#leave michael bublé alone

[bubblesbenson]

How come Harry Styles and all of these modern pop stars can do whatever they want, but if Chris Pratt or Michael Bublé even fart (you know, like being accused of homophobia when there is no physical evidence other than a bad church), the Internet will mercilessly attack them?

Really would like to understand this logic.

Also, can we also leave Brie Larson and Tatiana Maslany alone too while we’re at it?

@impulse-cake @raven-eyed-wanderer

[urfrenfishy]

Do You Hear Marimbas?

A New Jersey Rats Short Story - M4A - Implied Masc Presenting Listener

I do not own these characters they are all made by the wicked @escapedaudios , this is a fan fiction of said characters :)

notes: this is my first time writing on tumblr please be nice idk how to format this shit, also this takes place a month after the new orlean rats

Intern breathed in, breathed out. This is meant to be fun, it’ll be fun...right?

It had been weeks since Jean and the brothers had told them about Stacy. It had been weeks since they and the brothers planned this. They had weeks of rehearsals. Alone.

Why was this so different? Jean and the brothers the only audience members and they rented out the whole fucking building! Jean won't care if they mess up, he wasn't even aware this was happening to begin with.

God, what were they thinking?! Oh yeah, let's put Intern on a stage in some fancy clothes and they'll sing all sexy for Jean! At a rented-out jazz club! They're sure that's exactly what Jean would like as an impromptu seven-month anniversary gift. A reminder of his ex.

God, they'll probably look so pathetic. Like really? Jazz singing just because his ex was a singer? Talk about insecurity.

But...wait no- this was never a jealousy thing. At least, they never wanted it to be. Well, maybe a little- but come on, you find out your lover's ex was a sexy jazz club singer, and he settled for an accounting intern who has about the same amount of social skills as a Batman villain. You'd feel a little insecure too.

So- no, they wouldn't say this was a jealousy thing, because they knew that Jean wouldn't leave them, or at least, wouldn't leave them over Stacy. They weren't worried about Stacy. Maybe...maybe they just wanted to prove they could be as...cool as she was? Yeah. Cool. They'll try their best.

----------

"Aight Jean, sit right...there," Badaboom explained as he gripped Jean's shoulders.

"Guys- what's- what is going on right now? I mean, when you put a sack over my head and shoved me in the driver's seat of a car- only to make me drive. With the sack still on my head. Honestly, I don't even know how we survived the trip but- Anyway! What- what are we doing at a jazz club? And why-"

As Jean prattled on, Badabing sat him down, front row. And cut him off because Jesus Christ, Jean.

"Okay okay okay- Jean- Jeany boy, just- just chill out alright? You're gonna like this, we promise!"

The music started (a slightly pitched-up version of Michael Bublé's Sway) and Jean couldn't help but grunt a witty remark.

"You promising anything doesn't actually promise any-"

Then they walked out, he heard them even before he saw them. The click of heels against waxed tempered hardboard. As he turned his head, he felt time slow. They..He had never felt like this before. There was no way to describe it. He couldn’t believe they settled for him. 

At first, he only saw their shoes, he didn't realize they would be so close. Then their legs, god- their legs. Finally, he was able to meet their eyes, only to find they were already locked on his. They weren't wearing their glasses, could they even see him? Doesn't matter. The spotlight behind them, a halo. An angel.

Then they started to sing.

Jean wasn't even listening to the lyrics. Just them. Just their tone. Their cadence. Their eyes. God, he loved them so much.

As the first verse began, they lifted the mic off of its stand and started walking, never breaking their gaze. Jean had never seen them like this. Sure, they knew how to set a mood, and they were pretty charismatic when they wanted to be, but this. Their confidence. Even the way they walked- it was a strut, honestly.

He could feel Badabing staring at him with a shit-eating grin.

"Yeah you're definitely bi-cycleul or however you say it..."

Jean couldn't afford to look away so he just sort of.. whacked his hand around the shorter man's general vicinity to shut him up.

A music break. A moment to focus on the physical alone. And god knows there was a lot to focus on.

Where did they even get that outfit? Jean had never seen it before, did they buy it just for this? Well- yeah that would make sense they had enough money for a lifetime supply of new outfits if they wanted.

Their skin shined under the spotlight, so did their clothes, their hair. But somehow their eyes were always visible- never drowned out in beams.

And soon they were singing again.

"Other dancers may be on the floor,"

Every sway and footstep was a dance. Jean couldn't even imagine how much time they put into this.

"Dear, but my eyes will see only you,"

They stared at him, into him. They reached their hand out to him and it took everything for him not to reach back, he could even feel his hand starting to rise all on its own.

"Only you have that magic technique,"

They receded their hand, twisting the mic back onto its stand and jutting it beside them as if it were their dance partner.

"When we sway, I go weak."

Their knees bent and the mic was dipped, their eyes shut as they held the note, and their eyebrows curled upwards; they almost looked sad. It was beautiful. Jean wasn't ashamed to say he was pretty envious of the mic at that moment.

As they seamlessly transitioned from lyric to lyric, Jean was positively awed. How could they sing a line so- so...seductively? Then immediately jump to the next lyric like it didn't even happen! It was like magic. Hypnosis.

The last chorus, the last verse. Jean didn't think he would survive.

Each note just kept climbing higher, he didn't know they had a range like...like this. Sure, he had heard them singing in the shower occasionally, or in the kitchen when they thought he couldn't hear but...never like this.

They held onto the mic and reached down to Jean, their glove becoming God's hand, and Jean had become their Adam. If only Michelangelo could see humanity now.

The final note was held. Their head momentarily snapped to the left to briefly bend into the mic before it snapped back forward again. And the performance was over. Jesus. Christ.

----------

They did it. They actually did it. Holy shit, they- they didn't think they'd actually be able to. Knowing their luck they would have tripped on a cord or had a voice crack so bad they'd permanently lose their voice or something but, no they- they really did it!

Sure they probably strained some notes at the end there, and they were so sweaty. Those lights were so hot. They hoped it didn't show. Jean was still staring. Did he like it? He looked like he liked it, but- you can never tell can you?

They were breathing so heavily. This outfit felt so heavy. They really hoped he liked it. They just kept their eyes on him.

Clapping. Oh- The brothers were clapping. Cheering even. And Jean followed. He stood up, cupping his mouth and practically yelling in support. He was always so supportive.

Jean ran up to the edge of the stage as they walked to him. He practically jumped them as he helped them off the edge. Just as their shoes grazed the floor, Jean's arms were already around them.

"Sweetheart that was- I- I don't even have the words-"

They laughed, and he laughed with them. They were so relieved. He didn't think it was weird.

"I'm...I'm just glad you liked it," They rested their hand on his chest, his heart was pounding.

"Liked it? Of course, I liked it, you- you were...I mean- you were fucking gorgeous," His voice grew quiet as his forehead rested on theirs. They loved it when he did this. They felt so close.

They felt even closer when he kissed them. Definitely closer then.

"Alright lovebirds, cut it out, don't make us singles feel too homicidal," Badabing blurted as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I don't know, I 'tink it's sweet," His taller brother defended.

"Well, no one asked you, did they?"

Intern always was amazed how those two could turn anything into an argument. The 'lovebirds' chuckled to each other at the sight. Then they felt him tugging on their hand. They turned, he was pulling them towards the stage.

As they walked, the intern gripped his hand tightly and whispered, almost overtaken by the noise of the brothers.

"What are you doing?"

Jean smiled and turned his head to them as they both walked up the steps of the stage, "Taking us backstage."

Oh? Backstage? Alone? Well damn, they thought they performed well but not that well, but they're not complaining.

As soon as the two of them got into the wings, the intern was met with another kiss, a deeper kiss than before.

"Baby- Do- are we really gonna do this here? I mean Badabing and-"

Jean cut them off. His hands gripped their arms.

"You didn't do this because of Stacy right?"

And just like that. Mood, gone. Jean had an unparalleled ability to do that. Intern probably wasn't much better. It took them a second to respond.

"That's...a good question actually, I don't...think so?"

He stared at them, his lips pursed.

"You don't...think.. so?"

"Well- I- Okay it's not- I'm not jealous. I swear to god I'm not. I just...I don't know- I guess- I guess I just wanted to prove myself," They looked down, smiling at the stupidity of it all.

He tilted his head in confusion and inched closer.

"Prove yourself of what?"

"To prove to myself that I'm worthy of you?"

Jean sighed, managing a sad smile. His hands slid from their arms to their back, pulling them towards him. A hug. He breathed in the scent of their hair and they breathed in the scent of his shirt.

"You don't have to prove anything, honey, you've already got me," Jean comforted while he rubbed their back.

"I know," They dug their fingers into his shirt, the fabric felt cool compared to how high their body temperature was.

He slid his hands down and hugged their waist and began to shift his weight back and forth. Soon, so did they. Swaying.

Jean kissed the top of their head.

"I love you so much."

They smiled into the crook of his neck, he felt it.

"I love you too." 

[hotchs-bitch]

Hold On

Summary: When a case hits a little too close to home, it’s time for Aaron to face the music and be honest about his feelings after the breakup

Pairing: Hotch x blank slate Fem!Reader (no use of y/n), Hotch x Beth mentioned, Emily Prentiss x mentioned oc (aka @leftoverenvy)

Word count: ~12k (the girl cannot shut up) (it’s closer to 13 but it’s worth it I swear to god it is)

Warnings: hotch pov, case-compliant violence/injuries, mentions of suicide, mentions of pregnancy & pregnancy scares, domestic actions without fluff, relationship talk/references to relationship, angst angst angst, deep delving into their feelings, this is basically a case study, I once again leaned way too heavily on song lyrics so pls listen to it

A/N: As Taylor Swift said…. Dear reader, if it feels like a trap, you’re already in one. Mwahaha. Anyways I hope you enjoy this. Massive shoutout to @munsons-curls and @doctorstethoscope for fixing my many mistakes and validating me, and to everyone who has let me take them on this little ride. I can’t express how much I’ve enjoyed writing this fic, or how excited I am to write the epilogue

Find it on ao3 here and as always, happy reading <3

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—————

There's so many dreams that we have given up

Take a look at all we've got

And with this kind of love what we've got here is enough

So hold on to me tight, hold on, I promise it'll be alright

'Cause we are stronger here together than we could ever be alone

Just hold on to me, don't you ever let me go

Once upon a time, Aaron had considered himself lucky. He had a steady job, as dangerous as it was fulfilling, with the BAU. He had a son, energetic and joyous despite all he’d been through. He had you, beautiful and strong and endlessly supportive of him. He had a version of the life he had always wanted, the normalcy of family game night and someone else making Jack eat his veggies. It had been perfect.

But then, he’d screwed up. Hadn’t he? He had opened up, just a bit too much, and told you something you didn’t want to hear. Scared you off.

Instead of spending the rest of his life with you, as he’d planned, Aaron found himself alone. He tried not to blame you, tried not to feel bitter about the inevitable result of finally opening up to someone so wholly. 

He bit back every thought of how conditional your love turned out to be, every scathing remark about how Biometrics was one of the most useless departments in the Bureau. He pretended not to care when he overheard that you were dating again, courtesy of JJ and Prentiss’ water cooler gossip.

He’d done what Aaron Hotchner always did; he’d buckled up, lifted his chin, and done what was expected of him. He’d found a nice girl, one that fell for him quickly, and he wished he could return the depths of her affection. He’d continued to work, putting away bad guys with Morgan and Reid while missing the easy way you’d always been able to read his mind in the field.

He moved apartments as soon as it became apparent that the ghost of you would never leave; he just wished that it hadn’t followed him, haunting him with thoughts of you dancing around the new stainless steel kitchen, or flopping onto the brand new suede couch.

He’d done what you asked him to, two years ago when you’d walked away from him and left him to pick up the pieces of his son’s broken heart and ignore his own.

Everyone has a breaking point, though. Aaron, to his credit, hadn’t reached it many times in his life.

There was the first time his father hit his little brother; the first time Aaron fought back. Open-handed slaps, broken noses, Sean screaming. He had never regretted it, not even when he wound up in the hospital that night.

There was George Foyet, dead on the blood-soaked carpet after a blur of a fight. Bloody knuckles, blurry vision, Haley’s blood flecked on her killer’s face. He’d do it a hundred times over if he had the chance.

There was the breakup, the one that simultaneously snuck up on him and had been inevitable. Crumpled flowers, Aaron yelling, you packing your desk. If he hadn’t snapped, would you have stayed?

And then there were the breaking points Aaron never expected to reach.

Leaving for a case the day you broke up with him, only to return to a half-empty apartment. Empty closet, the ‘hers’ sink from the his-and-hers themed bathroom scrubbed clean, your favourite mug left in the dishwasher. He had shattered the mug, thrown it off the balcony where you liked to drink your coffee in the mornings.

The first time you’d come along on a team outing after the breakup. Laughter, avoiding glances, ignoring how good you looked. He had taken home the first woman who caught his eye that night, learned her name- Beth- and given her a place in his life, like that would solve anything.

No matter how many breaking points he experienced, Aaron could never be sure about when the next one would occur. His saving grace through it all was that at least he could keep his composure at work. 

Where Aaron failed, Hotch wasn’t allowed to.

Maybe that’s why it’s such a shock when the team gets news of a bombing in New York, just days after Emily’s wedding, and Hotch nearly keels over at his desk. 

You’re in New York.

— — — 

The drive to the airstrip is a blur; the whole team is worried, of course, but Aaron can hardly see straight until he’s on the plane with a file in his hand and Emily is squeezing his arm. 

He remembers giving a quick and quiet order to Garcia, to call you and find out if you’re okay, and it doesn’t help his nerves that all she could tell him was, “Her phone is off.”

“She’s okay, you know,” Emily murmurs, discreet enough that no one else can hear. “It’s a big city. She’s just fine. We’ll catch this guy, and then you can see her. We just need to work the case first.”

Aaron- Hotch, now- takes a deep breath and does his best to hide that those words are exactly what he needs to hear right now, even if he doesn’t plan on seeing you. She’s right; they just need to work the case. “Alright. Okay,” he says a little louder, “What do we know?”

“Not much,” Morgan frowns at the file in his hand. “A bomb went off at The Vessel. It was a structure, I guess, but no one was allowed inside and that’s where the bomb was. Makes sense with the casualty numbers- Seven wounded, two dead.”

“Probably nearby tourists, taking pictures with it,” Prentiss says thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s sending a message to outsiders, but didn’t want a high body count.”

“That could be it,” Rossi agrees. “‘Stay out of my city’.”

“There’s been no communication to any news outlets so far,” JJ chimes in. “I don’t think we’ll learn much more until we get there and have a chance to check out the scene.”

Reid adjusts a few papers so they align, most of his attention focused on the task. “You know, most seemingly random bombings have a high chance of being followed up with a string of serial bombings, for a number of reasons. Sometimes the unsub gets addicted to the attention, or the feeling of killing, or the initial bomb doesn’t impact the intended target,” he continues, not noticing the look Rossi is shooting him.

Hotch takes a deep breath and tries to push back the feeling in his chest that resembles a brick being crushed into his sternum. “Alright. JJ is right. There’s not much more we can do with no signature and no other bombings. Everyone, just try to relax; I have a feeling we won’t be getting much rest in New York.”

He watches as the team follows his instruction. The tension is palpable but they know there’s nothing they can do; the waiting is everyone’s least favourite part of the job. Still, they try to relax. Morgan pulls on his headphones and closes his eyes, JJ and Reid start to play cards, and Prentiss and Rossi re-open their file folders to review case details.

As much as he’d like to do the same, Aaron can’t bring himself to move. He sits there, head against the window, and he wonders if you’re okay. Were you caught in the blast? Did you become one of Reid’s bombing statistic numbers? Or are you perfectly fine, content somewhere in the city with no idea that Aaron is on his way there?

He wonders, briefly, against his will in a moment dripping with guilt, which potential is worse.

———

Aaron Hotchner is something of a practiced master at hiding his agony. Maybe that’s why his voice is so level when the plane starts to descend, and he finally speaks to do the one thing he knows how; direct his team.

“Morgan and Rossi, go to the bombing site. See what you can find. Prentiss, head to the hospital with Reid and start talking to victims, and JJ, see if any news outlets have been contacted yet. We’ll meet at the station later.”

As though on cue, Garcia’s computer screen against the wall of the jet lights up. The tech analyst looks a bit paler than usual, and Hotch crosses his fingers and chalks it up to bad lighting until she speaks.

“Sir, there was another bombing. Three minutes ago, in a grocery store near the Village. There’s no casualty numbers yet.” She looks like she might cry now, and it’s not hard to figure out why.

“A grocery store is a serious escalation,” Rossi says, opening the file folder he’d just closed. “There’s locals, long-stay tourists, families shopping. Big jump from a tourist trap.”

“So we know he’s not possessive of the city. At least, he isn’t just trying to get rid of perceived outsiders,” JJ offers, and Morgan shakes his head.

“If this guy is looking for the homey-cozy ‘love thy neighbour’ deal, he’s not about to get it in New York no matter what he bombs,” he points out.

When the plane jostles them all a little, Hotch takes the moment of silence to re-assess assignments. “Garcia, is search and rescue at the second bombing site?”

“Yes. Well, sort of. The team is split between doing recovery at both locations,” she says, and one nod from Rossi means Hotch doesn’t hesitate to reassign.

“Morgan, you’re with me at the new site. We’ll be assisting with search and rescue before anything else. Rossi can handle the first scene by himself. Everyone else, stay as assigned.”

“Hotch, are you sure about that? I might be able to…” On what was probably going to be an offer of how he can assist at the original scene, Morgan falters. Of course he does. There’s nothing to be done when the bomb’s already gone off.

“I’m sure. There are people out there, and they deserve to be saved.”

———

When the plane hits the tarmac, his team is ready. It’s like watching a well-oiled machine, the way they pair off and head off to their assigned zones. The only pause is between Aaron and Rossi, when he grabs his friend’s arm on the way off the plane. “Dave…”

“I’ll tell you if she’s there,” Rossi promises, and then he’s gone in a black SUV while Hotch climbs into one with Morgan and heads to the Village bombsite.

“So, search and rescue,” Morgan says, raising his voice to speak over the sirens that Hotch has turned on. “Are we heading in, or assisting from the sidelines?”

“According to Garcia, the ambulances aren’t able to make it out to the grocery store. There’s too much rubble blocking the roads that aren’t under construction, and it’s New York traffic in addition to the media outlets swarming the place.” Hotch lets out a concentrated breath. “It’s going to be all hands on deck. Look for survivors, get them to an ambulance.”

“Got it.” The second Hotch throws the car into park, Morgan is sliding out of his seat and onto the sidewalk. Both men make their way through the media storm, past the ambulances that managed to park closer than they did, and into the store.

Search and rescue is there already, along with the SWAT team. They’re moving debris, lifting fallen shelves, and occasionally carrying people out to the ambulances waiting for them.

Hotch sets into motion instantly. He breaks off for the frozen food aisle where he doesn’t see anyone searching. “Is anyone over here?” He calls out, but there’s no answer.

The bomb must have come from across the store; there’s less debris here, but the shelves are twisted and collapsed all the same. Shattered glass from the freezer doors covers the ground, and he tries to avoid it as best he can as he walks down what once was an aisle.

He steps around stray items- a warped metal freezer door frame, a pile of frozen pizza boxes, pints of melting ice cream- while keeping his eyes trained for any sign of another person anywhere.

When he finally does see something, it makes his adrenaline spike. It’s a leg, poking out from under a freezer shelf. If he has to venture a guess, he’d say that someone is pinned under the bent freezer frame, but whether they’re merely unconscious or dead remains to be determined.

“Hello? Can you hear me?” Hotch raises his voice a little and gets closer to the figure. He can see the leg a bit more clearly now, and a hand poking out from under the side of the freezer. The fingers twitch slightly. Thank god.

The sweatpants the person is wearing look vaguely familiar, and Hotch can’t place them until he sees the image of Nemo on them, and it clicks. As soon as he realizes, his stomach drops. His hands go clammy, the blood rushes from his face, and it’s all he can do to stay on his feet.

When the dizziness hits him, he wants to throw something and scream and maybe sink down onto the floor and cry, but he can’t. 

He can’t, because he remembers when Penelope made sweatpants out of quilts for everyone on the team four Christmases ago. He can’t, because she’d had more than enough Disney quilt for two pairs, and had given you and him matching pants.

He can’t, because he recognizes those pants because they’re in his closet at home, but the only other person who owns a pair like this, obviously handmade, from a quilt covered in Disney characters, is…

It’s you.

Aaron can’t help himself, couldn’t stop it if he wanted to; he turns his head, bends over, and throws up on the grocery store floor, on layers of glass and rubble and thawed boxes of Pizza Pops. Right there, staring at your leg and hand, Aaron almost breaks.

But where Aaron has chinks in his armour, Hotch has none. Hotch is the one who takes a deep breath and wipes his mouth and straightens up, the one who uses every bit of strength to lift a warped freezer shelf up and reveal you, with a mangled wrist but looking generally otherwise unharmed.

You look terrified.

Not that Hotch can blame you, of course.

“It’s alright. You’ll be okay,” he says, and he doesn’t know if it’s Hotch or Aaron talking, because he sounds calm but he has no idea what happened or how hurt you are. “Were your neck or back hurt? You need to answer me.”

You’re looking up at him, gaze half-lidded, and he doesn’t know if he should be scared or relieved when you shake your head and croak out, “They’re fine.”

