#i found it in my drafts and its the holidays tonight so I figure I might as well post it

[coffee-at-annies]

It’s Bitty’s first year at Samwell and he’s been pretty much given free rein of the kitchen to bake as much as his heart desires. Sometimes the boys even help him outs with ingredients if they want him to make something specific. It’s the middle of the September and he walks into an empty Haus filled with the scent of fresh picked apples. And boy do they smell good. Reminds Bitty of going apple picking with his mother when he was younger. There’s no note saying whether he can or can’t use them but there’s never been an issue with him using what’s in the kitchen for his baking before and these would work perfectly for in his Moomaw’s famous apple pie that he’s just been dying to make. Ransom and Holster come back right as the pie is coming out of the oven. They seem surprised that he’s there and that he used the apples but when he asks they assure him that it was okay. Still, when Holster sees the pie his smile doesn’t fade and his thanks are no less enthusiastic then they’ve been in the past but something goes a little dead in his eyes. Bitty doesn’t understand why until later that evening when looking for Holster to apologize to him again and instead finds Jack up in the attic with Ransom and Holster quietly slicing up the last of the apples and dipping them in a jar of honey while candles flicker in the window frame. Bitty watches for a moment before heading to the reading nook to get an explanation from Shitty.

[wexhappyxfew]

The Sun Will Always Rise || Ronald Speirs

inspired by a quote from Ruta Sepetys’ book, Between Shades of Grey ~ ❛you stand for what is right, without the expectation of gratitude or reward. ❜

Happy HBO War Secret Santa 2020! I can’t believe the time has officially arrived and to say I am beyond excited for this lil Ronald Speirs imagine I cooked up, is an understatement. This is for @incorrectbandofbrothersquotes​ , for Kelsey!! It’s not as much of a Christmas theme, more of a snowy, wintry theme, which I love!!

I was beyond excited to take up a request for Secret Santa and laying out my options, going off your list, I chose Ronald Speirs to write for you - I am so happy with how this turned out, and I hope, more than anything, you enjoy it and it brings some holiday cheer to this time of year, especially after a year where it seems like every thing that happened just got worse and worse.

Take time to yourself this holiday season, Kelsey, and you enjoy some time for yourself as well - you are such a wonderful human being, who I believe if I’m correct, I have followed since Day 1 in this fandom, nearly 2 years ago - if that even sounds right LOL! It’s been a long while though! Happy reading and happy holidays for whatever holiday you celebrate, or if you don’t celebrate any at all! Thank you and enjoy! And thank you @hellitwasyoufirstsergeant for doing this!!! <3

ronald speirs imagine x reader - 2.5k word count <3 

Captain Speirs had been rather adamant on letting you go early from the tiny meeting Captain Winters had organized - between the runny nose, your numb fingertips, and your pale cheeks which seemed to stand out especially in the bleak wilderness around you, you figured it was for the best. 

Haguenea, France was far from the paradise that Mourmelon-le-Grande had offered back in the convent in Rachamps when it was the only thought inside your mind, the warmth reaching your hands for the first time in what felt like months. 

Now, your toes were numb just like your mind. Your helmet was cast down over your tired eyes, the dark rims that had accompanied you through Bastogne, along with the terrors of the Bois Jaque, you were surprised that you could no longer get a proper night of sleep at this point. 

OP 2 stood with its bullet speckled fortifications, shattered glass window panes, and mud covered path way but more than anything you felt a tiny smile poke up at the corner of your mouth, more than anything in that moment. 

Crossing your arms across your chest, you tucked your little hands towards the coat portion near your armpits, relishing the bit of warmth your body still managed to produce. 

Moving up the few steps you had taken that morning, up to the depths of OP 2, you stomped the bits of mud out from the portions of your new winter-boots pack and pushed inside the bit of warmth that drifted from the outpost. 

You could hear a few of the men moving around downstairs, most likely eating their fill before the patrol slated for 0100 tonight. It was quiet on the main level though, beds left unmade from where men had taken much-needed naps from the bitter cold which brought on layers of tiredness and loss of calories more than the normal days of what war brought. 

Pulling the Thompson from your shoulder, you let it drop into your cold hands before lying it beside the bunk you, yourself had taken a nap in before you had woken up for the meeting. 

Yawning, you glanced towards the open French doors that let in the cold draft of air in the late, dreary afternoon. The quiet river that trailed outside let it’s soft presence be known as the sun did its best to warm the land underneath which lay tattered in ruins and soaking snow and mud pits, decorating it with war. 

Moving outside again, you let your pistol bump at your hip - no one wanted to start another battle when the war had already taken enough, no one wished to throng bullet after bullet towards one another when there was already so much bloodshed - for a moment there was simply just peace as you moved outside towards the river. 

Turning the corner, where you had found a little secluded spot to just sit and let the tiny bit of peace you felt overtake you, you noticed a figure standing stiffly, his dark eyes looking out across the river, with a scarf pulled up around his stubble cheeks, eyes evidently alert and awake. 

You had found the area just that day, frosted hedges and a leafless tree hanging overhead with the dreary sky as a saddening backdrop. 

Clearing your throat, you took a tentative step forward, watching the man with gentle eyes. He didn’t seem to notice your presence, he didn’t make a show of it, but you knew he did, by the subtle shift in the way his shoulders dropped the slightest inch, and even his eyes seemed to soften, the hard glow from your side view of him fading. 

Captain Speirs seemed no stranger to your presence in the simple way, he suddenly turned his own head towards your eyes, his lips pulled into the thin line you had seen previously at the small gathering with Captain Winters. 

“ I thought I told you to get some rest, Lieutenant.” he said, his eyes softly moving up and down your small stature, stopping briefly on your hands which looked nearly as pale as the sky by that point - you looked so fragile and small in his eyes for a moment. 

“ Sleeping and I aren’t exactly compatible.” you said as you approached him, your feet in the mud covered boots slowing to a pause in front of him as he watched you earnestly.

“ What are you doing out here, Lieutenant?” 

“ I could ask the same of you, sir.” you answered quietly back, watching as he studied your eyes, noticing the build of stress lines that stretched like the horizon underneath your stressed eyes, the sunken in cheeks showing the wounds of war in someone who had fought so strongly against it and the pain of a million souls rupturing your heart. A slight hint of a smile poked up at the corner of his lips, as he finally rested his eyes on your own again, before looking back out towards the river and the enemy’s side.

“ It’s peaceful out here.” he said and you watched as he let his eyes move along the bank of water, softly picking on each and every little part of the river from its banks to the white caps. 

“ I’m glad I’m not the only one who found it peaceful then.” you said quietly, your own eyes caring out towards the, admittedly, cold water. Slowly, willing yourself with the might you had, you walked forward and slowly positioned yourself beside the man, barely reaching his shoulder if you could admit it and let your eyes remain out on the river. 

Captain Ronald Speirs had come into your life only recently, but even years before you had bumped into him on occasion - it was always a mutual greeting, signs of respect being passed between the two of you, both Lieutenants in your own realms. He had even complimented the dress you’d been wearing out on the town one night with a group of the guys in Aldbourne after the Normandy Campaign. He had liked the color - it had been a soft baby blue, like robin’s eggs - and he had liked it. 

Of course at the time, you hadn’t thought much of it, the sun rising and setting, the moon coming out to expose the raw pain and truth of war, the bloodshed and endless battles and the grief that consumed merely just one person after the next - you’d forgotten about it almost instantly. You still remembered the softness of his eyes - that hadn’t changed. 

Now, he was your CO and you remained a close Second to him; he turned to you when he wanted to run something over, and on occasion, you two shared a cigarette under the moonlight when all the men were tucked away and finally getting the restful sleep they deserved. 

“ What do you think’s gonna happen on that patrol tonight, Lieutenant?” he asked you, voice soft, in a way gentle, but the soft rasp of a cough in his throat was far from evident. He always seemed to confide in you when these circumstances arose - especially after Rachamps. 

“ I think the men will be okay, they’ve fought for a while in this war, just as the enemy has. They’ll do their best.” They were tired is what she wanted to say, all the men were - she gave a prayer to Sergeant Martin for the heed he took when assigned to lead the patrol over the exhausted Sergeant Malarkey. 

“ They’ve all fought long enough.” the Captain said quietly and you peaked a hesitant glance up towards him. Your heart didn’t fail to speed up the slightest bit at the gentle nature that encased his face and the way he seemed to undoubtedly care for each of the men like a father would. 

Turning from the river, he slowly met your eyes which didn’t falter in looking away from his own - you were rather mesmerized by his beautiful irises, the way they glowed even in darkness or in the bleak snow, even when the sun would rise, they glowed so purely. 

“ Sir….I….” He watched you speak, head inclined towards you, waiting for the words from your lips, but you were caught up with the caring nature he seemed to inhibit within himself in that moment of time where there was no war, no peace, just him and his eyes, and just...him. 

“ I know you care for these men, Y/N.” Captain Speirs whispered softly, as he watched your eyes change from the stressed expression they seemed to constantly encompass to a gentleness, a warmth, merely at the direct comment of her name and not just the soft rasp of Lieutenant - no he had said your name. So softly and tenderly, each letter off the tongue like a song. 

“ I’ve been with them since Toccoa, sir….I…” your shoulders managed to slump as you found yourself unable to finish your sentence under the Captain’s gaze, unable to process mere words. 

“ These men don’t deserve this Y/N, I know that and so does Captain Winters - I think we all do.” 

“ Battalion’s orders.” you managed out weakly, with an attempt at a frosted smile as he nodded, watching the sadness flood your eyes again - he found out he didn’t like seeing your beautiful eyes sad like that, even if they still looked just as beautiful, your eyes didn’t deserve to see and feel such pain, for their mere beauty was worth much more. 

“ You don’t deserve this either, Y/N.” Shutting your eyes for a moment, you felt your heart squeeze at his words - you always thought in some way you had - for the lives you took, for the ones you couldn’t prevent being taken, from everything. In some ways, it was alright - to pay your dues as such. 

“ You deserve to be happy, warm...in a little cottage by the sea that you’ve always liked…” 

He had LISTENED to that story? He had HEARD that story? 

You swore it must’ve been the fever or maybe that the recollection you had was just you mumbling to yourself, you swore it had been.

“ You heard all that?” you asked softly, your eyes opening as you met his own again. A chuckle left his lips and you found it enough to boost your own into a shy smile at it, his eyes downcast before glancing up to your own. He had a nice laugh.

“ Yeah, yeah I did,” he said biting back his lips as a smile crossed his lips, twinkling eyes shining on you,” must’ve been the fever but you were going on and on about it and I wasn’t going to stop you either.” You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head at your clumsy way of speech - through a fever and the cold and you had blabbered to Captain Speirs about the cottage by the sea you wished for. 

Both your smiles seemed to fall once the moment past and almost like a little angel on your shoulder, your heart pleaded to see that dash of a boyish grin on his lips again. Your heart nearly yearned for it when it’s only human contact was the Captain in front of her - maybe she wanted it too. 

And from the proximity of your bodies, you were nearly in reach of him. 

“ Your eyes..-” Softly looking towards you as you spoke, your lip hanging open a bit as you met them again,”...I mean, sir, I..I don’t know if you’ve been told, but you’re eyes…” He watched you softly.

“ They’re beautiful, sir, and I just thought you should know.” Because in war, this war, I may never see you after tonight, you wished to say, but your head was saying no as your heart was saying yes. 

The smile that had gone underground on the Captains’ face suddenly grew, spreading across his face and you couldn’t help but let your breath get caught in your throat. 

An ethereal being was your first thought. 

It seemed like he too was caught at a similar crossroads, his eyes betraying him and his heart - you were within reach, you were standing right there, despite everything. 

You were standing there with a wounded heart. 

“ I could say the same to you,” he said quietly,” Lieutenant.” Your heart squeezed the slightest bit tighter as he said it.

“ Baby blue,” he said quietly,” like robin’s eggs.” Your eyes carried up to his again and you met them within seconds, suddenly aware of the heat on your cheeks, the pounding of your heart - none of it.

“ I didn’t just notice that dress you wore that day, Lieutenant,” he said quietly,” I noticed those eyes too.” He swore they could make the sun want to rise on its worst days. You swore it was just the cold, but you had no words left to say, you had nothing to say at all - because his eyes which glowed like the sun, said it all. 

“ Sir….” you whispered, but he suddenly turned and gently pressed his hands which had been crossed over his chest, flush against your red cheeks and watched you tenderly, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin of your sunken in cheeks, as he watched your eyes. He watched you so selflessly, like you were his sun, his world. 

Could a person ever mean that much to another - maybe Ronald Speirs thought that way. 

Maybe he always had. 

It seemed for a moment the stoic Captain did everything to break down the walls which encapsulated him just so he could touch the human in front of him - you. The bit of warmth he still felt under his fingertips coming from you. 

Softly, ever so lovingly, he shut his eyes as you watched his long lashes cover his irises. 

And in that moment, you shut your own as he held your there, inches from his face, faintly hearing his heartbeat which raced for the first time since Foy. 

“ You stand for what is right, Y/N, without the expectation of gratitude or reward.” he whispered softly as your heart rushed and hurriedly skipped over a beat without hesitation,” And through this war, even after, it’s all you deserve.” 

And within a moment, a softness pressed against your cold cheek, the touch of his lips on your skin, a gentle kiss from the servant of the sun - and just as fast as it had happened it disappeared. 

Your own hands slowly moved upward towards your flushed cheeks - you could still feel the brush of his lips against the skin of your cheek. 

Opening your eyes, you found yourself alone, all alone by the rushing water of the river, your heart pounding. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder and found the figure of the Captain moving away from you, his commanding presence which had fallen to his queen for a mere moment of time, back up. 

Yet you had seen it fall, and you had seen his heart, his beautiful heart - for not only were his eyes as beautiful as they had been, but so was his heart - it had always been, but this time, so was everything else about him. 

Everything.

The sun smiled, it would always rise. 

The sun would always rise. 

[jawritter]

Elf

Summary: Maybe being stuck at home for Christmas with Dean during a snow storm, isn’t so bad after all. 

Warnings: Light Smut, unprotected smut, language, fluff. That’s about it really. 

Word Count: 2814

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Prompt: Elt

A/N: This fic was written for @janicho88 100 follower Christmas Celebration! Congratulation on the new milestone hun! This fic was also beta’d by the lovely @miss-neard95!! Thanks so much love!! As always please do not copy my work! Feedback is golden! I hope you all enjoy this one! We need a little Christmas in September! I mean hey? Why not? LOL 

 Want more? Check out my Masterlist, or become a patreon for exclusive fics!

***MASTERLIST***              ***BECOME A PATREON***

You shivered as a cold draft of air blew into the Bunker behind you, Dean closing the door as quickly as he could with his hands full of groceries. 

It had been snowing for three solid days now, and there were no signs of letting up any time soon. Dean was convinced that this was how the world was going to end - you were all going to freeze to death. He hated the cold, hated the snow, and more than that, he hated the holidays that usually came with this kind of weather. 

You and Dean made your way towards the kitchen with this week’s supplies, as well as the next in your hands. Normally you would only buy enough for a couple of days, but since the weather conditions only seemed to worsen, you figured it might be best to stay hunkered down for a little while. 

You dumped the bags down on the counter, Dean mimicking your actions,  before the both of you shrugged out of your coats, throwing them down over the table in the corner with a huff as you looked at the sprawling display of things in front of you that needed to be put away.

“Okay,” Dean said, warming his hands by blowing on them and rubbing them together as his piercing green eyes scanned the items on the countertop. “You put away the freezer stuff, and I’ll clear up everything else except your lady products.”

A wicked smirk tugged on your lips as you grabbed the box of Tampons out of the bag, waving them around in front of his face in a  manner that you knew was childish, but Dean seemed to bring out the brat in you. 

“You mean these lady products, Dean?” You asked, giving him a cheeky smile that could make the Cheshire Cat jealous. 

Dean's wrinkled nose with his lips in a grimace was the cutest look of disgust you had ever seen, not that his perfect face wasn't a factor, swatting your hand away like you were holding something revolting.

“Yes, that. Now come on, I want to get out of these jeans, and change into something warmer.” He turned his back to you in mock annoyance as you placed the tampons back on the counter with a chuckle, and started putting the frozen foods away.

It was quiet in the Bunker for the most part. Sam was snowed in at Jody’s when he’d gone up there last week to work on a case with the girls, and that just left Dean and you alone in the Bunker for the foreseeable future-or at least until the snow melted enough for Sam to make it home. 

Cas and Jack were on some sort of 'Angel business' and neither of you, dared asking exactly what that was. Some things you were just better off not knowing until there was no way to ignore them.

Christmas was two days away, and while Dean never really made a big deal about the holidays, you always enjoyed celebrating them. It was the only thing you ever looked forward to as a kid growing up in the hunting life, something your mother tried to hold on which became a normal for you. It was the only reminiscent of your childhood, and something that you clinged to for comfort.

Once you were done, you saw that Dean was still working, so you grabbed the sanitary products and made your way to your room to change into your fuzzy pajama pants, and one of Dean’s old flannel you had stolen from him when you had first moved into the Bunker.

You didn’t need said lady products right now, but you didn’t want to be trapped here without them either. It sucked to be a female because you had to make sure you were prepared for these types of situations, hunter or otherwise. You never knew when you were going to need them, but it was usually at the most inconvenient moments of your life.

