#fucked up for like 12 years. you know this.

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Champagne Problems

♥ masterlist | request rules | 12 days of ficmas

♥ pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader

♥ synopsis: the two of you end up at a party with different intentions

♥ wc: 2k - as always none of the pictures are mine

♥ warnings: swearing, angst, and alcohol (drink responsibly please lol) !!!

♥ a/n: TONS of angst in this fic so get ready lol <3 i've been wanting to put out this fic for SO long you don't understand. tagging bestie @theonottsbxtch

Charles was head over heels in love with you—it was a shame, really.

You sat on your shared king sized bed in a sparkly dress, observing your boyfriend as he slipped on a gold watch. 

“We need to leave soon mon amour,” he said, wandering over to you and kissing your cheek. “We don’t want to be late, do we?”

You nodded and adjusted the jewelry on your hand.

Charles folded the cuffs on his sleeve, “You alright?”

“Mhm,” you nodded with a fake smile.

You hadn’t seen Charles in months because of his work. Ironically the first place he wanted to take you was a gala... For his work.

The two of you met because of your love for F1. The narrative of Ferrari brought you together and despite his promises to be there for you, he always left them unfulfilled.

You were alone. Way too often. Left by yourself to take care of Leo and be his wag.

You and Charles wandered outside the apartment to his car. He opened the door for you—like a gentleman. But you couldn’t shake this melancholic feeling whenever you’re around him.

-

”Hey, where’s Charles?” Arthur, your boyfriend’s younger brother asked with a smile.

You shrugged, taking a sip of your drink, and gazing at the room full of talkative people. The second you got there he wandered off to find Pierre. You couldn’t even blame him. This was for business after all.

”Hm, that’s odd. I’d expect him to be with you.” he scrunched his nose. “I remember one time last year—he was so excited to come home for winter break and see you. He would talk about you all day to me on the phone,” Arthur chuckled.

You gave him a faint smile. That was the Charles you fell in love with. Alas, he was across the room talking to someone else’s girlfriend.

“Well, let me know if you see him. I’ll see you in a few weeks for Christmas, yeah?”

You swallowed hard, pausing before a response.

“Yeah, yeah of course,” you smiled with a nod.

“Great, Maman said she already got you gifts,” he laughed. “I’ll see you around Y/n.”

He nudged your shoulder with an infectious smile, wandering off with a drink in hand.

God, why did this have to hurt so fucking much.

-

“Thank you all for being here,” a man said into a microphone, commanding the room to silence. “It has been an incredible season, but now we must start planning for the next one. Thank you to all our sponsors who are able to make this happen and congratulations to all that we have done this year.”

He raised his glass of champagne, leading everyone to follow and clink theirs together. You sat at a round table with your closest friends from the industry, Pierre and Kika as Charles got up to ask the man at the front of the room something. He came back with the microphone in hand and turned it on.

He stared down at you, eyes peering lovingly into your soul.

“Y/n… you are the most beautiful, kind, intelligent woman I have ever met,” he spoke into the mic, elicting a few ‘awh’s’ from the crowd and drawing at least a hundred eyes to you.

Charles slowly bent down, grabbing something out of his suit pocket.

Your eyes widened and you tried to say something but you couldn’t. Every word was trapped in your mouth, despite your jaw being on the floor. Plenty of gasps and whispers came from the room. You could see Kika’s eyes light up, clearly ecstatic for you.

“I don’t really have a whole speech planned,” he laughed softly. “All I can really say is how much I love you… Will you marry me?”

He flicked the ring box open, revealing a gold ring with a huge diamond.

You paused, trying your best to take in everything that has happened before shaking your head.

“Charles… can we talk about this somewhere else?” you whispered.

Charles' expression dropped instantly. He knows what that really means.

More gasps. More gossip.

Clearly the whole room knew what it meant too.

“Is she fucked in the head?” you heard someone from the crowd whisper.

Followed by, “If she won’t marry him I will,” and “What a shame.”

”I’m sorry Charles, I’m gonna get a Lyft.” you whispered, squeezing his hand.

Kika looked at Pierre completely stunned. This was certainly not how the two of them thought the night was going to go. This was certainly not how you thought the night was going to go.

Kika’s heels clicked on the tile floor as she ran after you, pushing the two glass doors open to find you sprinting down the long set of stairs.

“Y/n, wait!” she shouted after you.

You sat at the bottom step, waiting for your ride to arrive.

She stopped beside you, “I can drive you home,” she mumbled.

“That’s alright, I already paid for it.”

She sat down beside you and put a warm hand on your shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

You grabbed her hand gently, feeling the coldness of her gold rings. You shook your head no.

She wrapped an arm around your shoulder, forcing your head to rest on her shoulder.

She kissed your head sweetly, “It’s going to be okay,” she whispered in your hair.

-

You tossed your things on a table right next to the front door and kicked off your heels. You strut over to your kitchen and opened the fridge in hopes to find more alcohol. You were already probably drunk on Dom Perignon and your own tears, but with everything going on you might as well try to forget the horrendous night.

You grabbed a small glass from a cabinet and closed the fridge door, flinching when you saw Charles standing in the dark.

“Jesus Christ, Charles…” you whispered, pouring yourself some straight Vodka.

You braced your hands on the side of the marble counter, closing your eyes. Maybe if you close them tight enough he’ll disappear.

You sighed, “I don’t know how to start this conversa-“

“You said no?” he whispered. You could hear the heartbreak in his words.

You swallowed hard, looked around the room—anywhere but his eyes.

“I never said no…” you trailed off.

“But you meant no, right?”

You thought about marrying him before. A lot, actually. Racing, Traveling, Family. But there was always one thing missing from every daydream. And that thing was Charles.

You can’t follow him around the country for his job and even if you did—is that who you wanted to be? Just the wife of Charles Leclerc? 

“I don’t think you can truly be committed to this relationship. This isn’t what I need, and that’s okay.”

“I can't truly be committed?” he scoffed. “I'm not truly committed enough to get down on one knee?” 

Your relationship this past year wasn’t what you wanted. But one day it will be what someone else wants, and that’s what he deserves.

“C’mon Y/n, I love you-“ he muttered.

“Love isn't always enough,” you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

Ah, the painful truth.

You watched as his face dropped, fully taking in the cruelness of your words. 

“Charles, I’m sorry…” you whispered, tears forming in your eyes. 

“Just go. Foutez le champ de chez moi, I don’t want to see you right now.” (translation: get the fuck out of my house) he muttered harshly. 

-

It’d been a year since you last saw him. That night you packed up all your things as he slept at Arthur’s. You were gone by the time he got home.

You still spent time in the F1 scene. You had friends there too, but it still felt a little cruel. You didn’t fall out of love, at least not with someone like Charles—that doesn’t happen. 

If the circumstances were different you might have been married. You would’ve had a beautiful ring, a beautiful family, and a beautiful man. 

“Y/n,” Kika shouted through a laugh, half sprinting in her heels. Her right hand settled on your bicep and her left took your forearm, yanking you towards a group of women. 

“C’mon, I haven't seen you in months,” she said, causing you to crack a smile. You rolled your eyes and slipped off your bar stool, ready to get a little tipsy with your friends. She was right. It had been way too long since you had a girls night. The last one was before you lost your status as a wag. 

Today it was you, Kika, and Rebecca—all in elegant outfits that perfectly fit your vibes. Kika in a black long sleeve, off the shoulder neckline number, Becs in a sparkly red one that she luckily got to keep after modeling, and you in a short white satin dress with spaghetti straps and some matching white heels. 

“You look like you need a drink,” Rebecca said, looking you up and down. 

You sighed, “I haven’t been to an F1 event since you know…” 

She rolled her eyes, “That's exactly why you need a drink. Forget about him and have fun with us. Your favorite sport should not be attached to the memory of a man.” 

Great point. 

“Come here,” she dragged you back to the bar Kika pulled you from. 

She ordered three martini’s on the rocks, extra olives.

She handed you one of the glasses, “We’re going to meet up with Lily M and Carmen in about an hour alright? We’ll be out of this place in no time and you won’t even think about you know who.” 

“Where are we going?” you asked, sipping the drink with your eyebrows raised. 

“It's a surprise,” Kika said with an eye roll as if to say “duh”. 

You spent the next hour drowning in new conversations and shots. Sure you were at someone’s work party, but it’s not like you had to be professional. No one seemed to give a shit what Charles’ “Ex Wag” was doing.

“Carmen and Lily are outside, are we ready to go?” Rebecca asked, peering up from her phone. 

“Yeah, I just need to find the bathroom and then we can go,” you lied, grabbing your clutch off the circular table. 

You wanted to step outside and get a quick bit of fresh air before you returned to the group. They were doing something amazing in order for you to move on from your past relationship, but all you could think about was something you shouldn’t be. 

It's been a year, you should be over him, right? Too bad the pain didn’t stop at Charles. It was his whole family. God, you missed Arthur so much. You missed fighting with him about what Christmas movies to watch and hanging out in the Ferrari garage together. You missed Lorenzo and his older brother-like wisdom. You missed Pascale and how she welcomed you with open arms into the family. Fuck, you felt like a traitor. 

You sighed and wandered off onto the balcony, picking at the rhinestones on your purse. You leaned over the railing, letting the cool wind kiss your skin. 

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” an accented voice said from behind you. You would recognize it anywhere. 

Charles took his place beside you, avoiding eye contact. It took a good minute before you were able to respond. 

“I- uhm… I heard you and your new girlfriend broke up. I'm sorry,” you muttered. What an odd way to start this conversation. You weren’t even sure if it was true, you heard it in a tabloid. 

He hummed, “I suppose love wasn’t enough to save us.” 

Ouch. 

You scoffed, “Yeah I guess not.” 

The silence was loud. 

“Sorry,” he whispered in a change of tone. Maybe even a change of heart. “It’s good to see you again.” 

“Yeah,” you whispered back, unenthusiastic. 

“The family misses you.” 

You smiled slightly. That was good to hear. “You can tell them I miss them too.” 

“...I miss you.” 

He placed his hand on top of yours slowly, gently rubbing his thumb across yours. His cold silver rings brought flashbacks to your mind.

You looked up at him, tears begging to fall from your lashes but you kept it together; at least until he was gone. 

You squeezed his hand like you used to, “‘l’ll see you around, Charles.” 

You had to remind yourself why you said no everyday. It didn’t matter if you loved him and it didn’t matter if he loved you. You won’t settle for second in his life.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

taglist; @sainzzreputaticn @theseerbetweenus @yawn-zi

[scary-grace]

(secret) santa, baby - part 11 of a shigaraki x f!reader fic

Shigaraki doesn't want to participate in the office's Secret Santa exchange, but when Toga promises to make it easy on him, he gives in. But making it easy for him makes it a lot harder for you -- you're the one who got his list. Office AU, no quirks. A fic in 12 parts. Divider by @ wcnderlnds

part i part ii part iii part iv part v part vi part vii part viii part ix part x

part xi (under the mistletoe)

Dabi: watch out when you come in this morning

Dabi: mistletoe fucking everywhere

He's texting the whole group chat. Tomura has to wonder why Dabi’s at work this early, but he appreciates the warning. Last year Tomura called out sick rather than deal with all the mistletoe-ing, but it would take the entire building being covered in poison ivy to make him think twice about going into work today, and even then he might still risk it. He doesn’t have your phone number yet. He doesn’t even have your email address, and he knows you don’t check your work messages on the weekend, which means he hasn’t talked to you since he and Machia dropped you off at your apartment the first night of the storm. He has to talk to you today. He’s been thinking about it all weekend.

You didn’t hook up. You didn’t even kiss. Tomura hadn’t been the one to float the idea – it was you, but only as part of the list of things people in horror movies do that get them killed. Tomura thought you sounded regretful when you said it. Whether you were regretful or not, you stayed close to him, and the two of you talked for hours. Tomura can’t remember all the things you talked about. It felt like everything, and by the time Machia honked the horn from the parking lot to let Tomura know he was there, the two of you were curled up sideways on the couch, Tomura’s hands inside your jacket and your fingers gently pulling apart the knots the wind put in Tomura’s hair.

Tomura didn’t want to get up. He was almost asleep, and as the two of you got into Machia’s truck, Tomura almost asked you if you wanted to come back to his place instead. Right now, thinking about how good it felt to have you pressed against him is making his face feel hot, but that night he was tired. He was almost asleep before. He wanted to fall back asleep with you and not think about anything else until morning.

But he didn’t ask, and when he actually got back to his apartment, he realized what a mess it was. Even if it hadn’t been a weird question, it would have been a bad idea, one Tomura wouldn’t admit to having if someone put a gun to his head. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been thinking about it, about you, since he watched you climb out of Machia’s truck and hurry through the storm into your apartment building.

Tomura gets to work a few steps ahead of Spinner, who calls for him to wait up. Tomura slows down. Spinner draws even with him, out of breath. “I saw Dabi’s text. What’s he doing here this early?”

“No idea.”

“Do you think he’s joking about the mistletoe?” Spinner asks. The automatic doors hiss open and Tomura tries to shake off the memory of walking through them with you, your arm around his waist. “I thought they banned it after last year. Didn’t they say it made a hostile work environment or something?”

“The decorating committee found a way around it,” Magne says from the far end of the lobby. There’s a table covered with boxes and it smells like food. Tomura and Spinner trade a glance, then beeline for it. “Watch out, there. Stay out of the blue squares.”

Huh? Tomura glances down and sees that some of the tiles on the floor have been outlined in blue tape. “What are those?”

“Mistletoe zones,” Magne says. Tomura looks up at the ceiling. Sure enough, there’s a weird plant stapled up directly over the square. “No kissing allowed unless you’re standing under one of these.”

“That’s stupid,” Tomura says. He points at the boxes on the table. “What are these?”

“Christmas cookies. There’s a box for everyone,” Magne says. She picks one up and inspects it. “Everybody on the decorating committee was supposed to bring some in, but Dabi’s sister made half of them anyway. That’s why he’s here so early.”

“He was making Christmas cookie boxes?” Spinner asks, then cracks up when Magne nods. “He must be pissed.”

“He’s been eating Fuyumi’s cookies all morning. I’m jealous,” Magne says. She hands a box of cookies to Tomura and one to Spinner. “Good luck today. Watch out for mistletoe.”

Dabi wasn’t kidding about the mistletoe. It’s everywhere. On the stairs. In one corner of the elevator. Every twenty feet or so along the hallway. When Tomura and Spinner get down to the basement, they find Toga and Twice taping down a blue square right in front of the printer. “Hey. Get that out of here. We don’t want that down here.”

“When was the last time either of you printed something?” Toga asks. She looks up at Tomura and her eyes instantly sharpen. “That’s a cute hat.”

Of course it is. It’s your hat, which Tomura wore today to make sure he wouldn’t forget it at home. “That’s not your hat,” Toga continues. She straightens up and comes closer. “Whose hat is it, Tomura-kun?”

“Nobody’s.”

“I’ve never seen you wear a hat before,” Spinner says. Spinner’s supposed to be on Tomura’s side. Tomura glares at him. “Where did you get that?”

“Nowhere.” Tomura sidesteps around them and sits down at his desk. There’s a present waiting for him, which means his Secret Santa got here early. A knot of anticipation pulls tight in Tomura’s chest. He has a present for you, too, but now he’s missed his chance to leave it at your desk instead of in your mailbox. “Leave me alone.”

“It’s from your Secret Santa!” Toga flops down across the back of Tomura’s chair and scares the hell out of him. “It is, isn’t it? She’s doing such a good job ���”

So his Secret Santa is a girl. Tomura’s pretty sure Toga wasn’t supposed to tell him that, just like he’s pretty sure she’s the only person in addition to his Secret Santa who read his list. He knows it’s not Toga – she got Uraraka, or gave herself Uraraka on purpose. Which means his Secret Santa is probably – “It doesn’t matter who it’s from. I just borrowed it. I’m giving it back.”

“Borrowed it,” Twice repeats. He’s making a weird face. “When?”

Tomura hasn’t told any of his friends about getting stuck at the office with you, and he’s not planning on it. He keeps his mouth shut and they keep harassing him, until Chikazoku arrives and tells them to clear out. Chikazoku must have missed the mistletoe warning. He steps right into the square Toga and Twice just taped down, and Twice plants a kiss on his cheek before running for the hills. That’s probably the only way the mistletoe’s getting used today. Somebody stepping into the squares by accident. Tomura can’t imagine anybody doing it on purpose.

Tomura’s imagination apparently isn’t very good, because as the day wears on, he sees plenty of people hanging out in the squares, waiting for somebody to come by and kiss them. And he sees a weird number of people taking them up on it. He hears from Compress that some of them have turned it into a game, trying to collect a kiss from one person in every department. IT is the smallest department in the company. For the first and probably last time in Tomura’s life, there are multiple people wanting to kiss him at once.

Hatsume’s taking advantage of the situation, handing out kisses in exchange for bribes, and Chikazoku hasn’t left his desk since Twice sneak-attacked him. That leaves Tomura, Spinner, Saiko, and Aiba as potential kissing options for everybody else. Spinner kisses Magne on the cheek to help her complete her Bingo card, then gets sucked into a lengthy negotiation with two girls from HR of all places over whether or not he’ll kiss them platonically. Aiba, meanwhile, parks herself in one of the squares outside the break room and waits.

Tomura figures out what she’s waiting for right around when you get there. You stop to talk to her, then turn away, and make eye contact with Tomura. He hopes he’s not imagining the way your eyes brighten, and he’s definitely not imagining you walking towards him. “Hi,” you say. “How was your weekend?”

“I need your number,” Tomura says without thinking, and your eyes widen. “I wanted to talk to you and you don’t check your work messages on off days.”

“This weekend I was,” you admit, and Tomura kicks himself. “You can have my number. But only if you keep my hat.”

“It’s your hat,” Tomura says. “It looks better on you.”

“I think it looks cute on you,” you say, and Tomura’s face heats up. “Keep it. And give me your phone so I can put my number in it.”

Tomura unlocks his phone and hands it over, and while you create a contact for yourself, he keeps an eye on Aiba over your shoulder. You follow his eyeline and look too. Tomura sees your shoulders slump slightly. “What?”

“I’ve seen him,” you say. “He’s playing the game.”

“So he should get down here. He’s the only person in the building who’s got an IT kiss he doesn’t have to bribe somebody for.”

That’s not quite true. You wouldn’t have to bribe Tomura for a kiss, but Tomura knows without asking that you’re not playing the game. You’re shaking your head. “He got his IT kiss already,” you say. Tomura stares at you. You lower your voice. “From Saiko.”

Tomura forgot about Saiko. “What the fuck?”

“He’s her Secret Santa,” you say, like that explains everything. The next thing you say explains better. “She likes tea, doesn’t she?”

Saiko can’t shut up about tea. Still – “What the fuck. Did you see it?”

You nod. “They didn’t see me, but I saw them.”

“You talked to her. Did you tell her?”

“She asked me if I’d seen him, and I said yes. I didn’t tell her where or who he was with,” you say. You look unhappy. “If I tell her and she tells him, he’ll just say they were playing the game.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Tomura says, probably too loudly. You catch his arm and tug him around the corner, away from Aiba and the break room. “If I was playing that stupid game – which I’m not – I wouldn’t kiss anybody except –”

You. Tomura cuts himself off, averts his eyes, and that’s when he realizes where he’s standing. And where you’re standing. There are two mistletoe zones right next to each other, and you’re each standing in one.

Did you do this on purpose? Tomura doesn’t think so. You look just as surprised as he does, and your face turns red. “I’m not playing the game, either.”

“If you were, you wouldn’t have to bribe me,” Tomura says. “But if you were playing the game, I’d want you to lose.”

You look confused at first. Tomura sees when you get it, though, and he sees you swallow hard. “I don’t want to win the game.”

There’s nobody in the hallway, which is good. Tomura doesn’t want to kiss you for the first time with an audience. He reaches out and catches your hand, pulling you a step or two closer and deciding that it’s more fun to hold your hand when he doesn’t have gloves on. He has a free hand, too. That’s good. If he doesn’t hold onto your face so you stay still, he’s probably going to miss. He might miss even if you hold still. Why is this so hard? Why can’t Tomura just lean in?

