histrylean - Tumblr blog

histrylean · 10 days ago

Note

beatles x reader christmas hcs OR.

RINGO X READER CHRISTMAS FIC.. U CHOOSE....

ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 | ringo starr x reader

𐙚 summary ; you and ringo spend christmas the slow way.

𐙚 note ; bit early... JKJK!! this could’ve been a hallmark movie if hallmark knew what real love was

Christmas morning begins with your face pressed to Ringo’s chest, your nose half-frozen and buried against the worn cotton of his sleep shirt, which smells like too many wash cycles and his skin. Outside the window, snow’s been falling slow since about 2 a.m., dusting the parked cars and naked trees, making the air a hushed thing. You’ve been awake for ten minutes but haven’t moved because his arm is looped tightly around you and the blanket is perfect and you know, just know, that the flat is a refrigerator beyond the edge of the bed.

“’S today Christmas?” he mumbles into your hair. Voice low. Scratchy.

You make a noncommittal sound.

“Suppose we oughta get up, then,” he says, making no movement to do so.

“No,” you whisper.

“Mmh. Right,” he agrees, and shifts only enough to wedge his socked foot between your ankles. You yelp.

“Your feet are ice.”

He grins against your forehead. “They’re festive.”

“Festering.”

“Rude.”

You both settle deeper under the covers. The tiny heater by the wall ticks faintly. Somewhere in the flat, the kettle clicks on, because Ringo’s plugged it into a timer for exactly this reason.

You doze again, curled like spoons, your back snug against the warmth of him, legs tangled beneath the weight of the duvet, one of his hands tucked absently beneath your shirt, palm pressed to your stomach. It’s the kind of soft morning that doesn’t really start, not properly, just tilts lazily from dream to haze and back again, each blink slower than the last. The heater hums gently. Somewhere in the flat, something shifts. You hear it even through the fog, quiet kitchen movement, the subtle clatter of ceramic on countertop, the rhythmic creak of the floorboards under familiar weight.

Then, Ringo’s unmistakable voice, not shouted but projected like he’s aiming to make you smile before you’ve even sat up: “I made you a cup! It’s… well, it’s still in the cup. That’s as far as I got.”

You don't answer right away, just bury your face into the pillow, laughing silently, eyes closed. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. He’s been up maybe fifteen minutes and already the flat smells like marmite toast, and something deeper and richer that’s unmistakably cocoa, thick and real, not powdered mix, with milk and sugar and probably way too much effort for a man who once served you cornflakes in a teacup and called it brunch.

Eventually, you surface, limbs heavy but warm, still pulled from the heat of bed and from him. You emerge into the main room wrapped in one of his old jumpers, the sleeves too long, the neckline worn loose from years of love and laundry. It smells like his cologne faintly, cedar and spice, and your hair is a mess, and you know he loves you more like this than in anything dressed up. Thick socks muffle your steps. The carpet is patchy and the fairy lights on the tree flicker like they’re fighting for life, and the faux fir is very much leaning to the left, propped by a stack of books and a stuffed dog in a Santa hat.

Still, it's beautiful. There’s a crooked red bow tied near the top, the kind that looks like it was attached after three failed attempts and one small tantrum. Underneath are the presents, maybe ten of them. A few look nearly store-wrapped, crisp corners and patterned tape. Others... clearly not. One’s in newspaper, one’s in a Tesco bag, and several seem to be triple-layered like he lost confidence halfway and just kept going. A few have corners ripped, Scotch tape peeled back and re-stuck, one with what might be spaghetti sauce on the ribbon.

Ringo hands you the mug when you enter the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything immediately, just watches. He’s in plaid pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt that says “I’m only talking to my dog today,” despite the fact that he doesn’t have a dog. His hair’s flattened on one side. He’s leaning on the counter with the stance of a man deeply invested in your reaction, like he's just handed you a rare wine or an experimental cocktail instead of a cup of cocoa.

You take a sip. It’s hot, just right, rich, and thick with cream. Something subtle lingers underneath the chocolate, clove? Cardamom?

“Perfect,” you murmur against the rim, and watch as his eyes crinkle with relief.

“I knew it,” he says, self-satisfied but not smug. “Did you taste the nutmeg?”

You pause, then raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t...”

“I thought about adding nutmeg,” he amends, grinning. “And that’s just as festive, innit?”

You roll your eyes and laugh, stepping past him to pull yourself onto the counter stool, cradling the warm mug between your hands like a sleepy squirrel hoarding treasure. He doesn’t suck at making tea, not at all. That was never the issue. In fact, his tea game is solid, old school, leaf and pot, steeped just right. But cocoa is different. Cocoa is deliberate. Cocoa is care. Cocoa is him deciding to make something sweet for you on a morning when your bones were still too heavy for breakfast.

