#and then i stepped in melted snow inside in socks

[luveline]

hi jade!! could we get some kbd!steve where r has had a long week at work or something like that and steve makes her favorite for dinner and she just gets all clingy and a little teary and all that mushy ushy stuff

KBD —mom!reader, 2k

The drive home feels longer, roads you’ve taken each week day for years metamorphosed into winding lanes and long stretches of tarmac. You stop at the small store just outside of your neighbourhood and attempt to pick out a treat for each girl and your sweet husband. 

It costs more than the tags say it will. Your bag breaks on the way to the car. You have to go back into the store to buy Steve another glass coke, but he deserves it. If you think about crying on the street that leads into yours, it’s your secret. 

The door opens before you’ve parked the car. Avery waits on the stoop, shifting from foot to foot in excitement. The second the car is off, she’s barrelling down the step of the house without shoes. 

“Ave! Babe!” you say, laughing as she pins you in place. “No, go back inside! It’s so cold out here!” 

“I couldn’t wait to see you!” she whines. 

Steve is there and down the steps immediately. He grabs her up and tosses her over his shoulder, laughing but clearly disapproving, “I didn’t even hear the door, just you yelling,” he says. “Shit, come on, come inside, it’s freezing!”

“Steve, you’re not wearing socks either.” 

“I had to save my girl. Where’d she go, did you see?” 

Avery giggles roaringly against his back. “Dad, put me down!” 

Steve gets Avery unharmed back inside of the house. He lets you pass and locks the front door, it’s creaking, stuck handle slammed up and key turned. He puts the chain on, like you’re being followed, checking the peephole before turning to you with this look, arms out and hands up, a sign of relief coursing through him. “My girl,” he says, cupping your face in both hands. 

You give a surprised smile. 

“I thought I was your girl!” Avery says.

“You are my girl,” Steve says, tipping your head to one side. He’s smiling like it’s his birthday, or like you just told him you found a hundred dollars in one of your pockets. “But mom’s my girl, I have a couple, you know?” He talks to Avery, stares at you. “I’m glad you’re home. I have a surprise for you and I hate waiting.”

“You do?” 

He squeezes your cheek and parts from you. “Ave, go get some socks. I’m gonna turn the heating up. Wait, let me feel those feet before you go.” 

“You are not touching my feet, you tickle.” 

“Then go get some socks on them! Gosh, you’d think I just left the front door unlocked or something, the way she ran out.” 

He shares a big smile. 

In the kitchen, the shutters are open. The lingering piles of yet to melt snow in the back yard make the whole room white, illuminating the family table, the fridge covered in magnet-pinned drawings and appointment cards, the sink and all the drying dishes. Poor Steve, he must do the dishes three times a day before you get home. 

There are things covered on the stove waiting to be reheated, and in the oven, you can see a large ceramic baking tray. 

“What are you making?” you ask. 

“That’s your surprise, honey. That and one more thing.” 

You shake your head, nonplussed. “What?” 

Steve opens the cabinet under the sink to unveil a bouquet of flowers. Which means he must’ve gotten four girls dressed to take to the store on a day where he hadn’t needed to. He must love you a whole lot to bother.

“What’s in the oven?” you ask. 

Steve puts the bouquet in its vase on the table for you to inspect. “Your favourite, duh. All the trimmings. Enough for you to have three helpings, if you want.” 

“What’s the occasion?”

“Since when do we need an occasion?” he asks, taking your wrist across the table. 

You give the flowers a good long analysis. Your favourite flowers too, with baby’s breath, carnations and peonies to bulk it out, all light pinks or whites, the odd light blue one tucked throughout. 

“I think I was having a bad day,” you say. 

“What?” he asks worriedly. “What’s wrong?” 

He should know not to ask you like that when you’re upset to begin with. He’s lucky you don’t burst into breathless sobs there and then, but your eyes go hot, your waterline fills, and he’s all to easy to collapse against for a hug. The bag at your elbow clinks against him. 

“Thank you,” you say. 

“Sure, honey, but what happened?” 

You sound squeezes as an orange for juice as you explain it, wobbly in his arms, “It’s just been such a long week, m’sorry, and I had a bad day, and I got you a glass coke from Ernie’s but the bag broke, so I had to go back in and tell them I smashed glass out there–”

“Maybe Ernie should get better bags,” he says. 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t cry over coke.” 

“No, you should never cry.” He encourages you back to kiss your nose, still smiling as he says, “Ever. They should make crying illegal, I don’t wanna see you doing it ever.” He taps you under the chin. “You’re home, cool? Nobody can bother you for the next two days, it’s just me, and your daughter, and your other daughter, and your other,” —he starts laughing as you do, infected— “daughter, and that baby. Also a daughter.” 

“Oh, yes. Who can forget my troop of girls,” you say, sniffling as he swipes under your eye with his thumb. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

You could tell him everything now, or you can save it up for tonight, tell his shoulder after dinner and a shower and a few hours of TV and chips. It’ll all feel less shitty then. And he’s drawn your attention where it should’ve been —where are your girls? 

“I’m okay. Thank you, handsome.” 

“Handsome.” He feels down your arm, pretty and warm among a cool-white kitchen. “Flirt. How about you go give your kisses and I’ll set the table?” 

“You sure?” 

He’s all smiles, it’s crazy. “The quicker I feed you the better, I’d wager. Kiss for luck?”

What luck? you think, but pout softly for a kiss that rocks your world regardless 

I’m a princess, you think, pushing the door that leads to the living room. Inside, Beth, the second eldest, is sitting with Wren, the baby. Wren is sitting on a playmat in a duckie covered onesie, smiling and giggling as Beth puts on a show. Beth’s holding an octopus toy and a Barbie, making them talk to one another in different voices. 

You don’t want to interrupt them, but Wren sees you over Beth’s head and starts doing the wiggly, nearly frantic things babies do when they’ve missed you. If you don’t grab her quickly she’ll burst into tears. 

“Beth!” you say, kneeling down beside her as you grab her sister. “Hi, bubby. What are you playing?” 

Beth reminds you that you’re beautiful, your smile on her lips as she says, “Mom! When did you come home?” 

“Just a few seconds ago.” You situate Wren on your chest for kissing, popping a few spares on Beth’s temple. “Okay? Good day?” 

“Great day!” 

“Good, I’m so glad.” 

Beth crawls to you to give you a hug from the side. Somewhere in the background, Avery calls, “Daddy! Dove is making a mess in my room AGAIN!” and Steve’s calling back, “Okay! I’ll be right there, Avery! Just gimme a minute!”

“DAD!” 

Wren gurgles at you. “Da?” she says. 

“Heard that, did you?” you ask her. 

Steve takes the long way, pushing into the living room and throwing a grin at the three of you on the floor. “Honey, I’ll be right back. The table’s set, okay? You can go sit down and I’ll start plating up.” He doubles back before he can leave, again staring at you with a smile. “Jesus, you’re perfect. I could just look at you forever.”

“Isn’t he charming?” you ask Beth. 

She gives an agreeable nod.  

The moment he’s gone you realise you actually don’t want him far away from you. It’s a strong feeling to understand it while bathed in love from two beautiful kids who missed you. Wren tries to kiss you, surely wanting one of her own, while Beth gets up and tries to persuade you too. 

“Come on, mommy. We can sit at the table.” 

So you go, mostly because she sounds adorable. You carry Wren to the table and find Steve’s already made her her soft food. You try to make baby food a few days worth at a time, but it’s nice to let her have little tastes of the same meal as everyone else. He’s blended some of the veggies into a bowl, sat cooled and waiting for her with a bib on the high chair. 

“Your daddy’s in great form today,” you mumble into her hair, sitting her down, and attempting to get the bib on her before she can grab her spoon. She’s enthusiastic, but not actually coordinated enough to use one yet. You sit down by the high chair to feed her. 

“Is it okay if I sit here?” Beth asks, taking your usual seat. 

“Yeah, of course. Want me to serve you now, or could you wait, bubby? Just until dad comes down.” 

Beth shakes her head. You forget sometimes that she’s not a baby, not a toddler, but a child big enough to grab her own knife and fork. “I’ll wait, just have some bread.” 

“Okay, bubby. Thank you. You gonna butter it yourself?” 

“Yeess,” she drags out. 

Steve brings Avery back, along with your last, grumpiest daughter, Dove. She isn’t necessarily miserable, just contrary. When she was Wren’s age she’d already mastered the word no, when she sees you, she glares at you, crying out in disbelief, “You’re in my seat!” 

“Come and sit on my lap, big girl, I gotta feed your sister.” 

“I don’t want to sit on your lap.” 

“That’s hurtful.” You pout at her with loving eyes. “Dove, didn’t you miss mommy? I missed you soooooo much.” 

Success. She climbs into your lap and lets you rub her arm while you can. Steve takes the seat on Beth’s other side, further away then you would’ve liked. He serves everybody their dinner, does it all beaming and fawning over his dinner guests. 

Your bad week fades away. By the time Steve’s stolen Wren-duty and you’ve finished your dinner, you’re feeling delightfully full and doubly loved. Like they know you need it, each of your daughters capable of doing so gives you a hug (or in Dove’s case, a kiss on the arm). 

Leaving you, and Steve, and baby Wren. 

“What do you think, milk?” he asks her. 

She seems to think it over. “Ba?” she asks. 

“Buppy? You want your buppy?” 

He pulls her out of her high chair, makes her a bottle of milk with her held to his chest, and then sits down in the chair next to you to cradle her and feed her a few ounces. 

“So,” he says, as though he isn’t exhibiting frankly audacious levels of dad-stamina and esteem, “about that long week, are you feeling okay?” 

You hold his wrist where he holds the baby. Wren’s getting so big, she takes up the length of his arm, a healthy chub around her neck and on her tummy. 

“Y/N?”

“I’m okay, yeah.” 

“Just got on top of you?” 

“Yeah, I guess so. Shit, I didn’t get you your coke or anything for dinner. I got the girls chips.” 

“It’s okay, we have time to spoil them. They ate tons.” 

“What was breakfast like after I left?” 

“Avery was so happy she didn’t have school I don’t think she noticed there were no fruit slices.” 

You fall into conversation. He leans against your shoulder as you rub the length of his arm, encouraging your clinging to the fullest extent. 

[just1cefor4ll]

—Don’t dream it’s over

Tobias Rogers x reader

summary. you have a night terror and Toby comforts you

A/N. idk i feel like this whole fanfic is stupid😭😭 this will flop so bad i alr know it

word count. 2.4k

You woke up choking on nothing—no sound, no hands on your throat, but the pressure was there, heavy in your chest, pressing down like something had followed you out of the dream and pinned you beneath it.

It took you a moment to realize you were awake.

The room was dark and quiet, but your heart thundered like the most violent of thunderstorms, hinting at the pure terror you had just woken up from. You sat up, fingers trembling against the sweat-damp sheets, trying to shake the residue of the terror still crawling under your skin. The dream itself was already blurring at the edges, melting into a vague collage of shadows, breathless panic, and something unseen that knew your name.

You looked over.

Toby— sprawled in the mess of the blanket, one leg hanging off the bed, hair sticking up at every angle. Mouth half open. Asleep.

At that moment you felt jealousy eating at you. You would’ve done anything to fall back asleep, peacefully in Toby’s arms but there was no going back to sleep. Not now.

You slipped out of bed as quietly as you could, grabbing warm clothes, thick socks, and the old blanket from the foot of the bed. You wrapped it tight around your shoulders like it might muffle the buzzing in your brain. The kitchen had the morning sun seeping through the small window above the stove, giving you a sort of comforting feeling. You filled your kettle with shaking hands, every creak of the floorboards too loud, every shadow flickering like it moved just before you looked at it.

The tea helped. A little. Steam rising, warm between your palms, a tether to something real.

You stepped outside into the cold before your thoughts could follow you.

The forest greeted you in silence. It stretched far in every direction, tall black trees cloaked in white, the snow turning the world into a frozen cathedral. The porch creaked under your weight as you walked to the hammock strung between the two thick posts. You climbed in slowly, careful not to spill the tea, and let it sway.

The cold didn’t bother you—it felt cleaner— less suffocating than the air inside. The fear didn’t go away, not exactly, but it dulled.

You sat there, eyes fixed on the edge of the woods. Every crack of ice settling in the trees made you flinch, but you didn’t move.

The sound of snow crunching approached from the thick fog, your heart stopping for a moment. At first, your chest seized, convinced it had come for you again—but no.

Deer. A small herd stepping into view a few meters out. Their coats were thick and dusted with snow, their breath fogging the air. One twitched its ears toward you, head tilted. Another bounded a few steps and scattered snow like glitter.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

It was quiet. Beautiful. Fragile in the way things are when you know they can’t last.

Then the cabin door clicked open behind you.

You didn’t flinch, you knew who it was.

Toby’s voice cracked the silence. “Well this is ju—just sad.” You closed your eyes for a second. Of course.

He took a slow step forward. “Blanket. Anxiety tea. The thousand-yard stare. You look like one of those tragic Russian poets about to dramatically fre— fr—freeze to death.”

You sipped your tea. “Well, good morning to you too.”

“Morgen,” he muttered, like the word tasted bad.

You felt the hammock lurch violently as he climbed in beside you, socked feet brushing against your leg, and then he was pulling you into his side without ceremony. He muttered a string of curses when the blanket bunched under his elbow, then yanked it over both of you, tugging you closer.

“Up at five in the goddamn morning, sitting out here like a rejected snow elf,” he grumbled, pressing his cheek to your temple. “Are you trying to die of exposure or just emotionally spiral wh—where it’s scenic?”

There was quiet again. The deer had disappeared back into the trees. The sky had started to shift— pinks and yellows shifting into a light blue softening at the edges, hinting at morning.

Toby’s voice was lower now, less sharp. “You should’ve woken me.”

“You were sleeping.”

“I’m a— always sleeping. Doesn’t mean you g— get to wander out here like a s— sad little frostbite fairy.” He shifted, resting his chin on your head. “Du bist so ein Idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot.” You never understood when he switched to his mother tongue— but that phrase had been etched into your mind after the countless of times he had said it. “Really? Because it somehow keeps b—be—eing true.” He was silent for a beat. Then added, barely audible, “Mein Idiot.” And he wasn’t even wrong.

He stayed pressed close, twitching now and then, whispering little nothings—Liebling, Schatz, mein Herz. Pressing soft kissed to your cheek, jaw and temple.

You took another sip of your tea. The heat had dulled, but the spice still lingered, sharp on your tongue. It anchored you. Toby cupped your cheek, making you look at him. “What’s going on Y/N?” He stared into your eyes, brows furrowed.

Eventually, you exhaled slowly and said, “I’m fine.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Because drinking anxiety tea on a frozen porch at ass-o’clock and staring into the snow-covered woods like you’re auditioning for a tragic ghost story is the perfect description of being fine.”

You gave him a look. “It’s just tea.”

He raised his eyebrows. “It’s cinnamon-clove-nightmare juice. That’s not casual sipping tea, Liebling. That’s ‘I woke up in a cold sweat and now I’m contemplating mortality’ tea.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t argue. Because you knew he was right.

And, annoyingly, so did he.

“I see you don’t wan—wanna talk,” he said, quieter now. “And I get that. I do. But don’t pretend you’re okay when you’re o—out here breathing like the world’s gonna collapse if you make t—too much noise.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cut in, but not sharply. “I’m not mad. Just.. don’t lie to me. Not about that.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. His eyes weren’t mocking or smug or teasing like usual. They were serious. Focused. A little tired, maybe, with the shadow of something soft and bruised underneath. He kept looking at you like he was memorizing this version of your face. The quiet one. The one you usually kept tucked away.

“You’re doing that thing with your jaw,” he said suddenly. “The one when you’re trying not to c—cry.”

You blinked.

His fingers traced down from your cheek to your jaw, tapping it lightly. “Rig—r—right there. Tight. Like you’re ho—holding something in your teeth.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. Don’t argue, Schatz, you’re terr—terrible at it.” He leaned his head back against the edge of the hammock, letting out a long breath that steamed in the cold air.

“I can’t always tell what you’re feeling,” he said. “I know I mess up sometimes. I say the wrong thing. I make it worse. But I notice. I see y—you.”

The words settled into the cold like something heavier than they should’ve been.

“I know,” you said, voice rougher now.

He looked over at you again. “You don’t have to pretend, Y/N. Not with me. You can be a wreck and I’ll still—” His voice caught slightly, so he covered it with a twitch of a grin. “I’ll still annoy the hell out of you.”

You breathed in through your nose and let your eyes fall shut for a moment. His words were the kind that didn’t demand anything from you. They just landed. Sat beside you like a warm coat you didn’t realize you needed until it was there.

Then you sighed.

“I said I’m fine Toby.”

And just like that, he blinked—expression flickering from open concern to exaggerated disbelief in one beat.

“And I call bullshit Shatz.”

You rolled your eyes, but the effort to keep your expression neutral was already slipping. Something in your throat pulled tight.

You didn’t say anything for a while and Toby decided not to push.

The sky was starting to change—slow and subtle, grey giving way to soft blue, like someone was brushing light across it with the edge of their thumb. The trees didn’t move. The world was still holding its breath.

“Y’know,” he said finally, “you’re allow— allowed to not be okay.”

You didn’t answer.

“I’m serious. Even if you wanna be the emotionally cryptic badass a— all the time. I still notice.”

You looked down at your entwined fingers.

Then up at him.

You didn’t mean to say anything. You meant to sit in silence, like always. But your hand tightened around the mug until your knuckles went pale, and the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I feel like something followed me out of it.”

Toby stilled beside you.

