett's blurting, all of a sudden, evidently unable to keep the silence for too long.

Bobby's eyebrows furrow, tilting his head down. "Pardon?"

For a moment, Rhett flounders. Mouth opening and closing. Seems to have completely forgotten how to conjure up the words he needs to speak. "Remember, the uh..." he tries, "las' name thing?"

You can't help but giggle. "You two are horrible at bringing up your ideas." Because what are the chances that you'd wind up with not one but two fiances who can't seem to give context to save their lives. Wildly blurting what's on their minds, under the assumption that you'll know what they're talking about.

"I take it that's what the notebook was for?" Bob's question is more of an observation than anything. To which he receives a nod and a faint 'uhuh' from Rhett. Can't be brought to provide a proper 'yes.'

It's not the solution you'd expected when it came to this last-name debacle. Debating on whose last name to take, the three of you are too passive to insist that your name be taken out of fear of hurting feelings. But the concept of picking an entirely new one didn't feel so personal. There's no special weight to the names you've found online.

"Floytt." It feels strange in your mouth and yet oddly familiar, as if it's been present from the moment you all met. Lifts your tongue like it does for the beginning of Floyd, still carries the short and sweet ring of the Abbott family name.

"Floytt." Bob's parroting you, pausing if only for a moment to think, and then opens his mouth once more, "I like it."

For a three-month-old debate, it sure did end abruptly. You can see it now: a pretty new name engraved on a plaque hanging below the mailbox. An obnoxious, cursive sign in the kitchen, as if you and your families can possibly forget something like a last name. Bills and new dog tags with the name stamped in pretty letters.

"Now we just have to plan the actual wedding," your smile wavers; you've got a little over seven months to figure out a theme, outfits, finalize who is being invited, and, worse of all, figure out the cake situation.

How is anyone supposed to layer Bob's beloved lemon on top of Rhett's affectionately chosen bananas foster? And then still have space for yours as well? Who gets to be the biggest layer? Who draws the unlucky straw to have the smallest? And how do you even begin narrowing down three icings to one? And themes. How the hell do you get a cowboy and a pilot theme to look good together on the same damn canvas?

You wonder if they'll object to three separate cakes.

"And finish the tree." Bob's nodding his head toward the half-finished decor; you've got to make another ornament run if you want to get anywhere close to having it done.

Rhett's resounding "ugh" resonates to your core. "C'n we take a nap first?" He grumbles, punctuated with a big, whining yawn. Batting those long lashes of his up at the two of you like it'll earn him some favors.

It does.

You're snuggled up with him in an instant. Squeezing in on one side while Bob takes the other, barely fitting onto these wide couch cushions. Your arm splayed out across the soft fat of Rhett's belly, squishy until he intentionally flexes the thick muscle there. Has rounded out in all the right places, in the chest, cheeks, ass, and cum-covered thighs.

A clean-up should have come before the nap, but you can't be bugged to get back up. And by the looks of it, neither can Bob.

"You're really gettin' us more rings?" Rhett's asking, half-lidded eyes flicking between the two of you as if he can possibly garner an answer from your expressions.

Bob's shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "Why not?"

And it's only now that you tune into the soulless drone of the television. A familiar, festive song chiming to life as a stop-motion snowman twists across the screen, mindlessly strumming his banjo, singing about silver and gold.

Quietly, Bob begins to hum along to it. A soft rumbling that draws a heaviness into your eyelids until you can no longer lift them. Drifting off to the tune of an old song and the deep rumblings of a Navy pilot who reaches over to stroke an eyelash from your cheek. Your wonderful little unconventional trio, with your extra partner, two colors of rings, and three separate wedding cakes.

Something pops. Hitting the ground with a shrill clatter; ornaments bouncing across the floor, twinkling lights flicking off within an instant.

One eye opens, peeking at your newly fallen Christmas tree.

It closes.

Rhett's elbow finds its way to nudge Bob's chest, "you're settin' it up this time."

"I wouldn't have to if you two woulda woke me up," you knew Bob would hit you two with that eventually. Always does, at some point.

"We were tryin' to let you have yer beauty sleep, flyboy," Rhett's chirping, in that taunting sort of fashion that can only mean one thing. You don't need to open your eyes to feel the playful glares being fired back at one another.

And then comes Bob's too-calm warning. "Don't start that."

"Well, I'm startin'!" And there they go, tumbling off the couch in an instant. Ornaments knocking around as they tussle about on the living room floor. Fighting to see who's stronger, as if this outcome will be any different, swearing between giggles as they twist and turn.

You don't get to take that nap.

#bob floyd #rhett abbott #robert bob floyd #bob floyd x reader x rhett abbott #oneshot #x reader #afab reader #hawthorn au

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themidnightcrimson · 1 year

Text

Violent Night—part one. | w. maximoff

summary: in which christmas eve becomes terrifying.

warnings: creepiness, ultra cheesy flirting with carol danvers

this series is for 18+ only. minors: do not interact.

masterlist.

Soft Christmas music lilted throughout the office. Your coworkers, in their suits and ties and dresses, most adorned with a Santa hat or a necklace of Christmas lights, held their cups of red punch and talked to each other as if they were friends. It was the annual office Christmas party held inconveniently on the night of Christmas eve, and you sat alone in the corner of the break room, eating a rather stale sugar cookie that Janet had made and brought on a ceramic Santa plate that looked older than you.

The Santa hat that had been delegated to your head was itching your hairline, so you took it off and tossed it on the counter you were leaning on, glancing up to the clock to estimate when would be the most appropriate time to leave. Your boss, who wore a red bulbous nose and cloth reindeer antlers on her head, was practically guarding the door. She wanted everyone in the company to have a nice party together, to talk and mingle and become closer in order to champion “company spirit and kinship”. It was the most bullshit thing you had ever heard. Everyone may have looked like they were having a good time with each other, but when Monday rolled around, it would be back to passive aggression and miserable competitiveness. No one wanted to be there, especially you.

As the overly sweet taste of the green icing on the tree-shaped cookie invaded your tongue, you felt someone walk up beside you. Turning, you saw that it was Carol, the only coworker in that room that didn’t make you want to hang yourself with the Christmas lights. She was getting more of the artificially flavored red punch as she glanced up at you.

“Hey Danvers,” you greeted her with a small smile that was hidden by the cup you held. “Are we still going through with the plan to recreate Die Hard tonight? I call being Hans Gruber.”

Carol laughed as she ladled the punch into her cup—her laugh was always genuine and not fake and facetious like every other coworker. “Why do I have to be Bruce Willis?”

Smirking, you shrugged as she leaned against the counter next to you, eyeing you as she took a drink from her cup. “Maybe you’re just not cool enough to be Gruber.”

Carol gasped as she lowered her cup, her shocked look turning into a smile. “Hey, you know I’m the coolest person in this room. Don’t even deny it.”

“Second to me,” you chirped, starting to feel a little bit giggly near the blonde who wore a rather dashing suit. To be honest, Carol was your workplace crush, and after several shared lunches and flirtatious conversations, you were beginning to believe that the feeling was mutual.

