#I stand by the notion that the best Christmas songs are the ones that are like . Not pretending to be secular

[adhdo5]

I have an irrational hatred of Chestnuts Roasting On an Open Fire I think either because roasted chestnuts actually suck and I was deeply angry about this or because I got it stuck in my head for too long or both

[not-alien-girl-v]

Never Be (Rory Keaner)

warning: me being lonely so i include too much detail of readers life and friends and beautiful house and neighborhood so i don’t feel as bad about my own ugly life <33 escapism?? i think so

note: here’s the song of the day / song to listen to while you read. or don’t. i can’t tell you what to do

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

Something about an elephant, a warehouse, and a blond head of hair. These were the only major parts of your dream that you could remember before the doorbell is suddenly ringing rapid-fire. You're awakened by it, however, you close your eyes to see if your parents are going to answer, but you spring into action the moment you remember your current situation.

Your parents are out of town for the weekend, so unfortunately, it would have to be up to be you to answer the door, which also meant you would have to leave your insanely comfortable bed. Curses.

The hardwood floors are ice cold even through your fluffy socks, and the t-shirt and pajama pants you wore to bed do nothing to make you any bit warmer.

You twist your hand around the banister of the staircase as you make your way downstairs, shivering at the lack of heat in the house, and you stop at the door to glance through the peephole. Through the small hole, you observe the same blond head of hair you had been previously dreaming about, and suddenly, the notion of leaving bed on such a cold day doesn't seem all that bad.

You twist the lock open and swing the door on it's hinges, smiling at the boy standing before you, joined with 4 of your best friends trailing behind, being Ethan, Benny, Erica, and Sarah.

If it weren’t for his vampiric endurance, he’d be panting out of breath at your doorstep, but he’s completely perfect as he stands before you and grins widely. By your arm, he pulls you into a tight hug that you’re glad you didn’t have to ask him for.

Erica pushes past you with a huff, not genuinely upset, just her natural peeved state, “get a room, you two.” You know she is going straight for your bedroom to raid your movie collection.

“This is my house,” you counter but it falls on deaf ears as she’s already most of the way up the stairs when you say it.

Rory’s still holding you tightly as you pat his back to let him know to let you go and he does, reluctantly, his touch lingering on the curve of your shoulder while he slips past you into the house.

It’s Benny and Ethan’s turn for a greeting now, and Benny holds up two of the latest installments of the Scream franchise, the 3rd and 4th movies, he waves them in one hand in front of your face.

“It’s your lucky day. Someone,” he points to himself, “figured out the basic spell of persuasiveness and got the deal of a lifetime over at Blockbuster. Two movies for the price of free!”

“The price of free?” You question. Him, Ethan, and Sarah follow you into the house and you close the door behind them, locking it.

“The price of free! It’s too bad the spell calls for such obscure ingredients, else I’d be able to do it all the time. How hard is it to find an albino dragon’s tongue, anyway?”

“Pretty hard. There’s only ever been 2 sightings of it in history and one of them was you last Christmas,” Ethan corrects.

“Hey it’s not my fault Rory’s so pale and knows how to fly! He’s practically translucent, reflective in the moonlight!”

“Is that, like, a vampire thing?” Ethan asks.

“Nope, just a Rory thing,” you answer, and lead rh all to the couch, seeing that Rory has collected a number of snacks from your kitchen, along with a plethora of pillows and a variety of blankets, and he’s thrown them loosely over the couch in front of your TV, which Erica is fussing with, inserting the fourth Scream movie, which has only just came out, and the 6 of you have been rewatching the previous one over and over in preparation for this release. Why did they have to wait 11 years in between 3 and 4?

Benny shovels handfuls of cookies into his mouth, soon becoming a game by the addition of Ethan, trying to see who can fit more in one’s mouth at a time without choking.

Rory’s about to jump out of his seat on the couch when you plop down next to him. He blushes at the closeness.

“Good morning,” you say to him, wondering if it’s too late now to say it.

“Good morning. Are you excited for the movie? I heard the cast is super good this time!” His step is too peppy for so early in the morning, maybe he stole some of his fathers coffee before he left home this morning.

His home, there’s something so wonderfully cozy and peaceful about his home. He has a mom, a dad, an older sister and a younger brother, and an orange cat named Garfield.

His house is the warmest home in the winter, his bed the softest, you wish you were over there instead of here, but you still have him by your side, so you’re not complaining too much.

You look at his face closely, “hey, remember when you used to wear glasses?”

He laughs, “heck yeah, I remember. My frames were so heavy, they recommended physical therapy for my entire face to support the weight of them.”

You scoot in, half because Sarah’s taken a seat next to you and half because you want to cuddle with your boyfriend. You lean into him, and let his arm fall around your shoulder, throwing one leg over both of his.

When Benny is distracted beefing with Ethan, you steal a cookie from the jar he’s clutching tightly in his hands. Breaking it in half, you hand one over in Rory’s direction only to find him waiting with an open mouth, and you gigglingly place it in his awaiting mouth.

Sarah is the designated ‘remote man’ and she’s not letting anyone else steal the duty from her, it’s hers and hers alone.

The group of you settle into your spots as the opening scene begins of the 3rd movie.

After an hour in, you begin to get restless, and you combat it by excusing yourself to walk out back, exiting through the back gate.

Your backyard is scenic. The ever green grass is lush within the confines of your back fence, but once you exit and continue further, there is a quaint little creek that flows right by.

When you were little, you and Sarah used to hunt for crawdads and give them names. It wasn’t until the 3rd grade that you learned some of the crawdads were boys and they shouldn’t all have been given girl names, but it was too late at that point. You wonder if Sarah still remembers it as vividly as you do.

You wonder if in 100 years, all your immortal friends that were once little children alongside yourself will have forgotten these humble roots from which they grow.

Rory, Sarah, Erica, they will go on being eternal teenagers, and you will grow old and gray and one day you’ll die and you hope for the sake of yourself, they won’t stick around that long to see the worst of it.

And Rory, he’s only 15 and he will always be 15. To start out with, you were already a year older than him, then a year of vampirism passed and you turned 17, things will only get worse the longer you hold things off and choose not to talk about these very real and serious issues.

You’ve resorted to sitting on a large, stable rock down by the creek to temporarily sort out your thoughts.

“Y/N?” You hear him call, he’s at the top of the small hill of your backyard, you’re far down below, and when he spots you there, he easily descends the trail of shaky shifty tiny rocks with ease, unlike your wobbling endeavor.

You glance up at him, “hey.”

He’s concerned, he comes and pushes you to the right to make space for him on the rock you sit on. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” You play dumb, and a lot of times, it works with him.

“You know what I mean.” Ugh, you hate when he gets reasonable. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, seeing him so grave and severe when he talks about the things that bother you. It’s good that he doesn’t take your issues lightly, but it’s still odd to see him so committed to something in this way.

You huff out a sigh and lean into his side. He lets you. “What are we even doing?”

“Oh, well we’re almost finished with the movie in there, but you and I are sitting at the creek.”

“I mean like, in the long run. Like, in 10 years? I’m gonna be… 27. And you’ll be 15. I’ll be too old to be this in love with you but I don’t think I can just stay friends. Maybe with Sarah and Erica, but not you, never you.”

“So what are you saying?” He’s pretty sure he knows but he wants you to elaborate anyway, last time he assumed he knew what you were thinking, he found himself waking up in the trunk of the principal’s car. It’s a long story.

“I’m saying that I’m going to die. I have about 70 more years, maybe less, then I’m out of here. Forever. And in those 70 years, you’re just going to be, what? My 15 year old friend? How are we supposed to keep going like this? Even in a few years, I’ll already be a grown adult, and I can’t expect you to string me along on your eternal teenage shenanigans. I’ll have my own life to live.”

“But don’t you want that? Didn’t you always say you wanted to live your life?”

“Only if it’s with you. It’s not living if it’s not with you.”

He turns and takes both of your hands in his and he holds them like you’re a fragile insect to his predatory species, which there is truth in, in this case. “Just tell me what to do.”

“I can’t tell you what to do.”

“Just tell me how I can fix this. For you, what can I do to fix this?”

Air puffs out your mouth like it’s a statement in itself, like a simple sigh will tell him there’s nothing you can say to him, that it’s his decision, if he chooses to make it. You haven’t spoken about this part before.

Frogs croak behind bushes and crustaceans wade in the shallow water that rushes past in a sauntering manner.

“I’ll become human again. I’ll find a way, go to the ends of the earth. Is that what you want? Do you want that?”

You aren’t sure what to say. You never are, but especially not now.

“I could turn you. We could be this way forever, but together. Nothing would have to change too much.”

“But is that what you want?”

He shakes his head confused. When is he not confused? “It doesn’t matter what I want, you’re the one who’s unhappy, it’s my job to fix that, I’d do anything-“

“But it shouldn’t be all about what I want, this has to do with you, too. It’s your decision to make.”

He stands up suddenly, pacing around. “So it’s on me to decide? I have to make the choice?”

You just nod.

“I can’t do that, I can’t- why can’t things just stay the way they are? Things are good. I like this, why do we have to change?”

“Because we can’t go anywhere!” You don’t mean to snap at him. You’ve never done that before, never had a reason to and never even had an urge to, but it truly just slipped out, without any control.

And you wish you could control the way he feels, but as tears start brimming his eyes, you know you can’t, you never can.

“I’m sorry, I just, I need to go,” you speak to him and swiftly scale the hill up the creek, hopping on your bike leaning against your back shed, and you take of speeding down the deserted suburban street you live on.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:*⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

[bechloeislegit]

25 Days of BeChloe Christmases 2022

Day 14 - The Christmas Fix-Up

Prompt from FanFiction User Lexi (Guest): Can you please do one where Beca and Chloe are best friends in elementary-middle school, and years later, they reunite at both their best friends' (Stacie and Aubrey) Christmas party?

Beca Mitchell met her best friend, Stacie Conrad, for lunch. Beca had barely sat down when Stacie brought up the Christmas Eve party she and her girlfriend were having.

"Come on, Beca," Stacie begged. "You have to come. Brey's got a friend she wants you to meet. She thinks you two would be perfect for each other."

"I don't know, Stacie," Beca said. "You know I hate blind dates. Especially blind dates at parties."

"It's a month away," Stacie said. "Just promise me you'll think about it."

"Fine," Beca said. "I promise I'll think about it."

"Good," Stacie said. "I'll let Brey know you'll be there."

"What? No, that's not what I said," Beca said.

"Give it up, Beca," Stacie said, smirking. "You and I both know you'll be there."

"You think you know me, but you don't," Beca said, looking at her menu.

"I do know you, Beca," Stacie said. "I know that you'll say yes because you really want to see what kind of girl Aubrey thinks is your type. I've met her, and believe me, she is definitely someone you would go for."

Beca hated the smug smile on Stacie's face and just looked at Stacie without saying anything. Stacie raised an eyebrow and continued to stare at Beca.

"Fine," Beca said, finally giving in. "I'll be there. Just let me know if there is anything you guys want me to bring."

"Brey's doing all the organizing," Stacie said. "I'll let you know what she says."

"Okay," Beca said, looking around. "Where's our waitress? I'm starving."

~~ 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases 2022 ~~

Three weeks later, Stacie walks into Beca's office and sits across from Beca.

"Is there something I can do for you, Conrad?"

"Brey wants to know if you would mind bringing some wine to the party."

"I can do that," Beca said. "Should I bring red or white?"

"How about both?" Stacie asked.

"Okay," Beca said. "Is that it?"

"Aubry and I are excited about you meeting her friend," Stacie sing-songed.

"Oh, right, Aubrey's friend," Beca sighed. "Tell me something about her."

"I can't," Stacie said. "I promised Brey I wouldn't tell you anything about her. You'll just have to come to the party and see her for yourself."

"Did Aubrey tell her anything about me?" Beca asked.

"No," Stacie replied. "She wants you two to meet without any preconceived notions about the other."

"Come on, Stacie," Beca whined. "You're supposed to be my best friend. Just tell me something about her."

"I am your best friend, and I love you," Stacie said. "But I love my girlfriend more, and if she says not to tell you anything about this girl, I'm not telling you anything about this girl."

"Whipped," Beca said, chuckling.

"That may be, but at least I'm getting laid on the regular," Stacie said smugly.

"Okay, we're done here," Beca said, turning to her computer. "I don't want to hear about your sex life or delve into the absence of mine."

"I'm sorry, Beca," Stacie said. "But I promised Aubrey I wouldn't tell you anything."

"I get it," Beca said. "But it's not like you've never broken a promise before."

"Want to grab lunch?" Stacie asked, changing the subject. "My treat."

"Can we go to Antionio's?" Beca asked, side-eying Stacie.

"Sure," Stacie said, smiling.

"Let's go then," Beca said, standing. "I'm starving."

"You're always starving," Stacie said as they made their way out of Beca's office.

~~ 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases 2022 ~~

It was Christmas Eve, and Beca was putting the finishing touches on her makeup. She checked herself one last time in the mirror.

"I guess I'm ready," Beca said.

She sighed and grabbed her purse, throwing in her phone and wallet. She picked up the bag of gifts and the wine and left her apartment.

Beca entered Stacie's house behind a small group and looked around. There were a lot of people, and Beca had to zig-zag her way over to leave her gifts under the tree. She didn't know where to put the wine, so she looked around for Stacie.

"Beca!" Stacie yelled, hugging her. "You finally made it."

"Here's the wine," Beca said, handing the bag to Stacie. "I didn't know where to put it."

"Come with me," Stacie said. "We'll get you a drink and then find Brey."

Beca followed Stacie through the crowd to the kitchen. Beca poured herself a drink.

"Let's find Brey so you can meet your date," Stacie said.

As they left the kitchen, Beca was surprised as it seemed the crowd had grown.

"Oh, there's Brey," Stacie said, pointing her out through an opening that appeared in the crowd.

Beca's eyes widened, and her lips broke into a smile when she saw the woman standing next to Aubrey.

"She's my date?" Beca asked, pointing to the woman.

"Yep," Stacie said, smiling at Beca's reaction. "Chloe?"

Hearing her name, the woman turned to see who had said it. Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes grew wide in surprise.

"Beca!" Chloe squealed and rushed over, pulling Beca into a hug. "I can't believe it's you!"

"I can't believe it's you!" Beca said, pulling back from the hug. "How do you know Aubrey?"

"We met in a yoga class, and we hit it off," Chloe said, wrapping her hand around Beca's arm. "We got to talking, and she invited me to the party and said there was someone I just had to meet. I had no idea that someone was you."

"What Chloe failed to mention is that she did nothing but talk about her best friend from when she was a kid," Aubrey said, joining them. "When she said your name, I just knew we had to bring you two together. I told Stacie, and we concocted a plan to have you reunite here at the party."

"This is amazing," Beca said. "How long has it been?"

"Gosh, like twelve years," Chloe said.

"You look amazing," Beca said. "Although, I always thought you looked amazing. I know you're not going to believe this, but I had a huge crush on you back then."

"I had a huge crush on you, too," Chloe said. "By the time I realized I liked you, you had moved. I always wondered what happened to you."

"My parents divorced, and my mom and I moved to Seattle to live with my grandmother," Beca said. "I never forgot you and think about you all the time."

"Do you want to maybe exchange numbers?" Chloe asked. "I'd love to get together in a quieter setting and catch up."

"I'd like that," Beca said, retrieving her phone from her purse. "Here, put your number in, and I'll call you."

Chloe set down her drink and took Beca's phone. After adding herself to Beca's contacts list, she handed the phone back.

"I'm gonna get a fresh drink," Chloe said. "Would you like something?"

"I'll go with you if that's okay," Beca said.

Chloe took Beca's hand and headed to the kitchen.

"They are so going to get married," Stacie said as she and Aubrey smiled and clinked their glasses together.

~~ 25 Days of BeChloe Christmases 2022 ~~

A year later, Chloe and Beca were getting ready for Stacie and Aubrey's Christmas Eve party.

"I love that dress on you," Beca said, wrapping her arms around Chloe from behind.

"You say that about everything I wear," Chloe said.

"Well, then it must be true," Beca said, kissing Chloe's shoulder before pulling away. "Do you think Aubrey would kill us if we decided to stay home?"

"Oh, she definitely would," Chloe said, laughing as she put on her earrings. "Especially when Stacie proposes, and we're not there to see it."

"I almost forgot about that," Beca said. "Do you think that will be us getting engaged in a few years?"

"I hope it's sooner than that," Chloe said, chuckling.

Chloe gasped when she turned and found Beca down on one knee.

"Is now soon enough?" Beca asked, holding up a ring box.

"Oh, my gosh," Chloe said as she stared at Beca.

"Well?" Beca said, raising the ring higher. "What do you say?"

"You haven't asked me yet," Chloe said, grinning.

"Chloe Beale, will you marry me?"

"Um, can I think about it and get back to you?" Chloe said, smirking.

"The offer expires in exactly ten seconds," Beca said, standing to face Chloe. "10. 9. 8. 7. 6-"

"Yes! Yes, I'll marry you," Chloe said, laughing as she leaned in to kiss Beca.

Beca wrapped her arms around Chloe's waist as Chloe put her arms around Beca's shoulders.

"I love you," Beca said as the kiss ended.

"I love you, too," Chloe said. "Oh, Brey is going to be so pissed when she finds out we got engaged before she did."

"You've seen the ring Stacie got her," Beca said. "She'll get over it."

"Merry Christmas to us," Chloe said, laughing as she pulled Beca into another kiss.

A/N: My apologies that it's so short, but posting a fic a day doesn't leave much time to flesh out some stories. I do hope you like what I did with it.

[starshipsofstarlord]

‘Tis The Damn Season | Hamish Duke

Warnings; includes angst, implications of smut (not too detailed), breakup, heart ache, sacrifice, pain, and angst again

Based of ‘tis the damn season by Taylor Swift

If I wanted to know who you were hanging with 

Whilst I was gone, I would’ve asked you

Belgrave, home. For a while, you had thought that Hamish had served as that shelter, but the brick road broke, splitting the pair of you apart. It was as though the pair of you were ice, thawing over the time that the independent plan had been brewing.

This place, it was to be missed. It was a great step of a risk that you were to be taking, and so was the weighing of your heart. It felt as though it would be difficult to carry, it would remain with you, surely even after you crossed and exited the borders of the town.

Leaving overall, let alone him was to be exceedingly difficult, any attachment had to be released, like a bird from a cage. But birds in cages had routines, they’d be fed, and get affection, but this one wouldn’t. He’d just be abandoned, left to fend for himself.

The man that had been the only dream that had rendered your brain at night placed the guitar into the back of your car. He knew that it, what you had, was ending.

This was the end, and alternately not the one that Hamish had been expecting. If you were leaving university behind you, in the reflection of your rear view mirror, he would be left standing, alone and broken hearted.

It’s the kind of cold, fogs up the windshield glass

But I felt it when I passed you

“Goodbye Hamish.” It felt like a cruel lyric that would be used in a song, a line you’d harmonise on stage.

Getting into the drivers seat, you allowed yourself a first and last glance through the chilled glass, blinking away any tears that threatened to spill.

He was a good man, there were great things ahead of Hamish Duke. But none of that included you, this was his journey now, you had already made the choice of yours.

And this was the price of it, the freezing of your heart; the truest and purest love that you had ever felt. No matter, you had already paid it, and caused pain for both Hamish and yourself.

There’s an ache in you, put there by the ache in me

But if it’s all the same to you

It’s the same to me

Turning the ignition on, you proceeded to drive past everything that you had ever known, all that you had love for.

The smallest distance seared a wrenching ache within your chest. It felt like a punishment for putting yourself first for once, it made you concerned, surely it shouldn’t have.

The car’s slow pace had Hamish biting his lip, containing any of his avid disagreements to this. He understood your priority, respected it even, but none of that made watching you leave any easier.

If anything, it gave him an urge to turn and head to a bar or something of the sort. But he remained, his heart sinking lower as you got further from his line of sight.

It shouldn’t have heart him as much as it did. It was common knowledge that first loves weren’t eternal. Time would only help him accept that cruel fact, or so he thought.

So we could call it even

You could call me “babe” for the weekend

Hamish’s body was under bliss, he had found his solace once more. He fit perfectly upon your nude form, it felt like his soul was rebuilding itself.

But he had to remember that you were only here for the weekend, you’d soon be gone again. And he would fall apart all over, just like the first time.

“Babe.” The blonde moaned, his hands intertwining with yours, he had missed more than just pleasure from your entanglements. He had beyond missed the entirety of your being.

The name that you were keen to lap from the tip of his theoretical tongue was a misplaced comfort. It shouldn’t however have the effect of such comfort, not when the pair of you were claiming to have been trying your hardest to move past what you had once been.

It was an old and tiring routine, that you were prone to returning to. The sinful actions were bad for each of your mental health, but it felt right to argue against it.

 The wisest decision would be to forget Hamish, and every notion he inclined you to feel, but it was too difficult, especially when he had you seeing orgasmic stars.

‘Tis the damn season, write this down

I’m staying at my parents’ house

“Aren’t you seeing any old friends from university this Christmas?” The question was poised by your mother, she was far too concerned by the fact that since your arrival you had hardly left the house.

It was even blurred by snow outside, not too much to the point where you’d have to be shovelling it from the porch, but it was enough. It was beautiful, perfect for this time in the season.

In fact, you loved the snow. But the memories that bombarded your mind from the wonderful weather had your mind rolling back to Hamish, specifically how blue his eyes appeared amongst the frosted surroundings.

The thought had you sniffling, holding in a post breakup breakdown from your mother’s eyes. She thought you were sick, demanding that you get something for ‘that runny nose of yours, it could be contagious’.

And the road looks real good now

And it always leads to you and my hometown

The exact second that you entered your car, your hands sternly hit the steering world. Were you not allowed to follow your career through the workings of the world without punishment?

Because it sure felt that way, as though you were being a rebel in a war, however the battlefield was that of your heart. It was tearing slowly, and had been over the entirety of your hopeful escapade.

It cried regularly to be united back with Hamish, to its rightful home. It was suffering from separation anxiety from him, clouding the gaps in your brain and making them think about the tall, handsome man alone.

And the road taken looks real good now

And it always leads to you and my hometown

Every time that you were in your car, it felt like you were leaving home all over again, and Hamish would be standing by, with his upset aura, trying his hardest to keep himself together.

It was the worst feeling, knowing that exiting town was essentially the same as stabbing him in the heart. There was no feeling worse than knowing that you had hurt Hamish, you still felt more than something for him.

Whenever you’d come by of a weekend, which was every couple of months, occasionally each few, you’d take the pill of seeing him. But not too long ago, you’d realised how cruel the self invitation really was.