You smiled as you made your way from the bathroom after stashing the box away to your bedroom to change, thinking about Dean’s adorably childish reaction to you messing with him in the kitchen just now. 

You knew he was just playing with you. Dean wasn’t bothered by something as small as a box of tampons, but he did love to get a rise out of you and did seem to enjoy the attention of any form he could get. 

So he liked to be playfully grumpy with you, knowing you thought it was more than a little cute.

You were just finishing up throwing your hair into a messy bun when you heard a soft knock on the door and turned around to see a very confused Dean, holding a DVD case in his hand. 

“Y/N, what’s this?” He asked, holding up the new Elf DVD that you had just purchased while on the supply run to watch later tonight after Dean went to bed. 

“Whatever it is, it's mine!” You snatched the DVD from his hand. 

A smirk settled deeply on his handsome features as he strutted his way through the door towards you. Your eyes took him in, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips and his  tightly fitted T-Shirt did very little to hide his well toned chest and shoulders. 

“Elf? Really Y/N/N, I took you to be more of a 50 Shades type of girl,” Dean said, flopping down on his stomach across your bed, his elbows bent with his smug face resting in his hands. He’d obviously found a way to get back at you for the little teasing back in the kitchen, and you just knew that he wasn't going to let you brush him off that easy.

There had always been an undeniable sexual tension between you two, but neither of you ever acknowledged it. No, you weren’t dating, you weren’t friends with benefits, you were literally just friends. But that didn’t stop you from enjoying the view of the curve of his ass as he laid strewn across your bed.

Maybe you were more of a 50 Shades girl, but he didn’t need to know that. You liked the friendship between the two of you. He was the greatest thing that ever happened to you. He was your best friend, your rock, the person you went to when you needed someone to lean on. You couldn’t fuck that up just because you had feelings for him, there was no way that was ever gonna happen. 

“Well Dean, we can’t be all kinky all the time, sometimes you need something a little vanilla,” you answered his question with a suggestive wink in order to keep up the banter that he’d started, but when you turned to look at him, your hair fell out.

Dean sat up cross legged in the middle of your bed when you huffed looking in the mirror, watching you as you started fixing your hair again with an unreadable look on his face. 

“Well, let’s watch it,” he said with a shrug. 

You turned on the spot and stared at Dean like he’d popped out a second head. 

“What?”

“Let’s watch it.” 

“You wanna watch Elf? You feeling okay, Dean?” 

Dean’s eyes narrowed at that, sticking his tongue out at you before jumping off of the bed and grabbing the DVD from your hands.

“ Dean Cave. Fifteen minutes.” He yelled over his shoulder, and you watched his retreating back as he made his way down the hall to start  the movie for the two of you.

Shaking your head you laughed as you made your way to the kitchen to grab a few beers before you walked back to the Dean Cave.

Dean was always full of surprises. Just when you thought you had him figured out, he did something you never would expect. Like agreeing to watch a Christmas movie with you, when you knew he hated Christmas. 

It wasn’t like it was a great mystery why that was. His father didn't exactly qualify for the parent of the year nomination, and Bobby, well he tried, but he wasn’t that into it either. Good family memories just weren’t something Dean had. 

When you stepped in the Dean Cave, Dean had pulled out one of the oversized blankets you kept in the laundry room for nights like this when you would all pile up in here and watch TV, and was waiting for you with the remote in his hand. 

“I brought beer,” you said, holding the two clinking bottles high above your head as you approached the couch. Dean grinned at you before flipping the covers open for you., offering you to sit down beside him.

“I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” Dean said with an impish smirk, his lips grabbing your attention that you wanted to feel on your own. 

You settled comfortably next to him as Dean hit play, throwing his arm around you and tucking you into his side before giving you a chaste kiss on the top of your forehead. It wasn't anything unusual for Dean, but it made your heart flutter in your chest all the same. 

You curled into his chest, laying your head against his shoulder as his arms wrapped tightly around you with your legs on his lap. He felt warm and safe, and you honestly could have given everything you had to stay just like this forever. 

As the credits rolled on the movie, Dean reached over and flipped the TV off, leaving both of you in the dark room with the only light from the hallway peeking in through the cracked door. 

“I have to admit, for a Christmas movie, it wasn’t that bad.” Dean said, wrapping the blankets tighter around the two of you instead of getting up like you had expected him to. 

Dean’s large hand brushed a stray hair away from your face as he held you against him, his face so close to yours, you could feel the warmth of his breath fanning over your skin. 

“See, maybe you should do what I suggest more often,” you fired back, trying to keep the conversation light and ignore his hand that was under the covers slowly creeping its way up your thigh as he laughed. 

“I don’t think so sweetheart. Tomorrow we’re watching Death Race, like it or not.”

Even in the darkness of the room Dean’s eyes seemed to sparkle just a little, and the army of butterflies in your stomach started to take flight against you.

You could have sworn he was moving closer to you although it seemed impossible as he held you closer to his large frame. 

“Dean, I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you whispered as his lips came ever so close to your own that they were almost brushing.

He just chuckled in response, resting his forehead against yours. “I don’t see the problem, I mean, people already think we’re a couple now.”

Before you could even register what he was saying, Dean’s lips captured yours in a sweet, slow kiss that made your toes curl and your breath hitch in your throat. It didn’t last long, but it was long enough to leave you breathless as he pulled away from you. 

“I know I joke around a lot, but I can be as soft as you need me to be, if you’d give me the chance to show you.”

You could literally feel your heart pounding in your ears as his eyes scanned yours, fear of rejection lingering not far below the surface. 

You don’t know what made you react, you just did. In a spurt of bravery you closed the distance between you, your lips crashing into his as his arms wrap even tighter, pulling your body flush against his. 

You could feel his excitement growing by the prominent bulge that was forming in his sweatpants as his teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging it just hard enough to pull a moan from your lips. 

“Let me show you baby, let me show you what you do to me,” Dean murmured, his hands tracing the skin of your back. 

You had wanted this to happen for so long, that it almost felt like a dream. But one thing was for sure, you weren’t going to push him away anymore. Dean was the kind of person that took things to heart, and if you rejected him, even if it was out of your own fear, you knew you would lose him forever. 

“Then show me, Dean.” You mutter against his lips. 

Not even for one second did Dean break eye contact with you as he pulled your shirt over your head before finding your lips again with his own, dominating your mouth, his hands explored the now exposed skin. You didn’t miss the low growl that came from him when he discovered you’d decided to forgo wearing a bra. His hands slid over your exposed breath before running his thumb over each nipple. His tongue licked into your mouth in a way that made you shiver in his hold. The man was good, and he hadn't even gotten started yet.

His hands wandered to the waistband of your pants and pulled them down in one smooth go, leaving you fully exposed before him.

His eyes travelled shamelessly over your body, his white teeth sinking into his lower lip. 

“You're fucking beautiful, sweetheart,” Dean said, his voice deep and dripping with lust. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes, Winchester,” you purred. 

It took him mere seconds to strip out of his clothes. You noticed that he’d also chosen to go without  his underwear and you couldn't help the smirk forming on your lips. 

He was gorgeous. His well-toned body from a life of hunting and killing monsters hovered over your small frame on the couch you were laying on. His thick length was heavy and dripping against your already wet folds as his lips found your throat, running his teeth lightly over your collar bone before sucking his mark there. 

“I’ve wanted you like this for so fucking long, baby girl,” Dean said between kisses as he rutted on your folds. His blunt tip created just enough friction on your sensitive clit to drive you crazy and want more. 

“Then have me Winchester, what are you waiting for?” You asked him teasingly. 

Dean repositioned his hips, and with one smooth thrust he was fully seated inside of you without warning, his face hidden in the crook of your neck as he panted above you, holding himself still and giving you time to adjust. 

You had never been so full, so stretched as you were right now. It took you a moment before you were able to roll your hips against his, giving him the push he needed to start moving. At first he set a slow, steady pace. Each stroke of his cock against your already clenching walls driving you higher and higher until his tip hit that special spot deep inside of you at which you cried out. 

“Fuck, Dean,” you moaned, before his lips found yours in a deep kiss that was all tongue and teeth. 

You could already feel that familiar coil begin to wind tight in your abdomen with each thrust of his hips. 

Dean could tell you were getting close, and he picked up  a faster, deeper pace, hitting your g-spot directly everytime. 

“Come on baby, I can feel you're close. Let go,” he said breathlessly, his rhythm beginning to falter. 

It was like that was the command your body had been waiting for, and you came with a silent scream as your walls clamped down around him, and his hips locked in place as he spilled his seed deep inside of you, your walls milking every drop his body could give you. 

When you both came back down from your high Dean laid down next to you in the small space, pulling the covers over the two of you and snuggling into you.

You both stayed there in silence for a minute before you finally had the courage to speak. 

“Where does this leave us, Dean?” You asked him as his lips brushed over the exposed skin of your shoulder.

“It means your mine now, baby girl. Merry Christmas,” He said, his voice cocky and he was back to being the Dean you loved so much  

Turning around you swatted him playfully on his arm before settling back into his hold, nuzzling into his chest before letting out a content sigh of your own. 

“Best Christmas present ever,” you tell him before drifting off to sleep in the arms of the man you would always love with your whole heart, but now, he was yours and you, his.

Forever Tags: @deanwanddamons​ @rvgrsbrns​ @bi-danvers0​ @onethirstyunicorn​ @i-love-superhero​ @akshi8278​ @lyss-dw79​ @magssteenkamp​ @lemondropirwin​ @squirrelnotsam​ @hobby27​ @spnbaby-67​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​ @defenderrosetyler​ @screechingartisancashbailiff​ @thecreatiivecorner​  @aflamboyanceofgays @vicmc624​ @busy-bee-angel-misska​ @justanotherwinchester​ @brilovesdeanwinchester​ @idksupernatural​ @lyarr24​ @amandamdiehl​ @love-jackles-37-blog​ @miraclesoflove​ @waywardsistershy​ @emoryhemsworth​ @dean-winchesters-gardian-angel​ @softsebastian​ @tatted-trina6​ @deanmonandnegansbitch​ @hayleeharling​   @flamencodiva​ @coldmuffinbanditshoe​ @bxbyizzy​ @rain-dance-goblin​ @itmejado​ @supernatural3002​

[write-a-bad-romance]

Two Hares Running Side by Side [Final]

Part I & Part II

Characters: Jean d’Arc, Napoleon Bonaparte, Sebastian, Comte de Saint-Germain, minor characters adapted from historical figures

Pairings: Napoleon x MC, Napoleon x Jean, Sebastian x Saint-Germain (main)

Words: 2803

Warning: Some sexual content (MxM)

Leon was soon kept busy with work. Although it didn't keep him from trying to enter the infirmary after twilight.

But he was discouraged by the suspicious looks the head nurse threw him, and Leon finally resigned to loitering in the courtyards of the infirmary.

It was a full moon outside. Leon stared at his own shadow and thought it had never looked so gaunt and pathetic.

Even the chirp of cricket failed to distract him from meandering thoughts.

The thought of killing and being killed was no stranger to seasoned officers like Leon and Sebastian. Overcoming regret and fear was natural to them. And so was the assurance that they'd always see each other after the gunshots ceased.

But, they were both human, in the end. Sebastian was made of fragile bones and flesh, and Leon wasn't free from the emotions that threatened to engulf him.

Leon sat back and let the breeze sweep through his hair. The sky was starless, a pitch-black void looming over the earth.

The grass crunched underneath the boots of an approaching figure.

"Sergeant-Major," Leon greeted. "Here on a visit? It's already late."

It didn't matter if it was d'Arc. Just like back then, all he needed was another's presence. An anchor, though he loathed marking d'Arc as such.

At least it made him less guilty than the alternative.

Leon scooted over the stone bench to give d'Arc some space. As Leon's sight adjusted better, he could see bandages crisscrossing on the right side of d'Arc's face.

"I didn't know you were injured," Leon cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I didn't check on you immediately—"

"Don't be," d'Arc replied with a hoarse voice. "You were preoccupied with the adjutant, after all."

"How did you know?" Was d'Arc observing him as well?

"I heard it from d'Alencon, who heard it from the nurses in Gilles' ward," he explained. "Some of them... fancied him, apparently. I understand why they'd fawn over such a gentleman, but still."

D'Arc coughed. He's a dying man, d'Arc failed to say.

"I will be praying for the Second Adjutant," d'Arc breathed. "As I've been praying for Gilles, I mean de Rais."

Another gust of wind billowed, scattering dead leaves on a stone walkway not too far away.

"How is de Rais?" Leon asked, if only for the sake of politeness. "I understand how you feel, but don't forget to mind your own condition, at least for your own sake."

Or my sake. Because I'm worried about Sebastian and now won't stop worrying about everything else. Leon thought to himself.

D'Arc slowly stretched his long legs and sighed.

"They needed to remove an arm. And there were some complications during the extraction of some bullet shells."

Leon wondered if nothing could shake the man. Even his voice was calm as he described de Rais' condition. Leon couldn't expect less from the stoic man.

He gazed at d'Arc's profile.

What did it take to be the perfect soldier that d'Arc was? How does one retain such a mask, even after leaving the front lines? 

Underneath all that invisible armor, was there a man as secretly vulnerable as Leon?

Dark eyes mirrored bright emerald eyes.

"Second Lieutenant," d'Arc called softly. "Would you like some time to yourself?"

Yes, please. Words resonated in Leon's head, or No, don't. This is only a momentary lapse, you see? We won't speak of this ever again, and you would forget I cried all over you.

Did he want to cry?

Leon, unknowingly, had lunged for d'Arc's static wrist. He was so thin and easy to yank forward. 

Into his embrace

But it was foolish. D'Arc wasn't Sebastian. He'd only push him away if Leon insisted that the other hug him. That he wanted another warm body to ease him into containing the grief, the feeling of uselessness that was crawling from his stomach and clawing at his throat.

A cold hand rested on top of his own.

"If you want to cry," d'Arc whispered. "By all means, cry to your heart's content."

Leon loosened his grip on d'Arc's sleeve.

"Don't force yourself to keep a straight face. No need to pretend," D'Arc's murmur was distant. "Not while we're alone."

Your secret is safe with me, always.

"You're too strong for your own good," D'Arc murmured, even as Leon slotted his face into the crook of his neck. "Even when you're at your weakest, you're still a worthy officer. You always are."

A tender hand found its way to the back of Leon's head.

"No, Monsieur Bonaparte," d'Arc rumbled. "You're only human."

Leon pulled his waist closer.

"Therefore," another arm circled below Leon's shoulders. "Think of nothing, and let yourself go."

The dark fabric of d'Arc's coat masked tear tracks left behind by Leon. And like their meeting in the café, tonight, too, will just be another memory.

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"Win this war for me, Bonaparte." Sebastian clasped Leon's hands before they carried him home. "We'll meet again in Paris when this is all over."

Leon promised to write to him often. He wasn't sure about the doctor; Saint-Germain was quiet when he informed Leon of Sebastian's potential discharge.

"At least, back home, he won't have to worry about losing his life," The doctor had murmured with a thin smile.

Leon found d'Arc outside the hospital not much later, and he was holding several stalks of lilies to his chest.

"He was finally freed from this pain this morning," d'Arc stuttered. "Will you accompany me?"

Both men stepped out into the stale air of morning side by side.

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The following nights brought forth desires within Leon he’d never expected.

Long before their parting, Leon would dream of a soft mouth trailing kisses down his chest before finally enveloping his member. 

Hazel eyes would gaze at him with adoration, with love. And his fingers would tangle between imaginary light brown locks as she swallows.

Such dreams were no more, as the form beneath him shifts into something else. Soft curves turned into muscles and hard planes no different than his.

He'd dream of a broad chest on his back, supporting him as lean, nimble hands (sometimes gloved) wrung him dry. He'd seize the sturdy neck to claim thin lips as he hungered for air.

And sometimes, he'd be the one taken on silk sheets, his dark, steely eyes coming to life as he rutted into Leon, hard and fast.

Leon quietly cried Jehanne's name as he finished.

Then, the next morning, he'd wake up to soaked trousers, embarrassed, before he reached down to start all over again.

He didn't mention it in his letters to Sebastian.

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The months turned to years, and the years turned into a full decade. Another two, and Leon was almost a general.

And so was d'Arc, who, by some good fortune, nearly matched him in rank.

People changed too. Leon's teenage sweetheart was now following her husband to concerts in Vienna, a proud mother of two. 

Meanwhile, Sebastian and the good doctor had parted ways. He went on to Firenze with an up-and-coming painter (as Sebastian begrudgingly wrote in his letters). Sebastian remained content in Paris to continue studying History, his long-life pursuit before the draft.

Like her, Sebastian settled and soon grew a family. 

Meanwhile, Leon remained faithful to the Grande Armée, politely declining marriage offers and claiming he'd sworn his heart for the service of the motherland.

It wasn't so. Leon knew it deep in his heart.

The prolonged war never took away d'Arc from his side. Even as duty beckoned them from opposite sides of the country.

But there was always time to rendezvous during the holidays. Leon loved being at home among his siblings and mother, but he had also learned to cherish the few precious moments he shared with the colonel.

And it was on this chilly January evening where they sat by a hearth in their current base. Leon had learned not to offer the other wine to avoid repeating that one night almost a dozen seasons ago.