Your free hand comes up and grabs his shoulder, and Tomura feels a surge of relief. Maybe he won’t have to. Maybe if you just –

Noise suddenly erupts from around the corner, scaring the two of you apart, and a moment later, Tomura hears running footsteps. He doesn’t have even a second to be pissed about the interruption before Aiba bolts past him down the hallway, face buried in her hands. Tomura’s not exactly a student of human nature, but it’s not hard to guess what must have happened. “She knows.”

“Someone should go after her.” It looks like you think ‘someone’ should be you. Your hand pulls free of Tomura’s, and you step out of your mistletoe zone without hesitating. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Tomura says. It is and it isn’t, all at the same time. He doesn’t like that you’re leaving. He likes that you want to help somebody who’s hurt. “I’ll see you later, right?”

“Right,” you say. You glance down at Tomura’s feet, then up at the ceiling – and before Tomura can do much else than realize that he’s still firmly in a mistletoe zone, you lean in and plant a kiss on his cheek.

It’s not really his cheek. Either you missed or you were aiming lower, and he thinks you were probably aiming lower, because your lips linger just below the corner of his mouth in a way that tells Tomura it wasn’t an accident. “Sorry,” you say again, and you take off down the hallway before Tomura can tell you not to apologize for the best thing that’s ever happened to him under the mistletoe or anywhere else.

He doesn’t think you’re sorry for that, anyway. He thinks you’re sorry that you had to leave. Tomura knows the feeling. It’s the same one he’s had since Toga’s Christmas party, and as weird of a feeling as it is, it’s nice to know he’s not having it alone.

<- part x part xii ->

[goblinontour]

Mr. And Mrs.

the christmas special

part 12 | series masterlist

warnings: prof!al, age gap (not specified), fluff, sweet angst, sweet fucking, slight breeding kink, he’s so sweet

word count: 15.3k

It’s midday. The kind of winter afternoon that carries a reluctant warmth — softened edges to the cold, the sort that brushes your face, that lingers in liminality — not as bitter as yesterday, but not quite merciful either. The cold doesn’t slice into the small slivers of exposed skin as sharply as it could, as it has before. It’s the kind of cold that reminds you you’re alive. Even so, the air has its bite. You pull your coat tighter, tugging at the scarf knotted loosely at your throat. 

The city feels unfamiliar in this corner, like you’ve stumbled into a forgotten painting, smudged and yellowed, a place you’ve walked past in another life but never truly stepped into. It’s quieter here, less bustling, less preened. The buildings around you, though worn, seem watchful. Hunched together, as if conspiring against the passage of time. 

You glance to your left, attention snagged by a squat, unassuming structure. Its exterior tells a tale — peeling paint, frost-speckled windows. It’s tucked between other larger, newer ones, looking almost out of place but not quite enough to feel wrong. You pause, narrowing your eyes.  

The building is modest. Only the ground floor and one upper storey stacked on top, as though the architect had no more to give. The shop window is smudged, a foggy pane of glass that resists reflection. Beside it, the door is plain, framed in chipped wood. Above it, some faded lettering struggles against the years. The words aren’t meant to be read from this distance. Their strokes are weary, edges blunted by time. But still, you tilt your head, trying to piece them together, wondering what kind of place it might be.  

A hat interrupts the view — a man’s, brim low, crown rounded. Standing in the doorway, it shades the lettering just so, as though deliberately concealing what little clarity it might offer. But you imagine the letters are tired, the kind of font that’s seen decades without a care for reinvention. 

If you keep walking, you’ll move past it, slipping into the more polished familiarity of the café next door, its entrance angled slightly outward as if inviting you in. Your gaze drifts upward. Beyond that, two wiry trees dusted with frost extend crooked fingers toward a cloudless sky. The light is harsh now, unforgiving in its sharpness. You know it won’t last — it never does. Soon enough, this blue will yield to black, swallowing the city in its winter embrace before you’ve had a chance to notice it fading.  

“Oh, that woman gets on my nerves.” The harsh voice of hat-man cracks the brittle quiet. He says it loudly, enough as though the whole street should hear him. And his voice is sharp, cutting across the stillness of the afternoon. His words linger, landing uncomfortably in the air. There’s a woman following him, hurrying to catch up — a quick glance tells you she’s his wife, though the tension between them pulls tight in the space they share. The coat she wears is wrapped tight around her frame, but her expression reveals nothing. Is he talking about her? You can’t tell. A brief pang of sympathy rises, unbidden.  

Through the glass, you glimpse someone else — another woman, left behind at the till. She rubs her temples, her shoulders curling inward as though she’s bracing against something. The motion is unmistakable, the gesture of someone wound too tightly. Even through the dusty glass, even with the distance between you, the tension in her body is palpable. You wonder what the man had said to her before stepping outside. 

The thought pulls you out of yourself, and you murmur without thinking, “I wanna go in there.”  

Your voice breaks the silence between you and him. It catches Alex off guard. 

He’s been beside you all this time, his hand searching for yours, his fingers awkward over the thick wool. He tries for a better grip, one that feels intimate even through the layers. He’s been preoccupied, you realise — focused on the way the cold dulls touch, the way the gloves feel like a barrier he can’t quite breach.  

He glances toward the building you’ve indicated. “There?” he asks, his voice a soft echo of your own, head tilting ever so slightly as he looks back at you.  

You nod, though your own reasoning feels instinctive rather than deliberate. You’re not even sure why, not entirely.  

He hesitates, the faintest frown touching his brow. “I’m tired of stores, honey.” he says, his voice a gentle protest but firm enough to suggest he’d rather not. But you know him well enough to catch it. Still, a small opening where you might nudge him.  

You don’t hesitate. “We could get something for Penny.” you say, almost casually, though you’ve chosen the words carefully, the name landing like a quiet persuasion. “Maybe your Dad too.”  

You don’t look at him as you say it, keeping your eyes on the shop. You don’t need to look to know it’s enough. It’s not just logic. It’s strategy. He wouldn’t say no to his mother. He wouldn’t say no to family. Anything else might risk too much — his own goodness, his tenderness, his pride. He wouldn’t risk looking indifferent, even here, even now. 

He exhales, the kind of breath that lingers in the cold. A small puff of surrender. “‘Kay.” he says at last, his voice softened, his resolve melting like the frost on the trees, his glove shifting again against yours as he lets himself be pulled toward the little shop. 

The warmth is immediate and clinging. If you had glasses it would have fogged them up. It prickles your cheeks as you adjust. The smell is faint but unmistakable — dust mingled with something floral, faintly artificial, like potpourri that hasn’t been replaced in years. It makes the place feel older, almost stuck in time, though its shelves are crowded with objects trying their best to stay relevant.  

Alex removes his hat almost absentmindedly. It’s somewhere between a beanie and one of those with a big pom-pom perched on top, except his has a small, modest poof, like a shy exclamation point. He’s never liked it. Too silly, he’s said, too boyish, not the kind of thing he’d choose on his own. But it keeps him warm, and more importantly, you like it, so he wears it without much protest. Things could be that simple sometimes.  

Now hatless, his hair is in disarray, flattened and sticking up in unplanned directions. The strands curl at the ends, not quite long enough to be tamed by his usual attempts to smooth them down. You take in the rest of him — his coat half unbuttoned, revealing a shirt creased from wear, its collar slightly askew. There’s a quiet weariness about him, like someone pulled half out of sleep and still tethered to a dream. He yawns, a wide, unguarded motion that he doesn’t bother to suppress.  

The woman at the till greets you with a polite smile, but Alex doesn’t respond. He’s too busy battling with his gloves again, tugging at the fingers like they’re conspiring against him. You glance at him with mock exasperation, leaning close enough to mutter, “Wake up, Alex.”  

You weave your way between the shelves, which are tall and narrow, nearly brushing the ceiling. The aisles are tight enough to make the place feel more cramped than cozy, but there’s a comfort in it — something about being surrounded by so many little objects, all waiting to be chosen. You pause in one of the aisles, stopping at a shelf lined with small, decorative pieces. Alex, still yawning, shuffles to a stop beside you.  

“These are cute, aren’t they?” you say, lifting one of the ceramic napkin holders into your hand.  

He blinks at it, bleary-eyed. “What are-” he pauses for another yawn, turning his head slightly before finishing, “-those?”  

“Napkin holders.” you say, inspecting the little ceramic shape. It’s painted with delicate flowers, the kind of design that’s charming at first glance but verges on tacky the longer you look at it. Alex barely glances at it. “Put your hand over your mouth.” you chide when he yawns again, and his lips twitch into a faint smile.  

“Yes, yes.” he says, covering his mouth too late. “Shouldn’t be allowed. It’s dangerous.” His voice is teasing, but there’s a drowsy edge to it that takes the sharpness away. He smiles at you, the kind of smile he knows softens you even when you don’t want it to.  

It almost works. Almost.  

“I hadn’t realized…they are cute.” he says after a beat, his tone half-distracted. He yawns again, quickly covering his mouth this time. “Sorry, baby.”  

“You’re dreaming.” you tell him, shifting the napkin holder in your hand.  

He shakes his head lightly, a touch defiant. “But I’m wide awake.” He reaches for the ceramic piece, finally managing to grip something with his now-gloveless hands. His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, warm and sure. 

You glance at him, eyebrow raised. “You know, awake or asleep, it’s the same thing with you.” 

“Oh really?” He tilts his head, feigning thoughtfulness, and then smirks. “I was going to say I only think of you naked when I’m awake, but that’s not-”  

“Alex!” you hiss, slapping his shoulder lightly.  

The layers of your coats and sweaters make the gesture more symbolic than anything else, the force dulled to almost nothing. He grins, unrepentant, the mischief in his eyes breaking through his weariness for a moment.  

“That’s not the point.” you say, trying to sound stern, though the corner of your mouth twitches dangerously close to a smile.  

“But you just said…” He trails off, his grin widening. “I’m really tired. ‘S your fault I can’t think.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that’s so absurdly him it breaks your resolve.  

Okay, maybe it is your fault, but you were up all night too and you’re fine, aren’t you?

“You didn’t understand, Mr. Turner.” you say, trying to recover the thread of your thought. “There’s no difference between dreaming awake and dreaming asleep.”  

He steps closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you gently back against him. His other hand, still holding the napkin holder, hangs loosely at his side. The ceramic piece suddenly feels laughably insignificant.  

“I do dream.” he says softly, his voice brushing your ear. “Life’s a dream.” He pauses, just long enough to make you roll your eyes at his dramatics.  

Then, quieter, closer: “Mrs. Turner.”  

Your chest tightens, a warmth spreading from where his hands rest on your front. You smile despite yourself, though you try to hide it. You melt against him, though you tell yourself you shouldn’t.  

Yes, you should. Yes, you do.

“If you think you’re being witty, you’re very much mistaken.” you tell him, voice clipped but with an edge that betrays you’re not entirely serious.  

He doesn’t respond, just smirks in that half-sleepy, half-mischievous way that always seems to unnerve and amuse you all at once. You decide not to let him win this one, so you spin out of his grip in what you imagine might look like a graceful move. For a moment, it almost is — your coat flaring softly behind you, your movement fluid. Almost.  

Then your shoulder catches the opposite shelf, halting your momentum with an awkward thud. Nothing falls, but the wobble of a few precariously placed trinkets makes you freeze. He raises a single brow, biting back what you’re sure would be a smug comment.  

You ignore him, your gaze dropping to the cluttered shelf in front of you. A piece of decor — a ceramic plate painted with tiny, intricate flowers — catches your attention. You reach for it without thinking. His mother would like this, wouldn’t she? Something delicate and quiet, the kind of thing she’d know exactly where to place in her home.

Behind you, Alex whispers, his voice low and teasing. “You’re just being a bore…with-” He pauses, clearly searching for the word, “-with your stupid paradoxes.”  

You glance over your shoulder, unimpressed. “We need to get them a gift.” you say, holding up the plate for him to see before putting it back down. “You’re incapable of talking seriously.”  

Your look is pointed enough to make him stop in his tracks. For a brief moment, you imagine that if he had a tail, it would be tucked stiffly between his legs, shameful but still stubborn.  

“Today, yes.” he concedes, though his voice is quiet, almost petulant. “Only today. Because of…because…” His words falter. You can practically see the gears in his head turning, trying to come up with something clever — or at least something that won’t offend you.  

“Because what?” you challenge, tilting your head, already knowing he doesn’t have an answer.  

His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. Finally, he gives up with a shrug, his hands rising in mock surrender.  

“Today’s the same as any day.” you say, filling the silence as you reach for another object. This time, it’s a pair of little statues — matching figures that look vaguely like gnomes, though their features are less defined. You’re not entirely sure what they’re meant to represent. They’re oddly charming.  

Alex leans in over your shoulder to inspect them, his breath warm against your cheek. He scoffs softly. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s raising that brow again.  

You sigh and place the statues back on the shelf.  

“Not quite as much.” he says, his tone faintly smug.  

“Your witticisms are not very inspired.” you reply, your voice dry as you finally turn to face him.  

“Neither are the gnomes.” he says, pointing at the shelf.  

“They’re not gnomes.” you argue, folding your arms.  

“They’re gnome-adjacent.” he counters, stepping closer with a slight smirk.  

“Alex.”  

“Alright, alright.” he says, holding his hands up as though to defend himself from the rising tension. Then he yawns again, and you narrow your eyes at him.  

“I can’t believe you’re this tired.” you say. “It’s not even three o’clock.”  

“I’m not tired.” he insists, though the yawn he tries to stifle completely betrays him. He rubs the back of his neck, feigning thoughtfulness. “I’m just…thinking at a slower pace.”  

You roll your eyes, pulling another small object from the shelf — a delicate, hand-painted ornament shaped like a bird. It feels light in your palm, fragile. You hold it up for him to see.  

“Thoughts?” you ask.  

He studies it for a second, then shrugs. “It’s alright.”  

“‘Alright’ doesn’t cut it. This is for your mother.”  

He smirks, leaning against the shelf behind him. “It’s nice. Lovely, even. You’re the expert.”  

“You’re insufferable.” you mutter, turning the ornament over in your hands.  

“And yet here we are.” he replies, stepping closer again. “I’ll stop being insufferable if you agree to get coffee after this.”  

“Who said I’d get coffee with you?”  

He feigns a look of deep hurt, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Mrs. Turner.”  

“I can’t believe you think that still works.” you say, shaking your head.  

“It does work.” he says, leaning in close enough that you can feel the warmth of him despite the layers between you. “Because you still get that little smile when I say it. Like you’re trying not to, but you can’t help it.”  

“Alex-”  

“Mrs. Turner.” he interrupts, whispering it softly, the words brushing the air between you.  

You turn away quickly, trying to focus on the shelf, but he’s already grinning. He’s watching you, half-lidded eyes following the way your hand moves.  

“I don’t like you making fun of me.”  

Your voice cuts through the still air of the shop, sharper than you intended. Alex straightens slightly, his hat dangling loosely from one hand as he shifts his weight. He blinks at you, his brows knitting together in brief confusion. He wasn’t making fun of you — not really. At least, not intentionally. Not in the way you’re accusing him of. But your words land heavy anyway, like you’re testing some unseen boundary neither of you had anticipated crossing.  

You don’t know where the attitude is coming from. Maybe it’s the weight of the day, the pressure of finding the right gifts, or even something as intangible as the light in this place — the way it presses in, dim and dusty, making everything feel a little off-kilter. Maybe some restless ghost buried in the walls of the shop has taken hold of you, whispering mischief into your ear. That’s less likely than the truth: you’re annoyed. His slight disinterest has pricked at you, and lashing out feels easier than confronting it.  

Still, there’s a part of you that winces internally at your own sharpness. You know he doesn’t deserve it. But isn’t it better to be a little bit of a bitch, to feel like you’ve regained some ground, than to sit in the uneasy space of his half-suppressed yawns and detached commentary?  

He feels a pang of guilt at the sharpness in your tone, even if he’s not entirely sure where it’s coming from.  

“Making fun of you?” he echoes, his voice soft but edged with confusion. His hat — still clutched in one hand — drops briefly to his side before he presses it over his heart like some overblown poet, as though swearing allegiance. “But my dear,” he says, adopting a tone of mock sincerity, “I would never allow myself to-”  

“You are allowing yourself,” you interrupt, cutting through his theatrics.  

You spin around to face him, blinking. The light catches on the edge of your profile, illuminating the faintest frown pulling at your lips. He tilts his head slightly, studying you. His lips quirk slightly, not quite into a smile but close. He takes a step closer, moving out of the narrow aisle and into the small open space where the shelves converge. You follow without thinking. The objects around you seem to blur into a backdrop of muted colors and textures. All of it feels insignificant.  

“Are we fighting?” he asks after a moment, his tone laced with quiet amusement rather than concern. He’s still looking at you with that half-drowsy expression that’s been driving you mad since you walked in here. 

Something about the question — about the way he doesn’t take it seriously — makes your annoyance flare. It’s not that you want to fight him — God, no — but what if you did? What if you wanted to dig into the frustration and let it bloom into something loud and messy? Would he let you, or would he keep being this unbearably kind, unshakably soft version of himself?  The idea that he’d brush you off so easily feels…infuriating. 

“Ugh.” you mutter, turning sharply back to the shelf. The trinkets clink faintly as your movements disturb them.  

“We are.” he concludes.  

“Yes.” you say, exasperated.  

He watches the tension in your shoulders for a beat, trying to determine how serious you are. Then he nods, his lips pressing together in mock solemnity. Finally.  

“You’ll win.” he says, with a soft sigh.  

Your head whips around, your eyes narrowing. “Why?”  

“Because I’ll let you.” he replies simply, his voice so earnest it disarms you, so matter-of-fact it almost feels like an insult.  

“Alex!”  

“What?” he asks, his confusion genuine now. He blinks down at you like he truly doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. His free hand brushes against your arm lightly, a hesitant touch meant to gauge whether he’s misstepped or if you’ll let him back in.  

“You can’t just let me win.” you say, your voice tight but not as sharp as before. 

“Why not?” His tone is calm, but there’s a faint edge of stubbornness creeping into it now. He’s tired — of this argument, of this shop, of the layers of cold and warmth and expectation piled onto the day. He rubs the back of his neck with the hand still clutching his hat, his hair ruffling slightly in the process. 

“Because…” you start, but the words stall in your throat. Because what? You’re not even sure anymore. It’s something about how effortless he makes everything seem, about the way he sidesteps conflict with that easy charm of his, leaving you spinning your wheels. “Because!” you insist.  

He sighs, his breath warming the air between you. He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes scanning your face with a tenderness that catches you off guard. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, steadier.  

“But I love you.” he says, the words simple and unadorned, like a fact of nature. He leans in and presses a warm, fleeting kiss to your cheek.  

The action jolts you out of your frustration. You refuse to let him see it. Still, his words linger, as warm as his touch.  

He knows he’s broken through.  

You want to stay annoyed. You want to hold onto the spark that made you lash out in the first place. But he makes it impossible. The fight — the one you weren’t even sure you wanted — deflates before it can properly take shape, leaving you standing there, your cheek still tingling from the press of his lips.  

“You’re mad.” he says after a beat, his voice quiet. “Aren’t you?”  

You glance at him. “Not mad.” you murmur.  

“Annoyed?”  

You nod, barely.  

“Because of me?”  

You turn your head, fixing him with a look that answers the question for him.  

“Right.” he says, a faint, sheepish smile tugging at his lips.  

You huff and step away, placing some bird ornament you didn’t even know when you picked up back on the shelf. With more care than you’d like to admit. Your fingers drift to another object. Alex watches the way you move, your hands, noting the deliberate precision in the way you touch. He steps closer, close enough that his chest almost brushes your back.  

“I wasn’t making fun of you.” he says softly. “Not in the way you think.”  

You don’t respond right away, but your shoulders relax ever so slightly.  

“I mean it.” he continues, his hand brushing against yours as he reaches for the snow globe. His fingers close around it, and for a moment, the two of you are holding it together. “You know that, don’t you?”  

“I don’t know.” 

Alex lets the snow globe go, his hand moving to cover yours instead. 

“Well,” he says, “let me prove it to you.”  

