#hanukkah fluff

[shortysus4]

Feast of the Winter Star fic week: Day 2

For FotWS fic week :) Merry Winter Star and happy Festival of Candles!

Not Sleepy (Day 2: Hot Chocolate)

Ben spikes the cocoa, which winds up having a particular effect on his husband.

Feat. one of my other favorite picrews, the one that only makes June:

[rolandtowen]

Chapter Six of I'm Doing This For Revenge is live! Which means this fic is now completed. My utmost love and appreciation to everyone has read so far. Merry Christmas and Chag Sameach!

Read on Ao3 or under the cut:

Saturdays are Bucky's meal prep days. He's slowly been working his way through a variety of cuisines and tweaking them to suit his enhanced metabolism. This week, he's settled on a pot roast. He can't remember his Ma's recipe, but thanks to the internet, he easily found a New York community cookbook from 1938 that had been digitized. Should be close enough.

The recipe calls for brisket, and that element he does remember. Even with his and Steve's families pitching in together, they had to settle for the toughest cuts of meat, and even those were only bought sparingly, saved for special occasions like their joint celebrations of Passover and Easter or Hanukkah and Christmas. Pot roasts cook low and slow, tenderizing even the toughest of cuts, so a pot roast was an all-day commitment.

Bucky knows there's new cooking tools these days – some kind of special pot Sarah had mentioned? – to speed up the cooking process for long dishes like these, but Bucky's found that he prefers the process. It's grounding, having to check on a pot throughout his day. The fact that his apartment smells delicious for days is just a bonus.

Since his impromptu cooking lesson with Sam, his skills have improved considerably. He now knows dozens of types of knife cuts, from roll cuts to various bias cuts. Carlos had recommended art therapy early on, and to Bucky – food is art. He loves learning and mastering new techniques, experimenting with new flavors, and refining even the smallest of details, like plating. The last time he'd cooked for Sam, his boyfriend had looked at him with a little bit of awe at the bowl of Coq au Vin set in front of him. Bucky liked that look. He loved being able to kiss it off of Sam's face.

Bucky smiles fondly at the memory as he seasons and sears his brisket. Into his thrifted dutch oven go the brisket, his chopped vegetables, and enough beef stock and red wine to almost cover everything. The pot goes into the oven at a low temperature, and Bucky takes a few minutes to methodically reset his kitchen.

He'd cleaned a lot when he was a kid – primarily as part of his chores, and then to keep Steve from getting sick so often. But he'd never thought of cleaning as a form of mindfulness until Carlos suggested it. “Mindfulness doesn't have to mean seated meditation or yoga – cleaning ties you to your present moment and your surroundings.”

Bucky dumps his dirty dishes into the sink and turns on the hot water. Though his apartment came with a dishwasher, like so many things he does, he finds the manual, traditional process grounding. After thirty minutes, Bucky has a spotless kitchen. He checks the temperature of the brisket, then curls up in his armchair with his copy of The Fellowship of the Ring. A hot meal, a clean kitchen, and a good story. It is a good Saturday. He writes in his notebook:

glimmers: the smell of pot roast, a clean kitchen, reading

Sundays are even gentler than Saturdays. When Bucky's in New York, he likes to take these days to enjoy the city. Sunday mornings are his favorite time for this. Though Brooklyn could never be described as “quiet”, there's a calm that covers the borough for several hours on Sunday mornings, when the rest of the neighborhood either sleeps off last night's indulgences or attends church services. The contrast amuses Bucky. This Sunday, he orders his usual online, before retreating to Prospect Park. He'd never tell Sam, but he'd gotten into birdwatching recently (blame Banner), and he likes to spend a few hours walking the grounds of the park and soaking in the birdsong.

glimmers: a caramel latte, spotting a Dark-Eyed Junco

On Monday and Tuesday, Bucky shops. He's been invited to the Wilson family Christmas, and he has no idea what to bring. He visits Lydia at the bookstore and asks what a good gift for a chef would be. She gives him several recommendations, and he lands on Julia Child's book, The Art of French Cooking, which Lydia tells him is a classic.

The whole of New York must be shopping too, judging by the crowds in the stores. Bucky came well prepared with his headphones and his fidget, weaving through the crowds with a practiced ease. For Sam, he buys several records in the Motown genre, plus one record the storekeeper has insisted on. “Diana Ross,” the young woman tells him. “If your guy likes Marvin Gaye, he'll love this one.”

Bucky's last stop is the gaming store on the way back to his apartment. Cass and AJ have started calling him “Uncle Bucky”, so of course he has to spoil them. Even if Sarah might not appreciate every one of his gift selections.

glimmers: seeing Lydia, buying gifts, getting music recommendations

On Wednesday, Bucky flies to New Orleans. Being Avenger-adjacent does have its perks – including a private Stark jet. It'd probably be damn near impossible for him to go through TSA anyway. When he lands four hours later, Sam's waiting for him at the airfield.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he teases affectionately, opening his arms to Bucky. Bucky folds into them, nuzzling into the warmth of Sam's shoulder. “How was your flight?”

“Can't complain,” Bucky says. “A lot smoother of a ride than with Torres.”

Sam laughs at that. “Come on, Sarah's got dinner all planned out.”

Louisiana is almost balmy compared to New York, mid-60's and drizzling. Sam catches him up on the last mission he'd gone on, something about freeing a few more Widows with Kate and Yelena. He'd been working the two of them off and on since the fall, trying to finish what Natasha had started.

Sarah greets him at the door with a warm hug. “Come on in, I've got dinner all laid out. Oh!” She gasps when she sees Bucky's duffle bag full of wrapped gifts. “You shouldn't have!”

Bucky grins. “You might actually mean that tomorrow.” He whispers to her: “I might've gotten the boys a drone.”

Sarah laughs. “Lord have mercy, as if Redwing wasn't enough.”

Sarah pulled no stops in creating her Christmas feast: roasted carrots, mashed potatoes, homemade rolls, and on and on. What she was most proud of was her roast turkey, beaming when Bucky shyly passed his plate to her for seconds. At the end of the meal, she sends the boys upstairs to get ready for bed. When they protest, she emphasizes: "PJs, then presents.”

Bucky flicks his eyes to Sam. “Tell me they haven't been waiting all day for me to get here before opening their presents.”

Sam waves it off. “Of course not. They opened the stuff from us this morning. They have stuff to give you though. Which, while we're alone,” Sam pulls out a box wrapped in blue paper.

“Kate and I talked a lot on our first mission together, and I wanted to get this for you. I don't know how much you still practice, but–” Sam cuts himself off, thrusting a box into Bucky's arms. “She told me about Hanukkah, and how it's about rededication, and with all the work you've put in this last year, it seemed – I thought you might want to celebrate.”

Bucky unwraps his gift from Sam, and tears spring to his eyes. It's a beautiful gold menorah, but it's so light, which must mean…

“I had Shuri make it out of vibranium.” Sam's breath catches, like he wants to say more, but doesn't. Bucky quirks an eyebrow at him and he continues. “I thought – Hanukkah is supposed to be about resistance too, so –”

“You made an indestructible menorah.” Bucky's at a loss for words after that, turning the gift over in his hands, running his fingers down the stems. “Sam, I…I don't know what to say.”

“It's okay if you don't like it,” Sam offers quickly, worried he might have overstepped. He knew Bucky was Jewish, but was this too far? Did Bucky want to keep this part of his life private?

“Sam.” Bucky's voice pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts. “I love it. You don't know what this means to me.”

When the sun begins to set, Sarah gathers the boys as Bucky places the menorah in the window and gathers two candles, placing one in the furthest right stem, and one in the center stem. Bucky searches his memories, worried he's forgotten, but the prayers fall from his lips like water in a stream.

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tsivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah

Baruch atah, Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam, she-asah nisim la’avoteinu bayamim hahem bazman hazeh

Baruch atah Adonai, elohenu melech ha’olam, shehecheyanu, v’kiyimanu, v’higiyanu lazman hazeh

Bucky strikes a match, lighting the center candle, the shamash first, then using it to light the candle on the right. He feels a flicker of a memory, his mother's hand on his wrist, guiding him in lighting the menorah for the first time, and then it's gone. He lets out a sigh and opens his eyes.

Sam squeezes his hand. “All good?”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes out.

“Does this mean Uncle Bucky can open our presents now?” AJ asks.

“Wait, I want him to open mine first!” Cass protests.

Sarah shoots Bucky and Sam a look, mouthing “boys”, while shaking her head in a laugh. AJ and Cass run to the tree in the living room to get their gifts for Bucky, and the two men savor the momentary quiet. “Happy Hanukkah, Buck.” Sam murmurs.

“I think this is my first Hanukkah in eighty years, Sam.” Bucky's voice cracks from the weight of his words. “I didn't think I'd ever have this again. Carlos said it might be good for me to go to temple again, just try it one time, but I –” Bucky's words end in a choked noise. He tries again, his voice small. “I know it wasn't really me, Sam, but…this body…my body, it followed Nazi orders. And I can't bring it – myself – into a synagogue. I won't.”

Sam's heart clenches. He is so out of his depth here. “Listen, I'm no expert, but my mama used to say that sitting in church didn't make you any more Christian than sitting in a garage made you a car. So I imagine the same is true with Judaism. Your religion ain't a place, it's your actions. So make it whatever you want, sweetheart.” Sam takes both of Bucky's hands in his. “I'm here for wherever that leads you.”

glimmers: Hanukkah, Sam, family.

fin.

[pucksandpower]

Hanukkah, Oh Hanukkah

Lance Stroll x Reader

Summary: you celebrate Hanukkah with your boyfriend and his family for the first time

The warm glow of the chandelier fills the Strolls’ spacious dining room, casting soft golden light across the table laden with brisket, latkes, and an assortment of other dishes you can’t name but are determined to try.

Lance is at your side, leaning slightly back in his chair, one arm casually slung over the back of yours. His fingers tap absently at your shoulder as if to remind you he’s here. You appreciate it, considering the nerves humming through your body.

Chloe is mid-sentence, waving her fork with a flourish. “I’m just saying, it’s not Hanukkah without the family dreidel tournament. We’re doing it after dinner. Non-negotiable.”

Scotty laughs, his easy smile lighting up the room. “Is that because you win every year? You rig the rules.”

Chloe gasps. “Excuse me? I’m just naturally gifted at spinning a piece of wood. Don’t be jealous.”

Across the table, Lawrence clears his throat, his deep voice effortlessly cutting through the chatter. “It’s not about winning. It’s about tradition. And teaching new traditions to the ones joining us.” His gaze lands on you, warm but expectant.

You manage a smile. “I’m looking forward to it. Though, full disclosure, I’ve never played before.”

Lance grins, nudging you gently. “Don’t worry. It’s easy. You spin, you win, you make Chloe mad — just like the rest of us.”

Chloe throws a latke at him. “You wish. Y/N, you’re on my team.”

“Since when are there teams?” Scotty interjects.

“Since I just made them up,” Chloe retorts, flipping her hair dramatically.

Lawrence raises an eyebrow, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Can we finish the meal before declaring war?”

You glance at Lance, whispering under your breath, “Is it always like this?”

He chuckles softly. “You have no idea.”

***

Later, the dining table is cleared of the few sufganiyot left over from dessert, replaced by a small bowl of shiny chocolate gelt and an ancient, slightly chipped dreidel. You sit cross-legged on the plush rug, between Lance and Chloe, as Scotty reads out the rules like a referee.

“Alright, reminder for everyone, especially the newbies,” he winks at you. “Nun, nothing happens. Gimel, you get everything. Hey, you get half. Shin, you give one up. Simple enough?”

“Simple,” you repeat, though the Hebrew letters are a jumble in your mind.

Chloe elbows you lightly. “Beginner’s luck is real. You’ll probably clean us all out.”

“Unless Lance decides to show off,” Scotty teases, earning an eye roll from your boyfriend.

Lance picks up the dreidel, turning it over in his hands like it’s a piece of racing equipment he’s testing for flaws. “It’s just a dreidel. Relax.”

“You’re taking forever,” Chloe says. “Y/N, you go first.”

Your stomach flips. All eyes are on you, even Lawrence’s, though his expression remains unreadable. You pick up the dreidel, the smooth wood cool in your palm. Lance leans in slightly, his voice low and playful. “Just flick it. Not too hard, or it’ll bounce into next week.”

“Great advice,” you deadpan, shooting him a look.

He grins, completely unrepentant.

Taking a breath, you spin. The dreidel whirls across the hardwood, the letters blurring. It wobbles, then falls. Gimel.

“Are you serious?” Chloe groans. “She’s taking all the gelt already?”

You laugh, half in relief, half in disbelief, as Lance tosses his hands up. “What did I tell you? Beginner’s luck!”

Lawrence leans back in his chair, watching with quiet amusement. “You’re off to a strong start.”

The game continues, the room filling with laughter and playful jabs. Chloe accuses Scotty of cheating. Scotty retaliates by stealing a piece of her chocolate. Lance spins for so long at one point that you’re convinced he’s figured out how to defy the laws of physics. Through it all, you feel yourself relaxing, the initial nerves melting away like wax from the menorah candles.

At one point, Lance nudges you with his knee. “Having fun?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” you admit. “Though I think Chloe’s plotting my downfall.”

“She plots everyone’s downfall,” he says with a grin, then leans closer, his voice dropping. “You’re doing great, by the way.”

You glance at him, curious. “At what? Playing dreidel?”

“No,” he says softly, his gaze steady. “Fitting in.”

The words catch you off guard, simple as they are. You search his face, wondering if he realizes how much they mean to you. Before you can respond, Chloe interrupts, declaring, “Okay, I’m done losing. Let’s light the candles.”

***

The family gathers around the menorah, the room growing quieter. Lance stands beside you, his arm brushing yours. Lawrence picks up the shamash, his movements deliberate, reverent. He lights the next candle, the tiny flame flickering before it steadies.

The prayer begins, and you listen, the unfamiliar Hebrew washing over you like a melody you don’t know the words to but can still hum along with. Lance’s voice is low, confident, blending seamlessly with his family’s.

You wonder if he learned this as a child, if the sound of it feels like home to him.

When it’s over, Chloe turns to you with a mischievous grin. “So, Y/N. First Hanukkah with the Strolls. How’s it going?”

You hesitate, suddenly aware of all the eyes on you. “It’s … a lot to take in. But in the best way. I mean, I’ve never celebrated Hanukkah before, so this is all new. But it’s-” You glance at Lance, then back at the others. “It’s really nice. Warm. I feel lucky to be here.”

Lawrence nods, his expression softening. “We’re glad you’re here.”

“And,” Chloe adds, “you’re way better at dreidel than Lance, so you’re already winning.”

“Hey!” Lance protests, feigning indignation. “I’m right here.”

“Exactly,” she says, laughing.

You can’t help but smile, your earlier nerves now replaced by a quiet sense of belonging. As the candles burn lower, the conversations drift to other topics — racing, snowboarding, hockey, upcoming travel plans, Chloe’s latest song idea. Lance keeps his hand on your knee, a subtle anchor in the midst of the lively chaos.

Later, as the evening winds down and the family begins to disperse, Lance pulls you aside. The room is quieter now, the glow of the menorah casting long shadows. He tugs you close, his arms looping loosely around your waist.

“You survived,” he says, his voice warm with teasing.

“Barely,” you reply, though you’re smiling. “Your family is … intense. In a good way.”

“They like you,” he says simply, then adds with a smirk, “Even my dad.”

