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selfindulgentpoorlywritten · 5 years ago

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Golden (Sidney Crosby Imagine)

I’ve been working on this for weeks, and I wouldn’t have made it through without @staviastar who helped me write and beta’d! There’s an optional smut scene at the end, that’s marked off with a warning.

Rating: T (main) / E (optional end scene)

Pairing: Sidney Crosby/fem!Reader

Words: 4388 (w/o optional scene) / 7543 (full piece)

Warnings: minor language, somewhat unsafe sex

Requested: yes/no

Summary: “ hey so I found out recently that last week was the 10th anniversary of the Golden Goal (Crosby winning gold in overtime back in the 2010 Olympics) and I was thinking, maybe a fluffy (perhaps smutty?) imagine from that moment? “

It’s been a hard-fought game, excellent playing on both teams, though you’re tempted to say Canada has been playing just that much better. Your best friend being on that team has absolutely nothing to do with it, obviously, because that kind of bias wouldn’t stand in measured debate. Except the fact that you’re friends with most of Team Canada, and Sid being their star player might maybe- maybe, have something to do with why you’re on the edge of your seat five minutes into overtime, watching your friends from either side flit around the ice in a careful, frenzied dance. It’s not quite Miracle stakes, of course, but Canada vs. the United States is always an intense game to watch.

You could say something sappy, like that Sid is a poet on the ice, in a delicate ballet spanning all 200 feet, but you’d be lying. He’s plenty elegant, but more in the way of an engraved wrecking ball; pretty but too sturdy to be kept from getting where he wants to go. Maybe that’s poetic too, in its own way. Whether others would agree or not, it’s beautiful to you, the way he plays. The surety of his movements, the precision of the angle of his blade, the awareness of where anyone on the ice is at any given time. It’s a joy to watch him play, and that joy doesn’t fade no matter how many times you get to see it.

Six minutes into overtime, and it’s a constant roar of the crowd. The puck moves back and forth between teams, no hesitation where there isn’t room for it, the crowd cheering and booing in turns. Nash takes a solid shot, but it’s blocked just as solidly. Kessler starts taking it back down toward Canada’s side, and as they fly around with just enough control over the puck, you’re beginning to think this might go beyond overtime. But Canada takes the puck, skates it around in circles just long enough that you don’t notice what American player it is that Staal jukes expertly, taking just enough of a pause that they can regroup. Then there are passes and a steal and a blocked shot, and the USA has control again, barreling toward your net and almost scoring on a shit block, but the goalie comes through.

Then your breath is caught in your chest as Sid approaches the net, nearly barreling through a Team USA player to get close enough to pop off a shot, though it’s blocked. You make the mistake of taking a breath upon hearing his scream of “Iggy!”, and Sid doesn’t give you - or anyone for that matter - the time to fully exhale before the puck is in the net.

The arena explodes. Erupts. Goes absolutely, unstoppably, wild. You’ve never heard so much concentrated noise, and you’d cover your ears if you weren’t so busy sucking in a breath so you can scream along with them. Canada v. USA and your best friend just scored the game-winning goal. In overtime. The Golden Goal, though no one in hockey really called it that yet.

You’re not terribly close to the ice, though not far, and virtually no one you know is seated near you, but everyone is hugging and kissing and twirling each other around, and you’re no exception. You hug the person to your right, and when you turn to the one on your left, he spins you around as your matching Team Canada jerseys smash together. The guy in front of you, unfortunately in blue, shakes your hand solemnly before sitting back down. At least he’s a good sport. You’re not keen on seeing what chaos is going on in the upper decks right now, honestly.

But beyond the revelry and camaraderie, your main goal is to get the hell out of here. Because there, somewhere under your seats, is the place where you’ll meet Sid and your other friends. Where you’ll get to see their faces for the first time in a long time, and hug them, and congratulate them to the best of your ability. But there’s still all the pomp and circumstance to get through, for the players at least, so you have a bit of time. Time enough to get rows down to the wives and girlfriends, so at least one of them can vouch for you to come back outside the locker room. The girls are already gathering their things by the time you get to them, because you’ve spent enough time watching the spectacle that it’s almost over. Sid just looks so happy, and you couldn’t bear to look away.

As you make your way over to the WAG’s section, you spot Ryan Whitney- one of Sid’s teammates on the Penguins- and you’re not sure what he’s expecting from you. The officials award Team USA with the silver medals, and he looks, for the most part, downcast. But as soon as he makes eye contact with you, you see the recognition, the fondness, the mischief. You know Whitney is one of the worst about chirping Sid (and you) about your “relationship”, so you don’t return the expression, only allowing a delighted smile in support of your boys. You can already predict the amount of chirping that he’ll give Sid once they reunite as teammates, him and the rest of the Penguins always being one to harmlessly tease you both in your relationship.

Once you’re sufficiently close, one of the wives notices you and beckons you closer, pulling you in once you’re within arm’s reach. You get along well enough with most of them, Sid having invited you to enough of various team events to at least meet the majority of Canada’s WAGs. At least, this Team Canada’s WAGs. You’re not really one of them, but they’ve welcomed you heartily, always cooing over Sid and you as if you were some oscar-winning love story for the ages just because you’d been friends for years.

They vouch for you with security, and they’re kind enough to let you go, despite not having any special identification like the others. You probably would have had something, if Sid had known you were coming. But as far as he knew, you were still on the east coast, working on your post-grad. But the majority of the team (and their better halves) had insisted you come, and, well, you weren’t exactly opposed. But they thought it would be nice if you were a surprise, so you hadn’t been able to tell him where you were, despite being in the same city. Everyone figured if Canada lost, you’d be there to soothe the sore loser Sid inevitably was, and, hey, if they won, you could celebrate together. Luckily, it turned out to be the latter. Sid always turned to you first when he was overwhelmed; proof validated when he saw you outside of the locker room after the 2008 Stanley Cup Finals, practically breaking down into tears as he collapsed into your arms. Now, anyone with a mature sense of mind would see this as an emotional, iconic, heartbreaking moment for Sid the Kid - and it was - but they clearly didn’t witness the bitchier, grumpier side of him when you returned to Mario’s house, criticizing himself and the (debatably) dirty tactics of the Red Wings during the game. For your part, you just sat there on that couch with him, letting him lie down as if it were a therapy session, his head in your lap, and vent; occasionally agreeing and reassuring and doing your best to put his criticisms to rest, until the sun came up and he finally gave in to exhaustion. You didn’t want to openly admit it (and neither did anyone else), but your presence during that difficult time had done wonders for him.

You chat with the gals as you all wait for the guys to talk to the media and get changed, discussing the oncoming celebrations as the guys, no doubt, have an initial celebration on their own. As much as you love talking to the girls, you can’t help but think about how happy Sid had looked, how overwhelmed with accomplishment and satisfaction. Knowing his penchant for never being content with himself, it’s all you’ve ever wanted for him.

