#i meant to dig around and find this and post it before Christmas

[phyrestartr]

Icarus Drabbles (Pt.2) | Sukuna x M!Reader

W/C: 3.7k [#Modern AU, ABO dynamics, bottom!reader, top!sukuna, Mob Boss!Sukuna, Alpha!Sukuna, Street Doctor!Reader, Omega!Reader, toxic relationships, age gap, sukuna is mid 30s, yuuji gang and reader are mid 20s, sukuna and yuuji are brothers, sukuna has FEELINGS, but he is BAD AT FEELINGS, nsfw, fluff, hurt/comfort, cheating, zenin family mentioned, lightly edited lmfao]

Note: There will prolly be a third drabble thingie lol I just wanted to post SOMETHING

tag: @better-imagination-9

1. Restless

Sukuna finally bagged you, the omega he pined over and hunted down for over a decade, and knocked you up, made you move in with him to ensure he could keep an eye on you and that growing baby bump. His alpha had rejoiced, running its victory lap around Sukuna’s chest, but then it slowed, yawned, and curled up, satiated. 

Now, his human side was left to its own devices, and it was bored. 

Probably because you were boring. Or, well, you’d become boring–you and your omega seemed more in-tune with one another, both settling down as soon as you both agreed on staying with Sukuna, with your mate. To Sukuna’s human instincts, that meant you were about as exciting and fun as doing his taxes. Yet, at the same time, he couldn’t fathom letting you go. Whenever the hypothetical crossed his mind, that second set of eyes would open and stare, tear bared, anger rippling. And Sukuna would agree with it. He didn’t want to lose you, yet he didn’t always want you either. 

And he was bored. 

“Hey,” you cooed, leaning over his shoulder as he stared into space on the couch. “You okay?”

Sukuna blinked a few times and rubbed his face tiredly, finding himself growing pissed off at the dull delight your presence brought him. “Yeah, ‘m fine. Need something?”

“Well, Christmas’s coming up,” you reminded. “Wanted to make sure we were still–”

“Can’t.” Bitterness rose in the back of Sukuna’s throat. God, he didn’t even want to look at you right now. “Gotta work.” He finally spared you a glance, but only after a long stretch of silence. You didn’t look perturbed or mad, not really sad or disappointed, just…placid. 

You looked at your phone, staring at something just for a moment before returning back to him with a slight nod of acceptance. “Alright.” 

Sukuna's other bristled. “Alright.” 

“I knew you couldn't really be taken ‘n tied down, Sukuna-sama,” Yorozu cooed as she cozied up into the spot between the man's legs, her hands smoothing up and down his thighs before deftly unlatching his belt and ripping it off. “You're too good for that sort of life.” 

“Don’t you have somethin’ better to do with that mouth?” The nice part of Sukuna asked. The less nice part of him wanted to rip her head off and punt it at the stupid fucking moon. Luckily for her, he was trying not to throw as many things at the horizon these days. 

Yorozu's eyes shone with pure delight. “Oh, of course, of course.” She unzipped his slacks expertly quick and pulled free his half-chub, excitedly stroking it to get him to full-mast. 

Sukuna sighed and sank back in his chair, trying to focus and enjoy the attention and spice he so sorely missed, but it was hard. Well, not hard, which was the problem–his mind wasn't finding this (cheating, getting a blow job at his desk, having a woman with tits on his knees for him) exciting. Thankfully, though, his body reacted in his mind's stead, and decided to not embarrass him. 

He closed his eyes and focused on the small hands grasping his base and holding his thigh–but your bigger, stronger hands held him better, digging in without the lethality of acrylics threatening harm. At least her mouth was warm, her lips soft--but your lips were soft, too, and you knew where he liked to feel your tongue press down. Her hair was silky and thick enough to fist his hand in–but yours was just…better. He couldn't describe it, but–

Knock it off, he growled. He needed a break from you, from how mundane you made everything, that was the whole fucking reason he ditched you in the first place. You were boring. You were making life boring. You–

What were you up to, actually? 

Sukuna sighed, this time in defeat, and snatched up his phone while Yorozu gave him head. He scrolled through whatever socials he knew you had, but saw nothing new, nothing Christmas-y. 

Who the hell is he visiting again? He looked to the side, gazing through the huge windows looming behind his desk as he thought, and then remembered. 

Sukuna tapped open your text thread and grimaced–it was so blatantly one-sided. The sight of his flippant convo-killing responses hit him with a wave of psychic damage that probably couldn't be fully healed for as long as he lived. He wasn't a fan of texting, but he was a fan of you. But-wait, didn't he loathe you?

5:05am went to see my mom for christmas

5:05am getting picked up dw

5:06am hope work doesn't suck too much

Right. You went to see family. Right. Sukuna was supposed to meet your mother. 

Damn.

“Fuck's sake,” Sukuna muttered moments before fisting his hand in Yorozu's hair and pulling him off his softening cock. “We're done.” He stood and tucked himself away, ignoring the indignant scoff the woman sent his way. 

“Sukuna–” 

“Leave.” He sent a text your way instead of tuning in to whatever Yorozu said as she picked herself up off her knees:

10:49pm When should I pick you up?

Of course he was gonna pick you up. He wasn’t about to let someone else take care of you for a second longer. 

“Clearly you're unhappy,” Yorozu finally cut in. 

Sukuna saw a read notification pop up in the chat. 

“Clearly that other one isn't satisfying you fully.” 

He watched the three dots pop up as you replied back. 

“After he has your pup–”

10:52pm you can come now

10:52pm if you're free 

“--you should reconsider your choice in mate–” 

Bang.

10:53pm Send me the address.

He stepped over her and the pooling crimson on his way to the door, texting Uraume to call the cleaners to take care of a mess in his office while he went to pick up his baby mama. 

Picking you up had been eventful.

Firstly, Maki and Mai had refused to open the gate for Sukuna in favour of mocking him and exclaiming, “are you kidding me? You're the baby daddy?” while incessantly prodding him for information. You'd managed to bat them aside to let him up to the house, though it took some effort on your part. 

Next, Toji Zenin himself was waiting at the front door, arms crossed, totally unbothered, dressed in his hideous Christmas jumper that his woman had apparently made him wear as punishment for something. Sukuna ribbed him, hiding just how confused he was about the entire thing–he didn't fucking get why there were so many Zenin assholes here. The outcasts, sure, but what the fuck was that about? 

“Oh. Toji's my stepdad,” you said when you had finally squeezed your dragon's hoard of gifts into the car and got in the damn thing to go home. Sukuna left it at that for the time being–he didn't want to think about what the fuck that meant now that the two of you were together. He had time to ask a thousand questions another day.

His mind still whirred in the elevator, though, and when he helped carry your only-child gifts into the penthouse like a servant put under a spell. You said something to him that he only realized a solid fifteen minutes later was, “I'm taking a bath. There's room for two,” and a fire suddenly lit under his ass. 

“Huh, so you can bear to look at me,” you hummed from the bath. It was large and oaken, filled with yuzu thanks to Uraume's thoughtfulness, and it overlooked snowy Tokyo and all its bustling, light-filled glory and–wait, what.

Sukuna scoffed as he pulled off his clothes methodically. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

You watched him undress shamelessly. “It means you still have lipstick on your dick.” You poked away one of the yuzu that bumped into you. “It's not really my colour.” 

Sukuna clenched his teeth and kicked aside his clothes before grabbing the showerhead to wash off before joining you because he was going to join you. No matter the case. No matter the objection. 

But you never objected. You leaned back in the tub and watched him while you rolled another yuzu between your palms. “Did you have fun fucking her?” Fuck, you could be so scary sometimes. And you didn't even have to try.

Sukuna found it hard to answer. He found it hard to even speak. Christ, was this shame? “Look–I didn't fuck her. Didn't even get close.” 

“So she just sucked your dick.”

“Tried. Didn't finish. Couldn't.” 

“So sad. Why not?”

“‘Cause she's not you.” Sukuna finished with the shower and slipped into the bath, sitting across from you with a content sigh. “You give better head.” 