You kept your eyes forward, locked on the snow-laced trees, but your voice dropped into something quiet and raw. “The dream. It—something in it.. it didn’t stay in there. It crawled out with me. I know how that sounds.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Just shifted slightly, the hammock creaking.

“It’s like—” You hesitated, breath fogging in the air. “Like there’s something just outside my vision. Watching. Waiting. I know it’s not real, but I can’t convince my body. It’s like my skin knows something I don’t.”

There was a long silence.

And then your hands started shaking.

“It won’t go away,” you whispered. “That feeling. That something is wrong. That something’s here. With me. All the time. Even now.”

The tears started then—not loud, not dramatic. Just slow. Relentless.

Toby didn’t say a word. He just moved—gathered you up in his arms like it was instinct. Like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

You buried your face in his chest, hands gripping his hoodie. “I can’t make it stop,” you said into the fabric. “My brain knows there’s no one watching. That it was just a dream. But my body—my body is stuck. I keep checking the shadows. The windows. I feel like if I blink too long, something’ll be there when I open my eyes.”

He let out a quiet sigh, shifting closer to you, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand.

“Look at me, Schatz.”

You hesitated, then slowly turned your head. His eyes were softer now, focused on you with something almost tender—a rare calm in his usual storm of teasing.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said again, this time a little more firmly. “You know I—I’m right here with you. Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

You nodded slightly, still feeling the unease tugging at you, but his words grounded you, like an anchor you hadn’t known you needed.

“Stop looking ov—over your shoulder,” he said softly. “Whatever it was, it’s not here now. You’re not in that dream anymore. You’re right her—here with me, in the cold, on this stupid porch. Not in there. Understand?”

You swallowed, still hesitant but feeling a little lighter, just by the firmness in his tone.

“Okay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

“You think I’m letting some ghost take you? N— nah,” he said with a soft laugh, though it wasn’t light. “No chance. Not as long as I’m around.”

You didn’t laugh, but you felt the weight on your chest lighten just a little bit.

Toby shifted so that he was fully facing you, his body pressing just slightly against yours. He didn’t pull away or try to make it less serious.

“Listen to me,” he said, a bit more forceful now. “I get it. I really do. That shit lingers. It sticks to you like sap, and it’s har—d to shake off. But if you think for one second that I’m gonna let you be alone with it, you’re wr—wrong.”

You finally looked at him, meeting his eyes—his gaze was steady now, no teasing, no nonsense. Just the familiar softness of someone who understood.

“I’ve got you, Liebling,” he said, the words simple, but there was weight in them. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re not doing this alone.”

For a second, you just stared at him, blinking the last of the tears away, the unspoken understanding passing between you.

“I don’t know how you do that,” you murmured, a shaky exhale escaping your lips. “Make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is,” he said with a quiet confidence, though his words were steady, like a promise. “The ghosts? They don’t st— stand a chance against me.”

You couldn’t help the half-smile that tugged at the corner of your lips. “You’re an idiot.”

“True,” he agreed, his grin finally breaking through. “But I’m your i—idiot.”

His arms tightened around you, the warmth of his touch the only thing that seemed to push the icy feeling away. He didn’t say anything for a moment, letting the silence stretch comfortably between you.

“You’re safe, Schatz,” he murmured after a while, voice low. “I don’t care what the dream says, or how it feels. Nothing’s watching you. Just me. And trust me, these eyes can never get enou— en— enough of you.”

You let out a quiet breath, something in your chest loosening just a little.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” he said, the word solid and final, like a vow. “I’m here, sweet thing. Nothing’s taking you fro—from me.”

You leaned into him, resting your head against his shoulder, allowing the tension to slowly, slowly start to fade. The world was still cold, and the paranoia lingered at the edges of your mind, but for now, in the quiet of the moment, it felt easier to breathe.

“Okay,” he said. “Now that we’ve sh—shi— shared our souls and cried into each other’s hair, I vote we go inside.”

You sniffed. “You don’t have hair long enough to cry into.”

He blinked, mock-wounded. “So rude. My hair is the perfect length to cry into, thank you very much.”

You smiled weakly, which, for Toby, was a challenge—to make you at least giggle. He kissed every inch of your face, covering it with the love he had for you. Slowly, he began to tease, making his way from your jaw to your neck. You chuckled softly, pressing your hands against his chest.

“Enough, Toby. I get it,” you laughed—not too energetically, but it was still a laugh.

“Five more minutes,” he muttered. “Then I’ll go burn toast for us.”

“You always burn it.”

“It’s got layers, Liebling. It’s com—complex. It tells a story.”

“It tells a story about fire hazards.”

He gave you one final kiss to your temple and scooped you into his arms, going back into the warm embrace of the cabin.

“You know you love it,” he murmured.

And like always, he was fucking right.

© just1cefor4all— I don’t consent to my writing being reposted to other platforms or fed into AI. Translating it is also strictly prohibited. 🚫

[seellove]

X Games // sukuna x female reader // Ski/Snowboard AU

Masterlist

// (3.5k words) // Explicit - 18+

\|/ AO3

You and your husband, Sukuna, visit your vacation home at your favorite ski resort for a ski and snowboarding trip. You get in an argument the first morning with Sukuna pushing your buttons like usual. However, you exact your revenge by teasing your husband throughout the day until he snaps and can't take it anymore.

Content Tags/Warnings Throughout Work: Human Reader and Sukuna, established relationship - marriage, explicit smut, skiing and snowboarding AU

Note about Resort Lingo: greens - the easiest ski runs / blues - intermediate level ski runs / blacks&double blacks - expert level ski runs

AN: It’s cold af where I live and everyone keeps going up to the mountains to ski lol, thus this AU was born

“Sukuna, can you not wear your boots in the house?” you groan as you see him appear in the doorway of your bedroom. He’s all bundled up in warm pants and a coat and those godforsaken snow coated boots that have surely tracked ice all through the house just to become pools of melted water. His rosy cheeks and watery eyes hint at the frigid weather outside.

“I was bringing our stuff inside. Do you really expect me to take my shoes off with every trip I make?” he retorts, dropping the bags on the floor as if to prove a point. You had gotten in late to your vacation house at the ski resort and had only brought the bare minimum inside to get ready for bed. 

“And I very much appreciate you bringing everything inside, however, now there are puddles all over the floor that I’m going to step in with my socks,” you cross your arms and sigh. You feel like you rehash this every time you come up here. 

You know your husband is stubborn and hard headed, but also devious enough to know what gets under your skin and do it anyways. You’ve been together almost 8 years now, married for the last two. You know how he is by now, and based on your past experiences, you know he’s doing it on purpose by the way his mouth curls up into a smirk. 

“I’ll try to be better in the future sweetheart,” he flutters his lashes jokingly before turning around to go back outside. 

You roll your eyes and go back to putting both of your clothes into the sleek dressers. You loved the furniture in the house, Sukuna had bought it just before you got married two years ago and let you lead the charge with the interior designer to fill the space. It was the perfect combination of modern and rustic, well suited for a multimillion dollar house in a high end ski town. 

You hear Sukuna’s heavy footsteps coming back to the room. You tense up at the sound of his wet boots squeaking on the hardwood floor. 

“Sukuna. Take. The. Boots. Off.” you snap at him.

“I am, I’m done now,” he shrugs before sitting down on the side of the bed. 

You clench your jaw at his response, shooting daggers at him from behind. You can almost feel the smirk he’s surely sporting knowing he’s riled you up.

“I put your clothes into the dresser by the door,” you mutter at him.

Sukuna whips around and beams at you. 

“Thanks babe, what would I do without you?” he winks, slicking his pink hair back. You want to slap those face tattoos right off his cheek at the moment. You love him to death but boy he aggravates you sometimes. 

You roll your eyes and head down to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. It’s spacious and modern, opening up to the living room with floor to ceiling windows, showing off the snowy Mountain View that seems to stretch on forever.

Then it happens, the cold wet feeling of water seeping through your sock. 

You’re gonna fucking kill him.

No, a better idea, get your revenge. You’ve got some ideas up your sleeve on how you can get back at him. You put on your best happy poker face and head back to your bedroom. 

“Honey I got you a cup too,” you place a mug down on the nightstand. Sukuna is in the process of pulling a tight black shirt over his washboard abs, the tattoos that snake down his stomach disappearing as he gets it situated. He’s annoying but fuck he’s hot. He’s gonna get even hotter in a little while…

“Thank you dear,” he smiles, tugging you towards him and planting a kiss on your forehead. He could be sweet when he wanted, which honestly is most of the time with you. You never would have married him if he treated you in the same cold and cocky manner as the rest of the general population. 

You run your fingers down his abs that are visible through the tight base layer, relishing the sharp ridges that indicate how shredded he is. You keep going until you find the bulge in his boxer briefs that is half hard, delicately running your nails along his clothed length before giving it a few good squeezes. 

“Oh fuck,” Sukuna hisses, pushing himself into your hand.

You release him as soon as he indicates he wants more, much to his disappointment. Turning away from him, you walk across the room to get into your ski attire. You make sure to strip down and stay naked for as long as possible, not bothering to look his way, bending down for longer than necessary to fish your clothes out of the bottom drawer.

You hear Sukuna clear his throat behind you, and now you sport your own hidden smirk, knowing he does that when he’s getting restless and turned on. You turn back around so your bare chest is facing him, glancing up momentarily to meet his wide eyes, hand palming himself through his boxers.

“Are you gonna finish getting ready?” you say nonchalantly as you pull your sports bra on, never breaking eye contact.

You can tell his jaw clenches by the way his cheek scrunches up towards his eye. 

“Seems like you might want to finish some other way,” his voice has deepened with that familiar lusty tone. 

Good, everything is going according to plan. 

“We had sex last night, I’m good,” you respond, remembering how in the middle of the night you’d had one of those sloppy, barely awake fucks that sometimes just happen at 3AM. 

“Hmph,” he grunts.

***

You are waiting out on the slope, poles keeping you steady while Sukuna is on the ground, clipping his snowboard bindings in. Another great thing about the house was that it was ski in ski out, something you never dreamed you’d experience until your successful and wealthy husband. 

You’d met him at this very resort during your sophomore year of college. Your college was only an hour away from some of the best ski resorts in the country, so you and your girlfriends had rented a house for a long weekend while some of your frat friends had rented one next door. 

As frat trips usually do, more people show up than anticipated, including Ryomen Sukuna, well known heartthrob with bad boy energy. You knew him as the cocky loud guy that pulled way too many women and did way too many drugs, “DO NOT APPROACH” practically plastered all over him.

Come to find out, he and you were by far the best at snowsports from your large group. You’d kept up with him on a black diamond with ease, proving to him that you could ride with him that day….and that night as you both opted to stay behind when everyone got dinner in town, riding him on the leather couch as he licked and sucked at your tits in his face. You’d snuck around everyone playing this game all weekend, blowing by everyone during the day as you raced down the mountain while Sukuna was blowing his load into you every night. 

It didn’t stop that weekend, and hasn’t stopped since, you were inseparable after that weekend and here you are, eight years later, getting ready to shred your favorite mountain together for the nth time.

You do a few warm up runs, riding the blues near one of the smaller chair lifts to get loosened up. 

You reach the bottom, aiming for Sukuna’s red and black helmet, easily recognizable from afar.

“Ready to go up to the blacks?” he asks. He’s already unzipped his coat, always getting hot when he boards. 

“Yeah,” you answer, making your way together towards the large chairlift to carry you further up the mountain. 

You get settled on the lift together and begin the ascent, your skis and his snowboard clacking against each other as they sit suspended below you both. 

You’ve got about 7 minutes until you get to the top, just enough time to move into your next phase of revenge. 

You take off your helmet and gloves, the cold air biting at your bare skin. Without warning, you slip your hand into his exposed waistband, grabbing his dick which hardens almost instantly under your touch.

“What the fu-ohhhh,” he moans as you start to slowly pump his cock.

You feel the sticky pre cum beneath your skin, slicking everything up, allowing you to more easily glide along his length. His head falls against the back of the chair, making it sway lightly.

You watch his eyes close and his jaw tighten as he starts to thrust himself up into your hand, meeting each stroke of yours. 

You keep up the pace, keeping an eye on how close you were to the end of the ride. Probably another minute. He jerks under your touch, a deep groan leaving his lips. 

“I’m close, keep going,” he utters, eyes scrunching up in the familiar way when he’s about to finish.

That is if you’d let him, which you don’t as you release him and pull your hand out of his pants. 

“Wha’? No, why’d you stop?” he whines as he whips his head up to look at you, a distressed look on his face. 

“We’re almost at the top,” you say innocently.

“We still have like one more minute,” Sukuna says in that same whiny tone. 

You are loving this. 

“My hand was cold,” you lie, “we can keep going on the next ride up.”

“Fine,” your husband huffs, pulling up the lap bar as you approach the exit point. You both ride off to the side so Sukuna can strap himself in. He lays down on his back, staring at the sky.

“Ready?” you stare down at him.

“Gimme a minute, you got me all hard back there and it won’t go away.”

You giggle, waiting silently next to him. After another minute or so he speaks again in his scratchy voice.

“Can you go over there? Or somewhere else? Not here?” 

“Is my presence keeping you bricked?” you joke, giving a sultry tone to your words.

“Fuck off….yeah it is,” Sukuna scoffs, averting his gaze from your eyes. 

You turn your skis downhill, carving your way down the slope until you hit a bend in the run, losing sight of your poor husband. 

You’re sure he’s going to lose it on the next ride up…

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sukuna ripping down the slope, kicking up powder into the air with each sharp turn he makes. He’s fucking good at this, there’s no denying it. He passes you by and you turn to follow him, both of you carving and weaving your way down the steep slope until you reach the bottom of the first run. 

“Let’s take this lift so we can get back up faster,” Sukuna tugs at your arm.

“No I wanna ride all the way back to the bottom of the mountain,” you say, standing your ground.

Sukuna sighs.

“Alright, let’s go.” 

He turns and leaves you behind, barely missing a child as he recklessly bombs down the hill.

You laugh to yourself as you follow him down, finding him already in line waiting for you at the big lift.

You go through the usual motions: Let the operator scan your pass, push yourselves out in front of the next chair, fall back into the cushion as the seat hits the back of your legs, pull down the lap bar, Sukuna pulls his cock out-

What the fuck? Not part of the routine.

“What are you doing,” you look at him as he pulls his helmet off and sets it next to him, his sweaty pink hair plastered to his forehead.. 

“Can you touch it again?” he’s almost pleading. 

“I thought you’d never ask,” you wink at him as you start on the next phase.

This time you lean down into his lap, Sukuna cursing through his teeth as he realizes what you are about to do.

You take him in your mouth, his skin warming up quickly as you take him all the way to the back of your throat. His dick is so big, even though you’ve sucked him off more times than you can count at this point, it still takes some time to adjust. 

The high altitude makes the air already thin and hard to breathe, his thick cock being down your throat doesn’t help. You bob up and down on his length, swirling your tongue around his tip each time you come up. 

“Fuckkkkk baby,” Sukuna groans as you feel his hand on the back of your head, not pushing down yet but insinuating he’d like it a whole lot if you did. 

Your steamy breath is clouding your vision with each deep exhale. Sukuna has his own cloud above him as he gasps with each thrust into your throat. He’s thrusting up into you again, babbling under his breath.

“Thas right baby, fuckin’ suck my cock, in fron’a all these people. Makin’ me feel so fuckin’ good, fuckin’ love you, holy shit,” he stutters as you feel him starting to harden even more. 

You keep going, knowing he’s getting close. He accidentally kicks his board against your skis as he starts to swell in your mouth. 

“Fuck fuck baby keep goin’, gonna cum ba-“

You pull off with a pop of your lips, his erection staring back at you almost as angry as your husband’s face. 

“Baby! What the fuck! No! Keep going!” Sukuna’s exasperated voice cuts through the low hum of the chair lift.

“It was getting hard to breathe, do you really want me to keep sucking your dick every time I feel like I’m going to pass out?” you use a similar phrase that he used this morning.

Sukuna’s mouth falls open as he glares at you. 

“Is this still about my boots in the house? You gotta be fuckin' kidding me!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stare at him with calm bold eyes, your poker face so on point.

“You’re such a fuckin’ bitch,” he mutters under his breath as he starts to pout. 

You are doing fucking cartwheels in your mind seeing him all hot and bothered. 

“We’re doing the trees this time,” Sukuna growls next to you. 

“Okay!” you smile.

You love riding the trees, the skill needed to anticipate three steps ahead of you to wind through the forest floor successfully is a fun challenge. 

Sukuna takes off immediately, sailing past the double black diamond sign without much of a glance. You follow him, following his path through the trees. This run is usually deserted, so challenging that it’s almost unenjoyable, so you are a little annoyed that Sukuna went this direction. 

Up ahead you see him slow down and seemingly fall onto his side.

Sukuna never crashes, so you are a little concerned at the sight. You quickly but safely make your way over to him. He’s out of his bindings now, he must have come unclipped.

“Are you ok?” you ask when you come to a stop next to him. 

He doesn’t answer you at first, instead pulling his helmet off, tossing it on the snowy ground.

“What are you-“

But you can only finish that thought with a squeak as he rips your poles out of your hands, jamming them into your ski bindings, releasing your boots from the skis.

He picks you up in one arm as if you weigh nothing, his other arm flipping his snowboard over and pressing it into the snow. 

“Had enough of your little antics on the lift back there,” Sukuna growls into your neck as he bites and sucks on the sensitive skin. You gasp at his dominant actions, clinging your body against him as he shoves his snowboard pants and boxers down to his knees. 

He doesn’t even seem to be phased by the sharp cold air, his one goal now to do the same to you. He doesn’t pull yours down as far, he knows you’re more sensitive to the cold.