He knows it’s risky, knows he should call for Morgan or a member of SWAT or anyone with a gurney to transport you safely. But you’re in front of him, dazed, grimy and half-conscious with your wrist bent at an angle, and all he can do is pick you up and hold you close to him. “Hold on,” he instructs, and he feels your arm wrap around his neck.

“Aaron…” you whisper, and he strains to hear you as he makes his way towards the doors with you in his arms. No words follow, though, and he looks down to see you crying against him, silent with tears slicing through the coat of dust on your face. Your arm starts to slip, and he squeezes you a little.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” he promises, “But you need to stay with me. You’ve probably got a concussion, so don’t close your eyes. Hold onto me, tight. I’ve got you.”

When your grasp tightens again, he resumes moving towards the exit. The first breath of fresh air must invigorate you, because he feels you tighten your grip even more. “Aaron,” you repeat, less feeble than before, but he doesn’t want you wasting an ounce of energy.

“I know, but it’s going to be alright,” he shushes you as gently as he can until you arrive at the ambulance, and he passes you off to two paramedics who slide you onto a gurney.

He tries to step back but your hand shoots out and grips his dirtied suit with more strength than he thought you had. “Will you visit? At the hospital?”

The correct answer is no. No, there’s a case to work. No, you’ll be fine. No, we broke up and that’s weird. “We all will,” he promises instead without a hint of regret. “Just let them take care of you, and we’ll be by when we can.”

Relief shines in your eyes, and it’s the last thing he notes before your grip loosens on him and you’re wheeled up into the ambulance.

A minute or so passes before Aaron senses someone behind him and turns to see Derek, who’s watching the road the ambulance disappeared down. “She’s gonna be okay,” he says to Aaron, offering him a nod of support. 

Hotch doesn’t know who he’s trying to reassure.

— — —

They reconvene at the station a few hours later, and Aaron sits mostly silent while his team discusses victimology, motives, and the chemical makeup of each bomb. He tries to contribute once or twice, but he falls quiet every time he recalls the way you’d looked up at him. 

There had been fear in your eyes, of course. You’d been in a bombing, and he knows how natural fear is after traumatic events. But there had been recognition there too, a solemn kind. He wonders to himself if you wish anyone other than him had found you and brought you to safety, or if he’s worrying about nothing.

You’re safe now, and that’s what’s important. Even if you recover and stay in New York and Aaron never sees you again, at least you’re safe.

Who is he kidding? He can’t go along with never seeing you again, safety be damned. And yet…. He clenches a fist, ignoring Morgan and Reid’s discussion about chemical compounds. And yet, you’d been so close to dead. An aisle or a footstep away, and you could have been ripped away forever.

It makes him sick to think about.

He’s thinking so hard about it that he’s got no idea how long he’s had his gaze fixed on the table before JJ’s sharp “Hotch!” breaks through and gets his attention.

He clears his throat, embarrassed to be caught off guard. “I’m sorry. I was… elsewhere.”

“Did you hear what Emily said?” She asks, and he shakes his head. When he makes eye contact, JJ’s features soften. “You should go see her.”

“No. No, that’s unnecessary. We have a case to work,” he says, and Morgan scoffs at that. “We need to work it like any other case.”

“Any other case? Hotch, you carried her to the ambulance! It’s first aid 101. She could have had a broken spine, and you threw protocol out the window,” Morgan says, staring his boss down. “This isn’t any other case. You guys were in love, man. Go see her.”

Hotch sighs, wishes that the floor could open up and swallow him. Of course he wants to see you, buthe needs to catch the person who did this, first. “It’s not my priority. There are people dying, and we need to stay focused on that. I told her that we would all come visit her after the case is closed.”

“We are focused,” Emily points out. “You aren’t. You’re not helping anyone like this. Just go talk to her, see how she’s doing.” When Aaron opens his mouth to protest again, she cuts him off. “I’m not saying you should live at her bedside or propose to her, but just go say hi. It’s going to help both of you.”

When he looks to his right, Rossi has one eyebrow up. “You know you aren’t winning this one, right?” he asks, and Hotch sighs again. “Bring the girl some flowers, too.”

Aaron closes his file and stands up. “I’m not bringing her flowers,” he mutters. “I’ll be back in forty-five minutes. If anything else happens, keep me updated.”

——

When he gets to the hospital, flowers in hand, Aaron finds your room almost immediately. He knocks twice on the door, is greeted with a soft, “Come in.”

“Hi,” he says gently, leaving the door open. He watches, waits while you do a double-take like you can’t trust your own vision when Aaron Hotchner is standing at the door.

“You came,” is your response, and he can’t decide if your voice is coloured by exhaustion or disbelief. Maybe it’s both, but he doesn’t like the idea of not being seen as dependable to you, even now.

Encouraged slightly, Aaron takes a further step into the room. Maybe you do want him here, and you weren’t delirious when you asked him to visit. “You asked me to; of course I came. How do you feel?”

While he waits for an answer, he observes you. You’re in a fresh pair of clothes, and before he can enquire about it you’re speaking.

“I’ve been better.” You hold up one arm in a cast. “But I’ve just got this and a concussion, so it could be worse. Remember that case in Kansas where I broke my leg? That was way worse.”

Aaron shakes his head, wanting to scold you for speaking so lightly of an event that had very genuinely terrified him, but he stops himself. It’s not his place. In lieu of conversation, he raises the vase of flowers slightly.

“I, uh, brought you these.”

In the two long years that you’ve been gone, Aaron has never stopped reading human behaviour. More than anything, he has experience with your body language, and he looks over you with a familiar eye.

He sees the tension in your shoulders, your eyes narrowing slightly in the direction of the arrangement, and he knows that you’re remembering the last time he brought you flowers. “Thank you,” you say after a pause that’s almost too long. “What kind are they?”

“They’re Gladioli,” he says, and the words are fully out of his mouth before he remembers that he should have lied.

When you were dating, he had always brought you flowers. On your birthday, when you solved a case, when you just felt down; Aaron was there with a bouquet, one that always meant something. Celebration, or supportive love, or some other flower language message that he knew you would understand even when he couldn’t say it out loud.

He’s pretty sure that by the time you broke up, you had memorized the whole flower dictionary. But it’s possible, he hopes, that you never came across the Gladiolus flower. Hope. Love. Remembrance.

Why he bought them, he can’t say for sure. Maybe old habits die hard. Maybe he wants to know what you’d do if you recognized the flowers.

When you finally speak, it’s with an indecipherable voice. He’s got no idea whether or not you know what these flowers mean. “They’re beautiful. Can you just put them there?” You point one finger at the windowsill, and he follows your directions to place the vase down.

“Of course.” He sets the flowers down in a beam of sunlight, adjusts them this way and that until he’s satisfied. Once he stops moving, a heavy silence falls over the room.

What is there for you to discuss?

He’s racking his brain looking for something, anything, to talk about, until you speak bluntly.

“What do you know about the bomb?”

“What?” He hadn’t even considered that you might want to talk about the case. You’re a former agent of his unit, so ethically, it’s fine to discuss this with you. Still, he’s concerned about the trauma to your body and mind. Before he can speak again, or protest, you’re already talking.

“The bomb,” you repeat. “Do we know who it was placed by? Is it connected to any other bombs? What was it made with?”

This is familiar. This is okay. This is something Hotch knows how to talk about, even when you’re laid up in a hospital bed and he’s only talked to you a handful of times since you broke up two years ago.

At least it’s not awkward anymore. He can read it in the way you sink back into the bed, and how his own shoulders release a bundle of tension that’s been there since he initially heard that there was a bombing in New York this morning.

“We’re still trying to figure that out,” he admits. “It was made with the same chemical compound as the one that blew up The Vessel this morning. It was a homemade compound, nothing that could have been acquired naturally without extensive knowledge of bombs.”

“The Vessel? That’s a tourist attraction.” You sit up, but Hotch shakes his head.

“A closed one,” he corrects. “People just go there to take pictures outside the structure, now. That’s why there’s such a low body count.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s not just closed. The Vessel is the attraction that closed after a string of suicides,” you say, and Hotch’s head snaps up in attention. “It was a big thing on the news. Have you looked into anyone related to any of those suicides?”

“No, we haven’t.” He’s already fumbling for his phone. “I’m going back to the station. Just… keep us updated on your condition, okay? We would all like to know how you’re doing.”

“Absolutely not.” Hotch can’t decide if he’s more annoyed, impressed, or concerned when you stand up. “I’m coming with you.”

“You aren’t a part of the BAU anymore,” he reminds you. “You made that choice.” 

“Yeah, well, there weren’t any lives at stake. He went after a grocery store, Aaron! What’s next, the Empire State Building? Times Square?” You grab your bag of possessions collected from the bombing and rustle through for your purse. “Did you drive here?”

“You can’t come with me. You’re in the hospital for a reason.”

“For a concussion! People are dead.” You stride towards the door, holding your purse and jacket in the hand that doesn’t have a cast around the wrist. “Can you bring the Gladioli, please?”

Is he caught? Do you want to bring them because you know what they mean, or just because they’re nice flowers? With a sigh, Aaron picks them up and pulls his car keys out, knowing that you’ve won this one. “We aren’t putting your name on any reports,” he warns, taking your jacket and bag of possessions in his other hand. “Strauss would kill us both if she thinks I’m borrowing agents from other units.”

“I don’t need credit. But we need to find this guy, before he hurts anyone else.”

———

When Aaron gets back to the station, he thinks that his agents probably expected him to come back with something like Thai food, or information about a new bombing.

They likely weren’t expecting him to bring you with him. Or maybe they were, because the response of greeting waves and murmured ‘hello’s are less surprised than he had expected. 

“How are you feeling?” Prentiss asks casually, but Hotch can see the flicker of panic in her eyes when she glances at your cast.

“I’ve been worse. Listen, Aaron told me about The Vessel…” you start talking to the team as Hotch calls Garcia to loop her in, and suddenly everything feels more normal than it has in two years.

When you’ve finished filling the team in, Hotch starts to speak. “Garcia, we’re going to need history on the deaths that occurred there before it was closed down. Rossi and Prentiss, go through medical reports. Reid, I want you going through any written notes or other evidence found with the bodies.”

While he talks, he notices you slipping out of the room out of the corner of his eye. Morgan grabs his phone and calls Garcia, trying to help her comb through articles for a list of suicides that occurred at The Vessel.

Hotch sits down with Reid, paging through suicide notes and crime scene photos sent by Garcia until he feels like his head is spinning. 

That’s right around when you come back, your presence subtly announced with a cup of tea placed in front of Hotch and a gentle squeeze of his shoulder as you pass.

When he brings the cup to his lips, he smiles. It’s English Breakfast tea with a dash of sugar in it; his beverage of choice when it’s too late in the day for coffee. “Thank you,” he says, and you just give him a grin before going to assist Rossi and Prentiss.

After a few minutes of idle work and murmured discussion, Derek shushes everyone and puts his phone on speaker. “Okay, baby girl, tell us something good.”

“None of that, crime fighters. After a truly depressing deep dive through news articles, I’ve got 37 names belonging to people who… you know, died at The Vessel.”

“That’s not workable,” JJ remarks, “We need to narrow it down.”

“We said he has a protective, low body count style. Could be the family member of a suicide victim. One who doesn’t have the guts to cause the maximum amount of carnage,” Rossi suggests.

“That’s good,” Hotch hears himself say, like he’s hearing it from a distance. “A parent would show aggression. Garcia, look for suicide victims with surviving siblings in the area. Focus on the ones with older siblings.”

The click-clack of her keys is the only audible sound before she reports, “16 left. Still too many names.”

“Do any of them work in auto mechanics, or in proximity to cars?” Reid asks. “There’s a specific compound in the bomb that’s almost impossible to come by unless you have access to garage-grade chemicals or a specialized lab, and the lab is unlikely for him.”

“Two names. Anything else?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Hotch sees you perk up. “Did any of the victims work at that grocery store?”

“Uhh…. One! He wasn’t on our list of two, but his name was Jackson Moyer.”

“Wait, I’ve got something here.” Reid sorts through papers- suicide notes and similar images sent from Garcia, and Hotch doesn’t know when he had time to get them printed out- until he pulls out a sheet of paper. “Jackson Moyer. It says in the note that his girlfriend broke up with him on the same day he got fired.”

Emily leans over to look at the note. “It’s dated nine months ago.”

Nine months. “She was pregnant,” Hotch blurts out, and a heavy silence falls over the group.

Moments later, Garcia gives the confirmation. “Nora Carr, Jackson’s girlfriend, had the baby…. Three days ago, but she gave it up for adoption,” she reports. 

“Right before the bombings started.” Rossi’s observation sits heavy for a second until you speak again.

“Back to the victim. Does he have a surviving family member matching the description?” You hold the end of a pen in your mouth, worrying it between your lips while you look at your files. “A sibling or close cousin, maybe.”

There’s a moment of typing before Garcia says, “Bingo. His older brother, Jeremy. It looks like they were really close growing up; same sports teams, friend group, classes, you name it. He doesn’t work at any kind of auto shop, though. He works in retail.”

“He felt betrayed when his brother killed himself,” Hotch starts.

He’s caught off guard when you continue his train of thought for the first time in two years. The ease with which you take over his idea is one that he’s missed; sometimes, when he’s having difficulty going somewhere with a profile, he misses working with you. It’s like you hold the other piece of the puzzle.

But now, even if just temporarily, you’re here and you’re fitting the puzzle piece into place

“And he saw giving away Jackson’s child as the ultimate betrayal. Does he have a boyfriend or girlfriend with access to the chemicals used?” You ask.

“Yep. Her name is Erica Harmon and she’s a grad student at Columbia. She’s a TA in a load of undergrad chem classes, too.”

“He’s got access to the chemicals through her,” JJ says, frowning at her list of materials found in the bombs. “Almost all of this is lab-grade, and the rest of it wouldn’t be hard to find at a supermarket.”

“And he’s probably going after Jackson’s ex-girlfriend next,” Morgan says, already grabbing his gun as the rest of the group stands up.

Prentiss looks at her boss. “Where do you want us?”

“You and Reid, head to Jeremy’s house. Rossi, Morgan, JJ, I want you at the ex-girlfriend’s apartment.”

“Where am I going?” You ask, using one hand on the table to steady yourself when you stand up and wobble slightly. “I need a gun.”

“No, you don’t. You need to stay here, and I’ll stay with you.” Aaron sits back down, pulls you into your own chair with both hands on yours while he ignores the team’s stares.

“Hotch, are you sure?” Morgan asks, but Aaron doesn’t even look over. 

“Go.”

He hears the sounds of rustling to his side, his team leaving as fast as they can while Garcia says something about sending them the addresses, but he can hardly focus. “Are you okay?”

“A little…” You bring a hand to the centre of your forehead. “A little dizzy, that’s all. Are they going to be okay?”

“They’ll be just fine. We profiled that he targets the buildings themselves, not the people in them. He won’t be able to take a hostage successfully.” Aaron promises. 

He hopes he’s right.

He hopes he hasn’t lied to you yet again, especially when you give him a hopeful smile.

“I missed this,” you say, so casually that his heartbeat falters before you continue to speak, giving him clarification that he doesn’t want. “Working with everyone, being on cases. Biometrics isn’t nearly as interesting.”

The confession cracks his face into something resembling a smile. “Never a dull moment here,” he agrees before the two of you fall into a silence that he can’t decipher.

Should he have said something else? We missed working with you, or I missed having you around, or Biometrics is practically an entry-level unit. Maybe even, Are you thinking of rejoining the team?

He still doesn’t know why he lied to you on the day of the breakup, why the words ‘it’s not reversible’ had ever left his lips. You could have come back to the BAU at any time, Strauss be damned. Of course, it would be his head on the chopping block, but still. You deserved to know.

He doesn’t say anything.

“How’s Beth?” You blurt out, and he wonders how long you’ve been holding onto that question before you asked it.

He wishes you hadn’t asked. He has a moment of panic, gives you a reaction he already hates himself for before he does it. Instead of answering, he stands up and picks up his now-empty mug of tea. “I’m going to get another. Do you need anything? Some water?” He suggests, brushing the back of his hand on your forehead the way he does when Jack is sick.

The look in your eyes is unreadable when you slump down into your seat further, staring at the table. “I’m okay,” you mumble, and Aaron hates himself even more for the familiar way he caresses your hair before he walks off.

His return a few minutes later finds you curled up in one of the large office chairs, your head leaned back while you speak into your cell phone. “… not sure when I’ll be back,” you’re saying, and you glance up when he enters the room. “I’ll call you back later, okay?” 

You hang up and tuck the phone under your leg before you look up at him. You don’t say anything. 

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t say anything.

“I brought you tea,” he blurts out. 

Aaron Hotchner, ex-prosecutor, Unit Chief of the Behavioural Analysis Unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, well-known in more than one elite circle for his nuanced understanding of the human mind and what makes it tick. That’s him.

Or maybe it’s not, because after two seconds of awkward silence he’s offering you the mug of tea he made for himself.

“I thought you went to get yourself one,” you say, but a barely-trembling hand reaches forward to accept the mug nonetheless. Thank god he’d grabbed a clean one.

“You need it more. How’s your arm doing?” He asks, and you shrug.

“It’s been better, but it’s been worse. Hurts less when I don’t think about it.”

Aaron has always prided himself on giving you what you need. If you’re telling him that you don’t want to think about it, he can work with that. He can distract you. “Who were you on the phone with?”

It’s excruciating, the length of time that he sits in silence before you answer. It feels like he’s waiting for a signed murder confession. He sits there and waits for what feels like days, weeks, maybe a month or two to hear you say, “My friend.”

“Garcia said you were visiting a friend. That’s why you bought the onesie, isn’t it?” He guesses, remembering that awkward run-in with Beth and Ella at the museum gift shop.

He can’t believe he brought it up. Can you see the shame for it on his face, or the tips of his ears red with embarrassment?

It had been a great day. He had had a rare day off, and he and Beth had taken the kids to the park. They’d gone out for ice cream afterwards, and finally for a tour of Jack’s favourite museum that ended with the museum gift shop. It’s almost a perfect memory, a day that he would fit into a snow globe to preserve if he could.

He knows that if he did that, somehow preserved the day in a sphere full of glycol, he would just remember the look on your face in that gift shop. He still can’t put a name to the emotion other than ‘torn’.

Aaron Hotchner; the master of understanding every human mind except yours. 

“She just had a baby,” you respond, and he blinks twice before he remembers that you aren’t in the gift shop anymore and that he asked you a question. 

You’re here in front of him now with a broken wrist and a concussion and you finally seem to be opening up to him, and he doesn’t want to risk missing it by staying in his own head.

“Boy or girl?” He asks while you sip the tea. It's an English Breakfast with nothing but a bit of sugar, but you don’t seem to mind.

“He’s a boy. His name is Tristan and he’s cute, too. Do you want to see a picture?” You’re already eagerly reaching for your phone, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop you now whether he wants to see the pictures or not.

When you show him the screen, a part of him wishes he had stopped you.

The baby is tiny. Tristan is swaddled in a blanket, the top half of his head poking out just for tiny eyes to squint at the camera. Aaron can see the top of a scrunched nose, maybe the beginning of a cry or a yawn. He examines the details, the obviously-plush blanket with grey-blue floral detailing.

Aaron does his best to fixate his attention on Tristan and ignore the fact that the photo is of you holding the baby, looking almost maternal and definitely happy and…

He looks away.

He can’t help it; he hardly stops himself to consider whether it’s rude of him to actively dodge the photo. Instead, he clears his throat. “Very cute,” he agrees, “You’re right about that.”

“Yeah. He was born a little premature, so I thought I’d take some time off of work, come up and help her out for a little while.” You look down at your cast and let out half a scornful laugh. “Some help I am. I don’t even think I could hold him now.”

“I’m sure you’ve been plenty helpful,” he assures you without a thought. After all, for years you had as much of a hand in raising Jack as Aaron did. “It just might have been cut short a little.”

“Yeah, a little. I’m probably going to have to head home after this. It doesn’t make sense to stay when I can’t do anything.” You look glum at the prospect, and without a thought Aaron reaches a foot out to bump against the roller wheels of your chair. It’s a gentle tap, one that just serves to get your attention.

“Talk to your friend,” he advises. “Maybe you can still cook, or help her clean up around the house. There’s no need to cut your time off short just because you can’t hold a baby.”

Your head tilts just a bit, and your eyes narrow as though you’re looking at an equation in the air that Aaron can’t see, let alone guess the factors of. He hopes you can solve it, whatever it is. “Maybe,” you say, and that’s when he hears the conference room door open.

“Hey, double trouble.” Morgan has a trademark grin from ear to ear as he sits down at the table, and Hotch swivels in his seat to face the team as they file into the room.

How did it appear to them? Him close to your chair, you tucked into it with one leg under you and the other hanging off the side. Did it seem uncomfortable, like you didn’t want to be there? He wishes he could have taken a picture of the two of you, somehow, something he could study and examine and hope to understand.

You’ve been alone in a room for… well, he’s lost track of time, but it’s been a while and he still can’t tell if you’re comfortable or not. He’s got no clue until you pipe up and wheel your chair closer to the table.

“Dibs on being ‘double’. You can be ‘trouble’.” You nudge his shoulder with your own, and Hotch does his best not to smile. There’s no use in encouraging you, after all. Still, he can feel some of the tension drain from his shoulders at the light tone; you’re happy to be here, happy to work on this case and to talk to him.

