#also that falling asleep bit in the snow ? yeah that almost happened to me as a kid. it only took ten minutes - be wary of snow and cold | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starsstruck · 4 years ago

Text

strange phenomena; part one.

what happens when we meet again? you and harry have barely seen each other in almost a year. two ex-lovers find themselves in the same snowy town by strange chance, both looking for something they can’t seem to figure out. cafe run-ins, old love letters, and bittersweet nostalgia.

pairing: harry x reader warnings: language, slight mention of sexual content words: 13.3k

series masterlist

an: thank you for being patient with me. this is just a little story from my little heart shaped brain. thank you to @sunflowers-styles for beta-ing and being supportive and the overall best 💌 i hope everyone enjoys and please do let me know what you think ! happy reading xoxo 💌

There was something unsettling about not having a schedule.

Your entire life, you had been told that you weren't supposed to quit a job without having another one already lined up, and you had been able to keep up with that. Until now.

The impulse to leave the office that left you frustrated, tired, and overworked had been bubbling up inside of you for years, and it was only a mere couple months ago that you finally snapped.

Snapped, grabbed your things, and quite literally ran away. Call it a life crisis, maybe considered somewhere between a quarter and a mid, but there was something about simply leaving everything behind that took a temporary weight off your shoulders.

Which is how you ended up in a little town in eastern France, staring out the window of the café where you sat and watched the snowfall that had just picked up again.

There was an emptied mug on your side, crumbs of a delicious pastry sitting on a plate, and a blank page in your worn notebook. You had everything you needed to work: your favourite playlist softly playing in your ears so you wouldn’t get too distracted by conversations around you, not one but two notebooks filled with a year's worth of thoughts, and warm clothes that wouldn’t leave you with indents in your skin after sitting for too long.

But apparently that didn’t necessarily mean that you would be making much progress.

Five days since you had gotten to Annecy. A friend of yours had moved out to the old tourist town a number of years ago after meeting her partner, and they were nice enough to let you stay with them. Five days of trying to work and still no progress.

You had daydreams of sitting down, words easily flowing as you would fill pages until the sun set. But it was only five days, a little leeway was okay, wasn’t it?

That idea of a bit of little leeway, however, was constantly being bullied by the big label of unemployed. You knew very well, soon the need for a job would be coming back and all those daydreams would have to go back on a hiatus.

But here on the fifth day, after picking at the crumbs of your long gone croissant, you decided to pack up your things and call it a day. That was the one thing you were able to do – tell yourself that today nothing would be done and that was okay, instead of spending the rest of the hours until midnight forcing yourself to do something.

So you buttoned up your wool coat, wrapped on your scarf and stepped out into the light snow to trudge back to your temporary housing.

Harry had seen you the second time you were there.

You were a creature of habit - just as he was apparently so - and you seemed to always return to the same café, the small but warm La buvette du marché, tucked away in the old town.

He nearly fell over his feet when he saw you sitting in the corner, earbuds in and eyebrows furrowed so deeply he could see the creases in your skin, even from the distance he stood away from you.

He left in a hurry, in a panic. He told himself that he had likely imagined it, maybe he was still jet-lagged, maybe his mind was tricking him, maybe it was some odd lucid dream during an afternoon nap.

But then he saw you again, on the fifth day as you packed up your things in a huff and hugged your coat tighter around your chest. You looked too wrapped up in your own thoughts to even notice anyone else around you, except for the quick smile that you shot to the older woman behind the counter before you were walking out into the darkening street.

Harry couldn’t help but slightly spiral a bit more. He tried to recall any mention from remaining mutual friends, or even acquaintances, about you coming here, but couldn’t remember. He even considered calling some, but decided against it in a quick grounding moment when he realized that it would seem far too odd.

Even more so, he couldn’t believe that you found yourself in the small town at the same time as him. In the same place. At the same time.

It was all too familiar.

He took that as a good sign.

The seventh day – now a week in – you were back at the café.

This time you had managed to scribble down some ideas. Last night you had barely slept, tossing and turning as you tried to force your brain to come up with something, anything.

Just as it always went, as you were falling asleep it seemed like you had an idea going but unconsciousness soon took over and you were left with bits and pieces to pick up.

Today, you hadn’t gotten something to eat right away and instead told yourself that once you got a good chunk of work done, you would treat yourself to something sweet and a little break.

Harry, by not so much of a coincidence, was also back.

He liked the small town of Annecy, winter was a bit of an off season no matter its proximity to the Alps, and it was lowkey enough to where he could easily keep a low profile and go as he pleased.

He walked over to the same café in the late afternoon, hoping that maybe maybe you would already be there. It was making him nervous. But maybe you wouldn’t be there, and that would stress him out even more because maybe this was all a dream?

But there you were, twirling a black pen between your fingertips as you subconsciously chewed at the inside of your lip. He could tell by the way your chin was slightly protruding, and the way your lips moved lightly. He almost hated himself for being able to notice such a thing.

This time, you were the one to look up at him.

And lucky for him, or maybe unlucky he wasn’t sure yet, he was already staring back at you.

He could see a flurry of thoughts filter through your eyes. Your eyebrows unknotted for a moment, before furrowing even tighter this time with your mouth slightly parting and then closing.

He tried to smile, finding himself shuffling closer to you as he tried to recall how to use his feet and his voice. Calming down just the slightest bit when you offered him a tiny wave, he took that as all he needed to keep walking the path that led to your table.

And then he was standing a mere few feet in front of you.

When you spoke, it made it all that more real for Harry.

Obviously, you were physically there in front of him, something he couldn’t have imagined happening to him now, but the quiet “hi” that escaped past your lips made blood rush to his ears.

He cleared his throat – he didn’t really need to, he just felt he could use the extra second – before repeating the greeting back to you. “Hey…”

You couldn’t break his gaze. Seeing – and hearing – the hesitation in him, you almost wanted to tell him to leave you alone and try and forget this had ever happened. Maybe leave for some place else.

But you really didn’t want to do that.

“What,” the word was a puff of air. He felt out of breath. “What are you doing here?”

What were you doing here?

“Working,” was all you said, wincing slightly at the way the statement sounded. You felt like your heart was about to explode, like all words seemed to escape you and that the floor was about to crack open and swallow you up.

He only stared at you.

You sat up straighter, lifting a hand from where it was resting on the table to motion to the empty chair across from you. “You can have a seat – if you’d like.”

It was like he was on a three second lag, staring at you for a moment too long before reacting to your words. With a quick nod, he sat himself down across from you, bag falling to the floor near where yours was. He kept his coat on.

“Nellie’s really letting you work from here?”

You didn’t miss the slight pettiness of his words.

Shaking your head, you decided to ignore it and instead rolled your lips into your mouth before glancing back up at him. “No, I uh – I quit.”

His eyebrows shot up so quickly, the sudden change in his expression nearly made you flinch. He quietly kept his eyes on you for a moment longer, as if you were about to tell him that you were joking.

“You did?” He finally said, and if you paid close attention, which of course you were, you could see a little quirk in his lips. “You really quit?”

Unable to help the small chuckle that left your mouth at his reaction, you felt the beginnings of a smile pulling at your lips. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I did.”

A smile was pulling at Harry’s mouth as well – you could tell that he was trying hard not to with the way his lips slightly pursed and he bit them together. But he couldn’t help it.

“Well,” he cleared his throat once more and leaned back in his chair, making himself more comfortable. “Good for you.”

Another silence came over the two of you. Your right hand was pinching the skin of your thigh through your trousers to ground yourself, to remind yourself that Harry was really sitting here in front of you. Out of anywhere he could be.

Everything about him was so familiar. You recognized his coat, the dark green that you knew was so warm to be wrapped up in. His hair looked longer since the last time he was in front of you, but it also sat slightly messy and unstyled over his head. He was nervously twisting the few rings on his fingers – most of his fingers were bare which was something you hadn’t seen in a while.

Even the way he watched you, his steady stare that seemed to speak to you without needing to say any words, left you to be speechless.

Of course, you had thought about this moment over in your head countless times.

You fantasized about him showing up at your door, late at night and begging you to talk to him. You thought about running into him when you were out for errands, and would ignore him altogether. You thought about him calling you or what would happen if you called him, what you would talk about and everything he’d tell you. You had dreamt of everything that could possibly happen, but now you sat frozen.

“So uh,” Harry’s voice broke you out of your reverie. “If you quit, where aboust are you working now?”

You bit your lips together. “I’m not…working anywhere. Working for myself, I guess.”

He gave you a surprised look once more. “Writing?”

You only nodded, unable to help the smile that was building on your mouth. And Harry couldn’t help but mirror it.

He took a moment to take you in, closer this time. You were dressed warmly, a thick purple sweater hanging off your shoulders that hit fairly low on your hips, over loose black trousers. The lavender made you glow – he decided it was his new favourite colour on you.

You had a different pendant hanging off your neck, and he could see a second chain hidden beneath the collar of your sweater. A series of pens were in front of you, and he knew that you had been toying with them based on how they were haphazardly thrown over the tabletop. You kept slipping in your bottom lip between your teeth, something he couldn’t help but watch as every time it brought his attention back to your mouth.

He shouldn’t be thinking about your mouth.

“That’s great to hear,” he nodded after another moment too long in silence. “I mean, you know I’ve said this before so I’m not going to say it again but –” he cut himself off, already finding himself rambling. “It’s good. I’m glad that you’re doing it.”

You chuckled again, and he felt himself melt a bit deeper into the chair across from you. “I’ve really barely started but. Thank you, Harry.”

It was the first time he’d heard you say his name in so long. He liked hearing it, he missed hearing it.

“’Course,” was all he said. “I’m happy to hear that you’re writing.”

Another silence when you simply nodded.

“Why did you come here?” He spoke softly, the somewhat elephant in the room getting aired as you briefly averted his gaze.

“Wanted to get away,” you said honestly. “And Eloise offered for me to live with her for a bit, so it was an easy decision.”

“Easy,” he mused, repeating the word as he momentarily pulled at the sleeves of his sweater. “Taking some time to relax?”

“Something like that,” you paused, thinking of how to ask him the same thing. “How about you – are you passing through or…?”

He lightly shook his head, drumming his fingertips over his thigh. “I’m here for some time.”

“Oh,” you closed the notebook in front of you, leaning your forearm over it. You opened your mouth to say something else, but you seemed to not remember how to form words. He jumped back in.

“I’m here writing as well actually – or trying to.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Album?”

“Yeah,” he rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, leaning forward in the chair again to rest his forearms over the tabletop, similar position that you were sitting in as you both lent forward. “Been trying to get it done for far too long now.”

You remembered – you remembered in your last weeks together his frustration over his inability to be happy with what he was creating for his third album. You held your lips closed with your teeth for a moment, unsure of which thread to follow. He continued once again after you didn’t say anything.

“I’m here alone,” he paused. “Staying in a small place just outside of town.”

You couldn’t help the quiet scoff. “You’re never alone.”

He laughed to himself. “I am this time.”

You both felt like you were circling around the same thing. You were the first one to voice it. “So you decided to come… here. To Annecy.”

He looked at you dead in the eyes, as if challenging you. “Yeah, I did.”

Another silence fell, this one seeming to be heavier than all the other one’s combined.

“It was –” Harry finally broke the silence after what seemed like ten minutes. You wished your brain was working at the moment. “It’s really nice seeing you.”

You gave him a gentle smile. “You too.”

He tucked his feet under his chair, ready to push back from the table and stand. He was ready to leave the café, think about this moment every hour of the days to come until he managed to let it go. If that’s what you wanted.

But you didn’t.

“I’ll leave you to it. I don’t want to keep you from your work for too long,” he sounded nearly remorseful as he blindly reached for his bag at the floor, not wanting to look away from you.

“Wait –” you said way too quickly, but you didn’t care. “Stay – if you want.”

He paused every movement he was making, glancing up at you with a growing grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, familiar warm feeling spreading through your chest when his expression eased. “We barely caught up.”

Harry slowly leant back into the chair, nodding with a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Okay – I’d like that.”

He unzipped his jacket then, resting it on the back of his chair and pushed the sleeves of his sweater up over his elbows. Leaning forward again, this time not to stand but to take a peek at the mug sitting in front of you.

“Did you want another?”

“Still working on this one,” you smiled in thanks, grabbing the cup with the lukewarm coffee to take a little sip.

Harry quickly had his own coffee in front of him, clutching the little mug in his hands as if it would act as some kind of buffer between the two of you.

“I hope you stormed out of that office,” he told you, after once more asking if you had seriously quit your job.

“Wasn’t that dramatic, unfortunately,” you laughed, also wishing that you had the guts to cause a scene and walk out of work. “I gave my notice, had a very civil last chat with Nellie and that was really it. Can’t really afford to burn any bridges.”

Harry didn’t want to comment too much on your recent unemployment, the emotionally exhausting nature of your previous job being a hot topic of conversation when the two of you had been together. He decided it was best to bring up at a later time, if he had the opportunity that is.

“What are you working on now, then?”

You mindlessly picked up a forgotten pen, twirling it between your index and middle finger a few times before letting it fall back down. “What I’ve always said I would.”

“Book?”

You shrugged, not wanting to think about the implications too much. “Something like that.”

He wanted to ask you about it further, but you easily changed the subject. “How long have you been here then?”

“Just over a week now,” he took another sip of his coffee. “And you?”

“A week,” you tried your hardest to stop the way your lips started to curve upwards, at the fact that you had both come around the same time. He seemed to be thinking the same thing, as a little nervous chuckle escaped his mouth. “How is the album coming?”

His laughter died down. “Not well,” he said honestly. “Nothing really since…” Nothing really since we were last together.

You nodded, knowing what he was about to say. “Keeping myself busy - I was actually filming for a movie the last few months.”

“I read that,” you nodded, not realizing you were admitting to slightly keeping up with what your ex was up to.

Another silence came across the two of you when you both took big sips of your drinks, you finished off the rest of the now cold coffee that had completely lost its charm.

“You look good,” your voice came out a little quieter. “Rested.”

You swear you saw a little pink hit his cheeks. “Thank you,” he hummed in response, having a thousand compliments ready for you but none of them found their way past his lips. “Are you allowed to tell me I look good?”

It was a cheap shot, but he took it.

You paused, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “Friends can compliment each other, no?”

Friends.

“Of course,” he hid his expression behind the mug that he raised to his mouth. “In that case - you look good - incredible even.”

He added the second part on a whim, still staring you down as you refused to break his gaze, never one to back down from a subtle staring contest.

A small sliver of silence passed, before Harry cleared his throat.

“I hope I’m not keeping you,” he murmured, watching your hands fiddle with the pens that rested more or less untouched on the surface of the table.

“You’re not,” you shook your head. “I’ve barely gotten anything done either way. If anything, I’m distracting you.”

Harry bit his lips together. He was never one to complain about how much you distracted him. “You’re always a welcomed distraction,” he leant his forearms further over the table. “Not so much progress here either.”

“I have a hard time believing that,” you laughed lightly when Harry raised his eyebrows, giving you an incredulous look. “You were constantly writing. Never met anyone with so many filled notebooks.”

“I guess but I – I couldn’t make anything out of it, you know? I don’t know if you remember,” he glanced up as you gave him a little nod. How could you forget about any moment spent together.

“Still feel just as stuck.” His brows knotted, staring at the table for a few seconds before glancing back up at you. “Sorry, for unloading this on you.”

“No, no it’s okay,” you offered him a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay if it takes you a little longer – if it takes a few tries.”

He forgot how much comfort he could get from your smile. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Feels like I’ve exhausted everything – like there are no words left for me to write.”

You couldn’t help what you said next. You didn’t mean to make it about yourself, you didn’t mean to even say what you did. You simply could not help it.

“Ever write about me?”

Harry stared at you for a few seconds. “You seriously…” he trailed off, eyes slightly wide on you. You had an apology ready on the tip of your tongue when he spoke again. “Filled countless books about you.”

You knew he wrote to you, leaving you little love notes or poems in your home or hidden amongst your things for you to find. Sometimes romantic, sometimes a little more explicit. But for whatever reason, you never imagined him writing a song about you.

He kept speaking in your silence. “You can’t be that humble – you can’t believe that I would never even think about writing about you.”

You didn’t know what to say. “I guess …I don’t know.”

Maybe you had been more successful that you’d thought in pushing memories of him away.

“To be honest, I uh,” now he was the one finding himself at a loss of what to say. “I didn’t want to put out something that was so personally about you. Wanted to keep you to myself.”

He lifted his eyes from the table, meeting yours before quietly murmuring. “Still do.”

A thick silence settled this time. You watched every small twitch in his demeanor – the quick bite of his lip, the bob of his Adam’s apple, the way his eyes flicked around your face just as you were sure yours were doing right now.

And they were, he was analyzing you, making new notes of your every feature that he could see for the thousandth time. He finally broke the silence, his voice sounding so loud all of the sudden.

“Come see what I have written.”

It was less of a question. Whether showing you old writing was really the only intention of the invitation was lost on you - and on Harry as well - but neither pondered on it too much.

You hadn’t said anything right away, but he was already reaching back to grab his jacket that was resting over the back of the chair. Slowly, you mirrored his actions and quickly began to pack up the pens and journal that had sat untouched for a good part of an hour.

Once you both stood wrapped in your coats and scarfs, with bags pulled over your shoulders, he met your gaze once more. “You coming?”

“Yeah,” you offered him a tentative smile. You realized you were nervous. Sitting with him in a public café was one thing, but spending time with him alone? That was something completely different that you weren’t sure you were prepared for. “Are we walking?”

“If that’s alright,” Harry nodded. “Staying just up the hill.”

And then you were off, following him in the thickening coat of snow that covered the yet to be plowed streets. Walking side by side at a safe distance, the falling snow hit you from every angle as the wind seemed to be starting to pick up.

Hugging your arms around your chest, you walked in silence for most of the trip.

At one point you were trying to move out of the way for a group of young school kids that were walking by, speaking far too fast for you to catch any words of their french as they excitedly bounced through the snow. Your foot caught on a lift of the sidewalk that was buried under the snow, giving you a momentary loss of balance.

Harry, however, was quick to notice. He had his arm looping through yours before you even realized you were tripping, as he held you upright and close against his side.

He knew that you were watching him, he could feel your eyes burn into the side of his face but he kept his gaze forward. The small kink in his lips gave him away though, when instead of pulling away you cozied yourself a bit more into his side and kept your arm tightly looped with his.

The rest of the walk was spent like that as you both trudged up the hill, out of the hub of the old town and out to the residential area. He quietly led you to his temporary housing, pulling out his set of keys from the inner pocket of his jacket and undid the front door of the building.

Walking up only one flight of stairs, you were soon being ushered inside a nice little apartment that could only be described as a character home. It was neat and cozy, just eclectic enough with tiled kitchen walls and different patterned rugs.

It was exactly the kind of place you had stayed in last time you were here.

“Let me turn the heat up,” Harry muttered, as you both shook off the snow from your hats and hair, hanging up the dampened clothing before warming back up in the apartment.

“Something to drink?” He called from the wall where he was presumably adjusting the heat, as you curiously glanced around the space he was staying in.

“What’ve you got?”

You easily found the kitchen as it was right after the hall from the door. A couple cups sat in the sink but it was otherwise clean. Harry joined you, standing across from you as he went to grab something from the fridge.

“”Have some mulled wine ready to be heated,” he pulled out a thermos.

“That sounds good,” you spoke quietly as you watched him work around the kitchen, grabbing a saucepan to heat it up.

He seemed to be stalling – you supposed you were as well. You didn’t know what you were doing here with him. You saw two possible outcomes, maybe three, but you didn’t know which one you were the most okay with.

Harry felt as though he had either been far too quiet, or was rambling too much. He wanted to ask you everything and find out absolutely everything and anything that had been going on in your life in the past ten months. He needed to calm down.

