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snow-system-wol · 2 months

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Another perspective on the "Fray Incident", and a necessary follow up conversation. A rather unpleasant encounter followed by a far softer one.

(References events from both the Fray Incident and recent Exarch POV.)

Ao3

[choking, mild injuries, referenced past (unintentional) self-harm]

“While I hardly have the time to check in constantly, I nonetheless cannot help myself from wanting to be sure of your continued survival.”

The sentiment came from a place of genuine relief, and slight embarassment, but truly it was a mercy to have S'ria whole and unharmed back in his Ocular. He was not paying incredibly close attention to what he was saying, but it seemed quite harmless and inoffensive. Perhaps not, though.

The Exarch knew he'd made a mistake of some sort the second the words left his mouth, with S'ria's eyes going cold. He'd never truly been scared of the Warrior of Light before, only awed, but – striding quickly towards him like this, the Exarch had a flash of genuine fear.

Perhaps warranted, as S'ria shoved him into the wall just adjacent to the portal. His hand closed around the Exarch's throat and – he'd always thought S'ria's hands looked deceptively delicate, but he'd never felt the wrongness of that assumption as keenly as he did now.

The Exarch was… fairly certain that S'ria would struggle to kill him like this, in the heart of his tower and with crystal half protecting his neck. That logic did not stop the instinctive panic of his breathing being restricted, grabbing at S'ria's arm for leverage and keeping the toes of his sandals on the floor as much as possible.

S'ria closed much of the space between them. Like this, the Exarch and S'ria were nearly face to face, with him partially lifting the Exarch and closing some of that height gap. He makes some sort of growl, low and threatening, and the Exarch quite frankly wasn't aware that a miqo'te could make that sound. He almost missed it when S'ria started to speak.

“The room you gave S'ria.”

It was harsh, flat, nothing like the man the Exarch knew. Even before the Exarch noticed the third person referral to S'ria, he already had his suspicions about what may have been happening. He hadn't expected the tales to actually be true though, even if they were rather pervasive.

The Exarch's head was entirely full trying to process the smoothness with which S'ria had been replaced, so much so that he nearly forgot anything had been said.

The Exarch swallowed before trying to respond and – gods, it felt awful, to be honest, the bony shift of cartilage against a chokehold. “I don't… follow?”

At least the pressure didn't increase, but he could feel the increase in anger and frustration from – well, he knew who this was, right? If the accounts were true, this must be that missing piece of the puzzle that had eluded him, trying to understand what people had possibly meant about this Fray.

Upon meeting them, the Exarch thought he understood a little more, about how obvious it must have been in those accounts that this was not the same person as S'ria.

“The room”, and the Exarch can feel their hand twitch, “have you been watching?”

“Wh–”

The Exarch didn't even quite get the whole word out before he understood exactly what had Fray so aggressive. He worried that he had given the wrong impression, the way he venerated S'ria, and he could easily see why Fray so belatedly realizing that the Exarch could scry anywhere with impunity might… bring about some mistrust. He wouldn't… as much as he wanted to check on S'ria's safety, intentionally trying to satisfy some crude curiosity was unthinkable.

He should have clarified this from the beginning, that he'd had such a thing at his disposal but promised not to use it for ill.

(Or would that have been worse, to so blatantly stoke paranoia without any way to tell if he broke the promise?)

The Exarch tried his best to shake his head. “No! No, I would… never…”

S'ria had been through enough. He would not add to that.

Fray leaned in, so terrifyingly close. Close enough that it made the Exarch realize, with a sort of wry irony, that this may well have been the first time “S'ria” had ever touched bare skin on him. Close enough, too, that it made the Exarch's eyes lock onto Fray's in alarm.

He knew S'ria's eyecolor. Perhaps embarrassingly well. That wasn't it. They were lighter and brighter – in truth, the Exarch wanted to pretend he did not notice the change since arriving here and put any implications of that well out of mind.

Fray's eyes widened and the eye contact somehow felt painfully exposing and – oh fuck.

In his utter distraction of racing thoughts and being strangled, he'd lost focus on his glamour for just long enough for Fray to briefly tear it away. It was only for a moment before he put the active effort in to fully restore it, but it felt like it was far too long.

They had to have seen.

Maybe Fray was a new tagalong, not present during the days of G'raha Tia.

Maybe there was no danger of losing his painfully kept anonymity.

Fray let go of his throat, with at least the decorum to let the Exarch use their arm as support for the few seconds needed to kneel gently – as opposed to fully collapsing. The gratitude only lasted long enough for the Exarch to realize he needed to retract his claws from their arm, that his fingers were wet, and then it was replaced with horror. The Exarch hadn't even noticed doing that – he wasn't sure if he'd dug new injuries into S'ria's skin or reopened the half-healed injuries already there. He wiped his hand on his robe as if hiding the evidence meant it'd not happened.

Fray seemed entirely unbothered by the injury, just stepping well away as if they'd rather get away from the situation.

By the time Lyna was fussing over him, having dashed to him the second Fray backed away, whatever change seemed to have reverted. S'ria was clutching his bleeding arm, staring at the Exarch with a look of confused guilt on his face, already starting to ramble apologies. Oh dear, S'ria really didn't remember all that, did he?

“I apologize. For the accusation.” It was a painfully stiff delivery, but it at least sounded honest.

----------

“I want to talk about what happened, before we set out from the Crystarium again.”

The Exarch sat at the table in S'ria's room, looking somehow distinctly uncomfortable with actually being inside and even more uncomfortable with S'ria sitting at his side. Upon hearing S'ria's words, he looked up with a smile.

“If you have called me here to apologize again, pray do not concern yourself.”

S'ria gave him a wry look. “That is not all I have to say, but I will still apologize. I may not remember it, but I hurt you – and could've badly harmed you – so I am still… very very sorry for that. I do not know what the problem was, but you could not have said anything to justify violence.”

The Exarch chuckled with little mirth. “No, the fault is truly mine, for making it so difficult for you to trust my intentions. I simply hope that you and Fray both are satisfied that I mean you no harm.”

S'ria frowned at him, wholy unsatisfied with such a response. “I believe we are, but – there are others who deserve this more than you. I worry the anger was… misdirected in frustration.”

There was a long moment of silence in which it was obvious that the Exarch was fighting the urge to ask about recent events, but it was likely for the best that he decided not to. Too delicate a moment by far.

With no immediate response given, S'ria continued. “No, what I wanted to talk to you about… well, Fray themself. As interesting of a misconception you've gotten, I'm nervous it'll cause more problems than it'll fix. I just hope a half-explanation will be good enough.”

“No explanation at all would be good enough, any more than that is not to be taken for granted.”

S'ria wished somewhat that the Exarch would be a bit less charitable. It threw him off-guard every time.

“It really isn't anything so – I just don't want you to go around thinking I'm possessed by something and getting any unnecessary concerns about it later. Fray is just part of me, not something that could just be banished or some entity with schemes of their own." It was an odd feeling for him. That was the first time S'ria had ever openly accepted that link between them, at least in those words. "And I do not know of a single other time they've intentionally harmed an ally so… I don't think that there is any danger – though I'd understand if you had your doubts.”

The Exarch still seemed relatively calm and still unworried. “If they do not see me as an ally, then I dare say that streak remains unbroken.” Despite the calmness, there was a palpable amount of sadness seeping into his voice.

S'ria looked stricken. “I don't think that there is any remaining confusion about that, not on their part. But truly, I am so sorry for –”

The Exarch did not even audibly shush him, simply held a finger up to his lips in a motion that made S'ria cut off the moment he saw it.

“I shall have none of that. Fray may have gotten aggressive with me, yes, but you were entirely uninvolved – and yet I have left you with injuries.”

S'ria's expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between disbelief and something vulnerable.

The Exarch slowly lifted two upturned palms, kept low and well away from S'ria.

“Will you at least permit me to right that wrong?”

S'ria's breath caught in his throat. The smart thing to do would probably be to say no, given the other factors still in play. And yet, whether it be some lingering softness towards the shy scholar who'd told him stories by the fire years ago or just a desire for kindness in the moment, he did not refuse.

S'ria's coat was already off, leaving his arms mostly bare, so there was little more to do than just lean forward and place his arm in the Exarch's waiting hands. Based on the stifled gasp he heard, the Exarch had not expected him to agree either. Belatedly, S'ria realized he hadn't actually needed to go so far – it wasn't as if the Exarch actually needed to touch him. This was, perhaps, excessively intimate – but not quite uncomfortably so.

“May I?”

He was even waiting for verbal permission, despite how clear the motion had been? S'ria nodded and felt another pang of guilt over Fray's paranoid aggression, merely over how wrong they'd been.

The Exarch gently turned S'ria's arm to inspect it – deep gouges from his still clawed hand, bruises in the shape of his crystalline hand, and, of course, a slightly more healed version of the sight he'd glimpsed before at Holminster Switch.

(The Exarch was unsure if it was better or worse than he'd thought from that brief accidental glance, but the mess of claw marks was…extensive. It was frankly a wonder nothing had become infected, but S'ria must've at least taken care of the injuries after whatever incident – he was uncertain which set of injuries he felt worse about.)

The Exarch's face was calm and blank as he handled S'ria's arm, and that was somehow both immensely reassuring and terrifying at the same time. After all, S'ria knew exactly what he was allowing the Exarch to inspect – and the man was hardly dense.

The sudden glow and warm wash of healing magic was mostly familiar – though the feeling of it was not.

Normally it stung at least a little (if not more than a little), but this was painless. Perhaps it was that injuries this small were rarely healed, perhaps a century of studying magic really did work wonders.

Beneath the obscuring light, the injuries inflicted by the Exarch disappeared. He wordlessly continued to heal the others, healed to the faintest of lines. Almost like such a mistake had never happened.

S'ria drew his arm back, fingertips still tingling from the hum of magic. The Exarch smiled up at him, shy and nervous.

“Might you allow me to do the same with the other?”