He had been growing used to life without you, and then you’d reappear, lounging in his bed, only to rip away from him and cause a terrible ache in his heart when you’d return to your performing duties. It was unfair, so you refused this month to allow him to know that you were back, otherwise the painful pattern would only continue, and there’d never be an end to it.

I parked my car between the Methodist

And the school used to be ours

Belgrave university was right beside the pharmacy, it only made you feel actually sick. The memories from the school were returning, there were so many of them, it was as though they were trying to anchor you in the snow as you stepped out of your car.

Almost all of them included Hamish, he was the main attraction of the university anyways. But perhaps you had stood there reminiscing longer than you should have, because it seemed that you had drawn some unwanted attention.

Hamish. He was walking from the entrance, a sombre expression had been held upon his face until he saw you. And then his face was rivalled with hope and confusion, you hadn’t informed him that you were back yet.

He’d already expected you to be returning for the holidays, mostly for your family, however, you hadn’t told him, and from the wideness of your eyes, the realisation kicked into his instinct. You had had no intention to.

But he continued to walk towards you anyways, trying his best not to smile and coo at the adorableness of your red nose.

The holidays linger like bad perfume

You can run, but only so far

The thought of making a leg for it, sprinting as far away as possible, or getting back into your car and steering away certainly crossed your mind.

This interaction was certainly not a miracle of the season, it felt like a curse, ascending from hell itself. You hadn’t wanted to see him, but the universe had interfered and made a collaboration.

I escaped it too, remember how you watched me leave

But if it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me

However every time you came and left, this building confrontation had been avoided, with you packing your suitcase for the umpteenth time, zipping each of your mouths shut and hearing nothing but the sound of the wheels rolling across the concrete of your family’s driveway.

Now, to contradict it all, the pair of you were stood upon even ground, it wasn’t outside of either of your homes, it was strangely the perfect place for this. And you found your dread slightly dissipating, aware that this was always going to happen, the road had just ended.

We could call it even

You could call me “babe” for the weekend

He was confused as to what to say or do. This was the first instance that he had seen you again in a place other than in his sheets, it was overwhelming.

“You haven’t been answering my messages.” His tone was calm, but in it, pain was presented, his sad blue eyes also justified that aspect of his aura. “Here for another weekend?”

It came across as less pleasant than he had anticipated, he was stressed to say the least. Something happened to him, it was out of the ordinary, he had wanted to speak to someone, and the first person that had came to his mind was you.

‘Tis the damn season, write this down

I’m staying at my parents’ house

Wringing your hands at the sound of his voice, it was visible that his presence made you nervous. That wasn’t what he wanted at all, he already scared himself after that sheathing of wolf fur wrapped itself around him and chose him as its vessel. His intent wasn’t to make you mirror his discomfort.

And so he uncrossed his arms, putting them into his trouser pockets and tried to look as relaxed as his exterior could fathom.

“I’m staying with my parents, it’s the holidays and all. Had to come home somewhen.”

And the road not taken looks real good now

Time flies, messy as the mud on your truck tires

But you knew, that it was all to return to him. That was the universe’s plan for you, if you ever tried to get away, it’d only force you to reconnect once again. There was no escape, and a part of you was not complaining about that.

The other however was outrageous, nothing could ever be easy, it all drifted down shore from the plan, the ultimate dream. Using your voice to sing was the goal, however here you were instead, mentally cursing and dragging the name of the planet through the darkness inhabited in your neurons.

Now I’m missing your smile, hear me out

And the road not taken looks real good now

Right now, all you wished was to stay. His smile was inviting you to do, and so you stepped cautiously towards Hamish, hands going to his face and pressing the pads of your fingers to his cold cheeks.

Snow began to fall, but you could care less. It already felt like there was a blizzard forcing to search for shelter, and here it was, in the body of this one man. He was different from the rest, he was your road, the one you wanted to continue on, rather than drive away from.

And it always leads to you and my hometown

Sleep in half the day just for old times’ sake

His eyes shut at the contact, it was far more passionate than the times you had seen him during your occasional visits. Don’t get it mistaken, the sex was great, however it was a coping mechanism, rather than a true example of love.

There had been something missing, at first you assumed that it was the lack of labels between the two of you, however you proved yourself wrong after realising that it was the proximity that the pair of you had once had.

The loyalty, the trust, the knowledge that the two of you had traded. It had always been mutual, and so was this heartache, it wasn’t fair for the pair of you to be apart, yet still suffering from more than the distance.

I won’t ask you to wait if you don’t ask me to stay

So I’ll go back to L.A. and the so-called friends

There was one singular thing that Hamish desired to ask. However it’d be a two way street of cruelness if he allowed it to slip. But if he gave it permission to leave his mouth, then perhaps it would be a different story.

Everything could go back to normal, the way things had been. Except from him of course, he was forever changed, he was the house to a creature so unbelievable, yet proven real, that he could not just dispose of it. That would end in his death if he were to split from this monster within him.

But he would also die if he had to be distanced mentally from you any longer. He took one long stride of his leg, cupping the edges of your face, and clashed the two of your lips against his own. The contact was hungry, needing to swallow any last breaths that could possibly be breathed in each other’s presence.

If he had it his way, he wouldn’t break the unison against you, however he had to, otherwise he would surely have to catch your tired body, not that that would be the worst thing in the world.

“Stay, don’t go again.” It fell, permitting a moment of silence in the air. This required thought, but the answer could be sudden, if it were, then that would be the true response that he was seeking. It would be an instinct to remain here, with him, at your home.

Who’ll write books about me if I ever make it

And wonder about the only soul

It made a sigh tumble from the hollow of your throat, as though you were shocked by his defiance and desire. However you were not, the grand query was to come to pass sometime, it had been eventual, until now.

He had finally ripped the band aid from the soreness upon his beating chest, and done so to your own. He had opened the wound, allowing it to breathe in the surrounding air, making your own hitch as you thought of an appropriate reply.

It wasn’t professional to be so swayed by his proposition, however, what about all that you wanted to accomplish? The career you were pursuing, the town of Belgrave wouldn’t be so kind to permit you the reputation you were seeking. 

“I don’t know what to say.” The truth left your lips, the mind that was being stalled by all the possibilities, the two paths that were duelling for your footsteps, was suffering from total confliction. There was no easy answer, either way, you were to be giving something you loved up.

Who can tell which smiles I’m fakin’

And the heart I know I’m breakin’ is my own

“How about yes?” He was desperate to hear it, the confirmation that you would remain with him through the tough time that he was painfully living through. Your absence, albeit how it was completely your choice, did not help the situation. 

Hamish needed someone that not only he could rely on and trust, but would help him. Somebody whom could keep him in touch with his human side, and away from the likening to alcohol that he had picked up upon now that he was legal to purchase it himself.

“Okay. I’ll stay for a little, but no promises to it being permanent.” You had been swayed by not only his engorging blue eyes, but also the pain, the pleading that echoed behind them. He was desperate for you to remain with him, and you feared for his mental health if you didn’t compromise.

To leave the warmest bed I’ve ever know

We could call it even

Even though I’m leaving

The pin had dropped, the choice had been made. The sacrifice bled out from your heart, the same red as the sheets that were currently around you. Hamish stared up at the ceiling, his hand softly stroking the skin of your shoulder.

“It’s funny, every time that we spend the weekend together like this, I tell my mum that I’m seeing an old friend from school.” The sound of your voice pursed a smile to Hamish’s face, he huffed a small, almost wolfish laugh.

“That’s kind of the truth, if you think about it.” He pulled you closer, placing a slow yet short kiss upon your lips, to which you reciprocated. This had been the best choice that you could have made, for not only the man nestled in the bed beside you, but also yourself.

And I’ll be yours for the weekend

‘Tis the damn season

We could call it even

It was both a selfish and selfless call that you had taken. One that perhaps one day, you would kick yourself for making, but right now, you held no regret to it. Hamish had been your first love, and fate had it so that he would also be your last.

“My mum would be over the moon to know that I was with you rather than one of the girls that I took bio with.” She had forever been fond of Hamish, even before the two of you had became an item. Even your father had a likening to the young man. The pair would pleased that the two of you were still in communications.

“What are we now?” He asked seriously, he had reeled enough answers from you for one day, however it was another thing that he would have liked to know. He didn’t merely want you to be his only over the weekend, he wanted it to return to the way it all was, before your first departure, he’d ensure that you had already taken your last ticket out of town.

You could call me “babe” for the weekend

‘Tis the damn season, write this down

“Us, I suppose. The equals to one another, as we always were.” His dimples showed at the clarity that you provided. Until he felt a pain in his back, it cracked up through his spine as he felt it begin again.

The dreaded transition, the curse was sparking to life in the worst possible moment. He needed you to be away from him, if he harmed you, then that would surely kill him. He couldn’t have a mark from his own hand upon you, it would be against his will, but the blood would have still been drawn by himself.

I’m staying at my parents’ house

And the road not taken looks real good now

Time flies, messy as the mud on your truck tires

Hamish’s sudden seating in bed had you frowning, your hand caressed his his shoulder, however he snarled at your touch, harshly shrugging you off from him. To say you were worried was an understatement, in the light of the afterglow, he had always been quiet and calm, but this was something you had never witnessed. 

If you believed in anything beyond this world, perhaps you’d have suspected he was possessed by something greatly evil and controlling. But they were all tales, fiction and fairy tales that were drawn into illusions and dreams.

“Are you okay?” He wasn’t, and if he didn’t get space from you, then you too would be suffering. And so he spat the only thing that he could think of to get you to spook, to run far away from him.

Now I’m missing your smile, hear me out

We could just ride around

And the road not taken looks real good now

“I’ve changed my mind. Leave!” It was as though he roared the words at you, and he had you in a haste to scramble for your clothes and leave his room. This wasn’t supposed to happen, none of it. But he knew that he had been too greedy, he couldn’t be alive with this horrible circumstance that was inside of him and have you. 

It may not have been fair, but it was the safest route. In the end, he had figured it out, you couldn’t help him with this. He didn’t want to tell you, he didn’t want you to know that he was a monster. 

You never believed in the supernatural anyways, and that was now for the best. It would make you safer, and more importantly, have faith that he was just a jerk, not some killer that hunted under the full moon.

And it always leads to you and my hometown

It always leads to you and my hometown

You had escaped from your hometown. But Hamish would always draw you back, one way or another...

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Get a Hairband or Get a Haircut (Bi!Spencer Reid x Male!Reader)

Summary: Spencer’s boyfriend sees Spencer with his hair in a bun. He pulls some strings to make sure he’ll see that sight more often.

AN: Look, I just want to see this man with his hair up. Thank you to my pals on Discord for prompting me to write this!

Word count: 2.3k

Your name: submit What is this?

“Some of the worst mistakes in my life were haircuts” ― Jim Morrison

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Spencer’s attention was drawn away from his stack of paperwork when he spied, out of the corner of his eye, his boyfriend approaching his desk. Y/N looked as handsome as ever in his work’s uniform, the FBI VISITOR badge pinned above his heart. Spencer sat up straight first, like a meerkat, then stood to attention with his cane in one hand.

“Hey, Y/N, what are you doing here?” He asked, fidgeting with a pen.

Y/N held up one of their Tupperware from home, “I took your lunch by accident.”

“Oh, I didn’t notice. Give me a second.”

Bringing it up onto his desk, Spencer began rifling through his bag. He managed to keep up the persona of a man who had definitely not swapped lunches so that he could see his boyfriend again during his work day.

When Spencer turned back to Y/N, Y/N was just beaming away at him. Yeah, this switch-a-roo was definitely worth it. He couldn’t help but smile back as they swapped lunch boxes.

“Thanks,” Y/N said then used it to gesture over his shoulder, “I gotta head back to work quick, so I’ll see you tonight.” Before leaving, he bit his lip and took a step back, “I dig the new ‘do by the way.”

It was then that Spencer remembered his hair was still up in a bun. He’d asked JJ to borrow a hair tie after his overgrown fringe had fallen in the way one too many times. His neck went a light shade of red as Y/N blew a kiss to him before turning around to leave the building. His hand went to the back of his head, fingers wrapping around the bun to confirm that yes, it was still there. Spencer watched until Y/N rounded the corner towards the exit. Then, and only then, did he sit back down and return to his files.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

It had always been an easy target for the BAU team to playfully poke, Spencer’s hair. The boy band trim was a classic case of “let’s make quips at Doctor Reid”. Y/N wasn’t above joining in the teasing whenever it arose. One of his best jokes was that Spencer would often enter a raid with his hair bouncing around like an Afghan Hound trotting to first place at Crufts.

Y/N saved the praise for when they were alone.

That evening was no different to any other, plus the promise of a lie-in the following morning. Y/N made dinner for himself and Spencer – left warm in the oven for whenever he came home – and got out of his work clothes as soon as he could. He ate alone on the sofa, with his feet up and the dish on a cushioned lap tray.

The news was depressing, the game shows were dull, the documentaries were dismal. TV had really let itself go in terms of what it broadcast for the nine-to-fivers.

Pulling one of Spencer’s hairs out of the keyboard, Y/N pulled up a film on his laptop and linked it up to the TV. He retrieved one of his bags of candy from the coffee table’s drawer. The theme song skipped, he watched without extreme attention paid to the events unfolding. One episode blended into another, paused so that Y/N could change out of his work clothes before he got too lazy. He returned to his warm spot on the couch and snacked mindlessly until-

The front door clicked open and again when shut. Tilting his head back, Y/N was greeted by Spencer kissing his hairline whilst walking by. Y/N hummed, his eyes drifting shut at the gesture, and Spencer smiled – his hand squeezing on Y/N’s shoulder before letting go.

“How was work?” Y/N asked, watching Spencer head straight to the oven.

He pulled out the dish and spooned some of the lasagne into the bowl Y/N had set out for him, “Uh, just paperwork today mostly. How was your day?”

“Just the usual my end too,” Y/N joined him at the table, eating the rest of his snacks.

For a while, they exchanged a catch up on how things in their respective offices were going. Y/N had hidden an electronic whoopie cushion in one of the filing cabinets opposite his desk and activated when a person passed by. It took until an hour before the end of the day. Meanwhile Spencer had performed his new magic trick on Penelope, Prentiss, and JJ. Derek had ducked away into Hotch’s office before he could try anything.

Y/N could only keep his glee hidden for so long though.

“I got you something.”

And he pulled the present from under his legs and placed it beside Spencer’s plate. Brown paper – recyclable, naturally – and string neatly tied it together. It was straight from a story book.

Spencer put down his cutlery and lifted the gift gingerly, his eyes moving across the folds to try and determine what could be inside. It was light, a bit squishy. Then impatience took over and he became a kid at Christmas tearing away at the paper to free his present.

His chin in his palms, Y/N watched nervously as Spencer released his present, “Figured you should get some of your own, stop you stealing from JJ.”

It was technically a gag gift, but if Spencer was genuinely up for tying his hair back with one of these seven scrunchies, so was Y/N.

“You’re hilarious and you can cook,” Spencer spun the packet around his fingers, “When did I get so lucky?”

“Should be asking myself that, with the smartest and most gorgeous doctor in my apartment.”

A pair of scissors from the drawer snipped the plastic ties off and Spencer selected the purple one. He slipped it on his wrist, beginning to scoop his hair to the back of his head. Y/N watched, enraptured as Spencer pulled the scrunchie over the bun and twisted it around until it was secure.

“You are so pretty,” cooed Y/N, “The FBI’s Next Top Model.”

That bashful smile, the crinkles in the corners of Spencer’s eyes, they were all parts of why Y/N loved complimenting his boyfriend.

Spencer finished dinner with his hair still up and Y/N was delighted to see he kept the scrunchie in after he’d changed in his pyjamas. Footsteps plus a third beat were cushioned against the rug before vanishing when Spencer daintily placed himself into the sofa cushions. Y/N already had the blanket up for his boyfriend to tuck himself in, all ready for their Doctor Who rerun to continue.

It took about a minute for Y/N’s attention to be drawn from the TV and to Spencer. He wrapped his one arm around him, the old yawning in the movie theatre trick, and he didn’t miss the corner of Spencer’s mouth twitching at the gesture. Y/N’s arm bent to play with the strays that floated on the air above his head, stirring them around.

He tapped the scrunchie, “Take it out.”

Spencer squinted curiously, though he kept his eye on the TV, “Sick of it already?”

“Your hair’s too lovely to be trapped in a scrunchie all the time.”

With an affectionate eye roll, Spencer complied, teasing his hair a little until it was in its usual unkempt state.

“I should probably get a trim; it keeps falling in my face,” He said quietly.

“I reckon you could get a reverse Mohawk and I’d still love the bones of you.”

“A reverse Mohawk?”

Y/N nodded then mimed shaving a strip down the centre of his head, imitated the buzzing as he went. Spencer had to chuckle at the notion of rocking a cut like that at the FBI.

“I’m not quite ready for that.”

There was faux apology in his tone. Y/N kept up the ruse, wiping his brow with a relieved exhale, “Good, I was lying, don’t ever get a reverse Mohawk.”

Once Spencer had pinkie-promised on that, they got back to watching the TV. Y/N’s arms dropped to his sides. He kept one hand under the blanket though, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Spencer’s thigh. Spencer’s hand joined his shortly after the next episode of their show began, linking their fingers together for a moment before he let go again.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

As much as Y/N supported Spencer in his job, he fucking wished he could wake up before Spencer more often. He looked so sweet, half his face hidden in a pillow and the other half completely free from stress. His lean frame was hidden beneath the blankets. His hair was more like a mane, all springy and knotted and standing at odd angles.

Of course, Y/N could always get extra early when Spencer was here, but that would involve setting an alarm and no one in that apartment would appreciate it when it would go off.

“Spencer?” Y/N said in a soft sing song voice, tucking himself up close to his boyfriend, “Spencer, baby?”

He wriggled a little closer and kissed Spencer’s lips gently. His giggles were held close in his chest as the corners of Spencer’s mouth pulled up, revealing those delicious dimples.

“Spencer,” whispered Y/N once more, bumping his nose against his.

Spencer frowned before he opened his eyes; the wrinkles on his brow cleared once he saw who was waking him. His head lifted slightly. It was just enough to bump his nose back against Y/N’s before it fell back down into his pillow.

“I’ve got a question for you.”

In that gravelly morning voice, Spencer answered, “Yeah?”

“Can I try something with your hair please?”

Already, Spencer was groaning and rolling his eyes into the back of his head, trying to turn over in the bed. But Y/N was sat on the blankets now and Spencer had no choice but to cuddle into himself.

“I’ll buy you something at the gift shop today! Anything you want,” He offered as he pinned Spencer onto his back - with a little room in his actions made to be careful with Spencer’s leg. But Spencer draped his forearm over his eyes and continued to pretend he was back to sleep.

Y/N would not relent, bending over close as he whined, “Babe, please, this would make me so happy.”

Those striking hazel eyes peeked out from underneath the arm. Y/N could see a hint of his dimples returning. He exploited that weakness to the full, taking Spencer’s arm away from his face as he clasped his hand between his own. His lips pressed delicate kisses across his curled fingers then pouted down at Spencer who’s resolve was visibly deteriorating.

When Y/N ceased his kissing, Spencer retrieved his hand and pushed himself to sit up, the blankets dropping from his body as he leant into his boyfriend. He cupped Y/N’s chin and in turn his cheek was traced by Y/N’s forefinger.  

With a sigh, Spencer nodded, “Go ahead.”

The biggest grin broke out on Y/N’s face. He practically leapt off Spencer’s lap to collect his tools.

Though he made the act of reading the book from his bedside table, Spencer wasn’t really paying attention to the words on the page. He already knew them. Instead he let Y/N’s gentle brush strokes distract him, detangling the knots the night had tied. A glance into the wardrobe’s mirror showed Y/N idly biting his lip. The back of Spencer’s head was his whole world now.

When the comb could travel without resistance, Y/N’s fingers dragged around his scalp, capturing all the hair that grew above the tips of his ears and separating it from the rest. The slight scratch of his nails caused Spencer’s book dropped onto the bed and his glasses began to slide off his nose.

Quick to push them back up, Spencer was greeted by Y/N’s reaction to twirling Spencer’s around before securing it all with the yellow scrunchie. And Spencer had never seen him smile so much in the morning.

Y/N knelt in front of him; his hands were in loose fists that shifted in restrained excitement in his lap. When they unclenched, those hands caressed the free hair at the back of Spencer’s head, only moving around to cup his face. Spencer’s own hands were drawn to Y/N’s sides like iron fillings to a magnet. He soaked in Y/N’s affections that were poured into the way he looked at him.

The words were fragile, tender, just above a whisper, “Oh you’re so beautiful, Spencer. Thank you.” As if tying his hair up meant more than the world. Spencer was invaluable to Y/N; he knew it and he felt it.

Y/N kissed Spencer’s nose and it wrinkled with pleasure at the gesture.

But as Spencer leant in to close the gap between them, Y/N moved back and pressed two fingers on his lips, “You can kiss me properly when we’ve brushed our teeth. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you wear this to the museum.” He tapped the bun on top before he got off the bed. 

As his gaze followed Y/N retreating into the bathroom, Spencer caught his reflection on the wardrobe’s mirror once more. Morgan would say he looked like a hairy pineapple, or a greasy hipster. Nevertheless, Spencer was chuffed to know that Y/N still looked at him like he had scattered the stars above their heads - just for him.

He heard the shower running. As he fell back into the bed, the top knot pressing against the headboard, Spencer hoped no new cases came in because he could really use a whole weekend of this.

[wrenhyperfixates]

Yule Log

Pairing: Loki x reader Summary: With Christmas quickly approaching, Loki finds himself missing his favorite time on Asgard. If he can’t go back home to celebrate, you’re determined to bring the party to him. Warnings: just the tiniest bit angsty, but mainly just fluff. And a lot of kissing A/N: We’re already halfway through December, can you believe it? To continue the spread of holiday cheer, please enjoy my latest fic! Happy reading :)

Tag List: @lucywrites02 @frostedgiant​​ @lunarmoon8​ @twhiddlestonsstuff​ @lokistan​ @thelokiimaginechroniclesficrecs​ @gaitwae

Disclaimer: Gif not mine 

“Thank you for coming,” you said to some of the last guests as they made their way out into the chilly night air.

Being Tony’s personal assistant was no easy feat, and sometimes it meant you had to be in full work mode at parties rather than being able to let loose. So many times your boyfriend tried to pull you away from all the seriousness, but you would only be able to enjoy a dance or two before having to do something else. It was yet another reason why Loki was not a fan of Stark’s shindigs.

“Darling,” he called as you made your way back into the room. “Come sit with me now?”

“I can’t. There’s still people here.”

“And they are occupied talking to Stark and Captain Rogers,” he pouted. “Certainly you can rest for a minute. You deserve it, after all.”