Leon chuckled. It seemed only yesterday that d'Arc was moaning about his brother and sister-in-law. Now, it was a secret they both shared in the open. 

Reminding him about the event was a joy to Leon. The colonel would cough and look away, while his ivory skin would be tinted a delicate pink.

"Your hard work will soon be rewarded, d'Arc." Leon sipped his drink. "Soon, they're going to promote your rank to general."

His companion silently pondered Leon's word as a hand covered his eyepatch. Even with a black cloth obscuring half his face, d'Arc was still as stunning as the day he rode into camp.

"I think," he finally spoke. "It's time for me to return home."

Leon jolted and nearly dropped his wine glass. Thankfully, d'Arc didn't notice, and Leon encouraged himself to ask:

"Are you sure about this?" Leon tried to mask the trembling in his voice. "There's still time to think. You don't want to regret your decision later."

Can't I convince you to stay?  

But the rare gleam in d'Arc's orb was resolute.

"I'm certain," he answered. "I've been away from my family for too long."

Napoleon nodded in silence. He grasped the velvet of his coat until his knuckles turned white.

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This time, it was Sebastian who sat across him in a homely Parisian café. It wasn't too far away from the university where Sebastian studied (and now taught). 

Leon had invited him out to talk, and without commenting on his sullen face, Sebastian passed him a black, palm-sized notebook.

There were names and addresses, as well as a piece of paper sticking between the pages.

Leon's hands trembled as he laid the damn thing on the table.

"But, Sebastian, this is—" He stammered. "How did you find this?"

"They kept me around for a while after they fitted my prosthetic leg," Sebastian tapped on his left knee. "Got some names and all sorts of blackmail material. That, right there, could have gotten our friend killed if I hadn't collected all those conscript letters."

Sebastian reached to pour Leon's cup more coffee as the latter flipped through the notebook.

"Unbelievable how the war made our bureaucracy so lenient," he commented, "Then again, the army has been benefitting of these loopholes,"

"Hmmm," Sebastian stirred his cup without purpose. "I don't think that's the right question to ponder at this very moment."

"What do you mean?"  Leon stared at Sebastian, his thumb involuntarily brushing the page beside which he found the paper.

"Go and see D'Arc, now that you've got the address," his gaze challenged Leon. "Wouldn't you like to see for yourself?"

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Cold was the morning she rode her father's horse from the stables. The frigid air of Domremy followed her to the training camp, to the battlefield, to the cities. It stayed with her as she sat at the loom, in a lonely spot by the window.

Jeanne silently caressed the cloth she'd abandoned before donning her father's gear. Her sister had finished it for her, and all that's left was to adorn it with gold needlework.

Embroidery had been one of her stronger suits, but now her calloused fingers were struggling to reacquaint herself with the needle's flow. It frustrated her immensely how things that were once familiar to her now felt foreign.

Like the dress she had exchanged for her decorated colonel's uniform.

But shedding her uniform was easy. Returning to her old, long-retired 'self' wasn’t. Jeanne couldn't abandon the way she used to walk at camp, her stern way of talking from when she was still barking commands, and the way she loomed imposingly over nervous neighbors.

Her armor had become one with her skin. 

Her family, surprisingly, was welcoming as she entered the threshold in her uniform. In the kitchen sat her father, whom she had never spoken a sentence to even through her letters.

And then he embraced her tightly, before weakly chiding her for riding to her supposed death. Then came her beloved Pierre, with his lovely children and comely wife.

Her sister noted how handsome she looked, even after she slipped into a newly bought linen gown. Her old smocks no longer fit her sinewy frame, and her new garb made Jeanne feel wrong looking at her own reflection.

These things took time to settle, as her first months in the military had taught her.

And then the shrill voice of Jeanne's sister pierced through the silence. She was tempted to rise and come out to scold her but refrained when she heard a male voice alongside Catherine's.

Jeanne recognized his voice, and her fingers curled tightly against the cloth in her lap.

It didn't take long before the footsteps reached her, and she kept herself from turning away to the window.

Still, a part of her urged Jeanne to stand and salute.

"At ease," the voice commanded. "I'm not here to arrest you."

Ah yes, she almost forgot. It was an offense that she'd done, wasn't it? The thought seeped into her dreams as she slept from inn to inn. But it disappeared the night she returned to bed, exhausted after such a long masquerade.

So, Jeanne looked at her hands, no longer looking like a woman's. She could hear Leon approaching, sensed him even as he dragged a seat to sit by her side.

Jeanne could no longer let the silence drape over them.

"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I fooled you. Have lied to you all these years...All for keeping my father and brother away from the war, if possible—"

But her general just burst laughing, alleviating and worsening her nerves at the same time.

"Sorry," he managed in between laughs. "I didn't expect it to be your natural voice."

Jeanne scowled, and for the first time, she looked at his face. Just as tired, but still very much the handsome captain who trained her years ago.

"Then again," Leon's laugh abated, and he was now looking at her properly for the first time. "You don't change much, do you?"

Jeanne hated how his eyes seemed to drill into her. She never felt this way when they were together in the army.

"I suppose not," she muttered. "I can't quite return to the girl who snuck out of the village on a mere whim."

"On a whim?"

"I had no confidence that I could survive the war," Jeanne confessed. "Let alone maintain the charade for nearly a decade. It was only by God's grace that I came along thus far."

Leon hummed.

"But you did it anyhow," he countered. "I don't think I've ever seen a braver soldier than you. You got more than you bargained for, and you breezed through it like it was nothing."

No.

There was the hollow socket where her right eye should have been and Gilles's bones, now resting in his family's mausoleum.

The medals and achievements were no compensation for the comrades she lost, for the times her courage faltered. And neither did they take away the emptiness that now settled in her heart.

Then Leon suddenly came, hopefully with answers to the questions remaining in Jeanne's mind every night before she finally dozed.

Napoleon watched as Jeanne gazed out the window. Beyond it was vast empty soil, ready to be tilled by the returning men.

They ask Daughter who's in her heart.

They ask Daughter who's in her mind.

But her mind was clean as a slate. 'Jean' was now resting, and the long slumbering 'Jeanne' was awake, taking his place. But she was the same Jehanne who wrestled with Pierre when they were little and eventually took up arms when he couldn't replace their father.

She chuckled. Perhaps for the first time in decades.

"What's so funny?" Leon asked. Oh right, he was still here.

"Ah, it's nothing. Forgive me," Jeanne turned to look back at Leon. "And you, Monsieur? You're blushing."

Jeanne only said that to get back at him and catch him off guard. But her cheeks, too, heated at the sight of him reddening. Bantering felt less...complicated when they had been brother-in-arms.

Some things did change, after all.

Leon cleared his throat. "Ah, zut." he cursed. "Sorry. This isn't going as I expected."

Jeanne smiled. So she wasn't treading into new territory alone.

"Will you accompany me, General?" She slowly moved from her seat. "We can stroll through the village as we talk."

"You don't have to call me General, uh—" he responded uneasily. "Mademoiselle d'Arc?"

"It's Jehanne," her one dark eye glinted. "Please call me Jehanne." 

⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋⚋

Damn, I didn’t expect to take this long to finish. Hhhh @batteryrose this is absolute pain.

[pinencurls]

Feels Like Home

Hiii this is another one shot I had in my drafts for awhile, hope u enjoy!! 

A trip to visit Bestfriend!Harry pulls up feelings from the past.

To find places that feel like home when you're so far away from your own is always a blessing. I often find myself cooped up in train carriages for long empty hours travelling up and down the country - sometimes to nearby neighbouring countries too, with only a book and the view for company. Work in the photography and journalism industry can take you pretty much anywhere, photoshoots and research pieces usually mean I have to travel frequently. I've probably spent more weekends in hotels the past few years than I have in my small London flat, its lavender walls presenting more as a storage place these days and occasional safe haven for when I return.

Most of it is manageable - and exciting, really really exciting. A few times a year a piece will land me in the States and away from my bubble of European arts and culture. The company I work for has a New York branch outside of the London one, so in the times that I find myself flying miles away from home, I'm lucky enough to be welcomed by one of my oldest friends' open arms - and his guest room.

Harry works a lot too, splitting time between London and New York, but on this trip - as always, he's sworn an evening out of his day to pick me up from the airport. I don't get to see much of him anymore, we grew up spending every summer in each other's houses, our parents' old friends from university, but he moved away three years before me and never came back, at least not in the same way that allowed youthful abandon to drive us into the woods to build forts and swim in the river, or make us forget how old we were and fall asleep on his mum's old sofa watching questionable rom coms. I'd happily slip back into our shared holiday practises - every time I visit him there's a shadow of nostalgia when he brings two teas and a joint out to the living room, the same smirk clear on his now slightly unshaven face.

I try to focus on that moment, only a few hours away now. We'll spend tonight and tomorrow together before he can't miss any more studio sessions and I have to report to the office and start my week of work - an article on the rise of youth activists in underprivileged areas of the city. It's a heavy topic but something I've been interested in for a while - I love the music and cultural subjects I've written on before but I've wanted to branch out into a more political field for awhile now. Sandy, my editor, assigned me this a few days ago, a smirk on her face when she nonchalantly delivered it to my desk Monday morning.

. ... . .

My arms are folded up against my chest at an unnatural angle - I've spent the last hour like this in an attempt not to elbow the snoring banker to my left who is, undoubtedly, taking up more than his fair share of the three-seat row. I can't see much good coming from waking him to point this fact out so I stay settled in my awkward position. An eight-hour flight in the middle seat was never going to be comfortable anyway.

My morning had been typically rushed, I missed breakfast in favour of catching my flight before it left without me and found myself bustling through the crowds of families, business people and tourists that fill the airport as soon as I leapt out of the taxi. I didn't have to check any luggage in so sped through security straight to the gate being called overhead. I swear I've got to stop booking early flights if I'm never going to wake up in time to get a croissant from Pret en route.

I turn my focus to the phone in my hands and slip my headphones over my ears. There's only an hour left until we land, seeing no point in starting an inflight movie now, I open my "calm times" playlist and close my eyes. Soon I'll be sleeping on an unnecessarily expensive mattress bigger than this whole row.

. ... . .

"Excuse me, M'am?" The chipper voice of a flight attendant wakes me up, slightly muffled under the Adrienne Lenker song that continues to play through my headphones. The seat to my right, previously filled by a woman a few years older than me, is empty. On my other side, the suit-wearing man spreader is starting to stir. "We'll be landing shortly, please secure your seatbelts and pack away any loose items."

I stumble over a quick 'Thanks' as she leans out of our row and moves on to the next, her perfect customer service smile ready again. The missing woman makes her way down the aisle towards us and takes her seat, she seems hurried and agitated. Out the corner of my eye, I watch as she wrings her hands a few times, sighing heavily and leaning back in her seat. A nervous flyer. I lean over and pull my bag up from the small slot under the seat ahead and slide the book I'd taken out hours before, not having read a page of, back on top of my sweater and the wine gums I'd bought as a makeshift breakfast in my final flurry before boarding.

Overhead, the usual pre-landing announcements chime as people clip in their seatbelts and slip superstitious remedies between their lips. Suited man spreader has chosen a particularly eye-watering peppermint gum to finish our flight off with.

Closing my eyes I focus on the quiet music, too distant to take me out of my body as it's interrupted by the chatter of excited travellers and constant beeps around me. I don't hate flying, but I have developed a favoured fondness of trains. I've seen the ins and out of so many towns and mindlessly people watched for hours, always having the option to hop off at the next station and stretch my legs if any part of the journey is particularly unbearable or a city is too enticing to leave unexplored.

I fiddle with the two buttons along the side of my phone for a second, raising the volume a little and willing my thoughts away from the swooping plane as the familiar wary feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. Maybe I'm a nervous flyer too. But, with a clunk and a slight wobble, we're back on the ground. I keep my eyes shut a little longer, knowing the gridlock of impatient passengers to come is unavoidable. The orange light above me dims and I release the seat belt that had been cutting tightly into my shoulder. The woman beside me is noticeably calmer and we share a giddy - we're strangers but we're smiling at each other - look for a second.

I call Harry when I'm through baggage claim, having packed only a rucksack and a small duffel - both fitting as hand luggage, I head straight through customs where the queues are just starting to build up. I beeline to a near-empty desk on the far right as the dial tone rings against my ear for the third time-

"Hello!" Harry greets down the phone, his voice sounds far away, most likely using the speakers in his car whilst he parks - "M' just parking, love."

"I just got to customs, I'll be ten minutes - meet you outside yeah?"

"I was gonna come in, I'll only be a second." He always pushes to meet me before I make it out the airport, obsessed over the classic reunion scene from all his favourite rom coms. It was well-intended and actually really sweet but it wasn't worth the risk of new rumours being spread across the gossip sites if photos got out of Harry Styles meeting a 'mystery girl' at the airport, as I'd previously been labelled the few times shots of us out dancing in the city or talking over lunch in L.A had gotten out. Harry's protective over his private life and I prefer to keep out of his public one.

"I'm almost through customs...I'll literally be one minute Harry, just wait in the car - wait a sec..." I hold the phone up against my shoulder when I'm beckoned towards the free customs desk, smiling politely and sliding my passport towards the teller. I reply 'work' to her question and thank her when she pushes it back to me, freshly stamped with red ink. "-Okay I'm out, are you by the taxi bit again - you know you're not actually allowed to park there?"

"Actually I'm just...oh god you really are blind aren't you?" He laughs down the line, I look up, confused and only halfway across the long white room towards the exit. Even amongst the crowds, there's an unmistakable figure waving from the benches to the side, phone in hand. "Hey."

I laugh and hang up, slinging my duffel over my shoulder and making my way over to where Harry is now standing, an infamous grin etched across his face. Before I can complain about just how close I am to the car park already, he leans down and engulfs me in a hug.

"Been a while, hmm?" Out of instinct, my arms wrap around him and hold tight. He's right, it's been almost five months since we last saw each other in person. I was away the last few times he came home to London and he's always jetted back to L.A for important meetings by the time I'm on my way back. "Missed you, lovie."

Pulling away to get a better look at him, I rest my hands on his shoulders, his hair's a little longer, and he looks tired but cheery - as usual.

"I missed you too." There's that weird hesitant few second feeling when neither of us breaks eye contact and for a moment it suddenly feels surreal to have each other as real people you can touch and hold.

"Now help me with this bag - the flight fucking murdered my back."

He misses a beat and my duffel hits his leg abruptly, he grunts and grumbles for a second before picking it up and draping his free hand over my shoulder, turning us to face the exit. I forget for a moment that the group of very unsubtle girls on the other side of the room will fuel the newest dating rumour by the morning with photos of Harry pulling my against his side and holding my hand casually - like every few days out of the year we get to spend in each other company, it feels like we're fifteen again and blur into the background, too caught up in our own conversations to notice anybody else.

"Come on - I reckon someone's already pissed that I'm parked in the taxi rank."

... . .

It's late in my jetlagged brain, but not late enough in the city to miss the last bit of rush hour traffic. Harry taps his ringed fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of Peter Gabriels 'Sledgehammer.' I've pulled my knees up to my chest and slouched against the passenger door staring up at the busy lights and cloudy sky. My eyelids dip momentarily, the blurred scenery lulling me out of focus.

"Don't fall asleep on me, I've got a nice dinner planned yet." Harry protests, squeezing my hand in his, eyes on the road as he lifts and moves our now intertwined hands in the air, swaying along to the final chorus playing through his iPhone."C'mon, a little bit of Peter Gabriel should wake you up."

"I hate Peter Gabriel," I mumble and pull my hand from his, poking his cheek when he lets out an exaggerated gasp. I can't help but laugh at his appalled expression, too distracted to object when he pulls my hand back into his and continues his fun as the speakers click and a new song comes on.

Our faces glow yellow against the street lights. My legs ache and my head feels heavy - I tilt it back against the window and watch as Harry sings along to an old Scott Mckenzie song. He's let our hands fall against my seat now, focusing on the busy roads as he turns closer to his apartment. I notice now, for the first time, his subtle disguise; the grey hoodie and dark shades pushed back in his hair. He looks...soft. He laughs when he slips off-key and shoots me a glance, smiling again when he takes in my half-asleep state. He squeezes my hand, his rings are cold and clunky and wake me up a little. I peer out at the road ahead - Harry lives fairly near the airport so we must be getting close, the cafes start to look familiar and I figure we're only a few minutes from home, and sleep.

I wake again at the jolt of the car stopping and the consistent white noise of the engine cutting off when Harry's keys clatter against each other. His door opens and shuts - I think I'm awake?

I must have shifted slightly in my sleep because when the passenger door swings open I stay upright against the seat. I look up to see Harry's hand stretched out towards me.

"C'mon, missing my luxury homemade dinner s'gonna be a lot more comfortable in a real bed" He teases, his smile yet to leave since I first saw him twenty minutes ago sat on that bench - sticking out despite his 'disguise'

I take his hand and tumble slightly haphazardly to stand, looking up briefly to see Harry with both my bags over one shoulder, lifting his free arm to wrap around me. We start towards his building, moving easily through the lobby and into the elevator. I look up again from where my head's resting on his shoulder, surrounded by his hoodie. Yeah, he looks...soft.