The brief panic that rose in S'ria made him freeze. He was tempted to insist that it was fine, the Exarch had done no harm on that side, so there was nothing to concern himself with. Ah, he really wasn't managing to hide the situation from the Exarch at all, was he?

It wasn't meant to be acknowledged – and while the Exarch breathed not a word of worry or judgment, this in of itself was acknowledgement.

In lieu of trying to explain himself or dig himself into a conversation he wished to avoid, he simply offered the Exarch his other arm. S'ria could've almost crawled out of his skin watching him gently inspect the extent of it, without the excuse of pretending he was only looking at the injuries he'd dealt Fray.

S'ria relaxed suddenly, as the healing began. It took several moments to realize part of his reaction was from recognizing the faint out-of-practice purr from the Exarch's chest. He probably was worried about soothing S'ria's anxiety, but S'ria doubted he was quite aware that he was doing that – given that the miqo'te thing was ostensibly still a secret.

It was still more pleasant than it had any right to be, after not hearing the sound for quite some time. The Exarch finished his healing, leaving only mostly unmarred skin in his wake (and he still didn't ask any questions, thank the gods). The purring was still ongoing and the feeling of his thumb absentmindedly tracing S'ria's arm was both far more pleasant and far less alarming than he'd expected.

He was half tempted to ask for those things back, the chaste touch and rusty rumbles both, but – much as the Exarch refrained from asking if he'd harmed himself, S'ria was not meant to draw attention to the rapidly unraveling mystery of the Crystal Exarch's identity. So it goes.

All nice things come to an end, as the Exarch's distraction did not last long. He pulled his hands away from S'ria and cleared his throat, killing the purrs before they could continue.

#snow-system #ffxiv-oc #ffxiv-reactions #s'ria 🌸❄️#writings #for a thing that is so unsettling in its first half #the second part of this has some moments that I am so soft for....#ahh #snowgraha foreshadowing or whatnot #well foreshadowing their compatibility I guess we've known G'raha's side of things for a very long time now

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floofsselfshipblog · 6 months

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Thinking about Nico and Walker doing the head butt thing cats do to show affection

More Lackadaisy selfshippers should think about their f/o and s/i head butting affectionately

#self ship #self shipping #lackadaisy #❄️snow in the south🐊#nicodeme savoy #walker brightman #Nico just pressing his head against Walker’s and being all soft #while Walker putts against him to show his gratitude #THEY MAKE ME SOFT

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wayfinderships · 11 months

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Afjsjfjsjcjsjcjsj Snow my beloved!

#pan gushes #HES SO-AFJSNDJDJ #I'm so down bad for this man that He doesn't even need to do anything for me to be kicking my legs-afnsnxnd #It's so funny how serious and cold my s/i can be around people #but the moment they're in proximity of Snow they get all blushy and soft-afnsnfnd Down baaad #It's been so obvious since before they even started dating-#Panchi can't help it!!! Snow just makes them smile so much <3 #f/o: ❄️

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cherieye · 4 months

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Currently living in a dream

#snow #frozen #its so beautiful #the snow ❄️#🌨️❄️🌨️❄️❄️#❄️#the snow is so soft and fluffy!

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self-sailyard · 2 years

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"Across the Universe #1: The Request" - A LumaGhia Fic

Synopsis: Something has been on Lumaca's mind for a while, and Gh.iaccio finally asks about what's troubling her... A move which could change their lives forever.

Word Count: 1.3k

CW: Swearing, Crying, Family Planning, Fluff, One suggestive bit at the end

NOTE: Hey! We're finally posting those fics for this AU! I know it's been a long time coming, but I haven't really written much for myself in a while, so might as well do the one thing I've been thinking about for a long time. I will say these might come out pretty slowly, since I have school and bad luck when it comes to timing, but I hope you guys will stick with us until the end! And if not that's fine too!

"Lumaca my love? Have you seen my coat anywhere?"

The sound of a familiar voice broke Lumaca free from her trance. She turned her head to look towards the entrance to the bedroom, where the voice of her husband was coming from.

"Hmm?” she hummed just before her brain finished processing his words. “Oh, uhm it's... over here. On the armrest of the couch."

Ghiaccio, wearing only his trousers and his sleeveless turtleneck, briskly walked into the room to grab the final piece to his outfit.

"Ah, perfect! Thank you, L-"

He froze dead in his tracks the second he noticed; despite the little smile on her face, something in her head had fogged up her eyes. Like she was thinking a lot about… something.

Quickly forgetting his coat, he sat down on the couch next to her, his hand going over hers and scooping it up until they were holding hands.

She seemed to look past him, falling into another anxious daze.

Now that was concerning to him.

"Lumaca?"

She turned her eyes towards him, locking into his soft grey gaze and feeling like her heart was about to explode with love for him.

And anxiety for her thoughts.

"You look upset, dolcezza mia,” he continued as he slipped his other hand around her waist. “You've been looking that way on and off for a few days now, actually... Is everything okay?"

A blush dusted her face and her body got a tense at his touch.

"Ah, well- I- yeah,” she stammered, trying not to think too much about the hand at her waist. “Things have been okay, honey...It's just..."

He tilted his head, both very curious and incredibly worried.

"It's just... what? I don't mean to keep pressing, I've just been so worried about you, my love. And if I can do something about it, you know that I will!”

He stopped for a brief second to gently caress her cheek with the hand he just had on her waist.

“So, is someone bothering you that I need to beat the shit out of? Do you need me to help you with anything? Or maybe it’s something physical you want?"

If she didn’t look like she was nervous before, then the drop of sweat slipping down her face sure did complete the look.

Even her bottom lip started to tremble a little bit.

"W-Well... Yes... There is something that I… I want…"

The more nervous she looked the more nervous about her he got.

Ghiaccio was so determined to help his wife feel happy; he’d pull down the moon for her if it meant to see her smile. He just needed to figure it out:

What could she want that’s shaken her up so badly?

"If it's a money issue, you don't have to worry.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, which seemed to relax her some. A good sign! “I'll get you everything you could ever want. And I really do mean everything. Anything to see you happy, bucaneve mia."

The blush on Lumaca’s face turned darker, but this time it was out of love for him. Even when she was nervous out of her mind, he still had a way of making her feel like she was on cloud nine.

She gave him a warm smile and nuzzled her cheek into his palm, which in turn made him smile back at her.

Then, with a deep breath, she spoke in a soft, shaky voice.

"I've been thinking about this for a while, and I wasn't sure how to bring it up… B-But..."

He leaned in close, anticipating her answer.

"Yes?"

The anxiety took hold again; she took another deep breath in before she looked up at him, both hands holding one of his, her eyes becoming a little glossy and her lip trembling harder than before.

"I want a baby, Ghiaccio."

The silence that followed...

It was becoming unbearable and heavy for Lumaca to where it made her heart sink right into her stomach.

It almost made her want to get up and run to their bedroom.

That’s when she noticed Ghiaccio’s face.

He was just staring into her eyes, almost like he was in a daze. A loving daze. Before she could ask if he was okay, his eyes went wide and a blush flashed across his face; an indicator that he had finally processed what she was asking of him.

His body trembled a little as he broke the silence.

"A- A-... You-... You want a baby? Like a baby baby? Like in-"

His free hand quickly migrated to her belly, his mind already beginning to wonder what it’ll look like when she's carrying his child. That thought led to another then and another until his thoughts were swirling with their potential future.

The more he thought, the more his eyes glossed over and the more excited his voice got with each word.

"Like in here? You really mean that??? L-Lumaca?!?"

She bit down on her bottom lip, smiling and trying not to start crying out of pure joy right then and there.

"Yes...! I-I really mean it, honey. I love you so much and I want to have a baby with you…"

His breathing went heavy and a huge smile spread across his face, trying to hold back his happy tears as he gave her an answer.

"Lumaca my wonderful, wonderful wife, yes!! I-!! I-I mean-!"

He stopped for a moment and pulled his body back some while still keeping his hand in hers, clearly trying not to get too excited over the prospect of a family.

It made her giggle a bit.

"Well, I- I mean first we're going to have to find a proper house to live in, huh? A nice big one! Or maybe we could go to a good neighborhood somewhere near Roma. I mean there's no way I'd let our baby grow up i- I-...”

That word.

It suddenly triggered the tears to start pouring and turned his voice into a soft whine.

“Our baby..."

His body fell forward, burying his face into her chest and holding her close by the waist as he sobbed softly into her shirt. Now it was her turn to start crying too; she let go of his hand and held him close to herself, stroking her hand through his curls.

"You... You want to have my baby... Our baby...!”

"I do... I really, really do,” she nodded, her voice shaking slightly out of joy. “I'd been thinking about it for a while, like a long while actually... I would love to start a family with you, Ghiaccio..."

She squeaked as he suddenly threw his arms underneath her legs and stood up, carrying her bridal style on the way up.

"Let's have one right now!"

Despite the red-hot blush that surfaced on her cheeks she couldn’t help but laugh and throw her arms around him.

"Yeah, let's-! I- I mean-"

As soon as he noticed the blush on her face, he realized what he had said, and his own cheeks started to blush the same shade of red as the skewed frames on his face.

"I-If you want to, of course, I'm not-"

With another soft giggle, she readjusted his glasses before taking his face into her hands.

"No, no I would love to! We can worry about the details later but… For now…!"

Her words trail off as they leaned in close and let their lips press against each other’s in a kiss. A slow yet passionate kiss that they both wanted to last forever; the type that made them moan softly into each other’s mouth.

While he kissed her, he carried her to their bedroom, closing the door behind him with a little kick.

It was about to be a long, long night.

#❄️soft snow❄️#self ship #self ship fankids #self ship community #fictional other #f/o x s/i #self ship writing #self ship fic #f/o fic #f/o community #romantic f/o #cw suggestive #you are seeing it right; this blog is finally active!#and yes we're starting out with something emotional #i think i had to close my laptop a bunch while writing this #i am just so.... aaaaaaaa #i can't believe it's happening #i love him so much 🥺🥺💕

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cmmil · 1 year

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@henshyne asked: ⛸️ izuna may be a ninja, but he cannot ice skate...