“Actually, you can’t assign nicknames based off of a group nickname when the name itself is a play on how many members there are,” Reid corrects as he sits down with his case file in hand. “You can only do that if each nickname is a separate title.”

Morgan groans out loud at that and reaches over to swat Reid’s arm. “C’mon, man, you’re taking all the fun out of it,” he complains, leaving Reid with a mildly perplexed look on his face.

“We can try again,” Prentiss offers, slipping out of her bulletproof vest. “Hey, sugar and spice.”

Aaron can feel your reaction before you can even open your mouth, and he beats you to it by a half second by warning, “Don’t say that I’m spice.”

The look on your face tells him that that’s exactly what you meant to say. He pushes away thoughts of Look how well I know you in favour of We’re at work.

“How did takedown go?” He asks. The debrief usually happens on the jet, but it feels wrong to discuss the case without you now. Debriefing is an essential part of each case for everyone who works on it, and he does his best to make sure that each member of his team- past or present- can leave each city with a sense of closure.

If anyone needs closure on this case, it’s the woman wearing a cast who hasn’t had to face the horrors of the BAU in two years.

And maybe Aaron, because it’s just as important to him that you feel okay after the events of the last day. Maybe you need to know that the unsub is behind bars, but Aaron needs to know that you know.

Dave, who has been smirking ever since he saw Hotch quickly wheel his chair away from yours upon the team's arrival, speaks first. “Nice and easy. We caught him while he was assembling a bomb in the apartment complex's boiler room. Taking a hostage never crossed his mind.”

“He didn’t even go to Nora’s apartment. She had no idea what we were talking about when we tried to interview her,” JJ says. She hasn’t sat down yet, and is already working to gather up the metric ton of paper covering the conference room table.

Maybe Hotch should have thought to do that.

“Good. And Erica, the girlfriend?”

“She had no idea about any of it. Morgan found a copy of her keys on the unsub’s keyring, and her best guess was that he copied them right out of her purse.” Prentiss passes JJ a stack of papers and sighs. “I feel bad for that girl. She had no idea what was happening right under her nose.”

“She had no way of knowing that her boyfriend would be pushed over the edge like he was. She’s gonna need help after this, for sure,” Morgan says thoughtfully, and the group mumbles out a collective agreement.

“Either way, mi bellos,” Rossi stands up to clasp his hands together, “The case is closed and we’ve got someone in cuffs. All’s well that ends… well, you know.”

It catches Hotch off guard when his stomach pangs at the thought of leaving. Boarding the jet and heading home. Leaving New York, leaving Jackson and Jeremy and their girlfriends in the past, leaving you to deal with the aftereffects of being injured on your own.

He can’t stop himself from speaking, even if just to re-think his words before they become law. “We can stay the night.”

There’s no subtlety to the rise of Morgan’s eyebrows, or the glance that Prentiss and JJ exchange. But there’s nothing he can do about it now. The words are out there. It’s already done.

“Why would we do that?” Reid asks, always one to voice the question no one wants to vocalize. Hotch has always loved his curious mind and his need to understand every aspect of something.

Even if he kind of wants to throttle the kid right now, because how the hell is he supposed to answer that?

“Because you all did some good work today,” he answers after a painfully long minute, “and deserve a night off. We can all go out for dinner and be on the jet early in the morning.”

That answer seems to satisfy the room, and Aaron ignores the look Rossi is giving him as he glances over at you and drops his voice. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” you promise. “Do you, you know, maybe have an extra seat at that table?” You look nervous; he can read that clear as day. The idea that this could put you on edge almost makes a laugh bubble up in his stomach but he shoves it down in favour of a smile.

“I’m sure we can pull one up,” he assures you in a murmur. “We’d love to see you a bit more before we leave.”

“Oh.” You sound almost surprised, and he’s glad that he thought to hide behind the royal ‘we’. “Okay. Can I ride there with one of you?”

“Of course.” Aaron stands up and pulls your chair away from the table so you’ve got room to stand. Unnecessary chivalry; he has to remind himself to cut it out. “We can take a taxi.”

—

That’s how, fifteen minutes later, he finds himself in the passenger seat of a cab with you, JJ, and Garcia squished together in the backseat.

He wonders what you’re talking about back there behind the partition in low whispers, the occasional giggle, and one or two sharp “Shh”’s. The taxi stops too soon for him to find out, and your little group finds the rest of the team at a table already.

You slide into a seat and Hotch unconsciously moves to take the seat farthest from you- a habit he’s built in the last two years- only to find Morgan already sitting in it. “Sorry, Hotch. You snooze, you lose,” he defends with a wide smile.

By the time he turns to see what other seats are free, the only one left is right next to you. “Aaron, over here,” you say, and with all eyes on him there’s nothing to do but come around the table and sink into the stiff chair.

The waitress comes by to take drink orders a minute later, and Hotch orders himself a water. He’s here on official business, and he refuses to get drunk. It’s what his father did, and that always ended up in violence or big scenes made in public. Hotch does everything he can to avoid that side of himself, especially when he’s representing the government.

“What kind of wines do you have?” He hears you ask, and he turns his head to see the waitress produce a menu from what must have been thin air.

“She can’t drink,” he says loudly, putting out a hand like he can stop the menu from making its way to you. “She has a concussion.”

Speaking around you, to you, for you, is a dance, as Aaron is slowly learning.

You frown, and he hopes he hasn’t overstepped. You don’t say anything, and he holds his breath. You finally look up at the waitress and order a water, and he sighs in relief.

“Thanks, it slipped my mind,” you murmur once she’s walked away, and he gives you a tight smile before getting dragged into an argument between Morgan and Reid.

Dinner, for the most part, passes in a blur of quiet conversation and polite laughter. It isn’t until everyone is eating dessert, half the team feeling the effects of the wines they’ve been indulging in, that everything goes to hell.

He really shouldn’t be so surprised. The evening has gone without a hitch so far- Aaron’s left arm occasionally bumping your right when you try to eat at the same time has really been the only obstacle- so he figures that you’re about due for something to go wrong. Some event to stir up the peaceful bubble he’s stumbled across.

It happens, as many things do, in the form of Emily Prentiss opening her mouth. She leans over you to speak to Aaron, and it’s like he’s watching the train crash in slow motion when she says to him, “So, how’s the single life?”

He can feel the way you stiffen up next to him, white knuckles on your fork, peering out of the corner of your eye. Do you want to hear the answer? “Prentiss, please. That’s hardly appropriate.” His voice is being held together like it’s wrapped in duct tape, but it comes out steady enough.

Emily sighs at the scolding. “I just wanted to know,” she grumbles, pushing a piece of cheesecake around on her plate. “You and Beth broke up a week ago; I’m just curious.”

“Good question,” JJ says. “Have you talked to her since? Wait, is that why she wasn’t at the wedding?”

“You told us she was sick, but statistically this is the least likely time of year for someone to experience cold or flu related symptoms.” Spencer frowns down at his rootbeer. “Did you lie? You could have told us that you broke up. We could have helped.”

“Same way I got over the second Mrs. Rossi,” Dave jokes, lifting his glass in a salute. “I don’t think I left the strip club for a month.”

“Please,” Aaron repeats, raising his voice slightly. “This isn’t appropriate.” He directs it primarily to Emily, who started this whole thing, and he notices the shell-shocked look on your face out of the corner of his eye.

“I just wanted to know,” Emily repeats, as petulant as a stubborn child.

She wanted you to know, more likely. Aaron has been careful about not talking about his relationship- Emily only knows because he developed a case of drunkenly loose lips the night of the wedding and overshared to her wife, Katie- and now you know the one thing he didn’t want to become widespread. There’s no way that wasn’t intentional.

“I should…” You push your chair back with a ‘screech’ and stand up, hurrying out of the restaurant in the direction of the lobby without further excuse.

Hotch watches you go, lets out a groaned “God.” while he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need to- I’ll be back.” He tosses down his napkin and takes off in the direction you exited.

“Now, that wasn’t too nice,” Derek points out, and Emily shrugs.

“I didn’t like the tension. At least now they’ll talk.”

Meanwhile, Aaron finds himself rounding the large fountain display in the lobby to talk to you. “Are you leaving?”

When you look up, there’s vague surprise on your face. Did you think he wouldn’t follow you? If there’s one thing Aaron knows about himself by now, it’s that he would follow you to hell and back.

“I think I should. I think that would be best.” Instead of looking at him, you fiddle with your keys and look everywhere else. The chandelier, fountain, reception desk; everywhere except at Aaron himself.

“Just… just hold on, a couple of minutes. I didn’t mean to upset you, by not saying something. I thought it would be… easier.”

That gets a reaction. Your eyes snap to his, and he can see something like hurt swimming in them. “Easier?”

“Yes. You didn’t have anything to do with it; why should I have to tell you?” He challenges, even though it’s half a lie. You weren’t faultless in the breakup, but he’s not going to be sharing that fact.

“You don’t think I would want to know?” You take a small step towards him. “Even just so I could be there for you?”

“That’s not a good idea,” he counters. “I have friends I can speak to about breakups.” He regrets his words the second that he sees the pain in your eyes. Oh, because you’re supposed to be friends now. That’s right; his last breakup was with you.

Three feet away, perched on the edge of the fountain, an older woman is watching the two of you intensely. She’s obviously listening, and that’s something that Aaron doesn’t want to deal with. “Look,” he says, his voice low and quiet, “Will you come up to my room? We can talk there, but I’m not doing this in public.”

The conflicting emotions on your face seem to be going to war until you take a deep breath and take Aaron’s hand, your fingers wrapping around his as you board the elevator.

He hopes you don’t notice David Rossi standing near the elevators. He hopes you don’t notice the thumbs up that the older man gives him, or the middle finger he gives in return.

The elevator ride is silent and long, almost excruciatingly so, and he’s half relieved once you get into the hotel room and take a seat on separate beds facing each other. His suitcase is against the wall, zipped up, and the desk is covered in various writings and readings that he doesn’t even know when Spencer had time to unpack.

You break the silence first, your face expressionless like it’s an interrogation. It feels like he’s on the wrong side of the interrogation table for once when you speak. “You and Beth broke up.”

“We did,” he agrees, and that’s when he wonders if he made a mistake bringing you up here. He doesn’t want you to hear the whole story; why not just confirm the breakup in the lobby and send you on your way?

Well, he couldn’t have done that, and he knows why. It’s still a half-decent alternative to this, though.

“Why?”

“Why… did we break up?” He clarifies, and you nod. “We wanted different things.”

Finally, emotion crosses your face; a flicker of anger. He doesn’t blame you, especially when he remembers the sacrifice you made. “Different things? So, she didn’t want more kids? Or was it work-related?”

He isn’t going to get through this without telling you the whole story; he can see that now. As hard as it is, he knows you aren’t letting this rest until you get a comprehensive answer.

“She had a pregnancy scare.”

Your sudden bark of laughter is hardly a surprise, but it makes him wince all the same. “You broke up because you don’t want to have another kid? Are you serious?”

He tries to answer. Instead, memory hits him like a brick wall, wraps its arms around him and drags him down into it.

“Aaron? Honey, where are you?” Beth’s cheery voice entered the room before she did, and Aaron looked up at her with a smile.

“Hey, sweetheart. How was your day?” He asked. He hated this domestic part, the part where he had to pretend to be just as in love as she was.

But love grows, he knew. Just as flowers could blossom from cracks in the pavement, love could develop with time and affection. It wouldn’t be fair to her, to not return the open affection she gave him.

He always wondered why it never felt easy or effortless, why he often felt like he was just a young boy playing at being in a relationship, instead of an adult who was actually in one.

“My day was good,” she said, a barely-contained smile on her face. “So, you know how I’ve been under the weather lately?”

That was an understatement. She’d thrown up more than once in the last couple of days. Love or not, Aaron cared enough that he was on the verge of taking her to the emergency room himself. “Of course. Are you feeling any better?”

“Not really. But my period was late yesterday, so I thought, why not?” Why not, what? She wasn’t making any sense, and it wasn’t until Aaron saw the little stick in her hand that the pieces flew together for him, like a puzzle begging to be solved. “And, well…” 

He stared down at tanned hands presenting him the stick, two tiny lines deciding his future for him. “You’re pregnant.”

“I’m pregnant,” she confirmed, throwing her arms around his neck. He slowly brought both arms up to hug her- a facade of excitement, even though his face would certainly betray him if she were to look at it. “Isn’t that great?”

“That’s… wow.” It was as honest of an answer as he could give. “Are you going to see a doctor to make sure?”

“Of course I am.” She pulled away just enough to kiss him, but he broke away soon enough. “Aaron? This is great, isn’t it? Aren’t you excited?” There was an edge in her voice, one that told him that his face- expressions of shock, uncertainty, certainly no joy- was giving him away.

He couldn’t dodge the direct question, the look in her eye. She already knew the answer before she asked the question, and they both knew that this was his chance for redemption.

He didn’t take it.

A week later, the doctor confirmed the false positive. Aaron couldn’t have brought himself to be upset if he tried. 

The same afternoon, Beth packed up hers and Ella’s things, and they were gone.

He wanted to feel sad. He wanted to feel heartbroken. He wanted to punish himself, for knowing that he had missed out on the closest chance he had had to a real family in years. 

It was the reason you left; your sacrifice, the heartache you’d both been left with, everything you’d both gone through was deemed useless in the deciding moment. It was his one chance, and he hadn’t taken it.

He just felt numb.

“Aaron.” Your voice, pitched sharp, manages to pull him out of his trance. “Are you okay?”

He doesn’t know why you’re asking. He wants to know if you’re okay. He wants to apologize, to fall to his knees and hold onto you the way he should have two years ago.

“I’m fine.”

“So, Beth had a pregnancy scare,” you prompt. “And that’s why you broke up?”

He hesitates. “Yes.”

He hesitated too long. 

“Why?” You ask.

He knows that you’re only pushing it because you know him.

You know him better than anyone; you know that he doesn’t walk away from things that he wants, not when he has a choice.

And wasn’t that what he wanted? Didn’t he want Beth, more children, a family of his own?

“Don’t do this.” It’s a plea, and it goes unanswered.

“Why did you break up? Aaron… come on.” The desperation in your voice kisses his ears. It reminds him that you’ve been hurt at least as badly as he’s been. It tells him that you aren’t there as a concerned friend; you’re there as someone who deserves the answer to the question you asked. Someone who’s a part of the twisted equation, who fits into the formula of the last two years. Someone who’s been hurt by him, for him, only for him to throw that sacrifice away.

He replies by just saying your name, the name he’s spoken so many times. He’s said it before with love, playful annoyance and affection. After the breakup he said it less often, and it was often delivered with spite or tears of proportions that he didn’t know he would, or could, shed.

This time, when he says your name, he thinks he sounds… broken. His voice cracks, his face flushes, and he looks down at his feet. He’s still got his dress shoes on, and he counts the eyelets- 3, 4, 5 pairs of them, black laces looped neatly through- without saying another word.

Your name, as broken as it is between his lips, is an admission of guilt. It’s a confession, an entreaty for you to stop pushing, and it contains unspoken defeat.

“Aaron.” Your voice is firm when you repeat his name, and his eyes snap up from his shoes- 3, 4, 5, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5- to meet yours. “Don’t I deserve to know?”

You do. He knows you do. The ‘don’t I deserve?’ angle is never something you’ve used, and he knows this is a last ditch effort to get the truth out of him.

You do deserve to know.

How can he say it? How can he tell you the truth? How can he possibly look into your earnest eyes and pretend that he can defend himself and the decisions that he’s made?

He can tell you that more kids doesn’t make sense; he knows that, in a factual sense. He wasn’t around enough when Jack was little, is hardly better at being around now. The job is priority; he could get hurt or worse, and leave behind a widow with more mouths to feed than she can handle. He could become a twisted version of his father, pitting his children against each other. He’s too old to run around with toddlers for the next ten years.

He can tell you any number of things that make sense, but you won’t accept anything less than the truth. That, at least, is written plain as day on your face.

“She isn’t you.”

His words hit you like a bucket of ice water. They slap you so hard that you have half a mind to bring a hand up to your cheek and check for sore spots. “Aaron-”

“It’s true. I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear, but you wanted the truth and that’s it.” His breathing sounds more ragged now, like he’s fighting to stay collected. 

He doesn’t know what he was thinking, telling you. He isn’t trying to get you back. You made your choice, you walked away, and that’s that.

“Aaron. You want a family,” you remind him, your voice cracking. How can he not remember? How can he throw away the last two years, disregard your sacrifice like this?

Hadn’t that always been his dream? A positive pregnancy test with a woman who loved him? And yet, in the final hour, he’d walked away. He’d made a choice, one that he has to face now, with you.

“I know. God, I know, but it just… it couldn’t happen.”

“Because she’s not me? Are you serious?” Your voice is hardly above a whisper, fraught with disbelief and maybe a hint of fear at the potential weight of his answer, and you wish that Aaron were speaking even quieter when he responds. You wish you couldn’t hear him at all.

“Because there’s no family without you.”

The dry scoff that escapes you is answer enough, especially once it’s paired with your head dropping into your hands. “Then what the hell have we been doing?”

“I tried,” he defends. Desperation is poured into every syllable, filling in the spaces of the things he can’t say like resin on wood. “I gave it a chance, she was happy. But when I saw that test…”

Neither of you knows if he’s stopped to figure out what he should say, or if it’s because he can’t say it. He looks small, appears defenceless in a way that he never lets himself.

“I couldn’t do it,” he finishes. He spreads his hands out, a placating gesture. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want a family with her. When I saw that test, I was scared. Terrified. A baby is a commitment, and I don’t- I can’t- see myself making that commitment with anyone but you.”

“You know how I feel about kids.” For a moment his eyes flicker down, to where your phone sits on the bed, and you have half a mind to wonder if he’s going to bring Tristan into this.

Maybe he’s settled more into this conversation. Maybe he’s realized that he doesn’t have much to lose here. For whatever reason, his rebuttal to you, perched facing him on the opposite bed- worlds away, yet only mere feet- is more of a challenge than a question. “When did I ask you to have any?”

“What?” You tilt your head the slightest bit, stray hairs illuminated in the yellow-grey light, and he thinks his heart skips a beat when you blink.

“I didn’t ask you to have kids. I never asked for that.” He knows it for a fact; that simple thought has been his port at sea more than once, on the nights where he wondered exactly how things had gone so wrong.

You blink again. ‘I want us to get married, have as many kids as we can, I want all of that and I want it with you.’ Those were his words, spoken so passionately two years ago.

But there were other words, too, and they fly back into your mind like they’re trying to haunt you. Words that circle you, remind you that you were the reason he couldn’t have that life.

‘I’ve been thinking, and you’re more important to me than having more kids.’

‘Just say the word, and I’ll never bring it up again.’

‘I’m not going to sit here and tell you what I want, because I’m not forcing you into that. You don’t want it, fine. We don’t do it.’

You remember him confessing what he wanted, so earnest and unexpecting of you to go along with it.

Phrases swirl your head, sentences that haven't done so since the breakup.

Sentences that you hadn’t let yourself understand until now. 

‘I would be happier knowing that I’m in a relationship with someone who wants the same things I do. I want that with you, I want you to want it, but that isn’t happening.’

‘I want us to go back to normal. How we were.’

‘You’re all I need. I mean it.’

“You want a family. That’s what you want.” Your protest is weak, and you don’t know if it’s a protest for your self-protection or his feelings.

Maybe it’s both.

“You were my family. You and Jack. I was so happy with you.”

“Not as happy as you could have been,” you counter. Aaron visibly hesitates, a moment of back-and-forth sway before he crosses the room to sit next to you on the other bed.

“You…” the breath he takes is deep and rattling. “You made me happier than I could ask for.”

You move back and he does too, kicking off his shoes to mirror your crossed legs. The two of you sit and face each other. The headboard sets the scenery behind him, cheap hotel wall art behind you. When you take a breath, so does he.

“You walked away,” you remind him. It isn’t a show of blame; it’s a reminder, pure and simple, that he wasn’t happy with you. 

“No, I didn’t.” He reaches out, one of his hands trembling as it grasps yours. “I wouldn’t have.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Instead, he watches as his hand wraps around yours, squeezes it once.

He’s just about to let go when you squeeze back.

“You told me to go,” he whispers, staring down at those linked hands. If he looks you in the eye now, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. “It’s what you wanted.”

You laugh, and the sound is humourless and dry. “What I wanted? Aaron, you only stayed past that first day for me, to make me feel like I wasn’t ruining your life. I didn’t kick you out; I let you go.”

“I didn’t get a choice. I chose to stay, I chose you above a bigger family, and you didn’t let me,” Aaron says, and your hand tightens on his. “I tried, okay? I- I found Beth, we moved in together. For God’s- Ella called me ‘dad’. I did my best to have that life. I tried. It didn’t work.”

“I don’t know what you want,” you confess, and he hates himself a little more when he sees the heartbreak in your eyes. “I just want you to be happy. I thought I was giving you that.”

Aaron shifts himself, moves a little closer to you. He thinks he might be about to say the wrong thing, the thing that destroys whatever tentative relationship the two of you have built.

He doesn’t care.

This relationship, this dance of overdoing and understepping and caring too much without saying enough? He doesn’t want it.

He doesn’t care about throwing it away.

“Nothing,” he vows, extending one hand to raise your chin when you look down, “Nothing has ever made me as happy as you did. That’s all I wanted. You.”

You avert your gaze, and you feel your face grow warm. It’s been a long time since he looked at you like this, with all of the care and attention in the world somehow pouring from the gaze of warm hazel eyes locked on yours.

