#peril x icicle

[ilikemicrowaves]

Thinking about this time we're I made a post suggesting the idea Peril x Icicle, and some guy started batching in the comments like

"EW SERIOUSLY?? THEY WOULD HATE EACH OTHER SO MUCH AND RIP EACHOTHERS THROATS OUT. YOU ARE WEIRD. THEY HAVE NO CHEMISTRY."

like, THATS LITERALLY THE POINT. IT'S TOXIC YURI WHICH THIS FANDOM LOVES.

[shirefantasies]

Little Flower- Beorn x F!Shy!Reader

A request from @peachpitpoisonlips! Always down to write more Beorn 😁 where my Beorn girlies at?

Warnings: angst at the beginning (fluff later I promise!!!), canon typical peril

Perhaps you were simply a fool. Would anyone but, after all, have set out into the woods so late and with so little? But what choice did you have? Homeless, you were little more than a nomad. Some towns welcomed you in, but it was clear when the novelty wore off and your lack of coin impeded. Selfish as it may have been, it rent your heart to see families walking hand in hand together, even couples sitting side by side or the occasional set of twins playing a game of hopscotch or arguing over some book. Everyone with some outward tether practically built into their lives by some divine craft, a gift from the Valar you could not resist sometimes feeling had been wrest from your hands. But did you know any better?

The woods felt thick, leaning and pressing down upon you as though you held something they greatly desired tucked close against your chest, just out of reach. Every sound had your head darting this way and that. Were something to come for you, you had a small knife to your name to fight with and that was that. No fine weapon of iron, no great wooden shield. At least you were a fair climber. Getting up into the trees would help against a wolf at least if not a-

Rustling startled you out of your own mind, jarring your vision back into focus of the fading light filtering between the trees. Soon it would be nightfall. Things were moving in the gathering shadows. Stepping slower, more carefully, you swung your gaze back and forth but saw nothing and pressed on.

Dodging a jutting stone, you almost startled yourself kicking up some leaves, let loose the faintest of nervous chuckles before hearing a distant scrape. Taking hold of the next tree trunk ahead of you, you peeked out, scouting the horizon. There!

A great black bear, the most massive one you’d ever seen, lumbered closer to your place, huffing. Dread slid down your throat like cutting icicles as its eyes slid right to yours. This was not how you wanted to die. You’d always imagined it more as a release, giving up from the defeat of shivering cold beneath surrendered blankets. And yet what anticipated you? A life of brief antiquity, no hearth or fields to call your own? Not a soul to call your name once you were not there speaking it?

This, too, could be a release. Inhaling deeply, you stepped from behind the trunk and closed your eyes, waiting, waiting…

No pain, no sound, not a single thing befell you, and there you were finding yourself frowning, your eyelids peeling back open just in time to see the bear’s form melt and shrink, becoming a man before your eyes. Gaping, you studied his sturdy, bearded form, the pair of brown eyes looking you over, then softening. He reached out a hand and you flinched back.

“I have no reason to hurt you, little flower,” he said, voice low, accented, and for emphasis raised his hands up and away from you, palms out.

Something about the nickname, even from a tall, imposing stranger, brought a shaky smile to your lips. Heaving breaths came a bit slower to your aching chest. Completely frozen at their shaky hold upon twisting roots, however, your feet did not cooperate.

“Come on,” he took one step closer, “you cannot stay here. Come with me, please.”

Please. Eyes widening, you finally shook out of your stupor and slowly gave a tiny nod, stepping forward to his side. Who was this man? How had he transformed before your very eyes? As your gaze drifted over his form, dodging quickly over his bare chest with heat creeping to your cheeks, you caught sight of the broken manacle still binding his left wrist. Perhaps it would be rude to ask questions. Maybe he would change his mind about guiding you.

At least you could learn his name. Thus, you asked it, voice still quiet as air returned to your lungs.

“Beorn,” the man said, “And you need not be afraid. These are my woods. It is the elven woods you must be careful of. But these borders are far. You will not wander there.”

Taking his pause as an invitation whether it was one or not, you supplied your name. “So you… guard this place? Who else lives here?”

A wince cut across Beorn’s face at that, softening his severe features into something more timid. Something that had hurt. That must have been how you looked to him, too.

Just as quick, though, that vulnerable look was gone again, gone completely stoic. “My animals and I call this place our home.”

“Are- are they…?” How could you put it? Do they turn into people too? Are you an animal? What strange magic lives in this place.

“Just animals, little flower. There are no others like me. I live alone.”

Perhaps you had more in common with the bear-man than you’d have thought. You shook your head at his last comment, though.

“If you have them, you are never fully alone. …I- I love animals,” you admitted quietly.

“You might see them, then,” Beorn replied, “but first you need a meal and a rest. Perhaps a bath.”

You could have argued, but he was right. Even if he had not been, he could have mauled you. The more you observed the way Beorn looked at you, how he took much shorter, slower strides to stay at your side and hovered a hand by your back, though, the less you could picture him attacking without grave cause. The same part of you that had resigned to Beorn’s being the end of your life now gave a faint, internal laugh.

~

Another temporary home. This time a cottage a ways deeper in the woods, doors and windows lined with intricate woodwork and stone. A rocking chair rested upon the porch, welcoming you to a small, cozy home with pillars as beautifully carven as its exterior. Beorn settled you down in one of the great chairs at the dining table, a table you could not help wondering at given his solitude.

"Stay right there. Lucky for you I already had broth warming. Care for some bread?”

"Sure," you agreed, nodding faintly.

Back to another house of novelty. One more night of entertaining a stranger, this time one who almost killed you. One who was an even greater rarity than yourself.

From the stove across the way, Beorn looked over his shoulder at you, and you felt a flush of heat rise to your face.

"So..." You wrung your hands. "Get many visitors?"

"No," he shook his head, "And I do not try to. Though I confess some days I tire of my voice being the only one heard. I like yours well enough."

Well enough. Well enough for what? For one night? To tolerate? To keep? No. You shook your head, feeling an even redder hot glow about your face.

“Thank you,” you answered quietly.

"Here."

Crossing the room, Beorn approached you with a large pot in hand. Sliding a bowl and spoon in front of you, he ladled you up a serving of steaming brown broth and set a slice of bread at its side. You hesitated, staring down at it until you noticed his expectant look and took up your utensil. The broth slid warmly down your throat, bringing a glow back to your body you hadn't realized you lost.

"Good?"

"Good," you nodded, taking a bite out of the bread, the softness of which was equally warm.

You spoke very little during that meal, both of you, and though you could not speak on Beorn's behalf you simply did not know what to say.

~

Waking up was the only thing that brought you realization of your sleep, a state you were not sure when you entered. Large, fat bumblebees drifted lazily about the air above your head, one landing upon your knee and butting its head up against it, which brought a shaky chuckle to your lips. All uncertainty was forgotten in that little moment of levity, bringing you to throw off the thick woolen blanket you had no memory of even laying eyes on.

Your location? Still within Beorn's cottage, that haven of warm hearth and hanging candles and those gorgeous pillars you'd begun to wonder if the man had made himself. Could hands so large create something so beautiful? Stranger things had happened. You'd seen them turn from a bear's paws in the blink of an eye, after all.

Rising scents distracted you, pulling you fully onto your feet. Softly you padded across the floor, still chilled from the night's air.

Across the room Beorn stood and gently slid a pair of softly-cooked eggs onto a plate aside sliced apples and some sort of honey-drizzled cakes. Eyes darting your way and back down to his work, he spoke.

“For you,” he said, nodding toward the plate.

Simple enough, but a beautiful and comfortable sight. Taking the seat across from Beorn, you ate, sneaking glances at him. This time, though, he did not allow for silence long.

“So what brings you here, little flower? Where do you belong?”

Little did he know how the little flower before him wilted. Wincing, you replied in a voice barely more audible than had you whispered. “Nowhere. I have no home.”

Brown eyes widening, Beorn softened again, a rare lifting of his stoicism that moved your heart faintly beyond the borders of your pity.

“I understand,” he told you, gaze dropping, “I am the last of my people. Sole carrier of a legacy of hunted people. I belong nowhere but with myself.”

“Do you never wish for more?” You blurted out before you could stop yourself, leaning forward in your tower of a chair. “Have you never desired that someone would stay?”

“Who would?” Beorn shrugged, venturing another glance into your eyes. “What have I to offer if I am not game?”

“To me,” you replied, feeling a flush rise to your cheeks, “You have offered kindness. The most beautiful home I have seen. Realer company than the pity nights often given. Your heart is worth far more than your pelt, Beorn.”

At that, it was the great hulking man’s turn to be speechless.

~

You were taken out into the yard, crunching across the crisp green grass at Beorn’s side and handed a dented metal pail. He nodded encouragement and watched closely as you shakily milked one of his cows. Brushed one of the longer-furred ones, a smile crossing your lips. Repeated every animal’s name softly. The skin-changer, as he called himself, all but started at the welcome one of his horses gave, butting her head into your hand.

“She was the most difficult spirit to tame,” he explained.

“Kindred spirit to you, then,” you teased, shyly handing him his brush back and smiling when he did not recoil, mirroring your expression and shaking his head as his fingers closed over yours.

“Yes,” he said, “Perhaps so.”

~

It was at Beorn’s bidding that you returned with him for dinner, this time a roast with savory brown gravy and a variety of vegetables nestled at its side. How all things looked nicer out in nowhere escaped you, but it charmed your soul nonetheless.

The next words spoken cut into your thoughts with a heavy realization: leaving it all would engrave the deepest wound yet.

“Where will you go next?”

Your face fell, fork dropped at your side as you inhaled deeply. “I… I do not know.”

“Nowhere you particularly care to see?” Beorn prodded.

Your breaths sped a bit, bringing you back to the sinking black water of despair that had swallowed you in the woods. Darkness closed in on your vision. “No. I travel only where I have not yet been sent away.”

“And that,” Beorn's eyes were your anchor, the only points of focus remaining through the haze, “Is not what I mean to do.”

You frowned. You looked up from your sticky white sea of oats, the golden ooze of egg yolk spilling onto its borders.

“The decision is your own. I know the feeling of the cage. But the animals…they would miss you. I would miss you. Perhaps I have been alone for too long.”

A bumblebee lazed past your head. One buzz sounded, two, three. Beorn swallowed, stared at you like he had never seen you before. You smiled. His hand crept to rest over yours across the surface of the table. For once, you did not feel like a novelty.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @kilibaggins @filiswingman @ibabblealot @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin @letmelickyoureyeballs @mossyskinn @wordbunch @tiny-and-witchy @th3-st4r-gur1 @fleurdemiel-145 @mistresskayla-blog1 @misabelle717 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @evattude @noodlesduck @kpopgirlbtssvt | Reply/Message/Ask to join 🖤

[wings-of-fire-confessions]

A few of my rarepairs.