Carol distracted you from your intentions on sneaking out early, and you ended up being some of the last ones there. You both sat on the counter near the punch bowl, delegating yourselves as the punch guards and refilling people’s cups for them when they approached. You also talked—you could always just talk with Carol. Unlike your other coworkers, she did not listen to respond. She listened to simply hear you, to take you in, to understand you.

Soon, your boss was actually urging everyone to go home. It was late now, and the roads were icy from the day’s snowfall. Some people were also tipsy, having brought alcohol to spike their punch, which caused new workplace relationships to form right in front of your eyes. You and Carol discharged from your punch duty and grabbed your coats, going down to the lobby and to the front doors.

“Are you calling an Uber?” Carol asked you as she wrapped her scarf around her neck. She knew that your car had been in the repair shop for a couple weeks after the engine mysteriously stopped working.

“No,” you said as you buttoned your coat, your fingers already too cold to function. “My parents always told me not to get in cars with strangers, and I still can’t shake that,” you laughed as you struggled with your buttons. “I’m probably just going to walk—”

Warm fingers suddenly brushed against your cold ones, and you looked up to see Carol stepping closer to you, the air around you warming up. She smirked as she buttoned your coat for you, causing your cheeks to redden. “Am I a stranger?”

Her eyes met yours, and you instinctively looked away. “Um… no.”

“Then ride with me. I’ll drive you home,” she said with finality as she finished buttoning your coat and stepped away. “It’s way too cold and late for you to walk home by yourself. Don’t you live out in the woods, anyway?”

It was true—it was a strangely cold and snow-laden Christmas eve, and your house was way out on the edge of town, buried alone deep in the woods. While the walk home wasn’t too long, as you’d been trekking it for a couple of weeks now, it was a dark and creepy one. You hadn’t walked home in the dark, and you didn’t even want to imagine how much creepier your forest of a front yard looked at night.

“Well—”

Carol cut you off by taking your wrist and leading you to the door, turning to smile at you. “You don’t have to pay me for gas, before you ask. It’s the giving time of year, after all.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you rolled your eyes. “What holiday spirit you have.”

Carol’s car smelled just like her perfume, and you tried to ignore that as she drove you to your house, playing old Christmas music and cheesily singing along in what you verbally opined as the worst singing voice you had ever heard. You couldn’t help but giggle when she started to also add in theatrical facial expressions, having to grab the wheel when she almost slid off the road.

“You’re gonna kill us!” you exclaimed through laughter as she focused on driving more cautiously.

“It’s Christmas—no one dies on Christmas! It’s like, a universal law,” she argued as she took a turn that would lead the car into the woods where your house was.

“Tell that to the directors of Die Hard.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Gruber.”

“Aha! So you admit that I would be Hans Gruber!”

“Well, Hans Gruber dies in the end, so if I get to win, then yes.”

“Yea, but doesn’t his son or something come back in the second movie?”

“There’s a second movie?”

“Yea, I think it’s Die Hard with a vengeance or something—”

In the middle of your sentence, something shadowed dashed across the road directly in front of Carol’s car. She slammed her foot on the brake, the car’s tires screeching and slipping on the icy road, the car nearly slipping into the ditch until it came to an abrupt stop that left you both heaving forward and slamming back against the seats. Hot steam from the exhaust pipe blew into the cold air and fogged around the car as you both panted from the sudden situation.

“What the hell was that?” you breathed as you pulled at the seatbelt that had choked your neck. You looked all around the road and the woods, not seeing that strange figure that had run so fast across the road.

“I think it was a deer,” Carol said as she took a deep breath and sighed, calming down from nearly having a wreck.

“A deer?” you echoed. That didn’t seem right. Whatever had run across the road was tall, as if it were standing upright. “It looked like… a person.”

Carol shook her head. “No, I saw some sort of antlers or horns. And there’s no way a person could run that fast, especially on this icy road.” She looked over at you, seeing that you looked startled. “It’s wintertime—all the deer are moving around. I almost hit two last week, actually. They’re everywhere out here in the woods.”

You only nodded, halfway listening to her as the image of the figure burned in your mind, and a strangely unsettling feeling rose in the pit of your stomach.

Slowly, Carol propelled the car forward at a slower speed, making sure to be alert and keep two hands on the wheels as she drove to your house. You were both silent now, wondering what that shadowy figure was and how you hadn’t seen it until it was right in front of the car.

Finally, Carol’s car pulled into your snowy driveway. “You need to shovel the snow out of your driveway,” she commented as she pulled in front of your house. You had never seen your house from the outside at night, all the lights off, dark and gloomy. Going inside alone made you feel scared, but you felt relief when Carol undid her seatbelt and stepped out, obviously deciding to walk to you to your door. It was also sweet, and it made you smile as you walked with her up the icy front steps.

“Jesus, and you need to put salt on these steps,” she laughed as she held onto the railing, her shoes slipping on the stairs with each step.

“I don’t have a shovel… or salt,” you said as you made it to the front door.

“I can come out this weekend and clean it all up, if you want,” she sighed when she finally made it up the front steps. “I have a shovel and salt, like most adults who live in a colder climate.”

“Shut up,” you playfully said as you took out your keys and unlocked your front door, immediately reaching your hand inside and flicking the switch beside the door that turned on the porch light. Sighing with relief for being out of the dark, you turned back to Carol to see her looking at you already, a soft smile on her lips. “Thank you… for driving me.”

“Anything for my favorite coworker,” she grinned, to which your cheeks turned pink.

There were a few beats of silence where you both said nothing, only standing in the cold night on your front porch, looking at each other. There was some sort of strange look on her face, as if she was holding something in.

Needing to flee the awkwardness, you moved to go inside. “Well, have a good—”

Your words were interrupted by two hands taking your shoulders and turning you towards her, and suddenly her lips smashed against yours. You froze under the sudden, unexpected kiss, grabbing onto her coat and leaning backwards. Her lips followed you, not picking up the hint that you were trying to pull away, and instinctively, you had to push her shoulders away from you.

Carol stumbled back with a heavy breath, her cheeks flushing red as she looked at you with a look of both thrill and concern. The back of your hand met your lips, feeling how they buzzed. As much as you had liked Carol, you did not expect her to kiss you so aggressively, nor did you want it.

“I-I’m sorry,” she blurted, the looks of thrill fading from her face and making her look cold and scared. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s…” you began, waving your hand to tell her to stop apologizing. “Um… it’s fine.” You took a step closer to your door, eyes flickering between her and the ground.

Carol sighed with disappointment and looked down, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I just thought you… I don’t know. I thought…” She shook her head again and looked back to you, and you were shocked to see that there was moisture welling in her eyes. “Merry Christmas, y/n.”

She instantly turned away and walked down your steps, stomping in the snow towards her car. The feeling of offense inside you morphed into guilt as you watched her get into her car, seeing silver tears slip down her cheek under the light of the moon.

“Carol!” you called, taking a step forward with the mind to go confront her and tell her that you did like her, and that you wanted the kiss, and that it only took you off guard because it was so sudden. But she turned her car on and reversed out of your driveway.