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat in the gesture. All you can focus on now is the way his lips feel against yours when he turns you around and kisses you, steady and sure, and the smile that bleeds into it.

“Don’t think this means I’m not still mad at you.” 

“Of course.” he replies, straightening slightly but keeping his hand at your waist. “I wouldn’t dream of assuming otherwise.”  

“You’re annoying.” 

“Mhm…” he hums, “you’ll keep me around.”  

“You’re lucky I will.” you say finally.  

“Every day, my love.” he replies softly. This time there’s no teasing. Only truth. 

It wasn’t surprising to you when Alex confessed that he missed the old car. He could be nostalgic like that, his attachment to certain things running deep in ways that both charmed and baffled you. What was surprising was seeing him pull up one day with it, looking entirely too pleased with himself as if he’d just pulled off the heist of the century.  

“Hadn’t you sold it?” you’d asked, staring at the weathered thing parked in front of your home, its once-shiny paint still dulled with age.  

He hadn’t, of course. It turned out he’d loaned it to a friend who’d been keeping it in a garage somewhere outside of the city. So now you are stuck with it — this clunky, rust-speckled piece of nostalgia — for the long drive up north.  

It’s three minutes past nine when you climb into the passenger seat, arms full: handbag, gift bag, another gift bag, your notebook, pencils, and a pencil sharpener balanced precariously on top. The car smells faintly of leather, aged and worn, mingling with the sharper scent of something metallic and slightly sweet — old oil, maybe.  

Alex loads the rest of the bags into the back. When he settles into the driver’s seat, his hat already pushed back on his head, he looks determined. Like he’s ready to tackle the road ahead, even if the odds aren’t in his favor.  

A couple of minutes later, he starts driving. If you’re lucky — and that’s a big if — you’ll reach your destination a little after noon. That’s assuming you were in a car that could go at a decent mileage per hour and that traffic wasn’t so bad.  

Traffic, of course, is terrible.  

Even on a Monday morning, the main road is backed up in both directions. Brake lights stretch endlessly ahead of you, a sea of red blinking intermittently in the pale winter sunlight. Alex sighs, a heavy sound that you feel more than hear.  

You settle in with your notebook open across your lap, pencil poised in your hand. The low scratch of lead against paper fills the car, soft and rhythmic, but Alex’s attention keeps drifting toward you.  

After the third exaggerated sigh, you glance at him. He’s gripping the wheel loosely, one hand resting at the top, the other on his thigh, but his knee is bouncing restlessly. The movement makes your nerves jittery, though you try not to show it.  

“Alex.”  

He doesn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the endless line of cars ahead, his jaw tight.  

Okay, Mr. Wants Attention. He won’t say it outright, won’t just ask for what he wants. Instead, he’ll make you pull it out of him. Another sigh, this one louder than the last, escapes his lips. It’s dramatic enough that you could swear you hear a hint of theatrics in it, like he’s in a play where his only role is the long-suffering driver.  

His knee bounces faster, the leather of the seat squeaking faintly under the motion. His hand shifts on the wheel, gripping and releasing, a quiet little fidget that says more than he would if he actually spoke. You can practically feel him daring you to ask what’s wrong, though you know the answer already.  

You sigh yourself now, closing the notebook with a quiet thud. You try to shove it into the dash compartment, but it doesn’t fit. The latch won’t click shut, and after a few futile attempts, you resign yourself to leaving it on your knees. You reach for the radio, fiddling with the dial, flicking through station after station until static fills the car. It’s a distraction, something to do with your hands while the car inches forward. But Alex sighs again, louder this time, and his knee keeps bouncing.  

“Leave it.” he mutters.  

You stop, your hand hovering over the dial. The silence feels heavier now, filled only by the occasional hum of an engine revving somewhere behind you and the faint creak of the car as it shifts with each stop-and-go motion.  

“Fine.” you mutter under your breath. “Would you like me to entertain you, darling?” you ask, your tone just dry enough to make your point.  

His eyes flicker to you for the briefest second before returning to the road, but the corner of his mouth twitches. He’s holding back a smile as far as you can tell. “Didn’t say that.”  

“You didn’t have to.” you mutter, rolling your eyes but leaning just a little closer to him anyway. “Honestly, Alex, if you wanted me to pay attention to you, all you had to do was ask.”  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

You let out a laugh, low and quiet. “Sure, Mr. Subtle.”  

Alex leans forward slightly, craning his neck to try and see around the cars in front of him. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, impatience palpable. He mutters something under his breath — something sharp, likely not meant for your ears.  

“It’s Monday.” he says finally, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Where are all these people coming from? Jesus.”  

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His knee is still bouncing, and his fingers are tapping out an erratic rhythm now, too. The smell inside the car shifts. The faintly nostalgic scent of old leather is overtaken by the sharper, more acrid smell of exhaust wafting in from outside. You crack your window slightly, but the cold air doesn’t help much.  

Alex keeps glancing toward the side of the road, as if expecting to see some miraculous shortcut that everyone else has somehow missed. His mind is likely running through every backroad, every alternate route, every possible way to shave even five minutes off this crawl of a journey. But nothing presents itself, and he lets out another quiet sigh.  

“You’re quiet.” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence. 

You shrug, shifting in your seat. “Not much to say.”  

He hums in response.  

“You’re quiet, too.” you add after a moment.  

He glances at you then, a flicker of amusement softening the hard line of his mouth. “Am I?”  

“Yes. It’s unnerving.”  

He smiles faintly, his fingers stopping their drumming as he leans back into his seat. “I’m just thinking.”  

“About?”  

“About how I probably should’ve left this car where it was.” he admits.  

You laugh softly, and for a moment, the tension in the car eases.  

“I didn’t want to say it.” you tease, leaning your head back against the seat.  

“You didn’t have to.” he replies, his voice warm now. “You’re good at saying things without saying them.”  

The traffic inches forward again, and the moment is interrupted by the blaring of a horn somewhere behind you. Alex sighs heavily, his knee bouncing once more.  

You reach over, your hand brushing lightly over his thigh. “Relax.” you say softly.  

He glances at you, his expression softening as he exhales slowly. “I’m trying.”  

“Try harder.” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips.  

He laughs, and the sound feels like a small victory — something to hold onto as the road stretches endlessly ahead. 

Alex shifts in his seat, one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gear shift. He glances at you again, his lips quirking into a half-smile. The weight of your hand on his thigh — too high to be innocent — lingers in his mind, and you can tell he’s doing his best to maintain composure.  

“Help me out ‘ere.”  

Your eyebrows arch as if to say what exactly do you mean by that?

His eyes flick to yours briefly before returning to the road. He knows you too well. “Don’t even.” he mutters, though the faint flush creeping up his neck gives him away.  

“Don’t even what?” you ask, voice dripping with sweetness.  

Neither of you speaks for a beat, both locked in a silent test of wills. You’re daring him to elaborate, he’s daring you to act.  

“We’re not that predictable.” he finally says.  

“We’re not.” you agree, your hand still on his thigh, fingers curling ever so slightly.  

“We’re not.” he repeats, but his voice is strained now, the words lacking conviction.  

Your hand gives a deliberate squeeze, and his jaw tightens. His free hand comes up to rub over his face, exasperation both real and performative, all the same. “Oh, fuck…” he mutters under his breath as the car jerks to another stop in the seemingly endless traffic.  

“Hmm?” you prompt, your tone as sweet as syrup.  

“I forgot to shave.” he says, shaking his head slightly, as if that were the biggest concern right now.  

“I like you rugged looking.” Your fingers press into the soft fat of his inner thigh just enough to make his breath hitch.  

“My mother doesn’t.” he mutters, attempting to steer the conversation back to neutral ground. The car lurches forward a few feet. “Since…”

“Since?” you ask, leaning into him slightly, your eyes glittering with curiosity.  

“Well…” He pauses, scratching his jawline. “Since I had my phase.”  

You laugh. “Oh, right, the phase.” He chuckles along, but his smile falters when you add, “You still look good, though.”  

The compliment softens him. His gaze flickers to yours for a moment, his smile returning, small and genuine. “Thank you, darling.” he says.  

The traffic crawls on, and the silence between you becomes less charged, more companionable. He nods toward your notebook, still perched on your knees.  

“How’s the book coming along?” 

You groan, leaning your head back against the seat. “Alex, it’s not- it’s just a bunch of made-up nonsense…a lot of it, actually.”  

“That’s usually what you call fiction.” he replies.  

“It’s not the same.” you argue.  

He laughs softly. “It’s in the paper, in black and white, you can’t deny that.” With the air of someone deeply offended, you huff out a dismissive pfff! “It’s all there.” he says again, stretching his arm to tap his fingers on the notebook’s hardcover.  

You snap it shut as if it wasn’t already and tuck it under your arm, already anticipating his next question.  

“Are you gonna let me read it?” he asks, his voice curious but not pushy. Yet.

Your hand leaves his thigh, and instead, you dig through your bag, pulling out a compact. You flip the car’s sun visor down and open the mirror, focusing intently on your reflection.  

“Babe.” he says, trying again.  

You ignore him, pretending to adjust your hair.  

“You read my stuff all the time.” he points out, his tone edging toward plaintive.  

You snap the compact shut with a decisive click, the sound sharp in the confined space. “I do not.” you say.  

“Yes, you do.”  

“No, I don’t.”  

“Is it about me?” he interrupts, and you immediately slam the visor back up with more force than necessary. The sharp sound makes him wince slightly, and he raises a hand in mock surrender.  

“Babe, c’mon.” he says, his voice gentler now, but you’ve already decided the conversation is over.  

“Do you think Sock will miss us?” you ask abruptly, your tone casual but clearly a diversion.  

He chuckles, shaking his head at your transparent attempt to change the subject. “Yeah, but he’s fine with Jules.”  

Julia — or Jules, as Alex affectionately calls her — is the sweet elderly neighbor you’ve reluctantly grown to trust with your beloved cat. You’re still not entirely used to this whole “neighbor” thing, despite how long it’s been since you moved in with Alex.  

“I hope so.” you murmur, glancing out the window at the sluggish traffic.  

“He’s our little boy.” Alex teases, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.  

“He is.” you agree, your voice softening as you think of those big, curious eyes and the way he always seems to know when you need comfort.  

Alex reaches over, resting his hand lightly on your knee. “He’ll be fine, love. Jules spoils him rotten.”  

“I know.” you say, placing your hand over his. “I just miss him already.”  

Alex squeezes your knee gently. “I miss him, too.”  

The car inches forward again, and Alex’s knee stops bouncing. “Maybe we’ll make it there before dark.” he laughs.  

“Maybe.” you reply, your fingers brushing against his as the traffic finally begins to ease. 

Just enough to lull you into a false sense of progress for a little while, the slow hum of the engine blending with the strains of a half-decent song on the radio. But the reprieve wasn’t enough to distract you. 

Boredom set in like a slow burn, your fingers tapping, your eyes darting to Alex as his hands gripped the steering wheel. He hadn’t noticed your shift in mood yet.

But then, of course, you had to push it. You always did.  

It didn’t take much. A touch on his arm that lingered too long. The slow slide of your hand to his thigh. His reaction was immediate: a quick intake of breath, the slightest flex of his fingers on the wheel.  

“Don’t.” he warned, though his voice lacked conviction.  

“You’re telling me no?” you asked, incredulous.  

“I didn’t say that.” he muttered, already losing the battle.  

He wouldn’t say no. Who would?  

What followed was short and sweet, the kind of indulgence you’d both blame on the traffic and the old car with its expansive, accommodating seats that left you just enough space for your business.  

You really were that predictable.

Now, you are wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, leaning against the passenger door as Alex sits up straighter, wrestling with his jeans. His zipper, much like the rest of the car, was stubborn and unreliable, catching on the fabric and refusing to cooperate.  

“Jesus Christ.” he muttered under his breath, fumbling with the metal teeth. A well known personal vendetta of impatience 

“Need help?” you tease, your voice light but still tinged with satisfaction.  

He shoots you a look — equal parts exasperated and amused. “I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?”  

You shrug, a grin tugging at your lips as you watch him finally win the battle against his zipper. His shirt is untucked now, rumpled in a way that would betray you both if anyone looked too closely. Not that anyone would.  

Alex leans back against the seat, running a hand through his hair, which now had the telltale signs of your handiwork. He lets out a long sigh, shaking his head as if to scold himself.  

“You’re trouble.” he says, keeping his eyes on the road and his grip tight. On both the steering wheel and himself. 

“I’m your trouble.” 

He turns his head to look at you, his lips curving into a small, lopsided smile. “That you are. Do I look okay?”

“You look fine.” you say, smirking. “Rugged. Like I said.”  

He laughs softly, shaking his head again. “Rugged isn’t exactly what I was going for.”  

“Well, you should have thought about that before letting me-”  

“Letting you?” he interrupted. “Letting you? As if I had a choice?”  

“You always have a choice.” you said, reaching over to smooth down the collar of his shirt. Your fingers lingered on his neck.  

“Not with you.” Alex sighs. “You know, we’re never going to make it if you keep distracting me.”  

“Who says I’m the distraction?” you counter, leaning back in your seat, satisfied.  

He gives you another sidelong glance, his eyes warm despite the faint accusation. “I love you.” he says. Simple and unadorned.  

Predictable or not, there is no place you’d rather be. 

The dining room smelled like rosemary and roasted potatoes, a soft warmth radiating from the old brick fireplace that had been lit for the evening. The walls were lined with framed photos, decades of family history encased in polished wood, their stories lingering like ghosts in the air. Dinner had been as pleasant as you’d hoped: his mother doting on Alex with casual reminders about portion sizes, his father making quiet but pointed observations about the state of the world. It was comfortable, even cozy, in the way only a family home could be.

And then, of course, the gnome ornament had stolen the show.  

“I just love it.” his mother had gushed, cradling the little ceramic figure in her hands like it was something truly precious. She had no idea that, yes, Alex had doubled back to buy it behind your back, no clue that it had been a small rebellion against your mutual skepticism about it. But as she beamed at the tiny, vaguely odd-looking figure, you caught Alex’s eye. His smirk was almost imperceptible, but it was there. And yes, it made you love him that much more.  

Dinner continued in easy conversation — stories of neighbors, updates on distant cousins, the kind of talk that didn’t require much effort. But the peace was short-lived.  

“Well,” his mother begins, “when are you gonna give us a grandbaby, Alex?”  

The room seems to shift. It’s not a heavy silence, but it is enough to make you set your fork down a little too carefully, the scrape of metal against porcelain louder than it should have been. Alex pauses mid-chew, his eyes darting to you, then back to his mother.  

Your heart thuds in your chest. You haven’t exactly avoided this topic with Alex, but you haven’t fully dived into it either. It was one of those nebulous, someday things, a distant idea floating somewhere on the horizon. And now, it is here, smack in the middle of roast lamb and green beans.  

It’s not that he doesn’t want kids — does he? He’s told you he does. Maybe. Always in those quiet moments where the future feels far away and safe to talk about. But Alex, for all his charm and wit, is a man who lives in the present. Planning for something so big, so permanent, feels like asking him to stand on the edge of a cliff and look down. He’d rather keep his feet firmly on the ground.  

And you? You’re not sure. You’re not even sure what your hesitation is. Maybe it’s the fear of being seen as just a role — mother, wife, a fixture in someone else’s life. Maybe it’s the quiet terror that you’d somehow fail at it, that you’d be the one who didn’t measure up.  

“Uh,” he starts, his voice stalling as he swallows too quickly. He coughs lightly, reaches for his water, and takes a long sip. “That’s…a big question, Mum.”  

His father chuckles softly, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not a big question. It’s a fair one.”  

“Fair?” Alex raises an eyebrow, a small, nervous laugh escaping him. He’s still stalling, still trying to buy time.  

“Well, it’s been what? Two years now?” his mother presses, her gaze shifting between the two of you. Her smile is warm but expectant, like she’d already imagined herself knitting tiny hats and booties.  

A spotlight you hadn’t asked for but couldn’t avoid. Two years. The number hangs in the air like it means something, like there’s a timeline for this sort of thing, a deadline you’ve been blissfully ignoring. You glance at Alex. He looks calm on the surface, but you know better. The laugh was a tell. The way his fingers tightened slightly on yours under the table was another.  

You knew this touch well — his silent I’m recharging, as you two called it. It was a phrase born out of a joke, something lighthearted he’d said once, but over time it had grown into something more. You were his personal power bank, he liked to say. It sounded cute, and sometimes it was. But other times, it felt like he was pulling something from you without meaning to, like he was draining a piece of you to refill himself.  

You did the same to him, though. You didn’t have a name for it, but you knew he could tell when you were especially wound up. He’d pointed it out once, gently, that you tended to cling more, hang onto him like a lifeline when the world felt too much. You hadn’t even realised you did it until he said it.  

“I know when you’re extra stressed, my love.” he’d said. “You hang on me more.”  

“And you don’t mind?” you’d asked, hesitant, a little guilty.  

“‘Course not.” he’d replied, wrapping his arms around you in a way that made you feel like you could finally exhale. And you did. That sigh — your signal of release — was always his cue to let go.  

Now, under the table, as his thumb traces lazy circles over your knuckles, you feel the familiar tug of him recharging. You give him a small squeeze in return, your way of saying, It’s okay. I’m here. 

He wants to say the right thing, but the right thing isn’t clear.  

“We’ve, uh…we’ve talked about it.” he says finally, his voice careful. “Haven’t we, love?”  

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden toss of the conversational ball into your court. “Uh, yeah.” forcing a smile. “We’ve talked about it.”  

His mother’s smile widens, her hands clasping together, kind eyes filled with a hope that borders on entitlement. “And?” She’s lovely, truly. But this? This isn’t about her, or the tiny hats she’s already knitting in her mind.  

“And…” Alex says, dragging the word out as he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not exactly…it’s not in the cards right now.”  

“Not in the cards?” his father repeats, his tone carrying just the slightest edge of disapproval.  

“Mum, Dad, come on.” Alex says, his voice softening into that almost-whining tone he uses when he wants to placate someone — you would know. “It’s not like we’re saying never. Just not…now.”  

“Why not now?” his mother asks, her brows furrowing. “You’ve got a lovely home, you’re both doing well. What’s stopping you?”  

The question reeks in the air heavier than the smell of roasted garlic. Alex shifts in his chair, the scrape of wood against the floor breaking the silence. “It’s not exactly that simple.” carefully measured.  

Not that simple. You almost laugh. You can see her knitting needles faltering in her imaginary hands, her perfectly stitched plans unraveling at the edges. Alex isn’t trying to disappoint her, but he doesn’t know how to explain it. That this thing, this life you’ve built together, is enough for now. That it doesn’t need to be expanded or multiplied to be complete.  

“We just…have other things we want to do first.” you finally join, steady, stern, but not unkind by any means. “It’s not that we don’t want to, but we’re happy where we are right now.”  

You lean back slightly, studying him for a moment. He looks good tonight, sharp but soft around the edges, like he belongs here and nowhere else. It’s always strange seeing him in this context, under the warm, homey lights of his childhood dining room. Here, where he’s both Alex, the man you love, and their Alex, the boy they raised.  

His mother doesn’t know the half of it. She doesn’t know how much of himself he pours into you, how he loves with a quiet ferocity that sometimes leaves you breathless. She doesn’t know how many nights you’ve stayed awake, piecing him back together while holding yourself together, steady and unshaking, because if you didn’t, who else would? Who else would be there to fix him, to gather up the fragments he doesn’t even realise he’s lost? She doesn’t know how it feels to bear the weight of him, his fears, his insecurities, his dreams, all of it laid bare in the space between midnight and dawn, whispered in a voice so soft it’s almost not there.  

She doesn’t know how he clings to you in those moments, like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, the only thing keeping him from coming undone. She doesn’t know about the times he’s buried his face in your lap, too exhausted to speak, and how you’ve run your fingers through his hair, murmuring assurances you weren’t entirely sure you believed yourself. She doesn’t know how you’ve felt yourself bending under the strain, a fine line between breaking and holding, praying silently that you’d stay strong just long enough to make it better for him.  