Moon x Sora

Hailstorm x Eagle

Scarlet x Battlewinner

Coral x Blister

Blaze x Liana

Peril x Tsunami

Indigo x Listener

Icicle x Greatness

.

[sanjiyue]

law; misguided loyalty 3

previous

notes: this is pre-dressrosa arc. law’s haki is still developing, and nowhere as strong as it currently is

doflamingo family!reader x law, angst

As a member of the Doflamingo family, you embark on a perilous mission to secure a supposed cure for disease, fervently believing in your dedication to Doflamingo.

Little do you know that Law, is also out seeking control of the cure.

When your paths cross in the New World, tensions arise as Law, aware of the dangers involved with the underground boss, tries to convey the truth about the misleading mission.

Will the ties to the Doflamingo family shatter, allowing both Law and you to find a new understanding, or will the echoes of the past prove too powerful to overcome? Explores the complexities of allegiance, trust, and the consequences of leaving behind a life bound by shadows.

[9.5k wc]

Law always did like the low, deep hum of the ship. He found comfort listening to it in the nights where he tossed and turned, unable to chase the sleep he felt was hauntingly out of his reach.

The pressure in his ears roared as the sub dived deeper into the depths. With nothing else, he childishly blamed the adjustment for his distraction.

Definitely not for the fact that you were peacefully slumped in the corner of his room, leaning against his walls. As Law quieted, the light breathing suddenly felt magnified by a thousand.

He caught himself unconsciously matching his breath to yours, and he humorlessly let out a little cough to deny himself.

It was as if heaven bent itself to his small wonder and curiosity of you.

Law eased back into his chair, the wood creaking as he spread his body languidly. The surface of the desk before him was littered with his own thoughts spelled out, attempting to connect the dots of conviction.

He was starting to get a thrumming headache from this whole mess. What was he going to do now that you were on this ship anyways?

For the first time in a long time, Law was stunned by himself. Ever since he left that place, he swore to think things through so he would never go through anything like that ever again.

In the icy lands of the North, Law’s heart became shackled and locked behind icicles that threatened to pierce whenever he thought about it.

There was no more time for his night-long laments in the cold darkness now.

It all would have to be pushed back to move on. At least, that’s what Law concluded.

Despite his best efforts, they seemed to occupy him whenever he was left alone with himself.

He draped a hand over his eyes, massaging them as he leaned his head back, neck hitting the hard wood of the unyielding chair.

With your soft breaths and the constant white-noise of the boiler, everything seemed oddly peaceful.

Strangely, in that very uncomfortable chair, the captain of the Heart Pirates began to feel his eyelids turn heavy in the cozy ambiance.

At the sound of a small metallic clank, he flew back to full alertness.

Of course sleep wouldn’t come easy. He almost never had it so simple like that.

Law raised his head and turned to look in your direction, catching you in the action as you sleepily attempted to lift your arms, only to be surprised again by the sheer amount of gravity and force that pulled against your will.

He noticed your eyes blink quickly as you attempted to soothe yourself back into reality.

Before Law could even notice it himself, he became a little hesitant.

How would he act in front of you when he was so rash before?

It was unlike him to act so haphazardly, he decided to steel his thinking and focus.

All in the meanwhile, you began to struggle from your spot on the floor as your consciousness grew clearer.

As you became wakeful with your guard up, threats tumbled from your mouth spilling onto the ground.

In that moment, Law suddenly thought about how he had learned that animals backed into corners would always bite. He suppressed a smile, knowing it would aggravate you even further.

Seeing you like this made him feel a strange sense of deja vu.

As he studied your face, he suddenly became reminded of the very first time he had met you in the damp and dark dungeons of Dressrosa.

Doflamingo had just found you as a stray, stumbling the streets after he had decimated cities with a flourish of his hand. He had decided he liked the way you glared with all your hatred, as you snatched a stone from the cracked pavement to throw at him.

It had bounced off, unthreatening, but he couldn’t help the smile that had stretched his face as he looked below at the small ball rolling in the waves of ferociousness burning beside fury.

Law saw himself in the way you snapped through the bars when you saw him for the first time, reaching your small hands out to grab him violently.

He saw himself in the way you trembled when you thought he had left, a tiny body shouldering heavy feelings alone.

He tried to release himself from the past, trying to convince himself you weren’t the same as before.

And now, he approached you, warily.

“L…aw,” you grit through your teeth, fully feeling your strength evaporating against the chains.

The dark haired man paused in his step as if to consider something. He unsheathed the sword he was carrying.

Your eyes widened, panic rising in your chest like a balloon, filling every inch.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised quickly. “Room.”

The familiar blue filled your sight again, only disappearing again as you squeezed your eyes shut as Law swung down his sword towards you.

When nothing happened, you looked up and shuddered. In Law's outstretched fingers, he held a red thumping heart encased in a little block of ice.

You grasped at your chest in panic.

"Sorry, extra little precaution. I like to be prepared."

"What…just happened.”

Law's fingers ran themselves over the little cube before he tucked it away into his coat pocket.

"Let's try not do anything too rash now." His golden eyes sternly turned to you.

Law's senses turned against him as he produced a key. Every instinct roared against him as he turned the key in small hole of the cuffs, unlocking it with a click.

He watched you rub the small red circles from the chains that had turned your skin raw while you struggled in them.

Meanwhile, you had refound your strength. As you stood, your will flared a deep crimson and stretched towards him hungrily.

Law's hand reached into his pocket.

You hesitated, confused.

"I don't want to do this, but it seems you just won't listen." Law raised an eyebrow, his voice lower than usual.

"What--"

You cut off your own words with a cry of surprise.

A sudden terror gripped you as it felt like your own chest was strangling you. A stab of pain electrocuted through your body, crushing your own words.

Your eyes grew teary as you struggled to stabilize yourself.

"Do you get it now?" Law demanded, "I'm holding your literal heart. Can you just stop and think for a minute?"

"Why did you take the sea prisms off?" You shot back, touching a hand at your chest, "I thought you liked securing your chances."

“You need me if you want this back— I’ll take my chances.”

You caught his look, unconsciously running your fingers over your wrists. "Where is the century fruit?" You asked, the pain finally subsiding.

"Somewhere," he said factly.

Fine.

Law pushed a hand through his hair, irritatedly changing the subject. “What you showed me on that island— those memories, were they yours?”

“No,” you replied slowly, “they were yours. I didn’t have time to think of something to show you, so it must have just showed you a memory.”

The golden-eyed man’s eyes never left you, but he seemed miles away, as if he was considering something.

He didn’t say anything, though, and instead turned to the door to leave. “I should warn you,” he said, drily, “to not do anything stupid. The only one who can put your heart back in your body is me.”

It was as if he was trying to rile you up.

You frowned at him and followed behind him, “why didn’t you just kill me?”

His hand froze on the knob.

How could he answer when he didn't even know himself? When he considered the thought, his own heart pounded like drums.

Golden eyes glued to the floor, the blood in Law’s head rushed and fought as he scrutinized his choices.

“I’ve destroyed your transponder snail. You won’t be treated like a prisoner here so be nice.”

He said that, but as the days passed, it grew very obvious from hushed voices and a missing introduction that something was off.

You hadn't cared enough to introduce yourself to everyone, to flit from person to person, and now it was a little awkward.

"HI!" A loud voice struck you back to your little spot by the porthole window.

A lanky man, no more than 25 curiously leaned forward to get a look at your face, his hands planted on the table, eagerly supporting his weight and curiousity.

He sported a little mushroom hat that he tugged out of his eyes,

"We just came back from our mission and there's a woman here?" His eyes almost popped out of his sockets as he stared at you.

Another voice piped up from behind him, "if we had known, we'd never have left!"

You couldn't see him too clearly, but there was certainly no missing the slightly beaten up and roughened hat he sport with the tall words 'PENGUIN'.

You were slightly taken aback by these strong personalities. No one had come up to talk to you yet, but these two seemed to contain such warmness that the others couldn't help but sneak peeks over.

“Is it true that you grew up with the Captain?” The man with sunglasses asked, curiously.

You could see his eyes lit up beneath the darkened lenses and feel the way the air around him stopped in hushed suspense.

He emanated warmth, pleasantness, and loyalty.

"Yes." You smiled at him, offering your hand and a name to which he beamed in delight!

"Shachi."

"Penguin."

"Bepo."

A third, more timid voice appeared. You saw him before you heard him, his white fur illuminating under the golden lights strung above, although dirtied and matted, never losing its shine and softness.

Your mouth fell down slightly in surprise at this animal before you, seemingly gentle as a mouse, yet towering almost to the ceiling.

Before you could say anything, another question launched into the conversation, “is it true that you’re part of the Doflamingo pirates?”

“Yes,” you offered, your eyes peeking curiously at the large animal behind them.

The two shot each other a look before stepping aside to reveal a very large, apprehensive-looking bear.

“Oh,” the white animal looked embarassed at the sudden spotlight, seeming as if he wanted to shrink.

"You seem like you're interested in Bepo," Shachi eagerly said. Was he attempting to make you more comfortable?

You could only nod, eyes still wide in fascination.

"Must be nice to be you, Bepo," Penguin sighed.

"So you already knew Law?" Bepo clutched his paws together, still a little shy from the attention.

"We grew up together, but then he killed the young master's brother. I can't believe the idiot is even alive," you scoffed, folding your arms.

The day Law left the family, Doffy was furious. The betrayal of Law, the death of Corazon added pounds to his stress. The entire family was walking on eggshells for an entire week.

You were shuddering in memory of that time, entirely lost in your thoughts as you missed the trio before you exchanging complicated, wordless thoughts.

"Oh sorry, no offense." You looked to them, catching a quick glimpse of confusion on Shachi's face before he quickly wiped it away.

"None taken," he hurriedly took a step back. "We have to finish reporting to the Captain, but hopefully we'll see you." He flashed a smile, as an invitation for you to find him later.

"Sure, I don't think I'll be getting off this thing anytime soon anyways." You mumbled, watching their silhouettes disappear through the doors, quietness settling over yourself once more.

Just down the hall, Shachi, Penguin and Bepo hurriedly stepped to find Law.

"What the hell was that?" Shachi hissed, "did you hear what she said?"

"Lovely lady, yeah, but maybe hit her head too hard." Penguin agreed.

"Something's not right, let's find Law and we can sort this out." Bepo suggested, although knowing that was exactly what they were going.

After growing up together, Bepo liked to think that his brothers had adopted very similar thoughts as him.

The three burst through the doors of Law's office:

"Definitely weird--"

"Very strange woman--"

"Thinks you killed Cora!" Bepo finished, hurriedly.

Caught writing mid-sentence, DEATH pushed the edge of the desk.

The chair fell to the ground with a clatter, Law hardly caring, his eyes narrowed at the news he had just received, his blood thrumming in his ears.

His thoughts flew together within seconds, his tongue suddenly dry and foreign in his mouth.