[ Ice skating!! ; Accepting!! ]

“I’m sure you’ll get the hang of this in no time,” Grusha chuckles as he hands Izuna the pair of skates he can use. They’re sitting on the bench together in front of the lake, getting ready to get on the ice. Cetitian tested it a couple minutes ago so he knows it’s perfectly fine-- and even if it wasn’t, a good ice beam could fix that in no time.

Lips form a warm smile as he leans down to put on his skates. “Sure, it’s a bit difficult at the start. Especially keeping your balance. You should’ve seen the amount of times I fell when I first started.”

He starts tying the laces together, finishing each with a proper bow. Grasha has done several different winter sports (skiing, sledding, snowboarding, etc) but ice skating is one of the ones that took him the longest. Probably because it was the first one he tried out as a kid, before he could use whatever he learned with one sport to improve faster with the other. But it is what it is-- besides, it’s not like ice skating is his favorite. Snowboarding is the one he decided to do professionally and finds the most exciting. Ice skating, however, is perfect when doing something calmer and more relaxing but still fun is desired.

Grusha is genuinely happy that Izuna agreed to this-- that he gets to show one of the things he enjoys so much to his boyfriend. Maybe he can show his other hobbies in the future as well.

Finally, he sits up straight again and gets up from the bench, able to balance perfectly on the slim metal blades. A hand is offered towards his boyfriend.

“Don’t worry, though. I wont let you fall and get hurt. You can lean on me or hold my hand the whole time and I’ll teach you everything.”

#henshyne #❄️ ( ic )#❄️ ( main verse )#Don’t care how much it may storm. Got my love to keep me warm. Perfect angel in the snow. Don’t you know I love you? ; grushuna ; henshyne #// Soft bfs. . .

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blczin-gunwicldcr · 1 year

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🌙 //and now for mine

Any Character's Moodboards! || Accepting

( 🌙 - Your Character's Aesthetics )

#🔫 ( out of bullets || ooc )#🛗 ( teaming up! || inbox answers )#❄️ ( Soft as Winter Snow || Rei Todoroki )#( hope this is okay! )

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sensitive-neuvi-enthusiast · 5 months

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Soft as Snow (Dec. 4)

Making snow angels

Included characters: gojo, nanami, choso, Jing Yuan, gepard, Neuvillette, Wriothesley, xiao, Sigma, diluc, + your fave

Fluff level: ❄️ ❄️ ❄️/5

His eyes are glued to you and your big puffy coat. How could something so big and frankly, quite ugly, make you look so cute. "Watch this!" You said, excitement in your voice. It made him feel warm inside. Watching you lay down in the snow, arms and legs spread as you started to move them. Giggling as snow fell onto your face as you made your snow angel. He wanted to take a picture, to capture this moment. But before he could even pull out his phone, your arm gestured him down. "Join me," and soon the phone and a picture was a distant memory.

Gojo, choso, NANAMI, Neuvillette, Wriothesley, XIAO, Sigma, Gepard, Jing Yuan, DILUC, + your fave

Taglist: @serenity-ren-bliss , @aydene , @101strawberries101 , @achristmascherryblossom, @indefinite-space , @cloooudddy1, @fatfuckingcatstuff

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renrink · 3 months

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soft snow ~ ❄️

#My art #art #deltarune #utdr #noelle #noelle holiday #darkworld #darkworld noelle

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kiwisbell · 4 months

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let it snow [joel miller]

It's cold on the trail. Joel keeps you warm.

12 days of pedro masterlist | my masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags/warnings: an early winter smattering of daddy kink, feel free to picture game!joel or show!joel here, post-outbreak, jackson!joel, christmastime fuzzies, soft old man!joel, self-indulgent age gap (20s/50s), protective!joel, christmas tree hunting, hiking, sex in an apocalypse, snowball play(?), fingering, frostbite does not exist in this universe, thigh fucking, dirty talk, ellie loving dinosaurs, snowball fights, a joel who enjoys what little peace life brings him

word count: ~ 5.3k

read on ao3!

a/n: hi, lovelies - this fic is my contribution to @hellishjoel's 12 days of pedro celebration! everyone please check out the masterlist linked above to check out the other works from all of these amazing authors!! thank you endlessly to my parents @northernbluess and @tieronecrush for beta'ing this fic and reassuring me every step of the way - i love you both to the moon and back. i hope you enjoy and as usual, please mind the tags and please tell me what you think!! ❄️

super cute dividers by @saradika-graphics!!

Fall comes on slow. The leaves begin to bleed orange from the arteries. The air crackles with bright, cold wind that bites and pokes. Debris crunches underfoot and the trees shed their lustrous coats. It’s nothing like the onset of winter in Jackson—the downward crash of an overnight snowstorm that crests too quickly for the residents to prepare.

It's a crystallised, overrefined flurry of soft flakes that gather on thatched rooftops and bury the barren, browning garden beds in the western corner of the village. It’s a nighttime assault of gnashing wind carrying fractals of ice and snow, and before most are awake, Jackson is snowed in.

The children are thrilled. All of them too small to have known anything but the walls of the town, they burst from their homes, half-zipped coats and bright-and-early tummy-rumblings and wondrous impatience, to stick out their tongue and catch the still-falling snowflakes. Parents and caretakers and teachers straggle, still pulling on their own boots and coats, in the effort to stay close to their charges. Snowballs are packed together and hurled from behind fortified walls of snow; passers-by are pulled unwittingly into the two-sided, relentless barrage; and the shrieks and cries crackling into the dead white air are born from the watery womb of promise, not terror.

There’s some joy yet to be found in this world.

He isn’t participating in the frozen-water war, but he’s watching from the margins, leaning against the wall of the schoolhouse with his arms folded over his chest and his eyes hawklike as he observes your every move.

A group of young girls has inducted you into the battle and now you’re hiding with one of them behind a wall, packing a tight ball of snow in your hands, barely protected by your threadbare gloves. He can see the grip of the cold on your body, the way your breath circles above your head, a silvery halo. He can see the slight shivers that start in your lower spine and tremble their way up to the back of your neck, and he can see the phantom imprint of his hand resting there, warming your nape, curling his callused fingers around your brain stem and guiding you the way he liked. He can see your gentle touch not only in your hands but in your smile, in the soft application of snow to the top of the wall as it begins to melt, in the sweet curl of your mouth as you help a child who has fallen to their feet.

Swiping an accumulation of snow from the child’s nose with your thumb, you mouth some words he cannot see. The child sniffs happily and wraps their arms around their mother’s leg.

You sneak away from the barrage of snowballs and blow some warm air into your cupped hands. He shifts off the wall and begins to prowl toward you.

When he’s close enough, when no one is around nor awake enough to notice, pulls you into the alley between the schoolhouse and the theatre.

His mouth captures your surprised exhale, stealing the visible puff of warm air for himself, swallowing it down as he pries you open for him. His hand rediscovers the slow, warm pleasure of its resting place on the back of your neck, gently steering you, unkindly pinning your body to the wall.

He feels the itch of your gloves as you cup his face, and his other hand lifts to circle around both of your wrists, idly pressing them beneath his heavy coat, against his heart. It thuds strongly, pouring its rhythm into the grooves of your palms.

He crowds you, making you small, his desire for this closeness prodding your inner thigh. You go oh-so easily, the gruff sounds he spills into your mouth tapping, chiselling, knocking down each vertebrae. Carefully, with the slide of his warm, wet tongue along yours and the greedy assault of his mouth, he shapes you for himself and turns you into the pliant little thing he needs you to be.

You moan softly into his mouth, and his answering groan is something rabid. Your spine curves to him, gravitational pull, wooden slats of the building at your back tugging the fabric of your coat. He will kiss you until you’re breathless and preening under his touch because it’s what he always does. He will inculcate you with the knowledge that you’re for his eyes only.

When he pulls away, he watches you chase his mouth with lidded eyes and kiss-bruised lips, and he smirks. His hand moves to your head, gently smoothing down your crown to your jaw, the way one tenderly pets a kitten.

“Got you somethin’.”

You raise your brows. “You did?”

“Mhm.” He nudges his nose against yours and relishes the smile you give him—eyes crinkling at the corners, irises reflecting glistening sky. “Open your mouth for me first. Go on, now.”

You obey, letting your tongue loll out, more from habit than anything. Still, he’s pleased, unfurling the hastily-wrapped paper package in his pocket and placing the small square of chocolate on your tongue.

You close your mouth with the help of his hand on your jaw, and the gentle snap of the chocolate bleeds the melting centre down your throat, disseminating the oaky flavour on your tastebuds.

“Y’like it?”

His voice is a carving knife. You're split down the middle by his simple show of affection, spilling out into his arms, wrists still clasped in one of his big hands.

“It’s good,” you tell him. “I’ve never…”

His smile digs a thumb into your open wound. “I know. Took it from the kitchen.”

You lick your lips and swallow the rest of the melted chocolate. Joel watches the action from the moment your tongue darts out to the moment it retreats. “Maria will have your ass.”

“Hmm, Maria can tell me off much as she wants. Wanted to give you somethin' sweet.” He presses in closer, hands dropping to your hips, kneading the pad of his thumbs over your hips. You're wearing old jeans whose waistband is fraying. “What do you say?”

This is the fun part of the game you play. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, teasing, begging entrance even though he knows there isn't a world in which you would deny him. You part your lips and take his thumb into your mouth, swirling your tongue and cleaning off the taste of leather that still lingers on his skin.

“Thank you.”

He strokes your jaw with his thumb. “You wanna know what else?”

You're already leaning into his palm as he cradles your cheek, and he’s so proud of the volcanic thaw in your eyes. “What else?”

Joel reaches back into his coat pocket and places something small in your palms. It’s a smooth wooden figurine that smells faintly of sawdust and is carved in the perfect likeness of your home, which sits across the street from his.