Finally, the players start emerging from the locker room. They each go to their support in turn, wives and girlfriends and family. You’re waiting, waiting, waiting, until Sid eventually wanders out, backpack slung over his shoulders. He greets a few of his teammates’ family members, before his eyes finally catch yours. You feel your face break into a broad smile, whether you gave it permission to or not, and watch his own do the same. His smile is blinding, all-encompassing, seemingly more stunning than it had been even on the ice after his goal.

“Hey Sid,” you greet, easy as anything despite the way your heart is threatening to beat out of your chest. Sid is everything to you, always has been. Even since you were kids shooting at an old washing machine, since you were teenagers too anxious about being bad at it to kiss anyone, since you’ve reached adulthood and both of you were too unsure to make a move, he’s always been everything to you. And he always will be. Because he’s Sid, and you’re you, and that’s just the way of the world.

“Hey,” he greets in return, unable to make his face behave, though you can see him trying. It seems he gives up on that, because instead, he decides to close the gap between you as quickly as possible, sweeping you up in his arms and spinning you around. Where you would normally just giggle, you laugh out loud, taking part in the unrestrained elation of the group. And that which you feel growing in your chest with every second you spend near Sid.

“I thought you were working on your research,” he says after he puts you back on your feet, keeping you held close enough to his chest that you can feel the vibrations of the words.

“Never said I couldn’t work on it from Vancouver,” you reply, cheeky in a way he’s come to expect from you, but that hasn’t ceased to make him smile even wider. There’s nothing to say then, except everything. I’m so proud of you. You did an amazing job. You are amazing. I’m so in love with you. I have been for so long I think I was born loving you. But you don’t say any of that, because you’re not an idiot. You just hold him close until some of his teammates start whistling and egging you on to kiss. You plant an overdramatic kiss on his cheek to satisfy them, finally pulling away as much as you’re willing.

You know he’s socially obligated to spend some time with the team out at the bars, but you’re not particularly in the mood for even more noise. But it’s Sid, and he’s holding your hand as he leads you along, so you can’t imagine not agreeing to go. It’s just a blur of noise and congratulations and dancing and far less drinking than you’d imagined. At least on yours and Sid’s parts. Everyone else seems to be getting properly wasted, but Sid only has as many drinks as you do, and you intend to remember tonight, so you don’t have that many.

Eventually, Sid takes your hand again-- or maybe he’d never stopped holding it-- and tugs you toward the door, giving an uncharacteristic middle finger to his team when they cheer (and chirp) at the two of you leaving. You follow him outside without resistance, knowing anywhere Sid takes you is somewhere you want to go. That place ends up being the Olympic village, a place you never could’ve dreamed you’d see. But here you are, with Sid leading you back to his room like it’s nothing, like his team clearly wasn’t expecting something you hadn’t dared think was a possibility.

Once he pulls you into the room, he holds you close, just squeezing you tight and breathing into your hair for long moments. You let it be, savoring the moment of closeness, appreciating the fact that you get to have this. If nothing else, if you spend the rest of your life pining after him as you have for years, you get to have this.

“I’m glad you came,” Sid says, after an indeterminate amount of time.

“I am too,” you reply, meaning it more than you’ve meant much anything else in your life. You’d assumed you would actually be back home now, working on your project, until seemingly everyone you knew insisted you had to be here. You’re sure they hadn’t meant here, in Sid’s hotel room, in his arms, but they’d meant here nonetheless. And where else could you have possibly ended up? Alone at your own hotel room, sure, if Sid wasn’t Sid, and you weren’t you, and the two of you weren’t who you are, together.

“I scored that goal and all I could think is how much I wished you were there to see it,” he continues, nosing under your ear, “And then you were.” You chuckle gently like you always do when he gets like this, all sentimental and soft. Such a tough, emotionless boy to the world, but they didn’t know him like you did. No one knew him like you did.

“I’m always gonna be there, Sid,” you say, and you mean it. You’ve both been through enough over the years for you to be able to say that for certain, and even if you hadn’t, you still feel it deep in your soul that it’s true. You’d cross oceans for him, climb mountains, take a ten hour flight alone across a continent. For him. Always for him.

“I know,” he replies, like it’s that easy. Like following someone across half the world is easy, like loving the most loved (and most hated) man in the world is easy.

“I appreciate it, y’know,” he continues, interrupting your slightly bitter thoughts, “Everything you do for me. All of it. I see it. And I’m so grateful.” Okay, that’s a little better. Or a lot better. Or enough better that your heart is starting to melt again, as if it’s ever been solid around Sid to begin with. You just bury your nose in his hair and try not to gasp when he places a soft kiss against your neck. The two of you have done many things together; playing, studying, sharing a seat, sharing a bed. But that’s just how friends are, especially in hockey. Maybe it means something to you, maybe his lips soft and wet against your skin send a message, but surely not one he means to send. He’s Sid, and Sid’s never been good at communicating with people, or socializing, or whatever. You’re used to it.

“You smell,” you say, perhaps a bit desperate to break whatever this moment is. He doesn’t actually smell that badly, clearly having taken at least a cursory rinse in the locker room showers earlier, but it’s as good an excuse as any. May as well get another shower at this point, with the slight crowded-bar-smell hanging on him. He just laughs into your skin, which doesn’t help much, and sways the two of you back-and-forth.

“Can’t get rid of me that easy,” he says, before pulling away to look you in the eye, “Unless you want to.” Which, like, what? Who would want to get rid of him?

“ ‘Cause if you don’t feel the same, I get it,” he continues, babbling in that way he does when he’s nervous, “But I feel like you do, and I do, and you flew across a continent to be here, and you’re the only one I care about being here, and I just--” He won’t stop unless you stop him, and you’re still too scatter-brained to parse what he’s trying to say, so you just put a finger to his lips to silence him. He shuts his mouth immediately, looking into your eyes like he’s waiting for direction. Like you’re the only one who could give him direction.

“Shower first,” you say, not quite sure where else to go with this. Luckily, he nods mutely, following easily when you lead him into the bathroom by your linked hands. He’s obviously not going to start, and you’re still trying to remember how to think, so you’re the first to begin stripping. After your shirt is on the floor and your shoes and socks are on their way to join, he finally snaps into action. He tears off his own clothes and shoes with an urgency you don’t feel quite yet. It’s almost like when you were little kids, and getting showers together after mud fights didn’t have any kind of connotation or expectations.

But then he’s naked, and you’re naked, and you’re not kids anymore. He’s a grown man, carefully built for his career in a way that’s just a touch too appealing, and you’re a random post-grad who happened to be lucky enough to know him before he was him. But again, you’re not who you used to be. Does he find who you are now attractive? Are you worth his time? Or are you still just a friend? Not that that would be a bad thing; no, being Sid’s friend was one of the greatest honors of your life, it’s just. That’s not the extent of what you want him to see you as. You don’t want to be eternally nine years old, shooting pucks and shooting the shit in his driveway. You want to be someone he admires, someone worth talking to, someone worth knowing, someone worth spending time with after he scores the game winning goal in overtime at the goddamn Olympics. Which, it seems, you may be.