“Ok, I guess,” you replied, walking over. He pulled you down onto his lap before you could change your mind, kissing you quickly but passionately. “Well if that’s what you mean by rest, I would have stopped working hours ago.”

“Duly noted,” he said, nuzzling into your neck, enjoying your scent. “I will be sure to be more specific next time.”

You giggled against his lips as he kissed you again. The whole scene was picturesque, really. Sitting with your boyfriend on the couch, a tree in the background, snow falling outside, and a fire crackling nearby; it was like something right out of a painting. Or maybe a dream. Then again, that’s how you felt about every second you spent with Loki.

Just when you were getting settled against him, your boss called your name, and waved you over with a smile. He probably needed you for another scheduling problem. At least you would be getting a break for Christmas soon. You sighed and pecked Loki on the cheek, wiggling out of his grip, much to his protest. With a promise to meet him in your shared room as soon as you finished up with the last few guests, he let you go.

Roughly half an hour later, you were stumbling into your quarters, feet sore and eyes tired. Walking into your bedroom to change, you saw Loki standing by the window, his shirt in his hands as if he just forgot what he was doing halfway through changing. You hugged him from behind, resting your forehead between his shoulder blades. His hand immediately alighted on your arm and began rubbing slow circles on your skin. You’d noticed he did that anytime he was pensive or working through a lot of emotions.

“Hey, are you ok? Do you need to talk?” you asked.

“I am alright, my angel. You need not worry,” he told you, turning around to hug you and kissing your forehead gently. “Now, I believe we were going to watch a movie.”

You frowned at the way he changed the topic, but decided not to push the subject. You could always try again in the morning, but you didn’t want to make him talk if he didn’t feel like it. You got changed while Loki set up the film, something he was still very proud that he’d learned how to do. Settling on the couch, Loki rested his head on your lap, and you played with his hair as Rudolph began to play on the TV.

You looked down at the beautiful god, wondering what was going through that beautiful mind of his. There was no doubt in your mind; you loved Loki. The thing was that he could be so guarded sometimes that you felt left out. Like he was keeping things from you. It was more out of concern for him that it made you worry, not because you didn’t trust him. In fact, you trusted him with your life. You only wished that he would do the same with you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, you woke up in the bed, wrapped in Loki’s arms. You didn’t quite remember getting off of the couch last night, and you knew Loki must have carried you after you fell asleep. His eyes were on you, as you laid there. You could feel his loving gaze even before opening your eyes. You liked to do that sometimes, pretend like you were still asleep and bask in the joy of Loki admiring you. Whether or not he told you everything, he obviously adored you, and this was a nice reminder of that. Though, now that you thought about the issue of communication, you cracked open your eyes, determined to get him to tell you what is wrong.

“Good morning, darling,” he said, smiling warmly at you. “I love you.”

It always made you flustered when Loki told you that so soon after waking, like it was the most important thing. Like he had to make sure you knew before anything else happened. Before you could even get up most days, he was saying those words. They always made you snuggle further into your chest, resolving to stay in bed a bit longer, rather than getting up and starting your duties for that day.

“Morning, Loki. I love you too.”

Still laying together in a tangle of limbs, the two of you chatted for a bit longer, and you were carefully working your way up to the question you wanted to ask. It was a delicate topic, for sure, but maybe he’d be soft enough after all the pillow talk to share.

“Loki, can I ask you a question? And can you answer me honestly?” you asked.

“Of course. I will do my best, my angel.”

You frowned a little at the response, but plowed on anyway. “Last night you were upset about something. What was it? You know I worry about you. It’s ok, you can tell me.”

“Well,” he sighed. “It is nothing much, really. It is just with all these Christmas festivities, I am reminded of my mother’s favorite celebration. The winter solstice ball was always around this time. She loved planning the Yule celebrations. It was why she put up with the planning of every other ball, just so she could do this one. It was always the most fun, for her love of the holiday shone through every minute detail of the day.”

You looked at features, peaceful and happy, a small smile tugging at his lips. You wanted to be happy for him, too, but it made your heart break as you read deeper into what he was saying. It wasn’t just the holiday he was upset over.

“Oh, Loki. You miss your mother,” you cooed as he sadly nodded.

“It is nothing you need worry yourself over, really.”

“Yes, Loki, I do. Because I love you. If you’re allowed to worry over me, I can over you, too.”

“That is... fair,” he conceded, though he was frowning a little. “So what are you going to do? Nothing too over the top, I hope.”

“I’m not exactly sure yet, but I’ll start with this,” you admitted, cupping his cheek and kissing him. You started on his lips, but then moved to placing little pecks all over his face. His smile had returned by the time you finished. “Better?”

“Much,” he confessed as he pulled you closer, earning a giggle. “But you are not done trying to fix this, are you?”

“Not even close.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few days later you were setting up the common room for a solstice party, much like the Asgardian ballroom would be looking soon. You’d asked Thor more about how the holiday was celebrated on his home planet and, together with the rest of the Avengers, you were getting ready to surprise Loki. Though you had Bucky and Peter keeping him busy and out of the way right now, you were sure that Loki suspected something was up.

“Are you sure this is everything Thor?” you nervously questioned, giving the room a once-over. “Everything has to be perfect.”

“Do not worry, my friend. You were very thorough.”

After combing through your notes one last time, just to make sure there wasn’t anything you were missing, you called Peter and Bucky to bring Loki back. In true surprise party fashion, you turned the lights off and got into hiding places. When he walked in, you all jumped up and screamed “Happy Yule.” For a second he didn’t move, and the silence was kind of awkward as he stood there with a sort of stunned but otherwise unreadable expression on his face. Finally, he gently said your name.

“You don’t like it, do you?” you said, feeling like you might cry.

“Like it? No, no, I do not. Darling,” he said, shaking his head before breaking out into a huge grin and crushing you in a hug, using his godly strength to pick you up and spin you around. “I love it! I was certain you had some trick up your sleeve, but this? This is beyond my wildest imagination. It is perfect! Thank you, love.”

“Really?” you squealed in excitement. “Loki, that means so much to me.”

“And the fact that you went through all this trouble means so much to me.”

He kissed you then, not caring about the reaction from the rest of the Avengers, which was a mix of whoops and groans. Even when you broke away from each other, you still stood there for a minute, just gazing at each other. The look in your eyes said everything that words couldn’t.

“Well then, what are we waiting for? Let us party,” Loki announced.

He swept you onto the dance floor as the music began to play, enjoying waltzing amongst your friends. After a few songs, you led him over to the thrones at the front of the room. He nearly cried tears of joy when you said it was for him. Long ago, he’d given up on the notion that he’d rule, let go of the desire to do so. He did not need it if he was king of your heart. But to be offered one, even just for the night, it meant more to him than he knew how to express.

It was late into the night after a number of Avengers had moved past tipsy and into drunk, when Loki asked you take a walk with him. You bundled up before stepping into the cold night air, but afraid of his little mortal catching a cold, Loki draped an extra cloak on your shoulders. It was so soft you wondered if he’d cast some kind of spell on it. He took your hand and led you away from the Tower and into the city, lit up even more than normal by all the Christmas decorations. Eventually, you reached Central Park, and Loki slowed to a stop so he could cup your cheeks and kiss you yet again that night. You lost yourself in him, losing track of time as you stood there, lips locked together. When you finally separated, he was looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

“My sweetest angel, thank you so much for cheering me up,” he said.

“It was no problem. It was totally worth it to see you so happy. Did I miss anything that you were looking forward to?”

“Darling, you simply must stop worrying yourself. The party was amazing.”

“But?”

“Did it sound like there was a 'but' coming? I assure you, you have done everything perfectly.”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “I just feel in my gut that there’s something missing, and I know you won’t tell me of your own accord. Please, Loki, if there’s something else, let me know.”

“Admittedly, there is one other thing I miss. But you have done more than enough already.”

“Will you please stop that?” you snapped a little, surprising the god. “Stop pushing your feelings aside, especially with me. I care about you, ok? I want to trouble myself with what’s bothering you. Because if we deal with it together, it’s not so hard for either of us. We love each other, Loki, I know that. So just open up. Tell me.”

“Are you done?” he inquired with an impressed and amused smirk as you nodded, a little flustered and embarrassed after your outburst. “Good.”

Once more, Loki kissed you, catching you completely by surprise. Usually he liked to show his love through little things, but tonight he couldn’t seem to keep his lips off yours. Not that you were complaining, of course. The displays of affection were certainly as welcome out in public as they behind closed doors. You tenderly caressed his cheek and brushed a lock of hair from his eyes.

“The Yule log,” he said. “It was the one night a year I felt like we were truly a family. Father, mother, Thor, and I would sit around the fire into the late hours of the night, laughing and telling stories.” He zoned out for a second and you let him reminisce before continuing. “I remember when I was just a small child, father even let me fall asleep on his lap sometimes. And then as we got older and things became more tense, there was still always that night.”

“Loki,” you whispered, “that’s lovely. I would love to light a Yule log for our little family, if you’ll allow it.”

“I would love nothing more, my angel.”

Then you excitedly whisked him back to the Tower, where you promptly told everyone the plan. They gathered around, and Loki conjured a log which you lit together. You snuggled with your prince in an oversized chair, safely tucked under his arm.

“My angel,” he whispered, “I really cannot thank you enough. And I vow to be more open with you from now on. Because I trust you and love you more than anything else in the Nine Realms and beyond.”

“You’re welcome, Loki. I love you, too, though I never could say it as eloquently as you can,” you chuckled. “Happy Yule, my love.”

“Happy Yule, darling.”

You began to doze off against his side. Loki listened to the conversation and laughter flowing all around him. Soon, everyone followed your lead and began drifting off to sleep. He smiled as he realized he got to keep his favorite tradition of sitting around the Yule log with his family, after all.

“Happy Yule, mother,” he whispered into the night before falling asleep, too.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, outtoshatter!

Dear @outtoshatter​. You requested fluff, getting together, alternate first meetings, and something!Stiles. This was so much fun to write, and I’m thrilled to have the chance to create something for you. I hope you have the loveliest of holidays!! <3

Read On AO3

*****

Derek is a romantic. He dreams of finding his mate, of connecting with that special someone who will make his heart swoon.

"How did you know Dad was the one?" Derek asks his mom as he digs out a pink, glittery bear from beneath the pile of loose-limbed plushies. "Were there fireworks when you first met, or���?"

His cheeks flame. He can't tell his mom that the spun-sugar scent of Jenna's hair makes his heart race, or that the smell of Mark's baseball jersey gives him a boner. In fact, Derek's embarrassment is so thick she probably scents it despite being surrounded by a bunch of seven-year-olds with sugar highs from birthday cake and soda.

"The first time you meet your mate will always be significant,” Talia says as she hands the bear over to one of Cora's classmates. “It might be passionate and explosive, or it could spark a bond that builds and grows. It's influenced by who you are and where you are in your lives. But deep inside, you'll know. Your wolf, especially, will know."

"But what if my mate isn't a wolf? What if they can't sense the connection?"

"Humans cherish the notion of 'true love' as much as we do. And I bet your mate is someone who's sensitive and wise." She leans down and ruffles Derek's hair.

Derek wriggles out of his mom's touch. He's thirteen, not three.

"You think?" he asks. Maybe it is Jenna or Mark, although he was hoping his mate would be someone more… well, special.

"You'll see." Talia's smile disappears as she studies the line where Cora and her friends are waiting at the stuffing station. She counts their numbers under her breath and shakes her head. "Someone's missing. Will you help me find them, Der?"

Derek sighs. It might be Cora's birthday, but he's missing practice to babysit a bunch of second-graders at a Build-A-Bear. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. I know this seems like an unbearable chore, but it means a lot to your sister that you're here. And to me, as well." His mom runs a hand along the back of Derek's neck and gives him a gentle squeeze.

Perhaps it's because it's close to a full moon, but Derek feels restless and edgy. Guilt washes through him at his snappishness, and he apologizes to his mom, giving her a quick hug before starting his walk-through.

There are bins of bears and cats and dogs and dragons in every color imaginable, their limp bodies waiting to be plumped up with poly-fill. He’s surprised Cora wanted a party here; her interests run more along the line of laser tag than dolls or stuffed animals. Although there's a backstory, he's sure; Cora had mumbled something about wanting to invite her whole class 'unlike that Lydia Martin', whereupon Mom's fangs dropped and her eyes flashed red. The next thing Derek knew, they had made a reservation for all twenty children.

It's not until Derek passes the displays of the Marvel and Star Wars bears that he finds the errant partygoer. Unlike the other boys in the class who dress in athletic wear stamped with Nike and Under Armor logos, he's wearing a faded t-shirt and a plaid overshirt, topped off by a pair of worn trainers.

Derek looks down at the limp plushie in the boy's hand. "Hey. Are you here for Cora's birthday party?" he asks softly.

The boy raises his eyes. They're ridiculously large for his face, amber orbs framed by long lashes and a buzzed haircut that make them look even bigger. Suddenly, they narrow as he looks Derek up and down.

"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

Derek frowns, the defiance taking him by surprise. "Maybe I work here."

Any shyness the boy may have seems forgotten as he takes a step closer.

"No, you don't," he says, his tone raised in challenge. "You don't have a nametag and you're not wearing a vest."

The kid's smart. Derek is filled with the weird urge to push his buttons and protect him at the same time.

"You got me," Derek says, holding up his hands. "I'm Cora's brother, Derek." He points to the animal in the boy's hand. "Don't you want to wait in line with the others and get your bear stuffed?"

The boy straightens out his arm. "It's not a bear," he says. There's a slight hesitation, then he's turning the animal over. Derek sees that it has a long muzzle, pointed ears, and plastic blue eyes. "It's Can… um, Canis…”

"Canis Lupus. A wolf," Derek says, surprised.

The boy nods vigorously. "Is that okay?"

"Yeah, sure. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I didn't know if I was allowed to get something that wasn't a bear." The boy hangs his head, his fingers digging into the wolf's ample fur. "I've never been to one of these parties before."

Ah. Another reject from Lydia Martin's party list. The news makes Derek inexplicably angry.

"If I was getting one, I'd get a wolf, too," Derek says.

The boy looks up, his earlier disapproval of Derek apparently forgotten. "Yeah?"

"Totally." Derek crouches down and strokes the wolf's fur. "It's pretty skinny though," he says as his hand lingers on the nape of its neck. "We'd better go and fatten it up. Maybe get it some clothes?"

The boy shakes his head. "Wolves don't wear clothes," he says, his exasperation plain. "Duh."

Derek snorts. "Well, how about one of those scent things?" The discs seem to be popular; most of the other kids have one in hand.

The boy lifts the wolf to his face and buries his nose in its fur. "Nah. He smells good the way he is. But he needs a heart."

"Okay. Let's get one, uh—"

"Stiles," the boy answers. "Stiles," he repeats with a small scowl as Derek stares, bemused. "That's my name."

"Oh. Okay, Stiles." Derek stands up and holds out his hand. "Let's go. We've got a wolf to build."

Stiles places his hand in Derek's. It's small and a bit clammy, but Derek doesn't mind, surprisingly. They head towards the front of the store where Stiles takes his time in choosing a red heart out of the bin of hundreds. There's another display close by filled with a selection of noisemakers.

"Do you want one?" Derek asks as Stiles stares. There's a lot to choose from. "They have some songs and animals noises, and—"

"They don't have any wolf ones, though," Stiles says, seemingly put out. He pushes one of the buttons, rolling his eyes as a dinosaur's roar breaks through the tiny speaker. He chooses the dog button next.

God, no, Derek thinks.

Thankfully, Stiles passes on that one, too.

"What about this one?" Derek asks, pointing to number eleven. When Stiles presses the button, they hear the lub dub of a human heart, steady and true.

Stiles' face breaks into a huge grin. "That's perfect."

Derek opens the drawer, takes out the sound chip and hands it to Stiles, who curls his fingers around its edges and holds on tightly. By the time they make it to the stuffing station, Stiles is bouncing on his feet, a bundle of barely contained energy. He's also staring with a horrified expression at a boy who's twirling in a circle while rubbing his bear's poly-filled heart across his chest and down to his belly.

"Uh, Derek? Do I have to do that?" Stiles whispers as a Build-A-Bear employee eggs the boy on.

Maybe it's the vulnerability in Stiles' face, or the wobble in his voice, but Derek wants nothing more in that moment than to soothe Stiles' worry. He leans over and whispers, "You mean, act like something's crawling up your butt?"

Stiles lets out a half-gasp, half-laugh. "I can't move like that! What if I do it wrong and his heart won't work?"

"Listen to me, Stiles. I'm thirteen and I know a lot about wolves. Rubbing your wolf's heart on your pants or doing ten jumping jacks isn't going to make him come to life. What he needs is for you to care for him. To love him, and believe in him with all your might. Okay?"

"Okay." Stiles gives Derek a grateful smile, his face radiating his happiness.

Derek stands a bit straighter and catches his mother's eye. He's sure it's his alpha's approval and nothing else that makes him feel warm and tingly inside.

~*~

Derek used to be a romantic. He once dreamed of finding his true love, of meeting that special person whom he could care for and be cared for in return. But a series of bad relationships with people who either wanted different things in life (sorry, Braeden), or were only interested in him for his family's powerful connections (thanks, Jennifer), or who were, to put it bluntly, vindictive, psychotic stalkers (hello, Kate) has left Derek realizing not everyone is destined to have a mate. Of course, that also means one of the great Hale legacies has come to an end, although he's not sure why the Fates decided to pin that dubious distinction on him.

He doesn't want to end up like his Uncle Peter who, after losing his mate, creeps around with people half his age, filled with snark and cynicism. So Derek tries to settle, without success. His friends and family blame his inability to have a meaningful relationship on 'being too choosy', or 'not trying', or his 'emotional constipation'. He supposes it's a damning statement when even his best friends have given up their matchmaking attempts and relegated him to babysitting duty.

Derek's trying to decide whether he has time for a quick run before he goes grocery shopping, or whether he has enough milk and butter to postpone the errand altogether, when an EMT kit lands by his feet.

"Any plans for tonight?" Erica asks. Her smile is a bit too bright, her tone a shade too innocent.

Derek frowns and gives his co-worker the side-eye as he tries to figure out her angle. He can't believe there was a time where he thought he and Erica could be anything more than friends. She's gorgeous, of course, but she's also too perceptive and blunt as hell, and she calls Derek out on his bullshit more than anyone else aside from his own sisters. She feels like safety—like pack—but his wolf knows there's nothing more. Besides, she's snagged herself a handsome and brilliant ED doctor in Boyd—along with a ring, a two-bedroom Murray Hill apartment, and a five-year old daughter.

"Catching up on the second season of The Mandalorian?" Derek grins, baring a toothy smile of his own.

"Are you thirty-five or sixty-five, Derek? Because seriously, I can't tell. And since you phrased your answer in the form of a question and this isn't Jeopardy, I'm assuming those plans aren't set in stone."

Fuck. Erica had promised after the last disastrous blind date that she wouldn't try to set him up again. "I'm really not in the mood for company—"

"Even if it's a little girl who loves her godfather more than anyone else in the world?"

Derek sits up straighter. "You need me to watch Hailey?" He couldn't love Erica and Boyd's daughter any more than if she were his own.

"If you're up to it," Erica says, actually looking contrite. "I know it's your first day off in almost two weeks and I normally wouldn't ask, except… Well, the New York Public Library's doing this Children's Authors series, and her favorite writer's going to be reading today."

"The Fox and the Spark? I'm somewhat familiar," Derek says drily. He's read the story so many times he could recite it in his sleep.

"Yeah." Erica lets out a small laugh. "So, there's a second book that's coming out and the author's signing copies. Boyd was supposed to take her, but he has to cover for someone who called out with a family emergency. Greenberg won't let me change my shift, and I know you just finished yours, but—"

Derek puts a hand on Erica's shoulder. Next to Laura, Erica's his closest friend, and it's not like he really had plans.

"Don't give it another thought. Of course I'll take her."

A wave of relief sweeps over Erica's face. "I owe you one, Hale."

Derek lets out a small huff. He's pretty sure that if they were keeping tabs, he's going to come out on the short end when it comes to Erica and Boyd. Besides, an afternoon out with Hailey is bound to be better than his last several dates, even if he has to put up with a bunch of screaming kids.

~*~

As it turns out, there are a bunch of kids, but none of them are screaming because the man in front of them's woven some kind of crazy magic and has them in his thrall. He has thick brown hair that's the epitome of hipster chic, a wide mouth that pulls into an easy grin, and is wearing a heather grey t-shirt paired with khakis and a red hoodie. He looks young—young enough that Derek thought he worked for the library at first, a notion that's dispelled once Mrs. Purcell, the head librarian, gathers everyone together. His smile is bright and engaging, although it falters a bit when Mrs. Purcell stumbles over his name.

"Mieczyslaw," the man says with a self-deprecating grin. "Like 'mischief'. But I'll tell you a secret. No one calls me that, not even my family. You can just call me 'M'."

The news seems to delight the kids, who shout "Hi, M" in a loud chorus. M shows his appreciation by running across the front of the room and handing out high-fives.

"Is that really him?" Hailey wriggles in Derek's arms and cranes her neck, trying to get a better look. The construction-paper fox ears that they super-glued to her headband earlier that afternoon gets pushed aside at a precarious angle.

"That's really him," Derek affirms, which earns him an excited squeal.

"Put me down, D!" Hailey says with all the imperiousness of her mother, and it's all Derek can do, even with his superhuman strength, to keep her from toppling over.

"You can find a spot up close. No pushing or shoving, and if you can't see, ask politely. I'll be back here, okay?" He leans in and nuzzles her cheek to let her know she's safe and protected.

"Okay!" Hailey gives him a quick squeeze back before making her way up front. Derek is glad to see one of the other girls make room for her as Hailey sits down in the second row and clutches her book happily.

Derek straightens and runs a hand through his hair. He feels someone watching, and when he looks up, he suddenly locks eyes with M.

M rubs the back of his neck as a light flush spreads over his cheeks. It doesn't help to diminish his already-youthful appearance; in fact, it makes him look vulnerable—like prey—and the thought causes something to flare hot in Derek's belly. It's only when someone nudges him impatiently that he realizes that he's gawking in the middle of the room, surrounded by a restless audience that comes up to his knees. Derek mutters his apologies, then takes his six-foot frame to the back of the room where he watches from behind a row of brightly colored, miniature plastic chairs.

M starts off by saying that his best friend Scott is a veterinarian who works at a wolf sanctuary, and that M always thought wolves were the coolest. The tidbit makes Derek straighten to his full height and he puffs out his chest, inordinately pleased.