“High praise,” you tease back.

He grows quieter, his gaze softening. “Seriously, though. You were great tonight. I know this was a big deal for you, trying something new. I’m proud of you.”

Your chest tightens at the sincerity in his voice. “Thanks, Lance. I-” You pause, struggling to find the right words. “I just wanted to do it right. For you. For them.”

“You did,” he says firmly. “More than right.”

The flicker of candlelight dances in his eyes, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. He leans in, his forehead resting against yours.

“I love you,” he murmurs, so quietly it’s almost lost in the stillness.

Your breath catches, and for a second, all you can do is stare at him. Then you smile, the kind of smile that starts deep in your chest and spreads like warmth through your whole body.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

And in the quiet glow of the menorah, with the scent of candles and laughter lingering in the air, you realize that this — this messy, lively, imperfectly perfect night — is what family feels like.

[ivystoryweaver]

'Twas the Night Before - Marc Spector

Marc + falling asleep together for @ladywynne

Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Marc Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Christmas night and Hanukkah 1st night are both Dec. 25 this year and I'm REAL excited!

Notes: Word Count 2.5k, gn!reader, kissing and flirting. Vague references to Marc's past but it's not angst. Marc is a flirty boy. He's younger than in the Moon Knight series (late 20s instead of late 30s). Just go with it. Overuse of italics, not beta'd.

You don’t believe it.

Even though you see him with your own eyes, you can’t actually believe Marc Spector is standing in his childhood driveway, which sits directly across the street from your childhood driveway.

From your old bedroom window, you can see him pause as his hands land on his hips. He’s facing away from you, but you watch his head drop as if he needs a moment to collect his thoughts or steel himself.

Resisting the urge to bang on the window, or open it and shout his name, you pause as his father, Elias throws open the front door.

Marc must hear his name, but not from you, because he finally looks up, waving halfheartedly before collecting a carryon size suitcase from the trunk of the car he drove up in. After grabbing a backpack from the passenger seat, he trudges up the walk, pausing momentarily before accepting his father’s handshake.

Even from your vantage point, you notice the tension he holds in his shoulders - broader and sturdier than they were the last time you saw him. When you were teenagers. Children, really.

His father claps him gently on the back before leading him inside.

Quite nonchalantly dressed in the cutest outfit you brought with you on the trip (besides your Christmas attire), you march the distance to your neighbor’s house, armed with a paper invitation to your mom and step-dad’s Christmas Eve/holiday party.

Elias would have received an invitation a few weeks back, but you want to be sure that Marc knows he’s invited.

And you want to see him.

Elias graciously accepts your invitation, promising to pass it along to Marc, who is out at the market. You express your disappointment in missing him, and Elias remarks how grown-up you look, and how he agrees that Marc has to see you during his brief visit. Finally, Elias invites you over for the first night of Hanukkah.

“Hey there, need some help?”

Yearning mingles with relief and excitement as you hear the soft tenor of Marc Spector’s voice later that afternoon.

Grocery bags in hand, you whirl around to see him - really, finally see him. No taller, but more handsome. He’s grown into his features. Some people are cuter as kids, while others grow into their best look as adults. Marc was never unfortunate looking, but adulthood suits him wonderfully.

His dark curls are longer than you’ve ever seen them, but styled neatly off his face, despite the rebellious curl or two threatening to fall across his serious, coffee colored eyes. Jaw squared, his throat bobs, full lips parting as he utters your name.

"You’re home for Christmas.”

You smile at him brilliantly.

“You’re home for Hanukkah.”

He quickly nods, reaching, without invitation, into the trunk of your mother’s car to retrieve the rest of the grocery bags. “Same day this year.”

"I know, I thought of you once I noticed it on the calendar.”

His eyes find yours. “You thought of me?”

“Of course,” you nod toward his childhood home. “I think of you every year when I come home, always wondering if this is the year I’ll see the elusive Marc Spector.”

Something darkens his countenance. You can guess what. But he grants you a wry smile anyway. ���Lead the way.”

You do so, feeling your heart thump in your chest as he follows you up the front walk, through your front door, all the way into your kitchen as you announce, "Mom, look who I found!”

Your mom squeals in excitement to see the young man she used to know, rushing him through setting down his grocery bags on the kitchen island so she can give him a proper hug.

You hover closely, making sure she releases Marc at an appropriately brief interval. You don’t want him bristling and uncomfortable in your home. Not during the holidays, or ever.

Pleasantries are exchanged, Marc is offered a sizeable sugar cookie in the shape of a dreidel, which makes him chuckle. He nods for you to take one as well, and you choose one shaped like a candy cane, if only to keep him from eating his alone.

"Why don’t you two go downstairs and I’ll bring you some tea or coffee…or cocoa?” Your mom offers, that matchmaking twinkle in her eye.

"Mom, we’re not six,” you tease. “You have enough to do for the party.”

You turn to Marc, who is smiling warmly, something serene settling in his countenance as he watches his old neighbors interact. Just the sight of him steals your breath for a moment. He is truly, remarkably handsome.

He apologizes, letting you both know he has other plans for the afternoon, but promises he'll see you soon.

You show him out, bouncing at little on your toes at the chance of seeing him again.

"So, does this mean you're coming to our party?"

One corner of his mouth curls. "As long as we hide downstairs the way we used to. And dad says you might come over to ours."

“Definitely.”

The holiday party is a smashing success, as always. The whole neighborhood turns up, including Mr. Spector and Marc. Since he hasn't visited home in years, he draws a lot of attention, most of which doesn't interest him.

But he plays the dutiful son and the friendly neighbor, continuously gravitating back to you as a sort of touchstone. You make sure to "need his help" carrying dishes to the kitchen, taking out the trash - anything, really, to let Marc escape if he wants to. The two of you walk Mr. Spector back across the street, lingering longer than is necessary in your front yard.

"You don't have to go yet, do you?"

Scuffing his foot on the pavement, he hesitates, so you're quick to add, "We haven't dodged the rest of the party in the basement yet. And of course, there's the pool table."

"Right," he agrees, remembering the fun (and safe) times shared there.

"I saved some of the good whiskeyyyy," you tempt, taking his arm. "We can watch Eight Crazy Nights."

"Hell no. Die Hard."

Arm in arm, you sneak him back inside, texting your mom to let her know you'll help her clean up tomorrow.

She's quick to text back that you should 'take your time' and 'have fun' with lots of embarrassing emojis.

“Wow, it’s like stepping back in time. This place hasn’t changed one bit,” he marvels as the two of you descend the oddly curved, carpeted staircase to your basement/family room.

"I know. Time capsule,” you laugh, watching as he takes a gander at all the old photos framed and situated across the mantle.

“God, you look almost exactly the same,” he remarks, zeroed in on your senior portrait.

"For real?”

He regards you openly, warmth in his eyes. And something more, as if he appreciates the view. “You’re exactly the way I remember you. Must be nice not to age.”

“Yeah, right,” you chuckle. “But thank you.” A beat passes between you, gazes locking, before heat creeps up your neck, warming your cheeks. “You look different, though. Good different, I mean. You don’t hunch anymore.”

He laughs. “Steven hunches enough for the both of us.”

"Oh Steven,” you remember the alter kept so carefully hidden, but you knew. You always knew. “How is Steven?”

“Good, I think. Probably won’t pass up the chance to tell you himself,” Marc diplomatically responds. “He’s been quiet since we got…home.” He clears his throat.

Boldly stepping closer, you, gently grasp his forearm. “I’m glad you’re here. So glad.”

“Thank you,” he responds evenly, and it feels like something is healed in him since you last talked, and certainly since you last laid eyes on him. “You ready to get your ass kicked at pool?”

“Nine ball, corner pocket,” Marc announces smugly, taking his fourth shot in a row.

“I should so bump into you right now,” you tease.

“You can. I’ll still beat you,” he fires right back, sinking the shot, which makes you groan. So you bump him next time, hip to hip, and he misses.

“Your turn,” he offers, with mock graciousness, and you can tell he’s plotting his revenge. Eyeing him suspiciously, you call your shot and lean over to take it when you suddenly feel him crowding in behind you.

“This is actually my shot, cheater,” he breathes on your ear, strong arms encircling yours as his chest presses against your back. “We’re gonna play the rest of the game just like this.”

“Fine,” you pretend to shrug him off, as if you aren’t thrilled to have him close. He smells like sun-drenched sands and secrets and spice.

Your eyes drift closed as his lips almost brush your cheek. “You knew this would happen.” Wrapping his arms and hands carefully around yours, he executes the shot you called, clumsily but successfully - the two of you almost tipping over in the process.

Gripping your hip with one hand, steadies you, then maneuvers you to the other end of the table to set up for the next shot. “You always know what happens when you cheat,” he taunts, settling in behind you and announcing his next move.

“I think you want to play like this,” you fire back. "You probably love it when I cheat. Consider it your Hanukkah present,” you tease, thrusting back against him temptingly, yet playfully.

The slightest, satisfied growl rumbles in his chest as he leans you forward to make the shot. Then he turns you around, taking the pool stick out of your hand and stashing it across the table beside his own. Leaning forward, he cages you in with his forearms braced on the table's edge.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be?” His gaze drops to your lips.

“Yeah. Guess so,” you shrug. "What are you gonna do about it?"

Marc wets his lips with his tongue, his eyes incapable of focusing on one part of you for long. Eyes, mouth, neck, even your chest and he's not subtle about it. "Haven’t changed at all.”

“You have,” you tell him, grasping his biceps for support as he crowds into your space. “You seem...good.”

Sobering a bit at your observation, Marc eases back out of playful mode, and your personal space. “Better.”

"Good." Missing him so near, but feeling a little off kilter from his blatant flirting, you close the slight distance between you, palms pressing against the warmth of his chest. “Marc, I missed you.”

"I missed you too."

"Now this is a party," Marc says, resting comfortably enough on the lumpy old brown couch, socked feet stretched out in front of him on the coffee table, nursing the "good" whiskey.

"Told you. Thanks for sticking with me upstairs," you softly reply, not at all interested in the action movie sounds on the world's oldest TV.

"No problem. I don't mind it as much as I used to. Especially with you here." He offers you a sip of whiskey with such a familiar nonchalance, you almost feel like a couple.

"I can tell, you know - that the same things don't...I guess bother you as much," you gently prod. "Or maybe you handle things differently?"

"Hopefully," he nods, fingers brushing yours as he takes the drink back from you. "But what about you? How are you?"

So you catch him up on your life. College, significant others, job, your family.

"Your turn."

Then Marc tells you the most incredible story about Egypt and gods and magic powers. And how he is with Steven now. No more hiding.

"It's okay if you don't believe me," he concludes, knocking back the last gulp of whiskey. "I wouldn't."

"I'll always believe you. Tell me more about Egypt. About everything."

Marc has always been a fortress - always withdrawing into himself as to not disturb the space around him any more than was necessary. When his emotions did come out, it was usually...really intense, to say the least. Then he would run.

And that was Marc, for a long while. Feel, hurt, withdraw, lash out, run. It was one of the reasons you probably weren't together right now. Not to mention your own contributions to the issues between you years ago.

It's been a long Christmas Eve of wrapping and party prepping and hosting, and having Marc here this year is equally soothing and all-consuming.

Before you realize it, you've inched closer, arm pushing into his arm from shoulder to elbow. Your head drops to his shoulder as he continues talking. Eventually, he either takes a break or concludes his tale, focusing in on the movie. But in the mean time, his voice so soothes you that your eyes flutter closed before you realize it.

The movie ends, Bruce Willis saves the day, along with Reginald VelJohnson. "Let it Snow" plays during the credits and Marc softly calls your name. He suspected you were asleep, but now that he's certain, he doesn't have the heart to disturb you.

The gentle sounds of your breathing lull him into a state of calm he hasn't felt most of his life. He smiles to himself, lets his head drop back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

A couple hours later, you wake up, smooshed up against Marc's side, some Christmas movie playing on the TV. Marc's head has slumped down on his chest and you feel terrible because he simply can't be comfortable.

Calling his name, you shake him gently before easing down on the floor beside him to help him lie down. He stirs momentarily, bleary eyes blinking, struggling to focus.

Seeing you, he seems to remember his situation. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"No, it's okay. Lie down. I'll get you a blanket if you want to stay."

Perhaps he wants to walk back across the street, but it is the middle of a cold night, and this would not be the first time he spent the night in your basement.

But as you stand to get him the blanket, he seems to realize you're leaving. "No, stay," he pouts, still half-asleep. "You're warm."

You sleepily giggle, hesitating only a moment before settling into the tiny space he's created for you beside his stretched out body. "Marc, I don't think I'm a very good blanket."

"Just stay for a minute," he whispers, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his nose in your hair. "Just one more minute."

"Okay, I'll stay" you agree, now wide awake as your heart races. It takes you a second to tuck your body into his.

You end up half on top of him and it feels so good you can't even think straight.

"You can go upstairs if you want," he offers, palm spreading over the curve of your back as he presses you closer. "Just wanted to hold you, is all."

"I want you to hold me," you confess in a rush, breath ghosting his cheek. "I want to stay."

Then you feel his lips on yours, warm, soft and demanding. You fall apart in his arms as he tastes you, tenderly tracing the shape of your jaw as he eases back.

You don't let him get far, pressing your mouth to his.

“Welcome home, Marc,” you whisper in the dark before you fall asleep together on Christmas morning.

Winter Wonderland Fluff Ficlets | Marc Masterlist | Main Masterlist

[fuqnia]

Golden Glow and Quiet Truths

kyle broflovski x reader insert

(❁´◡`❁) | [A/N] hii, this is my second oneshot that's apart of my ficmas! this is also on ao3. ❤️❄️🎄

(❁´◡`❁) | Warning(s) : none

(❁´◡`❁) | Synopsis : At Kyle’s Hanukkah celebration, [y/n] learns about his traditions and shares a quiet, heartfelt moment under the warm glow of the menorah.

The Broflovski house was buzzing with warmth and life, a stark contrast to the frigid snowdrifts piling up outside. Inside, the menorah’s golden light flickered on the table, casting soft, wavering patterns on the walls. Laughter and conversation filled the air, Sheila’s booming voice rising over the din as she directed traffic between the kitchen and living room. The scent of frying latkes mixed with the tangy sweetness of applesauce and the faint aroma of pine from the small Christmas tree Sheila insisted on keeping for “their Christian friends.”

You hovered near the doorway, a drink in your hand, unsure where to plant yourself in the chaos. Kyle had been insistent about inviting you to his family’s Hanukkah party. His words—half invitation, half plea—still echoed in your mind: “It’s no big deal, really. My family would love to have you there. I’d love to have you there.” You couldn’t say no. Not to that earnest look in his green eyes, not to the nervous way he fidgeted with his sleeves when he asked.

Now you were here, a little overwhelmed but oddly at peace, watching the scene unfold. Ike was at the table, enthusiastically explaining dreidel rules to a group of adults who didn’t stand a chance against his enthusiasm. Kyle’s dad, Gerald, was cracking a joke in the corner, earning polite chuckles. And there was Kyle himself, standing by the menorah, his green ushanka askew as he helped his mom arrange candles for the blessing. He caught your eye for a moment, offering a small smile that made your stomach flip, before turning back to his task.

“You okay?” came a voice beside you.

Kyle had appeared at your side, so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him. His hair was slightly mussed from the hat, and the glow of the menorah danced in his eyes.