“That went from being somewhat meaningful to annoying,” you grumbled. Still, you scooched over to him and pressed up against his side, clearly in the mood to forgive his stupid little attempted fling. “So. Then you're sure about this.” 

“Sure about what?” Sukuna wondered, suddenly feeling more at ease with the rich scent of you pooling through his senses. He leaned into you when you carefully smoothed his hair out of his face with that usual, simple gentility he'd come to desire so desperately every day. “Sure about you?” 

“Yeah. Us. Everything.” You nuzzled at his neck, dutifully scenting him up with kisses, nips and licks. “You started pulling away like a pussy, so I figured you regretted it.” 

Sukuna had to laugh. “You're callin’ me a pussy?” He half-growled before yoinking you into his lap and squeezing you up against him. His grin widened when he saw you hold back a smile. “I think you should apologize.” 

“You cheated on me with your stalker. Why do I need to apologize?” 

“You hurt my fuckin’ feelings.” 

“Oh. Hm. I see.” Your fingers, bigger than a woman's yet still elegant as a piano player's, danced across his firm shoulders in thought. “I think you need to have feelings for me to hurt them.” 

His hands found their rightful place (on your ass) and kneaded your skin thoroughly, squeezing and pinching wherever he felt most enticed. “You know I have feelings, sweetheart. Why do ya think you're here in the first place, huh?” 

Your scent flared with bashful approval. “Guess that's good to know. These days, you've left me wondering.” 

Sukuna grew placid gazing upon your features, listening to your words. If he really tried, behind that diamond mask of nonchalance most Zenin brats wore, there existed soft, vulnerable skin--tired and ragged, worried and creased. He'd done that to you. Why had he done that to you? 

He lifted a hand from your curves to cup your face gently, his touch breaking through the shields you so bravely put up to tell the world to fuck off. And you leaned into that touch so eagerly, so hungrily, with a sigh that sounded like you just remembered how to breathe. 

“‘M sorry,” Sukuna mumbled. The word felt foreign on his tongue. He didn’t know if he even said it right.

Your eyes squeezed shut just a little tighter, holding onto whatever you could of your crumbling shell as your hand rose to rest on his. “You know I love you,” you said while diamond dust turned to quicksilver.

Sukuna wiped the glimmer from your lashes. “Love you too, runt. Mean it.” Those words still felt strange, too, but he loved those words. He loved the way they made you glow from within, how they solidified you and stopped you from collapsing into a melted mess in the face of his betrayal and swift try at redemption. 

You nodded a little, the hard line of your mouth softening. Sukuna relaxed and hugged you close to him, purring deep in his chest in rhythm with you as you wholly accepted him in return and buried your face into his neck. He did the same, scenting you the way you had him, enjoying your company and weight against him. Because he loved you. He really did. 

So, he said once again, “Sorry.”

2. Family Matters

“Sukuna,” Wasuke warned. The attention of the younger alpha, leaning against the counter, was on you as you yapped on about this and that with his little brother.

Sukuna grunted and looked over his shoulder at the old man, though, silently and curtly asking, what? even though he already knew what was coming.

“Leave that boy alone.” 

Sukuna stared at his grandfather. It'd become more and more common, the way the young man challenged his elder, maintaining hostile eye contact that threatened the beginning of the end if the older broke first–but he never did. The old fuck was too tough. Molded by whatever his own colourful irezumi put him through. 

Once, when he was younger, Sukuna wanted to know how to break his elder. He wanted to crack him open and rip those secrets from him, find out how he could use that knowledge to his advantage to never feel so small in the eyes of another ever again. He hated it. He hated the dominance held over him, the humility that came with it. 

But, like always, Sukuna broke first, looking away with a grumble, reinforcing his place in the food chain.

Sukuna sighed. The old house was the same–far too traditional, too plain, too normal. It irked him to his core. Here, amidst all the boring normal shit of his past, his status in society no longer mattered; here, he forfeited first place, and took up second.

“Hey,” came your voice, muffled by the car window separating you from your lover. When Sukuna looked over at you, he saw his little nugget tucked safely in your arms, only half-awake as she nuzzled into the warmth of your chest. 

But then there was you. A face full of confusion, annoyance, and exasperation greeted Sukuna. You went for the door handle to wrench your man out of the car, but he locked it, watching you yank on the handle a handful of times before you knocked on the window incessantly. 

“Get out of the goddamn car, you little shit,” you hissed, looking between Sukuna and the front door of the house frantically. You stared at him hard, then, your frustration building every second your alpha refused to budge and end the embarrassment crashing down on you. 

A terrifyingly calm expression took over your face, before you adjusted the little pup in your arms and fished something out of your pocket. Sukuna didn't realize what it was until you leaned over and slammed your fist into the hood of the car, tearing into it easily with the fucking key in your hand. 

“You gotta be shitting me–” Sukuna scrambled to unlock the door and swing it open. He hopped out and slammed the car door closed. “You little–” 

“Oh, good, you found your balls.” 

Sukuna groaned as he looked at the damage you left. “Baby, you know how expensive this is gonna be to fix? Fucking hell, why're you such a crazy bitch?” 

“Well, look who I'm stuck with,” you said lightly. “Obviously you've corrupted me. It's not my fault.”

Sukuna grumbled and turned to you, grabbing you and pulling you close; but instead doling out a punishment as his past self was so accustomed to doing, he aggressively nuzzled the top of your head, viciously scenting you up and squeezing you against his solid frame while he grumbled and growled. 

“I'm splitting you in half when we get home.” 

You sighed, dramatic. “Oh no. I'm so afraid. But I guess I deserve such a brutal punishment. Sigh.” You nuzzled him back before tiptoeing up to kiss his chin, then his lips when he leaned down to meet you the rest of the way. “Ready?” 

Sukuna took a deep breath and looked over your face, running the back of his fingers against the rise of your cheekbone. He loved touching your face these days (more than usual). You still held onto a bit of pregnancy plushness that filled in the hollow angles of your handsomely beautiful face and other once-bony parts of your body. You'd never panicked about it, but you bitched and moaned, loudly lamenting about the way your clothes fit a little differently or how you just had to keep stealing Sukuna's shirts to replace your own. 

Touka, your little one, mewled from her spot smooshed between her parents. Sukuna sighed as he pulled back to look down at her, hoping she'd take most the heat off of him when he faced his grandfather again. 

“Let's just get this over with.” 

Yuuji was the one who answered the door. He lived with Wasuke, claiming it was just easier and cheaper than getting his own place, but most knew the younger was a worry wart; he couldn't stand by and let his grandfather get put in a home or quietly tough out everyday life on his own in his elderly years. Yuuji stayed for the sake of family, and Wasuke quietly welcomed it. His brother's goodness nearly struck Sukuna with guilt. 

But any chance at guilt died the moment he met the old bastard's stony gaze. 

“Itadori-san,” you cooed pleasantly, a far cry from the demon that'd keyed Sukuna's car. “It's good to see you again.” 

Wasuke quirked a brow and walked up to you, nudging Yuuji aside so he could get a good look at you and the pup nestled to your chest. Sukuna took a breath and looked away. He didn't need to see the critical stare of the old man while he processed the fact that Sukuna had indeed not stayed away from you. Ugh, the idea of being scolded made the alpha itch. 

“We're far beyond honorifics, boy. You know that,” Wasuke lightly scolded, and you beamed. Sukuna could imagine a little shiba inu tail on you, wagging fast enough to take flight. “I'm glad to see you in one piece after taming my grandson. It must've been a damn ordeal.”

Yuuji cackled impishly, pointing at Sukuna. “Oooh, burn.” 

“Sorry, who got the omega in the end?” Sukuna quipped back, making Yuuji sprout a grumpy look and cross his arms with a mumbled you suck. 

“Quit the fighting and come in,” Wasuke ushered. “And you,” he snapped, looking at Sukuna with chronic disapproval, “Take off those sunglasses. You're trying too hard. Look like an idiot.”

You stifled your laughter as Sukuna grumbled and plucked his shades off. His very cool, very neat, very fancy, very expensive shades.