But he doesn’t say anything, so neither do you. You just take his hand yet again and lead him into the spray of the now (by far) warm water. For long moments, you just look at each other, letting the spray douse you. But his eyes are dark, and you’re caught between knowing what that look means and not believing it, so you grab the standard issue shampoo and force his head down enough that you can lather his just-long-enough curls. You have to pull him close to rinse, but then put him back into place to get a second lather going, knowing how greasy his hair can get, and how much he appreciates you massaging his scalp. After the second rinse, you take the bar soap in your hand and halt, not sure you can still wash him down without a feeling that wasn’t there when you’d first faced this task. You stand there with soapy hands and helplessly open eyes, simultaneously praying he doesn’t recognize what you’re conveying, and wishing he would finally see through you. You stare and stare, and he stares back, before placing a hand on your hip and the other on your jaw.

“You know why I was so happy you’re here?” he asks, and you’re not sure you want to answer. Because you’re his friend. Because you’re the only thing he has from back home. Because you make him feel safe.

“Because I love you,” he says, his voice hushed and eyes half-lidded, when you refuse to answer. You can feel your mouth drop open just the slightest, and your eyes get a bit too wide and watery for your own comfort. It’s-- no. Sid is. He’s just being Sid, appreciating a friend, letting you know he cares and your trip wasn’t for naught. Just. Anything but what you hadn’t dared to hope.

“Like,” he continues when you don’t respond, “Love you, love you.” That’s not-- you aren’t-- you and Sid aren’t like that, except he continues, “Like more than a friend.” And that’s-- that’s everything you’ve wanted to hear from him for years, but everything you can’t believe. Because even though you knew him when he was still gangly and painfully awkward, he was always still the Next One, in your mind, at least. You always knew he was going to be something special, something amazing, and you were just. Just you. Just some random post-grad who still wasn’t quite sure where she was going with her life. Except, maybe, that it would follow wherever Sid led.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” he says, just keeps going, like he’s not rewriting every fact you have in your head about the two of you, about how you’re the one who loves him and not the other way around, “Pretty much as long as I’ve known you.” For a moment you think this is all a joke, but you can’t imagine Sid doing something that cruel to you. Leading you on for his own amusement.

“You’re everything to me, Y/N,” he brushes his thumb across your cheekbone and you still can’t breathe, can’t imagine how this is real, how this is your life.

“All I’ve ever wanted was to give you a reason to love me,” he continues, like that’s not absolutely ridiculous, like he hasn’t given you every reason to love him every second of the day for the last fifteen years. Like he didn’t call you during Juniors to ask how school was, even though he was doing something more important. Well, maybe not more important, but more prestigious at the time. He had been there for you when you needed extra practice, when you needed someone to hold up flash cards, when you needed someone to make you laugh when no one else could. That’s not really what Sid was known for, honestly, but that’s how you knew him. The one person who could walk into a situation and make you laugh like none of your problems even existed.

The point is, it’s you who should be confessing your unconditional love for Sid, not the other way around. And yet here he is, as he’s always been, one step ahead of the curve. Telling you he loves you as you debate whether you can wash him off without giving yourself away. Doesn’t matter much now, does it?

“Really?” you ask, just to be sure, to make sure this isn’t some cruel joke, to protect yourself one last time. Sid’s eyes go from determined to unbearably soft, running both hands down the line of your neck.

“Of course,” he says, without hesitation, “Of course. Who else could I possibly love?” Your breath, your words, your entire being, gets stuck in your throat. Who else? Who else? Anyone! Anyone else! Your eyes are beading with tears and you’re glad there’s water running over the both of you, because otherwise it might get embarrassing pretty quickly. He could love anyone else, because anyone else wasn’t you. And isn’t that how love always goes? The one you love is always, in some way, better than you, and they always fall for someone better. Because you sit there and believe that as much as you love them, as much as you care for them and protect them and adore them, that there’s someone else better suited for them. And you give up the fight. But.

It’s Sid.

It’s Sid and he’s your best friend, and you haven’t been able to give him up until now, and you still can’t even give him up as he makes the biggest mistake of his life. But maybe loving you isn’t a mistake, because who knows him better than you? Who knows that he likes balsamic vinaigrette with a touch of whole grain mustard on his salads? Who knows that he walks an incredibly specific route around the Penguins arena to get to the room, and who is willing to take that route with him every time? Who knows that he’s so terribly afraid of not being enough that he puts everything he is into being the best, just to be worth something, that they work out with him during the summers, no matter how badly it hurts? Who better for him than you?

You laugh. It’s all you can do. You laugh and laugh and gasp for air and cling to him like he’s the last tangible thing on this planet until you can control yourself enough to look him in the eye. It takes many long moments of resting your head on his chest to get there, but his skin is warm and soft and yields against the careful presses of your lips.

“God, Sid,” you gasp, finally looking up into his dark, dark, scared, eyes, “Fuck.” His lips are soft when they meet yours, and you don’t see the look on his face, because you can’t keep your own eyelids open to watch. Because you’re finally kissing him, and he’s kissing you back, and he’s clinging onto you like his life depends on it, and his dark lashes flutter open just a second behind your own, like you’re still in sync after all these years, like your souls could never be parted by anything so simple as time or distance.

“Took you long enough,” you say, laughing, despite the thoughts racing through your own head. I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I’d travel the world over to see you. I’d do anything for you. I love you.

Suddenly you’re both laughing. Maybe it’s not the time or place to do so, maybe it should’ve “ruined the mood” or something like that, but it’s the way you’ve always been and the way you hope you’ll always be. At first it starts out quiet and breathless as you part for air and look at each other in a newfound light, only to turn to bashful giggling and beautiful characteristic giggle-honks as you lean into each other, foreheads gently pressing together in an all-too-familiar way, eyes squeezed shut. Soon enough, your laughs echo off the walls as you hold each other under the warm spray of water cascading down your bodies and you’re both so terribly vulnerable, so open and bare to each other in this moment, but you can’t make yourself wish that this would ever end.

Optional Smut Scene Written Below (So we can possibly incorporate it into the main fic somehow if we plan on writing one):

Now that you’ve finally gotten to do it, you can’t quite help yourself from kissing him again, and again and again. His lips are slightly chapped from incessant cold, yet somehow still soft against yours. Both of your bodies are warm from the spray of the water, and you think you might die of heat stroke if you stay in the shower much longer. Besides, you’re not really trying to injure the hockey world’s sweetheart in a bizarre shower sex incident, so you don’t intend to stay in for much longer. Two minutes ago you might have questioned that thought, that you were about to have sex, but there’s no use in denying it now. Sid loves you. He loves you, and you love him, and nothing in this world or the next could stop you from getting him off.

But you can’t quite get yourself to stop kissing him long enough that you can bring up a venue change, because you’ve been thinking about this as long as you’ve known what kissing was for, and now you finally have it. So you hold him close and kiss him hopefully as senseless as he’s leaving you, only kind-of ignoring the press of his growing erection against your hip. You can’t fully ignore it, because it’s, like, there, and it’s Sid, and it’s for you.