[bakuliwrites]

Day Three- Muriel of the Kokhuri

500 Follower Event, 30 Day Writing Prompts Prompt: Silk, Glacial, Citrus, Muriel (The Arcana) Pairing: Muriel x Reader Tags: Fluff, Snuggling, Kisses, Inanna! Word Count: 800

Wind cuts through your body, icy and sharp, chilling the very marrow in your bones. Not even the heavy coat wrapped around your shoulders is enough to combat the almost glacial Vesuvian winter. It’s unusual to be getting this much snow and ice, but a passing storm has practically turned the city into a kingdom of ice. The cobblestone is slick with frost, slippery and more dangerous with each passing moment. Vesuvia moves at a snail’s pace, its citizens cautious as they slide along the narrow passageways and tiptoe carefully through particularly slippery alleys. Icicles hang from awnings, crystalline and wicked as daggers. Occasionally, as you pass by, one will fall and shatter to the ground beneath, sending shards of ice in every direction. Tiny icebergs float down the canals, and some of the smaller ones have nearly frozen over entirely.

You are grateful once you reach the powdery snow beyond the city streets. At least you won’t have to worry about slipping, though part of you is nervous about falling into an embankment and getting stuck. Luckily, you know this area like the back of your hand and manage to traverse it quite well, trudging slowly through the thick layer of snow and into the dark forest. It’s deathly quiet, save a few somber colored birds that flit from barren branch to barren branch, chirping a greeting at you as you shuffle by. Another violent gust of wind nearly knocks you to the ground beneath, but you manage to steady yourself on a gnarled tree. The tip of your nose is frozen, your breath releasing in clouds of fog. What you wouldn’t give for a cozy blanket and a crackling fire right about now. 

It’s then that you spot a large figure lumbering towards you out of the swirling snow. A lantern swings at their side, pools of warm light wavering with each step they make. Out darts a small wolf from behind one of the nearby trees, yipping joyously at the sight of you, snuffling your outstretched hands as you reach to pet her. 

“Inanna!” you exclaim, burying your frozen fingers in her warm fur, soft as silk. Her tongue lolls out to the side, happy whines escaping her throat. After a moment, she wags her tail enthusiastically, beckoning you to follow, before darting back towards the not-so-mysterious figure. A grateful smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you abandon the tree that steadied you and dart towards your rescuers. 

Muriel catches you up in his embrace, holding your shivering form close and warming you in an instant. 

“You’re freezing,” his low voice rumbles in your ear. When you glance up to meet his gaze, his brows are knit with worry. 

“Not with you here, I’m not,” you mumble against him, burying yourself in his chest. He lets out a small chuckle before gently nudging you and taking your hand in his. Inanna prances eagerly beside you, sending up bits of fluffy snow into the air and leaving perhaps some of the cutest paw prints in her wake. You chit-chat quietly with Muriel about your day at the shop and the perils of this unusually frozen Vesuvian winter. You worry about the forest, about the animals that call this woodland home. 

“Spring will come soon enough,” Muriel mutters, a soft, knowing smile reaching his eyes when he looks to you, “And then the forest will bloom again.”

He gives your hand a small, reassuring squeeze. With this, the two of you fall silent for a bit, enjoying the tranquility of the winter wonderland surrounding you. It’s not long until you reach Muriel’s hut. Smoke pours from the chimney and a welcome blast of warm air greets you as soon as you open the door. It smells of citrus, bright and inviting, two cups of lemon tea waiting for you and your beloved by the fire. Muriel takes your cloak from you, hanging it up to dry and gives you a moment to strip yourself of your icy, soaking clothes. 

Once you’re situated, Muriel guides you to the furs before the fire, snuggling close and pressing a tender kiss to your lips. This frozen Vesuvian winter is no match for Muriel’s gentility and warmth. 

“Welcome home,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you. You hum as he draws you in, warming you to your very core. No amount of chill or ice could penetrate the comfort of this home. Inanna cuddles up to the two of you, slumbering peacefully as you and Muriel enjoy some invigorating honey-lemon tea and lay kiss after kiss to one another’s lips. You arrived home just in time, heavy snowfall pummeling Vesuvia almost as soon as you settled in for the night. But you are unconcerned, safely wrapped up in Muriel’s embrace.

A/N: I always get wordy with Muriel and I'm not entirely sure why. Don't get me wrong, I adore him. I'm just surprised that of all the M6, Muriel is the one I get the most wordy with when it comes to headcanons and mini-fics, haha. Also, I seem to have a common theme in the first fic and this fic, and that theme is being cold. I think I must be channeling how cold I am right now, lol. Thank you for reading! Up next will be Prince Sidon from The Legend of Zelda! As a note, not all of these fics will be Character x Reader. Many of them will be, but they might also be Character x Character, or simply have no pairing :) I'm just letting the prompts take me where they may.

[crazycookiecrumbles]

Shang-Chi Masterlist

Masterlist

Buy me a Ko-Fi

All works are my own! And if I’m not lazy, I’ll add them here!

Scream For Me Masterlist

Shang-Chi x Avenger!Reader with scream powers (ongoing)

Shang-Chi x Stark!Readerverse Masterlist

This also contains the Steve Rogers x Stark!Reader oneshots that go with this universe.

Shang-Chi Oneshots

Avenger!Reader

(Ice Powers)

Double Secret Extravaganza

Double Secret Extravaganza 2

Double Secret Extravaganza 3: The Snuggling 

Icicles and Dead Lizards

-------------------------------------------

(Scream Powers)

Brains and Bendy Straws (slight Venom x Reader if you squint)

Brains and Bendy Straws HC

-------------------------------------------

(Weather Powers)

The Soft Tempest

“Regular” Reader

Stressed

Mischief Accomplished

Who Bakes for the Baker?

Costume Contest

Shower Song

Perils of a Superhero’s Girlfriend

My Boyfriend’s Back

Perils of a Superhero’s Girlfriend: Farmer’s Markets and Car Crashes

[magpie-to-the-morning]

Snowed In

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader

Word count: 4.1k

Tags: So much fluff, established relationship, discussions of Christmas, the aftermath of brief peril/threat of drowning and hypothermia, cock warming, unprotected PiV sex (wrap it before you tap it please), shades of Dom!Frankie, porn with feelings, a bit of dialogue that may come across as cajoling (it sort of is) but Frankie and the reader are adults in a mature relationship, they can have some complicated emotions that include horniness, as a treat, more Christmas fluff 

Summary: You may have made it safely out of the freezing water, but Frankie’s still working through some feelings about the whole thing- especially now that the generator is down. Plus, a Christmas surprise!

Author’s Note: This is set within the same universe as Sundress Season,  All Day in the Sun, and Facing the Sunshine, although they can be read individually. It’s set immediately after Weather the Storm so you might want to read that one for context.

This began as me daydreaming about getting snowed in at a rustic cabin with Frankie and @the-ginger-hedge-witch​ was kind enough to encourage me (and assure me it wasn’t too close to her amazing Forest Ranger Frankie series.

Also, a special shout-out to my amazing writer wife @keeper0fthestars for beta’ing this on short notice. Your support means the world to me, mi media naranja. 🍊

Read on Ao3

You open your eyes to a world made new. The loft bedroom you and Frankie had slept in is small, with knotted pine walls, a tiny stone fireplace, and handmade rugs covering a flag floor. The solid four poster you find yourself in is laden with downy vintage quilts, their printed cotton worn soft with age. None of this catches your eye though- not when one full wall is a plate glass window overlooking the winter wonderland beneath. Stony cliffs hung with icicles, frozen springs, and faraway pinewoods fill your vision, all laden with a thick frosting of snow sparkling beneath a wintry sun. 

It’s only when you spring to the window and turn around that you realize you’ve woken up alone.

“Frankie?”

There’s no answer, though he has left a stack of his own folded clothing on a nearby dresser, along with a steaming mug of coffee. It’s a small bit of comfort. While you’d ended the night wrapped in each other’s arms, there had still been a lingering trace of shortness in his replies, a sure sign that something is bothering him. Despite his assurances that he’s just glad you’re alright, you suspect he’s still on edge after your unexpected arrival and subsequent plunge into the icy water of a hidden pond. 

Given the blurry, fear-tinged dreams you’d woken from, he might not be the only one.

You push that feeling aside, warmed by the mug of coffee and Frankie’s flannel shirt. It’s far too large for you, though his sweats are a better fit, and you’re grateful for the thick woolen socks, knowing they’ll keep your feet toasty- and help fill out the space in his extra pair of boots. Your clothes from the night before are steaming gently in front of the small hearth, its carefully smoored embers giving off only the faintest heat and light in the winter dawn. 

Come to think of it, hadn’t the cabin itself been much warmer last night? The picture becomes clearer when you head to the bathroom down the hall and flick the lightswitch. 

Nothing happens.

Remembering that Frankie had mentioned something about a generator, you wonder if its gone down. You spring through a brisk, cold-water morning routine (the water heater must be down, too). It occurs to you that being stranded on a mountaintop after a blizzard with neither electricity nor hot water might not be the safest way or most comfortable way to spend your Christmas, but you can’t find it in yourself to regret your hasty decision to join Frankie in the Millers’ cabin.

Dressed, freshly scrubbed, and wide awake, you bound down the stairs and follow the muffled sound of cursing outside. 

You find Frankie kneeling in the snow, a look of deep concentration on his face, while he wrestles with a massive diesel generator set a few feet away from the cabin. Dusting snow off a nearby log, you sit beside him and offer up the rest of the coffee. 

“I would have made some more but I wasn’t sure how to, with the power down,” you explain. If you’d known he was outside fighting with this rusty behemoth you’d have made more of an effort. 

With a sigh, Frankie sets his tools down with more force than you think strictly necessary, though he accepts the warm mug with a weary smile. “It failed last night.” After taking a few sips he looks at you, his dark eyes alert, assessing. “You warm enough?”

“I’m fine, Frankie,” you reply, a little pointedly. “It helps that I’m practically swimming in your clothes. Lots of trapped warmth.” You spread your arms, showing off your baggy ensemble. It has the desired effect.

He huffs a small laugh before rising to his feet with a groan. You give a sympathetic wince as one of his knees pops audibly but he ignores it, joining you on the log and passing the coffee back to you. “If I can’t get it back up we’re in for a rough couple of days,” he warns. “The roads are too dicey so we’re stuck up here until they’re clear and I don’t know how cold it will get without the heat-”

You know that tone. He’s spiraling, caught up in uncertainties that wear his usual calm thin.

“Hey.” You stop him with a gentle word, tilting his face to meet your gaze. “It’ll be fine. What do we need to do?”

Frankie blows out a breath, calculating. “The cabin is pretty sturdy, and we have plenty of water. Food shouldn’t be a problem, especially since you probably brought enough for an expedition.”

“I like to be prepared!”

“Girl scout,” he teases affectionately.