Wasuke ushered you all inside, gesturing to the kotatsu prepared with food and drinks and starting off on a grumbling rant about the shitty cold mornings and warm afternoons that came with Spring. Obviously, he'd complained to break the ice, and it worked. 

Small talk turned into easier conversation. Whenever Sukuna seemed to struggle with being cordial, you would lean into him more, squeezing his hand tightly whilst purring under the radar. That worked, too. As much as Sukuna was an asshole, he didn't want the afternoon to fall apart. Better he stay quieter than say something to regret. 

“They've calmed you down,” Wasuke said, snapping Sukuna's mind to attention. It was then that he finally noticed Yuuji had effectively kidnapped little Touka and was giving her a tour of the house like she actually gave a shit. 

“Hm?” He grunted, so eloquent. 

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, leaning into your partner more with a sigh. “Words, not grunts, Sukuna.”

He huffed. “You grunt at me all the damn time.” 

“Not at our elders.” 

“Tch.” Sukuna rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Whaddaya mean they've calmed me down, huh?” 

Wasuke, for once, looked somewhat amused. “Your pup. Your mate. They've made you human.” 

“Ha? You're actin’ like I was some four-armed, two-faced freak or some shit.” 

“Some days you acted like it,” Wasuke scoffed. “Doesn't matter if you agree or not, I can see the change in you, kid–that wild thing inside of you is finally settling down.”

You hummed and looked up at him. “I've noticed, too. You're less pissy. More tolerant. Still annoying, but that's just a personality flaw.” Sukuna growled and nipped at you, but you faced him so very bravely and suffered no such nip. 

“I'm glad for you, kid,” Wasuke interjected, breaking up the petty fight that was about to go down. The two of you looked back to the eldest. “You were a real pain in the ass, and you fucked up a lot along the way, but you made things work out. You should be proud.” 

Sukuna would never be able to put his feelings, the utter rush he felt getting his grandfather's approval, into words. 

“So where does this end, kid?” Wasuke asked. 

“What?” He asked before he could properly think it through. 

“This life. Your ‘profession.’ How long're you gonna keep that up, huh?” 

Sukuna could feel you lean into him more, letting more body weight ease your shared worries about the life you shared and the professions you'd taken up. Both unpredictable. Both in the crosshairs of dangerous beasts.

“You think we'll end up six feet under like mom ‘n dad, that it?” Sukuna rasped. He looped an arm around your waist and squeezed you against his side in reassurance as Wasuke's expression grew gloomier.

“You're more like your mother than you know, kid. You don't–”

“‘Course I don't know,” Sukuna interrupted, firm but not vicious. “Mom was a fucking moron ‘n knocked up whoever the fuck she could to get an in into one of those big-name clans. No shit they'd get pissed off and kill the bitch.” 

Wasuke scowled, but didn't argue. It was hard to when his daughter in-law was in the wrong, when she dug her own grave with every child sired before slipping and falling in on her own. A sad story. An incredibly stupid one, too. 

“That won't happen,” you offered mildly. Sukuna looked down at you, suddenly feeling the urge to shoot another baby into you as you spoke up on your own. “I trust Sukuna as much as I trust myself; he's worked hard to create an untouchable empire, and I have the connections to supplement it.” You glanced up at him. “If it's not Sukuna, then it'll be someone else running Tokyo. I couldn't think of a better king.”

A beat of silence passed before Wasuke asked, “And you, kid?” You afraid? 

Sukuna willed his mind out of R-rated territory to look at his grandfather. “You know me,” he started with a troublesome grin, “I can't stay away from what I want.” 

[joelscurls]

a heart for melting

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 2.7k

warnings: post-outbreak, implied age gap, themes surrounding child loss and grief, some angst but mostly festive fluff, grumpy x sunshine dynamics (Joel is a grinch & reader loves the holidays), reader is described as having long-ish hair

summary: Jackson's first annual Holiday Market brings about more than just cheer.

a/n: Merry Christmas @thetriumphantpanda; I'm your pedrostories secret santa! I hope you enjoy this lil festive take on grumpy!joel x sunshine!reader — I had lots of fun writing it 🤍🎄 🥧 🪵 🦌

Joel doesn’t want to be here — surrounded by garland and ribbons and so much unadulterated joy, it’s nauseating. No, he was forced to be here. 

Please, Ellie had begged, it’ll be good for you to do something other than patrol or drinking with Tommy. Plus, they’re too good to keep to yourself.

They, being wood carvings — the tiny sculptures of deer and bears and birds, tufts of hair and bunches of feathers drawn out of driftwood with the tip of his blade. It was only ever meant to be a hobby, a way to busy his hands after they’d been wrapped around the cold metal of his rifle all day. Something lighter, creative rather than destructive, an act of giving rather than taking. 

But sharing them with other people? He hadn’t been interested. Maybe he’d make one for Ellie or Tommy. Wrap it up in a piece of cloth and offer it as a gift for their birthday.

Not that he thought they were any good, really.

With the announcement of Jackson’s first annual Holiday Market, though, came Ellie’s pleading. “I’ll help you,” she’d bargained. “You don’t even have to give me anything!”

“Who said I would anyway?” he’d grumbled, digging his spoon into the bottom of his bowl of stew and sifting out a chunk of meat.

Joel despises the Holiday Season. He’d welcomed its disappearance with the end of the world. Because he had no reason to celebrate, with Sarah gone. Her absence stung like salt in an open wound on any normal day. But on Christmas, memories of her hanging her favorite ornaments on the tree and sneaking one of the cookies baked for Santa burned behind his eyelids. Left him heaving through hot tears.

The holidays had no place in his world, but they certainly had a place in Jackson. The first time he and Ellie had strode through those gates, they’d been met with that damned Christmas Tree, towering over the settlement like a beacon. And he hated it, hated the way it brought about that pounding in his chest and that spinning in his head. 

How could anyone find any good in such a poignant reminder of loss? 

Tommy says it’s about new beginnings, finding ways to be happy again. And what’s happier ‘n Christmas? God damn Santa Clause, hot chocolate, children singin’ carols?

Still, Joel isn’t convinced — not yet.

Standing across the mess hall, at your table piled high with baked goods, you are far too cheerful. You’re humming some song with a jovial beat, absentmindedly swaying as you rearrange rows of gingerbread and muffins and scones — all of which are draped in white icing, like flocking on Christmas trees. You pause to wish a happy holiday to everyone who passes through. 

Joel knows he’s seen you before, flitting in and out of the community’s kitchen, always with that signature smile scrawled across your face.

And god, you’re so bubbly, taking to everyone you meet like a bee to honey, letting them in without a care in the world. Popping from table to table, making sure they have enough to eat. That they’re doing well.

It shouldn’t surprise him that you’re so…spirited, too. You seem to find the good in everyone and everything, after all.

It infuriates him, nonetheless.

Joel groans to himself. Stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans as an elderly couple rounds on him. 

He grumbles a hello to them when they approach. They offer him half-smiles in return, beginning to pick up some of the carvings laid out on the table — turning them, inspecting them.

“This one’s nice,” the man says to his wife. She hums in agreement. 

“You got any tigers?” the man asks.

“Tigers?”

“Yeah — I used to love ‘em as a kid.”

“Got what’s on the table,” Joel grumbles. 

“You make ‘em custom? I can offer some homemade jam in return — elderberry.”

Joel sighs in annoyance. 

“Don’t make ‘em custom. Got what I got.”

The man seems defeated, nodding and walking off without another word. The woman follows closely behind.

Just as they leave, Ellie appears. She sidles up to Joel and shrugs her jacket off. Pulls a chair up next to him.

“There’s so much cool shit here!” she exclaims, too loud. A judgemental set of eyes flit her direction. She glares right back at them.

“Do you mind?” Joel huffs, jaw ticking.

“Jesus, who pissed in your Cheerios?” 

“How do you even know what Cheerios are?”

“Don’t,” she admits. “I read it in a book.” 

“Of course you did.”