“Oh my god,” you moan as he shoves two of his massive fingers through your folds and into your soaked cunt. The moans and cries coming from you slice through the still silence of the forest, no one close enough to hear the way he’s fingerfucking you in the freezing cold.  

He quickly withdraws from you, the sudden emptiness making you whimper.

“Gonna fuck you, ok?” Sukuna groans as he falls backwards onto his board, knees bent so you can lean your back against his thighs. 

The cold snow on your exposed skin shocks you as some gets kicked up from his weight hitting the board. 

“Sorry,” he says, quickly brushing it off of you.

He wastes no time lining you up with his massive cock, slamming you down on his full length until your ass hits his thighs.

“Oh my god,” you cry out at the sudden stretch as his fat tip bullies its way through your walls and slams your cervix. 

Sukuna’s eyes practically roll back as you clench around his length, fingers digging into your hips. He bites his lip as he starts to thrust slowly up into you, each drag of his cock along your walls making you shudder.

The slapping sounds of his skin against yours gets louder and louder as it echoes through the forest. The deep snow absorbs most of the sounds coming from your mouths as he fucks up into you with a punishing pace. Your whole body is at his mercy as you just let him have his way with you. 

Your eyes meet, his own softening as he gives you a smirk. You can feel the depths of his love for you, you can’t explain it, but the way he makes you feel like the most important thing in this moment says it all; the way his eyes look at you with such reverence, the way he keeps your body from touching the cold ground, instead sacrificing his own, the way he shallows up his thrusts when you grimace from the depth, he’s so attuned to you and your comfort always.

You start to feel his thrusts falter, becoming more frantic, losing the rhythm he’d set as he careens toward his release. 

“I’ll make you cum after this at the house,” he says through heavy breaths as you feel his cock harden even more inside of you.

“I’m not gonna cum anyways, too cold,” you chuckle, eliciting a knowing grin from Sukuna. 

“Figured, I’ll take care of you though,” he jokes, as he pulls you down to him, capturing your lips into a desperate kiss, devouring you from the inside as he shoves his tongue into your mouth.

You try to kiss him back, but normally it’s futile when he’s close like this. The man goes absolutely feral and loses all restraint when he’s at the brink of his orgasm, so you’ve learned to just go with it instead of attempting to assert any type of control over the situation.

He grips your hips like a vice as he pulls you down hard to meet a final deep thrust, spilling himself inside of you with hot ropes of cum. His pulsing cock throbs against your walls as he empties himself within you, groaning your name loudly. 

He finally stills, the fog thick from both your mouths as you try to catch your breaths. He peppers your face with soft kisses as he pulls you tightly against his chest.

“Holy fuck I love you. That was so hot,” Sukuna sighs, letting his arms fall to his sides, sinking into the snow.

“I love you too, I’m so cold though,” you shiver against his body. 

“Oh yes, right!” Sukuna sits up quickly, pulling himself out of you, his hot cum falling to his lower abs, the steam wafting off as it hits the cold air. He pulls your pants back up and takes off his coat, wrapping it around you.

“Better?” he asks as you fall back into the snow to face him. He’s practically sitting in the snow with his pants still pulled down to his knees.

“Yeah I’m fine, but what about you? Get your bare ass out of the snow!” you gasp at him, worried he’ll get frostbite or something.

“Babe I’m fine, I’m fucking sweating,” he chuckles as he pulls his pants up.

“Even worse! Let’s get back to the house and warm up.”

“Yes ma’am,” Sukuna jumps up and pulls you up easily with him. You both strap back in and quickly make your way back to the house. 

Stopping at the back door, you both remove your gear and lean it against the exterior wall. Sukuna unlocks and goes to open the door.

“Sukuna!!” 

“What?”

“Take your fucking boots off!” 

Masterlist

[sundropflowerr]

You, Me, and Our Tree | Steve Harrington

★ Warnings: no use of y/n, post s4 where there’s a happy ending, fluff, sweet domestic vibes, established relationship, holiday cheer, cozy moments, cute banter and playful teasing (especially about christmas trees), soft kisses, mutual affection, gentle kisses, light humor, with a dash of sarcasm, comforting moments, deep connection, and a touch of nostalgia, lots of christmas decorating chaos and mismatched ornaments, cuddling, the warmth of being in love, snowstorm, cozy apartment setting.

★ Summary: On a snowy December day, you and Steve curl up together to decorate a lopsided tree, laughter filling the air as you argue over the perfect placement for each ornament. It’s warm, it’s simple, and it feels like everything you wanted. 1.7k

★ Pairings: steve harrington x gn!reader

★ Fic Inspiration: “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” - Frank Sinatra

★ Dividers: thank you to @strangergraphics for the adorable divider, it’s greatly appreciated!

★ Author’s Note: i love christmas and i love steve so two and two together brought this love child. though short, i had a blast writing this. i need to set up a christmas tree with steve asap.

The first snowstorm of the season had rolled in sometime during the early hours of the morning, soft and steady, a blanket of white slowly swallowing Hawkins.

You hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten until a snowplow rattled by just before dawn, shaking the windows and dragging you out of sleep. By the time you got up for coffee, the street outside had disappeared beneath a foot of snow, the world outside pale and silent.

It was the kind of day you’d both hoped for—one where you could stay home, tangled in blankets, too lazy to do anything but exist together. Steve, being Steve, had insisted you stay inside, warm and cozy, while he braved the cold to get a Christmas tree for the two of you. He didn’t want you dealing with the snow or the chill, though you argued you’d be fine. But Steve was relentless, refusing to let you leave the comfort of your apartment.

That’s how you ended up here, curled up on the couch, waiting for him to return with the tree.

“Don’t slip and break your neck,” you’d said, still half-asleep, as Steve grabbed his coat that morning.

He turned to you, his usual overconfident grin spreading across his face. “I’ll be fine. It’s just snow. You think it’s gonna stop me?”

You weren’t sure whether to roll your eyes or smile. Three years together and you still couldn’t decide if Steve was brave or just plain stubborn.

Probably both.

When the buzzer crackled through the quiet of your apartment, you weren’t at all surprised—it was exactly what you’d been waiting for.

“Can you let me in? I’m freezing out here.”

Steve’s voice cut through the receiver, muffled and shivering, and you buzzed him in without a word. By the time you opened the door, he was halfway up the stairs, carrying a thin, lopsided Christmas tree under one arm like it weighed nothing at all.

“Ta-da,” he said, breathless and grinning, as he kicked the door shut behind him. Snowflakes dotted his hair and shoulders, melting into tiny drops. His nose and cheeks were pink from the cold, a scarf you knitted two years ago wound haphazardly around his neck. “Look at this beauty.”

“That’s what you call a beauty?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you stepped aside to let him in.

Steve shot you a look as he leaned the tree against the wall, shaking snow out of his hair with one hand. “Don’t start. This guy’s perfect.”

“It’s leaning.”

“It’s got character,” he argued, already shedding his wet coat and boots by the door. His socks were damp, his jeans dusted with snow, and he looked entirely too proud of himself.

“Three years of this and you still pick the saddest-looking tree every time,” you teased, crossing your arms as he toed off his boots.

“Consistency’s important,” he said, straightening up and flashing you that grin that made your heart flip like it was ‘85 all over again. The grin you first fell for when you were both crammed into those stupid Scoops Ahoy uniforms, trading banter and ice cream scoops while monsters lurked under Hawkins.

Steve looked at the tree again, hands on his hips like a dad surveying a new lawn. “It’ll look better once we decorate it. Trust me.”

“Your track record isn’t great, Harrington.”

He ignored you, instead stepping closer, brushing his cold hands against your arms with a soft, teasing smile. “Missed me?”

“You’re freezing,” you muttered, but you didn’t step away. You never did. His hands were cold, his hair was wet, and he still managed to feel like home.

Before you could say anything else, Steve leaned down, his lips brushing softly against yours, a sweet, familiar kiss that felt like everything. His cold lips melted against yours, and for a moment, it was just the two of you—no snowstorm, no responsibilities, just him and you, wrapped up in the warmth of each other.

The tree didn’t take long to set up—mostly because Steve insisted on doing all the heavy lifting while you watched with an amused smile. By the time it was finally in the stand and mostly upright, he was on the floor, legs sprawled out, glaring up at the crooked branches like they’d personally wronged him.

“You think it leans more to the left or the right?” he asked.

“It’s pretty balanced,” you lied, trying to bite back a laugh.

Steve turned to you, his expression dry. “You’re lying. I can tell.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied, sinking onto the couch with a mug of hot chocolate in hand. “It’s perfect. Really.”

He squinted at you for another second before shaking his head with a chuckle. “Unbelievable.” But he stood anyway, brushing snow-dampened palms against his jeans as he moved toward you. “You’re lucky I’m in love with you, y’know.”

“You tell me that like it’s news,” you teased, and Steve dropped onto the couch beside you, letting out an exaggerated groan as he stretched his legs.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a while, mugs warm in your hands, the soft hum of the radiator filling the quiet. Outside, snow continued to fall, casting a pale glow through the window that made the room feel softer somehow, almost golden.

It was strange, you thought, how this had become your normal—Steve Harrington, tangled up on your couch, feet brushing yours under a blanket that barely covered the both of you. You remembered when all of this was still new: the way he’d knocked on your door that first Christmas after Starcourt, holding a scrappy little tree he’d picked out himself because, in his words, “Someone’s gotta keep the tradition going.”

That was three years ago. Back when you’d both been bruised, uncertain, and still trying to find something steady after everything you’d been through.

But now, as Steve leaned closer, stealing your blanket and grinning when you protested, you realized how far you’d come. How easy it was to love him after all these years.

“You know,” Steve murmured, his voice quieter now, “I think this might be the best tree yet.”

You tilted your head to look at him. “You say that every year.”

“Yeah, but I mean it this time.” He was still looking at the tree, his expression softer now, like he wasn’t really talking about the tree at all. “Just feels… right, y’know?”

You did know.

Decorating the tree turned into a whole production. Steve pulled the box of ornaments out of the hall closet, insisting on playing Christmas music from the cassette player on the bookshelf—old, crackly tunes that filled the apartment with warmth.

You handed him the lights first, watching as he tried (and failed) to untangle the string from the knot he’d stuffed it into last year.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” you asked, biting back a laugh as he scowled at the mess of wires.

“Because I’m an idiot,” Steve replied, deadpan.

“You said it, not me.”

Eventually, you took pity on him and helped untangle the mess. The two of you strung the lights together, Steve holding the tree steady while you wrapped the glowing strand around its crooked branches. By the time you plugged them in, the entire room felt warmer, the golden light spilling across the walls.

Steve grinned, hands on his hips as he admired your work. “Not bad.”

“You mean my work,” you corrected, bumping his shoulder as you reached for the ornaments.

The box was full of mismatched decorations you’d collected over the last few years: a little snowman you’d found at the flea market, a glittery star that Steve insisted on buying last year, even a couple of hand-painted ones from Dustin and Max. You handed them to Steve one at a time, watching as he placed them carefully on the branches, sticking his tongue out in concentration.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you said, smirking.

“I’m a professional,” he replied without missing a beat.

You didn’t realize how close he’d gotten until you turned to hand him the last ornament, and he was already looking at you, that soft, lopsided smile on his face.

“What?” you asked, heart skipping.

“Nothing.” He shook his head slightly, still smiling. “Just happy.”

You paused, fingers brushing his as you handed him the ornament—an old glass bauble you’d found at Scoops one summer, forgotten in a box in the stockroom. You’d kept it ever since.

“Me too,” you said quietly.

Steve turned to hang the ornament, his movements gentle, almost reverent. When he stepped back, the tree glowed softly in the corner of the room, its crooked branches dripping with lights and mismatched baubles.

It was far from perfect, but it was yours.

Later, after dinner, the two of you ended up back on the couch, wrapped up in the same too-small blanket, watching the tree flicker in the dark. The apartment smelled like pine and leftover takeout, the kind of cozy warmth that made your eyelids heavy.

Steve’s arm was around you, his thumb tracing slow circles against your shoulder. You could feel him breathing, slow and steady, his cheek resting against the top of your head.

“You know what I was thinking?” he murmured after a while.

“Hm?”

“We should get a bigger place next year. Like, with a fireplace or something. I feel like we need one of those.”

You smiled, tilting your head up to look at him. “For what? Stockings?”

“And hot chocolate,” Steve replied, smirking. “And to impress everyone when they come over.”

“You mean the kids.”

“Yeah. And Robin.”

You laughed softly, curling closer into his side. “We’ll think about it.”

Steve hummed, his hand still moving gently against your arm. “Good. ‘Cause I was already looking at—”

“Steve.”

“Right, right.” He grinned, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “We’ll think about it.”

Outside, snow tapped faintly against the windows, the streetlights casting long shadows across the floor. And as you sat there, wrapped up in Steve and the quiet of your shared apartment, you realized there was nothing else you needed.

The tree might be crooked, the lights uneven, but everything about this felt perfect.

It always did, with him.

thank you so much for reading! please like/reblog or comment if you did, it would be greatly appreciated. have a great day!

[seattlesellie]

⋆˙ ♡ b l u e b e r r y p i e ♡⋆˙

pairing: farm!ellie williams x fem!reader

an: drabble based on a small request but i cannot find it ᥫ᭡

warnings: smut (mdni), daddy kink, housewife kink, slight spit play, dom!ellie, sub!reader

ellie's breath hung in the frigid air, visible puffs of white against the backdrop of the forest. the thick layer of snow muffled her steps as she treaded cautiously, her boots sinking with each weighty stride. she gripped her bow tightly, fingers calloused, the biting wind whipped through the trees. she scanned the landscape with piercing eyes, hoping to spot even the faintest trace of movement. but the forest, remained still, its inhabitants hidden away. ellie's grip tightened on the bow, her resolve strengthening amidst the disappointment. she wouldn't return empty-handed; she wouldn't let her promise slip away like the snowflakes that melted against her heated skin.

the sound of her boots stomping against the floor enter the house before she does. you hear her steps, as she paces on the entryway— right on the porch. she takes a deep breath, opens the door and it creaks. it fucking sucked out there, it was bone chilling cold, she couldn’t find a deer to kill, not even a goddamn rabbit, and it dawns upon her. you had told her you’d wanted a feast, it was nearing on christmas time, and she failed, again. dough filled pastries and pasta is all you two were going to eat for the next two weeks, until the snow starts clearing up and the animal’s crawl out of their sheds.

she doesn’t need to huff, or to even mutter a word, for you to know the state that she’s in. all it takes is that deep sigh, as soon as the door bangs and shuts close behind her. she doesn’t greet you with her usual “look what i got, babe” wiggling her eyebrows— because she knows how much you dislike seeing her hold those animals whilst they’re hanging dead from her hand, their fur disheveled and spotted with blood. all she does is throw the keys on the table, and takes her mud filled boots off of her feet, placing them right besides the door. she crosses her arms over her chest, and watches you intently.

warm, vegetable soup is boiling inside the pot, and besides it, lay two warm bowls of white rice. it’s below forty degrees outside, and yet— your body is impeccably adorned with a milky white, frilly apron. two tiny cream-colored bows are nestled on the sides, right where your waist meets the string. her lips almost curl up to a smile, because no matter how cold it is outside, no matter how glossy her eyes get from the wind, nose red from the snow laying atop it, your home will always be warm— you, will always be warm, and truthfully? that’s all she truly cares about. you grant the soup one last swirl, before turning the flame down, and you give ellie a moment to herself too, before you turn around and greet her. you know she doesn’t like it when you see her upset. a moment passes, and then two, and there’s that deep sigh.

“hey” she murmurs, and her voice is a tad harsh, it has a raspiness to it from the weather outside. you do not respond, nor do you turn around. you signal her to come closer with your hand, and again— there’s that thing her lips do, when they curl up to a smile that she’s trying to hide. she’s not supposed to be smiling, she came home empty handed, but damn you, always making her body form those involuntary reactions. she paces towards you slowly, small steps as her socks meet the wooden floor, and again— it creaks, this place is so damn old.

you take a wooden spoon, give the soup another swirl, and this time, you scoop it out with some warm, liquid deliciousness for her to savor. you can’t help but smile, when she stands besides you with her hand on the countertop and her legs crossed together. “have a taste” you grin, and your voice is warm and saccharine and it makes her forget— that she came back home empty handed. she shuts her eyes for a moment, before blowing on the spoon. you swallow a giggle, as her red-from-the-cold lips form a small puckering movement, and she responds with a huff and a small giggle herself. she can’t help it, and a drop of the soup leaks out of the spoon from the air her nose blows.

she takes it in her mouth, and hums when it hits her tastebuds. “taste’s amazing”; and you know it does, but still, your cheeks heat up at the compliment. “thank you” you reply, and it’s small but it’s sweet. she wants to tell you that you’re fucking adorable, standing here in your apron and cooking her food, but she feels quite shitty, so she doesn’t. “and… made some rice too” you note, gesturing with a finger, poking at one of the bowls. she smiles softly, but its not a real one. she blinks, and breathes deeply. “i’m not really hungry”. ellie looks down, and tugs at the bottom of your dainty apron. you stand there for a while, and it’s a moment of understanding. she stares at the floor, and the corner of her mouth twitches. it’s gnawing at her, and you know it. she feels guilt ridden, and you know that as well. you don’t begin the conversation yourself, tiptoeing around it as if it doesn’t exist. “ellie…” you sigh, breathy— and she immediately turns her face around to the opposite direction. you’re presented with her left, freckles splattered cheek. you caress it with the pad of your thumb, slowly, delicately, her skin still cold, and she winces. her eyebrows furrow, and a small line forms between them. she grabs your hand, places her calloused one on top of it, and peels it off her face. she doesn’t get abrasive, she’s gentle, but she needs it off. she feels too culpable, to deserve your touch. “i feel fucking useless” she puffs, and she doesn’t look you in the eyes when she says it. her eyes are closed, her bottom lip between her teeth. you bring your hand over again, to brush a short hair strand away from her face, and it’s still wet from the rain, or from the snow— you wouldn’t know, it’s coal black outside, it’s only the wind that sneaks itself inside from the tiny hole on the window’s glass, that turns the weather in. you can't help but smile, a soft chuckle escaping from your lips. useless, would be the last thing you could describe ellie as.

