#and a hint of evergreen trees

[shiggybrainr0t]

the symbol of peace just saw my panties?!

warnings: one creep, reader wears panties but is otherwise gn, not really edited very well probably

you’re standing in your underwear and a big T-shirt outside you’re apartment building in the middle of December with every single other person that lives in the building.

you were rudely awakened by the fire alarm going off in the building loudly, and after jumping five feet in the air and realizing that no, you didn’t dream it, you jump up to start pulling on pants. soon after however, you heard the night clerk pounding on doors telling everyone to evacuate quickly because there was a fire on the fifth floor. you got tangled in the left leg, and were hopping around before the clerk got to your door. his urgency spurred you on out the door, barely having the mind to put your slippers on as you fled. so here you are, pantless, shifting from leg to leg in what you used to deem your pajamas.

your arms are crossed tightly across your chest, trying to keep what little modesty you had left. it seems you weren’t doing that great of a job as the creepy guy from 4B was leering at you openly.

you were just about to yell at him-what were you going to say? probably a slur of curse words and how you could kick his ass even in your panties- when a thick blanket was suddenly draped around you and large, scarred hands where on your shoulders.

turning around quickly, you were shocked to see the symbol of peace smiling down at you gently. deku was clad in his hero suit, and was big. like, really big. you had only ever seen him on tv, so you never realized just how big he actually was. you don’t know how the boy you watched on television during his first sports festival became this hunk of a man. he also smelled really good. kind of woodsy, and all cozy home baked cookies in a cute tin.

as you were gawking at him, mouth hanging open a little, deku shifted a little to block you from the 4B creep’s line of sight. he pulled the blanket tighter around your shoulders, and gave you another smile as he patted your shoulders gently.

“are you alright?”

his voice was smooth, and soft. not too deep but not high pitched either. you think to yourself that anyone would be calmed whenever he was talking to them. you always had thought he had a nice voice whenever you heard him in the television, but in person it was even smoother and softer. blinking out of your stupor, you nod quickly, before gasping in horror. the rising hero deku, who on the fast track at becoming number one, has seen you in your panties.

deku smiles at you again (that famous blinding smile that before tonight you had never seen in person) before stating “don’t be embarrassed! this isn’t the first time I’ve seen someone in their underwear.”

you can only blink at him in surprise, and it dawns on him what his statement implies as he looks at your expression.

“no- wait not like that, well I mean-“

he stops his stumbling whenever you have to muffle your laughter. his grin turns shy, and he brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck.

“um, anyway. the fire was just a toaster, everything is fine. you should be able to go back inside soon.”

your relief is palpable, and deku gives you one last grin before waving at you and walking away. you watch as he approaches 4B creep, the guy’s eyes widening drastically at whatever look deku gives him, and swings his arm around 4B’s shoulders and starts waking towards the edge of the crowd. deku turns to look at you one last time over his shoulder, giving you a wink.

[rachalixie]

what stray kids' kisses taste like.

bang chan's kisses taste like warm tobacco and vanilla, a hint of sweetness and smoky sultry ash combining to make a swirl of campfire smoke in your mouth. his teeth are as sharp as the flames as they sink into your bottom lip, soothed by his marshmallow tongue. 

lee minho's kisses taste like rum soaked cherries, indulgent and sweet with a hint of bitterness that cuts through like colors on a stained glass window. he stains you completely red, the traces of his mouth against your skin leaving marks that can’t be covered up even if you intended to. 

seo changbin's kisses taste like sweet moscato, sweet with hints of grapefruit and raspberries, bubbly as he drifts along your tongue. he leaves you giggling against him, drunk off of the feeling of his lips on yours, kissing you again and again and again until you’re panting for more sips of him.

hwang hyunjin's kisses taste like roses and strawberries, floral and sweet and almost too much but never overwhelming. his lips feel like dainty petals against yours paired with the sweetest strawberry of his tongue dancing as fluidly as his limbs when he’s performing. 

han jisung's kisses taste like cinnamon and cloves, a bit of cardamom peeking through, as complex as a steaming mug of chai on a cold night. the comfort of your coziest socks as the heat from his mouth transfers to yours, making you melt against him like frost dripping off of evergreen trees. 

lee felix's kisses taste like lemon cupcakes, sweetness accompanied by the sharp bite of citrus that meld together in perfect harmony. creamy delicate swipes of tongue against lemon bites with his teeth that leave your head spinning. 

kim seungmin's kisses taste like crumbly butter biscuits, melting on your tongue, complemented by crystalized pieces of salt that cut through the sweetness with sharp fervor. the spice of freshly cracked black pepper comes through late, a welcome surprise hitting your head and making your eyes flutter shut. 

yang jeongin's kisses taste like salty ocean water, he hits your palette and makes you crave more and more. there’s sunshine dancing against your teeth as they meet, his tongue soothing the ache with the scent of sea breeze and fresh coconuts flowing through the air around you.

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twelve —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: *hint at sexual assault. please be cautious!* death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Dense mud packs onto the soles of your boots. You shift the near-empty backpack on your shoulder and slip back a few sweat-laced strands of hair from your face. Never before were you a morning person. In fact, you used to purposely sign up for all the afternoon lectures in uni. But now, time and sunlight are precious. You set out to search for the camp this morning with only a sliver of sunrise as your companion. 

You hope Ghost was right.

He suspected that their camp would be situated in a location with easy access to the military base, river, and nearby village so they could draw resources from all three. So that's the direction you're headed in, squinting at nearby landmarks and interstate signs to help guide you. It's quite the hike: grueling, hilly terrain and moist air that you can't distinguish from your own sweat. You've stepped over some interesting sights along the way. An old forest station with CAMP FEES and LEAVE NO TRACE posters still outside. A small skeleton tucked in a bush with only child-sized rainboots left on it. For a moment, you saw Joseph. Toddling around in the puddles outside your sister’s house. You had to force yourself not to look at it for too long; you wiped your eyes, gritted your teeth, and prayed it had been painless for them.

You come to a narrow creek, crossing over a stone bridge that spits you out among dense evergreens. Finally, a faint column of smoke comes into view just above the forest's canopy. 

That must be it.

It's certainly a sign, so you suck in a shaky breath, ignore the rush of blood in your veins, and do what Ghost suggested: climb a tree to get a better look. 

There was a time not long ago when climbing trees was your only means of survival. This time, it feels so much easier to hoist yourself up and grip the bark as your muscles flex to steady yourself on a high branch. Luckily, there wasn't much to bring in the backpack Ghost gave you. For now, there's nothing in it other than your lighter, a roll of gauze, that romance book, and a small piece of dry wood. 

Squinting your gaze, you make out the silhouette of triangular, orange tents and uneven fencing. Definitely a camp. The fence doesn't appear barbed from here, but it's at least a meter higher than the one that surrounds Ghost's place. You're close enough to see a few blue crates in the center that look like those ones from the military medical site. Is that what they're keeping the supplies in? It seems like the only obvious place based on the layout.

What you really want to know is how many people. Soundlessly, you shift your boots to get a different angle and finally spot movement coming out of one of the tents— a sizeable male wearing a leather jacket.

One.

Is that it?

Your eyes stay locked on the stranger for a minute, tracking his movement as he cooks something over the fire. He gives out a long whistle, the high-pitched sound audible even from where you stand nestled in the treetop. Panic seizes your breath: did he somehow see you and is alerting someone else? But no— you're much too far, and his eyes never shifted in your direction. 

Instead, there's more movement, the faint shuffling of paws on the ground, and then a large dog appears at the man's side. He tosses something in front of it, what must be a slab of meat, because the dog is quick to start chowing down with the enthusiasm of a mindless Grey.

"Fuck me," you whisper to yourself, fingertips splintering against the bark. "Couldn't prepare me for that, huh, Ghost?"

The plan he instructed you with is fairly simple and straightforward— you'll just have to stick to it and be mindful of the additional obstacle. You've survived much worse even just a few days ago, so with that in mind, you slip down the column of the tree and purposefully backtrack your steps, gaining a bit more distance between you and the camp. 

You need a ruse, something to draw the man out for enough time for you to grab the ammo. Ghost told you to bring the book to help get a fire started since the twigs and leaves here are damp after the storm, so you find a good spot and start ripping out the pages, crumpling them up. You arrange the piece of wood and paper in such a way that you have a minute or two before the smoke really gets going. You pull out your lighter from the pocket of your jeans, start it, and then head back towards the camp, this time going around so you can approach it from the side. 

You keep your footsteps as light as possible while moving quickly. Once the man notices the smoke and leaves to scout it out, your timer starts. There's another whistle followed by a gravelly bark from the dog. You sneak close to the side of the fence, pausing behind a tree, just when you catch a glance of the stranger shucking a rifle over his shoulder and exiting out the gate. He shuts it behind him with a series of padlocks.

It won't take him long to find the source of the smoke and realize it's nothing, so you muster all your strength and begin climbing the fence, rusty links digging into your palms. You try to do it without making much noise, but the moment you jump down with a thud, the dog's head snaps in your direction. It begins to growl, flashing thick canines under its bloodied muzzle. You break out into a sprint toward the blue crates, but it crosses the span of the camp in mere seconds, clamping down on your forearm before you can even begin to look for the ammo.

The pain is white hot. You silently cry out as the dog shakes its head, tearing through the fabric of your coat and the tissue of your muscle. 

"Fuck."

You tug at your arm, but it doesn't let go. Remembering the piece of squirrel meat you brought as a snack, you dig it from your pocket and wag it in front of the dog's face.

"Come on, let go— please."

It's enough to catch his attention, the bite on your arm loosening once you toss the meat a few meters away and he follows it. You clutch your arm with a ragged breath, ignoring the blood and pain that radiates from it.

The squirrel can only distract him for so long, so you urgently flip open the lid of the first crate. Staring back at you is a mix of what appears to be severed limbs and various animal parts. The pungent smell floods up your nose. You instantly clamp the lid back down, fighting the urge to vomit, and move on to the next one. 

Ammo.

Plenty of it.

Without a second to waste, you sling off the backpack and begin stuffing it with the cardboard packs of cartridges, hoping it's the kind Ghost needs. When you tug the zipper closed, a decision pops into your brain: to keep looking through the other crates for medicine, or to get the fuck out of there. You take a millisecond too long to think about it because suddenly, you notice the dog from the corner of your eye, done with the meat and moving towards you with another throaty growl. 

You tug the heavy backpack on and make a beeline for the closest side of the fence. In the panic, you fail to notice the creak of the gate opening until you are stumbling into a hard chest. A strong hand wraps around your bicep.

Fuck.

He's back.

This is it, then.

"Rocky— sit."

The growling behind you ceases. A whole new fear washes over you as you blink up at a rugged face. The stranger uses his other hand to take hold of your jaw, hard enough that your teeth are forced to grind together. In a heart-pounding silence, he inspects you, bluntly looking you up and down. Then, he takes out a knife and presses it to your neck. Your throat bobs against the icy metal. 

"Fucking bitch," he mutters. "Start a fire to try and steal from me?"

"N-no!" Your brain reels for a lie. "No— I don't know what you're talking about. I-I came here looking for help."

"Try a better lie, sweetheart." 

"I mean it," you stammer, holding onto the fact that he hasn't slit your throat yet. Raw desperation speaks for you. "My… my friends are gone. Someone attacked us a few days ago and killed them. I've been alone ever since and then I found your camp, hoping someone would be here to help me."

This seems to grab his attention. Dark eyes narrow. It's now you realize he's quite young, maybe in his thirties.

"Someone attacked you, huh? Who?"

"Um, some guy. I don't know. I didn't get a good look at him because he was… he was wearing a mask."

"So some guy killed all your friends by himself?" When you slowly nod, cringing at your terrible story, his jaw flexes. "I've lost my friends, too. They went out on a hunting trip three days ago and haven't come back."

"Oh. I'm sorry," you lie, swallowing. "So you… so you believe me?"

"I believe your friends are dead. I don't believe you didn't start that fire to distract me."

His words make your heart race. Again, his eyes trail down, and the knife follows, lowering to the floral fabric of your blouse and popping open one of the buttons. 

"Take it off," he suddenly orders. 

"W-what?"

"The shirt. Take it off. Let me decide if I should kill you or keep you."

You put on a brave face and do as he says, not given much room to protest despite the sick feeling that twists your gut. You drop the backpack, half-inclined to swing it at him, but then what? There is no way you can take him in a fight, especially since he's armed with a knife and gun, and there is no Grey this time to help you out. 

The coat falls to the ground at your feet before you shakily undo the buttons of your blouse, wincing from the movement of your bitten arm. Crisp air greets your bare skin. Your nipples tighten uncomfortably and his gaze darts right to them, intensifying the churn in your stomach. 

He gives a low whistle. "Lucky me."

Your nails jab crescents into the palms of your hands. "Am I… am I worth keeping, then?"

He bears a sick, toothy smile. "Pretty for a thief," he confirms. "Haven't seen someone so pretty in a few years now." His eyes flash to your arm and he reaches to grab it, making you choke. "Hell, Rocky. You gave her an ugly bite, though. Might get in the way of what I have in mind for you."

Half-naked, you are dragged by the arm to one of the blue crates. He slips the knife into his pocket in order to search through it. You notice pills, liquids, and a single glass bottle of what appears to be clear alcohol, which he pulls out along with a cloth.

"Tell me your name," he says, forcing you to sit down on a folding chair. "Before I enjoy you.”

You tell him quietly.

With an eery gentleness, he sits across from you and dabs the bite with some alcohol. The sting is immeasurable, but you roll your eyes to the sky and silence yourself. The feel of his cold, calloused fingers makes you imagine how they would feel touching other parts of your body. You need to think of something quick before he gets the chance to. He still has the gun on him, and the only knife you brought is in the jacket on the ground. Your eyes flicker to the bottle, which he set down by the leg of his chair.

"What's your name?" you ask, looking back at him.

"Leo."

"So, um, Leo— how did you end up here?"

"I was a new recruit in the military when shit started five years ago," he explains idly, fixated on your arm. "Stationed at the base nearby."

"I saw medical tents there," you mutter, clearing your throat. "Did you help with that?"

He chuckles. "For all of a day until some buddies and I decided to take what we could and leave. There was no point in trying to help people. We figured that out pretty quick."

"Oh. Were those the buddies who haven't come back?" 

He nods. "I'm sure they're dead by now. But, one good thing is," he reaches for the gauze, sniggering lowly, "—that means I don't have to share you."

As he begins to unwrap the gauze, you decide he’s distracted enough. It happens in one, urgent motion. You clasp the alcohol bottle by the neck, arch it above his head, and thrust it down. The glass shatters, drenching him with alcohol and blood as a piece slices open his forehead. He immediately drops the gauze and hisses in pain.

"Bitch," he snarls. "I'm going to fucking kill you!"

He leaps to his feet and pulls the knife out again. As he does, you dig the lighter out of your pocket and ignite a flame, bringing it to his soaked shoulder. Instantly, fire flashes up his neck and face in hues of orange and blue, even catching your wet fingertips. It renders him blind as he howls and tries to swing at you, but you immediately run away, rubbing your burned hand against your jeans.

You grab your discarded clothes and backpack before flinging open the crate with medicine in it. You begin stuffing as many bottles into the side pockets of the backpack as you can, breathing frantically.

"I'm going to kill you," he seethes again, and the firing of a bullet somewhere behind you means he must have grabbed his rifle.

But he still can't see, his eyes blistered by the flames that continue to lick his face. Each shot bites the ground as you heave the backpack on your shoulders and take off toward the fence.

The dog barks, louder and louder as he runs after you. You don't look back. You wad your clothes up in a ball and toss them over the fence to free up your hands. Then, you quickly climb up, the muscles in your face tightly clenched as the full backpack weighs you down. 

You're too slow. 

Teeth grab hold of your boot.