“Yeah,” you said with a faint smile. “It’s really nice. Your family knows how to throw a party.”

Kyle chuckled, glancing at the crowded room. “My mom loves an excuse to go all out. Hanukkah, Thanksgiving, Arbor Day—you name it.”

You laughed softly, and his expression softened as he watched you. “I’m glad you came,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“I’m glad you invited me,” you replied. “It’s… warm. Feels like a real home.”

Kyle looked like he wanted to say something more, but instead, he gestured toward the table where Ike was still commanding his dreidel game. “Want to play? I could teach you. Ike’s ruthless, though, so fair warning.”

“Sure,” you said, following him to the table.

The Broflovski dining table was a whirlwind of festive energy—plates of latkes and brisket, half-empty glasses of sparkling cider, and a small pile of chocolate gelt coins stacked neatly in the center. But as the party hummed around you, you found yourself seated across from Kyle, the rest of the room fading into background noise.

“Alright,” Kyle said, setting a small wooden dreidel in the middle of the table with a faint clink. “You said you’ve never played before?”

“Never,” you admitted with a sheepish grin, leaning forward to inspect the dreidel. The menorah candles flickered nearby, casting a warm glow over the two of you. “So, be gentle. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”

Kyle chuckled, the sound warm and soft. “Don’t worry. I’ll walk you through it. It’s pretty simple, I promise.”

He picked up the dreidel and turned it slowly between his fingers, the Hebrew letters catching the light. “This is the dreidel,” he explained. “Each side has a letter: Nun, Gimel, Hei, and Shin. They stand for ‘A great miracle happened there.’ It’s kind of a reminder of the Hanukkah story.”

You nodded, your gaze flickering between the dreidel and his face. He looked so at ease, his green eyes bright as he spoke, and you couldn’t help but feel a warmth that had nothing to do with the candles.

“So,” he continued, placing the dreidel back on the table. “The goal is to spin it, and whichever side it lands on determines what you do. Nun means nothing happens. Gimel means you take the whole pot. Hei means you take half, and Shin means you add a coin to the pot.”

“Got it,” you said, picking up one of the shiny chocolate coins from the pile. “And we’re playing with these?”

“Yep.” He pushed a small handful of gelt toward you, his fingers brushing yours briefly. The touch sent a jolt up your arm, and you glanced at him, catching the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his cheeks. “Alright, you go first.”

You picked up the dreidel, gripping it awkwardly. Kyle watched with an amused smile as you gave it a spin. It wobbled uncertainly before clattering to a stop on Shin.

Kyle winced dramatically, his hand flying to his chest. “Oof. Tough start. Add one to the pot.”

You rolled your eyes playfully as you tossed a coin into the center. “Great. Off to a stellar beginning.”

“Hey, it’s all about the technique,” Kyle teased, picking up the dreidel with practiced ease. His fingers moved deftly, giving it a smooth spin that sent it twirling across the table. It landed on Gimel, and he smirked as he scooped up the entire pot.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groaned, throwing your hands up. “You’re a professional. I didn’t stand a chance.”

“Not my fault I’m naturally gifted,” he said, tossing a coin in the air and catching it with a grin. “Alright, your turn. Let’s see if you’ve learned anything.”

You narrowed your eyes, picking up the dreidel again. “Oh, I’ll show you.”

As you leaned forward to spin it, Kyle reached out to adjust your grip. “Wait, like this,” he said, his hand brushing over yours to position the dreidel. His touch was warm, steady, and lingered just a second longer than necessary. Your eyes met, and the noise of the room seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in the soft glow of the menorah candles.

“Got it?” Kyle asked, his voice quieter now.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your heart beating faster as you gave the dreidel a spin. It twirled across the table, wobbling slightly before landing on Hei.

Kyle grinned. “Half the pot. Not bad.”

“Finally,” you said, scooping up your share with a triumphant smile. “I’m catching up.”

Kyle chuckled, his gaze lingering on you as you added the coins to your pile. “Told you it wasn’t so hard.”

The game continued, the pile of gelt shifting back and forth between you as you took turns. But as the rounds went on, you found yourself less focused on the dreidel and more on Kyle—the way his lips twitched into a smile whenever you teased him, the way his hands moved so sure and steady, the way his green eyes sparkled under the golden light.

At one point, your hands brushed again as you reached for the dreidel at the same time. Neither of you moved immediately, your fingers overlapping for a moment that felt far too long yet far too short. Kyle cleared his throat, pulling his hand back quickly, his cheeks turning pink.

“Your turn,” he said, looking down at the table with a sheepish grin.

You spun the dreidel, your chest tight with something you couldn’t quite name. As it twirled and clattered to a stop, Kyle leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. The touch sent warmth blooming through you, and when you glanced at him, his face was so close you could see the faint freckles scattered across his cheeks.

The dreidel had landed on Gimel, but the game didn’t matter anymore. Not really. Kyle’s gaze met yours, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The room around you seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you bathed in the soft glow of the candles.

“Looks like you win this round,” Kyle said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” you replied, your heart pounding. “I guess I do.”

The party was finally starting to wind down, the once-bustling Broflovski living room now quieter as a few remaining guests mingled and chatted in the background. The menorah candles had burned lower, their flickering light casting soft shadows across the room. You and Kyle sat at the dining table, the remnants of your dreidel game scattered between you. Chocolate gelt wrappers glimmered like forgotten treasure, and the faint hum of conversation filled the air.

Kyle leaned back in his chair, tapping a wrapper idly against the table as he gave you a look. “Okay, but seriously, how did you manage to land on Shin six times in a row? Statistically, that should be impossible.”

“I’m just that unlucky,” you replied with a grin, stacking your small pile of remaining gelt. “Or maybe you rigged the dreidel.”

Kyle snorted. “Yeah, because I clearly have nothing better to do than rig a children’s game for a party my mom guilted everyone into attending.”

“It’s not a children’s game,” you shot back, laughing. “It’s cultural. And I’m learning. Be nice.”

He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Fine, fine. I’ll give you that. But you’ve got a long way to go before you’re dreidel champion material.”

“Oh, is that a title now? Dreidel champion?” you teased, leaning forward. “Do you get a medal for that, or just a lifetime supply of gelt?”

Kyle chuckled, shaking his head. “Okay, point taken. I’m dropping it.”

But as the laughter between you faded, a new kind of silence settled in. Kyle fiddled with the foil wrapper in his hand, twisting it into a small, misshapen ball. His gaze darted to the menorah, then back to you, his usual confidence giving way to something more uncertain.

“So,” he began, his voice quieter now. “How are you liking the party? Not too overwhelming?”

“It’s been great,” you said honestly, leaning your elbows on the table. “Your family’s amazing, Kyle. Your mom’s a little... intense, but in a good way.”

Kyle groaned, covering his face with his hand. “That’s the understatement of the century. Intense is her default setting.”

You laughed, but his comment made you notice the faint tension in his shoulders, the way he seemed to retreat into himself for a moment. “It’s nice, though,” you said softly. “To see how much she cares. And honestly? I’ve had a really great time.”

Kyle’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he offered a small smile. “Good. I was kind of worried you’d hate it.”

“Why would I hate it?” you asked, tilting your head.

“I don’t know,” he muttered, glancing down at the table. “It’s not exactly the most exciting party ever. And it’s Hanukkah, so it’s not like it’s... I don’t know, cool.”

“Cool?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Kyle, it’s been amazing. I don’t need it to be ‘cool.’ It’s meaningful. That’s what matters.”

His green eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for a moment, he looked almost stunned by your words. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, like he was searching for the right thing to say.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, straightening in his chair. “I just... I don’t know. I guess I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad I came too,” you said with a smile. “This has been one of the best nights I’ve had in a while.”

Kyle’s cheeks reddened slightly, and he looked away, muttering, “You’re way too nice to me, you know that?”

“I’m just being honest,” you said lightly, leaning closer. “What’s with you tonight, though? You’ve been acting a little... off.”

“Off?” he repeated, his voice rising slightly. “I’m not off. This is just my normal, neurotic self.”

You grinned. “You’re always neurotic, but this feels like another level.”

Kyle groaned, burying his face in his hands. “God, you’re relentless.”

“Maybe,” you teased, nudging his foot under the table. “But you love it.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond, and you wondered if you’d pushed too far. But then he sighed, dropping his hands and looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“Fine,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You want the truth?”

You nodded, your chest tightening as he hesitated.

Kyle took a deep breath, his fingers twisting the foil ball again. “I’ve been thinking about this all night. Hell, I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, and I wasn’t going to say anything because I thought it would ruin everything, but... I can’t not say it anymore.”

Your heart raced, the weight of his words sinking in. “Kyle... what are you trying to say?”

He looked up at you then, his green eyes bright with a mix of nervousness and determination. “I like you. A lot. Like, way more than I probably should. And I’ve been trying to act normal, but it’s been driving me insane because every time I see you, I just...”

He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “God, this is so stupid. I sound like a total idiot, don’t I?”

“No,” you said quickly, your voice trembling slightly. “You don’t. Not at all.”

Kyle’s gaze softened, and he let out a shaky laugh. “I just—being around you makes everything better. Even when I’m stressed, or my mom’s driving me crazy, or Cartman’s being a jackass... you make it all easier.”

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his voice, and you reached out, covering his hand with yours. “Kyle, you’re amazing. I don’t know how you don’t see that.”

He blinked, his cheeks flushing. “You really mean that?”

“I do,” you said softly, your thumb brushing against his knuckles. “And for the record? I like you too. A lot.”

A wide, relieved grin broke across his face, and for a moment, he looked like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “You do?”

You laughed, nodding. “Yeah, Kyle. I do.”

Kyle hesitated, his green eyes searching yours again, his nervous energy palpable. “Can I... would it be okay if I kissed you?” he asked softly, his voice trembling just slightly, a mix of hesitation and hope laced in his words.

Your heart swelled at the question, your chest tightening with the weight of the moment. His vulnerability was so raw, so earnest, that it made your breath hitch. Slowly, you nodded, your voice barely a whisper. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

Kyle exhaled shakily, relief flickering in his eyes as he leaned in, moving cautiously like he was afraid to break the fragile space between you. The air felt thick with anticipation, every second stretching as you watched him close the gap. When his lips finally brushed against yours, the kiss was soft, tentative, like he was testing the waters, unsure of where this might lead.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his touch warm and careful, and the gentleness of it made your heart ache. The first press of his lips was light, a whisper of a connection, but it lingered, drawing you in deeper. There was a sweetness to it, a quiet kind of awe, like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. But beneath that sweetness was something else—something more urgent, a need that simmered just beneath the surface.

As the kiss deepened, Kyle’s fingers threaded into your hair, anchoring you closer. His other hand settled hesitantly on your waist, his grip firm but uncertain, as though he were afraid to overstep. You could feel his breath, warm and uneven, mingling with yours, and it sent a shiver through you that made you lean into him instinctively.

He kissed you like he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into this one moment—his longing, his uncertainty, his quiet devotion. There was an innocence to it, a hesitance that spoke to how deeply he cared, but there was also a quiet hunger, a sense of want that made your heart race.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping the soft fabric of his sweater as though grounding yourself against the overwhelming rush of emotion. His lips moved against yours with a careful intensity, each touch more deliberate than the last. It wasn’t rushed; it wasn’t chaotic. It was deliberate and full of feeling, a perfect balance of sweetness and need.

When Kyle finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his cheeks flushed a deep red. His gaze darted away for a moment, as though he were processing everything that had just happened. Then his eyes found yours again, wide and filled with an almost childlike wonder.

“I... I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admitted, his voice shaky but soft, a quiet confession that made your chest ache.

You couldn’t help but smile, your own heart pounding in your ears. “Me too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you reached up to brush a stray strand of his hair out of his face.

“Whoa! Ew! Gross!”

The spell shattered abruptly as Ike burst into the room, standing in the doorway with an exaggerated look of disgust.

“Seriously?” Ike said, throwing his hands up in mock horror. “This is so cringy. Do you guys practice this stuff or what?”

Kyle jerked away from you like he’d been electrocuted, his face burning a shade of red you didn’t think was possible. “Ike! Go away!”

“No way,” Ike said, smirking like the devil himself. “This is pure comedy gold. Mom’s gonna love this.”

Before Kyle could lunge for something to throw at him, Ike darted out of the room, his laughter echoing down the hall.

Kyle groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my God. I’m going to kill him.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound soft and warm as you leaned into him. “Good luck with that. But for the record? Totally worth it.”

Kyle let out a long-suffering sigh, but his arm slipped around you anyway, pulling you closer to his side. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, a small, shy smile tugging at his lips. “It was.”

[tinykittygardencat]

sniffer activated

[vintagegirl01]

‘Tis the Season 🎄❄️⛄️

Marc Spector x Female reader

Summary: Eager to celebrate the holiday season with your new husband, you suggest to Marc that the two of you celebrate Hanukkah as well as Christmas as you two have done so in the past three years that you two dated. How will Marc respond?

You and Marc have been married for about 6 months.

Though you have celebrated Christmas together in the years you were previously dating, you’re trying to convince him to celebrate Hanukkah. You want him to know that you care to celebrate his childhood traditions.

He lets out a dramatic sigh, his back rested against the couch. It was Christmas Eve night, Marc lay in one of his many hoodies and a pair of blue plaid sweatpants. Although he had an indifferent expression, his eyes betrayed a hint of amusement as he glanced at you.

"Hanukkah, huh?" Marc asked. He had a hint of sarcasm in his voice, his voice was deep & rough. He lifted an eyebrow at you. "You're insisting I celebrate it?"

“If you want, honey. I just want you to know that I’m into learning and celebrating your traditions if that’s what you want.”

Marc's indifferent expression softened a bit. He could sense your genuine interest and he felt a wave of appreciation and love for you.

He reached out and pulled you closer to him, his muscular arms wrapping around your waist. He pulled you onto his lap, his hands resting on your thighs.

"You're always so damn thoughtful." He said in a quiet, teasing voice. "I appreciate your eagerness to connect with my roots."

“You always do things for me… I just want you to know that I’d do the same for you in a heartbeat.”

Marc leaned his head against your shoulder, his black curls brushing against your skin. His grip tightened around your body as he held you closer to him. He inhaled your scent, letting it fill his senses.

He whispered into your ear. His warm breath caused a shiver to run through your spine. “You always know how to melt my cold, black heart, don't you?"

“Cold, black heart? Where?”

Marc chuckled, his chest vibrating slightly against your body. A smirk appeared on his face as he gently nipped your ear.

"Alright, fine." *He said in a teasing tone, his words laced with mock seriousness.* "My heart's not entirely black and cold. There's at least... hmm... 10% of it that's reserved for you."

“Only 10%?”, you ask playfully.

Marc pretended to think for a moment, a sly smile spreading across his face. He feigned deep contemplation to tease you.

"Hmmm, alright, you drive a hard bargain. Let's up the percentage a bit."

He tilted his head, his eyes locked on you. “How does 99.5% sound? Is that more tempting? Or do I still need to go higher?"

Marc chuckled at your reaction. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his stubble lightly scratching against your skin. He left a trail of soft kisses as he spoke.

"I'm just messing with you." *He breathed against your neck, his voice a low, seductive murmur. "You know damn well you have every piece of my heart."

“I know”, you smile bashfully.

Marc's lips curled into a tender smile against your skin. He tightened his arm around your waist, his other hand moving to gently caress your cheek. He tilted your head to look at him, his brown eyes filled with a mix of love and affection.