Eventually he must have the same thought of the perils of shower sex, becuase he gasps out “bed” against your mouth and you’re helpless but to nod. You reach behind you to shut off the water, and he leads you out of the stall with deep kisses and wandering hands. It’s only when the backs of your still-damp knees hit the bed that it sets in, yeah, you’re going to do this. You’re going to fuck your best friend, and you’re going to do it because you’re in love.

He uses a hand on your back to lower you onto the mattress, like you’re something precious he doesn’t want to break. You can only laugh, making him bend over for a kiss before you scoot to straighten yourself out on the bed, and he follows like he couldn’t imagine an alternative. There’s more kissing, enough that you’d be sick of it with anyone else, and he’s working your breasts like your body is his thesis, rolling and flicking your nipples until you moan into his mouth. You can feel his smile at that accomplishment, and don’t resist giving him the satisfaction again and again.

It could be minutes, could be days, before he moves to your jaw, your neck, your shoulders, kissing and sucking and biting like he wants to leave marks, wants everyone to know you’re off limits. You’re not exactly opposed to the idea, but it is a bit tacky to show up with hickeys everywhere. Still, you’re not complaining. It would be kind of funny to see him all flustered when the guys chirp him half to death about it, anyway. It’s only when he reaches the base of your ribcage that he stops, pulls back enough for you to whine. What the fuck.

“I don’t have a condom,” he says without prompting, and okay, that’s kind of a good reason to pause. Fuck, why doesn’t he have one? Who doesn’t carry around a fucking condom?

“I uh,” he continues, cheeks flaming red from their previous pink flush, “I haven’t really wanted to sleep with anyone else, so.” Oh. That’s pretty sweet, honestly, and just enough to soothe the part of you that wants him inside you, like, now. You force him to meet eyes and smile.

“That’s pretty cheesy, Sidney,” you tease, running a hand through his curls. He buries his face in your stomach and mutters a “shut up”. Maybe you should’ve told him you were coming, so he could be prepared. No matter what you could’ve done, you can still work with this.

“Well,” you sigh overdramatically, “I guess I have a mouth.” You can feel his cocktwitch against your leg as he whispers a heartfelt “Fuck...” under his breath. There’s always tomorrow, you suppose, and it’s not like going down on him is going to be a hardship. Or maybe it will? You’ve never really done… all that, so maybe it’s harder than it looks? Shit, Sid is probably well seasoned in sexual aspects, and you’re gonna look like a fool. Except-

“I uh,” Sid starts, pauses, continues, “I haven’t really… with anyone.” Which is like, mind-blowing, cause he’s Sid and he’s hot and lovely and if you’re understanding him correctly, how has no one jumped on that?

“Haven’t what?” you ask, just for clarification. Good to know exactly what you’re dealing with.

“I’ve never, uh,” Sid seems hesitant to say it out loud, like he’s talking to his teammates and not you, who has known he’s a dork since you met him, “I’ve never had sex.” That’s, um. That’s certainly, something. Like, to be fair, neither have you, so you don’t have much room to speak, but you’re not a world famous athlete with women of all ages banging down your door to fuck.

“Why, though?” you ask, because your brain to mouth filter has been shot since he first kissed you. That’s a pretty personal question to ask, and you kind of feel bad. Until he responds with more ease and grace than you’d ever have expected.

“I always kind of hoped it would be you,” he says, and if he were anyone else, you’d probably try to act smooth about it - but you give him a blushing, broad smile instead, one that you’re sure shows a hint of feeling humbled and a bit over-complimented. Call it sappy all you want, but it’s true. He’s had all the opportunity in the world to have sex and he hasn’t, simply because he wanted it to be with you. You’re much less afraid of being bad at sex now, knowing that you’re on the same level, and it makes you even more eager to get down to it. And if he feels the same way you do- that there’s not much short of serious bodily injury that could make this any less perfect- you don’t have much to be worried about.

“I, uh, I haven’t either,” you respond, ignoring his wide eyes staring up at you, “I was kind of hoping it would be you, too.” In any other situation, it would be humiliating to admit, but, for the millionth time, it’s Sid, and that makes it okay. Sid makes everything okay. He looks hungry, suddenly, in a way he hasn’t yet, and you can only hope you live up to what he’s been imagining. Because he’s been imagining, Jesus Christ.

“Do you, uh, want to… go first, or?” you ask, not quite caring what he decides. But you’re on your back and he’s halfway down your body, so it seems pretty clear what should transpire next. Unless he’s into getting his own first, which is definitely valid, but you’re kind of hoping he wants you to get off first, just so you can focus on giving him the first time that he deserves.

“Fuck yeah,” he breathes, which isn’t much of an answer, because it could easily mean getting or giving, but any doubt you had about his answer is quickly answered by the way he continues to trail down your abdomen. So okay, yeah, he’s definitely going to eat you out, and that’s like, the subject matter of almost every dream you’ve had for the past five years, but it’s cool. It’s totally cool, and you’re cool, and not short of breath at all.

He spends almost too much time at your pelvis, sucking marks into the delicate skin of your hips and inner thighs, making you squirm with nothing but the heat and pressure of his mouth. It would be embarrassing, probably, with anyone else, but Sid has always had this air of earnest, unabashed passion that makes you feel like you’re allowed to want. And he seems happy enough about it, proud that he’s apparently as good at this as anything else he tries, if the noises you’re making are any indication. The faintest voice at the back of your mind hopes that you can hold up to scrutiny when it’s your turn, but mostly you’re just desperate for him to get on with it already.

“Let me know if it’s good?” he requests, the first outright sign of insecurity he’s shown since getting you into bed. You’re not sure it’s possible for him to mess this up, honestly, because it’s like. It can’t be that hard, right? And at first, he confirms these assumptions, running his tongue over your labia, just enough pressure and slickness to make it work. He uses his hands to spread your thighs more, baring more of you to him. And it’s... Okay, it’s good. It’s like, really good. But it’s not enough. He’s running his tongue through your folds and sucking and you’re making noises that surely couldn’t be attractive in any other context, but it’s not enough. If he wanted to keep you here for the next year, eating you out, this would be perfect, but you’re kind of looking to come, and this just isn’t gonna get you there.

“C’mon, Sid,” you plead, “More.” At that, he works his way higher, like he’s searching for- oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s your clit and he probably only knows it because he read about it somewhere, because he’s a nerd and you love him for it. Except the single-minded attention is just a bit too much at this point, and you have to push him away when he tries to suck hard at you, too much too soon, despite feeling like you’ve been ready forever.

“Just, fuck,” you curse, not sure how to direct him. But he seems to get the message, going back to alternating wide stripes up your folds and directionless swiping with a pointed tongue. Eventually, he gets up the nerve to dip into you with his tongue, and it’s just enough that you buck into his face. He takes this as encouragement, as he should, so he continues interspersing his licks with deep strokes of his tongue. You can feel your orgasm building in the curve of your hips, the back of your neck, the ends of your teeth, when he meets your eyes once again. You just nod, and he seems to get the message, going for your clit again. He licks and sucks and whereas it was too much before, it’s just enough now. You can’t help the way your hips move incessantly toward his mouth, desperate for anything he’ll give you, and let your orgasm wash through you in cresting waves that mimic the rolling of your hips. You wish you’d been looking him in the eye, something romantic like that, but it is what it is. And what it is, is the best orgasm you’ve had in your short life. You could probably die riding his face, fingers clenched tight in his dark curls.