You felt too embarrassed and upset to stand there and watch her drive away, so you went inside your house and slammed the door shut, taking a deep breath and listening to the sound of her motor fade away.

“Fuck,” you groaned, turning to press your back against the door and cover your forehead with your hand. You hadn’t meant to upset her. She was the only coworker you liked, and the only person you had liked in a long time. Now you just ruined it, and going back to work on Monday to face her sounded like pure hell.

“Shit,” you whispered as you shivered, feeling how cold it was inside your house. It was Christmas Eve, and the night was still relatively young. Although you lived alone and effectively had no real friends, you wanted to celebrate in some way.

Before embarking on your lonely festivities, you hopped into a hot shower that eased the tension that the moment with Carol had brought you. Nonetheless, you still couldn’t get the feeling of her lips off yours. If you had been crushing on Carol for so long, why did the kiss seem to disappoint you? It wasn’t that she was a bad kisser, it just… didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right in that moment, as you got out of the shower and made some cookies before settling down on the couch to watch Polar Express. With your blanket warming you, and the Christmas tree in the corner of your living room glittering and glowing, you wanted to feel comfortable. You were fresh out of the shower, munching on your favorite cookies, watching your favorite Christmas movie—but that tense knot in your stomach was making its presence fully known.

The sound of the movie playing on the TV in front of you was not enough to drown out the silence of your home. Living alone had proved hard. You hated living in the middle of the woods. You would have rather had noisy neighbors who played drums or mowed their lawns at 6 A.M. You would have rather had annoying children running across your front yard and accidentally throwing balls through your front windows than to be sitting there alone in complete and utter silence besides the low murmur of the movie and the distant hooting of an owl.

And it was so dark. You had turned on every light in the house, but the darkness of the night outside continued to seep into your home. Just sitting there, still, alone, staring at the TV, was going to drive you into madness.

Getting up with a rush, you threw your blanket off you and went to the record player that had been given to you as a housewarming present. Although just pulling up Spotfiy on your phone was easier, using a record player seemed like a fitting thing for Christmas. You put on a record of old Christmas classics, feeling slightly relieved by the grainy music that poured out of the player.

Needing something to do, you decided to wash up the dishes that had been sitting in your sink for a few days. Another bad thing about your house was that there was no dishwasher, so you had to hand wash the dishes as you hummed along to the old Christmas classics, somewhat relieved by the clanging of dishes and noises of the water as your hands swam in it to scrub one of the many dirty coffee mugs.

There was a window directly in front of the kitchen sink, halfway blanketed by a pair of beige curtains. The curtains allowed a sliver of the window to show, and as you rinsed the coffee mug, your eyes casually glanced upwards. Through that sliver of window, past your back patio, into the woods, your eyes caught a shadow moving between the trees.

The fear that jolted throughout your body was cold and sharp like an iron spear grating itself up your spine. Your hands went numb, and the mug in them slipped through your fingers and fell onto the edge of the counter before bouncing off. The crash of the mug breaking on the floor startled you, but what startled you more was that when you instinctively blinked at the sound of the glass breaking, whatever figure you had seen in the dark trees was gone.

“What the fuck…” you whispered, stepping away from the sink as if the faucet was going to become alive and lurch up around your neck. The fuzzy socks on your feet were no help in protecting you from the broken shard of glass that your heel stepped on, and you hissed upon feeling the sharp pain on the bottom of your foot.

Leaning on the island, you bent your leg and looked at the bottom of your foot, seeing blood seep through the fuzzy sock. “Shit, shit, shit.”

With another look to the window and no sign of any shadow or figure outside, you decided that your mind was playing tricks on you. The figure you had seen, or thought you had seen, looked exactly like whatever it was that had run across the road while Carol drove you home. It was late at night, and you were alone in a house in the woods. You were only getting scared and delusional, you convinced yourself. If you really had seen anything, it was most likely only a deer like Carol said.

Your foot was leaving bloody prints on your kitchen floor now, so you started to hop your way to the bathroom to doctor yourself. With your mind concentrating on whether or not there were any band-aids left in your bathroom cabinet, you almost didn’t notice something flickering on your Christmas tree as you limped past it. When it caught the corner of your eye, you stopped, turning to squint at the tree.

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff series #wanda x fem!reader #wanda maxmoff x y/n #wanda maximoff x f!reader #wanda maximoff x reader #lesbian #lgbt #marvel #scarlet witch #scarlet witch x reader

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duchessanon · 5 months

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IVE FINISHED THE BOOK!!!!!!!!!

I wanna thank god but also jesu for helping me through this. I wanna thank Carolyn bc she wasn’t thanked by Omid and she’s still missing.

I’m not doing a full review for my own health and well being but here’s a short one. It was too long, too wordy, too focussed on how they treated Megri. K8 came off fine but a little baby brained, Willy power hungry and ready to betray chuck, Chuck a jealous boring old man child, Cam nice enough but wants the media in her pocket. Anne barely mentioned. Interesting parts were the bts of the courtiers tactics and the best part was learning Becky English is Omids enemy and royal rota mafia boss.

Thank u for ur support in this endeavour .

Happy Christmas Busybodies! Xoxoxox

#endgame

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andguesswhat · 5 months

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I wanted someone cute for Willy to have for Christmas, that's all 🤷🏼‍♀️ Christmas fluff 🎄with chocolate balls 🍬 and a bit of icing ☃️

Willy Wonka and the thing called love

The thing was this: It wasn't that Willy had anything against love. He loved many things. Chocolate in every imaginable shape and color, he loved inventions in every imaginable form. He also loved people. His mother, for example. Noodle, of course... and the friends he had met at the laundry factory. In a way, he even loved Lofty, the grumpy Oompa Loompa.

But when it came to an intimate relationship with another person, things became difficult. It just never matched with the women who wanted to get to know him better. He really tried, but it hadn't worked. Instead, he had kind of accidentally kissed his best friend once. But of course that hadn't ended well either. The thought of how his best friend, who was no longer his best friend afterwards, had looked at him still made him blush to this very day.

He had long wondered why he couldn't just fall in love with a nice girl and be happy with her. He really had no explanation for it. Except that he had always been different, so he was probably different in love, too.

He had to accept that and had decided that love relationships probably just weren't his thing.

But everyone had needs, of course, and so did he. And because he didn't want to feel bad about it, one day he developed a chocolate all for himself that could satisfy these needs. He took all the ingredients he thought would work - traveling around the world he had found all kind of unusual fruits and plants - and formed them into a round purple chocolate ball in his small laboratory in the factory.

With this chocolate, he would lie down comfortably in the evening between his cotton candy clouds, gently push the ball between his lips and let it slowly melt in his mouth...

The chocolate became soft, spread velvety on his tongue, while the sweet taste of love and lust unfolded and began to flow through his body. The individual particles of chocolate dispersed in every cell... It tickled, his body began to tingle, his eyelids fluttered, he felt hands, he felt lips, he felt hot breath on his skin. His whole body was electrified by these sensations, so that Willy soon began to gasp and pant until he finally reared up --- and whoosh, like an incredible flash of icing - even though Willy unfortunately had already realized early in his teenage years that it didn't taste like icing - it shot through his body, through his lap and out of his body.