You're pulled back down, hands spreading out to break the fall. 

In the mud, you wrestle beneath a snarling jaw, dirtying up your hair and exposed skin. This time, you don't hesitate to hurt the animal. You grab your lighter again and thrust the flame into the dog's eye, making it leap back with a pained squeal. 

Freed, you scramble back up the fence.

You leap down. Grab your clothes

You can still hear him shouting as you run away, weaving through the thicket of trees. Only when the sound fades do you stop to catch your breath, sinking down against a tree and putting your clothes back on.

"Here."

A moan of relief escapes your lips the moment you shrug off the backpack and drop it at Ghost's feet. He crouches down, swearing under his breath when he unzips it and the ammo practically spills out. He grabs a few boxes, opening and inspecting them under the violet light of sunset. The walk back took you hours longer. You were almost tempted to sleep in a tree for the night, but the threat of Greys or any more strangers kept you going. 

"Good. This is good, Twix." There's a hint of disbelief in his voice before he clears it away, zipping the backpack up. He stands and offers a lengthy look from your head to your boots. "How many were there?"

"Just one."

"Just one," he repeats, brow lifting. "And you look this roughed up. What happened?"

"There was a dog," you say dully, lifting your arm up to show him the bitemark in your sleeve. Beneath it, you already bandaged the wound, not wanting to draw attention to its scent. “Just a dog and a cannibal rapist guy."

"What?"

You shake your head. "Nothing. I'm going to sleep."

Before you can take a step past him, warm fingers latch onto your wrist. So warm. You inhale a breath, a burn of moisture lining your eyes.

“Please don’t touch me," you request in a harsher whisper than you intend.

You can no longer see the details of him with how bleary your eyes are, but you feel his touch disappear.

"What happened?" he asks again, voice lowering.

"Nothing. I got your ammo and I handled it. When can we leave?"

There is a pause before he responds as if he is debating whether or not to drop the subject. For now, he does.

"Tomorrow, hopefully."

"Good." The back of your hand smooths over your eyes. "Don't— don't forget our deal, Ghost. Promise me."

A firm nod. "I don't back out on my word."

As if to prove it, he shucks off the jacket and hands it over.

[goldsainz]

# CL16 — SOUS LES ÉTOILES DE NOËL !

MASTERLIST !

SERIES MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ charles organizes a romantic christmas getaway at his place in the alps.

002. WARNINGS !

✯ none, just fluff!

003. NOTE !

✯ how are you guys liking the christmas specials so far? i’d love to receive some feedback 🫶

word count : 1,8k

The season had been long and grueling, with endless laps around the world’s most challenging circuits. For Charles, the weight of the year lingered in his weary smile as he sent the invitation—a simple text: "Come spend Christmas with me. I have a place in the Alps. Quiet, just us."

The idea of escaping to a secluded chalet in the French Alps was irresistible. You imagined the snowy peaks, the crackle of a fire, and Charles—a vision of peace and charm, unburdened by the pressures of his career. When you finally arrived, the chalet did not disappoint.

Nestled among towering pines, the wooden chalet exudes warmth. Its dark timber beams were wrapped in twinkling lights, and a wreath adorned the door. Inside, a crackling fire bathed the room in golden light. The air smelled faintly of pine and cinnamon, as if Christmas itself had taken residence here.

“Bienvenue,” he said softly when you arrived at the chalet, the rich timbre of his accent making the word feel like a gift in itself.

The interior of the chalet was just as inviting as its perfect exterior. Wood-paneled walls gave the space a rustic charm, while the roaring fire in the stone hearth filled the room with both warmth and a golden glow. Cozy blankets were draped over a large, overstuffed sofa, their textures inviting and soft. Pillows in festive patterns—reds, greens, and snowy whites—added a touch of holiday cheer. In the corner, a Christmas tree stood proudly, its branches adorned with ornaments that shimmered in the firelight.

The decorations were simple but thoughtful: glass baubles, wooden stars, and tiny bells that jingled faintly when you brushed past them. At the base, a few gifts wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine added an understated charm.

“It’s perfect,” you said, your voice filled with quiet awe as you took it all in.

“Not yet,” Charles replied, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “We haven’t had dinner.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and easy. The world outside felt distant, muffled by the thick snow blanketing the mountains and the quiet that seemed to envelop the chalet. The air inside was tinged with the faintest hints of cinnamon and pine, as if Christmas itself had settled into the space. It was as if time had slowed, and for the first time in months, you felt your shoulders relax, your worries dissipating in the tranquil beauty of it all.

The warmth of the chalet wrapped around you both like a cocoon, and Charles seemed just as content. His energy was different here—softer, more at ease. He moved through the space as though he belonged to it, a calm confidence replacing the quick, determined strides you were so used to seeing.

When dinner was ready, it was as comforting as the setting. Charles had gone all out, planning a classic réveillon feast; a French tradition that celebrated indulgence and connection. The dining table, positioned near a wide window overlooking the snowy expanse, was set simply but elegantly. A garland of evergreen branches ran down the center, interspersed with pinecones and tiny white candles in glass holders.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Charles teased, pouring you a glass of red wine, the deep ruby liquid catching the flickering candlelight.

“Starving,” you replied, watching the way the firelight danced in his green eyes.

The first course was a decadent foie gras served with freshly baked baguette, the crust still warm. Charles explained the best way to enjoy it, his enthusiasm lighting up his features.

Next came the main courses—a perfectly roasted goose surrounded by caramelized chestnuts, a creamy potato gratin with just the right amount of nutmeg, and a small mountain of buttered green beans. Each dish was presented with care, and Charles took the time to describe them, his voice filled with pride.

“And these cheeses,” he said as he placed a platter between you, “are from a local farm. The chèvre is incredible, but this one”—he pointed to a soft, creamy wheel—“is my favorite.”

Course after course appeared, each one somehow better than the last. Between bites, you watched Charles relax further, the lines of exhaustion on his face softening with each sip of wine, each shared laugh. He leaned back in his chair at times, his grin easy and boyish as he recounted a particularly funny story from his last race.

By the time dessert arrived—a slightly lopsided bûche de Noël—he was clearly pleased with himself.

“I helped with this one,” he said proudly as he set the chocolate yule log in the center of the table.

“Helped?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, your tone skeptical but amused.

“Well,” he admitted, his cheeks turning pink in the firelight, “I might’ve just added the powdered sugar. But still.”

You couldn’t stop smiling as you took a bite, the rich chocolate melting on your tongue. “It’s perfect,” you said, savoring the sweetness.

“Not as perfect as this,” he murmured, his gaze softening as it lingered on you.

The moment held a quiet intensity, the kind that didn’t need words to fill the silence. His subtle grin carried something deeper—gratitude, affection, and perhaps a touch of awe. The world outside the chalet seemed to fade away entirely, leaving only the two of you surrounded by warmth, laughter, and the gentle glow of Christmas.  

When the clock neared midnight, Charles stood and reached out his hand. “Come with me,” he said, his tone filled with an almost childlike excitement. “I want to show you something.”  

Intrigued, you slid your hand into his, the comforting strength of his grasp sending a rush of warmth through you. Together, you bundled into your coats and scarves, the wool soft against your skin. His touch lingered as he adjusted your scarf, his fingertips brushing your cheek. “There,” he said, satisfied, as if preparing you for a magical adventure.  

The crisp night air embraced you as you stepped outside. Snowflakes fell gently, blanketing the world in white, their crystalline forms catching the faint light of the chalet behind you. The snow crunched beneath your boots with each step, the sound punctuating the serene quiet of the forest.  

Charles led the way through the towering pines, their branches heavy with snow and glistening faintly under the starlight. The air was so still that every sound—the gentle whisper of the wind, the distant hoot of an owl, and the soft rhythm of his steps beside you—felt amplified, like a symphony composed solely for the two of you.  

The clearing appeared almost suddenly, a wide expanse where the snow glittered like diamonds under the infinite sky. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, their brilliance untouched by city lights, casting a serene glow over the scene.  

“It’s beautiful,” you said, your voice barely a whisper, as if anything louder would disturb the sanctity of the moment.  

“It is,” Charles replied, though his eyes weren’t on the stars. They were fixed on you.  

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small. The item, a leather notebook with edges slightly worn from use, looked humble yet meaningful in his hands. He extended it toward you, his expression a mixture of shyness and vulnerability, as though he were baring a part of his soul.  

“What’s this?” you asked softly, running your fingers over the smooth, weathered cover before flipping it open.  

“It’s something I’ve been working on,” he said, his voice a touch unsteady but sincere.  

The first page held a date, neatly written, and a memory. As you flipped through the notebook, you realized it was filled with moments—days spent laughing over coffee, late nights talking about your dreams, even quiet instances when words weren’t necessary. Each entry was written in his handwriting, neat yet personal, and infused with a warmth that made your chest ache.  

“I started writing these when I realized how much they mattered to me,” Charles said, his gaze dropping momentarily to the snow at his feet. “Sometimes, it’s hard to say everything out loud. But I didn’t want to forget any of it. And I wanted you to know.”  

Your breath hitched as you turned the pages, each one revealing more of his heart, his care, his love. The notebook wasn’t just a collection of memories; it was a testament to how deeply he cherished your time together.  

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered, your voice trembling under the weight of emotion.  

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied, stepping closer until his warmth enveloped you. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing gently against your cheeks. The snow fell softly around him, clinging to his dark hair and framing his face in a way that made him seem ethereal under the starlight. His green eyes held yours, filled with an intensity that stole the words from your lips.  

When he kissed you, it was unhurried and tender, as if time itself had paused to witness the moment. The world around you disappeared, leaving only the sensation of his lips on yours, the warmth of his touch, and the silent promise written in the stars above.  

As he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His breath mingled with yours in the cold air, and his voice, thick with emotion, broke the silence. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered, his words carrying the weight of everything he felt.  

“Merry Christmas,” you replied, your heart so full it felt as if it might burst.  

Hand in hand, you made your way back to the chalet, the notebook clutched tightly to your chest. The fire had dwindled into glowing embers, casting a soft, golden light across the room as you both settled onto the sofa. Charles wrapped a blanket around you, his arm pulling you close to his side.  

The notebook rested in your lap, its pages heavy with meaning. You ran your fingers over the edges, the leather warm from your touch. “I can’t believe you did this,” you said, your voice soft with wonder.  

He tilted his head to look at you, his expression unguarded and tender. “I wanted you to know how much you mean to me. Even when I’m far away, you’re always here,” he said, his hand brushing lightly over your heart.  

As the flames crackled softly and the scent of pine lingered in the air, you leaned into his embrace, feeling a peace you hadn’t known in months. The world beyond the mountains felt distant, insignificant compared to the quiet perfection of this moment.  

The snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the chalet in serenity. Under the stars of Christmas, everything felt complete, as though the universe itself had conspired to create this magical evening just for the two of you.

[hoe4hotchner]

Tree | [AH] - Christmas 2024

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Gn!Reader | WC: 1.4k | CW: Fluff, christmas based

A/N: Fun fact: As far as I know the most popular type of tree to get for Christmas in Denmark is Norway spruce — at least that's what I've always grown up with, what i've noticed being advertised and also what I see in stores.

Read other parts here: Snow | Tree | Presents | Christmas

The air was crisp, carrying the mingling scents of pine and fresh snow as you stepped out of the car. Jack was out first, bounding into the thick powder, his boots kicking up a flurry of white flakes that sparkled in the morning sunlight. His laughter echoed across the open space, a bright contrast to the peace of the tree farm. You pulled your coat tighter, smiling to yourself as Aaron came around the car, shutting the trunk with a decisive thud.

In one hand, he hoisted the red-handled saw over his shoulder like a suburban lumberjack about to conquer the wilderness — he was just missing a beard, then he could almost convince you of his "new" trade. The sight made you grin. There was something endearingly out of place about your usually suit-clad boyfriend preparing to chop down a Christmas tree. His smile mirrored yours, soft and almost imperceptible, though his tone when he spoke carried a trace of his usual pragmatism.

“I still don’t see why we couldn’t have just bought a pre-cut tree,” he muttered, his breath warming the air between you. The words sounded like a complaint, but the amused glint in his eyes told a different story.

“Because,” you replied, tugging your scarf up against the wind, “this is about the experience. And look at him.” You gestured toward Jack, who was spinning in a circle a few feet ahead, gathering snow to throw in the air — you weren't sure if the boy had seen this much snow all at once before — his cheeks flushed a rosy pink from the cold. Snow clung to his boots as he pointed toward the distant rows of trees.

“This is going to be awesome!” Jack declared, his excitement bubbling over in every word. He stopped spinning to face you both, his eyes wide with wonder. “Can we get the biggest tree they have?”

Aaron raised an eyebrow. His gaze shifted to you, and you could almost hear the gears turning in his head as he mentally calculated ceiling heights, tree stand dimensions, and the inevitable cleanup of pine needles. His expression was pure dad-mode efficiency, and it made you laugh under your breath.

“Let’s see what we can find first,” you said, rescuing him from the need to outright veto Jack’s grand plan. Jack didn’t seem to notice, already darting toward the nearest row of evergreens, his boots crunching loudly in the snow.

Aaron let out a soft sigh beside you, though there was no mistaking the affection in it. He adjusted his grip on the saw and fell into step beside you, his free hand brushing against yours. “Biggest tree they have,” he murmured, shaking his head with a hint of exasperation. “Of course.” He should've known his own son better than to think smaller could do.

And yet, as you glanced at him, you caught the same spark of excitement you felt — hidden beneath the practicality, but it was there, all the same.

“We’ll see,” you interjected quickly, reaching for Aaron’s free hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s just find the right one.”

The tree farm stretched before you like something out of a holiday postcard, its rows of evergreens dusted with frost glittering under the soft winter sun. The landscape felt alive despite the chill, families scattered across the snowy expanse, their laughter ringing out as they debated over their perfect Christmas trees — Just like you and your family. Little ones toddled through the snow while parents snapped photos, their voices blending with the distant sound of carols playing softly over a set of outdoor speakers.

Jack was a blur of motion, darting between the rows of trees like an enthusiastic scout on a mission. He paused every few feet to call out his latest discovery, each declaration more animated than the last.

“This one’s too short!”

“This one’s crooked!”

“This one looks perfect, but… wait! There’s a hole in it!”

You exchanged a glance with Aaron, his amused smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His steady pace beside you was a welcome contrast to Jack’s frenetic energy, his gloved hand brushing against yours occasionally as you navigated the uneven snow.

Jack’s voice continued to ring out, his commentary growing more dramatic with each tree he passed. “Who would leave this tree here? It’s a disgrace to Christmas!” he shouted, throwing his arms in the air at one particularly lopsided pine.

Aaron chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “He certainly has opinions.”

“He gets it from you,” you teased, earning a raised eyebrow from him in mock protest.

After what felt like an endless parade of trees — all either too short, too sparse, or too “totally wrong” according to Jack — he finally came to a halt in front of a towering Fraser fir. Snow clung to its perfectly even branches, giving it an almost magical glow.

“This is the one,” Jack announced with absolute certainty, his eyes wide as he gazed up at it. His breath formed little puffs of vapor as he stood there in awe.

You stepped closer, tilting your head back to take it all in. “It’s… big,” you said, your voice tinged with both admiration and concern.

Aaron came to a stop beside you, hands in his pockets as he looked the tree up and down. “Big,” he echoed.

Jack turned to you both, his excitement radiating like the twinkling lights he no doubt envisioned on the branches. “Can we get it? Please?”

Aaron let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind that only a dad could master, but the smile that followed gave him away. “Well,” he said, glancing at you, “it’s definitely a contender.”

Jack grinned. “We can make it fit!”

“Famous last words,” you quipped, nudging Aaron in the side. Aaron sighed, resigned but smiling, and handed you the saw. “Your idea. You chop it down.”