He heated up the homemade spaced mix, adding in a generous amount of the red wine. After a little moment while you distracted yourself with texting Eloise, you saw him pour a generous amount into each mug before turning off the element on the stove.

He handed you one of the mugs – a painted yellow ceramic one – settling to lean back against the counter across from you while you gripped the handle of your cup.

You lightly blew on the smoke billowing out from the top, holding the mug out to him in a quiet cheers before each taking a sip.

It was still too hot, but you both seemed to be stalling from whatever was about to unfold and you took any chance to distract yourself that you could. The drink had been a good idea, and was already warming you up – probably both by the liquor and the temperature of the beverage

“Good?” Harry broke the silence, after swallowing another sip of the drink. He had one hand resting over the ledge of the counter, elbow bent with a relaxed shoulder while the other hand held the mug. You wondered if he really was relaxed or just appeared to be – you seemed to be having a hard time reading him at the moment.

“Really good,” you nodded, occupying your mouth with the beverage as you found yourself at a loss of what to say at the moment. “Thank you.”

Conversation seemed to be flowing so nicely in the café, but now it was like you had no idea how to be around each other.

Harry was nervous. When he made the offer to show you the countless unseen songs about you, he hadn’t really thought it through. It had seemed like the right thing to say, and he really did want to share that with you, but things were just so … uncertain.

He could tell, by the way you kept one arm crossed around your front with the other’s arm elbow perched to keep the mug by your lips, you were uneasy. He didn’t want you to be that way, he wanted you to be nothing but comfortable with him.

“So where is that writing you were bragging about?” Your smooth voice broke him out of his daze, as he lifted his eyes back up to see you peering at him from behind the mug.

Rolling his lips in against his teeth, the corners of his lips perked up both at the way you were looking at him and to mask the slight pit of nerves that suddenly appeared. “Give me a sec’”

Leaving his mug with you in the kitchen, he made his way to one of his bags where he knew was packed a series of old notebooks – all taken with him for any kind of inspiration.

Flipping through them, unable to help the way he suddenly grew anxious over the idea of showing these to you. Especially out of the blue. Especially after this sudden reunion.

Deciding what to show you and what not to, he triple checked that he had grabbed the right book before making his way back over to you. He found you exactly where you were previously, mug in one hand with the other holding your phone, quickly typing something with just one thumb.

At the sound of his footsteps, you placed your phone down on the counter and glanced up at your ex. Finding his place across from you in the kitchen, he extended the notebook out towards you. It was clearly worn in, little scribbles of words across the leatherbound cover.

You recognized it. From being perched over his lap, tucked in his bag, next to him on the nightstand. You knew it.

“This was from that winter – actually think I filled it the last time we were here.” His voice was low, nearly distant as he tried not to look at you.

He didn’t know why he was sharing this with you now – maybe he felt like he needed to prove something, maybe he just missed you.

Wordlessly, you grabbed the worn book from him and tentatively opened it in your palm. Glancing up at him, he was clearly nervous and doing his best not to watch you read his every thought about you.

His eyes were cast to the side, looking out the window as if watching the heavy snowfall. With his arms now crossed over his chest, the thick knit of the sweater he was wearing bunching under his arms, you realized he looked more than nervous, almost worried.

You wondered if this was all a terrible idea.

Having not realized that you were still watching the profile of his face, looking at the way his eyes flicked from the window and down to the untouched mug that sat still on the counter. He grabbed it in a hand, the soft clink of the rings he had on against the ceramic being the only sound in the room.

You were sure he could feel you watching him, so much confirmed when the next place his eyes moved to were your own. Neither of you spoke, instead watched each other closely from either side of the small kitchen.

His expression was practically unreadable to you, something that you didn’t encounter often. You briefly thought he was upset with you, before he muttered. “Going to make dinner, if you’d like to stick around for some.”

Slightly surprised by the offer, even though you realized that when he had invited you to trudge up the hill with him to read a few half finished songs that probably wasn’t the complete intention.

Nodding, you answered with a low “thank you,” as he turned his body around and left the kitchen, no doubt searching for something elsewhere and leaving you to read alone.

Finally flipping open the book to a random page, turning a few pages until it looked less like a mess of scribbles and you could pull out several coherent sentences.

You found a small date written at the top of the page, and realized that this had been right in the middle of your last vacation in Annecy together.

You had to read over every word three, four times, before your hands moved without thinking and you were flipping the page to find more. Laying the spine of the notebook down against the kitchen counter, you leant over above it, completely captivated.

It was all so overwhelmingly beautiful. You didn’t realize that a small puddle of tears was gathering on your waterline until you blinked, and a few of them escaped and slid over the tops of your cheeks. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea.

It was everything you remembered about being with Harry. Everything you remembered about the last time you were together in the little French town. Every ‘I love you’, every stolen kiss, every touch and feeling shared. It had been the happiest you ever remembered being.

It took you months to forget, or maybe not forget but not think about. And in a flood of it all coming back, you couldn’t help the tears that seemed to come flooding out as well.

Shutting the notebook a bit too quickly, you remained in your hunched position as you sponged at your tears with the back of your hand, wiping them away the best you could. You hadn’t thought about the reality, that there was no possible way you’d be able to handle reading everything that Harry had to say about you.

“Done already?” Harry’s voice startled you, not having heard him rejoin you in the kitchen. You quickly blinked your eyes, knowing there was no possible way to hide the fact that you had been crying but you hoped it wasn’t too obvious.

“No, I –” you cleared your throat lightly, turning around to look at him. You didn’t know what to say to him.

You watched his eyes scan your face, expression softening slightly before offering you a small smile. You assumed the whites of your eyes were reddened, and the skin surrounding was damp and still shiny from the little spill of tears.

He didn’t ask you anything else, and instead grabbed a pot from where it sat cleaned next to the sink and brought it over to the stove. “Do you want to chop the vegetables?”

Nodding with a murmured agreement, he handed you what needed to be cut along with a cutting board and a knife. You were grateful that he glossed over the topic, and now you found yourself biting back a smile. Spending time with him in such a mundane way was comforting. He put on some music, a soft background song playing while you both started to cook in a smooth harmony.

Conversation was light. He asked how living with Eloise was, you asked how long he had been in town for.

It wasn’t until you were both sitting across from each other with steaming bowls of soup and warmed bread, each having poured a generous amount of wine into your glasses that conversation got a bit heavier.

It started when you asked if he had been out to the lake yet, even though the cold weather obviously meant swimming wasn’t much of an offer.

It ended, however, with a heavy silence when you both started to recall the last trip to the lake. Nearly a full year ago now, it was the second day of March and your last weekend away in this undisturbed paradise. The air was still very much crisp and carried a winter bite, and on a barely warm night, the two of you had the terrible idea of taking a little night dip.

After about thirty seconds in the cold water, you couldn’t bear it and had to step out into the even colder air. After shivering back to your rental, you had drawn a burning hot bath to enjoy together and both decided that you would come back during the summer months to fully benefit from the lake and hikes.

But then you weren’t together over the summer.

Harry had immediately noticed your change in demeanor at the bittersweet reminder of the memory, silently cursing himself for bringing the conversation that way. He had hoped that it would maybe spark something in you, some kind or romantic nostalgia, but instead it seemed to just upset you.

A crushing silence had fallen again, and at least you had dinner to distract yourself with. Harry instead decided to change the conversation again, asking if Eloise still had those two little grumpy cats, and if you were enjoying staying with them.

You were lightheartedly laughing again by the time you were clearing the dishes, both the wine and Harry helping in the warm feeling under your skin. Your cheeks had been rounded with a smile and your mind a bit fuzzy, intoxicated not as much by the liquor but more so by the loving feeling around you.

It was quiet when you came back to the rental outside of town, the tiles of the floor cold under your feet after you had peeled your socks off. The rain had only increased in your short trip out to the nearby Monoprix, picking up what you needed to make a nice hearty soup for dinner as well as a bottle of wine.

After getting far too wet on the walk you had gone on during the afternoon, initially wanting to go hiking but the weather got in the way. Harry had stuck back while you grabbed your groceries and a fresh baguette as you had finished off the one you had during breakfast.

Hanging up your damp coat and taking off your too itchy sweater, you called out Harry’s name after placing the groceries down on the counter of the little kitchenette.

A faint reply was heard, as you followed the sound of his voice to the closed bathroom door. He told you to come in, and you were met with a warm steamy bathroom and your partner relaxing into the back of the tub.

“Didn’t feel like a shower,” he murmured as you smiled down at him, eyeing over the bubbles that covered the surface of the water.

“Hi,” you whispered, leaning down to press your lips to his in a quick greeting as he extended his neck out towards you. “It’s still dreadful out - you have the right idea taking a bath.”

You sat down on the edge of the tub, feet flat on the tile of the washroom floor as your upper body twisted to gaze down at Harry. The weeks so far spent in the small French town were like taking a break from reality - time was still and you could spend all the time you wanted wrapped up in each other.

“Missed you,” he murmured, wet hand raising from under the water to grab at your wrist. Pulling it towards him, he pressed a light kiss over your pulse point. You let your hand fall over his shoulder when he let go, when he instead decided he wanted to feel your lips on his again.

You easily complied, bending lower once more to slot your mouth over his with a lingering touch as he sighed over you. “Lips are cold.”

You chuckled an apology, shifting yourself closer to him as you still balanced on the ledge of the tub. Your hand wrapped around his neck, feeling the damp strands between your fingers as one of his hands grabbed a light hold of your arm. He traced a pattern over your bare arm, before shifting his arm around to the small of your back.

You remained like that for a moment, sharing sweet kisses laced with soft affirmations of affection, hands not wandering further from light grasps over each other’s bodies.

Though at a sudden move, a not so light move, an unattractive squeal left your mouth when your boyfriend hooked a hand under your bent knees and gripped you firmly, pulling you over the edge of the tub and into the water with him. You giggled his name after recovering from the initial shock, the heat of the water a sharp contrast to the chill in your bones and the sudden movement had your head spinning just the slightest bit.

You surprisingly didn’t mind all that much – in fact you didn’t mind at all. Wet clothes could be dried, and the way he held you so tightly and gazed down at you so lovingly you didn’t even realize that you were fully dressed in the bathtub.

Harry held you tightly, your legs now resting over him with his arm still under your knees as you found your place in his lap.

“My clothes are all wet,” you bit your bottom lip down, eyes catching Harry’s with a gleam as you rested your cheek against his chest. You looped your arm tighter around him, easily supported against his frame. “Could’ve given me a little warning.”

“Thought you liked spontaneity,” his mouth sought out yours again, this time landing a peck just over your cupid's bow. “And you just seemed so cold.”

You laughed over him and he pulled you even closer, as the water seeped through your clothes. You lifted your upper body a bit, not minding the way your shirt clung to your body as you brought your other hand to graze along the top of his cheek. “Really missed you.”

“Wasn’t gone that long,” you whispered. “Picked up some more bread - the woman at the bakery recognized me.”

You could feel the hum from his chest before you heard it, as he stole another quick peck from your lips. “Becoming a true local, aren’t you?”

“Guess I am,” you mindlessly trailed your fingertips over his features, tracing the curve of his lips as he spoke.

There was a small pause, a quiet comfortable silence. “What d’you say we stay a little longer?”

You didn’t really need to think about the offer that much. “How much longer?”

Harry shrugged, although knowing you both had responsibilities that were eventually needed to go back to. “Maybe a few more weeks?”

“I’d love that,” you pressed your lips to his, knowing that you’d eventually work out the details later.

He muttered something against your mouth, something you couldn’t quite catch as he returned your kiss. His hands wandered under your shirt, quickly pulling the soaking material from your body and throwing it with a wet slap to the tiled floor. Another problem to be dealt with later.

Your lips parted as his tongue grazed over yours, a soft hitting of teeth when you tried to reposition yourself over him. His lips slid down your chin and your jaw as you brought your legs to straddle him, the growing uncomfortable heavy corduroy of your pants needing to be the next thing to be taken off.

A soft curse escaped your lips both at the feeling of your lover’s hands on you and at the cool air, when he tugged your bralette over your head and again threw it somewhere to be immediately forgotten. His hands cupped your breasts, warm and wet and pulling deliciously at your nipples while his mouth sucked over the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Help me get outta these,” you whispered into the air, one of your hands fumbling with the button and zipper of your trousers while you held onto him for support.

After much moving around – splashing water, and slipping over the smooth bottom of the tub – the heavy material was tugged off your legs and thrown over the edge of the tub. Finally feeling his skin completely against yours, you repositioned yourself over his lap with a leg on either side of his as your mouths met.

You sank into his arms as he whimpered your name, holding you tightly around your hips. One of his hands wandered lower, brushing lightly over your underwear covered heat.

You were both incredibly hot - from the water and from the increasing tension - as you blindly grabbed at each other in quick desperation.

Your hips pressed over his, while his lips were wandering over the damp exposed skin of your chest, and he moaned lowly against you, “love you close - love you everywhere.”

He raised his swollen mouth from your skin, pressing his words over your mouth. “Gonna spend the rest of my life with you like this.”

“You should stay the night.”

You turned your head towards Harry from where you were carrying over the stack of dishes. “What?”

“Snow hasn’t stopped,” he motioned to the closed window. “And it's getting late. Better idea for you to stay tonight.”

You only stared at him with your mouth slightly parted as if to speak, but didn’t know what to say. You figured that you hadn’t really thought this through, and it wasn’t completely crazy that it was a better idea to wait out the night out here with Harry.

“Not stay the night stay the night,” he continued, easily noticing the little lift in your lips.

“So it was only ever about the writing then?” The teasing tone in your voice was evident, though Harry couldn’t help the way his heart skipped at the possibility of you wanting to be here with him just as much as he wanted you.

“I think it’s always good to hold out some hope.” He answered, watching your eyes linger on him for a moment longer before glancing away with a small chuckle.

“I know you’re right,” you hummed, turning on the tap to begin washing the small load that needed to be done.

“About holding out hope or staying over?”

Biting your bottom lip between your teeth, you watched him approach you from the corner of your eye before answering. “Both.”

He tried his best to hide his smile when he joined your side by the sink, each settling in without much discussion of you as the washer of the dishes and him as the dryer. “So you’ll stay?”

You didn’t think about it too much. “I might need a shower,” you started, keeping your eyes on the soapy water that you pulled a ladle out of. “And to borrow some things.”

“Still have the same face cream,” his hip bumped yours – almost so lightly it could’ve just been him readjusting his feet. ”Welcome to anything you’d like, always are.”

This time it was obvious that it was on purpose. Not so much of a bump but a nudge, a slow one as he leaned his body closer to yours and rested against you for a brief second.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you said lightly as your agreement, trying not to think too much about sharing a bed with your ex.

The quiet that came when you worked through the dishes together didn’t last all that long before Harry asked.

“Been seeing anyone?”

You glanced at him briefly. A cheek was half lifted, the hints of a smirk forming on his lips as he eyed you.

“Why’re you asking?” You countered, the answer to the question obvious.

“Why do you think,” he let out a chuckle, although was unable to help but feel a little anxious at the answer to the question, especially in your silence.

“There was one,” you spoke slowly. “A friend set it up – a double date. Saw him one more time after and that was it.”

“That was it?” Harry repeated your words, clearly looking for more of an explanation.

“Haven’t seen him again,” you turned off the tap, wiping your hands on the dish cloth hanging off a hook before facing Harry. “And you?”

“Twice,” he said – if you were going to be honest so was he. “Different person each time.”

“Busy boy,” you mused, trying not to wonder how long after you split it had been, or how recently.

His smirk had died down, meeting your eyes earnestly. “Never saw either again. You're a hard one to get over.”

His words hit you hard in the chest, like a little stab of a knife deep and sharp. He had spoken lightly, but you didn’t miss the slight clipped tone of his voice.

“Did anything… happen with the guy?” He asked immediately after, not giving you much of a chance to react to his confession.

You only bit your bottom lip down, holding your mouth shut. The soft lights from above seemed like they had dimmed, the space around you feeling smaller and more intimate.

He took your silence as the answer, a pit of jealousy building at the mere thought of someone else's hands on you.

“Just a kiss,” you told him, barely able to recall the short end of date kiss shared between you and the man you hadn’t even thought about. “On the second date.”

Harry only hummed, arms crossing over his chest as he leant his hip against the counter. The dishes were nearly done and long forgotten by now.

“D’you wanna see him again?”

“Harry –”

“If you haven’t seen him since then it doesn’t sound that way,” he mused, cutting you off with his petty rambling. “Especially now that you’ve come here.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Wasn’t like what?” His tone was quiet, but as you looked up to see him again his eyes held something more, begging for your attention.

“I just wanted –” Stopping yourself, you couldn’t continue. I just wanted to stop thinking about you. Instead, you spoke a quiet “I don’t know.”

A heavy silence surrounded you for the millionth time that day. It had only been a few hours since you’d run into each other, since he’d invited you up and you’d easily agreed. You only looked away from him when his touch was felt over you, glancing down at the hand landing over yours on the counter, resting his palm over your knuckles.

His thumb softly brushed the skin. “Why did you come here?”

Harry couldn’t help but ask you again. He knew why he had come here, and he had a growing suspicion that you had come for the same reason – you were both just too stubborn to say anything.

“I told you, Eloise offered –”

“You could’ve gone anywhere though, I didn’t even know you were close with her.” Harry again, couldn’t help it.

You knew very well what he wanted to hear.

After a moment in silence, he spoke quietly and earnestly. “Did you miss us?”

You had to look away. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, able to hear the heavy swallow in his throat before he spoke once more. “Did you miss me?”

You watched his hand lightly rest over yours, the way neither of you moved but once and a while there would be a small flinch or twitch of muscle as if the need to grab onto the other rested right below the surface.

“Of course I did,” his hand held yours a little tighter when you spoke. “We were good.”

“We were,” Harry repeated, quietly pondering on the past tense of the sentiment.

The decision to invite you up had been innocent at first, or so he wanted to tell himself that, but having you here with him was something he’d never thought to experience again. He asked you the same question once more. “Is that why you came here?”

Daring a few more steps towards you, the hand that was not over yours raised to brush its knuckles under your cheek, before grabbing a hold of your jaw. You were watching him closely, needing to swallow a thick gulp of air when he neared you.

Deciding not to answer him, as you both seemed to be aware of the true answer, you avoided the question entirely. “Is that why you came?”

You dropped your eyes down to his mouth when the corners of it quirked up, quickly looking back up to his eyes, almost hoping that he would avoid truly answering just as you had.

“It is, yeah.”

His earnestness shouldn’t have surprised you. You felt his words before you even processed them, momentarily reveling in your closeness. You were sure you were going to start crying again if he didn’t say anything else.

“Remember last time we were here,” Harry said, again quickly changing the subject. His hand that rested over yours moved up, sliding over the bare skin of your wrist before looping around to hold the counter behind you. Keeping himself impossibly close, he kept speaking at your nod. “Remember one of the first nights, in the park by the lake, the dancing, what was that called?”

“Bal musette,” you said without having to think about it all that much .

“Yeah,” his lips curved to a wider smile at the memory. “All the men wanted to dance with you.”

“They were all in their eighties,” you hummed, letting yourself lean into his touch over your cheek.

“Still,” he grinned. “We were good.”

You remembered the cool air, not quite spring yet but the ends of winter were apparent. Harry had held you close, he always did. It had been an evening of uncontrollable laughs, interlocked hands, and stumbling home in a rush. The late dinners, the indulgence in delicious chocolates, the walks by the lake; it was all too good. The entire time really, was a blissful month.

You knew it, you both knew it. Right now, neither of you could even remember what had led to a break up in the first place.

He was all around you, his arms keeping you in while the tip of his nose nudged your cheek and his face grew closer to yours. There was only a soft orange glow in the room, hitting off the top of his features in a way that drew you in. So close he became a blur to you, something you hadn’t experienced in nearly a year.