Ellie leans back in her chair, pulling an apple out of her backpack and biting into it. She shuffles some of the carvings around on the table. “Gotta fill in these gaps, man,” she says, juice dribbling down her chin.

Joel ignores her. He sneaks a glance at you; finds that you’re already looking. Your expression is unreadable, gaze unmoving as he studies you.

Despite your upbeat disposition bothering him, he can’t deny that you’re gorgeous: bright, beckoning eyes, siren-like smile — it’s like you’re peering into his soul. 

He didn’t think he still had one of those.

“Dude.” Ellie nudges him. He peels his eyes from you reluctantly. “I asked how many takers you’ve had.”

“Uh.” He pretends to think. 

“You have no fucking idea, do you? Too busy staring at that girl.”

“Wasn’t starin’,” he clips defensively.

“No? Well she’s coming over here, man.”

Sure enough, you’re striding right toward him, abandoning your post. Joel barely has time to prepare for impact.

He unconsciously straightens up and pulls his hands out of his pockets. He brushes them on his jeans just as you stop in front of his table.

“Hi there,” you say.

“Hi!” Ellie chimes.

You pick up a carving of a two-headed deer. His favorite.

“This is beautiful,” you coo. “The craftsmanship is lovely.” You’re running a finger along the grooves in the wood, holding the piece delicately in the palm of your hand — as if it’s made of glass, not wood. “You have a real gift…”

“Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeat. He ignores how sweet his name sounds coming out of your mouth. You tell him your name, and it fits you, he thinks. It’s pretty.

“How long have you been making them?”

“Just since I got to Jackson. ‘ts somethin’ to pass the time.”

You nod. Continue scanning over the intricacies of the deer. “I was never much of a baker before I got here, either,” you joke, gesturing back toward your table.

“Good one,” Ellie laughs. “You’re funny — isn’t she funny, Joel?”

In his head, he’s glowering at her. Outwardly, he feigns amusement.

“Real funny.”

“I’d love to see how you make these sometime,” you say, then, placing the deer back on the table gingerly. “Do you have a workshop?”

“In our shed,” Ellie pipes in before he can say anything. “You should come by tomorrow! Joel’s off patrol.”

He shoots her daggers. She pretends not to notice.

“I’d love that! I have to work in the kitchen, though. I could come by after?”

Joel starts to shake his head no. Ellie’s hand wraps around his arm like a vice grip. He stills.

“Sure,” he grits.

“I can bring some pastries, if you’d like.”

“Don’t like sweets.” 

“Oh,” you say, a little thwarted, but you’re undeterred. You shift on your feet. Chew your bottom lip. “Well, how about something not sweet, then?”

Your brows lift, narrowed eyes on him as you await a response. Joel still isn’t thrilled about the prospect of a visitor. Really, he doesn’t like anyone on his property that isn’t Ellie, or Tommy and Maria if he’s invited them. But you don’t seem so bad, offering to bring him food. 

He can probably deal with your sunny disposition in exchange for a full belly. Lord knows he went too long without that luxury, and he’d be a fool to deny himself of it ever again.

So, he agrees, the garbled sure less than enthusiastic leaving his mouth. Still, you don’t seem too offended. In fact, you smirk at him, wordlessly sauntering back to your table, sneaking glances at him every so often for the remainder of the afternoon.

Sure enough, the next evening, while Joel is whittling in the shed, you show up.

You’re wielding a basket of savory hand pies, as promised, and Joel has to stop himself from drooling. They smell incredible. And they’re still warm, somehow, steam wafting off of them even after your walk here.

“Come in,” he gruffs, his nose following the scent like a dog’s as he trails behind you inside.

His set up is minimal: a rocking chair next to a bench, a couple stools he made for when Tommy comes by to play poker. But his works are scattered throughout, every surface in the small room cluttered with little carvings.

He settles atop one of the stools as you begin to wander around the room, plucking sculptures off shelves and awing at them with such genuine admiration, it causes something to pull in his chest.

Every so often, you make a remark about the details in a piece, how the fur on the deer looks real, how you can practically smell the replica evergreen in your grasp.

And something shifts — carried by your kind words through the stuffy shed.

Taken by the slight lilt in your voice when you speak to him, the almost-shy smile that pulls at the corners of your lips — Joel is attracted to you.

He’s following the line of your neck down to your collarbone, ogling at the exposed skin there when you pick another carving up off the shelf. And he feels guilty — he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. You’re just being nice, being neighborly, and he’s gawking at you like you’d have any interest in him.

No; you’re young, beautiful, could do a lot better than an old grump like him. 

He averts his gaze quickly when you suddenly set down the tiny, carved bird that had been in your palm, round the workbench and perch yourself atop the stool next to his. You retrieve a handpie out of the basket and pass it over to him. 

“It has braised rabbit and carmelized onions in it,” you explain, taking a bite and letting the steam roll out. 

He follows suit and — it tastes just as good as it smells, if not better. He’s salivating again, letting the dough melt in his mouth before swallowing. 

The two of you eat in comfortable silence, getting through the entire basket in mere minutes.

When you’re finished, you ask him where he’s from. 

The question shouldn’t feel like such a shock to the system. But after a year of being in Jackson, successfully avoiding conversation about his life before the outbreak, it sets off a panging between his eyes, a dull ache in his viscera. 

“Texas,” he tells you plainly. “From Austin, originally.”

You nod. And you must be able to tell that he’s not used to talking about himself — by the tick of his jaw or the lack of eye contact — he’s not sure. Because you don’t pry. Instead, you say, “you can ask me something.”

He nods. Thinks on it for a moment.

“When did you arrive here? To Jackson?” 

Unlike him, you do not grimace at the intrusion. Instead, you tell him: about your parents, their untimely deaths, the harrowing road that led you here. You do not cry, but Joel can see the pain in your shiny eyes. 

It’s inevitable; there isn’t a single person here who hasn’t been dealt a bad hand. But you wear your past like a badge of honor, like you’re still grateful, after it all, to be alive.

Joel envies your tenacity.

So when you ask him about Ellie, if she is his daughter, he lets the walls around him down — just an inch. He doesn’t get upset when he stumbles over his words while telling you about Sarah. He finds comfort in confiding in you, in the way you so attentively listen, quietly nodding along as he recalls his version of the end of the world.

“Thank you,” you say when he’s done, burying his hands back in his pockets.

“For what?”

“For sharing that with me. I know it can be difficult to relive it.”

“I relive it everyday,” he admits. “Everything reminds me of her in one way or another.”

“I understand,” you nod. He believes you do.

So sweet, gaze like honey, you are an enigma to him. He hasn’t met many people who are kind just for the sake of it — not in a long while. Maybe that’s why he’d been so bothered by it at the market. It had felt almost unnatural to him, bound to be laced with an ulterior motive. 

He’s still learning how to trust people again. It doesn’t come easily after twenty-odd years of rationing it like the pills he’d stowed. Still, there is something innate about baring his soul to you. Letting you in through the cracks in his battered being. You are safe, he’s sure of it; benevolence radiating from you like warmth.

It drips off your tongue when you ask him to show you how he does his craft — slips down your fluttering lashes. No longer can he deny you of anything — he’s accepted this swiftly — and so he obliges.

A half-whittled fox materializes from his coat pocket, along with his blade. He passes both to you and pulls his stool closer to yours.

He guides you, taking your hand in his, encouraging the press of the blade into the wood. Shows you how to round out a corner with a subtle twist of the knife. You’re a fast learner, Joel notes, attentive, taking every instruction like gospel.

The slow drag of steel, your fingers wrapped tightly around the handle; you’re so focused that you jump slightly when he places a reassuring hand on your knee.

“Doin’ great, darlin’,” he says, and your lips pull around pearlescent teeth. Joel feels as enraptured by you as you do the carving — the loose tendrils of hair that drape over your shoulder, the clinging of cotton to your soft curves. Though he hardened into stone a long time ago, he feels smelted in your presence. So he cannot help it when his fingers begin to drift up your leg, settling at your side as he turns his body toward yours.

The blade stalls, tip still stuck into the wood, puncturing the fox’s non-existent spine, and your face lifts. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers. You nod, gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.