Eventually, you have to push him away, too sensitive for him to keep going. You’re not exactly ready to jump back into action, too wrung out by all of it to immediately spring up and suck him off. Which is definitely something in the future, because he’s pressing the heel of his hand to himself, and you’re pretty sure he’d come at any moment if you could just manage to get down to it. After long moments catching your breath, you’re finally back to earth enough to move. It seems as though that’s not really a problem, though, because Sid has been watching you intensely since you separated, like your pleasure was his own. He kisses you deeply, and you can’t decide if the taste of yourself on his tongue is sexy or weird. Probably sexy. Kind of hot. Definitely hot.

It’s easy enough to sit up and push Sid back, laying him flat to switch the dynamic enough that you can kiss him breathless. You mimic his movements, drawing long lines along his neck and collarbones and chest with your mouth, like you’re trying to make a topographical map. God, he’d probably love that, huh? That shouldn’t be hot, but it kind of is, like everything about Sid, so you let it slide. Thinking of maps isn’t the way you thought this would go, but knowing Sid, you probably should have expected it. If he’s a nerd, you are too.

Almost as soon as you’d started, you’re at his hips, teasing him with sucking kisses and light bites as much as he had you. He doesn’t get the reference, or at least doesn’t make it a competition, as you’d almost assumed it would be, rolling his hips toward you far more smoothly than you’d anticipated.

“Been practicing?” you ask, sucking a mark at the base of his dick. You kind of hope he hasn’t, because you haven’t, but you wouldn’t fault him for the experience.

“Might have watched some videos,” he grunts, throwing his head back at the suction to the crease of his hip, “Thought about it.” You’re over being surprised that he’d thought of you, because he’s said it enough, but the statement still shoots straight to your own groin. It’s all you need to duck down and take the head of his dick into your mouth. You huff out a laugh at the sound he makes in response to your lips, and you hope he knows it’s not mean-spirited. You’d laughed at each other plenty over the years, and you hope you don’t have to stop now that this is a… thing. You run your tongue down his length and back up, trying to the best of your ability to be sexy, but you’re not sure if it’s working. He groans and closes his eyes as he throws his head back, though, so you take that as a good sign. After lavishing the base with as much attention as you’re willing with how badly you want him in your mouth, you finally take him down as far as you dare. It’s not necessarily impressive, but it’s enough to make him take hold of your head. You don’t expect him to force you down, and he doesn’t, though you kind of want him to. Logically, you know you don’t have the experience to resist gagging if he did, but the possibility is definitely something to work on.

You try it yourself after a while, curious as to how much you can take. You’d gladly take whatever he gave you, but you’re pretty sure your gag reflex would disagree. But it ends up that he just twists his hips in smooth arcs, more interested in the fact that it’s you getting him off than anything else. It’s kind of heady, to know that he’s turned on by your presence more than what you’re doing, but also a challenge to your over-competitive soul. If he’s going to come for you, he’s going to feel it.

So you pull out all the tricks you’ve heard about, teasing the head and the base with your tongue and fingers, twisting your wrist, making as much eye contact as you can manage. Sid has waited his whole life to have his first time with you, and you’re going to make it as good as you can. Not just out of competitiveness, but out of adoration.

He digs his fingers into your scalp when he’s close, mumbling something incoherent, and you don’t bother even trying to pull off. He comes into the back of your mouth and down your throat, and you’re glad you’d stayed on, just to see the look on his face when you do. He’s beautiful like this. Like anything, really. Put together or torn apart, he’s perfect in your eyes. Maybe it’s sappy, but it’s true.

You gently slide his cock out of your mouth, your tongue sliding against the still-hard erection as you finally release him. Licking your lips, you hummed to yourself, surprised at how tolerable he tasted. You’d been under the impression that it would be gross, but it honestly wasn’t that bad; a little salty, a tad bitter, but overall fine. Possibly just because it’s Sid, but fine either way. ‘Yeah,’ you thought. ‘I’m doing this way more often.’ Suddenly the realization hits you: this may very well be the first of many times you’ll get to do this. Your cheeks burn a little bit hotter than they do already as you try to hide your giddy smile.

Your thoughts are suddenly halted once Sid tugs you up towards him, connecting your lips once again. You’re a bit surprised at how deeply he kisses you-- as much as you’d enjoyed the taste of him, you hadn’t expected him to be interested in even the possibility of the same. Nonetheless, he kisses you just as he had before, like he’s still amazed he gets to have this, and he’s trying to make the most of it in case it’s taken away. After you pull away for breath, he moves to plant kisses on your cheeks, your forehead, your nose. You giggle and lightly smack his chest, burying your face in his neck to hide your smile. No part of tonight has been anything you’d imagined, from his goal to where you are now, together, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Hey Y/N?” he says, once your giggles have calmed and you’re left breathing against his skin. You hum, not quite up to the task of speaking yet. He nudges you until you lift your head, so he can look you in the eye in that way that makes you feel like he’s seeing straight into your soul.

“I love you,” he says. You don’t even have to think about it.

“I love you too,” you reply, easy as breathing. Broad smiles break over both of your faces. You know you both mean it, more than you’ve meant anything in your lives. He kisses you again, just lazy movement of lips against lips, so warm and comfortable you don’t bother wondering how long it goes on for.

“Sleep time,” you demand, eventually. He grins and tosses you around until he’s spooned up against your back, arms wrapped securely around you. You take deep, steady breaths until you’re just on the edge of consciousness. He says “I love you” again, whispered into the back of your neck like he thinks you’re already asleep. You mumble it back, before allowing the darkness to take you. You’ll have every moment of the rest of your lives to prove it to him, if you have any say in the matter.

#sidney crosby imagine #nhl imagines #RI #andis coping mechanism #scrosby

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ammeh7 · 6 years ago

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7KPP Week 2019 - Day 2

Hobbies || Worldbuilding

Valrise + music, at three different times in her life

I finally had to come up with siblings for Valrise for this!

Names and ages at the start of the fic, for anyone who likes a reference: Ophelia (10), Emmaline (8), Linette (7), Larissa (7), Rhiele (5), Tremont (4, first son), Cerise (2), Brandel (1, second son). Valrise is 6 years older than Ophelia and was probably an accident.

I Can’t Music, and attempting to research for this fic just got me lots of ads for children’s music lessons, so if I said anything that makes her sound like an idiot or is unrealistic, just let me know.

Minor content warning for the middle section (avoiding intimacy with her first husband). If you’re concerned, scroll to the end for details.

The piano was one of the few trappings of nobility they had left.

She suspected it was only still there because her mother hadn’t figured out how to get it down the stairs to sell. Or maybe she’d decided it compensated for the threadbare rugs and shelves conspicuously absent of curios. It made them look, perhaps, like they might hold social gatherings, have their talented daughters perform for their guests.