“‘s almost Christmas,” he says, suddenly so unsure of himself as he watches you turn the little shack over in your hands. “Thought you might like—”

But you're leaping onto him like a little monkey, your mouth crashing against his. It’s all lips and teeth and tongue and he can taste the chocolate he placed there just moments ago. The chimney of your miniature home prods his chest as you hold the figure close, tucking it safely between your bodies.

“Easy, baby girl,” he says with a low laugh, not-quite pulling away, letting you lick into his mouth like a cat after milk. The scratch of his beard will leave patches on your chin and everyone will see them. He grins, tilting your head up and soothing the worried skin with soft kisses.

“I love it,” you tell him, sighing into his body, “so much. I love it, Joel.”

“Good.” He nudges his nose against your temple. “Take good care of it, now.”

You nod, scratching at the too-long hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck. “How do you know that it's almost Christmas?” you ask him after a moment.

“Took a guess,” he says, nipping your earlobe. “Y’know, the big tree they put up in the middle of town helps.”

You playfully tug his hair. “Asshole.”

“So goddamn mouthy. Gettin’ spoiled.”

“You're the one spoiling me,” you purr, mouthing wetly along his jaw.

Joel chuckles. “Yeah. Guess I am.”

“You know”—your voice takes on a musical lilt—“I don't have my Christmas tree yet.”

Joel lifts his brows. “You want a Christmas tree?”

You lift one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t really remember the holidays.”

The watery shimmer under your irises reminds Joel just how much more life he's lived. You were young when the outbreak started, both parents lost to the virus before the first week was out. You’d hid under your bed for three days straight before FEDRA found you.

They’d taken you, underfed and dehydrated, to the Colorado QZ, where you spend most of your adolescence until it was bombed by Fireflies. You'd managed to sneak away before they could round you up like FEDRA had. You’d travelled with one group to the next before Jackson welcomed you.

There's a scar on your throat, just below your jaw on the right side, and another at the nape of your neck. You've been held at knifepoint, you told him in the early days of knowing one another, by the very same people who'd taken you in as one of their own. They’d offered you up as trade for some deer meat. Joel traces the mark and feels his throat constrict.

The kind of life you’d led before Jackson… He’ll make sure you never have to run again.

“Let’s get you one,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

You pull away from him to meet his eye. “Joel…”

“Tommy’s got a saw behind the bar. I can take down a tree. We’ll bring it back ‘n’ put it up in your place.”

The grin creeps up at the corner of your mouth. “You're going soft, Miller.”

Joel just crowds you back against the wall and slants his mouth over yours. He has no problem going soft when he can feel the wooden edges of his gift to you prodding the flesh of his chest. Let it pierce him.

Joel has few rules he's willing to push back on. At his age, he's lost some of his jagged edges, compromising on more. When he's got you like this, tucked into his side, wearing only his shirt, he remembers exactly why he enforces these few rules.

The light is soft in the winter; it doesn't quite penetrate his eastern-facing window the way the summer sun does. He blinks awake, feeling you shift next to him, your nose buried in his throat. Your arms are wrapped tight around his middle, one leg hoisted over his torso.

“C’mon, baby,” he grunts, throwing his arm over his eyes. “Gotta get up.”

He can feel your sleepy pout against his neck. “Mph.”

“Yeah, I know.” Joel chuckles, slumping back into the mattress. You shift so you're on top of him, your thighs bracketing his hips. Sitting up, you explore his bare chest with your soft hands, migrating down the length of his torso and his softening belly. He grabs your hips and soothes himself awake by rubbing his hands up and down your sides. The fabric of his shirt draped over your body shifts under his palms.

“I’m patrolling with Tad,” you tell him, “so we’ll have to put up the tree when I get back.”

“No, you're not.”

You cock your head. “Tommy told me—”

“Tommy doesn't know what the hell he's talkin’ about,” says Joel. “You and I get the day off. And I”—he pulls you down toward him and secures his hand at the back of your neck—“know a spot.”

Your answering hum is playful. “You know a spot. I had a couple boyfriends back in the QZ who knew a spot, too, Miller.”

“I ain't your old boyfriends,” he says with a faint growl, landing a light smack on your ass. “There’s a good trail west of here. Some trees what would look nice all done up.”

You beam down at him. Your hair is somewhat tousled from sleep and the fuzzy light haloes your head. “You aren't worried about raiders?”

“Don't think I can keep you safe?” He caresses your bare thighs, his cock interested in the warmth of you on his lap.

Your mouth fits over his, fingers threading through his hair, and Joel settles into the steady rhythm of your heartbeat fluttering against his own chest.

“I think,” you whisper, “that we're already late. Let's go get a Christmas tree.”

Half an hour later, he’s still yawning on his way to the stables and wishing he was in the warmth of his bed instead of out here in the biting cold. Joel runs his gloved palms together and fixes his rifle over his shoulder.

You, of course, are fresh-faced and early, securing the saddle over your chestnut mare Princess. Joel pats her snout and inspects your pack where it hangs on the hook nearby.

“Forgot your bandages again.”

You hum and it's music. “You always have extra. Ready to go?”

“Sure you’re not waiting for Tad?”

You gently pat your horse’s back. “Tad is terrified of you, so he's terrified of me. You're ruining my reputation, Miller.”

“That so?” Joel sidles up next to you, pushing your pack into your arms. “You got a complaint you wanna file?”

“None so far,” you say, biting down on your grin, “but there's always time. Better be careful with me.”

“I’m always careful,” Joel says into your ear. “Now go on. We got ground to cover.”

There is a method to Joel Miller’s madness. Tommy knows damn well he needs to pick his battles. But Joel will always win when it comes to you. That is where he simply does not compromise.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you, Tommy.”

His brother’s hands fly up, palms out, already pleading his case. “Joel, listen to me—”

Joel slaps the book against Tommy’s chest. “I don't need to hear your goddamn excuses. She doesn't go with anyone but me.”

“Listen,” says Tommy, tossing the worn leather agenda aside. “We've got people out sick, and they ain't about to go out in this cold. And you need to be with Flynn, ‘cause Christ knows he ain't trained up enough to handle anything up in those woods.”

Joel scoffs. “And Tad’s trained up enough to go with her? Don't give me that shit, Tommy. She goes with me.”

“Joel—”

“We clear?” He squares up to his brother, folding his arms over his chest.

Tommy rolls his eyes at Joel’s posturing but concedes nonetheless. “Fine. I’ll take Flynn.”

“Good.” Joel turns to leave for the stables. He’s stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

“She’s a strong girl,” says Tommy, “and you can't play guard dog forever.”

The snow has settled a bit in the week since the first fall. It's crystallised and hardened underfoot, packed tightly. Icicles dangle from the naked trees on the outskirts of the woods, and your breath mists. The cold penetrates your jeans and the slivers of exposed wrists where your gloves don't quite meet your coat sleeves. Hugging Joel around the middle, your body heat shudders through him.

“Snow like this is always a goddamn problem,” he mutters.

“Covers tracks,” you say.

“That's right. You do listen.”

“Well, when you give me chocolate…”

Joel veers Princess north and brings your gloved palms to his mouth so he can breathe warm air into them. You sigh your thanks, bumping your forehead into his back before returning to your vigilance as lookout. Once you're well out of the way of the city walls, it's easier to get wrapped up in the blistering wind. You bring your bandanna up over your nose and watch Joel do the same as you pass the river. It’s frozen over, not blue but a sheet of miserable white. You mourn the loss of colour as the wind nips at your skin.

“We’ll have more cover when we break through the trees,” says Joel. “Shuffle closer to me.”

You do, sliding your hips forward. Princess’s reins around one fist, he covers your hands with his other, squeezing you intermittently. His body heat helps you settle comfortably into him.

“What was your first Christmas like with Sarah?”

Joel chuckles. “She was one hell of a rowdy kid. Had to fish her out of the tree one time—only turned my back for a goddamn second.”

You smile fondly. “Thought you were gonna have to drag Ellie kicking and screaming out of that snowball fight the other day. She was a minute away from nailing your brother in the face.”

“Hmph. Asshole probably deserved it,” says Joel. “Sarah’d never hurt a fly. She saved spiders; threw ‘em outside instead of killin’ ‘em. But she’d get along with Ellie. Sometimes I look at her and see Sarah.” Joel’s quiet for a moment, guiding Princess past the tree line where the wind begins to penetrate in bursts rather than a constant stream of cold. “Do you think that's wrong?”

You frown. “No. I don't think so. Sometimes, I talk to kids in town that remind me of you. They’ll have a nose or eyes that make me think of you, and I’ll think it’s so nice that we’re all still here, still kicking. You know? There are parts of Sarah in Ellie and there are parts of that tree over there in me. When we love someone, we see them everywhere.”

Joel brings Princess to a halt about a half-mile into the woods; a trail veers off to the east next to you. He loops her reins around the branch of a tree and helps you off the horse. “Y’know,” he says, “you're too damn smart for your own good.”

“You’ll do well to remember that, Miller.” You shove your bandanna back down so it lies limp around your neck. “Now show me this spot.”

Joel failed to warn you that it involved a hike. An honest-to-fuck hike. You and your boots are used to traversing long distances, but you hadn't particularly prepared to trek through the frozen woods in December on a few hours’ sleep, a couple hours’ orgasm, and a hastily-chugged cup of coffee. Not had you prepared for an uphill hike in the brutal cold just to find a fucking Christmas tree.

If you didn't like him so damn much, you know for a fact you'd happily throttle your Joel.

Your Joel, who can't seem to find a tree that's good enough for you. Too tall, he'll say about one, won't fit inside your place. Too skinny, he’ll say about another, you could barely string lights on that.

Your lungs are burning cold. Every breath you inhale feels like swallowing needles. Your chest heaves and your cheeks are numb and you’re drawing up what's left of your resolve to give him a piece of your mind.