“i’m sorry… ellie, you’re being ridiculous”, and this time, she doesn’t push you away, she lets your hand play with the loose strand of hair, twirling it around your finger. she sighs, and lifts her chin up. it quivers slightly, and she rolls her eyes. you notice a certain twinkling glisten in her them, and god— she’s trying to halt the tear threatening to stream down her cheek, and flow like a bantam river. it doesn’t leak out, just finds home on her waterline. before she replies, she shakes her head. “i’m not being ridiculous, you… you fucking do everything for me— you cook for me, and you fucking clean, and…” she stops, and finally, she looks at you. “and i know your fucking back hurts, because you hang the fucking laundry— every day“ she’s rambling, and you’re watching with a soft expression, tilting your head. “every day, you do all of these fucking things, and i’m supposed to provide for you” she points at your chest, and the tear on her waterline finally gives in and takes a drive— lands directly on her top lip.

you’re speechless, doe eyed. you know she’s wrong, but you let her finish. “you… were…” with your finger on her lip, you wipe the tear away. she sighs deeply, and takes your hand in her’s, intertwining her fingers with yours. “you were supposed to bake that… shepherds pie, for christmas. and you were so fucking excited about it, you told dina, and fucking maria and tommy and now—“ she stops, and looks down on the wooden floor. its killing her. “because of me, you can’t” you open your mouth, attempting to sneak a word in, to protest, but she doesn’t let you. she’s stubborn. “because i’m fucking useless” and it stings, but it also… tugs, at your heartstrings, in the warmest, possible way. a tear threatens to erupt from your form as well. throat feeling clogged, you want to coo at her, explain, again— how ridiculous she’s being. how much you love how she cares, this… this is better than a shepherd’s pie, her love is better than everything you’ve ever tasted, you don’t need anything, anything other than her. instead of telling her that, instead of bursting into tears in a declaration of love, you mutter something else. you know that she knows how much you love her— now, you need to be practical, find a solution to the problem she had created.

“blueberry pie”

her eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“blueberry pie?”

you bob your head up and down twice before continuing, and now— it’s getting harder to hide your smile.

“i’ll bake a blueberry pie.” your voice is even sweeter than you had intended for it to come out, dulcet, dripping with honey… and blueberry jam.

she scoffs and adverts her look to the side, before placing her forehead on yours.

“but you were so fucking… excited, about having maria taste your shepherds pie…”

you cut her off, again, and nudge her shoulder. “are you saying… my blueberry pie isn’t as good?”

she rolls her eyes, playfully, you know that’s not what she meant. “everything you cook is fucking delicious…” she takes a deep breath, and the soft smile plastered on her face washes off. she’s grounded with reality, again. “but… i just… feel fucking powerless, like i can’t do shit for you” it’s foolish, really— she had just fixed the doorknob in the upstairs bathroom, built a goddamn patio, all by herself, and… powerless? you about pout, taken back from what she had said.

“powerless?… oh, ellie…”

she sniffles, and she wants to reply, determined to explain, she is powerless, this is all her fault, no fucking shepherds pie, she practically feels like the grinch who stole christmas, but you won’t let her succumb to her own wrath. you plant a kiss, a small, delicate one, right on her cheek. your bottom lip strokes her skin before you pull away, only to form a nest on her the crook of her neck. when you breathe her in, she smells of mud, of leaves, leathery and smokey. you take her in, brush the tip of your nose on her pulse, and you can feel, and almost see— the fine hairs standing up. she shudders, and places a tremor held hand on the small of your back. with one palm on her left shoulder, and the other on her right one, you pull her in. her mouth airs a small noise, almost a whimper but barely a sigh— a mixture of both. it escapes from her throat, and she brushes her thumb on you waist, up and down.

“you are everything…” now, you whisper in her ear, and she shudders. “but powerless” you breathe in, and kiss that one sweet spot behind her ear, you know it’s her favorite. a low grunt escapes her lips, and she squeezes your waist. as you trail soft, gentle as butterflies kisses on the side of her neck, she closes her eyes, and lets you soak her in. your soft chest is pressed against her’s, and she feels that “powerless” feeling depart from her body, like a violent swarm fleeing her chest. “do you know… how much power, you have over me?” your voice is ever so soft, and ever so… submissive. oh, she thinks she knows, but she's not sure.

her hand, maneuvers itself from the small of your back to lay just above your ass, her palm just resting there, caressing the fabric of the soft skirt you donned. with her chin resting on your shoulder, you continue your submission. “do you?” you mewl, and you want her to say yes, to accept it, but she doesn’t. “no” she replies, and truthfully, she only yearns to hear you say it. you plant another kiss on her neck, but this time, it’s an open mouthed one, with your tongue poking out, the soft muscle licking her flesh, making ellie let loose of a long, suppressed groan, to bite her lip as her eyes roll back.

“i think you do know…” and you truly can’t find the words, not when you’re that close, not when you breathe in her scent— not when her hand is on top of your ass, kneading the flesh now, just above the skirt. you whisper, a soft, breathy string of “you know… ellie” and when she takes the soft globe between her fingers, and squeezes, you finally breathe it out, oh god—

“daddy”

the low, throaty groan escapes almost automatically, a knee-jerk reaction, she feels the obscene nickname send a lighting strike between her legs, in her heart, in her brain— this is exactly what she needed to hear. your daddy, the only fucking one who can make you go like this, go this dumb and this needy and this eager to please. a harsh, ringing slap on your ass, still covered by the soft material, follows that very same groan. her other hand moves lower to knead it between her fingers again, clawing at the flesh, marking it as her’s. you mewl it again, “daddy”, and its breathless now, unable to stop, longer and needier— and the ring of the word “fuck”, that she mutters as a response, is bordering on primal.

“yeah?” she voices, raspy and deep, and you know you have clouded her mind now. powerless… who? you hum, when she grabs your tit between her hand, tugs at it and squeezes, twitches the nipple right over your bra, she knows exactly where it is, and exactly how hard to pinch it for her to hear her favorite sound in the whole entire world, that high pitched moan of her name. “let me show you, y—eah?” you stutter, and although it is not even a question, it sounds like you’re begging. “say it again” ellie orders, and although it is phrased as an order, it sounds like she’s begging. “daddy…” you whisper in her ear, kissing and licking her lobe, making her whimper a long, breathy sound of your name.

it is again, primal— how quickly and fervently she peels off the straps of your top, letting the skirt cascade off of your body— and when it comes to the frilly, little apron; “keep it on”, only taking the top part of it off, so your tits can spill out, on full display for ellie. before she takes the soft, silky smooth mounds between her lips— she spits, letting the string of her own saliva stream on the flesh, before it reaches your nipples, teasing her and flowing oh so slowly, before making the tender, now-hard buds glisten with slick. with her forehead on yours, her gaze is fixated upon them. you can feel her heartbeat, growing faster and faster. “fucking christ” she huffs, before smearing her spit on your nipples with the pad of her thumb. you wince and squeal when she flicks them left and right. “so sensitive, s’fucking cute” she coos, before latching her needy mouth onto them, sucking them in, leaving dark, purple marks the harder she sucks. she takes the nipple between her teeth, bites— here’s that fucking squeal of yours again, so she moans, never neglecting the other tit, her fingers toying with the nipple, moving it in small circles so you fucking cunt can feel it. with a loud “ahh” sound, she takes the sensitive bud out of her mouth.

when she looks at you, staring into your eyes, with a look that’s so impatient, and hungry, with a look that says “you’re fucking mine”, and "i fucking own you", you bite your lip so hard it almost draws blood. doe eyed, she takes your chin between her index and her pointer. she doesn’t need to mutter a word, before you’re down on your knees, hitting the floor with a thud. that’s ought to leave a mark. nevertheless, she’d love it, all of it. when she towers over you, with that dark gaze and those burning green eyes, it’s hard not to feel small, and powerless. except, you have all the power in the world. letting her have this, have you, that’s more powerful than it all.

she pats the top of your head, rubs it, and waits for your next move. you place your head on her thigh, and caress it, letting the harsh material of her jeans burn through your cheek. “there she is…” she coos, teasingly so, and places her thumb on your lower lip. she grazes it from side to side, toying with the plush, damp flesh.

“suck”

oh, you do. you suck it so hard you’re almost biting it, your cheeks hollowing, keeping your eyes on her while the obscene noises of her thumb inside of your mouth fill the room, wet and nasty and loud. she stares down, nodding to you, her nods saying “that’s my good girl” but her mouth shut and formed in a tight line, groaning as if you’re sucking on her goddamn cock, making that tickling pain right between her legs, covered by too many layers of fabric, grow more and more distracting. you can feel it too— that sensation, deep in your core. its hard, it's almost impossible, not to begin humping the floor. her pupils grow even larger in size when you start moaning around her thumb, worshipping it, worshipping her. she watches you, her mouth agape, chasing your eyes, and when you close them ever so slightly, she takes a sharp breath. "look at you..." she coos, and you know she means look at how pathetic you are, look at the drool running down your chin, making a mess, all for her. she gives a hum of satisfaction, and takes her thumb out of your mouth.

when you look at her again, you're transfixed, mind foggy with your eyes lazily half shut. she nods her head up and down, because she knows what you yearn to do next. you don't have to say a word, before she yanks the belt off of her pants, in one swift motion, and then— undoes the button, and the zipper as well. ellie throws the belt on the floor, violently so, and it makes your whole body jump with a squeal.

"awh... did i scare you?" she coos, and caresses her hand slowly, from the top of your forehead, running it all along the pillowy skin of your cheeks, to the bottom of your chin. with her index and her pointer, she grabs your chin, and lower's your head over so your eyes fixate on her jean-covered cunt. poor you, you wait for her to take them off. except, she doesn't. with her hand on the back of your head, she pushes you forward, making the tip of your nose graze her heat, and you swear to god himself— you can smell her already, you know that she's soaking, getting off on you sucking her thumb like that, getting off on your absolute submission to her. she has to restrain herself from using you fully, from bumping your head forward and forcing you to get her to cum through her pants, she knows she can— but instead, when she looks right into your eyes, those poor, glassy eyes, she gets down on her knees to face you. her expression softens, and she rubs her thumb on your cheek. you almost purr, tilting your head so you fit perfectly in it.

"you're so good to me..." she whispers, and chuckles softly when she sees the curl of your lip. "so good..." she repeats, and you hum, accepting her praise. she plants a soft, loving kiss on your forehead. "pretty little housewife... always takin' care of me, huh?" you nod, accepting again, although now, it feels as if she's purely speaking to herself. "always" you whisper back, nodding your head softly. "you wanna make me feel good?... hm?" she murmurs, trailing small circles on your cheek, moving her finger downwards lightly, so that it grazes over your sensitive nipple, and again— she toys with the bud, awestruck at how sensitive you get, chuckling when the sweet little squeal escapes your lips again.

"yes..." you reply softly, and it's breathy, the eagerness oh so apparent in your voice.

"f'course you do..."

she gets up from her knees, bit by bit, and leans her back on the fridge. you look up at her, and place your thumbs inside of her jeans. she nod's softly, signaling you that it's time now. take them off.

when you do, you whine.

her grey boxers, perfectly tight on her thighs, have a delicious, wet patch right where the fabric meets her hole. "mhh'ellie..." you whine, and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, inhaling deeply. "you're so wet..." you murmur against her skin, taking in what you did. you're copying her, imitating, she knows that. "all for me...?" you whisper, and then she tsk's. "dont play with me" she breathlessly huffs— but why? it's so much fun, after all.

"are you shy, daddy?" you question, and she feels her cheeks burning a crimson red. "shut up" she murmurs, and it's a half chuckle— half threat.

"you're so cute" you tease, a soft, adorable smile when you speak. "hey... hey—" she takes hold of your chin again.

"quit being a fucking brat, ju— oh... my.... god" in the midst of her sentence, your tongue met her clothed clit. eagerly, you teased it up and down with the tip of your pink muscle, and you felt ellie shaking.

her whole body tenses, as soon as you begin flickering it, taking her button between your teeth, not once daring to break your eye contact. your eyes scream submission, but your movements— scream mine. you flatten your tongue against her slit and her knees almost give in. with a fist on your scalp, her body— involuntarily, slips down slightly off of the fridge, her ass meets the metal with a thud, she's almost squatting.

her mind is clouded with chants of "fucking needed this"

you kiss it, nice and wet. "you like it, daddy?" bold, full on cocky and bratty is what you are. you know you made her desperate so you have the power to dare— and tease her on and on. she doesn't reply, a choked out whine coming from her throat. she mumbles incoherently, something that sounds like "you wait for your fucking turn and then you'll see" before she pulls down her boxers, grabs you by the back of your neck and pushes you in.

"fuuuuu" she chokes out, barely able to continue her words, when your lips wrap around her swollen clit, messily sucking it in. "just like... fuck— just like that..." now, she's purely controlling your motions, grinding on you. you flatten out your tongue with a whimper and incoherently breathe out; "da— ddy". with your voice choked up, mouth swollen and used, she looks down at you, her eyes threatening to close, and yet, she smiles. darkly so, and teasingly. "such a—" she grunts, a "psh" noise escaping her lips, "good— fucking girl..."

you can't help but let your hand wander down your skirt, squeezing and pinching and caressing your thighs like she'd do, teasing yourself all over your panties, rubbing your leaking hole as she fucks herself on top of you. when she notices your little hand circling your clit, she wants to coo, wants to warn you— but she doesn't. she chuckles, "can't fucking help... fuck—" you barely let her finish her sentence again, before you take her clit between your teeth and gnaw at it gently. "s'fucking much— can't even fucking help yourself— can you?" every word that leaves her mouth feels as if it's being held hostage, trying to escape, sounding muffled and choked up.

of course you need to cum when your mouth is on her cunt, of course you need to cum when she's using you like this, it's so obvious, it's so... you, she attempts to be feigned by it, but instead, she laughs. "go on... make yourself cum— g-go on" she stutters, and when she does, you suck harder on the bud than you've ever sucked in your life, with a sweet, high pitched moan. you almost have to physically push your fingers out of your cunt, whining as soon as the feeling of being empty washes over you, and then— you push them deep inside ellie’s tight, warm hole.

she barely has time to response, jolting at the intrusion, muttering a string of curse words under her breath, pulling her head back. "dirty— fuckin'..."

your juices mix with her's, and the sounds that your mouth leaves are obscene, wet and sticky, moaning like you've never tasted anything better in your life— which you probably hadn't. "you gonna cum, daddy?" you probe, breathlessly so, and it's humorous, that brave attitude that washes over you when she's a mess splattered against the fridge, bucking her hips and— cumming. all over your mouth.

you lick it up, suck all of the juices in, from her tight hole and then all over her slit, swallowing every last bit.

before you manage to get up, she lifts you up.

you both stand there for a while, forehead to forehead, not talking, barely breathing on each other.

you blink twice, and then once more.

"powerless?" you quip, silently.

she's breathless, and before she replies, she attacks your neck with sweet, soft kisses.

"you fucking.... you fucking—", she picks you up and you squeal. she pushes you against the counter and she... giggles?

"how did i fucking..." she pecks your lips, and pecks it again, and again, and again— you can't stop laughing, she's tickling you all over and the tears start forming in the corners of your eyes.

"how did get so fucking lucky?" she pecks again, on your cheek now. "huh?" she repeats, and fuck— that smile.

"how did i get so fucking... lucky"

how did she, truly?

"go upstairs and grab it" she orders, but waits for your response. "what?" you speak, in between sweet as honey giggles.

"up... stairs"

"what's upstairs?"

she tilts her head, and smirks.

"what's upst—... oh"

oh.

[macfrog]

wish you were here | one shot

thank you lovely anon for this gorgeous request which felt like a huge mug of hot chocolate and a pair of socks fresh from the dryer to write. i hope you enjoy.

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you and joel skip jackson’s annual holiday party in favor of some alone time. (not that kind you filthy animals it’s the HOLIDAYS)

warnings: fluff lmao, thirty-year age gap and u can stay mad, set around the holidays but no mention of christmas etc, nothing but love and two hints of sex. that's all. oh and no guitars were harmed in the making of this - joel canonically goes and gets the guitar after the fic ends. dw.

word count: 1.9k 

main masterlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🤎

Jackson is alive with a thrumming heartbeat. Pulsing through the air, bumping gently against the quick-lying snow and filling the otherwise silent night. A steady, rhythmic heartbeat.  

A heartbeat which sounds a lot like Blue Monday, but a heartbeat nonetheless.

The holiday party is in full swing down in the Tipsy Bison. Seven o’clock ‘til late! on flyers plastered all over the commune for the last month. Tommy had tried relentlessly to convince Joel this morning on patrol – It’ll be a good night; You oughta come along, show face at least. At the same time, Maria was on your back about it in the stables.

Y’all hardly come to anything fun, she’d argued.

We come to stuff.

When’s the last time you came to anythin’?

We were – we were at Mike’s birthday dinner.

What – five months ago?

We like alone time.

Alone time? You’re never apart from one another.

Alone time – together.