In reality, it was years out of tune, and of the seven daughters, 16-year-old Valrise was the only one with any idea how to play. There hadn’t been money for individual music tutoring since Ophelia was just starting on basic scales—a couple years of group vocal lessons, and then it was up to Valrise (“You have such a lovely voice, dear, I’m sure you can do better than that overpriced troubadour!”) By that point, the piano twanged unpleasantly, a bulky corner decoration rather than an instrument.

There were probably smarter things to spend her scrimped-together savings on, but…she missed it.

Getting the piano tuned did have a practical justification, she’d convinced herself—with Rhiele turning six, it’d make five of them passing the lap harp around during her attempts at music lessons. Counting Valrise, that would be six of them sharing it for practice. If they had the piano as well, there’d be more opportunity for everyone to practice instruments, more options for accompaniment, better chances for her sisters to grow the skills expected of noble ladies.

So she’d sold a brooch that had been a gift from an optimistic merchant’s son, and inquired around until she found a tuner with a good reputation who was willing to work cheaply. At least in this case. (She might have had to bat her eyelashes a bit and sigh wistfully about how much she missed playing, but in the end she’d gotten three piano tunings for the price of the brooch.)

Hopefully, her mother wouldn’t return from her outing until after the tuner was finished. She might not notice that the piano was suddenly in tune, but she’d have opinions on Valrise’s use of money, or perhaps take this as a sign they had some great trove of savings secreted away and she could afford some indulgences of her own.

Right on cue, the tuner closed his box of tools and stepped back with a smile. “It should be set, Miss—my lady. Feel free to try it out.”

She sat down hesitantly, hovered her hands over the keyboard. “I’m afraid I’m several years out of practice, so I’d request that you don’t judge my fumbles too harshly,” she smiled over her shoulder.

The first few notes were hesitant, but her hands remembered even if her mind didn’t, and soon her fingers were flowing over the keys, a song she couldn’t even recall the name of filling the room.

She hadn’t remembered how satisfying she found this—the range of notes, the expanse of the keyboard, the timbre.

The last note faded out and she came back to herself. “It—sounds lovely. Thank you.”

Movement at the door caught her eye, and she looked over to see Ophelia, Emmaline, and Larissa all peeking their heads into the room.

“I told you she’d be good at it,” Larissa whispered loudly to someone in the hall. Probably Rhiele—she still liked to hide from strangers, and Linette in her determination to be the “good twin” would never have abandoned her math exercises to spy on what was happening across the castle.

“Are you going to teach any of us?” Emmaline asked eagerly, noticing Valrise looking their way. “So we don’t have to share?”

“Of course,” she said, glad they seemed excited. This would be good for them. She knew it was the right choice.

The footman came over to show the tuner out, and the girls entered the room, Emmaline and Larissa rushing up to the piano and plinking at the keys while Ophelia came over to stand by Valrise.

“It’s good to see you play again,” she said quietly. “I missed it.”

“Me too.”

The floor harp was by far her favorite thing in the house. Her entertainment and her sanctuary.

The same talents that had helped her to catch a wealthy baron’s eye now also helped her play the part of an adoring wife without having to do anything terribly…wifely. He loved her singing, had had the harp and piano moved to the room below his study and bade her to play with the windows open.

She didn’t mind the man, but she felt no great passion, no tender affection at the thought of him. The thought of kissing him, of lying with him, left her with a sense of cool distaste. She endured the first, but for the other…

The dream-wine had been a terrible plan. It was miraculous it hadn’t crashed apart around her already.

She’d been so childishly terrified of that first night. She’d known the tincture was a soporific, one unpopular due to side effects of disturbingly vivid dreams, but quick-acting and accessible. She’d just meant to delay things, let him think he’d nodded off after a night of feasting and put the whole affair off until she’d had time to settle in a bit.

But he’d pulled her close, gotten her bodice open before it took effect…and the next morning she’d discovered that if an idea were planted and the circumstances were believable, those “vivid dreams” could be mistaken for reality.

She should have taken that reprieve as the windfall it was and not pushed her luck. But it turned out that if you manage to avoid the first night, the next time…was still the first night.

And “settling in” turned out to be much less of a panacea than she’d hoped.

She could perform the part of the adoring and grateful wife when they were together, but too much and it got under her skin, made her sick with it, made her worry she might let the mask slip.

Playing, though—playing let her escape from pleasing her husband and please her husband all at the same time.

He thought the music was for him. It wasn’t.

And when her husband came in and kissed her shoulder, told her to wait up in her chambers that night, she’d only be acting the doting spouse if she prepared two goblets and some cut flowers, wanted to flirt a bit over a glass of wine before they got to business.

The problem was that it worked too well. She never meant to keep it going for an entire year.

She’d faked her way through one pregnancy already, “late courses” and “morning sickness” and a morning of dramatic weeping in the bathroom. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could maintain the ruse. Soon she might need to—

A loud crash came from the study upstairs, and her fingers halted on the strings with an unpleasant twang.

“Darling? Is everything all right?”

“I believe,” Zarad says, “that you promised me a private concert.”

Valrise tilts her head in exaggerated recollection. “Oh? I’m fairly certain I said that I might give you a private concert, if you behave.”

He grins. “Exactly! So as we are surely in agreement that my behavior has been beyond reproach for at least the past three hours—”

She gives him a flat look.

“—and you carelessly neglected to specify a duration when making your promise—”

“It was hardly a promise—”

“—there is really no debating the fact that you owe me a private concert.”

“I suppose that’s fairly ironclad,” she says, walking over to the floor harp in the center of the music room he’s brought her to. She settles herself, takes a deep breath.

She plucks out a single chord, then stands. “Well, since I carelessly neglected to specify a duration in my promise… I hope you enjoyed your concert.”

Zarad laughs, eyes dancing. “Ah, but you must agree that the word ‘concert’ carries an implicit minimum length. At least a quarter hour, certainly.”

Part of her wants to keep arguing, silly hesitations holding her back. Her time with the Baron has turned the idea of playing for her husband into something underhanded, scheming—and as someone used to impressing people with her singing, she’s a bit worried she’ll come off lacking in comparison to the apparently legendary voice of his mother.

But he’s hardly the Baron, and she has no intention of giving up singing permanently, so better to take the plunge now than put it off. And in the end, she really does want to.

She pretends to consider for a long moment, then sits back down. “Fine. But if you get yourself murdered by a bookshelf while I’m playing, I’m going to be very cross.”

“I’ll be the very soul of caution,” he says. “Although, if there exists a bookshelf so determined to murder me that it manages to sneak its way into the music room, I fear I may have met my match.”

She laughs, bringing her fingers to the strings.

She plays.

And maybe it’s a little bit for him.

If you came down here for the detailed content warning:

During the second section, Valrise (Ambitious Widow) is married to her first husband, who wants an heir. She doesn’t want to sleep with him and has successfully avoided it by drugging him so he’ll fall asleep and think they did, but is worried she might have to eventually (and has been in some intimate situations with him she found distasteful, not much past kissing.) She also faked a pregnancy and miscarriage at one point. It’s all described pretty vaguely and she’s safe at the end. If you’d prefer to skip that but are still interested in reading the rest: You can read up to the first break, then instead of reading the section that starts “the floor harp was by far her favorite thing in the house”, search for the first instance of “Zarad” and pick up again there. All you need to know for the third bit is that she used to play “for” her first husband as a means of avoiding him, and that he died in a freak accident while she was playing in the room below.