You blinked at him. “Me? I thought this was a team effort!”

Jack clapped his gloved hands together. “You and Dad can take turns! I’ll supervise.”

Aaron crouched down beside the trunk of the tree, inspecting it. “You hold the saw steady,” he instructed, “and I’ll take over if you can’t get through it.”

“Deal,” you muttered, feeling more determined than you probably should have been. You weren't even sure that you could get it through the door, but somehow you would have to try, none of you wanted to dampen Jack's mood — worst case you could always put it up in the garden and get a smaller one for the house.

The first few pulls of the saw were wobbly and uneven, eliciting a snort from Aaron and an encouraging cheer from Jack. “You’re doing great!” Jack shouted, though his tone implied more enthusiasm than belief.

Aaron eventually stepped in, his sleeves rolled up over his jacket as he took over. The two of you worked in shifts, trading the saw back and forth while Jack offered increasingly unhelpful advice like, “Cut faster!” and “You missed a spot!”

When the tree finally began to tip, Jack let out a cheer, and Aaron braced the trunk, easing it down into the snow with surprising grace.

“See?” he said, his breath visible in the cold air. “Easy.”

You groaned, brushing snow from your gloves. “I’ll feel ‘easy’ in my arms tomorrow, that’s for sure.”

Jack threw himself on top of the fallen tree dramatically. “It’s perfect! Can we take it home now?”

Aaron glanced at you, his face soft with amusement. “Let’s get it loaded up.”

The drive home was filled with Jack’s excited chatter about decorating the tree, the car smelling like fresh pine.

It had been a nightmare to get it inside, and even then, it didn't fit. Somehow you'd managed to convince Jack to allow you to cut about 1/2 ft of the bottom to even be able to fit the star on top.

Later that night, as the three of you wrestled with tangled lights and uneven ornaments, you couldn’t help but smile.

It was a lot of work for a tree, but as you looked at Jack’s delighted face and Aaron’s warm, contented expression, you decided it was worth every second.

“Next year,” Aaron murmured to you later, as you both watched Jack fall asleep by the twinkling lights, “maybe we just buy a pre-cut one.”

You laughed softly and leaned into his side. “Not a chance.”

[merxcywritesthings]

𝐴 𝐷𝑖𝑎𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑛𝑜𝑤

A/N: This thought popped into my head after my boyfriend and I looked at engagement rings today, which has been stuck in my head for hours. I couldn’t help but write about the Poly!Task Force 141 with reader! I hope you guys enjoy.

Word Count: 2.0k

The glow of twinkling holiday lights reflected off the fresh blanket of snow that adorned the base of the towering evergreens, casting a magical ambiance over the secluded safehouse. Each individual light shimmered like a tiny star, illuminating the crisp winter night in soft, ethereal hues. The snow itself was pristine, untouched except for the faintest traces of footprints leading to the door—evidence of a quiet arrival long past. The air carried a profound stillness, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind through the branches, rustling the needles and adding a gentle symphony to the night. Somewhere in the distance, a lone owl hooted, its call echoing through the frosted forest.

The safehouse stood as a haven amid the wilderness, its rustic exterior adorned with garlands of fresh pine interwoven with crimson ribbons. Candles glimmered in the windows, their flickering light hinting at the warmth and life within. The faint scent of burning wood mingled with the crisp winter air, creating an intoxicating blend that spoke of comfort and serenity. Icicles clung to the edges of the roof, catching the light and refracting it into shimmering rainbows that danced with every movement of the breeze. It was a scene that could have been lifted from the pages of a holiday storybook, yet it carried an unspoken depth that transcended its picturesque beauty.

Inside, the transformation was even more profound. The safehouse had always been a place of refuge, a temporary escape from the chaos of missions and battles. But tonight, it had taken on a life of its own. Strings of lights were draped along the walls, their soft glow accentuating the wooden beams and casting a golden hue over the room. The fireplace roared with life, its flames crackling and sending warmth radiating outward. Stockings hung from the mantle, their cheerful designs a stark contrast to the tactical gear piled neatly in the corner. The scent of freshly baked cookies mingled with the aroma of mulled cider simmering on the stove, creating a sensory tapestry that was both comforting and nostalgic.

The living room was the heart of the transformation. A towering evergreen stood proudly in one corner, its branches laden with ornaments that glimmered in the firelight. Each decoration told a story—a tiny snow globe with a miniature reindeer inside, a silver bell with a faintly tarnished surface, a handmade star crafted from bits of foil. Some were new additions, while others bore the marks of years gone by, their significance known only to those who had placed them there. At the very top of the tree, a delicate angel gazed down with an expression of serene joy, her gown of spun glass catching the light and casting it into tiny prisms that danced across the walls.

Seated on the couch, Price leaned back with a rare look of contentment softening his features. A glass of whisky rested in his hand, and his usual air of command was replaced by a quiet ease. Nearby, Soap and Gaz were engaged in a lighthearted argument over a board game, their laughter filling the space and blending seamlessly with the holiday music playing softly in the background. Ghost sat in the armchair closest to the fire, his posture relaxed in a way that spoke of trust and comfort, though his sharp eyes never strayed far from the room's occupants. It was a moment of peace, fleeting but cherished—a sanctuary carved out of the tumult of their lives.

In the kitchen, you stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up and hair loosely tied back, focused intently on icing a batch of sugar cookies. The cookies were shaped like snowflakes, their intricate patterns reflecting the meticulous care you had put into each one. Flour dusted your hands and cheeks, a testament to the hours you had spent baking and decorating. The task was both a labor of love and a welcome distraction, a way to channel your energy into something tangible and uplifting. The soft strains of holiday music played from a small speaker, the familiar melodies weaving through the air and adding to the sense of warmth and tranquility.

As you set the icing bag down to stretch your arms, a sudden thought struck you: the boys had been unusually quiet for some time. Normally, the living room was alive with their banter—Soap’s boisterous laughter, Gaz’s sharp wit, Ghost’s dry humor, and Price’s steady interjections to maintain some semblance of order. Yet now, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the faint hum of the music.

“They’re up to something,” you murmured with a wry smile, wiping your hands on a dish towel. 

Curiosity piqued, you left the cookies behind and made your way toward the living room. The warmth of the fire grew stronger with each step, and the soft glow of the holiday lights beckoned you forward. As you approached, the faint sound of muffled movement gave you pause. “Alright, what are you lot scheming this time?” you called out playfully, your voice tinged with amusement.

No response.

Frowning, you stepped into the doorway—and froze.

The living room, bathed in the soft glow of the fire and twinkling holiday lights, held a scene you could never have anticipated. Soap, Gaz, and Ghost stood shoulder to shoulder near the tree, each holding a bouquet of vibrant red roses. Their expressions were a mix of anticipation and warmth, with just a hint of nervousness. At the center of it all was Price, standing tall and steady. In his hands was a small velvet box, its lid open to reveal a breathtaking ring.

The diamond was unlike anything you’d ever seen. It was an oval cut, its elongated shape elegantly reflecting the firelight in brilliant, kaleidoscopic flashes. The facets seemed to dance, catching every flicker of the room's glow and transforming it into a dazzling display of light. The band was crafted from platinum, its silvery sheen perfectly complementing the icy brilliance of the stone. Intricate filigree detailing traced along the band, forming delicate, swirling patterns reminiscent of frost on a windowpane. Small, round-cut diamonds were embedded into the filigree, creating a subtle shimmer that added depth and elegance without overpowering the centerpiece stone.

Your breath caught as your gaze fixed on the ring, its beauty almost surreal. It looked like it had been plucked straight from the winter landscape outside, its design as timeless and magical as the snow-covered world beyond the windows.  

Soap broke the silence, stepping forward with a grin that was unusually tender. “We were tryin’ to be subtle, lass,” he teased, his Scottish brogue soft. “Guess we’re not as sneaky as we thought.”  

Gaz chuckled, stepping up next to him. “We figured if we’re going to do this, we had to make it perfect. You deserve nothing less.”  

Ghost shifted slightly, his gloved hands gripping the bouquet tightly. “You’ve been through hell with us,” he murmured, his voice low and rough with emotion. “You stayed. That means everything.”  

Finally, Price’s deep, steady voice filled the space. “You’ve given us something we never thought we’d have,” he said, his blue eyes holding yours with a quiet intensity. “A home. A family. Let us show you how much that means—for the rest of our lives.”  

Your heart thundered in your chest, tears welling in your eyes as the weight of their words sank in. This wasn’t just a proposal—it was a declaration of love, unity, and the unbreakable bond you shared.  

“Marry us, bonnie,” Soap said, his grin widening but his voice soft, almost hesitant.  

Tears welled in your eyes as you took in the sight of them—these men who had faced countless dangers and carried the weight of the world on their shoulders—now offering their hearts to you. Your hands trembled, and a sob escaped your lips as the overwhelming emotion spilled over.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice thick with tears. Then louder, with uncontainable joy, “Yes! Yes, of course, I’ll marry you!”

The tension broke as the room erupted with cheers. Soap was the first to reach you, scooping you up into a giddy embrace that made you laugh through your tears. Gaz followed, his hug warm and grounding, while Ghost’s was firm but careful, his whispered “Thank you” carrying a weight that made your chest ache with affection. Price took your hand last, sliding the ring onto your finger with reverent care before pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.  

As you looked at the ring now adorning your finger, you marveled at how perfectly it captured the moment—brilliant, timeless, and irreplaceably yours. It wasn’t just a symbol of love; it was a promise, forged from the resilience, loyalty, and devotion that bound you all together.  

⋆⁺₊❅.

That night, the safehouse was filled with more than holiday cheer—it was filled with love. The bond you shared with these men was unshakable, a light brighter than any star on the tree. And as you curled up on the couch with them later, watching the fire crackle and feeling the weight of the ring on your finger, you realized this wasn’t just a safehouse. It was home. 

The celebration carried on well into the evening, the living room transformed into a space filled with laughter, warmth, and joy. Soap’s mischievous streak resurfaced as he popped open a bottle of champagne, the cork flying across the room with a loud “pop” that made Gaz duck and Ghost roll his eyes. “Watch it, MacTavish,” Ghost muttered, though there was no mistaking the faint smirk beneath his balaclava.

“Just addin’ some excitement to the night!” Soap retorted with a wink, pouring champagne into mismatched glasses that had been hastily gathered from the kitchen. Price handed you a glass first, his hand brushing yours in a gesture that felt both grounding and electric.

“To family,” he said, raising his glass. His voice was steady, but the emotion behind his words was unmistakable. The others joined in, their glasses clinking together in a toast that felt as binding as any vow.

The night unfolded in a tapestry of moments that would linger in your memory forever. Gaz took over the music, switching the playlist to a mix of holiday classics and upbeat tracks that had everyone—even Ghost—tapping their feet. At one point, Soap coaxed you into an impromptu dance, spinning you around the room until you were both breathless with laughter. Ghost, ever the observer, eventually joined in, his stiff movements earning playful jeers from Soap and Gaz but making you smile all the same.

Price, true to his nature, stayed close, watching over the group with a quiet contentment that seemed to soften his usual commanding presence. When the dancing subsided, he pulled you aside, wrapping a warm blanket around your shoulders and guiding you to the couch by the fire. The others followed, settling in around you like pieces of a puzzle falling perfectly into place.

Stories flowed freely, each tale punctuated by laughter and the occasional teasing remark. They spoke of missions gone awry, moments of triumph, and the camaraderie that had carried them through the darkest times. When it was your turn, you shared memories of quieter moments—the times you’d patched them up after missions, the late-night conversations over cups of tea, the small gestures that had solidified your bond.

As the night stretched on, the safehouse seemed to embrace you all in its warmth. The fire crackled softly, casting a golden glow over the room, and the snow continued to fall outside, muffling the world beyond. You leaned against Price, your head resting on his shoulder, while Soap and Gaz argued over the last cookie, their voices a playful counterpoint to the serenity of the moment. Ghost sat nearby, his posture relaxed, though his sharp eyes never strayed far from the group.

The ring on your finger caught the firelight, its brilliance a constant reminder of the promise you had made. It was more than a symbol; it was a testament to the love, trust, and unwavering loyalty that bound you to these men. Together, you had faced the unthinkable and emerged stronger, your bond forged in the crucible of shared trials and triumphs.

That night, as you drifted to sleep surrounded by the people who meant the world to you, a profound sense of belonging settled over you. This was more than a safehouse, more than a temporary refuge. It was your home, your family, and your future—a future as bright and enduring as the diamond on your finger.

𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑑𝑜 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑧𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘 𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑑𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢! ❄️

𝐷𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑏𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑦 @𝑜𝑚𝑖-𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑐𝑒𝑠

[phonkscribes]

The Greatest Gift of All.

In which you spend Christmas with Vergil and his family. A Christmas special that was totally on time by the way. That I totally didn't forget about. By the way.

The Devil May Cry was more lively than it had been for a time, the jukebox buzzed with life as Dante was in the kitchen, preparing a bowl of eggnog for the handful of people that would be dropping in for the holiday. He could always count on Morrison being here, his old drinking buddy when no one else was around and ‘work’ was slow, and he knew that Lady and Trish would be here as always, but this year would be different. This year, he’d get to spend Christmas with his brother and his old friend. After what felt like ages, they’d finally be out of hell, cleaning up the mess that Vergil had made trying to achieve true strength. Ha, because that had only gone so well the first time. 

Still, he was glad to have him back. Not as an enemy, or a fragment, but him as he wholly was. It felt so wrong to go so long without his twin, back when they were kids, he thought it’d always just be the two of them against the world… but that was so long ago. He’d grown and the hole left in his wake had already began to mend itself when he met the kid, and when he had Lady and Trish there at his side. He wasn’t ever truly alone, not like Vergil was, which makes him all too happy to be able to share the holiday with his twin and the only other person in his life. The little reader from the library by their old home. 

He could hear Vergil coming down the stairs as he stirred the bowl with the ladle, admiring his handy work as he added just one more shot of whisky to the mixture. With the building’s heater and AC, they’d have to keep warm somehow, right? It’s not like Patty was coming over anyway, so they didn’t have to worry much about that. Dante could feel his brother’s eyes on the back of his head as he turned to regard him, a lazy grin on his face as he saw him in a stuffy sweater that looked itchy as hell. The cable knit had a snowman on the front, with a carrot nose and a black tophat to boot. 

On the way back from the store, there was a hat, he would’ve liked to have nabbed for Mr. Grinch over here but Vergil shot him down before he could even suggest they get it. 

“Look who decided to leave his room. I’m finishing up on the drinks over here, but uh, why don’t you go and start decorating out in the front? It’d certainly be a lot of help, Lady and Trish just brought the tree in”, he points to the lobby with his eyes as he decides to pour himself a cup of eggnog. As a little reward for his ‘hard work’. 

“Hmph… very well”, he mused, “Do you know when our little reader will get here?”, he asked, folding his arms at his brother while he flicked his eyes over to the box set up near the door where the evergreen had been propped up with the stand. The tinsel and ornaments were sticking out of the box, and he didn’t doubt that it’d be a hard task for himself… if not tedious. 

“Yeah- they called not too long ago, they should be getting here now”, he hummed as he sipped the creamy concoction, savoring the slight burn from the alcohol as it slid down. 

As if right on cue, the door opens, and you make your grand entrance. You’ve met up with Vergil before this, by mere coincidence at that. He wasn’t looking for you, and you weren’t looking for him, so sure that it was the last you’d ever see of him again. But even so, that didn’t stop him from seeing the smallest hints and traces of you in everything. The way the sun set reminded him of you, of the time before he had taken the yamato and cleaved a path for himself. That you survived his armageddon brought him more peace than he could know, as he found you amongst the survivors trying to rebuild in Redgrave City. 