"Sometimes I swear, I don't know how I got so damn lucky to have you as my girl. Especially when I'm such a cold, grumpy bastard all the time."

“You’re not a bastard. You’re my grizzly bear.”

Marc couldn't help but let out a deep, hearty laugh at your comment. He loved it when you playfully referred to him as your 'grizzly bear'. It made his heart skip a beat every time.

"Oh, is that what I am, huh? Your personal grizzly bear?"

He teased, his voice filled with mock seriousness.“I hope you don't expect me to hibernate for the winter then."

“Nope. For I would be sad if you were gone more than usual.”

Marc pulled you even closer to him, cradling you in his arms. His facial expression softened as he heard your words. He knew how much it sucked when he had to disappear for his missions.

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, his voice low and warm.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone for too long. I'll make sure you get your daily dose of me, no hibernating allowed."

“Perfect. Now… how do we celebrate?

Marc thought for a moment, a sly smile forming on his face. He gently nipped at your earlobe before speaking, his lips nearly touching your skin as he whispered into your ear.

"Well, there's a few ideas I can think of." He teased, his voice low and suggestive. His hands gently roamed over your body, touching you in places he knew would drive you crazy. “But most of them might be a bit too... naughty for the holiday spirit."

Marc chuckled, a hint of disappointment mixed with amusement in his voice. He knew you were right. As much as he wanted to get a little naughty, it was Christmas Eve.

He nodded in agreement, his hands still roaming over your body, gently caressing your curves.

"Alright, we'll keep it PG-13 for now. No R-rated festivities." He paused, his eyes darkened slightly as he continued in a sultry tone. "But don't think I won't be having my way with you later."

You blow a kiss to him. “Promise?”

Marc chuckled, a devilish grin spreading across his face at your question. He loved how you always responded to his more 'spicy' words. He loved your excitement.

He gently nipped your earlobe before whispering in a low, seductive tone, his breath hot against your skin.

"Promise, sweetheart. You're mine, and I plan to make you mine again... and again, and again all night long."

This would be the first of many Christmases and Hanukkahs that the two of you two celebrate together, as a couple and as your family expanded. As celebrating with you and your children over time helped Marc heal the inner child within him.

Taglist:

@autismsupermusicalassassin

@my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

@missdictatorme

@giona45-5

@ominoose

@oscarssimp

@runa-falls

@ivystoryweaver

@lunalockley

@juneknight

@jayke0

@melodygatesauthor

@bit-dodgy-innit

@pimosworld

@emma23

@writefightandflightclub

@clemdango04

@reallyrallyauthor

@official-mr-knight

@faretheeoscar

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

Merry Christmas~! here have (most of)the Christmas section of the fic im writing that is still very much ongoing! :3

=

-

Christmas morning felt like a childhood Christmas morning. Presents appearing under the three-courtesy of the house elves, warm treats on the coffee table in front of the fire, stockings full of treats and small gifts, and soft music playing from somewhere as (y/n) quietly walked into the main part the Slytherin common, tying her warm robe tightly around her waist, her slippers soft against her feet as she walked towards the fireplace.

It was early, barely 630 am, but early Christmas mornings were the best thing.

(y/n) settled down on one of the loveseats near the fireplace, taking one of the mugs of hot coco that the elves had set out and letting it warm her up, the liquid filling her chest with warmth as she sipped at it, the light of the fire and the Christmas tree gently illuminating the space.

Eventually, the few younger Slytherins who had stayed for Christmas came rushing in, eagerly opening their stockings and presents, and were out by the time Tom came wandering it, wearing his own warm robe, but he wasn’t wearing slippers-just his bare feet padding against the floor as he made his way into the main common room where (y/n) was.

“Happy Christmas,” (y/n) said quietly as not to break the comfortable quiet that had settled in the common room once the younger Slytherins had left to go get dressed and play with their new Christmas gifts.

“Mmm, morning,” Tom mumbled, sitting down on the couch, grabbing a mug of still steaming tea from the coffee table, (y/n) noticing he put quite a bit of sugar and cream in it, (y/n) didn’t mention it, sipping at her hot coco.

Tom settled back into the couch, eyes on the fireplace. He seemed tired still-it reminded her of how her parents would be Christmas moring, when she and her siblings got up way too early for Christmas and her parents would be exhausted from wrapping gifts only a few hours before.

(y/n) decided to take the initiative, getting up from the love seat to grab the still full stockings, the younger Slytherins had already grabbed theirs, but there were still two stockings left-and she handed one to Tom-who seemed surprised.

“I got a stocking?” Tom asked, his brows pinched together as he held the black and green stripped stocking in his hands-it was bulging, he could feel the small treats and gifts within the fabric. (y/n) shrugged, not commenting on the fact that he was surprised he got a stocking.

The two opened their stockings, (y/n) got the usual stocking stuffers she got almost every year-but just a 1940s version of them. Hair ties, a tooth brush, candy canes, chocolates, wand polish, and many other small items suited for a stocking gift.

She looked up, seeing Tom had poured out his stocking onto the couch beside him. She saw chocolates, candy canes, wand polish, a glass pen, a small carving knife, hair gel, a toothbrush, and a small wooden snake that was bendable.

Tom stared at his stocking gifts for a moment, picking up the small wooden snake and moving it between his fingers, fixated on the small toy.

(y/n) got up, grabbing for the first present under the tree. She frowned lightly, noticing the only gift for Tom was from her, so she picked it up and handed it to him. “Happy Christmas Tom,” she said softly, feeling her heart ache just a bit by the way Tom looked at the gift-as if it was the very first time he’d gotten a Christmas gift.

“For me?” Tom asked her, his brows pinched in what seemed like confusion. (y/n) nodded, and Tom took the wrapped gift from her gently, setting it in his lap with a look of confusion, shock, and a bit of awe.

(y/n) grabbed one of her gifts from her friends, the tag saying it was from lucy, sitting back down on the loveseat, undoing the ribbon as Tom quietly opened his gift from her. He gently set the ribbon at his side, and then began to open the wrapping paper-almost trying not to rip it as he turned the gift over in his hands.

He took off the wrapping paper, holding the small chest in his hands, admiring the snake carvings that lined the curves of the chest. His thumb smoothed over the metal snake latch, glancing back at (y/n) as she opened her gift from Alice-a pair of heeled boots; sturdy and fashionable.

“Thank you,” Tom murmured under his breath, and (y/n) turned to smile at him, Tom’s heart feeling as if it was beating out of his chest at the sight of it. He held the chest tightly through the rest of the morning, watching (y/n) open her gifts from her friends-feeling bad he hadn’t gotten her anything.

He wasn’t used to feeling bad for not doing something-unless it was school work.

“I didn’t get you anything, I apologize,” Tom said as (y/n) began to throw out wrapping paper, and she shook her head with a smile.

“I don’t mind, besides-I got plenty of gifts from the girls, one less gift doesn’t disappoint me. I don’t think you expected me to get you a gift anyway so I wasn’t expecting one in return.” (y/n) said, rambling a bit as she trashed the wrapping paper and sorted her gifts into a pile, smiling back at Tom-which made his ears turn hot.

Reactions like this, for Tom, had been happening for a bit-feeling things he never felt before. Nervous, sometimes anxious, even flustered-all because of her. He’d never really show it, of course not-he was still a very controlled person and hated having his emotions show.

But right now, he was sure he looked like a unicorn in headlights.

-

After Christmas breakfast in the great hall, with all the professors drinking Christmas punch and wearing funny hats, (y/n) finds a new gift under the tree after getting back to the common room. It’s addressed to her and as she picks it up-she feels the magic interwoven into every part of the wrapping-including the ribbon.

She looks at the tag, it’s from Tom, and she smiles, sitting down by the tree and opening the gift gently. It was a simple black box, and when she opened it, she found a silver snake bracelet inside, with small protection runes carved into the metal on the inside. The metal was interwoven with magic-it was a transfigured gift-not rushed but quickly made with perfection since it was such a last-minute gift.

(y/n) smiled, slipping the snake bracelet onto her left wrist and it magically tightened to fit snugly, and then easily became loose when she went to take it off just to see if she could.

She smiled warmly, getting up from the floor and cleaning up the wrapping paper and ribbon, admiring her new bracelet as she headed back to her dorm.

-

“Thank you for the bracelet, it’s lovely.” (y/n) said to Tom as she passed by him in the common room, Tom coming in from the library while (y/n) was heading out to go to the Christmas dinner feast. Tom blinked at her and nodded.

“Of course, I’m glad you like it.” Tom said calmly, giving her a small smile in return as (y/n) beamed at him. Something from above caught her attention and Tom looked up as well-the two freezing as mistletoe began to appear. “House elves.” Tom murmured under his breath, preparing to step back to not make anything awkward but he felt a warmth on his cheek-his ears heating up as (y/n) stepped away from him, still smiling, her cheeks warm.

“Happy Christmas Tom,” she said softly, turning on her heel and heading out the common room door to go to Christmas dinner.

“…happy Christmas (y/n),” Tom murmured after a few solid moments of him standing completely still in shock, his breath still caught in his chest, books held in his arms.

He just got kissed on the cheek…

-

“That’s so pretty (y/n)!” Alice gasps the night everyone came back to Hogwarts after break ended, just about a week after Christmas day. (y/n) smiled, looking down at the silver snake bracelet on her wrist.

“Thank you, Tom gave it to me,” (y/n) said and her friends’ jaw’s dropped, their eyes wide. “Always the look of surprise when I mention Tom doing something nice.” (y/n) joked, chuckling a bit as Lucy scoots as close as she can-her friends asking for every little detail about anything that happened between her and Tom during Christmas break.

“Not much, we had a nice quiet Christmas morning together, I gave him his gift-he said he was sorry he didn’t have one for me, and then after I came back to the common room after breakfast there was a gift for me under the tree from him. It was a last-minute thing girls, probably a pen or a ring he had transfigured to make it the bracelet. It’s a sweet gift nonetheless I will admit.” (y/n) said, pushing Lucy’s face away from her gently as Lucy squealed in her ear.

(y/n) then remembers the mistletoe. “oh yeah, I kissed his cheek.” (y/n) says offhandedly and Lucy nearly squeals her ear off. “ow!”

“Sorry-oh my merlin you kissed his cheek?! How-why? When-how did he react?” Lucy gasped, the other girls leaning in to devour each word (y/n) was about to say, but she only lifted her hands in surrender.

“it was just a kiss on the cheek! There was mistletoe-I think he was even going to step away to not make it awkward but I went for it because-you know, bad luck n stuff.” (y/n) said in her and Tom’s defense so her friends didn’t go ballistic and Lucy graoned, shaking (y/n)’s shoudlers.

“(yyyy/nnn) c’moooon! Theres so much tension between you two its gonna make me pop!” Lucy dramatically said and (y/n) snorted, rolling her eyes.

“What tension?” (y/n) asked and her friends just looked at each other and back at (y/n) with clear expressions of ‘seriously??’ (y/n) shrugged, sighing softly. “there's nothing going on between Tom and I girls, seriously. Just a few weeks ago we were at each others throats and now that were not you all think there's something there?”

Lucy snorted and Bella smirked. “c’mon (y/n), you know rivalries are just crushes you’re mad about having.” Bella laughed and (y/n) rolled her eyes again.

“He started it to be fair, and no-I don’t have a crush on him. He’s pleasant now but at most-he’s an acquaintance.” (y/n) said firmly and Alice giggled lightly.

“Whatever you say (y/n), but he’s the one who asked you to Slughorn’s party and asked you to have Christmas with him, and he never asks anyone to hang out with him-not even his friends. He prefers being alone.” Alice said and (y/n), again, rolled her eyes.

“Fine fine. Whatever, it doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen.” (y/n) sighed and her friends laughed, but left the topic alone, for now.

=

[emsuemsu]

I hope you're all doing well and fine and I send lots of love especially for those who struggle in a way or another during the holidays. 💖

Personally I feel a bit indifferent about the holidays; not that many good memories of them, and I’m used to work my way through Christmas (I love the vibes at work on Christmas). This is the first Christmas in over 10 years I’m not with the meemaws and peepaws at work and I don’t know what am I supposed to doooo. Probably read some tooth-rotting holiday fluff laced with some festive smut while downing some glögi, so here we go. Some of these are from 25 days of harry and draco, run don’t walk to check out this year’s (and the previous!) advent fics. So cute, so good. Here's some of my favorites:

The best Christmas he ever had by @gnarf ❄️ 1,965 words

Christmas had never been less appealing to him than this year. That was until Arthur Weasley showed up at his door, dressed as Santa, inviting him to the Burrow.

I'm absolutely weak for the Christmas at the Burrow-trope, and this little story definitely hits all the right boxes. It's warm, adorable, cute, everything you need and more.

be your night by panicparade ❄️ 29,050 words

“Ah, you must be little Teddy Lupin!” Harry frowns, that voice sounds oddly familiar. Shaking himself he turns to face the newcomer, plastering a smile on his face that promptly disappears as he takes in the man in front of him. “Malfoy?” alternatively, The one where Draco Malfoy is a kindergarten teacher and Harry definitely needs to keep an eye on him. Closely.

I strongly feel that a fic with some cute Teddy-content never misses. This fic starts in the fall and continues all the way to New Years Eve and has some disgustingly good fluff and domestic vibes. All in all an easy and cozy read for the holiday season.

Changing with the season by @harryromper ❄️ 36,225 words

Harry's determined the first time he hosts the extended Weasley clan for Christmas will be a success. The Grimmauld Place advent calendar has other ideas ... until Draco shows up to help. A 25 Days of Draco and Harry story.

Adorable, warm, funny, very very festive. Definitely hits all the holiday spirit needs.

The Curious Case of the Disappearing Stockings by @thealmostrhetoricalquestion ❄️ 11,549 words

It's Harry's Eighth Year, he's surrounded by Slytherins, and Christmas Stockings are going missing all over Hogwarts. At the risk of being mocked ruthlessly, Harry won't verbally declare that Malfoy probably has something to do with it, but... well, Malfoy definitely has something to do with it.

This was such a fun little fic. The dynamics between Harry and the Slytherins were amazing, and the stocking fiasco was just too adorable. And there's just something about the holidays in Hogwarts for me personally. Very sweet and endearing.

Eight Drarry Nights-series by @phoebe-delia ❄️ 9 works, 6078 words in total

This is a series of fics based on prompts given to me on Tumblr, one for each night of Hanukkah! The prompts aren't all and don't have to be related to Hanukkah and/or Judaism; some are and some aren't.

This is the perfect series to read at bedtime, having some fuzzy socks on, a warm blanket up to your ears and snow falling silently outside. Like said in the description, all of the little fics are not festive but I think the big picture gives all the holiday vibes I'm craving for.

Forever Was a Lie by @thesleepiesthufflepuff & art by dustmouth ❄️ 22,001 words

After breaking up with Charlie, Harry heads to Rome for Christmas to search for answers to a previous heartbreak. What he doesn’t expect is for Draco, the man who broke his heart five years ago, to be running the bed and breakfast he’s staying at.

Now this is not a traditional holiday fic per se, but a bittersweet, angsty, second chances story that takes place over Christmas in Rome. It has this wistful feel throughout and is right up my alley. I devoured this and it left me feeling all warm and fuzzy in the end. Also the gorgeous art really puts the whole thing together.