You scoff. “You’re one to talk, Delta Force.”

“Fair enough.” Wrapping an arm around your shoulders and sounding more like himself, he pulls you in to kiss the top of your head, his lips stretched in a fond, exasperated smile. “I’m mostly just worried about keeping you warm enough.”

“Oh well if that’s all, I have some ideas,” you offer slyly. 

“I’ll bet you do.” His voice is low, rumbling, though purr or growl, you’re not sure which. “Come on then, querida. If we can’t get this going we’re in for a morning of chopping down trees.”

__

As it turns out, you’re not able to get the ancient generator running again and Frankie spends a few frustrated minutes digging through a nearby tool shed before coming up with a rusty saw and an only slightly sharper looking ax.

The two of you spend the rest of the morning cutting down saplings Frankie assures you the Millers won’t miss. It takes a few tries to get the technique right but after a few gentle corrections and bits of advice from him, it starts to go a lot smoother. 

It’s satisfying work. The day is sunny, though cold, and the pine-scented mountain air is bracing. After about an hour, you and Frankie fall into a quiet, satisfying rhythm, your piles of firewood growing higher and higher. You’re just starting to sweat through your second layer when Frankie calls for a break. It turns out he had made that morning’s coffee over a small campfire, and does the same now, pressing a steaming mug of canned stew into your chilly, gloved hands, only sipping his own once confirming that you’ve started in on yours. 

As you’re taking a moment to appreciate the stunning mountain views, an unfamiliar noise filters through the clearing. Wolf song, lilting and haunted, rises plaintively over the snow-capped peaks. Your hair stands on end and you turn to Frankie in astonishment.

“Are there wolves near here?” It’s not fear turning your voice hushed but awe. 

Frankie is already standing, scanning the horizon eagerly for the origin of the calls. “Just one pack. They were reintroduced a couple of years back, some sort of research thing, but we’ve never heard them.”

The howl continues. There’s just the one wolf calling, you think. “He sounds lonely.”

“Probably looking for his mate.” 

“I hope she finds him.” 

Frankie turns to you, an unreadable expression in his dark brown eyes. “I’m sure she will.” 

After a few more minutes, the howling falls silent and you return to work.

–

“That has to be enough for a week, right?” You straighten, stiff from prolonged sawing, digging your fingers into your lower back to ease the tension there. 

Looking over from his own, much larger pile of split logs, Frankie shrugs. “More like a day or two, but we can call it here for the day. Let’s head back to the cabin.”

On your way back, he mentions a few more ideas he’s had to make your stay at the cabin more comfortable. Rigging up a solar charging station for your phones. Piling snow around any chinks in the walls to keep out the searching wind. Catching trout for your meals. 

Looking significantly at all the frozen water, you raise a brow and ask “how exactly?”

Frankie shrugs. “Ice fishing.”

“Ah, of course. How do you know all this survival stuff, anyway?”

“Training,” he says simply.

“Well, it suits you.” And it does. It’s exhilarating, not to mention comforting, getting to see him using his skills “in the field.” All the better for the fact that you’re not truly in an emergency situation. Not that you seem entirely able to convince him of that. 

Noticing the way your breath is coming a little faster, the slight dragging of your feet, Frankie frowns as you make your way back to the cabin. “You should rest when we get back.”

If by “rest,” he means “spend an afternoon in bed together,” you’re all for it.

–

It turns out that’s not exactly what Frankie had in mind. Just as you’re stripping down to panties and one of his undershirts, he stands from his place lighting the fire and heads for the door. 

“What happened to resting?”

He gives you an all-too knowing look. “Cariño, if I get in that bed I don’t think you’ll get much rest.”

“No?” 

“No,” he answers firmly, though you can see he’s tempted. 

“Please, Frankie? I’m so cold.” 

He snorts, seeing this for the melodramatic ploy that is, but gives in. “Fine. I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

Grinning in triumph, you scoot over. After shedding a few layers, he joins you beneath the covers. Both of you are still more than a little wind-chilled, and it takes a few shivery moments of snuggling to warm up- which is apparently more than Frankie is willing to put up with. 

“You need to stop squirming,” he grits out.

“Oh? And why’s that?”

His teeth close playfully over your bare shoulder, making you yelp. “You know why.” 

To be fair, you do. You can feel the reason stiffening behind you. 

“We could just-”

“You need rest,” Frankie sighs.

“I’m fine,” you say, a little testily after having said it so many times today. After a tense silence you ask “that’s not the only thing, is it?”

Another pause. “No,” Frankie admits, his own voice tense.

“Well what, then?”

“Really? You nearly get yourself killed last night and you’re wondering why I might be a little annoyed still?”

“Oh.” You’re not sure what to say to that. You’ve already apologized and frankly, an icy plunge and your own fear is quite enough punishment thank you very much. Unless…

“Would spanking me make you feel better,” you ask, innocently, while wriggling strategically against him.

“No.” He stills you with a firm hand on your hip. Even with him behind you you can practically see the half irritated, half interested look on Frankie’s face.

“Why not? I thought we were both into that.”

“Not now,” he clarifies, a desperate edge to his voice. “You’d love it and I’m mad enough to enjoy it too much and feel bad about it later.” 

“Ok so no spanking.” You wait a bit then ask brightly “just regular sex then?”

This time Frankie huffs an irritated chuckle but holds firm. “No. You need rest, damn it, so just-“

“Ok but what if you just put it in?”

There’s a loud pause. You know he’s considering it, can practically see him licking his lips. 

“Please?” You’re begging now, sure that if you can get him to agree to that, it won’t be much harder to ask for just a little more. 

“You know what? That does sound like a good idea.” There’s an edge to this voice that makes both your cunt and stomach clench, and you realize something: 

You’ve underestimated Francisco Morales.

A dangerous move for anyone, and you’ve committed the dual sin of this and putting the woman he loves in danger. Your throat bobs. The very reasonable point that you are the woman Frankie loves isn’t much consolation at this particular juncture. 

He’s going to make you regret this.

Even with this realization, you thrill at the brush of his hands at your hips, pushing your waistband down. 

“Already so wet for me,” he murmurs. “Were you planning this all along?”

“Maaaaybe.” Your breathing picks up and you cant your hips toward him.

“So eager,” he chides, one large palm sliding between your thighs to push them apart. He’s taking his time, the bastard, and he only grazes the lips of your aching pussy with his fingertips before pulling back, leaving you whining. 

“Easy,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.” He reaches between you for a moment and then the blunt head of his cock is nudging your entrance. It lays thick and hard against you, the faintest twitch pulsing against your heated pussy. 

“Frankie, please-”

“Please what, cariño?”

Your fist your hands in the flannel sheets, already panting. “Please put it in me,” you whimper.

He does. 

He pushes every thick, pulsing inch of himself into your waiting cunt- and stops. 

You squirm in frustration, your body begging for more. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Consider it punishment for last night.” 

Fuck, you really had underestimated him. 

“You’re really still mad?”

“Yes.” 

God damn it. He’s stretching you out so perfectly, his fat cock seated right where you need it, but if he doesn’t start moving you think you might actually scream. 

You try everything you can think of- grinding against him, pleading, clenching yourself around him tight enough to hear him hiss, but he remains implacable. Finally, there’s only one thing left to try.

“I’m sorry, ok?”

“What are you sorry for?”

You sigh, resigned. “Scaring you.”

“And?”

“And being possibly slightly hasty.”

He starts to withdraw, threatening to leave you empty and more desperate than ever.

“Ok! Ok, reckless. It was dangerous and I won’t do it again.”

“Damn right you won’t.” Frankie shoves himself back inside you with one deep thrust, making your eyes roll back in relief. 

He fucks you for real now, punctuating his thrusts with more chiding while you babble encouragement. 

“Fuck that feels so good.”

“Oh shit, right there, yes!”

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Even with his hands clutching your hips hard enough to bruise, you can tell he isn’t getting the leverage either of you need. You brace one hand against the wall as he fucks into you, pushing yourself back to meet him, but it’s not enough.

Frankie growls impatiently and hauls you to your knees, leaving you scrabbling for purchase amongst the sliding pillows. He pins you in place, one broad palm at the back of your neck, the brutal snap of his hips only gaining speed with this new leverage. You submit gratefully, hungrily, his dominance freeing you to give yourself over entirely to his sweet, savage thrusts. 

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” he snarls, deep and fierce and wild.

You don’t reply, not in words. Knowing there’s no one for miles you howl for him, keening for your mate as surely as the wolf on the mountain. Bent over like this, his thick cock feels like it’s splitting you in two, its blunt head pounding relentlessly at that spot deep inside that makes you wail.

You want more.

He knows.

“Greedy thing,” Frankie growls low in your ear. He’s leaning his weight fully on you by now, draping himself over your back, the two of you moving slickly together. Somehow, he works a hand between your bodies and you moan when his thick, searching fingertips slip and glide over your aching cunt. “Is this what you needed? My cock isn’t enough for you?” 

Wordless still, you shake your head, legs trembling and hips rutting desperately towards him while his fingers circle your swollen clit. Drool trails down your chin but you’re too caught up to either notice or care. Frankie is pushing you to new heights, your body writhing and squirming beneath his shifting, powerful frame, the muscles in his back bunching as he fucks you into the mattress. It’s primal, almost painful, but you’re beyond conscious thought, responding purely by instinct. 

“You’re close,” he pants, teeth closing over the delicate shell of your ear. “Do it, then. Come on this cock. Make a pretty mess for me and come right fucking now so I can fill you up.” 

That edge of dominance in his voice is all you need. In a sudden, tightening rush, your body obeys. The cry that tears from your throat is that of a wild thing as the walls of your cunt clamp down hard enough to shove Frankie out if he weren’t laying on top of you and you’re dimly aware of his own answering cry as, with a rippling, infinite sensation, you come. And come, and come. It feels endless, a never ending series of waves that ebb and flow while he fills you, honeyed brine and his own salty seed slicking down your thighs. 

On shaking legs, Frankie lays you gently on your side, using his own shirt to wipe you down, drying the worst of the damp ruin of the sheets below you. His lips press behind your ear and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his heaving chest once more. 

“Sleep,” he murmurs, running a soothing hand over your hair while you drift on a sea of pleasure, only half hearing him. “Get some rest, mi corazon.” 

—

You’re gazing out over the snowy mountains, your fingers splayed over a frosted windowpane. The glass is chill, unyielding- but brittle. You stare down at your dream-hand as, unavoidable as fate, it presses against the window until it creaks, the glass straining in its frame.

No, no-

Cobwebs mar the crackling surface, an ominous sound snapping beneath your palm. There’s an awful, drawn out beat and then-

Crack.

You break the water’s surface, flailing, pondweeds wrapped around your ankle to drag you down, down down-

No, sheets. Those are sheets. You’re back in the Millers’ cabin, safe in a nest of not just flannel sheets and handmade quilts but what you recognize by their slippery whisking as your and Frankie’s sleeping bags. He must have piled them on top of you to ward off any further chill. 