It felt like you hadn’t changed, like you had remained just as you were on the day that you said goodbye for what could’ve been the last time. You didn’t like it then, telling him that it was just a farewell, that you’d see him again. And you did, the both of you did. But unlike then, he was more mature now. Your nose was red from the cold, your cheeks and even your fingertips held a rosy hue as he appraised you. A part of him disliked how faulty the systems of the agency were, having figured that his businessman brother would have the sense to maintain it better. The cold didn’t bother him much, but he saw the way you pulled your own sweater closer to your form, trying to stay warm. 

Vergil laments that there isn’t more that he could do for you or to offer, and he isn’t sure if you’d like to drink Dante’s eggnog… 

“Hey! You made it in one piece, want some eggnog?”, he heard his brother pipe up as he moved to step into the lobby from the kitchen. 

“Oh- I’m alright, thanks. I think I’ll definitely have some later though”, you pipe up as you step closer to his twin. Vergil’s gaze still sits on you as you regard him with a similar look, your eyes drifting down to his chest, staring at the little snowman on his front before you bring your eyes back up. 

“You’re staring”, your voice is a quiet reminder as he chuckles softly. 

“I’m just… appreciating your outfit. I’m glad you decided to come, as ridiculous as this is…”, he admits, pinching the cheek of the snowman. It’s itchy, but he doesn’t mind it much. 

“Well, that’s sort of the point of an ugly sweater party, isn’t it?”, you ask, wearing that half smile he had missed so much since he had last seen you. It’s a comforting sight. 

You had worn a green sweater, with a fuzzy Rudolph pattern, with the red nose being made of sequins instead of being sewn on. You look off to the side to see the barren tree and its lack of any ornaments or other decorations on it. 

“You haven’t started on the tree yet?”, you ask with a quirk of your brows. 

“Ah… on that you’d have my brother to blame”, Vergil gestured to Dante who held his hands up with a shrug. It’s not that he had been putting it off(it was), but there were just other, more pressing matters to attend to. That’s all!

Of course, they were lucky to get a tree at all on the day of Christmas. If it weren’t for the girls, they’d be treeless(and homeless), just another debt he owed to his partners in crime. More so to Lady than Trish. You don’t linger for very long as you step over to the box and reach in to take something out, a silver ball and some other things. There were lights, and a star, but that was just about it. Nothing to put on the mantle, or even stockings for that matter. You had the feeling that Christmas wasn’t too celebrated within their family, which was fine of course, and made sense. 

Demons celebrating Christ? That had to be a sin. 

“Come on, let’s get started then”, you gave him a little nudge with your elbow, and so Vergil started to get a move on setting up the tree with you. 

At least he’d have some company while he did this. The two of you could even start to catch up some more. Your exchanges ever since he had resurfaced along with his brother from the pits of hell have been brief, given due to his search of work and your own obligations, but you still had trouble getting over the fact that your childhood friend was an aspiring tyrant not that long ago, for his own reasons. The apotheosis of his plans had very nearly cost the world… he wonders how you can bring yourself to consort with such a villain now. The part of himself he cast aside would have a better idea than he, for even now, he struggles. As he loses himself to his thoughts, something tugs at his fingertips. 

“Are you just going to stand there?”, you had asked him. 

“I was merely giving you a head start”, he tactfully replies. 

You seem to know what you’re doing, picking to space out the ornaments as he looks to the box to pick out his own handful of orbs to toss around on the tree. The last time he remembers doing this was when he was still a child. Dante would hurry along with the tinsel, running along the tree while their mother lifted him higher and higher. Then she’d lift him next to put the star on top. He expects to feel pain at the memories rising, a gentle sting, but he can only hear your voice. 

“When I was younger, this was my favorite part of the holiday, not the gifts but decorating the tree. Everyone pitches in, and when we finished we’d have a hot cocoa together”, you mused, warmth blooming in your face as you recalled the memory with fondness. 

You seemed so bright to him then, like you had when you two were leaving the library, and the sun hid just behind your taller frame. Standing next to you, he placed a hooked ball on a branch just above your own, your ornaments not without a pair as you hooked them up together. The silence filled in after your thought, a moment passing before it’s broken again, this time by him. 

“… that sounds… nice. Perhaps after this then, you and I could indulge in a nice drink”, he offered, not without some awkwardness. 

“I’d like that”, you nod, eyes carefully glancing up to his from where you stood. 

So much time had passed, but you still see him. You can still see that haughty little boy that had so stubbornly tried to remove you from his spot in the library all those years ago. The awkwardness in his voice, the way he shifts around, almost as if uncertain with what to do with himself… it’s all so cute. He can try to be stoic, to appear indifferent or detached, but he’s teeming with excitement even if he doesn’t allow himself to say so. You give him a half smile, and he returns it, a smirk stretching across his face as he turns to collect more ornaments from the box. 

“What are you thinking about?”, he asks, pulling the tinsel from the loose bunch it had been haphazardly thrown in. Without care, he could add as he started to untangle it from its fixed position in the worn cardboard. 

“… I don’t know about everything that’s happened in the time we’ve been a part, but I’m glad we got to meet again”, you tell him as you stare at his back. 

Most couldn’t say the same. 

“I was sure you’d have forgotten about me”, he admits, turning back to face you, his arms spread out to get ready to wrap the length of the decoration around the evergreen tree. 

“There isn’t a thing about you that’s forgettable. I don’t know anyone with hair so… silver, or with a face so…”, you take a moment to gesture, “You”, that is to say… “I promised that I wouldn’t forget you”

And you had the mind to call him little prince, just as you had always thought to when you were kids. Vergil laughs, but it’s a soft little ha, like you’d expect. You take one end of the tinsel from his hands as he starts to walk around the tree to dress it up. He could surmise the same thing about you. Every part of you was so memorable to him, carrying a little bit of you with him as he went about his life. Unknowingly dancing along to the same tune of that villain from the book you had been reading then. For all the blood shed and the violence wrought, the greatest gift he had received from it all was the chance to be here before everyone now. 

Most of all, you. 

You, who had only ever stared at him with those adoring eyes. 

He’s stealing glances at you again from beyond the tree, through the branches and the many glittering ornaments as the two of you circle each other from around the tree. He chases after you, picking up his pace by a step until the tree is well adorned. Stepping back, he looks back at it, as you come to join him. The holidays have lost their magic to him, for the greater part, but he cannot deny the thrumming in his chest as he stands with you. It’s missing something though, arguably the most important part of a Christmas tree. You turn to fetch it from the box, looking down and inside to see the dusty little star from within. 

Plucking it out, you give it a good blow, watching as the particles fly off with concealed disgust. Ah, well nothing a quick wipe wouldn’t mend. Vergil steps closer from behind you, his hands coming to appear over your own as he wipes it with his palm. Looking down at it from over your shoulder, something flickers within him. 

“Why don’t you go and put it up”, you muse. 

You don’t lean back into him, just as he goes to pull away, stealing the star from your hands to go and look at the top of the tree. His frame is tall, but it’s just barely out of reach. The little prince leans up on the tip of his toes as he reaches out to put the star on the point of the tree. Your hand slides over to the small of his back, steadying him should he start to teeter and fall. It’s not at all needed, but it shows that you care. He finds himself enjoying it greatly…

”Wow! Great work you two”, Dante pipes up after what feels like an eternity of silence. Vergil hadn’t forgotten he was there, but it startles you. The eldest twin turns to regard his younger brother with a look that the other shrugs off. 

“Yes, well… what have you been up to exactly?”, Vergil quipped. 

“Hey now, I’ve been setting up shop too, see?”, Dante pointed up at the ceiling above them, the both of your eyes trailing up to meet the little green herb that had been strung up. 

“Mistletoe…”, you had correctly guessed. Dante winked at you before he left to go get something else, likely the food for tonight’s party. 

He wasn’t saying it outright, but he was picking up on the tension filling his agency now, hoping this would expedite the journey. Vergil scoffed, then rolled his eyes, finding it stupid. Why did it matter if someone stood under it? He turned to you for a moment, about to comment on it when he held his tongue. The thought hadn’t struck him at all, earnestly. Then he looked away, going to go back to regard the tree. The two of you ended up doing a splendid job, just as Dante had apprised. 

“So about those drinks hm?”, you asked with a chuckle, “There’s a cafe that’s open near here, unless you want some eggnog?”

”I think I’ll pass, let’s go to the cafe”, he agreed, eager to get out of the shop. The ugly sweater he wore was just now starting to itch. Vergil tugged at his collar as you made your way to the door. 

You opened it for him as he walked out, passing Lady and Trish on the way. They had a few bags in their hands. Last minute Christmas shopping huh? At Dante’s expense, undoubtedly. Vergil glanced at them as you closed the door behind you. The snow began to fall in small flakes from the sky, slowly dotting your hair as you walked. He followed just a few steps behind, keeping his pace as you walked. His pale eyes glanced at your hand as you strode down the path towards the little coffee shop you spoke of. 

His hand reached for you before he could stop himself, holding onto your fingers as you walked. You didn’t stop to ask him why, or to think to question it. The cold touch upon your warm hand was a feeling you’d been missing since forever. He fit there, sliding into place like a jigsaw piece. Vergil’s thumb rubbed behind your palm as you curled around his thumb. It isn’t very far, and the golden glow of the cafe glows softly, the light pouring out from the glass windows. 

The inside is just as warm and cozy, with soft jazz playing overhead. The scents of the patrons and brewing coffee and cocoa alike would’ve bothered him normally, and he didn’t feel very comfortable meandering through public spaces like that, but he focused solely on you. 

“What would you like?”, you asked, turning to look over your shoulder, a wry smile on your lips. 

“What did you get when you were a kid?”

“Two hot cocoas then, with little marshmallows and whipped cream”, you tell the barista on hand. 

You watched them make your drinks with some small appreciation as he looked on with a bored expression. It was nothing special, but he would appreciate the end product. You’re still holding his hand even after you pay for the drinks and when the two of you stand off to the side to pick them up. The cardboard sleeve helps to not burn your hands, but it’s not like it’d matter for when you’d step back out to return to the office anyway. Vergil brings the drink up to his lips and goes to take the first sip. It’s still hot, but not so searing that it seriously hurts him, not that it would. 

“How can you drink it like that?”, you ask, waiting for it to cool down enough to not burn your tongue. 

“Like what? It’s perfectly fine for me”, he gives a small smile, almost smug. 

You shake your head, “Doesn’t that burn?”, you question him. 

He shakes his head as he goes back to it, smacking his lips lightly to pass his judgement. It’s a little too sweet for him, but it’s not terrible. Cocoa is a children’s drink after all, but this is what he asked for. He’d take what he was given, refraining from making any complaints. You blow on yours from the little hole in the lid, not wanting to risk it even if you felt compelled for a sip just now. You find it endearing at least, that he was eager to try it enough to not wait for it to get to a comfortable point to drink it from. 

Vergil starts to walk back, guiding you this time back home. 

[neve-rook-datv]

The Trouble Within - Neve Gallus’ personal notes - Part 1

Disclaimer : This story is inspired by fan critiques and discussions regarding the romance dynamics in Dragon Age: The Veilguard, particularly around the evolution of Neve’s relationship with Rook. Many fans felt some frustration with Neve’s hesitance to fully engage in the romance with Rook, and her reserved demeanor. This piece explores why Neve seems to keep her distance despite the intensity of her feelings and reimagines her interactions with Lucanis, whose light-hearted flirtation serves here as a facade to mask her true emotions toward Rook.

Arlathan Forest is a place that almost feels alive—ancient, watchful. The trees arch overhead, their leaves filtering the light into hues of deep green, amber, and burnt red. The ground is blanketed with fallen leaves that shift in color as the sun moves, and the air is thick with the earthy scent of moss and damp wood. It’s hauntingly beautiful, yet there’s a weight to the silence here, as if the forest is holding its breath, waiting.

And then there’s her.

Rook moves ahead of me, weaving through the trees with an ease that feels almost unnatural, like she belongs here in a way I don’t. The dappled light catches on her face, illuminating her profile in vibrant, natural hues, casting shadows that shift across her skin as she steps in and out of patches of sunlight. I find myself watching the way the colors dance around her, highlighting the quiet strength in her posture, the relaxed yet sharp way she holds herself.

Something about the way she walks—confident, steady, each step deliberate yet unhurried—makes it impossible to look away. Hints of amber and evergreen seem to cling to her, as if the forest itself recognizes her presence, drawn to her as much as… well, as much as I am.

I don’t know when this pull began. At first, I told myself it was curiosity, a fleeting interest in her reckless nature, in the way she throws herself into danger without hesitation. But now, watching her in this light, the forest colors framing her like some figure from an ancient tale, I feel something deeper—something I dare not name.

She turns, catching my gaze, and there’s that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, her eyes glinting with a hint of mischief. “Something on your mind?” she teases, breaking the silence and pulling me back to reality.

I force a laugh, a quick, dismissive sound to mask the way my chest tightens. “Just keeping an eye out. No harm in staying vigilant.” But the truth is, I’m mesmerized. The word Trouble slips through my mind again, and it feels like a warning—to her, to me. She’s trouble in every way, and yet… I can’t bring myself to look away.

The deeper we move into the forest, the darker and richer the light becomes, casting Rook in a way that feels almost deliberate, as though the forest itself is revealing something hidden in her. There’s a quiet strength in her gaze, a softness I rarely see, and each time she steps into a beam of light, she seems to command the world around her without even trying. I don’t think she realizes the effect she has on me, the way her presence keeps me unsteady, questioning everything I thought I knew.

Calling her Trouble feels like my last line of defense, the only way I have left to protect myself. It’s a label that’s meant to keep her at arm’s length, to remind me not to get too close. But as that barrier slips, I feel something inside me begin to unravel, like a cord stretched too tight, finally giving way. I can’t stop myself from looking her way, each glance feeding a pull I don’t fully understand, one that unsettles and captivates me all at once. The way she moves, how the light wraps around her, draws me in deeper, makes her seem almost otherworldly, untouchable. And yet, in these moments, I feel closer to her than I’d ever let myself admit.

Lucanis keeps things light, and I remind myself that’s all I need. His flirtations are easy, harmless—a game that lets me forget the weight of everything else, if only for a moment. With him, there’s no need to dig deep or question anything; we can laugh, exchange glances, play at something that never asks for more. It’s uncomplicated, a distraction that feels almost safe in its simplicity.

But even as I tell myself that’s enough, I can’t help feeling a pull toward something beyond that ease, something that makes my heart race in a way Lucanis never could. And that’s when I feel her presence, like a quiet tension at the edges of my thoughts, impossible to ignore. And I… I am left to watch, caught between the fear of what this means and the thrill of simply being near her.

I wanted to keep things simple, to call her Trouble and pretend that’s all she is—a distraction, an annoyance. But standing here in the heart of Arlathan, surrounded by ancient colors and silent trees, I can feel my resolve slipping, the walls I’ve built crumbling with each glance, each step.

She doesn’t know, of course. How could she? She’s focused on the path ahead, oblivious to the chaos she’s causing in my mind. But as the reds and greens cast their final light on her face, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m losing this battle—that “Trouble” is no longer a warning, but a confession.

Edit: Wording, phrasing, flow.

[lucygxybaird]

12 days of Christmas - Day One

“Mama!” 

You feel a little tug at your sleeve, and you look down to see tiny fingers grasping the cotton, your daughter’s face obscured by the wreath she’s holding up with her other hand. A halo of evergreen boughs, studded with bright red berries and delicate white blossoms, and you can spot a few pinecones tucked in for effect. If you peek through the center, you can spot your little girl’s hopeful expression, and you know there’s no way you can refuse her. 

“What do you say?” you prompt, figuring that you might as well drive an important lesson home if you’re giving in so easily. 

“Pleeease!” 