"Aaah!" his lustful moans echoed through the factory and Willy was far too blissful to be shocked about that.

Exhausted, he let his body fall back into the clouds and smiled happily.

He had found a solution to his problem. And it was wonderful.

He snuggled into the cloud, content and exhausted, his whole body still tingling slightly, as if he could still feel the caresses on his skin, the gentle kisses...

WAIT!!! WHAT?

His smile evaporated instantly and he straightened up in irritation, his eyes wide... hadn't he felt stubble on his skin, too?

He frowned.

But then something clicked in his brain, which it often did when something was bothering him, something was released that felt like liquid brain chocolate and covered everything which could be called anxiety with a soothing comfort and just like that the unsettling feeling was gone.

The stubble had probably just been a coincidence. Perhaps he simply needed to change something in his recipe. After all, the most important thing was that he had found the solution to his problem. Everything else would work itself out.

But as it was with problems, as soon as you solved one, the next one popped up.

Though it didn't look like a problem at first. Or rather, it looked far too attractive for one.

Shortly after his first attempt with the chocolate, a man came into his store, a young father with his two children to be precise. He was tall and handsome, his clothes were not expensive but not ragged either, from the rims under his eyes he seemed to work a lot or sleep badly, but that didn't seem to stop him from being affectionate towards his children and devoting all his attention to them.

Willy watched him furtively out of the corner of his eye. There was nothing wrong with looking at a good-looking man. Beauty was universal for Willy. There were so many beautiful things in the world, lying in a meadow of flowers in spring, feeling the snout of a giraffe in the palm of his hand, the breeze tickling your nose from snowy roofs. Of course, women could also be beautiful, so why not a man, this man?

With every step this man took through the store with his children, he was beaming more with joy. And if Willy was honest, it always made Willy particularly proud when he could bring out this childlike joy in adults.

When the man with those shining eyes then paid for the two big bags of sweets that his children had filled to the brim, and Willy thanked him for his purchase with a "Thank you, sir!", Willy's heart warmed even more when the man added in a very melt-in-the-mouth dark chocolate voice, "Thank you, for making this day a fairly lovely day."

Of course, there was nothing wrong with this encounter, but when Willy went back to his special purple chocolate balls in the evening and wanted to enjoy them between his clouds, this time after the chocolate had melted in his mouth again and he had felt all sorts of wonderful things, just before he exploded, he had the feeling that those same shining eyes were suddenly looking at him and whispering something to him. In this very melt-in-your-mouth dark chocolate voice.

"Aaahh!!!"

It hadn't stopped him from filling the halls with his loud moans again, in fact, if he was honest, he felt like it was even stronger this time and had almost shaken the cotton candy around him from it, but of course this couldn't go on like this. First the stubble and now this... !

He would have to change the recipe again.

Two days later, the man was back with his children.

"They fell in love with this store," he said, as if to apologize, and something in Willy's body vibrated again at the sonorous voice, so that he forgot to answer for a second.

"I'm glad they did," he finally managed to say, smiling a little nervously, because those shining eyes reminded him of the night he had splashed a lot of icing on that sight.

That evening, he decided to leave his chocolate balls alone for the time being. He didn't want anything else to go wrong. Besides, there were more important things to do: Christmas time was just around the corner and what could be more satisfying than sweetening Christmas for everyone from young to old?

He invented little snowmen covered in powdered sugar, he invented little gingerbread houses that tasted like a cozy evening in front of the fireplace, and he invented little reindeer cookies that blew the cold wind of a snowy landscape around your nose.

On the first of December, the father and his two children came back to the store.

"I've decided that they can choose a little chocolate every day until Christmas. They deserve some little joy every day."

Willy felt a lot of emotions when he heard that. It was a real whirlwind. First of all, why hadn't he come up with this fantastic idea? Every child should be able to sweeten their time until Christmas with a small piece of chocolate every day. Secondly, his heart skipped a beat at the thought that the man would now come into his store every day, and he didn't really want that at all. Or maybe he did? And thirdly, his heart became very sad because he was beginning to wonder where the mother of these children was and the sad look on the face of the lovely man who wanted to be so brave when he said those words gave him a lot of clues.

But Willy now had 24 days ahead of him where he would see this man, so perhaps some things could be found out.

And so it was.

Every time the man came into the store, Willy dropped everything, shot up to the two children, whose names were Max and Thea, by the way, and who were sweet as sugar, had them open a little box with a small chocolate, and while the children played in the store, Willy sat down with the man for a few minutes in a little sofa corner made of rainbow liquorice, slipped him a piece of his favorite chocolate, put his head in his hands and listened to him attentively.

The lovely man's name was Arthur and at the very back, in the most convoluted corner of his brain, Willy thought of the sound he had made when he was lying in his cotton candy cloud and the purple ball had brought him to climax, and that it had almost sounded like that name.

Arthur worked in a newspaper factory and the mother of his children – as Willy had feared - sadly already died, Willy's heart sank when he heard this, she had left them in the spring and this would be the first Christmas without their mother. Despite the amount of work Arthur had, he wanted to be there for his children as much as he could. Fortunately, he still had the grandparents to look after them, but it wasn't easy.

Willy took his word for it and he made a mental note to himself that he absolutely had to invent something for these children so that they would have a nice Christmas despite everything.

Willy really liked Arthur. Arthur was not only very likeable, but also very educated and, above all, very funny. His sadness just didn't really allow it yet, Willy could tell. In any way, as well as they got on, Willy was sure that they would become really good friends.

And so the few minutes of conversation soon turned into half an hour a day, during which the children played in the store and Arthur and he had time to talk about everything. Because Arthur was also very curious to find out everything about Willy and Willy liked the way Arthur looked at him when he told him something from his life. It left a feeling of sugar coated fireworks exploding in him.

Every day Willy could hardly wait to see Arthur again and it made him want to jump with joy to see that Arthur's disposition was getting a little better every day. And though the circles around his eyes didn't get any smaller, his smile widened unmistakably.

But then one day the children came into the store without him and with their grandparents instead.

"Is everything okay?" Willy asked worriedly.

"Yes, yes, he just needs some rest," replied the grandmother, somewhat sternly but kindly. "Working every day, then the children... Every day they come here to the store. Sometimes he just takes on too much. We'll take over the visits from now on."

Willy nodded sadly and felt a little bad at the same time. He shouldn't have extended their conversation like that. Maybe Arthur had just been friendly and hadn't wanted to offend him.

Something in Willy's heart suddenly hurt a lot. Of course he wanted Arthur to rest... but did that mean he would maybe never see him again?

Lost in thought, he handed the children their daily chocolate. He had been so looking forward to showing Arthur his latest creation. But maybe Arthur needed something else this time...

"Wait a minute, please..."