She doesn’t know the words he whispers to you in the dark — words so raw, so vulnerable, that they slice through you in ways you can’t describe. Words that make you wonder if you’re strong enough to hold all of him, if there’s a part of him too wild, too broken, too much for you to bear. But you do bear it, because it’s him. Because when he leans into you, pressing his forehead to yours with a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep inside, it’s like he’s giving you a piece of his soul, trusting you with it in a way he’s never trusted anyone else.  

And she doesn’t know that even with all of that — his weight, his words, his breaking and rebuilding — you’d still choose him. Every time. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Because no one else could hold him like you do. And no one else could ever be enough for you.

But you do. And maybe that’s enough. For now.

Alex shoots you a grateful look, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. His thumb strokes over the back of your hand, and your world narrows to just that small, steady motion of silent reassurance, a thank you, a reminder.

His mother sighs, the sound cutting softly through the fragile quiet. Her disappointment is carefully masked, an undercurrent of longing she can’t quite hide. “Well,” she says, “I suppose I can wait a little longer.”

“Thank you, Mum.” Alex lets out a short laugh, a gentle nudge to let the topic drop. “Plenty of time.”

His father grunts something under his breath along the lines of “As long as you’re not waiting forever.”

The conversation shifts after all of that, moving on to safer topics like the weather and plans for the holidays. But there's a faint echo of it that refuses to fully fade.  

Later, as you and Alex stand in the kitchen doing the dishes, the quiet hum of the house settles over you both. He nudges your shoulder with his, subtle but obviously intentional.  

“You alright?” His voice was low, careful, like the words are something fragile he’s handing to you.  

“Yeah.” you murmur, rinsing a plate. “You?”  

A pause. You can feel his eyes on you, even if you didn’t meet them. He’s drying a glass, moving the towel over it with slow precision, as if it’s the only thing left to make sense. “I didn’t mean to throw you under the bus back there.”  

“I know.”  

You place the plate on the rack, and his hand comes to rest on your lower back. His touch always felt like a question, unspoken but clear. This one is softer, quieter, but it asks for the same thing it always does — trust.  

You don’t lean into him immediately. The silence between you isn’t empty — it’s full of him, full of the things he wouldn’t say. Things he didn’t need to. His hand stays on your back, patient, steady. He’s not trying to pull anything from you this time, not the way he sometimes did without realising. This isn’t that. This is him letting the moment be.  

When you finally lean into him, it isn’t for his sake but yours. You feel his exhale, a soft shift of air against your temple as he turns his head slightly.  

“I don’t mind it.” you whisper. “When they ask. I don’t. Not really.”  

His hand moves, tracing the smallest arc along your spine. He doesn’t speak. You feel the words there anyway, between the press of his fingers and the warmth of his palm. He never needed to explain himself to you — not about the questions, not about the answers he wasn’t ready to give.  

You turn your head just enough to glance up at him. There’s something there that feels like the edge of a deep breath he won’t let out. It isn’t a promise he gave you. It was something smaller. A kind of understanding only he could offer. 

The silence stretches for a moment too long, heavy but not unbearable. Then Alex breaks it.  

“You know, if they ask again, I could just tell them we’re waiting for Sock to start talking so he can weigh in on whether he wants siblings.”  

You shake your head, the smallest smile breaking through. “God, don’t give your mum any ideas. She’d probably knit him a little sweater that says big brother.”  

Alex chuckles. The tension finally cracked, just a little. “Alright, noted. No sibling talk in front of Mum.”  

“No sibling talk at all.” you corrected, nudging him with your elbow.  

“Fine, fine.” He grins, leaning closer until his voice is just a murmur. “But if Sock starts talking, all bets are off.”  

It was absurd, but it worked.

The afternoon is suspended in that semi-darkness, the kind that feels like it could stretch on forever. The curtains are drawn, filtering the pale winter light into muted shadows that fall over Alex’s room. His figure is a quiet mound beneath the blanket, shifting slightly as he adjusts to your presence. His back is to you, hunched. His Christmas pajamas — red with cartoonish reindeer — peek out from beneath the covers, ending awkwardly at his calves where the fabric is just too short. They’re old, rediscovered while rummaging through boxes of things he never throws away. They’re somehow endearing. You can’t believe he’s still wearing them.  

You knock your knuckles against his exposed ankle, a quiet gesture that’s more habit than intention.  

You knock again, the sharp point of bone a contrast to the soft fabric covering the rest of him.  

He coughs, then groans. “What is it?” he asks, voice hoarse and half-muffled by the pillow.  

“Whatcha doing?” you ask.  

“Napping…” He yawns, stretching the word into something almost melodramatic. “…obviously.”  

“Well, wake up.” you prod. 

“Oh, dear, dear…” he grumbles, turning over like a petulant child dragged from bed too early with the kind of exaggerated effort that’s as much a performance as it is genuine irritation. The blanket clings to him like it’s part of his skin, and in his struggle to free himself, he ends up more tangled than before. He sighs in surrender, his face poking out from the fabric, hair a mess of dark waves.  

His eyes are heavy-lidded, his cheeks a little flushed from the heat of the blanket. He looks particularly cute like this, even with the hiccup that follows — a small, tiny squeak that catches you off guard, so out of place it even startles him for a moment. Cute, until it morphs into that familiar expression: brows furrowing, lips tightening, the kind of face that looks like he’s seconds away from either a burp or a gag. No, he’s still cute. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks finally, blinking up at you with half-hearted concern, his voice still hoarse from sleep.  

“I don’t know.” you say honestly, your hands finding his ankles again, sliding up over the faint ridges of his tibia. The friction of his leg hairs against your palms makes him twitch, and you grin as he squirms, trying to jerk away.  

“Stop it.” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it, just a quiet plea.  

You relent, letting him settle again, before climbing onto the bed beside him. He shifts to make room, though the blanket clings stubbornly to his legs. The bed creaks. His body feels warm even through the layers, radiating heat like a sleepy furnace. Alex blinks at you, his face caught somewhere between sleepy irritation and that soft, half-lidded fondness he doesn’t bother to hide.  

“I just miss you.” you say, softly this time, your hand brushing over his arm.  

His eyes catch a glint of the dim light sneaking through the curtains. For a moment, he just looks at you, the sleepiness fading  

“You miss me?” he echoes, voice hoarse, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. He rubs at his eyes, a slow, lazy motion that makes your chest tighten. “I’ve been right here the whole time.”  

“I know,” you murmur, pulling your knees up to your chest as you sit beside him. “But you’ve been…napping.”  

“And?” he asks, mock affronted, though the way his lips twitch betrays his amusement.  

“And…I don’t know.” you say again. “It just feels like forever.” His hair sticks up at the crown, and you resist the urge to smooth it down — barely.  

Alex lets out a sigh, dragging his hand down his face before looking at you properly. “You’re being dramatic.”  

“Probably.”  

He sits up, propping himself on one elbow, and the blanket slides down to his lap. “What am I supposed to do with that?”  

You shrug, fingers playing idly with the edge of the blanket. “Let me stay?”  

He grins. It’s not long before he gives in, though, because it’s you, and he’s never really been good at saying no to you.

“Stay, then.” 

You don’t wait for further permission, stretching out beside him and resting your head on his shoulder. 

“Hey-” he grumbles, wincing as you jab at a sensitive spot. “Do you want something, or are you just here to bully me awake?”  

“A little of both.” you admit, your fingers already sneaking their way beneath the edge of the blanket, brushing along his ribs. His skin is warm, almost feverish, though you know it’s just the heat he keeps trapped under all those layers. The jittery feeling that had been gnawing at you begins to subside.  

“God, you’re freezing!” He jerks away, his own hand coming up to trap yours, holding it in place against his chest like he could warm it through sheer proximity.  

“Don’t exaggerate.”  

“Not exaggerating.” he says, dragging out the words. He still hasn’t let go of your hand, though.  

“I’m right here.” he says, his voice low and a little scratchy, as if the words had to crawl their way out.  

“Yeah.” you reply, but you can’t help curling even closer, resting your head against his shoulder. His arm moves instinctively, wrapping around you and pulling you into his warmth. He presses his chin to the top of your head, the slight scratch of his unshaven jaw making you smile. 

“What’s this really about?” he asks after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost cautious.  

“Nothing.” you say, your words muffled against the soft cotton of his shirt. “I just wanted to be close to you.”  

Alex hums, his fingers tracing slow, absent patterns along your arm. “You’re always close to me.”  

“Not like this.” you reply, and though the words come out simply, there’s an edge of vulnerability to them that you hope he doesn’t notice.  

Alex notices everything.  

He shifts slightly, turning so he can see your face. “Hey,” he murmurs, his free hand tilting your chin up. His eyes search yours, their depth almost unnerving in this semi-darkness. “I’m not going anywhere, you know?”  

“I know.”  The corners of your mouth twitch, waiting for him to react. He doesn’t disappoint.  

“Good, baby.” He leans in and kisses your forehead, a soft, lingering touch that feels like both a promise and a reassurance. You go closer, pressing your cheek into his pillow, your breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His lashes flutter as he opens his eyes again, meeting your gaze. “You really miss me?” he asks, quieter this time.  

You nod, your nose brushing his. “I do.”  

“Even when I’m right here?”  

“Especially then.”  

The hint of a smile twitches at his lips, soft and fond in a way that makes your chest ache. “S’pose that’s alright, then.” he murmurs, letting out a long sigh. He shifts, untangling himself from the blanket with lazy, deliberate movements until his arms are free and reaching for you.  

When he wraps himself around you, the room feels even warmer, even darker, like the world outside doesn’t exist. His hands find their way to your back, smoothing over the fabric of your shirt in lazy circles, and his voice comes low and rough against your ear.  

“Miss you too, y’know.”  

You don’t answer, not with words. You bury yourself into him instead, tucking yourself so close it feels like you might sink into him entirely. His breathing evens out after a while, but his fingers never stop their slow movement. Neither of you says anything more. You don’t need to.

Until he hiccups again. It’s sharp and quick, breaking the stillness of the room, and you can’t help but giggle. But then something else slips through, something heavier, and before you can stop it, a tear edges out and clings to your lashes. You press your face to his shoulder, hiding, but not well enough.  

Because the thought comes unbidden — too sharp to ignore, too deep to escape. You can’t help but imagine a smaller version of him, soft-cheeked and wide-eyed, hiccuping just the same. And the image twists something inside of you, almost hurts, because how could your heart survive it? How could you hold so much love and still exist? You barely survive him every day.

“Alex?” you say, your voice small, almost hesitant.  

“Yeah?” 

“Do you want to have a baby?”  

He’s silent — not in a way that shuts you out, but in the way that means he’s turning it over in his mind, letting it settle. His lips move against your skin, brushing kisses wherever he can reach: your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder, the spot just below your ear. His hand has stopped its gentle motion on your back, now just resting there.  

It takes a long moment for him to speak.  

“I think…” he starts, pausing like the words are too heavy to admit. “I think I’m too old to have a baby. To be a father.”  

There’s something in his voice — something faint and distant, like disappointment hidden under layers of careful resignation. He says it like a fact, one he’s come to terms with.  

You don’t look at him. Can’t. Instead, you focus on the sound of his breathing, warm and steady against your skin. But the air shifts, and suddenly, it’s not about a baby anymore. It’s about him.  

It hits you all at once: Alex is going to get old one day. His hair will go grey, his laugh will quiet, and there will be a day when you won’t wake up next to him. When his warmth won’t fill this space, when you’ll reach for him and find nothing but air.  

“Hey…” he whispers, his lips pausing in their path along your skin. His hands come up to cup your face, and when he tilts your chin up, you can’t hide from him anymore. He can see his own reflection in the tears clinging to your lashes. “Did I- did I say something? Are you okay, darling?”  

“You’re not too old.” you say quickly, your voice trembling.  

He smiles softly at you, a faint curve of his lips that aims to bring you back out. He knows this isn’t about the words he said. Knows you’re not upset, not exactly. He just holds you tighter, like he can squeeze the ache out of your chest.  

“I just don’t want our kid to have a dad that’s sixty before they’re ten.” he says, and his stupid little math makes you laugh despite yourself.  

“Alex,” you chuckle, a tear slipping down your cheek, “you’ve got your math all wrong. Severely.”  

“Yeah.” he admits, laughing softly. “Probably.”  

He shifts, sliding his arms around you, pulling you close until you’re almost beneath him, tangled up in his weight and warmth. He’s everywhere — solid and heavy, pressing you into the mattress. His breath is against your ear, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, and the thought that had unraveled you before feels so far away now.  

“I’m sorry for…” You trail off, trying to find the words for crying over nothing and everything at once.  

Alex hums, brushing his lips against the curve of your neck. “You don’t have to be.” His voice is a soft murmur, filled with a kind of understanding that makes you ache even more.  

“I just didn’t know it would be like this,” you whisper, not meant for him to hear.  

“Like what?”  

“That I would become so closely tied to you.”  

There’s weight in the words, the kind that would feel crushing if you weren’t so completely wrapped up in each other. But neither of you has the energy to linger on it, to pull it apart and examine it.  

So instead, you just hold on. Feel the warmth of him, the life of him, the love that’s so much a part of him you can barely tell where it ends and where you begin.

Lips melt together, air exchanged between mouths like you’re both trying to live off each other’s breath. He’s pressed so close, and yet somehow, you still miss him. It’s like no matter how much of him you take in — his touch, his warmth, his quiet murmurs — you’re always left wanting more. There’s a hunger to it now, a longing that no amount of kisses seem to satisfy.  

It’s been too long since you kissed him like this — messy and unrestrained, all need and no patience. The kind of kiss where you lose track of where your body ends and his begins. His lips are chapped, and yours are starting to sting, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that the walls are thin or that the door isn’t locked or that you’re both supposed to be adults, because right now, it feels like you could drown in him and still come up gasping for more. The air was too thick with propriety for you to touch him the way you wanted in front of his parents, for what felt like forever. It feels dangerous. Like every kiss, every touch, could spiral into something impossible to stop.  

But you can’t stop. Neither can he.  

His hips roll against you, deliberate and slow, lazy grind and the sensation sends heat pooling low in your belly. His hands move with purpose now, gripping your waist like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers.  

“I like you a lot.” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, the words muffled against your lips.  

It’s so simple, so earnest, that it makes you laugh — a soft, breathless sound that he swallows with another kiss. You could get drunk off this.

“Al.” you murmur, pulling back just enough to look at him.  

“Hm?” His lips chase yours even as he hums, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, focused entirely on you.  

“I want-”  

“You want me to fuck a baby into you?”  

His voice is so serious, so matter-of-fact, that it takes you a second to process what he’s said. Then, you laugh, the sound startled and bubbling out of you uncontrollably. “Alex!”  

“What?” He grins, unrepentant, leaning down to nip at your jaw.  

“You know you can’t.” you say, though the heat blooming in your chest betrays the way his words made you feel.  

“Well…” He shifts, pressing closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I can try.”  

His hands slide lower, slipping beneath your shirt, his palms warm and rough against your skin. He smiles against your neck, his breath hot as he adds, “I can fill you up with my babies…do my part of the deal.”  

“Al!” You swat at him, but your protest is half-hearted at best, your body already arching into his touch.  

He kisses you again, and this time it’s all need. There’s nothing gentle about it now, nothing careful. His teeth catch your bottom lip, his hands gripping you tighter, pulling you closer, until there’s no space left between you.  

You feel like you could crawl inside his skin, live there, wrap yourself up in the way he smells, the way he feels, the way he breathes against your neck. God, you could spend the rest of your life like this, and it still wouldn’t be enough.  

“Do you even think before you say shit like that?” you manage to gasp, though your voice is more amused than annoyed.  

“Not really.” he admits, his grin widening as he pulls back just enough to look at you. His hair is tousled, his cheeks flushed, and he looks so thoroughly pleased with himself that you can’t help but laugh again.  

“Can’t believe I married you fool.” you say, shaking your head, but your hands are tangling in his hair and pulling him back down. So soft against your palms, and his skin is warm under your fingertips, and you think, This is home. He’s home. 

He pulls back just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven. “You really miss me that much?”  

“Even when you’re right here.” you say, and you mean it.  

“Especially then.” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. 

You could live off this. Off him. Easily. 

When he kisses you again, it’s softer, slower, like he’s trying to memorise you. Like he’s trying to leave pieces of himself with you, pressed into your skin, embedded in your bones. And you let him, because if anyone gets to claim parts of you, it’s him.

His pants are pushed down, your shirt is tugged up but not off — it’s too cold for that. Your skin pebbles with goosebumps, nipples perking up as the air brushes over them, and Alex’s gaze snaps to them like they’re the only thing in the room worth looking at, like he’s just unwrapped the best gift under the tree. His eyes light up, soft and wide, and he’s got this stupid, almost boyish grin spreading across his face, like he’s just stumbled into the best Christmas morning of his life, even though he’s seen you like this before — dozens of times. Maybe hundreds.  

“God,” he starts, his voice low, “you’re so-”  

“You too.” you interrupt, and it’s so fast it almost makes him laugh. But he doesn’t, because your hand slides down between you, brushing over his stomach and lower, and he forgets how to do anything but exhale sharply.  

Your fingers curl around him, and he lets out a sharp, breathy sound that goes straight to your chest. He’s hard, but you can feel the slight chill on his skin as your hand moves over him. He groans, low and unsteady, his head tipping forward to rest against your shoulder as you stroke him. “Fuck, you’re eager.” he says, his tone teasing but breaking halfway through when your grip tightens just slightly.  

It’s cold, he thinks, and he’s absurdly glad the blanket’s there to cover you both. Not just to trap the heat but to hide the way his balls have drawn up tight from the temperature. You wouldn’t care anyway, he tells himself, but it doesn’t stop the small pang of self-consciousness.  

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you just don’t care, because your hand moves with purpose, stroking him with a rhythm that builds faster than he expects. Your lips are everywhere — on his neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth — and between kisses, you murmur things that make his head spin. “Not enough?” you murmur, your hand moving slowly, your thumb brushing over the tip just to watch him shudder.  

“Shit-” he hisses and you bite your lip to hide your grin. His hands find your waist, gripping you, but it’s no use. You’ve got him exactly where you want him, and you know it.  

“Fuck, you’re so good, Al.” you say, your voice a soft, breathy hum against his ear.  

“Oh-” his hips go jerking up into your hand, unable to stop himself. “Fuck, you’re gonna- god, you’re gonna-” he groans, his voice low and wrecked, the slick slide of your palm dragging him closer to the edge.  

“Good way to go.” you tease, leaning down to press your lips to his neck, and he lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan.  

“You’re impossible.” he says, but his hips are already moving again, thrusting up like he can’t help himself. He can’t.

“Impossible?” you echo, your tone mock-offended. “You’re the one who’s already- oh, god, Alex, you’re practically whining right now.”  

“I’m not whining.” he shoots back, but his voice cracks on the last word, and you snort.  

“You’re so whining.” you say, laughing softly against his skin.  

“Jeez.” he mutters, but he’s grinning now, his hands sliding down to your hips as he presses you closer. “You’re gonna regret teasing me.”  

“Am I?” you ask, your hand stroking him with just enough pressure to make him shudder again.  

“Yeah.” he says, his voice low and dangerous, but there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes that makes your stomach flip. Before you can respond, he’s shifting, his hands tugging at the waistband of your underwear. “Off.” he says, and you laugh, shifting to help him.  

“Demanding.” 

“Desperate.” he corrects. You can’t even argue, because his hands are already on you again, sliding up your thighs to pull you into his lap. “Fuck, I need to be inside you, girl.”  

You smile against his lips, “Then what are you waiting for?”  

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He barely manages to kick his pants down farther before he’s reaching for you again.  

“C’mere.” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, his hands warm against your chilled skin. You settle over him, the weight of you grounding him, and for a moment, he just holds you there, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. “You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, his thumbs brushing lazy circles into your skin.  

“Always.” you say, your fingers sliding into his hair, and the way you look at him — like he’s the only thing that matters — it makes his chest ache.  

“Mhm.” His hands tighten on your hips as he guides you down and the groan that tears from his throat when he sinks into you is almost enough to undo you completely.  

You laugh softly, your fingers threading through his hair. “Missed me, huh?”  

“Shut up,” he says, but there’s no heat in it.  

“Thought you weren’t whining?” you tease, rocking your hips just slightly, and his hands clamp down on you, holding you still.  