“What do you want me to say?” You ask after a stretch of silence. Not even the sound of breathing dares to disrupt the quiet; neither of you want to make the wrong move right now, not when you can see the crossroads ahead. 

“Whatever you want to say. Just not what you think I want to hear.” 

That’s what it’s come down to, at the root. Both of you lying, sneaking, saying and doing whatever you can to protect the other’s feelings and do what you think is best. He’s tired of it.

You did what you thought was the right thing, and let him go. He did what he thought was the right thing, and chased the life you made possible by leaving. But neither of you are happy, and he can admit that now.

“I still don’t want kids.”

“I’m still not asking you to have any.” He waits two beats, unsure if he can even bring himself to ask what he knows he has to.

“Does Jack count?” He’s breathless as he waits for the answer. You could have found freedom in the last two years, after several spent living a mother’s schedule. Maybe you don’t want a hand in any child’s life, and he won’t begrudge you that.

“He’s… no,” you say, and Aaron exhales in what might be relief. “But that doesn’t mean I want more. You want more.”

“I want you,” he corrects, the same way he did two years ago. Maybe this time you’ll listen, and accept his words for the truth that they are. “I had more. I didn’t want it, not without you.”

Your breathing, shallow and timid, hitches at his words. He notices the slip-up in a heartbeat, wants to trip over himself and correct it. Before he can, you say, “But the future-”

“The future,” he interrupts, clasping one of your hands in both of his, “My future, it only matters if it’s you.If you’re happy with Jack, I’m happy. You’re what I need. You’re all I need.”

“Aaron, please.” Your voice is small, and that’s when he realizes that he’s been trailblazing this conversation with hardly a thought about what you want. Maybe you’ve moved on, or fallen out of love.

He doesn’t think you have, though. Between your conversation at the wedding and the fact that you’re still here, both hands now holding onto his, wide eyes peering into his own, he thinks he’s made a safe bet.

“Please, what?” He murmurs. He can defer to you now, let you approach this at your pace. He’s said his piece.

It’s not until he sees your eyes squeeze shut that he remembers your concussion, and he’s sure that this conversation isn’t helping what must be a painful headache.

“I… it’s getting late. And I really should sleep. My head...” 

Every instinct in Aaron’s body is well-honed, trained to take opportunities that might pass him by otherwise. It’s what got him Haley, what got him into the BAU, and now it’s what might get you back.

Every instinct is screaming not to let you leave. 

“Do you want to talk more about this later?” He offers, his right hand releasing your left. The other two stay linked, his fingers brushing the cast, and you make no move to loosen them as you nod.

He waits. He isn’t sure what he’s waiting for, but he waits.

You close your eyes, already on the verge of rethinking before you speak. But you’ve got instincts, too, and they’re all telling you to stay in this room. Your future is in this room, and you aren’t about to close the door on that. Even if the conversation can wait, you know exactly how it will end.

It’s clear to you now that Aaron only left because he did the same thing you did, tried to protect your feelings. He never would have left if you hadn’t forced his hand and left first, and the thought of the time that you lost makes your chest seize unpleasantly.

It’s not too late to undo old mistakes, though.

“Can I sleep here? It’s not really safe, getting a taxi this late.”

Aaron lets go of your other hand first. “Of course, you can.” He’s half situated to go to sleep already, just has to take off his tie and loosen his shirt. He doesn’t get off the bed, and that’s why it surprises him when you lay down in the same bed, on your side.

“So you don’t have to share with Spencer when he gets here,” you explain through a yawn, and his heart hurts when he sees the way your nose crinkles. He’s missed it, missed you.

Sleep comes quickly, somehow. The exhaustion of the day, of the conversation, overtakes you both in what feels like mere moments.

-

When Aaron wakes up, it’s with his arms around you and his nose pressing into your neck. He holds on for a moment before he has to let go; you’ll have time later, and the team is waiting.

Getting out of bed, Aaron finds the other queen bed- Spencer’s- empty, untouched.

When the two of you arrive at the jet, late with your suitcase, he says, “I stayed with Morgan and Rossi. We thought you could use some privacy.”

You let go of Aaron’s hand to reach out and ruffle Spencer’s hair, ignoring the look he gives you when you mess up his curls. “Thanks, Spence.”

If the team is anything, it’s ‘respectful when the time calls for it’. No one says a word when you and Aaron sit next to each other. No one blinks when your hand slides home into his.

His fingers lace around yours. He squeezes once, and you squeeze back. As the jet takes off, soaring towards DC and your new future, you hold onto him. It’s going to be alright.

Once upon a time, they always said that you and Aaron were the lucky ones. Maybe they were right.

Tags: @crowfootwrites @abschaffer2 @jaspxr @angelfxllcm @spacecowboyhotch @ssamorganhotchner @sadgirlml @sunshinemunchkin @wheelsupkels @ashhotchner @laurensprentiss @hotchnerxo @strange-mischief @helmihotchner @dontcallmekittens @ssacharcoalgrey @allthefandomstogether @pandorasdreamings @hotched @scargarcia-magshotchner @multiverse-mxdness @nevillescomslut @queenofthepouges @ivanaplvc @itseightbeats @justreadingficsdontmindme @jareauswife @reidselle @rousethemouse @mojo366 @anlin2058 @realdirectionx @feedthemadness-sweetie

Series tags: @riot—ing, @jori21, @simpingfortoomanypeople, @mynotesapptbh

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Tell me what you thought/yell at me <3

[cavillsbitch]

May I please request Hotch x Fem!Reader where the reader has a secret talent for dancing and he walks in on her dancing seductively?

omg please i forgot about this request, but i have a cute idea soooo yesss here it is!! i listened to the song that i titled it after by Michael Bublé and Nelly Furtado as I wrote!! this is the song i envisioned reader dancing too as you will read. i’m sure there will be errors, this was a quick write and post. enjoy!!!

Quando, Quando, Quando

The morning sun was warming the air in the bedroom as you sorted through some now clean clothes from the laundry basket. You’d decided that since you’d been woken up by Aaron getting up to run, you’d make the most of the time you’d had so early.

This was the second night this week now that you’d shared a bed with Aaron, and things were still up in the air. You’d had a mutual understanding that this would be kept on the down low for the time being, but you weren’t quite sure what was going on in his head when it came to your relationship. Oddly, you’d been content just spending a few hours together, especially since much of that time when they two of you were awake was spent getting to know each-other much more intimately. That was enough for you, for the time being.

Luckily he’d had his go bag with him with a few extra pairs of clothing, including some he would wear to go for a run. He decided to leave around 5:30, and it was now almost 6. Clad in only Aaron’s Mary Baldwin t-shirt and a very skimpy pair of lacy panties, you decided to fold laundry until he came back. Putting on one of your favorite easy listening playlists, the sweet voice of Michael Bublé filled your room from your bluetooth speaker as you hummed along to the song, “Tell me, when will you be mine? Tell me quando, quando, quando…”

You’d always loved to dance, taking classes and lessons growing up, and you hadn’t danced anywhere besides weddings and bars since. However, you were one of the best dancers in your studio growing up, and every time you danced, you felt that nothing had changed. The salsa-style song made you involuntarily start swaying as you folded a few pairs of jeans.

Unfortunately for you, you hadn’t heard the front door of the apartment open and close as Aaron returned, probably because he was trying to be quiet in case you’d decided to go back to sleep. As he shrugged off his windbreaker, he heard the softness of music coming from your room, and furrowed his brow in curiosity as he quietly made his way toward it.

You’d began to give into the rhythm, especially since you (thought you) were alone dancing in your underwear. You hummed lightly as you swayed your hips very seductively in wide, slow motions. The song even repeated, and you let it go… you were definitely feeling yourself for a moment. You may as well enjoy it.

What you didn’t realize was that Aaron had made his way to your doorway, and was completely and totally mesmerized watching you dance. Not only were you very good, but he was a bit distracted by the fact that he could see glimpses of your almost-bare butt as you moved so sexily back and forth… and you were in his t-shirt.

After about a minute of watching, he decided to make himself known by clearing his throat. You’d gasped and dropped the shirt you were putting on a hanger onto the floor, jumping to face the door. Immediately upon facing Aaron and seeing the amused look on his face, your own face turned bright red, “Aaron! Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

He smiled, still leaning on your door frame, “Sorry, I felt a little bit guilty for how much I was enjoying what I was watching just now.”

You felt embarrassed, but also a little bit turned on thinking about Aaron watching you move like you just were. Moving toward him now and bracing your hands on his under armor shirt, you asked as the music still played, “Like what you see, Hotchner?”

You felt his cool hand come beneath the round of your ass as you leaned into him, “Probably a little too much, yeah. I had um… I had no idea you were so talented.”

You knew he was turned on by the husk in his tone, but also you knew he was being honest by the look in his eye. You truly were flattered, you hadn’t really let anyone know you loved to dance or that you even did it growing up. With his hand still on your bum, you began moving ever-so slightly to the music, “You know, I could teach you a thing or two if you’d like.”

He chucked and stood up from the door frame, letting his other hand fall to your waist as you moved, “Quando, quando, quando?”

[pepperchipper]

A song rec considering this seems to be in your taste of music for qcard: 'The Best is Yet to Come' either by Frank Sinatra or Michael Bublé. With lyrics such as '

You think you′ve seen the sun But you ain't seen it shine

Wait ′til our lips have met Wait 'til you see that sunshine day You ain′t seen nothing yet

The best is yet to come, and babe, won't it be fine? Best is yet to come Come the day you′re mine'

It could kind of give the vibes of a Q who is excited and anticipating what he thinks is the sure future of Picard one day being his and then he would be able to realy show Picard the universe and what existence has to offer.

AAA YES! I absolutely love this! And I love Frank Sinatra and Michael Bublé too. I think Q often imagines a possible future with Picard in this way. "You ain't seen nothing yet" 🥺

@ivaavna and I absolutely adore the romantic and sentimental trope for qcard. Q invites Picard on a romantic cruise to the most beautiful places in the galaxy and tells secrets. Perhaps Q would not tell the captain everything and instead set up challenges for the captain to find out and learn everything himself. In his unrivaled style.

@ivaavna introduces me to most of the songs, she is a super guru.There's another song we've been thinking about recently. Something Stupid - Nancy Sinatra & Frank Sinatra.

I know I stand in line, Until you think you have the time And if we go someplace to dance, I know that there's a chance You won't be leaving with me

And afterwards we drop into a quiet little place And have a drink or two And then I go and spoil it all, By saying something stupid like "I love you"

I practice every day to find Some clever lines to say To make the meaning come through, But then I think I'll wait Until the evening gets late And I'm alone with you

This song also fits in with their dynamic, maybe from earlier. Q knows about Jean-Luc's romantic interests with different women, but he doesn't give up on trying to get a chance for himself. A little problematic, a lot of romantic 😔

[starlitangels]

Songs and Ships!

I’ve been tagged by the lovely @floofdeloop for the songs and ships game, where we post songs that we associate with certain ships!

So, now the entire fandom gets to see how milquetoast my music taste is. Sorta. I just have very specific criteria for songs that I associate with characters and ships and a lot of songs I love don’t meet said criteria 

Enjoy! Also I don’t know how to use Spotify on my computer, just my phone, so we’re doing YouTube links instead so I don’t lose my mind

Avior/Starlight

Other Side - Anberlin this one doesn’t count because Erik dropped it in a stream. I just like it and kept it

Sky Full of Stars - Coldplay (does this one need an explanation? I don’t think it does)

Somewhere Only We Know - Keane (this one doesn’t count either. Floof put it on an Avior/Starlight playlist first)

Endless Night - The Lion King on Broadway (switch Father for Starlight and it works leave me alone)

Vincent/Lovely

Stand By You - Rachel Platten (they’ve been through so much)

Electric Love - BØRNS (cheesy, cliché, doesn’t count?)(gendered but Vibes™)

Chasin’ the Sun - The Wanted (it’s a bop and a lot of the lyrics vibe and also can’t beat the music video lol)

Elliott/Sunshine

Bring Me the Night - Sam Tsui and Kina Grannis (just listen to it and you’ll know exactly what I mean)

Happy as the Sun - Tyrone Wells (another one where you just have to trust me)

Gavin/Freelancer

Love Like This - Ben Rector (I’ve been too cowardly to send this one to @gingerbreadmonsters for months now but this song encompasses them perfectly and I take no criticism)

Extraordinary Magic - Ben Rector (just cute)

Glad You Came - The Wanted (i mean, tell me this isn’t early S1 of these two and you’ll be wrong, innuendo in the lyrics or not)

Asher/Babe

Babe - Styx (one of my favorite songs growing up, and I hc that Gabe was really into classic rock and passed it on to both Davey and Ash)

Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go - Wham! (idk why. just. energy)

Davey/Angel

Angel - Theory of a Deadman (I think one of the only obviously-gendered ones, sorry. The song slaps)

Gravity - Tyrone Wells (the one couplet about foundation cuts to the core of their relationship)

Everything - Michael Bublé (I just think it’s neat, and for some reason I imagine Davey looking a lot like my actual husband even though they’re nothing alike and this is kinda-not-really our song. We don’t have “a song,” we have a playlist)

Dark Side - Kelly Clarkson (from David’s POV)

I’m also semi-convinced that Angel teases David with every song with “Angel” in the title including “Angel with a Shotgun” - The Cab

Sam/Darlin’

As Long As You’re Mine - Wicked Soundtrack (don’t know why. it just is)

My Demons - Starset (Vibes™)

I Won’t Give Up - Jason Mraz (if you look me dead in the eye and say this isn’t them I will simply not believe you)

Stand By Me - Florence and the Machine (this version specifically because it wrenches my heartstrings)

Dark Side - Kelly Clarkson (Darlin’s POV)(yup this one gets put on twice)

Also “Never Die” - All Good Things is the Darlin’ beating the snot out of Quinn song and I take no criticism on this

I think this was supposed to be 5-10 songs for one ship but my brain doesn’t work like that. Have too many songs to listen to

Tagging @frenchiefitzhere and Ginger (if you haven’t already been tagged!), and @ryn-halo26 and @dollscircus

[saintmeghanmarkle]

How often are they truly alone? by u/Aware-Impression8527

How often are they truly alone? I am willing to be corrected but I was thinking about the press around their 'date nights' and how they are rarely alone, even on their anniversaries. By her own admission, Meghan cut their first dates short. At the time we thought it was 'to leave him wanting more' but maybe she just can't stand to be alone with him for more than an hour... On the rare occasion that both of them are at home, they have their staff around. I've got to think the only time they are truly alone is in the bedroom, but even then Diana is watching over them from the nightstand.The Katy Perry show -- Whitney Wolfe and Cameron DiazThe Beyoncé show -- Doria and Abigail SpencerThe Lakers game -- Archewell staffersVij's -- Michael Bublé and his wifeLucky's Steakhouse -- Katherine McPhee and David FosterUnnamed Santa Barbara restaurant -- Eugenie and Jack BrooksbankSydney tour as royals -- Jessica and Ben MulroneySushi Bar -- Gywneth et al.Habitat -- JLO and A-RodLucky's Steakhouse -- Brian and Tracey Robbins post link: https://ift.tt/xeI316O author: Aware-Impression8527 submitted: May 22, 2024 at 11:58AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

[bubblesbenson]

Again, can someone explain to me how Michael Bublé is “homophobic”???

All because of a song?????

@raven-eye-dreamer @luciaelena @impulse-cake

[fandominspiredplaylists]

Spy × Family: Twilight/Loid Forger Spotify

"All people have a side of themselves they can’t reveal to others." - Loid Forger

//tracklist// 1. Hayloft - Mother Mother // 2. Feeling Good - Michael Bublé // 3. R.I.P. 2 My Youth - The Neighbourhood // 4. House of Memories - Panic! At The Disco // 5. Dangerous (ft. Joywave) - Big Data // 6. Sing To Me - MISSIO // 7. The Show - Ganyos // 8. Dead Inside - Younger Hunger // 9. A Good Song Never Dies - Saint Motel // 10. Be My Queen - Seafret // 11. Morph - twenty øne piløts // 12. New Life, Who Dis? - Unlike Pluto // 13. Leave Me Alone - I DON'T KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME // 14. The Good, the Bad, and the Dirty - Panic! At The Disco // 15. Loaded Gun (ft. Tom Gefen) - Roby Fayer //

Cover Image

[charlotte--kensington]

Oh, look, a Christmas fic in January... Let's act like I was punctual for once in my life.

For four years now Arthur has fallen victim to the recurring trend of his neighbour's overzealous decorating. Year after year the amount of lights and decorations grows, and year after year Arthur cannot help but compete.

This is the story of the year they went overboard.

---

This fic is NSFW near the end, but mostly fluff and humour. You'll see.

---

Snow fell silently onto the roofs of the duplexes that seamed Holyoake Road.

Within a matter of hours the city of Oxford had turned from a sombre, rainy town in Britain into a winter wonderland. Each and every surface was coated in a thick blanket of snow, and though whatever had been on the streets had already begun to turn into nothing but brown sludge, anything out of reach of kids or cars had remained a pristine blanket of fluffy white.

It almost felt like the snow alone had made the world slow down and become calmer, not just because people drove more carefully. Given that they were already past the first advent, it did not surprise Arthur, yet he enjoyed the soft atmosphere of it all.

Almost all of Oxford had become quiet like this. Most students had returned home for the holidays, some earlier, some later. The few that had remained spent their time either holed up in their dorms or apartments with blankets and warm thoughts, or in the campus library as they prepared for their last exams of the year.

Personally, Arthur was part of neither group. He didn't have the option of going home, at least he didn't unless he planned on wasting the train fare and spending his Christmas all alone in his family home. With all four sons spread out across the UK, Mr and Mrs Kirkland had taken the chance to spend December on their first couple's vacation in 30 years - the first time since Arthur's oldest brother, Alistor, had been born.

As for exams, Arthur, being done with his degree by several years, didn't have to worry about that. Not even work required any special effort of him these days. There wasn't much of anything left for him to do, leaving him not only calm for the holidays, but also bored out of his mind.

The presents for his family were currently distributed between Amazon fulfilment centres all over the country, just waiting to be delivered to him only to then be sent away once more. He'd made Christmas cookies, prepared whatever ingredients he already knew he'd need for his Christmas dinner, he'd even gone as far as to develop his annual hatred for Michael Bublé and Mariah Carey a week early. And thus all that was truly left for him to do in preparation for Christmas was the one holiday activity he loathed with all his heart.

Decorating.

Now, no matter how his hatred for certain annually returning artists and all things decorating might make it seem, Arthur did by no means dislike the holidays themselves. Fine, he was the proud owner of a Grinch pullover and he had been compared to the character on numerous occasions, but at the end of the day he loved it as much as anyone. No, it was just the decorating that he despised.

He hated hanging up the lights out in the cold, fiddling with knotted cables as his fingers slowly but surely turned into popsicles. Hated poking himself on holly leaves and other needlessly prickly evergreens in the process of making a wreath for his front door, all because the ones at the store were either too expensive or too flashy for his taste.

The thing Arthur Kirkland hated most of all about decorating, however, was not his electricity bill, the flashiness of it all or even the various cuts all over his hands in the aftermath. No, it was a man - Alfred F. Jones.

Jones inhabited the other half of the duplex Arthur lived in. It should have been simple, a good neighbour relationship, some small-talk across the stupid little fence between their halves of the tiny spot of grass that had been advertised as a garden, and perhaps even sharing recipes for Christmas cookies.

It wasn't simple, though.

Jones, who'd moved to England for reasons unbeknownst to his neighbour, was not only the personification of the stereotypical loudmouthed American, he also loved Christmas decorations with all his heart. And so, the exact same way it had been for the four years they'd spent living in this arrangement, on the first of December he'd pulled out box upon box of lights, inflatables, garlands, wreaths, anything and everything that was even vaguely related to Christmas.

And just like every year since Jones had first moved here four years ago, Arthur had put his hatred for all things tacky and decoration-y aside and decided that, no matter the popsicle fingers and bandaid usage, he couldn't let Jones succeed in making Arthur's half of the duplex seem unfestive, not to mention making the rest of the street think neither of them had class in decorating.

☆ • ☆ • ☆

December 4 - Second Advent

They were only four days into December and Jones was already in full Christmas mode. It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas was blasting from speakers that Arthur would have paid millions to locate, just so he could throw them out of the nearest window. Three more weeks until Christmas, and already Arthur's chronic hate for the voice of a certain Canadian four-time Grammy-winner had resurfaced.

Cheerful, off-key whistling sounded from outside, no matter the fact it was 7 am on a Sunday. Through bleary eyes and half-closed curtains Arthur looked outside, only to find Jones busily hanging all sorts of rainbow lights of the poor shrubbery on his half of the garden. Tiredness be damned, it took Arthur all of four minutes to get dressed and grab his own crate of holiday lights.

Outside he was awaited by frosty air, a grey sky and a neighbour that might as well have been a paid actor to advertise for some string-light company. Arthur had misjudged the amount of work Jones had already done: not only his shrubs but also the wall of his half of the house as well as the fence were decorated with all sorts of lights; a net across the wall, a garland at the edge of the small awning over the door, small light-arches all along the edge of his garden.

"Mornin', Kirkland!" he called. "Finally made it out to decorate? I gotta say, your half's gonna look like the home of the Grinch if you don't do something!"