The Hogwarts Book of Carols by @p1013 ❄️ 45,991 words

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the place, Not even Kreacher was stirring, too snug in his space; The mantle was empty, not a stocking in sight And Harry had gone to bed for the night; He sat, unhappy, wrapped tight in his bed As visions of loved ones danced in his head; Meanwhile at the Manor, Draco stood in the snow And smoked a cigarette, no light but its glow; Two men, more like boys, distant and sad With only the lonely times that they had. When what to their wondering eyes did appear, But a future so bright, so distant and clear It was just out of reach, a handsbreadth away Unless they both made a choice on this day To take what they wanted, perhaps with a shove Before falling, falling, falling in love.

I felt actual physical pain reading this, watching the years go by and Christmases to pass. But it was a good pain, the kind I crave for especially at this time of year. Slowest of slow burns, endearing, touching and funny friends to lovers holiday excursion. Loved this.

How to Handle Hannukah by Blowfish_Diaries ❄️ 10,445 words

Harry and Draco have decided to cohabitate. And to throw a Hannukah party. Enter latkes, spreadsheets, and Pansy beating everyone at dreidel. This is a fluffy, domestic fic to celebrate the holiday season and add another chapter to the "How to Handle a Matzo Ball Soup Emergency" series.

This is a sequel to the amazing "How to Handle a Matzo Ball Soup Emergency" and one of my absolute favorites along with the first part. I highly recommend to read the first part, but I think this works as a standalone aswell. It's incredibly well-written with fluff to die for and some class a smut, everything you need for the holiday season, even though today the 15th of December I’m posting this is the last day of Hanukkah. A definite must-read along with the first part.

Love, Actually, is All Around by @punk-rock-yuppie ❄️ 9,975 words

"General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed—but I don't see that—seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified, or newsworthy—but it's always there." —Love Actually, 2003 It's Christmastime, and Harry has just started as the new Minister of Magic. It just so happens that Draco works in his office as well, a holdover from Kingsley's tenure. Naturally, love is in the air.

Now hold up. Love Actually is one of my favorite movies and oh how I love this fic. Adorable and cute packed with holiday vibes.

A Melody of You & Me by @academicdisasterfic ❄️ 64,838 words

Draco Malfoy has a Christmas choir competition to win, and Harry Potter has an orphanage that needs funding. When Luna Lovegood intervenes, they agree to help each other out: Harry will join the choir if Draco chooses to sponsor his charity. But agreeing to work together also means getting to know each other again - in new and unexpected ways. Ft. a chaotic festive choir, scheming friends, a healthy dose of mental health issues, one very irritating ex, and boys learning how to love and be loved.

I’m swooning over this fic. It has the perfect ratio of angst, fluff, hurt, comfort, smut and holiday vibes. It made me laugh, it made me cry. It's so incredibly lovely and definitely a must-read every holiday season.

My True Love Gave to Me (Six Jars of Chutney) by @goldentruth813 ❄️ 12,311 words

On his first post-divorce Christmas Eve without his children, Harry goes to Marks & Spencer hoping to find a bit of his past; what he finds instead is a future.

What got to me most in this fic was that little part in the beginning about Harry's trip to London as a kid with Petunia. It really punched me in the gut and got me tearing up. The whole story was sweet and Harry's thoughts and feelings were written out so beautifully.

The Red Jumper by toomuchplor ❄️ 14,907 words

Draco's plans for Christmas Eve are as follows: 1 - Sleep as long as possible 2 - Have sex 3 - Drink wine 4 - Eat too much food 5 - Repeat above It’s just gone eight in the morning when Harry begins to derail Draco’s plans. In which Draco has his first Christmas with Harry, Ginny has (more) news, Albus gets a girlfriend, Scorpius gets in a strop, Lily is a horrible teen, James is unexpectedly an adult, and Harry wears a red Christmas jumper that may once have belonged to Godric Gryffindor, judging by its appearance.

I love this so much. Made me feel so safe and warm and festive, a certified holiday vibe. All the coziness you need this time of year in a pretty little package.

Wrapped by @fluxweeed ❄️ 10,313 words

“Harry,” Draco said slowly. “You understand how Christmas presents work, don’t you?” Harry attempted a smile. “Well, I thought I did until about ten minutes ago.”

The mother of all holiday smut ����

You Make It Feel Like Christmas by gglow ❄️ 52,163 words

At thirty years old, Draco Malfoy has successfully obtained a reputable degree in Ancient Languages, has proceeded to shut himself into the basement of London Library as their Head of Archives, and is wilfully nursing a problematic relationship with a man Blaise eloquently describes as “a sleazy piece of trash”. So yes, he’s got it all worked out, ta ever so. It’s only too bad that when Harry Potter—the youngest Head Auror in a century—happens to need Draco’s help with a case, a string of encounters ensues that turn Draco’s pre-perceptions of him on their head. To make matters even worse, Potter brings Draco tea, and carries his bags, and says things that are much too straightforward for comfort. And if it makes Draco question why he ever hated the speccy git in the first place, well, that’s no one else’s business but Draco’s… right? Will flying South for Christmas spare Draco from heartache? And does it make sense to salvage the dwindling fire with his elusive beau, or will the kindle of a new flame give Christmas a whole new meaning?

This is the epitome of a holiday fic. ALL the feels and more. I was grinning from ear to ear reading this. The flirting!!! Love love love.

[mimisplayground]

hey guys im back (or am i?) anyways lol im multi fandom i think ive said that before lol pls send requests for wut yall want for holidays ok fank u

i feel like a deadbeat dad with yall 😭 leaving for a month or two and coming back bearing gifts

[autisticlancemcclain]

about the jewish pidge fic -- im afraid i really cant be very helpful as my family do things our way and not the proper way as we are not religious (we joke we're only in it for the food). i am the most connected to it because i find religion so interesting while my family hold a sort of disdain for anything god related, so i see myself as jewish-er than anyone else in my family, i think.

however, the internet is dull of so many helpful resources i tried searching "hannukah customs" on google and it gave me plenty of helpful results from various jewish organizations around the world, so they would be a better place to go to for correct and objective information.

sorry i couldn't be more of a help, love ypu and ypur writing and i appreciate that you put in so much effort to portray things well, so thank you ❤️❤️❤️

no no no ur so good!! i had a couple helpful people shoot me some DMs and i’m still doing some reading of my own. unfortunately i’m still slammed with finals so i haven’t finished anything i’m happy with yet, even though it was the last day of hanukkah today (i’m really disappointed with myself about that, actually, i had really been gunning to have it finished by today ://). HOWEVER my finals are done by the solstice so i want to have it done by then at least!!! you will hear from me again soon!!

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

Into The Unknown, Part 47

First

Previous

Marinette calmly packed her bag to go home, putting everything in their designated places in the neatest way possible. She wasn’t particularly neat herself, and honestly she found it a little difficult to get things out when they were organized in that way, but damn if she was going to get judged. She was a good personal assistant, she wasn’t going to let people see her be disorganized in her private life.

“Marinette?”

She glanced up at Bruce, raising an eyebrow. “If you want to give me another assignment, I’m sorry but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Tim hacked my email and I literally cannot access any work stuff outside of 9-6.”

Bruce opened his mouth to say something, a complicated expression on his face, and then he seemed to disregard the thought with a shake of his head. “It wasn’t really about work. It’s about the time off you scheduled for Hanukkah –.”

“Sir,” she groaned. “You already promised to take those days off, too. I can’t afford to spend my entire vacation making sure the company doesn’t keel over. I wouldn’t have time to make latkes and Dami would cry.”

“That’s…” He cleared his throat. “I was inviting you and your family to celebrate one of the days with me.”

She blinked once. Twice.

Oh. That was a lot less terrifying, somehow. Like, sure, she was already exhausted at the prospect of dealing with the man’s eccentricities during her break, but after he had accidentally made her think about all the things he could do to the company if she was gone for a week (for the second time this year), she found herself not all that put off at the idea of spending a day with him.

Besides, the man was rich. Damian deserved so much stuff for Christmas.

“I’ll ask Tim, but we should be able to do that, I guess.”

~

To say Tim was a little stressed as they rolled up to Wayne Manor would be… quite an understatement.

As usual, the gate swung open and he steered his bike inside, and yet it felt so different. There were arms around his waist and a child tucking his face behind his knee to hide himself from the wind. He didn’t veer off the path and through the bushes to the secret entrance. He wasn’t there because he was invited, but because his girlfriend was.

Because his girlfriend was the one to be on the weird adoption pipeline that apparently every iteration of Bruce Wayne had.

And that in itself was enough to make his hands clammy in his leather gloves.

But. On top of that. They were about to face the ultimate test:

Making sure Alfred Pennyworth didn’t suspect anything off about them.

Yeah, no, they were screwed.

From the moment Tim had dismounted his bike to help Marinette and Damian off the bike, he could feel eyes trained on his back. He kept his face purposefully relaxed as he took off his helmet and shook out his hair.

Marinette wasn’t as stressed. She didn’t have that many stakes in this, Bruce and his family hadn’t noticed anything off about her yet – and, besides, she hadn’t known the Bruce from their original reality, so slipping up wasn’t all that likely for her.

Damian wasn’t stressed, either. For obvious reasons. He tugged on Marinette’s hand, trying to force her to go explore the house with him because the garage, while opulent, was not nearly interesting enough for a young child.

Marinette grinned and slumped against the bike, bringing her free hand up to press against her forehead, as if she were feeling faint. “Oh no! Gravity! It has come to claim me! What ever shall I do? I can not go with you!”

Damian’s mouth dropped open in offense. He gave Tim a look that screamed ‘are you seeing this?!’

Tim snorted, temporarily distracted. He shrugged his shoulders. “It is what it is,” he told Damian somberly.

Damian managed to look more offended.

He grinned at his kid. “Fine, fine, I’ll help.”

He took the hand from Marinette’s forehead and pulled. Damian ‘helped’ as best he could, his little face reddening with effort as he dug his sneakers into the ground and tugged at her. She smiled a little as she was ‘forced’ to stand.

Tim grinned, lacing their fingers together. “C’mon, I wanna see if they have an indoor pool.”

He wanted to see how much had changed.

Marinette rolled her eyes. “They have three,” she informed him.

Well, that hadn’t.

But, as Marinette dragged him along to show him to the nearest pool (or, at least, to try to, they were definitely going to get sidetracked by Damian at least once), Tim happened to meet Alfred’s gaze just before he disappeared through the door.

And, in that instant, Tim knew, for he had seen this expression on the man’s face several times before:

Alfred could tell something was up.

~

Marinette and Alfred usually got along. They both preferred it when Bruce’s life wasn’t a mess. Admittedly, this was for different reasons (Marinette didn’t want anything to go wrong PR-wise, Alfred had lots of genuine affection for Bruce), but it was still a common goal.

Now, Marinette wasn’t at work. Now, their goals didn’t align.

Now, they were in a baking competition.

Was it official? No. From the nervous glances being sent their way by the Waynes and the Dupain-Chengs alike, they weren’t even going to get judges.

However. Did they care? Also no.

After all, their families were going to eat. Both she and Alfred were very aware of the fact that no one else was to be trusted in a kitchen, that they weren’t going to starve themselves, that they weren’t going to order takeout when there was food right in front of them. Which meant there was a way for them to tell what people liked best: watch to see what got eaten the most.

Their smiles were stuck on their faces. It looked vaguely unpleasant. If the people in this world had known about the Joker, then their expressions would be compared to that, but the man didn’t exist here so it was instead described as being like ‘something out of a psychological horror movie’.

Alfred kept his eyes on the food he was frying. “I have far more experience in this field, Madame Dupain-Cheng, are you sure you don’t want to leave the cooking to me?”

Translation: I’m better than you, dumbass, give up.

Jason had started biting his fingernails.

Marinette hummed lightly and only just refrained from dumping flour into the dough she was making haphazardly enough to create a dust cloud that would take the old man out for sure. She took solace in the fact that she knew she could do better than him, in both baking and being passive aggressive. She had grown up in akuma Paris, she knew how to give out thinly-veiled insults like candy on Halloween. “Don’t you think you should leave such big feasts to someone like me? Surely, you should be resting.”

Translation: fuck off, you old bitch.

Tim drummed his fingers on his arm.

Alfred’s smile didn’t waver. He did, however, cut the brisket he was making with a little more fervor.

Their families retreated to the far corner of the room to whisper among themselves. It seemed urgent.

Marinette tipped her head to the side, pausing in folding flour into her challah batter while she waited for the rugelach to bake. “Hey, don’t you think it’s a little rude to talk about people behind their backs… right in front of them?”

“Yes, Madame Dupain-Cheng,” Alfred said. “I think they should share with the class.”

Their families looked like they would rather flunk.

And then Damian, master genius and the person that had practically patented manipulating people, tugged on Marinette’s pant leg.

“Oh, hey, Dami,” she said, starting to reach down and pat his head only to realize that doing that while baking for someone that wasn’t her family was unhygienic.

Tim looked down frantically, suddenly realizing that he had lost the child. He mumbled a quiet prayer that he wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.

“What’s up?” She asked, setting down her spatula and leaning down, hands on her knees, to get closer to his eye level.

Damian smiled and reached for her. “Wanna help!”

Marinette tipped her head to the side thoughtfully for a moment before smiling and pressing a kiss to his forehead. She picked him up and sat him on the counter. “Do you remember when I taught you how to knead dough?”

Damian’s face scrunched thoughtfully. Then, he shook his head.

Marinette smiled and dumped the dough out of the bowl. “Then how about I do it again?”

Every person in the room breathed a sigh of relief. Marinette was forfeiting for the kid. Situation neutralized.

Damian watched with rapt attention as Marinette showed him how to knead dough.

Tim walked over and wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, pressing a tiny kiss to her shoulder. “So, you just beat it into submission?”

She rolled her eyes with a small smile. “Terrible way to put it, but yes.”

He snickered against her skin, and the pair of them watched their kid struggle to work the dough in a quiet, fond silence.

~

Sometimes, Tim found himself forgetting what Bruce and Dick were like when he first met them.

He had always assumed that it was Jason’s death that had made them so distant and cold towards each other. What else could it have been? After all, as Tim took up more and more of Jason’s roles, they began to settle down and come to an understanding.

But now, as he watched Dick and Bruce shout at each other over the dinner table (while Alfred quietly cleared up plates in a way that spoke to the normalcy of this), he remembered Jason’s years as Robin. Nightwing had stormed off to Bludhaven, and there were rumors that Dick Grayson hadn’t talked to his dad since he had moved out.

He’d thought that was impossible. After all, they were the Dynamic Duo. Sure, they had their rough patches, but this was…

Well, this was none of Tim’s business, frankly. Tim wasn’t the same kid he had been when he had first started stalking the bats, he wasn’t nearly as optimistic, nor was he blinded by hero worship anymore. Even if he had been, this wasn’t his Bruce and Dick. They didn’t even know him outside of the fact that he was Marinette’s husband. He was set to leave this world in just over ten years, and they wouldn’t care in the slightest. So, neither should he.

Except…

He sighed and gently combed his finger through Damian’s hair. The kid had tucked his face into his arm the moment the screaming had started.

He gritted his teeth and pushed himself to his feet, the chair scraping against the floor loud enough to draw both of the men’s attention, if only temporarily.

“Hey, guys, not during the holidays, okay?” He said. He knew Damian was listening, knew that the kid wouldn’t take kindly to being seen as ‘weak’ or ‘scared’, so he settled for giving a pointed glance to the kid that was clutching his shirt desperately.