When we get inside I head straight to the guest room, nudged forwards by Harry's instructions for me to get some rest before he starts dinner - I've stayed in Harry's apartment enough times to know my way around fairly well, the guest room, where I always stay, is down the hall on the left. The bed is made and there's a fluffy white robe folded on the nightstand. Already head to toe in comfy travel wear, I clamber under the duvet and breathe in the freshly washed sheets - washing detergent with a hint of Harry's vanilla aftershave. My eyes are heavy and my thoughts wander a little. It feels like home.

... . .

When I open my eyes, it's to a darker room. Harry must have come in and closed the curtains while I was asleep, my bags have been leant up against the dresser too. I sit up and look around the room, rubbing my knuckles against my eyelids, still groggy from sleep, but hungry now, the lack of a real breakfast and unsatisfying plane food catching up to me. The alarm on the bedside table reads nine pm, I'd been asleep for almost an hour - I change out of my well-worn flight clothes and into a sweater and soft grey jogging bottoms Harry had left at my London flat last time he stayed over, although it'd been long enough ago they might as well be mine by now.

The kitchen sounds get louder as I make my way out of the guest room and down the hall, yawning into the crook of my elbow amidst pulling a soft yellow scrunchie off my wrist and taming my hair into a lazy, loose ponytail. Harry's occasional grumbles and soft singing fill my ears when I reach the end of the hall and get the full sight of him, in just a t-shirt and jeans now, leaning over a pan of spaghetti trying to twist a strand onto the fork in his hand before dangling in into his mouth with a light hum.

"How's it going, chef?" He turns to see me, eyes wide as he fingers the end of the pasta into his mouth and smirks down at me.

"S'good, was just about to come get you," He turns momentarily to fiddle with what looks like courgette and red pepper frying in a pan behind the spaghetti before looking back at me and motioning for me to bring him the plates he'd left stacked on the counter.

He mixes the courgette, pepper and a fresh-looking tomato sauce into the main pot and stirs it all together before filling my plate up and handing it back to me - all while looking incredibly pleased with himself. He nods over to the table and I set my plate down, taking two wine glasses from beside him and filling them with the wine he's just opened. After double-checking the stove's been turned off safely and our glasses are full, Harry takes the seat in front of me.

"So-" He starts, smiling up at me over the gorgeous dinner set in front of us. "How're you?"

A burst of laughter escapes my lips at the situation, We hadn't been in the same room for months and within the first hour of reuniting I'd fallen asleep, now we were sat down to dinner, ready to discuss our day like old times.

"I'm good, sorry I fell asleep before we could talk," He chuckles before taking a sip of wine, we hear about each other's lives at least once a week - usually phone calls when our jet lag causes our time zones to match up, and always texts throughout the week - this kind of small talk seems silly when I'd spoken to him just this morning before my flight. "How's your mum and Gem?"

"They're well, haven't seen Mum in a little while, every time I call she always seems more interested in you," He replies between bites of spaghetti, "Apparently you're quite the enigma these days."

"Wha-How!" Anne was like a sister to my mum so our families were always close growing up, she often acted just as motherly to me and my sister as she did her own children.

"You don't call anymore." Harry smirks, recalling a frequently used quote from Anne herself.

"That's such I lie - I saw her a few weeks ago when she came down to see Gem and I always call, it's hard you know, I have my own parents to keep track of too."

Harry laughs at this, pleased to have his mothers attention shifted from his own absence for once.

"I'm not sure, apparently she's been gossiping with your mum and you're never home anymore." He must not notice the irony of his words because he's hosting the smuggest expression, staring back at me over his glass.

"Hey - you disappeared first, I'm allowed to have my turn." I fire back, shaking my head jokily.

Harry doesn't seem to catch my light tone though, or he's not keen on my choice of words. He turns rigid opposite me and stares back, agitation brimming in his gaze.

"What's that mean?" He's not bubbly and blushing anymore, sober now with a steady assertive tone as he questions me.

"Come on Harry, m' just joking, relax," He doesn't. "You moved away years before me and never came back, it's not exactly a secret, I didn't mean anything by it."

His fork clatters when it lands on his plate. He puffs out a heavy breath of air before speaking up again, making no effort to hide is disdain this time.

"Fuck off, I came back." I look up to watch him, he hardly curses outside of mild frustration or a lighthearted voice, this is different. "That's not fair and you know it."

"I'm not blaming you Harry I was just making a joke - forget it." The remaining food on my plate is an unsuccessful distraction, nothing's enough to stop Harry when he starts.

"No, you always do this. I didn't disappear, I was working for five years and then I continued to work after that, I came home as much as I could so don't pretend I was all aloof or something." I'm used to holding his gaze through an argument, and this is an argument we've had before - "It was my job to travel for months at a time, you can't blame me for not being around every time we see each other like I just ran off and never called."

"So it's not work for me then?" I shoot back, instantly angry that he finds it so easy to offload all the blame onto me when he's the one who made a meaningless comment into a fight in the first place. "And it fucking felt like that."

Harry's quiet. I finish the last of my wine and pour a second glass.

"I came back."

"Not properly." I put my glass down and massage my fingertips over my temple, this isn't the time to unpack childhood grudges. "I'm only here for a week, can we not fight...please?"

Neither of us speaks for a few moments, my words linger in the air. We never have much longer than a few weeks together before one of us is off again, there's never going to be time to confront that stuff. The transition between only having Harry a few hours away, treating his home like mine on the weekends me and my sister, Ellie, would visit him and Gem and moaning our way through hellish GCSEs together (he was a year ahead so always had a little more to complain about) to him travelling the world and everyone knowing his name was almost nonexistent. It all happened so abruptly, Harry went to London for a few days to film his follow up audition and never came back. I didn't see him until the Christmas of that year, by which time he'd already moved into a place in London and experienced so much that it was hard to act like anything would ever be the same again.

"What did I do wrong, just tell me and I'll fix it, please," Harry begs, earnest as he finally speaks up.

"I don't blame you for anything Harry, I didn't mean it like that..."I sigh, wringing my hands out as nervously as the women beside me hours before on the plane. "Let's just have dinner, yeah? It's really nice Har."

We finish our food with a little more small talk, he asks how Ellie's doing even though he already knows from Gemma's updates that's he engaged now and thinking about moving to London, I ask after a few of his bandmates I met last time I was in L.A. Things are too quiet when we lay down on his sofa to watch the notebook for the 20th time. Neither of us recites the lines we know off by heart and always mock - the air hangs heavy with the lingering anxiety of an argument we're never going to settle, we sit apart stiffly and far too composed for film nights we've shared since we were kids before heading our separate ways to bed.

... . .

Work goes well, the young people I talk to pretty much write the article for me with how much insight they offer up. There are so many parts to the topic that deserve to be covered well that my workdays and evenings at Harry's blur together and soon I've emailing my final draft to Sandy for notes and packing for the airport.

Neither Harry or I have brought the first nights argument up and it looks like it'll be brushed under the rug before I leave tonight. There's been a definite cloud over the last week - I think a more before I speak and Harry's eyes linger on me a little longer when I do.

He stills seems frustrated by our fight, I can't blame him, I am too. He's sat on the sofa with a guitar in his lap, going unplayed as his eyes trail after my last-minute rush around the apartment to gather together all my possessions that had found themselves seeping out into his home over the past week. He watches closely, contemplating whether to speak or just let me go like nothing happened.

"Have you seen my sweater?" I call from the guest room, the wardrobe's empty and my bags are laying on the coffee table in front of Harry - my sweater missing from both.

"The one you brought with you?"

He appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame of the door and peering down at where I'm kneeling before the bed, searching through the very empty and sweaterless dresser, humming a response back at him.

"Yeah, that'd be mine." I snap my head back to look at him, he must be joking.

"Um no, it's mine," He smirks, eyes still sad but fainter now in the looseness of the moment. "I've had it for years, I bought it in Amsterdam in that little thrift store by the cafe with the really good bagels."

"No," He chastises. "I bought it in Amsterdam in that little thrift shop by the cafe with the really good bagels, and you took it home when you left."

He's definitely wrong. Sure I might not remember all of the trip I took to Amsterdam to visit him on tour, but I remember the hours we spent traipsing through thrift store on his day off munching on really good bagels.

"Wrong - please return it now, kindly." I stand and hold out my palm to him.

"No can do," He grins, nudges my hand away from him to fall limply by my side.

"Harry, come on!" I whine, letting my maturity slip slightly as my patience lessens. "I'm already running late, I've gotta finish packing and I can't miss my flight."

"Why not?" He challenges, smiling still but paired with a serious tone now.

"Because, I'm not about to swim back to London."

"No, why can't you stay?" My hand wavers slightly at my side, I'm not sure if he's joking or I can hear sincerity in his voice - it reminds me too much of his solemn begging from Saturday night. "Just stay, a little longer."

He's asked me to before in the past. He isn't afraid to try and steal another day off of me to tag along to an artist friend of his' show the next night or just to get dinner at a restaurant I 'couldn't miss'. On occasion, I've given in to his pestering and rearranged a flight for a few days later. I could, I could. I'd just handed in my work for the week and it was only Friday morning, I won't be needed again until Monday. Flight's would be ridiculously expensive to change this late though, and this 'stay a little longer' felt less for the sake of good food and his favourite spin class and more of a, we need to talk - 'stay a little longer.'

"I can't," I reply simply, closing off the conversation by brushing past him into the hall towards his own room in search of my stolen sweater.

"I'll pay for your flight back." Harrys voice trails after me. "You've worked hard all week, you can afford to take the weekend off."

"I cant." I brush off again, avoiding his gaze as I scan over the room in front of me, heading to his tall chest of draws first and pulling open the one I know is filled with jumpers.

"I want to talk," Harry says softly. He lifts one arm from where he has them crossed over his chest and motions to the chair in the far corner, I investigate and sure enough, my sweater is tucked under a small pile of t-shirts. "Love, you can't ignore me."

"M' not, we're talking aren't we?" I'm just hovering in the middle of the room now, sweater in hand but Harry's tall figure blocks my way out adamantly.

"You know what I mean,"

"Harry, I can't-"

"I'm not letting you leave like this again." He takes a few steps across the room as he talks, "You said we couldn't fight cos you're only here a week, so stay a little longer."

"I don't want to fight." I shake my head, pulling my hand away when he reaches out for it.

"Then we'll just talk."

He's got that determined, soulful look about him. He reaches for my hand again and I let him, he brushes his fingertips over my knuckles lightly. His other hand comes up to my face and guides my head to look at him, still peering down at me expectantly.

Harry and I have always been open with one another. There was never enough time to tiptoe around what was bothering us when he was only home for a few weeks before work or another tour called again. Our parents always joke that we were twins separated at birth, the way we used to huddle in the garden as little kids and whisper to each other. He's my best friend, no matter how far apart we are he never hesitates to talk through his troubles with me, sure there are times we drift with our schedules, but there's too much pulling us back together for it to last long.

"I can't," It's a whisper, but he's close enough to hear it. I pull my hand from his and turn my head to the side. Inhaling, it's far too shakey to hide my nerves and before I can control it there are tears stinging my eyes.

"Love-" Harry coos, fighting my own hand to clear the tears from my cheeks.

"-I can't, Harry I," I say again, the lump in my throat making my words sound choked. He's looking down at me with that sad soft expression again and I can't piece together how we got here. "I can't."

He pulls me into his chest. His arms rest around my shoulders and he presses his face into my neck. He mumbling something but I can't make it out anymore, everything's warm and teary and slightly distorted by heavy breaths.

"We've gotta talk....we've gotta talk," He gets louder, "Love?"

I pull back to see his face. There's a red blush over his nose and cheeks and his eyelashes shine where they're wet. I push back, creating some space between us and clearing my throat.

"I didn't mean anything, we don't have to-I shouldn't have said what I did, I'm not angry, and I have no right to be so can we just, can we please just forget it?"

He shakes his head lightly, rubbing his hands against the back of his neck and standing straighter, feeling taller and intimidating.

"It's more than that, you know," He's swallowed the wobble in his voice, continuing to talk clearly now. "It's not about that, we've needed to talk for awhile - I don't want to leave it for weeks and weeks again, I can't keep pretending like nothing's going on."

"I've got a flight to catch Harry I really can't do this." I insist, walking around him and through the clear doorway, although his footsteps chase closely behind.

"Miss the flight!" Harry shouts as we make it to the living room and I start packing away the last few things on the coffee table. "I'll get you a ticket for Sunday night, just stay."

My throat burns when I push down another round of tears and furiously shove books down the side of my bag. Harry hovers to my side, fiddling with his rings and bouncing his knee back and forth.

"I love you."

I have a flight to catch. I have a flight to catch.

"Don't say it like that- I love you, of course, I love you too" I sigh, slowing down and turning to face him. "...my car's going to be here in fifteen minutes."

"No, I love you."

I have a flight to catch. I have a flight to catch.

"I have a flight to catch."

... . .

I feel shittier on the plane. I've got the window seat this time though so at least I can mope in peace. Not much more had been said after that, my car came, I thanked Harry for having me and our hug lasted longer than usual, again.

Maybe I should have stayed. Maybe I should have talked about the feelings that he'd noticed too before I left, or better yet, the first night I arrived. I'd spent hours stuck in an unproductive thought spiral on the subject over the years, we've had moments in the past, Christmas eves when we're the last ones up and the space between us dwindles down the further we get in our confessions or catching each other in a particularly domestic act in one our homes when it feels like it all just comes naturally and why isn't it like this with any of the guys I've dated?

It doesn't go unnoticed by us that we acted like a couple more often than we did close friends. Gemma and Ellie have confronted me, and most likely Harry too, together and separately for answers on several occasions. I always say the same thing - "We're just friends, we've always been close."

This time's different though. Harry's never brought the subject up outside of the jokes comparing us to his friends in relationships, he's always been in relationships and there's no chance of me broaching the issue of any potential romantic feelings I may or may not have for him while he's seeing somebody, even when he wasn't, it's not worth the risk of it all blowing up in my face and having to spend infinite Christmases in awkward humiliation.

I'd played with the idea of us as a couple, allowed myself to daydream about what it could be like for a few moments before reminding myself how low the possibility of Harry ever feeling the same is. Even if he did, the long-distance friendship we have now would never survive as a relationship - you can't go months without the person you're trying to build a life with.

But, maybe I should have stayed.

Maybe, when he told me he loved me, I should have been braver. In the one moment, it all finally felt clear and possible, and like I wasn't completely delusional and hopeless, I should have told him I love him too.

Either way, I have eight long, back aching hours ahead of me to decide.

[doctormctiddy]

merry christmas, frens!!

(listen, i know its still november. but you cant stop me.)

anyway, this is a fic i found buried in my drafts that i started writing.... last year? And i finally finished it. So yay!

Brief summary: Julian, who doesn’t celebrate Christmas, asks Gloria, who does, if she has any Christmas stories to share, as he had previously done with her. Though she has no memories to tell stories of, she does have one story that she can show off using her magic...

Enjoy! ♥

( A Christmas Carol belongs to Charles Dickens. )

It’s a simple cold night in Vesuvia, and while there’s no snow to be accounted for, the chill that rattles those that step outside is unmistakable. Thankfully, the warm fire roaring in the corner and the blanket over top of her and Julian kept her warm enough that Gloria forgot about the cold. The comforting smell of snickerdoodles lingered on him, and she was glad for the silence.

Until Julian moved his head to speak.

“Gloria,” he begins, “I don’t believe I’ve ever asked you, but…” she raises her head from his chest to meet his gaze, and suddenly his words fumble, face flushing red, “Um… do you have any favourite Christmas stories?”

Gloria cocks an eyebrow. “Christmas stories?”

“You know, like…. stories with your family from around the holidays,” he continues, and the corner of her lips lift in a smirk.

“Oh, like your story of how you set your cape on fire lighting the menorah with Portia?”

“Of course you remember that story,” he chides, rubbing her head, and she bursts into giggles… and then she falls silent, biting her lip in thought.

“Well…. I mean….” she hums, scrunching her face, “I don’t remember my family, and I can’t think of anything involving Asra…. but I do know a story, related to Christmas.” Scooting closer to his warmth, she lifts her arms from the blanket. “If you wanna hear it, that is.”

His soft smile told her the answer to that.

Julian always loved when she told stories, and tonight was no exception. Gloria’s face broke into a grin, leaning up to give him a quick kiss before returning her attention to her arms.

“This is a story of a man, who’s ideals were completely changed over the course of one Christmas,” she begins, “But this isn’t your typical Christmas story.”

“Why not?” Julian asks, watching sparkling, golden light fall from her fingertips.

Gloria smirks. “Because it involves ghosts.”

His eye widens as the light starts to take shape into what he assumes is the main character of the tale. A hobbly old man, donning a top hat and cane, wearing a flowing coat, barely five inches tall, glowers at Julian’s close gaze, before lifting his cane and whacking the doctor’s beaked nose with it.

“Humbug!” he squeaks, shaking his cane. Julian rubs his nose, retracting his face, and Gloria giggles.

“Hush now, Ebenezer,” she chides him, and the figure puts his hands on his hips, “Julian, darling, be careful with him.”

“He should be careful with me,” the doctor responds with a frown, and Gloria giggles again in response.

“Anyway… Julian, Ebenezer Scrooge. Mr. Scrooge, Julian Devorak. Now, be a good old man.” Little Scrooge’s frown deepens, and Gloria waves her hand again, setting the scene. More golden light shapes and forms, until Julian is looking out over a bustling street, stuffed with brick buildings and snow, decorated from head to foot in Christmas-y glory.