Arthur didn't reply, simply returned a muttered, "Morning," as he pulled on the end of the first string of lights he could reach. Curse Jones and his stupid, over the top decorations, his loudness, his music, his everything. With furrowed brows and both hands in a huge, tangled ball of cables and lights he glanced out from beneath his messy bangs.

His neighbour was currently bent over some small reindeer figurine, fiddling with cables and antlers and whatever else got in his way. It was almost involuntarily that Arthur let his gaze wander across the other's body - entirely Jones' fault too, how dare he bend over and stick his ass out in Arthur's direction. Clad in only one of what had been proven to be a full collection of ugly Christmas sweaters (this one saying "It's the most wonderful time for a beer") Jones looked like the perfect fusion of a holiday card and a frat boy.

"Need some help back there, Arthur?" he asked at that moment. "I know getting festive is hard for you, considering how much of a Scrooge you are!"

Arthur grit his teeth and tried to keep from replying. If he just ignored Jones and concentrated on his decorations instead, the other might stop bothering him. If he was Scrooge, Jones must have been the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, for he was clearly showing Arthur how he'd suffer for the next 3 weeks.

"Lest you forget, Ebenezer Scrooge is just as festive as anybody else after the arrival of the three ghosts," Arthur retorted. "Then again, Americans aren't exactly known for their literacy, are they?"

The words passed his lips before he could stop himself, and with a small curse Arthur tugged on what had to be the end of a third string of lights, given how he was already holding the ends of two different ones. He knew it was stupid to get into this with Jones, simply because the other was as stubborn as he was prideful as he was loud.

"Pff, so you're telling me all I have to do to get you to be likeable is keep you up all night?" Jones gave him a bright grin and wiggling eyebrows, and as though his violation of Dickens' novel had not been bad enough, the fact that he had somehow managed to turn it into an atrocious pick-up line was somehow far worse.

"I- Uh! I'm gay!" Arthur blurted out, and even Bublé shut up. Mostly because the song was over, but probably also because of how sudden a confession that had been.

Arthur's cheeks were about as red as the stripes on a candy cane, and as George Michael took up the place that had opened up in the absence of Michael Bublé, Arthur decided he'd have to become a hermit somewhere in Antarctica.

Not only could his words not have been any further from the matter at hand - how his sexuality related to Dickens, he'd never know - but also he had just proclaimed his gayness to Alfred Jones of all people.

Jones burst into bright, bell-like laughter, but perhaps that was just the Christmas mood speaking from Arthur's brain.

With a frown Arthur returned his attention to the bundle of cables and small lightbulbs before him, somehow producing yet another end, but still not one string of detangled fairy lights. Had he packed those damn things by cutting them up?

Alfred turned around to face Arthur - a pity, really, his ass had been a welcome view considering how annoying that mouth of his was - and looked at him with a raised brow. "Trust me dude, I know. You're wearing skinny jeans, eyeliner and black nail polish. I know."

"You're confusing punk and gay, Jones," he commented wryly, before focusing on the stupid lights once more. Finally, he produced the end of the first string. With a steady hand and attention to detail, Arthur began wrapping the string all around the two pillars seaming his entryway, making sure the lights were both evenly spaced and well-fixed to the columns.

After about fifteen more minutes of various Christmas songs and even more sleigh bells, Arthur's entryway had begun looking at least partially festive. The only thing missing was the evergreen garland to go around the top and hide any cable mess he might have left behind. He glanced over at the neighbouring garden, coming to find Alfred had placed not one or two, but eleven more reindeer next to and behind the first one.

Of course. In true Jones fashion he wasn't just putting up a single one, but a whole sleigh setup.

"What, jealous of my reindeer, Kirkland?" Alfred asked with a grin, as he connected the individual figures with smaller cables. "I can give you a carrot, too."

"I'm not jealous of anything," Arthur retorted, not even addressing the "joke". Great. All of twenty minutes had passed, and already Jones was belittling him for his sexuality. "And even if I was, it sure as hell wouldn't be some tacky reindeer decorations."

"Oh, you're totally jealous."

Arthur let out a small huff and turned back to his garland, pulling out a small roll of twine. With the plastic greenery looped over his shoulder and the twine in his right hand, he began cutting off small pieces of string, careful to leave them long enough to fix the stupid garland. This would have been easier with a helping hand or two, but not only did Arthur live alone, he'd also rather fall off the chair he was standing on than ask Jones for help.

With the power of spite and a general disdain towards appearing weak, especially in front of Jones, Arthur made it eventually. The garland hung from perfectly spaced hooks in small arcs, little lamps glowing amongst its faux foliage. As it was, only the entrance to his half of the duplex was decorated, not the entirety of the garden and house.

Arthur would yet have to prepare the wreath for his front door, not to mention the various decorations for his windows and front lawn, but at least he'd gotten part of the work done, without injury no less. On the other half of the property, however, it appeared as though Santa Claus himself had thrown up all over the garden.

A small sleigh complete with twelve reindeer and a Santa sat diagonally across the lawn, multicoloured fairy lights wrapped all around shrubs and trees and whatever else Jones had been able to reach. A net of lights hung all along his wall, each and every square inch of surface was adorned with lights and glitter.

"Amazing, isn't it?" His neighbour asked at that moment. "I just can't wait for the other stuff to arrive, this is going to be so cool!"

"The... The other stuff?"

Jones turned to face him, gleaming just as much as his garden. It looked as though he had tried to put up landing lights for Santa - too bad the old man's parking spot was already occupied by the glowing sleigh. At this rate he'd only need to elongate his driveway a little more and he could put Heathrow Airport out of business.

"Of course! Did you seriously think I was done?"

Did Arthur think that? No. Had he hoped? Yes.

Jones began counting on his fingers as he listed off what was apparently missing, as Arthur struggled to imagine even one of the decorations finding a free spot on the lawn. "I'm still waiting for the inflatable Santa, the Santa for the window, the glowing ladder, the third Santa, the 6-foot candy canes, and about 100 more feet of lights! Oh, wait, I forgot about the-"

Arthur slowly tuned out as his mind was instead occupied by the entirely horrific picture of what the house would look like once Jones was done decorating his half. And as Bing Crosby sang about a white Christmas, he began silently making a list of what he'd have to buy by next weekend.

☆ • ☆ • ☆

December 11 - Third Advent

The packages had arrived on time, in both halves of Holyoake Road number 32. The morning of the third out of four advent Sundays began the same way the last had: a Christmas playlist in 32B, a cheerful neighbour, and Arthur almost falling out of his bed to the blared tunes of Bruce Springsteen's Santa Claus Is Coming To Town.

With a rather un-Christmas-like wish to commit homicide, Arthur crawled out of bed and, after a quick wash, began gathering what decorations had amassed over the past week. A whole Saturday's worth of work still sat on his kitchen table - a wreath of holly and noble fir, yet another amazingly prickly evergreen, as Arthur had come to discover.

Hands still covered in bandaids (at least he wouldn't need gloves this week), he tore his coat off the hook on the door and exchanged loafers for some worn out winter boots that had seen better days. Twelve packages and another wave of curses later, Arthur was outside in the biting cold, already regretting his decision of not putting on gloves.

"Hey neighbour! Finally dropped out of bed?"

Jones was already at work, not that Arthur hadn't known that before. The sleigh and reindeer had been joined by a snowman at the centre of what little lawn the suburban home offered. Against what Alfred had previously promised, the snowman was not a product of plastic and air pump, but rather real snow, as attested by the thick covering of white powder snow sticking to Jones' gloves.

"Ain't little Frosty over here amazing? He's almost as cold and grumpy as you!" Jones exclaimed with another wave of bright laughter, only countered with an eye roll from Arthur.

"Little Frosty" was only about fifteen centimetres shorter than Arthur, which was to say he was just under 160 cm tall. The snowman was huge, and the thought of how long it must have taken and, by extension, how early Jones must have gotten up to make it, was horrifying.

"At least he's silent," Arthur retorted as he hung the greenery-turned-murder-instrument from his door. "Can't say that about you."

"Well, he's also not as much of a party-pooper as you, so that's a plus! And he can glow!"

"I... What?"

There was some rummaging and the sound of what had to be Jones digging through some snow, then the other man produced a small remote with a cheerful, “A-Ha!” and yet another one of those one thousand megawatt smiles. With furrowed brows Arthur watched on as Jones pressed a button on the remote and the snowman came to life.

Well, not literally, but all of a sudden the body of the snow-giant began glowing in bright red and green, pulsing to the rhythm of the current song - Jingle Bell Rock. He didn't know whether to be impressed or horrified that Jones had taken such amounts of effort onto himself, all for a craft that would quite literally melt away. In the end Arthur decided on a mix of the two.

"Isn't he cool?" Jones beamed.

Arthur stifled a groan before replying, "That's the way snow is, Alfred. He's cool by definition."

Jones didn't reply and instead picked up what Arthur recognised as a super-sized candy cane only far too late. He hadn't been joking the week before, the damn thing truly was six feet tall. The fact alone that half of his neighbour's decorations were either as tall or taller than him horrified Arthur more than he'd like to admit. Was this how all Americans behaved?

As Arthur busied himself with the strings of lights for the conifer on his front lawn, carefully wrapping the thin cables all around the tree, he watched on from the corner of his eye how Jones put up cane after cane. The sound of his rubber mallet echoed through the street, and Arthur was somewhat impressed that he actually stuck to the beat of the song as he hammered each cane down into the thick blanket of snow.

"Dude, you totally missed a spot!"

The call came from much closer than he'd have liked, and when Arthur turned to see what Jones was talking about now, he found his neighbour leaning on the low fence separating their gardens.

"Are you going to explain where, or is that about as helpful as you're going to be?" Arthur asked, caught by surprise when Jones simply leapt across the fence and came to stand beside him at the bottom of the tree.

He pointed at some area vaguely to Arthur's right. "Over here, look! There's no lights there at all!"

Arthur leant over slightly on his step stool, stretching to reach the area Jones was pointing at. He saw it now, too, but somehow he couldn't quite reach it. With renewed effort he stretched some more as he tried to get the string of lights around one of the empty branches, but he was always a couple of inches short.

That was the moment it went south. Jones reached for the cable that Arthur was still holding on to and simply pulled it over some more. He did get the job done and got lights onto the barren part of the tree, but he also succeeded in making Arthur lose his balance.

With a small yelp Arthur slipped off the edge of his stool, and with his hands still clenched around the fairy lights, he tumbled onto the ground. Or well, he would have, if not for something warm, squishy, and groaning beneath him.

He'd landed right on top of Jones. Lord have mercy.

Arthur struggled to push himself up, however, both because of the arm that had been slung protectively around his waist and because of the way the lights had managed to wrap around them. He'd always thought that was just a trope in Hallmark Christmas movies, but apparently Arthur was just as able as the busy businesswoman coming home to her small town for the holidays. Lucky him.

"Damn, are you ok?" Alfred groaned from somewhere far too close to him. When Arthur finally opened his eyes, which he didn't know he'd clenched shut in the first place, he came to discover just how close they were.

He could have counted Jones' eyelashes, if he felt like it, and even without doing that Arthur was close enough to smell the soft scent of chocolate, peppermint and coffee that surrounded him. As if he hadn't been able to be any more clichéd.

Arthur was probably bright red, but between the cables and Alfred's arm there was little to no room for him to escape. "I, uh... Yes. Are you alright?"

"With you in my arms? Always."

Jones gave him a saucy wink, and though Arthur had to admit he was actually surprisingly comfortable like this (with the thick jacket to cushion him even his neighbour could make for a nice pillow), that single comment was enough to make him renew his efforts to escape their entanglement.

"Stop it," he complained, one arm twisted behind himself in an attempt to undo whatever knot they'd managed to get into the string of lights upon falling. Just like Jones' discovery of the remote before, his success was accompanied by a small, “A-Ha!”

Arthur was quick to jump off of Jones after that, eager to escape his hold. At least the cold gave him plausible deniability as for the bright red flush of his cheeks. "Thank you," he muttered, then he returned his attention to the string of lights, newly tangled and most definitely plotting to make his life worse.

With a chuckle Jones swung a leg back over the fence and returned to his half of the property and the half-erected candy canes. "Well, happy to help! Can't have your tree looking as one-sided as British cuisine, can I?"

"Pretty sure an American shouldn't comment about cuisine, considering you don't have any of your own," Arthur commented wryly. Right back to the usual business, good. Just don’t address what happened just now... "Unless diabetes counts as cuisine now?"

Alfred laughed, but didn't reply.

Arthur was still wrapping the cables-turned-matchmaker/murder-weapon around the rows of branches, careful to weave them so they'd withstand the wind, when Jones pulled out what had to be the twentieth string of fairy lights in his garden alone. In his mind Arthur thanked the Lord that this wasn't his electricity bill to pay.

A new box, a new string of lights, a new decoration, a new power strip.

"Do you just live like the Amish all year so you can afford your electricity bill in December, Jones?" he asked as he hung the first of all too many light brown baubles onto the tree. "Or is there government funding from the American embassy specifically for shenanigans like this?"

He glanced over to the other half of the property, absentmindedly noticing how ten human-sized candy canes now seamed the small path leading up to Jones' porch and front door. Two of the striped pillars were already wrapped in lights, the rest of the string still in his neighbour's hands.

"Man, I wish!" he laughed. "But don't worry, just living as old-timey as you is enough to keep my bills low."

Arthur's expression darkened, but he kept silent as he went on hanging ornaments on the branches of his tree. He remained that way, minding his business in an attempt at ignoring the Christmas faire that was his neighbour's lawn and house, but when Jones opened the last of the packages on his porch - most definitely large enough to fit Arthur - any attempts at goodwill ended.

"You cannot seriously plan to put that up," he said.

"Of course I can, dummy! Why else would I buy it?"

Alfred was as cheerful and innocent as he was grating Arthur's nerves, and for a second the Brit found himself contemplating whether he should just throw down his baubles and pick up snowballs instead. Perhaps some snow to the face would wake Jones up to how obnoxiously flashy and tasteless his half of the duplex looked.

In the end he didn't, but instead watched on in a state of powerlessness as Alfred Jones, menace to polite society and American extraordinaire, pulled a life-sized Santa, complete with a string-ladder and a huge sack of gifts, out of the package.

"You cannot be serious," he repeated, but Jones had already set up a ladder at the edge of his roof.

Three years of this, and each year he was horrified anew by the sheer amount of time and money Alfred was willing to spend on his Christmas decoration. Less than ten percent of the year, and yet he did enough to compete in some entirely unnecessary and likely American-dominated championship over the worst, most over-the-top decorations.

Arthur did not stick around to wait until he had fixed Santa, including his rope ladder, to his roof. Jesus had been crucified just before Easter, he did not need to watch Santa being hanged on Christmas.

☆ • ☆ • ☆

December 18 - Fourth Advent

The fourth advent had proven to be a deviation from the norm Alfred Frighteningly-Festive Jones had established over the past two weeks. Unlike the weekends before, he had not started his routine of decoration, Christmas playlist and bafflingly cheery attitude until late in the afternoon.

Arthur knew the reason for that too - considering how loud his neighbour's Christmas party the night before had been, it wouldn't surprise him if Jones had spent his morning and noon both cleaning and dealing with a splitting headache. He might have felt pity, had his head not also been screaming at him - going by the half empty bottle of scotch on his dining room table Arthur had made an attempt at helping himself fall asleep.

As it was, Bing Crosby only began singing at half past 5, in the light of Christmas decorations as the sun had already gone down - how Arthur hated winter. Headache be damned, he was not ready to give in to the fact he'd had to accustom to every year before this - that Jones had decorated his house more and that, no matter Arthur's classier decorations, the duplex still looked like a mess because of that fact.

Regardless, Arthur still gathered the last of his own decorations. Whether it truly made sense to put up decorations one week before Christmas, well, perhaps not, but he'd be damned if Jones outdid him. He might have done so already, but nonetheless Arthur was more than reluctant to give up. And so he left his part of the house once more, armed with gloves, the last 30 feet of fairy lights, and some small glowing arches to seam his own pathway.

Outside he was welcomed the same way as each of the past weeks. "Hey Arthur, welcome to the land of the living! And here I thought you'd slept in last week, damn!"

He didn't reply and instead crouched down right by his front door, getting out the first of the arches. They were small, and even now Arthur could envision himself kneeling here some time past nine, still hammering in the decorations. The influence Jones had over his actions was equally scary and annoying to Arthur.

Nonetheless he went to work, switching back and forth between red and green arches to place them in an alternating pattern. Whether that was just his own view of things or not, to Arthur it still looked more discreet and tasteful than the rainbow madness that was going on in 32B.

"So, tell me, Jones," he began eventually, figuring that after all the comments his neighbour had made about him in the past weeks, he owed Arthur one. "When are you going to put up the flashing lights warnings? At this point I wouldn't be surprised if your house gave somebody a seizure."

"Depends!" the chipper reply sounded from beyond the fence, where Jones was currently setting up a pile of glowing gifts next to the sleigh from two weeks before. "When are you going to set up the "No fun allowed" sign in front of your house? Wouldn't want your Grinch-complex to ruin too many people's moods, right?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and proceeded to add arch after arch to the melody of Little Saint Nick. Whoever had decided that the Beach Boys of all people should make a Christmas song had not only held too much power, but had also been wrong.

After the lights disaster from the week before, things went surprisingly smoothly this time around. Arthur was reluctant to admit that he still felt the weight of Alfred's arm wrapped around him, if he thought about that moment, but other than that it was almost as if he'd never fallen off that damn stool. A small jab here, a witty remark there, all was back to normal. All was good.

Until Alfred pulled it out.

"It" was a large package, as had been every other thing Jones had pulled out into his garden on the past Sundays. Arthur tried acting as though he was focussing on his own decorations, as he instead watched on in something akin to fear what Jones had ordered this time.

He saw red. Something large and red slowly but surely surfaced from amidst packing peanuts and cardboard, here a bit of white and there a bit of black. Arthur stared from behind the fence, not that Jones would have been able to tell, considering the amount of plastic he was holding.

There was some rummaging, the sound of what had to be the ninetieth plug Alfred had pushed into one or the other socket this month. Once more Arthur wondered just how high his neighbour's electric bill had to be. The sound of a switch, then the roar of a pump.

Oh Lord. Of course. Inflatables.

Thinking nothing more of it, Arthur went back to work by the shine of both of their decorations. One thing he had to admit, Alfred's half of the premise was brighter. Then again, unlike Arthur's side it flickered the entire time as each and every part of the garden flashed or changed colours, one bright, bothersome sludge of rainbow colours.

It was completely dark by the time Arthur had set up the last of his arches. With a small sense of pride he watched the decorations flicker to life upon plugging them in. By now Arthur was shivering. The winter cold had slowly seeped into him from the bottom up, starting at his feet and crawling up until he felt like a living popsicle. And he would have called it a night, he really would.

Had it not been for a certain something to his right, namely a more than life-sized Santa-inflatable. Arthur froze, not because of the cold, but simply because there was no way. He couldn't be serious. No. This was it.

Arthur had endured the sleigh, the candy canes, the window decorations, the miles upon miles of fairy lights, the Santa on the roof, hell, he'd endured Frosty, but this... This was too much.

"You can't... You can't seriously mean to put that up." He struggled finding the words as he stared up, emphasis on up, at the inflatable Father Christmas.

"Of course I can! Why else would I have bought it? It can even play Christmas songs, wait, I'll plug it in-"

"Don't. You. Dare."

Just three words, and yet Arthur swore he caught a challenging glint in Alfred's eyes from across the fence. He stepped a little closer, arms folded across his chest.

"What are you gonna do about it, Mr. Scrooge?" Alfred asked with a grin, plug already in hand. "All it takes is one little push and it'll be done!"

Arthur didn't even think, he simply leapt over the low fence between their gardens. Before he knew what he was doing, he was next to Jones, one hand reaching for the cable of that stupid monument to American hyperbole and hubris, the other clenched into a fist. He darted forward in an attempt to get a hold of the cord. "I swear to God, Jones, I'll-"

Before Arthur could finish that sentence or reach the cable, Alfred dodged to the side. While Arthur stumbled and fell into a pile of snow, he spun around with a smirk. "Well? What're you gonna do, Kirkland?"

Arthur growled, bare hands digging into snow as he pushed himself off the ground to lunge at Jones once more with a hoarse yell. They both fell, limbs tangled as they rolled across frozen ground in the battle for the cable. Arthur found himself clawing at whatever he could reach, clothes, hair, anything, hoping he'd somehow get a hold of the cord.

He was doing his best to pin Jones down, but even with all of Arthur's weight on top of him, Alfred began moving once more, dragging himself towards the closest power strip. With a stifled yell Arthur tried once more, finally catching Jones' leg and yanking him back with a harsh pull.

Alfred fell into the snow face first, sputtering and spitting out snow when he resurfaced at last. He was covered in snow from head to toe in much the same way Arthur was.

"It's over, Kirkland!" he exclaimed, and only then did Arthur recognise the power strip in his hand. With a triumphant grin Jones presented the multi socket. "I won!" Alfred yelled with an almost maniacal grin when pushed in the plug, laughing to himself as hundreds of lights flickered to life all at once.

Arthur could only watch on powerlessly as the inflatable came to life, a single glowing spot at the centre of a small front yard in Oxford.

Between the music, the air pump and Jones' laughter, he almost missed it. A brief burst of sorts, a single sound and all of a sudden everything was gone.

Nat King Cole fell mute, the candy canes lost their lustre. The noise from the air pump was gone, the sleigh on the lawn was dark once more. The music, the light, the noise, all was gone. All of a sudden, there was nothing but the dark, quiet cold of winter.