Maybe he was right and the fall through the ice rattled you more than you’d thought. 

You take a ragged breath, then another. You’re no stranger to nightmares, yours or his, and you close your eyes, soothing the panic galloping through your pounding chest. 

Calmer now, you open your eyes to take in your surroundings once more. The room is dark and still, though you can make out the dimly glowing snow, lit only by starlight, blanketing the nearby mountains. Snowflakes kiss and tap softly against the window glass, and seeing it whole calms the remnant of your lingering fear. 

A howl pierces the cold, glittering night and your heart skips a bit, waiting, hoping. Another song rises over the peaks, harmony and home, an assurance that the wolves have found each other at last. 

With a smile, you swing your feet over the edge of the borrowed bed and pad through the darkness to find your own mate.

—

Frankie’s absence when you woke pulls at you a little. Was he still angry with you? Had you dreamt his kisses, the words he’d murmured sweetly in your ear?

You don’t have long to wonder. As soon as you push up on the iron latch to open the rustic bedroom door, golden light welcomes you. It spills over the loft, gilding the birch railing and rag rugs. You step into the gold-limned dark, drawn on by the scent of cinnamon and the ringing notes of your favorite carol.

Worn pine stairs creak beneath even your quiet footsteps, giving your position away to a grinning Frankie. He’s kneeling in front of a Christmas tree, neatly placing a final carefully wrapped package beneath its scented boughs. 

“Hey, baby.”

His voice is soft and your tentative expression breaks into a sunshine smile. “Frankie, how-“

You gape at the cabin. It’s been transformed. Coffee filter snowflakes dance over window panes, lit from beneath by punched tin lanterns. Wait, no, those are soup cans, you realize with a delighted laugh. Frankie must have spent ages painstakingly punching out holes to create the swirling patterns gleaming like stars. The small Christmas tree propped in one corner is even decorated with a mix of what look like old-fashioned popcorn garland and the ornaments you’d brought from home, and both of your stockings, now laden with small gifts and lumpy parcels, hang from the mantlepiece.

This must have taken him hours.

“How long was I out,” you quip.

He chuckles and wraps his arms around your waist from behind. “Not long. I did a few things this morning.”

You reach up to kiss his cheek before settling into his hold, touched and more than a little relieved. “So you’re not still mad at me?”

“I was never-“ 

You cut him off with one raised brow.

“Fine. I was madder than I’ve ever been at you but… you know that was only the half of it, right?”

“Yeah,” you concede. What you don’t say out loud (though you’ll confess it later) is that you’d have been furious with him for pulling the same stunt. Instead, you lean back against him, savoring the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms, and the soft press of his lips against your hair. It’s easier, after that, to put the incident on the ice behind you and focus on the matter at hand.

Without stepping out of his hold, you crane your neck and grin. “Did I see stockings?”

—

By the time you’re nearly finished going through the stockings, any tension is long forgotten. Frankie had loved the hiking journal you’d gotten him (“Since you’re journaling more”), and you’re already wearing the silky scarf he’d gotten for you (“It matches your eyes, cariño”). There had been the usual assortment of more practical items- toothbrushes and chapstick, scented lotion and hand warmers - along with a few other gag gifts, favorite candies, and inside jokes, but they’re almost finished now. 

Laying the gloves aside, you reach into your stocking for the last item, expecting your fingers to meet the smooth, round skin of an orange. Instead, you draw out a foil-wrapped half of a chocolate orange. You raise your eyebrow at this. “Did you get hungry?”

He chuckles and pulls out the other half from his own stocking, holding it to yours to make a complete whole. “No, baby. Eres mi media naranja.” When you look at him, still puzzled, he explains “it means you’re my other half.” 

The other gifts can wait, you think, as you lean in to kiss him, languid and sweet.

–

Frankie has one more surprise for you.

When you’ve unwrapped what looks to be the final gift, he reaches into his pocket, drawing out a small, silver-wrapped box. “I have one more present for you, baby.” 

You reach out with trembling fingers. It’s light, and small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. Frankie takes a deep breath.

“I only got the call yesterday. That house we put an offer in on- that farmhouse with the yard you liked? The real estate agent got in touch yesterday.”

Your breath catches. A wild hope springs up in your chest but you try to rein it in. “Yeah, the owners said they had a better offer?”

“It fell through,” Frankie grins. “Open the box.”

Your fingers tear through the paper, lift the lid and reveal a shining silver key. You lift your gaze to Frankie, tears sparkling in your lashes, and all you manage is a strangled “really?”

“Really, baby.” His own eyes are watering as you launch yourself into his arms. “That key is just symbolic- we can sign the papers when we get home. If you still want to, that is.”

“Of course I want to,” you breath, face buried in his shoulder. “Oh god, Frankie I can’t believe it.” It doesn’t feel real yet, the idea too perfect to be true. “Our own house…”

The other presents lay temporarily forgotten as the two of you talk through all the projects you have in mind for your new home, the little personal touches you’ll make to make it your own. At one point you even pull out a seed catalog from one of the bags Frankie had retrieved from your car, already planning what to grow in your new shared garden. You’ve always wanted to try growing blackberries…

The wind and the wolves howl outside and a winter moon rises, spilling silver light over the snow while the two of you snuggle close, dreaming of your shared future.

[emma-ofnormandy]

Summary: Frosty gives Yennefer anxiety and Geralt has some smooth moves.

Prompt: Day 6: Domestic

Pairing: Geralt x Yennefer

Rating: General

A/N: Its all just fluff here. I'm beginning to realize I should have saved all of last year's Ficmas prompts for this event- I kind of struggled getting this one out. Read on AO3 if you prefer.

Outside the living room window, which was nearly hidden by the larger than expected Christmas tree, Yennefer watched fluffy snowflakes dance in the glow of street lights as she added tinsel and ornaments to the billowing fir. The house smelled of cinnamon, pine, and the soup she’d left simmering on the stove. They were the scents of the holiday season and it filled her with a warmth that was nowhere to be seen outside the protection of the house.

Beyond the glass the wind whipped across the street, making travel a perilous adventure. The weatherman had strongly encouraged everyone to stay home and stay off the road if at all possible and Yennefer hadn’t needed to be told twice. Weather like this was made for good wine, warm soup, and a night on the couch.

She had been left to her own devices most of the day, Geralt gone god knows where while Ciri camped out at a friends house for the night, and Yennefer had relished in the quiet. The radio played a Christmas instrumental and she caught herself humming along, a soft smile on her lips at the percussion’s take on hoof beats that echoed through the speakers.

The jovial, upbeat tune of Christmas music lifted her mood, the tune taking the weight that usually settled in her heart and sending it to depths unknown until the New Year. No matter if they were fast or slow, the chords of holiday songs touched a part of her heart that little did and she cherished the feeling the season brought her.

Tree limbs scratched against the side of the house and Yennefer jumped at a sudden movement outside the front window, her heart skipping a few beats before realizing the cause. Peering past the curtain, she gave an amused snort as the massive blow up snowman Geralt had staked in the front yard as it swayed violently against the winter wind. She hated the giant Frosty, but Geralt had an unhealthy attachment to the decoration and insisted on placing it front and center every year.

It was the neighbors who she really felt sorry for. As much as she hated the thing, she didn’t have to see it’s stupid grinning face every time she walked out her front. And it wasn’t as if the snowman was it.

Along with the gaudy snowman, Geralt had lined the outside of the house in icicle lights while the bushes were wrapped in their own colorful blinking display. There was a pair of light up reindeer next to the mailbox and, as an extra this year, Geralt had bungee corded Santa to the chimney at the peak of the roof.

Why their neighbors put up with their Christmas circus was beyond her.

The stomping of feet echoed from the back of the house and it wasn’t long before Geralt let himself through the backdoor, the gust of wind he let in coursing through the living room and sending the flames of the candles flickering.

“Yen!” he called from the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

“In here.”

She added another ornament, one Ciri had made that was covered in painted pasta with a picture of the child giving the camera a toothy grin in the center, to the tree and watched over her shoulder as he stomped his way into the living room.

“Why are you in the dark?”

Yennefer glanced around the room. The lights had been turned down and candles flickered above the mantle and on the coffee table. The antique Christmas village glistened in all its winter glory on the opposite side of the room as a fire crackled in the hearth. The room was anything but dark.

“It’s called ambiance, dear,” she teased, taking a sip from her wine glass, and turning her attention back on the fluttering Christmas décor outside.

He gave a snort on his way to the coat closet, apparently not appreciating the mood she had set for herself.

As Geralt undressed from whatever winter adventures he’d been accomplishing all day, Yennefer watched with increasing anxiety as the snowman continued to rock and the deer beside the mailbox knocked against each other.

“I don’t know if Frosty is going to survive this wind,” she muttered.

“He’ll be fine,” her partner urged, waving off the concern with a wave of his hand.

It had been quite the escapade to get the decorations up, and while Yennefer didn’t doubt Geralt’s skill, he had never been tested by winds like this before and Mother Nature was known to never back down from a challenge, her persistence usually winning over whatever man made structure was put in her way.

The icicle lights clattered against the side of the house and frosty’ s top hat gave a dangerous shake towards the power lines.

“You better have steaked him in the ground good. I don’t want us to be the reason the neighborhood loses power.”

“Yee of so little faith.”

The snort she gave was audible. She had faith all right, but it was in Mother Nature’s destructive tendencies. If the circus outside their house was the reason the whole neighborhood lost power, she would be mortified.

Intent on finishing what she started, and knowing that dwelling on the impending doom just outside her front door accomplished nothing, Yennefer turned her attention onto the tree.

Stepping back, she studied the decorative display with a critical eye. The crystal lights twinkled against the dark green of the foliage and ornaments filled the bows with color. She had hung tinsel in strategic locations, to complete the overall look, but still she found flaws.

“Looks pretty good to me,” came the smooth baritone behind her.

The warmth that surrounded Yennefer as Geralt moved closer made her smile, her skin warming where his hand rested over hers against the wine glass and bringing it to his lips to sample.

He hummed in agreement at her choice of drink for the evening.

“It still needs some more ornaments. And tinsel. The top seems a little bare.”

Geralt relieved her of her glass, taking another sip for himself before placing it on an end table, and shifted closer, nuzzling her neck. He left a lingering kiss just below her ear.

“Such a perfectionist.”

From the other side of the room, the classical instrumental changed and soon Yennefer caught herself humming along to the lyrics of Merry Christmas, Darling. The tune was mellow, a perfect melody for a cozy evening and Yennefer lingered, enjoying the feeling of having Geralt so close.