“Christ, you’re gonna drive me insane.” he mutters, his head tipping back against the pillow.  

“Already have.” you say, leaning down to kiss him, and he groans against your mouth, and his hips are moving again.  

“Impossible.” he mutters, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer. 

“You said that already.” you remind him, grinning against his lips.  

“Still true.” he says, and then he’s kissing you again, and it’s messy and desperate and perfect.  

He moves then, his hips rocking up into you, and the heat of him makes you forget about the cold entirely. The blanket slips off your shoulders, pooling around your back, but you don't care. He doesn't care. All he cares about is you and your warmth and your weight and the soft sounds you make as you move with him.  

“Fuck.” he breathes, his voice shaky as he buries his face in your neck. “You feel so good.”  

“So do you.” you murmur, your hands gripping his shoulders until they feel like they’ve been set on fire, until it feels like the whole world’s on fire.  

The pace builds, faster, rougher, but there’s still something tender about the way he holds you, the way his hands move over your skin like he’s afraid you might disappear. You feel like you might burst. You kiss him again, swallowing his groans as he thrusts up into you, and you think, I could live in this moment forever.

Alex doesn’t just lose himself in you — he unravels completely. His grip on your hips tightens as his breath comes heavy and ragged, his forehead pressed to yours for a brief moment before he pulls back. “You…” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse, as though that single word is the only one he can manage.  

Before you can respond, he flips you over. The mattress dips and you barely have time to gasp before he’s on you, his body pressing yours into the bed, pinning you down. His hands find your wrists, pulling them above your head as he settles between your legs. He’s everywhere, all at once, overwhelming and intoxicating, and you can’t help the small, broken sound that escapes your throat.  

“Shhh…” he murmurs, a crooked smile flickering across his lips, his eyes bright with amusement. “They’re still awake.” You know he’s talking about the thin walls, the parents in the other room, but it doesn’t matter, because his smile fades almost immediately when you clench around him, your hips lifting to meet his. “Fuck-” he hisses, his voice breaking, and he has to stop for a second, burying his face in your neck like he’s trying to compose himself. “Love, you’re gripping me so tight-”  

“I’m so close.” you whimper, high and breathless, and his head snaps up.  

“Yeah?” he murmurs, soft but teasing, and one of his hands leaves your wrist to smooth over your hair, petting you gently like you’ve just done something worthy of praise. “That’s my girl.”  

The words undo you. Your body tenses, arching against him as you come, your cries muffled by his hand when he moves it quickly to cover your mouth.  

“Shhh.” he murmurs again, more soothing. His hand slides from your mouth to your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he watches you fall apart beneath him as he starts moving again, rougher this time, and the sound of him sliding in and out of you, wet and obscene, fills the room. 

You can barely think, barely breathe, and when you dare to moan, loud and broken, he shuts you up with his lips. Messy and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours as he thrusts into you harder, faster. You can feel him everywhere, his hands gripping your thighs, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock stretching you so perfectly it almost hurts.  

“You’re so- fuck-” he mutters against your lips, his voice shaking. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”  

You’re too cockdrunk to answer, your head falling back against the pillow as your body shakes beneath him. He groans, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he chases his own release, his movements becoming erratic.  

“I’m gonna come inside you now.” he says, low and wrecked. He’s already halfway there and you nod, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Wasn’t asking.” he mutters.

“Please.” you whisper, and it’s that — your soft, trembling plea — that seems to undo him entirely.  

“Fuck.” he breathes, his hands gripping your hips so tightly it feels like he’s grounding himself on you, holding you in place as if he might get lost otherwise. His face twists, caught between pleasure and something close to pain, and you watch him fall apart, his usual control slipping away.  

It’s always like this when he comes inside you. Like he’s completely overcome, lost in the heat and wetness of you, in the way you take him so completely. There’s something elemental about it, like you’re the only thing keeping him on earth, and he clings to you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever had. The sounds he makes are devastating: deep, broken moans mixed with your name, half-spoken, half-gasped. 

He presses his forehead harder against yours, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts, and you can feel his body trembling, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. “God, you feel so-” He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp, his hips stuttering and he presses deeper, hot and endless, and he can’t stop, and he doesn’t ever want to stop. “Fuck, fuck…” he mutters, the words tumbling out of him. He’s not even aware he’s speaking. His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, splaying wide over the place where his cum is now buried deep inside you, as if he’s trying to feel it through your skin.  

It drives him crazy, every single time. To be so bare with you, so vulnerable, to feel you around him like this, no barriers, nothing between you. It’s too much and somehow never enough.  

He stays like that, hips pressed flush against yours, his cock still twitching inside you. His eyes are shut tight, his jaw clenched, like he’s trying to hold onto the feeling, trying to commit it to memory.  

When he finally opens his them, they’re dark and glassy, still hazy with pleasure. He looks at you like you’re something unreal, something he can’t believe he gets to have. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, and it’s not just a compliment but a declaration, raw and unfiltered. His thumbs brush gently over your cheeks as he kisses you, slow and deep. It’s softer now, reverent, like he’s thanking you, like he’s worshiping you.  

You can feel him still, still warm and pulsing, and you know he’s not ready to pull away yet. Neither are you. 

“Fuck.” he mutters, his voice muffled against your neck.  

You laugh, your fingers sliding into his hair as you hold him. “Yeah.” you whisper, your voice shaky but warm. “Fuck.”

He stays inside you far longer than makes any sense, long enough that the warmth between you turns to a sticky, shared heat that you can feel seeping out, dampening the sheets beneath you. Neither of you moves, and he’s quiet everywhere — his body heavy against yours, his breaths slow and even, the weight of him pinning you to the mattress in a way that feels unshakable. It’s not the kind of silence that asks for anything. It’s just Alex. The way he lingers in moments like this, unhurried and unwilling to let go, like pulling away would break the spell. You know he should move, that you should clean up, but the thought of him leaving you empty right now feels unbearable. You don’t want to move. 

You tilt your head just slightly to press your lips to his temple, the salt of his sweat faint on your tongue. His eyes are closed, but you know he’s not asleep. He’s just…here, with you. Fully.  

“I love being with you,” you murmur, “even when you stay silent so long.”  

His eyes open slowly, and they’re impossibly soft, the kind of look that makes your chest feel tight and full all at once. He shifts just enough to press his lips to yours. “I don’t mean to stay quiet. Sometimes I just…don’t know what to say.”  

“You don’t have to say anything. I like it. The quiet with you.”  

He hums, his hand drifting lazily up and down your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, memorising you all over again. “It’s different with you.” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “The silence. It’s not empty. It’s…” He trails off, his brow furrowing. He’s searching for the right word.  

“Full.” you offer, and his lips twitch into the faintest smile.  

“Yeah.” he says softly. “Full.”  

Softening but somehow still so present. It’s ridiculous, how much you love him in moments like this — when he’s not doing anything extraordinary, just existing with you, just letting himself be here.  

“I should move.” he says eventually, though he doesn’t sound like he means it. His hand slips to your stomach, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin. “I’m probably making a mess.”  

You laugh, the sound light and quiet in the stillness of the room. “You are.” you say, and he groans softly, hiding his face in your neck.  

“Sorry.” he mumbles, though he doesn’t make any effort to pull away.  

You press a kiss to his hair, your fingers tracing lazy patterns along the nape of his neck. “Don’t be.”  

It’s not reasonable, staying like this. The sheets are ruined, and the air between you is heavy with the aftermath of everything you’ve just shared, but none of it matters. All that matters is him, here, with you, so close it feels like you might dissolve into him if you’re not careful.  

“You know,” he says after a long stretch of silence, his voice muffled against your skin, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before.”  

“What way?” you ask, your hand sliding to his shoulder, holding him a little closer.  

“Like I could stay like this forever. With you.”  

Your chest tightens, and you kiss him again, because you don’t know how else to respond to something so devastatingly simple, so honest.  

Forever. You think you could stay like this forever, too. 

The weight of Christmas morning presses heavier than it should, tension tightening the air like an over-wrapped gift. In the living room, the Turners exchange looks — small, darting ones that say everything without anyone daring to open their mouths. You can’t decide if the silence is better or worse than outright commentary, but either way, the room feels suffocating. It’s impossible to look at anyone directly. You can’t help but think, We really should’ve stayed at his place.

The first chance you get, you slip away upstairs to Alex’s room. Even as you ascend the stairs, snippets of hushed teasing float up from below, followed by poorly disguised chuckles. Your cheeks burn with fresh embarrassment.  

You collapse onto the bed, burying your face into the pillow to smother a groan of frustration. You don’t have to wait long before Alex joins you. The door creaks open, and his steps are slow and heavy, weighted with a mix of exhaustion and mortification. He practically slumps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He’s silent, but you can see his shoulders shaking. For a second, you think he might actually be upset — until he lets out a muffled laugh, half-horrified, half-disbelieving.  

“Oh my god.” he groans into his palms.  

You prop yourself up on one elbow, watching him with a mix of guilt and amusement. “That bad, huh?”  

The room feels smaller with him in it, or maybe it’s just warmer. Alex lies sprawled beside you on the bed, his arm still flung over his face like he’s shielding himself from the weight of the world — or at least his family’s knowing looks. His cheeks are still pink, and even though you can’t see it, you know the tips of his ears are red too. They always are when he’s embarrassed.  

“They’re relentless.” he mutters, voice muffled by the crook of his arm.  

“Do I-” you start.  

“Wanna know?” he finishes for you, dropping his arm to glance sideways at you.  

“Yeah.” you admit cautiously.  

“No, you don’t.” His lips twitch, and you can tell he’s fighting a smile.  

“Okay.” you say, drawing the word out as you roll onto your side to face him. “Were we…that loud?”  

He exhales sharply and presses the heels of his hands against his burning cheeks. “Loud enough.” he admits, his voice low and strained with amusement. “Apparently.”  

You can’t help it — you laugh. It bubbles up and spills out before you can stop it, and soon, Alex is laughing too, the sound soft and self-conscious but also a little freeing.  

He lifts his head just enough to peek at you. “Loud enough that everyone had something to say. Even grandma.”  

You cringe. “Oh no. What did she say?”  

Alex groans again, dropping his head back dramatically against the mattress. “Something about how ‘young love is passionate’ and how she’s glad we’re ‘keeping the spark alive.’” He lets out another strangled laugh, covering his face again. “I’m never leaving this room again.” ��

You try to suppress a laugh of your own, but it bubbles up anyway. “Well, at least she was supportive?”  

“She also gave me a knowing look, like she’s proud of me or something. That’s even worse.” He groans, rolling onto his side to face you. “How are you so calm about this? I feel like I’m gonna die.”  

“Because,” you say, trying to keep a straight face, “it’s kind of funny.”  

“It’s not funny.”  

“It’s a little funny.”  

He glares. “You’re not the one who had to face my entire family while they all knew.”  

“True.” you admit, grinning now. “But you’re the one who said, ‘I’m gonna come inside you now.’ Pretty sure that set the tone for the rest of the night.”  

His jaw drops, and he throws a pillow at you. “You’re the one who begged me to!”  

“Shh!” you hiss, laughing as you dodge the pillow. “Do you want them to hear us again?”  

Alex groans, pulling the blanket over his head like a shield. “This is officially the worst Christmas ever.”  

“Worst?” you tease, crawling closer and tugging at the blanket. “You didn’t seem to think so last night.”  

He peeks out. “I’m serious. Next year, we’re staying home. Just you, me, and a soundproof door.”  

“Deal.” you say, leaning in to kiss his nose. “They’re not going to let this go, are they?” you ask.  

“Not in this lifetime.” he replies. “Ugh…Dad kept looking at me like I betrayed the family name.”  

“And your mom?”  

“Oh, she didn’t say anything.” He grimaces. “But that’s worse. I could feel her thinking things, and it was bad.”  

“Define bad.”  

He shifts onto his side to face you, his hand reaching out to lightly trace the edge of your jaw, his embarrassment softening. “Bad enough that I never want to find out for sure.”  

You snort, nudging his shoulder playfully. “We’re not sneaky, huh?”  

“Not even a little bit.” he says, leaning in to press a quick, warm kiss to your forehead. “But at least it’s over now.”  

“Over? Alex, it’s Christmas morning. We’re still here.”  

“Right.” he groans, flopping onto his back again. “Kill me now.”  

He’s a grown man now, but some things never change. Even at this age, Alex can’t quite handle being caught in the act. Not that you blame him. The Turners have a way of making their judgment feel monumental, like you’ve broken some sacred Christmas tradition by being, well, married. And doing married stuff.

He’s flushed and disheveled, his hair sticking up at odd angles from the way he’s been running his hands through it all morning. His shirt is wrinkled from where he flopped onto the bed, and the collar’s just slightly askew. He’s always been handsome in that unintentional, almost careless way, but right now, he looks adorable.  

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, you know that?” you say, unable to resist teasing him just a little.  

“Don’t make it worse.”  

“I’m not!” you protest, biting back a laugh. “I’m just saying. Some things never change.”  

He raises an eyebrow, curious but wary. “Like what?”  

“Like how you turn into a human tomato whenever you’re even slightly flustered,” you say, grinning. “Or how you can’t make eye contact when you’re embarrassed. Or how you always-”  

“Alright, alright, I get it.” he interrupts, laughing as he rolls onto his side to face you. “I’m a walking cliché. Thanks for the reminder.”  

“Not a cliché.” you correct. “Just…you. It’s kind of endearing, you know.”  

He doesn’t respond, just looks at you with that quiet, searching expression of his. It’s that same look that made you fall for him in the first place.

“I really do love you.” he murmurs after a while, his voice low and warm.  

“I know.” you whisper back, resting your head against his chest. “For what it’s worth,” you say, glancing up at him, “I don’t regret it.”  

“Yeah?”  

“Yeah.” you say with a small smile. “Worth the teasing. Probably.”  

His laugh is warm and low, and he squeezes your hand lightly. “Well, remind me to return the favor next time we stay at your place.”  

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling as you nudge him again. “Merry Christmas, Alex.”  

“Merry Christmas, trouble.” 

a/n: Merry Christmas (Eve) for those who celebrate, I guess! (I’m just in it for the gifts icl) I hope you liked it, might be a bit all over the place, haven’t got a chance to properly check it for any mistakes but yeah, I’ve missed him a lot. Is it still prof!al if he’s not her professor anymore? I’m counting it.

[narcjsistx]

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 | OS

kaiser micheal x fem reader ; words: 1.6k (1679)

coming from this event, eighth day, 25/12

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

plot: why kaiser was at your door the night between christmas eve and christmas day? why did he have a red package, even though you had broken up last month?

It was cold, very cold. Berlin had been covered in snow since the beginning of November, and things had gotten worse during the Christmas week, when the snow had also caused some damage due to the excessive amount. You loved the snow, so going to work with the white weather around you wasn't a sin, and above all it didn't bother you because you always covered yourself well with a heavy coat and an excessive amount of scarves; but now, with only your pajamas on, you were cold. You didn't know if you were colder because of the temperature or because of seeing Kaiser after a whole month, maybe the second one, but who knows

It was a while past midnight, at least half an hour; your friends had just left your house, after you had celebrated Christmas Eve all together, opened the presents and toasted. You were cleaning the living room when you heard the doorbell, and thinking you would find some of your friends who had forgotten something you went to the door calmly, completely confused instead of finding your ex, Kaiser Micheal

"...What the fuck are you doing here?"

Last month you broke up after a relationship that lasted three years, three years so intense that you couldn't even describe them if you had to: you met thanks to one of his teammates, one night in a bar after the team's victory, and two weeks later you were together as an actual couple. Maybe you had run, maybe not, but at the time it didn't take long for you to understand that you could work together, and so you decided to give yourself a chance. Less than six months later you were living in his house, keeping him company and most of all loving him. With Michael it had never been all roses and flowers, you argued like normal couples, but somehow you always came back to look for the other, like a magne. You went to his games, you cheered for him, and he cheered for you for your goals. You balanced each other out, and many of your friends joked that you were going to get married soon because only one could stand the other with a wedding in between

You actually thought so too, and probably he did too. But last month you had broken up, and even now you couldn't understand how he had the courage to tell you that he didn't love you anymore, if until a few hours before he was resting in your arms. And so, from that day on, you didn't want to know anything about him anymore, going back to live in your old apartment

But what the fuck was he doing here now? And why did he have a little box in his hand?. Thinking about this, you realized that it was his birthday, since it had already struck midnight; but wishing him a happy birthday? No, absolutely not, partly out of resentment and partly because you knew he didn't like celebrating his birthday

"I had to talk to you, or rather give you something. I saw your friends' cars and knocking suddenly while you were busy seemed a bit of a jerk... I waited out here for a few hours. And above all, I didn't feel like talking to you with them in front"

It was cold, damn cold, and you knew he didn't like the cold because of his past, where he had often been forced to sleep freezing as a child. But for you, had he waited? With this cold?

"Talk? Wasn't that enough the last time we talked?"

More than talking, the last time you did nothing but yell at each other. He said so many bad things to you, and you didn't even hold back

"No, it's not enough for me. I have to talk to you and give you something"

"I don't want anything from you, and you also said the last time that you wouldn't give me anything anymore because I don't deserve it, right?"

"Don't bring that moment back now"

"And why shouldn't I?"

The wound was still open, and you knew it would be for a long time. You couldn't lie and say you didn't love him anymore, damn it, it was the opposite; you certainly don't stop loving someone from one day to the next after three years of being together. You also knew that, somewhere in his heart, Michael probably felt the same, but that didn't justify him leaving you. You were angry, disappointed above all and sad

"Y/n, please, let me talk. You know I never talk in vain in serious moments"

He had never done it in three years with you, his charisma stopped when it came to talking about serious situations, knowing that he couldn't always throw everything into irony. You wanted to hear him talk, to understand what the fuck he wanted at such a time and especially with such a situation in between, but would that have been beneficial for you? Could you have let him talk?

"Hurry up. I'm cold"

"I try to be as fast as possible, I swear. I don't think I can explain to you how much I hate me for what I did to you, leaving you wasn't on the list of things to do with you, in fact, I don't even know how I could have done such a stupid thing. I'm an idiot, I really am, I'm like my father who as soon as he had all the happiness in his hands he let it slip away... and you know, maybe you're the only one who really knows, how much I don't want to be like that pig. I made a mess because I'm not used to having someone who really loves me, and when I do stupid things that push this person away from me, because I don't think I deserve it. I know perfectly well that you're the only one who cares a little about me, and I also know perfectly well that you're the only one I really care about, that I love in a way that's maybe even a little obsessive. I would like to give you something that I was planning to give you for Christmas if we had stayed together, but something went wrong... but I want to give it to you anyway, and ask you to think of us, because now I have no more doubts, I haven't had them for 3 years now and above all I didn't have them when I bought this"

Maybe you needed these words from him, even if you hated to admit that he already had you tied to his finger. From the day of the breakup until now you had always wanted to see him apologize, and now that you had him in front of you it didn't seem true: Michael wasn't someone who admitted his mistakes, he preferred to miss a goal rather than do this, he also hated showing himself weak in front of the people he cared about. And now he was doing it, both of them, in front of you, just to explain the situation to you

But what did he actually want to give you?

"Micheal... god, this is unexpected. I thought I was going to have to move on"

"Don't start, or at least decide whether to do so after I've shown you what I have in my hand. Think about it, because I have no more doubts"

You look down, Michael clears his throat before getting down on one knee, he who always told others to get down on their knees for him. You hear a small sigh, before the little box opens to reveal a ring, glittering and gold

"Y/n, Schatz, I had no doubts about asking you something so important, because I've met people, but there's only one who understands me, and that's you. I have a shitty personality and yet it doesn't seem to push you away from me, and for that I should thank you every day. You know perfectly well how much I don't like my birthday, yet somehow since we've been together you've made me learn to appreciate it at least a little, and now I would like to appreciate it more if you accept, because it's a gift that only you can give me. I wanted to ask you this to take our relationship to the next level, but the way things went I find myself forced to ask you to give me another chance, this time for life. Y/n, will you marry me?"