But it was when he tilted his chin down that you processed what he was about to do, that you let your head fall to the side in a quick move to avoid his kiss, only a brush of his cheek over your jaw being felt.

Harry let himself fall forward, his forehead landing on your shoulder as he let out a quiet chuckle into the crook of your neck. Neither of you moved from where you were, still standing pressed to one another with his chest pushing against yours and his arms on either side of you.

Moving your head back, you couldn’t help the breathless laugh that blew through your nose, not doubt tickling the skin of his neck.

“What was that,” you hummed quietly.

He tilted his head slightly, lips brushing over the skin of your neck. “Sorry,” he spoke, although he didn’t mean the apology all that much. He had wanted to kiss you; he still does. “Felt right.”

It was overwhelming, being close and personal with you once more. Harry moved his nose to the column of your neck, smelling the familiar comfort of the perfume that lingered on you.

“Felt right,” he repeated, voice muffled from his mouth resting over your neck. He didn’t miss the way you tilted your head again, this time not to avoid his touch but to allow more space along your neck as he pressed the lightest of touches onto the sensitive skin. “Didn’t it?”

He also didn’t miss the soft hitch in your throat, breath getting caught when he let his lips linger. Getting lost in you for a moment, when you lifted a hand to his shoulder, and wrapped your arm around him in a desire to keep him close. His lips pressed harder, parting to allow a quick lick of his tongue over the familiar skin. You sighed softly above him, feeling everything at once in a breathtaking moment.

But then you found your breath again, and spoke his name quietly before shifting away from him. “Harry –”

“I know-”

He sighed, a deep pull of air through his lungs when he pulled away from you. Just enough to meet your bewildered eyes, just enough that he could see every detail on your face without having them blur. “Let’s get to sleep, yeah?”

You only nodded, peering into his eyes as if it would help you read his mind. His gaze flickered away from yours, falling to the spot of floor between your feet before willing himself to move away from you. “We’ll feel better in the morning.”

You had no idea what he meant at all, but only watched him walk away from where he had just been. The quiet music that had still been playing was abruptly turned off, the lack of sound making the rapid beating of your heart that much louder. Taking a minute for yourself, you slowly followed him out of the kitchen.

“D’you mind if I shower?” Your voice sounded foreign to yourself, after an uncomfortable silence settled in the apartment.

“Go ahead,” his voice was distant, and you simply made your way to the washroom for a quick shower before likely not getting any sleep through the night.

Seeing the array of his toiletries laid out over the countertop was once more far too familiar, most of them being the same ones you had seen nearly everyday. Helping yourself to them since you were here for the night, you did your best to scrub off what makeup you had one before getting into the shower.

“Hey,” Harry’s voice suddenly invaded your senses, as he nudged the door open just as you were about to pull your sweater up over your head, hand stuck halfway up your chest.

Immediately dropping your hand back down as the knit fell back over your body, you saw Harry's eyes raise up to yours through the mirror. “Sorry,” he spoke quietly. “Just bringing you some clothes that you can sleep in.”

“Thank you,” you only looked at him through the mirror, watching as his eyes fell back down to where your hands were still holding your sweater by your hips.

Another moment too long passed with neither moving or saying anything, and just as you parted your lips to say anything, Harry cleared his throat. “I know, I know.”

He sighed, as if you had been about to scold him for lingering again and shut the bathroom door behind him, leaving you alone once more.

You showered as quickly as you could, washing your body and keeping your hair out of the water. You tried your best not to think about the way Harry’s eyes had slowly dragged over your body, even your sweater covered one. You tried not to think about the way he smelt the same, or the way his hands felt so good around you and the way he had wanted to kiss you. Or the way his lips felt so familiar over your neck, that if you hadn’t stopped him there might not be a wall separating the both of your right now.

And it didn’t get better when you came around the corner dressed in his clothes, sweats bunching at your ankles and the crewneck looking warm around you. You shot him a nervous smile from where he was already in bed, placing your belongings next to the bag you had on the floor, before turning back to glance at Harry.

“Well come on in,” he smiled, trying not to let his gaze linger on you for too long and lifted the corner of the duvet up on the other side of the mattress. With the sleeves of the crewneck pulled over your palms, you tentatively slid in on the bed, trying your best to maintain as much distance as you possibly could.

Harry turned off his phone, placing it on the table next to him before leaning over to shut off the only source of light.

You rested on your side, daring to face Harry as you hugged the pillow under your cheek. “It was a nice surprise seeing you today,” you started, not wanting to go to sleep on an awkward note.

He faced you when you spoke, mirroring your position from the other side of the mattress. “What are the odds that we both came back here,” he posed it less of a question, more as a quiet wondering. “Would never have thought -”

Humming in response, you didn’t know what the odds were really. Must have been pretty low, and the fact that you were both here and now found yourselves sharing a bed was not at all where you thought you’d end up when you got up this morning.

He turned from his side to his back, looking away from you and instead chose to stare up at the ceiling. The urge to be close to you was strong, and it felt incredibly odd to not be near you as you both went to sleep together.

“Goodnight,” you spoke quietly. You shuffled down the mattress and rested your head over the pillow. There was no way you were going to sleep tonight.

“’Night,” Harry hummed from the other side of the bed, lying just as stiff as you were.

You rolled onto your side with your back to the man you couldn’t believe you were sharing a bed with once more. You begged your mind to turn off, to let sleep take over your body so that it could be morning, and maybe everything would make sense in the morning.

But instead your mind wandered to every possible thought regarding Harry, and you rolled onto your back to stare at the ceiling. Trying your damn hardest not to pay attention to Harry’s breathing, or his own shuffles on the bed.

You didn’t know how long it had been, but you were starting to grow hot. Sticking a leg out from under the covers didn’t help much, and then you couldn’t stop thinking about it. You couldn’t stop thinking about Harry – about how you felt with him, about how he made you feel when you had been together. In and out of the bedroom.

Rolling onto your stomach for the thousandth time, hoping Harry was asleep so he hadn’t been hearing your constant shuffling, you squeezed your thighs together and cursed yourself for thinking what you were while lying in a bed with your ex. Wasn’t so much arousal, but just… neediness.

Not only could you not stop thinking about every touch you shared, the linger of his hands and his lips, but you couldn’t take your mind off of every single word you read in his old notebooks. It was haunting you nearly, an old ghost that was sitting on your chest and leaving you heavy hearted.

It was when you rolled from your stomach to your back again with a quiet sigh, that Harry muttered against his pillow with a low voice, “stop movin’ around.”

Slightly embarrassed that he had obviously been awake the entire time as well, you rolled your head to the side to see him over the space of the middle of the mattress. “Sorry – can’t sleep.”

He did the same, turning his head so that your eyes could meet in the nearly completely dark room. “Me neither.”

You simply looked at each other for a moment, trying to let yourself relax enough so that you could eventually drift to sleep before Harry spoke again. “It feels odd, doesn’t it? Sleeping but not being close.”

You nodded, realizing he couldn’t really see your movement before speaking. “Yeah – I can’t relax.”

This time there was no pause between words. “Come here,” Harry said quickly.

“What?”

He shuffled closer to the middle, closer towards you. “Friends can cuddle, can’t they? Just – come here.”

You didn’t think too much of the offer..

You moved away from the very edge of the bed, closer to where Harry layed. He extended an arm out, wrapping it around your shoulders as you came closer and pulled you in to lay next to his chest. Tentatively raising your hand, you laid it flat over his chest before sliding it around him as you hugged him from the side.

It felt nice – normal even, being in his arms. He let out another sigh, murmuring a quiet “goodnight” before settling back down into the mattress.

You felt his hand fall lightly over your shoulder, fingertips brushing on the fabric of the borrowed jumper. You were hyper focused on your breathing, trying your best to steady it in a lame attempt of getting your heartbeat to calm down. But when you realized Harry’s heart was beating just as fast, you relaxed even more against him.

Sleep came slowly, but it eventually did come. At one point Harry moved positions, just the slightest bit, but just enough that he was able to push a leg against yours. Slowly moving your own legs, you let him rest his calf over yours with the small tangle of your legs. That was the last thing either of you remembered before falling asleep.

The morning held a bit more tension.

Harry woke up before you, and spent far too long contemplating on whether he should get up or not. So long, in fact, that you had woken up and made the decision for him. While he feigned being asleep, you quietly shuffled out from under the covers.

Following the sound of your footsteps to the washroom, he heard the door close behind you and the quiet hum of the tap after a moment. He wondered if you would leave immediately.

Getting out of bed himself, he first went to go adjust the thermostat as the air was far too cold after being out of the cozy warmth of the bed, and went to go turn on the kettle.

You were by his side moments later, each sharing quiet “good mornings” while he tried not to stare at the way your eyelids still drooped down and the way you pulled the sleeves of his jumper over your hands.

He knew the offer of coffee would get you to stay for a cup, but by the way you had rushed back to the bathroom with your clothes from the day before told him that you weren’t planning on sticking around for too long.

By the time you reappeared by his side, you were dressed just as you had yesterday. He knew he’d find the clothes you’d borrowed folded over his bed. You seemed fresher faced than last time, even catching a whiff of his lavender scented moisturizer that you always used to borrow.

Biting his lips together to hide his smile at the fact you had in fact taken your liberties with his toiletries just as he’d offered, he quietly prepared you a cup of coffee while your attention was drawn down to your phone.

You mindlessly answered texts, none of them that urgent that they required your full attention as you still couldn’t help but pay close attention to Harry’s every move.

“Sleep okay?” He finally broke the silence.

You paused, needing to clear your throat before answering. “I did, yeah.” Only after he had invited you to lay peacefully in his arms. “You?”

“Did as well,” he hummed, filling the two mugs with the wonderful smelling coffee. “A lot better after you stopped moving around.”

“Sorry again,” you suddenly felt hot at his mention of your irritation – at the reminder of how incredibly needy you had gotten for him to even lay a hand over your own. Taking the mug of coffee as a welcomed distraction, you cupped it in two hands to bring it up to your mouth, blowing over the hot liquid.

He dropped the subject, though, as he mirrored your action and you both took a moment to let the coffee stall the inevitable goodbye that was about to be shared.

“What’re you up to today?”

He thought it over for a second, not actually having planned all that much. “Need to grab a few things from the store, otherwise not a whole lot.” He thought aloud. “And you?”

“Driving to Aix-les-Bains with Eloise, some store over there she wants to see.” You had just seen the text from your friend, deciding to not answer all the ones questioning what had happened with Harry.

You both took big sips of the still too hot coffee. “No writing today?”

“Not that I’ve been that successful,” you mumbled into the mug.

“You’ll find it,” he affirmed. “I know you will.”

Your chest warmed, not from the heat of the beverage but from the sincerity of his statement. You hid your face behind your mug, taking a nearly too big sip that you nearly choked on.

“Thanks again, for letting me stay and for… everything.” You placed the mug by your side, the caffeine suddenly making you nauseous. The words you had read in his old notebook still haunted you.

Harry realized that you were about to tell him that you were leaving, and a small bout of panic rose through his stomach. “Of course -”

He watched, dumbfounded of what to say, as you walked from the kitchen to where you had left your belongings and started arranging them in your bag and put your phone into the pocket of your trousers. Harry couldn’t stop watching every small move you made.

His eyes followed you around the kitchen, mind racing to find anything to say to you anything that would at the very least have you coming back to see him.

“Can I see you again?” He suddenly blurted, voice louder than it had been before, making you stop in your movements and turn to face him.

Your mouth parted and for a moment he thought it was forming into a ‘yes’, but it never came. And he didn’t realize that it never came because his attention caught on something else. Something that had been hiding beneath the tight knit of your sweater yesterday, something that he had forced himself to forget about.

He moved without realizing, taking the two small steps needed to stand right next to you. Noticing his sudden action, you turned yourself so that your body faced his with a small crease of confusion forming between your brows.

He couldn’t help it. Reaching out to where the small locket rested below your collarbones, he caught your attention with the small tug of the chain.

Oh.

Remaining quiet, you watched his focus fall to the necklace that had never been taken off. His bottom lip fell with a quiet exclamation, one you couldn’t hear no matter how close you stood. He turned it over in his hand, briefly wondering whether it was too far to open the little locket.

“Couldn’t take it off.” You said, as he remained quiet due to his current fascination.

You both watched as he toyed with the light metal in his fingers. Grazing over the small flat pearl that graced the front of the pendant, seeing it just as he’d last remembered it.

He had once again found himself standing desperately close to you. If he had moved closer while looking at the jewelry, he wasn’t sure. But when he let it fall back against the light purple knit of your sweater to meet your gaze, he realized that he could see every twitch of your eyes when they moved to gaze up at him.

His hand didn’t fall far, landing with a light touch over your wrist just as he had the night before.

“Give me a shot.”

You tilted your chin up, his words settling in with a flip of your stomach. “You said it yourself – we were good.”

“I know,” was all you could muster, the clear confidence in his words making your heart beat a little harder.

“And I’m having a hard time remembering what went wrong,” a humourless laugh shook from his chest, as he kept his eyes focused on the little locket that had been gifted to you nearly a year ago. “And seeing you here, out of all places. I can’t be the only one.”

“I know,” you repeated, very aware of the intense emotion that had been clouding your mind in the past twelve hours. “You’re not the only one.”

He lifted your wrist that he held, gently placing your arm over his shoulder to move in closer to you. You didn’t object, sliding your palm over the crook of his neck. You were unable to help but take a quick look at his mouth, at his lips that hovered so close to yours.

“Give us a shot,” he whispered, breath hitting the inside of your wrist when he titled his chin towards your arm. His lips skimmed the skin, pressing feather light kisses over the inside of your wrist. With the same light pattern of kisses on the inside of your forearm, he moved his lips away to instead focus on your face.

Placing his hand under your jaw, a similar position that you held him in as he seemed to be moving ever so slowly. Tilting his jaw up towards you, he let his lips skim so slightly across your cheek, so light you nearly thought you had imagined it. Just as he had last night, his nose brushed over your own first while he took a moment to savour you.

Waiting for any sign of hesitation on your part, which never came, he let his lips slowly fall over the corner of your mouth. Wet trail of touches that moved away from your lips and instead over to your cheek, he took a moment to hold you against him.

He whispered something over your jaw, you couldn’t hear him. With your eyelids fluttered shut and your head spinning, all your focus was set on what his lips were doing rather than what they were saying.

This time it was you, who slid your hand to the back of his neck with a much firmer grip. It was you that led his mouth to capture yours.

It was just lips on lips at first, a quick kiss that lasted barely a second. You pulled away before he could even have a chance to react, a small smile curving at your lips when you glanced up at him.

His hand slid up your arm to hold a tight grip around your back, while the other circled to the back of your neck, thumb brushing over your skin in soft circles. He pulled you in again, both relaxing into the kiss as his lips eased over yours.

Kissing him was everything good you remembered. The way he gripped you tightly against him, the soft touch of his lips, the way your name was rolling off his tongue in a quiet incredulous breath.

His mouth was warm, inviting, fitting so perfectly over yours as you tentatively parted your own lips to invite him in for more. Your free hand joined the other around his neck, letting his tongue graze against yours as you tasted each other for the first time in nearly a year. It was all the same – like no time had really passed at all.

Feeling his hand circle around your hip, holding you close as a quiet moan rumbled from deep in his chest. You couldn’t help the content sigh at the sound, completely melting into him. He was pressing tight against you, mouth completely capturing yours while your breathing mixed and lips dampened.

Your chins hit awkwardly when you tilted your head to the side and he went to lightly suck over your bottom lip. Though you didn’t mind the slight sting of his chin knocking yours, in fact you found yourself welcoming everything about him.

It wasn’t until you realized you were sharing heavy breaths, and when your lips had been growing more and more desperate for the other that you needed to separate for a quick deep breath of air.

He breathed your name with a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his mouth that was easily heard in his voice. “We’re still good.”

Your head was spinning. His head was spinning. Nothing seemed to be real, at the moment but at the same time everything seemed far too real.

Just as he leant in again, searching for your lips once more, you slid your palm down from his shoulder to the center of his chest and pushed yourself back an inch. “Harry…”

You wanted to feel his mouth on yours again, you really did. You just couldn’t bear to think what would come of it – you couldn’t revisit all the pain that you had managed to push away.

He shook his head, not believing you were about to turn him down again. Especially after that. He knew he shouldn’t be upset with you about it, he knew it was completely valid on your end but in this moment he felt like everything was coming crashing once more.

When he heard the quiet and pained tone in your voice, he bit his lip down – his lip that could still feel the whisper of yours – and shook his head in disbelief.

“We shouldn’t.”

A sharp pain came from your chest as Harry seemed to deflate against you. “If you don’t –” he had to look away from your heavy eyes as he spoke. “You can’t kiss me like that and then push me away.”

He was right - of course he was right - but you were so incredibly confused and couldn’t seem to process a single thing that you were feeling. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, neither of you moving. “I didn’t mean to…” you didn’t know what to say, because you really did want to kiss him. You still do. “I’m really sorry.”

Harry shook his head. “Don’t be sorry –” he sighed, hands falling from your body.

When he didn’t say anything else, you slowly dragged your palm over your forehead, feeling the sudden tension of the situation manifest in a growing pain in your head. “We can’t keep living in the past.”

He hated himself for the sliver of hope he felt when you said ‘we’.

“We were so fucking good,” he knew he needed to stop entertaining the topic but he really couldn’t help it He knew you saw it too. “We were a team, we were solid. I just don’t know,” he cut himself off, running the back of his hand over his mouth. “I don’t know.”

A thick moment of silence passed – you couldn’t bear it. “It’s too…” you had to take a deep breath as you felt a sob build in your chest. “It’s too painful to go through this again, Harry – this has been the hardest year of my life I can’t –”

You need to cut yourself off, shoulders shaking as you kept your eyes glued to the floor. “I should go.”

#<3 #pls let me know what u think and all as usual ! <33 #harry styles writing #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #harry x reader

540 notes · View notes

zmediaoutlet · 4 years ago

Text

in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.

#ffcc #wincest #dean jr #my writing #this is again just sort of a collection of paragraphs #and it's--mostly what you asked for i think?#but mainly it's me musing about the unknowability of parents and children #so uh #that's what i was able to manage #hopefully i'll remember how to construct a story soon lol

215 notes · View notes

aiyaar · 4 years ago

Text

Nico di Angelo was ten years old when his life went to hell. He never felt so devastated, so ruined. The only person who cared about him, his family, his everything was gone.

Nico hated all of them. He hated sister for leaving him behind, as if he was nothing, just to die afterwards and leave him completely alone. He hated those stupid huntresses of Artemis for taking his sister away from him. He hated Annabeth Chase, whoever it was, for falling off the cliff and making them go on this quest. But most of all he hated him. Percy Jackson. The ultimate hero, so strong and cool. He hated everything about him. He let him down. Percy Jackson let his sister die.

It was already a month since Bianca left this world. A lonely, cold month. Grieve still strangled him. This month has passed in a blur.

Nico passed an empty street, not even bothering to lift up his head. Snow was falling from the white sky and Nico shivered slightly from the cold. He needs to find some warmer clothes.

The city clock struck twelve, sound cutting through the silence. Another day has come. As if Nico cared. Suddenly he stopped, absentmindedly looking at the date on the billboard. 28th January.

Nico titled his head. He didn’t even know his birthday was coming. He always loved his birthday, so excited to modestly celebrate it with Bianca. Bianca…

A lonely tear rolled down his cheek, followed by another. Nico didn’t bother to wipe them, letting them fall.

“Happy Birthday to me.” He said in a shaky voice, sitting in the snow right in the middle of the street. Nico buried his face in his palms, trying to quiet down choked sobs.

Nico di Angelo was eleven years old when he lost himself.