With the chaos that seemed tied to Christmas, and despite loving most of it, there never seemed to be enough time for the two of them to simply be. Like the joy the music brought her, Yennefer felt the little place inside her heart begin to warm again and the smile on her lips broadened, her heart stumbling over a few beats as the man responsible wound his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

Geralt began to sway to the music and Yennefer allowed herself to be led along in the motion. It was tempting to stay, to ignore the list of things that needed to get done and get lost in the moment, but if she did, it would only mean there would be more to do tomorrow.

With the love of holiday music and family time, there was also a list of obligations that needed to be met and what seemed like an ever growing list of  demands of the holiday season.

Reluctantly, Yennefer moved to step away from Geralt, intent on keeping herself on schedule, but his grip around her waist tightened.

“Geralt,” she chided, though there was no heat in her words as he spun her around to face him, “I want to finish the tree before dinner.”

“Plenty of time for that,” he murmured, his hands sliding up her side and back down again to rest against the swell of her hips.

The resolve to decorate melted away and Yennefer easily wound her arms around Geralt’s neck, her cheek resting against his shoulder. The house seemed to settle around them as they swayed in the living room to the crooning singer on the radio. The wind outside seemed to calm, the fire in the hearth gave a healthy pop and Yennefer soon turned her attention to the echoing of her partner’s heartbeat.

No matter the chaos that was forced upon them, be it the demands of the weather or the growing to do list, holiday or otherwise, their hearts beat to the same rhythm and Yennefer figured that was the most important.

Especially when she caught sight of Geralt’s favorite snowman rolling down the street.

[cocoapeach1]

Spiritmates (M): chapter 2 (zuko x reader)

Summary: You have a supernatural and rare bond with the Fire nation heir that is beyond anything you’ve ever known... only neither you or he knows it yet. His mission to capture the avatar is the exact opposite to yours - to help them. You’ll do whatever it takes. But so will he.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

FF Page

~

The prophecy

It was freezing.

So cold it almost like nature wanted to fight back in the less destructive and therefore limited ways it could.

But it would be to no avail.

Iroh supposed the Water tribe people were used to it - the chilly, bitter weather. He personally couldn’t stand it, much preferring a warm evening to relax in, and would be glad when he and his nephew eventually moved further down south to continue the chase.

Iroh sighed, warming up his quickly cooling cup of tea. He had known from the beginning that this mission was barbaric. Nearly impossible, even.

However there was something else Iroh had had his mind on. A prediction, a prophecy, that had been niggling around the back of his mind ever since it had been uttered to him.

It was almost 3 years ago now that his nephew and his crew were boarding the ship they would take for the perilous quest. People had come to see them off, give encouraging words and parting gifts.

Iroh had been the last to arrive, though only by a few minutes. Most of the small crowd had dissipated anyway, finding better things to do.

But there were two distinct people waiting for him whose presence made him wary.

Lo and Li.

“On the day the skies flow like blood,” one said.

“Our prince’s emotions will start to flood.” Came from the other.

“Time he now has to learn to hate,”

“And he will, until a special date...”

“When he meets his Spiritmate,” they chorused.

Iroh tried to act indifferent on the outside but on the inside, he was shocked to his core. A Spiritmate? That could complicate things. He settled for narrowing his eyes in suspicion at the pair of crazy old bats. He had never liked them and steered away from them whenever it physically possible. But this was his nephew they were talking about. And a potential Spiritmate of his.

“Where will they meet?” he had hissed quietly. The two siblings looked smugly at Iroh before replying. “Before a fight on icy terrain.” “And that is all we are able to say.”

Iroh shook himself out of his flashback and exhaled slowly, mentally preparing himself for the next day. It would be an interesting one, that was for sure. ~ Earlier before...

“The Fire Nation won’t win this fight (y/n).”

Your eyes widened comically at Zuko’s words. It was common knowledge between all nations that opposition of any kind was not tolerated in the Fire Nation by its citizens - the punishment for doing so was long term imprisonment.

“H-how can you tell?” you faltered.

He glanced away from you pensively, looking towards the shadowed alcoves of the courtyard.

“I just have a feeling,” Zuko replied. “Make sure you meet me and my uncle after, he’ll tell us what he knows.” I guess I don’t really have much of choice here... What if his uncle doesn’t know anything about them? What will we do? His amber eyes locked back onto yours, awaiting your response.

“Okay...” you agreed. The quicker you could get this thing removed, the quicker things would go back to being normal. Semi-normal at least. Little did you know how mistaken you were.

You sighed heavily before burying your head into Zuko’s coat for a second time, relishing in the constant warmth that emanated from his body.

Never before had you felt so relaxed than you did now and you had a strong feeling that Zuko felt the same.

For a long time the two of you stood in each other’s arms, savouring the peaceful moment you had found yourselves in, both not wanting to disturb it. But eventually, it had to be done.

“I-i have to go, (y/n)...”

You squeezed your eyes shut, heart clenching painfully.

“Be safe, Zuko,” you murmured into his chest.

Just as you were about to pull away, Zuko’s arm snaked around your waist and before you had time to react, your body was abruptly pulled flush against his.

A gasp escaped from you.

A smirk from him.

And ever so slowly, he began to lean forward, the tip of his nose brushing yours.

Your arms proceeded to slither up and around his neck, connecting at the nape before your lips met his for a passion-filled kiss.

~

He was absolutely revolted. Furious. Scarred for life.

How dare this Fire Nation scum have the nerve to even think about touching her. She was his. No one else’s. She belonged to him. No arguments. She was his and he was hers and that’s how it always would be. He had always loved her.

Ever since she had stood up to his bullies for him once when they were 7, Ali had loved her. She was strong, clever, beautiful and kind. What was there not to love about her?

Admittedly, most of this loving was done from afar but that was irrelevant. He regretted that she didn’t know what his true feelings for her were but that probably didn’t matter. Ali figured she probably felt the same for him and was too shy to say anything - just like he was.

He watched over her, was her protector at all times - just like she was for him once. Even when she slept. But that wasn’t creepy. If anything, it made his love for her grow, witnessing all the cute things she did unconsciously. Like when she would mumble things in her slumber or dribble onto her pillow.

She was the only person who could make him lost for words, make him nervous. She piqued his curiosity.

Despite this, Ali still couldn’t comprehend how his flower, his rose, his love had wound up in this shithead’s arms. Spirits above, she looked like she was enjoying it. No... that wasn’t possible... the son of a bitch keeping her captive probably manipulated her and she was confused. Or she was pretending she liked it so he wouldn’t hurt her. Ali’s lip curled up in disgust.

Poor baby. His poor, poor baby.

But why this bastard was even here in the first place, Ali simply couldn’t work out.

Her beauty was so great, Ali thought, it managed to lure him out... Yes that sounded about right. He sighed inwardly. After they’d get married he’d have to lock her away forever, keep her from people like this vile, wretched, fire nation piece of dirt. It would be cruel but it would be for her own good. He would be keeping her safe. Unlike this slob here - he didn’t even know that they were being watched. He didn’t know how to keep her safe.

Ali’s fists tightened by his sides. He ought to send him running back to his ship with the rest of his coward nation buddies, more like. Too afraid to fight while the moon was bright. Cowards.

Relief flooded through him when the object of his desire began to move away from the slimy thing. But it was not even a second later that the desperate shit had his arms wrapped around her - again - and rather suddenly since his pearl had let out a fearful squeak.

Ali fought the urge to shoot an icicle through his head. Whether the head was his own or the other man’s, he didn’t know. Honestly, he didn’t mind whose it was at this point. Temporarily engrossed in his thoughts, Ali focused onto them again, only to find the pair lip locked for the umpteenth time. His stomach roiled violently, causing bile to rise into his throat and that’s when Ali knew - he was going to murder him.

He had overheard their plans for her to meet him somewhere - where that place was, Ali didn’t know. But he’d follow her. Just like he’d been doing for years.

And with that last thought, Ali shrank further into the courtyard’s dark crevices, eager to plot his plan.

[stusbunker]

Known: Hell and Other Delusions

A Supernatural Dark Fan-fiction

Featuring: Dean Winchester x Demon!Reader, Dean Winchester x Female OC

Series Masterlist

A/N: With respect to my readers’ devotion to the show and its story lines, I have included dates relevant to air dates for reference points. I try not to repeat information you already know, but please ask if something doesn’t make sense! xoxo Stu

Warnings: Torture, captivity, demons, smells, pain, blood, bile, possession, hinted potential sexual assault, Slow Burn. Each chapter will have its own warnings, because I am generous like that.

Earth Date: August 16, 2008

Location: Hell, Alastair’s Quarters

“Does it have to smell all the time?” Dean growled as he sucked in a deep breath of the slightly less offensive office air.

“Well, it’s Hell, you see. If we made it aromatic, that would be poor marketing. Wouldn’t you agree Mr. Winchester?” Alastair didn’t look up from his notes, until the last syllable, brows lifted and face unimpressed.

“Your point? Over-promising and under-delivering would be worth it.” Dean muttered, mindlessly playing with the trinkets on one of Alastair’s clinically organized shelves. The Higher Demon sighed and tossed Dean across the room with a flick of his wrist.

“Don’t touch things that aren’t yours, Dean. Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?” Alastair stood and approached the paralyzed soul of his new apprentice. “Oops, I mean that petulant rage-o-holic father and that charcoaled corpse of a mother teach you any manners?”

Dean grunted against the strain of the demon’s strength, his voice stuck in his throat. Alastair glared back, allowing his true eyes to glow with power until Dean stopped struggling.

“You have patients waiting, Dean. Why don’t you scurry along to your post,” Alastair straightened the young man’s collar before patting him on the back, “Wipe that snarl off your face while you’re at it.”

Now that you knew it was him, the soul you had envied and empathized with over years of torture, you couldn’t help but take in his appearance in complex detail. The way his eyes shifted in the harsh light, gold giving way to moss covered teak. His teeth were impossibly straight, though you rarely saw them as Dean stood impassive above you. Light brown hair unchanging from the moment of his death. It was a solid year before you used his name, casually greeting him as he entered. His shoulders hunched, but his face bordered on endearment when he spun to face you.

The softness in his lips and the lines around his eyes were too sacred for this refuse pile. He was easier on the eyes than Alastair, though it hurt to look at Dean like that, even with his faux sincerity, it fluttered long forgotten feelings within you. He didn’t reply but cleared his throat and continued to sort through his tools. There was a crack that broke open in the back recesses of your logic that day, and something like a permeating gas sank through.

You weren’t the only victim who felt the grips of Dean’s rack, never the only one to feel his wrath. You couldn’t keep count of the other souls that filled the expanses of the chain webs, nor the dozens waiting in line for the first-class treatment that Alastair’s minions were renowned for. There was no point, with communication restricted and connection only giving the guards more things to use against you. You began to feel transparent once more, another one of the huddling masses from your former pit. Even among the most vindictive of captors, you were one of many that were carted to their dens, day in and day out.