You tremble, because you don't know what else to do after a proposal like that. You look at him, and in his gaze you read a sincerity that you have never seen before, which shows how serious he is. You remain like that for whole seconds, unable to tell him what, you know, he wants to hear

"Micheal, my god... yes, yes I do, yes!"

Before he can get up and hug you, you throw yourself onto the cold floor with him, wrapping your arms around his neck as you feel his arms wrap tightly around your back, pulling you closer to him. Small tears begin to form at the edge of your eyes as you hold him perhaps a little too tightly because of the emotion. You hear him chuckle, as he runs his hand up and down your back, not giving you the chance to pull away

"You're an idiot, you really are"

"I know, but now you will be able to tell me until our last days, Schatz"

TAG: @natmagaesp ; @kittenish0 ; @x3nafix

[sissylittlefeather]

Here's a 12 days of ficmas idea: Elvis Presley's version of Here Comes Santa Claus. Do what you do best with that!!

12 Days of Ficmas

Day 10: Here Comes Santa Claus

A/N: Phew, man, I'm just starting to feel like a person again after a week of sickness! I hope this is okay. Please enjoy this dirty little ficlet!

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, smut, oral sex (f receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, stranger sex, ejaculation

Word count: ~1.3k

The children are all in a tizzy. Someone has come dressed as Santa Claus to bring presents to them in the hospital. He seems a little young and a little skinny to be Santa, but he's dressed right, fake beard and all, so they don't question it too much. But you know exactly who he is.

Elvis Presley.

You work at St. Jude's in Memphis as a candy striper and have for the past four years. You're getting a little old at 19, but you love the kids and you're working on a nursing degree, so it's good experience. Usually nothing too exciting happens, but that all changes when he comes in with his big Santa sack filled with toys.

You’d seen him on TV a couple times before he went into the army with his guitar and his shaky legs and you'd be lying if you said it didn't send your heart (and other parts of you) into a frenzy every time. Now, he's back in Memphis and he looks better than ever. So when he shows up here all dressed in red, you almost lose it.

He passes out toys and candy to all the kids, lets them sit on his lap and tell him what they want for Christmas, and it's so damn heartwarming you think you might just explode. Once all the goodies are passed out and the children are busy with new presents, he saunters over to you at the desk.

“And what about you, little girl, have you been naughty or nice this year?” He winks and you almost melt.

“Depends. Which one would you prefer?” No one has ever accused you of being shy or subtle and it serves you well in this moment. He blinks a little, surprised by your boldness, but it doesn't take him long to adjust and be very excited.

“I should like a nice girl, but I think I'm in the mood for somethin’ naughty.” He smiles and lowers his voice. “You got somewhere we could go to talk?”

You think for a minute about all the different rooms in the hospital: supply closets and patient rooms and offices. Then, it hits you. The place is full of on-call rooms for doctors who need to stay overnight to monitor patients. They have beds. And locks.

“Come with me.” He leaves his empty Santa bag at the desk and takes your hand, following along eagerly. You lead him to one of the on-call rooms and then step inside, locking the door behind you. He pulls off the fake beard and Santa hat and then turns back to you.

“Unless you want me to leave them on?” You laugh and shake your head.

“Maybe just the hat.” He grins and shoves it back on his head. This hospital visit is turning out to be much more fun than he expected.

“Your little uniform is cute. Like a nurse elf or somethin’.” He fiddles with the edge of your apron up by your shoulder. You can tell he's nervous now that he's got you alone.

“You gonna get shy on me?” He moves his hand up to the side of your face and shakes his head.

“Not a chance.” Next thing you know, he's kissing you, his hands roaming over your uniform with reckless abandon. His tongue explores your mouth and he grabs your hips, grinding his against yours. He keeps waiting for you to stop him, but you don't, not even when he runs his hands up your thighs to your panty line. His thumbs slip under the edges as he gets on his knees. “You're okay with this, right?”

You grab his face in both hands.

“Yes. I'm sayin’ please.” He smiles.

“Nice girl.” Then, he pulls your panties down your legs and puts his head up under your skirt. You fall back against the door as he finds your pussy with his tongue.

“Fuck.” You moan as he licks over and around your clit.

“Naughty girl.” He mumbles into you and the vibration of his voice has you seeing stars. You feel him tease your entrance with his fingertip before he slips a finger up inside you.

“Oh God…” He licks and sucks and finger-fucks you like his life depends on it and you feel the deep coil of your orgasm pull together in your stomach. Your walls flutter around his finger and he knows you're getting close.

“Come on, pretty girl. Cum for daddy.” He eats you like a man starved and you know you won't last much longer.

“Oh fuck… oh God… yes!” You moan loudly as the waves of your orgasm crest and break inside you. He tongues you through it, prolonging it for as long as possible. Finally, he emerges from under your skirt, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal. His erect cock is painfully obvious in the thin red pants, so you push him backwards towards the bed. Before he sits, you pull the pants down and let them fall to his ankles. You're surprised he's not wearing underwear in what is undoubtedly a rented suit. You unbutton the coat and then push him onto the edge of the bed. His hands are under your skirt again, holding your hips as you straddle him. You use your hand to drag the head of his cock through your folds and get it wet enough.

“You ready?” He looks up at you to see if you're going to stop him, but instead you just nod and start to sink onto him. His hands guide your hips as you fully envelop him and he groans. “Goddamn, naughty girl. That's a sweet little pussy.”

“You like it?” You start to roll your hips against him, pushing him deeper with each thrust.

“Fuck yeah, baby.” He holds your asscheeks with both hands as you roll against him, already feeling the pressure of his climax gather in his balls. He lifts your hips and starts to drop you onto him with more force. You whimper with each crash of your hips into his. After a few more minutes, he lays back on the bed and pulls you over on top of his chest, slamming into you from underneath. “Mmmm, daddy’s gonna cum, honey.”

You don't even have time to respond before he pulls you off of him and cums hard, shooting his load into the folds of your uniform skirt. He leans against your shoulder and groans as he finishes and you giggle.

“Merry Christmas, Santa Claus.” He smiles and sits up, holding the side of your neck.

“Merry Christmas, naughty girl. That was nice.”

You lean in and kiss him softly as there's a sharp knock on the door.

“My boy, surely I don't need to remind you that the suit is rented. We need to leave.” He groans and whispers.

“That's my cue. How do I find you again?” You climb off of him and locate your panties as he pulls up his pants and buttons the coat. There's a small desk in the corner of the room with a cup full of pens. You grab one and write your number on the inside of his arm. He smiles and kisses your forehead. As he goes to leave the room he turns back to you. “What's your name, naughty girl?”

You giggle and tell him your name. He walks back to you and wraps you in a deep kiss.

“This was really fun. I'll call you.”

And then he disappears through the door, back to his life of obligation and public appearances. You don't expect to ever hear from him again. But he calls you that night and the rest, they say, is history.

******

The End

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @atleastpleasetelephone @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @tacozebra051 @your-nanas-house @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @louisejoy86 @rjmartin11 @from-memphis-with-love @deltafalax @cinnamoroll-things @burnthheparaphilia @jhoneybees @cattcb @everythingelvispresley @returntopresley @searchingforgravity @msamarican @angschrof @lustnhim @polksaladava @librababe99 @hooked-on-elvis @theelvisprincess @makethemorning @peaceloveelvis @mrspresley69 @pxpresley @kxnnxy

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 12/24/2024

pair of portentous tuesdayposts: this one is christmas eve and the next one is new year's eve

trying something new with the reading section, where i list off a bunch of books i bounced off and briefly explain why. let me know if this is interesting, or if it's more interesting when i finish a book i sort of enjoyed and really dissect what didn't work for me like with that annoying evil wizard book a couple weeks ago.

listening

the true champ of the past few weeks has been friends at the table's (an actual play podcast about critical worldbuilding, smart characterization, and fun interaction between good friends) horror/weird west season Sangfielle, and i know i have listened to about sixty hours of it bc i have played about sixty hours of stardew valley. i am currently on ep 49, one before the last finale episode, and it feels like it is wrapping up in a very rushed and weird way? maybe i will feel differently after listening to the six coda episodes wrapping up everyones' characters?

the song of the week is fleet foxes’ white winter hymnal, which is morbidly festive without being strictly christmas-y and is not salting the open emotional wound within my chest that is The Holiday Season. album released 2008. christ im old

-

reading

the concept of this gag award is EXTREMELY funny to me. i wish the EFF sent them a little physical trophy. perhaps a challenge coin.

bounced off a lot of stuff. the six larger books and the far top right are all from my absolute favorite thrift store with the worst vibes, who regularly has a 8/$1 media sale bc they actually want to be more of a kitchen goods and home decor thrift store and don't really want to constantly be overflowing with records no one buys. yet here they are.

i really do need to find a good indie used bookstore around here that will take books and give me back slightly more in store credit than in cash. bc i would like to fill some missing chunks of trilogies/fill out the star wars shelves a little more. but every time i have gone to half price books i have had an unpleasant time.

lumberjanes/bravest warrior/adventure time were not making me feel nostalgic and in fact made me quite sad instead (more in a memento mori way than in subject matter) so they're going to a friend's kid

glad i looked up Heartthrob (despite the really good premise of woman haunted by her heart donor) on my library's comic app bc the third one seems to mostly take place in a mental hospital which is really never a vibe i want

GRIFTER has art i don't love and a bland storyline about an ex-marine who is the saddest boy in the world and can also detect literal space aliens living among us. no thank you

tangle's game has a close-call near-sexual assault in the first chapter. no thank you! cool dystopic social credit score premise but no thanks!

gil's all fright diner is about the king of vampires and the duke of werewolves but they're hicks. the narrator hates that they're dumb hicks. did not jive with the authorial voice on this one

i bought Two Tickets to Tangiers in high school bc it looked cool and have only cracked it open now, almost fifteen years later. fifteen year old kay did not yet have the context clues from the cover that it would be a very racist travelogue

i need to stop trying agatha christie. i am never going to like agatha christie

-

watching

somehow i have seen the first tinker bell fairies movie three times this week bc that's all my bestie's toddlers want to watch. a really stupidly stacked cast??? how did all these people have free time in 2008???

-

playing

finished the community center in summer 2 of stardew valley (wildly popular and very intense farming sim) and would have finished it in winter 1 if not for the FUCKING pufferfish. i hate fishing minigames and i especially hate the fishing minigame in stardew so i am excited to leave it the fuck alone for a while.

my cauliflower got stupid mchugelarge?? i do not know why they did that. also a meteor fell on my farm and gave me a bunch of really valuable ore, just like real life meteors.

i do kind of regret picking the beach farm bc so much of my day is spent watering, but i am trying to lean harder into animal products and being more of a fun silly flower farm instead of the intense agriculture i find myself doing. i have the greenhouse, i have a small patch of sprinklerable land, i will simply make sure to buy some of every seed each season and if i really need something i will toss it in the greenhouse.

-

making

people are being very gracious about their mediocre colored pencil portraits. most of my gift budget this year was two flat rate boxes to my siblings. silly little pet portraits are very cost effective if you already have art supplies, nice paper, gumption, and very cheap small frames.

[all-things-are-nothing-to-me]

"If you hate civilization you’re…allowed to live somewhere else."

It's the same boring argument that right wingers use. "If you hate America so much, why don't you just move to Cuba?".

For one, the struggle is here. It's like basic 101 stuff, dipshit. If you're anti-war, you go to army recruitment centers. If you're an animal rights activist, you go to factory farms. If you're anti-civ, you do forest defense and fight urban expansion... and more often than not, that's within civ. I've done forest defense many times before and will continue to do so. Tree sits and more mischievous tactics, I'm more of a fan of the second. Sure, you can be a quitter and move to Cuba or "drop out of civ" but let's be honest, that's not gonna happen for multiple reasons. A big one being, both require lots of money. Civ has encroached just about everywhere, that pretty much the only way to escape it is to buy land somewhere. And even then, that would be within civ. Just like all the anticapitalist things we do are within capitalism. You can't just opt out of it. You can just do your best to minimize the harm you cause.

I was a societal dropout for 12 years. I rode trains, I lived outside and I never had a job. I still don't have a job and never have, but I've lived indoors this entire year. I plan on hitting the road again next year as soon as it warms up. Being a house punk has been cool, but I miss going to new places and meeting new people all the time. But no, I'm not allowed to live somewhere else. As someone who lived nowhere and everywhere, you are in fact not allowed to live in most places. The cops will wake you up in the middle of the night and kick you out of the woods and then tresspass you from the city. Camps get swepped on the regular (I've never been a homeless camp dweller, I've always preferred to be more lowkey and in the woods. But I have also lived on a school bus). And so we break the law by just existing.

I'm ranting now. Tldr. Your argument is flawed and you speak from a position of privilege. You do not know what struggle means or is. Get outside and do something with your worthless life, you fucking parasite.

[starfieldcanvas]

the reason i oppose them is that it's basically a legal mandate that legislators aren't allowed to actually be in office long enough to figure out what the fuck is going on and how shit actually works; when you can't accumulate older experienced legislators to mentor the freshmen (think bernie & aoc) instead what ends up happening is the lobbyists become the ones who know the system best and legislators get led around by the lobbyists when they aren't being led around by their staffers. this is very funny when it happens to the alt-right freshmen legislators refusing to be mentored by their own party, because they look like dumbasses, but it's not actually good to kick everybody out of office just when they start to hit their stride 3 or 4 terms in. depending on which house, of course—2 terms in the senate is 12 years—but think about your own job and how much better at it you were after a decade. yeah people eventually decline in their abilities due to age, but it's not like they start out at 100% and decline, either!

tl;dr: though it's been years since i last looked into the specifics, iirc there isn't any particular reason to think that term limits would lessen corruption/incompetence in the legislature, and considerable evidence to suggest they would worsen it.

the other thing is that term limits are anti-democratic. if people want to vote for someone they like, they should be able to do that. if the problem is that people keep voting for the Old Guard, or that they keep voting for incumbents despite the incumbent being corrupt or senile, then we have a problem of low-information voters, but preventing people from running more than 3 terms or whatever is not going to solve the problem of low-information voters.

my little pet dream is that there would be a battery of tests on how the legislature works that doubled as a cognitive screen and that every legislator and would-be legislator had to take it live on camera. wrong answers wouldn't be disqualifying, just available for your opponents to use against you during election season. make it a cultural event where people do YouTube compilations of the worst and best answers, you know?

when we're trying to solve our problems by giving up on democracy, we need to look pretty hard at ourselves and our impulse toward taking choice away instead of trying to help people make better choices.

I am still strongly opposed to legislative term limits but the events of the last year or so are slowly convincing me of the need for maximum age limits

[callivich]

Gallavich Winter Fic Recs ❄️

@ohkate asked me for my favourite winter fics so here we go! 💖

I bet there’s some I’ve forgotten, so I may add to this in the future. I’d love to know what everyone else’s favourite wintery gallavich stories are, if you feel like sharing?

The Axe by redkay

“Do you have an axe?” Ian asks. “On me?” Mickey clarifies.

A better day (for you) by @captainjowl

Ian is unhappy, Mickey can see it. He's quiet and withdrawn, and it's obvious that something is weighting on him. Worried, Mickey tries everything to cheer him up, but nothing seems to be able to improve his mood. Until suddenly, a few weeks before Christmas, Ian gets a phone call that brings the spark back to his eyes.

Closed for Christmas by @abundanceofnots

Two boys, one (not so) festive evening.

Santa Comes Early by @whatthebodygraspsnot

Late Christmas Eve night, Mickey wakes to find a stranger in his living room. What follows can only be described as holiday magic. Or maybe a fever dream. Because Mickey didn’t know Santa Claus had a son. A son who’s not only extremely handsome, but who just so happened to make a special trip to Mickey’s house, without his father knowing about it. So really, how can Mickey not fuck him?

12 days of gallavich by @sam-loves-seb

a collection of christmas one shots featuring ian and mickey through the years

Keeping Warm Amongst the Cold by @scarlet-witchery

Two newlyweds, a snowy day, a pile of Gallaghers, and lots of memories.

Show Me Family by @ifallonblackdays

Ian wants to celebrate their first Christmas in their new apartment. It backfires spectacularly. Until it doesn't.

Miracle on Naperville Road by @whatthebodygraspsnot

Mickey’s known for a while now that he and Ian are closer than coworkers really should be. There’s something there between them - it’s obvious - their timing has just always been off. But this year, the Christmas party at their rich boss’s house feels different. Important. Destined. Ian and his ex are freshly split. And Mickey’s just made sure he’s single too.

Love is Patient by @whatthebodygraspsnot

Mickey’s husband wants to send out Christmas cards this year, so god damn it, they’re gonna send out Christmas cards! Now if only said husband wasn’t distracted by a book in bed, instead of coming to see the final product. Surely Mickey can fix this in a normal and un-demonic way, right? …right? Hello?

Truth or Dare by @thisdivorce Ian and Mickey share some truths.

mentally, physically weak by pinkpantherman

“Think I got a way to warm you up, princess,” he says suggestively, kisses trailing down Ian’s jaw, easily accessing his neck when Ian tilts his head back. “Okay,” Ian mumbles with a smile, looking down and brushing his nose against Mickey’s, “but I’m not removing these clothes in any way, shape, or form, so you better get creative.”

Valued by @whatthebodygraspsnot

Mickey wakes up from his afternoon nap to find his husband getting the backyard ready for winter. Early. Like how he came home early from his visit to the Gallagher house. Something’s off with Ian, and even though it’s hard for him, Mickey’s gonna figure out what. And then he’s gonna fix it.

Jack My Heat by @whatthebodygraspsnot

After a long winter day outside, Mickey helps himself to Ian's body heat on the couch. It's perfect - they've got a blanket, a fire in the fireplace, a joint that's keeping them laughing - everything that makes for a good hangout. They're best friends, after all. And when an accidental, curious little grind works up between them for the first time, maybe something more?

to the thawing wind by @gardenerian

Living and working in the icy chill of an endless winter, Ian and his family are assigned to work the farms to bolster food supply. They live quietly enough, following the rules, until Mickey and Mandy Milkovich (with all their secrets) are moved in across the road.

'Tis The Damn Season by @sweetcresta

“How long you in town for?” Mickey’s voice, muffled by the cigarette hanging from his lips, pulls Ian from his trance. He looks over at him, and for a split second, Mickey looks younger, like the high school boy that used to bring Ian to his knees. But in reality, they’re in their mid-twenties and they’re starting to get lines on their faces, the teenagers they once were lost to the passing of a decade. Instead of letting the memories linger, he wills them down with a gulp. “Just till the end of the weekend.” OR: Ian comes home for Christmas and old habits die hard. Based on Tis the damn season by Taylor Swift.

Merry & Bright by @arrowflier

On the eve of their first Christmas in their own place, Ian and Mickey prepare to host their family and think about how much their lives have changed.

Hay It's Getting Cold Out by @depressedstressedlemonzest

Mickey wants to shelter the stray cat he's grown attached to outside the apartment complex.

just another mall rat monday by you_me_us

Ian and Mickey are both working in a mall when a winter storm hits, somehow they are the last employees left inside and they have to survive together for one night.

like looking through a fogged mirror by charlemint

"It snowed! Wake up, it snowed!" "Th'fuck?" Mickey grunts, sleep thick voice cutting into the quiet after the toddler's morning assault on his ears. "Gonna guess it snowed," comes a flat, sleep slurred voice behind him, the pair of arms circled around Mickey's middle tightening. "Snow day for you then, Kris Kringle?" Mickey asks, his lips turning up in a lazy smirk when the nickname earns him a swat to his hip.

Throw a Girl Around by @arrowflier

Kev and Vee are in town to start the year off right, and an afternoon of playing in the snow with the kids turns into an afternoon of giving Mickey shit. In other words, it's a day ending in y.

LET IT SNOW! by @restapesta

Lip thought the upcoming blizzard to be the perfect excuse to disappear from home for a while. What he didn't think of was anybody being at the Gallagher house as he did so, especially not Ian and Mickey.

Auld Lang Syne by @arrowflier

On New Year's Eve, Ian is looking forward to a fresh start. Mickey, not so much.

ablaze by @catgrassplantdad

Ian and Mickey finally put their new fireplace to good use.

Snowballs and Sneaking Out by @gallawitchxx

Mickey shows up to the Gallagher House in the middle of the night with a surprise for Ian.