Nico di Angelo was eleven when he started to chase the dream of making his sister come back to life. He was obsessed with the idea, almost going mad in the company of hurt and angry ghosts.

Minos had promised him that he’ll see Bianca again. And Nico believed. What else he could do. He was alone. He was hurt.

Why can’t she talk to him? Why she doesn’t want to show up? She doesn’t want to see him. She despises him. She doesn’t want him.

Nico heard rustling sound under his boots. He picked up the newspaper, catching the date with his eyes. 1st February.

Well, another year passed. Nico didn’t care that he missed his birthday. But a little ache didn’t want to leave his heart as he remembered how Bianca smiled at him the day he turned ten.

And then, months later, she showed up, just to say him that he has to let go. Just to make Nico know that this plan wouldn’t work. Minos was a liar. He used Nico. His only hope was trampled.

Misery was what Nico felt. The weird, nasty feeling crawled up to his throat.

Aside from that, one image didn’t want to leave his mind. His face lived in his head, not wanting to leave. His stupid smile, green eyes, tousled hair. Why Nico keeps thinking of him?

Why did she want to talk to him, not Nico? This stupid guy, with his annoying grin made Nico want to- What?

Nico freezed, trying to finish this though. Did Nico want to kill him? Hurt him? No, it was something else. He felt weird every time he heard his name. Percy Jackson.

Nico di Angelo was twelve when he started to realize something about himself.

Nico di Angelo was twelve when he wanted to rip out his own heart. Abnormal, disgusting. He was sick of himself. He felt nauseous at the very thought of it.

It can’t be true, no. He’s mistaken.

He was lying on his bed at his father’s castle, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his face. Those gorgeous green eyes, goofy smile, tousled black hair. His mind was ranting: Percy Jackson, Percy Jackson, Percy Jackson.

Nico felt like he was about to cry. Why is he like this? Is he broken?

He looked to the side, at his night table. A bouquet of red roses stood there. An hour ago Persephone strode to his room with these flowers and a weird expression on her face. She silently put them in a vase and went back to the door. She stopped there, turning her head a little to look at him.

“Happy Birthday.” Was what she said. Then she left.

So it was his birthday. He’s thirteen now.

Nico stared at the flowers, a little bit shocked. She remembered about his birthday. His father didn’t even bother to check up on him.

Hades only cared about their deal. Nico was very hesitant about that. But after all, he agreed.

He just thought that if he does that then maybe Percy would… Like him? But he didn’t.

Percy Jackson hated him. He screwed everything up. It was horrible. He had to fix it.

So he did the best thing he could. He had to prove to Percy, to his father, to everyone that he is worth something. He was just a kid and the battle was scary. He was scared. But he was a hero.

Everyone respected him, some people wanted to be his friends. He even wanted to stay at camp. Nico was happy but only for a moment.

Days after the battle the whole camp started talking about how Percy and Annabeth finally kissed and got together.

Nico left without a warning. Not like he had anyone to warn. Not like anyone cared.

Nico di Angelo was thirteen when his heart was broken.

Nico di Angelo was thirteen when Percy Jackson had gone missing. Annabeth Chase went feral. And Nico promised to help. Of course he did.

He was actually worried. What could happen to him? Nico only knew that Percy was alive. It was somewhat reassuring.

Something bad was about to happen. Nico knew it. New demigods at Camp Half-Blood. One of them is a son of Zeus. That was a bad sign.

And now that Nico knows about romans…

Today was 28th January. His birthday. He already got used to ignore this day. Nico just marked the fact that he was fourteen now.

The door of his room swung open. Nico sat up on his bed, seeing his father in his usual black robes.

He stood there in silence for a minute or so, awkwardly staring at his son.

“Um, did you want something?” Nico said, nervously fumbling with the ring on his finger.

“Yes.” Hades came closer to his bed. “Well, not really. It’s just…” Lord of the Underworld sat on the corner of Nico’s bed. “It’s your birthday.”

Nico blinked, processing what his father was trying to say.

“Yeah, I know. Thank you for reminding me.” He finally said, scowling at his father. Like he ever cared about Nico anyway. “If that’s all you wanted to say-“

“No.” Hades looked strangely awkward. “You made me proud this year, you know?”

Nico’s eyes widened. Was his father trying to praise him?

“I wanted to say that I’m… Grateful. You made me make right choice. And what I said about you before… I’m sorry.”

Nico was more than shocked at this point. He felt awkward and Hades didn’t look better.

“Anyway, I vaguely know that mortals usually make gifts for the day one came from mother’s womb. And I thought that maybe you should spend time with your… peers?”

“What are you trying to say, dad?”

Hades took a deep breath, as if he was nervous.

“I want to give you a present. So that you will be able to go wherever you want, in those places where teenagers usually spend time.”

“You want to give me a car?” Nico asked, puzzled.

“No, you’re too young for that. I’ll give you a chauffeur, he’ll be helping you go to the mall or something. Because, well… I’m not able to do it for you.”

Nico blinked again, titling his head to the side.

“A chauffeur?”

Hades looked embarrassed for a moment. Then he put on a stern expression, standing up.

“Objections are not accepted. You should be grateful.” He strode off to the door. Then he stopped. “Happy Birthday, son.” He closed the door, leaving Nico alone in the dark room.

Nico di Angelo was fourteen when he received his first birthday present.

Nico di Angelo was fourteen when he met him. Will Solace.

It felt like a dawn after long, cold night. Will was his blessing, his salvation. And Nico didn't know what did he do to deserve someone like Will.

They've been dating for a couple of months, wonderful, amazing months. And Nico was genuinely thankful for everything Will had done to him.

Nico woke up at the knock on his door, blinking through the gloom of Hades cabin. He didn't know if it was morning already, because black curtains prevented any gleam of sunshine from crawling into his cabin.

Still, Nico knew exactly that it was early and he knew exactly who was outside, because there was only one person in this world who dared to wake him up.

Nico got out of bed and staggering came to open up the door.

Will Solace stood on the threshold. He was wearing his usual winter jacket and a scarf, a blinding smile on his face. He seemed to be particularly happy today and, judging by the flush on his face, he was running.

"Hey, Neeks." He ruffled his hair and came in, closing the door behind him as Nico shivered from the cold winter air.

"Good morning." Nico mumbled, still half asleep. "What time is it?"

"7 a.m."

"Why did you need to wake me up so early?"

Will looked him in the eyes, taking Nico’s cold hand with his warm one, which is weird, considering Will was the one who had a walk on winter air.

"Do you know what day it is?" He looked excited.

"Um, no, to be honest. I don't pay attention to the calendar." Nico sat down on his bed, wrapping himself in a blanket.

Will looked shocked.

"Are you serious?! I mean... It's 28th January!"

Nico's brain needed a moment to process what exactly Will wanted from him.

"Yeah. So?"

"So?! It's your birthday!"

Nico sighed.

"Guess I'm fifteen now. That also explains this." He pointed to his bedside table, where black envelope was perched on the top of black box. "Probably from my father."

Will looked at him, then at the envelope.

"So, like... Happy Birthday."

"Thank you." Nico got up again, reaching for the box. "Now go so I can change."

"Ok." Will strode off to the door, a strange expression on his face. Though Nico didn't pay much attention to it.

Nico opened the envelope. There was a thick wad of money and an invitation for a dinner. Nico will come, of course, but not today. In the box lay watches and a book in Italian.

The day went by as usual. Nico had a walk in the woods with Will before breakfast, then they were busy with their camp activities.

In the evening, right before they were about to go to the campfire, Will took his arm and told him.

"How about we won't go to the campfire today?"

"But you like-"

"I don't need to go there everyday. Especially today. Come to your cabin in twenty minutes." And he hastily strode off in the direction of the cabin thirteen.

Nico came in after twenty minutes to be met with dozens of candles around his room. Will was standing in front of him, holding a cake with fifteen lighted candles perched on it.

"Make a wish." He whispered as Nico came closer.

Nico looked him in the eyes and didn't know what to say. So he just did what he was told. Will smiled brighter.

"I baked it myself." He said proudly. "Well, Cecil helped me."

He put the cake on the table, now fumbling in his pockets.

"I have something for you, actually." He said, pulling out a small box from his pocket. "I don't know if you're going to like it but..."

Nico didn't hear what Will was saying as he opened the box with trembling hands. He pulled out a sun pendant on a thin gold chain. The sun looked just like the tattoo on Will's shoulder.

Nico couldn't hold back a tear that rolled down his cheek. Will watched him attentively, stopping his ranting when he saw it.

"Nico, what's wrong-"

The next thing Will knew, pale arms was wrapped tightly around him, Nico's face buried in Will's chest.

"Thank you." Nico said in a small, shaky voice before pulling back. He placed the sun pendant on his palm, watching it glisten in the candle light. Tears still rolled down his cheeks.

Will looked at him, his eyes filled with warmth and understanding. He always understood. His sunshine was so alone, for so long. All Will wanted was to make him happy.

Will moved to embrace Nico in a tight hug, kissing the top of his head and then lifted his head with long, gentle fingers on his chin.

"I love you so much." He said. "You're such an amazing person. You're brave, gorgeous, smart, brilliant. Beautiful." He wiped the tear from Nico's cheek. "I will love you with all my might. I promise."

And with that he gently kissed Nico, making him smile while the tears of joy kept rolling down his cheeks.

"I love you, Will."

Nico di Angelo was fifteen when he found his happiness.

#nico di angelo #heroes of olympus #percy jackon and the olympians #percy jackson #pjo/hoo #will solace #jason grace #solangelo #frank zhang #annabeth chase #piper mclean #leo valdez #hazel levesque #reyna avila ramirez arellano #trials of apollo

468 notes · View notes

teddy06writes · 4 years ago

Note

sapnap x reader where the readers first language is greek and they confess to him in greek without knowing he speaks it too ? i love ur writing btw !! :)

sapnap x reader

first of all, this is such a cute idea and I love it, second of all, I DO NOT KNOW GREEK, so apologize in advance for anything google translate gets wrong

trigger warnings: some swearing, drinking

(y/n/n)- your nickname

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

You’d first seen him from across the quad, whilst searching for a distraction from the boring chattering of your mother on the phone, the dirty blonde man also lost in conversation with the brunette who’d walked beside him.

You continued to watched them on their path through the mess of kids on benches or even the ground, tracing his familiarity to one of your lectures on software design.

What surprised you most, was when he looked over, and smiled at you, he’d caught you in the act of staring at him, and smiled.

You smiled back, not to be impolite, and were pulled back to reality by your mothers voice in your ear, “(y/n), είσαι εκεί? ή έχει πετάξει το κεφάλι σου στα σύννεφα;” (Are you there? Or has your head flown off in the clouds?)

“Είμαι εδώ μαμά.” (I’m here mama) you sighed.

The next time you saw him was at a party some frat house on the other side of campus was throwing.

You hadn’t planned on going, seeing as you barley knew the boys in the frat, and your friends, well, at this college anyway, were nonexistent, but hey, free booze.

So that's how you found yourself, leaning against the living room wall, cup in hand, watching the beer pong game happening in the center of the room.

Taking another sip of your drink you did a mental walk of the room, making mental note of the people you knew, and then there he was again, definitely less than sober, calling dibs on playing the loser of the game.

You watched, amused as the game ended, and he quickly took the place of the loser, taunting the other guy loudly.

Three games (and several beers) later he was still winning, loudly yelling that he could beat anyone at the party.

Unable to help yourself you stepped forward, “I’ll have a go then.”

He looked you up and down proclaiming, “Easy win.”

You smirked, moving up to the table.

The game began, and his confidence quickly wore down, as all your shots either landed, or came very close.

The last few were neck and neck, but soon it was down to three left on your side, and only one left on his.

Desperately, his first shot got one of yours and you quickly chugged it down, still smirking at him.

You raised an eyebrow as he lined up his next shot, and his eyes flicked to yours just long enough to cause him to miss.

You bit back a grin, easily sinking the last shot, “I’ve bested the beast.”

The people who had been spectating cheered, and the brunette who you’d seen with him before started to laugh his ass off, “They fucking got you Nick!”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” He sounded all too sober for someone who should’ve been that drunk.

You chuckled, turning and disappearing into the crowd.

A half hour later you were half way out the door, not bothering to pull on your jacket, the relative amount of dinking you had done still making your cheeks feel warm.

“Wait! Wait!” He- Nick, you reminded yourself, came half stumbling down the road, “I wanted to say good game.”

“That was half an hour ago.” You laughed.

“Still- i- sorry, what is your name?”

“(y/n), I’m in your intro to software design.”

“I’ve never seen you in there before,” He looked confused, “Which group do you sit with?”

“I don’t really have friends.” You shrugged.

Nick frowned, quickly holding out his hand for a shake, “Hi, I’m Nick, I’m your friend now.”

You looked at his outstretched hand confused, “Yeah o-kay. Your drunk, I’m tipsy and if I’m lucky you won’t remember this in the morning. I don’t really do friends here.”

He nodded as if paying attention, but then said, “You have an accent.”

You nodded, “Yup, I’m leaving now.”

You didn’t see him again after that, for nearly three weeks, and you were beginning to think he really had forgotten, that is, until he approached out out side of the lecture hall, “Hey!”

“Yeah?”

“(y/n) right? Your the one who beat me at beer pong. And then walked away when I asked about your accent.”

You rolled your eyes, “You didn’t ask you literally just stated I had an accent.”

“Well I’m not wrong! I meant to ask why- well not why- just, are you an exchange student or?”

You adjusted your laptop bag on your shoulder, “This isn’t high school. We don’t have exchange students.”

“Well, are you studying abroad then?”

“I’m an American. I can’t study abroad in my own country.”

He looked slightly confused, “Sorry- it’s just with your accent I assumed.”

“I wasn’t born here if that helps.” You turned and started away, pulling out your phone as it started to ring, “Ναι μαμά; Έχω μαθήματα σύντομα, τι συμβαίνει;” (Yes mama? I have class soon, what's wrong?)

“Why are you always alone all the time?”

You groaned, looking up from the firewall system assignment you’d been testing on your tablet, to see Nick, “I’m working.”

“And I’m asking a question,” He sat down at the otherwise empty table, “Why are you always alone?”

“I told you, I don’t have friends here.” You ran the breaker code again, seeing if it could illuminate any unseen holes.

“You were at the party, surely you knew someone there, otherwise you wouldn’t have gone.”

“σκατά“ You muttered, a new problem in the chain arising, “It was an open house party, I heard about it from people I know.” (shit)

Nick frowned, “Oh, thats-”

“Sad, tragic, depressing? Yeah I’m aware.” You sighed.

You saved the project, shutting off your tablet and looking around the empty cafeteria, “Isn’t it like, wicked late? Why are you here?”

“Why’re you?” he countered.

“World’s asleep.” You muttered, packing up the rest of your stuff, “Why do you keep making such an effort to talk to me?”

“Cause we’re friends remember? Shook on it.”

“I never shook your hand.” You grumbled, standing up.

“You know that I’m right!” Nick exclaimed.

“Maybe! But I don’t want to admit it!”

Over the course of a few month Nick had crawled, kicked and wormed his way into your life, all but forcing you to become his friend, and surprisingly, you didn’t mind all that much.

Now you were sitting out on the roof of your dorm, looking up at the night sky.

“I swear your fucking nocturnal dude! Like an owl! And I willingly give up my sleep to hang out with you!”

You hesitated, feeling a sudden jolt of a realization, and as suddenly as a lighting strike, you were falling in love.

You fumbled to recover, “Well you’re the one who went out of your way to become my friend.”

“I mean, too be fair I was drunk.”

“But still went out of your way to be my friend once you were sober.” You pointed out.

“Hey, drunk me makes good decisions sometimes.” He laughed, looking over at you.

You let out a sigh, watching the white wisps of your breath drift up in the sky, “That’s the thing I’ve never got over.”

“What? Drunk me making interesting decisions?”

“The cold,” You said simply, “I’ve lived here half my life, but the cold still doesn’t make sense to me.”

He laughed, “This is Texas, it’s not nearly as cold as it gets up north. Snow’s much more common for now, up there.”

“I’ve never seen snow. Mama doesn’t like it much,” You laughed, “The first time I really heard about it it sounded so strange.”

Nick smiled, “Lets go up north during winter break then. I know people up there, we can go do winter tourist things.”

“Winter tourist things?”

“Yeah,” He chuckled, “Go ice skating, look at lights, sleigh rides, all that.”

You laughed, “Winter Tourist things.”

A month and a half had passed, your sudden change in feelings toward your only friend on campus had not.

If anything they had just gotten worse, and now, the thing you still couldn’t wrap your head around, you were tossing your suitcase into the back of his car, about to head on your way to the airport, because yes, the Winter Tourist thing stuck.

“Dude, I’m so excited! This is gonna be epic!”

You nodded, “You know, thinking about it, it actually is possible I’ve seen snow, like when I was little. It just never lasted long.”

Nick scrunched up his nose, “Well it’s too late to duck out now!”

“I never said I was ducking out.” You laughed.

The trip had gone pretty well, the snow in the northeast was certainly different than that of Macedonia, but you didn’t think it was all Nick had said it would be.

Still you had enjoyed wandering around the city looking at Christmas lights, attempting to ice skate, and just enjoying each others company.

It seemed like every minute you spent with Nick, you teetered closer to the edge, knowing that by the end of this trip you’d be head over heels for him, if you weren’t already now.

Now you were quietly sitting on the balcony of your hotel room, hands cradled around the warm cup of hot chocolate you’d made, looking out into the swirling darkness above the city.

“You know your gonna freeze if you stay out here.” Nick moved through the door and sat beside you, draping part of a blanket around your shoulders.

“I know.” You sighed.

He looked at you, concerned, “What’s wrong?”

“Νομίζω ότι ερωτεύομαι,” You murmured, a quiet confession, more so to yourself than to him, “και αυτό με τρομάζει.” (I think I’m falling in love with you... and that terrifies me)

You started to sigh as he looked confused, though only for a moment, because “Τι είναι τόσο τρομακτικό για την αγάπη;” He asked softly. (What’s so scary about love?)

You froze, almost dropping your cup, “ε-ε-ε, εσύ- μιλάς ελληνικά;” (uh- y- uh, you- you speak Greek?)

“λίγο,” He smiled, “Είσαι ερωτευμένος μαζί μου;“ (A bit... you’re in love with me?)

“λίγο.” (A bit), you breathed, trying to ignore the small space between you seemingly shrink.

“Νομίζω ότι είμαι λίγο ερωτευμένος και εσένα.” He chuckled. (I think I'm a bit in love with you too)

Your breath hitched, and your quickly bridged the small gap between you to kiss him, smiling into it a bit as he kissed back.

“How long?” He asked softly when you pulled apart.

“When you first brought up the trip. You said that you were willing to lose sleep to hang out with me,” You chuckled nervously, “You?”

“Second week of school, you were on the phone with someone, and you smiled back at me,” Nick grinned, “I saw you from across the quad and knew.”

#mcyt x reader #mcyt imagines #sapnap x reader #teddy06 #teddy06 writes

622 notes · View notes

spencerreidslove · 4 years ago

Note

Hi! Do you know that one episode where the unsub froze his victims to death? I think they were meant to survive to join a cult or something like that, but yeah. I was wondering if you could write something like that (doesn’t necessarily have to be based in that ep) but the reader is kidnapped or something by the unsub and he starts to freeze her or idk and then the team arrives? Could it also be Platonic!Bau x reader, but spencer and reader r together? I hope that made sense. Thank you!!

A/N: I tried to stick to this episode as much as I could, but it’s been a minute since I’ve seen the episode so I probably went off from the actual plot. Also, sorry this took me 80 years to write!

————

Spending nearly a week in some random town in the middle of nowhere, Ohio was not how you wanted to spend time.