"What... What just happened..?"

Deep down, Arthur wanted to scream. Of course, of course Jones' festive frenzy had resulted in nothing but trouble. In the absence of motion he could feel the cold seep into his skin and bones, burrowing deeper and deeper in his body until he felt like he was about to freeze to death. He was wet and covered in snow all over.

"What do you think just happened?" Arthur snapped, struggling to contain the urge to yell at Jones. "You blew a fuse. We don't have power."

After a brief moment of silence Jones seemed to realise their position. He slowly crawled off of Arthur and got up, dusting himself off. "But we can just put it back in, right?" he asked, almost meekly. Arthur couldn't see his expression, even with the faint glow of the street lights on the other side of the road.

With a groan Arthur rose back to his feet. He could feel the dull ache of the oncoming bruises around his shoulders and hips where he'd hit the ground. And still he was pained more by Jones' sheer endless well of naiveté. Had he not known better, he would have sworn his neighbour was a child.

"We can't," he grit out. Arthur's teeth were chattering. "The fuse box is in the basement, so unless Mrs Smith gave you the key, we can't reach it."

Jones shook his head. Phenomenal.

Somewhere next to him Jones fidgeted. "W-Wait, so we don't have electricity? Like, at all?" Arthur didn't know whether it was just the cold or whether his mind was playing tricks on him, but it seemed like Jones was shaking.

"No," Arthur said curtly. "Now if you'll excuse me, unless you want to spend Christmas this way, I have a phone call to make."

With stiff limbs and numb fingers Arthur returned to the fence, past the torn remnants of a string-light and trampled snow. Now that the adrenaline from before had ebbed off, each and every movement Arthur made felt heavy and sluggish, but perhaps that was just the cold. He struggled getting back across the fence this time.

It was only when Arthur was fiddling with his keys, struggling to find the lock with only the light of his phone flashlight to guide him, that he felt the burn of Jones' stare on the back of his neck.

"What?" The word came out harsher than he'd meant it to, and Arthur could have sworn he caught the other flinching.

"I... Um..." Jones seemed lost, almost intimidated when he replied. He stood in silence, alone in the dark and cold of the last Sunday before Christmas. "Do you have a candle?"

Arthur turned back towards the fence, key stuck in the lock, unturned. "I'm sorry?"

"Do you maybe have a candle I could borrow?" The question felt almost too polite after their struggle in the snow, too silent to fit Jones. "I... Well, I don't have any, and I just really don't like the dark and my phone's almost out of power but I can't go to bed because it's only seven and you know, just..." He trailed off.

Arthur remained quiet for a moment. He already regretted what he was about to say, and yet he couldn't stop himself. "Just... Just come in, Alfred." At last he turned the key, and with a small creak his front door swung open. It took another moment or so, then Alfred began moving again, hurrying over onto Arthur's side and to where he stood.

"Leave your boots by the door," Arthur said. "I don't want melted snow all over my floors."

Guided only by what little light their phones provided, Arthur led Alfred inside. Even after shedding the snow-covered jackets and boots, he felt nothing but cold and wet. Apparently the "100% waterproof" jacket was about as water-resistant as tissue paper. A cold shiver ran down his back, and for a moment Arthur played with the thought of just taking a hot bath - until he remembered Alfred, at least.

He might as well have been glued to Arthur's heels, judging by the way he never left more than four feet between them. Without the thick winter jacket and his boisterous behaviour, he seemed only half as big and imposing as usual. The only thing that didn't fit that image was tonight's ugly Christmas sweater, decorated with the words "Jingle my bells."

For that crime against his eyes alone Arthur should have left him outside.

Nonetheless he guided Alfred into the living room. Arthur quickly began rummaging through one of his cabinets. With his phone in one hand and only one free to actually work through the contents of his drawer, it took Arthur quite a while to find at least one candle. He'd just discovered a second one when Jones bumped into him. With a small sound of surprise from Alfred and a curse from Arthur the candle dropped to the ground.

"Oh shi- I'm sorry Arthur, wait, I'll-"

He crouched down to get the candle, only to hit his head on the drawer on the way back up. With a hand pressed to the back of his head he stood, handing Arthur the candle.

"Are you ok?" Arthur asked, but Alfred only nodded. Well, he moved his head at least, Arthur couldn't see much more. Unless he pointed the flashlight right at him, that vague movement was all he got for a reply.

At last Arthur found a lighter amongst the clutter of his drawer. When the first wick finally caught fire, Alfred relaxed visibly next to him. He handed the other the first candle, already working on lighting a second one for himself.

"Thank you, Arthur," Alfred muttered, his hands clenched tightly around the small jar.

"You're welcome." Another flicker of his lighter, another small flame as Arthur lit the second candle. With another glance at the old, already half-burnt candle in his hand he set some extras out on the side.

He turned Alfred around by his shoulder, carefully directing him in the direction of his living room. Arthur made a point to ignore the way he flinched. This was awkward enough as it was.

"I'll call Mrs Smith, just wait here," he said eventually.

Without another glance Arthur retreated to the kitchen, already dialing his landlady's number.

☆ • ☆ • ☆

"She's in London."

Alfred tore his eyes away from the little flame dancing in the glass. "What was that?" he asked after a moment. "I'm so-sorry, I didn't notice you coming back in."

Arthur let out a small sigh, taking a seat opposite to Alfred at the dining room table. He carefully set down the candle he'd been holding.

"She's in London, visiting her family. With the snow and the traffic jam on the M25 it'll take her a good three hours, at the very least..."

"There's a traff-"

"There's always a traffic jam on the M25."

Even with nothing but the flickering candle flame to illuminate him, Arthur could see the way Alfred's expression fell. The faint light had helped him ease up somewhat, but he was still shivering. He'd wrapped his arms tightly around himself, fingers trembling ever so slightly.

Arthur rose from his seat once more. Even now, back in the comfort of his own home, he was freezing. Arthur was cold enough to freeze to his chair. "Do you want me to light another candle?" he asked gently, hoping to coax some sort of reaction out of the other.

Annoying as he might've been, at that moment Alfred looked like a picture of misery. For a second he felt sorry for yelling at him earlier, but then the second passed and Arthur remembered that they wouldn't be in this situation without Alfred.

As though he'd read his mind Alfred spoke up. "I'm s-sorry, Arthur..." he muttered. "I really fucked up this t-time, huh?" He gave him a weak smile, but somehow that only made him look more pitiful. Somehow Arthur did feel sorry this time.

"You did," he replied eventually, earning him a startled glance from Alfred. "But you didn't mean to, right? I know that d-doesn't change the outcome, but..." He trailed off. But what?

Without the music or the sounds of Alfred working outside like on each of the past Sundays, the wordless silence between them became uncomfortably loud. Without the trouble of climbing ladders and falling off them, without the work of hammering in individual arches and decorating whatever else he could reach, the duplex half that had felt so cosy each of the past days suddenly felt ice cold. There was nothing. Nothing beyond that small island of light surrounding the two candles, just Alfred and him.

"I'll... Go get you something f-fresh to wear," he said eventually. "You're p-probably wet all over, too, right? I'll see whether I can-"

A hand closed around his wrist, gentle but cold. "Plea… Please don't leave me alone, Arthur."

Alfred hadn't turned to look at him, in fact he still stared ahead, at the flickering lights of the candles. For a moment Arthur remained still, unsure what to do. It wasn't fair. When those blue eyes met his own, they were soft and pleading in the way they looked at him.

They shouldn't belong to his neighbour with a love for flashing lights and rainbow colours. They shouldn't belong to somebody so loud, tall, bothersome.

It wasn't fair that Alfred looked at him this way.

"I'm sorry Alfred, but I have to-"

All words were gone. Before Arthur could as much as finish his sentence, it had dissolved in his mind. Everything was gone, as with a rough yank on Arthur's wrist, Alfred pulled him into a gentle kiss. The contact lasted a moment, a moment longer, a moment too long. With a gasp Arthur flinched back, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth as he brought some distance between them.

Alfred's eyes widened. "I'm sorry, I can-"

"How dare you-" The words died on his lips. Lips Alfred had touched. They'd kissed. No, Alfred had kissed him. How could he just-

"Is this because of t-two weeks ago?" Arthur blurted out. "Is this all a joke to you?"

It took a moment until his words sunk in. Alfred stared at him with wide eyes, wide and open and so bright and blue they might have been the sky over Antarctica. He stared at him, as though it had been Arthur who'd kissed him. He stared at him as though he wasn't in the wrong, as though that stare alone was not infuriating in itself.

"I... What?"

"Is this your idea of a joke?" Arthur asked, and what had been shock seconds ago turned into anger, hurt. "Are you trying to make fun of me for being gay? Is that what this is, Jones?"

Alfred looked as though he'd been burnt. He flinched back with each of Arthur's words, mouth agape in wordless silence as he realised what Arthur meant. The way he stared at him was almost one of betrayal, and for just a moment Arthur would have loved nothing more than to wipe that stupid expression off his face.

"What? No! No, I didn't-" Alfred cut himself off. Arthur raised a brow, gesturing for him to proceed. "Look, I- I don't care whether you're gay! F-Fuck, I'm not straight either, ok? It's just-" He wrung his hands, wordless once more.

I'm not straight either.

Arthur shook his head, pushing aside the echo of that sentence. He didn't want to think about what it meant, what it could mean for what had just happened. He didn't want to think about what had happened just now, at all. He was too cold to think.

"T-Take off your sweater," he said eventually. Against his will, his ire had died down as quickly as it had come. He felt no more than resignation and tiredness. Resignation, tiredness, and the cold that had been seeping through his clothes and skin and down into his bones.

It was only when he noticed the way Alfred looked at him, that he realised what he'd just said. There he went again, staring at him with those stupidly innocent eyes, cheeks bright red. With a slight stammer Arthur added, "I- Shit, not like... I just don't want you to catch a cold, ok?"

Though his blush didn't fade, not that it could have this quickly, the baffled expression left Alfred's face. "O-Oh," was all he got out. He rose from his chair and reached for the hem of his jumper, and with Arthur's eyes still on him, he halted, let his arms sink once more.

Arthur raised a brow as he watched on for another moment. Alfred stayed still. "Is something the matter?" he asked at last.

"I... Um... Aren't you going to turn around?" The question was tentative. "I... I don't have anything on beneath the sweater, so- You d-don't have to lend me anything, just like-" That faint red colour had returned to Alfred's face stronger than ever, and this time Arthur was sure it wasn't just the cold.

"Ah, shi- Sorry, I should have thought of that. I'll see whether I can find something for you."

Somehow it felt like he was fleeing, when Arthur left. He knew he wasn't, knew that this was his own home, but the thought proved too persistent to push away just yet.

When he returned at last, armed with an old, positively gigantic hoodie, Arthur was still as cold as he'd been before. He'd changed, too; everything down to his socks had been wet. The fresh clothes were dry, but even with the thick, fluffy jumper and fuzzy socks he was shivering.

Back downstairs, he was awaited by nothing but the lonely flicker of the first candle. That, and the bare back it illuminated. Alfred must have heard him, too, because at that very moment he spun around. Somehow Arthur didn't mind too much, however, not with the way the candle highlighted his bare chest.

He couldn't help but trace along the even plains of Alfred's chest and farther down to his abdomen. With the faint, soft lighting of the candles and what little light streamed in through the cracks in his blinds, it almost seemed as though his chest was glistening. Maybe it was some of the water from his soaked jumper or maybe Arthur was simply starved for a view like this one. 2022 hadn't proven to be all that successful in terms of dating, at least not for him.

Whichever one it was, it took a moment for him to realise that Alfred had caught him staring, then his mind caught up at last. "I, um... I found a hoodie you can wear, I think that should fit. I also have a pair of sweats, but I'm not sure whether those will..." Arthur trailed off, perhaps because of the look Alfred gave him. Shock, yes, but also something that reminded Arthur of how he had to be staring at Alfred just then. "D-Didn't you- I thought you didn't want me to see-"

Somehow words had become hard. At last the tension snapped and Arthur regained control over himself, dropping the clothes and spinning around. This is just a guy's body, nothing you haven't seen before, he told himself, but somehow that proved to be rather uneffective.

There was some rustling, the sound of Alfred's soaked trousers hitting the floor, then more rustling. Another moment passed, then Alfred spoke up from behind him. "You can t-turn around now."

If he was honest, Arthur was almost disappointed when he did. Not only was Alfred’s chest covered once more, the hoodie and sweatpants were also loose enough to leave just about everything to the imagination. He shook his head slightly in an attempt to push that thought aside. What was even going on inside his mind?

At least Alfred saved him from having to say something first, a small comfort. "Damn dude, how c-come your half is so cold?" he asked between shuddering breaths, rubbing his hands together. "Was I the only one to g-g-get a heater?"

Arthur let out a small laugh, tried to behave as though he wasn't freezing his arse off just as much. "S-Sorry, I turned it down to reduce heating costs," he replied. He failed, he was stammering the same way Alfred was. He really should turn up the heat.

"Yeah, you're right, what's a few f-fingers, if you can reduce the c-c-cost..." Alfred replied, but with chattering teeth and trembling fingers the snark of his reply was lost. "J-Just listen to me! C-can't even make a joke effectively in this f-freezer of an apartment!"

"Guess that's a sign you shouldn't c-complain as much," Arthur joked, even as he reached for one of the blankets on his couch. "I've got some blankets, we can't do much like this, anyway."

He was halfway over to the small, two-seater couch at the centre of his living room when he turned around once more. "Oh, and Alfred? Watch out for the coffee-"

There was a thud, then a hissed curse as something dropped to the ground.

"...table." Arthur set his candle down on the offender, coming to find Alfred just behind him, a stream of various, none-too-festive curses on his lips as he clutched his shin. "Are you alright?" he asked, and though he tried, Arthur failed miserably at holding back his laughter.

"C-Can it, Kirkland," Alfred grit out between chattering teeth. "First you try to make me freeze to death, and now you try assassinating me!"

"I'd be a great assassin, wouldn't I," Arthur mused with a grin. "First one to have a confirmed kill with a coffee table."

Cold or not, Alfred made another attempt to glare at him. Too bad he failed in the face of Arthur's amusement, breaking out into bright laughter himself.

"Come here," Arthur said eventually. "Let's make sure I don't freeze you solid by accident."

Alfred grumbled more to himself as he placed his candle next to Arthur's, some muttered words that sounded suspiciously like "Is it really an accident at this point?" He slid into the big, worn out cushions, flinching when he sank into the cool fabric.

"Did you expect me to pre-heat my sofa?" Arthur joked as he shook out the small throw blanket he kept by the sofa. With a last shivering breath he crawled into the spot right next to Alfred, spreading the cuddly fleece blanket right over them.

Almost instantly Alfred scooted over, leaving an inch of distance between them. "Gah, why are you so cold!? Dude, just because I'm freezing doesn't mean you can make me even colder!"

With a rough yank Arthur pulled the blanket back towards himself, stealing back what Alfred had taken and then some. "I might be warmer, if you didn't steal the blanket," he hissed, but even so Arthur found himself inching back towards the other. Annoying or not, Alfred was still warmer than his couch and the blanket combined. After a moment's consideration he pulled his feet up onto the sofa, too, tucking them into the blanket. Way better.

"That doesn't justify stealing it from me!" Alfred whined, but he slid back over, until their hips and shoulders touched. "Stupid tiny blanket..." he muttered.

Arthur raised a brow but said nothing, simply giving the blanket the tiniest bit of slack, so Alfred could have a bit more. That's what he got for being so buff, Arthur thought, more surface area that needed to be covered by the blanket.

Buff or not, Alfred did the same as him and pulled his feet up onto the sofa, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs as they sat there in silence.

Arthur looked over for a moment, finding him watching the flame of his candle, the same way he'd done before. The way the candlelight danced across his face, softly illuminating the sharp lines of his jaw and reflecting in his eyes, it drew him in in a way Arthur had never noticed before. He spotted the soft dusting of pink on Alfred's cheeks, the way the corner of his mouth quirked upwards ever so slightly.

"Are you just going to stare at me until Mrs Smith comes?"

Almost instantly Arthur turned away, but of course it was too late. Alfred had caught him staring, as though being this close wasn't bad enough. He could smell that stupid aroma of chocolate, peppermint and coffee once more; just like last week Alfred smelled of Christmas and comfort and stuff Arthur shouldn't know because he shouldn't know what his neighbour smelled like. But here he was.

Shit.

"Oh, uh, I-"

All his life people had told Arthur how quick-witted he was, but at that moment he was all out of ideas on how to get out of this. His eyes stuck to one of the two candles. That's right. As long as he just looked at the candle, Alfred wouldn't notice, he might even forget that he'd stared at hi-

"You know that's not a reply, right?" Alfred asked, and even without looking Arthur could just see the smirk playing around his lips.

"I was just... Um... Thinking about whether a different position might be warmer..?" Arthur hated the doubt in his voice, but at least he'd finally come up with a reply. A bad one, not to mention an excuse Alfred would never believe, but at least he'd tried.

"Oh?"

Of course he'd ask. Shit.

"Well, you know, if you... If we... cuddled, basically? It would save blanket space and-"

"Just say it, Arthur," Alfred said from somewhere beside him, far too close to him. He had to be smiling like that again, and some part of Arthur, most likely his pride, simply couldn't bear the way he was laughing at him. "You want to spoon, don't you?"

Arthur wanted to slap him, he really did. He would have loved to just spin around and slap him, or at least give him a piece of his mind or something, but no, he remained silent.

With a quick movement the blanket was gone, so was Alfred. He scooted back on the sofa, until his back was pressed against the armrest of the sofa. He spread his legs somewhat, leaving a free spot between them. A free spot for Arthur.

"So, wanna test your theory?" he asked with a grin.

Arthur surely was just as red as the stupid fleece blanket, but nonetheless he slid back on the cushions, until he was nestled in between Alfred's legs, his chest to Arthur's back and his arms around him. Alfred carefully draped the blanket around them once more, creating a fluffy cocoon and simultaneously trapping Arthur.

Awkward or not, he had been right - this was far warmer than it had been before. Nonetheless Arthur's face was burning, and even if Alfred hadn't noticed (yet), the thought that a bit of closeness could make him blush like this was humiliating in its own right. At least he could blame it on the cold.

They sat in silence for a little while. There was something calming about this, the gentle flicker of the candles and the way his body was slowly warming back up after being exposed to the winter cold for so long.

"I'm sorry, Arthur."

The words tore him from his thoughts, entirely out of nowhere. Arthur turned around as best he could with the way they sat, but he could only see part of Alfred's face. If he was honest, he saw even less because of the darkness. Eventually, after accepting that he wouldn't be able to meet Alfred's eyes without also breaking his neck in the process, he replied.

"I already told you, Alfred, you didn't know it would blow the fuse, and it's not like it's unfixable, so-"

"That's not what I meant." He was quiet, barely above a whisper. Alfred had tensed up ever so slightly as he spoke. The thought of being able to feel something as minute as this made some unknown feeling spread inside of Arthur, but nonetheless he was worried.

"What are you talking about, then?" Arthur asked, unsure what type of response he was expecting. What was he even hoping for?

"I'm sorry for kissing you."

Oh.

"I shouldn't have done it so suddenly, and I'm sorry for that. I just... Well..."

Arthur didn't know what to say. On one hand he could feel the anger from before returning, running hot and fast within his veins, but on the other hand the apology left him defenceless all the same.

"I... It's just... I've been crushing on you for a while."

Arthur's thoughts screeched to a grinding halt. "What?"

"I like you, Arthur. I know this sounds stupid, especially after what happened earlier, but-"

"Wait. Just wait a second-" Arthur pulled away the blanket and left his - admittedly very comfortable - spot between Alfred's legs to instead sit opposite of him, finally meeting his eyes. The blanket lay discarded between the both of them, leaving him exposed to the cold once more. But Arthur couldn't think, didn't even notice. He just barely caught the way Alfred reached out, as though to pull him back in, either. "You..." he started. "You like me?"

"I... That's what I'm trying to say, yes." Alfred looked almost apologetic. He looked at him with such gentle eyes, and though Arthur was still trying to gather his thoughts, just trying to regain his ability to think at all, those eyes occupied his mind all the same.

"How can you just... How long?"

Alfred was staring at his hands, almost as though he expected to find the answer to Arthur's question somewhere on the back of them. Maybe he had written it down somewhere on there and Arthur was just underestimating him.

At last Alfred broke the silence. "Just over two years now," he admitted. "I know it sounds stupid, but when I saw you just... mumbling to yourself in that fuzzy Grinch sweater and old man slippers as you put up the garland outside one Christmas, it just clicked I guess."

Arthur wanted to be serious, confused, shocked, all that, but he couldn't help but snort. "Out of all the times we've met," he laughed. "Out of all of that, you fell for me while I was cussing up a storm in an ugly sweater?"

"Not quite Hallmark-worthy, huh?" Alfred asked with a soft smile.

"Well, we did do the stringlight-tango, so if you reveal you're secretly the prince of some unknown magical kingdom in Central Europe we should be fine."

"Does central Virginia count?" Alfred asked, making both of them laugh.

Arthur tilted his head, feigning deep thought. "Well, depends on how you sell it. Maybe if you put on some strange accent..?"

Alfred gave him a gentle nudge, forcing him to focus on the topic once more. "Still," he insisted, "are you not going to, well, reply?" The silence returned, thick enough to cut as Alfred watched his every move. "I... I guess your response after the kiss was clear enough, but... I just want to hear you say it. Is that selfish?"