Most of the children already own copies of M's latest but choose to watch as M holds up a giant book that's nearly a foot-and-a-half tall. The pages are filled with illustrations—courtesy, M says, of his friend Isaac. The pictures are warm and soft, and detailed in a way that appeals to both a young and older audience. But even though they're beautiful, Derek finds his attention drifting elsewhere. He's mesmerized by the way M's fingers dance across the pages as he reads, how his eyes grow bright and animated when he hears the children laugh at his vocal impressions, and the way M's mouth—god, his mouth—turns down at the corners when he reaches a poignant scene. His voice defies categorization: it's raspy yet young, melodious but slightly off-pitch, and serious yet mischievous, as if an old soul had somehow merged with an adolescent’s energy.

The truth is that Derek's too distracted by M to pay close attention to the story. But after his brain momentarily shorts out from watching M lick his thumb to turn the page, it manages to reboot and catch the his next words:

"You need to care for him," the fairy said as Milo hugged his wolf. "You need to love him and believe in him with all your might."

Derek listens in a daze as M tells the group how Milo's wish for his wolf to come to life comes true. His own wolf perks up, and against the stench of the colognes and soaps and sweat of the crowd, he can pick out the welcome scent of citrus and cottonwood from back home. It's intoxicating, yet soothing and breathtakingly familiar, and in that moment the thread of hope that Derek's long thought cut manages to wriggle into his heart and take hold.

~*~

Derek absolutely does not push his way towards the front of the line. He just has longer legs.

His heart is in his throat and he's holding tight to Hailey, who's clutching her copy of Build A Wolf close to her chest. Derek doesn't understand how he could have missed the signs: the smattering of moles that grace M's cheek, the adorable tilt of his nose, or the warm intelligence of his eyes.

"Hi," Derek says when they reach the table where M's seated, his voice catching.

The Sharpie that M's twirling lazily between his fingers falls with a clatter. M stares at Derek, seemingly lost for words. A beautiful pink flush highlights his cheeks that Derek wants to trace with his thumb.

"You're a bit older than my usual fan. Bigger, too," M croaks. His face turns even brighter, and Derek can smell his surprise and the faint spice of his arousal.

"Stiles?" Derek blurts out. Upon seeing M's shocked expression, Derek tries to backtrack. "I'm sorry, it's just… well, you remind me of someone I knew from back home." When M doesn't deny the assumption, Derek continues, "I'm Derek Hale. Cora Hale's brother?"

M scrubs his face. "Wow, dude… wow, yeah, I am." He looks around and lowers his voice. "I'm surprised you recognized me. Or that you even remember who I am." When he smiles it's small and embarrassed, but Derek can also detect the happiness that colors his scent.

"I know you're probably busy, seeing as you're on a book tour and all, but do you want to grab a bite after you're done?" Derek feels breathless, and it's totally unlike him to be so forward, especially in the midst of an increasingly antsy crowd, but he feels like he's been waiting for this moment forever. "I mean, it can be something low key," he adds hastily, in case he's laying it on too strong. "I haven't been home in a while and it would be nice to catch up, and—"

There's a strong tug on his shirt sleeve. "Hi, Mr. M," Hailey pipes up. She's wearing a sweet smile but her eyes are impatient and determined. "Can you sign my book for me?"

"Sure, I'd love to." Stiles gives Derek an apologetic look. He greets Hailey with a complicated fist bump after commenting on her fox ears, uncaps his Sharpie, and opens the book to the front page. "Who should I make it out to?"

"To Mommy and Daddy and Hailey," Hailey decides. She tugs on Derek's sleeve more forcefully. "Do you think Mommy will like that?" she asks in a loud whisper.

Derek bends down and kisses her forehead. "I think she's going to love it," he says, nuzzling her neck. When he stands back up, Stiles has finished signing, but his smile seems a bit forced. "So, about dinner..." Stiles doesn't answer immediately; Derek falters as he takes back the book, his hopes sinking with each passing second.

Stiles' eyes lower, his once-happy scent souring. "Sorry," he says, his expression unreadable. "I'm on a tight schedule."

Both the human and wolf sides of Derek are confused by Stiles' sudden rejection. "Maybe a drink?" he tries again, desperate. He may have been a terrible judge of character in his previous relationships, but he can't be wrong, not about this.

Stiles shakes his head. Before Derek can press his case, there's a cough as the father and son behind Derek fix him with matching glares. Derek and Hailey get shuffled towards the door, and by the time Derek regains his bearings and looks back he discovers that Stiles is posing for a selfie with the kid, his scent now off, his smile a bit too forced.

~*~

There are several truths about the holidays—and the end of the year in particular—which are that the crowds are larger, the stress is higher, and people tend to avoid hospitals as much as possible. It also means that Derek's unit is flooded with calls, from decorating mishaps and drunken shenanigans to medical emergencies that are so far gone they can no longer be handled by an urgent care. He hasn't hung out with both Boyd and Erica in nearly a month, and even though it's for a quick bite in the hospital's cafeteria, he'll take it.

"Seriously, Hale. You'd better have a smile on your face after your PTO."

Derek looks up from his burrito, his brows furrowed.

"I don't know why you think I have PTO, Erica, but I don't," he says, grimacing as a glob of beef and avocado drop onto the wax-paper wrap. He's never requested a holiday week since he started with the FDNY eleven years ago. His family's all on the West coast, and he'd rather leave the prime vacation weeks to his co-workers. It's not like he has someone special to share the holidays with, after all.

He ignores the ache in his chest as he thinks of Stiles.

"Yeah, well the thing is, now you do. The week between Christmas and New Year's," Erica clarifies as she takes a bite of her burger. "You never exercise the perks that go with your seniority, and don't think it's gone unnoticed. It's the department's gift to you. "

Derek stares, flummoxed. "Greenberg will never go for it."

"Are you kidding me? He was the first to say 'yes'. Said he's tired of seeing your grumpy mug whenever he rings in the New Year."

Boyd grins at Derek's obvious discomfort. Derek gives him the middle finger, which makes Boyd chuckle out loud.

"I don't even know if my family's around," Derek protests. Laura often spends the holidays with her husband's family in Sun Valley, and Cora's hard to pin down any time of year.

Erica and Body give him twin looks of guilt. "They are," Boyd says as he takes something out of his coat pocket and hands it to Derek. "We already spoke to Laura. She can't wait to see you."

"Ho, ho, ho." Erica grins.

"What's this?" Derek asks as he stares at the envelope in Boyd's hand.

Boyd shrugs but Derek's not fooled by his casual stance. "A first-class plane ticket. An early Christmas present from us to you." His usually placid expression grows sheepish. "Look man, we don't want to put you in a bad spot. If you really don't want to go, use the credit for another trip. But we knew that if it were up to you, you'd be spending Christmas alone, eating leftovers and watching It's a Wonderful Life for the hundredth time."

"Who says I need to be in a relationship to be happy?" Derek asks, his hackles rising. Besides, Boyd has it all wrong. Derek has Die Hard on his Christmas queue.

Yippee ki yay.

Boyd holds up both hands. "Not me. If you want to be a bachelor forever, I'm not one to judge."

"But I am," Erica says. "You don't date anymore, Der. Hell, when's the last time you even got laid? Which would also be fine, except it's not, because you're miserable and it's obvious that's not what you really want."

Sometimes Derek has a hard time following Erica's logic. Unfortunately, this is not one of those moments.

"It doesn't matter," he says, digging the excess rice out from his wrap. "I'm better off alone."

Erica and Boyd share a look. Derek feels a pang of envy at the way they so easily read each other's thoughts and their mutual love and support. He'd always fancied himself a romantic, but to finally find his mate only to be rejected flat out hurts worse than anything Kate had put him through. Which… well, it says a lot.

Boyd nudges the envelope towards the remains of Derek's burrito. "Do what's right to you." And just like that, he changes the subject as they argue over whether Brees or Brady will end the season with the most touchdown passes and have the better chance of securing a berth in the Super Bowl.

~*~

Minutes after Derek sets foot inside JFK, he remembers why he hates flying. It's the noise and the stress, the smell of impatience and sweat, and the lack of personal space as he waits to clear security. He jams his beanie down to cover his ears, and the glower he's wearing doesn't help the dubious looks being cast his way. By the time he reaches the concourse, he has to duck into a coffee shop to catch a break from all the commotion.

He's standing in line, trying to decide whether he'd rather have a green or carrot smoothie, when someone's suitcase catches his heel.

"Shit! Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" The stranger pulls back the offending piece of luggage, and Derek suddenly catches a whiff of a familiar scent amongst the flurry of clothing and limbs. "Are you okay?  I'm not exactly graceful on most days, but I'm working on like two hours of sleep and… " The man's voice trails off as he meets Derek's gaze, his whiskey-colored eyes widening further. "Derek?" he squeaks.

"Stiles," Derek answers, his voice equally strangled.

Stiles blows out a deep breath. "Oh, wow. What are the chances?" he mutters. His face turns blotchy.

Derek's wolf is pawing at his chest, begging Derek to not waste this second chance. "Uh… seeing as we're both here, I'm going to repeat my offer. For the drink. And a meal, if you'd like. Although I guess it's more like a grab and go." He's stumbling over his words and he feels the tips of his ears heat.

Stiles glances at the breakfast wraps and fruit bowls displayed behind the plexiglass counter. He pastes on a grin, although it seems strained at the edges. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, man; that'd be great." He orders an OJ and an egg wrap, while Derek finally decides on the green smoothie.

"Is that all you're getting?" Stiles asks after an awkward moment of silence.

Derek shrugs. "I ate before I got here. But you can order something else. I'm in a generous mood."

"Haha, big spender. I mean… " Stiles ducks his head and bites his lower lip. Derek watches helplessly as it reddens and swells. "Doesn't your daughter or wife want something, too?"

"I don't have a daughter or a wife," Derek says, his brow furrowing. "Or a girlfriend or a boyfriend, for that matter."

Stiles' mouth drops. "But who was the girl you were with at the book signing?"

Everything starts to slot together. Derek lets out a small chuckle of relief. "Hailey? She's the love of my life. She also happens to be the daughter of my best friends, Erica and Boyd, and my goddaughter. They couldn't make it to your signing because of a scheduling conflict, and I jumped in as a favor." He hands over a twenty to the cashier and deposits the remaining change in the tip jar, his shoulders suddenly lighter.

"Ohhh." Stiles wheels his bag around as they head out towards the gates. He stays close to Derek and his scent grows brighter and sweeter. "I totally jumped to the wrong conclusion," he confesses with a rueful grin. "And I don't want to make the same mistake twice, so I'm going to ask you straight out: are you heading back to Beacon Hills? Because if you are, I'd like to take you to a real dinner. If you're interested, of course," he hastens. "If not, that's cool, too—"

Derek stops and places his hand on Stiles' arm. "I happen to be going back to Beacon Hills. And I'm definitely interested."

A quick check of their tickets shows they're on the same flight into Sacramento International. When they reach the gate, Derek marches up to the counter and trades in his first-class ticket for a business-class seat next to Stiles. He hurries back to the waiting area, flashing a 'thumbs up' sign and grinning like a loon. The look of pure joy that lights up Stiles' face makes Derek's wolf howl with glee.

"So I was curious... why did you choose Mieczyslaw as your nom de plume?" Derek asks as he sits, resting his bag on the floor between them.

Stiles huffs out a laugh. "Mieczyslaw is my name—at least, it's the one I was born with. But it was too complicated to say, so my best friend Scott nicknamed me 'Stiles' when we were younger." He shrugs, as if to say, the rest is history. "Anyway, I wrote The Fox and the Spark for Scott and Allison's son and they finally convinced me to submit it to a publisher. I really didn't think it would go anywhere, and it seemed like it would be less of a rejection if I sent it as 'Mieczyslaw' instead of 'Stiles'."

"And then you ended up with a best-seller," Derek finishes with a grin. He stares at the label on his cup, rubbing an edge that's grown worn from condensation. "Hailey's favorite book is The Fox and the Spark. But I think I'm partial to your latest. The one where a boy builds a wolf out of snow and wishes he'd come to life."

Stiles sucks in a deep breath. "It's based on one of my greatest memories."

"The memory of a wolf? Or someone else?"

Stiles' cheeks stain a beautiful pink. "Uh, a little bit of both? I've always been drawn to wolves, but I've also never forgotten how nice you were to me at Cora's party. I mean, you're Derek Hale—Cora's cool, older brother. I kind of built you up after that, turned our meeting into some kind of mythos, but even then I hadn't been prepared for you to be so…" He gestures with his long, graceful fingers up and down Derek's torso. "I mean, look at you. You're ridiculously hot, plus you were so amazing with your goddaughter. You probably work saving kittens or puppies or endangered wildlife or something—"

Derek coughs. "People. I'm an EMT."

"See! I mean, your fucking perfect. It's a good thing I didn't know all these things before, because otherwise, like, mind blown." Stiles mimes an explosion with his hands.

"I'm hardly special. Although I do have a book written about me. How many people can say that?" Derek teases.

"Yeah." Stiles' grin fades slightly, his hands falling to his sides. "About that. I know it must seem weird, but I'm not some obsessed fan, I promise."

Derek shakes his head. It's too early to tell Stiles about werewolves and their mates, but he wants Stiles to know that the feeling is mutual. That Stiles' story is the same one Derek's been living in since they first met.

"It's okay, Stiles. I feel the same way, too." Emboldened, he takes Stiles' hand in his, his eyes dropping to Stiles' mouth as his mate licks his lips.

"Dude," Stiles whispers, awed.

~*~

By the time they touch down in Sacramento, Derek's learned all about Stiles' closest friends. He learns that Scott is a werewolf as well, though bitten and not born, and that Stiles is considered part of Scott's pack. He's surprised to know that the infamous Lydia Martin is now one of Stiles' closest confidants, and that they'd briefly dated before deciding they were better off as friends. He also discovers that the Sheriff who busted Derek and his friends on Senior Prank Day (and let them off with a warning) is none other than Stiles' dad.

Derek and Stiles eventually connect the dots and realize that Stiles' friend Isaac went to the same college as, and remains friendly with, Erica and Boyd. He's happy to know that Stiles also lives in New York, on the Upper West Side near Riverside Park, which happens to be one of Derek's favorite places to jog. And he discovers other things about Stiles—like how Stiles is ticklish along his sides (just below the curve of his lowest rib), and how his lips are just as soft as they look, and how Stiles goes absolutely crazy when Derek scents and mouths his neck.

In fact, by the time they disembark, their mutual attraction is pretty much apparent to everybody—including the Sheriff, who pointedly avoids looking at Stiles' neck, and Laura, who just laughs.

Stiles lifts the hem of his scarf to hide the evidence, his cheeks flaming. Derek's just glad that neither the Sheriff or his sister can see the other places Derek's marked.

"Looks like you've finally found a flight you enjoyed, baby bro," Laura says as she wraps her arm around his shoulders and squeezes. "I'm so glad you're home."

Derek closes his eyes and breathes Laura in, his wolf settling at the smell of her shampoo, the warmth of his skin, and the feeling of home. "Me too."

Laura nuzzles the crook of his neck. "You smell different," she says as she leans back, her gaze sharp and assessing.

Derek glances at Stiles, who looks over to Derek at exactly the same time and waves at him with a blinding grin. "Um, yeah. About that..."

"I don't mean in that way," Laura says, wrinkling her nose. "Although he is a cutie. What I mean is that you smell... happy."

"I am," Derek says, realizing he means it. He can't wait to introduce Stiles to the rest of his family and begin formally courting his mate. But for now, he and Stiles know they have something special. They've entered the next chapter of their lives, one that already has a great beginning.

And the romantic in Derek knows this story will have a happy ending.

[shhh-no-ones-home]

green looks good on you  vinny mauro x reader

+++++++++

Request from @gardenjungle : "If you are taking requests, I would LOVE if you could do an imagine where the reader has a ton in common with Chris (likes hockey and Harry Potter, is a vegan, etc...) so they’re super close, and Vinny is super upset about it because he likes her sooo much and “Chris gets all the girls” ??? Vinny gets no love and you’re one of the only people who writes about him often. I’d also love if you could get a little sexy action in there"

Ngl this is like 1600+ words and i wrote it in like twenty minutes and loved every minute of it. i really hope you like it! i didnt end up adding anything ‘sexy’ but its pretty gratifying to say the least lol.

Song: gold by sleeping with sirens

tag list: @musicsexandpizza69 @svintsandghosts @alilpunkrock @cynic-spirit @theoneandonlykymberlee @ryansitkowskiswifey @joeybarber @thisplace-ishaunted

+++++++++

i rocked back into the couch, laughing at what chris had said. he was sat next to me, very comfortably, as we chatted amongst ourselves. we had been very close friends for a very long time and i was over the moon that he'd invited me to travel with them for this tour as the videographer. not only did i get to expand my portfolio but i also got to connect with my best friend and his band.

"okay but do you remember that one fall at the orchard when you tripped on that apple and ended up face first in the dirt?"

he laughed out and i sent him a shocked expression.

"i thought we agreed to never bring that up!"

i protested, the other guys around us sort of laughing along, them only half paying attention as they played a new video game. their focus was above our heads.

"but it was hilarious. i looked up for a split second and BAM! there you went."

he said loudly, being a little more expressive at the 'bam.' i shook my head at him.

"okay then, if we are ratting each other out about stupid shit weve done,what about that one time you got your hand stuck in the Christmas tree ties on your dads car?"

i said matter-of-factly. his eyes got wide.

"hey! that was an accident and you know it. we couldve taken my whole arm off!"

he said in his defense.

"i thought it was hilarious."

i said sternly back, smiling widely at him. he stuck his tongue out at me, a notion i gladly mirrored. then he grabbed me around the shoulders, pulling me to him. i screamed at the sudden motion, looking to vinny and rick who were sitting across from us for some guidance but they were to into the game.

"you two are too much."

ricky laughed out, looking at ryan for a second as he walked by. chris pulled me closer before licking a stripe up my face.

"ew!"

i said pulling away from him and wiping his saliva off of my face.

"asshole!"

i said, grabbing his face and blowing raspberries into his cheek. he laughed incredulously, pushing me away from him.

"youre nasty."

he said mimicking my notion and wiping his face. i punched his arm lightly before swinging my legs into his lap, him holding them there and looking down at me endearingly.

"so are you."

i said back, shaking my head at him, nose scrunched.

"you know you love me."

he said, bringing his face closer to mine.

"well yeah."

i said back, squinting at him.

"i think im done for tonight."

vinny said suddenly, pausing the game. ricky sent him a look like 'wtf?' and watched him stand.

"im gonna go get some air."

he said and we all watched him walk off the bus.

"that was weird right?"

i asked and they all nodded. i had a good few chances to talk to vinny since tour had started and he seemed like a really cool guy. someone id be lucky to call a close friend by the time tour was over if not something more. part of me felt bad, like chris and i really where too much for him to handle in that moment. but this was how we always were. we practically survived our teens years together, losing touch for a bit but inevitably going back to the way things where when we found each other back.

"you guys mind if i go out there too?"

i asked and they all sort of shrugged at me, chris letting my legs go so i could stand. as i did i leaned down and kissed the top of his head.

"dont miss me while im gone."

i joked and he rolled his eyes at me.

"of course not."

i laughed a little bit as i descended down the stairs, pushing the door open and seeing vinny leaning against the bus.

"you okay?"

i asked softly, walking to him and rubbing my hands together. i had sort of forgotten how cold it had got. it was late fall after all but the bus was so warm and inviting i didnt even think about grabbing a jacket before leaving. i half shivered as i walked closer, his face being illuminated by the street lights outside the venue.

"uh yeah, everything's great."

he said a little condescendingly, kicking his foot into the gravel under him.

"im sorry if we were too much, i guess when we get together we have a tendency to overshare and its not for everyone. but i suppose thats what you get when youre comfortable with someone the way we are."

i tried to defend to him and he let out a short sigh-laugh.

"its no big deal, you guys really like each other. its cool."

i smiled.

"yeah, hes my best friend."

vinny nodded once.

"how long have you guys been together? i dont recall him ever talking about you before."

i drew my brows.

"together?"

i asked and he seemed just as confused as i was.

"look i get it, chris gets all the girls, being the front man and all."

he seemed a little jealous.

"but i dont think he ever mentioned you before tour started and then one day he told us about some girl coming on to film us. but clearly you guys are close so do you have like a, i dont know, like a open relationship type thing?"

i laughed a little bit.

"you think chris and i are dating?"

he half shrugged.

"well yeah, its kinda obvious."

i shook my head and took his hand in mine.

"vinny i can assure you that chris and i are just friends. if anything hes like the brother i never asked for nor wanted but got anyways. but life just does that sometimes."

he looked down at our connected hands and let go of me promptly.

"i guess it just doesnt seem like that."

he said a little hurt. i sighed and leaned against the bus next to him.

"it would be kind of weird to bring it up to him but i like someone else in this band, if you wanted to know."

i said, looking at him a little hopeful he was picking up what i was putting down.

"oh."

he said sadly. i sighed, i guess not.

"yeah, hes super cool, and nice, and ive really enjoyed connecting with him."

i shivered as the wind blew and he finally looked over at me.

"are you cold?"

he asked, ignoring what i had just said. i nodded a little bit, crossing my arms over my chest.

"just a little bit but i ll be fine."

he shook his head at me.

"no way, here."

he said taking his jacket off. at least he had long sleeves on. he placed his jacket over my shoulders, pulling it together in the front.

"thanks vin."

i said as we both returned to our positions against the bus.

"would your new dream guy do that?"

he half joked, i could still hear the venom in his voice. he was absolutely jealous. i thought it was funny because now he was jealous of himself.

"actually yeah."

he scoffed, hiking his foot up on the side of the bus.

"great."

he said looking away from me. i stepped closer and nudged him.

"he would because he just did."

he looked at me and drew his brows together.

"wait you mean?"

he asked, his face turning to that of shock. i nodded.

"god, yes. vin ive had a crush on you since i got here."

i laughed out.

"i didnt think you would like me back and then i realized just now that that was utter bullshit."

he half smiled.

"and whys that?"

he asked a little cocky.

"you were jealous of chris and that has only happened to me a handful of times in my life. once in highschool when my boyfriend said he would break up with me if i didnt stop hanging out with him. once when i graduated college and my then boyfriend accused me of sleeping with him. and right now."

he looked down a little ashamed.

"yeah i guess that wasnt fair of me to do. i just figured since you guys hit it off so fast that you were into him."

i laughed a little bit.

"dont get me wrong i love him with my whole being, but seeing someone go through puberty just does something to your vision of them ya know?"

i asked and he laughed back, nodding.

"okay, well if you really are into me, would it be stepping to far to ask you out?"

he said hopefully and i grinned widely at him.

"i would love that vin."

he sent me a tired smile in the dim street lights.

"may i also be so bold as to ask if i could kiss you?"

i let out a nervous laugh. i was really gonna let that happen huh? i nodded.