Your arms are already full with other decorations — garlands; Christmas lights and candles; an exquisite set of baubles in red, green and gold that, according to the shy but proud clerk, he made himself; candy canes that may or may not actually make it onto the tree. And then there’s the things you actually need, like a bolt of cloth for curtains, a sack of flour, and perishable items that you know for a fact won’t have a chance to go bad before you eat them. Your girl is growing like a weed, and eating enough to make you believe you gave birth to triplets instead of just one child. 

“Can you carry it yourself?” you ask. 

You hear a dubious little hum from amongst the greenery, and you can’t blame her. It’s almost as long as she is, and certainly wider. “I can try,” she says. 

The two of you manage to get everything to the counter, and everything is crated up for you to take home — except the wreath, which is simply too large. Both you and your daughter look at it uncertainly, and you realize, as you cast your eye over your purchases, you have no clue how you’re going to get all this home.

You live close enough to the general store that you and your daughter walked here, with your little girl’s wagon in tow to get everything back. The problem is that your eye, so to speak, was bigger than your transportation. Your little girl could barely carry the wreath up to the register. The wagon is nearly full, and you still have things to add in. You certainly don’t want to risk breaking those pretty little ornaments— 

“You need a hand, ma’am?”

There’s time to register your daughter’s little gasp as she ducks behind your skirts, a flash of her white face peeping up — and up, and up — at the young man who has appeared next to you. You have to look up yourself, tilting your chin back to gaze into a face that is, frankly, apart from being open and friendly, rather handsome. 

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle anybody,” he says, a hint of chagrin creeping into his expression. “I just thought I could carry some stuff for you, if you’d like.” 

You reach back to rest a hand on your daughter’s golden head. “It’s not you,” you say. “She’s just shy.”

It’s the easiest way to explain your daughter’s behavior, but you feel a little stab of guilt, like you’re betraying her somehow. There’s more to it than that. But you can hardly countenance divulging such information to someone you don’t even know, regardless of the fact that his eyes are an extraordinary shade of deep blue, with charming crinkles at the corners which deepen as he smiles at you. 

“Aw, well, there’s nothin’ wrong with that,” he says. “Besides, how is she supposed to talk to me when I’m all the way up here? You might as well ask a little rabbit to chat with a bluebird up in a tree.”

He curls his upper lip so that his front teeth poke out, and he wriggles his nose in a bunny-like way. Unbelievably, you hear a giggle from the folds of your skirt. The young man kneels down so he’s closer to your daughter’s eye level.

“I’m Bunny — I mean, Billy.” He looks up at you, and you have the most absurd urge to lay your hand on his head, tangle your fingers in the dark curls catching a surprising amount of the faint winter sun. “It’s a pleasure to meet two such lovely ladies.”  

You introduce yourself and then your daughter. There’s a moment of silence, and then your daughter surprises you by peeking up at him and saying, “You could carry my wreath. But you have to be careful, okay? I really like it.” 

You open your mouth to remind her to ask more politely, but Billy just straightens up and nods solemnly. “I promisee, ma’am, I will take very good care of your wreath.” 

He ends up carrying the wreath, dangling from the crook of one arm, and a few of the smaller crates, freeing up room in the wagon for everything else. His legs are so long that he has to shorten his stride so that you and your daughter can keep up. You watch his face of any sign of strain, ready to say you could take something. But he doesn’t so much as wince. 

Instead, every time he catches you looking at him, he just smiles at you. You try to ignore the fluttering feeling in the pit of your stomach whenever he does this, but it’s easier said than done.

“Okay,” he says, rather matter-of-factly, as you tell him the house just up ahead is yours. “Do you have your tree up already?”

“Well — yes,” you say. 

You’re mystified as to why he wants to know, until he says, “Okay, good. That’s the centerpiece of everything. Now we can hang everything else up around it.”

You haven’t even considered the idea that he might want to stay and help decorate, and you’re about to say that you can handle this part yourself — but your daughter surprises you once again. She catches Billy’s sleeve and gives a little tug. She’s clammed up again, but she does lead Billy into the house, and points to the the wall above the small fireplace.

“You want it there?” Billy asks, and she nods. 

Before you can open your mouth, she adds a soft, “Please.” 

You start to tell Billy where your hammer and nails are, but he’s walking toward the kitchen where you keep them in a drawer by the stove, as if he’s been here a thousand times before. Upon catching your bemused look, he smiles once more and shrugs. “It’s where I keep ’em at home,” he says. “I just took a guess.” 

By the time you’ve unpacked the foodstuffs, he’s hung the wreath to your daughter’s specifications, delivered partially by small, barely audible sentences and hand gestures. 

He helps you put up the nails on which to drape the garlands, until the mantlepiece is hung with red and green. Your daughter carefully places the candles on the hearth, although she knows that she is under no circumstances to light them herself.

By the time everything is hung up or situated just so, your cabin has been transformed into Santa’s very own workshop. Your daughter is beaming, clinging to your skirts, and you can’t help but throw Billy a grateful smile.

“Thank you,” you say. “You really didn’t have to do all this. It’s very sweet of you.”

He smiles back at you. “My pleasure,” he says. “I know my ma never would have forgiven me if I’d walked on by without offering to help.”

The next thing you say falls out of your mouth before you can even think to say it. “You should stay for dinner,” you say. “It’s only fair. You deserve a square meal after all your hard work.”

In part, you really do believe this. Your little cabin looks beautiful, and you can tell your little girl is delighted — Billy’s kindness went a long way toward making that possible. For making her smile like that, dinner is the least you could offer him. 

But —

Quite simply, you also don’t want him to leave. There’s a warmth about him, a charm, that not only draws you in, but makes you feel safe. You haven’t felt like this since the early days with— 

You push the thought away before it can take root. Instead, you focus on Billy, who rewards your proposition with another smile. 

“I would love that,” he says. “Thank you.” 

From the corner of your eye, you see your daughter beam. It seems that she’s also taken a shine to this good-natured young man.

“Now,” you say, turning to her, “your job is to make sure that Billy doesn’t lift a finger to help me make dinner. He’s done enough. Do you think you can do that?”

With a firm mmmhm, your daughter doesn’t waste any time. She marches over to Billy and takes hold of his sleeve, leading him to the corner where her dolls are nestled in a wicker basket. Billy tosses you a look over his shoulder that has you biting your lip to keep from laughing. 

“Sit,” your daughter says, and then pauses, with a quick glance at you. “Please.”

Billy folds his long legs so that he settles on the ground beside her, and she hands him one of her dolls. While you busy yourself at the stove, simmering beef broth and vegetables to start on a stew, you can hear the two of them — though, in truth, it sounds like it’s mostly Billy — constructing a rather elaborate scenario. 

“Now, see here, Miss Pennyfeather—!”

Your daughter softly corrects him, “Miss Pennyweather.”

“Oh, sorry — ” Billy clears his throat. “Now, see here, Miss Pennyweather! I think your cat has been steee-eeealing my chicken eggs!”

Your daughter dissolves into giggles. “No, Miss Featherington!” 

“Oh, no? Wh00o-000, then?!”

More giggles. “A fox!”

“I ain’t seen no fooo-oox around here!”

As you cook up beef to add to the stew, you can’t help but overhear that, no, Miss Pennyweather’s cat didn’t steal Miss Featherington’s chicken eggs, but it turns out that another doll has been dressing up as a fox to steal the eggs — because she wants them to argue — so she sneak into their houses while they’re distracted and take their prettiest ribbons and baubles from their dressing table.

(The concept of a dressing table is something your daughter has recently discovered, and for whatever reason, she’s absolutely obsessed with it.) 

“I hate to interrupt,” you say, and you really do, because you kind of want to know how this ends. “But dinner is ready.” 

Billy gets to his feet and offers his hand to help your daughter up. She smiles and puts her tiny hand in his, and he lifts her up so easily that her feet leave the floor, making her squeal. He carries her to the table and plops her down in a chair, where she sits, a little disheveled from her journey, but flushed and giggling.

Digging into his dinner with gratifying gusto, Billy asks, “How long have you been livin’ in town?  I figure it can’t be too long.”

You smile. “Why?” you say. “Because I should have known better than to just bring a little wagon for my groceries? I didn’t expect Tunstall’s to have so much in the way of holiday decorations.”

Billy chuckles. “No,” he says softly, his eyes trained on yours. “Because I definitely woulda remembered seein’ you before.” 

You feel heat rise in your cheeks, and you drop your gaze to your bowl of stew, fiddling with your napkin. “We’re new here,” you say. “We only arrived just last week.”

“Just the two of you?” Billy asks. You sense something underneath the simple question, something almost…hopeful. 

You open your mouth to respond, but your daughter beats you to it. “It’s just me and Mama,” she says, concentrating on sopping up the last of her stew with a piece of bread. “Daddy went away.” 

You look up at Billy again, and he flicks his gaze heavenward. You shake your head and give the smallest tilt of your head toward the door.

No, your husband didn’t die. He simply left. The two of you had been fighting for months, mostly over money. You’d seen the toll it had taken on your daughter — the way she would bury herself under her covers whenever your husband started to yell, the way she would pick at her food and peek nervously at her father whenever he lapsed into sullen silence at the dinner table, the way she talked less and less. It was as if she was trying to make herself smaller. 

You didn’t realize she was taking a page from your book until your husband finally left. You woke up that morning to find his possessions missing, and you realized, after the shock had worn off, that it didn’t hurt. It just felt…freeing. You didn’t have to worry about his anger or his rebukes anymore.

But your daughter stayed inside the shell she’d created for herself. Around you, she was more like herself, but strangers — especially men — made her clam up again.

Except for today.

Except for Billy.

After dinner, Billy and your daughter go back to their dolls, while you clean up before sitting down with a pile of mending. You aren’t even surprised anymore that he doesn’t take the opportunity to take his leave. Honestly, the longer he stays, the more it feels like he’s always been here. 

It doesn’t take long for your daughter to start nodding off with Miss Pennyweather still in her arms. Billy gently pries the doll away, while you scoop your daughter up in her arms and tuck her in. 

When you turn around, you find Billy by the hearth, feeding more logs into the fire to keep the cabin warm. He straightens up and turns to look at you. 

For what feels like an eternity, the both of you just stand there, locking eyes from across the room. You walk toward him and touch his arm. 

“Can I say something?” he asks. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

You nod. “Please.”

“Your husband was a fool,” he says, so matter-of-factly that you can’t help but smile. “Anybody who walks away from you and your sweet little girl ain’t got the brains God gave a gopher.”

You have to — absolutely have to — bury your face against his shoulder to muffle your laughter. His own chuckle rumble against your cheek. 

You lift your head. “Do you have anyone to spend the holiday with?” you ask.

Family? A girl? 

He shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. “I’m on my own.”

You smile at him. “Not anymore.” 

Over the next few weeks, one may be forgiven for thinking that Billy actually lives at your little cabin. He’s there more often than not, fixing things that need fixing — your door has never quite shut right, at least not before Billy got his hands on it — and helping you with chores, from chopping firewood to sweeping the front porch. He plays with your daughter, from dolls to jacks to hide-and-seek.

And when your little girl has fallen asleep, you and Billy sit up by the fire, just talking. You start sitting in chairs on either side of the hearth,  but his chair ends up getting closer to yours, and then you scoot yours over, and then his ends up a few inches nearer. By Christmas Eve, the two of you are sitting so close that your knees touch. 

“I brought my fiddle with me, so I don’t forget it tomorrow,” Billy says softly. “Does your little girl like Christmas carols?”

“She loves them.”

He leans forward, and so do you.

“And you?” he says.

“Oh, yes.”

He leans in further. You reciprocate. 

“And me?” he says.

You laugh quietly. “How am I supposed to know if you love Christmas carols?”

Billy smiles. “No,” he says. “I mean, do you love me?”

He’s so close to you now that you can catch the cinnamon on his breath, a remnant of the hot cider the three of you shared before your daughter went to bed. Your gaze drifts to his lips before meeting his eyes again.

“Tell me I’m not the only one,” he goes on. “There’s somethin’ between us, ain’t there? I’m crazy about you. The both of you.”

“You’re not the only one,” you say. “I…I feel like I’ve known you forever. And I’ve never seen my daughter this way with anyone, ever. She adores you.” 

You pause. Now the two of you are close enough that you can count the faint freckles speckled over the bridge of his nose. “Billy,” you say softly, “since — since you’re coming back so early in the morning, maybe you should just…stay.”

“Are you sure, darlin’?”

You nod. 

“Can I hold you tonight?” he murmurs. “We don’t have to do anythin’ else. But all I’ve thought about since the moment I first saw you is holdin’ you in my arms.”

“Yes,” you say softly. 

He kisses you. You can feel it from the brush of his soft, full mouth against yours, to the very soles of your feet, like a bolt of lightning racing through every vein in your body. When you break apart, he gets up and takes your hand, leading you to your small room.

You climb into bed and he follows suit. His arms slip around you and pull you flush against his chest.

“Good thing you already packed your fiddle,” you whisper, and he laughs softly against your hair. 

Billy had helped you wrap your daughter’s presents after she went to bed earlier that night, and you can spot the pile from where you lay with your head on Billy’s shoulder. “Just how early is she gonna wake us up to tear into those?” he asks, his voice falling into your ear.

You give a quiet little giggle. “Pretty early,” you admit.

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “So we should probably get some sleep, huh?”

You hum softly in agreement. 

It’s been so long that you expect to lay away for hours, adjusting to the now-strange sensation of a man in bed next to you. But Billy’s warmth, and the strength of his arms around you, lull you under in what feels like a matter of moments.

Your daughter does wake you up at just about the crack of dawn, and she doesn’t seem all that surprised to find Billy there. Although she’s rather focused on her gifts, gasping as she takes in the sight of them, wrapping paper glittering in the glow of the lights.

When the paper is cleared away, and your daughter is cooing with delight over her new toys, Billy fetches his fiddle while you make breakfast. It doesn’t surprise you to hear that his voice is rich and warm. 

“Love shall be our token, love be yours and love be mine…”

You can feel his eyes on you as if he’s standing right behind you, running his fingertips along your spine.

“Love to God and all men, love for plea and gift and sign…”

You leave the stove for a moment and lean down to kiss his forehead. “I never answered your question last night,” you whisper. “If I love you or not.” 

He grins up at you. “No, you didn’t,” he agrees. “And? You’re not gonna break my heart on Christmas mornin’, are you?”

You chuckle, smoothing your fingers through his hair. “I do,” you say softly. “I do love you.”

He reaches up and catches your hand, presses a kiss to your fingers. “Love to all men,” he echoes. He kisses your fingers again. “And I love you, honey.”

A small figure wriggles in between the two of you, your daughter popping up in Billy’s lap. “And me?” 

“Were you eavesdropping?” you gasp, your affront all false.

She giggles. “Yes.”

Billy grins and cuddles her close, making her giggle again. “Well, that’s alright,” he says. “You don’t gotta worry about Santa for a whole year.”

You swat his shoulder gently. “Don’t tell her that.”

He flashes you an unrepentant smile before tickling your little girl’s side. “Yeah, and you,” he says. 

Your daughter settles comfortably in his lap. “This,” she says, after a moment of consideration, “is the best Christmas ever in the world.”

Frankly, you can’t disagree. 

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Under the Mistletoe

John “Bravo-6” Price x reader

Warnings: fluffy little Christmas special

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy, happy holidays 💜

Word Count: 1k

Masterlist https://www.tumblr.com/midnight-shadow-cafe/764209536727957504/key

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Snow fell gently outside the window, a quiet rhythm against the frosted panes. The world beyond was cloaked in a pristine white blanket, the occasional flicker of Christmas lights from neighboring homes casting colorful reflections on the icy streets. Inside, the warmth of the house was a perfect contrast to the winter chill, and the scent of pine mingled with the inviting aroma of cinnamon and fresh-baked cookies.