But that came with the job. The BAU has orginally been called in due to bodies that had been frozen to death. No new bodies had turned up and the team was facing a dead end.

You placed a hand on your husband’s shoulder as the rubbed his eye so hard you thought it might pop out.

“Spence, honey, look away from the board for five minutes.” You said.

“I need to finish this geographical profile.” Spencer muttered.

“Spencer. It’s nearly midnight, Hotch told everyone to go to the hotel nearly an hour ago.” You said, leaning into Spencer’s side and wrapping your arms around his waist.

“You go ahead. I’ll stay and work on the profile.” Spencer said.

“What did you say when you married me?” You asked.

“Huh?”

“Spencer, what did you say when you married me?”

“Lots of things. Be more specific.”

“About always being there. Be there by coming back to the hotel.”

Spencer laughed a little bit. “I think you’re twisting that a little bit. Look, go ahead and I’ll be there within half an hour.” Off your look he said: “If not, then I will owe you. Seriously.”

“Fine. Half an hour. I’ll be counting.” You said, grabbing your bag. You waved at Spencer as you made your way out of the precinct.

The hotel was nearby so you decided to walk. You were almost at the hotel when you heard someone call out from behind you.

“Excuse me? Ms?” The voice called out.

“Yeah?” You asked, turning around. Years at the FBI had made you cautious, so you kept your distance and crossed your arms so your hand was over your gun.

“Can you point me in the direction of 48th street?” The man asked.

You made a rookie mistake. You turned away from the man and looked at the road behind you. “I think it might be-“

You felt a sharp pain in between your shoulder blades; maybe a needle. Before you could figure out what it was your vision started to cloud and you felt yourself falling.

“Spencer.” You muttered before your eyes closed.

“Kid...Kid!” Morgan shook Reid’s shoulder.

“I wasn’t sleeping!” Reid cried, shaking himself awake. Morgan laughed. “Sure you weren’t. Did you sleep here?”

“I must’ve.” Spencer said, looking around at the table in front of him. “I was working in the geographical profile. I fell asleep.”

The rest of the team funneled into the room, and Spencer excused himself to the bathroom to splash some water on his face.

When he returned to the room, something was off. “Where’s Y/N?” He asked.

“We thought you knew.” JJ said.

“No, she left for the hotel late last night. I stayed here.” Spencer said.

“She wasn’t in the lobby this morning.” Emily said.

At that very moment, a uniformed officer walked past the room, holding a bag that looked very familiar.

“Sir.” The unie said, sticking his head in the room to talk to the detective in charge. “I was out canvassing and I saw this bag on the ground. You said it’s by where this guy’s looking.”

He held out the bag, handing it to the detective. The detective opened it, looking through the wallet. “This purse belongs to one...Y/N Reid.”

The world was falling from below Spencer’s feet. He must’ve fallen back into a chair because the next thing he knew he was sitting with his head between his legs.

“Breathe, Spencer, you need to breathe.” JJ said, rubbing small circles on his back.

“I-she was supposed to go to the hotel-and she-“ Spencer knew he was hyperventilating but he couldn’t stop.

“Reid, we’re going to find her but in order for that to work you need to calm down first.” Morgan said.

“I can’t-she...she’s gone.”

Cold.

It was the only thing you could feel. Maybe Spencer had turned the thermostat down again and had taken all the blankets with him.

“Spence...blankets. Hand ‘em over.” You mumbled, rolling on your side.

You tried to reach out a hand to grab them, but you couldn’t move your arm.

You furrowed your brows as you slowly opened your eyes. Then you remembered. You weren’t at home in bed with Spencer.

Man. Needle. Falling.

The thoughts came back to you slowly. When you finally opened your eyes you looked around, seeing you were in some sort of dark room.

It was freezing.

“Freezing...” you said. “Oh shit.”

You rolled your head back and looked down at yourself. Your hands and feet your tied together, explaining why you couldn’t move them.

The door to the freezer opened. “Good, you’re awake. It’s always so much more fun when they’re awake.” The same man who got you said.

“Let me go.” You said.

“No.”

“Look, you don’t want to do this. I’m in the FBI. You know what will happen if you kill me?”

“I know. I only took you because you’re a Fed.”

The man stepped closer to you. Grabbing you roughly by the rope, he made you sit up. He punched you. And then again. And then again.

“He has to have some sort of industrial freezer.” Hotch said, putting his hands on the desk.

Spencer still hadn’t fully calmed down. He had now swung the way of throwing himself into work. He stared at the same geographical profile he had been working on the night before.

Every time he looked at it, all he could think about was you telling him to come back to the hotel with you. And him refusing.

“Kid. Step away from the map. Let someone else take a look for a moment.” Morgan said.

“I can’t do that.” Spencer said.

“Fine. Then come with me to eat something. You need it.”

“I can’t do that either. Y/N is missing, so I’m not going to stop working.”

Morgan left his side for a moment. Then, he returned and took the pen out of Spencer’s hand.

“Hey!” Spencer called.

“You can get this back in five minutes. Take a break, pretty boy.” Morgan said.

Spencer sighed and followed Morgan out into the hallway twoards a vending machine.

The pair stood in silence for a moment. “It’s my fault.” Spencer muttered.

“Reid, what?” Morgan said.

“Y/N-she kept telling me to come back to the hotel. I said she should go ahead without me and I’d be there in half an hour. If I had just gone with her she wouldn’t have been taken.”

“Spencer, you can’t blame yourself for that. If you would’ve been there, you might’ve both been taken. You you could have been killed. We can’t go back and change last night, but we can work to find this son of a bitch. And to do that you need to be present, not nearly passing out.”

Spencer sighed and took the bag of chips Morgan was holding out to him.

A few minutes later they returned to the room, where the group was huddled around a table.

“We might have something.” Hotch said.

“Garcia, taking into account Y/N’s abduction site, how many people in that area have industrial freezers?” Rossi asked.

“Just one. A Stewart Hull. Sending his home and work to you now. Go get out girl back.” Garcia said.

You had been left in the freezer alone again. The man had punched you several more times and turned the temperature down. You were 90% sure there were icicles on your eyelashes.

The door opened again. “Well, Little Ms. Fed, our time has been fun. But I think it’s time to end it.” The man said. He was wearing a full snow suit and was holding some sort of machine.

“Time for the freeze.” He said.

This is it. You thought. And I’m never going to see Spencer again.

You closed your eyes, preparing for the cold to hit you. But, just as you thought it was going to happen, you heard a familiar voice.

“Stewart Hull, step away from the freezer.”

JJ? You thought. You opened your eyes again to see her standing across from the man.

Afterwards, when asked to recall what happened, you won’t remeber much, other than the feeling of cold, the man yelling, and then gunshots.

Soon, JJ was beside you, calling for a medic, and untying you.

“Y/N, it’s going to ok.”

“Cold...” your teeth chattered. “Spence...”

“He’s here, he’ll be here any moment, just hold on.”

Then the cold took you.

You woke up to beeping. As you’d lowly opened your eyes, you realized you were in the hospital.

You blinked a few times and turned your head to the side, spotting Garcia sitting in a chair next to your bed, typing away on a computer.

“Penelope.” You muttered.

She looked up from her computer, jumping out of the chair.

“Mrs. Dr.! Don’t ever scare me like that again!” She cried, wrapping you in one of her signature Penelope Garcia hugs.

“How long have I been out?” You asked.

“2 days. They said you had early stages of frostbite.” Garcia said.

“Spencer?” You asked, looking around your hospital room.

“The Boy Wonder is down the hall getting some food. Morgan practically had to drag him down there. He hasn’t left you.”

“Could you got get him please?” You asked.

“Y/N?” Your husband’s voice said from behind Garcia.

“I’ll give you two a minute.” She said, leaving the room.

Spencer looked like a mess, you probably did too. “Hey.” You said.

Spencer dropped his bag and came up beside the bed, wrapping his arms around you. “Please don’t ever leave me again.”

“Not if I can help it.” You said.

“I’m so sorry.” Spencer said, his shoulders shaking a little bit.

“For what?” You said, holding him tighter. He was crying, you realized.

“I should’ve left with you.” Spencer said.

“Never mind that. We’re both here now.” You said.

You both say like that for a while, Spencer and you embracing.

“However, I think you were more than half an hour late to the hotel, so you do still owe me.” You said, trying to make a joke.

“I owe you for the rest of my life.” Spencer said.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Tags! (Open)

@rexorangecouny @magnificentmgg @zhuzhubii @just-damn-bored @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto @andreasworlsboring101 @bxtchboy69 @atomicmassofcobalt @rachelxwayne

#criminal minds #mgg #spencer reid x reader #aaron hotchner #cm #criminal minds fanfiction #david rossi #derek morgan #dr spencer reid #emily prentiss #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds x reader

325 notes · View notes

edda-grenade · 4 years ago

Photo

Sleep.

Adaar and Solas attempt fadewalking for the first time.

#feral verse, 2000 words. on AO3.

They were lying on a hilltop in the forest, on a fur to keep the cold of fall at bay. Well, Adaar was lying down—Solas had sat up to give her a curious look.

“You wish to leave?”

“No! I mean, yes, kinda—maybe—I don’t know.” She groaned and covered her face with her hands.

“You seem very happy, here,” he said, in that slow, careful way he had.

“I am! I am. I don’t want to leave my family, or this place, or you—”

“Me?” His voice cracked, just a little. Adaar glanced at him from between her fingers.

“Yes, obviously. I know you like to pretend you’re some lone wolf apart from all living creatures or whatever, but you’re my friend, alright? You’re not getting out of that so easily.”

“I don’t—pretend…” He sighed, his skin staining with blush, the faint freckles even fainter. His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile, until he gave up and his mouth crooked. Adaar loved it when that happened. She was pretty good at making it happen, too.

“You do not wish to leave, but?”

Now she sighed and clamped her hand over her eyes again. It was easier in the dark, unwatched.

“The world is so big and so full of things I don’t know,” she said softly, “and I want to learn everything.”

“Adaar…”

She hadn’t figured out if she loved that yet—the way he said her name sometimes, how he looked at her. Like she was the sun coming over the horizon, or a thunderstorm in the distance, or the wind dancing through the fields so hard it sang. At least that’s what she imagined the expression would look like on her face—an expression that was meant for immense and somewhat unfathomable things, not for a single person.

“There is a way I could show those things to you. Not all of them, of course—but more than what is accessible to you right now.”

Adaar sat up so quickly her head spun a little.

“I’m listening.”

He explained, and her head continued to spin, although for different reasons. Lucid dreaming, delving into the Fade like into a cave, how the deeper you went the older the memories imprinted upon the Fade would be…

It sounded ludicrous. Like magic, if she had never heard of it before. It sounded amazing.

“Can we just do that?” she asked. “Right now?”

Solas gave her another weird look; his eyes wide and searching for a brief moment.

“I—yes. Come with me.”

They left the little barren hilltop that poked above the forest behind and instead descended into the small cave Solas had chosen as his resting place. She’d tried often to convince him to join her family at the settlement, but he’d steadfastly refused every time. It didn’t bother her as much anymore—the cave looked more and more like an actual home these days, with a fire pit and cooking tools, shelves he’d carved out of the rock to hold utensils using a spell she hadn’t quite figured out yet herself, and a warm, dry place to sleep.

Solas had a ball of light bobbing in the air above his shoulder, and gazed down at the bedstead. It was cozy: a pallet of hay covered in cowhide, with a blanket and fur to keep warm in winter. It was also not nearly big enough for both of them. At least not if they intended not to share breathing space.

“There’s a bigger bed at home, you know,” Adaar said. “Actual walls and a door, too.”

“I would prefer to try it here. I have set the requisite wards quite often, and I’m familiar with the peculiarities of the Fade in this place.”

She shrugged, glancing around at the runes and sigils he had marked into the walls of the cave. “Yeah, makes sense. I’m just saying, you can get familiar with the farm, too. There’s space for you, it’s not a problem.”

“I’m aware, since you keep reminding me so diligently.”

“It keeps being true.”

She smiled a little at how that statement made his ears dip and his head turn away so she wouldn’t see his face. He cleared his throat.

“I have never… attempted to teach this to anyone else.”

“Because you didn’t want to, or because there was no one you could teach it to?” She hesitated, thinking of his arguments with Lavellan's Keeper. “Or because no one wanted to learn it?”

He let out a low breath. “All of the above,” he replied quietly, “at one point or another.”

Adaar slapped her hands together to resist the urge to hug him, then clapped her palms briefly onto his shoulders because not touching him at all was even more frustrating than being shrugged off. “First time for everything. How do we start?”

Solas showed her how to set the wards—they’d talked about spellwork like it before, but mostly in abstract terms. It took a good while, because she kept stumbling over new questions, like how specific a ward could be, how permanent, how big a space it could cover… They were halfway into designing one that might be used to keep beetles out of the grain, until they managed to get back to the task at hand.

She settled on the bedstead with crossed legs while Solas puttered about by the fire pit and brewed a concoction he insisted wasn’t tea to help them fall asleep. Then she got up again and started pacing, as much as was possible, because her legs were too jittery to sit still. She was just glad most of the cave was high enough that she didn’t have to stoop—she halted, gazing at the stone close above her.

“Solas, did you shape the ceiling, too?”

“What do you mean?”

“The rock here has a different texture.” She reached up to touch it and closed her eyes, searching for that low echo of past magic—and found it. “And it’s been worked with magic.”

“…A little. It is not your fault you are so tall.”

A smile bit into her cheeks. “Aw, that’s sweet.”

“It was a practical consideration,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound like he was actually put out. “You insert yourself into others’ spaces inevitably, it was only a matter of time until you would find your way into this one.”

“That almost sounds like a criticism.”

“An observation. Foremost.” He handed a steaming cup of the not-tea to her, then sipped from his own. She breathed in the smell—chamomile, juniper, and something spicy she didn’t recognize—then exhaled a bit of frost across it to cool it down before taking a sip.

Solas was watching her when she looked up from the cup.

“Something wrong?”

“No, it is simply… nice, to see how certain magic has become easier for you.”

“The frost? Yeah, I barely have to think about it anymore.” She blew a puff of snow into his face to demonstrate. Solas startled, grimacing, and wiped the rapidly-melting crystals from his cheeks.

“Sorry,” Adaar said, very earnestly. “Couldn’t resist.”

He shook his head and grumbled something in Elvish, but he was smiling again. That small, helpless, trying-not-to smile. They finished their cups, put them aside, and regarded the bedstead again.

“I shall take the fur, next to the pallet,” said Solas.

“I thought the point was to fall asleep more easily? And to sleep more deeply?”

“Yes.”

“Then why make it harder on yourself? We just gotta… scrunch up a little, it’s gonna be fine.”

There was a long silence.

“I am not used to sleeping among other people,” Solas said finally, his tone even. He wasn’t used to other people—flesh-and-blood people, that was—in general, Adaar suspected, but she kept it to herself. Right now was probably a bad time to bring that one up.

“Alright, no spooning then,” she said instead and sat down and stretched out along one side of the bedding. Then she remembered she had to get rid of her shoes, untied them, and hucked them against an empty wall. Lying down, the scent of lavender became obvious amid the hay and fur; sprigs had been stuck to the corners to keep bugs away. She’d told him about that trick months ago.

It really was cozy; warm and inviting. She curled onto her side, drawing her feet up, and patted the mattress next to her. Slowly, Solas joined her, folding himself up so he took up even less space than usual. It was still a tight fit, especially since he tried to avoid any real contact beyond the brush of fabric.

“I will attempt to find you once we are dreaming,” he said. “With our current physical proximity it should be an easier task.”

“There’s really nothing else to it? We just fall asleep?”

“It is… difficult to put into words. Question your dreams, if you can. The key is to become aware—awareness begets agency, which in turn begets control.”

Adaar tugged the fur and blanket up to cover them. “Alright. Sleep well?” There was a flash of a smile on Solas’s face before he closed his eyes.

“I shall see you soon.”

It was not soon. Adaar’s mind refused to quiet, anticipation thrumming in her limbs. She kept shifting, unable to relax, and she worried she’d spend the entire night sleepless, when she finally woke up again to a dark, quiet cave.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, then? So was this the Fade? It didn’t feel different. She was sleepy and bleary-eyed just as she would be when waking up in the middle of the night, and a cursory examination of the cave with a bit of conjured light—a spell that behaved no differently than any previous time she’d used it—told her it looked exactly as it had when they had bedded down. Except…

Solas lay tucked against her front, his body warm, his breathing even. His temple rested against her collarbones and his folded legs leaned against her hips. He was curled up as he’d been before, but now it seemed less about making himself smaller, and more about fitting into the curve of her body.

Adaar stared into the darkness. That was… unexpected. Solas didn’t seek out physical contact. Sure, he usually melted into it for one or two seconds when it was offered before pulling away, but nothing like this.

Cautiously, she tried to brace herself on her elbow to get a better look, both at the cave and at him. She bit down on a sharp inhale when pins and needles erupted in the limb, breathing through it with care until the sensation passed. But even on a thorough second look, nothing changed. The cave was still the cave, nothing remotely immaterial about it, and Solas still slept soundly, curled up against her.

Part of her wanted to wake him up. Let him know it hadn’t worked, at least not yet, and try to figure out what might be changed, because merely the thought of consciously walking in the Fade was enough to make her heart beat faster.

But he looked so much younger in his sleep. His features softened and relaxed, like he might actually be at peace. Adaar wasn’t sure she had ever managed to catch him this unguarded. When they were together, it felt like he hardly stopped watching her.

She let out a small sigh and settled back down, gently wrapping one arm around his waist. Hopefully that wouldn’t upset him, if he woke up before her come morning. Right now at least, a soft, sleepy noise slipped from him, and he rolled even more thoroughly into her embrace.

#don't worry solas is gonna get slammed with the pining soon enough #feral verse #adaar #solas #saar gets her own tag #inquisitor x solas #soladaar #time for those tags to make a regular appearance in this verse :3c #art tag #fanart #fic tag #fic related #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i

83 notes · View notes

kaz-therat · 4 years ago

Text

Cold Fingers

Diluc x Reader

BREATHING FOR THIS MAN GOOD LORD

May or May not have been listening to a Diluc playlist while writing this

ALSO I HAVE A HEADCANNON THAT PYRO VISIONS ARE JUST NATURALLY WARMER THEN ANYONE ELSE

Word count: 1.5k

(hehe i hope you guys like it)

The wind blew harshly against the mountains of Dragonspine as you followed the trail. Snow began littering the ground, getting caught in your hair. You quickly brushed it away and continued forward. You had no idea where you were but you hoped it would end soon.

You went on a small mission that turned into you getting seriously lost. The reason you went out on this mission was to get some flowers for Diluc so he could make a new wine. So he asked his best worker, which just so happened to be you. He asked you to be back yesterday afternoon, but you couldn’t even find what he was looking for so you decided to turn back and accept defeat. Thats when you got your trails mixed up and helplessly lost. Diluc was gonna need to find another hard worker to replace you because there was no way you were gonna make it back before you froze to death.

You must have been losing your mind because you swore someone was calling out to you. You looked down the trail to see someone running towards you. You yelped as you were tackled to the ground.

“You had me worried sick!” A voice said holding you tightly. “God you’re freezing.” They said pulling you up off the snow. Blue eyes met yours.

“Kaeya. Jesus.” You mumbled huddling close to him to get warm. He wrapped an arm around you and guided you to Mondstadt.

“How’d you get all the way out here? You had us worried sick.” He asked keeping a firm arm around you.

“I was looking for a flower for Diluc.” You replied. “I got lost and now i’m here.” Kaeya clicked his tongue. He was obviously pissed off.

“Just keep moving. We’re almost there.” He said, his voice seemingly getting faint. He let out a quiet wail as you collapsed.