"Alfred..." The words got caught in Arthur's throat. He could only imagine what he looked like right then. Next to Alfred he had to look small, and with the way he looked at him, pleading almost... Arthur had to look nothing short of miserable. Pitiful.

"I guess that settles it..." Alfred's expression fell. Where Arthur had wondered whether he looked miserable, Alfred truly did. Any brightness from a moment ago was snuffed out like a candle's flame, total darkness in but a breath. "Shit. I really should have waited another two hours to ask, shouldn't I?"

"I just never knew..." Arthur tried once more. It felt like words were running from him, as though with every word he said, the others ran farther, slipping from his grasp and disappearing altogether. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Confusion - the way Alfred looked at him, furrowed brows and tight lips, as though to ask what he meant. "But... I've been trying to do that this whole time? I've been flirting so much over the past weeks! And I've tried to get your attention with the lights every year, and-"

"Oh God..."

The words were less than a whisper, almost inaudible as Arthur realised what Alfred was referring to. The stupid pick-up lines. The looks. The smiles. He'd been so incredibly dense.

"Yeah... I'm sorry, I should have realised you weren't..."

"Oh my God, I'm- I'm so sorry Alfred," Arthur said at last. "I... I thought you were making fun of me, I never- I'm so stupid, how..."

He buried his face in his hands, dropping back onto the sofa as his face burned in shame. Him and his brothers had always been joking about how dense Alistor was when it came to his partner, but it seemed that it ran in the family. Arthur wanted to scream.

"Wait, so you didn't reject me?"

Alfred had perked up almost immediately. He was leaning over Arthur, which was only slightly complicated by the fact that Arthur still had his legs kicked up onto the sofa, meaning he was more or less resting his stomach on Arthur's knees. Somewhere at the back of his mind Arthur noticed how firm his abdomen felt, not that this should have been his main interest just then.

"No," Arthur groaned from behind his hands. How could he ever have been so...? "I can't believe I never noticed..."

"So... What is it? What do you say?" He looked at him with those bright eyes again, excited, but also worried ever so slightly. It seemed like each and every one of Alfred's expressions was mirrored on his face the second he felt them, with no filter whatsoever.

Arthur bit his lip, trying to find the right words. He was interested, yes, but... "I think I'd need to know more about you, to say that," he admitted at last.

Almost instantly that expression of excitement dropped. Arthur hadn't rejected him, but even he knew that what he'd said wasn't much better than that. Still he asked, "What's your favourite Christmas movie?"

"Huh? What are you trying to do?"

"I want to know more about you," Arthur replied. With a small smile he insisted, "So, what is it?"

For a moment Alfred stared at him almost bewilderedly, then he chuckled. "Well, if you ask me like that..." he started. He tilted his head slightly in thought. "I'd have to say The Polar Express."

"Wait, isn't that the one with the strange animation?" Arthur asked between his laughs. "The kids looked so uncanny to me!"

Alfred crossed his arms, and with a small pout he retorted, "It's about the nostalgia, not the quality." He poked Arthur, but only succeeded in making him laugh harder. "If mine's so strange, what's your favourite, hm?" he questioned.

"Love Actually, always has been," he replied without another thought. Upon seeing Alfred's confused expression he added, "It's a romantic comedy, but it's just really sweet over all. Great actors, too."

"I don't think I know that one," Alfred admitted.

"Guess we'll have to watch it together some time," Arthur smiled. With Alfred back to sitting across from him, he sat back up, and crossed his legs. As he draped the blanket across both their laps once more, he asked: "Okay, next one. What's your favourite genre of music?"

This time Alfred was quicker with his reply, "Good ol' rock for sure. You can't beat Queen, and Led Zeppelin or Guns n' Roses are just classics. And that isn't even mentioning the Ramones!" Alfred seemed to glow when he replied; all of a sudden his excitement was back. It was nice to see him this happy again, after he'd been in various states of worry or doubt for half of the evening. "So? What's Mr "You're-confusing-punk-and-gay" listening to, when he isn't complaining about my choices in Christmas songs?"

"If you answer your own question, what am I meant to say?" Arthur laughed. "I'm into punk and alternative for the most part. The Sex Pistols and The Clash are unbeatable, but I can definitely get behind liking the Ramones. Recently I've been more into Muse though, their new album is simply incredible."

Alfred had been listening attentively, and though Arthur felt his eyes on him, he wasn't staring at him like before. It was gentler now, in a way he couldn't quite put into words. "You know," Alfred mused, "I already knew you like punk stuff, but there's something about you talking about it while wearing some fluffy sweater that's just really funny to me. Like a bunny with a knife."

"Better watch out, I have knives, too," Arthur retorted with furrowed brows, eliciting a wave of laughter from Alfred.

"Pff, if you say so..." he laughed. "Speaking of danger, though... My turn: if you could have any super power, what would you choose?"

Arthur took a moment to consider, one hand beneath his chin as he did. He wasn't into superheroes all that much, if he was honest, so it wasn't something he could answer right off the bat. Nonetheless, if he didn't want to go with some sort of magical power, what was there that he'd pick?

"Probability manipulation," he answered at last.

"What? That's so lame!" Alfred laughed. "Dude, you could pick flight! Or laser vision! Or super strength! I'd totally take super strength, if I had to choose. Way cooler, and I could help people! Save them from getting squished by a bus and stuff!"

There was something cute about Alfred's excitement, but nonetheless Arthur couldn't help but defend himself. "Well, if you think about it, probability manipulation is way stronger though! What's the probability I have super speed? Well, I could tweak it and do a quick trip over to Buckingham Palace!"

Alfred puffed out his cheeks. "That's cheating, though! Where's the limitations on that?" he asked.

Arthur laughed, giving the other a small nudge. With an overly dramatic flailing of his arms Alfred tumbled back into a pile of throw pillows at the corner of the sofa, pulling the blanket along with him.

"I totally thought your power would be invisibility. Or sneaking. Oh, or maybe illusions!" Alfred said as he pushed himself off the pillows to rest against the armrest of the sofa, half-leaning as he watched Arthur.

"Why that?" Arthur asked with furrowed brows.

Alfred gave him a brilliant smile. "Well, you stole my heart, so you have to have some sort of power, right?"

Against his will, Arthur felt his cheeks flush a bright red. He didn't want to admit it, but stupid as it was, the line had done wonders at making his heart stumble in its pace. Stupid sap.

"Idiot," he muttered, but he knew damn well that he couldn't sell the insult. Curses. "New question," Arthur said. "What's your ideal date?"

"You go first," Alfred retorted almost instantly.

Arthur didn't bother questioning him and instead answered his own question. "A trip to the city, walking around together and just talking, before ultimately having tea or dinner together. I want to get to know the other person. What about you, then?"

"My perfect date would be a trip to the city and just spending time with them, walking around and talking, before ultimately having tea or dinner together."

"You know, this isn't an exam, you don't have to copy my answer. You can tell me, if you don't have one," Arthur said with a small roll of his eyes, even as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Oh, but I had an answer!" Alfred defended himself. "My ideal date is whatever you want to do."

Arthur bit his lip, turned away as he tried to ignore just what Alfred's stupidly adorable replies did to his heartbeat. How dare he have such an easy time at making his heart skip?

He wanted payback.

"Alright, last question," Arthur said.

Their eyes met again, and somewhere at the back of his mind Arthur noticed the slight flush on Alfred's face. At least he wasn't entirely unbothered.

"Can I have another kiss?"

"I- uh..."

Got him.

With a soft smile Arthur leant in, and while Alfred still tried to save that almost suave façade he'd put up before, Arthur reached for the collar of his jumper, pulling him in just a little more, until their lips met.

Unlike before it was gentle and slow this time, and though Alfred had stiffened initially, he quickly melted into the touch of Arthur's lips. Strong arms came up to wrap around Arthur's back, keeping him close as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss ever so slightly.

They broke apart breathing heavily, clinging to one another as though only they could ground each other. When their eyes met, it felt almost magical. Alfred's pupils were dilated, his lips parted just barely as he looked at Arthur.

In the soft light of the candles his eyes gleamed like gems; the wetness of his lips glistened enticingly. "Another," Alfred said breathily, and instead of replying Arthur simply pulled him in once more.

He didn't allow for Alfred to kiss him so sweetly again, tilting his head almost immediately and deepening their kiss. Arthur shifted to wrap his arms around Alfred's neck loosely, tangling one hand in his hair as he forced him ever closer. He could feel Alfred's hands at the small of his back, and as their movements grew more eager, more greedy, the heat of his touch slowly burnt Arthur up.

With Alfred's hands to steady him, Arthur straddled him, hovering above his thighs as he pressed a small kiss to his jaw. The blanket they'd shared had long since fallen to the floor, but even without it Arthur felt a steady heat building up just underneath his skin wherever Alfred's skin touched his own.

Arthur smiled when he caught Alfred's eyes closing, leaving another kiss right below his last. Alfred's grip around him tightened just barely, just enough to dig into his skin. He traced a couple more kisses along Alfred's jawline, before ending his path with a small peck on the lips.

"Do you want more?" he whispered against Alfred's lips.

A low growl was all the reply Arthur got, then Alfred caught his chin in a tight grip as he recaptured his lips in a hungry kiss.

"Didn't you say..." Alfred rasped between uneven breaths, "that you wouldn't ask... any more questions?"

With Arthur's arms still around his neck Alfred shifted his focus to Arthur's neck, lavishing him with attention as he left a myriad of nips and bites all across the unblemished skin of his neck and collarbone. His hands roamed freely along Arthur's torso, across his back and along his sides until they finally reached the hem of his jumper.

Gentle fingers snuck underneath the folds of thick fabric, drawing a soft keen from Arthur's lips as they danced across his ribcage and along his spine. Each touch raised goosebumps all over his cold skin as newly warmed fingertips traced every inch of his skin. He could not help the silent moan that escaped him when Alfred's thumb grazed one of his nipples.

At last Alfred pulled off Arthur's jumper, baring him to not only the cool air surrounding them, but also to the burning heat of Alfred's gaze. It felt like cheating, to unwrap his present more than a week before Christmas day. Somehow Arthur didn't mind, though, not when his present was so lovely, so beautiful in every way.

For just a moment they remained like that - with him straddling Alfred, whose eyes raked across his skin as though to memorise each and every square inch. With gentle touches he caressed Arthur's chest, running his fingers down along his breast bone and farther yet, until he reached the hem of Arthur's sweatpants.

Alfred halted for a near eternal second, half-lidded eyes hungering after a half-naked man, tracing Arthur's every part. He felt the burn of those dark blues on his face and his chest, following the curves of his body as the flickering light of the candles outlined them in ever-changing schemes, unsteady spectres for Alfred to discover anew with every passing moment.

With his hands still on the waistband of Arthur's sweats, his lips on a small, sensitive spot just beneath his jaw, Alfred muttered but four words, "Do you want more?"

Arthur held on to Alfred's shoulders and lowered down farther onto his lap, to the point he could feel the bulge in Alfred's pants pressing against his own. With his head thrown back in a breathless moan Arthur ground his hips against Alfred's, as Alfred suckled on the spot he'd just kissed. A sharp hiss escaped the other, and Arthur replied, "No more questions."

His words didn't leave any room for discussion or question, not when he'd finally closed that pesky gap between them, bucking his hips at a fast, uneven pace. Neither of them cared for the lack of a rhythm - not when Alfred's hands tangled in his hair, when Arthur's hands clawed at whatever parts of Alfred's shoulders and back he could reach, when his every move drew a litany of those desperate, pleading sounds from the other.

"Take off your top," he said, ordered, and Alfred complied wordlessly. Neither of them minded the tone, the fire beneath their skin burnt to brightly to spare even a thought. Funny, Arthur thought to himself, first I get him clothes and now I make him undress him all over again.

It didn't matter either way. The instant the fabric fell Arthur's hands were roaming that bare, strong chest he'd only caught glimpses of before, feeling the frantic rise and fall with each deep, gasping breath, the frenzied beat of Alfred's heart, the smoothness of his skin.

Before Alfred could react, Arthur pushed him back onto the pillows with one hand on his chest, the other on Alfred's thigh as he rolled his hips in a particularly slow motion. A low, unconstrained groan broke from Alfred's lips, raw with need, emotion, hunger. "Hold still for me..." Arthur crooned, and as he found Alfred so willingly submitting to him, bare chest beneath his spread fingers, he could see a fraction of what Alfred must have seen staring at him.

Sharply cut muscles and soft, even skin fought a relentless battle across the expanse of his chest, from his sculpted pecs to the plains of his abdomen and farther down yet to the spot where a fine line of hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his underwear. On either side of Arthur's splayed fingers the other's nipples stood hard and sensitive in the cold air, pleading for his touch as much as Alfred himself.

He stared at Arthur with longing eyes, pupils blown wide and lips parted just barely. Sweat beaded on his forehead, condensation fogged up parts of his glasses. Carefully Arthur reached for the obtrusive frame, setting it down on the table beside them before leaning in for another kiss.

"More," Alfred gasped, demanded, and who was Arthur to deny him whatever he wanted? He claimed his lips in a rough kiss, all tongue and teeth and tension. With gentle nips and bites Arthur coaxed ever more of those sweet sounds from Alfred - music much nicer than any Christmas song. The soft whimpers and whines paid him back for every bit of painful pleasure that Arthur lavished upon him, sent spikes of white-hot arousal through his veins and to his groin.

Another languid roll of his hips, and Alfred was gasping for air. Hands grasped at nothing and everything, at skin and at clothing, as Arthur's slow yet rough, gentle yet hungry pace sent them spiralling ever closer to that edge. Each breath was a breath too much, a moment too long spent apart when they could have been kissing, touching, feeling one another.

Only the strength of Alfred's grip around his wrist tore Arthur back out of that haze of heat and hunger. "Arthur-" he gasped in between ragged breaths. "Need you t- Ah! touch me-"

Perhaps Arthur was teasing too much, perhaps his mind had been lost to the sudden delicious desire that filled his every breath, his entire body, his skin and bone. But at that moment, with Alfred so defenceless beneath him, greedy and at his mercy all the same, he only raked his fingers down his chest, trailing red lines in his wake.

Alfred's breath got caught in his throat, but Arthur simply traced his hand lower yet, across his abdomen and beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, and the hitch in his breath became a breathless moan. A single gasp of "Fuck-" passed Alfred's lips, but all words were lost when Arthur curled his fingers around his erection at last.

Alfred's cock burnt against his skin, hot and hard, just as much as him. He gave it a first, slow stroke, and as he swiped his thumb across the head of Alfred's cock Arthur could not help but marvel at the entirely reverent look on his face. Head thrown back in ecstasy and eyes clenched shut, lips parted and neck covered in the marks Arthur had left there.

Nary a thought passed Arthur's mind; the heat smouldering underneath his skin and throughout all of his body had become too much to bear. One hand around Alfred's cock, one on his shoulder, Arthur moved just an inch closer.

They closed that gap one more time, a heated tangle of lips and tongues. With every movement of Arthur's hand around that most sensitive part of Alfred, a new moan spilled from his lips. Arthur built his pace up gradually, coaxing all sorts of sweet sounds from Alfred.

"Beautiful," he muttered in between their kisses, "Just-"

All of a sudden he felt Alfred's hand moving down the front of his own pants. Whatever he'd meant to say turned into a sharp hiss, then a moan. Arthur tried to object, say something about how he wanted to give Alfred a gift first, but Alfred just pulled him closer and wrapped his hands around both of their cocks.

It was hot, tight, and for a moment Arthur couldn't tell whether he was in heaven or hell. The touch of Alfred's hand on his oversensitive flesh was torturous with the way it clenched around both of them, and yet it was so unbearably good, so blissful it made him see stars.

Each movement of Alfred's hand had him spiralling, and soon enough Arthur found himself clinging to the other as he lost himself to that feeling of utter bliss. He was close. The heady scent of sex and sweat filled his nostrils with every laboured breath he took and Arthur felt each frantic beat of his heart all throughout his body, from his chest to his fingertips and down to his feet.

"Alfred, I'm-" he gasped but no more could pass his lips when Alfred sealed them with his own so easily.

With his eyes clenched shut and his hips bucking against the rhythm of Alfred's hand Arthur knelt there, unable to form a coherent thought. His whole body was abuzz with those unbearable sensations, vibrating through his veins until all of him was humming with the electricity of their arousal.

Arthur was on fire as lust swept over him like a tsunami, sparking when all he needed to ground him was the tender feeling of Alfred's lips on his own. One last twist of Alfred's hand, and with a gasp and a soundless scream Arthur came, spilling over Alfred's hands as he followed shortly after.

He was little more than a boneless heap on top of Alfred. Arthur couldn't have cared less about how he was spreading their combined mess all over himself, he was too exhausted to care. His mind was sluggish, and he didn't mind.

After a moment an arm wrapped around him, a comforting weight on his back as Arthur rested against a broad, warm chest. With a small, displeased hum he scooted a tad closer, until he could feel that warmth all around him. Way better.

"You know…" Alfred began after a moment, "I didn't think I'd kiss you, be rejected, confess, kiss and then frot with you, all in that order and in a single day."

"Call it a Christmas miracle," Arthur muttered against his chest, eliciting a small laugh from Alfred. It was nice when he laughed, a soft sound from deep inside his chest. Arthur could feel it from where his head rested.

Another moment passed, and with a hand stroking his back and another carding through his ruffled hair, Arthur might have just fallen asleep, had Alfred not spoken up once more.

"Speaking of Christmas," he said. "I know we're a week early, but… Does this count as a white Christmas, Arthur?"

It took a moment for the question to sink in, another for Arthur to comprehend the sheer idiocy of the pun. He snapped back up, and with a small push against Alfred's chest and loud laughter from the offender, he exclaimed: "You unromantic oaf!"

Too bad that Arthur couldn't help but laugh himself.

Rolling his eyes, he crawled off the sofa and off Alfred. With another look at the various stains on Alfred's and his own (or rather: just his own) clothes he grabbed the discarded hoodies and his own sweatpants, walking back towards the stairs.

"Undress," he said, "You've got stains, too. I'll be right back, I should still have something that fits you."

This time around Arthur took a bit longer to come back downstairs, maybe also because of a rather large stain on his abdomen that he had to clean off, but when he came back at last, he found something was off.

Namely, that Alfred stood by the (sadly fake) fireplace, naked as the day God had created him.

Or well, not naked, that was the issue. He was wearing a stocking, a single, bright green stocking far too large to fit him.

A Christmas stocking.

A stocking that said Arthur on it in elegant cursive.

Arthur's Christmas stocking.

He halted in his tracks.

"What are you doing, Alfred?" he asked, deadpanned, and somehow he found himself reminded of Frosty. This just had to be another stupid idea. He didn't even know the idea yet, but-

"Well, presents go into the stocking, right?" Alfred beamed. "I simply put yours in."

Against his will Arthur flushed, and unfortunately he didn't know whether Alfred had seen or not. His only solace was that the bundle of socks he threw at Alfred did hit its mark.

Served him right.

[rainismdata]

Rain is here!! ^^

rainismdata (laufeysongm1n9i) [Ao3]

rainismdata [Twitter/X and Discord]

[◽️] #hmdlm or "The Living Medicine" is fake tweets of House MD characters; where everybody is alive, healthy, and happy. [◽️] #hilsoneulogy or "Eulogy for The Head and The Heart" is a collection of mini songfic, sickfic, or MCDfic; where I collect my sadness towards House or Wilson's death/sickness/pain in headcanons. [◽️] #hilson ff (with space) is a collection of currently read or subscribed stories (also my recommendations) [◽️]

[◽️] #hmdshots #rainshots or is a collection of LQ screenshots that I took while watching House MD, and then any other movies/series. [◽️] #rainedits is a collection of my amateurly edited pictures (using PicsArt); including wallpaper/lockscreen. [◽️] #rainfics #rainff is a collection of my written stories (fanfictions, prompts, drabble, fake tweet, fake chats, etc). #rainocs is for my OCs. [◽️] rainplays is a collection of me talking about games. [◽️]

About Me (+preferences):

Welcome to my ✨fantasy world 💖✨

I'm Rain, the “I'm fluent in Google Translate” enjoyer, reader, and writer. [Yes, I am quoting Stephen Strange.]

[[ 2⃣5⃣ she/they 💓💛💙 eng/idn 🔞 (MDNI on NSFW things) ]]

This account stands for every thing I could find or any thing I would read. So, basically I can read anything; and I can just leave it alone if it's not my preferences (on tropes, ships, or genres)

OTPs: Albert×Chris (RE), Batman×Superman (DC), Wong×Strange (Marvel), Wilson×House (House MD), Price×Ghost (CoD), Castiel×Dean (SPN), Eddie×Buck (9-1-1), Maverick×Iceman (TG/TG-M), Higuruma×Nanami (JJK), etc.

I'm also having an agenda with crackpairs/rarepairs.