Willy quickly ran into his study. This time he wanted to give Arthur a chocolate to cheer him up and give him energy. He opened the drawer in which he kept his latest creations, pulled out the cheering-up-energy-chocolate, slipped it into a small bag, hurried back to the children and grandparents and handed them the bag.

"Please give this to Arthur with my best wishes."

"Today's chocolate was extra delicious, Willy, thank you very much!" beamed Thea at him and tugged at his coat. And Max said, "No, it was extra, extra delicious today."

Willy laughed delightedly. He had become really fond of Arthur's children by now.

Fondly he waved goodbye to them.

He waved and waved until they were out of sight, and Arthur got lost in thoughts again. He was thinking of Arthur. He thought of Arthur, how he would hopefully feel better again after eating the chocolate. Thought of Arthur eating that chocolate. Biting into it. Biting into the purple chocolate ball..

Willy's smile froze.

What? Wait?? Purple?

Oh, no, that couldn't be true!

He didn't have....!

He ran into his study, hastily pulled open the drawer and there he saw it: he had given the grandparents the wrong chocolate! He had given them the purple ball instead of the pink one! The pink one was still in the drawer!

That couldn't be true!

Oh no, oh no!

He looked out of the window but the children and grandparents were long gone.

Willy sank into his chair in despair. He would die of shame! How could this have happened to him? He felt like crying. He didn't want to lose Arthur as a friend! What would he think of him now? Why did that have to happen?

Frustrated, he lay down on the cot in his study, put his arms around his legs, and didn't show his face in the store all day, even after Noodle's request.

The next day, he still didn't want to get up, his mind still thinking the most terrible thoughts it could think of.

In the afternoon Noodle told him that Max and Thea had asked about him and were very sad that he hadn't been there. But Willy really couldn't face them after what he had done to their father!

"What happened, Willy?"

Noodle was really worried now, and he didn't want her to be. "I did something bad." He really couldn't explain it any further. "Don't you sometimes wish you were different, so you'd be less different from everyone else?"

Noodle thought about it, then shook her head. "Since I met you, not really, no." She sat down next to him on the cot and hugged him. "You're the epitome of how being different can be something magical, something beautiful, something endearing. I don't want you to think that's bad."

Willy looked at Noodle. He wished she was right. He thought of all the beautiful things they had experienced. Of all the people they made happy.

And then something clicked in his brain, because whenever something made him too sad for too long, there was a little explosion of chocolate bits in his brain, like a wake-up call that told him: he couldn't just lie here and mope around forever, he had to do something!

"I'm going to invent a new chocolate, Noodle. There are so many children at Christmas without parents, I want them all to feel loved, to remember this love without being sad. With a tear in their eye, but with joy in their heart, you know?"

Noodle hugged Willy and gave him a big squeeze. "Do that, Willy. I couldn't wish for anything more beautiful for Christmas."

So Willy sat down at his little chocolate inventing machine and started experimenting. If he had already messed things up with their father, then at least he wanted to do something really good for the children.

The store had long since closed when Willy was still experimenting. He somehow didn't succeed. Something was still missing. Exhausted and tired, he looked at the bubbling tubes when he suddenly heard a knock on the door downstairs in the store.

He went down to check.

Arthur was standing in front of the door.

Willy's heart sank, so afraid was he of this encounter, but he opened the door carefully nonetheless.

Arthur took off his snow-covered cap and smiled at him lovingly. "I'm sorry to show up here like this... but I... I still saw light…. "

Willy was very glad that Arthur didn't seem to be mad at him, he was adorable as ever. He looked happy. A little nervous, but happier than he had ever seen him before.

Willy hoped that it meant, he hadn't even tried the chocolate.

"Yes, I'm still experimenting a bit. When something doesn't work, something is missing, I sometimes can't stop."

Arthur smiled at him curiously. "Can I watch?"

Willy turned dark red.

He didn't know why. It wasn't anything illegal what he was doing. But somehow Arthur's question felt so intimate.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." Arthur was now uncomfortable, too.

Willy tried to pull himself together, his concerns about whatever were ridiculous. "No, no, of course you can ... watch. Come in."

Willy closed the door behind Arthur and went up the stairs, Arthur following him.

"Thanks for your chocolate, by the way..."

Willy's eyes widened and he quickened his pace. He didn't want to hear anything about that but Arthur unfortunately kept talking.

"I don't know if it was the chocolate and just the fact that you had it brought to me..."

Willy went hot and cold, his steps quickening even more.

"But ... when I ate the chocolate, I thought…”

Oh, no, this couldn’t be happening!

“- of you."

Just at that moment, Willy pushed open the door to his study and said a little too loudly and nervously, "Here we are!"

Arthur stepped in and looked around in astonishment. “Wow, this is... amazing!”

Here in Willy’s study were the most colorful vials and ingredients up to the ceiling. And although it was a laboratory, it didn't look like a laboratory, but had the charm of a cozy witch's cottage.

Once Arthur had got over the initial amazement, Willy pointed to a chair on the wall. "You can take that... And sit next to me, if you want."

But when Arthur sat down right behind him, Willy thought that he would have preferred Arthur to sit against the wall.

It was kind of nice to have him so close, but it also made Willy so incredibly nervous.

He tried to concentrate, looked at the vials… and got lost in time and space.

... and I thought of you.

What was he going to do again?

"What's missing?" he heard Arthur's soft voice say next to him.

"Huh?" Willy turned to him and looked into the most incredibly gentle eyes.

"You said, something was still missing?"

For a small second Willy closed his eyes, he didn’t want to get so lost in those eyes, in that man. He opened his eyes again and looked fixedly at the vials.

"Well, ... the joy is there," Willy said almost absently, "the sadness is there... but... "

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur slowly raise his hand. The next second Willy could feel Arthur’s thumb on the back of his neck, gently stroking the area at his hairline.

"Maybe love is missing," Arthur whispered softly and Willy immediately began to tremble.

This couldn't be right! This wasn't right! What was Arthur doing? But instead of stopping, Arthur just kept stroking him, speaking to him in that soft, loving voice.

"Shh, it's okay, Willy.”

Nothing was okay! He wasn't okay, and apparently neither was Arthur!

Arthur’s hand was now stroking his cheek. Willy felt bad, really bad.

"I'm so sorry I jinxed yo too, now, with that chocolate,” he stuttered. “I swapped them by mistake. I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry..."

Arthur took now both hands and hold Willy’s face, his look almost sternly but his voice still soft. "Stop, Willy, stop."

Willy bit his lower lip and tried not to say anything, just looked into Arthur's eyes that were so gently looking at him and made him feel things he had never felt before.

"My father died young, when I was still very small,” Arthur said. “My mother brought me up with her friend Maria. They were happy together, really happy. And I had the two most wonderful mothers one could wish for. My mother told me, ´If you someday realise you are like me, don’t tell anyone. But if you find the right one, show him your feelings. Don't let the chance pass.´”

Willy’s heart hammered while he tried to process these words.

“Every day we would stop at the window of your store for awhile." Arthur continued softly. "And while the children looked at the display in the window, I would secretly watch you. Your kind nature, your pure, shy smiles. It was only two days, Willy, but I missed you so much. And when I ate the chocolate, I felt you, Willy."