Notes on Optimism by @gallavichy

Mickey POV Cooperative Gameplay one-shot. Ian and Mickey take their Christmas trip to New York.

[squeakadeeks]

merry christmas my gift to you is telling a terrible tale since I think enough time has passed (ie over a decade) that i can tell you this without exploding.

when i was like 12 and starting out with art, i was so excited to open commissions just like a ✨real artist✨ and it being deviantart in the 2010's, within about a month i got someone asking for furry inflation fetish art. being a kid and having no sex ed, let alone the insanely specific sex ed that would be needed for me to understand what that is, i didnt flag it as inappropriate. I thought it would just be a "cool anatomy exercise like ✨real✨ artists do!" i was so ready and i took it on for 200 llamabucks or w/e the onsite currency was at the time. i did it, i drew it, whatever. well sure enough after posting it i quickly learned what furry inflation art actually was and i was mortified. being in like.....7th grade i was still terrified of sex and i was worried about my parents finding out so i took the entire sketchbook and buried it under my mattress. I lived in fear for months afterwards and felt like i deserved to be shot for falling for it and making something sinful.

the proceeding events happen in a confusing haze because my mother is an utterly puzzling woman so some suspension of disbelief is required but believe me when i say. i wish this was apocryphal. I dont know how or why, but some how some way my mom not only finds the sketchbook under my mattress, goes through the entire thing, finds the one singular offending sketch, then in a concerning mystery i will invest not a single iota of effort to solve due to the implications, immediately clocked that it was sexual fetish art. the one saving grace of a spherical wolf being niche enough that people wouldnt understand the dark deed i had done was out the window. She rips the page out, goes downstairs and parades it to the rest of the family like: "oh my god! look what ____ drew! lets all look at this! lets all look at this right now and laugh at it!" even with just this, i'm full on bursting into heavy hiccuping tears. as a kid this was the ultimate nightmare. you did something bad, you did something really bad, and your primary authority figure not only found it, but is now making sure everyone else you care about also knows the horrible shameful thing you did. except. there was something i couldnt have fathomed at the time that was about to get much, much worse.

my grandfather was dying of parkinson's at the time. when my mother took the sketch and displayed it to everyone like an auctioneer with a high ticket item, i ran out of the room sobbing so i never saw what happened to the blue inflated wolf with punk bangs. Well we all went to visit grandpa. we're all sitting around grandpa who used to be a famous local artist and was a big inspiration to me as a kid. and my mom goes "hey. ____ also wants to be an artist. Do you want to see what they drew?" and you'll never fucking guess what she pulls out of her pocket. hes barely able to turn and look over only to see that goddamn motherfucking wolf again. unlike before where i was crying so hard i couldn't breathe i remember being dead silent and stone still in shock. i dont think i blinked for 5 minutes but when i got up i threw up in the bathroom lol. I cant remember how but this time i did actually get the sketch back and i tore it to pieces and buried it in the yard. it haunted me for YEARS

but anyway now i have a memory of my mother showing my dying grandfather furry inflation art that i accidentally made when i was in middle school because i wanted a rainbow llama badge on deviantart.

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Okay, I've Read Worm: A Retrospective Part 5: What Was I Fucking Surprised By?

So, as you may remember, I got into Worm thoroughly spoiled by the wiki and Wormblr and r/parahumans and r/Wormfanfic and actual Worm fanfic. I knew pretty much all the basic details of all the plot twists. And yet, of course, there are things I didn't expect, things the fandom or the wiki mislead me about, etc. Things I was surprised by.

So let's talk about a few:

Taylor Hebert: As I've said, I kind of worried, before reading Worm, that I'd find Taylor insufferable. The sort of character that tries to be a hero and then convinces themselves to do all sorts of bad stuff while telling themselves they're still a hero/good person/etc is hard to write well without being really unpleasant to read/watc/etc. Self-righteousness in general is hard to enjoy for me. Taylor, honestly, stops thinking of herself as a good person partway through the post-Levi period, in most ways, and she never gets self-righteous about it. So Taylor was much more sufferable than I thought. Which is good, because I would have dropped Worm like a hot potato if she'd been insufferable as the main POV.

Eidolon & The Endbringers: (Sounds like a band name). The whole 'you needed Worthy opponents' thing, and the way people talked about Eidolon (seriously, this fandom as a whole is hugely unfair to the guy, istg) really gave me the impression of like, this vainglorious piece of shit guy who wants adulation and doesn't care how he gets it. And like... I don't get that impression from his Interlude at all? He doesn't seem to give two shits about fame, just about knowing what he did mattered. And he knew that well before the Endbringers. Obviously, he subconsciously created them, and then [High Priest] got all goddamn malicious in his compliance but he's not the vainglorious asshole who charges off to face Scion in single combat or w/e the way the fanfiction gave me that impression. Also, like, maybe it's just me, but I define 'Worthy Opponent' as 'something the person could have a reasonable chance of defeating in a solo fight'. So for me, a worthy opponent would be a rowdy 12 year old with maybe a white belt in karate. the Endbringers are not solo-able opponents for Eidolon. So absolutely not doing what he actually wanted. I really think the fandom is unfairly hard on Eidolon.

Interlude 15.x: Look, at the risk of starting discourse - I'm sorry. I've read 15.x Backwards and forwards and there is just Nothing pointing towards rape in the text, even looking for it as I was. I really expected I'd see some line, some implication, some fucking hint and there's just... absolutely nothing. The text of Worm as written, whatever Wildbow claims he meant and whatever he did mean, does not support a rape interpretation of events. And that sure as fuck surprised me.

Extinction 8.6: The way people - and even some fics - talked about the scene where Amy messes with Taylor post-Leviathan made it sound like Amy straight up ripped off Taylor's mask or something extreme like that, and then Taylor sees unmasked Sophia while trying to run and hide after being unmasked. What we got was Amy being a bit of a bitch, deliberately refusing to answer a question Taylor asked because she knew not answering would upset the girl (not cool), Amy's bedside manner being shit, and Taylor's own paranoia (and the godawful choice of the heroes to handcuff her to the bed) filling in the blanks. And this absolutely tepid-ass shit is pointed to by people as proof that 'Amy was a bitch the whole time'.

The Leviathan Fight: It was a lot shorter than I expected. I enjoyed reading it in ways I was worried I wouldn't.

Cauldron: Now, here's the thing. Characters that do bad things, knowing they're bad, but in pursuit of a greater good? That shit is my goddamn jam. I fucking love characters like that. They're my catnip! And I went into Worm sympathetic as FUCK to Cauldron. and I come out of Worm going 'Jesus Christ what a bunch of fucking idjits!' Their shoestring illuminati was run by a bunch of teenagers who never grew up and a college student who's a worse control freak than Taylor. Their incompetence appears to be the whole point (until Wildbow's WoGs turned everything into Cauldron social engineering and he went out of his way to make a big thing about how Cauldron was totes necessary for making things better. Man just cannot shut up). They try for decades to put some final fight against Scion together, and they fail epicly. No groundwork, no real success, and they turned to ACCORD for their post-apocalyptic plans. And apparently had no plan for a mass Case-53 breakout/attack. Which is... sure a choice. Dumping the Case-53s the way they did. The choice of which Case 53s to dump (Sveta sure was a choice of who to just... let out into the world. Like, not an issue with her personally, but you don't release that kind of uncontrollable murder tentacle out into the world, maybe? Just maybe?). I went into Worm thinking I'd be on Cauldron's side, at least a little, and I came out just... god no, you people are stupid.

Amy's Birdcage Arc: I really thought we'd see more of Amy's time in the birdcage, but 16.z really was all we got.

Alexandria's Death: I don't quite know what I did expect, but I didn't expect Alexandria's death to be so goddamn Darwin-award worthy. The woman died like the biggest of CHUMPs and that was much funnier than I expected.

The Drugs are Fantastic line: I knew it was being taken out of context, but it wasn't quite in the place I expected, I'll be honest. Not sure what I did expect.

Taylor's Weaver Arc/The Timeskip: I expected... I dunno. Less of an abrupt transition, I guess? I thought the timeskip would be like, a series of small scenes skipping ahead over two years between them? Instead, right in the middle of Arc 25, it just jumps ahead two years without ceremony. Did not expect that. At all.

Slaughterhouse Nine: I was not prepared for just how goddamn boring the Nine were. I don't think I read any spoilers about how Jack Slash being boring af was the point until I'd already started the S9 arc, but I especially didn't expect how pathetically bland as characters Manny the Kinless and Burnscar and Crawler and Sibby the Friendly Neighborhood Cannibal would be. Cherish managed to be interesting by being such a failure, and Bonebitch, to my eterntal frustration, managed to be funny, but the rest? Also, I thought Manton would die in the Bay, rather than be killed unceremoniously offscreen while in Boston.

The Butcher: For a character who appears in all of two chapters, the Butcher has a much larger presence in the fandom. But that is Worm for you, because groups like the Elite and the Fallen also show up more in the fics than their presence in the main story merits (Though the Fallen have more of a presence in Ward, even if I gather Ward kinda sorta retcons like half the details or at least presents irreconcilable visions of the organization)

Empire 88: They were way out of focus, compared to how much they appear in fics. But it is fun in fics to see Nazis get beat up all the time, so this is valid. But also, like, even their post-Levi remnants were weaksauce af. Someone in a server the other day said that taking out Marquis took out an entire faction, and that Levi proved that taking out Kaiser (or Allfather before him) doesn't stop the Empire, gesturing to the Aryan's Chosen and the Pure as proof but like... lbr. Both groups were pretty damn pathetic in the post-Leviathan bay. Regardless, I expected to see more of the Nazis getting beat in Worm itself, and we really didn't. But this is one time where I don't care, because as I said, seeing Nazis get beaten up over and over again in the fanfic is fun.

Ward: I was worried reading and finishing Worm might make me want to read Ward. Thankfully, it did not. *whew*

Now, there are probably others, but nothing else as major. But there are also some things I just plain wasn't surprised by.

Amy Dallon: I went into Worm expecting her to be my blorbo, and that didn't change. She's definitely my character type. I feel the same about her storyline in Worm as I did going into it.

Tattlebitch: I expcted to hate her, and I stayed hating her. Lisa sucks. Like, she has her redeeming moments and features, but overall, I still hate Lisa.

Carol Dallon: My Sympathy for Carol remains about as theoretical as it always was.

The PRT/Protectorate: I suspected the PRT/Protectorate was not as useless and incompetent and ACAB as a lot of fics painted it and... I was right.

My Ultimate Opinion: I went into Worm thinking it wasn't really for me, but that I'd probably find it well written and that many characters would be engaging. I figured it would have massive gaping plot holes and that I would never find it to be the 'amazeballs perfect wonderful' that some people seem to find it. And yeah, I was right about that too.

[attempted--eloquence]

Oh that we could always see such spirit through the year

-whats one thing you wanted for xmas as a kid that you never got

The message comes just after midnight. Theo imagines Liam on the other side of town thinking about him. Squinting past the glare of his phone screen in a dark room while Theo does the same from his truck.

-Why

Theo doesn’t want to think about this. He considers replying some peace and fucking quiet or its meaner alternative, for you to leave me alone, but thinks he might have worn out his be-an-asshole-and-then-say-jk privileges by now.

-just curious

Earlier today there was a holiday crafting event in the library’s children’s literature section. Tables of kids and their parents cutting snowflakes out of paper and drowning the end result in Elmer’s glue and glitter. Theo never learned how to do the snowflake thing as a child but standing there watching kids haphazardly snip away at folded sheets of paper and unfurl their creations, he almost wanted to.

This time of year makes him feel like that. The snipped-away thing. All those discarded paper trimmings.

❅❆❄ ❅❆❄ ❅❆❄ ❅❆❄ ❅❆❄ ❅❆❄

Theo still believed in Santa Claus when the Dread Doctors took him.

That first December with them Theo was eight, freshly monstered and only knew Christmas day had come because he kept a tally of each passing day on a crumpled sheet of notebook paper stuck to the underside of his cot. But then again time was slippery those days. When Theo woke up presentless on what he thought was December 25th—the 86th day of his new life—he assumed Santa hadn’t gotten his new address yet. He didn’t know his new address yet himself.

The next year, on the 451st day of his life—not new anymore, just his—he rationalized that he made the naughty list. That’s what happens when kids do bad things. They wake up presentless. They wake up on a surgical table and forget how they got there. They wake up and etch another tally mark into the wall of the place they sleep—with claws they know how to use now—because they ran out of room on the crumpled sheet of notebook paper months ago and needed something more permanent.

He doesn’t remember what happened the year after, or the year after that, or the next.

When Scott proposed a pack-wide “12 days of secret santa” Theo politely declined. When Scott texted him two days later to notify him that everyone else had agreed and he’d be the odd man out, Theo not-so-politely declined. Again. The next day Scott sent a link, nothing else. Theo clicked it to find himself on one of those stupid customizable e-card websites; an animated red and green present bopped around the screen flashing OPEN ME! In hindsight, it’s at this point that Theo should have set aside his phone, pretended not to have seen the message, and gone on his merriless way. But he’s a steadfast masochist so he jabbed at the stupid fucking animated present and it exploded into stupid fucking animated red and green confetti that dispersed to reveal a stupid fucking animated picture of Stiles. His giftee. For the 12 days of secret santa he pointedly did not agree to.

And Theo should perhaps be annoyed at that, but instead he’s wondering if the unlucky bastard that drew his name saw a similarly stupid fucking animated picture of his face. He hopes it was flattering, at least.

Scott:

-Three rules ok

-No revealing ur identity until christmas

-No spending money so get creative

-And u have to give a gift everyday til christmas starting on the 14th

-Have fun! (not a rule but a suggestion)

-Got a notif that u opened the link btw

- :)

Fine, whatever. Malicious compliance, then.

❅❆❄

He gets the text moments after leaving the first of 12 gifts on the front porch of the Stilinski household: a black dry erase marker taped to a piece of notebook paper that says, “thought you might need this.”

-ho ho ho

There’s a boring but noteworthy story to this. The marker, not the text. One that starts with a pack meeting at the Stilinski residence, leads to an outrageously ridiculous debate over which pack members should get whiteboard privileges—and, by extension, get to use his “super cool brand new ultra pristine” chisel tip markers—and ends with Theo slipping out of the house with the 12-pack of Expos stuffed beneath his sweatshirt in an act of petty revenge theft.

12-pack. It’s almost serendipitous.

His phone buzzes again during his getaway.

-ready for your first gift?

-doesn’t matter bc youre getting it anyway

-this is your secret santa btw

It’s a random number, probably one generated from a texting app.

-Shocker

-today’s gift is…

-(waiting for a drumroll)

He’d roll his eyes but the dramatic effect would be lost on his secret santa. Instead, he replies: Not getting one

-fuck you too then scrooge

-the gift is a compliment, so here it goes

-I admire your commitment to wearing at least two layers of clothing at all times

He didn’t think it was possible to get a worse gift than a stolen box of dry erase markers returned piecemeal.

-crickets?

-really nothing?

-not even a thx

-whatever man, talk to you later

And so it begins.

❅❆❄

-sooooo..

-Yes?

-I left you a gift

-did you not get it

-What was it?

-a candy cane

-Oh

When Theo left the rec center this morning it was stuck beneath his windshield wiper like a festive parking ticket. He assumed it was some bullshit random act of holiday kindness, that he was the coincidental victim of some cheery stranger vandalizing people’s cars with candy canes to make them feel good about themselves.

-oh?

-I think the words you’re looking for are thank you

-Didn’t eat it

-wtaf

-why not???

-I don’t like peppermint

-neither do I

-that’s why it was strawberry flavored you dick

Alright, so maybe he feels a little bad for tossing it in the trash can on the sidewalk before getting in his truck. Just a little.

❅❆❄

A green post-it note with a ballpoint pen and highlighter rendition of Snoopy atop a holiday-decorated dog house is taped to the driver’s side window of Theo’s truck when he slinks out of Deaton’s clinic after a few hours of cataloging wolfsbane strains. Beneath it is another sticky note with a drawing of what Theo can only assume is a stick figure version of himself reacting to the drawing of Snoopy. Big, mean frown on his face. There’s a thought bubble above his misshapen head that reads, “bah humbug!” Actually half-decent. The drawings, not Deaton’s busy work. He tucks them away in his glove box instead of tossing anything in the trash this time.

-So you’re stalking me

He would try to narrow down who his anonymous gifter could be, but that would require conceding interest in this whole charade. Which he lacks entirely. Really. Even though Stiles’s increasingly irate pack chat rants about the slow return of his stolen dry erase markers sparks a special kind of holiday joy in him.

-nah I’m secret santa-ing you

-so do you like the gift?

-have you ever even seen a charlie brown christmas

He pauses, pulls the Snoopy sticky note out of the glovebox as if to jog his memory. As if his memory is even a trustworthy thing past a certain point.

-Yeah I think so

-A long time ago

Like, before he started keeping a tally of every day. Like when days were just new wakeups and not milestones. That long ago.

-“I think so”

-geez

-you really are scrooge

-I’ve got some work to do huh

-Guess so

❅❆❄

Okay. Fine. He knows his secret santa is Liam. Whatever. It was basic deduction—no effort involved whatsoever.

He knows because the last pack meeting was held at Liam’s place. Liam’s living room has been cannibalized by a massive, gaudy christmas tree adorned with tinsel, sparkly garland, rainbow lights, and ornaments galore. And candy canes. The same pinkish white striped kind that Theo chucked away a few days ago.

So he stole one, just to check. Sidled up close to the tree like he was admiring the lights, snatched a candy cane when no one was looking and hid it away in his jeans pocket.

Plus, not like Theo was chasing a hunch or anything, when Mason asked Liam for a sticky note to jot down the name of a bestiary to research, Liam returned with a green post-it. Same lime-y shade as the ones still in Theo’s glove box.

And then, not like he needed any further confirmation, but he just so happened to text his secret santa—what’s in store for me today?—right as Liam slipped out to the bathroom, leaving his phone behind. It chimed.

So, it was that easy.

The only thing that makes him second-guess his suspicion is that his gift is sitting on the roof of his truck when he leaves the pack meeting, which, unless Liam has mastered the art of self-replication or enlisted someone else to assist, would kind of be impossible to do on his own.

Whatever. Theory still stands until proven otherwise.

The gift is a ziploc bag that contains a green cat’s eye marble, an oblong, striated rock, a silver dollar, and a flattened wildflower with crisp, browning petals that crumble when he touches them. It’s not until hours after the pack meeting that Theo gets a response to his initial text.

-dude

-for a scrooge you sure are invested in trying to blow my cover

-anyway, day 4: cool stuff I found in the woods!

He puts the bag away with the sticky notes and the pilfered candy cane. His glove compartment is becoming a secret santa shrine.

-You should’ve spread these out as multiple gifts

-shit

-you’re right

❅❆❄

Theo cracks that night. Cat, curiosity. He nabs the candy cane from his glovebox, unwraps it, and gives it one tentative lick.

Strawberry.

❅❆❄

-snow is so cold

-the sky is blue

-this is your 5th gift

-how did I do?

-I don’t think you’re a future poet laureate if that’s what you’re asking

❅❆❄

On his sixth day of driving Stiles crazy, Theo drops a sky blue marker off on the Stilinski household’s doorstep sans cap. Halfway through all 12 days and, as much fun as Theo’s having being the worst secret santa ever, the marker drops are beginning to feel a bit pedestrian.

In an unfortunate turn of events, the texts from his own secret santa have become a highlight of the increasingly bleak and banal California winter.

December break has been hard. He wakes up. He goes to the rec center to work out and shower instead of school because the building is closed. He drops off a “gift” for Stiles. He works a shift at Deaton’s and loiters until he can’t find any other excuses to stick around. He kills time at the library. He sleeps in shifts, moves his truck around town a couple times a night so as not to rouse suspicion from Beacon Hills’s finest parking enforcement officers.

And amidst it all, he waits for Liam to text.

-happy day 6

-today’s gift is pro bono advice

-consider me your sounding board

-your oracle

-your magic conch shell

-And you think I need your advice why?

Doesn’t mean he won’t be an ass about it.