He moves around behind you, brushes his hand over your shoulder as he goes to refill his own cup. There’s toast on a plate nearby, corners slightly burned, buttered to the edges, and spread with marmite like a dare and a love letter all in one.

You take another sip and hum softly, voice low and slow with contentment. “Thoughtful,” you murmur.

Ringo leans on the fridge, watching you again. “You look good in that jumper.”

“You always say that.”

“Yeah, but right now I really mean it.”

“You always really mean it.”

He shrugs, then smiles crookedly. “S’pose I do.”

You glance toward the tree, the blinking lights, the mess of ribbons and wrapping. It’s early still, barely even eight, and yet the room feels full, of smell, of light, of him. You know the presents under that tree are going to be hilarious. Maybe one’s a toothbrush. Maybe one’s a rubber duck. But one of them, you’re sure, will be unexpectedly perfect.

“You really considered nutmeg?” you ask, arching a brow again.

“I opened the jar and everything,” he says solemnly, lifting his mug in a toast. “Then I thought, no. Better not. Don’t want to peak too soon.”

You spend the morning like that, barefoot, bleary-eyed, wrapped in each other and the lingering scent of toast. The living room becomes a nest of crumpled ribbons and half-rolled tape, your legs tangled with his on the rug as you both work through the last of the presents, each reveal punctuated by laughter or disbelief or Ringo shouting “No peeking!” even as he angles his head to peek at yours.

When you get to his gift, he can’t hold it in. He’s already gripping the couch cushion like it’s the edge of a cliff, knuckles pale, leaning in as if he’s watching a penalty shootout.

“It’s the weird ashtray you liked in Camden,” he blurts, right before the wrapping’s halfway off. “Don’t act surprised. I know you.”

You do try not to smile. Bite the inside of your cheek like that’ll keep it in. But it’s impossible. The thing is absurd, vile, really. A fat ceramic frog, green-glazed and bug-eyed, looking like it died mid-smoke break. But your heart swells at the sight of it. It’s exactly what you’d wanted and absolutely nothing you would’ve bought yourself.

Ringo doesn’t say I knew you’d like it. Doesn’t puff up or make a joke to deflect. He just watches your face break into that ridiculous grin, and his own blooms in return, quiet and wide and boyish, like you’ve cracked something ancient open in him.

Your gift to him is less obvious. Just a scarf. But not just a scarf. It’s thick and soft and a shade of purple that’s almost offensive in daylight, the kind of color only ever seen in old ecclesiastical robes or cartoon grapes. But he had mentioned that jumper once, the one he lost years ago, the one he used to call his “church-wine disaster.” You remembered how he’d stroked the frayed cuffs like they were holy. So you hunted down the color, knit for hours while pretending it wasn’t important, dropped stitches and unpicked rows just to get it right.

He pulls it on like it’s sacred, wrapping it twice around his neck with theatrical flair. “Christ. Gonna wear this everywhere. Even in summer. Y’may regret this, y’know.”

“I won’t.”

He squints at you, lips pursed like he’s trying to see through you. “Not even when I’m sweating through it on Brighton pier in August?”

“No.”

“You’re a sick person,” he mutters, tugging the ends dramatically. “I love it.”

After that, the day settles into a different rhythm. Quieter. Softer. You end up on the sofa, the quilt you both love draped over your laps. It smells like cedar and dust and old winters. The TV’s on but low, an ancient black-and-white holiday film with actors speaking in transatlantic accents and too much eyebrow. Ringo doesn’t watch it so much as let it play in the corner of his attention. His real focus is you, arm tucked behind your back, fingers brushing against your hip in gentle rhythm.

He leans in after a while, his nose against your temple, not kissing, just resting there. Breathing you in. He doesn’t make a show of it. He’s not always loud about love. He just is, present, steady, a hand that always finds yours without needing to ask.

“Didn’t really get Christmas as a kid,” he murmurs, words spoken into the collar of your jumper.

You don’t respond. Not yet. You shift a little so he can feel you listening. He goes on, voice smaller now.

“I like it now,” he says, tentative, like if he says it too clearly it’ll vanish. “With you. S’like it makes sense.”

The back of your throat tightens, that quiet ache you only feel when someone is being unguarded, utterly unvarnished, and somehow trusting you with it.

You kiss him. No reason. No cue. Just the simple overflow of affection. His lips are warm, and he still tastes faintly of cocoa and marmite and everything this morning meant. He kisses back lazily, contentedly, his hand cupping your jaw.