"id like that a lot vin."

he stepped closer to me slowly, placing his hand gently against my cheek, running his thumb over it. his hands were rough and calloused from playing the drums so long but i didnt mind. it kind of felt nice. he looked deep into my eyes before leaning down and capturing my lips in his. all of a sudden it felt like home, like this was it, the thing id wanted for so long and never found. his other hand made its way to my waist as he deepend the kiss. i sighed into him, practically melting against his mouth like chocolate left outside in the sun on a hot day. when he pulled away he rested his forehead against mine and smiled like an idiot, one i gladly returned.

"fucking finally."

i heard from behind me, the bus door clicking closed. both of us turned to look, seeing ricky and chris standing there grinning from ear to ear. i had a mad blush splayed across my face now and was thankful that the light was behind me so it would be harder to see.

"how long have you been standing there?"

i demanded, walking to chris and punching his arm. he laughed in pain as he rubbed his arm.

"long enough to see the sparks fly."

he teased, pushing me back. i rolled my eyes at him.

"get your ass back in the bus."

i said opening the door and escorting him back inside. he made kissy noises at me as rick followed him up the stairs. i shook my head and turned around, jumping a little bit at vinnys presence behind me.

"rick had kind of been waiting for that for a while."

he said, looking up at the now closed door. i raised a a brow.

"oh?"

i asked and he sent me a bashful smile, scratching the back of his neck lightly.

"ive been crushing over you for a while too. and being jealous of chris just as long, rick's been pushing me to say something. i guess it just took one last little push."

he shamefully laughed out.

"at least now we're on the same page."

i said before standing on my tip toes and bringing him down to kiss me again, both of his hands going to my waist.

"now come on, im still cold and the bus is much warmer."

i joked and he nodded along.

"agreed."

[thebittervampire]

I was tagged ages ago by @elluvians and I’m finally answering, thank you dear for tagging me! 🖤🖤

rules: answer the questions and tag people you’d like to get to know better

when is your birthday: June 9th

where do you live: France

three things you are doing right now: I’m writing, switching between two fics because I have too much and too little inspiration at the same time ; I’m watching my cat who is playing, catching her tail in my NEW sheets ; I’m drinking Christmas black tea 💜

four fandoms that have piqued your interest: on random: The Witcher, Batman, Detroit: Become Human and Dishonored

how has the pandemic been treating you: a lot of downs, some ups, all not always connected with the pandemic though, but after almost a year, I manage to get used to it.

a song you can’t stop listening to right now: Boulevard of Broken Dreams, the way too happy cover by Melodicka Bros, which is a masterpiece!

recommend a movie: Happy Birthdead, I’ve watched it again this afternoon and this movie put a huge smile on my face! One of the few ‘feel good horror movies’ I know.

how old are you: 28

school, university, occupation, other: still working at the medical bookshop, it’s a miracle after what happened in 2020, but we’re still on thin ice...

do you prefer heat or cold: it depends: I love hot weather but... it’s the south of France, it’s TOO hot after 15th June until 15th September

name one fact others may not know about you: I’m a Christian, not something I say right away on the net, but I know my mutuals won’t see me as a zealot

are you shy: not really

pronouns: she/her

biggest pet peeves: dirty fingernails, I swear, I can’t stand it. Washing hand it’s important, for you, for others, so when someone has black dirt under their nails, ugh... Sure, some jobs are manual, linked to earth, but hey, my boyfriend is cutlery maker, so at the end of the day, he had iron filings under his nails. Guess what? After he took his shower, his hands are clean!

what’s your favourite “dere” type: none, not really into that stuff

rate your life from 1 to 10 (1 being crappy and 10 being the best it could be): mmmh, hard question, 7 close to 8?

what’s your main blog: this one

list your sideblogs and what they’re used for: @horrorvg for all the horror video games, @samsevenwrites for my writing blog and @lectures-du-vampire-aigri for my French reading blog.

is there something people need to know about you before becoming friends: the same as @elluvians : replying to messages take me a lot of time and for many reasons: English isn’t my native langage, I’m usually answering at night, after work, etc, so I’m tired, I go through talktative/quiet moments... and last big problem: I often lose all notion of time. I can answer you right away or one month later (feeling really stupid) because I forgot we aren’t in January anymore.

But it’s never because I don’t like you: if I really don’t like you, if you bother me, I’ll make it clear. As one of my friend said to me: my outspokenness is a quality and a flaw at the same time. Never think I pretend with you.

I’m tagging, if they want to answer, @sapphicmadameumbralis, @daily-dimitrescufam (I couldn’t find you with the previous URL, I got scared!), @yverocher, @dunwallcourier, @joker-theclown, @mcgruffy-privatedetective, @this-is-my-sp0t and @lisaflowers

[forlornmelody]

Queer Movie Review #20: The Happiest Season

I had heard of Happiest Season from SO many people that I don't even know who to credit with my initial discovery. When I found out Happiest Season was coming out on Thanksgiving weekend, I knew I had to make it a double feature with Lez Bomb. It's not like I had other plans, right? Fucking COVID.

Going into this, I worried that Happiest Season might be too much like its indie predecessor, but this movie stands well enough on its own. Christmas celebrations carry different traditions and expectations than Thanksgiving. Notably, as expressed in Happiest Season, is the notion of asking your partner's father for a marital blessing.

First off, the sheer queers per capita in this production is probably unprecedented. We have Kristen Stewart (bi), who plays Abby. There's also Victor Garber (gay), who plays Harper's politician father, Ted. Aubrey Plaza (bi) plays Harper's ex, Riley. The director, Clea Duvall (an alum of But I'm A Cheerleader!), is a lesbian. You probably will recognize Abby's friend John, played by Daniel Levy (gay), of Shitt's Creek fame. There are probably even more notable queer people involved with this film, but those are the ones I can name off the top of my head. Also, the soundtrack features plenty of Christmas songs by queer artists, including Sia and Teagan & Sara.

Everyone on Tumblr knows queers travel in packs, and Happiest Season illustrates this perfectly. Abby's best friend is a gay literary agent. Harper's ex still shows up at her family Christmas parties and befriends Abby while she's at it. Honestly, I half-expected a love triangle, because romcom, but this movie lets Sloane and Abby stay friends.

Last but not least, Happiest Season recognizes that Christmas is not always the happiest season for everyone. (See what I did there?) Abby lost both her parents around Christmas time and thus doesn't really celebrate until she meets Harper. And Harper does her best to understand and support her misgivings. To have trauma recognized in a romcom? The absolute best.

Should you watch Happiest Season? YES. Heck, watch it with your folks. But maybe not when you and your partner are staying over at their house.

Movie Review Masterpost

Recommend a Queer Movie

[oikawasass]

I do adore

‣ pairing : kirishima x fem reader.

‣ oneshot.

‣ synopsis : a sweet ukulele song under the stars sounds like the perfect confession to me. 

‣ wordcount : 1.7k+

‣ warnings : none.

"Hey, sharky."

Y/n approached her childhood friend cautiously, finding herself delving into the nervous habit of playing with her fingers as she took a few more steps towards him.

Kirishima turned around to pull his attention away from Katsuki, Denki and Sero at the familiar voice filling his ears. The redhead's expression instantly brightened, flashing his sharp teeth in a toothy grin once he’d seen the girl now standing before him.

"Hey! What’s up N/n?" The boy asked, fully turning his body to now give her his full attention. Y/n felt herself gently bite at the inside of her cheek as she forced up the confidence to go through with her plan.

You see, tonight Y/n had planned to confess to her long-time best friend. She’d been putting it off for a few years now, the thought of him not reciprocating her feelings and losing him as her best friend, or simply having things become awkward terrifying her enough to keep her mouth shut for as long as she had.

They’d done everything together since their early days in middle school. They shared the same dreams, the same wonders, the same fears, the same hopes and goals, there was nothing they didn’t share or support each other through. Perhaps that’s just what made their relationship so sweet.

Or perhaps it was all the sleepovers and sleepless nights together, all the long talks about their existence and 3 am existential crisis’s they shared together after too many horror movies and Netflix documentaries. All the times they would sit in each other's rooms enjoying the others company in comfortable silence, or shouting their lungs out to some terrible pop song they loved to make fun of.

Hell, maybe it was even all of the struggles and weights of their insecurities knocking them down, only to have the other one there to help them back on their feet no matter what. All the times they broke down in each other's arms because it was the one place they felt safe and secure enough to do so. All the tears cried on the other's shoulder with all the comforting words whispered to one another during the lowest times in their lives.

They’ve been there for each other through it all, And that’s why she found herself fallen so hopelessly in love with the boy.

"Are you busy? I’ve got something I wanna do with you really quick." Y/n finally forced out of her throat, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her- no, Kirishima’s black sweatpants she wore.

Eijirou turned back to his group of friends, almost as if to ask for permission to run off with you as he always did. They all sighed heavily, nodding their heads. It was a simple answer they were used to giving at this point, their red-headed friend did this surprisingly often.

With another toothy smile, Kirishima turned back to the h/c haired girl standing across from him and shook his head.

"Nope, I’m all yours. What do you wanna do?" He tilted his head gently to the side, feeling his cheeks go warm when Y/n had reached out and grabbed his hand, beginning to drag him off somewhere.

"Just follow me."

————

The pair reached the roof, Kirishima still being dragged by the girl to their favourite spot. It was around the corner from the entranceway, giving them the privacy of the wall behind them, and a perfect view of the city. It was their go-to spot when they wanted to talk about something important.

So of course, Kirishima got the notion. He sat down in his usual spot on the right side of Y/n, crossing his legs and letting his arms rest in his lap. "Is everything alright, N/n?” He asked, concern lacing his tone of voice. Y/n didn’t answer him, too focused on pulling her red ukulele out of the small case strung across her back. It was the same one Eijirou had gotten her for Christmas last year.

"Just- Just listen, okay?" Y/n said through her unstable voice, it was obvious she was nervous.

With a deep breath, she slowly began the island strum of the opening melody.

Everything you do it sends me

Higher than the moon with every

Twinkle in your eye

You strike a match that lights my heart on fire

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " kiri? "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " yeah, n/n? "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " when we’re grown-ups, ‘n you become a

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ super awesome hero, yous not gonna forget

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ about me right? "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " no, dummy! we’re gonna be super awesome

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ heroes and beat up all the bad guys

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ together! "

When you're near, I hide my blushing face

And trip on my shoelaces

Grace just isn't my forte

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " since when are you such a klutz, n/n?

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ you’ve tripped on nothing at least six times

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ today! "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " I am not a klutz! the air around my feet is

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ just too thick so it keeps getting my feet

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ caught up in it. "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " or maybe it’s you finally ‘falling’ for me like

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ everyone said you would? "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " you wish, sharky. "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " I told you not to call me that!! "

But it brings me to my knees when you say

Hello, how are you, my darling today?

I fall into a pile on the floor

Puppy love is hard to ignore

When every little thing you do, I do adore

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " you don’t need a super flashy quirk to be

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ great, sharky. i don’t know how many times

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ i’ve gotta engrave that into your brain! "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " I know, I know! i just can’t help but think-

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ mmff ! "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " I'm not taking my hand off your mouth until

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ you agree with me on how amazing you are. "

We're as different as can be

I've noticed you're remarkably relaxed

And I'm overly uptight

We balance out each other nicely

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " what’re you so nervous about, n/n? it’s just

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ a dance. ease up a little! plus, look at how

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ fire your date looks! "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " quit flexing in my mirror so i can finish

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ getting ready, sharky!! "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " okay okay, i’m moving! but seriously, lighten

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ up! we’ll have a great time. "

You wear sandals in the snow

In mid-July, I still feel cold

We're opposites in every way

But I can't resist it when say

Hello, how are you, my darling today?

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " hello my darling n/n, to what do I owe the

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ pleasure on such a fine winter morning? "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " . . . are those crocks? "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " of course they’re crocks. "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " there’s 2 feet of snow on the ground. "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " and? lightning mcqueen is made for all

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ kinds of weather. "

I fall into a pile on the floor

Puppy love is hard to ignore

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " you’ve got lovesick eyes, I know that look

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ n/n! "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " I do not, quit overthinking ! "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " you totally do, you’re even blushing! so who

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ is it? "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " no one dummy! quit asking! "

When every little thing you do, I do adore

Finding words, I mutter

Tongue-tied, twisted

Foot in mouth, I start to stutter

Ha, ha, Heaven help me

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " so what’d you wanna tell me, n/n? "

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " w-well. . .you see. . .its just. . ."

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ " It’s nothing. forget I even said anything,

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ahaha. "

Hello, how are you, my darling today?

I fall into a pile on the floor

Puppy love is hard to ignore

When every little thing you do, I do adore

Every little thing ba ba bap ba

Every little thing ba ba bap ba

Every little thing you do I do, adore.

Y/n swallowed thickly when her singing and the strumming of the ukulele in her hands came to a close.

She had always sung for Kirishima, and he had always loved to listen. Her sweet, melodic voice overtaking his ears was something he truly did cherish each time it happened, despite how frequent it did.

Yet this time was different, and of course, Eijirou knew that.

This was her confession.

They had thought of all the same childhood moments they shared leading up to now for each line of her song, it didn’t need to be said. Call it their minds being linked, I suppose.

Letting the ukulele rest loosely in her lap, Y/n gently rose her gaze from the concrete beneath them to Kirishima’s slightly shocked expression. The look on his face only made her nerves grow, causing her to subconsciously play with her fingers in her lap again.

Except Kirishima stopped them, placing his larger hands atop her own to halt her fidgeting. The girl felt her cheeks warm at the action, despite how many times he’s done it before. It was as if everything in that moment was new for the two, as they were no longer on the level of being simple best friends.

The look in their eyes showed that deep down, they were so much more.

With a shaky inhale, Y/n finally brought herself to meet her e/c eyes with the other’s red ones, a silence falling over them as they were both at a loss for where to begin. She wanted to explain to Eijirou her reasoning for the song, and the reasoning for all her clumsiness and fumbling around him for the past few months, she wanted to explain everything. Not to mention, the girl desperately wanted an answer to her confession. It was eating her away at this point, questioning whether or not he’d felt the same.

Little did she know, that wasn’t necessary. Kirishima had finally pieced it all together, her song was just that last missing centre puzzle piece.

Opening her mouth to speak, Y/n wasn’t even able to get one word out before she was suddenly cut off, feeling a soft pair of plush lips press against her own.

And that was the only answer she needed.

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter ix. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional baggage, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~2250

chapter 9.  No Limit in the Sky

You should've had I love you stamped on your forehead in bright red ink.

You still think he's joking when you find your words.

How had he even had a chance to ask?  You'd been standing right there as he and Hoseok had chatted, the former thanking the idol for dropping by the class.  The spots were always filled right away, he'd said.  People just wanted the chance to see him in person.

"What?"  It's smaller than you mean, and flat.  You're not quite sure how you feel.

"He messaged me when we were on the way back."  The carrots are done and he's moved onto slicing green onions, thin fingers gliding the edge of a knife through the ends.  "He's really nice, but I didn't give it to him. I wanted to ask you first."

"Well, um."  The flesh of your cheek aches, you realize.  You've been chewing it with a vigor you can't control.  Nervous habit.

"I don't think that's really appropriate." 

Your eyes snap to the new voice, surprise colouring your expression and slipping into the fall of your mouth.  Taehyung's carding a hand through his hair, smoothing it away from his forehead uselessly before it's fallen right back into place.  "She's probably not ready for something like that and it's not fair to put that pressure on her."

You're not sure whether you want to kiss or thank him, so you remain silent instead, lips pursed.  Jungkook's thumb taps gently against the side of your face - a reminder to stop biting your cheek before you can't eat dinner.  You stop almost immediately, hand of your own reaching to hold his own delicately.

"Hyung's right," your best friend chimes. All three scowl - who's he referring to?  "She'll never say no, but she'll be uncomfortable."

"I'm right here, you know." You finally huff, growing annoyed by the way they're all talking about you as if you weren't right there. You knew they were only looking out for your best interests - which, in some ways, they knew better than you did - but it was frustrating nonetheless. 

Neither man seems bothered by your reproach, Taheyung already turning his back to peek around Seokjin's shoulder.  On the other hand, Jungkook squeezes your fingers once, twice, three times.  A silent apology dating back a decade.  

Mi-an-hae.  One squeeze for each syllable.

"You can give it to him."  You ignore the surprise written in the faces you can see and can only imagine the expressions on those you can't.  "But maybe just tell him I've just gotten out of a relationship?  I don't want him to expect anything."  Or hurt me so soon after, you don't say.

Hoseok's the only one seemingly perfectly okay with the idea.  "Okay, I will."

At the dinner table, surrounded by the most rambunctious men you've ever met in your life - it's chaos.

Hoseok and Namjoon are laughing about something in between bites, the former's eyes disappearing when the latter says something particularly funny, dimples on full display.  

Further down the table, Yoongi has the largest pile of skewers beside his bowl.  In fact, you don't think you've seen him put down his chopsticks the entire time.  He's been happily munching away, engrossed in the salty, fatty goodness while his members have indulged in conversation around him. 

Two seats away, Taehyung is quietly shovelling food into his mouth, only ceasing repetitive motions when Jimin is proposing a toast.  It had started reasonably  - to Bangtan, to ARMY, to our families - but it had since descended into madness.  Now, he was chanting about mini race cars and the high quality meat of tonight's meal, prompting Seokjin to join in. 

"I think you need to catch up."  You're swallowing around a mouthful of rice before speaking, wiggling your eyebrows at your best friend.  While it seemed everyone was enjoying themselves, he'd been curiously taciturn.  At first, you'd chalked it up to him just being hungry - as he always was - but you weren't so sure anymore.  That worried you more than it should.

You'd known him for so long you considered him the other half of your whole.  With that came an innate understanding of each other - or so you thought. 

"I've had more than them."  The two empty soju bottles beside him are raised for your inspection.  "I'm just better at holding my liquor.  I'm JK, after all."  He's mirroring your earlier expression, eyebrows disappearing into fluffy strands.  "Why - are you trying to get me drunk so I spill all my secrets?"

You laugh at that, reaching your free hand up to gently assault his chin.  "Maybe.  You never know what you could be hiding from me!"

That I love you.

Because that's exactly why he isn't indulging in the way his hyungs are, carefree as can be in the comfort of their own home. 

He's already spent the better half of his life fighting the feeling.  As he sits there, warmth of your thigh pressed to his beneath the table, he has to claw back the words that threaten to spill forth.  He has to make a concentrated effort to not linger too long on your lips or the pretty blush that soaks your cheeks in pink.  He wishes he could leap headlong into the sound of your laughter that curls like the peel of a Christmas orange and sinks into his senses. 

Would you take it well?  Would you be shocked and leave?  Or would you be the thing he most feared - contrite, apologetic, as you tore his heart in half? 

Losing you would be one thing but pity - that would destroy him.

So, instead, he scowls at you, nose wrinkling in that patented Jungkook way, and shoves a carefully constructed wrap of goodies into his mouth.  He chews languidly, staring you down the bridge of his nose, and you're a second away from squeezing his cheeks.  

"I don't hide things from you."  He says it simply, dismissively, once he's swallowed.  You hated when he talked with his mouth full.

"I know.  I was kidding."

Maybe it's just the alcohol talking or the devil on your shoulder that speaks so sweetly you can't hear anything else.  There's a ringing in your ears and a soft, fuzzy feeling like you're looking through a snow globe.  You know you're not drunk - far from it - in fact - but there's a pleasant buzz coursing through your body, every nerve lit up like a Christmas tree. 

It's the way Jungkook's looking at you, like he can see right through you.  Could he?

You try not to wilt under his stare, suddenly feeling far too warm.  Fingers twist and turn in your lap, chopsticks and shot glasses long forgotten.  Should you get up?  Surely, he feels this too, electricity crackling between you like a live wire surging from the tips of your fingers to the balls of his feet.  If he can't feel that, then it must be evident in the careening pitch of your laugh, strange even to your ears.  You were so terribly, miserably obvious.

You should've had I love you stamped on your forehead in bright red ink.

But if he does, he says nothing, finally tearing his gaze from yours.  He rises from his seat, holding up empty bottles in a universal question and chuckling to himself when no one reacts.  Except you, that is, but he can't look at you again.  Not right now, when his heart is hammering so hard in his chest he's afraid it's going to burst out like some terrible cartoon sketch. 

"Do you want some help?"  You're offering softly, hopefully, with no ill-intent.  But it burns him to his core, because your words are like a melody he'd listen to forever, a siren song he'd gladly drown for.  Don't you know what you do to him?

Jungkook's halfway to the kitchen before he's answering.  "No, I'm good."

You spend the rest of the evening weightless, feeling like you're floating on cotton candy clouds.  It's a curious sensation but nonetheless welcome.  Anything to distract you from the thoughts that have chosen to make a home of your head, pervasive notions that flit around your mind like an irksome fly.  Why was he the only thing you could think about now, of all times?  Why hadn't you had half a decade to break these dreams into fairy dust?

Oh wait - you had.

Because these were the same daydreams you'd carried with you since you'd realized that maybe, just maybe, you liked Jungkook as more than just a friend.  They hadn't just come out of nowhere, though you'd shout yourself hoarse with the insistence that they had.  The emotions were tied to memories, ones that played against the back of your eyelids like a highlight reel while you slept. 

Flash.

The anniversary of your mother's passing.  Your father but a shell of the man he'd always been.  A star whose light had gone out.  He'd been despondent leading up to the day, forgetting about things that he never would have otherwise.  You'd been hungry for longer than you cared to admit, searching for food in the cupboards that housed ghosts and little else.  You'd carefully spooned soup into your mouth, hesitant to take too much from the thermos you brought to school daily.  You hadn't thought anyone would notice how tired you were, how you barely perked up when the rest of your classmates were sprinting across the lawn to play.  But Jungkook had noticed and from then, he'd always packed a little extra in his lunch.

Flash.

His fourteenth birthday, complete with a homemade cheesecake and four candles.  You'd bought him a new headset, giddy with pride when he'd torn it out of it's careful wrapping.  You hadn't even cared that he'd completely missed the card taped to the front, his name scrawled in neat pink gel ink beside a lopsided heart.  Things had been rough for a little while - the life of a trainee, after all - but it had been all worth it to be able to celebrate this with him.  Even if it'd cost you more than you wanted to admit, it was all worth it to see that smile on his face.  

Flash.

"You did it!"  You weren't sure when he'd gotten so much bigger than you, the top of your head barely clearing his chin.  Hadn't it just been months ago when you'd both fit into your double bed with room to spare?  When had his shoulders turned into an impenetrable fortress, the slope of his jaw all sharp angles?  He'd hoisted you into his arms like you weighed nothing, swinging you around like you were a child.  You'd told yourself the flutter in your stomach was from the centrifugal motion and not the way you were so close you could see the galaxy reflected in his eyes.