“We start in a northern town, on a little island known for its finery, many years ago,” Gloria begins, “It’s Christmastime, and the air is filled with excitement. People are merry, the shoppers bustle through the town, others come home to their families…” and she starts laughing, seeing a small group of carolers made of gold light start singing something in Latin, “and songs fill the street from every corner!”

“It’s beautiful, dear,” Julian smiles, turning his head to look at her, “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

“Thanks, Julie.” With a wink, however, she added, “but you’re not getting a kiss until after the story is done. Helps me focus.” When he gives her a joking pout, she lightly punches his arm and returns her attention to the scene, waving her hand again. The street whirls around in a shower of sparkling light, until it shows the inside of a counting house. Little Scrooge sits hunched over a desk, counting coins in tiny golden towers, while another little person sits at a smaller desk, furiously scribbling away with his quill. With a start, he turns and waves at Gloria and Julian, who wave back, before Scrooge snaps.

“Cratchit!” says the old miser in a high pitched, nasally voice. Cratchit, shoulders slumping, returns to his scribbling.

“Mr. Scrooge is the embodiment of all things anti-Christmas,” Gloria continues, “the absolute worst of them all. Hates everything to have to do with the season.”

“Why?”

“No one knows for sure. However, even he keeps Christmas in some happy remark, for it was on this very day, seven years ago, that his former business partner, Jacob Marley, died and left him the counting house. More money for him to have, you see. And Bob Cratchit is someone who works for him- a good man, working to earn a meager salary to support his family.”

Julian watches the door to Scrooge’s counting house open, and a younger man enters, jovial in his high pitched voice.

“Scrooge’s nephew Fred,” his love explains, “nearly the complete opposite, invites Scrooge to Christmas dinner. The miser declines,” Scrooge does so, “calling Christmas a-”

“HUMBUG!” Scrooge squeaks out again as Fred exits the store. Gloria gestures to him.

“... Well, you know.”

Julian listens in as two more men, seeking donations for the poor, enter the shop, only to be dismissed in a similar fashion by Scrooge, before a small bell chimes. Cratchit and Scrooge rise, and start to leave, as Gloria changes the scene again.

“It’s Christmas eve, you see,” she explains again as the light whirls up and around, “one of the few nights that Cratchit can take off of from his job a little early. But Scrooge still wants him there the next day, bright and early, like normal, despite the Christmas festivities.”

“What an ass.” Julian interjects.

“I know!” she agrees.

Finally, it settles on Scrooge sitting in his bedroom, dressed in nightclothes, eating. Before taking another bite of what Julian assumed was soup, the old man looks up and frowns at the pair.

“Young love,” he chides, “bah! You both should be doing something useful with your lives!”

“Can I please squash him?” Julian begs with a wince, “He’s starting to sound like Lucio…”

“No, you are not squashing Scrooge!” Gloria reprimands, watching the small man suddenly bolt behind his wingback chair. “Look at that, you spooked him!”

“It wasn’t old bird beak over there!” Scrooge calls, before pointing a gnarled finger at the now shaking door in his room. The magician jumps suddenly.

“Right, right! Anyway, it was Christmas Eve, nearing closer and closer to midnight, and Scrooge was about to have a visitor.” Julian watched her grin turn nearly evil, and he had to squish down the desire to kiss her right then and there. “A visitor of the supernatural kind.”

Suddenly there was a high pitched wail from behind him, and Julian turned his head sharply, only to duck as a small golden specter flew right for his head, chains rattling and boxes dragging behind him.

“Whoa!”

Gloria burst into laughter as the ghost floated around above the set, only pausing for a jolted moment to wave at her. “Hello Mr. Marley. Nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you, Miss Morgenstern!” And then he continued on his wailing journey, before bursting through Scrooge’s bedroom door.

“That’s Marley?” Julian asked, raising his head.

“Well, he has been dead for seven years at this point.” She says with a shrug of her shoulders. Turning back to the story, she goes on, “Marley arrived from beyond the grave to warn Scrooge about his otherworldly fate. If Scrooge didn’t change his ways, he would be doomed to eternity to be just like Marley- covered in chains and boxes as a wandering spirit.”

“I wear the chain I forged in life!” Marley calls, “Do you know the weight and length of the chain you bear, Ebenezer?”

“And with that, Marley says that he will send three spirits to help Scrooge on his journey of self discovery. But first, he has to be a dramatic little bugger about it.”

Marley looks up at her first, hopeful, and Scrooge follows, eyes wide with fear.

“May I?” Jacob asks, and Gloria nods.

“Julie, you may want to duck.”

“Again?” The doctor asks, “Not more ghosts-”

Suddenly Marley wails again, and several more spirits made of Gloria’s golden light- all wearing chains, each different in appearance, come from behind, and Julian yells, ducking down, before the spirits swirl around him. A little lady ghost even whacked his nose with a mirror on her chain, before floating over to Gloria.

“You really can pick ‘em!” She says, before floating off to the set. And suddenly, Julian laughs, seeing an all too familiar tiny ghost floating around, wrapped up in chains, bearing a false, shimmering golden left arm.

“They’ll never survive without me!” cries tiny Ghost Lucio, rolling around from his wrapped up chains. “They’ll never forget me! Untie me!”

“Never on your life,” says another gentleman ghost who floats by, “you’re awfully rude.”

Lucio inchworms down to the set, and the other ghosts, with Marley in tow, begin to spiral around Scrooge, who screams and makes a break for it, diving into his bed- and with a glittering golden poof, they’re gone.

“And the bell tolls one,” Gloria says, satirically sollem. Julian snorts, watching little Scrooge shake in his bed. The candle on the table in front of them suddenly started to glow and mold, until, emerging from the wax, came a spirit in what appeared to be a ballet costume of some kind. They were thin, with curly hair that hung just below their ears, with a halo of gold on their head. More lit candles adorned this halo, and three lit candles were attached to each of their arms. As they twirled around, more wax dripped from the edge of their tutu. Scarily wide eyes glowed like open flames, but the spirit themself seemed kind. With a noise akin to bells chiming, they floated up between the pair of lovers, bowing gracefully.

“I am the Ghost of Christmas Past,” they said, rising. “Apologies if I startled you.”

“No need,” Gloria says, “It’s good to see you again, Past.”

“This isn’t Asra…” They realize suddenly, floating closer to Julian, who blinks owlishly. “Who are you?”

“J-Julian.” He responds, going cross eyed to see the little ghost.

“My boyfriend,” Gloria whispers excitedly, and as Julian blushes, Past’s aura glows a bit brighter.

“In that case, I simply must put on a good show!”

As they float away towards Scrooge, Julian looks back at Gloria. “D-did you just call me…”

“Yes,” she reaches up to kiss his reddening cheeks, “because it’s true.”

“Darling, if you do that again, I don’t think I’ll be able to listen to the rest of the story…”

“Alright, I’ll stop the story, if it’s what you want.”

“No, keep going. I want to find out what happens. I… I can wait.”

“Good choice!” exclaims Past, and Julian jumps, “I don’t want to go away yet! I just got here!”

“Get on with it!” Scrooge interjects from under his bedcovers, and Gloria snorts, rolling her eyes and turning back to the set.

“My apologies. Anyway…. As the bell tolled one, the Ghost of Christmas Past,” said ghost did a sudden, perfect pirouette, “appeared in Scrooge’s bedroom, rousing him from the meager amount of sleep he had managed to achieve.”

“Take my hand,” Past said, offering one wax coated hand to Scrooge, who, reluctantly, grabbed it. With a giggle from the ghost and a cry of fear from the old man, they took to the sky, and Gloria waved her hand again, watching the scene change. The two flew around the shop, nearly running into everything. Even with Scrooge on their hand, Past managed to perform a little ballet routine near perfectly, with Scrooge’s long, old legs stumbling behind. Julian laughed at the display, before the scene set in front of them again. And with each word Gloria spoke, the characters complied, and the scene changed- much like a little theatre.

“To help Scrooge grow in his character, they visited past Christmases- his past Christmases, in fact. Scrooge had been neglected as a child, and had a little sister, who died at a young age, but not before she had a son.”

“Then that Fred fellow was her son, I take it.”

“Yep.” A small pause to wink at him for getting the answer right, “And then, years later, Scrooge became apprenticed by a man named Fezziwig, who was a jovial old chap, and at one of his parties… he fell in love.”

The scene set before them, however, was of a high spirited party. A rotund man spun what Julian assumed was his wife around, and the audience clapped and cheered as they danced. A mad fiddler worked his bow strings furiously with a small band, and people laughed and drank.

“You want to dance, Julian?” Gloria asked suddenly, and he laughed.

“We wouldn’t fit!”

“Yes, but we can still hear the music.” Suddenly grabbing his arm, she pleaded, “Please, Ilya?”

Oh God, not the Ilya card. She always pulled that to weaken his resolve, and he was always weak to it… of course, the cries from the small party crowd of “Dance wit her, man!” “C’mon, y’ old haggard!” “Le’s see if them long legs o’ yers are good fer more than bein’ tall!” weren’t helping either, and finally, he sighed.

“Alright, alright.”

Gloria brightened, giggling and rising from the blanket they had engulfed themselves in, and Julian followed. He heard Fezziwig clap his hands, and the little band started their tune up again. With a sudden devilish grin, he grabbed Gloria by the hand, pulling her in close and twirling her around. The magician squealed and laughed, her feet dangling at his shins as he lifted her, one arm around his waist and the other in his hand. The little crowd cheered, and suddenly between the taller two floated Christmas Past and Scrooge, who were dancing on their own- Past more enthusiastically than the old miser, who was once again forced to stumble behind, shouting bloody murder at the top of his lungs. They both laughed, dancing along to the small band’s song, until it began to slow, and so did their dance, until it stopped, and they both stood there, gazing into each other’s eyes. Julian moved first, laying his lips over hers, his hand sliding to hold her face, and Gloria’s other hand moved to hug his waist.

“No mistletoe required, huh?” she laughs when he pulls away, and he rubs their noses together.

“It never is, my darling.”

With a dreamy sigh, she regrettably slipped out of his arms, sliding down to hold his hands. “C’mon. Before they all start yelling at me to get on with it again.”

As the two settled back on the couch, Julian was shocked to find a dizzy Scrooge leaning on Christmas past, watching a different scene completely unfold.

“I release you, Ebenezer.” said the girl sitting in front of the desk of the young Scrooge. And with a whirl of her dress, she was gone.

“Oh… right.” Gloria clears her throat, settling the blanket back on top of them. “Ebenezer had managed to fall in love, but as the years waned on from that, money became more important. Eventually, money became the only thing that mattered to him anymore.”

“I don’t wish to see more of this!” Old Scrooge called out, and with a sad look, Past snapped their fingers, taking to the sky again. As the scene set back to Scrooge’s bedroom, the ghost floated up to the couple, bowing again.

“You did beautifully, Past.” Gloria praised, and Julian swore he saw them blush at the compliment.

“Yes, indeed,” he added suddenly, “it was a lovely performance.”

“Thank you both, very much!” And with a wave goodbye, they burst into flame, vanishing. The clock stuck again, two this time.

“And so the clock strikes two,” Julian speaks again, with the funny solemnity of Gloria earlier. She giggles.

“Don’t steal my job along with my heart, darling!”

Suddenly, Scrooge’s room expanded, and fading into view was a mound of food. Christmas carols played on a small orchestra rang out, and a booming laugh, though still high in pitch, echoed through the set. A man came into view, wearing a green robe, and bearing an immeasurably long amount of ginger hair, which floated up around his head like a halo. A single candle floated in the middle of it, and holly decorated the entire ponytail. He had a cheerful, lined face, and his robe reminded the doctor of the white shirt he was currently donning.

“A bit of a low cut for a ghost, is it not?” Julian teased, and Gloria grinned.

“I can’t help what he wears.” They watched the spirit grab a staff of oak wood and garland, where a single emerald glowed at the top, and she waved. “Hello Christmas Present!” “Merry Christmas, Miss Morgenstern!” He called, waving back. “Good to see you again!”

“Good to see you too!”

Scrooge entered the room then, and Gloria began the narration.

“The Ghost of Christmas present,” she said, “there’s a new one every year, supposedly, but this is the one that always works with me. To help Scrooge better himself, he takes the man around to Christmases currently happening.”

“Touch my robe,” the spirit said to Scrooge, and the old man does. Much like they had with Christmas Past, the two rose into the air as the set spun around, before it settled on a little house, hardly bigger than the main room of Asra’s shop.

“Oh!” Julian exclaimed as Scrooge and Present settled into the set, and more characters started appearing. “Isn’t that Cratchit?”

“Yea! This is his house,” Gloria explained, “And this is his family.” She leaned in suddenly, cupping a hand over his ear and whispering, “And you see that tiny kid with the crutch? That’s Tiny Tim. He’s important, so pay attention.” As she drew away, Julian nodded vigorously.

“You have my word.”

“Great.” Cracking her knuckles, she settled into the story again. “Bob Cratchit’s family isn’t the best off, Scrooge notices first. And with a little help from Christmas Present, he realizes that poor Tiny Tim is destined to die if he doesn’t get the help he needs.”

“I see an empty chair by the fire,” speaks Christmas Present solemnly, “and a small crutch, carefully preserved.”

Suddenly Julian whips around to Gloria, who furrows her brows, “He doesn’t die, does he?”

“Hush, love! You’ll find out.” With a wiggle of her fingers, the set changes again. “The Christmas party of Fred, where they catch the household making fun of Scrooge. Not much happens here, only Scrooge realizing he could’ve been a better Uncle. And then….”

Another set change, and Christmas Present, once jolly, now looms over Scrooge, melancholy. Scrooge watches, horrified, as two small, scraggly children emerge from Present’s robe.

“Are they yours?” he asks, fearful and wide eyed.

“They are mans,” says the spirit, “this boy is ignorance, and this girl is want. Beware them both, but especially the boy.”

“.... Now I can see where this wouldn’t be considered a Christmas story,” Julian says, squinting down at the kids. Ignorance takes a swipe at him, and he keens, scrambling back to Gloria.

“I told you to be careful, Jules.”

“I’m just curious…”

Suddenly the two children lept at Scrooge, and the scene goes black for a moment- and rises, seeing Scrooge cowering alone, arms over his face, as the clock strikes three. The man slowly lowers them, before looking up behind him. Julian and Gloria look up too, and on a shadowy part of the wall, out melts a black, hooded finger, surrounded by black smoke… though, less intimidating, as they were about seven inches tall. Gloria grips Julian’s arm excitedly as the spirit descends upon the stage.

“This is my favourite part,” she whispers to him, as the Ghost cranes their head to up the couple. “Hi Christmas Future! Good to see you haven’t changed.”

There was a beat, and the Ghost raised a single skeletal hand, waving slightly, before turning their attention back to Scrooge.

“The Ghost of Christmas Future, or Christmas Yet To Come,” Gloria narrates again, hand never leaving Julian’s arm, “The final spirit of the night, here to show Scrooge the consequences of his current actions. This is the real climatic part of the story, just you wait.”

Rather than taking to the air, Christmas Future raises a single, boney hand, and points to the other side of the scene, which melts away, golden light turning into black and white.

“The Ghost shows Scrooge visions of uncaring gentlemen talking about the death of someone supposedly important,” Gloria continues, “Along with a joyous Fred, the Cratchits saddened by the death of Tiny Tim-” Julian gasps, bringing a hand over his mouth, and she squeezes his arm, “and Scrooge’s old maid selling off things to a pawnbroker. Along with… something else.”

The scene is completely black and white now, and the only thing on it, aside from Scrooge and Future, is a gravestone.

“That’s not…”

“It’s not Tiny Tim.”

“It can’t be… does that have Scrooge’s name on it?” Julian’s uncovered eye widens, and Scrooge suddenly cries out, lamenting to the Ghost before him.

“Scrooge begs to change, pleads with the Ghost. Christmas Future only points intensely at the grave as Scrooge grovels, until suddenly, as Scrooge falls into the grave….”

The scene swirls in a black shadow, until Gloria’s golden light takes over again- and there was Scrooge, tangled on his bed in the sheets, completely alive.

“... He awakes in his room, a changed man.”

Little Scrooge leaps up suddenly, dancing around his room and throwing on his coat and hat over his sleepwear, and running off. Gloria grins.

“And he really did change, you know,” she finishes, as the entire cast takes to the scene, “helping Tiny Tim being one of the first things he ever did on his changed path.”

The cast starts to bow, and Julian claps at them all, and with some final waves, the scene and characters vanish completely.

“What a lovely story,” Julian finally turns to face her, and she blushes.

“I know it’s not what you had in mind, but…”

Without hesitation, he leans in, wrapping his arm around her waist and drawing her lips to his, a pleading noise echoing from the back of his throat. She retaliates, reaching up to cup his face. After several kisses, he finally pulls away, touching their foreheads together.

“Sorry… I couldn’t wait,” comes his sheepish grin, “But…. you don’t need to worry. It was perfect. It showed what Christmas means to you, much like what Hanukkah meant to me whenever I told you my stories. And I couldn’t be happier, my darling.”

“Thank you, Ilya.”

[theawkwardterrier]

In Brief Delight, In Joyous Strains

For my Steggy Secret Santa giftee, the delightful @plumandfinch! I hope you enjoy, and have a wonderful Christmas.