Soft holiday music drifted from the old record player in the corner, its crackling notes adding a nostalgic charm to the scene. John Price leaned casually against the doorframe, his rugged frame silhouetted by the soft glow of the twinkling Christmas tree lights. His sharp blue eyes held a glimmer of amusement as he watched his wife adjust a shimmering silver ribbon for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“Love, it looks perfect already,” he said, his deep voice tinged with warmth and a hint of teasing.

You turned to him, tinsel in one hand and a determined expression on your face. “Perfect? It’s missing something. I just can’t figure out what.”

John’s boots thudded softly against the polished wooden floor as he crossed the room. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the evergreen aroma as he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, his touch firm yet comforting. “You’ve been at it for an hour, darling. Maybe it’s time for a break?”

You sighed, the tension in your shoulders easing as you leaned back against him. Your head rested naturally on his broad shoulder, and the soft knit of his sweater brushed against your cheek. “Maybe you’re right. But this is our first Christmas as husband and wife. I want it to be…” You gestured vaguely toward the tree. “You know, special.”

John’s lips pressed a tender kiss to the top of your head, his beard tickling your skin in a way that made you smile despite yourself. “It’s already special. We’ve got each other, don’t we? That’s all that matters.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and a warm flush spread through you. Turning in his arms, you gazed up at him with a playful smile. “You’re too good at this, you know? Saying just the right thing to make me melt.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and full, his chest rumbling against yours. “It’s a gift,” he replied with a wink.

The two of you moved to the couch, its plush cushions inviting after hours of decorating. A soft throw blanket was draped over the back, and John settled in first, patting the spot beside him. You joined him, and he reached for the steaming mugs of hot chocolate sitting on the coffee table. The marshmallows on top had begun to melt, forming a creamy layer that promised sweetness with every sip.

“Cheers, darling. To our first Christmas together,” he said, holding out his mug.

“Cheers,” you echoed, clinking your mug gently against his. The warmth of the drink seeped through your fingers as you took a sip, the rich chocolate flavor paired perfectly with the hint of spice from a sprinkle of cinnamon.

For a while, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the crackling fire in the hearth providing a soothing soundtrack. The room was bathed in a soft orange glow, and the twinkle lights on the tree reflected in the ornaments, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the walls. You could hear the occasional pop of the logs as the fire consumed them, the sound a reminder of the cozy haven you’d created together.

“Got you something,” John said suddenly, his voice breaking the peaceful quiet. His hand disappeared into the pocket of his sweater as he leaned slightly toward you.

You looked at him curiously, setting your mug down on the table. “John, we said no gifts until tomorrow morning.”

“Couldn’t wait,” he admitted with a sheepish grin, his expression softening as he produced a small velvet box.

Your breath caught as you took the box from him, your fingers brushing against his in the exchange. Inside was a delicate gold bracelet, its charm a tiny tree etched with intricate detail. You traced the design with your finger, your eyes growing misty as emotion welled up inside you.

“John… it’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the crackling fire.

“Thought it might be nice to have something you could wear every day,” he said, his tone gentle. “A little reminder of us.”

Tears threatened to spill, but you blinked them away, overwhelmed by the love and thoughtfulness in his gesture. Leaning in, you kissed him softly, your lips brushing against his in a moment of shared warmth. “I love it. And I love you.”

“Love you too, sweetheart,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, tender moment.

The evening unfolded in a series of shared joys: laughter over stories from past Christmases, playful teasing during a few rounds of board games, and the occasional pause to enjoy another sip of hot chocolate. John’s competitive streak emerged as he insisted on a rematch when he lost, his gruff protests only adding to your amusement.

When the clock struck midnight, the two of you found yourselves standing beneath the mistletoe hanging in the doorway. The tiny green leaves and bright red berries framed the moment perfectly.

“Merry Christmas, love,” John said, his voice low and full of affection as he pulled you close.

“Merry Christmas, John,” you whispered back, your words a promise as his lips captured yours. The kiss was slow and unhurried, filled with a warmth and tenderness that seemed to make the world fade away. In that moment, wrapped in his arms, you knew this Christmas would be one to remember forever.

[neon-kazoo]

It got long again, so more tomorrow, I promise!

Gilded Cage (Bloodstained Ivory pt. 2)

It was an awkward car ride.

His car was exactly what Hero had expected, a sleek black top-model sedan with leather seats and silver accents. She had tried to get in the back. Supervillain—her future husband—had directed her to the front. He even held the door open and closed it, to which Hero held back a sneer. Any day before, and she would have been spitting a comment about meaningless chivalry. But not today. Or ever again.

She was going to have to get used to it.

It was quiet. Few words, no radio. Even the engine had very little to say about the journey. Hero wondered aloud about the fish in a tank she had back home. Supervillain said they’d pick up some of her things tomorrow. It was a small relief, but she hadn't said anything back.

Instead, she focused on the scenery. Anything but her new husband, really. Trees that were various rich shades of green sped by outside the heavily tinted windows and windshield. They were headed a decent distance outside the city, with slightly delapidated roads and only sporadic homes with 'no trespassing' signs to mark their progress. It was pretty, but that wasn't terribly surprising for a summer here. Hero rested her eyes until the car slowed as they approached a stacked river-rock gate. A press of a button and said gate swung open. Hero rolled her eyes.

Continuing on, the car crested a hill lined with evergreen saplings and Hero's gaze landed on a house she had only seen in realtor photos pinned to a crime board. It was so much bigger in person, so much more obnoxious than she had imagined.

Supervillain's mansion stood three stories tall with white walls and a slated roof. A circular parkway framed by shaped bushes is where the car was pulled to a stop. In the center rested a fountain with mirrored statues that Hero made a note to admire more closely later. She was honestly surprised the villain hadn't used a chauffeur, fancy and rich as their surroundings were.

Hero swung her feet out onto the cobbled drive and ignored the hand that was offered to help her out of the car. Supervillain made no mention of it, simply stepping back to allow her room to stand. She made to follow him but he insisted on walking side by side up the path to the porch. The lawn rolled with precisely cut grass covering an area so vast Hero knew the upkeep had to be a full time job. Jasmine crawled up the sides of the entryway and Hero breathed it in while she waited for Supervillain to open the door.

A gleaming chandelier and a grand staircase awaited them inside. Large windows made any synthetic lighting obselete at this time of day. Paintings with gold frames lined the walls inside halls that branched to the right and left.

Waiting a polite amount of time for her to take it all in, Supervillain turned to his fiancée and inquired conversationally, "Are you hungry, or would you like me to just show you your room?"

Hero shook off her wonder with a hint of embarrassment, but kept her head held high as she answered, "The room, please."

The 'please' felt weird on her tongue. It did not escape her notice that he had referred to it as her room. She reserved judgment on the absence of the word 'our,' but immediately rejected that anything in this mansion would ever truly be hers.

Nevertheless, Supervillain led her to the second floor with a nod and the sweep of his arm in the direction of the stairs.

It was tucked into the corner of the right wing of the mansion, right where the carpet runner made a turn. A lilac colored door swung open to reveal a similarly-colored room. An immodestly sized bed occupied the middle of a comparatively more modestly sized room. Violet curtains were drawn across most of the windows, but an open balcony allowed more than enough light through glass doors for her to see.

So this was it. Her new prison.

With nothing else to do, she walked in. Supervillain shut the door, leaving her alone without a word.

Her feet shuffled over a thick and patterned carpet, prompting her to kick off her boots and leave them in the middle of the marble portion of the floor. She ran her hands along the bed and felt between her fingers sheets so silky soft she wanted to gag. The pillowcases were much the same, covering a set of soft down pillows and a larger set of firmer ones propped against the carved headboard behind them.

Pivoting away from the bed, she gazed across the room to an armoire on one wall that didn't really catch her eye. What did however, was located in the corner adjacent to it. Hero didn't think she'd ever seen a mirror so clean in her life. It was tall enough that she could herself from the top of her head to the bottom of her shoes, had she still been wearing them.

Ironically, her mind wandered to imagining herself in that atrocious torquise gown. She could see where her hips would protrude along the side seams and make her wildly uncomfortable, where the flare would rest above her feet and make her look like an abused paint brush. The color she pictured was not dissimilar to that of the walls of her childhood bedroom, which is what made her shake the vision off.

She turned to the balcony doors, deciding she needed some air before the lavender walls and overstuffed pillows of her cell suffocated her. Like many things she had already discovered, she found the balcony to be hilariously oversized, following the length of almost the entire wall of her room. The shock of its size, however, took a backseat to the view she found in front of her.

In the distance, gray towers rose settled in the valley between a ring of mountains. Clouds softened the sky, greeting her as she stepped out into the light humidity. Hero imagined the sunset here must be breathtaking, not to mention the glow of the city lights taking over right after. She spotted a lounge chair placed conveniently for her to lay, so she settled on the edge of it and continued looking through the bars of the rail. For now, the same sun that cast a glow on this mansion cast a shadow over the city. The city that was a symbol of all that she had left behind.

What she was here to protect.

Next part: Singing Bird

[witch-hazels-musings]

Hey Hazel! Hope you’re doing well <3 For your event, I’d like to request a Protection one with Evergreen, Cinnamon, Lepidolite, and Jasmine for Zhongli please. Hope I did that right. Thanks, and I hope your event goes well!

Evergreen (the unexpected), Cinnamon (love and prosperity), Lepidolite (regulation, stress relief), Jasmine (love, sensuality) Zhongli x gn reader | Protection Ritual warning: fluff fluff, some kissing, sweet zhongli

The air held hints of salt, sweet delicacies from fields overgrown with silk flowers and violet grass, rich spices, and hearty aromas that clung to the clothes of the man resting on your lap. You lifted your face to the sky and felt the warmth of the setting sun dance through the trees.

"Where do you wander?" Zhongli's voice mixed with the rustle of the earth, the music of the mountainside.

"Not far," you hummed in return and let your fingers continue their movement through his long hair.

It was a rare event to see Zhongli relax this way. To surrender himself prone while you promenaded across his brow, down the edges of his face, and over his ears, through his brown and gold-tipped hair in long, fluid motions. He seemed to relish the interaction, even though it took some convincing for him to allow it.

You'd always known him to be properly on guard. Poised. Correct and restrained. He asked for little, save for you to join him in the things he enjoyed, or covering his bills when he neglected them. For one as carefree, he hardly let down his guard.

So to pamper him, to provide for him a space away from the pressures of the harbor, it seemed more of a gift for you than it did for him.

Zhongli opened his eyes and you became lost in their amber. "I must admit I am uncertain of the reason to receive such pampering."

You smiled at him and trailed your finger down the edge of his hairline. "Do I need a reason to show you how I love you?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, a subtle smile raising his perfect cheeks. The Masters of old would never be able to paint his likeness. "I suppose not."

"You've been working nonstop. And, need I remind you, but as part of this world, you need to learn when to rest. Besides, you know It does you little to fight me. I always win."

"Yes, my dear," he replied with a pleased hum, one that came from his chest and set your skin to ripple. You chuckled, leaned to grab your cooling tea, and looked out over the field.

This was a sacred place to you, to both of you. It was the place where you first met - where Zhongli rescued you from a pack of Hillichurls when you lost your way. He seemed to appear from the earth itself to shield you from their attacks. "There is no need to be alarmed," he said as he offered you his hand, and from then on it was the only one you ever wanted. Every day after that felt like an endowment you'd never be able to pay. So these moments, these investments in him seemed the least you could do in return for the life, happiness, and love he had given you.

Zhongli frowned so you recoiled your hand. "Did I pull your hair?"

He shook his head, slightly. "It seems unfair. This exchange. Yet I am unable to find an adequate token of compensation."

You laughed, he opened his eyes to look at you. "You don't need to do anything. This was my treat - well - besides the tea. I'm not as good as you are so just count that as your contribution and leave it there."

Zhongli's brows furrowed. He lifted off you and rubbed his chin.

"Zhongli, it's alright. Lay back down," you said and reached for his shoulder but when he turned to you his gaze was focused, intentional. It made your heart flutter.

"Though this compensation is lacking, will you allow me to provide it anyway?" he asked as he cupped your cheek. You nodded and he leaned in to kiss you. It was soft, gentle. His lips connected with your cheek, the tip of your nose, and your forehead before floating down to your lips to hover just above them. "I have been on this land for a time, and have come to know a thing or two."

"And what is that?" you asked, breathless, hand clenched around his sleeve.

"Fairness must never be squandered. So as you have pampered me, allow me to do so in turn."

Zhongli's elegant fingers held your face and when his thumb brought down your chin you welcomed him in - his essence and his love.

Thaumaturgy Anthology (October 11-13, 2024)

This event is based on spells and rituals. Inspiration does not equal understanding; liberties have been taken. All content is owned by Witch Hazels Musings, theft of these images and stories will result in immediate action.

[flames-of-retribution]

Crunch, crunch, crunch…

A Braixen-hybrid walks across the snowy wasteland. One could easily make him out amongst the plane of white that covered the ground and evergreen trees. Behind him, the mountainous spikes of solid ice looms.

[ ID: A three panel comic of the Braixen-hybrid in question, traveling with a Roggenrola dressed in a Wooloo costume. He is wearing a Weather Band on his neck. The Braixen-hybrid's appearance is as described here. The Roggenrola's appearance is as described here. End ID ]

His expression is nervous. He's clearly keeping an eye out for something, somewhere.

The presumed ROCK he is speaking to follows closely at his side. She seems to have little trouble navigating the snow; shocking as that may be to some.

[ ID: Another three panel comic, in which after yawning, the Braixen-hybrid looks over with alarm towards the right. He's heard something. End ID ]

He stops. His triangular ears immediately perk up.

He turns to look behind him. His expression is inquisitive, with a hint of wariness. He stares…

[ ID: A full-page drawing of the Braixen-hybrid shown from behind, as he turns around and looks at the viewer. His tail is positioned in a way that it covers his lower body, and ROCK. End ID ]

[ He seems to have noticed you. ]

[writingjourney]

WIP Wednesday

Because I know I've been sort of quiet and haven't shared any writing in a while, here is a tiny little snippet of the Dracopia Friday Nights fic that I'm slowly chipping away at!! (gn!reader)

⛧ ✦ ⛧

A picturesque landscape stretches out in all directions as the black Bentley carries you towards your destination. Fall has painted the trees in vibrant shades of orange and red that glow amidst the darker evergreens in the last rays of a quickly fading sunset. As you leave the city, roads become quiet. Your driver is silent, occasionally glancing at you through the rearview mirror.

You are too occupied to really take note, staring outside while you can still see anything. Here, where the Carpathians begin to rise, rolling hills and dense forests, vast fields and the occasional house by the side of the road. About twenty minutes later you pass through the open gate in an old stone wall that leads up a steep dirt road lined with ever more trees. By now the sun has left completely and you struggle to make out your surroundings.

Eventually, the car stops in the courtyard of what must be Emeritus Castle. It is not the actual name of the medieval building but rather one the latest owner chose for it. According to your research he purchased it fifty years ago, though the land and title might have transferred to an heir by now.

The driver helps you with the door, then retrieves your luggage from the trunk of the Bentley. From what you can tell most of the medieval structure has been preserved. Besides the gatehouse you passed through, it consists of the main tower and its turrets, a keep that connects it to another, smaller tower, and a few additional buildings that hug the thick wall that encloses the whole castle. The round walk seems intact and you wonder what the view would be like from up there but then the monk ushers you over the threshold and into the cool stone walls of the castle.

Inside, the halls are illuminated by sconces and candles that flicker excitedly in the draft you carry with you. As you follow the man you try to keep track of where you go, two hallways down, two staircases up, another long hallway and then you round a corner into yet another hallway. The floorboards creak with every step where they replace the stone, carpets muffling the sounds of your steps. The man stops in front of a door that looks like many of the others you walked past.

“Your room,” he says as he unlocks the door with an old iron key. “You can wait here until the other guests arrive. We will gather in the courtyard in three hours.”