Flash.

You knew how hard he'd fought to meet you there, standing off to the side of arrivals.  There'd been a black mask shielding his face and a baseball cap low over his ears, the hood of his sweater bunched up around his neck.  It was supposed to be inconspicuous but there'd been something about him that immediately drew your attention to him.  You refused to believe it was just you.  (Yeah, you weren't touching that with a ten foot pole.)  

The relief was instant when you'd cleared the wall of people, all in various stages of euphoria as their loved ones came staggering back into their lives.  You'd caught his outstretched hand in your own and squeezed tightly, mirroring the smile you knew was hidden from view.  It hadn't been a hug but it was enough.  "Welcome home."

Flash.

His face in low-res pixels, signal not quite strong enough to translate the movement behind his camera.  You could barely make out the figures behind him but you could feel the elation rolling off him in waves, pieced together by the flash of his teeth and his whoop of excitement.  "We did it!"  He'd all but shrieked, nearly prompting you to rip your headphones off. 

"I know - I knew you would!"  Jungkook was over the moon, a shooting star with no end in sight - so when he'd blown a kiss to the lens, you tried not to think about it.  This was everything he'd ever wished for, manifested in a single magical night.  He couldn't be held responsible for the ache in your heart.

Flash.

You're not sure how long you've been lost in thought, staring at some undefined point on the far wall.  Lips are parted, a little dry and a little bruised from the worrying you've done like second nature.  When you realize you're spacing out, you're renewing your assault with renewed vigour.  Why was this happening?

"Everything okay?"  It takes you a minute to realize it's directed to you - or even that someone is speaking at all.  The words don't make sense at first, unfamiliar syllables taking a second to sink in.  You wonder, briefly, why Namjoon's speaking English, his warm gaze kind and expectant.  He's closer than you'd realized but still politely removed, comfortable in his own little square of the couch.  He looks tired but content, satisfied. 

You mull over his question, turning it on its head over and over again.  Were things okay?  Were you okay?  "I'm not sure," you finally relent.  It seems too big of a question to answer, like anything you say won't necessarily be true.  

"That's okay."  He's rising to his full stature, posture relaxed and head cocked, glasses just barely off-skew.  "Let's go talk."

You don't even hesitate to follow him out of the room.  Maybe this was what you needed.

notes.  please enjoy this tooth-rotting fluff as an apology for how dumb these two are.

[ice-bjorn]

If I Lose Myself

“Elsa?” Anna called out into the darkness.

“Are you in here?”

Her voice came back to her, quiet echoes mocking as they reverberated off the surrounding ice.

Anna wandered through the crystalline cave, getting lost in the curious angles of translucent, glass like walls. She spun in place, walking backwards as she craned her neck up, up until her back was so bowed she almost lost her balance trying to see the ceiling. Anna felt a sudden queasy sense of déjà vu; three years ago she had stumbled blindly through another construction of wondrous, elemental magic... and it had not ended well.

This place, however, felt very different from the proud, elegant structures Elsa created; there was something ancient and unsettling in these severe, organic formations. Something powerful and knowing. Anna shivered, feeling almost as if it could sense her intrusion, and was now observing her.

Light from somewhere up ahead rippled and fractured over and through the cave’s angles like water, beckoning her further in despite her growing unease. She reached out a hand reflexively to guide herself along the cave wall, then pulled her fingers back at the last moment, thinking better of it. There was no telling what kind of wild magic this place contained, here beyond the forest, beyond the fog. Best to disturb as little as possible. As naturally tactile as Anna was, she was learning that quickly here in this strange land.

After following the murky light for some time, the natural corridor of the cave began to widen, suddenly opening up into a vast cavern. Anna shielded her eyes against the luminous room, shocking after so long in the near dark. Giving herself a moment to adjust, she began to lower her hand away from her eyes.

When she caught sight of what the room contained, Anna’s breath left her in a gasp, arm falling limply to her side. She gazed in awe at colossal shards of geometric ice, stretching from the top of the cavern at their widest edge, all the way to the floor in impossibly narrow points. Each refracted a prism of haunting light, flowing dazzlingly within the bizarre, enchanting structure.

Anna felt herself drawn closer in dreamlike fascination; if she’d been in her right mind she might have noticed the pull towards the unearthly shards felt unnatural.

She came close enough to see herself reflected in the surface of one enormous piece, strangely more mirror like than Anna had anticipated. Despite all her better judgment, she found her hand reaching slowly toward her image in the ice, why-she didn’t know but-

Wait, what was that?

At the last second before her fingertips touched the pane Anna’s gaze shifted, catching sight of something off to the side.

Her heart skipped.

Elsa.

For a moment, Anna was rooted to the spot, observing her sister as if she had manifested her there from a dream.

Elsa’s back was to her, platinum locks flowing free and unhindered down her back. She’d lost her surcoat, now clad in just her form-fitting, gauzy tunic and leggings. She didn’t even have her boots.

Standing there barefoot, her slender form silhouetted in the shifting lights, Elsa seemed vulnerable and fragile, though Anna had never seen her so free in her appearance. Something about the sight made her chest ache, and the thought came unbidden that this was the longest they had been apart in three years.

All this passed through Anna’s mind in seconds, and then as though jolted by an electric shock, she bolted towards her sister.

“Elsa!”

Anna skidded to halt a few feet away, conscious not to let herself careen into Elsa in her eagerness. In the brief moment it took to walk around her sister, Anna’s subconscious registered how odd it was that Elsa had not reacted to her presence.

Anna’s stomach dropped and her elation turned sour as she faced her sister. A cold, creeping fear began to settle in her breast; a stark wrongness becoming frighteningly apparent.

“...E-Elsa?”

Elsa’s eyes were glassy and vacant, glowing faintly with an unearthly light. Her porcelain face was expressionless and unresponsive, as if she had been carved from stone. Normally poised, regal beauty seemed slightly wild and ethereal, not unlike the cave in which they stood.

Anna took a hesitant step closer, heart in her mouth.

“Elsa can you hear me? Can you ... see me?” she asked softly. Anna waved a hand in front of her sister’s face, but Elsa did not even blink.

“Elsa, please you’re scaring me.”

She reached out and lightly tapped her shoulder a few times, testing for a reaction. When still she did not move, Anna gripped Elsa’s shoulders firmly, shaking her a little.

“Come on, please you have to snap out of this... whatever this is.”

She remembered Elsa’s voice, laced with fear- it seemed like so long ago now-

I’m afraid I might lose myself.

No

No.

“You can’t have her,” she declared into the silence, though to whom or what she spoke, she had no idea. “I won’t let you take her.”

She placed her hands on Elsa’s cheeks, feeling frantic.

“Hey... we still have to finish this together, right? Isn’t that what you promised me? We have to save everyone back in Arendelle...we still have to go home, and celebrate all our birthdays together, and Christmas, and all the other holidays- even the silly ones Olaf makes up- and steal chocolate from the pantry when we think the cooks won’t notice, and watch the stars together at night when the sky’s awake-“ she stopped, her throat closing on a sob.

She searched Elsa’s impassive face desperately. What was she meant to do? How was she supposed to break whatever spell this was... standing here in this foreign place saturated with so much unknown magic- without any herself? Anna felt small and lost, holding on to the shell of her sister in the profound vastness of this strange dwelling, so deep in the earth.

“What do you think I’d do without you, huh?” Anna whispered, pressing her trembling lips together as she fought back tears. She traced her thumbs across Elsa’s smooth cheekbones, brushing over the subtle dusting of freckles that only added to her beauty. “What makes you think I don’t need you with me just as much?”

Sudden memory triggered by the utterance of those words gave Anna pause, and however flimsy the notion, it was better than nothing; at this point she would grasp at any straw she could.

With shaking hands she fumbled for their mother’s shawl in her bag, taking care to drape it around Elsa’s shoulders, straightening it so the ends hung evenly. Anna held on, staring at the patterns between her fingers, their mother’s heritage sewn deftly into the rich fabric.

“Do you remember the song mama used to sing to us?” she murmured, her voice wobbling. “I know you do.”

Haltingly she began to sing the lullaby that had guided them to sleep nearly every night when they were little, when they still shared a room, and a bed more often than not. She thought of their mother, and how fiercely she had loved them; her chest ached, though her voice grew more steady as she did her best to channel the memory of their mother’s voice.

As Anna reached the end and sung the last bittersweet notes, she lifted a finger and drew it gently down Elsa’s nose, a single tear escaping down her cheek.

She held her breath in the silence, desperately vigilant for the most minute change in her sister, the smallest twitch that might indicate awareness.

Some part of it must have reached Elsa, beyond whatever held her trapped in stasis; as Anna watched, an echoing tear slipped down her sister’s cheek.

“I know you’re in there, Elsa,” she pleaded. “Please come back to me.”

For an unbearable, endless moment nothing happened.

Then-

A soft inhale and Elsa’s eyelids fluttered. Her eyes seemed to clear of whatever unnatural light had shadowed them.

There you are.

Anna smiled through tears of painful relief, now streaming freely down her face, as she witnessed Elsa come back to herself, awakening to her surroundings as if from a deep sleep.

“Anna?”

[pathetic-has-been-rockstar]

Carols and decorations

Pairing: Dean x Castiel

Written for: @spnchristmasbingo​

Square filled: singing Christmas songs

Warnings: none

Summary:   When he has to put on the last touches around the bunker, Dean finds himself thinking about several things and humming holiday songs. Castiel doesn’t seem too enthusiastic about it, and Dean’s singing talent is not the only reason.

Words: 2246

This can be found on AO3, here! If you’re interested in the whole series, you just have to click here!

The atmosphere in the bunker is mostly happy and relaxed. The accident with the haunted Christmas tree has been quickly forgotten, and everything seems back to normal, as far as normal goes when a family of hunters is involved.

While you and Jack are gone to pick up chestnuts, luckily bringing Crowley along with you, Sam, Dean and Eileen are in the kitchen. They’re currently working on thinning out the endless provisions of Christmas cookies bought by Jack and Castiel along with the ugly Christmas sweaters.

When Dean catches the stares between Sam and Eileen, and he notices how their hands keep touching under the small mountain of discarded wrapping, he knows that's his cue. He grabs a handful of candies and stands up.

“Well, guys, I'll go check if Cas needs help with putting up the rest of the decorations. You stay here, we'll call if we need help.”

The happy couple barely look at him while he leaves the kitchen, mindlessly popping another candy in his mouth. He heads for the library, finding Castiel sunk in his favourite armchair, reading “A Christmas Carol”. For a second, Dean stops chewing on whatever it is in his mouth, and looks at Cas.

He looks deeply absorbed by the book, the inseparable trench coat gathered under his body, half covering him, half draping his figure. Dean feels a sudden lumps in his throat, and unconsciously wets his lips. He's done it a million times before, in every kind of situation, but the idea of calling Cas now... it bothers him.

Besides, he knew what would happen. Cas would lift his head, and he'd look at him. At the thought, Dean feels the knot in his throat getting tighter, and he's frustrated with himself. He's Cas. He's his best friend. He's the angel that's been in countless battles with him, whose eyes Dean can read as much as he can read Sam... and now he's being childish about looking at him. That won't do.

“Hey, Cas?”

Exactly like he predicted, Castiel stops looking at the page and lifts his gaze, moving his attention on Dean. The moment their eyes meet, he automatically smiles.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Uh... why are you reading?”

“I don't understand the nature of your question” Cas answers, tilting lightly his head on a side. Dean's stomach is surely making a number right now.

“I thought... uh, Metatron didn't kind of... poured every bit of human culture in your head?”

“Oh. Yes, he did, but you know I like doing things my way. Besides, Jack was asking me about Christmas stories earlier. There's a version of this book with puppets and another with... ducks, apparently?”

Dean smiles at Castiel's confusion. “Yeah, the Disney one. It's pretty good.”

“Another childhood memory I can shatter?” Castiel asks, making Dean grin like a schoolgirl.

“No, you'll have to do better than that, this time. But if you were planning on zapping me to Disneyland, I might make up some shit.”

“I never pegged you for a man who might want to go to Disneyland.”

Dean just scrolls his shoulders. “Believe me, it's not the first surprise of these holidays. Anyway... I was about to put on some decorations. Wanna help?”

The way Cas casually throws his legs off the armrest has Dean wondering about how long he needed to master his vessel to such a level of grace. He zones out for a moment, trying to think about the times he's seen him doing something graceless or even just slightly clumsy. He can't recall any, but when he comes back to reality, he finds Castiel intently observing him.

“Dean? Are you ok?”

Forcing his brain to start working again, Dean swallows hard. “I... yeah. I'm great. This way, there's a lot of stuff to do.”

“Like what?”

“We gotta... hang the lights, check the baubles in the tree, and... you know, stuff like that.”

“Fine. Any inspiration?”

A wide grin spreads on Dean's face while he answers “Yeah. I was thinking about something looking a bit like... you know, the huge one in New York, with the ice skating thing under it.”

“Don't you think it's a bit ambitious?” Castiel teases him, but he's actually slightly worried. Dean has been on a sort of Christmas high for days. He might actually try something extremely over the top.

“I stopped the Apocalypse three times, and I killed Hitler. I can deal with a Christmas tree.”

“Sure. The same Christmas tree from which I had to save you?”

Dean rolls his eyes, slightly exasperated. “Will I ever hear the end of it?”

“... would anyone in this bunker hear the end of it, if they brought along something haunted, and almost wreck the whole festivities?”

“... probably not.”

“Then probably not” Castiel states. Dean could swear that he's trying not to laugh.

“Alright, sassy pants, you know what? I don't have to stand here and be treated like this.”

“You asked for my help.”

“Yeah, to hang decorations, not to become the punchline of your jokes!”

“I'm just doing what you usually do with me. Friendly banter, right?”

Incredulous, Dean is now absolutely sure that Cas is making fun of him. He's also very surprised in finding out that he might actually find the whole thing quite pleasant. “You're getting too used to this humanity thing, you know? Get back to your book, I don't need no judgement while I hang my Christmas decorations.”

“Your decorations? You mean those Jack and I bought?”

“Shut up.”

After a couple of hours, Dean is humming Christmas songs again. He's surprised when Castiel starts humming in tune with him, and shoots him a weird look before laughing.

“Come on! I'm a great singer!” he declares, balancing some delicate glass ornament in his hand. Castiel just nods, unusually quiet.

“Guess that Emmanuel thing really stuck on you, uh?”

“The... Dean, how did you find out about that?”

Castiel stammers, looking at Dean like he just casually confessed some incredible truth. Dean has rarely seen the angel so surprised, especially when he's not even supposed to be.

“You... you were called like that, when you were a healer, after Leviathans, weren't you? We came to find you, remember?”

“... oh, that... that's correct. Yes, indeed, I was called Emmanuel. I... forgot about that.”

“Yeah? Then why did you freak out that I knew?”

“Because I didn't remember that you knew.”

“Cas, you still are a shitty liar. What are you not telling me?”

Castiel seems uncomfortable, but ultimately sighs and starts talking. “Well, that... that song you were singing... I might have been the one involved in his creation.”

“... you... what?”

“The person who wrote this... John Mason Neale. He was a pious boy, who was challenged to write a new hymn because he told the old ones in his community that he felt the old ones didn't make justice to the Lord.”

Dean seems genuinely curious and moves a hand to encourage Castiel to go on.

“So... I showed up. To help him.”

“... wait, what?”

“I was supposed to inspire him with holy visions, appropriate to his religion, of course, and... that song was the result.”

Dean scoff, incredulous. “You are telling me that you inspired one of the most... I don't know, world-spread Christmas songs of all the frickin' times, and you never once thought to tell me?”

“Dean, I also discussed poetry with Christopher Marlowe and tried to convince him not to take that deal, but you never once asked me about it.”

“... Christopher Marlowe? The... the dude who died with a knife in his eye?”

“Yes. How do you know that?”

“I dated a chick who was pretty into English literature and... and...”, Dean stammers, reading a certain annoyance in Castiel's eyes. Not the best move to talk about her, probably. “It was like... a lifetime ago. High school, go figures. It just stuck.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“So... is that why you picked the name Emmanuel after you came back from the Leviathans thing?”

Castiel tilts his head, almost surprised. He never made that connection. “I don't know, actually. It must have been set somewhere in my memory. I couldn't remember anything, but that name just felt... right. It must have been called in joy and devotion, to stick so deeply.”

The notion that Castiel remembered the name some random guy gave him centuries ago, and not the one he used around him, makes Dean feel terrible.

“Well... I hope next time you have an amnesia you can remember your name, after all that we've been through together.”

“What do you think I'm implying here, Dean?” Castiel's question is asked with an unusual kindness, almost with care. It catches Dean by surprise, and forces him to articulate his thoughts.

“I don't know. That you forgot your name because we never used it with enough... reverence, or devotion, or whatever else?”

“I surely wasn't implying anything like that.”

“Well, it sounded a lot like it, actually.”

Castiel must make a real effort to stop himself from smiling. Of all the new things that are happening, seeing Dean uncomfortable around him might be the most surprising.

“Dean... you're being needlessly defensive. I have no idea why that name stuck with me, but I was just referring to the fact that, for about three hundred years, that hymn that I inspired has been sung all around the world, to sing praise of my Father. Can you understand what I was trying to say, now?”

Of course Cas was talking about a bigger picture. Of course he made a fool of himself. “... I think so.”

Castiel puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing lightly, prompting a curious stare. “Dean... I understand. I know what you've been through, and I know what you are trying to do. This new world, this new life... it's strange. Even for me. It's difficult to think that the absentee father I praised my whole existence is not what I thought I'd be...”

Fighting the lump forming in his throat, Dean scoffs, thinking about his own father. “Eh. You'll survive that one.”

“... and it's almost impossible to understand that we truly and well overpowered God himself. If these events are almost out of my comprehension, I understand that they must be even more unsettling for you. But that's not all, isn't it?”

Dean lets out a strangled sound, followed by an incoherent mumble, from which Cas can only make out “change”, “family” and “safety”. He nods and goes on.

“Adjusting to something new, learning new things about yourself... it can be hard.”

Suddenly awkward, Dean snaps at him, but he doesn't pull back or shy away from the reassuring touch on his shoulder. The awkwardness has shifted to something else. Frustration. Confusion, and, most of all... impatience.

“Cas, you plan on gettin' somewhere or just on my nerves? I'm not Jack. I don't need pep talk.”

“Sure. I'm just saying... don't be too hard on yourself. The whole world changed. If you changed along with it... it would be natural. Perhaps even better. I, personally, am very curious to see the new Dean Winchester.”

“... yeah, I don't know, man. I doubt it'll be a showstopper.”

“Showstopper was the starting point, Dean.”

Just while Dean's cheeks turn to a bright red and his jaw drops a little, Castiel presses a light kiss on his unshaven cheek before drawing back just as quickly.

“Come on, we have many things to do.”

Dean is spared from finding some adequate response to Castiel's gesture by the door of the bunker opening. An instant later, an overly excited Jack rushes down the stairs, holding a basket and running to Dean and Castiel.

He shoves the basket in Castiel's hands and proudly beams at him and Dean.

“Chestnuts!”

Cas nods, looking down at the basket. “Yes, I see that.”

“I picked them up! And I petted a hellhound! Two, actually.”

Dean looks at him, surprised. “You did what?”

“I picked up chestnuts! And we roasted them, too! Have you ever tried them? We could roast them. Maybe lighting a fire outside?”

“No, Jack, go back to the hellhound thing, please.”

“Oh, yeah. Crowley brought his two along, and I played with them. Y/N did, too.”

Dean groans, seeing you and Crowley walking back inside together. He snaps at him as soon as you two move closer, joining Jack.

“Crowley! Hellhounds? Really?”

Imperturbable as ever, Crowley speaks. “Pets are excellent to help children with their development, Squirrel. Everyone knows that.”

“Pets! Regular animals! Not... Cerberus!” It's clear that Dean's nerves come from something else, but you're all far too used to those little outbursts.

“You'll be happy to know that both Juliet and Banquo only have one head each. They're perfectly trained and capable of behaving properly. Perhaps I might interest you in some sessions, Squirrels? Your manners might improve...”

Dean seems about to leash out, but instead he shoots you a deadly glare

“Damn kid, I hope you know what you're doing” is all that he mutters before turning tail and marching away, followed by Castiel.

Too surprised by that jab, you just head to the kitchen to get some water, hoping that Crowley didn't notice your surprise at Dean's words. On his part, Crowley chuckles and looks at you walking away. He then places a hand on Jack's shoulder.

“Come on boy, let's see how we can poke some fun at your fathers. All in good spirit, naturally.”

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

Thank you for reading! 

I truly hope you enjoyed this little story. Every kind of feedback is very much appreciated, just as much as likes and reblogs!

Please, do not repost or copy my works or part/s of it, not even if you give credits.

[wistfulcynic]

Operation Emma’s Christmas

Merry Christmas to @kitsunewingstar​! If I calculated correctly this should post in the afternoon of Christmas Eve for you, (very) early in the morning of Christmas Eve here in the UK/Europe, and Christmas Eve Eve in the US. It’s been lovely chatting with you and I hope you have a wonderful holiday with your family! 

You requested something sweet and Christmassy, so I hope this delivers! For the purposes of the story, we’re assuming there was no Christmas under the curse (since we never saw/heard about it on the show) and that S7 and its timeline is not a thing. 

Thanks to the @cssecretsanta2k19​​ for organising this event!!

SUMMARY: What with curses and monsters and trips to Camelot, and a distinct lack of quiet moments, the residents of Storybrooke have never really celebrated Christmas. Now that he has a child and a wife who misses the holiday, Killian is determined to change that. 

He just has to figure out how. 

(Set post-S6 in a world with no S7)

Tagging all the folks from the last tag list, PLEASE do let me know if you want to be added or removed. @kmomof4 @shireness-says @snidgetsafan @darkcolinodonorgasm @snowbellewells @stahlop​ @mariakov81​ @courtorderedcake​ @jonirobinson64​ @tiganasummertree​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @shardminds​ @jennjenn615​ @superchocovian​ @teamhook​

On AO3

-

Operation Emma’s Christmas:

Killian Jones has been alive a very long time, and seen many strange and wondrous things. But none of them, from the spice markets of Agrabah to the snow-covered mountains of Arendelle to the hold of the Jolly Roger when it’s brimming with loot can, in his opinion, top the astounding treasure that is Google. He is awestruck by the notion of being able to ask any question he likes and having the answer appear within seconds. Emma tries to explain how anyone can put stuff on the internet and he can’t believe everything he reads, but he brushes her off. He knows how to separate fact from opinion and how to identify a reliable source, he tells her patiently. Among the many things they teach you in the Royal Navy. 