The anger burning in their eyes went out instantly. Tim wasn’t sure what had kindled it in the first place, one moment they had been eating and the next they were screaming their heads off. But it was over with now, and that was all that mattered.

Dick took a careful step away from his adoptive father, his hands unclenching, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. Right. Holiday spirit and all that…”

“Yes. Sorry for this,” Bruce said, his gaze finding its way to the window.

It was quiet for a solid minute.

And then Dick clapped his hands together once, a smile in place. “Let’s go into the other room, it’s not Hanukkah without some TV. Bruce, why don’t you help Alfie with the dishes while we get everything set up?”

The man made his way to the door immediately, apparently glad to have permission to disappear. Maybe he wasn’t that different from Tim’s Bruce after all.

Dick ran a hand through his hair, seemingly steeling himself, and then started leading Tim through the house. Tim hugged his kid close as he walked, his fingers combing through his curls in hopes of grounding him.

“Where’re Jason and Marinette?” Dick asked, glancing around.

“They snuck away to go and get Frank.”

Dick raised an eyebrow.

“Our dog.” He felt a tiny tug on his shirt and had to fight off a sigh of relief. At least the kid was still present enough to protest. “Or, well, Dami’s dog.”

Damian nodded once against his chest and then pressed himself closer, as if he thought that, if he just tried hard enough, he might be able to be absorbed by his kinda-dad-kinda-brother.

Tim pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Dick looked away. “I’m… I’m sorry about that.”

“Sorry means nothing after someone’s been hurt, you just have to try not to do it again,” Tim said, giving a terse smile as Dick opened a door for him.

He glanced around the living room. It was the main one back in his reality, and it seems to be the same way here, but it was strange to see it looking like this. In his reality, it had been full of pictures of his family. And, here, it was the same, but gone were the pictures of Cass and Damian, of Steph, of Duke. Of Tim. Gone was the painting they had put up to hide a hole that had been punched into the wall during a playfight. Gone were the bins under the TV labeling what games and consoles belonged to who.

He sunk into a couch and adjusted Damian on his lap to hug him more firmly. Dick faffed around for a bit, touching pillows and messing with the remote uncertainly, until he made the decision to go over to the fireplace.

He squinted at it for a moment before shrugging and tossing a block of wood in, and then he started up a lighter.

But a solid twelve attempts later (marked by the quiet shck of the lighter every time), there was nothing.

Tim was fighting off his amusement. Dick’s face was already red enough from embarrassment, and he didn’t know the man enough to openly make fun of him here.

Thank god he had a kid that could do it for him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a grownup?” Damian said and, though his face was still tucked away in Tim’s chest, Tim could practically hear the disgust in his voice.

And it was unfortunate that Damian was pressed so close, because this meant that the kid could feel the way he trembled with the effort to not to laugh. Or cry in relief. Apparently, the way to get Damian out of a funk was to be so hopeless the kid forgot what he was upset about. Good to know. Also objectively hilarious and on brand.

Dick set the lighter down, now so red it looked like he was going to pop.

But God must have been on his side – in a giving mood for Hanukkah, it seems – because Marinette and Jason chose that exact minute to walk in, Frank at their heels.

In seconds, Frank had darted across the room and came to settle beside Damian, her nose snuffling at his clothes.

Damian giggled a little and tried to bat the curious nose away, but Frank was an unstoppable force and he was pulled just far enough away for Frank to settle her head on the kid’s lap.

The kid blinked down at his dog for a few moments before giving a watery little laugh. He started stroking his dog’s head, his eyes lighting up when she licked one of his hands.

The adults in the room shared quiet, relieved smiles. Jason and Marinette did a tiny fistbump.

The kid would be alright.

~

Marinette and Damian hung back awkwardly as the Waynes went about preparing to light the candles. She had sat herself down on the floor, the kid in her lap and her arms wrapped around him loosely, and her chin atop his head.

And then Damian squirmed in her lap.

She drew back, raising an eyebrow at the kid, and he wordlessly pointed to the menorah.

She blinked once and looked up, then tipped her head to the side. “You… want to join them this year?” She asked hesitantly.

Damian nodded firmly.

She exchanged mildly concerned glances with her boyfriend.

It wasn’t that Tim and Marinette didn’t want to introduce Damian to their religions, they would have been perfectly happy to do so if he was actually their child, but the original Damian had been raised Muslim. It felt wrong to change that. They had been reading up on what they were supposed to do pretty much since the beginning. Thankfully, most of the stuff required of Muslims weren’t things that needed to be done right away, so they had figured they would have time to research and prepare…

But he was young,  and he was expressing interest (or, at least, curiosity), and they didn’t know what to do. They were perfectly happy to entertain the kid’s questions no matter how ‘dumb’ or ‘stupid’, but now they wondered if it was moral to answer him when the questions were like this.

After quite a bit of thought and hesitation, Marinette slowly rose to her feet to go join them. They would have to start introducing Damian to Islamic beliefs once Hanukkah was over.

But, for now, she set Damian on the windowsill beside the menorah – she trusted him to not touch the fire – and quietly bowed her head with him to join the Waynes in prayer.

If nothing else, teaching him to respect and understand other religions was a must.

~

Gift giving was… an experience.

There were several near-breakdowns by the time the night was over. But y’know. Tis is life or whatever.

But he’s getting ahead of himself. Let him go back and explain.

Marinette had been surprised enough that the Waynes had a) remembered that she had mentioned that their family combined Hanukkah and Christmas into a holiday when she had only mentioned it offhand once and b) gone through the effort to get a tree in place. That in itself was almost enough to make her a sobbing mess. It was so strangely thoughtful, so heartwarming that they had remembered that Tim had had to take her aside for a minute to collect herself.

But what she saw next was enough to make her jaw drop:

As they approached the tree, she began to realize just how many presents there were. Hell, even Tim was mildly surprised to find all this stuff there.

“Rich people,” Marinette said, and for once there wasn’t that much disdain to be found in the phrase.

Tim snickered and came to rest his chin on her shoulder. “Rich people,” he agreed, grinning lightly. “Get used to it, you’re practically joining the family now.”

She blushed and gently pushed his face away. “You’re annoying.”

“Yeah. I am. But you love me anyway.”

She hummed a little in quiet agreement, but their attention was quickly dragged away. Because Damian was tugging at the hems of their shirts insistently, trying to get them to move closer to the tree so he could start opening his (apparently) many, many presents.

Tim smiled to himself as they found a place to sit, the fireplace warming their backs (Jason had set it, Dick was too embarrassed to try again).

Damian started literally tearing through the presents. It turns out that Marinette, apparently, talked about both Damian and Tim a lot at work – she had tucked her face into his shoulder to hide her blush there when Bruce had told them about it – and they had had a lot to work with.

Tim ended up getting a camera. He was pretty sure it was a slightly new model of the one that his Bruce had bought for him a few years prior and the comparison nearly sent him into his own fit of tears. Which he had no explanation for.

Thankfully, no one questioned him on it. He wasn’t sure he would have been able to lie and pull The Dead Parents Card in this scenario.

As for the Waynes… Marinette and Tim had gone for more heartfelt things than expensive ones, because there was no way that they could find something for them that they both a) wanted and b) didn’t already have. The pains of buying for rich people. You have to think.

In the end, Tim had helped scrounge up old footage of the Flying Graysons and given a flash drive's worth of stuff to him (which had added to the many near-breakdowns of the day), Marinette had found a first edition book for Jason…

And then they had gotten a planner for Bruce. Because they wanted to be passive aggressive. At least the design on the front of it – a Wayne family photo – was cute.

Frank had been given a couple of toys. How the Waynes had known ahead of time that Frank was going to be showing up to enjoy them, Tim didn’t know, but he would bet money on Alfred. He would also bet money that it was Jason that chose the specific toys, because it had only been a few minutes and Tim was already grinding his teeth to ignore the squeaking of the smiling cactus in Frank’s mouth.

Damian got… everything else. Which included things like stuffed animals and coloring books, but also a couple of actual books and a slew of movies and a game console that looked like it might be this reality’s version of a Switch and…

Tim breathed out a sigh. “God, it’s gonna take so many motorcycle trips to get that to our house…”

Which was how they found out what Marinette had gotten.

Because Bruce smirked and tossed her a set of keys.

Marinette caught them without thinking, and then seemed to think very hard about it, her lips just barely parting in surprise as she stared down at the shiny keys.

She looked up at them with wide eyes. Tim did the same.

“I… I don’t even have a driver’s license,” Marinette said. Which was true in this world. She had let it expire because it wasn’t worth bothering to get a new one when she didn’t have a car to drive.

Bruce shrugged, a tiny grin playing across his lips. “Then make yourself one. I know you can do that.”

Tim and Marinette fought to keep their expressions neutral and confused and... from the look on Alfred’s face, like something had been confirmed to him, it wasn’t working.

“You knew?” said Marinette, her voice a squeak.

Bruce nodded. “Pretty much since the moment you started working at my company.”

Tim suddenly remembered the multiple times Marinette had texted him talking about how Bruce was scrutinizing her. He had assumed it was just how he was when he didn’t have to hide himself behind Brucie in public, or that maybe it was about the promotion she eventually got.

But, no. Apparently he had noticed discrepancies.

Which was insane. Tim had made those fake IDs himself, and he had gotten Marinette to proofread everything, there shouldn’t have been any discrepancies.

And yet here they were.

Stupid rich people and their infinite money and resources. He now got why Marinette held mild disdain for them.

At least Dick smiled and waved off their fears. “Don’t worry, though, we won’t snitch on you.”

Jason sunk back in his recliner. “Yeah, you’re basically the new siblings –.”

Bruce sputtered. He was ignored.

“– and we wouldn’t do that to you. It’d be kinda shi –...” Jason glanced at Damian. The kid had already started on his first coloring book. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he worked, so he definitely wasn’t listening, but Tim and Marinette both broke out of their stupors enough to send warning glares regardless. “... messed up of us.”

Alfred smiled kindly at them. “What the witness protection program doesn’t know won’t matter, will it?”

It took a moment for the pair to process this. They continued to look at each other with wide eyes as they slowly put it all together.

… right. Another world. One without magic. Most people wouldn’t immediately jump to dimension hopping identity thieves.

Tim breathed a sigh of relief. It would be interpreted as him just being glad that they wouldn’t be ratted out and not the realization that their secret was safe that it was.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “We appreciate the thought.”

~

Marinette smiled as she looked out over the room. A tiny nightlight that projected stars over the ceiling allowed her to just barely make out the forms of Damian and Frank, curled up together on the bed. She watched the slight rise and fall of their chests as they breathed for a minute.

And then she gently shut the door until it was open just a crack. In case Damian or Frank needed to come wake them up for a nightmare.

She smiled lightly as she made her way over to the room across the hall.

Tim was laying in bed, scrolling through his phone. He was in danger of dropping it onto his face, but she didn’t worry too much about it as she went about getting ready for bed.

Speaking of… the moment she hit the bed, she gasped.

“Holy fuck. We need to steal this thing,” she told him.

He snorted, letting his phone hand fall to the side. “Or we could just buy a better mattress.”

“You’re no fun. This is why no one likes vigilantes.”

Tim raised an eyebrow at her as she began the usual process of tangling their limbs together, turning onto his side to make it a little easier.

This, of course, led to them both laying on their sides, facing each other, dopey smiles decorating their faces.

“You like vigilantes.”