Neither attempt had been successful. Tommy and Maria had exchanged a disheartened glance as the two brothers passed their horses to you on their return. Joel clipped your cheek, took his gloves off and fixed them onto your frozen hands before making off for home, a proud grin on his face. You’d held your own as well as he had: you two had a clear evening ahead.

He had lit and nurtured a fire, had made himself a coffee and heaped half a damn bag of tiny marshmallows into a hot chocolate for you, but when he’d come through to take his place on the couch, you were already stood out front.

It’s bitter out – a soft breeze, but a thick chill on its wings. The sky a washed gray, heavy clouds overhead. He slips outside, setting the mugs down on the table, and slings a blanket over your shoulders. Kisses the curve of your neck, scruff of his beard tickling your skin.

‘s freezing, pretty bird.

Then keep me warm, you whisper, turning into his arms. He steps back, settling into his chair, flicking his fingers for you to fall down into his wide lap.

You curl up against his torso, your head hooked beneath his jaw. Wonder how drunk Tommy is by now. What is it – nine?

His wrist lifts, moonlight gleaming in the reflection of his broken watch face. Just gone ten. I bet he’s on his ass already.

You giggle into his shirt, breathing in the scent of the pine trees, the smoke from stoking the fire inside, the bite of hot coffee. The echo of voices swelling in merry song turns your attention down the street – two figures hooked onto one another, stumbling through the powdered snow. Some slurred rendition of September melting into All Night Long before the smaller of the two tugs their partner off into a darkened house.

Joel laughs to himself, the bristle of his beard catching on your hair as he shakes his head.

You ask him softly, Will you play me something?

His breath soars, a cloud hot and pale white, past your temple and up into the pastel sky. Gets swallowed somewhere overhead by the wash of warmth from the porch light. He turns his mug until the owl faces the street, the bottom gnawing against the wooden armrest of his chair.

I’m serious.

What do you wanna hear?

That one you’re always practicin’. The plucking one.

Another rumble between your shoulder blades. His chest jolts with a solid laugh. The pluckin’ one.

You know the one.

I know the one.

Will you play it, if I go get the guitar?

Baby, his lungs nudge on your back as they fill, it’s late. We’ll wake the neighbors.

Everyone’s at the dance. C’mon.

And he can’t argue with that. The entire street lies dark, vacant. Yours is the only house with soft-glowing eyes, the muted orange of the fire flickering behind closed blinds. Two figures, tangled in a chair on the dim front porch; a hunting jacket around his shoulders, and his body around yours.

You tug on the blanket, wrapping it around your elbows as you stand. Just once. Play me it once.

Joel’s looking up at you, setting his mug down on the table. Play you it as many times as you want, pretty bird. Just – quietly.

There’s a spring in your step that drags another chuckle from Joel’s lips: the kind that drips like honey down your throat and warms the pit of your stomach – a sweet, comforting thing, a sound you swear was made purposefully for you. Divine and deliberate.

Like – all of him. Like the shape of your name in his mouth, the curl of his tongue as the sound surfs over it. Like the curve of his hand and the way yours so neatly molds into it.

The way it did the day he found you, crouched in the gray backroom of some butchers deep in the city, and took you all the way back to Jackson. Let you cling to him on the back of his horse; your weak arms around his waist, anchored by the heavy jacket he’d thrown over your back. Your ear between his shoulder blades. And that was that.

Fifty-six. One brown-turned-silver hair away from thirty years your senior. He still remembers before. Talks about movies, talks about computers. Talks about Sarah, when the sun hits the wall at a certain angle and he reckons he could see her standing right there, the soft shadow of her hair dark against the golden wall. When you make a joke and he laughs a ghostly sort of laugh, like he’s hearing the echo of her voice make the same quip three decades ago. He always says she would’ve loved you; you like to think he’s right.

He found you: a lonely little broken heart, and he pulled you to your feet with a rough palm against your own. Hands calloused only from years spent carving wood and pressing the hard strings of his guitar into the fretboard, and nothing else. No violence and no bloodshed; no survival or threat. Music, and patience, and kindness.

And maybe you found him, too, in the same sort of way: roughened up, awkward and messy stitches holding him together. Maybe the two of you nursed one another back to life; each brush of your hands in the dining hall and each meaningful glance while out on patrol sewing those wounds up a little tighter, a little safer.

He sits forward when you hold the instrument out, sweeping a broad palm down the slope of the body. Pinches the pegs one by one, twisting them while his thumb taps on each string.

Come here, he says, beckoning you forward with a flick of his chin. He taps on the seam of his jeans, widens his legs for you to curl up between them at his feet – the way you always do.

Your elbows hook over his thigh, ear pressed against the inside of his knee. Staring up, blinking slowly, eyes glazed with the cold and with the light and with love.

He plucks gently, slow at first. Letting the strings snap with a twang, vibrating enough that you feel the small rattle in your jaw. Your eyes fall closed, head rocking with the light tap of his heel on the porch. When you peer at him through your lashes, he’s watching the skilled movements of his fingers intently; as if he’s as much a spectator as you are – his body doing all of the thinking and working for him.

 So, he sings, and your stomach melts to a puddle, so you think you can tell –

Your eyes close again, the low rumble of his voice crisp in your ears. Like thunder, like the promise of something great and mighty. Something moving, something rolling and changing the landscape of your body, your mind and your soul. The lines between living and dying begin to blur, the seam tearing between this plain and the next.

Did they get you to trade – your lips parting to whisper the words with him – your heroes for ghosts?

His thumbnail dragging down the strings, his strong fingers flitting between chords. Like he was made to sit here, in the dead of night, and carve a space in the world for himself and his voice and for you – lain in the safe scope of his body, protected by his breadth and brawn and lulled by his sweet song.

His breadth and brawn – the parts of him which have kept him standing here. His skeleton, his muscle. But the thing that keeps you warm at night, buried side by side under a threadbare woolen sheet together, the thing that you link your arms around as he leads you home from the nights you dare to visit the Tipsy Bison: are his heart, his flesh, the gray-singed hair which falls in a featherlight wave over his forehead. The hair you sweep from his eyes when he’s on top of you, his hips cradled in yours, that all-encompassing feeling of every part of him filling every part of you.

It all feels that way. The warmth of him, the feeling of being wrapped around him. Hooked around his body, bones intertwined. Absorbing one another, his words breathing life into yours, slowly growing louder and braver with each pluck and strum of music.

We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

Your makeups entangling, ribcages locking together, flesh meeting flesh and hair twisting until one day, Tommy will come looking for his brother and find the two of you here on your porch, your arms still draped over Joel’s thigh and his fingers still mid-song. Stuck, alone, together.

What have we found? Joel looks down to you as though asking the question – his eyebrows raised – and you reply, a dumb smile across your lips, The same old fears, and then, together –

Wish you were here.

He plays until his fingers must start to hurt, the way he clenches and loosens his fist. Setting the guitar against your chair, hands hooking under your arms to pull you back up to him.

That one your favorite? he asks, the cold tip of his nose circling yours.

You nod. Only when you sing it.

I like the way we sound together.

You smile, shrinking into his chest again, your fingers surfing back and forth on the worn shirt. I like the way we do a lot of things together.

His hands slip beneath the fabric of your shirt, massaging your waist. He dots a trail of light, damp kisses along your forehead, dipping to your temple, the angle of your cheek until your jaw lifts and his lips are against yours, his tongue parting to lick purposefully at yours.

I love you, pretty bird, he whispers, the words falling sweet and fair on your tongue.

You take a moment to let them seep into your skin. ‘s the first time you’ve ever said that, you tell him.

Joel smiles. He knows. But you knew it already, he counters.

You know, too. Mhm.

Alright, he groans, slipping his hands under your thighs and hoisting you up to his height, bedtime.

It’s only ten, you complain, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders as he carries you inside. It’s too early to sleep – Joel.

Didn’t say we were goin’ to sleep, he mumbles, kicking the door shut.

[peachiejeongin]

Sleepless Storytimes | Jeongin

Day 5 of the 12 Days of Staymas!

Synopsis: Jeongin cannot sleep on Christmas Eve, so you read him a bedtime story to help him doze off.

Pairing: bf!Jeongin x reader

Genre: Fluff!

Warnings: None!

Notice: Hello, darlings! Welcome to day 5! Enjoy this cozy story, and make sure to go check out the other fictions!

Snow fell softly outside, blanketing the darkened world in a layer of stillness that could have lulled anyone to sleep. Yet, Jeongin was not just anyone - not tonight, at least. He sat curled up against the headboard, his legs tucked under the red-and-white plaid blanket. He had a faint pout plastered upon his lips, which was illuminated by the overhead light of the ceiling-fan.

He traced patterns onto his pajama pants absentmindedly, his fingers moving as if they had no other place to reside. The weariness in his eyes contrasted the playful grin he had beamed all day as he helped decorate the Christmass tree, snuck cookies from the kitchen, and hummed Christmas carols under his breath.

You stood in the doorway, watching him for a moment. He did not notice you; he was too caught up in his silent battle against insomnia.

"Innie?" you called softly, breaking the silence. His head snapped up, his dark, tired eyes meeting yours.

"Oh," he replied, his voice just above a whisper. "Hey." You stepped inside of the room, the wooden floor chilled under your socks; you gently glided to the bed.

"Still can't sleep?"

Jeongin shook his head, his hair falling messily over his forehead. He looked almost younger like this, as if he was a vulnerable, innocent child.

"I don't know why," he admitted, the pout in his voice matching the output of his lips.

"Well, you'll never fall asleep just sitting there," you teased, perching on the edge of the bed. "Scoot over."

"What are you-"

"Just scoot!" you insisted, grabbing a book from the nearby shelf as Jeongin reluctantly made room for you. You slid under the blanket beside him, the warmth immediately seeping into your skin. The two of you fit snugly together, and the faint scent of Jeongin's shampoo drifted towards you; it was fresh and soft, like pine needles dusted with snow.

"What are you doing?" He looked at you with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.

"Hopping into bed with you," you responded innocently, cracking open the book. The cover gleamed faintly in the fluorescence: 'The Night Before Christmas.'

"You think a story will help?" Jeongin quirked an eyebrow.

"Absolutely," you retaliated, settling into the covers. "Now, hush. I'm doing this for your sake."

Jeongin huffed, but leaned against you nevertheless, his head resting on your shoulder. As you began to read, your voice soft and steady, his body relaxed bit by bit. The story wove a cozy spell around you both, every word painting vivid pictures of sleigh bells, snowy rooftops, and a quiet household.

At some point, Jeongin had shifted, draping an arm lazily across your lap.

"You're warm," he mumbled, his tone heavy with drowsiness.

"You're clingy," you teased playfully, though you did not pull away. His cheek pressed against your chest as he turned, and your heart stuttered at the feeling of his breath ghosting over your collarbone.

"Not like you care," he murmured, a faint smile washing over his lips.

You sighed, threading your fingers through his hair without thinking. It was softer than it looked, and you could feel the tension melting out of him with every pass. The weight of him against you was comforting, grounding, as if he was anchoring you in this silent moment.

The story continued, your voice filling the silence, but you were not sure he was even listening anymore. His breaths were slower now, his body was slack against yours, and his lashes were resting against his cheeks. His expression was so peaceful, and it made your heart speed up.

"Baby?" you whispered, not wanting to wake him but feeling an urge to check. He hummed in response, his arms tightening slightly around your waist.

"Don't stop reading," he uttered, half-asleep.

"You're already asleep." A soft laugh escaped you.

"Mm-mm," he protested weakly, nuzzling impossibly closer to you. "Almost, though."

It was impossible not to smile as you fixed the comforter overtop the both of you, tucking it around his shoulders. The lights cast a halo around his face, highlighting the soft curve of his lips and the faint flush on his cheeks. You traced an imaginary pattern along his back, marveling at how perfectly he fit there, curled up against you like a missing puzzle piece.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, muffling the world in a peaceful hush. It felt like nothing else mattered - not time, not the place - just the two of you cocooned together in warmth and solitude.

As Jeongin's breathing finally evened out, you leaned down to press a feather-light kiss to his temple.

"Merry Christmas, Innie," you whispered gently, caressing his cheek softly.

His lips curled into the faintest smile, and though he did not reply, the way he held onto you said everything he could not.

You stayed like that for the rest of the night as the comfort of darkness wrapped you both in its embrace. You glanced down at Jeongin once more before you yourself fell into dreamland.

He was silent, perfect, and entirely yours.

[marvelwitchergilmore]

No Longer Alone

Summary: Logan Howlett x Fe!Reader -> Logan shows up for you even when you think you don't need him.

Disclaimer: Lot of angst, reader has painful flashbacks and finds out about her hidden past. Mentions of torture and being experimented on. Happy ending of sorts. Logan shows up for the reader -- kind of more on a platonic level but could be interpreted as more. Not Proof Read.

You’d been standing in melting snow for fifteen minutes. 

Wrapped up warm from a tank, long sleeve top, zipper hoodie, leather jacket, jeans, thermal socks and boots, the snow and the cold air wasn’t making its way into your skin. But there was still a chill. 

All around you it was as if no time had passed at all. The door had rusted a little with time, but its green colour still remained. Weeds still sprung up around the edge of the grass patches outside. The netting around the grounds couldn’t be used anymore, but they were still there. 

Your nose was already turning red from the cold air, and the tips of your fingers were starting to feel the chill, but it still didn’t equal anything you were feeling inside. 

You sniffed and took a few steps back, looking at the same concrete blocks you’d looked at for almost two years. Then you looked up and took a breath. 

You could still hear the noises, see the lab coats running around, hear the whirring of machines and the screams of all those who were tested before you, and after you. 

Yet you survived. 

“Are you going in, or did you just plan to stand out in the cold all day?”

Your head whipped to the right and you were met with Logan walking towards you. You hadn’t even heard him before he spoke. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked, looking around before looking back at him. 

“Freezing my ass off.” He answered. “Relax, no one else is here. It’s just me. So, this is it then?”

He took a look over the building in front of you as he stood beside you. You didn’t know what to say but your emotions landed on annoyed. A stall halt in your breathing forced you to look away from him and back at the building. 

“Yeah, this is it,” you said. “How did you-”

“Rogue. She saw you leave this morning.” Logan told you honestly. 

“Oh.”

Logan stayed with you in the short silence that followed. 

“Why are you here, Logan?”

He could lie, he could be sarcastic. But he opted for the truth. 

“I’ve done this once before, on my own,” he said. “I figured I wouldn’t let you go through the same thing. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

You knew that was true, but despite being alive for decades, you still hadn’t come to fully accept the concept for yourself. You were there for everyone else; they just couldn’t be there for you. 

“I don’t know what’s gonna be in there, or how it’s going to affect me,” you warned him. 

In recent months, your persistent headaches have been getting more vicious. From the odd dull ache behind one of your eyes, to full blow migraines that would make you want to sleep for months, if you could even get to sleep. All the while small noises and pictures would flash across your mind. 

On the rare occasion you did get some sleep, you’d wake because of a nightmare. Well, that you had thought was a nightmare until two weeks ago when it became clear your nightmares were actually memories. 

It happened in your classroom. 

One minute you were teaching your kids about the history of the British Empire when all of a sudden the attack happened faster than you could comprehend. It sent you to the floor and a second later Rogue had gone to find a teacher. She had found Logan and Storm in the hallway. 

Your grip on the leg of your blackboard was turning your knuckles white from how fiercely you were holding on, all in the hopes you wouldn’t scream out in pain. 

“Storm, get them out of here.”

She started ushering concerned and scared kids out of the classroom as Logan ran over to you and knelt on the floor beside you. He was calling your name but it was almost as if you couldn’t hear him. 

The whirring and bubbling and crashing noises ringing in your ears were too loud, then the screaming started. Before you knew it, pictures joined the noises. An abandoned army base, subjects locked in clear box rooms, each one getting sicker than the last. 

Then it was your turn. 

Eventually, Logan’s voice broke through and you managed to push past the pain and open your eyes in order to remind yourself where you were. The noise drowned away and so did the images of people in lab coats in your classroom. 

Then all you saw was Logan. 

“Hey,” Logan said to you as his arms came around you, pushing the hair from your face so he could see your eyes clearly. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

“I-I don’t know.”

Logan looked over his shoulder. “Rogue, run and tell Jean to go to her lab.”

“What about Y/n?”

“I’ll take care of her, just go.”

The young girl nodded and ran directly out of the room, shouting behind her to Storm about what she was doing. As Storm came back into the classroom she was met with Logan lifting you from the ground as you stood weakly. 

It was two days of tests and talks with the Professor before being given time away from teaching – Logan offered to cover your lessons – and having more conversations which led to a reading from the Professor and another attack that provided you with more information to piece together. 

Then, one evening, smaller, less intense memories came flooding back giving you the full picture. 

Still standing beside you, Logan just gave you a reassuring smile. “I’ve lived for a long time. I don’t think there is anything that can happen that I won’t be able to deal with.”

You had to look away from him as your mind had a war with itself. You wanted to do it alone; you felt you had to. You’d been alive for a long time, too, and for most of it, you’d been alone. You’d faced a lot of fears alone, so why couldn’t you face this one alone, too? 

But the other part of you wanted to grip onto Logan’s hand for dear life and let him join you so, for once in your life, you didn’t have to be alone when facing something. Even if he didn’t know what would happen by the time you both walked back outside, you wouldn’t be the only one carrying that information. 

Looking at the door, you took in a deep breath and let it out, trying to force away the tears long enough to be able to see everything clearly. 

Then you took a step forward, and another, and another. 

From behind you, Logan smiled softly before following behind you as you walked towards the doors and reached for the handle. With your second hand over the middle of the doors where they met, you both heard a small click before you pulled at the door handle and the door creaked open and scraped against the ground a little. 