With the aid of the oracle Google, Killian learns all about this extraordinary realm he now calls home, enough so that he no longer finds himself adrift on a foggy sea when Emma and Henry make references to things he’s never heard of. He finds lists of movies he should watch and books he should read and the most influential songs of the 20th century, and he sets about watching and reading and listening to each one, with all the studious dedication of the keen young lieutenant he used to be, oh so many years ago now. 

“It’s kind of a shame we don’t do Christmas in Storybrooke,” says Emma wistfully one afternoon in mid-December, as they sit on the floor with their backs resting against the sofa watching Hope crawl around the living room. “Now that we have a kid. I mean, I had Henry before and we did Christmas in New York and in our fake memories, but… it’d be nice to do it here.” 

Killian is already on his phone consulting the oracle on the subject of Christmas. An annual festival commemorating the birth of Jesus Christ, observed primarily on December 25 as a religious and cultural celebration among billions of people around the world, he reads. He clicks on Images and scrolls through brightly decorated evergreen trees, houses draped in twinkling lights, giant-sized stockings hung above fireplaces and a very fat bearded man dressed in red. He makes a mental note to do more research when he gets back to the station and in the meantime looks up at where Emma and Hope are now playing patty cake. 

“Why can’t we?” he asks.

“Why can’t we what?” 

“Celebrate Christmas?” 

“Oh. I don’t know, I guess we’ve just never done it in Storybrooke.” Emma pauses, laughing as Hope leans in to pat her cheeks. “Because of the curse, I suppose.” 

“But knowledge of it is presumably part of this curse download that your family and all the residents who were brought here by Regina had, correct?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Well, that surely means that they would wish to begin a new tradition, one that includes this festival?” he presses. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Killian.” Hope crawls into Emma’s lap and she cuddles the baby close. “I don’t want to make a big deal about it. It doesn’t matter.” 

But if there’s one thing Killian doesn’t require Google’s assistance to understand, it’s his wife. This Christmas business is clearly very important to her, and he intends to see that she gets the finest celebration of it that he has in his power to provide. 

—

Killian’s first step in Operation Emma’s Christmas is to enlist the aid of Henry and David. The prince to help him procure all the materials he needs, the lad to come up with a name better than “Operation Emma’s Christmas.” 

David comes through like the noble royal and loving father (in-law) that he is, but Henry, to Killian’s great chagrin, loves Operation Emma’s Christmas. “Straight and to the point,” he says. “Perfect.” 

Killian sighs, frowning at the back seat of David’s truck where his stepson sits typing something on his phone. The lad is so much more prosaic now that he’s discovered girls, he thinks, when really the opposite should be true. 

“Are you sure you can’t come up with something better?” he grumbles. 

“Nope.” Henry doesn’t even look up from his screen. Killian sighs again. 

“Don’t worry, Hook,” says David. “The operation will be a success, the name doesn’t matter. Actually, I’m really glad you thought of it. I’ve been intending to get a Christmas tradition going around here since Neal was born, but what with one thing and another—” 

“Never a quiet moment,” says Killian. “Aye.” 

“Well, we’ve got one now and we’re gonna make the most of it,” says David, pulling the truck over to the side of the road. The three of them get out and Killian catches his breath at the sight before him. They are standing above a wide, snowy valley, extending as far as the eye can see, liberally dotted with lush green fir trees. 

“Take your pick,” says David with a grin, pulling a large saw from the back of the truck. 

“Lad, I’m going to need your help for this,” says Killian. 

“Oh yeah,” says Henry. 

—

Once the trees are procured, their next stop is Regina’s house. She doesn’t look particularly pleased to see them, even less so when they explain their mission. 

“Christmas decorations?” she says in that scathing tone that still gets Killian’s hackles up, even though they’re technically friends now. 

“Yep,” says David, crossing his arms over his chest and giving her what Emma calls his ‘stern Dad’ look. “I have to assume that we never had Christmas in Storybrooke because you didn’t allow it under the curse. Am I wrong?” 

“No.” Regina has the grace to look abashed. “You’re not wrong.” 

“Well then. Don’t you think it’s time you rectified that?” 

“So you want me to what, just magic up some ornaments so you can decorate a tree for Emma?” 

“And for David and Snow,” says Killian. “And anyone else who wants one. I mean, decorations for the whole town would be best, but if that’s beyond your scope…” 

Regina sneers. “Let’s start with yours and Emma’s,” she says. 

—

Snow White is well known for her inability to keep a secret, and so they elect not to bring her in on Operation Emma’s Christmas. Instead Henry is tasked with distracting both her and his mother while ornaments are hung and lights strung at the respective Jones and Nolan households. David and Killian requisition walkie-talkies from the station and have far too much fun strategising and organising their decorating battle plans while Hope gurgles and Neal babbles mostly coherently in the background. 

It takes perhaps longer than it should, neither of them having any actual experience to draw on and needing to consult the oracle frequently, but in due course everything is ready and Killian sends Henry a text with the all-clear. 

He fidgets as he waits for Emma to return, fussing nervously with Hope’s tiny Santa hat as she gums at the pacifier stuck on the end of his hook—a red one for Christmas. He double-checks that all the lights are on and the ornaments hung just so, and all the parcels are stacked in a pleasing way beneath the tree. When he hears her at the door he snatches up the baby and positions them both in front of it all. 

“Killian, I’m—what the—” Emma’s face is a picture as she takes in the sight before her. The huge tree that Henry selected fills nearly half the room, and is covered in shiny red and green ornaments and sparkly lights, with a bright silver star at the top. Beneath it piles of presents sit wrapped in glossy paper and festooned with ribbon bows, and lined up along the mantelpiece are four huge stockings labelled Hope, Henry, Emma, and Killian. The effect, Killian hopes, is festive in the extreme, merry and jolly and everything Emma missed out on when she was growing up. 

“Merry Christmas, love,” he says. 

Emma turns in a slow circle, eyes wide and mouth agape. “But it’s—it’s only the 20th!” she says. 

“Aye, rather late. Google informs me that some people decorate their homes as early as the first of November. But we still have time to enjoy it, apparently the custom in many households is to leave the lights up until the sixth of Jan—oof!” He exhales sharply as Emma throws herself at him, one arm wrapping around his neck and the other cradling Hope’s head as she kisses him.

“I can’t believe you did all this,” she says, peppering his face with kisses. Hope gurgles indignantly and Emma kisses her as well. 

“Henry and your father helped. And Regina, as a matter of fact.” 

“But I bet it was your idea, wasn’t it?” She gives him a knowing look. 

“Aye, I confess it was.” 

“Because I mentioned in passing that it’s a shame we don’t do Christmas in Storybrooke?” 

“It was the way you mentioned it.”

“The way I mentioned it,” she echoes. 

He nods. “Aye. I sensed it was something you missed out on in your youth, and that you wanted Hope to have the experiences you lacked.”

Emma brushes her fingertips across his cheek, a soft smile on her face. “You sensed all that from me saying it might be nice to have Christmas here?” 

He grins and pulls her closer, shifting Hope so she is snuggled between them. “How many times must I tell you, my love, that you are an open book to me?”

She returns the grin, letting her forehead rest against his. “At least once more, I guess.” 

“As always.” 

-

[ms-maj]

Teenage Wasteland

With so, so, so, so many thanks to @theheavycrown. For this header, for betaing, for existing. The. Best. Also, this really got away from me so it’s a skosh on the long side.

Day five: A song that needs to be played loud- Baba O’Riley-The Who

The exodus is here

The happy ones are near

Let's get together, before we get much older

Teenage wasteland

It's only teenage wasteland

Baba O’Riley- The Who

Jughead Jones watches as the sun rises over the Sunnyside Trailer park. It’s obnoxiously loud for six am, but considering what the day is to hold, he can hardly blame its inhabitants for their excitement. The smoke from his cigarette rises above his head and sticks, haloing him in the early morning haze. It looks like it’s going to be another miserably humid day, the lack of clouds in the morning sky seems to be an unfortunate indication that the heat is going to be unbearable as well. He sighs heavily, snuffing his cigarette butt out on the deck before flicking it into the empty coffee can. Pulling his knees to his chest, he folds his arms around his legs and watches the hubbub of activity flit through the park.

Today is “The Roll”, Riverdale’s newly minted bike rally; the town council and mayor’s attempt at unifying the North and South Sides. Supposedly people were coming from all over to ride in today’s opening parade, some thousand bikes he thought he’d overheard.  He knew, without a doubt, that the majority of Riverdale proper was, at the very least displeased by the joint venture. However, the prominence of biker culture in the Southside made even the toughest of Serpents giddy at the thought of rolling though Riverdale Square, invited, and embraced by like-minded people. Jughead had heard his father, FP, and his pseudo-uncles Mack and Terry practically squealing when they announced that the “Roll on Riverdale” was a go this year, and now they were all out, polishing their bikes in preparation for the parade.

There’s a part of Jughead that’s excited too. His bike is finally operational. The years of blood, sweat and copious amounts of hard-earned cash saw his grandfather’s 1950 Vincent Black Lightning roar to life. He’s man enough, in the confines of his own mind, to admit that he may have cried when he’d put the final cap on his fully restored beauty and the engine purred to life under his touch. He’s damn proud of his bike, and he is damn proud to ride her today. A smile pulls at the corner of his lips as he hears laughter bubble up across the park, men hooting and hollering as their wives bring out trays of breakfast foods. Jughead likens it to a pre-war feast. The majority of the Serpents, and their of age children, will be riding in the parade—right into the very heart of the community that condemns them.

Before he gets too lost in the social mores that threaten to loop around his head, the front door swings open to reveal his sister, JB, already dressed for the ride.

“Juuuuggg, come on! We’ve only got four hours before this thing starts!”

“Only four?” His head shakes as he laughs, patting the space next to him for her to come and sit. “Have you ever seen it like this, Jelly?”

Her eyes narrow at him and he can’t help the smirk that forms. “Nope. Well, it’s kind of like Christmas, minus the cold.”

“It’s better than Christmas,” Jughead mumbles under his breath. He knows the circumstances that most of the families endure to give their children any semblance of Christmas, and this, well it carries none of that weight or shame. This is jubilation. Riverdale is finally putting itself in a position to see all that comes out of the Southside; even if they only ever still see it as bad, Jughead hopes that maybe if all things go really well than their communities can actually come together. Rather than just seeing blight and criminals, maybe the North can recognize the humanity that lies on the other side of the tracks. 

“I’m going to record it all! Ms. Hammill gave me her GoPro; I’m gonna tape it to my helmet so I can film everything as we’re riding.”

“Oh, so you’ve finally decided to listen to me and wear a helmet?”

“You told me I had to or I couldn’t ride with you!”

He chuckles. “That is absolutely right, Jellybean. You’re not going anywhere near a bike, ever, without a helmet. Capiche?”

“Yeah, sure, until I’m seventeen and way too cool like you. I don’t see why dad’s not on your ass about it.”

“I always wear my helmet, kid. Except for today. Considering we can’t go over twenty on the route,” he picks his head up and looks in the direction of the now fully risen sun. “Besides, it’s going to be nine-hundred degrees today. My leather jacket plus that ridiculous helmet Uncle Mack gave me is a recipe for heatstroke, which I would much rather not suffer at all, thanks. So, helmetless, at the advice of our father and other seasoned riders, but only for today.” He wags his finger in her face emphatically.

Jughead watches his sister roll her eyes before playfully punching him in the shoulder. “I’m gonna go get some food from Aunt Bea, you want?”

Before the sarcastic response can form on his tongue she’s up, muttering,  “Of course you want food, what a silly question, JB…” before dashing off across the yards.

He sighs again. The humidity is definitely growing, and while it hangs heavy it doesn’t necessarily feel oppressive. And for some reason, that’s as strange an omen as Jughead Jones can imagine. He stands from the deck, cracks his neck, and walks back through the door. 

Something will definitely change in Riverdale today. If you would have asked Jughead at that moment, or any of the ones that preceded it, if he thought he’d come out of today the most changed he’d have laughed in your face. The fates, however, seem to have something else in store for him.

(Finish under the cut or check it out on AO3)

Jughead is unnerved. Something about the too-bright sun juxtaposed on a cloudless, cerulean sky. Or that the breeze always seems to come exactly when he is feeling just a tad uncomfortable. There are no perfect days, not on the Southside, not anywhere. And yet this day seems picturesque. He asked his dad to take Jellybean to the parade route, told him he’d meet them there and rode off astride his Lightning toward the open road. 

Only the road isn’t open. Bikes litter every establishment's parking lot and clog the streets, forcing Jughead out toward the lesser-traveled backroads that his Vincent doesn’t always handle well on.

But there are no nerves. Just the power of the bike and the confidence in his ministrations, and his path stays true. He shakes his head quickly, trying to disseminate what exactly is making him feel so…

In reality, he knows exactly what’s eating away at him. Instead of letting it occupy his mind he puts his foot on the gas, letting the wind whip through his hair, beanie tucked securely in his breast pocket. The roads amble further and further from the Southside, trees coming to line the roadside rather than telephone poles and streetlights. As he makes his way toward Sweetwater River, the grayscale of the dour life he’s lived is traded for the verdant, lush green that he has never really appreciated before now.

The nearer he gets to the rally point the more his anxiety rises. It’s all just too strange, too surreal, with the streets outside of the ever-peppy and pristine Riverdale convoluted with motorcycles of all makes and models. Still, he manages to spot FP and Gladys right away. A large huff of air heaves past his lips as he sidles up next to his father. There’s still an hour or so before the parade should technically start, for which he’s extremely grateful, as he wrestles to get his mind under control. He watches Jellybean running around trying to get as much of it on film before they start; he envies her enthusiasm. 

Riverdale has never cared for them, for him. They never worried about the schools’ funding on the Southside, or whether the roads warranted repair (which they all did), or if selling the drive-in to the highest bidder would be the nail in the coffin. And clearly it wasn’t to his neighbors, but to Jughead Jones it was everything. They’d severed the last tie to his childhood, stolen from him the very notion of hope and with that, he’d written them out of his narrative.

Yet, here he sits. His father and mother to his left, Mack and Terry behind them, Serpent emblems littering the stretch. Jughead straddles his bike somewhere in the middle of the pack, hundreds of bikes stretched out before and behind him. Though he feels like they’ve been there for hours already, the bikes kept ambling in, filling the road that runs parallel to the river. The parade is meant to follow Sweetwater’s meandering path before veering off onto the bunting-lined streets that lead into the very heart of Riverdale. 

 “You nervous, kid?” His father’s voice carries over the bikes as Jughead sweeps his eyes back from the vista before him.

“Should I be? It’s not like I’ve never ridden before.”

FP huffs a laugh and shakes his head slowly. “It’s just a big step for us.”

“What? Rolling into Riverdale?” Jughead scoffs.

His father’s lip turns up slightly, settling into a softer smile than Jughead expects. “I know it’s not that big a deal to you, but to us old-timers…being invited—hell, celebrated, by this town—well, it’s a day I never thought I’d see.” Jughead nods. He knows the divide between the two halves of the town threatens to swallow them whole. And not just in some off-hand ‘grand-scheme-of-things’ way, but in the very literal his family was on a precipice kind of way, and he can’t help the resentment that toils inside him.

His father has been home less and less. Jobs varying in nature and pay-scale take priority over actually spending time with his family. Legitimate work on the Southside is almost non-existent, most of the gainful employment going to the younger generations in a never-ending battle against the wheel that pins them down.

On the Southside, and in Riverdale alike, you are a pawn. Be it above-board or not, your employ depends on one of two men and whatever stratagem they decide to launch against the other that week. The Northsiders don’t see it like that, of course. It’s business.  Jughead grew up knowing that on the Southside they’ve always been seen as less…less clean; less important; less human. He’s managed to avoid Riverdale proper, lest he get sucked into its idealized Americana suburban bullshit, and tries to thrive in its periphery. The Serpent logo emblazoned on his back was a not-so-subtle constant reminder of where he’s supposed to belong, the other was the 998cc V-twin engine between his thighs.

His bike, the physical embodiment of his work, has garnered more attention than he was ready for. Jughead’s enough of an enthusiast to understand there’d be interest in his bike, but he’s fended off more than a few ludicrous offers and the rally hasn’t even officially started. There were few bikes as old as his, but none that could compare to the detail he’d refurbished his with. 

Aside from his name, which he is loathe to admit, it’s the only tangible bit of the legacy left to him by his grandfather. Forsythe the First was one of the founding members of a Motorcycle Club that ended up being absorbed by the Serpents. It’s one of the reasons he’s always felt so obligated to stay with them, even if he’s always had so much more that he wants to do with his life.

“Jug! Jug!” His eyes flick to his breathless sister who is climbing onto the back of his bike before he can register the garbled words coming from her mouth. But with the revving of engines and plumes of exhaust kicking up in front of him, he knows. It’s time.

FP waggles his brows excitedly as he takes off, Gladys whooping behind him as her bike roars to life. Jellybean giggles in his ear, her grip tightening on his waist as they begin their ride toward town.

The streets are lined with adulating townsfolk, waving their flags and cheering as the bikes descend on them. Families, Jughead notes, are out in droves, all smiles and welcome posturing. He fights the urge to roll his eyes on more than one occasion at the suburbanites’ inability to cope with the noise of the parade. He can’t help if his engine revs when he recognizes the discomforted looks of the parade-goers. His father, still at his side, gives him a hard look when he catches on, but Jughead notices the twinkle in his eye and the way his mouth curls into a smirk. Jughead can feel his doing the same as they get closer to Riverdale.

“Uh oh,” he hears Jelly huff as he slows down. The parade bottlenecks just short of Picken’s Park. 

They’re so close. Ride through the square, exalt, and go home. Jughead’s feet hit the ground as they come to a stop, his head lolling back for a second before he finds focus.

On his left he sees a flash, something glinting in the sun catches his eye. A golden halo hidden behind the long lens of an older model Canon. The camera dips, revealing the most luminescent eyes he’s ever seen. He can feel his breath hitch.

When their eyes meet he feels it at his very core. She looks ethereal, backlit by the mid-day sun, breeze blowing the ends of her ponytail away from her lithe frame as the camera held between her slender fingers moves further down her form. His jaw drops as he watches her lower lip slide between her teeth.

“Jug, let’s go!” He snaps forward as Jellybean hits his shoulder, urging him back into the crowd. Shaken from his reverie, he dares another glance back toward the blonde beauty but he’s lost her in the crowd. Huffing disappointedly, he lets go of the throttle and catches up with his dad and neighbors, a true smile forms on his face for the first time that day.

Suddenly, Jughead feels far more interested to see what else Riverdale has in store for him.

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

The sun roasts Pickens Park, just as Jughead predicted it would, but it surprises him that he doesn’t hate it as much as he thought he would. That doesn’t mean it’s in every way good, but, as he moseys through the vendor tents, filling himself with various fried delights, he can’t help but be on the lookout for that flash of blonde hair again. He thinks maybe he’d seen the same golden hue by one of the tents but when he got closer, it was gone, swallowed into an unlikely sea of seersucker and leather.

The crowd is denser than he expected. H hadn’t anticipated the Northsiders being interested in wandering too far into the depths of the bike fest; again, he’s proven wrong. The throngs of onlookers that lined the parade route have made their way to Picken’s Park. Crisply dressed families holding perfectly manicured hands descend from suburbia as Southsiders flow in with the rank and file to the center of Riverdale.

On top of everything else, everyone seems to be getting along. It’s pleasantly surprising. 

After parking his bike with the other Serpents, he backs out of watching the stunt bikes with Joaquin and Sweet Pea, opting to chase Jellybean around as she continues to capture the day’s events for posterity. His father had been talking to an older gentleman when he walked away, something about restorations, though it could have very well been restitution.

Today, he doesn’t have the heart for it. He watches Jellybean weave through the crowd, running straight for her friends, effectively forgetting he is even there.

Sighing, Jughead takes the slightly crushed pack of Marlboro’s from his breast pocket, along with his beanie, holding them for a long moment before stuffing a cigarette in his mouth and the beanie on his head before skulking off. He catches sight of few more junior serpents, but manages to stay in their periphery and melt back into the masses.

It’s not that he doesn’t like them. They’ve all grown up together and were currently in high school, but that’s pretty much where the similarities ended. While the Northside kids were presumably spoon-fed limitless ambition and encouragement from infancy, Southside kids didn’t always fare so well. It wasn’t that parents on the Southside loved their kids less, or had less grandiose aspirations for them, it’s just that sometimes things like food and heat outweighed singing lessons or money for the book fair. 

And that’s where the Serpents came in. Short on rent? Give us a hand with this thing and we’ll help you out, stay if you’re afraid it’ll happen again. They all stayed; they never left. Then the cycle would start all over. Their kids need jobs to help the family get by or ward off disciplinary action from some business owner that the bored, latch-key kids may, or may not have egged. 

By fourteen, most Southside kids were employed by legitimate Serpent owned businesses before they decided whether or not they wanted to transition into the gang as a fully-fledged member. 

That’s the limbo Jughead Jones finds himself in. At seventeen, he’s already been too long a man. He wants the camaraderie of the Serpents, the brotherhood of men who uplift one another and hold themselves to a higher standard, not the backsliding, hoodlumesque gang-banging he saw so prevalent at school the previous year. His entire existence hinged on this dichotomy: a quasi-normal home life, much more stable and happy than he’d had for most of his formative years and the knowledge that when his father wasn’t home, he was actually leading a gang through their less than savory endeavors. 

Eighteen means making a decision. Does he stay with the gang? The one who afforded him the opportunity, the skills, the means to repair his bike. The gang who insured food was on the table when their dad was in the skids. The gang who still made sure his dad didn’t fall off the wagon, or if he did, picked him up and set him back on his feet.

Or does he follow HIS dreams? Go to college, or hell, just get out of Riverdale. (Preferably without attachment to a regiment.)  He’s never wanted to stay. He dreams of winding coastlines and leatherbound journals; of leaves on trees he’s never seen in person and stars in skies that look like his but are worlds away.

He’s felt this weight (guilt, shame, fear, hope) building for longer now than he’d like to admit. He’s never had any intention of staying, no plan to fall deeper into a pit he can’t get out of. 

Jughead doesn’t realize that he’s walked the entirety of Picken’s Park already until he’s faced, again, with those he’d been trying to avoid.

“Jones!” As much as he’d rather turn back into the crowd, he’s been spotted. With a grimace, he makes his way over to where they, who were once his friends, are sitting. 

“Toni. Fangs. Harbingers of Doom,” he greets dourly. Fangs rolls his eyes as Toni’s narrow on him, their lackeys looking ready to say something more before he holds up a halting hand. 