Later, you make some attempt at cooking together. Ringo insists on mashing potatoes with a wooden spoon that should be arrested for war crimes against starch. He ignores every logical utensil you hand him.

“Masher’s broken,” he says, stubborn.

“It’s not.”

“I’m just saying. Spoons are timeless.”

You catch him sneaking a brussels sprout into his mouth like a guilty raccoon. You flick water at him from the sink and he clutches his chest, staggering like he’s been struck.

“Don’t hit me, I’m tender!”

“Good,” you smirk, “that means the sprouts are done.”

He wails theatrically, lamenting his injuries. You throw a towel at his face.

Dinner happens somehow. Maybe not everything’s hot at the same time, maybe the stuffing’s a bit dry, but it doesn’t matter. You eat by candlelight, not out of romance, but because the overhead bulb died two days ago and neither of you remembered to fix it. The candles flicker. The plates clink. The cider pops open and Ringo tries to pour yours with a flourish that ends in the tablecloth soaking.

After dinner, coats go on over pyjamas. Gloves on, scarf wound twice. The snow’s deeper now, blanketing the street in hush. Everything is muffled and luminous under streetlamp glow. You walk hand-in-hand to the corner shop, even though you know it’s probably shut. It is. You don’t care.

The cold bites your cheeks. Your noses pink. Ringo kisses yours over and over like it’s some kind of spell to keep it warm.

“Better now?” he whispers, breath fogging between you.

“Almost.”

He kisses it again, then your forehead, then your chin for good measure. “Now?”

You nod, grinning, breath fogging up between you both in the cold, but it’s not just the kiss or the snow or the way his gloved fingers are squeezing yours in these little excited pulses, it’s the fact that you’re out here at all. Just you two, walking slow, no purpose, no plans.

“Looks like someone dusted the world with icing sugar,” Ringo mutters, squinting up at the sky like he’s trying to catch a flake on his lashes.

You tip your head back too, the flakes landing on your cheeks, your nose, melting slow as you walk. Everything glows. Everything softens. It’s like the city’s a snow globe you’re both trapped in, except it’s not a trap. It’s a choice. A moment you stepped into deliberately.

You pass a car half-buried on the corner, someone’s snowman already slumping sideways on the verge, scarf trailing off like it’s making a break for it. Ringo pauses, kicks at the snowbank beside it.

“Race you,” he says, and you don’t have time to ask what the hell he means before he’s already taken off down the pavement, boots skidding, arms flailing, nearly wiping out on the first patch of ice.

You shout after him, laughing, chasing his footprints. He’s not fast, he’s running like he’s never done it in his life, knees too high and scarf trailing like a kite, but he’s gleeful. He disappears around the corner and you catch up to find him doubled over, hands on his knees, wheezing with laughter.

“I won,” he pants.

“You tripped over your own feet.”

“I still won.”

You press your forehead to his chest and he wraps his arms around you, your laughter turning breathless in the cold.

When you get back, the quiet wraps around you again, as warm as any blanket. The coats come off. The socks peel off slowly. You make tea this time. He doesn’t argue. You bring it to the sofa where he’s already sunk into the cushions like a man returning to his natural habitat.

“You’re my favorite,” he mumbles as you settle in beside him, sleep thick in his voice, eyes blinking slow. “Of all the things I’ve got.”

You don’t answer. You just press your forehead to his again and pull the quilt up over your shoulders. The tree lights blink against the wall in uneven rhythm. The room smells like cider and sugar and faint pine plastic. You can hear the snow still falling outside, a soft shush against the windowpanes.

It’s Christmas. You’re home.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince, @emz2092

80 notes · View notes

histrylean · 1 month ago

Text

Still Awake | Donny Donowitz x m!reader

anonymous asked: Donny with I'm just gonna bash your fucking brain in ( really just this scene...)

summary: Donny knows you all too well for your own good.

tws: war mentions, swearing

support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy

The stars outside gleamed a silver smile along with a laughing moon while the winds whistled a fine old tune; a tune that had been heard by every ancestor, yet had been drowned out by the sounds of gunfire, mortars, shelling, tanks, and death. Hurricanes and blizzards, no storm could be heard over the raging melody of death and destruction.

Yet, within the tunnel, a bear slept soundly beside the man he loved.

His arm thrown over his man, Donny was snoring softly, the soft breaths warm against the back of your cold neck; his leather jacket draped over you, and one of Wicki's thicker jackets beneath it, yet you were still so cold.

The broken tunnels did very little in terms of warmth, cold droplets of semi solid water trickling between the cracked stones; Donny didn't seem to notice as he slept in his vest, his trousers pulled down to his ankles after he complained that he was too warm, his baseball bat right in front of you.