Inside was damp and cold, water dripping from the pipes that were running above your heads. You looked around before finding the mains switch and lifting up the lever. All the lights came on and whatever machinery was inside the building came to life for the first time in, probably, fifty years or more. 

You looked at Logan for reassurance and he nodded. He couldn’t hear anything, or rather, anyone that you couldn’t. You continued walking down the hallway, everything slowly becoming more and more familiar. 

On the ground, both yours and Logan’s boots either clicked against the drying concrete or splashed in the small piles of water that were gathering. 

“Recognise anything?”

“Too much.” Your voice was quiet, if a little hard. You continued to look around, more and more memories flooding through your mind. Then you powered through a set of doors, Logan jogging a little to catch up to you. 

“Where are you going?”

You turned down a few more corridors. Logan called out your name but it fell of deaf ears and you made it through a final set of metal doors. 

The lights came on inside but he couldn’t see anything but your silhouette.

“Where are you-” 

As Logan stopped by your side, he looked around. Two sides of the hallway, boxes no bigger than single prison cells lined the walls. Slowly you started to walk down it and the further you and Logan got, the more lights flicked on with the motion. 

The hallway seemed to just get longer and longer, and it just kept going, but you stopped a little over halfway down. 

Logan seemed to spin on his feet. “How many are even-”

“Three hundred and sixty. One eighty on each side, one research subject in each. Some men, some women. Some were just kids. All were those without family. Nobody misses or mourns them if something happens. No one asked questions about them when they went out one morning to pick up a loaf of bread or some eggs.”

Then you said something that sent the dagger in Logan’s heart ripping straight down with a blunt edge. 

“This one was mine.”

You could still feel what it was like; cowering and shivering in the corner, begging for death. All you wanted was for the pain in your veins to stop. Eventually you blacked out and woke back up strapped to a cold metal table because you were like five others. You’d survived the first night. 

The tests continued like that for weeks until one morning you woke up in a bed. It was lumpy and hard but it was better than the cold metal table. 

Until you collapsed in the Professor’s office ten days after your first attack in the classroom, you’d had no idea what had happened before you woke up in a stuffy motel room confused and in pain. 

From the stuffy motel room, you’d kept the knowledge of your sudden powers under wraps and signed up to help fill in the numbers at the motel owner’s club. The woman that ran it was a doctor at the hospital and they were looking for more nurses. Since you didn’t know anything other than your name, you signed up and found yourself a natural. 

From that moment on you built a life into one that you recognised. Eventually, your life from ‘before’ became nothing but a passing thought. Nobody had come looking for you, so maybe it wasn’t important to know what happened before. 

Eventually you were found in a hospital in New York by a man in a wheelchair complaining of a chesty cough. Then he told you the real reason he’d come to find you. 

Eventually you moved away from the clear box and walked back down the hallway towards the doors and started going in and out of each different room. Some of them you explained to Logan, others he could recognise himself.

Then, as you stood at the side of the metal table, you touched the surface and talked to Logan. 

“Why was I the only one to survive?”

Logan turned around from the file littered desk and looked at you. “How do you know you’re the only one?”

“Because I remember.” You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. “They were running me through more testing when they got word someone had found out what they were doing. They piled everyone into ex-service trucks. Between the screams…I happened.”

“You?”

“The tests they were running…it caused me more pain than they’d been expecting so I’d…I don’t know what I did, but I know it wasn’t good because when I woke up more places were being burned down.” You closed your eyes as tight as you could before continuing on. “I turned on the sprinklers before I left. I knew they were dealt with manually because one of the lab techs had been complaining about if something went wrong, what would happen. By the time I got outside everyone was gone. They either died of pain or in fear. Probably both.”

“That’s not your fault.”

The tears were falling from your closed eyes. “No, I know. I know, just…”

Logan came to your side and laid a hand on your shoulder. “Y/n, look at me.”

You didn’t.

“Please.”

After a while, you did. 

“What happened here is not your fault.” Logan told you. “They used and tortured you. And they did the same to countless others. None of that is your fault.”

“Why was I the only one to survive?” 

As you repeated your question, you stepped back and walked away from Logan. He remained still, watching as you paced around the room. 

“Why? Out of everyone, out of every single person they ran tests on, why was I the only one it worked on? Why was I the only one to survive? I know there’s survivor's guilt, but it’s a genuine question. Why? Why was I the only one to survive?”

“Because you already had a mutation.”

You stopped pacing and looked at Logan. “What?”

Logan didn’t bother explaining. All he did was walk over to where he’d been standing previously before he flicked open one of the files. There were nearly thirty pages worth of drug tests being done. 

“Do you remember these?” Logan held up a faded prescription bottle with small blue and black capsules. 

You flicked through the file yourself. “Yeah, they were given to some of us twice a day.”

“They’re suppressors.” 

The further you got in the file, the more you understood. 

“You had a mutation and they couldn’t risk it coming through at full force whilst they ran whatever sick tests they already wanted to run.”

Logan was right. 

There was a list of patients with different mutation abilities. Some labelled premature, others labelled late. But all were placed on the blue and black pill. Suppressing the mutation ability allowed for the lab coats to check if forcing a new mutation through could work. 

You didn’t know what to say, so Logan made a decision for you. 

“We should collect what we can and take it back to the Professor. And lock this place back up before some asshole decides that this place was a good idea.”

You took a breath and wiped away your tears. “You’re right.”

Whatever wasn’t burned or completely destroyed you either took back with you or took pictures. 

By the time you’d gathered what you could from the two smaller offices, you waited for Logan at the top of the stairs that overlooked where you’d both previously stood. 

After all those years wondering, after all the pain and fear and terror. After all those years of being alone, you finally had answered to what was before. In truth, you didn’t know if it helped. You could only hope that by walking inside, by having a confirmation to all the memories you’d been burdened with, the pain of not knowing would be gone. 

The pain from your head was gone. Even if it was replaced by a pain that came from the smell of the damp and the singe of ashes. 

“Ready to go?”

You took one final look around before looking back at Logan. “Ready?”

You led the way out before shutting out the lights and welding the lock back into place. 

It was odd, the feeling you got as you walked back into the cold and away from the bunker. You had a burning curiosity growing in your stomach and mind, but the coldness you’d felt before you’d walked inside, unsure of what to expect was slowly disappearing. 

You also knew the life you’d led. Only now you’d learned of a life you’d had before you made one of your own. No lab tech could take the life you made for yourself away from you. 

You and Logan pulled up at the school long after the sun had set. As you stepped out of your car, Logan switched the engine of his bike off and you rushed down the hallway where you found one light on at the end of the hallway. 

“Professor?”

He looked up with a smile. “Ah, you’re back. I must tell you, you’ve missed dinner but Hank has left two plates in the oven for you. All they need is warming up. Did you find what you were looking for?”

Looking away from Logan, you looked at the Professor. “And then some.”

As the hours passed, you’d come to an agreement with the Professor. Storm and Nightcrawler would go back to the base you’d been kept at. Perhaps they might find something that let them know there were other survivors. But other than that, your past would remain just that. The past. 

“I made a life for myself. The only one I’ve truly known. I’d like for it to stay that way. If I want more answers one day, I know where to go.”

The Professor agreed. “I’ll keep these files safe. I assume you’ve looked through them already?”

You nodded. “There’s a lot I’d rather not have remembered, but I got my closure.”

“Very well.”

Twenty minutes later, you and Logan were sitting down in the dim light of the kitchen eating your dinner. 

“Thank you for finding me today.” It felt a little awkward leaving your mouth in your voice. “And you’re right…about not having to be alone, so…thank you.”

Logan just graced you with a smile and a nod. “I meant it. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

You didn’t know what to say so you just nodded and went back to eating. You and Logan remained in silence as you ate, washed and put away your plates. And as you both walked up towards your rooms, you took in the pictures that lined the walls. 

Previous students, past christmases, birthdays, sunday dinners. A plethora of memories scattered across the walls; all of which made you smile. 

All of which made you realise you might have done things alone for a long time, but you’d never truly been alone. Not only did you have friends, but you had an entire family behind you. 

One that would never leave you to be lonely, even when you wanted to be alone. 

[forgeofthenine]

Ohh, how about the Tieflings experiencing snow? And how do they make sure not to freeze off the tips of their ears and their tails? Also with how they are more fine with heat, I feel like Rolan is the type of bitch (affectionate) to already complain about it being freezing at 15°F

I have to admit Anon, I'm also the type of bitch that thinks 15°F is freezing. I'm used to a nice temperate climate (with awful weather) and the idea of being outside in almost -10°c horrifies me, I do hope you like the headcanons though :)

The bachelors experiencing the snow

Dammon

I feel like Dammon runs hotter than most tieflings, they all already run hot but Dammon even more so

It honestly probably helps in the forge

It also means that when he steps foot into the snow it tends to slowly melt under the thin soles of his boots

Dammon loves the snow and thinks it's beautiful, but it tends to leave him with wet socks if he doesn't wear the right footwear

You'll find it's still very easy to drag your lover out into the snow with you though for a bit of a winter romp

Just don't be surprised when this cheeky tiefling decides to try and ball up some snow as soon as your back is turned

As soon as the powdery snow breaks against your back you know all vets are off, the two of you desperately trying to one up the other

You'll need to find a space were you won't bother anyone because Dammon gets very into his snowball fights

He's a fierce opponent but eventually, when you're both feeling the chill, there will be a truce

Dammons also the type to always wear his scarf when it snows outside, but only so he can wrap it around you if yours is forgotten at home

Zevlor

This paladin loves the snow

He doesn't run particularly hot or cold so he's able to spend a fair amount of time out in the chill

He loves to bundle you both up in cold weather clothes and go for a stroll

Walking along the water, hand in hand, he likes to admire the way your breath freezes in the air as you speak to him

It's all very relaxed and domestic, perfect for a retired hellrider like Zevlor

When the two of you make it back inside he's quick to warm you both back up, wrapping you in a blanket and making hot chocolate on the stove

You spend the rest of the even cuddled up to his side on the couch, watching the snow fall as you drink steaming mugs of cocoa

Zevlor also strikes me as the type of guy to know about the pouring maple syrup into snow to make a maple lolliepop thing

He'd definitely do it to surprise you with a homemade sweet treat

Please give Zevlor a kiss, he spoils you so much

Rolan

Rolan hates the snow

He runs cold as far as tieflings are concerned and he strikes me as the type to have poor circulation that just mildly annoys him

If you want to get him out in the snow you'll have to recruit his siblings to come help

Don't worry though, Cal and Lia love to drag him out into the winter wonderland despite how much he tells them it's 'freezing'

Rolan is also very glad his ears are covered by his hair, or they might just get cold enough to fall off

It's not uncommon for you to be issued with a challenge to see who can make a better snowman, you and Rolan or Cal and Lia

And so the wizard reluctantly spends his afternoon playing in the snow with you and his siblings

As much as he loves his siblings, Rolan also wants to get his own back at them, so he uses his magic to beat them every single time

Just be glad they only dared to challenge him to a snowball fight once

[starlightiing]

loscar, pg, 1.2k words, fluff - if i got you here with me, then let it snow

Title: If I got you here with me, then let it snow

Pairing: Loscar (Logan/Oscar)

Summary: Logan and Oscar get snowed in a few days longer than anticipated. But they have a warm cabin, plenty of food, a little extra time, and most importantly: they have each other. Written for F1 Family Secret Santa in my F1 Discord Server! (All are welcome to join, if you want F1 chatter without the drama!)

Secret Santa Recipient: @yuki-tsunodas Yun, my friend, I sincerely hope you enjoy! This was a delight to write out for you. Happiest of Holidays, and may the New Year bring you much joy!

Huge shout out to @allphatauri for thinking of the event, hosting it, running it, and handling all the logistics. This is his baby, and I'm grateful for everything he does to keep us all engaged <3 !

AO3 Link

The snow is more than a foot high when Oscar takes his first peek out the window. It’s not too surprising, given the way the flakes had been pummeling down to the ground for the past few hours, relentless and yet oddly silent in the way snow always seems to be (not that he’s seen a whole lot of it in his lifetime, but nonetheless). 

It’s beautiful, really, the way the light from the sunset hits the crystals just right and makes it look like the entire ground is sparkling. The urge to open the door and jump out into the soft, pillowy snow like a child is overwhelming, but he doesn’t want to spend the rest of the vacation with a cold because he let his impulsive thoughts overtake him.

Especially now, with his and Logan’s plans to leave before the New Year foiled by this comically timed blizzard. 

“They’re saying the snow should stop in a few hours, I think.” Logan’s voice filters in from the kitchen area, the gentle thumping of his socked feet audible as he pads over towards the couch. “But it could take some time for the temperature to rise enough for it to melt. We may be here a while.” 

Oscar hums thoughtfully as he watches the snow continue to pelt the already blanketed ground, still in absolute awe at how serene and quiet everything is. It’s a different sort of silence, one that brings him a peaceful feeling in his chest that he knows he shouldn’t be entertaining. He should be agitated that this very same snow is blocking his exit from this stuffy cabin and preventing him from going home to spend New Year’s Eve with his family. He should be fretting over their stock of food and whether or not the pipes in the cabin will freeze with snow piled this high around them for what could be a few more days at the very least.

But he isn’t. In fact, there’s not a single bother at all. They actually have plenty of food and water to last another two weeks at least, and getting to spend another few days locked inside a warm cozy skiing cabin with Logan sounds more like a blessing than a curse.

“Well, there are worse things than being stuck in a skiing cabin with you, I suppose.” Oscar says after a moment, smirking slightly when he hears Logan chuckle under his breath from a few meters away on the couch. 

“You suppose? Ouch, man.”

“Well, I don’t want to boost your ego too much, you know. I’ve got to keep you tethered to Earth somehow.”

Logan tilts his head back and cackles, “Right, as if my ego has ever been a problem.”

Oscar shakes his head, stepping back from the window and padding over to the couch where Logan has made himself a little blanket cocoon in the corner of the sectional. It’s fairly warm inside the cabin, Oscar has made sure to stay on top of the heating so they don’t freeze, so he raises an eyebrow in amusement seeing Logan swaddled up like an infant. “Cold?”

“A little. Everywhere else in the cabin is fucking freezing except for right here.” 

Oscar shakes his head in amusement, letting himself fall back against the cushions right beside where Logan is cocooned. He opens up his arms, reaching over and pulling Logan, blankets and all, into them almost eagerly in an attempt to warm him up (and perhaps satisfy his own want to be close).

“Wait,” Logan says after a moment, worming around inside of the blanket until he’s managed to shed it like a second skin, “we’ll be warmer if you’re underneath the blanket with me.”

“Now you’re just making excuses to touch me.” Oscar points out with a grin, though he makes no move to get away. In fact, he helps dislodge the blanket from behind Logan and then pulls him into his arms with the utmost delicacy. Logan then carefully fluffs out the blanket, laying it across them in such a way to trap their shared body heat so it cannot escape. It’s warm, but Oscar doesn’t mind as long as Logan is comfortable.

“Something like that. But it is also warmer this way, so just sit there and look pretty while I leach all of your warmth.” Logan mumbles, his voice barely audible from where his mouth is pressed against the side of Oscar’s chest. “You’re surprisingly comfortable.”

“Surprisingly?” Oscar shoots back, looking down at Logan with a raised eyebrow. “My chest is the epitome of cozy, I’ll have you know.”

“No objections here. Now hush.”

“Hush?”

“Yes, hush. I can’t hear your heartbeat when you’re yapping like this.”

Oscar is stunned into silence, then, unable to formulate a worthy rebuttal. How can he, when Logan is being so painfully earnest and painfully adorable? Instead, he sighs softly in contentment and wraps his arms a little tighter around the small body in his arms. Logan lets out a small hum as he nuzzles his head further against Oscar’s chest, something like butterflies rudely flapping their wings at a frantic pace from deep within Oscar’s stomach. 

This is precisely why he cannot be upset by the blizzard snowing them in. How could he ever construe more personal time with Logan as a negative thing, especially when they’re both happy, healthy, and comfortable? 

In fact, there is simply nothing better. Nothing better at all.

“You reckon we’ll be out by next weekend?” Logan asks after a few moments of peaceful silence. Oscar rests his head back against the couch, looking up at the intricate chaos of the popcorn ceiling, and shrugs. 

“Don’t know. Depends on how fast the snow melts, I reckon. You in a big rush to get out of here?”

“No, not really.” Logan replies, gently rubbing Oscar’s arm beneath the blanket. “I was kind of hoping you’d say no.”

Oscar chuckles softly, then, tracing circles into Logan’s shoulder. “Well, to be the bearer of good news, we could always just extend our stay. We don’t need to wish for horrible weather to keep us together.” 

Logan seems to consider this for a moment, letting out a long, thoughtful sigh as he shifts himself in Oscar’s grip to a more comfortable position. “Yeah, I guess we could. At least until duty calls - I’d imagine you’ll be needed soon.”

“Soon, but not yet.” Oscar says, his lips pressed to the top of Logan’s head as he speaks. “I can pencil you in for a few more days, if you ask really nicely.”

Logan snorts, reaching up blindly to poke Oscar in the nose. Somehow, he manages on his first attempt, and Oscar wiggles his nose in retaliation, despite the fact that Logan cannot see him.

“What, like, ‘pretty please will you spend another few days with me after the blizzard melts?’” 

“Just like that, actually.” Oscar confirms, pressing a warm, loving kiss into Logan’s hair. “And yes, yes I will.”

“Perfect.” Logan whispers into Oscar’s chest, softly adjusting the blanket. “I had no plans to let you go, anyway.”

“Consider me trapped and happy, then.” comes Oscar’s content response, watching as Logan’s eyelashes flutter closed with ease. 