“I sure do,” she agreed lightly, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

~~~~~

Anyways since yall are here go vote for the maribat awards if you haven't already <3 I know the people who did it and they worked hard so https://href.li/?https://und.qualtrics.com/jfe/form/SV_0SYpcyB7nGdQ9ka

Next

@unoriginalmess @hammalammadamdam @astrynyx @laurcad123 @927roses-and-stuff @toodaloo-kangaroo @queenz-z @imarivers8 @jeminiikrystal @adrestar @twsssmlmaa @literaryhiraeth @trippingovermyfeet @ev-cupcake @its-maemain

[dem0nguy]

Christmas was in full swing at La Résistance headquarters; halls decked with garland, windows adorned with festive curtains, Christmas tree garnished with homemade ornaments.

And all eight of La Résistance’s members, finishing up the decor in the rec room.

Well, all eight of them were in the rec room, but not all eight were decorating.

It was really just Vegan-Su doing all the work, Apocalipsis helping to reach the high places whenever needed.

Brutux and Dr. White sat on the couch, in front of the fireplace/TV playing a video of a crackling fire, listening to Christmas music.

BP and Katani had taken mistletoe, stuck it to a stick with fishing line, and gone around holding it above peoples heads trying to get them to kiss.

Shooter would be lying if he said it wasn’t hilarious

Sheriff was goofing off, per usual. Wandering from person to person, cracking a joke, throwing an insult, getting punched in the face by Vegan-Su when the mistletoe made its way over to them, accidentally breaking an ornament, getting tangled in the Christmas lights—The list could go on.

But Shooter didn’t care about how long the list was, he just cared about the man behind it.

Sheriff, he loved him—

No he didn’t love him. He couldn’t love him. But god did he love him anyways.

Sheriff, and his bright orange hair like that of a fire; drifting out and up, sending scalding embers of his personality wherever he went. Sheriff, and his elegant teal-blue eyes that glow brighter than ice shining in the morning light. Put side by side you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between the two, their beauty unparalleled in the great expanse of winter.

But Shooter could tell the difference.

Shooter knew the deepness of Sheriff’s eyes, like the sky, infinite and beautiful. Full of possibility. He knew the gentle touch of his lightly tanned skin; from the few times Sheriff had sought comfort in Shooter’s arms.

He knew Sheriff’s cockiness, how much of an idiot he could be sometimes. How he could fuck up so badly, yet make it out fine. How he could be so dumb, yet have everything work for him.

But Shooter loved it. He loved everything about Sheriff, from his dumbassary to his sweet giddy smiles.

He only wishes he actually could love him.

Shooter sighs, staring out the window he placed his menorah in. The menorah that Sheriff, had gotten for him. (Alongside enough candles to last all of Hanukah, which makes Shooter doubt that Sheriff had actually found this all on his own.)

“Hey Shoooooooter!” The man in question saunters toward him. Ready to continue his antics.

“You look reallllllll lonely over here you know,” Sheriff teases, “Why don’t you stop being uh…” He thinks for a moment, “damn it, Brutux what was the word again?!”

Shooter can hear Brutux sigh from the other side of the room, “A Debbie Downer?” “What he said!” Sheriff smirks.

Shooter rolls his eyes. He’s such an idiot… “I ain’t bein’ a ‘Debbie Downer’ Sheriff. I’m just thinking.”

“Mhm, bout what?”

Shooter shrugs, red tinting the tips of his ears. You “Nothing much.”

They stare out the window together, barren desert wasteland surrounds the headquarters. It looked the same year round, no matter where you went.

And most of the time, it was hot. Hotter than you’d think it could ever get. The Big Fart sped up climate change, and it hadn’t snowed since then, but it still got fairly chilly this time of year.

Proof of that was last night, up on the roof, when Sheriff pressed into Shooter’s side for warmth against the bitter darkness.

It still made his heart flutter to think about…

“Lovely weather we’re having huh?” Sheriff interrupts his thoughts.

“Beautiful weather,” Shooter chuckles, “Should be expecting snow any day now!”

Sheriff laughs with him, “Man! I can’t remember the last time I saw snow.”

“Neither can I.”

“You lived in the city, didn’t you?”

Shooter nods, “Yeah, our snow weren’t as clean as what you’d get out in the rural parts.”

“You’d be surprised.” Sheriff shrugs, “I remember one time I was playing with the pigs out in the snow, and I swear not five minutes later, all of that snow became mud.” He chuckles, “Ryan came out after a while to play too, and made a point to tell me not to eat the muddy snow. But I think it was a little too late for that…”

Sheriff exhales a reminiscent sigh that begs for the past to come back to him. “I miss that farm, the pigs, and Ryan…”

“Hey, don’t be a Debbie Downer!” Shooter teases, eliciting a smirk from Sheriff.

“You’re right! It’s the season to be jolly after all!” He laughs, before frowning again. “I just wish he was still here…”

Shooter puts a gentle hand on Sheriff’s shoulder. He flinches at the sudden touch, before leaning into it. “You got us Sheriff,” Shooter tries to comfort him, “You got us.”

Sheriff nods, “Thanks Sho—“ mistletoe smacks him in the face.

“Whoops! Sorry!” Katani laughs, moving the mistletoe stick.

Sheriff and Shooter share a confused glance, before looking up.

SHIT—OH MY FUCKIN—SHHHHHHHIITT

Shooters face is what most accurately displays his reaction; bright red. And he knew it too.

“Come on guys, it ain’t gay to kiss your homies!” BP encourages, giggling with Katani.

Sheriff awkwardly laughs, “I mean, he’s right you know?” Shooter doesn’t dare look at him.

Looking at him would make Shooter want to kiss him.

“Come on Shooter, I’m not that bad of a kisser! Swear on it!” Him and his cocky personality, back at it again…

Shooter looks him in the eye, and fucking shit. That was a bad idea. He wanted to disappear into the teal universe that was Sheriff’s eyes, disappear forever in something so beautiful, that it made him a blushing, red, sweaty, shaky, mess.

Every time he dared to meet his gaze.

“Shooter?” Sheriff’s voice draws him out of his mind, prompting him to absentmindedly take a step forward. “Hey I mean, if you don’t wanna do this it’s cool you kn—“

He kissed him.

He actually kissed him.

Only for a split second before pulling back and awkwardly laughing, “You ain’t that bad of a kisser Sheriff, no worries!” He takes a step back, “Ima uh… head off now.”

He hastily walks out of the room, leaving Sheriff in shock, BP and Katani cackling to themselves, and not a single other soul bothered.

Except himself of course.

Because holy shit, he kissed him.

End

I did it yet again, I wrote us some SheriffxShooter content. I was originally gonna make it more fluffy, but I wanted romantic tension so that’s what we get :3

Happy Holidays!

[gallusrostromegalus]

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

If you enjoyed this story, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Funny Stories book on Patreon

[mickyschumacher]

[BREAKFAST IN BED!]

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: the racing season is finally over and lando is more than excited to have you all to himself. or in which lando prefers his breakfast in bed with you as the main course.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+ (minor dni), breastplay, grinding(?), teasing, oral sex/eating out/cunnilingus, fingering, pure moments of fluff because bf!lando is the sweetest, discussion of lando mentally struggling at the start

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: bf!lando norris x fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2k+

𝐀/𝐍: i promised a post before the end of the year and it happens to coincide with a holiday of giving ;) merry christmas and happy hanukkah to those who celebrate it! and happy new year! // as usual poorly proof-read ♡︎ (sorry if it's shitty, i haven't written a full-piece in a while)

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

The season was over. Finally.

Not to be offensive or anything but you had been waiting for this moment for what, this year, felt like forever.

Yes, it was action packed–largely due to the fact that a certain RedBull wasn't winning every race. Yes, McLaren had whipped up the fastest car on the grid to shake things up. And yes, the same team had clinched their ninth World Constructor's Championship.

And while that made you absolutely over the moon, all you had wanted was for some peace and quiet on a random Wednesday morning so you could (maybe creepily) ogle your handsome boyfriend.

Was that too much to ask for?

It had been a tough season for Lando and naturally, as you promised from the very start of your friendship alone–that you would stick by his side no matter what–you had also been through the thick of it.

Convincing Lando to not look at the comments after every session or race had been difficult. You tried your best to remove any negativity that clouded his mind. Some days it worked and some days it didn't.

But that was life. And that was then.

Now you were wide awake at some odd time in the morning, laying comfortably on your stomach with your head turned towards Lando. There was about one degree of separation between the both of you, allowing you to carefully observe him.

Lando was never an early bird. If he was, it would be by some miracle or your upper arm strength pulling him from the sheets. A small smile crept onto your face. You had been friends for years now and together for even shorter. Yet you still couldn't believe that the sleepy bird next to you was yours entirely.

His dark tousled and recently cut curls, the stress lines on his forehead you were always aching to smooth out and comfort with the pad of your thumb, his "perfectly normal sized ears" that you definitely never made fun of, his lovely lashes you were jealous of, and the soft pink lips you couldn't decide whether to touch or kiss.... all yours.

Behind all the stupidity, humour, and claimed 'indifference' Lando sported on camera and with others, you always knew his heart. It was open for everyone and had more than enough love to go around. You were in love with the biggest sap you had ever known.

And on top of all of that, he made it out of that car to you... alive... every goddamn time.

You were luckier than you could ever imagine.

"How long are you going to stare at me, love?" Lando's voice queried, thick with the rasp of the morning and the events of last night.

You slightly widened your eyes, watching him open those beautiful baby blues and land on you. An flustered flush of heat wavered up your skin. You bit your lip before slipping beneath the covers, feeling the warmth envelope your skin entirely. You started with a muttered curse.

"How long have you even been awake, Lan? That's so embarrassing," you chided with a muffled tone.

Unbeknownst to you, Lando couldn't help but grin at your sudden shy demeanour. It was hard for anyone to imagine you as shy but he had seen every side of you. How enjoyable it was that even after all these years, he could tease you and see how flustered you could get. If he had met you when you were kids, this is exactly how he imagined you'd be.

He stretched out his taut arm, grabbing you by the waist. His skin swarmed with heat as he felt your bare waist under your shirt as he pulled you over him. He moved your knees so you straddled him.

He pressed his lips to prevent a full blown smile at what he was seeing.

Your hair was fully covering your face, head down and hands hovering over to hide the tinges of pink and red on your skin.

"Baby... come on, love. Show me your face," Lando encouraged, nudging your hair lightly with the side of his finger. "Come on, baby."

You groaned, lifting your head, feeling all your tresses go back. You blankly stared at your boyfriend with burning cheeks. "I hate you," you mumbled, giving him a small glare.

Lando snorted, putting his hands firmly on your waist. His fingers edged up behind the hem of your shirt, rubbing small circles into your bare skin. "You love me. Someone who hates me wouldn't stare at me so lovingly."

"I–" You tried to open your mouth to retaliate but to no avail as you quickly came to the realisation that he was indeed correct. As Lando usually was with these things.

"Fine. You got me," you sighed admittedly, "I just missed waking up next to you in the morning. Is that such a horrible crime?" You dramatically asked, tease heavy in your voice.

In any other situation, Lando would've narrowed his eyes at your teasing but all he could do was gaze softly at you. You weren't able to travel with him all the time and he wasn't able to spend every day with you. You both knew that. And while it sucked, you had both gotten used to it, cherishing when you were together.

But this year... Lando had spent every living second wishing you were next to him. He wanted you to tell him your god awful jokes. To look at him from across the room and take his entire breath, mind, whatever, away. To drop the fake smiles and rest in your arms with all the time in the world.

"No," Lando whispered, warm eyes travelling over your face, trying to find anything new to memorise. Anything he had missed since seeing you. "That isn't a crime. If it was, I'd be guilty as charged."

Your breath hitched while a small shiver trickled down your body as Lando pushed back a lock of hair behind your ear. You chewed down on your lip before breaking into a smile gently. "I love you, Lando Norris. Forever," you murmured, placing a brief kiss onto his lips.

Lando stared at you hard, far more awake than he had ever been. He lifted his head slowly, holding you close to him. And without a second thought, he brought his lips to yours.

This kiss was different from the others you had shared. Perhaps it was the atmosphere or context that accounted for that different but the need, the love, the softness and the brutal passion was poured into every fibre of your being

Your hands curled around the back of his neck, pulling him tighter while your nose glided against his as Lando only just begun ravaging your mouth. He sucked on your lips with a small nibble here and there, relishing the muffled moans passing your lips.

His own hands continued to travel the path of your body he had committed to memory. He knew as he traversed your heated back exactly where the dark freckles he had come to love were.

Your soft moans became more audible and pleasing to Lando's ears as he curled his lips to your neck, leaving the sloppily yet controlled path of possessive kisses down base of your skin. He could feel your pulse against his skin and God, he wanted to burn it into his brain and save it.

"Lando," you gasped as you felt a sudden jerk underneath you, feeding into the pooling wetness between your thighs. Your teeth sunk into your pillowy bottom lip, your hips automatically responded by grinding down onto Lando's bulge.

"Ah, fuck," Lando cursed, feeling his cock throb in his underwear. His eyes fluttered shut, hands immediately returning to your hips to continue the stimulating pleasure.

You were driving him crazy.

Both of your skin was covered in a thin sheen of sweat as you felt Lando's clothed cock rut into your poorly covered pussy. You rocked your hips harder into him, feeling a slight jolt against your clit. "Oh, fuck, Lando," you moaned his name in his ear, fingers curling into his skin.

Lando opened his eyes, drawing back to capture your face. Your dazed eyes, glowing skin, panting lips, the way your hips bowed towards him... he had missed you. So. Fucking. Much.

"I want breakfast," Lando blurted with a slight gasp as the pleasure rocked through his body.

You stopped moving your hips, body shuddering from the halt. You raised a brow at the sudden desire but shrugged it off considering you were way past breakfast hours and you were only human. "Okay," you responded, about to move off of Lando to head to the kitchen.

Lando reached over, hand pulling your body back towards him, rolling your body so he hovered over you between your legs. "Where are you going?" he tutted, "Breakfast is right here."

You seemed to lose the ability to speak with Lando's hand kneading the flesh of your thighs, implying exactly what he wanted. You breathlessly watched his head move over your body. His tongue lapped at your skin, travelling to any bare patch he could find as though he wanted to feast on you. His warmth made your core tingle as you arched into his touch.

You were positively going to lose your mind.

His hands slid under your shirt, burning your skin until he could fill his palms with your breasts. "Oh baby," Lando moaned, fingers teasing your soft mounds. "I love your tits so fucking much."

A choked cry broke through your lips upon hearing his confession, fingers brushing against your hardened nipple almost painfully slowly. No matter how many times he said it, it set you alight.

"Lando," you moaned loudly, hoping he could read and hear the sound that beckoned him towards your aching core.

He paused, allowing you to take in the heavenly sight of Lando's bare chest, decorated only by the necklace you had gotten him on his birthday last year. In turn, his gaze was only focused on your core.

You tested your lung capacity, taking in a sharp inhale as he pressed his knuckles against your panties, purposely pushing harder against on the ball of your clit. You faltered at the smile sprawling on his face, your hips jolting forward and mouth unable to contain a desperate yelp.

Lando was every inch as desperate as you were, taking no time to waste. His fingers hooked onto your panties and removed them in one swift motion, leaving you bare from the waist down.

Your stomach churned at the sight of Lando nestling his head into your inner thigh, his once light blue eyes now dark and heavy with desire as he inhaled the scent of you. The moan escaping his lips made you shiver.

You were sure you were dripping. You could feel the slick trail down your pussy, glistening in a patient wait to be touched just like you were.

Your eyes fell back to Lando who groaned your name. "I promise to God, I'm going to make you cum so hard that breakfast in bed will be the only option you have," he stated so surely against your skin as his fingers slid from the seam of your entrance to your clit, bundling all your wetness onto his hand.

Oh god.

"Lando, please," you begged shamelessly, legs aching to clench together to relieve the pain of being untouched.

Your legs trembled around Lando's head, his hot breath nearing your pussy while his mouth drew closer. You watched him take you in for the last time before his lips firmly sealed over your aching clit.

The burst of pleasure cut through your body so sharply. Your cry of joy echoed in the late morning, hips bucking against his mouth.

Lando's hands travelled to the outside of your thighs, grasp tightening to keep them spread open on his shoulders. "Keep them open, baby," he ground out.

It took everything in your power to keep your legs from collapsing, particularly as he made his point with another hard to suck to your clit, but you body seemed to follow his command. His mouth returned your wet folds, tongue swirling around every crevice before coming back to the most sensitive part of you, turning you into absolute mush.

Your hands had found their way to those mop of curls you cherished so much, legs trying to conform around Lando's shoulder to welcome any better angle of pleasure.

Your gasp at the sudden dismissal of his mouth was short lived, any chance to complain gone as his fingers pushed into your slick folds, stretching your clenching muscles out.

"Fuck yourself on those pretty little fingers for me, baby. I need you ready for me," Lando encouraged breathlessly as something feral inside of him emerged.

His fingers stroked your swollen walls from the inside, ensuring you felt every inch of them along the sensitive front wall of your pussy while his tongue glazed over every puffy slick fold like you were golden honey.

Lando watched in torture as he pushed his fingers in and out of your walls, your body jerking forward at the sheer pleasure. "That's it, baby," he continued to praise you.

"Doing so well for me, hmm?" He asked, a gleam of your wetness coating his lips. Moving his free hand down your thigh, he gathered your flesh in his fingers before reaching the small bundle of nerves, thumb going in small firm circles.

You were beginning to feel numb. A cold yet hot tightness coiling within your core, waiting to be unleashed. "Lando," you gasped, struggling to keep your head up, "fuck, I–I think I'm going to cum."

"Yes, baby," Lando coaxed, fingers speeding up with every action they had entailed, "Cum for me, please. Keep your eyes open. Look at me, love."