Until that moment each day when Dean locked eyes on you and you felt all that delicious concentration for as long as you could stand him. Dean had learned over his years behind the blade, observed your tells and triggers, and used them to his every advantage. The choking moans and strangled cries each giving him more ammunition for his arsenal. You fed on the shadows in his eyes, the way they moved and lingered with every whimper that passed your lips.

Dean had started to crave the job as you longed for him to hurt you, to see the glint of his teeth as he grinned at your misery. The warping of your form was imperceptible to his untrained eye, but Alastair sensed its progress from his observation platform. He was nearly as pleased with his student as he was with himself.

Earth Date: September 2, 2008

Location: Bonaventure Cemetery (Outside Savannah, GA)

Chloe Collins cursed her choice in jobs as the clinging, swampy air soaked through her top while she filled the grave. Although the salt-and-burn was ordinary enough, the drive across country had left her restless rather than exhausted. She packed up her supplies in near silence and quickly wheeled onto the Interstate, with no discernible destination.

The weight of the humidity dampened her hair while leaving a sheen to her naturally tanned skin, she tried to ignore the less than subtle once over from the motel desk clerk. As if she could be anymore physically uncomfortable in that moment. She took the old metal key ring and gave him a toothless smile. The shower pressure did little to relieve the tension from her scarred shoulders, but CC used every drop of lukewarm water to wash away the sweat and filth of the last hunt.

Adabelle, GA

Ruby dragged her bag from the backseat of the Impala, sighing at the cliché décor of the patriotic motel. Loyalty to something as fleeting as political structures seemed a waste of initiative, if not all together disappointing to the demon encased in the trim brunette brain-dead woman. She followed the surly hunter she had latched onto into their shared room, curious to see what he possibly had planned for them in this corner of the Bible Belt.

Unfortunately for her, research involving the surrounding haunted sites was Sam Winchester’s primary agenda. Ruby dragged her feet, grabbing food and drinks while casually messing with the local teenagers loitering at the superstore. She smirked at the gawking boys complimenting her ‘cool contacts’ before stumbling out of the way. When she pulled into the motel’s parking lot a voice caught her attention.

“Hey Winchesters, you’re a little late for the case,” a curvy woman called across the parking lot at the Impala, Ruby noticed how the female hunter recoiled at the sight of her crawling out of the driver’s seat. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were somebody else.”

Ruby calculated the risk of confirming the woman’s assumption before she smiled politely. “It’s no problem, the car is kind of a giveaway there’s a Winchester within earshot.” Ruby shifted the bags into one hand, offering to shake hers. “I’m Ruby, Sam’s inside if you want to set him straight.”

“CC, thanks. What about Tweedle Dean?” Damn the innate skepticism, Ruby thought, but her face fell enough to cause the stranger real concern.

“I think you should talk to Sam about that,” Ruby nodded toward the grimy red door.

Earth Date: September 18, 2008

Location: Hell, Pit 2A

It was a cold day in Hell, which was not as uncommon as the phrase would have mortals believe. The biting chill snaked up the chains causing them to moan and freeze beneath the deadly forming icicles. And unlike your living experience, numbness and shock never saved your body from the burn of subzero temperatures. The imaginary needles struck every nerve against the unsuccessful shivering caused by the day’s environmental torture. Dean sat beside your restraining table as you were dragged in for your session.

His eyes rolled over your puckered flesh and frigid lips deciding how to proceed with such a canvas. You felt more exposed than you had in front of him, even more than on the days you were bare naked. His look broke you open, a freshly burst vein of emotion. It felt as if he was listening to your inner most secrets and finding them comically childish. You inhaled against the protest of your ice-lined lungs, ignoring the grubby paws of the demons locking you in place.

Dean circled the end housing your feet, cautious and calculating. He dragged his calloused palm over the crook of your ankle and the plane of your shin, instinctively you shied from the contact. Your toes clenched, and your legs fought against the restraints. As his hand slid over your knee, your mind began to spiral. Dean hadn’t slid into that sort of depravity, even after years yielding the position. You don’t think granting him that pleasure would bring you the sort of twisted satisfaction your periled screams had.

You didn’t notice the screams that broke off in the distance. Nor did you see the reflection of the implement in his free hand. All you could focus on was the weight of his hand on your thigh and the heat of his gaze. You pleaded against the muzzle, the leather and metal stifling your cries. Then the door exploded behind Dean in a shower of blinding light which flooded through the door way, inside out, from a dazzling human-shaped figure. The brass knuckles fell from Dean’s right hand as he gaped at the intruder. As soon as you saw it, your face grew hot, the layers of skin and hair melting away in the heavenly presence. Before you lost your vision, you caught the being’s shining arms grab for Dean.

In the darkness before your remaining brain deteriorated, the truth of what happened came to you on the wind. A victorious overture resonating the liberation of your captive captor. There were tunnels and passages, hidden doors among the rows of barracks which lead through the massive and complex layers of Hell. And while the security around the gates in Wyoming had been tripled and constantly tested since the mass break out that cost them countless souls and certain high-profile demons. Even the ways of Crossroad Demons were limited and utilized by those only deigned fit for teleportation privileges. In short, there was no way it should have happened. No being of darkness knew of the portal or the subsequent means that were taken to secure the extraction. And yet, the Angel Castiel entered the unfathomable depths of the abyss and raised Dean Winchester from perdition.

You awoke to the demanding voices of angry demons all around you. Your eyes had regenerated, which were soon followed by your tongue and lips. As soon as sounds could be formed you howled at your audience, the sheer terror from what you had witnessed, and the uncertainty of Dean’s fate culminating in a wail. The words came eventually, after a swift slap from a childlike demon you had never seen before. The combined rage from the loss of their Righteous Man rumbled the walls, and just as you had recovered, you were atomized once more.

The next morning the shift settled in your essence. You were no longer all soul, somehow a sliver of grey had wedged itself into your being; cracking you wide open.

Earth Date: November 2, 2008

Location: Hell, Alastair’s Quarters

The news was growing concerning, Heaven sinking to their level for an upper hand in a war they hadn’t earned. Hell’s agenda was clear, concise. Those winged light beams were painting targets on their own kind while leaving humanity to rot. Alastair read the messages that littered his inbox, rolling his eyes at the mess. He needed a release, he needed to feel the unparalleled bliss of flailing a soul within an inch of existence. He stood and walked out of the once-meticulous space. He wandered the halls between the various chambers of anguish, listening to the screams, waiting for the perfect call. He had lost his most promising protege, but there would be others. There already were many vying for the favor of the Master of Torture, but none had the passion Alastair expected.

He had a new crop of souls coming up from the lower levels due in any day. Yet, not enough had been turned since the momentum had nearly halted with the incident. It was then, when Alastair worried about the progress and purpose of his students that he heard her. She was like a phoenix, rising from the ashes. Her cruel retorts caused her guard to muzzle her before getting to her appointment. She giggled at the demon’s irritation, humming to herself beneath the strip of tanned hide. All was not lost.

It was a cancer, but like any transformation, the need for change only accelerated the process. Before long the lumps of logic, longing and empathy dwindled until they became cumbersome. The grey matter that had been pierced through you, had enveloped your remaining light. Alastair had taken it upon himself to continue with your daily sessions, stoking the fire of damnation that the loss of Dean and vision of a Heavenly Host had kindled within your soul-psyche.  He hadn’t loss any steps during Dean’s tenure.

Alastair carved into you like a miner drove through ore, searching, prying and chipping away at any and all valuables. He hummed when your eyes buzzed in your sockets, the onyx slowly flooding the Scleral tissue. His nasally voice recited all the changes you had undergone, and the awestruck anticipation of what your end results would be. Horns or a tail? Perhaps both. His list of your possible outcomes was as detailed as a spoiled child’s demands to a department store Santa.

Alastair was your gift wrapper and receiver, all in one.

But, like so many people in your human life, he left before he could see the scars, he had left upon you. Before you had blossomed into his reviled creation, Alastair returned to Earth in search of Dean and a girl who could hear Angels. The War for the Seals had escalated, and he was needed in the frays of battle. You took it extremely personally, futilely clinging to the scraps of humanity that remained in tiny pockets of your soul. Telling yourself that he would come back to finish his and Dean’s work. That if you remained microscopically human; your demonization would not complete. That they would be back to finish their job.

That you were not alone.

It was during one of your internal rants while hanging by your ankles below one of the chattering mechanical spiders that you realized Alastair’s last crescendo to your symphony. The feeling of loss and regret you had been wearing since the angel had melted your face was a wound akin to heartbreak. Love. They had given you your greatest torture to date: an unusable devotion to the once more mortal hunter Dean Winchester.

There were (and continue to be) innumerable ways to torture the human soul, emotionally, spiritually, physically. But that knowledge wouldn’t remedy this transgression, couldn’t right or lessen its burden. This unfulfilled longing was the purest form of torture. This blasphemy, this raw human ache was more than your warped being could endure. The frustration, of it stewing alongside the deepening darkness within you, shot through your very existence, burning, churning and scrambling you into something new. Something broken, yet focused. In time, you became fully demonic, raw and unfettered, but not without purpose.

tags: @dontshootmespence @because-imma-lady-assface @mrswhozeewhatsis @smi727 @sassykayla255 @dxr-supernatural-fanfic @supernaturalboi @dumbthotticus @eve05glee @veroinnumera @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @forgettingthoughts @shokushuhime-stuff @fanfictionrecommendations-com @soullesscollection-world @igotdressedthroughthemess @thoughtslikeaminefield

Next Chapter: Hunters

[pendragonfics]

H@CK3R

Paring: Griff/Reader

Tags: female reader, reader is a hacker, established relationship, canon compliant, angst, fluff.

Summary: The problem with being a paid hacker was that you could really do anything you wanted. Legally? Not really. But you still did it, even without the warrant required.

Word Count: 2,056

Current Date: 2017-09-14

The problem with working early was that the bed was too warm. Too soft. Too snuggly. And your bedfellow? Well, he was all that and more. Your boyfriend Griffin had been a one-night stand four years ago, and when you both had tried to sneak out of the motel the next day, you found each other struggling to make a getaway with a sock half on and buttons in the wrong holes, and decided that, instead of leaving it at the best damn sex you’ve ever had but at want to take this to Starbucks? It’s my day off. Then you just couldn’t get rid of each other.

He was like the white splotches to your panda, the cream to your coffee, the accelerator to your 1992 Chevy. When you came home early after early starts, he came home late after late stars, or whenever he pleased, really, smelling of engine oil or whiskey or someone else’s cigarettes. But waking up, well, that was the thing. You wanted so badly to be the small spoon to his larger one, wanted to stay so close to his chest and smell in the musk that was so Griff and trace your fingers over his tattoos until he woke up.

But you had work.

You always had work.