Willy’s mind got dizzy.

He really wanted to believe Arthur, really, but...

Arthur ran his fingers through Willy’s hair and it felt so good, but...

Arthur's lips approached his. He wanted to kiss them so badly, but...

Arthur smelled so good too, he wanted to put his nose in his hair but...

"Can I kiss you?" whispered Arthur softly.

"Okay," Willy replied in a daze, "but -"

But by then, Arthur had already placed his lips on Willy's and it was such a beautiful feeling that Willy's concerns all flew off in a whoosh. Something like this could not be wrong.

His whole body exploded with joy as he finally let all his feelings run free. He hungrily kissed Arthur back, he felt Arthur, Arthur was so beautiful, so lovable, he wanted to crawl into him, he felt so good with him, he was on the sweetest cloud ever.

And speaking of clouds, soon Willy pulled Arthur by the hand into the factory, pulled a few levers so that his cotton candy clouds floated down and pulled Arthur onto one. All his doubts were dissolved, he tugged at Arthur's clothes as much as Arthur tugged at his. He wanted to feel everything, kiss everything.

Only when Arthur crawled down to his lap and suddenly did things that no one had ever done for Willy before, Willy's excitement was mixed with a little nervousness. "You don't... You don't have to..." he gasped, while Arthur lay between his legs, ignored his words and continued, making Willy gasp even more. Willy tried again. "It doesn't taste like..." Oh my god, he didn't know what to do, it all felt so good, he was floating without floating chocolate, but..., but... "It doesn't taste like..." and then it shot out of him, he couldn't help it, "... icing!" he gasped desperately, but by then it had already happened and it was too late.

Before Willy could even think straight again, Arthur had crawled up to him and smiled lovingly at him. "I know. But if you love the person you get it from, believe me, it's as good."

Willy looked at Arthur completely mesmerized, still a little incredulous but deeply relieved.

"Ok, I might try that, too, then?" he said with a smirk, still out of breath, his curiosity slowly taking over.

But when he was about to lean down, Arthur stopped him and looked at him, slightly embarrassed. "Uhm, I’ve already… uhm, the cotton candy was so soft... then the sight of you... it all felt so good, you looked so beautiful. …” He sighed. “I'm afraid my icing might have landed already on your candy floss. I'm so sorry that I have stained it."

Willy chuckled. "Don’t worry. Have you tried the candy floss though? It tastes like cherry mint."

He plucked off a bit of the absorbent cotton and held it out to Arthur. But instead of taking it with his fingers, Arthur grabbed Willy's wrist and tasted the cotton candy right off his fingers, licking them clean.

It made Willy feel all kinds of feelings. It triggered every imaginable fantasy in him, he had a thousand ideas of all the things he wanted to try with Arthur and he was sure that one would be more beautiful than the other.

He cuddled up to Arthur.

"All of this is ... awesome!"

Arthur pressed a gentle kiss to his lips and Willy tasted the cherry mint. "Yes, it is, I agree."

"Will you stay with me?"

"As long as you want."

The days until Christmas flew by like a dream.

Willy added the missing ingredient of love to the Christmas chocolate and it turned out exactly as he had hoped. On Christmas Day, they distributed them to all the orphanages in the city and gave them to anyone else who wanted and needed them.

In the evening, they had a wonderful, big Christmas feast. Everyone was there, Noodle, Noodle's mother, Lofty, Albacus, Lottie, Piper, Larry, all with family and friends, and of course Arthur with his children.

They ate festively, laughed, sang and danced, it was a magically wonderful night.

When all the friends had happily and contentedly made their way home and Thea and Max were put to bed in their newly built beds of soft marshmallow, Willy and Arthur made themselves once more comfortable on the cotton candy clouds.

Arthur took Willy's hands in his and caressed them.

"I didn't think I'd have such a magical Christmas, I couldn't be happier. Thank you, Willy."

Willy's nose crinkled automatically at these words, he smiled happily, leaned over and kissed Arthur. He was surely the happiest man in the whole world.

"I couldn't be happier either."

If it weren't for the tingling sensation.

And all these endless possibilities of things that were running through Willy's head.

"But?"

"Huh?" Willy couldn't even concentrate on whether Arthur meant ‘but’ or ‘butt’, he was tingling so much.

"You look like there is a ‘but’ to your sentence."

"Nooo, there's not a `but´ to my sentence,” and added quietly more to himself, “at most a ‘butt’.”

Arthur looked at him questioningly.

“There are just so many things I'd like to try out with you,” Willy admitted a little embarrassed but added hopefully, “Would you be up for it?"

"Sure, always. What is it?"

"For example…” Willy took a deep breath, squinting his eyes. “I'd love to bathe in liquid chocolate with you, would you like that?"

He was more than relieved to see Arthur smiling at him curiously. "That sounds delicious. I would love to try that."

The way Arthur had answered, though, Willy knew Arthur didn't understand when Willy wanted to try it, that he didn't want to wait any longer, so he simply held out his hand and started singing softly,

"Come... with... me…”

And Arthur took his hand and let Willy guide him.

*** Merry Christmas ***

#wonka 2023 #wonka movie #wonka fanfic #Wonka x OC #Wonka x male OC #timothée chalamet #Christmas fluff #plus some icing and chocolate balls #timothee chalamet #wonka fanfiction #willy wonka fanfiction

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misshoneyimhome · 6 months

Note

Haha that ask and your reply about Willys lil smug, smooth nature just inspired a request😂

Will knows he’s hot, he can get girls as easily as breathing, he’s charming and smooth - but let’s ponder what happens when our little Swedish hunny starts dating someone who makes him nervous! You’re unlike anyone he’s dated because you’re equally as calm, charming and alluring as he is but also incredibly smart and stunning so he’s met his match! And it’s early days only a month of casual dates in, but he’s planned a day for you two to walk around The Distillery Winter Village (Toronto’s Christmas Market) to shop and during it he wants to express that he’d like to be exclusively together (uncharted waters as has never the one to bring up the convo) but for some reason he’s in his head about it, fumbling words and getting rosy cheeks! But as the day wears on and you’re just happy to hold his hand, chat, and laugh together he can’t help but express what he’s feeling because the nervousness excites him, and he knows he’s not letting you go!

My emotions! God yes, darling 🥰 This is just so dream-scenario-take-my-heart-Willy-and-leave-me-to-die - and I’m here for it! ❤️

I know there were several ways to go about this, and I could have written so much more, but I tried my best to keep it simple - I hope you enjoy it ❤️

[btw, when researching about The Distillery Winter Village, it almost had me book a plane ticket just to go there 😍]

・✶ ｡ﾟ

Word count: 3K

Is This How It Feels To Be In Love?

One touch, electric shock Eyes locked, like, did you feel that too? World stops, just us Here under dots in the darkness Of the blue, out of the blue Is this how it feels to be in love? This is magical, this is magical

“Magical” - Ed Sheeran

***

Accelerated heartbeat. Sweaty palms. Racing pulse.