His chest feels warm and full in the best possible way, knowing he still has a week and change here to spend with Logan in the midst of his favorite season. After the New Year, he knows things will pick up again. There will be more gym training, and car testing, and meetings, and sponsorship responsibilities, but for right now?

For right now, he gets a brief moment of peace amongst the madness, and he couldn’t think of a single better person to spend it with.

[kinetic-elaboration]

December 30: D/J, Warming Up

Daria/Jane, ~750 words, 32 minutes

"Warming up" from the Fluffcember 2024 prompt list

From the Complex College Mating Rituals 'verse

*

The fastest way to warm up after being very cold is to take off all of your clothes and take a nice, hot, steam-producing shower.

Daria stomps the snow off of her boots, claps her gloved hands together a few times. Outside, what she can only hope is the last horrid winter storm of the season is just starting to really pick up. Inside her dorm, the air is slightly warmer but the cold draft is still seeping in under the door.

She raises her eyebrows.

"This is a ploy to get me naked," she says.

Jane nods once and doesn't argue.

"Yes. This is a ploy to get you naked."

Because of course she isn't suggesting that they shower separately, even if that would make considerably more sense and be considerably easier, too. When Jane notes that she's blushing, Daria shakes the melting snowflakes out of her hair and says it's just the cold. Terribly cold out there. She can't even feel her extremities anymore.

The annex hallway off of the main hallway where she lives has a small bathroom with one large shower stall, two toilet stalls, and two sinks. It's the grungiest of the bathrooms and even the people who live closest to it never use it, and it's empty in the middle of a cold, quiet, Saturday afternoon. Daria does reconnaissance first, and when she returns to her room, Jane is already pulling off her shirt.

"Woah!"

"What? You said your roommate was gone all weekend."

"She is, I just—"

"Come on, Daria." Jane smiles, a little teasing, a certain encouragement underneath. "You've felt my boobs before. No harm in seeing them."

She's felt a lot of Jane before, and felt Jane's touch, but they've never undressed in front of each other before, not like this. She's never let herself be seen fully, casually, and outside of the hot, desperate, worked up context of actually making out with her. Making out with her girlfriend, Jane.

Halfway to the closet to grab them both towels, she's distracted, unmoored in the middle of the room, by the sight of Jane shimmying out of her pants.

"Hurry up there, ice girl," Jane grins, as she balances awkwardly on one foot to pull off her sock. "I'm freezing all my delicate parts off."

"Uh. Right." Right. Daria throws her one of the towels from the top shelf, then half-hides herself behind the closet door as she takes off two layers of shirts and then her socks and her pants and her underwear. She pretends that Jane isn't watching her, though she knows she is. And she knows she's not really hidden, that from Jane's angle she can pretty much see everything.

"I guess that wasn't much of a strip tease," she tries to joke, as she wraps her towel around herself.

She expects Jane to laugh, at least in a deadpan way, but she's watching Daria like she's completely serious. "Yeah, it was."

They slip down the hall, around the corner, into the bathroom and then into the shower stall without running into anyone, and Daria would say the adrenaline of it was enough to warm her up, except that her toes and her fingers are still white and numb. Finally, she hangs her towel up on the hook at the edge of the stall, and turns the shower on.

"Oh yeah, that's the stuff," Jane says, low and murmuring, as she steps carefully in under the spray.

"Yes," Daria agrees. Yes. The stuff. She's watching the water slide in drops along Jane's smooth, naked skin. Watches the steam already wafting around them, feels the edges of the shower spray teasing along her shoulder and her side. Watches as Jane's hair get wet and she slicks it away from her face and then turns so that the water falls along her back.

It takes her a while to remember that she was supposed to be warming up under the water, too.

It takes Jane opening her eyes, then reaching out and tugging on Daria's wrist. "Well, come on, Daria. I don't want to hog all the water here."

She almost trips over her own feet, stumbling in under the hardest, most direct part of the spray. And it feels so good. So damned good. She lets out a deep, satisfied breath, vaguely hears Jane's satisfied laughter, and then feels a pair of slick, wet palms slide down along her sides, and two arms envelope her in a hug.

[a-bit-too-silly]

Cold

❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️

note: I'm so happy people liked the writing! I've never shared it anywhere before so I'm really grateful. This has been in my drafts for a bit, hope it's okay :]

The weather was growing colder, snow falling down in thick white sheets over the ground, covering all of the leaves left on the trees. The sky was overcast and grey, heavy flakes of snow falling down as Johnny returned to the apartment, Ghost must've come over, his car parked in the community driveway near Soap's and some scuffled footprints in the freshly fallen snow leading to the door. Johnny patted himself down and tapped the snow off of his boots before stepping inside. He took off his coat and hung it up on the hook next to Ghost's, then took off his boots to set them on the tray to dry out.

He didn't see Ghost anywhere, which wasn't too unusual for him, but he would normally come out when Johnny got home to say hi or help carry groceries or something of that sort.

Instead, Johnny carried the groceries into the kitchen himself and started putting stuff away when he heard some shuffling and coughing from the bedroom. "Simon?" He called out, trying to figure out what he was doing down there. He didn't get a response, at least not until a grumpy looking Ghost peeked around the corner. He was in his balaclava and some civvies. A pair of thick jeans and a hoodie, likely wearing a t-shirt underneath since he 'never feels cold' and doesn't bother dressing warmly.

"Hey there, Si." He said with a small smile, restocking a cabinet with some general baking supplies he'd been running low on. Flour, caster sugar, vanilla, just general items. Simon sniffled and made his way over to Johnny. Hugging him from behind and resting his head against Johnny's shoulder. He was warm. Very warm.

Johnny shifted slightly so he was facing Ghost, who whined a little at the vague loss of contact."You feeling alright, hun? Yer warm."

Ghost wasn't feeling alright. His head hurt and his tummy hurt and his skin was prickly and he was sniffly and coughing and gross. But he didn't have the words to explain it so he just clung back to Johnny.

"Mh... mo leanabh.. [my baby..]" he hummed, rubbing Ghost's back gently. "Did the cold catch you?"

Ghost whined, trying to keep from coughing. Nuzzling deeper into Johnny's shoulder with a sniffle, only strengthening Johnny's assumption.

"let's get ye some medicine.. then I think a somethin to eat?" He offered, his hand tracing small hearts on Ghost's back, drawing out a sneeze from Ghost who promptly grimaced and started whining again. "And some clean up. Ye cannae be wearing that all the time, baby, certainly not when yer sick."

Ghost took off the balaclava, sniffling and whining, his face scrunched up in discomfort that words can't express. Johnny walked off briefly to get a cloth, dampening it with some warm water from the sink and gently wiping off Simon's nose and chin before turning back to the cabinet to grab the blister pack of cold medicine. He popped out two of the small pills and handed them to Simon, who managed to take them decently well with a few sips of water despite the regression. "Good lad. Can ye go get into some comfy clothes now or do ye need baba to help?" He asks, tossing the cloth into the laundry room and washing his hands.

"Baba.." Simon mumbled, his voice small and soft, melting Soap's heart in an instant.

"Okay. Let's go get some jammies, leanabh. [baby.]" He said, gently patting Simon on the back to get him moving. Simon shuffled along down the hall and sat on the bed, Johnny started looking through the dresser. He pulled out some socks and a set of soft clothes, glancing at Simon, "does this all look okay, lad?"

"Mh." He nodded a little, letting Johnny help him out of his clothes and into the fuzzy clean ones. Johnny settled him in the bed with a stuffed cow affectionately named 'moo' by Simon, and a baby blue pacifier before leaving the room to get him something to eat.

He came back with a warm mug of soup, full of chopped up veggies and chicken and little star shaped noodles whose name Ghost couldn't pronounce even when big. He removed the pacifier to gently spoon-feed Simon petting his hair and cleaning up any dribbles. It helped calm him, settling the ache in his stomach and throat, and the gentle touch from Johnny helped the pain in his head and muscles.

They stayed like that long after the soup had been finished, Johnny gently cleaning up any boogies that ran down Simon's face and gently running his hand through Simon's hair. Adjusting the blanket every now and then and peppering small kisses to his forehead and rubbing his back after coughing fits as Simon whined and made a mess of Johnny's shirt.

Eventually Simon slipped into a shallow sleep, snuggled up to his baba, safe from the nightmares that normally come.

[thesmokingguns]

Joy and Peach: Jackets

Taglist: @ayablackwood @rocknrollsoul76 @greeneyezblackheart @lady-jane3 @rocketgrrrl27 @slutforstradlin @theoutsiders25 @fispapercrafter @bbyamberx @brezeblog @samanthasgone @aggressive-slytherin @clover270 @grayxiu @another-obsessed-with-duff @badfvith @bia003 @queenbae18 @axl-roses-rose @d-ahliaa@beebemarie @guns-n-roses-gal @themoonbelongstome @pinksweetgirl18 @cemmia @bieberhoodforever

There was currently five feet of snow on the ground, enough that when Nikki looked outside he knew he would need to make peach a neon colored hat when she eventually woke up and decided to go play in the snow; she would vanish in the piles.

As if on cue she came barreling down the stairs. Thick socks over her leggings and a hoodie that she was pulling the hood up on. Nikki side stepped as she slid on the floor grabbing the winter boots by the door.

“Peach, wear a hat and gloves.” He was helping her put them on, shaking his head how she was like a puppy dog when it came to snow. He reached for her coat as she tried to duck away from him, “it’s freezing you need to wear a jacket.” But the way she narrowed her eyes, shaking her head made Nikki sigh.

It was going to be a fight.

“Nikki, the snow is still falling and it’s so fluffy and-“ he held up her jacket, the one she had picked out and he had spent too much money on. It was puffy and pink with bows on the elbow. The perfect cutesy look for his girl.

But the cute jacket was too bulky for the girl who wanted to swim in the snow.

“Peach.” She stomped her door, mitten hands balling into fists as she glared. She was going to fight this, “If I go out with you will you wear the fucking jacket?” Her eyes widened.

Nikki notoriously hated the snow. He would watch it, maybe stand out on the deck in it, and sometimes throw a ball to their dogs in it but when Peach would rush out to get drenched he would watch from inside, shaking his head at her energy.

“Promise?” He nodded as she jumped, throwing her arms around Nikki as she peppered surprising kisses on his face, “I love you.” She said as Nikki set her back down.

He always forgot how easily excited his girl was at the easiest of things. As much of a brat as Peach was what she craved above all was his attention.

“Just give me five minutes to get ready.” Nikki nodded as he watched her, blue eyes seeming to shine out as he saw the excitement glowing so bright there.

He would be sore from the snow but his Peach was worth it.

-

“Joy, I did some research for Wyoming.” Peach and Nikki had invited them to spend some time with them and they were planning on driving the few hours to see them once the storm passed tomorrow. “I bought you a jacket.” joy, looked up from where she had been watching TikTok videos to see the traffic cone orange jacket Izzy was holding up.

It was hideous.

“Oh…Izzy, you didn’t have to do that.” Peach was going to cackle when she saw her. Joy could see the way her friend would calm her a traffic cone, see the way she actually looked like it.

But Izzy, looked at it like he had solved a puzzle and was going to be the hero of this trip. His smile so wide as he motioned for her to try on the jacket.

Joy slid her arms into it, being wrapped in the near color that was bright enough that she felt like she needed sunglasses when she wore it. But Izzy was looking at her like she was a diamond, precious and valuable.

“Do you really like it?” The uncertainty in his tone made Joy melt.

Her lips pressed against his, a promise in the kiss as she nodded her head.

“I love how you take such good care of me.”and she did. She loved knowing that he wanted the best for her.

She just needed to let him know in a nice way that it wasn’t through Birkenstocks and dad clothes. But she’d wait another day for that.

[sseanettles]

nothing grows in corpses (in the earth of me)

dream x hob gadling | mature | Finally cross-posting my take on the fandom classic of the show progresses as the comics do, even to The Wake. Until Death resurrects Morpheus and forces the choice of "redemption" upon him instead of suicide. It goes...horribly. No good. Very bad. Instead of learning the lesson, Morpheus (in his infinite wisdom) opts instead for a highly effective existence strike until one day Hob Gadling stumbles upon his ghastly handiwork and immediately decides that this just won't do. Man Who Refuses To Die vs. Man Who Refuses To Live: fight.

Dead Dove, Do Not Eat for the following: graphic depictions of starvation, illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, blood and gore, loss of autonomy, etc. etc. This is some classic old world whump, folks! But I promise it's also supremely healing in the end.

CH. 6: the rockrose and the thistle, pt. 2 | 3 k | AO3 link | prev part | next part

(or: the one where we meet Gwen, & Morpheus finally comes inside.)

“Oh, thank fuck,” Hob gasped at the tail end of a particularly splendid ramble of affection. “We’re here, friend.”

He took the entry two steps at a time and with a groaning, heavy sigh of relief, braced himself against the column beside the door. His foot was numb enough that he didn’t feel the pain as he kicked the inky wood in a frantic tattoo and did not let up until he heard the rush of thudding footfalls down the stairs inside. A fumbling at the lock soon followed, along with the low, muffled sounds of his girlfriend’s voice as she egged herself on. Hob’s teeth began to chatter until his whole body shook. The warmth of inside was so close, yet so far—

The door jerked open and hit the end of the still-locked chain in a grating gnash.

“Shit!”

“Oh, fuck’s sake, Gwen—”

The door slammed back shut, the chain slipped free, and in the threshold stood Gwen. She was as tall as Hob, broad shouldered, curvy in a way that drove him mad and had her looking phenomenal in her Faire corsets and gowns. Her paint-spattered, polka-dotted bandana pulled her heavy head of long microbraids back from her face that had clearly been midway through her end-of-day make-up removal when he called. She was dressed down in her sweatpants with the hems tucked into her thick, wooly socks, and her lovely, baggy-sleeved cardigan of goldenrod yellow opened like wings as she took in the image before her and then zeroed in on the body in her boyfriend’s arms.

His Stranger’s rattling breaths seemed as loud as gravel now.

“Oh fuck, Robbie,” she blurted and cleared the door.

“I know, I know.” He hefted Morpheus once more in his arms as he rushed inside and winced at the strangled whimper of pain that sounded from within the coat and quilt at the jostling. “I’ve gotta get him—”

“I know,” it was now her turn to say, and she hissed as she rocked onto the balls of her feet and caught a glimpse of their guest’s face. “Up, let’s go. Bath’s ready.”

What followed was a haphazard rush up the stairs as Hob’s legs slowly regained sensation after his frigid dash through the snow and as such also began their treacherous turn to rubber. Gwen followed at his heels, practically pressed right up against him all the way, and did her best to guide his wobbling ascent with one hand on his hip and the other hovering by his stranger’s head in case they stumbled too close to the wall. He’d always hated this staircase. It was narrow, the steps were too close together, the ceiling was too low, and he felt like a human crammed into a child’s dollhouse.

He hated it even more now, and he grumbled and swore as he had to maneuver on the upper landing and heft Morpheus as high as he could manage within his burning arms to give Gwen clearance to duck beneath them and open the inner door to their flat.

Warmth, the smell of soup and fresh bread, of something cozy and sweet, the sharp, woody scent of a slowly melting candle and something else that was perhaps incense, the aroma of old paper and leather and binding glue, the faint residue of paint—the individual hues all melded together into a single amalgamation that Morpheus’ frayed, human nerves could hardly process, and he found the only name he could give it was safe. It settled over him like a final, numbing shroud of sensation that whited out much else as he was carried and maneuvered further into what he could only assume was Gadling’s home. The lights beyond his crusted eyes brightened, dimmed, and then brightened once more. He felt himself maneuvered further, felt first one grounding layer come away, then another, and he was suddenly so cold once again. His body ached to shiver but couldn’t summon the strength for so much as a twitch.

He felt himself lowered by two sets of firm but careful hands, and Morpheus screamed as the world lit on fire.

Hob had heard a great many harrowing sounds in his life. Men, women, children, animals, the very earth itself: he had heard all shriek at the hands of agonies best left to the imaginations of Hell. He had felt those very sounds grate along his own throat, had felt them shred his vocal cords to rawness and blood at the hands of man’s cruelty. He had drawn those sounds out of others himself. The sound of breath gurgling from crushed lungs—of boys still wet behind the ears dragging themselves across battlefields with severed limbs that poured their lifeblood into over-saturated earth, crying out for their mothers all the way until they stopped crying at all—the crunch of horses’ hooves on skulls and ribcages and spines, the ring that followed the deafening boom of cannons and later artillery, the spray of blood against skin and cloth as the person beside you was replaced with red mist and viscera…

…the wail of a parent over their dead children…the wail of children over their dead parents…of newly forged widowers and widows…the wail of watching your homeland disappear in blood and smoke.

Robert Gadling had heard it all.

The sound that ripped from his Stranger’s throat as he submerged beneath the hot bath water landed itself easily in the worst seven. It dragged from the depth of his skeletal chest, anchoring somewhere between his navel and his sternum, and the force of it jerked him upright and partially out of the water. His arms flailed, trying to grab to something or to beat it away with those clawing, boney hands, and Hob pushed an already retreating Gwen back with a loud swear that was lost beneath the banshee shriek of confused agony and betrayal that echoed through the tiled room. His Stranger’s eyes were now wide open, and Hob nearly retched at the state of them.

Blind. His Stranger had to be blind with eyes like that, or as good as. 

“Rob, Mrs. Williams!” Gwen cried from where she had slipped and toppled into a collapsed seat against the sink cabinet.