“I gotta get up,” you moan against his chest, one of those bear-like arms tangled close to your back, keeping you near his warmth. It was so nice, and if it was on your little-to-none paid holiday days, you’d savour it, but you can’t. Unless you want to be broke and snuggled up to Griff, you must greet the day. You groan when his arm grows tighter around your waist. “Griff…”

He groans back. It’s a guttural noise, animal-like, ferocious. But to you, it’s nothing but a kitten impersonating a lion. Griff might be built like a hurricane shelter, tattooed like bus stop, drive a battered pickup truck and swear like a sailor, but he’s a sweetie.

“Griff.” You repeat. “We can snuggle later. I’ve – I’ve got to get up.”

He makes another noise. Then, in that handsome accent, “Do you really gotta go?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

---

The problem with being a paid hacker was that you could really do anything you wanted. Legally? Not really. But you still did it, even without the warrant required. The man who hired you always pixelated his face when on the regular Skype, and spoke with a surprisingly All-American accent that most certainly pledged allegiance to the flag and then stole from it. Because that’s what you were – the canary. Back when miners were actual people who had pickaxes and dug for lumps of coal to burn, they had a thing where they’d use a bird to make sure it was safe. That bird was you – scoping out the world from behind a shield of encrypted software and ones and zeroes and code that you could do in your sleep. You figured out the chinks in the armour of Big Pharma and those seemingly impregnable places, and exploited them for your boss to do what he would with it.

And you just did it. You weren’t really morally flawed. Maybe just a teeny-tiny bit. A smidge. You still took the money from your boss, you lived from it. It’s what kept you from being just like your ancestors, starved by poverty or drowned in addictions. You kept hacking, you kept getting paid. Did it make you a bad person? You didn’t want to be a bad person. You helped elderly ladies make it to their cars when it was rainy and they forgot an umbrella. You let younger kids win arm wrestles with you. You knew all the lyrics to Mama Mia! The Musical! Bad people didn’t sing disco.

Griff caught you like this one evening. He came home smelling like engine oil again, his undershirt splattered with traces of it, his eyebrows quizzical and questioning your still fingers at the keyboard on your laptop. He knew you could write eighty words per minute, and when you were still, it either meant there were no words to come out, or perhaps all of them were stuck somewhere, aching to be translated from brain to keyboard.

“Babe?” He asked, and placed one of your knitted shawls over your shoulders. It smelt like something used in the washing machine, but with Griff standing over you, his scent overpowered that. “Something wrong?”

You shake your head, closing the screen. “Nope,” you reach up to stroke his facial hair, enjoying as Griff hummed as you carded your finger through his manicured hair. “It’s probably nothing.”

---

That night, instead of being in the crook of Griff’s arm, you’re positioned on the edge of the sofa arm like you only own that part of the chair, laptop perilously perched on your knees. Or rather, on a huddle of blankets and Griff’s jackets that are keeping you from turning into an icicle in the night air. The screen lights your face up as you plough through malware and firewalls, flicking switches in the code before you until it gives you a green light.

I’m in, you thought to yourself.

Your boss’s computer was not as well-protected as your own, and for that, you wondered how you’d never really thought of getting into the hood of his browser and looking at that secretive life lived. He had a folder of kid’s pictures on the desktop, some Freddie Mercury music, an unfinished picture of a boy with earbuds in from Microsoft Paint program.

You overlooked those. Instead, you fished deeper, going for the password-protected folders (an easy entry, your software could undo it easier than Griff undid your own bra) that were full of pdfs, documentation. Your eyes dart around the titles, and you realise. They’re all your files, things you’ve sent to him over time, all neat and tidily kept deep in his PC like archives of dirty secrets. There are files from six, seven years ago, as well as one you sent just three days ago.

“Tell me more,” you whisper to the empty air.

There’s no reply, unless you count the snuffle Griff makes, a snore, and a shift over the bed to the colder side of the mattress. Your side. But instead of thinking of how damn good it would be to be there beside your boyfriend, you return your attention to the screen. Closing that folder, you find one down the list titled crewmen. While the other folders are ordered by makes and models of cars, a word that doesn’t fit the cypher stands out like a grey hair on a dark-haired head.

You enter the folder, and blink.

It has thirty-six jpeg files in it, all labelled by surname. You know this, because you’re there, and so is Griff. The rest of the faces are unfamiliar, perhaps people you’ve met by off chance once in your life time, because they look bland. Unfamiliar. There’s a boy with sunglasses, like the drawing you found, an African American man, a woman with a small neck tattoo, an Asian man…you could keep looking at these unfamiliar people, but your eyes drift to Griff’s file.

Hesitantly, you click it. The photo is from before you met, and you only know that because there’s a tattoo missing under his ear in the picture. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t smiling because this picture is from a mug shot. You know Griff has done some shitty things and some shady stuff too, you don’t ask, but you just know. From what you can read from the jpeg, he’s from Arizona, has an offshore bank account and a long middle name you’ve never heard him talk about.

Next, you click on your file. It has a photograph of you, swiped from a post uploaded in 2011 from a deleted Facebook account. It has your name, your address, your status with Griff, your abilities, your wants, needs, life catalogued so neatly in Times New Roman font that it makes you retch, splutter, cough. Quickly, you swipe the two files, exit the hack, and toss your laptop onto the lounge, aghast.

You’ve found your answer.

---

When you tell Griff what you did that night, he’s silent. When his burner phone goes off, he doesn’t answer it. He’s just sitting there, looking at the files you’ve grabbed a hold of, lightly scowling at the picture of himself from years ago on your screen. You’re silent too. Sometimes, there doesn’t have to be words to say things. Sometimes, the silence speaks for itself.

“You work for Doc too?” He asks after a while.

You shake your head. “I don’t know who I work for.” You admit. “He’s very American, and we never see face-to-face. But he always wears a suit on Skype.”

Griff nods. “That’s Doc.”

You shiver. It can’t be coincidence that you’re both lovers who work for the same man. You’re no criminal, but from what you read, you see that Griff is, and constantly is. He’s the muscle, the intimidator, the man with a gun who tells you Shut up and give me the money! You can’t imagine Griff like that. He’s not like that with you. He’s got the words sand and wich tattooed on his knuckles (that was after a few too many drinks one night), and when it’s stormy outside he turns off his phone and keeps you close to him because he knows how much you hate thunder. But it says he’s killed people. Did it make him a bad person? You didn’t want him to be a bad person.

“I want to run away,” you whisper to thin air. “I can’t be responsible for this anymore.”

Griff types one finger at a time into incognito mode on Google Chrome, spelling out M-E-X-I-C-O. You shake your head. He deletes those letters, and types out, C-A-N-A-D-A. You don’t shake your head. Griff smiles, and while you flop backward in the chair, defeated at life and existence itself, his burner phone rings.

“Is that –,”

He nods. “It’s always Doc.” You swallow, watching as he flipped the archaic little phone open, holding it to his ear. You can’t hear the words on the other end, not with a speaker that’s straight out of 2003, but you get the gist of it from the way Griff’s mouth is twisting. At last, he snaps the phone shut, and a breath escapes your lungs. “Another job.”

You remember submitting a text file two days ago. It’s the last file you’ve sent, and while you’re sure he has a backup for you in case you go AWOL (like you’re planning to do), it’s the thought that counts. The last of your taint on the world around Atlanta.

“After…?”

You don’t need to finish. He nods. “After.”

---

When Griff comes home the night after the last heist, he’s gotten rid of his precious pickup truck and traded it in for an old 1970 Camaro. You raise your eyebrows at the muscle car, but remembering your boyfriend looks like a fiend and totally the type to not blink at in a jaded gem like a Camaro, you keep quiet. Everything in the apartment you can’t take with you has been methodically put into moving boxes stuffed with firelighters and newspaper, and with the sprinkler fire alarms on a well-paced timer, there’s sure to be enough damage there to erase all trace of you two existing in that apartment. There’s no way for sure you’re getting the bond back.

When you toss your bag in the back of the car, you jog up to the apartment, lighter in hand. But before you make the place go up in flames, you see you’ve left your laptop on the table. You know Griff is waiting on the street, and time is precious, but still, you log on, and open Skype messenger.

Screw you, Doc you type.

You flick the lighter, and light the wick leading to the boxes, leaving your laptop open, the screen to be soon burned to a crisp, hard drive fried as you and Griff leave your lives as criminals to become someone adjacent to that noun. You decided then and there, as you both hit the interstate that it didn’t make you bad people to bad things. Just people.

[permagoddess]

Spring forever appears the soothing music part of lyrics unspoken. It thaws the frozen fears, mends the wounded heart that Winter has broken. ~Aarno Davidson

Tomorrow is the national holiday of Ireland, St Patrick’s Day. As is the norm., the weather is promised cold and a little unpredictable in terms of snow, rain and wind. Here at Bealtaine Cottage the march of Spring continues unabated.

Spring makes its own statement, so loud and clear that the gardener seems to be only one of the instruments, not the composer.

~Geoffrey B. Charlesworth

As always, the mornings here are filled with promise and, usually, sunshine.

Ribes sanguineum have exploded into a bright pink fuzzy life, enticing the solitary Bees to awaken from hibernation.

Their heady aroma moves through the trees in a binding spell of delight.

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.

~Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Awake, thou wintry earth – Fling off thy sadness! Fair vernal flowers, laugh forth Your ancient gladness! ~Thomas Blackburn, “An Easter Hymn”

Hazel Catkins add a yellow hue to a backdrop of blue.

I’ve banished Winter, saith the Spring, Awake! arise, ye flowers! Brisk breezes blow, Bright sunshine glow, And rouse the young Year’s powers. ~Henry James Slack (1818–1896)

Despite March’s windy reputation, winter isn’t really blown away; it is washed away. It flows down all the hills, goes swirling down the valleys and spills out to sea. Like so many of this earth’s elements, winter itself is soluble in water…. It is a wet world, winter’s harsh grip beginning to relax…. An outcropping ledge on the hillside sheds its beard of icicles and becomes a seep spring that drips into a shallow pool that feeds a growing runlet.

~”Washing Winter Away,” The New York Times, 1964 March 17th

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show, And lilies face the March-winds in full blow, And humbler growths as moved with one desire Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire…

~William Wordsworth, “Poor Robin,” March 1840

And so by degrees the winter wore away… and the chill, bitter, windy, early spring came round. The comic almanacs give us dreadful pictures of January and February; but, in truth, the months which should be made to look gloomy in England are March and April. Let no man boast himself that he has got through the perils of winter till at least the seventh of May.

~Anthony Trollope (1815–1882), The Chronicles of Barsetshire

March brings breezes loud and shrill, Stirs the dancing daffodil.

~Sara Coleridge (1802–1852)

I hope you enjoyed this feast of Spring…Blessings X Colette

“A Cottage and Three Acres,” by Colette O’Neill

Please email Colette if you would like a particular inscription in your book.

€27,50

More titles…

https://bealtainecottage.com/bealtaine-cottage-publications-books-and-maps/

  A Feast of Spring Spring forever appears the soothing music part of lyrics unspoken. It thaws the frozen fears, mends the wounded heart…