Also— ✨M-PREG✨

Games I currently play on devices: Arena of Valor, Baldur's Gate 3, Call of Duty (series: OG and Reboot Modern Warfare, Black Ops, Infinite Warfare), Counter Strike, Death Stranding, Dynasty Warriors (6-9), God of War (2018 and Ragnarok), Minecraft, Monster Hunter World: Iceborne, Resident Evil (4-8, Remake 1-4, Revelations 1-2, Code Veronica), SuperStar rhythm games (ATEEZ, SM, JYP, YG, Cube, Woollim), The Last of Us (1-2), Warriors Orochi (3-4, +Ultimate)

dividers by: @cafekitsune and @enkeli-moonsys

Now that you're here—

I do have another account for korean thingie (series, movies, music), but here I am still proudly announcing that I am CREZL's Pretzel 🥨 😌✨ I am a fan of a crossover quartet voice group; Lim Kyuhyung (Tenor/Musical), Jo Jinho (Pop/PENTAGON), Kim Suin (Korean Traditional Musician), and Lee Seungmin (Baritone/Opera).

They covered iCorre! (Jesse & Joy), Faith (Stevie Wonder ft. Ariana Grande), Kill This Love (BLACKPINK), Higher (Michael Bublé) on the show as one of the top three quartet finalists of Phantom Singer season 4. [Also, Faith performance has got them the highest score from producers/judges in the whole seasons (S1-S4); 593 points from 6 producers of one for 98 and five for 99 points.]

Recently, CREZL released a mini album "CRE:㘉" with "Forbidden Love" as the title track and 4 more songs in the album.

[yesthatssadirichardslove]

There isn't much Cher hasn't done in her career. A Christmas album is new territory, though

LOS ANGELES

There isn't much Cher hasn't done in her career. She's achieved EGOT status, she's the only artist to have a No. 1 song in each of the past six decades — heck, she's got her own gelato business, Cherlato. But a Christmas album? That's new territory.

So, why now?

“I just didn't want to do one,” she told The Associated Press. “I didn't know how I was going to make it a ‘Cher Christmas album.’”

The secret, of course, was to lean into the incredible eclecticism of her career, all while avoiding the sleepy, saccharine pitfalls of a “Silent Night” -heavy holiday release.

Her first new album in five years, the appropriately titled “Christmas,” released Friday. In some ways, it required Cher to find her voice again. She hadn't sang since a March 12, 2020, performance in Oklahoma City was canceled when a Utah Jazz basketball player tested positive for the coronavirus.

So she called up her vocal teacher, “Adrienne Angel, who's 96, who came out and hung with me and we worked every day."

"And then I went to the mic and I was able to sing,” she says. “I have very young vocal cords.”

On “Christmas,” Cher enlists an all-star list of collaborators. There's Cyndi Lauper on “Put A Little Holiday In Your Heart,” Stevie Wonder on “What Christmas Means to Me,” Darlene Love on “Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home),” Michael Bublé on “Home,” and even the rapper Tyga on “Drop Top Sleigh Ride” — you read that last one correctly.

But working with others in this way is something she says she's never done before. When you're Cher, do you really need a featured voice?

“Well, with Darlene, I wasn't going to sing her song without her,” she says of the song they first sang together 60 years ago on “A Christmas Gift for You From Phil Spector.”

“With Stevie, I did the song, I loved the song, but there were just things I couldn't do, that were just Stevie," she says. "So, I called him and just said, ‘Stevie, I’ve done it. I’m pretty proud of it. But there are things I can’t do, and I need you.’”

“I was still trying to sell him when he’d already said yes,” she says. “At some point he asked me, ‘Is this my song?’ And I went, ‘You think I could call you to ask you to sing on someone else’s song?’”

Alexander Edwards, Cher's romantic partner and a credited producer on the project, is best friends with Tyga, who helped make the most unexpected and delightful collaboration happen.

“Christmas” is dedicated to Cher's late mother, Georgia Holt, who died just before the holidays last year. But don't mistake this album as therapy — the act of reclaiming Christmas in the face of loss, or a way to memorialize Holt.

“I think about my mom all the time,” she says. She doesn't need an album to remind her of her mom; her mom is everywhere.

“I don't have a bit of regret that my mom is gone because my mom was such a vibrant woman and she didn't like what was going on in her life,” she adds.

Cher says her mom sends her messages all the time — like recently when she rediscovered a huge plate she made her mom, flipped it over, and read what it said: “Dear mom, I love you, Merry Christmas."

“And it was like, 'Mom, you're just not going to leave me alone, are you?'” she says.

In addition to the album, Cher is preparing to release a 25th anniversary edition of her Grammy-winning album “Believe" on Nov. 3. Its title track is credited as the first use of autotune — though, as she recalls, it was termed a “pitch machine” at the time.

She was arguing with her longtime producer Mark Taylor about the track, and he brought up the new technology.

“It started and it was like, ‘Oh my God, this is the best thing ever.' And I thought, 'You don’t even know it’s me. This is the best thing ever.' And then we high fived,” she recounts.

But don't mistake an openness to technology and musical innovation as an openness to artificial intelligence.

Of the technology, Cher is quick to say: “Not AI. Someone did me doing a Madonna song and it was kind of shocking. They didn’t have it down perfectly. But also, I’ve spent my entire life trying to be myself, and now these a------- are going to go take it? And they’ll do my acting and they’ll do my singing?”

“I’m telling you, if you work forever to become somebody — and I’m not talking about somebody in the famous, money part — but an artist, and then someone just takes it from you, it seems like it should be illegal,” she adds.

For those keeping count: It is also the 35th anniversary of Cher winning the best actress Oscar for her role in “Moonstruck.” When asked if she will act again, she's quick to point out the necessity of a resolution to the ongoing Hollywood actors strike.

She was asked to do a special, she says.

“They said, ‘Well, we can do it in England.’ I said, ‘We can do it on the moon, but I’m not doing it,'" she says, not until an agreement is reached.

Spoken like, well, Cher.

[thecairomuse]

Getting in a festive mood for Christmas!!

Hi angels, Christmas is right around the corner and for some of you that means celebrating with your loved ones, however some of you may be spending Christmas alone for for various reasons but that doesn't mean you can't get into a festive mood!!

Fun ways to celebrate Christmas:

Bake some brownies or cookies (and leave some for santa ;))

Light some candles that smell like christmas to you

Wear an ugly christmas or a cute onesie

Make some hot chocolate

Build a gingerbread house

Make a christmas playlist and listen to some festive songs, here are my favs:

'All I Want For Christmas Is You' by Mariah Carey

'Last Christmas' by Wham!

'Fairytale of New York' by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl

“It's Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas” by Michael Bublé

'Santa tell me' by Ariana Grande

'Let it snow!' by Dean Martin

Go ice-skating

Go shopping!! and get a picture with santa while you're at the mall

Make some paper snowflakes

Watch your favorite holiday movie:

Holidate

Miracle on 34th street

Home Alone

Let It Snow

A christmas carol

Elf

Jingle Jangle

Little Women

Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer

The Nightmare before christmas

How the Grinch stole christmas

Read a holiday book, my personal favorite is 'Holidays on Ice' by David Sedaris it's so so good

Merry Christmas loves!!

[4dtk]

heloo! can I request hand-holding (3), kisses (6, 12) hugs (32) and touching (12) with renjun, thank uu^^

why do my renjun drabbles always end up so long LOL . btw age old kiss under the mistletoe <3 never too early for x’ams imagines i guess LOL, enjoy!!!

hand-holding, 3: cold hands in warm hands

hugs, 32: long-lasting hugs

kisses, 6 & 12: slow kisses, kisses on the corner of their mouth

touching, 12: pushing a strand of hair behind their ear

renjun’s eyes couldn’t leave yours. well, more of your body as you talked with mark, gesturing grandly about his new single that he dropped. he remembers you playing it whenever you met up, rapping the lyrics back to him that only had renjun groaning in embarrassment. staring around the room, he scans over the members in the party with a smile. having had taken a rest from the all the alcohol earlier, he was glad to be left alone to his… indulgences where no one could interrupt him.

“hey.”

“gah! wh- what the hell?” haechan shocks him out of his stupor, easily avoiding a smack on the back from renjun. his laughter gains attention from others, but otherwise they just return a cheeky laugh back while conversing. soon, the other is able to pick up on his loneliness, partially blaming it on the crazy challenge he dared renjun to do earlier. the partial reason, however..

“are you ever going to confess to (y/n)?” haechan raises a brow.

“keep it down! christ, hyuck. just because some members here have their partners on their arms doesn’t mean i should rush to make (y/n) mine.”

“oh, but you’re so obvious that it’s tiring to watch,” haechan sighs, taking a swig of his drink. the both of them admire the theme of the party for a little bit, red and green decorations hung from the spacious dorm, held on the fifth floor because they were the ‘cleanest’ (against jungwoo’s wishes and with kun’s agreement, they settled for an early celebration on the 23rd).

the speakers blasted christmas music, no doubt from the talented mr. bublé who was a compulsory artist to listen to, along with other renditions of christmas songs that just felt good. fairy lights from the members’ rooms were brought to be set up. plus, with ten’s recent sunset light purchase that he bought for the felines, the room was soon bathed in joyous lighting that could rival decorations outside.

“dude. the members had to have their partners fly in because they’re both so busy. (y/n)’s already there, c’mon the opportunity is right there — and this is the one time you’re able to unwind and relax. just go for it, man,” haechan is relaxed and laid-back, haven’t yet experienced the palpitations whenever one looks at their crush. the only exception was probably a rookie idol back then, but that was old news.

“if you happen to want to cuddle or fuck later, we’ll leave you alone.” this time, renjun was able to land a punch to his shoulder, expression turned into a scowl.

“you’re right, i guess. i’ll see what i can do.”

a gasp, “renjun admitting i’m right? rare.” renjun gives the other a lighter smack with a smile, chugging down the last bit of his water before heading over to you. he feels like he’s walking through snow whenever he wants to get to you, the resistance strong with each step. curling and uncurling his fingers, he loosened his freezing hands as you wrap up the conversation with mark.

“renjun! have a good rest? donghyuck was trying to avoid you for the past fifteen minutes, because he knew you’d get another headache if he talked to you.”

“i’m having one right now,” renjun jokes, emphasising his point by rubbing some fingers on his temple.

your laugh is like first snow. or like the heater that’s currently fuelling the house with heat. he isn’t sure what to choose, but he knows he likes it and wants to make you laugh more.

“do you need to rest again? i’ll promise i’ll be quiet-“

“delivery?” someone calls out. with a shout, you’re already at the door, receiving another batch of booze since the grocery shopping you went on earlier severely underestimated how much these boys can drink. “oh- uh-“ renjun swoops in like prince charming, hand brushing over yours while he steps forward to help you. they tingle like electricity, deciding against pulling away which would leave you to struggle.

“miss (l/n) (y/n) and mr huang renjun. please freeze in your place,” haechan’s annoying voice penetrates throughout all the conversation happening and you swear the man beside you mutters a curse as you two try to haul the booze past the member. “place the beer down. you aren’t going anywhere, anyway.”

before any of you can ask for an explanation, he points above you which displayed a mistletoe. “surprise!”

the delivery man’s voice scares you, until you realise it’s johnny, hidden under a very smart disguise of a fake moustache and a replica of the uniform. your mouth hangs open even when johnny squeezes past you with the booze effortlessly hanging from one arm, sighing inaudibly at the absence of the heavy drinks.

“so?” the members are looking at you expectedly like they’re watching a movie. there’s endless thoughts swirling in your mind even when renjun grabs your hand with his timid one, but it calms you down just a little when he brushes a thumb over your skin. it’s like you’re waiting for the director to yell out ‘cut!’; even you thought you’d do better on a movie set.

“(y/n)-“

he’s cut off by your lips crashing onto his, garnering a few ooohs and ahhs, including the satisfied smiles and sighs of relief. renjun’s lips taste like a mixture of the candy cane drink he spat out earlier, and some whiskey with coke. it’s a confusing taste, but with the pace your lips are moving with each other, it allows you to draw out every other time you imagined kissing huang renjun.

it doesn’t even come close, if you’re being honest and even if you’re standing in front of countless other men he calls his members in a ridiculously sized k-pop group. renjun deepens the kiss when he turns his head, cold, but clammy hands coming up the cup your cheeks. they shock you for just a bit and there’s a shameless smile into the kiss as renjun continues to deliver pecks onto your own.

he chuckle and it sounds like well-written christmas movies, or the very first listen to michael bublé’s christmas album. you aren’t sure what to choose, but you know you like it and want to make him chuckle more.

in a blink of an eye, you’ve grabbed his hand, heading straight for one of the rooms that you often see when renjun’s gaming with haechan. you recognise it straight away from the set-up and in a rush to shut the door, you stumble just a bit before meeting the hard wood of the door in a roar of laughter.

“great, now they’ve locked two people out,” haechan nudges johnny.

“three!” johnny’s partner calls from the doorway, which makes the living room shake in another round of cheers, getting back into the natural flow of things before everything got interrupted by a plant. faintly, you hear them ask if the plan worked, and haechan’s prideful answer right after.

slowly, you peek out of your hiding spot being your hands. renjun’s eyes shine, “so you like me.” it comes out flatter than he expected and he winces.

you snort, taking a step closer to him on the door, half leaning on it. without any prompting, the other’s arms encircle your waist, now pulling you flush against him while your head rest on his front. the next moments are spent in comfortable silence, the rowdy party going on outside giving you a little of a main character moment. your breathing syncs up, chest expanding and contracting with the deep breaths you take. there’s always a puff of mist leaving your lips, but it appears less now that you’re in your crush’s arms.

“yeah. i like you,” you nod, coming to face him after the tight embrace. his fingers touch your cheek experimentally and you flinch, the pads freezing cold to the touch. maybe it’s because he didn’t touch whiskey for the past half ’n hour. gently, you take his hands in yours. “why’re you always freezing?”

“ugh. you figured me out. tactic to get you to hold my hands.” throwing your head back in a silent laugh, you shake your head in disbelief.

“at least you haven’t caught on to me, holding your hands down so you won’t have to-” a kiss to one corner of his mouth. “restrict me from-” another to the other. “doing this.” lastly to his lips.

renjun entertains your dramatic flair with his jaw hung open. it doesn’t last long, though. “why would i restrict you from doing that?” you shrug, letting go of his hands now that they gained sufficient warmth. renjun silently decides it’s not enough, but first, he wants to kiss you again. his fingers are less freakishly cold now, brushing against your skin to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. it sits there obediently, dissimilar with the way you did it. ‘it always falls out!’ you want to tell him later, but first, you want to kiss him again.

“huang renjun, you drive me crazy.” grinning, renjun knows it’s your way of confessing before his lips collide with yours with the fervour that hallmark movies lacked, and ironically, a plot which hallmark movies embodied. and just like that, you wish you could hold a pause icon over your head, because you wanted this to last for as long as it could.

[one-more-offbeat-anthem]

for day one of @starrynightdeancas and @drgarth ‘s advent calendar: decorate the tree//tree topper//“deck the halls” 

From Dean, 4:35pm: you better not be decorating the tree without me.

4:40pm: dude

4:41pm: charlie told me you got our box of xmas stuff from her apartment

4:42pm: stop it

Cas sighed and flipped his phone face-down on the kitchen table. Leave it to his best friend to freak out about decorating the tree together, despite the fact that Dean always insisted he “didn’t like Christmas that much.”

(But who would always put on the Michael Bublé first? Dean. Every. Year. Cas swore that he could hear Santa Claus is Coming to Town in his sleep.)

The real reason that Cas had gotten the box of decorations from Charlie’s storage closet this morning (Dean and Cas’s apartment was too cramped for much storage--it was hard to get a spacious place when one of you taught middle school English and the other one was a freelance writer) was one that he couldn’t tell Dean. 

Because it was the only way, Cas figured, that he could bring up something that had been on his mind for months now. If he did this, he wouldn’t have to deal with the inevitable anxiety surrounding a conversation. Dean could just laugh it off and they could both move on. 

As perpetual bachelors, Dean and Cas would always jokingly hang mistletoe over the bathroom door during the holiday season. They never encountered anyone underneath it, let alone each other. 

This year, it was going above the kitchen door. 

So that Cas could see if...

His phone buzzed again, and he sighed before turning it face-up again. 

From Dean, 4:45pm: i’ll tell my students you betrayed me. you know how brutal middle schoolers are. 

******************

“Cas, I swear to--” Dean stopped short in their apartment’s doorway. The tree was up, but there were no decorations on it, not a shred of tinsel, no ornaments, nothing. 

Dean was grateful, of course, because he always liked decorating together, and he was also hoping to casually spring some kind of question about the middle school’s faculty party, whether or not Cas wanted to come with. It wouldn’t seem weird or out of place if they were already doing something holiday-related. 

(In the back of Dean’s mind, one of his students asking him why he was “so super lonely and single all the time” played on loop. Why were thirteen-year-olds always so on the nose? And blunt?) 

But if the tree wasn’t decorated, what had his best friend been up to? 

Michael Bublé was wafting from the kitchen, crooning something about building snowmen, even though Cas wasn’t especially a fan of the singer, and the apartment smelled like hot chocolate. 

“Cas?” Dean called. 

“In here,” Cas replied from the kitchen. 

Dean dumped his briefcase full of papers to grade (he was fairly certain based on today’s discussion that only four of his students had actually read The Outsiders, so breaking out the red pen would be fun) on the couch and headed for the hot chocolate. 

Wait. 

“You moved the bathroom mistletoe,” Dean said slowly. 

“I did?” Cas conveniently took a sip of his hot chocolate, hiding his face. He was a terrible liar, and if Dean could see his expression, he’d know. 

“Uh-huh.”

“I can put it back, if you want.” Cas lowered his mug. There was marshmallow on his upper lip. And his cheeks were pink.

Dean considered the situation. 

“It’s fine here,” he said. 

“Are you sure? Because I can--” Cas set his mug down on the counter and moved towards the doorway.

“Hi,” Dean said. 

“Oh. Hi.” 

They were both standing in the doorway now. 

Dean wasn’t trying to stare at Cas’s mouth, but they were under mistletoe, for chrissakes, and maybe this was a good opportunity to--

“Sorry,” Cas said, taking another step to the side, but Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing Cas’s. Cas glanced down at their now-joined hands, then back up at Dean. 

“Cas, were you plotting?”

“No!”

“I can see your face this time.”

“Okay, maybe.”

“Does that mean...?” Dean’s eyes darted down towards Cas’s mouth again. 

Cas nodded. 

It was a brief kiss, and sticky, because of the residual marshmallow, and Dean felt like his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest, but when he pulled away, Cas was smiling, just a little.

“Okay,” Dean said. He felt off-balance. “Okay."

Cas squeezed his hand. 

Right. 

“Let’s go decorate the tree,” Cas said. “I waited for you.”

[bakuroo-writings]

happy one year anniversary!! can i have some hawks with the prompts “So, you’ve never been kissed under mistletoe?” “Actually, I’ve never been kissed at all.” + cuddling by the fireplace? thank youuu ❤❤❤

Thank you, sweet, sweet tree! I hope you enjoy your gift of cuddles by the fireplace with Hawks (and him stealing your first kiss 😲😱)

505 words, gn!reader, hawks calls you baby bird, just some crimmus fluff, fluff, fluff with a little enemies to lovers, 18+ ONLY MINORS 17 AND UNDER, AGELESS BLOGS, AND BLANK BLOGS DNI.

Michael Bublé’s “Holly Jolly Christmas” rings out through the speakers as you clink your fingers against the glass in your hand. A sigh falls from your lips as you stand in the doorway, eyes roaming over the room, soaking in the decorations, the lights, the tree, and, finally, the roaring fire. ‘I hate holiday parties. Everyone is coupled up and I’m here. . . alone.’

“Miss me that much, baby bird?”

Rolling your eyes, you turn to face Hawks, twinkling lights creating a halo around his maroon wings, “The silence was actually quite nice. You should do undercover work more often.”

His hand finds his heart, pretending to be wounded, “Is there some bite hidden underneath that bark or is just for show?”

“I’d say you’ll have to find out but you’ll never get the cha – “

You’re cut off as Hawks’ lips cover yours, eggnog faintly dancing over your taste buds. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, careful of his wings, as you give into the kiss, lips parting and his tongue tangles with yours before he pulls away.

“What? Why did you?”

“Mistletoe, baby bird. You were standing under mistletoe.”

Your eyes look up to the tiny ornament of holly leaves mixed with red, plastic cranberries before you cast your eyes down as heat rushes to your cheeks and your fingers press softly against your lips in wonder.

“So, you’ve never been kissed under mistletoe? That why you’re so shy right now, baby bird?”

“Actually, I’ve never been kissed at all.”

Hawks mouth drops open in shock, “Now that’s just not possible. There’s no way someone as gorgeous as you has never been kissed.”

Huffing, you cross your arms over your chest, “Why is it so hard to believe? And you,” you shove a finger in his face, “you took my first kiss! How are you gonna make it up to me?”

His hand rubs his neck as he lets out a nervous chuckle, “Hot chocolate by the fire and how about I take you out on a date after the holidays, baby bird?”

You narrow your eyes, “Is this some kind of prank?”

“No! I mean, no, I think you’re beautiful and I really want to take you out. I’ve always liked you but never knew if you were interested so. . . teasin’ and rilin’ you up seemed easier.”

Your eyes soften as you press another kiss to his lips, “Hot chocolate by the fire and a date sounds perfect. But I also demand cuddles.”

“I can do that, baby bird,” his eyes crinkle as he smiles at you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

Empty mugs rest on the coffee table as the fire casts a warm glow, contrasting the snow falling outside. Hawks’ arms are wrapped around you, your fingers intertwined with his as his lips claim yours. As kisses are mixed with soft smiles and sweet nothings are whispered amongst the both of you, you can’t help but think that maybe holiday parties aren’t so bad, after all.

general taglist: @chibishae34 @rosesandtoshi

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