“Do you not… need my name? Or an ID?”

“I know who you are, heh.”

He says your name, then, and hands you the key, not without a hint of satisfaction. You briefly wonder if they are doing background checks on their guests and whether he might have found your old Facebook account with the embarrassing pictures from a decade ago but then your hand brushes the sleek black leather gloves he’s wearing and a violent shiver tears through your whole body. A darker, less faded shape remains on the back of his hand, almost like a cross, as though whatever was on there has been ripped off. A monk who fell from grace? He pulls away the moment the key rests in your palm and you are left with a lingering sense of dread. Who exactly does the Count employ here?

As you recollect yourself the man carries your luggage inside the room. A rather large wooden bed takes up most of the small space and he places your suitcase on top of the white sheets. Then he begins to light a few candles that are scattered around the room, methodically, and not with a lighter but with matchsticks.

“No electricity?” you ask, noting the severe lack of light switches and wall sockets.

“No no, they did not have that in medieval times, no?”

“No, I suppose not.” You reach for your pocket, pausing at the sight of your phone. “I guess I should turn it off to save the battery then…”

The man looks up at you briefly and as the candle illuminates his masked face you notice his eyes for the very first time. Startled, you take a step back, spooked by how one of his irises is so pale that you can hardly tell where it ends. His other eye is darker, perhaps green, but it is hard to tell in the orange glow of the candles. He must have rimmed them with pitch black make up as there is no skin peeking through the eye holes of the mask, despite the skin on his wrist being rather pale. He looks eery and for the first time you wonder if coming here was a mistake.

“I will leave you now,” he says. “Remember, courtyard, three hours.”

“Is there a clock anywhere so I can see the time?”

“A colleague will call you all downstairs, eh? You can unpack in the meantime.”

He does not wait for a reply. His black robes swish past you as he hurries out of the room and closes the door behind him. You are left with a lingering sense of danger, and only after half an hour does your heart rate begin to fully go down to a normal resting pulse.

[merylstreepsworld]

Christmas Traditions

Pairing: Miranda Priestly x Fem!reader

Summary: You visit the Priestly residence for an exciting Christmas eve! Exchanging presents, laughter... and even a kiss.

Word count: 1,400+

The night unfolded like a scene from a sophisticated holiday tale, with the streets of New York City cloaked in a gentle snowfall as you arrived at Miranda's exquisitely adorned townhouse. The festive atmosphere was palpable, emphasized by Miranda herself, resplendent in a red velvet dress, opening the door with her twin daughters, Caroline and Cassidy, flanking her.

Miranda's voice carried a note of playful sarcasm as she greeted you, "Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence. You're not fashionably late for once."

Your laughter echoed through the entrance as you replied, "Had to make an exception for Christmas Eve, Miranda. Your place looks stunning, by the way."

The twins, overflowing with excitement, rushed forward to envelop you in a hug, their infectious enthusiasm setting the tone for the evening.

"Yay, you're here! We've been waiting!" Caroline exclaimed, her joy contagious.

"We made you something special for Christmas!" Cassidy added with a wide grin.

Your smile remained steadfast as you responded, "I can't wait to see it. And Miranda, you look absolutely stunning in that dress."

The red velvet dress clung to Miranda's silhouette with a luxurious embrace, its plush fabric accentuating the graceful lines of her figure. The deep, rich hue seemed to intensify under the dazzling Christmas lights, casting a warm, radiant glow over the room. The dress, a creation of sartorial elegance, boasted a subtle off the shoulder neckline that hinted at allure without relinquishing sophistication.

Miranda acknowledged the compliment with a nod, her characteristic smirk never far from her lips. "I know. Now, come in. We have a splendid evening ahead."

Miranda ushered you into the beautifully decorated townhouse, where the scent of evergreen and cinnamon hung in the air. The ambiance was sophisticated yet cozy, evidence of Miranda's impeccable taste. The Christmas tree sparkled in the corner, adorned with ornaments that reflected Miranda's refined aesthetic.

With chic Christmas decorations adorning the dinner table where a sumptuous feast awaited. The conversation flowed effortlessly as the four of you engaged in lively banter over the delectable Christmas dinner.

For the occasion, you wore a tasteful ensemble—a deep green dress that complemented the festive atmosphere. Miranda, ever the fashion icon, acknowledged your choice with a nod of approval. The contrast in your styles was apparent, but it only seemed to enhance the uniqueness of your friendship.

The evening unfolded gracefully as you all gathered around the dining table for Christmas dinner. The conversation flowed effortlessly, blending the wisdom of Miranda's experiences with the vibrant energy of your youth. The atmosphere was festive, marked by laughter and shared stories.

"Did you know Santa's coming tonight?" Caroline interjected, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Cassidy nodded eagerly, "We're hoping for lots of presents!"

Miranda raised an eyebrow at the mention of Santa, and you couldn't help but laugh. "Well, miracles happen, Miranda."

After the delightful meal, you all gathered around the lavishly decorated Christmas tree. The twins each picked out one present. Once they'd made up their mind, occasionally shaking a few boxes with wonder, they tore into their meticulously wrapped presents, their laughter resonating with pure joy.

"Look what I got!" Caroline squealed.

"It's perfect!" Cassidy exclaimed, holding up her gift.

You exchanged knowing smiles with Miranda, appreciating the shared warmth of the holiday season. The time had come for the adults to unwrap their gifts, and Miranda handed you a beautifully wrapped box.

"Merry Christmas," she said, her tone surprisingly genuine.

As you delicately unwrapped the gift, a delicate necklace was revealed, its design a reflection of Miranda's unparalleled sense of style. "Miranda, this is stunning. Thank you."

Miranda's smirk softened into a subtle smile. "It's the least I could do for my fabulous friend."

In return, you presented her with a tastefully wrapped package. Miranda opened it to reveal a rare edition of her favorite book, and her genuine pleasure was evident.

"How did you...? This is extraordinary," she remarked, her usual composed demeanor momentarily replaced by surprise.

"A little bird told me you've been wanting it for ages," you replied with a knowing smile.

The room brimmed with the enchantment of Christmas as Caroline and Cassidy found themselves facing a rule that threatened to dampen their holiday spirit – only one present each from under the resplendent tree.

Caroline's pout spoke volumes, "But, Mom, it's Christmas!"

Cassidy, her partner in this miniature rebellion, echoed, "Yeah, one is not enough!"

Miranda, a paragon of composed authority, raised an eyebrow, "One each. That's the rule. Besides, it's only Christmas eve."

As the twins engaged in a feeble attempt to sway their mother's decree, you exchanged a knowing glance with Miranda. Rules were rules, but exceptions could be made, especially during the magic of Christmas. Reaching into your bag, you produced two additional gifts, a subtle spark of mischief dancing in your eyes.

With a smile laced with secrecy, you declared, "Perhaps, a minor adjustment to the rules."

Caroline and Cassidy, eyes now wide with anticipation, hastily seized the unexpected offerings. The paper surrendered its secrets, revealing a new sketchpad for Caroline and a set of vibrant paints for Cassidy.

Caroline, her face now aglow with delight, exclaimed, "This is amazing!"

Cassidy, grinning from ear to ear, added, "Thank you!"

You laughed joyously, overcome with a sense of deep love for the two girls. You always enjoyed making them happy and surprising them. "A touch of Christmas magic, just for you two."

In the midst of the unfolding festivities, Miranda, the poised matriarch, observed the scene with a smirking satisfaction, "Exceptional circumstances call for exceptional measures."

The room, once filled with a chorus of eager unwrapping, now had Caroline and Cassidy seated on the floor, absorbed in exploring their newfound treasures. Their joy echoed through the room, blending seamlessly with the warmth that permeated the air.

Amidst the unfolding festivities, Miranda, in her poised elegance, gently reminded the twins, "Don't forget the present you made for our dear friend under the tree."

Caroline and Cassidy, their enthusiasm unyielding, exchanged mischievous glances before executing an agile dash towards the Christmas tree. Returning with a carefully crafted package, they handed it to you with proud smiles, eager for you to unravel the mystery of their creation.

Caroline, exuberant in her announcement, declared, "We made it ourselves!"

Cassidy, nodding in agreement, added, "It's the best one!"

You delicately unwrapped the handmade gift, revealing personalized ornaments, each reflecting the unique touch of the twins' creativity.

Appreciation colored your expression as you remarked, "This is wonderful. Thank you both."

Miranda, her smirk now softened, commented, "They insisted on making something special."

Late into the evening, laughter resonated through the elegantly decorated space, and the room was filled not just with the glow of Christmas lights but with the warmth of shared moments and genuine connection. The twins, now nestled on the floor, continued to revel in the joy of the season, and the memories forged that night would linger, like the echo of distant carols, in the corridors of time.

As the night progressed, you joined forces to put the twins to bed, sharing wishes of sugarplum dreams and whispered secrets. Back downstairs, Miranda walked you to the door, the air tinged with a sense of contentment.

"It's been a splendid evening, hasn't it?" Miranda's voice softened.

You nodded, genuinely grateful. "The best. Thank you for having me, Miranda."

As you reached the door, the subtle detail of mistletoe hanging above caught your attention. The mistletoe, unnoticed until now, dangled above the doorway like a clandestine spectator to the unfolding scene. Miranda's smirk returned as she commented, "Tradition, you know."

"I thought you didn't do traditions," you playfully retorted, a glint of mischief in your eyes.

In response, Miranda leaned in, her fingers delicately cupping your cheek, a gesture unexpected yet remarkably tender. "There's always an exception."

Her lips met yours beneath the mistletoe, the kiss holding a subtle intensity, a mingling of warmth against the winter's chill.

As the kiss lingered for a fleeting moment, the snowy night outside seemed to pause, granting you both a suspended instant in time. Miranda's touch, a gentle caress against your cheek, left an imprint that lingered even after the door closed behind you.

"Merry Christmas, my dear friend," Miranda whispered, her voice carrying a warmth that transcended the season.

Your smile held a lingering echo of the shared moment as you replied, "Merry Christmas, Miranda."

[callsigncurse]

meet me in the woods (jake seresin x reader)

Evergreen Falls, Oregon. A small town with a mysterious past and strange folktales, surrounded by forest and ocean. You're here because of your best friend, Natasha Trace, but it feels as though something else drew you to this picturesque little town. Pairing: Jake Seresin x Fem!Reader Warnings: This is an AU where mythical creatures exist. Werewolves are the main characters presented, but others are mentioned and may make an appearance later in the series. There are mentions of death (parental; reader's and Rooster's) and use of pet names, such as "pretty girl", "sweet girl" and "darlin'." Words: 4.7K

[part one of the evergreen falls series]

next→

From the moment you crossed the border from California to Oregon, you knew that this was where you belonged. The forests, the skies, and the overall vibe were different from anything you'd ever known, and you wanted more than anything to stay.

However, it was easy to get lost. Your GPS had all but given up on you, and it took you until it was nearly too late to find your exit. It was hidden in the trees, and when you merged onto it, you wondered if this was a mistake and if it was leading you right off a cliff or something.

Despite that, you kept driving. The highway exit ended up leading you to a gravel road, and that gravel road led you to a sign. It was white with dark green writing, pointing you forward.

Evergreen Falls, 3 miles ahead

Population: 5,135. 

A Great Place to Be!

You'd breathed out a sigh of relief, because this was exactly where you'd needed to go. You were excited; you had been driving for hours, and your body ached from sitting in your car for too long. You couldn't wait to get to town and get out of your car.

Thankfully, those three miles streaked by, and a break in the trees led you to the most beautiful little town you'd ever seen.

Nestled beneath the Pacific Coast mountain range, Evergreen Falls practically sparkled. The buildings all looked like they'd been freshly painted, with red brick inlay that hinted at them being a little older than this century. The streets looked new, but the streetlamps were definitely older and well taken care of.

The road took you to a street sign labeled Main Street, and you pulled your Jeep to the side of the street to park. After taking a moment to study your surroundings, you noticed the little businesses up and down the street. A boutique, a coffee shop called Top Bean, a realtor's office, and what looked to be a vintage record store. It really was a lovely little town, and you smiled to yourself.

Climbing out of your car, you grabbed your bag and stretched. It was cooler here than when you'd gotten into your car to leave California, but it wasn't too bad. Refreshing, even. It was a change, and that's exactly what you needed. You let yourself relax for a moment, feeling the wind ruffle the skirt of the sundress you'd thrown on back in California.

"Well, I've never seen you around before."

You whirled around, pressing a hand to your chest as your heart leapt inside your chest. You hadn't seen anyone on the street when you'd gotten out of your Jeep, so the voice had startled you.

He's standing with his hands in his pockets, a rather lanky gentleman wearing a godawful Hawaiian shirt over a white t-shirt. The ensemble was completed by a pair of grease-stained blue jeans and scuffed cowboy boots. You knew from your best friend's description of her friends that this was Bradley Bradshaw.

His lips twitched, making his mustache move in an amusing way. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. We just don't often get folks traveling through here. 'Specially not beautiful ones."

Cocking an eyebrow, you studied the man for another moment before you spoke. "So, you're Rooster." You had the pleasure of watching him narrow his eyes, staring at you suspiciously. "Or do you prefer Bradley?"

"How in the hell?" He steps closer, peering at you like he's trying to figure out who the hell you are. "How do you know my name? Have we met before?"

You just laugh. "It's nice to finally meet you, Bradley." You take a look around, your eyes drifting back over to the coffee shop. "Natasha told me all about you and your flirty ways."

"Goddammit, Phoenix. And you," He points his index finger at you and says, "You little shit, you scared the hell out of me." He gripes and then gestures for you to follow him. "She's working at the coffee shop today, and so is Coyote."

He opens the door for you, and you're met with the scent of coffee and the sounds of soft chatter. Natasha is behind the counter, and when the bell above you chimes, she finally looks up, locks eyes with you, and says your name. And then she's coming around the counter to launch herself at you, and the two of you almost tumble to the ground in a mess of flailing limbs and excited screams.

Bradley and the other barista are watching all of this with amusement, and neither man makes a move to get between you two.

"I can't believe you're finally here!" Natasha pulls away first, looking at your face like she's afraid you'll disappear if she looks away. "When did you get in? How are you? I thought you were still in California; you're weeks early!"

"I wanted to surprise you!" You explain excitedly. "I just couldn't wait anymore, so I packed everything up and headed straight here. The movers should be somewhere behind me; I think they said they're like forty minutes behind."

Nat's face is bright; she's basically glowing as she pulls you tight to her. It's the first hug you've gotten in days, and you tuck your face into the crook of her neck. She smells like baked goods, coffee, and the perfume she always wore in college when you first met her.

"God, I missed the way you smell. It's like the best thing ever." You tell her, pulling back so you can see her face again. "I'm so glad I'm here. I missed you so fucking much."

She laughs, and Bradley clears his throat from behind you. When you turn around, his arms are crossed over his chest, and he's looking at the both of you with amusement. "Guessing you two go way back?"

The barista that Nat was working with—Javy, it says on his nametag—snorts. "Obviously, Rooster." He smirks when Rooster's answer is a quick flash of his middle finger.

"We went to the same college." You explain, "Nat was studying business, and I was studying to become an English major. We bumped into each other at the campus coffee shop and became study buddies for the rest of our college years. I recently went through some changes, and I wanted to find somewhere new to live. Start over fresh, you know? So I decided to come here so I could live near my best friend."

Nat's hand slips into yours and squeezes gently. "It's seriously been way too long. That was mostly my fault; I got so busy trying to get this place up and running that I never had time for anyone or anything else."

"I can forgive you if you make me a Red-Eye Special." A concoction the two of you had come up with your junior year, the Red-Eye special was a latte with two extra espresso shots, mocha sauce, and topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.