“I-I know, alright?!” His heart hammered in his throat, his voice trembling under the organ’s breakneck speed, and he surged forward to seize Morpheus by the shoulders as the man tried to haul himself out of the tub. Murky maroon blossomed into the water from his wounded gut as the strain ruptured his cobweb-frail tissues anew, and the more he struggled, the faster the red poured, brightening at an equally alarming rate. “Wait, stop! My friend—”

Those foggy, rubbery eyes latched onto him, and the scream choked into a strangled, desperate howl, like a doomed animal still trying to fight to its last. He moved fast, faster than Hob had imagined he could have moved in this state, and all he saw was a flash of grimy, pale skin before pain knifed across his face.

“Fuck!” he shouted, jerking his head back, but still was not quick enough. A shockingly iron grip snagged his hair at the roots as he went, and his Stranger’s nails, which had always been on the longer side, turned to talons at his scalp as he tried to slam Hob’s head down into the edge of the porcelain tub.

Hob had no doubt that if this had happened a year ago, he would have been on the floor with a shattered nose and split skull, watching with paralyzed eyes as his blood and brain matter oozed into the bathmat and onto the tiles. But that was then. And this was now.

He moved with a soldier’s instinct, a mercenary’s swiftness. His soaked hand clamped down on the tub’s edge in a flash, his elbow tightening but not locking stiff so that he moved with Morpheus’ grip without catching porcelain in the teeth or ripping his hair out at the roots. He felt his scalp burn and tear all the same, and Morpheus’ free hand raked down his face again, gouging more tracks into his cheek and temple and nose, going now for his neck, his chest, his hands—anything he could reach with all the speed and ferocity of a feral cat.

Hob snapped his eyes shut at the last second and cried out in pain as he felt Morpheus’ nails rip open the fragile skin.

“Robbie!” Gwen shouted and started forward.

“No!” he grunted and blindly caught hold of Morpheus’ wrist. The man cried out, struggling to pull away, sloshing the bathwater until it spilled everywhere, and it took everything Hob had to keep from letting go at the pitiful sound. The crack…the crack he’d heard from within the bundled layers in his arms…. “Wait outside!”

“God, you’re bleeding—”

“Please, Gwen, wait outside!” he begged. The grip in his hair tightened, pulling him sideways and down, and he stiffened the brace of his arm and winced as more of his hair tore. “I’m alright, you know I’m alright!” He tried to open his eyes and groaned through gritted teeth as blood blinded his right eye, dripping down to his beard. He screwed his eye shut against the burn and tucked his face into his shoulder to stem the flow as he tried to keep his other eye on the man in his grip. Morpheus continued to make those feral, desperate sounds, his blinded sight searching wildly for something only he knew. The stranglehold on his scalp tightened further, and Hob had never been more thankful to have trimmed his beard down to something less grabbable. He forced his voice to calm, even as the nerves in his face and skull shrieked in objection. “I just want you safe, Gwen,” he said. “Please, wait outside. I’ll call you when we need you.”

Morpheus began to quiet until only ragged, groaning breaths remained. His grip trembled but did not relent.

“…Are you sure?” Gwen asked softly from the floor.

“There’s nothing he can do to me that won’t be gone by morning, love,” Hob promised. “You, on the other hand….”

“Yeah,” she conceded and got her feet under her in the same unsteady manner. “Yeah, okay.”

He listened to her socked steps retreat, to the creak of the door opening and the click of it shutting behind her. His one non-blinded eye never left those of the undying man beneath him, and his nose burned as tears flooded his already stinging eyes. His Stranger’s eyes looked fake, like half-melted, age-fogged plastic, like an old teddy someone lost to attic storage. It broke his heart, filled him with such helplessness that for a moment, safely alone, he was not certain of the right path forward.

So, Hob Gadling did the only thing he knew how to do.

He did the stupid thing.

He let go of Morpheus’ wrist and the edge of the bathtub in a single, cautious release, taking care to keep his expression calm as he did. Morpheus snatched his hand back to his chest, and Hob kept himself from flinching in even the slightest as the man yanked hard on his hair at the same time, as if trying to pull himself from the tub by Hob’s scalp alone. He bowed under the pull, watched his friend’s body tremble with the effort of his attempt, but did not yield. He raised his hands slowly to his shoulders, fingers splayed with his palms facing his Stranger. And as he did, Morpheus sagged into the water with a heartbroken, devastated huff that left his chin trembling and his chest quaking in its rises and falls. His fingers tangled deeper into Hob’s hair.

Hob took a deep breath and the plunge that followed.

“Dream,” he called, as soft as a parent to their sleeping child. His friend’s eyes landed on him in a burst of swift, clumsy shifts, struggling to pinpoint Hob through his blindness even though he was firm beneath his hands. “Morpheus.”

His friend blinked. His parched throat worked, moistened fleetingly by the steam of the bath, and the sounds he made turned a little less animalistic, a little more human.

“Stranger,” Hob pressed.

Those air-starved pneumonia breaths shook Morpheus’ skeletal frame, his body rattling with fever shakes that Hob knew well, until both culminated in hacking coughs that brought up nothing but bits of red-tinged phlegm. The blood continued to spread through the murky, filthy water from Despair’s wound as months of grit began to lift from his clothes and skin.

Cautiously, as if approaching an injured bird, Hob lowered his hand to Morpheus’ where it was fisted into his hair. The fingers tensed, tugged his scalp in warning. But Hob let his touch settle anyway; his warm, calloused skin settled into a soothing pet along the back of his friend’s hand to his wrist, to his elbow, and back up.

Slowly…in…out….

Like the breaths Morpheus struggled to take. Like the tides that had welcomed him back to life.

“ ‘S okay,” Hob whispered. His face throbbed along every track mark his friend had left upon him. He could feel the blood gluing his eye shut, and he fought the urge to rub at it. The wounds needed to be cleaned and tended, not scrubbed into an equally dirty blazer, and any unexpected move at this point would probably undo the precarious peace they had forged. “ ‘S just hot water,” he soothed instead and hoped he didn’t look too beat up. “ ‘S just me.” His hand continued to move up and down Morpheus’ arm, his touch as warm as sunlight to the chilled skin. “Just us…”

Another breath, deeper this time, shuddered out of Morpheus in something dangerously close to a sob. Hob let his hand drift to a pause atop his friend’s wrist. He sank a bit closer to the tub’s edge, leaning against it in as relaxed of a pose as he could manage, grappled and mangled as he was. His thumb swept across the knobs of Morpheus’ bones in time with his own metronomic pulse. He could feel the other man’s heartbeat beneath the pad of his ring finger. It was as swift as a hummingbird’s, as unsteady as a breaking rainstorm.

“…D’you know who I am?” he murmured after a while.

Morpheus had relaxed into the water by infinitesimal increments, though his grip to Hob’s hair remained just as firm in silent threat. He watched Hob with glassy, overwrought eyes that remained as sightless as frosted windows beneath their heavy lids, and when he swallowed, a wincing shadow darkened his face at the pain it brought. But he swallowed again despite it, swallowed a third time. His Sahara-dry lips parted as he breathed a little harder. His brow furrowed, in confusion, in effort, and he forced his exhausted vocal cords to come to life beneath one threadbare exhale.

“…Hob?”

It was a whisper of a word, a dying croak of a syllable. It was the normalcy of an oh-so-sick voice that Hob had heard countless times over the centuries, and it shattered his chest like a battering ram.

Human. Wholly human.

He had not expected the loss of that something more beneath his Stranger’s voice to hit him quite so hard.

He forced his face to crease into a gentle smile anyway that left his one good eye shining and exuded a warmth like a restful sunrise. And when he blinked, he forced himself to re-open both eyes in the end, to beam through the tears and blood. Maybe the pain of faking it would ground him. Maybe his Stranger wouldn’t be able to see him mourning through it.

“Yeah,” he smiled, and his voice broke in the most pitiful way as he moved his hand down Morpheus’ arm to touch his cheek, his hair. “Yeah, ‘s Hob. ‘S your friend.” Another wracking breath punched from Morpheus’ chest. The grip in his hair began to loosen, and Hob began to inch his hand back down his friend’s arm to his fingers. “Your annoying, immortal drinking partner,” he winked, “and I aim to have so much to tell you in 2089. So…” Living, loved skin smoothed over Morpheus’ battered hands, its fingers tracking his until they interlaced. “Will you let me help you?”

Morpheus stared at their hands for a long time and when he finally blinked, something prowled with disquiet in Hob’s gut. It was a different sort of blink than before, just as the way his head tipped and his attention drifted was wrong, or at least more wrong than it had been thus far. It was as if he were trying to break free from something settling over him, to shake loose a dark shadow.

“I…”

The hand in his hair went slack, and that was all the warning Hob got.

Morpheus’ eyes rolled back in his head as the bath finally did him in, his near-empty blood vessels dilating with the water’s heat until there was nothing left to circulate. Hob surged forward and caught his head with a cradling hand at the base of his skull while the other plunged into the water to snag him beneath his arm. Death had come for him, again. Hob knew the feeling well. The drifting oblivion would reassemble to unconsciousness first, then to dreams and delirium, and finally once more into wakefulness. And for as horrid as the experience of dying was, it at least afforded them one small mercy.

It meant that he and Gwen could finish their work undisturbed.

“Gwen!” he called over his shoulder, taking care to keep his voice soft, though the consideration wasn’t necessary. His friend was quite literally dead to the world, no matter the agonal gasps that tugged his jaw with plummeting frequency. The door opened immediately, and she peered at him from the partially opened threshold, a heavy apron fastened protectively about her. “I just—I-I need more hands, if you….”

He stopped. Gwen was just staring at him from the threshold, a well-meaning but cruel mix of horror and pity and sadness upon her beautiful face as she took in the state of him, tears glistening in her beautiful dark eyes. He bowed his head. Tucked his bloodied face into his arm.

And Hob Gadling began to cry in earnest.

[final-girl96]

Firefly Chapter Forty-Four

Flashback

Winter 2009

I sat in the chair beside the window, legs curled up, a blanket draped over me, and a cup of hot cocoa in my hands. I don't know where or how Joel found it, but he did. He came how one night and pulled one of those big tins of it out of his bag. He also pulled out a few oversized sweaters he said he found in a department store, along with gloves, hats, a pair of fluffy socks, and new boots for me since mine were beginning to fall apart.

The snow was coming down in big, fluffy sheets. It was hard to see anything with how heavy it was, I was almost a complete white out. Everyone was staying inside their homes. Not everyone was lucky enough to have some source of heat. The QZ had electricity, but it was mainly used for FEDRA purposes. The residents had electricity, but not all of them. We were lucky enough that Joel found a space heater while he and Tess were out on one of their trips that he forbade me from going on. It was just enough to keep the small apartment warm through the cold nights.

We didn't use it during the day unless it was that cold out. We only used it at night when the temperatures would drop below zero. We weren't used to the cold like this. I mean, during the winter it would get cold at night and sometimes in the morning it would be chilly and by the afternoon it would warm up. But it was nothing compared to Boston winters.

I sat waiting for Joel to get home. It was already dark out, and the temperature was dropping. I set my mug on the stand beside me and pulled the blanket tighter. The sound of the door being unlocked grabbed my attention, and I looked over to see Joel pushing it open and stepping inside. He was covered in snow. His dark hair wet from the melted snow. He took his boots off and set them beside the door after he shit and locked it and hung his jacket on the back of one of the dining chairs.

"Hey, what're you doing sitting in the damn cold?" He asked, walking over to turn the heater on. "I didn't feel like I needed to turn it on," I said. Of course, I didn't really realize how cold it was in the apartment since I had my blanket wrapped around me, so it was also covering my head like a hood. "Well, I doubt you can even feel how cold it is in here, with how you're bundled up."

He came over and pulled up off the chair, sat down, and then pulled me onto his lap. "It's getting close to Christmas," I said. Joel hummed and wrapped his arms around me tighter. "How was your day?" I asked. He sighed, "It was long. There were a lot of bodies to burn today. Some were infected, but there were some that died from the cold, more so the older people," he said quietly.

When someone died, they weren't buried. That wasn't a thing anymore. You didn't get to have a funeral for your loved ones anymore. All bodies were burned now. Joel did the job of pulling those bodies off the back of trucks and putting them in the fire. You were paid in ration cards. That was the currency now. Joel always made sure we had what we needed. He worked any job he could get, but he also went outside the walls. He and Tess smuggle stuff in and out all the time. Me, I do whatever I can get, too. Joel doesn't usually let me go out with him and Tess.

I stood up and grabbed Joel's hand. "Come on, let's go to bed. It's late." We walked over to the bed, and I threw the blanket I had wrapped around me at the bottom, then slipped under the covers. Joel pulled his jeans off and climbed in beside me, pulling me into him and wrapping his arms around me. His hand slid down my stomach and into the sweatpants I was wearing.

He moved down to my panties and found my covered clit. He pressed his finger over it, drawing small circles, and started to kiss my neck. His fingers were moving my underwear to the side when someone started to bang on the door. "Ignore it," I begged, holding onto his wrist. The pounding stopped and Joel continued. He ran his fingers through my wet slit. I turned onto my back, spreading my legs apart so he had more access. His lips connected to mine as he slipped his fingers inside of me.

The banging on the door started again, but Joel ignored it, pressing his thumb against my clit and pumped his fingers in and out of me. It didn't take long for my release to come. I groaned when the banging started again and Joel started to pull away. "Just ignore it. Please, Joel." I pulled down to connect our lips but as soon as the person on the other side of the door spoke he was pulling away again.

"Joel! Joel, open the door!"

He gave me an apologetic look, got off the bed, and pulled his jeans on. The banging kept going until he yelled out to them. "Alright!" He reached the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. Tess stood on the other side. I sat up on the edge of the bed, sighed, and slowly stood up. She was talking fast and pacing back and forth. Joel grabbed her by the shoulders and made her sit down.

She slowed down and started explaining something about one of the guys they deal with. Apparently he fucked them over on a deal. Something about supplies they were supposed to be smuggling out of the QZ in a few days. I walked into the living room and picked up the mug I left on the table. I was pissed, it was late at night. Why couldn't she have waited until the morning. I didn't miss her watching me as I walked past them to the kitchen.

"We need to get this tonight, or we will lose everything."

I slammed the mug on the counter and spun around. "Are you fucking kidding? There is a fucking snow storm going on outside! There is no way that he is going out there to fucking smuggle something that you set up! You're the one that wanted to do this and now you want to head out in a snowstorm?! Just take the damn loss!"

An argument broke out, and in the end, they ended up leaving anyway. "Joel, please, don't do this. Stay here with me," I begged. He was pissed off at my outburst but kissed my forehead and opened the door. "I'll be back in a few days."

[spiritdreamt]

seasonal aesthetics.           bold:  always  applies.   italic:   sometimes  applies.

i. winter. a chill right down to the bones.  tobogganing.  teeth chattering.  sleeping all day.  sitting by the fireplace.  spending time with family.  layered clothing.  seeing another’s breath.  loving the cold.  a state of inactivity.  cold hands.  blistering winds shaking the closed windows.  a bookcase full of brand new books & all of the time in the world to read them. cable knit socks.  a bitter remark.  a log cabin in the middle of nowhere.  hating the cold.  full length windows to peer out of. pale skin.  deep conversations.  watching the snow fall.  sharp edges.  hot cocoa.  smelling every candle in the store.  a wild snow storm.  melancholy.  lighting candles around the bathtub.  snow globes.  expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words. the softest of blankets.  liking, but not loving something or someone.

ii. spring. the smell after it rains.  being in control of yourself.  a soft breeze blowing your hair.  lightning when it strikes.  cherry blossoms.  bright mornings.  the first sign of hope.the relief of finding something you lost.   paris in the spring.   birds chirping.  the art of growing.  a kiss on the cheek.  the clap of thunder.  a tornado in the valley.  smiling at a stranger.  planning. saccharine pinks.  making promises.  trying something new.  hugs when you need them most.  a bee sting.  sitting on the steps of the met.  coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm.  picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun.  that feeling you get when you put on a good dress.  a long hike.  rushing when you can take your time.  going to the gym, training at ungodly hours.  excitement for what’s coming.  becoming yourself.  rain boots.

iii. summer. lanterns lit around a campfire. seeing the sunrise like it’s the first time again & again.  melting ice cream.  the warmth of sun rays upon skin.  fireworks.  the feeling of never wanting something to end.  beach days.  the lone blow up floaty left in the pool, drifting with the warm nights breeze & nothing else.  music blasting at 3AM, loud & proud.  palms trees on sunset boulevard.  longer days & shorter nights.  wanderlust.  nights spent staring at the stars.  sand castles.  road trips.  blood orange sunsets.  leaving the laundry to hang outside. flowers in bloom.  sneaking out of your room late at night.  pure contentment.  barefoot in the sand.  the street lights coming on.  the sound of the ocean in a seashell.  freshly squeezed lemonade.  loose clothing.  a cannonball into the pool.  sunflowers. the hazy pink before dusk.  relaxation.

iv. fall. the leaves changing colors.  a heavy backpack.  the smell of old books.  eating until you’re stuffed.  deep, dark woods. the silence in loudness ( the loudness in silence ).  abandoned houses.  ripped jeans.  crunching leaves beneath feet.  feeling like you’ve been somewhere before.  sitting at a bay window.  having endless amount of work.  charcoal drawings.  screaming into a pillow as loud as you can.  pumpkin patches.  creaky floorboards. accepting that some things do have to change.  museums.  small talk.  being ignored.  procrastinating.  a door slamming shut.  going to bed early.  baking pies.  the fear of walking alone in the dark.  feeling completely & terribly lost.  a twig snapping.  crisp, cool days.  belly laughter after crying.  converse.  foggy mornings at the shoreline.  writing a daily entry in a journal.  a lonely day.