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

You awoke to a bird chirping at your window. You groaned and sat up weakly. You looked outside to see the bright sun shining in your eyes. You squinted against it to see the statue in front of the church. You quickly pulled yourself out bed and down the stairs, rushing past Kaeya in your kitchen.

“Woah, y/n!” He called, stopping you in your tracks. You turned around to see him staring at you. “You’re safe. Calm down.”

“Did you bring me home?” You asked walking to sit down in your chair. He nodded.

“Yeah. You were freezing so I bundled you up and stayed downstairs in case you needed me.” He explained before feeling at your forehead. “You’re still cold. Let’s sit you down and wrap you up.” He said picking you up and carrying you to the living room.

“I can walk on my own Kaeya.” You protested, but he wouldn’t set you down.”

He set you down and went off to grab your blankets. As he just disappeared upstairs, your door busted open. You flinched as it slammed shut. Diluc rushed into the living room and hugged you tightly.

“You had me so worried, I thought you had died.” He mumbled. You sat there shocked. Diluc was never one to really let his emotions out, let alone hug someone. You gently pat his back.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry anyone.” You replied quietly. “I couldn’t find that flower you wanted either.”

“Forget the flower. I could’ve lost you.” He whimpered. You blinked a couple times. Surely he meant his best worker. Diluc was never interested in having a lover, or even the slightest bit interested in a person. He was always so focused on his work.

“Well I’m here now, so there’s no need to be so emotional.” You said softly. He pulled himself off of you hesitantly and nodded. “Um. Kaeya went upstairs to get some blankets because i’m still frozen.”

As if on que, Kaeya came down with a bundle of blankets. He threw a look at Diluc that wasn’t necessarily kind but it wasn’t too aggressive either. Diluc straightened up and nodded towards Kaeya.

“Nice to see you can finally make it.” Kaeya muttered as he draped a blanket over you. A scowl held on his face. You knew Kaeya and Diluc haven’t gotten along for the longest time, but you had no idea why.

“I had to close down the Tavern. You know that takes some time.” The red head spit out. Venom was in his words. “You know that can take a while. I’m here now.”

You shrunk into your blankets. “Guys. There’s no need. I’m ok-“

“This wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t send them off on your stupid errands.” Kaeya snapped. They were completely zoned into each other.

“I didn’t expect them to get lost. It was only a half a day trip.” Diluc responded. Kaeya scoffed. “I didn’t ask for you to get on my ass about how I treat my workers.”

“They are more important then those workers. You of all people should know that.” He stated it so firmly before storming out.

The two of you sat in silence for a while. His hand clenched then unclenched, only to clench again. You watched him carefully as he tried to calm down. The sun had began to set and the room grew darker. A small candle was your only source of light to stare at the male n

“I’m s-“

“There’s no reason to apologize.” You cut him off. “It was my fault for not paying attention and getting lost. You can’t control that.” You patted down on the couch next to you. “Sit. You’ve had a long day.”

Diluc hesitantly sat down and looked down at his hands. “I sent you off on my stupid errand when i should have done it myself.” You gently grabbed his gloved hand.

“It’s fine. You are always so busy, I just wanted to help you.” You replied. He smiled a bit. “Just relax a bit. I’ll be back at work tomorrow. So you have nothing to worry about.”

“Alright. You’ve convinced me.” Diluc said laying back into the couch. You smiled a bit and sat there in your bundle of blankets. You still were cold but it wasn’t as bad anymore.

As you sat there in silence, you began to fall asleep. Your head rested on the back of the couch and closed your eyes. Diluc shifted a bit and he pulled you on him to rest on his chest. You hummed softly, glad to feel warmth that wasn’t from the blankets. He gently ran his fingers through your hair and began talking. He must’ve thought you were already asleep.

“You know y/n, I was so worried I lost you. I know I said it earlier but i mean it. You mean a lot to me as a person. And I hate saying all this sappy stuff, but I just need to get it off my chest.” He rambled. “I remember the day you came to me begging for a job. I was so hesitant before you looked like you never touched alcohol in your life before. But I’m glad I did. Because now I know you. How you light up when a dog crosses your path. Or how you get upset when you can’t feed everyone lunch. Or even when you’re upset because you messed something up. And god it hurts to see you cry. Because I love you y/n. From the first time i laid eyes on you I knew I would. I just can’t tell you that because i’m scared you won’t feel the same. I’m scared you’ll leave me, like everyone has.”

You stopped breathing when he stopped talking. Sure you thought Diluc was cute and sure you may have developed feelings for him as you worked alongside of him. But to hear him say it really set you off.

“Diluc.” You mumbled. He froze. “Don’t say anything. I need to do something.” You said sitting up.

“I’m sorry I-“

“Didn’t i just say hush?” You grumbled before hugging him tightly. “Just let me enjoy this before you change your mind.” You felt him hug you back.

“I meant everything I said.” He said into your hair. “I really do love you.”

“I heard you the first time.” You laughed and sat back to look at him. “I may or may not like you too.” You teased.

He smiled a bit before leaning in slightly. “May I?” He asked quietly. You nodded.

“I thought that was obvious.” You laughed. He leaned in all the way and kissed you softly. It was a sweet and sensual kiss. He clearly meant what he said and wanted to show it. His hands pulled you closer and rubbed your sides. He pulled away first to look at you.

“Well?” He asked quietly.

“I think I have the world’s richest man in my house.” You said laughing. “But at least he love me.”

#genshin diluc #diluc x reader #diluc ragnivindr x reader #genshin scenarios #genshin imagines #genshin impact #genshin x reader

79 notes · View notes

dhwty-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Keep You Warm

Day 2 of @witcher-and-his-bard‘s prompt challenge, huddling for warmth.

So, this turned a bit steamy in the end. Since I haven't written anything spicier than a tomato in ages, I am a bit confused as to how this happened. I looked away for two seconds and suddenly the bard was horny. Have fun!

Summary: It is snowing. Again. In spring. Jaskier is freezing his fucking balls of, thank you very much; and who is he to deny his witcher's request to sleep next to him?

Warnings: mild sexual content

Read on AO3

It was cold. No, that wasn't quite strong enough of an expression. Jaskier was freezing his fucking balls off, in a cave in the arse end of nowhere no less, with no one but a grumpy horse and a grumpier witcher as his companions. Oh, right. And a damp fire that smoked more than it gave off heat or light.

He sighed and turned to his other side, sulking that he wouldn't find a comfortable sleeping position either. It had started out well enough, when he had found Geralt a whole month earlier than anticipated—he always was the first to set out on the Path, since Oxenfurt wasn't encased in ice and snow as Kaer Morhen was.

But it had been a warm winter with an early thaw and no sooner had he entered Kaedwen, he had felt two strong witcher-y arms lifting him up in their annual reunion hug. After a decent amount of complaints (squeals, Geralt insisted, the liar) and a maybe more-than-sufficing amount of alcohol to swap stories to (complaining about colleagues, students, and siblings, which were more or less the same for Geralt, but quite different for Jaskier), they had continued with their adventuring. And now- this.

One day they had been tracking a griffin and the next, BOOM, snow again. Snow! At the beginning of Birke! Not unheard of, of course, there was snow as late as Belleteyn sometimes, but still, this was outrageous. Because they weren't talking a few flakes barely encrusting the blades of the grass here, oh no! This was a twenty-to-forty-inches-situation they were dealing with here; Jaskier wasn't sufficiently equipped for that in the best of times and these were not the best of times.

He had been preparing for spring, and summer after! Wading through tepid creeks, enjoying a goblet of wine at the coast, those kinds of things. He had cropped trousers, silken doublets, sheer shirts through one could see every hair on his chest (with a witcher's eyesight, at least). But furs and wool? No, he didn't have any of that! That was all stored in his quarters in Oxenfurt, way too heavy to be brought along on the Path. In hindsight, that had been very stupid.

Geralt wasn't being helpful, either. At first the witcher had laughed and called him an idiot (the prick), and now he was getting grumpier and grumpier with every chatter of Jaskier's teeth.

He, of course, was fine, stupid witcher mutations. Well, and he did have sturdy boots and a real cloak, which promptly had been converted into Jaskier's with the first flake hitting the ground. Not that it made much of a difference. 'Fucking cock,' he thought as he pulled the coat tighter around his shoulders with trembling fingers.

He exhaled a painful breath and forced his eyes close again. He should try to sleep, he knew, come morning they had a long way ahead. And then he wouldn't notice the cold either, he hoped. On the other hand, he remembered Geralt telling him something about falling asleep when cold, something he couldn't quite remember-

"Jaskier," Geralt grumbled quietly from where he laid on the other side of the campfire.

"Y-yeah?" he managed to get out with his chattering teeth, and turned around to face him.

Geralt was propped up on one arm, studying him with a curious look on his face. This procedure continued for such a long time that Jaskier's skin began to crawl. He was just about to ask what exactly they were doing, when Geralt lifted his blanket a bit and jerked his chin to the side. "Get your arse over here."

Jaskier felt like he should protest the gruff order. In any other situation he probably would've protested. But fuck, it had to have been hours since he last felt his toes. If Geralt was willing to share his blanket with him, he wasn't about to object.

Getting up and walking the short distance over to him, was a bit of a chore, if he was quite honest. Especially since he was dragging his bedroll and useless blanket with him, while doing his best not to trip over Geralt's cloak or soak Geralt's woollen socks with slush.

When he was within an arm's width of his friend, it was the witcher who carefully laid out the bedrolls so that they were overlapping slightly and hopefully wouldn't slip apart to much while they slept, so that one of them ended up sleeping on the floor. Once Jaskier had sat down, it was also Geralt, who untied the cloak with deft fingers, who pulled their two blankets up to their chins and spread the cloak over them, too. "Sleep," he grunted.

Jaskier nodded obediently and closed his eyes, giving his best to do so, as he scooted as far away from his friend as their shared blankets allowed him. That wasn't quite as effective in terms of sharing body heat, but if a decade of travelling with Geralt of Rivia had taught him something, it was that, while the witcher was many things, a cuddler was not one of them. Jaskier doubted it would be any different in this completely unprecedented situation.

Imagine his surprise, when it was Geralt, too, who threw an arm over his waist to pull him close. Jaskier 'eep'-ed and Geralt 'hmm'-ed, and went ahead to press his forehead against the base of Jaskier's skull. "Stupid bard," he mumbled, "should've come over sooner. Can't have you die of hypothermia."

"A-alright," he managed through his still chattering teeth, "I-I'll k-k-keep that i-in m-mi-mind." At least now he was certain that his heart was still pumping blood through his veins. Quite thoroughly so. Gods, Geralt was bound to notice at this rate.

"Hmm," Geralt said again and propped himself up on his elbow again, frowning darkly down at him.

"Wh-what?"

"You're still cold."

Jaskier almost laughed. "Yeah," he managed to get out without being interrupted by his teeth. "It- It'll t-t-take a whi-while." Shucks, there went his record.

"Hmmm," he hummed even more displeased, his fingers twitching as if he wasn't sure what to do with them. Geralt tore his gaze away and hissed something akin to "Fucking fragile humans," before simply yanking his shirt over his head.

Cold or not Jaskier thought his reaction that could only be classified as 'bewildered, admiring staring' was more than justified. He caught the thought 'Oh, fuck me' flitting through his head and thanked all his lucky stars that he didn't utter them out loud.

Geralt tossed his shirt to the bedroll, to be used as pillow. He fixed him with a piercing glare and, oh, if Jaskier had been frozen before he was positively melting now.

He really tried not to ogle his friend. He really did. But he couldn't quite stop himself from raking his eyes over the bare torso before him that looked as if it had been sculpted by the gods and-

"Off," Geralt growled, pulling Jaskier's attention back to his eyes.

"I'm sorry, what?" he squeaked. He wasn't embarrassed to admit squeaking this time, thank you very much. Evidently, he had missed something.

"Off," Geralt insisted again, and tugged on Jaskier's collar.

"Umm-" His eyes bulged. 'Oh, shit.' His chances of surviving the night were sinking rapidly.

"Body heat will keep you warm," Geralt replied with a simple shrug. As if there was nothing much to sleeping arm in arm with your half-naked, very good looking... friend. As if that wouldn't lead to a whole host of other problems and-

Geralt raised and inquisitive eyebrow and Jaskier couldn't even finish thinking 'He's got a point' before he was divesting himself of his own shirt. His fingers were still numb, so it took a lot longer (and probably looked a lot less appealing) than normally, but before long Jaskier was shirtless, too, staring at Geralt with wide eyes.

He just huffed a breath—in... annoyance? Amusement? Who was Jaskier to judge—and lay down again, his arm outstretched for him. Jaskier gulped and stretched out next to him. Again, it didn't take long for Geralt's arm to settle on his waist, and oh, there was no chance he'd survive until sunrise. The cold forgotten, his nerve-ends ablaze; along the sparse points of skin-to-skin contact there was a delightful tingling, bordering on unpleasant.

"Sleep," Geralt mumbled again, his lips brushing against the bare skin of his shoulder.

Jaskier closed his eyes and breathed out a shuddering: "Fuck." Sleep, Geralt said? How the fuck was he supposed to sleep like that, with arousal coiling hot in his stomach. With a casual arm thrown over his waist, presenting a perfectly hold-able hand within grasping distance? With Geralt so close he could feel the heat emanating of his torso, so close he only needed to scoot back and tip his head up to have a wonderful neck exposed to him that basically begged to be kissed-

'Ah, shit.' He squirmed uncomfortably, in an attempt to hide his rather embarrassing predicament, that he knew to be futile. At least he had his back to Geralt, anything else would be truly mortifying. Still, he really hoped the witcher would choose to ignore it.

Apparently, the witcher knew no such mercy. He sighed deeply and—tightened? tightened—his arm around his waist. "Really, Jaskier?" He pressed his face into his neck and inhaled deeply. Jaskier imagined to feel his lips spread in a grin against his skin. "Now? You were chilled to the bone not half an hour ago."

Horrifyingly, he heard himself say: "Well, people change, Geralt, gods, keep it up." His mouth snapped shut as he became cognisant of the stupidity of his own words.

When Geralt didn't answer, Jaskier idiotically kept on talking: "You never would've noticed except for your stupid sense of smell." He rolled his eyes. "Really, what do you deem to be the appropriate reaction to- to-" He waved his hand around to encompass the absurdity of the situation. "-to this! Hm?"

Geralt, ever the conversationalist, replied: "Hm."

"My thoughts exactly," Jaskier huffed and crossed his arms. His heart was beating as if he had just completed an endurance run, and he heaved a few breaths to calm himself down.

The lack of response from Geralt was beginning to freak him out. Maybe he had underestimated the severity of this folly. Self-consciously he pulled up his shoulders. "Do you want me to leave?" he hazarded a guess. "So, um- so, I can do something about it?" 'And not bother you with it anymore,' his mind supplied.

No reaction. He closed his eyes. 'Look at the bright side, Jaskier,' he told himself. 'No reaction is better than reaction.' Yeah, it didn't convince him either. "Geralt?" he tried again.

The witcher hummed against his neck, his arm moving at a snail's pace. After an overabundance of hitched breaths and skipped heartbeats, there was a possessive hand splayed all over his stomach, and Jaskier thought he had finally an idea of what was going on in Geralt's head. "Do you-" He cleared his throat, there was really no reason to lead this conversation in a voice an octave higher than normally. "Do you want to do something about it?"

Geralt's arm twitched, still hesitating. "Do you want me to?" Geralt rumbled in his gravelly voice. The smallest of nods was all it took for him to pull Jaskier flush against him; albeit carefully and slowly so, as if any too sudden movement might startle him, scare him away.

"Well," Jaskier laughed nervously. "It might help to alleviate the awkwardness of this situation a bit," he joked, pressing back even further.

A gasp escaped his mouth when Geralt rewarded him with a roll of his hips for that, his hand ghosting over the front of his pants. "Y-yeah, I would very much like you to do something about it," he was quick to splutter.

"Hm." Oh, he was grinning after all. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying it. Jaskier was almost about to voice his complaints when Geralt's grip tightened even more, his hand steadily travelling lower, ghosting over his hips, splaying his legs, but never touching right where he wanted him to.

Jaskier sighed contentedly, as he tipped his head against Geralt's shoulder. Oh, the urge to pull him into a kiss was even worse than anticipated. "Geralt," he whined.

He chuckled quietly and dragged a rather toothy kiss over his shoulder. "Good?" he asked as his fingers ghosted over the front of Jaskier's breeches again.

The audacity. "Yes, good," he hissed, chasing the friction to no avail. "Would you get on with it, then? Else I might overheat."

Geralt huffed a laugh and retracted his hand back to his abdomen, rubbing infuriating circles right above his waistband. "Bossy," he commented, "and rude." After a moment he added: "Nothing's changed, then."

Jaskier had a thousand biting comments on the tip of his tongue, but a thumb slipping below his waistband reminded him that now was not the time. He held his breath, expecting Geralt to loosen the ties. Nothing happened.

Well. Good thing he wasn't above begging. "Please," he murmured, rolling his hips back, where Geralt was straining against his breeches. "Weren't you going to keep me warm?"

"I s'pose I was." Now that definitely was a kiss to his shoulder, followed by sharp nipping teeth. Geralt tugged at his breeches. "Off," he demanded again.

And, well, Jaskier was weak, and he was wanting; who was he to decline such an offer?

#my writing #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #winter prompt challenge

229 notes · View notes

drowningbydegrees · 4 years ago

Text

This prompt from the Music Prompt List wouldn’t leave me alone, so have Geralt being awkwardly kind of fluffy. <3

incidental music background music for a play, movie or television show. It sets the mood and illustrates the action for a play~unnoticed

Read on AO3

Does anyone ever mean to fall in love? Geralt doesn’t. It doesn’t happen like the ballads say, with flowers, and sonnets, and grand gestures. It happens in the in between, the quiet moments that Jaskier’s songs never touch on. Love creeps like a vine on a building, sneaking in and sprawling out so slowly that by the time it covers the wall, you can’t remember a time before it was there anymore.

It starts, at least, in things that make sense. It’s a lopsided little smile Jaskier gifts him with when he catches Geralt listening to him play. It’s the soft hum on the other side of the campfire one night when Jaskier knows Geralt can’t sleep. It’s warm hands patching up Geralt’s torn shoulder with a tenderness he doesn’t really require.

But then the feeling strays so unfairly, into the ridiculous and sometimes thoroughly obnoxious. It’s Jaskier looking hopelessly disheveled, his hair sticking up in strange directions from a hand absently run through it, a splotch of ink on his cheek where he tapped his quill against it, deep in thought. It’s listening to him complain off and on for two miles because he can’t think of a rhyme for bloedzuiger. It’s coming back late from a contract to find Jaskier has fallen asleep curled up in the entirety of the bedding in their room. These aren’t precisely lovable things. They’re messy, irritating even. And yet. And yet. And yet...

For so long, Geralt does not think they are things he loves. They’re just things that are, like the din of conversation at an inn. They’re the suggestion of something distant in a painting, smudges devoid of details that exist all the same.

***

Much like affection, winter sort of ambushes Geralt. Rich green foliage goes red and gold until all the world is ablaze. It’s beautiful in the way that these fleeting moments so often are, a riot of color that withers away even more abruptly than it arrived. There’s a chill in the air that promises snow will soon cover the dead leaves crunching under their feet, a sign Geralt can no longer ignore.

It doesn’t matter. They flit in and out of each other’s lives all the time, and already Jaskier has traveled with him almost nonstop since the spring. Geralt most certainly doesn’t need the company. To go their separate ways is as reasonable in this moment as it has been every other time they’ve done it over the last decade. Somehow this time it leaves Geralt feeling inexplicably hollow.