You’re so close like this; Joel can smell the floral perfume dappled along your neck, can feel your warm breath fanning his face. He has half a mind to stop himself from sealing the sliver of distance left between you. But then you’re sighing, placing the blade and the wooden fox on the tabletop. And it’s your turn to guide him — winding your delicate fingers around his wrist and settling his hand at the small of your back.

The air in the tiny workshop grows heavy with unspoken desire, a longing to disrupt; to create. Your body forms to his languidly, arms interlocking behind his neck, fingers weaving in his hair to pull him closer to you. And then your lips press to his — hesitant at first, then not. You drink from each other until you are drunk, breathless and giddy when you separate. 

“That was nice,” you whisper, and Joel chuckles. 

“Just nice?”

“Great,” you amend. “It was great. Better than I imagined, even.”

“You imagined this?”

“Yes,” you smirk. “On a loop since I first saw you at the market.”

He pulls you back in. Gives you another chaste kiss. “For good measure.”

“Joel,” you say then, “will you and Ellie come by mine on Christmas? I could even cook — it’s just-”

“Yes,” he’s accepting before you can finish. “I’d love that. As long as you make more of those,” he gestures toward the empty basket on the workbench. 

“That can be arranged,” you grin.

As soon as you leave that evening — sent off with a goodbye muttered between slotted mouths — Joel starts on your Christmas present. 

end notes: thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment if you enjoyed <3

[mooodyblue]

Okay, but imagine: Christmas with little E. Making cookies with him. Him getting excited about Santa. It'd be so sweet!

it took everything in me to not post this early! thank you for the request, i hope you enjoy! merry christmas everyone <3

white christmas | little!elvis x cg!reader

warnings: age regression, little space

wc: 1.3k

masterlist | request | taglist

elvis loved christmas. decorating all of graceland, setting up the christmas tree, he loved all of it. most importantly, he loved that he got to spend it with you. being able to spend christmas with you meant he could be himself, not having to hold back his excitement or love for the holiday. you and elvis were spending christmas alone this year, per his request. your family didn't mind and neither did his, of course they didn't really have a choice in that matter.

it was christmas eve and there was still so much to do. elvis was sitting by the tree with his stuffed polar bear with a tiny santa hat on top, talking to it about how excited he was for santa and the christmas movies he'd be watching later with you. you were in another room finishing up with christmas presents and wrapping up his gifts before he could barge in. shopping for little elvis wasn't as difficult as shopping for elvis when he was big, but having to fight parents for the last 100 pack of crayons was not something you'd think you'd be doing specifically for elvis. you loved him though and you'd do anything for him.

you finished wrapping the last gift, hiding it away to put under the tree overnight. you went off to find elvis, smiling at him talking over with his plushie. "what are you two talking about?"

"christmas!" he replied, excited.

you squatted next to him, looking up at the tree and back at him. "yeah? you ready to see santa? i bet he knows how good of a boy you've been this year."

elvis nodded, the corners of his lips perking up. "i've been a very good boy! maybe the goodest boy in the whole world!"

you could swear you felt your heart melt at his response. you wanted to just pinch his cheeks and smother him with kisses right then and there, but that'll be for later. "and you know what? you've been such a good boy this year.....how about you help me make santa's cookies this year? how does that sound?"

he let out a excited gasp, bouncing up and down. "oh mommy! can i? do i get to decorate 'em too?"

"of course! why don't you let your friend relax for a little while we go bake? you can give him one later."

elvis hopped up and set his plushie on the couch, tucking it under a blanket since it was a little cold out. you went into the kitchen to get all your supplies out, preheating the oven before you could forget. you made sure to wear a apron too since you had a feeling elvis would get things messy. he picked one too, opting with a matching christmas apron that you helped him tie in the back. baking was not elvis's strong suit usually but while little, he loved baking with you. you assisted him with the measuring and allowed him to mix it all up. he almost tipped the bowl over a few times but that's okay.

as you rolled out the dough, elvis was digging around for the cookie cutters. "don't forget the christmas tree cutter, we almost missed that one last year." you reminded him, pushing the rolling pin back and forth.

he placed them carefully on the counter and watched you in awe as you rolled out the dough. "do you want to cut them out? be careful though, they're sharp." you set the rolling pin aside and got the pan ready as elvis began to carefully cut out the cookies. "'m gonna make this tree pink! 'n then this one's gonna be green with sprinkles, this one's gonna be white with pink sprinkles....."

he helped you place the cut out cookies on the baking sheet, taking a seat in front of the oven once you put them in to watch the cookies bake and rise. you were off mixing the frosting and setting out the decorations, mentally preparing yourself for the mess to come. last time the two of you baked cookies together, you spent an hour sweeping up sprinkles from the floor.

the timer you set went off causing elvis to jump up excitingly. "mommy! they're done!"

you took them out of the oven and left them to cool. elvis was being impatient, wanting to decorate them right away. another thing that happens when baking with him. "you don't want the icing to melt do you?" you say, every time. once they cooled down, elvis went crazy with the decorating. he definitely decorated more cookies than you and he did unfortunately leave you with a big mess to clean but you were happy to see him happy. he was allowed one cookie for himself and one cookie for his plushie friend, which he eventually ate himself.

elvis helped you clean up this time, mostly because the faster you cleaned then the faster you could both cuddle up and watch christmas movies together. he ended up falling asleep on your shoulder with a sippy cup in one hand and his other holding your own hand. you squeezed his hand gently, attempting to wake him up. "baby? youre fallin' asleep. let's get you ready for bed."

he let out a small whine, not wanting to get up. "wanna watch the movie."

you chuckled softly. "can't watch it with your eyes closed."

"mmhm, yes i can."

"well, if you don't go to sleep then santa may skip graceland this year....."

that was what got elvis up. he worked so hard to be a good boy this year so he would hate for santa to skip over and not bring him presents! that just wouldn't be fair. you turned off the movie and went upstairs with him, helping him change into a pair of christmas footie pajamas that he hated taking off. you tucked him in and kissed him good night before heading off to bed yourself, but not before leaving out cookies for santa.

elvis awoke the next morning, eagerly jumping out of bed to wake you up. "mommy! you gotta get up! santa came!" he exclaimed, tugging at your blanket.

you wiped the sleep from your eyes and turned to look over at elvis. "okay, okay. gimme a minute." you laughed softly. elvis ran down the stairs to go look at all the many presents santa left for him. you got up and slipped a robe on before heading downstairs to elvis who had just come back from the kitchen. "santa ate his cookies too!" he said, excited. "can we open gifts now? please?"

you nodded at took a seat on the floor with him, gesturing your hand to the pile of gifts under the tree. "go ahead."

elvis when he's big on christmas versus when he's little wasn't all that different. when he was big, he'd still be excited and in the spirit of christmas, going overboard with buying everyone gifts and decorating every corner of the house. christmas morning he'd still wake up early for gifts followed with a big christmas breakfast. the look of adoration on his face when he opened his gift from you was something you'd never get tired of. but when he was little, he wasn't the same elvis presley everybody knew and loved. he was always talking about santa, what plushies and toys he'd be getting for christmas, baking cookies and eyes full of innocence and awe when looking at the pretty lights outside of graceland. you loved both sides of him.

you couldn't help but smile the whole time watching him open all his gifts. it was a rare moment seeing him so incredibly happy and at peace, like he wasn't the most famous man to ever walk on earth. as if he had nothing to worry about, no contracts to fullfil, no shows to play. just little elvis and his big christmas heart. you wouldn't have it any other way.

taglist: @aconflagrationofmyown @butlersluvbot @arianatheangel-girl @steph-speaks @vintagegirl50s60s70s80s @annoyinginternetgirl @flwrs4aust @imgayreal

[omegaremix]

Rough Trade, 2021.