“Nah, not this one,” he’s saying, knocking his fist against the trunk of another tree. “It’s practically hollow. Would crumble the second we—”

“Joel, if you could find a tree you do like so we can head back and I can stop freezing to death, that would be so, so appreciated.”

Your teeth chatter the whole time, but you get your message across. Joel stops, his hand splayed against another tree, a smaller one with a decent-sized middle, and turns to face you.

“You cold, baby?”

It's not an innocent question. Around you, the wind whips at the branches of the tallest trees and crackles through the air. But Joel’s voice, slow and gravel-thick, permeates the breeze. It bites deeper, to the gums, latched in your skin. It’s warm.

No—it's hot.

Joel’s hand drops from the tree. His foot crunches the snow under his boot as he takes a step toward you.

Wordlessly, you nod.

“You had lots to say before, baby girl. Thought you wanted your Christmas tree.”

You do. Fuck, you want to go home. You want to curl up in his bed with another cup of coffee and warm yourself up with his body. But Joel is staring at you, eyes hard, rubbing his gloved hand over his mouth, and the alternative now feels much more tempting. “Uh-huh.”

“I think you should see for yourself,” he says, “whether or not you want this one. Go on.”

He's playing some game. He’s ringed with silvery light, a soft and hazy glow backlighting his longer hair, threaded with grey, his body so broad, solid, strong—

There’s none of your Joel in the way he stands. This is the Joel who’s used to following orders. This is the Joel he never lets you truly see: the man who has seen so many more years, seen so much more of the world.

You pass him, hiking farther up the trail, to inspect the tree. It is decent; just taller than you, but thick enough to stay upright, plush with needles. A gentle tug at your scalp, a puff of warm air on your cheek, the dizzying weight of him at your back. He’s twirling a lock of your hair between two gloved fingers.

“You like it?” he says gruffly, his mouth mere inches from your ear. The telltale tingling begins in your core and you swallow hard.

“Joel, I didn’t mean to—”

“Shhh. None of that. I wasn’t thinkin’, sweetheart.” He nips at your earlobe, hands trailing down your body, underneath your heavy coat, sitting warmly on your hips. “Gotta keep my girl nice ‘n’ warm. Got all caught up in my own head, thinkin’ like a carpenter. Let me make it up?”

He loves so selflessly that it can feel bizarrely like greed.

Sometimes, you forget that he’s so much older. That he lived his own way of living for a long time before you came along, that he knows this planet like that back of his hand, that you can’t even begin to name a country or a food or a song that FEDRA didn’t teach you. That you’ve only just begun to experience the terror and the pain that’s engulfed this world for so long.

Joel Miller’s lived a long life. He’s choosing to spend these moments with you, in the cold, dead woods, picking out a Christmas tree. For as long as he’s been waking up with you, his girl, he’s wanted you longer. He’s tired. He’s old. But he’s finally getting to choose.

He’d like to think he deserves a bit of choice after all this time. So, again, he comes back to you, like the last time and the last, spreading his fingers over your body and cupping you, molten gold, in his hands.

Settle down, his brother told him a few years back. You deserve this, Joel. To just… settle down, if you can ever find a way.

You’re his way. He intends to make it clear.

“Need to hear you say yes, baby,” he says, shifting your hair aside, nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck where it’s warm and quiet and smells of the coffee he always makes you.

“Yes,” you whisper, reaching back to fix your hand at the nape of his neck and glue him to you. “Please. Please, Joel.”

He grins, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your throat, the fluttering veins below your jaw. He steals every one of your heartbeats for himself.

“All right,” he says. “We’ll get this one.”

Eyes lidded, you watch over your shoulder as Joel fiddles with the button of your jeans and yanks down your panties with them, now hanging limply off your knees.

“Joel!” you gasp. The cold air bites your thighs, your ass, your poor, slick pussy, as he unwraps his present. Playfully squeezing your ass, he grinds his clothed front against you.

“Yeah, baby?” he mumbles, the smug bastard, pinning you to the tree by his strong hips, your fingers splayed on the trunk. Above you, pine needles flutter down to the ground around you, but the trunk doesn't budge.

It is a good tree.

“‘m cold,” you manage, putty in his hands, under the sweet, slow kisses he's pressing to your jaw.

Your petulant whine rivals the pitch of the wind off the mountain trail. The whistling air shrieks. The hard weight at your back absconds with the warmth it brought you, and he's bending to one knee, packing a not-quite spherical ball of snow in his gloves.

“You’re cold?” It doesn't sound like a question and you're nodding anyway, your cheek scraping the bark of the fir tree. It smells of terpenes and the shingles of bark bleed resin.

“I’m so cold, Daddy.”

He stands, and a huge glove is caging your ribs, a bearded cheek nuzzling your temple. “Let’s see, baby girl. Open wide.”

He brings his other hand between your exposed thighs and, lips prying at the corner of your mouth, cups the feebly-formed snowball against your pussy.

“Daddy,” you gasp, writhing away and grinding into his hand all the same, your mouth open in a long, pitiful cry. Your silvery breath ascends in a long-limbed dance with his own.

The snow melts in moments, rubbed firm into the scorching heat of your body, but you feel the biting cold against your clit as if it were pulled between a set of pearly teeth.

“See?” There’s a cruel tone of mocking in it and you preen like it’s a sweet lullaby. “Nice ‘n’ warm.”

He mouths at the crook of your neck, hot and wet, tongue dipping into the junction between your ear and your jaw, where it’s soft and does not hurt when he bites down.

The once-packed snow, now tepid and formless, drips down your thighs, and the air is so cold it begins to freeze again. Joel hears your helpless moan and takes pity, unbuckling his own jeans just enough to pull out his cock.

But he doesn't slot himself at your needy hole and push slowly inside you the way he did last night. No—he guides the leaking head between your thighs and closes your legs around him, the length of him flush to your cunt.

“Ohhhh, fuck.” You shiver, dropping your forehead against the tree, as Joel lubricates his cock with the melted water of the snowball and begins to fuck himself between the cushions of your thighs. “Joel… oh my God, Daddy—”

He grunts, taking it slow, the wet slide of his cock electrifying, cold and warm all at once, his body caging yours against the tree. With every thrust, the head of his cock catches on your clit, and he gasps in your ear, nibbling your exposed skin. You grasp at his hair, the hand that presses down on your belly, fixing him to you.

“That's it, baby. Goddamn, you feel so good. So fuckin’ soft, just for me, all for Daddy, right, baby girl?”

“Yes, yes! I’m yours, all yours, please…” Your thighs twitch when his cock drags along your clit once more, and it's so good—but it's not enough.

“I know,” groans Joel, lowering your joined hands to your clit and rubbing slow, aching circles over your slick pearl. A strained moan rumbles in your chest and your head grows heavy, falling back on his shoulder. The pleasure, white-hot and insistent, makes you forget all about the cold air savagely biting off chunks of your skin. It's all Joel. “I know, baby girl. That feel good?”

“Mmmm,” you manage, breathless and panting, your exhales swirling up into the air and disappearing in the trees. He keeps your hands joined, working in tandem to pleasure your needy clit. “Mhm, so good. Just like that.”

Joel nods into the crook of your neck, keeping the pressure steady on your clit as he continues to get himself off between your legs. “My pretty girl, so cold,” he rasps, “so needy. Y’know I’d get you anything you wanted.”

You nod vigorously, wetting his cock with your arousal, gloved fingers slick on your pussy. The rough grind of the leather closes an electrical circuit up and down your body. Joel Miller has always known how to make you feel safe, cared-for—sensations you'd never known before Jackson. With him, you're glutted, satiated. With you, he’s begun his long winter’s task of settling down.

“Let go for me, baby,” he says, taking your jaw between his teeth as he feels his stomach tighten, his balls pulling up. “C’mon, baby girl, let me feel it. Get yourself all warm with me.”

He rubs your clit faster until you're seizing, core tensing, your mouth open in a long, low cry that echoes down the trail. Joel talks you through it, good girl, that’s it, I know it’s a lot, honey, just let go, and your fingers flex, trapped in his, as you come until your legs are trembling.

Joel hums like he's satisfied, his hips pummeling into your backside in stuttering thrusts that indicate he's coming, too. “You gonna let me come, baby girl?” he says, baring his teeth against your cheek. “Gonna forgive me?”

“Yesyesyes! Fuck, you’re so good. Please come for me, Daddy, please!”

“Fuck, baby, I will. I will.” And he does—stuffing his cock between your thighs, it begins to pulse beneath your cunt, spilling hot cum all over your legs, your pussy, the tree he’s pinned you against. All the while, he holds you tight, his mouth greedy on you, words coaxed into your ears that aren't meant for another soul.

“You’re mine. All fuckin’ mine.” He's rambling as he comes down, spurts of cum still dribbling from his cock down your thighs. “Goddamn perfect.”

You shiver as the cold begins to seep back in through your skin, even as Joel helps pull your jeans back up over your ass. It's a bit uncomfortable, feeling the slide of his cum on your legs underneath the denim, but you smile anyway, letting him guide you to face him, your foreheads pressing together.

“I like this one,” you tell him. Joel laughs, bringing your mouth to his for another kiss.

“Dude, where the fuck did you get this?”

You look over your shoulder at Ellie, who inspects your miniature figurine, now with a home just inside your foyer.

“Joel gave it to me,” you tell her.

“Whooooa. You think he could make me a dinosaur?”

You turn to Joel, who's nursing some bourbon and hiding a smile in the rim of the glass. “That's a great question, Ellie. What do you think, Joel?”

“C’mon, man, when do I ever ask you for anything?”

Joel chokes into his glass. “Every goddamn day of your life, Ellie.”

“Okay, well, just think about how cool it would be to have a dinosaur. It’s basically the real thing.”

Joel shakes his head. “Yeah, okay. Maybe next year.”

“Ugh. Fine. But don't think I’m not gonna remember.”