Geralt has always been at home with silence. It’s a quality that lends itself well to the life of a witcher, this ability to find peace instead of loneliness in the quiet of his own company. But they spend that night in their room’s single bed and Geralt lies awake wondering when the warm press of Jaskier’s face tucked against his neck became such a welcome thing, when his fingers tangling in the bard’s hair got to be so instinctive. When did Jaskier get to be so wrapped up in his life as to leave Geralt dreading the absence?

None of that chases away the sunrise, or the silence that promises to follow in its wake. They break apart the way they always do when their plans take them in different directions. Could be a week, a month, a year even. They’ve done it a hundred times, and they do not belong to one another, so Geralt doesn’t know what to make of the unexpected urge to look back.

He lets the Path carry him away as it always does, and it’s fine, really. A day passes, and then another, and a third. At this pace he’ll easily reach Kaer Morhen before the snow really starts in. It’s fine, as it should be… except when it’s not.

There’s no familiar face smiling at him from the other side of their fire. There’s no strumming of lute strings. There’s no endless, exhausting conversation. What he’s faced with now is everything his life was ordained to be, everything Geralt has been used to for decades, and yet this time it feels all wrong.

Maybe he’s always been lonely, but it’s the first time Geralt recognizes the feeling for what it is. Loneliness is a stone’s throw away from grief, and this is grieving in some strange, subdued way. It’s a hole in the shape of another person’s life and for a strange, fleeting second, he lets himself wonder if he ought to have gone to Oxenfurt with Jaskier.

That’s an absurd thought. He always goes to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier nearly always goes to Oxenfurt, and they’ve never broached the idea of any alternative arrangement. It’s only a few months, probably. Maybe. They always find each other again eventually don’t they?

Geralt sets out for Oxenfurt before the sun comes up.

***

He does not know, Geralt realizes, what Jaskier does in the cold months where they part ways. He knows the bard teaches when he's not entertaining in some court or another, but that's a sorry excuse for an answer. It's as paltry as it would be to sum up Jaskier's life in Geralt's company with the performances he gives in inns along their way. Both of these things are true, but neither of them are whole.

Does he sit in crowded spaces to soak up the atmosphere? Does he luxuriate in having a place that is his own and a roof over his head for a few months? Geralt has no idea, but he wants to.

Oxenfurt turns out to be less straightforward than he had hoped. He tries the college first where a young woman waxes poetic about the bard until Geralt finally manages to interrupt long enough to ask what classroom he’d be in.

“None today, I’m afraid. He’s probably- Oh, you must be the witcher.” The words hold an unexpected warmth. He’s not sure what to make of it, but before Geralt knows it, she’s rattling off Jaskier’s address.

The house is lovely from the outside. A gabled roof sits atop the gray stone exterior, not nearly so ostentatious as Geralt might have expected. It’s also further off the beaten path than he’d anticipated from someone so keen on being the life of the party.

But Geralt doesn’t even get as far as knocking before one of Jaskier’s neighbors spots him, a smartly dressed academic of some sort. “I doubt the professor is home yet.”

It’s so strange to hear anyone call Jaskier that, an uncomfortable reminder that the bard has a whole life beyond the time he spends with Geralt that the witcher doesn’t know about. Likely because it’s never occurred to him to ask, but Geralt finds himself sorely wishing he had now. “Where would I find him?”

“Are you a friend of his?” The man’s eyes narrow a little like he’s waiting for Geralt to slip up and give himself away as a thief or something.

“I’m his…” Geralt sighs. “Yeah.”

“The witcher, then.” The neighbor smiles in that absent, polite way that villagers tend to smile at passersby. It’s not a response that usually applies to him. Geralt has no idea what to make of the shift in demeanor, but the man does point down the road. “There’s an inn down that way. I’d check there this time of day.”

“Right...” It just figures, even in his absence Jaskier manages to be exhausting.

There’s a creak of hinges on Geralt’s left, and the neighbor smiles and waves. “I guess he’s home after all.”

Not entirely exhausting, then. Geralt forces his expression to remain neutral. “Jaskier.”

Jaskier lights up when he meets Geralt’s eye like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. It’s such a tiny, inconsequential thing, but wonderfully, terribly, the world feels like it’s slid back into its proper place. The warmth that takes up residence behind Geralt’s breastbone is just further confirmation of the ruin he’s courting.

“What are you doing here? Aren’t you… don’t you have some witchery thing to run off to? It may shock you to know, but the Kaedwani mountains are that way.” As Jaskier ushers Geralt inside, he points in… well, it’s definitely a direction.

“No.” Geralt shakes his head. What a pair they make, the both of them completely ridiculous.

“No what? And will you please sit down already?” Jaskier clears some of his papers away, as if what’s on the side table has any bearing at all on Geralt’s ability to sit in the armchair beside it.

Too restless to actually sit down, Geralt leans against the doorframe as he takes in Jaskier’s slightly ruffled appearance. There’s no doublet. Just trousers and a chemise rolled up to his elbows. It shouldn’t be so hard to look away, and yet he has to force himself. “The mountains are that way.”

Jaskier follows the length of Geralt’s arm where it’s pointed north. He purses his lips as he turns back to the witcher. “Okay fine. I got a bit turned around, but nevermind that. They are… wherever they are, but you are here. Why?”

Fuck. Geralt had been so focused on the coming back and finding Jaskier, there wasn’t much consideration to what reason he’d give when he got here. What can he possibly say? That it was too quiet without his endless chatter? That Geralt’s world was somehow less for Jaskier’s absence. It’s too vulnerable, so he gruffly replies, “Didn’t think I could beat the snow.”

“I see.” There’s a sweet, uneven quirk to Jaskier’s lips. The minute Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes he knows he’s been found out to some extent, but Jaskier responds in the least Jaskier-like way he’s ever seen. There’s no gloating, no teasing. Jaskier doesn’t even acknowledge that they both know he’s lying through his teeth. Most strangely of all, he’s quiet. “Well, it snows here too. You’ll probably want to think about taking a break somewhere until the weather clears up.”

Right. He hadn’t quite gotten that far either. On the road together, it’s just a given that they’ll share a room, but that’s quite a bit different from inviting himself into a space that is Jaskier’s. Not willing to admit that he’d sort of hoped to go back to the normalcy of that, Geralt sticks to answering vaguely. “I’m sorted out.”

“Are you? Because I thought you might just stay with me.” He’s seen this a thousand times. Jaskier has a knack for offering things the other person is too proud or afraid to ask for for themselves. It’s just Geralt usually isn’t the one subjected to that particular talent. “Unless I’ve got this all wrong and you didn’t come back because you missed me. Well, no. You could stay with me either way. It’s just that the appeal probably isn’t the same.”

“I could do that.” Geralt replies quickly to the offer while making every effort to sidestep Jaskier’s more dangerous insinuation. It’s kind of Jaskier to tolerate this thing Geralt can’t quite get to settle, but the witcher harbors no illusions that it’s anything more than tolerance. He tries for nonchalant and has no idea if he succeeds, but Jaskier’s lopsided smile suggests that no, he really doesn’t.

“Perfect.” Jaskier offers Geralt a hand. “Let me show you around.”

***

“Well, I guess there’s no backing out now,” Jaskier says as Geralt walks him to class. Well, no. That’s definitely not what this is. It’s just that he had an errand to run, and the college is in the same direction, so not walking together would be weird and awkward.

“What?” Geralt’s brows knit in confusion, and he watches Jaskier try to catch a snowflake on his tongue as if that will somehow give him the answer.

Jaskier smiles at Geralt, a little toothy. It’s the kind that makes Geralt feel pinned like a butterfly to a board. “It’s snowing.”

Oh right. He had said that. He knows Jaskier hadn’t bought the excuse when Geralt turned up, but the bard hasn’t said anything about it since. It was probably foolish to think that meant he’d gotten away with it. There’s nothing he can that won’t give himself away further, so Geralt opts not to say anything at all. That, at least, is normal.

And for a little while, it seems like it works. Jaskier prattles on about the weather and how beautiful Oxenfurt is at night when it’s snowy and the moon is out, and Geralt just immerses himself in the comfort of how normal this is.

At least until it’s not. The silence that falls between them is abrupt, and draws out so long that Geralt looks over at Jaskier. It’s a terrible mistake though, because Jaskier is looking right back, entirely too expectant. “Sooooooooooo. Are we going to talk about this?”

The question is oddly free of dramatics, but it doesn’t make the subject matter any less terrifying. Clinging to whatever balance they’d found since he got here, Geralt insists, “Nothing to talk about.”

“Okay.” For a second, Jaskier is quiet. His expression is thoughtful, teeth dragging enticingly along his bottom lip. “But just… It sort of seems like there is.”

He could maybe leave, say he forgot something at the house. Jaskier would probably even let him go, but they’d both know it for the retreat that it is, so Geralt doubles down. “There isn’t.”

Geralt doesn’t really know when he learned to recognize Jaskier’s ‘you are being exceedingly difficult right now’ face, but he knows the tightness at the corners of the bard’s eyes and the flat line his mouth pulls into. Yet, there’s no mockery or sign of irritation when Jaskier insists on pressing the issue. “Alright, but see there’s this one thing. Here’s what I know about you on account of traveling with you for a decade. You are generally consistent and you have never once in the entire time I’ve known you passed up an opportunity to tell me when I was wrong, or to poke fun.”

Geralt knows exactly where this is going, but arguing such an obvious truth would just bolster Jaskier’s point, he thinks. Silence isn’t really better, but it’s what Geralt sticks to as Jaskier keeps talking.” So, when you don’t tell me I’m wrong to assume you came back because you missed me… It’s hard not to assume that you came back for more than just a roof over your head.”

“What do you want me to say?” Geralt replies irritably, because if this is Jaskier’s idea of softening a rejection, it’s not helping. If he’s lucky, Jaskier will just laugh it off and Geralt will swallow everything back down, and they can move on to something less embarrassing.

“I don’t know.” Jaskier is biting his lip again, and despite the nervous tumult in his stomach, Geralt has never so badly wanted to kiss anyone in his life. “I just want you to say what’s true.”

What’s true. For the first time since they set out, Geralt pays attention to what’s there beside him. Jaskier’s heartbeat has picked up somewhere along the way, and when Geralt looks over, the bard’s cheeks are flushed from more than just the cold.

What’s true is that there are a thousand ways to tell a person you love them. Sometimes it’s a fond smile or a gentle touch or… oh. Geralt swallows and does not look at Jaskier anymore as he says, “Life is… quiet when you’re not in it.”

He knows that self-deprecating laugh he gets from Jaskier and regrets being the one to cause it. “I thought you preferred the quiet.”

“Me too.” It’s hardly more than a whisper. “But it’s not the right kind of quiet.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what that means,” Jaskier says and Geralt sort of hates that he’s the one struggling to say what he means and yet Jaskier is the one being apologetic over it.

“It’s like… fuck. I don’t know. When you think about the woods being quiet, it doesn’t mean silence. You still hear the wind and the birds and all that, but it belongs there, so it’s not noise.” Somehow, this doesn’t feel like what he meant to be saying at all either, but he’s committed to this ill advised analogy, so that’s a thing. “If those things stop, it’s not a good kind of quiet. It just means something’s wrong.”

“Geralt. Are you suggesting my company provides some sort of ambiance to your travels?” Jaskier’s eyes light up with some sort of mischief and Geralt scowls because he can’t decide if he’s being encouraged or teased.

Actually, Geralt supposes that is what he’s suggesting, but it doesn’t feel like a clear enough conveyance of what he means. Geralt might not need words, but Jaskier does. Sometimes ‘I love you’ is digging up the courage to admit, “The world around me feels wrong when you’re not in it.”

“So your solution was to drop the routine you’ve kept to for, actually I don’t even know how long to come back to me?”

“Obviously not. I-” With no small amount of horror, Geralt realizes that’s actually exactly what he’s done. He’s honestly very relieved that it’s still quite early and the streets are still largely empty, because Jaskier stops in the middle of the street and the witcher strongly suspects he’s about to make a very embarrassing scene. “Is that a problem?”

“Why would it be a problem? It’s absurdly romantic. I didn’t even know you were capable of that.” Sure enough, Jaskier is suddenly very close, a hand lifting to cradle Geralt’s cheek. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, but he signals his intent, giving the witcher plenty of time to pull away. As if he possibly could.

Geralt’s throat is suddenly dry, and when he finally manages to say something, it’s quiet. “What are you doing?”

“Well, you came all this way to get back to me.” Jaskier presses his forehead to Geralt’s. “I figured I could meet you partway.”

Geralt isn’t actually sure which of them closes the last couple of inches between his mouth and Jaskier’s. It’s just warm, liking what he imagines coming home would be like. Jaskier’s arms wind around Geralt’s back between his shirt and his cloak, and Geralt’s fingers tangle in Jaskier’s hair, and actually it turns out that he doesn’t care in the slightest if they’re making a scene.

Everything runs a little bit together after that. There is only the solid presence of Jaskier pressed against him and the snow coming down around them in fat, fluffy flakes that are just beginning to stick to the ground. Distantly, he thinks maybe they could just go home. It’s not as if there’s any reason to be out in the cold, except… With a disappointed groan, Geralt mumbles between kisses. “Don’t you have class?”

“Class… oh bollocks.” Jaskier pulls back, flushed and glassy eyed and Geralt wants nothing more than to pull him right back in. But there will be time for that later and the flustered way Jaskier stumbles back and looks around like he’s only just remembered they’re in public is terribly endearing. “Yes, well just… we’ll come back to this.”

Geralt laughs with unexpected ease at Jaskier’s reluctant efforts to get moving again. It’s another minute or two before Geralt remembers the one other thing that keeps crossing his mind. “When I was trying to track you down, people knew who I was.”

Jaskier’s mouth turns up, and it’s clear from the sheepish way he ducks his head that he hears the question Geralt isn’t asking. “You’re not the only one who prefers life when we’re both in it together.”

“You talk about me?” And sure, Jaskier talks about him all the time in songs and stories, but this is different.

Jaskier shrugs like it doesn’t mean anything, but they both know better. “It’s what I get to hold onto, what I get to keep when you’re not here.”

“Well, I’m here now.” Their fingers thread between each other’s and Jaskier hums the song he’s been working on. Geralt allows himself the faintest of smiles. Sometimes, love is choosing to share your existence with someone else and taking unexpected refuge in the background noise.

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #my fic #pining #and fluff

218 notes · View notes

btsslowburnfic · 4 years ago

Text

The Arrangement Ch. 16

Story summary: Desperately in need of money, you answered the questionable ad. AKA-Arranged marriage AU featuring Y/N and Yoongi

Chapter Summary: Dinner at the “Best Diner in Seoul.” (Still not a date though, right?)

Previous Chapter here

The two of you dropped the van off without any issues. You walked outside the rental agency, onto the main street stretching your arms overhead. You turned to face Yoongi, “Alright, are you ready for dinner at the best diner in Seoul?”

Yoongi smiled, glad you had rallied from earlier. He put his hands in his pockets. “The best? I don’t know; that’s a pretty high standard. This is a world-class city.”

You started to walk, “It is, and I have eaten a lot of places. This one is the best diner.”

Yoongi followed you to the subway station. “Where is this diner?” He asked. The subway was uncrowded, with not much of a rush happening on Sunday night. You each scanned your cards.

“It’s by work.”

Yoongi racked his brain trying to think of a diner near BigHit but wasn’t able to. He shrugged.

The subway car was mostly empty and the ride back to the city center was smooth. Yoongi scrolled through his phone. You got off and you led him down a few alleyways to an unassuming diner. It was truly a hole in the wall.

The neon sign above the door, “Dynamite Diner,” had a few letters out: DYMT DNER. Yoongi chuckled slightly and made a confused face, but took your word for it as you opened the door. The inside of the diner was clean and brightly decorated. There was a counter with bright white stools and several cherry red booths around the perimeter. Donuts sat in a display case next to a vintage register up on the countertop.

“I should have brought my sunglasses,” Yoongi joked as he followed you over to one of the booths. You laughed and put both your personal and work phones on the table and stretched. You were certain you would be sore tomorrow from moving all those boxes.

"What is that?" Yoongi asked, sounding mildly horrified as he gestured to your personal phone.

"Oh this?" You held it up. You had jokingly changed your lock screen to the picture you took of him sleeping the other night to see how long it would take him to notice. "It's you, looking so adorable."

His eyes widened "You put Tubby on me."

"Aww is that the bear's name?” You turned the phone back towards you to look at it. “So cute".

Yooongi touched his ear awkwardly, "It’s a dog, not a bear. Tubby was my family's pet growing up; our first dog. Anyways, I can't be your lock screen!" He pouted, a slight accent suddenly permeating his speech.

You looked over at him, trying to keep a straight face. "Ok first of all it looks like a bear, but that it was your family’s dog makes it even more adorable. Secondly, it's my personal phone sooo…. Third. where are you from?”

“What...what does that...Daegu.”

You smirked and looked at your phone again. “I guess if it really bothers you I can change it, but look? It makes me smile." You held it up and grinned.

The waitress came over, dropped off menus, and took your drink orders: Coffee, water, and a cup of ice for Yoongi.

"Oh my God, keep it." Yoongi opened his menu, clearly flustered.

You laughed, "Are you sure?"

"Yes, just stop showing it to me. Put it face down."

You smiled and complied, then flipped through the menu. “Why did we both just order coffee?” You asked. “It’s 9 pm. That’s a terrible idea.”

“I can drink coffee and fall asleep, no problem. What's good here?”

“The noodles are really good. I'm getting the gaeranjim tonight. I used to come here after working at the bar since it's open 24/7.”

Yoongi looked over at, watching you scan the menu. You gave so much to the people you cared about." Spicy or regular?"

"Huh?" You asked, bobbing your head back up.

"Spicy noodles or plain?"

"It's cold out, so you have to get spicy." You said it so matter of factly.

“Ok, of course. Why did I even ask?”

You put the menu down and grabbed your work phone. "Let's see what this week brings. Meetings. Meetings. Sound mixing? Recording. Meet with Hoseok. Hair and make-up department. Photo shoot? Photo shoot?"

Yoongi sat his menu down and interlaced his fingers in front of his face, resting his mouth against them. “Yep. They want new pictures for social media and for the album. My next album deadline is in 90 days but they begin all of this stuff in advance for things like printing and promos.”

“Oooo so you'll be like a model?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and the server walked up to the table. She sat down all of the drinks carefully. The two of you placed your food orders and handed in the menus.

“Min Yoongi. Model.' You teased, striking a pose.

“Are you saying I'm not good looking enough to be a model?” He feigned offense while pouring his coffee over the ice and stirring it.

“Oh please, I told you at the job interview I thought you were good looking. It's just hard to imagine you sitting still and being pretty.”

Yoongi rubbed the back of his neck. “Well it's in my contract. And my fans like it. As much as I hate parts about my job, I do love my fans. " He took a sip of his drink.

“That's sweet.” You smiled.

Yoongi blushed a little, “Well I wouldn't be where I am without them, right? You have to have an audience to be a performer. Someone has to listen, otherwise you're just screaming into the void.”

“I guess that makes sense. Being on the consumer side of things I never really thought of it like that. Huh.” You sat back in the booth thoughtfully and sipped some coffee.

Yoongi looked out the glass window at the street outside. It had been a strange couple of weeks for him and yet this all felt normal. He couldn't remember the last time he had gone out to a restaurant with someone because he wanted to. He covered a yawn and looked back over at you.

You were people watching in the diner. You were normally only here in the middle of the night. The bell above the entrance dinged and you saw Chinsun, your regular server, walk in to begin her night shift. You smiled as you remembered all the coffee and bullshit you had shared with her. There were nights you got off work at 3 and knew it made more sense to power through and go into the office. You decided you would talk to her later if she wasn't busy.

The food came out a few minutes later. Hunger had snuck up on you. You went from zero to famished. You began blowing on your meal.