Usual indications following a good workout or training session. Yet this time it wasn’t caused by that.

No. William Nylander was having these symptoms, accompanied by deep feelings that he'd never experienced before, and it was all because of you.

What initially had appeared to be a rather typical Thursday evening for William, coming home from a match, involved taking the subway to avoid bad traffic, and it was during this commute that he had met you for the first time.

You had stayed back late at the office, so feeling rather exhausted, you absentmindedly scrolled through your phone, when suddenly, the train abruptly stopped, causing you to lose your balance and tumble forward, landing face-first directly into the lap of the stranger seated in front of you.

"Shit," you’d exclaimed, attempting to regain your balance with your hands to avoid a complete collision with the person. However, your movements had lacked coordination, bringing your face closer to his. "I'm really sorry," you apologised with a sweet smile, and in that moment, William's gaze had immediately locked onto yours.

His deep Scandinavian blue eyes had delved into yours, creating an oddly intimate closeness between two complete strangers.

Oh, he's handsome, had been your first thought, well first thought following: 'fuck,' 'shit,' 'oops,' and 'nice move, y/n.'

But, handsome indeed. His slightly long blonde hair complemented by a well-maintained scruff accentuating his prominent cheekbone structure, along with those notably rosy, desirable lips.He wore a simple, yet finely tailored black suit with a white shirt and a black tie that suited him impeccably.

And despite the initial frustration of the situation, William had simply chuckled as you hastily regained your composure. "No worries, it wasn't your fault."

His voice held an adorable charm, accompanied by a cheeky smile that diffused the awkwardness, swiftly replacing it with a relaxed atmosphere.

"I guess I'm just naturally clumsy," you’d playfully remarked, as you’d noted his casual, unbothered reaction to the unfortunate incident. And his composed and laid-back demeanour immediately intrigued you, leading to shared laughter and friendly smiles during the following few subway stops.

And when it was time for you to exit, a couple of stations before his, you couldn't resist casting a quick glance back at the handsome stranger, offering him a sweet smile.

It had been from that moment on, William had been unable to shake you from his thoughts. Despite reflecting on the night's great win and chatting with his best friend Sandy and brother Alex, you somehow managed to continuously seep back into his mind. Your endearing smile remained etched in his memory, while the sound of your slightly embarrassed laughter lingered soothingly in his ears.

And as the night progressed, he couldn’t help but mentally scolding himself for not taking the opportunity to get your name and number.

Normally, William was adept at charming the ladies. Undoubtedly good-looking and well aware of it, he usually effortlessly engaged in conversation, flirted, and dazzled them.

Over the years, he'd been in a few relationships, some short, some a little longer. However, none seemed to last very long. Occasional hook-ups during the off-season were common, and during hockey season, he'd have a girl or two he could call upon if needed, but nothing too serious.

And this year was shaping up to be just like the others. His complete focus was on the hockey season, which seemed to be a defining one in his career. He ramped up his dedication, intensified his training, and minimised any potential distractions from the outside world.

However, as days passed following your encounter on the subway, he found himself unable to erase you from his thoughts. Which was very unfamiliar territory for him. Usually, he could discard any woman entering his life as easily as changing underwear. But for some reason, your reaction to him had been different.

He even caught himself searching for you each time he rode the subway, although he knew it was a lost cause in a city as populated as Toronto with countless trains running daily.

***

And just as William was gradually beginning to push thoughts of you aside, refocusing his mind on hockey, your lovely smile reappeared.

This time, it was in a downtown coffeehouse. He was out for an early stroll with his dogs on a chilly November morning and decided to warm up with a beverage. And when walking into the coffeehouse somewhat still sleepy, he instantly recognised your face. You were casually waiting for your coffee, and now William knew he had to make a move. At least try to flirt, like he’d normally do with any attractive girl like yourself.

So, he ordered his drink and casually walked towards the waiting area.

"Hey," he greeted, a mischievous grin adorning his face as he approached you.

"Well, hello there, stranger," you smiled, looking up from your phone. "How are you?"

"Good," he chuckled. "And yourself?"

"Good as well, thanks."

A moment of shared smiles passed, yet the silence grew uncomfortable for William, prompting him to break it.

"So, are you here to bump into more strangers?" he teased playfully, evoking chuckle from you.

"Oh no, I reserve that for the subway," you replied jokingly with a cheeky wink, which caused him laugh as well.

And amidst the laughter, the barista handed you your drink, and you gently took it and turned towards the exit.

"It was good to see you again," you said softly, offering a smile, as you were about to pass him and walk away.

"Likewise," William replied. However, as you began to leave, he quickly interjected. "Wait, I didn't catch your name?"

"It's y/n," you smiled.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, y/n."

There was another fleeting moment where you simply gazed up at his smiling face, shortly waiting for him to continue.

"...And this is the part where you tell me your name?" you asked with a playful grin, as he didn’t say anything.

"Wait, you don't know who I am?" William asked, slightly puzzled, considering he was a well-known figure in Toronto.

"No," you merely chuckled once more.

Though he did seem familiar to you, you couldn’t precisely place him. Probably a sports person, you guessed, based on his level of confidence. But the specific sport or anything else about him, you had no idea of. "Why? Are you, like, famous or something?"

"Or something," he grinned. "I'm William, William Nylander."

"Well, it's lovely to meet you, William Nylander," you emphasised both his first and last name, flashing another smile before casually heading out of the coffeehouse.

It took William a few moments to gather himself.

What was it about you?

And just as the barista handed him his drink, he hurriedly exited, aiming to catch up with you before you got too far.

"Hey," he called out, hoping to catch your attention once again. "How about giving me your number?"

"Why?" you flashed him another grin.

"So, if I wanted to ask you out and meet up, you'd be there?" he suggested.

"And what makes you so sure I'd say yes?" you playfully challenged his confidence.

"I don't know, call it an intuitive guess," he chuckled.

And you couldn’t deny that his effort intrigued you.

"Alright, then," you agreed, taking his phone and dialling your number, calling it, and retrieving your own phone from your pocket to answer the call before hanging up. This way, you both had each other's numbers. "I'll look forward to the invitation."

You flashed him a sweet smirk before turning on your heel once more and heading back to the office.

***

Only a couple of days passed before William asked you out for coffee. Though trying to appear cool and casual, attempting not to seem too eager, it was proving quite challenging. He couldn’t deny the fact that he longed to see you again, and more importantly to get to know more about you.

In many ways, you remained a mystery to him. You simply seemed to be so calm and sweet, as well as extremely stunning and charming.

You were funny and smart, sometimes a bit of a brat yet incredibly understanding and empathetic. Family held immense significance for you, something you both shared, and the way you always wanted to help others before yourself resonated deeply with him.

As it turned out, the more he got to know about you, the more he found you captivatingly interesting. The way you simply rested in yourself coupled with a gentle confidence intrigued him. You didn't seek drama or excessive attention from him, and everything between you felt relaxed and comfortable.

Surprisingly enough, it was William who felt more nervous as the two of you started dating.