Idly rubbing his back, you lean into him and turn your head toward the tree. It sits tall and proud in the corner, strung with a couple coloured lights Maria had found for you, hung with baubles that some of the schoolchildren had been thrilled to make. It's a bit bare in spots, haphazardly decorated, prickly to the touch.

“You like it?” asks Joel, nudging his nose against your temple.

“It's perfect.”

He grins into your cheek. “You think she’ll like the dinosaur?”

Your eyes fall to the smattering of gifts under the tree, tossed into spare crates and bags.

“Ellie, why don't you open first?”

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snow-system-wol · 1 day

Text

S'ria and G'raha are allowed one night after a very long day to try to recover -- and S'ria ends up taking the chance to talk through a bit of it, particularly about Quintus.

Ao3

(tw for discussion of suicide -- alea iacta est aftermath)

As much as S'ria did want the refugees to be moved to camp as soon as possible, he was deeply grateful that he could finally end this day early. It was already late at night, even colder, and with little visibility – trekking with these weak and injured individuals should wait until the sun rose again. They were at least able to leave enough ceruleum to keep the heaters running at full blast again, some food, and could begin administering preliminary medical aid immediately.

S'ria being able to just teleport immediately back to Camp Broken Glass and rest was a blessing, though it was unfortunate the aetheryte would not work to transport the people here without attunement first. He'd return in the morning, of course, to see to their safety.

It'd just been… far too long of a day since arriving at Camp Broken Glass, and he was just hoping to fall into some citizen's abandoned bed and pray that his bones hurt less in the morning.

G'raha had expressed some sort of very soft-hearted guilt at the idea that those had been people's homes – S'ria could understand the sympathy, but it wasn't as though they were doing anything worse than taking shelter (and even doing some repairs.) Should these villagers return safely someday, they would find their homes intact and none the worse for someone having slept there.

S'ria's anticipation towards having a half decent bed instead of sleeping mere ilms above frozen ground was dwarfed by the relief upon an Ishgardian machinist happily informing him that heating in at least half the buildings had been restored. S'ria was not a religious man, but he wanted to thank at least some higher power for that mercy.

G'raha hovered nervously near him as he got food and began to wind down for the night, as outside began to fully empty except for the night watch, and S'ria began to wonder what additional thing may be occupying him. S'ria finally placed it as “uncertainty” and smiled at how simple and mundane of an issue that was compared to everything else today.

“That sleeping arrangement from the tents is still an option, if that's what you're dwelling on.”

G'raha startled. “Wicked white, was it that obvious? I – with the heaters working, I did not wish to assume...”

“The heating will keep me from freezing, but all things considered, I'd like to be warm.”

G'raha finally relaxed his shoulders. “Full glad am I to donate my services as a space heater, then.”

Huddling by the fire was so cozy that S'ria almost didn't want to brave the cold journey to travel inside and wait for the room to warm up. Still, it was necessary.

The building they'd been directed to was a tiny two-room place, with a warm fire burning in the hearth – as well as two twins flopped across a couch and one Thancred occupying the floor. S'ria had more than a light enough step to sneak past, but G'raha luckily managed to avoid disturbing them as well.

The bedroom was (predictably but unfortunately) barely warmed by the fire in the other room. S'ria turned on the ceruleum heater in there immediately, huddling on the floor by it and waiting for the warmth to begin radiating. G'raha sat down next to him, weathering the short wait together.

“I am sorry. While none of it has been firsthand from your mouth, all I've heard sounds as though today has been… very unkind to you.”

S'ria made a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement and leaned into G'raha's shoulder, sitting in silence for some time longer.

Eventually S'ria turned towards him, cupping his face in gloved hands. He tried not to let his body's shivering shake G'raha as well.

“Is it okay for me to…? I-I don't want it to go anywhere, though.”

G'raha closed his eyes in an affectionate blink. “‘Tis always okay – and it does not have to.”

S'ria relaxed and leaned to kiss him, G'raha's lips feeling just slightly warmer than his own. S'ria had always thought he ran a bit cooler than the average person, but it was nice to have proof. It was a pleasant enough way to occupy himself while he waited for the heater to fully kick on, the layers they both still wore a comfortable barrier for S'ria. A part of him worried about this, kissing G'raha somewhat less than chastely with the intent to crawl into bed together after – but he did trust G'raha.

(And besides, should that trust ever be shattered, Thancred was a light sleeper.)

S'ria pulled away and the room was finally warm. He stripped out of his boots and coat and crawled into the bed. The sheets were still cold, but that should hopefully pass quickly. He zoned out for a short while until his reverie was broken by the feel of the bed dipping under G'raha's weight. There was a very brief moment of panic at that sensation. Pulling G'raha against his chest, though, reminding his senses that none of the scents are right for whatever was scaring him – S'ria was able to get past the worst of that feeling.

S'ria was very exhausted, the fear he'd just felt was mostly abated, and the warmth of molding himself to G'raha's back was settling in… and yet, sleep felt malms away. His heartbeat just wouldn't quite settle – not pounding but never reaching calm – and he wondered if G'raha could feel it against his spine. Despite just finally getting warm, he had the twitchiest impulse to go run laps around camp before trying to lie down again. He made an effort to stay still for a while, before G'raha spoke up.

“You are…still awake. Is there aught that I can do?”

S'ria flinched as if he'd been caught. “Am I keeping you up? My mind is just a bit busy.”

“I would not be surprised, today seemed painful for you.”

S'ria chuckled humorlessly. “You'd think it'd be one of the worse things eating at me but, no – it's about Quintus… I want to feel glad that he's dead, but I don't.”

“If you feel the urge to mourn him or simply just do not rejoice in his death – there is nothing wrong with that.”

S'ria stilled and then slowly shook his head, ruffling the back of G'raha's hair with the movement. “That's…not the way I mean it. I fear I may be a much worse person than you are assuming.”

“I very highly doubt any of your thoughts will lead me to that conclusion – but you may speak, if you'd like me to confirm or deny that judgment?”

S'ria's arms tightened around G'raha's chest. He was silent in hesitation for a while, but once the words began to flow, they did so unimpeded.

“I'm not upset that Quintus committed suicide, I'm angry at him for why he did. The things Garlean soldiers do, once the dust has settled and the adrenaline and powertrip is still in their system – that is indignity and humiliation, not whatever he was experiencing.”

S'ria made a conscious effort to relax instead of squeezing G'raha too hard and continued.

“And to receive the barest hint of that which he's inflicted, a far kinder truce than they've ever offered, that's too much? His damn pride couldn't take even that? He spoke of collaring me and dared to make this about dignity?” The words were spat out and S'ria could feel a brief anger ripple through G'raha's frame as S'ria mentioned the collars. It made him feel just the tiniest bit validated. “I need to live with my shame, have remained alive despite the constant memories and reminders and fear, and then–then he thinks it's all well and good to die at the first hint of – !”

S'ria made an uncomfortable wheezy exhale, drastically lowering his voice before he could wake someone. “See? It's bad.”

G'raha brought his arms up to lay his hands over S'ria's, taking some time to consider his response.

“None of that makes you a bad person. It is unfair, all of it – and your thoughts alone can hardly do any harm just from thinking them either.” He gently squeezed S'ria's hands and added, quietly, “and I'm very glad that you're still alive.”

Whatever response G'raha might have received died under the weight of that near-desperate addition. S'ria curled more closely around G'raha's back, shifting to press his face into his neck. The first hitching sob was muffled into fabric, as were the next few, but it was impossible to mistake the sound for anything else.

S'ria wanted to be doing almost anything except starting to cry while cuddled up against G'raha. If he drew away, though, G'raha could look at him in the dim lighting, and that would be too much. If he stayed like this, hiding his face, maybe they could both pretend it wasn't happening.

The worst part was that it felt good despite it all. Much-needed, if nothing else. The bitterness and anger quickly burned off of him for at least a time. Nearly the same moment the tears finally tapered off, S'ria fell into a restful and dreamless sleep.

#snow-system #ffxiv-oc #ffxiv-reactions #s'ria 🌸❄️#writings #hurt comfort? is that the vibes?#this is soft but oof but Soft #S'ria's feelings about Quintus killing himself are both... so complicated and so simple #S'ria just thinks it's hypocritical and unjustified for Quintus to die while S'ria has avoided it

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lxkeee · 2 months

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A rrequest if that okay. I want Lucifer x Angel daughter figure!Reader. Like before he fell, he had a share close bond with a child angel who look up to him like a father figure (she does look up to the other angels like they're uncles and aunt for her too but Lucifer is closer). Like sharing his ideas with ideas, teaching her to fly when she was a still a newborn, helping her with her powers (I vote for ICE POWERS ❄️), doing hobbies together like art. Kinda like Morgan x Tony Stark or like Scott Lang x Cassie

Her personality : Shy, kind, dreamer too but reserve, well-behaved, sensitive, and never like cussing

And aafter he fell in hell with Lilith, she was alone in heaven, growing up to be a well mature messenger of heaven .

While in hell, Lucifer tell the tale of a small angel who could have been her sister

What do you think, is it a good story

IT'S BEEN SO LONG

—PART ONE

pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Adopted! Fem angel! Reader [platonic!]

fandom: Hazbin Hotel

genre: fluff and cute

notes: will be making a male version of this. Someone remind me.

PART TWO | NAVIGATION

“Luci, throw me up again please!” a childlike voice giggles and Lucifer smiles, his angel wings fluttering behind his back. In his hand is a small angel, no older than six, a bright smile on her face, a small halo above her head. Chubby baby cheeks he just wants to squish forever.

The older angel chuckles softly, “Alright, alright... 1, 2, 3, and up we go!” he cheers, throwing the small child up in the air making her giggle loudly, her small wings fluttering behind her back in excitement and Lucifer effortlessly catching her. Soft and gentle chuckles escaping his lips as he places a gentle kiss on the child's forehead making the small girl laugh, a childlike giggle escaping her lips.