You fought the urge to squeeze your eyes shut, forcing your eyes to travel to those familiar baby blues. All the trillion nerves in your body felt like entangled knots tied by Lando's tongue while his fingers found the sweetest spot of your pussy and held to you that pinnacle.

Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip while Lando held your gaze, tongue sliding, curving up, and pushing in and out of every crevice. Your pussy finally succumbed to the hard pressure, clenching muscles squeezing hard at the sharp pinch of pain.

The pain was explosive, searing, and all-consuming.

You cried.

You cried so loudly you were sure your neighbours would be complaining any minute now.

It didn't matter. Not when the pleasure shooting through you was disproportionately and literally blowing you out of this world as though it had been seated and waiting to be released since the dawn of time itself. Your hips bucked and stuttered while you squirmed and writhed against the bed, the fabric of your shirt sticking to your sweaty skin.

Lando's mouth had never left you through your orgasm, tongue still deep in your folds, savouring all the convulses, shudders, and clenches of your body.

Even better yet, he had watched every second of you falling apart.

And it absolutely drove him crazy.

Lando's hand rushed to catch your falling body, holding you up as a small wave of exhaustion crashed into you. You stared at Lando shiftless, still seeing the faint image of floating stars across his face.

Oh my god.

Lando had broken you with his tongue.

You watched Lando lick his fingers clean as you slowly removed your legs from his shoulders. You lifted your head, pressing a long kiss onto his lips.

Lando grinned, cradling his arms around your body as he pushed you both into the bed yet again. He pushed back your slightly greased hair, caressing your cheek gently. "You okay?"

His query made you feel soft all over. You smiled into his hands and nodded. "Perfect," you chirped, hands hanging over his neck.

"So... breakfast in bed?" Lando offered knowingly as he massaged your thighs gently. You were not walking to that kitchen.

You furrowed your brows. "What about my breakfast?"

Lando wanted to question you but as his eyes followed your gaze, the answer became as clear as the aching bulge underneath his boxers.

"Oh."

© 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

[pathologicalreid]

christmas (baby please come home) | s.r.

in which Spencer isn't home to put his kids to bed on Christmas Eve, but they wake up to a surprise on Christmas morning

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: spencer's first post prison christmas, frankensteined the plot of "surface tension", the same family as "here with me", crying, christmas word count: 3.19k a/n: merry christmas!! this is kinda like my gift to you, mostly since it's been sitting in my brain for forever!!!!!!! i love u all! also happy first day of hanukkah if you celebrate <33

“But Daddy’s not home,” your daughter whimpered as she shuffled under her covers, she looked up at you with wide, curious eyes.

You carefully smoothed out the top of her floral comforter, “I know, baby,” you whispered, reaching up to pinch her cheek affectionately. You’d let them stay up late to watch the Santa tracker, but eventually, Finn fell asleep on you, and Livvy’s yawns were enough to convince you that it was bedtime. “You still have to go to sleep. Santa will come whether Daddy’s home or not, and we’ll just do the gifts from Mommy and Daddy when he gets back.”

At three years old, Olivia was beginning to understand Spencer being gone the same way Eleanor did; she knew his absence was entirely out of her control, and that didn’t sit well with your middle child. You knew you had gotten incredibly lucky when Spencer had been home for Finn’s birthday and Livvy’s had fallen during his sabbatical, but you also knew that you were due for a missed holiday, you just wished it could’ve been Thanksgiving or New Year’s.

You kissed her forehead before leaving, making sure to leave the door open a crack so the monsters wouldn’t get her before you went to Nell’s room. “Hey, honey,” you whispered, closing your eldest’s door behind you before going to sit on the edge of her bed. She had her own Christmas tree set up in the corner of the room, the artificial purple tree providing the glow that her nightlight normally would. “Are you ready for bed?”

Nell was lying on top of her covers, staring at her still ceiling fan as she ignored your question. While Livvy was just starting to understand what it meant when Spencer was gone, Nell understood it best, and she had for years now. She’d understood when Spencer was in prison, and she understood that he was missing Christmas now.

Slowly, you laid down next to your daughter, propping your head up on the bed and smoothing her hair back. “It’s still Christmas,” you tried to reassure her, but part of you knew that it was a thankless effort, there was nothing you could tell her that would fix her father’s absence. “We can call Dad in the morning while we open presents,” you offered, hoping she’d appreciate you coming halfway. “If he’s not busy, maybe we can video chat, and you can show him everything Santa brought you.”

“It’s not the same,” she told you, furrowing her brows and turning away from you on the bed.

Sighing, you pressed a kiss to the back of her head, “I know, Nellie. I know it’s not fair that he doesn’t get to be here for Christmas, but Daddy will come back.” There was a sense of urgency in your voice; you were afraid that if your five-year-old lost the joy in Christmas, you’d somehow failed her as a mother. “He’ll be home for your birthday, I promise,” you whispered.

“You can’t promise,” she reminded you, knowing that you and Spencer were generally very specific about your promises, leaning toward the ‘I promise I’ll try’ variety.

You hummed in response, “I’d pinky promise you that. Dad will be home for your birthday.” You held up your pinky finger, waiting for her to roll over and reciprocate.

Eleanor rolled over, holding up her pinky finger while brown eyes watched you apprehensively, “Okay,” she breathed, hooking your fingers together and kissing them.

As soon as Spencer told you about the bureau’s contingency to him returning to the BAU, you’d done the math. Eleanor’s sixth birthday would fall near the beginning of his next sabbatical, so you didn’t hesitate to make this promise. “It’s time for bed, my girl,” you whispered, smiling at her softly as she pulled the sleeves of her Christmas pajamas over her hands. “Santa can’t come if you’re not asleep,” you reminded her, sitting up on the bed and getting up, tucking her purple comforter under her chin before you made your final stop of the night.

You’d brought Finn to his room before getting the girls settled, but now that you knew they were alright, you came back to his room. The white noise machine was going, and he was fast asleep in his crib. His pacifier, which you were trying to wean him off of, had fallen from his mouth and onto the sheets, so you set it to the side. To you, the second Christmas was always more exciting than the first, now that he was fourteen months old, he had the dexterity to help open presents.

Ruffling his hair, you kissed him goodnight, just like you’d done with the girls, and you left his room, closing the door so that no one would disturb the light-sleeping baby.

There was a late night ahead of you, but first, you settled yourself onto the couch in the living room and pulled out your phone. Upon opening your messages with Spencer, you couldn’t help but be disappointed to find that there was nothing unread. You thought about sending him a text telling him that you all miss him but eventually decided against it. You didn’t want to make him feel guilty. At least, no more guilty than he likely already did.

You turned on the TV, quietly playing a Christmas movie as you began the festivities. All of the gifts had been expertly hidden in the master bedroom, split between being shoved under your bed and in your closet, but a new playhouse for the girls had been dropped off earlier. It was too big for your room, so your parents had stored it in their basement in the interim.

That would be a struggle to bring in from the garage, so you decided to start small, pulling all of the kids’ stockings from their hooks and laying them out on the floor before going upstairs to get the stuffers.

With the movie playing, you filled the stockings with treats and little toys. A few times you imagined your phone buzzing, but each time there was nothing on the screen. The loneliness started to set in as you rehung the stockings, making sure the kids’ names faced forward above the fireplace.

This wasn’t your first Christmas alone, Spencer had been in Idaho for Olivia’s first Christmas, but neither of the girls remembered it.

They’d remember this one, you thought to yourself, walking back up the stairs to grab a load of boxes. Thankfully, they were already wrapped, but you did have to avoid getting ribbon in your mouth as you carried the armful of gifts down the stairs.

Masterfully, you adjusted them beneath the tree, trying to visualize where they’d all end up in the end as you heard something distantly, but you brushed it off as someone leaving your neighbor’s holiday party. You stood up, wiping your hands on your pajamas as you evaluated your handiwork, shrugging before you turned around for the next load, “Oh,” you breathed, watching the handle on the door from the garage turn.

The door opened slowly, revealing your husband on the other side, his black peacoat draped over his arm and purple scarf looped around his neck. He hooked his car keys on the key hook before he noticed you, brown eyes finding your pajama-clad figure. His lopsided smile was all-knowing as always, he knew he had surprised you. In fact, it had been his goal.

You remained exactly where you were, watching him from the den as he put his shoes away and hung up his outerwear. It was almost as if you’d convinced yourself he was a mirage, and any sudden movements would cause his visage to dissipate. “Hey,” Spencer said, cocking his head at you as if he were confused why you hadn’t come any closer to him. He peeked around you to look at the tree, “Did the kids get to bed okay?”

Instead of answering him, your body naturally responded to what seemed like the miraculous appearance of your husband by producing tears. At first, they just welled along your lash line, but as they started to fall, you buried your face in your hands.

Spencer was there, not only in the house but also taking the initiative to approach you, he wrapped his arms around your torso, taking your tearful form under his care, “Is everything alright?” He asked, slowly dragging his hand up and down your spine, humming as you reciprocated his embrace and pressed your face into his shirt, drying your eyes and taking in the moment.

“Everything is wonderful,” you responded, your voice muffled by his shirt. He smelled like stale dark roast and the jet, but you were too relieved by his arrival to truly mind.

Tightening his grip briefly, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, “Right, well. You’re crying, so I had to make sure,” he murmured, swaying gently to the music coming from the film.

You loosed a breath of relief, “I can’t believe you’re here. The kids were miserable at bedtime, Nell wouldn’t even talk to me until I told her you’ll be home for her birthday,” you informed him, keeping your arms wrapped firmly around him while you tipped your head back to see him.

Spencer nodded in understanding, reaching up a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “We made the arrest at eight and wrapped up around nine. Somehow, Emily convinced the pilot to leave in the middle of the night, and we were on the jet by ten. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve spent holidays in worse places, but I’d rather be here with you than in Milwaukee.”

“I will kiss Emily Prentiss on the mouth,” you told him candidly.

He raised his brows curiously, “Mhm, and what about me?”

Grinning, you pushed up on your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his, an amalgamation of a welcome home and a Merry Christmas kiss, but you pulled away before you could get carried away. “Merry Christmas, Spencer Reid, we have work to do,” you told him, taking on a mock seriousness as you nodded your head toward the Christmas tree, which only had a fraction of your kids’ gifts beneath it.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” Spencer reciprocated, pressing one more kiss to your lips, “Let’s get started.”

Spinning out of his grip, you found you had much more pep in your step with his arrival, beaming as the two of you went through the house as quietly as possible, gathering the gifts for the kids without rousing any suspicion. Even grabbing the playhouse from the garage didn’t seem like as much of a task with him around.

You adjusted the stockings as it neared two in the morning, Spencer returned from upstairs with the last few gifts, having changed his clothes into pajamas that neatly matched yours—a family set that was a gift from your Penelope. “They look great,” Spencer assured you, pushing his glasses up on his nose as he stood back, admiring your handiwork.

Walking backward until your back was against your chest, you tilted your head to the side, appraising the mountain of gifts beneath the tree, “Do you think we went overboard this year?” Between the gifts from Santa and the gifts from the two of you, the heap was rather intimidating.

“No,” Spencer answered, “bigger kids, bigger gifts.” He put his arms around your waist, resting his chin on top of your head, “besides, they’re good kids.”

You hummed in response, leaning into him ever so slightly. Part of you felt like Spencer was still experiencing guilt surrounding the three months he spent away from you and the kids while he was in prison. No amount of time at home or therapy would ever absolve him of that guilt, but it never hurt to try, “Hey,” you whispered up to him, “I got you something.”

He frowned down at you, “I thought we said no gifts this year?”

Scoffing, you walked over to the home office, “We say that every year and neither of us ever stick to it, so go get whatever it is you got for me.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, but even so, he made his way upstairs to where you knew a gift was hiding in his bedside table. Upon his return, he faltered at the large box you’d placed on the coffee table and held up the small box in his hands; you beamed at him as he eyed the behemoth of a present.

He handed you the smaller box, instinctively, you admired the wrapping before starting to open it, recognizing the jewelry box before you had even discarded your wrapping paper. “Oh, Spence,” you said, looking at the necklace in the box, a dainty chain with five small gemstones on it. His birthstone and yours, followed by Nell’s amethyst, Livvy’s sapphire, and Finn’s tourmaline all strung next to each other, “it’s perfect,” you told him, lightly touching the gems with your fingertips. You’d mentioned wishing you had an everyday necklace a few weeks ago while getting ready, and he must’ve been listening more attentively than you’d thought.

Finally, you had him open his gift, and he was entirely speechless as he opened the cardboard flaps. His mouth gaped as he lifted one of the books in his hand, the title and edition identical to one that had been previously ruined in your house. “Fuck,” he cursed, looking from you to the books and back again.

You shrugged, “It’s not all of them, but a pretty good amount of them. Some of those editions are proving difficult to recover, but I’ve—” You’re cut off, startled by Spencer pressing his lips to yours. “I’m still looking for some,” you said breathlessly once he pulled away.

Spencer seemed unsure of what to do with himself; you’d managed to find replacements for three-fourths of the books that had previously been burned by an accidental fire set earlier this year. The only time your marriage had ever been on the rocks was when Diana lived with you, but even then, you’d been planning this surprise. “You are…” Spencer started, uncharacteristically at a loss for words, “This is incredible,” he told you, shaking his head in disbelief, setting the book down in the box and nearly tackling you in a hug.

Laughing, you buried your face in his shoulder to muffle the sound, “I love you,” you murmured to him, his body now next to yours on the couch.

“I love you too,” he said, looking at you with glassy eyes. “Wow,” he said, sniffling, “I need to get you something else. A necklace isn’t enough,” he told you, likely already thinking of options for addendums.

You shook your head, “Trust me when I tell you that your being here is worth all of the rare books in the world to me,” you reassured him, running your fingers through his hair. Humming, you adjusted your head on the pillow, “Are you gonna fall asleep like this?”

He nodded, “If you keep playing with my hair like that. How long do you think we have until they wake up?” He asked, keeping his eyes closed while you peeked over him to check the time.

Last year, Finn had woken up the whole house on Christmas Day at four in the morning, and seeing as it was nearing three, you wondered if it was worth sleeping at all. You continued combing through Spencer’s hair, “Do you want to go upstairs?”

“This is a really great couch,” he mumbled, already falling asleep on the couch, leading you to grab the blanket that was thrown over the back and haphazardly drape it over the two of you.

Unfortunately, it felt like you’d gotten no sleep at all when you heard the first stirring upstairs, “Mommy,” Olivia called out, which would likely wake up Finn and Nell.

You got up from the couch, waking up Spencer in the process. Your poor husband, who was probably already running on little sleep, got up and folded the blanket you had been using, returning it to its home while you went upstairs to get the kids.

Livvy’s eyes went wide when she saw you come from downstairs, “Did Santa come?” She asked you, nearly bouncing with excitement.

As you expected, the door to Eleanor’s room swung open, revealing your sleep-deprived five-year-old in her rumpled pajamas, “Yes, Santa brought gifts for everyone,” you answered, ruffling her hair before going into Finn’s room, hoping to wake him gently before the voices did a less delicate job. “Hi buddy,” you whispered, looking back to see the girls gathered at the door, completely unaware that their dad was waiting for them downstairs. “Merry Christmas,” you said softly, his scrunched face not processing what you were saying, but happy to see you, nonetheless.

You picked him up from the crib and herded the girls to the stairs, letting them lead the way down while you carried the baby. Right behind them, you watched the realization dawn on their faces as soon as they caught sight of Spencer, “Daddy!” Nell shouted, leading her little sister as they ran to him.

Laughing lightly, you let a squirming Finn down, running to Spencer in the same way the girls just had. From a distance, you watched as all three of your kids entirely bypassed the gifts under the tree and on the mantle and went straight to what was more important—their father was home for Christmas.

Spencer crouched down to get Finn, and at the same time, Livvy jumped in excitement, leaving Spencer falling backward and sitting on the ground while the kids formed a less-than-graceful dog pile on the floor. You took that as your cue to join in on the festivities, kneeling on the floor next to the familial pile, uncontrollable giggles emanated from everyone involved.

You wrangled the two littles in your arms, giving each of them dozens of kisses and receiving more laughter in return as Eleanor settled down. Your eldest took her moment of alone time and laid her head on Spencer’s chest, the grin on her face overtook the rest of her face, “Best Christmas ever,” she whispered before rolling off of him, Spencer instinctively lifting his hand so she doesn’t hit her head on the leg of the coffee table.

Nellie sat up giving you a toothy grin, sticking her tongue through where she was missing a front tooth. Everyone took notice of Olivia pointing at the tree, her mouth shaped like an “o” in awe, “Can we open that one?” She asked, pointing to the largest present in the stack—which, of course, had her name on it.

“Stockings first,” Spencer said, leading to a pout from your middle child, but it was quickly wiped away when he kissed the crown of her head. Your husband got up first, taking Finn from where he was tucked into your side, and set him on his hip, “Okay, who wants their stocking?”

Everyone’s hand went up—including yours.