He felt like a teenager, constantly checking his phone in anticipation of a message or Snapchat from you. Every time you met, whether for coffee, casual dinners at either of your places, or elsewhere, he eagerly looked forward to it.

And this was a strange and new feeling for him.

Usually, it was the girls who craved his attention, bombarding him with multiple messages if he didn't reply immediately. They'd fret over his hectic hockey schedule and quickly push to define the relationship, introducing him to friends and family prematurely, all of which often became overwhelming for him.

However, with you, it was nothing like his previous experiences. Quite the opposite.

When he’d first tried to ask you out after your first coffee meet up, his hectic schedule had naturally come in the was. Yet, you were understanding. You simply suggested to reschedule, and found a day that worked for both of you, even if it meant waiting a little bit longer.

And then when there had been more adjustments due to his schedule changes or delays, you’d simply adapt to it.

Instead casual dinners with takeout on the sofa became a norm, as well as late-night chats when he was away. And you were fine with it all.

You merely recognised the strong connection between you two and appreciated the easy-going nature of your relationship.

But as time passed, things gradually snowballed, and William found himself wanting to spend more time with you, as his heart raced every time, he saw you.

Your presence had a way of quickening his pulse and making him nervous, and these new and unfamiliar feelings left him immensely intrigued. The gentle tingling when thinking about you or the sudden anxiety of you not thinking about him were sensations far from his world. Yet, he felt somewhat drawn to it.

He took you out on dates as best as he could, eventually making his move and kissing you on your forth date. And on the fifth and sixth dates you took it a a few steps further, and soon enough, he felt compelled to share everything about you with his close group of friends; the team.

Naturally, the boys had noticed William's sudden change in behaviour, teasing him a bit about it as well. However, understanding their own unspoken boundaries, they let him be and didn't delve too deeply into sentimental details, as boys will be boys.

So, as December enrolled and the two of you had been casually dating for a little over a month, William organised a day at The Distillery Winter Village for you to shop, indulge in delicious Christmas treats, and soak up the holiday spirit.

Knowing your love for this season, he took the opportunity to create a proper Christmas experience for you, as he had some time to spare.

And your immediate 'yes' was a testament to how just much you enjoyed spending time with William. He simply had a way of making you feel incredibly good about yourself, and being around him was just pure joy. He filled a void that felt like the best friend you had been missing for so long. Yet, beneath it all, you sensed there might be deeper feelings between you. But you weren't in a rush. You cherished being around him, revelled in his wonderful company, and simply appreciated the incredible connection you shared.

And the day turned out to be simply magical. The bustling atmosphere, extraordinary with Christmas carols filling the air, mingling with the delightful scents of sweets and the joyous laughter all around.

However, amidst this enchantment, William's mind was slightly preoccupied.

The gentle intertwining of your fingers, holding hands as you casually strolled through the market, had him contemplating.

He thought about how this was exactly what he wanted to experience every Christmas with you. He wanted to have these profound, warm feelings he experienced every time he was with you, every day of his life. He wanted to wake up to your gorgeous face daily, have you by his side through the highs and lows, introduce you to his family, and contemplate a future together.

So, as he witnessed the Christmas lights reflecting in your eyes while leisurely strolling from boutique to boutique, William's mind raced, and he felt the need to articulate his thoughts. Firstly, attempting to broach the subject casually, he started the conversation with, "There's quite a lot of couples here, huh..."

Hoping to drop hints, without saying too much.

"Sure, but there are also quite a few families,” you responded with a simple smile. “I mean, all the children want to meet Santa, right?"

William felt flustered. Desperate to express his feelings and recent thoughts to you, he found it far more challenging than anticipated. This territory was beyond his expertise, as he had never been the one to initiate the 'where are we' conversation.

But, as he thought of you more and more, he concluded that he didn't want to see you with anyone else but him. The mere thought of you dating someone else at this point tore him apart.

So, as the evening progressed and you indulged in various foods and drinks, he gathered the courage to try again.

"You know, a lot of people find Christmas really romantic," he blurted out seemingly out of nowhere, feeling his cheeks flush slightly, which could easily pass off as a reaction to the cold weather.

"Well, I suppose it is,” you spoke, as you gently sipped your hot chocolate. “You don’t think it’s romantic?”

“Or course I do,” he smiled, finally summoning the courage to express his thoughts. “In fact I think it's a good time to... maybe, be with someone... you really like," his voice slightly trembling.

"For sure, that's what this season is all about, being with the ones you love,” you replied, as you slowly made your way through the crowd. “Although, it can also be a little cheesy, right? Like those people who propose on Christmas Day or something like that. I mean, let's just enjoy the holiday for what it is," you chuckled lightly, unknowingly causing William's heart to sink in his chest.

He might not have had a proposal in mind, but considering he'd never asked someone to be his girlfriend before, it felt almost like it.

"I guess," was all he managed to say. And then another 30 minutes passed with more conversation, during which William's heart continued to race faster than usual, and his palms grew sweatier. He nearly pulled his hand away when you tried to hold it as you resumed walking side by side.

"Willy, are you alright?" you asked, genuinely concerned, noticing his distant gaze and absent-mindedness.

"Um, sure."

A moment of silence passed as you both headed towards the giant Christmas tree, illuminated with the bright DIOR sign flashing its lights.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" you spoke softly as you stood admiring the tree.

"Yes... yes, it is," William almost whispered, though his gaze was fixed on you rather than the tree.

"You know, there's a funny story from my hometown—"

"Y/n, I want you to be my girlfriend."

His mouth had spoken faster than his mind could process, and suddenly the words had slipped out, unintentionally interrupting your story.

"What?" you asked, slightly baffled.

"I want..." Uncertainty overwhelmed him once again, but he knew he had burst the bubble and now had to articulate what was truly on his mind. "I want to be... you know... together, like, just you and me..."

His heart pounded fiercely, almost outside his chest, as he struggled to convey his thoughts. He had never been this nervous, not even on drafting day or during his first NHL game. Asking you to be his girlfriend felt like the most anxious thing he had ever done.

"Willy, you want us to be exclusive?" you asked timidly, though you had heard him perfectly clearly. Your mind just needed to process what he had asked.

"Yes, y/n," he breathed out, feeling a sense of relief. "I want us to be exclusive. I don't like the idea of you seeing anyone else, and I know I only have the right to ask that of you if you're..."

"Your girlfriend," you finished his sentence with a sweet smile. "Willy, I'd want nothing more than to be your girlfriend."

Your voice resonated with profound sincerity, reflecting what he had been trying so hard to articulate. Of course, you wanted to be with him. You just simply hadn't felt the need to push the matter but hearing him express it so earnestly left you with no doubt.

And amidst the Christmas lights and the festive cheer, William felt an immense relief coursing through his body as you said yes to being his.

It felt like a magical experience amid the joy of the season, and he had never been more certain of anything else. So with gentle tenderness, he pulled you in for a soft kiss under the shimmering lights and stars of that December night.

#my asks #william nylander imagine #william nylander fic #toronto maple leafs imagine #nhl hockey imagine #wn88 imagine

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