The pandemic has been a hellacious dice roll. Since last spring, all of our favorite businesses, diners, take-outs, arcades, specialty shops, record-stores, and venues had all shuttered with no telling other than the governor’s word when they’d re-open - if they’d re-open. I’ve been fortunate to see that all of my -stores on the island have survived with few hiccups. The last time I shopped at one? Summer of 2018 at Mineola’s Mr. Cheapo’s which capped off what was an unprecedented post-surgery record-store victory tour. It was so vitalizing that I promised myself I’d do it again.

For the record, I almost never done any city music shopping, save for when I purchased Sonic Youth’s Sister, Skinny Puppy’s Rabies, and Ministry’s Just Another Fix during a post-senior year city excursion. For one New Year’s Day at Times Square, my friends and I visit another record store and I passed up a chance to buy Anal Cunt’s Morbid Florist. Since then, it was nothing but mail-orders and island stores until now. I always owed it to myself to visit Rough Trade, New York City’s greatest record store for the longest time. Anxiety, scheduling, poor timing, and other personal insecurities kept me from going. New York State’s various business-closing mandates didn’t help either and I know the pandemic era has not been nice to anyone at all. Even my aunt Laura warned me not to take the train. At least, not yet.

And then a wake-up call: they’re closing down their Williamsburg store to re-locate to as-yet undisclosed digs. They announced their target date: March 21st, the final day before shutting their doors until this summer. So when a record store advertises 25% off CD’s, books, and other merchandise to say good-bye, you fucking go. I had bad luck being scheduled off of work on Mondays and Tuesdays, the two days they were closed during the week. Enough was enough. I spoke up and I finally won a Wednesday off at a price of working six-straight opening-and-closing shifts. Now, it’s on. This visit to Rough Trade is the prologue of my second-ever Record Store Victory Tour, which I’m still waiting to bank to make happen.

With a pending return to New York City / Brooklyn in the springtime, so did reminders of a certain someone from Brooklyn whose eclectic music and cultural tastes aligned with mine and a little more; someone I had a distinct connection with. She was on my mind intensely as it’s springtime in the boroughs. I had cut all ties with her not long ago because she slit me deeply and it’s a shame. It’s that time and place that holds her significance, and later visits made me wish I still had someone of her calibre to come join me.

The luxuries of living near the Long Island Expressway / Rt. 495 meant no time wasted getting there. Fifty minutes later with little traffic and only eight blocks remaining, I’m here. Driving through any part of New York City is signing your death wish, whether it’s rolling down the asphalt pothole fields of Junction Ave., or the start-and-stop traffic of 3rd Ave. during rush hour. This time it was the expressway, and driving over the new Kościuszko Bridge which I never seen before. No question that its presence would forever mark this perfect March day. Jumping off the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway / Rt. 278 and driving down the narrow 8th St. was not a harrowing experience as long as you slow it. I park it near Marsha P. Johnson State Park, and walk two blocks southeast to finally scratch Rough Trade off my bucket list. I had up until 7PM with a $160.00 head-start burning in my pocket since Christmas 2019. No time to waste…and go.

I walk in and I feel it. I look around, and right away I could tell we don’t have this on Long Island. Rough Trade was the kicker: everything I couldn’t find in other stores I found here. You wouldn’t find Garcia Peoples, Horse Lords, or Sweeping Promises in any too-kind indie store or mall that would rather worship The Beatles, Phish, Jimi Hendrix, "The Dead", "Floyd" or “Zep” as you call them, you fucking Bruce Villanch-Mason Reese cross-breeds. Think Pitchfork, Alt Citizen, Gold Flake Paint, Brooklyn Vegan, and Post Trash. Not to say I never found gold at my local stores, but Rough Trade had that special something-else because us islanders don’t have the same vibe the city stores does. Oh, much better. Even I hoped to see specific titles because this location was city-centric, and at times my wishes almost came true.

First up: the cassettes section. A small selection ensures that I’d already have four in my hand in the first three minutes digging. You sure wouldn’t find Birthing Hips’ Urge To Merge anywhere else but here, right? Clipping’s Visions Of Bodies Being Burned? Nope. What a relief to find Hesitation Wounds’ Chicanery as I blast half of those songs at the gym. To my amazement: finding Kedr Livanskiy’s Ariadne. Too bad it wasn’t the disc version because that would’ve also had January Sun, one of my favorite releases of the Tens, but at least I have her now.

Next up, the used vinyl section; a small tidy amount of it that’s reasonably priced mixed with rock, pop, jazz, blues, reggae, and Latin jazz. On the overheads played various selections of Nancy Sinatra (“These Boots Are Made for Walking”) and with Lee Hazelwood (“Sand”) as I looked for more wins there. Don Patterson’s Movin’ Up!, a summer memory, was finally scratched off the list. Marcio Montarroyos’ Magic Moment was something I wasn’t expecting to find. It featured “Pedro Bonita”, a springtime memory of walking through Central Park, so I took it. The expedition got better when I acquired Dual Action’s “Babe Beer Car Bar” compilation on clear red vinyl (!). That’s one of two Hospital Productions’ releases I took home with me.

On to their 7” section where it started to sting. A good number of these platters were priced at an average of $7.00 and up, even higher. I would’ve loved to take Martin Rev’s “Gutter Rock” home but at $17.00 for only two songs? No dice. Same with the Idles / Heavy Lungs split. But I got my hands on Gong Gong Gong’s “Siren” b/w “Something’s Happening”, another small victory and one of two I found of Wharf Cat Records. At least there’s some Raincoats and Pylon up for grabs, and if anyone wants Brandy’s “Clown Pain” b/w “Rent Quest”, it’s still there. The only normal piece I took home with me was a promotional copy of Maria Muldaur’s “Midnight At The Oasis”. Just the single because it’s all I ever need of hers.

Rough Trade had plenty of new vinyl with many titles going for $25.00-$30.00 each. That was the only section I stayed away from, personally. I wasn’t so much into The Body yet that I didn’t pick up I’ve Seen All I Needed To See, for example, or the many PJ Harvey records they had on display. But some good titles in my eyes were found such as Wharf Cat Records’ ACLU Benefit Compilation. To my surprise: Alan Parker & Madeline Bell’s The Voice of Soul from Themes International. It’s the very first time I’d ever seen a [TV / film / radio] library record; the stuff hip-hop producers look for.

But as mentioned before, all discs were 25% off. Aside from the Christmas money by my generous aunt and uncle from the Brooklyn-youth era, the discounted discs would at least cushion the blow to my wallet.

I started with the used hip-hop section. I immediately grabbed Madvilliany which was the soundtrack to my most vital days at Stony Brook. More Madlib to be had when I grabbed Bandana and Pinata with new favorite Freddie Gibbs. Then, how about two legends with Slick Rick’s The Great Adventures Of… and Eric B & Rakim’s Paid In Full? Saw a copy of A Tribe Called Quest’s We Got It From Here… and that was a must-grab. I found Death Grips’ The Money Store (featured on the very first Omega WUSB show) and I had to have it. The only time I saw Death Grips up for the taking was when West Sayville’s Vinyl Paradise (r.i.p.) stocked several of their titles but gave them up because I felt I spent too much. It’s a start. My final jazz acquisitions were two from Herbie Hancock: Headhunters and The Best Of…. I had a opportunity to grab Headhunters at West Babylon’s Looney Tunes and also Sunlight at Amityville’s High Fidelity but wasn’t too keen on Hancock back then. On a separate note: Lee Moses’ Time And Place caught my eye. It’s one you see everywhere posted on obscure samplist groups and forums. That’s when I realized the mood of the overheads changed from Sinatra / Hazelwood to children’s educational TV theme songs; going from Sesame Street to Reading Rainbow. That was a cringe moment and the staff felt it, too. So they switched it up to something better: Hailu Mergia. Speaking of Awesome Tapes From Africa, I paused to pull the trigger on Nahawa Doumbia. The music is from 1980, but I couldn’t make the judgment here not knowing her music beforehand.