AO3 link here.

The girls invite him to the dinner that they’re having, though Tillie jokes that it’s just because they’re all tired and want to draft him into cooking. The hotel they’ve been parked for their Christmas break has a tree, and he actually earns enough that he’d be able to put something under it this year.

But they ended up in Delaware for the week, close enough to Washington that when Senator Brandt had mentioned “a little Christmas Eve get-together” that he was having, Steve hadn’t been able to come up with an excuse.

The party is in some swanky downtown hotel. Steve had worked for a while as a waiter at a slightly less ostentatious place in Manhattan, and he almost wishes he was holding a tray tonight. Even the senator had thought that sticking Steve in his costume was ridiculous, but the uniform that was recommended instead feels even more false and uncomfortable. You don’t earn a uniform like this with magic muscles and some good stage patter. The only blessing is that they hadn’t stuck on the medals Captain America had allegedly won during his soundstage missions. Steve goes out of his way to avoid the actual uniformed officers there tonight; they don’t seek him out, which helps.

On the other hand, everyone else at the party seems as if they can’t think of a better thing to do than spend Christmas Eve shaking his hand. More than one couple tells him that their children have seen him in the newsreels or at a show, that they’ve been collecting the comics where he’s featured, and he smooths his face and resists the urge to ask whether their children will really be more pleased with Captain America’s autograph than with their parents spending the holiday at home.

By ten in the evening, Steve’s hand feels so sore that he’s considering asking for a refund on the procedure. Instead, he spots a door down the hallway with a little plaque beside it reading Library. He grips a smile to his face as he moves slowly through the room, and within five minutes, he’s leaning with his eyes closed, his back against the door, and letting out a sigh.

“Well, Captain, let no one say that your evasive maneuvers aren’t impressive.”

He startles up, not because he doesn’t recognize the voice, but because he does, immediate and disbelieving. He scans the room, all the stereotypical private library trappings - heavy wood panels, fireplace, shelves and shelves of heavy, pompously bound books - until he notices her face peering shadowed from behind a high-backed brocade armchair.

“Agent Carter.” He checks around the room once again, just to make sure he hasn’t stumbled into some sort of top secret meeting and happened to miss an entire group of military members and covert operatives. Apparently it’s just her, or else he needs to give spies a hell of a lot more credit. He steps forward. “I hadn’t realized you were here.”

“Colonel Phillips was detained and sent me to appease the room in his stead.” He still can’t see her entirely, but her tone indicates that Colonel Phillips has been detained by his lack of desire to attend this event. Agent Carter gestures, motioning Steve to take a seat in the chair beside her.

“I don’t actually remember Colonel Phillip being the appeasing type.” Steve comes around the chair to sit, just in time to see her smile.

Agent Carter has her hair perfectly curled, her lipstick still fresh at the end of the night. She wears her uniform rather than a formal dress, and it looks like she’s earned it.

“Typically I am the more conciliatory of the two of us. However, like the colonel and Mr. Churchill, I also began to find appeasement a bit ineffective this evening.” She holds a book in her hands, a slim volume that doesn’t match those along the walls. She closes it, looking down at the cover and then back up at him. “One can only be told so many times that it was a shame that all the boys were overseas or I could be at home instead of forced to enlist. I generally prefer a more stimulating conversation without quite so much pigeonholing.”

Steve leans back in his chair. He wants to unbutton his jacket, but hers is so regulation crisp. “I don’t think that you’ll find that here. This crowd is pretty happy to pigeonhole.”

“It is an especially unfortunate way to spend Christmas Eve.”

“I’m sure you had plans, too,” says Steve. “Bet your family wishes that they could see you.” He says it softly, trying for casual, but he knows that she likely picked up on his attempt to find out more about her.

Fortunately, she just looks amused. He’s stepped in it every time they’ve been around each other thus far, so maybe she expects it by now. “Unfortunately, with the demands of my work, a celebration together was never likely.”

“Well, you must have some family traditions. Maybe we could recreate one here.”

Something changes about her smile, something to do with the blink of her eye, the tip of her head. “We’re a largely traditional family, I have to say. My father and brother would insist on singing through our old book of carols in its entirety, despite their dreadful voices. My mother would make a decent turkey that would keep us in leftovers for days, and she would invest hours in getting the pudding absolutely perfect. And at the end of the night, we’d all end up toasting things in the sitting room fire.” There’s a closed door nostalgia to her voice, a sense that she’ll never be able to go back to those tender times. She blinks, sighs a sharply audible breath in and out, and when she’s finished, she looks wry instead of soft and sad. “One year my brother almost lit his socks on fire. Then he outdid himself the next by nearly catching my hair.”

“We already have one step taken care of in the way of traditions.” Steve gestures to the fireplace in front of them. “I bet we could scrounge up something to toast.”

“There’s isn’t much in here to put in the fire except the books,” she reminds him. “I don’t think they’ll toast well, and I do have a firm stance against book burning.”

“I don’t think anyone here’ll miss ‘em,” Steve says. He has the feeling that he’d have to cut apart the pages himself to open any one of the volumes lining the shelves, and he wouldn’t even be surprised if he opened up the fancy covers and found only white paper. “But I take your point.”

“And what about you? Any Christmas traditions that we can attempt?”

“I always looked forward to the orange in my stocking. One year, I forgot to fix up the hole in my sock and I guess the orange pressed on it all night ‘til the hole was big enough for the orange to slip out and roll away. I spent half an hour trying to track it down. I didn’t even think our place was big enough to hide something for that long.” He grins a little, remembering how steamed he’d been. Now the memory feels sweet and cushioned, the words needing gentle, loving speaking. “When I finally found it, my ma told me I should be glad it was an orange and not an apple - no bruises on an orange, and the skin it was sitting around in peels right off.”

She laughs. “Good advice. Very practical woman, your mother.”

“She really was,” Steve says. He has relaxed a bit in the chair, feeling finally a bit comfortable with her, feeling heart-full in a way he hasn’t in a long time. He’s about to tell her about the time his mother had gotten him watercolors and let him use them on the windows when he was confined to bed for half of December and into January, but the door opens behind them and they both still.

“Rogers, good, there you are.” Senator Brandt’s loud voice makes Steve suddenly aware of the sounds of the party still in progress outside. “Break’s over, Ned Fuller’s finally here and he’d love to chat. And if you could figure out a way to bring up your feelings about flood control, I think it’d really be worth your while.”

Steve forces himself to stand. He locks eyes with Agent Carter, pressed small and silent in her armchair with her feet tucked up, no broad shoulders or stray elbows to give her away. She gives him a smile and a wink. He knows he must smile back - it’s automatic, smiling when he looks at her - but the senator leads him away before he can even mouth a goodbye.

The party finally ends, the last people laughing and waving at Steve and the senator. Steve waves back, hoping they’ll mistake his gritted teeth for a smile, and considers how big a headache he’d have if he could still get headaches.

They’re putting Steve up in Washington for the night, but not even Captain America gets as ritzy a bedroom as the ones in the hotel where the party had been. He’s staying across town, and after the endless shaking of endless hands, he’s never been happier to see a simple bed and dresser setup.

His eyes already closed, he flops onto the mattress, trying not to do it with his full weight, and lies facedown for a moment, his hands draping off the bed and onto the floor.

His fingers brush against something just poking out under the dust ruffle. Frowning, he grasps it and picks it up.

The orange doesn’t come with a note. He puts it on his nightstand, and the next morning holds it carefully the entire train ride back to Delaware, where the girls tease him for not coming back with a better souvenir and tell him he’s looking strangely goony-eyed.

He doesn’t know how exactly it got to his room, but he has a good enough idea.

Continue with part 2...

[nipnapples]

A Very BTS Christmas (pt 3/7)

This is a short one but I got suuuuuper caught up in it.  

Pairing: J-Hope + reader

Genre: Smmmmmmmmuuuuut

Raiting: 18+

Merry Christmas, Darling 

It was christmas eve and I was curled under several quilts in my living room.  The tree was set up in the corner, bulbs of various size, color, and sparkle dangling from it branches.  The light twinkled off of them softly, one of the only sources of light in the room.  Outside, snow was tumbling from the sky, transforming what had been a generally dull and grey day into something that could have been a scene from a children’s book.  The sky was dyed a deep blue velvet, the lamps from the parking lot outside illuminating the glitter of each flake that fell against its inky expanse.  The radiator beneath the window creeked and cracked as it combated the draft that whisped between the window and it’s frame.  Due to the holiday, I had received the day off and had decided to spend the day rewatching the entirety of Downton Abbey, and I was caught up in the thick romance of Matthew and Mary when I heard a key in the lock and the sound of Hobi entering the apartment.  

“Hey, doll,” he said as he passed me with a swift kiss on the top of my head.  His arms were full brown paper bags of take-out, as per Christmas tradition within our household.  Hobi would stop on his way home from the office, pick up several containers of sweet and sour chicken from the Chinese place on the corner and we would eat and watch movies until we could no longer keep our eyes open.  I was nervous that Hobi would make me go outside to play in the fresh snow, as he hadn’t gotten a chance yet to do with his brothers scattered to the wind.  He had 6 siblings, several still in Seoul but two were abroad.  It was the first Christmas that the Bangtan Boys wouldn’t be together.  He had been handling the distance better than I’d anticipated.  

But as he kicked his shoes off at the door and unwound his scarf, I knew that we were in for the night.  Pleased, I wiggled deeper into my blanket mountain.   

I glanced up at him, a smile dancing on my lips.  “Hey, Hope, you know something?” I asked him as he began to unload the bags on the counter.  

“What’s that?” He asked, pouring all of the sweet and sour sauce into one big bowl for our feast.  

“I love you a lot, and missed you allllll day.”  I tilted my head over the arm of the couch to look at him.  My eyes traveled upwards from his woolen sock clad feet, over his long legs, lingered on his lean hands and shoulders before resting on his heart shaped face.  

He smirked and glanced up at me.  “I told you the wine was for tonight, babe.”  

I laughed.  “I know!”  I picked up my glass of rose and took a dainty sip as he moved into the living room with the food and his own glass of red.  “This, this I found in the pantry from thanksgiving.”  

“Ooh, you should not be drinking that...”

“Wine doesn’t expire, it gets better with age,” I told him as he settled down beside me.  He set the food down on the coffee table and pulled my legs onto his lap.  I pulled a container of rice to me and some chopsticks, sloppily attempting to eat.  “You never answered me,” I said as I pressed play on Downton.  

“Did you ask me a question?”  He asked, propping his feet up and smiling mischievously at me.  

“Yes.  Wait, no.  I said I loved you.”

“Oh right,”  he went back to his food.  

“Hobi,” I whined at him.  

“I’m just fucking with you,” He laughed, pulling me into him to kiss the top of my head.  “Of course I love you, you goofball,”  

“Good,” I sighed, tucking back into my rice.   It was a Christmas special, of Downton, and even though Hobi did not particularly enjoy watching two hours of 1920’s English drama, I knew he would humor drunk me for the duration, so long as I put in something of his choice later on.  

As the episode progressed and we finished our meal, the snow began to come down harder, completely blocking out any features that may have been distinguishable in the darkness.  Hobi got up and turned out the kitchen light, leaving us only with the light of the TV and the Christmas tree, blinking softly between shades of blue, green, and red.  I glanced at him as Matthew and Mary confessed their love for each other (finally) and felt my heart expand as I looked at him.  

In the soft lighting, the shadows highlighted his strong jawline that his friends made fun of him for, and I ached to run my finger gently along it.  His lips were full and plush, and every now and then he would lick them softly, a habit of his that drove me insane.  The more I looked at his ceramic smooth skin, the more I thought of leaning over and raking my nails through his hair.  How his hands would roll gently over my hips, grasp my waist, and crush me to him.  My heart stuttered at the thought of my lips on his, how they would travel along his jaw to reach the hallow beneath his ear before I would gently latch onto his lobe, making him moan and grind upwards against me.  My breath caught in my throat at the thought.  

“You’re staring at me again,” Hobi snapped me out of my fantasy, his eyes continuously trained on the television.  

“I am not,” I scoffed, quickly shifting my attention back to the show.  

“Doll, I’ve told you before, you are an especially bad liar.”  He shifted, but I still refused to look at him.  “What were you thinking about?”  He asked, and I could feel the warmth of his body against the side of my face.  

“Absolutely nothing, I am watching the show,” I took a large gulp of my wine, praying that he would think that the flush of my cheeks was from the alcohol and not from his proximity.  

“Did you know,” he whispered into my ear as he ran the tip of his nose along my jawline.  “That I do not believe you one bit?”  I felt his lips brush my neck and cheek as he moved painfully slow.  I felt Hobi’s fingers inch slowly over to my own, his pinky brushing over mine before his hand settled on my upper thigh.  

I tilted my head to the side, allowing more access to my neck, and his lips whispered across it’s curve, barely touching.  “Why should I tell you what I was thinking, you apparently already know.”  I breathed.  

“Oh do I?”  My body shuddered at his tone, and my legs clenched as his hand that was on my thigh moved progressively upwards.  “Did it have something to do with this?”   He planted a open mouthed kiss on the exposed flesh of my shoulder.  I sighed heavily and his other hand that had been draped over the back of the couch dropped to my lower back, playing with the hem of my shirt and dancing over my skin.  “I’ll take that as a yes.”  

I turned my body towards him, taking his face in my hands.  Hobi smiled briefly, a bright and shining thing that should be hung in the sky where it belonged.  His eyes were large and full of adoration of me, even when I was sleepy, sloppy, and a little bit wine-drunk, and the thought made my heart explode and move at the speed of a racehorse.  We’d been together for three years, and he was still capable of having this effect on me.  

“Did you know that you’re very pretty?” I told him, running my thumbs along his high cheekbones.  

“You’ve told me, once or twice.”  

“Okay, but like, it’s illegal how pretty you are.  You could be a pop star if you wanted.”  I traced his bottom lip as it curved into a smile again at my words.  

“What an odd choice of profession, Y/N, you could have said model or something...”  

I shook my head, stubborn.  “Nope, pop star.”  

He sighed heavily at my drunken ridiculousness.  “Whatever you say, babe.”  

I opened my mouth to argue my point some more, but Hobi silenced me by dropping his mouth onto mine.  I tangled my fingers in his hair as his arms wound their way around my waist, squeezing me tightly to him.  He laid me back against the cushions of the couch, my pile of quilts falling to the floor.  His lips journeyed away from mine, slowly moving across my cheek, down my jaw, and to the hollow of my collar bone which he had exposed by tugging the collar of my t-shirt away.  I gasped and arched my back upwards as he sucked on the delicate flesh, nipping gently enough not to cause too much pain.  I felt him smile as I moaned, begging him for more contact and less clothing.  

“You know,” he said, as his hands wandered up inside of my shirt, finger tips ghosting at the underside of my breast.  “You know, we haven’t had sex on the living room floor in a very long time.  When was it?”  

“I don’t remember at this exact moment,” I gasped as his thumb grazed my nipple.  

“Mm, yes, you see?”  He murmured gently into my skin, his other hand pushing the band of my sweats down so he could slip his fingers beneath.  “Much too long, we should work on that.”  

“Okay,” I sighed before rolling him off of the couch and onto the pile of quilts on the floor.  I straddled him, feeling his hardened member pressing against my sex.  He whined lightly as I ground downwards before kissing him.  I slid my tongue inside of his mouth, tasting his need for me.  Hobi reached upwards to begin working my shirt off, but I grasped his wrist and pinned it above his head.  “Stay,” I ordered as I let go, trusting him.  I sat up as he watched, his eyes dazed but his mouth widening into a large smile as I worked my shirt off.  I wasn’t wearing a bra underneath, nor panties as I had decided to do nothing all day long and figured it was silly to wear any underwear if I wasn’t leaving the house.  Granted, I’d be lying if I hadn’t thought of this exact situation when making my decision either.  

I made steady eye contact with the cherry-haired boy beneath me as I lifted my hands to my breasts, running my fingertips over my nipples, hardening them into stiff peaks.  Hobi bit is lip as he watched, and my body involuntarily rolled as I pinched one between my forefinger and thumb, sending a tingle of pleasure ricocheting through my body.  Hobi bucked upwards as my head dropped backwards, exposing my throat.  He batted my hands gently away, taking my breasts in his palms before sitting up to take one of my nipples between his lips.  I buried my fingers in his hair as he continued to roll the nub between his lips, flicking occasionally.  I moaned his name softly, working his shirt up and over his back.  Hobi grasped my waist and rolled me over, positioning himself between my legs. He pulled his tshirt over his head, and then tugged my sweats down the rest of the way.  His eyebrows shot up at the absence of panties, and he glanced up at me before running his tongue over his lips and teeth.  

“What do you need from me, baby?”  He asked, his smile growing as he brushed a finger over my heated core.  “You’re so ready for me already, so not much?”  

I shuddered and moaned out as he slid one long finger inside of me, curling upwards to hit my g-spot roughly.  “Hobi,” I breathed.  “I need you Hobi,”  

“Hm,”  He murmured, pressing kisses along the inside of my legs.  My hips bucked upwards as he brushed a wet kiss long my folds before licking a strip over my center.  His tongue swirled along my clit before sucking harshly, ripping a half-scream from my chest.  