-theo come on

-I am trying my best here but you are making this so hard

-I’m kidding

-Sorry

-you’re not but ok

-Whatever

-I’ll take your stupid advice

-I’m all ears

-If I wanted to hypothetically annoy the shit out of the recipient of my secret santa gifts

-And those gifts were hypothetically items I hypothetically stole from said recipient

-And I had hypothetically been returning those items in the most annoying way possible

-How do I make it even more annoying?

-oh my god

-unhypothetically stiles is going to kill you

-He can try

Theo waits as Liam’s little text bubble appears, disappears. Pops up again. Lingers. Until, finally—

-ok here’s what you could do

-switch all the caps so they’re different colors

-and scratch the logo off the outside so everything is blank and it’s a mystery which color is which

-Meh

-well ok then mr. degeneracy

-you could return the caps and markers on separate days

-Did that already

-oh or make it a really stupid scavenger hunt so that he has to find the markers and/or caps himself

-bonus points if you write the clues in the marker color that he’s looking for

-Huh

-That’s more like it

-this doesn’t make me an accomplice tho

-got it?

-Wouldn’t give you credit even if you wanted it

-gee thanks

-I thought evil plots were supposed to be my thing anyway

-lol

-if you were actually any good at them we wouldn’t be having this conversation rn

❅❆❄

-whats one thing you wanted for xmas as a kid that you never got

The message comes just after midnight. Theo imagines Liam on the other side of town thinking about him. Squinting past the glare of his phone screen in a dark room while Theo does the same from his truck.

-Why

Theo doesn’t want to think about this. He considers replying some peace and fucking quiet or its meaner alternative, for you to leave me alone, but thinks he might have worn out his be-an-asshole-and-then-say-jk privileges by now.

-just curious

Earlier today—yesterday technically, whatever—there was a holiday crafting event in the library’s children’s literature section. Tables of kids and their parents cutting snowflakes out of paper and drowning the end result in Elmer’s glue and glitter. Theo never learned how to do the snowflake thing as a child but standing there watching kids haphazardly snip away at folded sheets of paper and unfurl their creations, he almost wanted to.

This time of year makes him feel like that. The snipped-away thing. All those discarded paper trimmings.

-helloooo

-fine, I’ll start

-I wanted a razor scooter so bad but my mom was convinced I was gonna fall off and crack my head open or knock all my teeth out

-joke’s on her bc only time I ever chipped a tooth or got a head injury was playing lacrosse

If Theo gave a shit about the secret santa rules, he would chide Liam on that slip-up. He’s not even trying to keep his identity a secret anymore.

-ok now your turn

That first Christmas with the Dread Doctors—

It sounds ridiculous that way. The Surgeon, The Geneticist, The Pathologist and Theo huddled around a Christmas tree or something. Rainbow string lights in the operating theater and fruit cake in the specimen fridge. Der Soldat’s tube adorned with a wreath.

—Day 86 of his new life. He remembers having a Christmas list. They took out his heart but didn’t take the naivete and want out of him. There was a book on it, the list. Probably toys too, but if he thinks too hard about those he might remember that he really was a kid then. Was a kid, period.

-Do you remember those books

-They had white covers and like a collage of pictures of whatever subject the book was about on the front

-There was one for pretty much any topic you could think of

-yeah I think so

-hold on

There’s that text bubble again. Headlights cascade across the truck’s interior as a car passes by and carries on farther down the road.

-DK eyewitness?

-Yeah. They had a book about outer space

-I wanted that I guess

-of course you’d want a textbook for xmas

-nerd

Snip, snip, snip.

-Is today’s gift you annoying the fuck out of me?

Sometimes Theo makes the mistake of forgetting why they’re talking to each other. For the next five days he’ll remain an obligation. After that, an afterthought.

More empty roads. Early sunsets. Winter dark.

-I was joking

-I’m sorry

-I used to read those…had one about dinosaurs, one about ancient egypt + another about medieval weapons

-oh and one about sharks

-they were awesome

-Rule 1

He says it to reinstate distance between them more than anything.

-yeah yeah whatever

-every kid read those books, that hardly counts as identifying information

-anyway today’s gift is an IOU to be redeemed @ any point in the next 365 days

-No exceptions?

-uh yeah exceptions?? are you crazy

-no murder

-or like crime of any kind

-and it can’t cost $$$

-Shitty IOU

-well sometimes you get a candy cane in your stocking

-sometimes you get a lump of coal

-merry christmas dirtbag

-and goodnight

❅❆❄

Theo has long since learned his lesson about opening random, unprompted links—thanks, Scott—so when day eight’s gift comes in the form of a dropbox URL, he pointedly ignores it.

For a while. Until a follow-up message from his secret santa comes through, that is.

-so…did you open it?

-Nope

-dude come on

-I’m actually excited about this one

-I think you’ll like it

Okay. Fine. Consider his interest piqued. He clicks the stupid link to the stupid dropbox and what he finds is a movie library. Christmas movie library.

He fights back an eyeroll before remembering Liam can’t see his exasperation, and opts to lose the battle anyway.

-Movies?

-a charlie brown christmas!

-and a few of my other favorite Christmas movies

-the old kind of uncanny valley claymation ones

-Not in the mood

-Christmas is in four days how could you not be in the mood

-I personally pirated these for you

-show some appreciation

Liam follows up the message with a gif of Charlie Brown decorating a Christmas tree.

-you after your movie marathon

-Bald?

-lmao shut up and enjoy your movies, mr. grinch

❅❆❄

Theo watches all three hours of pirated Christmas specials because he’s awake when nothing else is. Consumes the world in reds and greens and whites and blues. Felted snow and stop motion. He figures the movies might bore him to sleep, at least, but afterward he’s tired in a new way.

Could sleep for days. Could sleep right through Christmas. Wouldn’t be so bad, he thinks.

Wouldn’t miss much.

❅❆❄

It’s not like Theo sits around waiting all day for his secret santa to text him, but not hearing anything by nearly 11:00 p.m. is out of the ordinary, to say the least.

So Theo takes a page out of Liam’s his secret santa’s book.

-Sooo

-Day 9?

-sorry, I didn’t forget

-just haven’t figured anything out yet

-shit idk man thinking of 12 free gifts is hard

-you like hugs? need one?

-**to be redeemed at a later date**

-Forget I asked

-ok how about this

-your 9th gift is a free vent sesh, get something off your chest

-judgement free zone over here I stg

-I’m good

-cmon there’s gotta be something you feel like bitching about

-you’re you

-regrets, shit that’s bothering you, pet peeves or whatever

His fingers stutter against the keys and then revoke themselves. He’s the source of the appearing and disappearing text bubble this time. Almost sent you’re bothering me, because it's right there, cheap and easy and more in character for him than being honest—doesn’t go against his personal credo of “keep everyone at arm’s length.”

-don’t leave me hanging

-you’re making me feel like a shitty gift giver

-You don’t have to give me anything

-Seriously I don’t care

-I didn’t want to do the secret santa thing anyway

-I don’t think I’ve gotten a christmas gift since I was like 7

-lol

-dude

So much for arm’s length.

Liam’s typing, and typing, and typing, and Theo figures he doesn’t know what to say just as much as Theo doesn’t know how to make this admission not a big thing.

Maybe a “jk” would help.

-I’m sorry

And then Liam’s back to his magic trick of the appearing and disappearing text bubble while Theo considers tossing his phone out his window and reversing over it.

His participation was a misstep. The pack’s secret santa gimmick is a contagion that creates the illusion of temporary closeness. The one-sided anonymity afforded by the game will only last a few more days but after that Liam will still know more about the past ten years of his life than Theo has ever cared to deliberately divulge. The thought of that makes him itch.

So he’s gotta nip this shit in the bud before Liam can say anything else about it.

-I’m cashing in my IOU

-ok?

-what for

-For you to drop this

-The whole secret santa thing

-No more days

An answer doesn’t come for a long time.

-fine.

But when it does, Theo isn’t sure that what he feels is relief.

❅❆❄

“Someone dropped these off for you,” Deaton says in lieu of a greeting when Theo shows up for his opening shift.

On the counter in front of him is a saran wrapped paper plate of cookies. Upon closer inspection, they’re studded with red and green M&Ms and topped with white, snowflake-shaped sprinkles that match the pattern on the plate. There’s a green sticky note slapped on top. “For Theo,” it reads. “Not getting rid of me that easily.” Next to the cookies is a thermos with another sticky note. This one says "Drink me!”

His shift’s early. 7:30 in the morning on a Saturday. Theo should be bothered that Liam is ignoring his IOU but can’t help but be impressed by the commitment. What he has grown to have the most faith in is the fact that people will inevitably grow tired of him and deem him not worth the effort.

He keeps biting. Liam keeps reaching out a hand anyway. Theo’s trying not to feel weird about it.

Deaton clears his throat.

Theo plays dumb. Asks, “Who?”

“I didn’t happen to see them.”

But the faint smirk on Deaton’s face says otherwise.

“Mystery cookies and a mystery beverage from a mystery person,” he huffs. “I’ll pass. Could be poisoned.”

Deaton quirks a brow. “Unlikely. But there’s only one way to find out.”

He pushes the gifts toward Theo.

“I’ll be in the back. Take your time.”

Theo spends the first fifteen minutes of his shift getting sated on christmas cookies and thick hot chocolate—still warm.

The rest of the day plods on without a word from Liam. Theo doesn’t blame him.

He spends a lot of time thinking about those M&Ms on top of the cookies, though. Each one evenly spaced from the rest, pressed down ever so slightly into the crests of the cookies. Alternating reds and greens. Imagines Liam taking the time to place each one.

Theo tries not to feel weird about it.

❅❆❄

Nothing’s ever open on Christmas Eve. Just malls and grocery stores. Theo is in the canned goods aisle running his fingers against the ridges of a can of pineapple rings, soaking up socialization by proxy, when the texts come in.

-hey

-so it’s day 11

-we’re almost done with this, just bear with me here

-today’s gift is 11 affirmations

-#1: you’re really smart

Theo gives up on feigning interest in shelf-stable goods. He commandeers the endcap—there’s a special on Spam, if anyone’s interested—and has to fight back an audible groan.

-Stop

-This is the same as day 1

-And I told you I’m done with this

-dude no it isn’t

-just let me do this

-#2: you’re weirdly good at keeping those white sneakers of yours clean

#3: you’re actually a lot of help when you want to be

-so i’m glad to have you on our side

-I’m going to block you

-for once can you not be an asshole

-this is your gift and it can’t possibly be more unbearable for you than it is for me

Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Theo won’t wait around to find out.

Block this Caller.

Blocking the number is a gift for both of them. Liam probably wouldn’t even be able to come up with 9 more nice things to say about him anyway. It’s fine. Today’s basically the last day of the secret santa bullshit before tomorrow’s “reveal” at the pack Christmas party anyway. He can text Theo from his actual phone number if he wants.

If he wants.

But the rest of the day drags by in isolation. Theo almost misses the desperate clamor of the grocery store. No follow-up messages from his secret santa via a new text app number. No reprimand from Scott. Not even a group chat bitchfit from Stiles about today’s marker scavenger hunt that led him into the preserve to excavate a marker that Theo cut the tip off of. Just an all-around silence.

Guess it’s a Christmas miracle.

❅❆❄

The only thing that gets Theo to the pack Christmas party at Scott’s is the satisfaction of being able to hand Stiles his last marker in person.

Except it’s not the last marker, because Theo has decided to keep that one—bold red, pristine chisel tip—for himself. Instead, Stiles will get a dingy yellow highlighter from the bottom of Theo’s backpack. The moldy cherry on top of a shit sundae.

But before Theo can make it up the driveway and to the front door, he’s promptly dragged away from Scott’s front door and forced over to the side of the house by Liam.

“Hi,” he greets, demeanor somewhere between annoyed and hesitant. He’s got one arm angled behind his back, keeping something out of Theo’s line of sight.

“Liam,” Theo says, feigning surprise that definitely falls short of convincing. “Hey.”

“Look, I know you knew it was me the whole time. Your secret santa.”

“Maybe.”

“Texting me during that pack meeting was a dick move and you know it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s what I did to piss you off most over the past twelve days,” Theo retorts. It’s almost an apology for his nearly two weeks of assholery. Almost.

Liam exhales an almost-laugh in return. “About that. Without everyone around, I just wanted to—here.”

He shoves the hidden thing into Theo’s grasp.

“Your last gift.”

It’s a book. White cover, a collage of planets and satellites and stars across the front. DK Eyewitness logo and UNIVERSE emblazoned across the top in orange letters.

The book.

Theo gets this kind of gutted, breathless feeling. Keeps turning the book over in his hands, running his fingers along the pages, like he expects it to disappear if he looks away for too long. He wants to write his name on the inside. Thinks he might.

“We weren’t supposed to spend any money,” he says.

It’s dumb, but it’s the only thing he can vocalize without losing his composure. Something’s clogging his throat. Gratitude and guilt. Almost ten years of wanting.

“It was like five bucks. Don’t worry about it,” Liam shrugs, small and unsure.

Inside the front cover Theo finds a green sticky note.

Merry Christmas.

“I wasn’t sure if this was the one you were talking about,” Liam says, voice laden with a preemptive apology. “I googled it and they have a bunch of different space-related books. Planets, and stars, and astronomy, and even space exploration. Figured ‘the universe’ kinda covered all of that.”

It’s embarrassing, the way Theo’s voice gets all tight when he stammers out, “It’s, uh—yeah. This is it. Thank you.”

Liam exhales, long and relieved. He rocks back on his heels. It feels like he’s staring not just at Theo but into him when he says, “This can be a shitty time of year for a lot of people. For a lot of reasons. You don’t, um. You don’t have to carry that weight into the new year, you know.”

Theo thinks of gray December. Empty roads. Cold nights.

Liam drags his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes flitting from the book to Theo. Adds, “At least, not all by yourself.”

❅❆❄

Liam Dunbar:

-so…

-you got plans for NYE?

-asking for a friend

-I’ll check my schedule

❅❆❄

On the 3,287 day of his life, Theo stops counting.

[ravingsockmonkey]

My top 24 screenshots for 2024

I got tagged by @changingplumbob for this, and woo I've got my work cut out for me! Genuinely, it was tough coming up with ONLY 24 screenshots. I could have kept on going until I hit the 30 cap.

To help make things feel a bit less chaotic (at least for me), I'll put SF1, SF2, and MISC to distinguish between save file 1 and save file 2 (which function as semi-connected AUs) and screenshots from miscellaneous saves that don't see as much consistent gameplay (like ones used to test patches and mods). Don't feel bad if none of that makes sense, lol.

Stuffing all the screenshotty goodness under the cut so folks can scroll on by if they would like.

1 - OK, I know this is not quite in the spirit of things mayhaps, but every time I look at this I want to scream. It's the only one that actually has a number ranking because of the sheer audacity of it all. Mr. Darrel Fucking Charm, a man with two toddlers in the other room (from two other sims I might add), actively taking care of a newborn who is one of a set of twins, that the man himself sired from an autonomous try for baby interaction in a pre-LS save that only had the Open Love Life mod installed at the time with his partner, Johnny, who he had only known for less than a full in game day, has assessed the situation at hand and is like "I want to do it again." - SF1

2 - Werewolf toddlers are great, and Rachael Charm was the cutest toddler! - SF1

3 - Darrel Charm being absolutely fed up with Casey Goth breaking into his house and stealing his tomes. - SF1

4 - "I want to be like dad!" Stephen and Malcolm Landgraab (don't worry, this Malcolm's actually a good dad) - SF2

5 - I made a basement pool for Caleb and Don - MISC

6 - Johnny Zest not-so-subtly sending a message to his parents. - MISC

7 - "STOP CALLING MY SISTER" - Robin Charm confronts her sister's dead-beat bio mom after she did one of those guilt trippy "when are you coming to visit?" calls. - SF2

8 - Finding your ex in the trash where you left him. - SF2

9 - Azure Goth finds Max Villareal's (they/them) Duplicato clone, Valentino (they/them) wandering around Willow Creek near her home. For some reason they refused to despawn. She took them home, lol. - SF2

10 - Speaking of Max, a copy of them got sucked into SF1 whenever Casey Goth tried to Necrocall the actual SF1!Max. So technically two Maxs exist in SF1: this one (shown with Lucas Munch [they/them]) and the actual world's Max (he/him) who is a ghost. - SF1

11 - That time whenever I got jumpscared by a vampire sim I made myself and put in a Racoon costume because it was funny at the time. - SF1

12 - Eileen Spurlock, mother of Bo Cash, claiming his death was a loss of no one of any importance. - MISC

13 - "Is there someone you forgot to ask?" - MISC

14 - Hector, can you please fuck off? - MISC

15 - A revived Bo Cash reunites with his sister, Meghan Spurlock, after years of no contact. - MISC

16 - Johnny Zest wearing the shortest shorts known to sim and humankind. - MISC

17 - Dusty Charm sitting with Grandma Charm's rocket missing her. - MISC

18 - Jeb's love and regret. - SF1

19 - Max Villareal, evil horse girl. - MISC

20 - TFW you fumble your Watcher-made relationship so badly that you practically hand him to your little brother (featuring Max Villareal [they/them], Erich Villareal, and Orlando Villareal). - SF2

21 - Best girl, Allie, giving smooches to Joshua Landgraab. - SF2

22 - Two brothers, each bound by the night in their own way, meet together under the moon to reconcile and reconnect. - SF1

23 - Toe in Mouth milestone! Harry Charm is a cutie~ - SF1

24 - Noah. Fucking. Harris. Enough said. - SF2

[sweet-s0rr0w]

day 23 of @hprecfest - a crossover or AU fic

Mad Blood Stirring by @provocative-envy - E, 3.2k, 2017

It's not like they've been angrily hooking up on the sly since meeting at a Juniors skills camp in fucking Manitoba four years ago, except that's exactly what they've been doing.

Our Objective Remains Unchanged by @citrusses - E, 46k, 2023

Harry Potter, returning member of the Oxford University Boat Club, has two goals for the spring of 2005: beat Cambridge, and beat Draco Malfoy. Perhaps not in that order.

Rush (For A Gap That Exists) by @sleepstxtic - E, 42k, 2024

A story of love and loss that grew amidst the most infamous rivalry in Formula One history: the story of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter.

Today I present to you the holy trinity of Drarry sports AUs! Hockey, rowing, F1, each fic packed with adrenaline, testosterone, sweat, bitter rivalry, hate fucking... what's not to love? And listen, I know nothing about hockey (and very little about rowing), and I was still completely entranced, so don't let that put you off. All three are beautifully written, tight, compelling stories. Huge recs, for all of them!

If you read them, and especially if you love them, please do let me know! And as always, please do take the time to leave the author kudos/a comment <3

day 1 - first fic you remember reading

day 2 - a fic rated G

day 3 - a fic not on ao3

day 4 - a comfort fic

day 5 - a romantic fic

day 6 - a fic for a ship you don’t normally read

day 7 - the best of your OTP

day 8 - a fic that was recced to you

day 9 - a WIP

day 10 - a fest/event fic

day 11 - an underrated fic

day 12 - a fic from your favourite author

day 13 - a rare pair

day 14 - a fic rated T

day 15 - a fic over 50k

day 16 - a podfic

day 17 - a fic that makes you cry

day 18 - a fic that makes you laugh

day 19 - fanart

day 20 - a fic with fanart

day 21 - a fic rated M

day 22 - a series

[iampikachuhearmeroar]

"nobody wants to work anymore" but a low paying casual retail job wants you to travel to a capital city you don't live in, which is a considerable distance and time travelled from you (when you actively have a branch of this shop in your LOCAL shopping centre, 15mins down the road); for a group interview assessment centre. they then make you CONGA LINE into the said group interview with party poppers and streamers. like ma'am. I don't care how "ironic hipster millennial and 90s nostalgia" and "life of the party" this brand is supposed to be. but I ain't conga lining into this interview like a fucking clown. fuck some hiring managers and HR depts, honestly.

[ofswordsandpens]

"so you think that a society that functions around a child military instead of the entire city of literal adults might be indicative that their attitudes and ideals are a bit off ? and that by moving to New Rome Percy is not actually escaping his life as a demigod but instead is just giving himself a whole new set of problems to deal with? "