I continued searching through the used disc section, and these next finds I felt not only defined this store but the entire experience as well. I kept going and spotted titles I didn’t expect. Know of Council Estate Electronics? You wouldn’t if you also didn’t know Mr. Godflesh himself (Justin Broadrick). Since I did, Arktika was in the bank. Profligate’s Somewhere Else, the final of two Wharf Cat finds, was nice to see. Then, I see Boy Harsher’s Lesser Man (Extended) in the corner of my eye and immediately I snatched it up. (I noticed that of three copies, two were priced at $21.99 and one for $13.99. Why would I not want the $13.99 copy?) I was happy to get Silent Servant’s Shadows Of Death And Desire but wished it was Negative Fascination instead. But any Silent Servant is better than nothing, and beggars can’t be choosers.

As I was still reeling from the Boy Harsher grab: two from Pharmakon (Bestial Burden and Devour) and two from Uniform (The Long Walk and Shame) all in the same gasp. I almost went into cardiac arrest and died from seeing them in stock. Would Rough Trade’s staffers cut from labeling their stock to find me lying on the floor and call for an ambulance to Maimonides Hospital is up for debate. One final round in searching still continued in the used disc section. Zola Jesus had her own divider and saw what they offered. Okovi featuring “Veka” was in my possession and that’s five Sacred Bones titles I’d purchased. In fact, I attempted to order from them online a few months ago but money issues made it a bad idea. Those five made up half of that order. Rough Trade’s shelves were littered with -Bones stuff and they're both from Brooklyn, so they’re really riding that golden stallion out towards the sunset, are they?

Other wild cards I knew enough to buy started with Mr. Elevator’s Goodbye Blue Sky, a personal favorite from last year’s pandemic blues. Here’s two titles rather to be found in city stores and not on the island: Lithics’ Tower Of Age and Deeper’s 2018 self-titled album (the latter for $1.75). Idles’ Joy As An Act Of Resistance was plentiful and a lauded release, so I found a copy that included a bonus disc of their live performance at the store. And as a general rule, you can’t pick up Idles without also getting the conflicting Sleaford Mods’ 2018 e.p. Plus, I loved Tame Impala’s Currents, so I got it to spite everyone who thought their psych-rock era was better.

More? Sure. Soundgarden’s expanded Ultramega OK (including the same-titled e.p.) was in my hands. During the new-vinyl round I was thrilled to find some Akitsa records but passed them up, so I got some black metal diet with Darkthrone’s A Blaze In The Northern Sky. Finally (or so I thought), I nabbed the Electric Dress album from Merzbow, Carlos Giffoni, and Jim O’ Rourke also for $1.50. Peak hipster era. I thought to myself that I may have gotten it with my previous RRRecords mail-orders, but thankfully I was wrong. As I thumbed through that side of the bins, there it was staring at me, literally: Tops’ I Feel Alive. Jane Penny’s green-eyed look of disbelief on her face was looking at me because I passed up on the cassette, and now she’s waited for me again at the disc bins. “I Feel Alive” was a great pandemic-blues tune for me, but I didn’t know them enough to go for it. Our apologies, Jane.

Rough Trade had a few other sections as well. “Cheap Thrills!” their shelves said. That was their lower-priced new vinyl section mixed in with other used vinyl singles. One quick peek and I found Long Island white-label heroes Q-Ball & Curt Cazal. It wasn’t “Makin’ Moves”, but I wish it was. To my right is their rarities box. That’s where the big money copies are. It was where I saw a copy of Albert King’s Born Under A Bad Sign for a painful $110.00. Another copy found in-store cuts the pain away by another $50.00 less. Also on that side of their store, you’d find their bar / cafe disused indefinitely. Their live space has been cordoned off and so has most of their listening rooms. What wasn’t lost, however, was another flight of steel steps leading up to their book section; the shelves spread evenly of well-categorized books about music history, art, New York City, gender / sexuality, The 33 1/3 Series, and no shortage of copies of Cosey Fanni Tutti’s Art, Sex, Music or Kim Gordon’s No Icon to go around. The most ironic thing printed on paper? Kara Simsek’s So You Think You’re a Hipster?; of course of all places in a Williamsburg / Bushwick record store. En route upstairs are where the box sets and staff picks are. With two weeks to go, get those licks in at their operational photo booth and then see the pics- posted of how much fun the best of Brooklyn are having...assuming they’re not dying inside by rising rent prices).

By then, I was spent. I felt like there was nothing else to comb over. So I packed it in and gave my stack to purple-haired Janie, dressed in a pink long-sleeve and purple felt pants. As she counted everything up, I had second thoughts. I knew it was now or never, so I decided to give two titles I originally passed up a second chance. I ran to grab J Dilla’s Donuts and Discharge’s Protest And Survive: The Anthology. And that was that. She said I qualified for a free tote. (Are you offering a credit check for a bank loan, too?) and dashed one more time for a shirt. That was also 25%, too. I wasn’t leaving here without a fucking t-shirt.

She thanked me for my purchase, and I thanked her for her kindness. I left Rough Trade feeling -$417.00 happier. That’s what music-shopping therapy does to you. This venture had made me forget all of the recent depressing ills and anxious troubles I’ve had because it’s self-maintenance, healing, and power unto yourself. The return to Brooklyn was a much-needed reprieve outside of the daily toxicity experienced on the island that offers nothing that I really want that the city has. That, my friends and allies, is what you call happiness. New people, new experiences, opportunities, and fun. That’s what brings me it. I never felt it in such a long time.

Not since last March was when I set foot in Central Park and immediately turned back because sundown approached. Two weeks later, most of the world shut down flat and I didn’t return until now. I wasn’t the only one affected by cautionary stay-at-home mandates and city-wide closures, but things are much better now than last year when people died everywhere left and right. People and businesses are slowly out and open again with more information, confidence, and vigilance to live their lives and keep the damage to a minimum. The time was right to take precautionaries, to breathe again, and get back into it. I know I’ll get back into Rough Trade when they re-open, likely as my city go-to for everything I practiced and preached on Omega WUSB. They were on a whole new level, a level I wished other island stores would follow. It might arguably top my final visit at Tower Records before their closure.

I drive home through the tight Brooklyn streets and start the nerve-wrenching path home starting at the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The movement panned to a cripple getting on Rt. 278, but seeing the colors change on the Kościuszko Bridge showed its’ new second life at night; a sight to behold. A chilly, mid-Forties coldness dominated the ride home as I said ‘goodbye’ to the New York City skyline of clear pitch-black skies and ‘hello’ to the wide-open L.I.E. roads.

I finally arrive home with the trace of lucky green transparent on my fresh cotton threads; the new notes that'll define the next couple of years. I unpack my goods and let everyone know how my day was as I wait for the flattery from my friends and allies at WUSB. Spring is finally here. It’s a chance for renewal. The vaccines are coming and so’s the money. I’m here to win it all. Place your bets.

Freddie Gibbs & Madlib: Pinata

Uniform: The Long Walk

Herbie Hancock: Headhunters

Slick Rick: The Great Adventures Of…

Idles: Joy As An Act Of Resistance / Live at Rough Trade

Sleaford Mods: self-titled e.p.

Death Grips: The Money Store

Discharge: Protest And Survive: The Anthology

Silent Servant: Shadows Of Death And Desire

Freddie Gibbs & Madlib: Bandana

Eric B & Rakim: Paid In Full

Pharmakon: Bestial Burden

Boy Harsher: Lesser Man

Lithics: Tower Of Age

Uniform: Shame

Soundgarden: Ultramega OK

Profligate: Somewhere Else

Madvillain: Madvillainy

Herbie Hancock: The Best Of…

Mr. Elevator: Goodbye Blue Sky

Zola Jesus: Okovi

Deeper: self-titled

Tame Impala: Currents

Lee Moses: Time And Place

Darkthrone: A Blaze In The Northern Sky

Council Estate Electronics: Arktika

A Tribe Called Quest: We Got It From Here…Thank You For Your Service

Pharmakon: Devour

Merzbow & Carlos Giffoni & Jim O’Rourke: Electric Dress

Hesitation Wounds: Chicanery (CS)

Kedr Livanskiy: Ariadne (CS)

clipping.: Visions Of Bodies Being Burned (CS)

J Dilla: Donuts (CS)

Birthing Hips: Urge To Merge (CS)

Marcio Montarroyos: Magic Moment (LP)

Don Patterson: Movin’ Up! (LP”)

Dual Action: Babe Beer Bar Car (double LP)

Gong Gong Gong: “Siren b/w “Something’s Happening” (7”)

Maria Muldaur: “Midnight At The Oasis” (7”)

Q-Ball & Curt Cazal: “Repertoire” (12”)

[cup-of-starlight-waters]

The English Teacher and the Mysterious Translation: A Coda

It was Christmas.