She was one of the recently created angels and the older angels are tasked with watching over one child. Lucifer, one of the older angels was tasked to watch over a little one and he was paired up with this sweet child. He needs to guide her and make sure she won't have any trouble living in heaven.

“Luci,Luci!” the small girl calls out to him excitedly in his arms, Lucifer raises an eyebrow and looks down at the smaller angel that's on his arms.

“What is it little [y/n]?” he asks softly, booping her nose with his pinky finger. A small giggle leaving the girl's lips.

“Look! Look! I can do this!” [y/n] says with a small giggle, showing her tiny chubby hands to him and slowly it glowed a pale blue and accidentally shot him a blast of snow... To his face.

Laughter was heard coming out of the smaller girl's lips as Lucifer stood there in shock. Still caught off guard by the snow attack on his beautiful face.

Regardless, he wasn't mad. It wasn't strong yet to hurt him but boy, it was so cold. He was amazed that the child's powers have already developed at this age, he can tell she'll be strong in the future.

Using his hands, he wiped off the snow from his face before chuckling as he looked down at the laughing girl that was in his arms.

“Meany little lady, shooting me with snow.” he says with a small pout making the smaller girl giggle, “'m sorry, I was supposed to make a snowflake...” she murmurs softly and apologetically.

Lucifer smiles softly and ruffles her hair, “It's fine little [y/n]. You didn't mean to.” he says with a smile, making the girl's frown disappear as she returns back to smiling brightly at him. Lucifer eventually helped her in slightly controlling her powers and the girl managed to finally create snowflakes.

Lucifer started calling her 'Little snowflake.'

And [y/n] eventually started calling him dad.

All throughout her life, she spent it underneath her father's wings. She shared the same beliefs as him, as his influence.

She was just 11 years old when her dad fell from grace.

The small child sobbing and cried in Michael's arms, as she watched Lucifer falling down and away from heaven. Lucifer crying silently as he watched his daughter's crying face, her tiny arms reaching out to him but Michael held her back. They don't know when they'll see each other again.

She was later on educated why he was cast out of the heavenly city, she didn't fight or argue with the higher angels, choosing to be obedient while deep down, believing that her father was a good man and still is.

She was taken underneath Gabriel's wing, the older woman guiding her how to use her powers.

But she misses Lucifer, her dad. She misses his warmth and comfort.

She grew up to be one of the most powerful archangels. Both she and Gabriel are God's messengers.

Timeskip. The reader would be somewhere around 27,000 ish years old but looks like in her early twenties.

[Y/n] chokes on her tea as Gabriel announces the news to her, the tea splashing out of the cup. Thankfully not spilling on the important documents that are on the desk in front of her, they were in the messenger office doing paperwork.

“Excuse me? Adam is dead?” [y/n] asked in disbelief and the older woman nodded, “Apparently.” Gabriel says with a shrug.

It has been millennia since then, where she has last seen her father. She grew up without him but his guidance continues to guide her all throughout her life.

She grew up to be a strong and mature woman, has risen up the ranks, a rank below the Seven Virtues.

[Y/n] places down the cup of tea on the table before looking at her mentor, Gabriel.

“And you're telling me because?” [y/n] asked with a blank expression, already fully prepared for a new job to be placed on her shoulders. Gabriel deadpans at her, “Unfortunately the exorcists failed to bring his body back here and we don't have any detailed report on what happened and I want you to go down there to do those things.” Gabriel explained, a hand on her hip.

[Y/n] deadpans back at her, “Do I look like Hu Tao to you or something?” she asked and Gabriel raised an eyebrow at her, confused who this Hu Tao is.

“Who?” Gabriel asked with a confused tone, “Tao.” [y/n] answers seriously.

(10/10 comedy right there)

Gabriel still couldn't understand her, please someone end her misery.

“Anyways, I want you to go down there okay?” Gabriel says sternly, [y/n] sighs very loudly.

“I am not a funeral director nor a press. I am a messenger of God!” [y/n] says a deadpan, her lips pressed in a thin line. Gabriel sighs. How did Lucifer manage this kid?

“Besides, why do we need to bring his body back here? Can't we just leave it there to rot or something? Dude is finally where he belongs.” [y/n] asked flatly with a raised eyebrow, Gabriel sighs once more. She was not amused.

Eventually, [y/n] didn't get to escape the new responsibility as she was pushed into a portal by none other than Gabriel, a portal to hell.

In hell, specifically the pride ring. An angelic portal can be seen opening at the red skies of the city. The portal closing briefly after a figure emerged from it. The phenomenon catching and sparking the interest of the hell dwellers.

[Y/n] sighs softly as she falls, falling backwards making the tip of her wings pushed in front by the pressure of the wind. Closing her eyes for a few moments, she could recall the day Lucifer, her dad fell from grace.

Is this what he felt during that day? She asked herself before opening her eyes, turning her body so she could face the approaching fiery red grounds of hell, extending her wings to its full size, fluttering as she finally stabilized herself and kept herself afloat.

Once she was close to the ground, she straightened her wings so she could dive faster.

Landing on the ground roughly but gracefully, a crater formed underneath her shoes where she landed. Extending her arm in front of her, a golden hologram forming above her palm.Time to look for that damn body.

In the distance, up in a small hill was a hotel called Hazbin Hotel.

TAGLIST:

@adaizel @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @thedarkkitten @selvyyr @froggybich @brithedemonspawn @kottenox @totallymitya @many-fandoms-lover @dou-dou @mezzyb0nb0n @n1chxyaaenthusiast @cherry-4200 @koirb @galaxyj3lly @crystalplays28 @luleck @scootinonyourmom @rory-cakes @mixplara @crescent-z @bitchyzombienacho @kalisha2004 @altervex @nehy019 @napbatata @kouyoumarryme @sxgacxbe @kooidoom @yukichan67 @apple-pop @akiralovespenguins @storydays @kaurochika @amphiroxx @lil-writer-523

#lxkeee answers #lxkeee updates #hazbin hotel #lucifer morningstar x reader #lxkeee hazbin hotel masterlist #lucifer hazbin hotel #lucifer #lucifer morningstar #lucifer magne #hazbin hotel x reader

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piratesfromspace · 4 months

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Just Like Old Times (Price x Reader + poly141)

Pairing: Reader x Price (& Reader x 141) Rated: Mature Word count: 2.9k Summary: A cottage in the snow. A Captain you knew in another life. His rugged and attractive men. Will you let them into your life? Note: This is a fic I wrote for @literatecowboy for the Secret Santa event organized by @bunnyreaper! I tried to make something soft and sweet and it's taking place during the winter, it's not smutty but if you like it, I can make a part 2 with some action 👀

EDIT: we have a PART 2!!

Content: ex-military!fem!reader, mention of food & alcohol, a little bit of angst but it’s mainly fluff, smoking, flirting, praise kink, sharing body heat

MASTERLIST // PART 2

It had been Laswell’s idea.

The team needs to be ready for snow conditions, do whatever you think is best. You have 3 weeks. And I’m talking extreme weather, Price, not a little trip to your local ski resort.

Those had been the instructions Kate had delivered to an unphased Price.

He knew it was only a matter of time before this kind of mission would be required from them. Of course, the men of the 141 have already trained in the cold of England, have seen and tested the winter gear. But Laswell is about to send them somewhere at the very East of Europe, and there is a small difference between surviving winter in London and surviving winter in places where the cold could kill you in minutes if you didn't have the proper equipment or knowledge. Over there, more than usual, tiny mistakes could have big consequences. And Price would rather not have his team freeze to death because of a lack of training.

It’s December and the month is cold already. But it’s nothing compared to the cold Soap feels when he steps out of the helicopter. It’s like Price has picked the coldest place he knows in America. He’s pretty sure they are somewhere in Wyoming or Montana, the only thing he can see are mountains all around them. Spruce and fir trees sprawl in dark patches contrasting with the stark white of the snow covering everything. He crosses the large glade to reach the tree line, as the helicopter takes off, sending the fresh snow flying in every direction. The sky is a light gray, and while the whole scene is stunning - makes his head spin with equal awe and wonder thinking about nature’s force and brutal beauty - it means there is no sun to warm his face.

“Come on soldiers, let’s move, we still have a two-hour hike to reach our B&B!”

“You mean someone will be there to make us breakfast Captain?” Soap chimes, unbridled joy coming through his voice at the prospect of warm home-made meals instead of MREs.

Price has a hard time hiding a smile as he starts walking on the thin winding path, only recognisable for those who know it’s there. ”There will be someone, but I’m not sure they will cook for you, Sergeant.”

Ghost lets out a dry chuckle and follows the steps of their Captain, leaving Soap and Gaz a bit puzzled.

❄️

The sun is already setting when you hear loud voices outside, and soon after a series of knocks on your door. You’re a little stressed when you rise from the floor in front of your fireplace to go open the door. You have agreed to shelter those 4 soldiers for 3 entire weeks only as a favor to Price. An old acquaintance who saved your life, a decade earlier, before you left the field to heal your wounds - body and mind. The large wood cabin had been your home for a few years already. You keep it open for women like you, in need of time away from the world, although it’s pretty rare they come during winter time when the road is blocked by snow. It’s an old building, but well-kept and you made it as cozy as possible, all warm natural tones, plush carpets on dark wood floors, dark gray stones in the bathrooms.

You welcome them with a soft smile, delighting in their surprise - seems like John had not told them he planned on using your cottage as a back-up base for this training expedition. John’s team members are not really what you expected: there is one Scott with a mohawk that seems simultaneously annoyed and happy to be there (he has terrific blue eyes), a young and calm brown-haired Brit (he’s really cute, like movie-star cute), and a behemoth with a literal skull mask (his size alone has your head spinning). You can’t complain about them though, as they are polite and friendly, praising your home - and for sure taking in the comfort and warmth one last time before heading off for days of rudimental camping in the icy woods. You don’t envy them, remembering that one mission you did in Siberia when you were still in active duty, that wasn’t really fun. They settle in their rooms easily and you all share a quick dinner you had cooked - except for the masked giant. The banter goes fast between them, especially after you offer them beers. You like being alone, but you have to admit they are fun to be around.