“Jugs,” comes Toni’s clipped voice. “Wasn’t sure you’d be riding with the pack today, considering you don’t actually want to be one of us.”

Jughead stretches his neck slowly before he speaks, rubbing a wary hand across the back. “No, Toni, I don’t want to be one of you.”

“C’mon, Jug,” Fangs tries. He would give him that, Fangs always tried. “We all used to be so close, but with Joaquin going to school in Ohio in a few weeks, and you and Pea deciding you’re too good for us…”

“No. Pea decided, for himself, that he wasn’t cut out for this life. I am, as of yet, undecided.”

Scoffing, Toni flings long pink hair over her shoulder before fixing an appraising eye on Jughead. “Undecided? My ass you’re undecided, Jonesy. You made your choice loud and clear last year when you decided to skip the after prom festivities…”

“Is that what this is about?” Jughead nearly chokes on his laugh. “Sorry Tones, you just don’t do it for me, and I know I lack certain anatomical features to do it for you. So, sorry not sorry if I ruined whatever ‘well-laid’ plans you two had in the works.”

“Please, don’t flatter yourself, Jones. We only wanted you to ride with us for your clout; we more than make up for our size and age with our ability to get shit done.”

Toni and Fangs smile at their new protege, Trula, while Jughead is the one whose eyes roll this time. “Oh. Okay. That’s why you’re still blowing me up after I turned you down, more than once. You too, Tone, it’s kind of sad,” he throws a smirk their way and turns back towards the still gathering crowd.  Pausing, before they have a second to gather their wits, he twists back with a slick smile on his face. “And for the record, no one thinks you ‘get shit done’, you’re just effective fodder that keeps coming back for more. Enjoy your day kids, who knows: the next time you’re thrown to the wolves may be your last. Only cats have nine lives, not snakes.”

It’s not like walking away from friends he’s had since diapers is his idea of a good time. He just knows his commitment to the Serpents will never run as deep as that of the small group who are undoubtedly boring holes into the back of his jacket. Which, he starts to realize, may not be as hard to give up than he once thought.

It’s strange. Only a few hours have passed since he warily started this trek into Riverdale, no expectations for the day aside from possible heat stroke and a stomach ache. Instead, he’s had too much time to think in between the stark juxtaposition of doctors and their wives wearing brand-new, bedazzled Harley Davidson gear and the worn leathers of the Southside riders. 

But no one is fighting. There’s laughter that rings over the peals of the bikes; a Skid Row cover band is playing in the gazebo and the entire crowd, from true-blue biker to the toddling twins dancing in the back, is into it. It’s not Northside versus Southside; it’s not rich versus poor; it’s simply people with shared interests having a good time.

If he really thinks about it, that’s all he wants. He doesn’t want Damocles’ sword hanging above his head with words like “birthright” and “king”; he wants to make his own name for himself instead of being a literal continuation of his father. He wants a chance to enjoy things in life without conditions.

Fuck it, he mutters to no one and with intent, sets off to find the owner of the elusive, blonde ponytail.

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

It is much too hot. After walking around for close to four hours, Jughead decides that today might not be his day after all. He’s seen exactly one blonde ponytail, and it was not attached to the same girl he’d seen on the ride in. 

Defeated, he pulls the beanie from his head and runs long fingers through his dark chestnut hair, breaking up the curls that cling to his sweaty brow. 

There’s always tomorrow, he thinks morosely. He’d said one day. He’d come for one day, and now, because he and some girl shared a moment—through the lens of her camera no less—he was planning on returning in the morning.

A fresh Marlboro between his fingers and beanie placed firmly back on his head, he turns toward his bike and home.

“Hey!” He hears a voice shouting. “Yo! Dude!”

Jughead turns and finds himself face to face with a redhead in a Bulldogs varsity jacket.

“Can I help you?” Jughead asks, his voiced colored with a hint of annoyance as he slowly takes a drag off his cigarette.

“Maybe,” the jock replies looking him up and down. “Can you tell me who rides a...uh…” he pulls out a crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket, “...a 1950 Victor that looks like it’s been restored by God’s own hand?”

Jughead tries, and fails, to bite back a smirk. “I could.”

“Listen man, I’m asking for a friend. They’re writing an article about the best bikes and I got tasked with finding this one. Can you help me or not?”

“Your friend wants to write an article about my bike?” Jughead can’t help the incredulity that seeps into his question.

“Your bike?! Sweet! Listen...” the ginger pulls his phone out. “Shit, it’s too late now. Can you stop back in the morning, around nine?  Pop’s Mobile Shake Shack. Tell ‘em Archie sent you,” the redhead was already calling back over his shoulder as he ran through the crowd. 

Weird.

Weirder still...he plans on being there. If nothing else, well, how can anyone argue with breakfast milkshakes? 

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

It’s five minutes after nine. The sun, though not yet sweltering, still feels hot for it being this early. He’s surprised by how many people are already up and roaming the grounds, enjoying the out of town food trucks as he is. 

He’s currently in the middle of a delightful cajun style breakfast burrito complemented by one of Pop’s coffee milkshakes. Jughead’s always been the type to eat his feelings (and his metabolism seems to allow him to do so, so why kick a gift horse in the mouth. Do what you love and all that) and that’s pretty much all he’s done since meeting the red-haired boy. One text was enough to bring that slight high he was feeling right back down to impending doom. Apparently, his run-in with Toni and Fangs had made it back to the senior members. And they were not happy. 

According to them, Jughead’s hemming and hawing hadn’t gone unnoticed by the upper echelon, but—as FPs son—he was given a wider berth in regards to how he handled this decision. When you’re the Serpent heir, it’s expected that you’ll not only join but assert yourself leader ipso facto. The idea that he was even considering walking away entirely rubbed a lot of them the wrong way. 

“Birthrights are birthrights for a reason, boy. You were made for this; only this,” is what one pseudo uncle told him only an hour ago. A man who has known him the entirety of his life. A lifer himself with no higher aspirations, no desires greater than that of the gang. He thinks that all Jughead is good for in life is leading the pursuits of these people, this gang he still hasn’t truly taken an active role in. He’s an enforcer, a menacing intimidation, on occasion he’s procured a package or two. Having had the luxury of time after the encounter with his father he realized his largest foray into the illegal was working with car parts of questionable origin. But. He didn’t actually think of that whilst being berated and belittled.

While it was increasingly on his mind, he plans on walking that ever-shortening tightrope for as long as he possibly can. It isn’t that he hates the prospect of staying in the Serpents, he could be a lifer too if he thought anything would ever change. But the fact that the gang life, and life on the Southside, in general, seems to stagnate after eighteen, well, that’s just not him.

Jughead has always seen himself as capable of something more, at least he wants to be. He doesn’t want his future self, or his future spouse, to have to tell their children—with a fake, painted smile— that there aren’t going to be any birthday parties this year, or that they have to be out of their home in thirty days. 

Groaning to himself, Jughead indulges in another deep drag of his milkshake. The coffee is deep and rich on his tongue before his brain registers the cold. The shake hits the ground as his hands came up to massage his temples, a fool's attempt at alleviating his brain freeze.

“Hey Pop,” he hears, eyes pinched tight as the last of the pain subsides. “Did Archie happen to send anyone by?”

Jughead’s eyes shoot up, trying to focus on the figure moving toward him. She’s jogging, mere feet away, awash in the golden glow of morning, unmistakable honey-hued ponytail bouncing behind her. He takes in her features, clearly, for the first time. She’s in cut-off overalls that seem to be tailored just for her, coupled with what—gods help him—looks like a crop top, but the bandana tied off in the front draws his gaze to her face. Her eyes remind him of the Earth, blues and greens and golds melting together as if an endlessly deep pool; he could drown in them and die happily. “It’s you,” his voice is a hoarse whisper he barely recognizes as his own. 

She stops, releasing her lower lip from between her teeth, a soft smile blooming on her face instead. “I can’t believe Archie found you! I’m Betty.” Her hand extends forward and hovers in the air before him for just a second before he catches it with his. 

“Jughead Jones,” he knows he’s grinning idiotically but he can’t find it in himself to care. He instantly misses the warmth of her hand as it falls from his grasp. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

Betty’s head shakes, nose crinkling as she questions, “What’s me?”

“The writer. Right? That Archie guy said something about an article…” 

She nods as a soundless laugh pushes past her lips. “Yes—the article—that’s why I wanted to find you!” Her head falls to the side, ponytail brushing across the strap of her overalls, “That’s a pretty spectacular bike you’ve got there, Jughead.”

He really likes hearing his name come out of her mouth. “I do recall hearing something to the effect of ‘restored by God's own hand’. I liked that.”

Betty groans. “He actually said those words?” 

“Actually pulled out a piece of paper and read it. That’s some dedication to the cause. He your boyfriend?” Jughead bends down to pick up the milkshake he’s knocked over and tosses it in the garbage before striding toward her with as much casual affectation as he can muster.

“Oh, no. Archie’s...he’s not my boyfriend. Just a friend...who’s a boy, but not, like...” 

Jughead cannot, nor does he really want to, fight the smile that takes over his face. “Good to know.”

He isn’t sure if it’s a trick of the light that causes her skin to deepen to that shade of pink, or if it was his words, but he makes it his mission to see if he can get her skin that shade without the aid of natural sunlight.

“So…” Betty effectively interrupts his thoughts from slipping into the lascivious, causing his cheeks to burn in the slightest. “I know this is presumptuous, but I was really hoping I’d be able to interview you for the Riverdale Register. I’d really like to get some stationary shots of your bike as well as ask you a few hundred questions.” 

“That is beyond presumptuous,” he jokingly intones. There’s a sharp inhale as his abused, maroon Doc Martens stop just shy of her powder blue Keds. Jughead cocks his head as he pretends to mull over whether or not he’ll be a part of her story. Of course he will. But watching her nervously chew her bottom lip and clasp her hands in front of her in a silent plea to win him over, well, he thinks he could get used to being at the mercy of that particular gaze. 

“Pleaaase?” She all but squeaks out and he’s absolute putty. 

He shifts closer, his boot lightly scuffing against the toe of her pristine sneakers. 

“Fine, but don’t think for a second I’m doing this for free. Tit for tat, Betty,” his voice drawls in a husky timbre. He knows it’s risky, going this hard this early but he’s utterly bewitched. She, the physical embodiment of all his fantasies, is literally standing before him. As much as he knows he’ll do anything she asks of him, she doesn’t just yet. But by the way her eyes darken as she appraises him, he’s not too worried about how long that will take to find out. “I'm going to need another one of those milkshakes.”

“Is that all? You want a milkshake?” she coos demurely. 

Jughead nudges her shoe again. “I didn’t say that was all I wanted. There are funnel cakes and corn dogs and candy apples; to quote Templeton: it is a veritable smorgasbord.” 

Her laughter, and proximity, sends a shiver up his spine. “I’m kind of disappointed you didn’t sing that. You have earned yourself brownie points for casually throwing some ‘Charlotte’s Web’ into the conversation though.”

He pulls a hand up to his chin and crosses the other over his chest as if considering, “I suppose brownies are acceptable, too.” The way her laughter seems to float around him, blocking the noise of the growing crowd and shrouding him in warmth, is the very last thing he expected when he begrudgingly attended the Roll on Riverdale.

In his mind, the sweltering days of summer play out before him: she’s laughing at his corny jokes and pressing up against him as they ride his bike right out of Riverdale. This is very decidedly not him. He doesn’t crush. He’s not what you would call a ladies man by any stretch of the imagination, and he’s definitely not into fuck around games, but he’s been around a time or two. And it’s never been like this. Nothing has. This instantaneous draw; the inability to turn away coupled with a desperate desire to know how she tastes.  

“But maybe,” he pauses, taking everything in, how she smells (impossibly soft in the midst of hundreds of bikes), the way her tongue darts out to wet already glossed lips. “Maybe I’d like to get to know the girl who knew the make and model of my bike after seeing it for all of a minute. Especially since she wasn’t really even looking at it.” 

“Oh,” she all but breathes out. This time the color that tints Betty’s cheeks was undoubtedly his doing. Obviously flustered, she swallows, tightens her ponytail, and tries again. “If you have time today, we can get this out of the way and you can get back to…”

“I’m all yours, Betty.”

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

“So, what’s this article for?”

She picks at the soft pretzel she’s been holding for the duration of their walk, bringing the small bite to her mouth before carefully saying. “The Register.”

“The what now?” Jughead stops, adjusts the beanie on his head and runs an exaggerated hand down his face. “Look, Betty…Cooper! Fuck! You’re a Cooper!? How did I miss that?” (it might have had something to do with the fact that she had a crop top on under her overalls and his neanderthal brain latched onto that for a second longer than was healthy), “...maybe this isn’t the best idea.”

She looks almost crestfallen before her eyes drop. “I didn’t say I was a Cooper. For this very reason. I know what my parents are like, and what they write, but I’m not! I’d be writing this for the Blue and Gold if school were in session. I’ll probably re-run it in that if it’s any consolation. The Register isn’t the ideal choice for me either, but it’s a hell of a lot more exposure than the highschool newspaper.” 

He knows what that’s like. Trying to reach an ever-shrinking audience through a nearly dead medium, even if the Southside High’s Red and Black did have a pretty good online presence. Thanks to Fangs. It’s the first time he’s thought of the paper this summer, too preoccupied with his ending adolescence and what he always assumed would be his imminent interment with the Serpents. Now both of those things are up in the air. He’s no closer to knowing what he wants to do than yesterday. And somehow, the daughter of the two people who seem to revile the Southside most is standing in front of him with a level of enthusiasm he reserves for only the most ostentatious buffets. She sought him out, knowing what the symbol on his back meant, and thought that his bike was worth it.

“If you don’t want to do the interview, that’s fine. I won’t push you. But I did buy you another milkshake, and I think that entitles me to at least a few more pictures of the Black Lightning.”

His head snaps back up. There’s this pull to her he’s not sure he can, or wants to, fight. Familial allegiance be damned. For the first time in his life, Jughead’s putting himself before the pack and going after exactly what he wants. She’s smart, gorgeous, funny in a way that seems effortless and natural, and just happens to come wrapped up prettily in a blue bandana. “Color me perpetually impressed, Cooper. Alright, let’s go get your pictures. But we’re not staying here for the interview, I’ve had more than enough forced human interaction for one day.”

“I thought you wanted to eat your way through the interview?” He can tell she’s fighting a smile when she stops to throw what’s left of the massacred pretzel in the trash. She looks back a him, painfully pastel and almost shy, but she’s leaning toward him with the most wicked glint in her eyes and he’s done. 

“Oh, that hasn’t changed. Just the venue...and maybe the menu.” He winks as he steps away, setting off again for his bike. He hears her exhale sharply before jogging to catch up to him.

They talk shop for the rest of the walk. In the short time he’s known her, he’s become sure of two things: first, she knows what she’s talking about. Her knowledge of combustion engines in damn near encyclopedic, be it classic bikes or classic cars, she’s a greasemonkey through and through. That in itself would have been enough to catch his attention. But the second, and most obvious thing is that she is arguably the prettiest human he’s ever laid eyes on.  

Jughead isn’t sure what’s gotten into him. Watching her photograph his bike becomes a silent meditation on masochism, it’s the most exquisite torture he could have ever hoped to experience. She’s thorough, dangerously so, taking pictures from every angle to ensure that all of his meticulous detail is properly represented. 

That’s what she says anyway. He’s sure it has something to do with him meeting an early end. Each photo ensures another inch of skin exposed, the bottoms of her overalls having ridden up so much that the peachy flesh taunts and teases him with just how delectable it looks. He wonders how one person can be so unassumingly sexy and adorable at once. 

It’s just then that she chooses to look at him, left arm reaching across his bike for the handlebar. Slowly, as if her goal in life is to make him combust, she straddles the machine and rocks herself into a seemingly more comfortable position. 

The sun is fully behind her, bursting and glowing as the camera sits at her ample chest which his eyes can’t seem to look away from. She is, beyond words. Beckoning him with a single finger he—a complete lost cause— moves with purposeful strides to stand before her. He leans in close covering the hand closest to him with his own. They both watch as their fingers twine together around the grip, the feel of her skin beneath his own is electric. “Can I take you somewhere?” his voice sounds deeper to his own ears. He’s nervous, but how can one not be when their veritable dream girl has literally got 182 horsepower between her thighs.

She smiles, the tops of her lips straining toward her ears, and he thinks he could live off the buoyancy that look evokes for the rest of his days. “Anywhere.”

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

The ride to the quarry wasn’t nearly long enough. He couldn’t get enough of the way Betty had wrapped her arms around his body, teasing fingers over his stomach and clinging tightly to his chest. Or maybe it was too long. Either way, his fingers itch to touch her as he slows the bike to a stop. She dismounts before he gets the chance, taking a few steps out of his reach to look at their surroundings. He leans against the bike watching her take it all in. It’s usually quiet, but especially so in mid-morning, when the only sounds that break through the forest canopy are the ones that come from within: bird calls, the rustle of the wind through the leaves, and, somewhere off in the distance, the river rapids crashing on the bluffs below their feet. 

But all he can hear is his heart pounding in his ears. 

Betty looks as caught up in the magic of the quarry as he feels. The smile on her face is soft and delicate as she weaves through the trees and makes her way to the cliff’s edge. Slowly, she turns back to face him, that damn bottom lip worrying between her teeth. 

He pushes off the bike and strides toward her. The sun's rays look like spotlights as they filter through the treetops, illuminating his path to her. (As if after seeing her he’ll ever be able to walk any other way than but to her.)

“I gotta give it to you, Jones, this is one hell of a view. Certainly sets a tone. Of course, if you brought me here to try and scare me into convincing my parents to stop trashing the Serpents you should know that one, they don’t listen to me. They don’t listen to anyone for that matter, but least of all me. And two,” she steps into his space, gingerly fingering the leather lapels of his jacket. “I don’t scare easy.”

He suppresses the urge to growl; it feels stuck in his throat when he speaks anyway. “Good to know.”

Her eyes are shining, the kind of luminous he could easily get lost in. Just an inch or two more, hell a stiff breeze would force their lips together and he’s sure when that happens, life as he knows it will end. Jughead wants nothing more than to kiss her. To feel her legs wrap around his waist as he carries her back to his bike, to lay her out on the modified seat and hear that pretty voice scream out his name 

Instead, he steps back, letting her hands fall away from where they still toyed with the zipper of his jacket. “Betty,” she looks confused as her eyes find his. “You’re the one who wanted to interview me. If that was a euphemism, I’m sorry. I’m not that kind of boy.”

“Oh no, Jughead. I do want to interview you. I’d really like to take your...get your take on party politics and how they only ever seem to hurt the disenfranchised, rather than help them.” She bats long lashes at him, stepping around where he’s rooted to the spot and heads back into the woods. 

He finds her under a large oak tree, resting her back against the trunk as she produces a small moleskin notebook and pen he has no idea where she could have had on her. She motions for him to sit, so he does, finding a tree of his own to get comfortable against.

“Tell me about your bike, Jughead.”

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

They talk for hours, neither really noticing the time passing them by because they’re so caught up in one another. He tells her all about the Vincent, how it came to be his, how much of him he’s put into it, and exactly what that’s cost him. 

He doesn’t mince his words or hide the gory details, with Betty, all the thoughts and fears that have been plaguing his mind fall from his lips without hesitation or restraint. How yesterday morning he was sure that riding his motorcycle through Riverdale wouldn’t change a thing, that at the end of the day he would still have to go back home and wonder how long his dad would be gone this time, or his mom; if he’d be parenting Jellybean while trying to juggle school and the garage and whatever misdemeanors the Serpents enlist him for that week.

She listens intently, jotting notes about his bike, his life, things he’s never said out loud to anyone. When she asks what he wants out of his life, he knows right then and there that no matter what path he chooses, he wants her. She doesn’t look through him so much as see him. Not the Serpent heir apparent, not some delinquent from the Southside, but the real and true Jughead Jones. The one that hides beneath the layers of flannel and self-deprecating sarcasm. The one that desperately needed to be seen before he was lost to the relentless tide of MC life. 

“You seem academically inclined enough,” she muses after discussing college. “Why don’t you go for the scholarship?”

“That’s pretty vague there: the scholarship. Of course, I’ll go for it,” he sits straighter, pulling his legs up and crossing his them at the ankles, arms slung loosely around akimbo knees. “I’m sure scholarship opportunities are available left and right on the Northside, but not in my world. If you can’t find it on your own, well, you’re fucked. Southside High isn’t known for its excellent staffing.”

Now she looks exceptionally confused. Making her way before him she crouches down so they’re back on the same level. “You know the Roll is a charity event right?”

He nods. “And?”

“Wow, you really wanted nothing to do with the Roll, did you?” Her laugh is mirthless as her hand moves to his knee. “I’m not surprised really. It wasn’t officially announced until the last minute and no one ever seems to pay attention to the small details.”

Jughead clears his throat. “Is this diatribe leading to something or…”

“Jug, the proceeds from the Roll are being set up as a scholarship fund. Some deserving Southside High senior stands to receive state school tuition for at least a few years. But even just talking to you this short time I can tell that no matter what you do, you’ll make it. I know Riverdale seems like sunshine and rainbows north of the tracks, but it’s not. No matter what side you’re on, it’s a teenage wasteland.”

He wonders if she knows that he sees her too. 

His hands fall from his knees, one making its way to push a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. He just wants to—needs to—touch her. She doesn’t seem to mind, she leans in as his thumb swipes over her cheekbone. They’re so close, her hands moving from his knee to his chest as she fists the leather gathered between them, breath hot on his neck. He slips his other hand around her waist, large palm splayed against the small of her back as his other moves down her body.

Betty’s pupils are near black as he pulls her into his lap, her legs wrapped around him feels better than he imagined they would. When their lips meet for the first time, it’s in a move so gradual, so instinctual, that it feels inevitable. Tentative and soft, he tries to pour every ounce of gratitude and appreciation into her. He thinks briefly about how everyone says that fireworks are the hallmark of a good kiss, but Jughead could not agree less. This isn’t fireworks; this is something that starts so much deeper. There’s definitely fire, but it rises slowly through his body like damp wood catching. He feels warmth building in parts of himself that have laid cold and dormant for so long, it’s glowing ember versus fully-fledged flame. Heat courses through him, molten like lava, as she slides her tongue past his lips. He groans, pulling her even closer, fingers sliding through her ponytail and pulling at the ends. The moan that escapes her brings him back to the present. 

He pulls away abruptly. “Do you really think I can do it? Get the scholarship?” She’s dazed, kissed breathless and by the twinge of her brow, confused. 

“That’s what you’re thinking about in the middle of our moment?”

He smiles, truly hopeful for the first time in longer than he can remember. “Baby, this is just one of many, many moments I plan on having with you.”