She lets your hand go, a big smile on her beautiful face. "That's actually one of the most popular drinks here. I put it on the menu to make sure I always remember the best friend I ever had."

Bradley huffs indignantly at that, and it sends you both into a fit of giggles. While she goes to make your drink, you move to the bar top to sit and watch her. Bradley follows, taking a seat beside you. "I'll take a mocha frappe, Phoenix."

"You got it, Rooster."

You sit in a comfortable silence for a moment, taking in the coffee shop. It's exactly Nat's aesthetic, you think to yourself. There's band posters everywhere, a vintage jukebox in the corner, and the walls are all painted different and funky colors. The furniture is all well-worn but clearly loved. The pictures she'd texted you when she first opened didn't do the place justice. It was amazing.

"Hey Nat, how come you never told me about your absolutely gorgeous best friend before?" Bradley pipes up from beside you, prompting an eyeroll from you and Nat.

"I've mentioned her a lot over the years since I got back from college, Rooster. You're just a terrible listener."

They were still squabbling amongst themselves when the bell above the door suddenly chimed, announcing the arrival of a newcomer. Curious, you lean back on your chair slightly. Peering around Bradley's back, you catch sight of the person walking in through the door.

He's tall—ridiculously so. Like way over six feet, taller than Bradley's type of tall. His golden hair gleams under the soft light coming in through the windows, and his skin is a beautiful shade of tan. He has a slight beard, and the hair is a few shades darker than the hair on his head. More honey-colored than gold, you think to yourself. He's wearing a gray t-shirt with a dark green flannel; the sleeves are rolled up, and you take a moment to study his strong arms. His hands are massive too, and you know they'd dwarf yours. He's incredibly attractive, nearly angelic in his perfection.

Nat looks over her shoulder, offering a bright smile to the absolute god that just walked into her coffee shop. "Hey, Hangman. Want your usual?"

The man they call Hangman nods as he steps up to the counter, already pulling money out of his wallet. He slides a small stack of bills across the counter to Javy, dropping another bill into the tip jar afterwards.

He doesn't say a word as he passes behind you to the very last bar stool to wait for his order. You can't help but turn slightly in your seat, watching as he walks past you. Something about him seems so familiar to you, but you know you've never seen him before. You'd remember that face.

It's like he can feel your eyes on him because he turns his head, and suddenly you can see his eyes. They're green, a gorgeous shade of worn seaglass, or maybe green like the evergreens the forests around here were thick with. But whatever shade they were, they stole your breath.

He doesn't say anything at first; he just watches you, and the corners of his perfect pink lips lift. He's not totally smiling, but it's enough to get your pulse hammering wildly.

Your own answering smile is sweet, and he swallows thickly as he studies you. He seems to be contemplating something, and then his beautiful lips part. "Hi."

Everyone around you freezes. Bradley and Nat stop their good-nature squabbling, and Javy is openly staring with his jaw dropped. They'd only heard this man talk a handful of times in the last few years, and here you were, the newcomer, drawing him into a conversation.

You're paying zero attention to what just happened around you because you're too busy looking at him to notice. "Hi."

"I've never seen you around before." He remarks, his voice soft. It's got a nice gravel to it, deep and warm. "Are you new to town?"

You find yourself nodding, "I just got here. I came from California. San Diego, to be more specific." Your heart is still thrumming, and it's almost like he can hear it because he smiles. It's wide and boyish, and you're breathless.

"Will you be staying for long?" He gets up from his seat at the end of the bar and moves closer. You have to tilt your head back in order to see his face, but you don't mind.

"I'm moving here, actually." You explain, "I'm now the proud owner of the cottage over by the river. The one on Meadow Lane."

He nods slowly. "I know it. Nice place, not too far from the falls. I remember when the previous owner moved away to a bigger town; he just gave the place to the realtor, Beau Simpson. His office is across the street, in case you need to talk to him about anything."

Nat clears her throat, sliding your coffee across the countertop to you. "That place is nice. But are you sure that's where you want to live? There are plenty of houses here in town that aren't surrounded by the woods, you know? That place is kind of creepy looking at night."

You shrug, breaking eye contact with the beautiful man to look at your best friend. "I fell in love with the house, Nat. It's perfect for me—just the right amount of secludedness, but close enough to town that if I need anything, I can just run and get it. So yeah, I'm sure."

You turn your head again, and he's still watching you. The small smile returns to his lips when your eyes catch his once again. Holding your hand out to him, you say your name, and that smile widens. It's devastating in its beauty.

His hand dwarfs yours when he takes it, and it's unbelievably warm. His palm and fingertips are rough from work, you assume, and you love the way it feels against your soft skin. "Jake Seresin, but sometimes the others call me Hangman. I think I'd like it if you called me Jake."

There's a moment where you're so lost in his eyes that the rest of the world fades away. Something between you snaps into place—something entirely ancient and primal. It almost feels like something is now tying you to him, like a silver, shining chain stretching from somewhere in you to a similar point in him.

It feels like you loved him before, in another life.

"Hello, Earth, to space cadets." Javy is snickering, and Bradley is waving a hand between your faces to catch your attention. "The two of you just went someplace else."

Something that sounds eerily like a growl comes from Jake's direction, but when you look back at him, he just offers another soft smile. He looks suspiciously innocent, but you don't comment on that fact.

Nat comes over just then, sliding a small bag and a to-go mug across the counter over to Jake. "There, here's your order, Hangman. The scones are fresh, just how you like them."

Jake makes a sound like a happy little hum. "Thank you, Phoenix. Much appreciated."

He stands up from his seat next to you, the bag and cup cradled in his large hands. "I have to be getting back now. I'll see you around, right?" He's looking down at you, those bright green eyes searching your face. His expression looks strangely anxious, like he's afraid he's never going to see you again.

"Yeah, of course." You stand too, looking up at him. "Maybe you can show me around town sometime?"

He quickly switches the coffee cup into his other hand, balancing his to-go bag of baked goods on his arm. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out what appears to be a partially crumpled business card. 

Jake Seresin  Woodworker & Carpenter Office: 75 South Pine Ave. Evergreen Falls, OR

"Here, my cell is on there. Call me when you get settled, or if you just get bored and need a break from Bradley's terrible jokes."

Bradley makes another sound from behind you: "Fucking rude."

"That sounds good." You answer softly. "I'll see you around, Jake." Your heart flutters when his smile grows wider, and you think maybe you'd like to keep seeing that smile every day for the rest of your life.

"Bye, darlin'." He murmurs, turning away and making his way out of the coffee shop.

When he's gone, you turn back to the stares of your friends.

"What?"

It doesn't take long for you to receive the keys to your new home. The realtor that Jake had mentioned, Beau Simpson, "Cyclone to my friends," he'd said with a wink, was a helpful guy. He'd made the process of buying your cabin extremely easy, and you'd bunked with Nat for a few days while he got the place ready for you. You had the keys in your hand just four days after arriving in Evergreen Falls.

Night was falling, and you had just brought in the last box of your things from the moving truck. Nat's friends—Javy, Mickey, Bradley, Reuben, and Bob—had introduced themselves to you and offered to help you move in. Even Bradley's godfather—Maverick, he'd told you to call him—had taken a quick look around the place in case anything needed fixing.

Luckily, the place had come somewhat furnished, so you didn't really need to buy anything besides a new mattress. The rest of your stuff from your tiny apartment fits easily in your new home.

Bob and Bradley had already carried your new mattress in; Javy and Mickey were arguing over the way your bed frame was supposed to be put together; and Reuben and Maverick were looking over a leaky faucet in your bathroom. Nat and Maverick's wife, Penny, were putting away dishes in the cupboards of the kitchen.

Bradley was perched on your couch, trying to figure out how to get your WiFi to connect to your smart TV while Penny's daughter watched. She was giggling at him while he was muttering something to himself about 'stupid fucking technology' when your phone chimed.

Jake: It sounds like a circus over there. 

What Jake had failed to mention was that when you moved in, the cabin half a mile down the road was owned by him. Not that you particularly minded, but it was nice to know that a friendly face was close by in case you needed something.

You'd texted him your number the night you'd met him, and it was a nice surprise to see him reach out. You smiled to yourself, worrying your lower lip between your teeth for a moment before you answered.

You: They mean well. I'm almost all moved in; I just need to get my bed together and fix the hole in the floor of my front porch, and I'll be all good to go. Jake: I can fix that, if you want. I can drop by tomorrow morning after my run. You: That'd be great! Thank you so much, Jake. Jake: No problem, pretty girl. You: Pretty girl, huh? That's sweet. And thank you again; that was sweet of you to say. See you tomorrow, Jake. Jake: Sleep tight.

The rest of the evening was spent tidying things up, sharing pizza, and goofing off with your newfound friend group. It had been pretty late when they all filed out of your new home, and you'd dragged yourself to your room and onto your new mattress for some rest. It had been a long week.

Maybe it was just the whole 'being alone in a new home' thing making you anxious, but before you fell asleep, you could've sworn you heard howling from somewhere out in the forest behind your new home. Before you can really think anything of it, sleep grabs ahold of you and drags you down deep.

The sound of knocking ends up dragging you out of a dream. You can't quite remember what it was about, but then you remember the howling from the night before, and you wonder if it has to do with that. The sun is filtering in through the window, but from the look of it, it is definitely still early.

You're still sleepy-eyed when you go to answer the door, and your hair is a little messy. You assume it's Natasha, or maybe Bradley, coming over to bug you. But when you open the door, you're met with the strong and tall frame of Jake Seresin, standing right there in your doorway.

Shit. You'd forgotten he was coming over to fix the porch.

You brush a lock of hair away from your left eye and tilt your head back, immediately melting when you see his face. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." He answers. He looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes, but he's smiling faintly. And then you watch as his gaze falls to your shoulder. Your too-big sleep shirt had slipped down, revealing more skin to him. His gaze is appraising as his eyes drift over your form, down to your bare legs. He must've liked what he saw, because the apples of his cheeks were pink now.

After clearing your throat, you could feel your own face heating up. "I woke up a little late and forgot you were coming. Sorry about me looking all, you know, messy."

"You look beautiful." He says in response. "I like this just as much as I liked that sundress you were wearing the first day I met you." He says it sweetly, and you can feel your pulse fluttering in your throat.

"Thank you, Jake." You murmur, "You're very kind." Your face is shy and pink. You wonder where this guy has been hiding himself all your life. "Um, I'll just run upstairs and get dressed. Feel free to come in if you want."

You don't wait for him to come inside; you just open the door a little wider and scurry away toward the stairs. It's not that you distrust Jake—just the opposite, in fact—you trust him a lot. Probably too much, considering the fact that you'd only had 1.5 conversations with the guy. Standing around in your little PJs is probably not the best move. You know you should probably look semi-decent while a man is working on your home.

You hurry into your bedroom, quickly swapping out what you're wearing for a pair of cutoff jean shorts and a t-shirt. It's the middle of summer and warm this time of year, but it's not nearly as bad as California. You hurriedly tug a brush through your unruly hair, trying to get it to settle down, and then hurry into your bathroom to brush your teeth. Your face is flushed when you look in the mirror, and you do your best to settle the sudden onslaught of nerves you're feeling.

When you come back down the stairs, Jake is standing in front of your fireplace with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He's studying the photographs on the mantle above it—the photos of your family. Your mom and dad were in the majority of them, and Jake muses over how much you look like them both.

"Are you close with them?"

Stepping into the living room, you wrap your arms around yourself. It hurts you to think of them; the pain is still fresh even months later. "I was." Your voice is tinged with sadness, and he turns his head when you come up beside him. "They died earlier this year in a car accident. They were on their way home from a concert when a drunk driver hit them head-on."

After a long moment (where you think you've said the wrong thing), he slowly wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently toward him. You go to him without question, resting your head against his chest while his hand rubs your back in slow, soothing circles. You can feel his sorrow; he doesn't pity you, but he is sad for you.

You let yourself be comforted. You've only known him a few days, but it feels like he's always been with you. It's strange and probably insane, but you feel like there could be something there.

You really hope there's something there.

There's a feeling of light pressure against your skull, and you tip your head back so you can see his face. The smile he gives you is sweet, and your heart feels a little less heavy than it had a moment before.

"I should get started on the porch. Maybe after I'm done, I can take you out to breakfast? The hole isn't too big; it shouldn't take me more than an hour to fix it." He's smiling at you, and you can tell that he's nervous, too.

You nod, your eyes meeting his, and there's that feeling again. That pull between you is like a long chain connecting you to him, and it feels like it's always been there, even though you just met him for the first time a few days ago. You can't help but wonder if he feels it, too.

You let him go, and he grabs the tool bag he'd left by your front door. Not knowing what else to do, you drift out behind him with the intention of sitting on the porch swing. You just want to be near him, plain and simple.

You settle down on the swing, one leg bent on the seat while the other works to push you slowly back and forth. Jake is already at work, measuring and cutting things with a precision that amazes you. He's shed his flannel, leaving him clad in only a black t-shirt that looks worn and soft. You watch the way he moves, his arms when he lifts, and the way his chest and back fill out that t-shirt in a way that makes your mouth dry.

You haven't dated in a long time. You had so much going on with school, finding a job in your field, and then your parents' deaths that it was hard to make a solid connection with anyone around you. Plus, a lot of the time, the guys you met were either total jerks or just really weird. But Jake? Jake seemed different. He was quiet, kind, and helpful, and there was something there. Something deep-seated and amazing is just waiting to be unlocked.

Your phone chimes from where it's sitting on the porch swing next to you, and you pick it up to see a new text from Bradley.

Bradley: Hey, you. Are you up yet? You: Yeah, I'm awake! What's up? Bradley: The group is planning on going on a hike this afternoon to the falls, maybe swim a little, and have a picnic. You interested? You: Sounds awesome. Who all is going? Bradley: Everyone, just about. Maverick sometimes tags along, but he's taking Penny and Amelia out for their own day trip. You: Jake's with me; should I ask if he wants to come with me? Bradley: Good luck with that. Jake is kind of a lone wolf. Bradley: Also, why is Jake Seresin with you??? You: Carpenter services. He's fixing my front porch. I bet I can convince him to come with us. Wanna meet up at my place so we can all walk there together? Bradley: Yeah, we'll get there around 12. Javy and I are bringing food; Nat's bringing drinks. Think you could pick up some paper plates and napkins? You: On it.

"Hey, Jake?" He hums, looking up from his handiwork to meet your eyes. "The group is planning on coming over today at noon so we can all go to the falls and swim. Do you think I could convince you to come with?"

He looks like a deer in headlights for a moment, his eyes wide when he stares at you. "You... want me to go with you?" He asks slowly, his tone strangely disbelieving. It was like he couldn't quite believe that you'd extended the invitation to him.

"Well, yeah. Of course I do. And I'm sure everyone else would love to see you, too." You stop swinging, your head tilted in a way that kind of reminds him of a little deer. "Please? It'll be a good chance for you and me to hang out for a few hours. Plus, socializing would be good for you. I hear that you can be quite the recluse."

He snorts but doesn't say anything for a long time. You're almost afraid that he's going to say no to you, and then he sighs. "Alright, I'll go. But as long as you make me a promise,"

"Hm?"

"Never go into Evergreen Forest by yourself, especially at night." He seems anxious when he says it, standing up from where he's been working to cross over to you. "It's easy to get lost if you're not familiar with the area. People have up and gone missing because it's so easy to get turned around in there."

He crouches down, laying his hands on your knees. Even crouching, he's so tall that he's face-to-face with you. You're a little distracted by his eyes, and by the way his hands are deliciously warm and rough against your skin. "It's okay to go if at least one of us is with you, but you should never go alone. Okay?"

Normally, if a man tried to tell you to do something, you'd immediately roll your eyes and do it anyway. But there's an edge to his voice, and it sounds strangely desperate. So you look him in the eye and nod. "I promise."