#7kpp #7kpp week 2019 #7kppweek #7kpp week #zarad #My MCs #fic

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ingoldentent · 7 years ago

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The Christmas Flag

(A Christmas gift for Laurel @golden-witch. Hope you enjoy it!

For context, this is a modern AU the two of us talk about, with some details explained at the story itself. Some bits might seem out of nowhere for most readers.

Also, featuring Ange/Beato because I feel like the gays deserve it.)

“Ah, finally you’ve arrived! I was starting to think that you were planning to purposefully starve your dearest sister to deaaaaath!!”

“Good evening to you too, Beato.” Lion calmly replies. “Will got stuck on petting this one stray cat a couple streets down here.”

“More like saving our lives.” The aforementioned Will replies. “That was not your typical cat, Lion. I could feel in my soul as she stared into me- the desire to tear me apart while laughing at it.”

“Yeah, sure.” The blonde shrugged off. This was not the time to indulge into Willard’s paranoia regarding that one black cat with the blue ribbon. “So, were we the last ones to arrive?”

“You can bet on that!” Battler shouted from afar, for he was too busy fighting against Jessica in a match of Silver Mysteria to look at the arriving couple. Not the most festive activity there is, but the perfect cousin bonding method. If anything, it’s a good way to channel fighting urges instead of them bickering to the point of violence.

Beato claps her hands, nodding enthusiastically at Battler’s words. “Yes, that’s very right! C’mon, Lion, everyone, enough playing. It’s finally time for our Christmas dinner!!”

With that energetic call, the seven people at the house got around the table to celebrate the occasion. Lion Castiglioni and Willard H. Wright; Battler Ushiromiya, Jessica Ushiromiya and Sayo Yasuda (who was today in a more ‘Yoshiya’ mood); lastly, Beatrice Castiglioni and… Ange Ushiromiya.

It’s not traditional of Japanese people to celebrate Christmas the same way people do in the West. While here there’s an emphasis on family and presents and the figure of Santa Claus, in Japan Christmas is mostly a date for small children and couples. In other words, it’s not too farfetched to say that this holiday is like a second Valentine’s Day there.

Thing is, as an Italian family, the Castiglioni’s have kept up with the tradition of holding a family dinner every Christmas Eve, even after they moved to Japan. And the Ushiromiyas, as expected after decades of being under the rule of Kinzo Ushiromiya and his West loving ways, followed a similar vein.

However, none of those here present truly felt fulfilled with such a shallow reunion, where they’re forced to bear smiles in their faces while standing to listen to veiled insults to each other. Some felt the full strike of that, like Beatrice, the problematic princess of the Castiglioni’s who committed the terrible ‘sin’ of being born with a penis. Or Ange, the bastard child who would forever carry the stain of having her mother be a convicted criminal and not receive genuine affection from her.

Then you have Sayo, whose life as a servant to the Castiglioni’s taught her several things about grudges, pessimism and the obsolescence of the gender binary. Lion got it better than their sister - being the favorite among the relatives and having no difficulties in pleasing others certainly helped, but they couldn’t leave Beato alone in this one chance for getting a decent holiday.

Battler’s life isn’t that different from the one most readers are used to. The main exception being, he and Jessica managed to have quite the detailed discussion in regards to how to conduct a polyamorous relationship with their mutual beloved. They don’t want each other, though. That’d be gross. Jessica’s biggest worry today is this one extracurricular program her parents want her to attend after winter break and the fact that Battler utterly destroyed her in Silver Mysteria right now.

Last, we have Willard, who’s only here to accompany his partner. He’s not really that close to any of the other people here, yet somehow he always ends up as their collective therapist when things spiral out of control.

This concludes presentations of this curious ensemble, which was now reunited in Ange’s apartment for a late Christmas celebration. It might be a strange group doing a strange thing on December 26th, but hey. None of them really felt like what they got during the day proper really carried an air of ‘peace’ and ‘happiness’. Isn’t that what this holiday should be about, to begin with?

Upon Beato’s loud exclamation of Lion and Willard’s arrival, Ange and Yoshiya, who were busy preparing the last components of the meal at the kitchen, joined the group to give their usual aloof greetings. The Ushiromiya girl simply waved at them, not really feeling like talking. Especially to Will, who gave her quite a painfully needed wake-up call on her behavior, last time they met. She is doing better now, but the shame of that time still runs through her veins.

“Alright, then, what did you guys get to do?” Jessica approached impatient. “My belly is starving after all the energy I’ve spent on that stupid game.”

“You mean,” Battler retorted. “the energy you spent losing to me, ihihi- OUCH!”

“S-Shut, dumbass!”

“Hey, you two, behave!” Yoshiya quickly berates. “If you don’t join the table soon, the dinner will get cold.”

“”Y-Yes, love…” They bow down in shame and do as solicited.

“That’s right.” Beato nods in agreement. “The longer you keep on that stuff, the longer I’ll have to wait until I get to be preeeetty gay with Ange, you know~?”

“B-BEATO!” Ange blushes like an apple at that affirmation from her girlfriend. “Not in front of them, e-especially Onii-chan!!”

The group laughs at the scene. Ah, young adult life. The moment where your spirit still carries the passion and wish for fun from adolescence, but you’re forced to face the reality of responsibilities and sustenance. That makes creating moments like these harder and harder, which’s why they must be enjoyed to the max.

With everyone on table, the dinner finally goes on without bigger problems. The group discusses questions regarding college, jobs, money, plans and promises for next year. It’s not that unlike what they had with the rest of their families the previous days. However, getting to share their perspective in an environment where they won’t be judged for not sharing the same ideology as their parents was certainly refreshing. Not to count, you wouldn’t see this much sincere laughter at either the Castiglioni’s or Ushiromiya’s tables.

To that, Beato was really glad. Ah, it’s been months ever since she has had an evening this pleasant. Anxious fits about her body still disturb her even when Ange has proven to her, time and time again, that she isn’t ‘furniture’ anymore. Yes, that’s in the past. A new chapter in her life is about to begin, one that for once she isn’t dreading to start…

“Beato?” Ange’s voice cuts the blonde from her thoughts, making her drop the fork on her hand. “You’re thinking of something?”

“A-Ah, nothing, n-nothing!” To prove that, she proceeds to munch several portions of the food on her dish at once. “W-Was jwust admwired at wour cooking skwll, wes!”

“………………….”

Ange can see her just perfectly behind her cheerful facade, can’t she? Who is she fooling? She’s still damn terrified of this whole thing! A life with friends, with someone who loves and accepts her for who she is… Does someone as selfish and disgusting as her really deserve any of this?

Just as she was having those thoughts, a gentle hand suddenly starts patting her head. “Ah, Battler!”