“Y/N?” You heard the familiar voice of Chinsun “I haven't seen you in a while.” She had on her white and red work uniform and her graying hair done up in a bun.

You looked up from your eggs and smiled, “Nice to see you. I quit working at the bar, I just have 1 job now.” You said happily.

“That's great, you can only burn the candle from both ends for so long. I'm surprised you did it for as long as you did.” She responded.

You shrugged and took a sip of water. “Well we all do what we have to.”

“And?.... who is your friend?” Chinsun gestured to Yoongi who was mid-slurp on his noodles. Apparently he was also starving.

“This is my boss, Min Yoongi.”

He patted his mouth with a napkin before speaking, “Hello,” he bowed his head. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Chinsun. It’s nice to meet you too. Well I'll let you get back to your meal, I'm glad you stopped by, I was worried when I didn’t see you for a while. Make sure you two come back!”

“Thank you. You are so sweet. I’ll make sure to stop in again soon, take care.” You took a bite as soon as she left.

“These noodles are in fact, the best.” Yoongi appraised between slurps.

“I told you. You can’t beat a hole in the wall diner sometimes. So...new album in 90 days? How’s it going?”

“It’s ok. A few songs are done. I got feedback from Adora last week so that was helpful. This album in general will be less….angry. Yeah less angry sounding.”

“Cool. What comes first, the music or the lyrics?”

“They are separate completely. The music and then I see if any of the lyrics I’ve written match the mood. Sometimes it just goes together and sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Interesting.”

Yoongi talked a bit more about the process of creating an album from start to finish. You had never put any thought into it so it was fascinating. The rest of your meal passed without incident and you were happy that when they brought the bill, Yoongi actually let you pay.

You waved to Chinsun as you exited. Yoongi rubbed his stomach. “Too many noodles.”

You smiled and then looked up at the sky. It was beginning to snow. “No such thing. And look. What great timing. The first snow of the year.”

“Gross.” He quickly replied.

“Ahahaha you really hate the cold don’t you?” You said as you held out your hand, watching the flakes land and melt almost instantly.

“I do. The snow is pretty though. I’ll look at it tomorrow from the warmth and safety of inside.”

“You’re no fun. I love the snow.” You played with it for a few more seconds. “Alright let’s get back.”

The snow continued to fall as you began the short walk back to BigHit. It was so pretty. The sidewalk was almost empty and the snowfall made it seem even quieter than it was. You took your phone out and snapped a picture for Instagram. In a few minutes, you were back at the building. The two of you scanned your badges to enter the lobby and waved to the night security guard.

“I’m heading to the studio. You should take some aspirin and a hot bath.” Yoongi said while you waited for the elevator.

You reached over without thinking and dusted snowflakes off of his hair. “Do you need help with anything? I also had coffee, I’ll probably be up for a while.”

Yoongi was briefly unable to answer, still surprised from having been dusted. “Nope. I’m just going to write. Go, rest your muscles. Watch Netflix. Relax. You literally moved a small apartment’s worth of stuff today.”

The two of you got on the elevator. “Alright. If you insist. I’m not going to argue with that. Where is the aspirin?”

“My bathroom. Bottom left drawer.”

“Got it.” The elevator slowly climbed. You took a deep breath and looked over at Yoongi. “Thanks again for all your help today. Like. ALLLLL of it. The van, my aunt, my brother. Thanks. It was a lot.”

Yoongi avoided eye contact, finding his shoes very fascinating. “No problem. Like I said, it wasn’t that bad for me. I got free soup and noodles.”

You laughed, “Good to know your chauffeur services are so affordable.” The elevator stopped on the 14th floor.

“See you tomorrow.” Yoongi started to exit, “If Jin’s girlfriend acts up, call me.” Yoongi added as though he suddenly remembered something.

“Now that I know that’s a thing, apparently, I’ll be fine. Thanks though.” You waved as the doors closed.

You’d be fine. Yoongi reassured himself as he walked over to the studio. He was suddenly acutely aware of just how quiet the 14th floor was with no one else on it. He walked over to the large windows on the opposite side of the elevators. The snow was really coming down now, and the ground would soon be blanketed. He opened the shopping app and searched “snow gloves.” He took a deep breath, What am I doing? He walked over to the other side of the floor, punched in his passcode, and entered Genius lab, ready to get some writing done.

Fuck, you were so glad today was almost over. You walked into the apartment and immediately started a bath. You set up your laptop on the toilet lid. You were going to live your best life, watching Netflix in the bathtub. You had heard of such luxuries and were strangely excited by it. You headed up to the loft area, randomly grabbed a stuffed animal and threw it onto Yoongi’s bed. You grabbed the aspirin and smiled as you passed the Pikachu you had yeeted onto Yoongi’s comforter and imagined his annoyance when he discovered it. Ah, it made you laugh. You grabbed yourself some water from the kitchen and headed off to soak away your soreness and forget the day. You paused briefly to admire the snow coming down in full force now. So beautiful. NEXT CHAPTER

@lidda @anpanman-sonyeondan @firefairy1 @cuteipat @sugaslittlekookies @janeelizabeth1216 @deeepvibes @gxldenhunny @livelyjay @niniita-ah @bobbyboops @honeysunandsoil @deathkat657 (i missed your tag for the last chapter, so sorry!!)

103 notes · View notes

brockadoodles · 4 years ago

Text

The CN Tower and Chocolate Chip Pancakes - w. nylander

AN: I swear before whipping this out I was complaining about no writing motivation and how I was going to finish my Christmas wips when this like came to me. So here’s a quick little story about one of our favorite blondies for @puckinghell and all of you. There is mention of losing a parent, which is something I closely relate to from losing one of mine recently, if that’s a trigger, I wouldn’t read this. It’s not an angst piece at all, I just think that warning is necessary. This also may or may not be self indulgent and based on an actual experience I had two years ago with a boy in NYC, but like, you didn’t hear that from me. Anyways, I hope you enjoy.

Word Count: 3,337

Warnings: Mentions of death of a parent

Christmas was usually your favorite time of the year. You loved how the city lit up during December, the white lights twinkling from the streetlights and trees, the fresh snow that usually littered the city of Toronto, and the constant smell of gingerbread and spices whenever you entered a building were all things that brought you comfort. This year, however, was different. It was the first year without your mom, without a lot of the traditions that the two of you would do together as you grew up.

You tried though. You went through all of the motions of the holiday. You decorated a tree, blue and silver just like she always loved. You went skating, an experience that was far less fun without your mom to laugh with you when you fell. You went to the Christmas Market, buying a new small knick-knack, like every other year you had done since you were five years old. All of it felt forced, but you were hopeful. You were hopeful that one last Christmas tradition would bring you the sense of comfort you had been searching for during the entire month of December.

The fleeting feeling of comfort and your mom were how you found yourself spending nearly $60 to go up CN Tower on Christmas Eve. A tradition that was usually entirely reserved for tourists visiting the city, a romantic setting with the tower lit up for the holiday and the nighttime skyline view of the entire city providing a cinematic backdrop for people’s perfect holiday moments. You weren’t a tourist, you had grown up in Toronto for your entire life, but your mom had always believed in the idea that it wasn’t a bad thing to be a tourist in your own city, so every year on Christmas even she would bring you up here and the two of you would sit on the observation deck and make a Christmas wish. No matter how lost you felt, it was the one tradition that you didn’t think you could ever give up.

You wandered around the observation deck, the dark beanie on your head keeping your ears warm and your hands were securely tucked in your wool coat pockets as you watched the various people scattered around. It was getting late, the families with children were long gone, probably at home tucked into their beds, and most people that were left were younger couples. You glanced to your right, spotting a boy on one knee holding a ring out for the girl standing in front of him with tears in her eyes. You watched them for a moment, finding yourself wrapped up slightly in how happy they both looked. It gave you an idea for your Christmas wish, and you found yourself smiling softly as you closed your eyes and wished.

“I love you, mom, Merry Christmas.” You whispered as you opened your eyes, the feeling of comfort not quite sinking into your chest yet. As you walked the familiar route to the elevators, you decided that once last stop before heading home for pancakes certainly couldn’t hurt.

You walked down the street with your eyes focussed on your phone as the snow was falling a bit harder than it had been previously. You were searching for anything that was open on Christmas Eve, your stomach growling a bit as you scanned through the search results.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Someone exclaimed, grabbing your arm slightly to prevent you from falling into their chest. You looked up, seeing a boy that must have been around your age looking down at you with a concerned look in his blue eyes. You must have ran into him, too focussed on your phone to watch where you were walking properly enough. You studied his face for a minute, wondering if you had somehow met him before from the feeling of familiarity you were getting in your stomach.

“Do I know you?” You blurted out, adverting your eyes a bit when you realized how rude you must have sounded to this boy immediately after quite literally bumping into him. It didn’t seem to phase him though, and he just smiled.

“I think so? I’m William. You know Steph right? Steph LaChance?” And that’s when it hit you, you did know this boy, well sort of. You had met him maybe once before, at a mutual friend’s birthday party at least two years ago.

“Ah, I do remember you. Wow, you look different, I mean, good.” You stumbled out. It was true, he did look a lot different than he did when you met him. His hair was longer, his face a bit rounder, and a short beard that definitely wasn’t there before. You felt your cheeks heat up in embarrassment a bit as he laughed softly at your statement.

“So do you. Hey, this may seem a bit forward but, are you busy right now?” He asked. Part of you wanted to tell him yes, that you were busy. That way you could just get on the train back to your apartment, curl up with a warm cup of tea and your slippers, and fall asleep to the snow falling outside of your winder. But the other part of you was dreading going home, the sinking feeling of your first Christmas without your mom settling into your stomach and making you not want to go home. Because if you went home to your empty apartment, you’d have to fully confront your reality. So instead, you nodded up at William, taking a chance on the stranger in front of you that wasn’t quite a stranger.

“What did you have in mind?” You asked softly.

“Come on.” He smiled at you and held his hand out for you to take, your question going unanswered as you hesitantly wrapped your hand in his, letting him lead you in the opposite direction you had come from.

The walk was short and quiet, and your stomach grumbled once more when you stopped in front of what appeared to be the destination he was leading you to. You glanced up at the neon pink sign, the diner clearly out of date and straight from the 1980’s. You smiled to yourself, appreciating that somehow this stranger that wasn’t quite a stranger had instinctively known exactly what you needed at the moment.

“I hope you like pancakes,” He smiled as he opened the door for you, gesturing you ahead with his hand. The diner was relatively empty, just a few other patrons sitting in the various worn-out leather booths. There were decorations everywhere, garlands wrapped around the posts holding up the ceiling and a small Christmas tree lit up in the corner of the diner, multicolored lights strung throughout but no ornaments.

You followed William to a booth in the corner and watched carefully as he smiled at the waitress, her saying hello to him by name. You wondered if this was a place he went to frequently enough to be on a first-name basis with the people that worked here, or if perhaps they were just Toronto Maple Leafs fans who happened to recognize him.

“I come here all the time, usually after bad games. I just really like the people here, and something about diner food is comforting after a loss.” He explained before you had the chance to ask. You nodded at him while you shrugged off your jacket and pulled off your beanie, fixing your hair slightly as William handed you a menu from the side of the table. You grabbed the menu and let your fingers brush lightly against his, causing you to pull your hand back quickly.

“Why did you want to come here tonight?” You asked softly, hoping that your question wasn’t taken out of context or as too intrusive for him to answer. William didn’t seem phased by any of it, instead offering you what would have been the fourth or fifth reassuring smile so far that night, if you were keeping count.

“Just didn’t want to be alone on Christmas Eve, I guess.” He admitted. You were almost taken aback by his honesty with you, finding yourself wondering if he had asked you the very same question that you asked him if you’d answer as bluntly as he did. You felt oddly settled with him though, there in that shitty diner looking at a worn-out menu that probably hadn’t been updated in fifteen years and you found yourself wanting to give him the same openness that he gave you.

“Me neither, I guess.” You commented, holding back and giving him just enough that hopefully he understood that on some level you felt how he felt, even if you couldn’t entirely admit to him why.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a few moments as you both scanned over the menu. The waitress came over, sliding two pale brown mugs filled with coffee in both of your directions and noting that she would be back in a minute to check if either of you wanted any food. You scanned over the pancakes and peeked over at William, his eyes also scanning the page with concentration and you found your mind wondering about him once more. You watched as he bit his lip softly and wondered if he was the type who liked pancakes with fruit on them, or chocolate, an inconsequential fact that most people wouldn’t be phased by but to you said everything you needed to know about a person.

“You said you hoped I liked pancakes, right, William?” You asked, breaking the silence between you as you closed your menu in front of you. He looked over the menu in his own hands at you, raising an eyebrow quickly and smiling softly before looking back down at the pages.

“You can call me Willy if you want, and yeah. I like most kinds, but if you try to tell me fruit on pancakes is better than chocolate, I might have to leave.” He teased as he closed his menu, now looking fully at you with a smirk on his face. For a moment you went wide-eyed, wondering if he somehow crept into your mind and heard exactly what you were thinking. You recovered quickly though, and folded your hands quickly on the table, sending your own smirk back to him.

“I’m not going to argue with that, it’s obviously the correct answer.” Willy didn’t say anything, instead, he nodded at you before taking a sip of the diner coffee, seemingly not phased by its lack of strength or flavor. You grabbed your own mug and the two of you settled into a much more relaxed conversation as you waited for the waitress to come back. Nearly two hours of conversation passing through you without either of you realizing just how personal you were being with each other.

“Usually this place is faster than this, I’m sorry.” The boy in front of you commented, his head tilting toward the large analog clock on the wall that had shown it was nearing midnight, nearing Christmas. You weren’t worried though, glancing around the small diner as the snow fell harshly outside. You smiled softly at William,

“We haven’t even ordered yet, and I’ve got nothing but time tonight.” Willy just smiled back at you, nodding a bit and catching the eye of the waitress.

“Sorry guys, been a long day. What can I get you?” She smiled apologetically. You nodded at Willy to go first.

“No problem, Grace.” He started, referring to the older woman by her first name. He glanced at you quickly, taking a leap of his own as he spoke,

“Can we just grab two orders of chocolate chip pancakes and more coffee?” he asked.

“Confident, what if I wanted strawberry?” You teased, raising an eyebrow quickly. Willy laughed, a genuine laugh that somehow hit you in your chest as comfort settled into your system, a soft smile lingering on your lips as he started leaning into his hand that was resting on the table. He looked at you at that moment like you were more than just a stranger who wasn’t really a stranger to him, and you would be lying to yourself if you tried to ignore the butterflies that it was giving you. Willy felt familiar in an unfamiliar yet exciting way. It didn’t feel like you had only met him once, instead, it felt like you had known him in passing forever, your comfort level and trust quickly rising in him in just a few short hours of really knowing him.

“No chance, you said I was right about chocolate, and I pay attention.” He threw back at you.

“Okay, tell me the real reason you’re alone on Christmas Eve.” Willy pressed as he set his fork down, scooting the nearly empty plate away from his body and toward the center of the table. It was nearly 2 am at this point, and you weren’t sure if it was the few hours you had spent with him giving or the tiredness weighing you down that gave you the false sense of closeness with him, but you found yourself giving in anyway, wanting to tell him everything about yourself in hopes that he would for some reason be taking notes to remember you by.

“It’s my first Christmas without my mom, she uhm, passed away earlier this year and I spent the whole day doing things by myself that we used to do together. So, when you asked if I was busy, I said no, because going somewhere with you felt better than going home to my empty apartment and my thoughts.” It felt good to get it out and Willy’s reaction confirmed what you had already assumed about him, that he wouldn’t judge you for not wanting to spend Christmas Eve alone. After all, before you ran into him, he was set on being alone.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He frowned. You just shrugged, you were used to the apologies, no one really knew what it was like when a parent passed away unless they had dealt with it themselves. The apology was an expression of sympathy, and you didn’t mind it coming from Willy.

“What about you? Have a sad story to tell me?” You inquired. Willy sighed and for a moment you wondered if you had pushed too hard if you had overstepped some boundary that he had put up between you that you missed. But the sigh came with a nod as he continued, opening his mouth to speak quietly as you looked at him with eyes that you hoped indicated your willingness to take in whatever he had to say without any judgment.

“I guess I’ve just been having a rough year, I’m not sure how closely you follow hockey, but, a lot of people are doubting if I belong here. I guess with not being able to go home and see my family, it was getting to me. Didn’t even really have any plans until you ran into me and I just felt comfortable asking you to do something.” His voice wavered as he spoke and his eyes dodged your own a few times as he went through what you could only gather were insecurities he didn’t like to talk about. You reached out and put your hand on his wrist, running your thumb slowly across his skin and smiling softly at him.

“You belong here, Willy. I’m not sure how much that means coming from a stranger, but you belong here.” He lit up at your words, turning his hand to grab yours. Your heart pounded in your chest as he laced your fingers together and gave your hand a soft squeeze before letting go, a silent thank you that didn’t need words. You knew what he was trying to say, you didn’t need him to verbally thank you for it.

The two of you started putting your coats back on, the night coming to a close that you weren’t sure you were ready for. You hadn’t expected to have a good Christmas, and while it certainly couldn’t compare to the ones of your past, as you sat in that diner with Willy for hours you felt like you were soaking in the comfort you had spent the entire month trying to find. Each time he laughed at something you said you melted further into the old booth.

Willy set some cash on the table, ignoring your protests as he paid for the meal, and grabbed your hand, once again lacing your fingers together as he tugged you out of the restaurant, this time not letting go once you stepped outside.

“I’ll drive you home, I’m just parked a bit far. Is that okay?” He asked. You smiled and nodded in response, too focussed on the warmth of the feeling of his hand in yours and how it sent waves of feeling straight to your heart and butterflies to your stomach.

The two of you walked in silence for about a block, his hand never wavering from yours until you were standing at a crosswalk. He stopped and looked around a bit. You were near the Christmas market, some of the lights were still on despite how late it was. The decorations were visible from where you were standing on the street, and the only light was coming from the reflection of the twinkling lights reflecting off of the snow. He turned to face you, squeezing your hand gently as he stumbled through his next few words,

“I know this is so abrupt and we just sort of met, and maybe it’s the over romanization of Christmas getting to my head but I really want to kiss you right now.”

You looked up at him, his eyes were warm and the snow was settling into the hair sticking from his beanie. It might have been exactly what he said, the romanization of meeting someone outside of a shitty diner on Christmas Eve and somehow spending the whole night with them sharing things that you hadn’t even entirely shared with your closest friends.

The more you thought about it the more you felt like it was a bad Christmas movie. But bad Christmas movies always ended in a kiss, and you weren’t about to stop the tradition now. So you grabbed him by the collar of his stupidly overpriced pea coat and crashed your lips to his before you could stop yourself. Willy settled into the kiss quickly, wrapping his hand around your waist and tugging your body into his chest. When you pulled apart, the puffs of cloudy air from your breath filled the space around you, and he smiled at you like you were the best thing he could have hoped for this Christmas, a feeling that was unspoken yet mutual.

You buried your face into his chest, stomach in knots as you overthought exactly what had just happened and what it all meant. Willy took his hand and tilted your chin up so that your eyes were looking at his, smiling at you before leaning in to kiss you again, his lips brushing yours softly.

“You never told me what you wished for.” He commented when you pulled apart.

“You somehow gave it to me, Willy.” You smiled and kissed him again, tangling your hand with his once again. You didn’t need to elaborate, because Willy understood what you meant. He had given you comfort, a feeling of not being alone on the one holiday where no one should have to be alone. He didn’t know what the future held, or what this would mean to you by the time the enchantment of the holidays wore off, but he knew that right now you were what he wanted, and he could only hope that you felt the same as you kissed him for the third time that night in the snow.

#8 weeks of christmas #william nylander #willy nylander #william nylander imagine #william nylander fic #leafs imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #william nylander x reader

221 notes · View notes