❄️

The living room is silent and dark, the only light coming from the fireplace across your couch. After dinner, you had trouble finding sleep in your room, so you went to read a bit in front of the fire. But you must have dozed off, because you wake up suddenly, gasping, arms flailing, sitting up immediately. Your frantic eyes, wide open, scan the room for the reason of your awakening, survival instinct going overdrive. Someone is standing in your living room, frozen in place on their way to the front door. It’s the behemoth with the skull mask - the scariest of them all, of course.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” he apologizes. In the darkness of the room, it looks like his jaw is not even moving beneath the dark fabric covering the lower half of his face, like the sound just pours out of him or like he’s speaking directly inside your head. He might actually, you’re not entirely convinced the giant is not some sort of supernatural being John brought back from a cursed battlefield. It’s unnerving to say the least.

“I’m sorry, it- it happens sometimes, I can’t help it, my instinct thought you were a threat…” you blurt out before realizing you may have offended him in some way by implying he’s not worthy of your trust. But instead of scoffing, he lets out a thoughtful hum, lowering his head to look at his boots, almost sheepish.

“Don’t. Don’t apologize.” His voice is low, calm, and at the same time you can feel something else, sadness, maybe disappointment, in what or who, you’re not sure.

“Care for a smoke?” he offers after a beat of silence, nodding to the front door. You don’t smoke anymore, cut the nasty habit years ago. That’s why you don’t know what compels you to accept, but you’re not gonna be able to sleep now, so you follow him outside, grabbing your coat on the way.

You half expect him to smoke through the mask, but he pushes the fabric up enough to reveal a strong jaw covered in light stubble, and plush lips. So he’s human after all. The slick and heavy storm lighter looks ridiculously small in his giant hand when he lights his cigarette. He takes a deep puff before handing it to you.

“Sorry, last one.”

Your fingers graze his, and you bring it to your lips to drag a small puff that immediately makes you cough.

“You ok?” he rasps, humor tilting the corner of his mouth upwards.

“Yeah, it’s been a while, that’s all” you provide. He hums in approval at your explanation.

When you hand him the cigarette, you take a moment to look at his mouth, the way his throat works when he inhales, the way the silver smoke dances between his open lips and fades into the night sky. Something warms your gut when you realize his lips are set just where yours had been a few seconds ago.

You don’t know what’s more attractive, this or the fact he doesn’t try to make conversation for the sake of it. He doesn’t bother to explain why he couldn’t sleep and felt the need to smoke at 3 in the morning. He knows you understand. You are just glad to bask in the soft noises of nature at night - wind in the threes, the hooting of an owl. Fuck, you’ve been alone up there for too long to thirst on John’s colleagues just like this, just a few hours after their arrival. You shake your head, driving out the thought, and take the cigarette again from his fingers.

❄️

The next morning, you wake up pretty early after a short night, only to find one of them - the pretty one, Gaz - is already fixing coffee in your kitchen like he belongs there. You honestly could get used to this. The thin long sleeves of his shirt are doing nothing to conceal the muscles underneath, rolling as he’s going about this mundane task of preparing breakfast. His kind eyes and soft voice when he asks for your choice of eggs makes your heart flutter with a yearning for this kind of intimate domesticity you had never really allowed yourself up until then. It’s kinda concerning, at this rate you’re gonna ask one - all? - of them to stay with you in your cottage instead of going back to whatever missions at the other end of the world.

The rest of the day is not making you change your mind. Price had asked if anything needed their help around the house, and you gave them the tedious task of moving the gigantic pile of wood logs stocked at the other end of your garden closer to the house. It would have taken you days to do it by yourself. But by lunch time, the pile had dwindled to a fifth of what it was thanks to the hard work of the four men. The two younger ones were down to their long-sleeve compression shirts despite the cold, sleeves rolled up their elbows, showing off strong forearms, various scars slashing across the discreet swirls of black ink from old tattoos. Some disappear under the black gloves they are all sporting. Sweat plasters the fabric of their shirts to their shoulders and chests. You can’t deny they look fucking good.

You had accepted Price’s demand without much after-thought, but now you couldn’t be more happy about it, ogling those four rugged men laboring away for you. Despite being older than his men, Price is far from looking bad. He’s built like a brick house, a healthy layer of fat covering muscles he’s been honing for two decades. Dark hair peaks from the open collar of his jacket, your eyes follow the line of the thin garment which is hugging his tapered waist, down to his thick thighs. Fuck. You remember what it was like to be close to him - literally and figuratively. He was your colleague, an equal, a couple years older than you but you shared the same rank. He was a mentor, a friend, a lover - only briefly, after that fateful mission where he saved your life on the field. You parted ways in good spirit after you announced that you wanted to retire, needed to get your head straight before committing to anything. Today, you ask yourself if maybe you could take this back from where you left it.

❄️

You want to train with us today, love? Just like old times.

Price had asked you the question the next morning and you had not been hard to convince. It was more about being able to look at them than to train your body, but they didn’t need to know that. Even if you keep a pretty healthy lifestyle, you can’t compete with elite soldiers, and by the fourth set of push-ups, your arms are giving out. You’re about to stop and reach for your water bottle, when Price notices.

“Come on, you can do five more, I’m sure!”

You groan in response, but you go back in position.

“Breathe, love. Back a little more straight. Elbows in. That’s it… Good.”

Price’s deep voice is calm as he’s encouraging you, gently correcting your posture.

“Don’t look down, chin up. Perfect, you’re doing good.” he goes on, and you cheeks warm under his praise, enough to make you forget the stinging cold. Your whole body is clenched with the effort, you’re letting out little cries with each push-up, your muscles are hurting, but you want nothing more than to make the captain proud.

“Just one more. Done! You did great darling, I’m impressed.”

He helps you get up on shaking legs and when you almost stumble, he secures you upright against his chest, keeps you there for two seconds more than he should for it to not look intentional. When you raise your head, you’re suddenly so close to his face, blue eyes staring down at you with a glint in them you can’t ignore. You reluctantly part before reaching for your water bottle again, playing coy.

The three others are not oblivious to the little game between you and Price. You notice how they exchange knowing looks and little smiles whenever you both interact. Worst, they also seem to pick up on your love for being praised and soon enough they take every excuse to whisper how good your aim still is during target training, or how smart you are for knowing everything about the local fauna during your afternoon hike. It never sounds like they’re mocking you though, never feels like it’s not genuine. It’s not fair, really. At this rate, you don’t know how you’re gonna survive living under the same roof with four attractive men for three entire weeks.

The answer to this torture of yours is revealed quickly. After a few days of acclimatization at your cottage, Price and his men are ready for a long expedition higher in the mountains, with just tents and even a short surviving-in-extreme-cold workshop. They will be gone for at least ten days. You watch them pack their gear and leave your place with a pinch in your heart you couldn’t expect when you first opened your door to them.

❄️

Days go by, pretty uneventful, until your heating system breaks down. It’s not the first time since you’re leaving up there, it’s not that scary but you’ll have to wait a few days for the repair team to come by. In the meantime, you resort to live and sleep in your living room, where the fireplace provides enough heat to keep you warm in the heart of the winter.

They come back the day after that, and when you see their silhouettes emerging from the treeline, just before the sun sets down, you can’t prevent your lips to form a smile so big it hurts your cheeks after a couple minutes standing in the biting cold.

The fondness in Price’s eyes is not dulled by the news your heater is out of order, nor is the relief on Soap’s and Gaz’s faces at the promise of a solid roof and comfy beds after days of rudimentary accommodations.

You all work to prepare some food, and to bring a couple mattresses with all the duvets you can find in front of the fireplace - the only sane solution for you all to sleep without suffering too much from the freezing temperatures. It reminds you of your years of service, when you sometimes had to share a single room with your whole squad - you’re not missing the stress and the harsh living conditions, but you’re definitely missing the camaraderie, the jokes and fits of laughter, the bodies of trusted people around you.

They leave you the couch - gentlemen that they are - the objectively most comfortable option, but once again you can’t find sleep. The piece of furniture is the farthest away from the fire, and you’re on your own, no one next to you to share body heat with you.

It’s only because I’m cold. That’s the poor excuse you give yourself - and the one you whisper to Price - when you step down from your couch to seek a place under the cover next to John. He’s sleeping next to Gaz; Soap and Ghost are sharing the other mattress. You slide yourself against him, immediately melting into his chest, the man radiating heat like it’s his only purpose in life. He doesn’t even have to ask you if it’s okay to hold you against him because you plaster yourself to him and nuzzle against his chest, old habits taking over your sleepy brain. A sense of safety and comfort envelopes you at the same time his warmth does. You forgot how good it felt to be in his embrace, to be tucked against his broad chest, surrounded by his smell - manly, ambery wood, and the rich spice of his cigars.

He chuckles silently as you settle at his side and let out a little content sigh. He missed that too, he won’t say it out loud, but having you like this, soft and pliant in his arms, it makes him wonder how he could be such a fool for not seeking you sooner. He suddenly wants to kiss you, to make you feel good, here and now, no matter the fact his men are sleeping just a few inches from you. Should he care? He’s not blind to the fact you spend a good amount of time leering at them since they’re here, and to the fact they are watching you back. He can not ignore the shameless flirting going on between all of you five actually. John has never really been in a situation like this, doesn’t know where this will lead him - where this could lead them. But he’s ready to follow you. He takes a deep breath before he talks.

“Just like old times?” He asks, voice low, chest vibrating with it under your palm.

Just like old times… The words echo in your head, echo in your heart. He gives you the opportunity to lead him - to lead them - wherever you wish.

“Just like old times.” You repeat back to him, before you capture his lips in a gentle kiss.

PART 2

#cod fanfiction #captain price x reader #polyamory #poly tf141 #poly 141 #price x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x soap #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #call of duty fanfic #winter fics

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