My fingers were buried in his hair, guiding his head gently up and down.  Occasionally he would glance up at me from between my legs, to watch my face crumple and my teeth scrape at my lips.  He began to tease when he saw how close I was getting, bringing me so near the brink before pulling me back again several times.  He pressed his hand against my stomach to keep me still and  I groaned in frustration.  Hobi laughed, the vibrations thrumming across my clit making my toes curl almost painfully.  “Stop playing, Hobi,” I commanded, and Hobi pulled away to watch himself slide two fingers inside.  

“Stop playing?  I’ll see what I can do.”  He sat up, tugging his jeans off to reveal his hardened cock beneath his boxers.  These he rolled off gently, never taking his eyes off of me, and my stomach shuddered at the sight of his swollen head as it was released.  

“Goddamn,” I moaned before Hobi leaned in again to kiss me hard.  He sucked my lip between his teeth and bit down, groaning as I took him in my hands.  I pumped him several times before sliding the head of his member along my folds, teasing him into oversensitivity as he had me.  “Show me how much you need me, Hobi.”  

“Fuck, Y/N,”  I arched my back as he slid in hard and fast.  I felt my walls stretch around him, and he began to pump slowly.  As I adjusted, Hobi began to pick up speed, harder and harder until the air was being knocked from my lungs with sharp cries.  He paused, lifting himself higher above me before grasping my legs.  These he pressed together and draped over one of his shoulders before thrusting back inside at a new angle.  He watched himself disappear inside of me, chewing his lip in an attempt to stop himself from coming at the sight.  

The edges of my vision began to sparkle like the lights on the tree, and my back arched as his cock began to hit my g-spot at a new angle.  I held my breath as I came, crying out a series of curses as I tightened around Hobi, my body convulsing in a cocktail of pleasure, euphoria, and adrenaline.

“That’s it, Doll, come for me.”  Hobi hissed between his teeth as I came undone around him.  “Goddamn you’re fucking stunning.”  He fucked harder into me, before dropping my legs and pulling out of me.   Hobi flipped me over and lifted my ass in the air, and I rested my weight onto my elbows.  I jerked forward violently, almost tumbling to the carpet, as Hobi reentered me with force.  His fingers wandered forward again, finding my clit and working me towards a second orgasim.  As I cried out again, he lifted me, pressing my back against his chest.  “Just like that, Y/N, just like that, I’m almost there.  Make as much noise as you need,”  I obeyed as I came, moaning my way through the crash of heat that rushed through my body.  Hobi came hard after that, pulling out the last second before to come on my skin.  He was warm, and I shuddered at the sensation against my flesh.  I collapsed against him, and his hands wrapped around my middle to support the both of us.  We breathed heavily like this for a few minutes, before Hobi stood and moved to the bathroom.  

He came back with a warm washcloth, which he used to clean up our mess.  We laughed at the smear in my hair, at his enthusiasm, which he gently worked out with the cloth, making me promise to shower.  

When I returned after the shower, Hobi had rearranged the quilts on the floor into a make-shift bed beside the Christmas tree, so that at the right angle I could see the lights through the branches.  He had put Arthur Christmas on the television and made hot cocoa with peppermint blossom cookies from the bakery he knew was my favorite.  

I felt the smile split my face in half as I crawled into his open arms.  He pressed play on the movie, and scratched my back as I drank my cocoa.  He played with the wet strands of my hair before braiding it for me, kissing my shoulders gently.

“You know something?”  He asked, as we laid down and he circled his arms around me.  The snow had stopped outside, blanketing the world in a thick down comforter of white.  Curled against Hobi, I was happy to be protected and warm inside rather than being out there.    

I pressed my face into his chest, kissing his collarbone gently and settling in for the movie.   “What, Hope?”

“I love you.  Lots and lots and lots.”  

I smiled.  “I know you’re making fun of me-”

“What?  Never!”

“-But I love you too.”  

Hobi kissed the top of my head.  “Merry Christmas, my love,”  

“Merry Christmas, my hope.”       

[miss-pearlescent]

A Random L3m0n :P (M)

Summary: You, stuck at home. Him, travelling for work. Homesickness hits him hard, et voilà! Word count: 2 760 A/N: I haven’t uploaded any work in a year, sorry. Recently, I stumbled across a Reddit AMA from the guy who created Quizilla, and it made me go back to my drafts. The title is dedicated to my inner third-grader, who knew {`{~lemons~}`} were inappropriate to read at her age but still did it anyway. Enjoy :)

You threw on one of his t-shirts and crawled into bed, your bones aching and your eyes already struggling to stay open. Work had gone overtime and the last thing you wanted to do was stare at another computer screen.

But you did want to look at your boyfriend’s face.

Finding his screen name on the laptop in your lap, you sent a video call. Then you leaned your head back and closed your eyes for just a few seconds. Your timing didn’t always match with his and video calls were always a hit or miss, but the two of you strived to do them as much as possible.

His job forced him to travel around the world for weeks to months at a time whereas your job forced you to sit in front of a computer screen for insane hours. It was all good money and you both enjoyed your work, but you couldn’t deny that it was difficult.

Especially on nights like tonight, when you wanted somebody to talk to and then cuddle with.

“Babe,” his voice drifted through your thoughts and your eyes fluttered open. His slow grin instantly gave a lift to your mood. “Sleepy already?”

You shook your head and propped your cheek on your fist. “Good morning to you, too.” You suppressed a yawn and nodded at his damp hair that clung to his forehead. “Showered already?”

“Yep,” he replied, standing up straight and stepping back to show his bare chest. “Showered just for you,” he added with a wink before heading to his closet.

You felt the need to shout to him in the closet, even though you knew he had an earpiece on that allowed him to hear and speak with you throughout the room. “How were the rounds last night?”

Part of his work involved mock competitions within the company to sell a certain product. At each round, teams had to sell an imaginary item and winning the competition meant winning a contract to market the company’s next product at its release. It sounded like great fun for adrenaline junkies but these conferences usually lasted a full month.

Which meant if any of your boyfriend’s trips fell outside of your holidays, you were forced to have pillowtalk through a screen.

A few seconds passed before he replied and you could hear the ruffling of a shirt. “They went okay. Not sure how to judges took it, but Team C thought we could totally make it to the finals.”

Team C was a group that was eliminated just two days ago. Teams were very competitive with each other, to the point of being rude, until they were eliminated. Then they were best friends who supported and cheered each other on. But finals...

Finals meant he would be at the conference for another week at the very least.

And it had already been three weeks.

While he had been gone for longer periods at a time, this trip seemed more difficult somehow. He seemed more involved in his work than ever before and you loved his drive for success. But as his girlfriend, did you deserve to sit in the backseat and just watch your relationship slowly turn into one where you only saw each other hardly an hour a day? Through a screen, no less.

You opened your mouth to make a remark but quickly shut it. What could you have said anyway? That you wished he would forfeit the competition and come home already?

That was childish and you were not going to ruin a great two-year relationship by suddenly acting childish just because you were particularly tired today.

“I think you’ll get in,” you said instead. “Your team is solid, even if you had to switch out a leader last year. And you mentioned you’re familiar with the contractors this time around, right? That’s got to be some kind of leverage above the others.”

“Yeah, I guess.” You could practically see his shrug through the wall. Sometimes, he was modest to a fault. “How was work today? You sound like you want to send somebody through the office shredder.” He came out of the closet with a fresh button-up and walked towards the screen. He was close enough that you could make out the slight dark circles under his eyes.

You bit back the need to ask him if he was getting enough sleep.

Instead, you made a sound between a laugh and a groan as he picked up a toothbrush. “I wish I could send myself through the shredder. I should have never taken on this new project.”

But really, what choice did you have when your boss dropped a file box the size of Russia on your desk and then compliment your work ethic, buttering you up with things like “nobody would get this done as fast as you.”

“Don’t send yourself through the shredder,” he said in a mock command and squeezed some toothpaste.

“Hm, how about just shredding myself for now and then coming back as a new person when my deadline is over?” you joked.

“No,” he said with toothpaste foam slurring his words. He waved his toothbrush around. “You won’t want to miss the next few days.”

You gave a soft sigh and laid down on your side, propping the laptop on his side of the bed. “And why’s that?”

He rinsed his mouth and you waited for him to finish. Sometimes, you liked this arrangement because it gave you ample time to simply watch him go about his routines. He was very methodic and thorough, and you liked noticing the slight changes he made between home and a hotel room.

“For starters,” he began, “you have a two days off starting tomorrow.”

Teasingly, you rolled your eyes. “So what, I can catch the live stream of your conference?” Yeah, you loved watching him but not when you had to wait through hours of men in suits speaking about ridiculous inventions just to see him speak for five minutes max.

He turned and gave a smirk. “Of course.” Wrapping a navy blue tie around his neck, he stuck his tongue out to knot it, staring intently at the mirror that was right above his screen.

It was dumb, but you itched to reach out and help him with his tie despite your exhaustion and his expertise. It brought back memories of when you first started dating and you had bought him a new set of ties in an array of colours. He used them all regularly through the years, but you liked the navy blue skinny tie the best.

Your eyelids began to drift downward. The softness of the pillow was suddenly very inviting.

“Secondly,” he started again, his voice a soft lull. “I think your week will be very exciting, considering how much work you’ve already finished.”

The last thing you saw before your eyes closed was him stepping closer to the screen. He was all dressed for work and ready to leave soon. You wished you could stay awake just five minutes longer.

You heard the sound of a quick kiss and then, “good night, babe. See you soon.”

“Don’t forget your keys,” you mumbled, not even sure if he heard. It was simply something you always reminded him before he left.

He chuckled. “I won’t.”

It wasn’t until a bit later when your subconscious noticed that he hadn’t said his usual reply of “and don’t forget to lock your doors.”

But you were already too far gone.

-

You were having the dream that he always warned you about. You always forgot to lock the doors when you were home, which was ironic because you always remembered to lock your doors when you were out.

Now, your dream self was hiding in a cupboard because somebody had snuck into the house and you couldn’t wake yourself up.

The stranger was walking up the stairs and—no, your boyfriend was upstairs!

You called his name but only heard a grunt. Taking the stairs two at a time, you chided yourself. Ever since you were a teenager, your mother always told you you would be a burglar’s first target. You brushed it off, relying on the fact that you lived in a relatively safe neighbourhood. But the fact that your boyfriend would face the consequences of your mistake was something you couldn’t live with.

A crowbar was conveniently in your hand as you reached to open the door. Your heart was racing but there was no sense in delaying it. Feet firmly planted to the hardwood floor, you turned the door knob and swung the door wide open, ready to fight.

You froze. On your bed was you and...a figure above you. He was dressed like your boyfriend, in a white shirt and black pants; he had his hair styled the same way your boyfriend always did, if a bit mussed; he even wore the same gold watch, grey socks, and navy blue tie.

But your boyfriend was supposed to be on a business trip.

In an instant, you were suddenly propelled onto the bed, staring up at the man above you. You strained to see his face but it was dark and he covered it well with his hair. Slowly, he slid down your body.

Which was covered by nothing but a blanket!

You squeaked and gripped the edge of the blanket with both hands. Your eyes squeezed shut in embarrassment. Why, out of all nights in your life, were you sleeping naked?

Hands wrapped around your ankles and your legs were wretched open. You gasped as the cold air hit your core, and you watched as the figure found his way under the thin sheet that barely did its job.

You bit the blanket as you felt warm breath tickle your thighs. Your boyfriend’s soothing voice played in the background, calming your nerves.

“How long has this been a fantasy of yours?”

You gulped down a moan as fingers traced close to your centre. Your ankles were free but your legs felt like lead, frozen in place to cradle a warm and oddly familiar body.

“I’m sorry I left you for so long. God, you’re so wet from waiting.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine that this stranger was your boyfriend. It was a dream, right? And you could do whatever you wanted in a dream, even if that was pretending your boyfriend was a burglar in your bed.

Oh, it was a dream.

A flood of sadness rushed over you. Your boyfriend wasn’t going to be back for another month, and you were left to merely fantasize about him. Who knew how many attractive women he was meeting while you were stuck in an office with bosses and managers that were talking about the arrival of their third grandkid.

It was a dream and you could do whatever you wanted in a dream.

You opened your legs wider and lifted your hips, urging your boyfriend to take you.

The sheet had lifted to cover only your breasts. The figure was definitely the spitting image of your boyfriend now even if you still couldn’t make out his face.

“That’s my girl,” his voice drifted around the room with a chuckle.

He teased, holding you up for him to kiss everywhere except where you needed it.

Your hands found his hair and tugged him closer. “Please,” you whimpered. “Please, before I wake up...”

A pause.

And then slowly, so infuriatingly slowly, he set his lips on your little bud. Just a light kiss, and then you felt a finger slide inside.

You heard a low moan. “You should have told me.” Another finger slipped in easily to join the first. “I’m never leaving you again.”

You shook your head wearily. “Work. You have—” Your breath caught as his fingers curled and worked inside you. A small mewl escaped as you breathed out, “it’s your job.”

“It’s also my job to keep you happy.” He drew his fingers out and you protested at the emptiness. “And satisfied.”

His fingers entered you again, deeper this time, stretching you.

“Tell me,” he demanded. “Are you satisfied?”

You shrugged, just wanting him to touch you, kiss you, make love to you without any questions.

But he was still slow, too slow. “Tell me,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “the truth.”

Tears threatened to spill out. “No,” you blurted as you bucked your hips to meet his fingers. “I’m not satisfied, okay?”

He stopped and you fell back onto the bed, tired and frustrated beyond comprehension.

“I wish you were here with me, or I was there with you. I wish I could do all the clingy girlfriend things I used to do, like making lunchboxes for you and ironing your stupid clothes.”

His fingers were still inside you and you began to close your legs. This was an awkward position to confess your feelings.

But he wouldn’t have it. He pushed your knees away until you were bare to him, and his fingers began pumping in a fast but steady rhythm.

Your body felt like jelly.

“I miss this. I miss you.” His voice was raspy, the way it always was when he was turned on. “More. Tell me more about what you want to do with me.”

You fisted the bedsheets. “I want to cover your car in mud just so we have to wash it and have a waterfight. I want to window shop for furniture we don’t need and clothes that will go out of style next season.”

Your dream boyfriend finally put his lips to your core and kissed you the way you wanted it: hard and rough. You pressed him closer, turned on by the messy noises, the sucking and the lapping.

“And late night dinners at dingy pizza shops,” you ground out. “Then some drinking so we can...”

You trailed off, unable to form words anymore as his tongue and fingers worked together to bring you to the edge. You saw stars behind your eyes, and you heard distantly your voice calling out his name.

A shudder rocked your spine and you arched into him. Your body pulsed with every flick of his tongue and every swipe of his finger. He pushed you to your climax over and over, not letting up until you basically had his head in a dead lock between your thighs.

When your body finally felt ready to lie back into bed, your eyes slowly opened to the sunlight peeking through your room. You gave a satisfied sigh, if only a little disheartened.

That dream was one of the best of your life, and you were thankful that it played out all the way to the end. But it was the end, and you had to face the reality of another day without your boyfriend.

Your fingers trailed down your body, grazing past the rough hand that lay at your belly and reaching for the wetness that was a result of a messy dream.

You blinked and jackknifed up. A rough hand?

Your boyfriend looked up at you from between your legs, a slow grin stretching from ear to ear. He licked his lips, wet and slightly swollen.

Tears formed in your eyes as you reached out to stroke his face, not sure if he was real or not. “You’re not... It was... Your trip was supposed to last another month!” you said incredulously.

“I lied,” he murmured nonchalantly with a kiss on your belly button. “We actually lost yesterday.” Another kiss, this time on your chin.

You still wore his t-shirt while he was still in his formal attire. Your eyes couldn’t look away as you clung onto his tie, determined to keep him close. “For real?” You tried not to sound too happy about it.

He gave a small laugh. “For real.”

You wrapped him in a bear hug.

His arms snaked around your waist, holding you tightly as he spoke. “So instead of moping with my team, I booked the fastest flight out of there.“ He settled in next to you and brought the blanket up to cover the both of you. He kissed you on the cheek and then slowly on the lips. “And it was a perfect opportunity to play out one of your fantasies and teach you a lesson to keep your doors locked.”

You turned red from embarrassment and hid your face in his neck. “Please, spare me,” you groaned.

His chest rumbled with laughter. “Miss you, too.”

---

Thank you for making it all the way here! I have a lot of drafts and this was one that was almost finished so I just decided to finish it on a whim (and by “a whim,” I mean Kim Jongin exposing his abs in a recent performance!!!) Hope you guys liked it :) Hopefully I will finish all my other million drafts...haha.

[freaoscanlin]

Preview of My Next Project

This is a brief scene from my next project, which, at the time of writing, is now over 10k and looks to have developed a mind of its own. It's Skimmons/Bioquake, set in season three with one big change, and this scene takes place after Daisy has grumped to Mack about some of the issues she's having with a certain scruffly dude. 1249 words, rated G.

“Mack says you’ve been asking about why men are terrible again,” Fitz said when Daisy dropped onto the couch next to him. He held out the bowl of popcorn as an offering.

“You, Coulson, and him, you’re all excluded from that.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want you to think I’m terrible.”