Some of the names had become smudged, yet still legible and still readable; every name a different story.

Every name a different loved one who should have been safe. A loved one who should be alive. You looked away, not wanting to be reminded of what would be waiting for you if they were to capture you; you knew all too well, but you had to keep fighting. You couldn't give up, couldn't let them kill more people as the hours went on; it was like Aldo said - the only good Nazi is a fucking dead Nazi.

The best thing any of you could do for anyone was to kill every single one of those fuckers, the more painful the death, the better.

Make them pay.

Make them regret every word, every action.

Make sure they could never hurt anyone again.

Make them rue the day they ever put that fucking uniform on; some of them lied, said they were only following orders and didn't actually believe in what they were doing, but they were fucking liars.

The lot of them, every little fucker who so much as nodded along to speeches, deserved to die.

Donny tried to pull you closer, a grumble coming from the back of his throat as he realised that he couldn't, and he sighed as he dared to open one eye; gently, he tapped your stomach with his rough fingers, and moved to sit up.

Looking down at you, he frowned. "You're still awake?"

You nodded, moving onto your back as you sighed, shivers running through your body as you missed his warmth. "Too cold to sleep."

He tutted, daring to straddle your waist for a moment before he gently lowered his body onto yours, trying not to laugh when he felt you chuckle at the sudden contacts. "This any better?"

"You becoming a blanket?" You teased, daring to bring a hand up to card through his hair as he rested his head on your chest. His dark black hair was somehow still soft, like it had been washed just that morning, even if you knew that he had not gotten the chance to wash it for weeks.

Then again, neither did you. It was difficult to find bodies of water that were big enough to bathe in, even more difficult to come by certain basics like towels, spare clothes, soap; everything was hard to find and to come by when you weren't even allowed to be in contact with other allied regiments unless it was an emergency.

Basterds were on their own, and that meant no rations, which meant that everything you could find, you had to salvage however much you could; you would have killed for a bar of soap. You couldn't blame Donny for smelling a bit, given the circumstances, and you were certain that you did as well; but his hair was still so soft, you wondered if he secretly had a bar of soap to himself that he wasn't sharing.

Probably not.

His stubble was getting thicker by the day, it would only be a few weeks until he had a proper beard; you could remember the days when he would despise himself for not shaving every day. Those days were long gone; now, even being able to trim facial hair was a fucking luxury and a half. As much as you knew you were doing the right thing by killing every Nazi you could find, you did wonder if the other allied regiments were better off; they were given rations, they had places to wash.

"You're doing it again," Donny murmured.

"What?"

"You're doing that thing where you wonder if the other guys are better off," he mumbled against your skin, "y'know, that thing where you think that maybe you'd be better off under some fuckin' McAuliffe cunt's command."

"You really know me that well?" You asked, tugging at his hair gently to force him to look at you.

Donny smiled as he nodded, raising his brows slightly. "Course I do... gonna make you my husband one day, I'd like to think I fuckin' know you as much as I do myself."

"Fair point," you hummed, letting go of his hair so that you could put your arms behind your head. "You really think we're gonna live that long, though?"

He didn't want to say it, didn't want to admit that he really wasn't sure if he thought about it for more than a few moments; but he also knew that if he didn't say it, then you would be worse off. He couldn't have that.

"Yeah, of fuckin' course I do! Anyone who tells me otherwise, I'll tell them straight: I'm gonna bash your fucking brains in."

"What if I tell you otherwise?"

"You won't," he glared at you with big brown eyes as he shook his head.

You licked your lips as you swallowed thickly. "What if I do?"

"Then," he moved up, straddling your waist again as he planted his hands on the cold stones either side of your head, a smile coming to his face. "I guess I'm gonna have to fuckin' kiss you til you think differently."

As he looked at you, he couldn't help but to smile; he could remember you being so small that people had to carry you. He used to be so small that he couldn't kick a football when he was younger. He couldn't remember you both getting so much older; you had become so handsome. He got so tall. Wasn't it just yesterday that you were playing in the street outside his father's barbershop?

So many years together, one season following the next like it was nothing; everything you had done together growing up, had brought you both here. He still loved you as much as he did when you were both small; he still loved you as much as he did when you were stupid children. So natural a fit, it was no shock that, if you were to make it out of the war alive, there would be a canopy to stand beneath just around the corner.

"I love you," he breathed out.

"I know," you mumbled, gently cupping his cheek. "I don't wanna lose you."

Leaning into your touch, Donny shook his head. "I don't wanna lose you, either."

"Tell me we're gonna make it out alive. Tell me it's all gonna be alright."

88 notes · View notes