“You’re in one of those ‘moods’ again, aren’t you?” He asks with a concerned tone. She takes a chance to look around the table and notices- everyone is staring at her, no? Oh, great. Now she’s made everyone worried. She was singlehandedly ruining the festive spirit! Oooooh, she wants to die right now-

“SO!” All of a sudden, Jessica slams the table with her open palms. “I think we’ve all finished eating for now. Why don’t we move to dessert?! I’ve heard that you prepared a delicious thing, didn’t you, Yoshiya-kun?”

“Did I- Oh, right! Yes, I did.” He nods, catching on what Jessica’s intention is. He coughs awkwardly, in such a way that it becomes clear to Beato what is just happening. Still, she’s glad. At least like this, she can let herself be drowned in her intrusive thoughts without bothering anyone…

“Beato. It’s me, Lion.” The heir says after knocking at the bathroom door. “You’ve been there for 10 minutes already. Y-You okay?”

No response.

“Beatrice,” Will joined in. “if you’re hiding because you don’t want us to get worried over seeing your messy state, I’m sorry to say that might not be workin- GHNK!”

“Willard, manners.” Lion cuts him short, fingers quickly retreating from his butt at a pinching pose. Still no response from the other side.

“Nothing, huh…?” Ange sighs, while the others watch the door from afar. They all agree that it’s best limiting how many people try talking to Beato when she’s having an anxiety attack.

“At least I can’t hear her breathing hard anymore. She should be coming out soon.” Will says.

“Tsk… idiot. Why today of all days?! These stupid brains of ours must be defective or something!!” Ange punches a wall in protest. It’s not like she can talk much, though. She had a similar crisis just yesterday, at the Ushiromiya mansion. Were Battler not there to take her to a calmer place, who knows what a scandal she would have pulled in front of the relatives. That’d be utterly disgraceful to her pride.

Speaking of him… “Oh, Ange, I have an idea! Bring up the flags already, instead of leaving it to the very end!”

“The flags…” Ah, yes. It had been an idea that she had come up with to make the two of them more comfortable with the season. Ange was never good at picking presents for others or at giving comforting words according to what they need, as Battler is. So, she thought, perhaps… something simpler would be able to express what she thinks of Beato and their relationship in a better manner.

And you can’t go more symbolic than with these flags.

“…Beato.” She knocks the bathroom door. “Why don’t we… finish setting up the Christmas tree now? I left the top of it to you, you know?”

She’s referring to a small, slightly broken tree that they found abandoned on the street the other day. It seems like even on Japan, people have been getting too much into Christmas trees recently, to the point where defective ones have been appearing on trash cans more and more. For someone like Ange, however, who detested getting in touch with any of her family’s richness, this was just the perfect decoration for the season.

A couple seconds pass, no response coming from the blonde. Looks like Beatrice isn’t up to even this, Ange concludes. Willard tells them to return to the others, but before they can do so-

*CREEEEEEK!*

“…………” Beato stands there, eyes looking down and hair disheveled. It’s not hard to deduce what she was doing inside that bathroom, but the others choose not to comment on it - for her sake… and their own. They simply smile at her, Lion moving to pat her on the back.

“Welcome back, Beatrice-sama.” Yoshiya greets. “Feeling better?”

“Y-Yeah, I guess…” She sighs. A hand of hers is over her chest. Perhaps she’s still feeling her heart beat fast, but at least her breath seems to be more controlled by now. Jessica approaches her and, alongside Battler, help her sit down on a sofa. Meanwhile, Willard goes get a glass of water to her.

“Drink it. Your body needs to stay hydrated.” He commands, which Beato attends without difficulties. In the meantime, Ange brings the small tree closer to her girlfriend.

“See? The top is still missing. But I’ve prepared something that we can put on it, together.” She starts blushing. “I-If you want, of course!”

“Ah…” Beato massages a temple of hers, as if guiding her consciousness back to the situation in front of her. “Hmmmm...”

“C’mon, it’s gonna be great!” Battler cheers her. “I bet that it’s gonna make you smile aaaall night long, ehehehe~.”

“O-Oni-chan!! Don’t give her that sort of perverted idea about me!” Ange huffs at him. That finally warrants a more elaborated answer from Beato - a chuckle, to be more specific.

“Don’t you worry, Battler. On another occasion I’ll make sure that your sister spends all night long smiling too~.” She winks at Ange, who by now looks like a tomato. Ange feels like jumping at her brother for starting such an embarrassing line of conversation, but manages to contain herself. It did help cheer Beato, at least exteriorly, so she’ll forgive him this time.

“A-ANYWAY!!” She coughs, then rummages through a pocket on her pants. “I-It’s not really anything grandiose or spectacular, but… I hope you’ll like it.” At last, Ange pulls the two flags out of her pocket, making them perfectly visible to Beato.

Her pupils dilate at the vision. “Those are…!”

On Ange’s hands, two small flags, enough to fit on an open palm, were presented. One had several colored stripes in it, a composition similar to a rainbow, except with only one blue instead of two. The other was stripped too, except with only blue, pink and white. It should be no mystery what they stand for.

“You want to… really put these on the tree… for everyone to see?!” Beato asked. Her voice was laced with apprehension. Not surprising, for putting those up would mean… to have pride of them.

“W-Well, yeah.” Ange coughs some more. “I… I love you, you know?” Her eyes darted away from Beatrice as she uttered those words. “A-A-And… I’m happy with what we are, who we are. O-Or, well…” She takes a deep breath.

Everyone else stays silent. They don’t want to break Ange’s willingness to speak like this. Battler in particular would know, considering his sister trained these words with him a couple days ago.

“Uuuuh, I’m… glad to have you as my girlfriend. And I don’t want to feel ashamed about that ever again.” Then… Ange smiles. A small, pretty smile that she rarely shows. “I hope… that you’re glad for having me as well. That’d be nice.”

“Ange…” Beato’s eyes begin tearing at those words. As expected, the other isn’t the most eloquent person ever. Still, her speech touched the blonde deeply. “A-ANGEEEEEEEEE!!!!”

Beato proceeds to tackle her in a tight hug, all while sobbing in an ugly manner. “Waaaaah, Ange… I’m… I-I’m so happy!! That, that you think of me like that…!!”

Of course, such a sudden display of physical affection - in front of others, even - isn’t the most comfortable scenario for Ange. But, well… These ARE her friends (or the closest thing to the term that she considers to have) and it IS Christmas (or the day after it), so… Perhaps she’ll let this last a bit longer… just this time.

The others clap in celebration. That’s when Jessica makes a comment. “Yo, guys, the marathon of horror Christmas movies on Channel Lyte is about to begin! Hurry up!!”

“Fine, fine. Let’s join them, Ange?” Beato asks. There’re still trails of tears on her face, but she’s trying to clean them.

“Y-Yes, we will.” Ange replies, a small blush on her face. So the group spends the rest of the night getting spooked or laughing at the screen, all while a small Christmas tree stands at the corner, two flags hanging over it.

#umineko #umineko no naku koro ni #goldenwitch #beaange #(Merry Christmas dear <3)

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