“Never.” Daisy rested her head on his shoulder, which she knew he hated—or pretended to hate. Sometimes she and Jemma messed with him by using excessive amounts of affection, and he’d bat at them irritably. It was such a high school thing to do, but it wasn’t like any of them had had a normal experience there. They had to make up for lost time. “What’s on the cinematic menu tonight?”

“Even though it’s a Wednesday and not our typical Saturday?” Fitz stressed, as he generally liked to gripe about Thanksgiving and its set day. “We’re now considered off-duty, so we’ll be doing a double showing. Funny Face and Duck Soup.”

“What? Those aren’t horror movies.”

“Jemma’s joining us as soon as she’s off the phone with her parents.”

“After everything we’ve lived through, horror movies can’t be that scary for her. She should be able to deal! C’mon. Something with a lot of blood and some quality creepiness. You know you want to.”

Fitz definitely did look tempted. After a moment, he nodded but he gave her a sideways glance. “Fine by me, but it’s your bed she’s crawling into when she can’t sleep later, not mine. I’m locking my door. She’s a cover hog and maintenance still hasn’t fixed that draft in my room.”

“Acceptable losses,” Daisy said, sitting up. “Play the scary movie, Fitz.”

She’d already jumped three times—and had gotten into two arguments with Fitz about the plausibility of torture scenes—before she heard Jemma’s footsteps. Jemma tiptoed in, made a face as the viscera onscreen, and settled herself between them, collecting the popcorn bowl from Fitz. “You two are going to give yourselves nightmares,” she said.

“I’m not scared,” Fitz and Daisy said in unison, and Jemma shook her head at them.

As much as it delivered on the creepy front, the movie wasn’t one of their better selections, even though it made the three of them jump. When Fitz let out an involuntary “no!” at the main lady being menaced, Daisy and Jemma teased him merciless for his crush on her. He tried to return the favor, picking on them about drooling over the main dude in a shirtless scene, but Daisy and Jemma merely giggled.

“You two are the worst,” Fitz said in disgust, stealing the popcorn bowl from Jemma. “Should be ashamed of yourselves, you should, ogling him like a piece of meat. Of manflesh!”

“Clearly he takes the time to work out, and we’re…appreciating his hard work, aren’t we, Simmons?”

“It’s only right to acknowledge it, Fitz,” Jemma said, giving him a gigantic smile. “He works so hard.”

Fitz took a giant handful of popcorn and muttered something about bad influences. Daisy threw a kernel at him and pointed innocently at Jemma when he whipped about in indignation.

Hot men or not, though, the plot grew a little predictable for her and the jump scares became passé. Fitz continued to absently shovel popcorn into his mouth, absorbed in the film, but Daisy noticed that Jemma had begun to stare off into space, mind clearly somewhere else.

Daisy nudged her shoulder and gave her a questioning look. “What’s going on?”

“I told my mum and dad,” Jemma whispered, leaning away from Fitz.

“How’d they take it?”

“Shocked, I think. But happy for me. I pretended I was happy about it, for their sake.”

“Yikes,” Daisy said, as that sentence left a lot to unpack.

“It’s fine,” Jemma said. She forced a smile, leaning even closer to Daisy so that she was whispering directly in her ear. “They asked if it was Fitz’s. That was a bit awkward.”

“A bit?” Daisy asked a little too loudly, and Jemma shushed her. Daisy wrinkled her nose back at her and dropped back to the whisper. “Bet you feel better now that you told them, though.”

Jemma frowned, looking upward as she gave the matter some thought. “You’re right. I do feel better.”

“I always feel loads better when I break down and tell Coulson whatever I’ve been keeping from him. Last week, I—”

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting gossip night? I thought this was movie night,” Fitz said.

“Sorry, Fitz,” Jemma said.

“Yeah, sorry,” Daisy added.

On screen, the killer swung his machete. Entrails flew everywhere, inspiring Jemma to gasp “Oh good lord!” and hide her face in Daisy’s shoulder.

“Now that’s properly gruesome!” Fitz said, his eyes lighting up.

“You okay there, Simmons?” Daisy asked.

She didn’t move. “Let me know when it’s over.”

“The gross part? That’s over.”

“No, the movie. The whole thing.”

Daisy laughed and shifted to get more comfortable and to make it easier for Jemma to hide her face. From the squeaking sounds occasionally emerging from under her arm, she figured Jemma had to be peeking. They stayed that way for the rest of the movie, Fitz occasionally shushing them whenever they whispered to each other.

When the credits rolled, and the main character had successfully vanquished the killer at the cost of all of her friends’ lives, Daisy carefully sat up and extricated her arm from beneath Jemma. She tried to be nonchalant about getting the feeling to return.

“Can’t we watch a comedy?” Jemma asked, blinking owlishly as she sat up. “Ooh, a romantic comedy. Something with dancing.”

“Nothing black and white,” Daisy said.

“No Cary Grant,” Fitz said at the same time. He thought about it. “And no cats.”

After a good deal of bickering, mostly from Fitz, they found a movie in the archives that met all of their criteria. Fitz relinquished the popcorn and laid down on his part of the couch, resting his head in Jemma’s lap. He didn’t even complain when Daisy scrunched her fingers through his curls. The movie, however, did not get such consideration. “I’ve always wondered how everybody automatically knows the words to these songs,” he said as Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor tapped their way through an elocution lesson.

“Oh, Fitz. It’s make-believe.”

“That doesn’t make me any less curious. Make-believe or not, it should be based on reality, shouldn’t it? You don’t see Daisy bursting into song randomly, with—with Coulson joining in!”

“No, but I would pay good money to,” Daisy said.

“I took two years of tap-dancing lessons as a kid,” Coulson said, making all three of them jump as he crossed behind the couch to collect a beer from the fridge. He settled on one of the overstuffed chairs and pointed his beer at the tap-dancing on screen. “I was not up to this level, however.”

“Maybe you should practice,” Daisy said. “I’ve heard dancing’s a good way to keep in shape for older people.”

Coulson smiled benignly at her. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Boy was she going to pay for that crack later, Daisy could tell. But it was worth it, for the way she could feel Jemma giggling next to her. As the movie played on, other members of various teams drifted in and grabbed beers and snacks, settling on comfortable surfaces to watch Don Lockwood and Kathy Seldon fall in love.

It was, Daisy decided, a pretty good start to what was rapidly becoming her favorite holiday.

[writtenbylois]

The Second Draft of a First Chapter

Moon River rippled through their home the night Hepburn Wallace was conceived. It’d been an otherwise uneventful day. Rosie spent the afternoon flipping through pages of her high school yearbook. Mr. Wallace went to work, ate leftover spaghetti for lunch. Little Fred and the other boys were with their grandmother.

           The summer sun bronzed Rosie’s skin to an even darker brown than normal while she walked their Yorkie around the block. Its name was Puppy—Little Fred’s idea. Puppy wheezed every two blocks, hiked his little legs at all the oak trees in the neighborhood. Rosie sneezed at this, cursed the dog, and dragged him along, trying and failing to remember why Mr. Wallace got the damn thing in the first place.

           All she could think of was the way his collar hung around his neck that morning. Like an origami noose. He kissed her on the forehead before driving off into the sunrise. There goes Frederick Wallace Sr., bringing home the bacon for Rosie and the boys. How wonderful.

           Thinking of his starched, white collar wilted her. She leaned against the front door, twisted it open, and blew in. Puppy rubbed up against her legs, still wheezing. Rosie pet him, very briefly, before deciding they both needed water.

Ice clunked into Puppy’s silver bowl slowly, licking Rosie’s fingers on their way down. Puppy’s nub of a tail wagged, shaking his whole body like a plucked string the moment his tongue kissed the water. Rosie swallowed a whole cube of ice, stood up straight.

           For the first time in a long time, she had the house to herself. No little boys running or jumping or shitting on her hardwood floors. No one smudging her books with blood red Toaster Strudel gunk or begging for Daddy to come home. No one screaming “Mama!” a name that, after so many years, still felt like someone else’s. Rosie settled into her solitude with the shadow of a smile on her face. She kicked off her shoes, tip-toed to the bedroom, and didn’t close the door on Puppy when he followed. She traced her yearbook photo, cringed at the bangs and acne—the droopy eyes she wished had been the product of inebriation and other things of high school lore. She’d been reading late the night before. The last time she stayed up late reading was when she found out she was having Little Fred.

           Big Fred walked with her to the library, they didn’t have a car back then, and looked up the price of diapers as she picked up every pregnancy book she laid eyes on. The pee hadn’t dried on the stick when they left their shoebox of an apartment. Rosie felt a quickening in her womb the moment Frederick pulled the test out its brown paper bag. She read about gestation and whooping cough and every kind of deformity she could find as Fred pretended to sleep. He tried to remember if he saw any high paying job openings in the paper that morning, thought about the blue house he’d driven past a few days back. Was it still for sale? Maybe he could build a nice picket fence around the thing, paint it white?

           Little Fred and his brothers had defiled that fence with melted Popsicle fingers and crayons a week earlier. Mr. Wallace brought out paint to correct the blemishes, but Rosie stopped him. Later. Do it later.

           She remembered the art her little boys had ruined her fence with, noted the complementary blues and oranges they used. Little Fred’s finger painting was the largest of them all, a smiling figure seeming to wave at the Sun. It wore sunglasses, naturally. Linus’ piece was a gray blob of mixed crayon wax, melted into the fence from the heat of the afternoon. Henry had made something with some artistic promise, used his Popsicle stick to make a solar system of polka dots. Rosie took a Polaroid of it, hid it in her journal, and made a note to look into child art classes. Maybe she and Fred would have the money to pay for it once his deal went through. Maybe she’d have time to get a job—the bookstore would be nice—or go back to school.  

           Puppy’s squeaky yelps yanked Rosie out of a slumber she didn’t realize she’d fallen into. The excited pat-a-tat of his paws on the floor dragged her out of bed.

           Mr. Wallace pushed his shoulder into the side door, checked twice to make sure it was locked before taking off his jacket, dropping his bags. He squatted down, cupping big brown hands around Puppy’s face, just long enough for the dog to reverently press its wet nose against his cheeks.  

           “Hello, Mr. Wallace. How was your day?” Rosie rubbed the sleep out her eyes with her ring finger. She pulled a biscuit from the top of the fridge to give to Puppy once he was done with his master.  

           “Long, long, long. Not too bad, though.” he said, giving Puppy one last pat on the head as he stood. “The-microwave-broke-Jim-took-that-big-meeting-with-the-couple-I-was-telling-you-about-the-spaghetti-was-delicious-even-cold.”

           “Jim met with the McCoy couple? The couple you spent damn near three weeks taking shit from?” She wrapped and unwrapped her fingers around the biscuit one by one. “Jim Moore? The guy who’s only at the firm because he’s Mr. Perry’s nephew, Jim Moore? Didn’t he fuck up the last three accounts he was given? You’re the top earner in your department.”    

           “It wasn’t his fault, really.” Fred said, shrugging off his wife’s outrage. “Boss switched our accounts.”

           “Wha. . . did he give you a reason, Wallace?” Her nails dug into the biscuit. Puppy licked up the crumbs that fell to the ground, tail wagging. “He had to have told you why, right?”

           “Mr. and Mrs. McCoy asked for another salesman.”

           “Bullshit. You had lunch with them a few days ago. It went well—you said so yourself.”

           “I thought so, Rosie.” Mr. Wallace stuck his finger into the space between his neck and noose, scratching his Adam’s apple. “Apparently, they felt I was intimidating. Something to do with my stature.”

            “Wallace, you said Mr. McCoy was at least 6’4”. That makes no. . . ”

           Mr. Wallace closed his eyes at the sound of her voice trail off, blinked for what felt like a long time. When he opened them, Rosie was staring at him, face splotched with dull pinks and reds. Puppy hopped on his hind legs, reaching for the biscuit, a low whine rolling out his mouth. Mr. Wallace shrugged. Rosie felt her bottom lip tremble. Puppy’s whine evolved into a yip, quick and pointed—the kind Little Fred would giggle at with his brothers.

           Puppy’s doggy biscuit exploded against the door, right next to where Mr. Wallace’s jacket was hung, smack dab in the middle of the window. Rosie was a great shot; walked into the living room without checking to see if she made her mark. Puppy quickly gobbled up the broken pieces and removed himself from the kitchen.

           Mr. Wallace pulled two bags of popcorn out the weathered kitchen cabinets, whistled a song his mother liked to play through the house. He couldn’t remember the name of it. A Billie Holiday tune about fruit or something.

“Rosie!” He tilted his head towards the living room. “Wanna watch a movie tonight?”

           Silence.

           “Watch a movie with me, Rosie.”

           Sniffling.

           He slid one popcorn bag into the microwave, pushed his index finger into the start button.

           “Rose, I’ll even sit through one of those old ones you like. What’s that one you really like? It’s based on a book? Breakfast at where? Persnickety’s?”

           “Tiffany’s.”

           His ears perked. Puppy trotted over to the door into the kitchen, looked up at Mr. Wallace. Mr. Wallace looked down at Puppy.

           “What was that?”

           “Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Wallace, with Audrey Hepburn. It was a novella, not a book.”

           “Oh, yeah, of course! How could I forget?”

           The microwave timer radiated through the kitchen, kernels still popped as Mr. Wallace pulled the bag out. The smell of butter and salt and familiarity tickled his nose, warming him like two hands on the face. He poured the popcorn into an old mixing bowl, threw a piece into his mouth, and popped the second bag into the microwave.

           “Fred!” Rosie’s voice, clear and peppered with enough annoyance for her husband to relax, travelled to the room. “You didn’t rewind the movie!”

           Mr. Wallace poured the other bag of popcorn into the mixing bowl and walked into the living room with Puppy behind him. Without missing a beat, he placed the bowl into a nook in the couch, and tinkered with the VHS player. Rosie sank into the fuzzy cushion, trying her best to ignore the spit stain on the spot right next to the popcorn. Fred settled next to her as the movie’s opening harmonica rendition of Moon River began, kicking off his shoes and placing an arm around her shoulders. Ten minutes in, Mr. Wallace pulled off his tie, rolled up his sleeves, and actually relaxed.

           “Can you do anything about the account?”

           He tensed.

           “Well, I can’t get it back, if that’s what you mean, Rose.”

           Click. Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard froze on the screen in Technicolor. Rose Wallace rubbed her nail into the spit stain, punctured the rough fabric of the couch.

           “Do you have any idea what this thing meant for our family? What it meant for me?”

           “Do you have any idea what this meant for me?” he asked very quietly, slowly sliding his arms from her shoulders.

           She pushed herself to the furthest corner of the couch, biting down on her lip. For the first time in a long time, she had no idea what to say to her husband. He was staring at his hands, hands weathered by sweat and blood and low-paying part-time jobs to keep the lights on. Fred never complained, though, not about a single thing he had to do. Such a saint, but so damn resigned to slavery. Too resigned, Rosie thought to herself, crossing her arms over her chest. She married a man she knew would love her, a man who had loved her and their children without hesitation. That’s all she wanted when she was young, scared, and alone in the world.

           Fred felt the weight of Rosie’s eyes on his face, crumpled under the pressure of her gaze, but said nothing. She would speak eventually, he was sure. If he knew no one else, he knew his wife. She would come back, she would get over it, and maybe he would be able to do the same. He folded his hands together, squeezed them until his palms were white, and counted the seconds it took for the color to creep back into them. Sometimes, when no one was around, he would see if he could do the same to his arms, his face. Over and over again he squeezed, that Billie Holliday song echoing through his mind. “Strange Fruit”, it was called. And he was swinging.

Puppy wiggled over to Rosie’s feet, climbed over her toes and nuzzled her ankles. He whined when she ignored him, hopping on his hind legs relentlessly.  

“Remind me why you got this damn dog.”

Fred patted his knee, beckoning Puppy over to his master.

“The twins wanted one. They asked nicely,” he murmured.

“It wasn’t Little Fred?” she moved closer to him on the couch, eyes on the dog. “The twins could barely speak the year we got Wheezy.”

“Well, they made their wishes very clear. Their brother wanted to side with you, as always.”

“But he named Puppy.” Finally, she dropped her hand to Puppy’s head, scratching behind his ears and up and down his scalp.

“That was after he met him.” Mr. Wallace loosened his tie. “The twins wanted Puppy before they knew how to say so properly. I could see it in their eyes.”

Rosie moved away from her husband, pushed the side of her face into her hand.

“Fools.”

“Linus and Henry?”

“No, no, no.” Black curls bounced as she shook her head. “Your boss and that couple. Damn fools for not seeing you.”

And they were, really. At least as far as Mrs. Wallace was concerned. He stared at her, big brown, almost black, eyes daring not to move from her face. The light from the television reflected off his skin, which shined as weathered, polished leather in moonlight. In that moment, they both believed the lie that everything would be okay. Her hands found his face on instinct, he leaned into them on principle.

“Intimidating . . . what bullshit.” He was the softest person she’d ever felt. The warmest. “I just wish you got what you deserved. I wish you knew what you deserved.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt collar until he was free.  

“Don’t be sorry, Freddy. You’ve done nothing but exist.”

She smelled flowers when he kissed her, enveloped her in his arms, and forgot about the things they couldn’t control. Puppy crawled into the kitchen to look for more biscuit crumbs as the kisses deepened. Nobody bothered to stop the movie when the credits began to roll. Rosie decided that the child they made that night would be their last—it’d have to be. If born a girl, her named would be Audrey.