An English Literature teacher had fallen down a rabbit-hole of curiosity, and with the aid of several different persons and resources, discovered after much effort the origin of a long-beloved translation of the Pearl Poet’s Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and in determination to know at last the name of the translator, purchased a copy from an online vendor, settling in to wait in eager expectation.

As the days went by, I was kept busy with the ever present exigencies of lesson prep, grading, and teaching, but eventually I noticed that it was several days past when the package was due to arrive, and resolved to check the tracking number.

I was not very pleased at what I found, as you might guess from the complaints I made to my discord server.

Alas, the vagaries of the postal service are beyond the influence of either buyer or seller, so I reluctantly determined to wait, naively hoping that perhaps time would resolve the issue.

Sure enough, a few days before Christmas, after going back and forth between the same two states a total of five times, I received an email informing me that my package was available for pick up! Sadly, it was available for pickup in its state of origin, having been returned to its seller.

I shall not bore you with the series of communications back and forth with the seller, who seemed to be under the impression that my perfectly valid address was the reason for the issues in shipping. Suffice to say that the seller eventually issued me a refund, but was understandably reluctant to reship the package to the same address given that they were forced to eat the cost of the first shipping attempt, and their profit margin was slim to begin with.

( A few days later, due to a missed delivery slip that ended up in my mailbox, a very kind postal worker in my local office did some investigation on my behalf; he was only able to determine that although my correct address was registered to the tracking number, at some point the address on the package itself became illegible and as a result the package was returned to the sender.)

I too was reluctant to reorder the book from the same seller, but fortunately there was another listing from another seller for a similar price. I will admit to some nervousness on my part throughout this second attempt, especially as the series of postal holidays around New Years meant there was little information to be gained, however religiously I checked the tracking number. Fortunately, on this occasion all was well. I came home and finally laid hands on my very own copy of THE ENGLISH TRADITION: FICTION.

I eagerly turned to the acknowledgements page.

At first, I thought I was simply looking too quickly, too carelessly, in my eagerness to find the translator’s name. My second, third, fourth, even fifth perusals were equally in vain, however. For whatever reason—and I truly cannot fathom why—the acknowledgements did not include the translation for Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, nor was the information listed elsewhere in the book.

I’ll admit it.

This probably would have been the end of my search. If even the book itself doesn’t list the name of the translator, where else could I possibly look? What recourse short of reaching out to the publisher itself, a task which might prove just as tedious, frustrating, and ultimately fruitless?

More canny readers than I might notice something which I likely never would have—if I had not written a silly Tumblr post recounting my search—or if the post had remained (as it was for quite a few days) an unseen and disregarded 3-note post—or if one particular Tumblr user had not read my post and decided to do a little digging of their own.

You may have noticed this little thing, which I am deeply indebted to @snarpreplies for pointing out in their reblog.

As can also be seen in Snarp’s reblog, this earlier edition is available through the Internet Archive. I borrowed the book in order to confirm that the translation is the same, and the acknowledgements in this edition does have the name of the translator.

His name is George B. Pace.

A few final notes to wrap up this saga:

1. Tumblr user @lilisonna (among others) pointed out that Ms. English’s predecessor definitely would not have saved a scan as a pdf in the 1970s. Mea culpa, I’m afraid. I was a little more focused on presentation and story telling rather than historical accuracy, and was not as careful as I should have been. Let the record stand corrected: the pdf was made many years down the line, and I would not be surprised if there were several copies and recopies between the digital scan and the original photocopy (or possibly mimeograph?), which doubtless contributed to the aforementioned terrible quality of the scan!

2. The English Tradition, The Early Years of English Literature, and English Literature: A College Anthology (where the translation was apparently originally published) are all out of print. I’m glad both that The Early Years is preserved through the Internet Archive, and to possess a physical copy of The English Tradition. Due to a slight difference in the presentation of footnotes, I believe that the version used in my high school was always taken from The English Tradition rather than any of the earlier editions.

3. George B. Pace does not have much of an online footprint. According to WorldCat (which, yes, I asked my Dad, and WorldCat is indeed the Mysterious Catalogue Site) Pace seems mostly to have focused on Chaucer, and appears to have passed away in 1979.

The application of my limited research skills did turn up one small entry from a report by the American Name Society, which I believe refers to the same man:

George B. Pace, professor of English at the University of Missouri and member of ANS since 1960, died last May. He was a faithful contributor to our annual reports and was a good friend of the Missouri place-name survey. As the only member of the survey committee who had known Robert L. Ramsay; as a fine scholar, especially in the fields of the English language and mediaeval literature; and as a man of great good sense, he was always ready to offer his insight and support to place-name activities. He will be sorely missed.”

(Source)

But not forgotten.

Thank you Professor Pace, and thank you all who came along on this journey with me.

Okay, let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, there was a prose translation of the Pearl Poet’s Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. It was wonderfully charming and lyrical and perfect for use in a high school, and so a clever English teacher (as one did in the 70s) made a scan of the book for her students, saved it as a pdf, and printed copies off for her students every year. In true teacher tradition, she shared the file with her colleagues, and so for many years the students of the high school all studied Sir Gawain and the Green Knight from the same (very badly scanned) version of this wonderful prose translation.

In time, a new teacher became head of the English Department, and while he agreed that the prose translation was very wonderful he felt that the quality of the scan was much less so. Also in true teacher tradition, he then spent hours typing up the scan into a word processor, with a few typos here and there and a few places where he was genuinely just guessing wildly at what the scan actually said. This completed word document was much cleaner and easier for the students to read, and so of course he shared it with his colleagues, including his very new wide-eyed faculty member who was teaching British Literature for the first time (this was me).

As teachers sometimes do, he moved on for greener (ie, better paying) pastures, leaving behind the word document, but not the original pdf scan. This of course meant that as I was attempting to verify whether a weird word was a typo or a genuine artifact of the original translation, I had no other version to compare it to. Being a good card-holding gen zillenial I of course turned to google, making good use of the super secret plagiarism-checking teacher technique “Quotation Marks”, with an astonishing result:

By which I mean literally one result.

For my purposes, this was precisely what I needed: a very clean and crisp scan that allowed me to make corrections to my typed edition: a happily ever after, amen.

But beware, for deep within my soul a terrible Monster was stirring. Bane of procrastinators everywhere, my Curiosity had found a likely looking rabbit hole. See, this wonderfully clear and crisp scan was lacking in two rather important pieces of identifying information: the title of the book from which the scan was taken, and the name of the translator. The only identifying features were the section title “Precursors” (and no, that is not the title of the book, believe me I looked) and this little leaf-like motif by the page numbers:

(Remember the leaf. This will be important later.)

We shall not dwell at length on the hours of internet research that ensued—how the sun slowly dipped behind the horizon, grading abandoned in shadows half-lit by the the blue glow of the computer screen—how google search after search racked up, until an email warning of “unusual activity on your account” flashed into momentary existence before being consigned immediately and with some prejudice to the digital void—how one third of the way through a “comprehensive but not exhaustive” list of Sir Gawain translators despair crept in until I was left in utter darkness, screen black and eyes staring dully at the wall.

Above all, let us not admit to the fact that such an afternoon occurred not once, not twice, but three times.

Suffice to say, many hours had been spent in fruitless pursuit before a new thought crept in: if this book was so mysterious, so obscure as to defeat the modern search engine, perhaps the answer lay not in the technologies of today, but the wisdom of the past. Fingers trembling, I pulled up the last blast email that had been sent to current and former faculty and staff, and began to compose an email to the timeless and indomitable woman who had taught English to me when I was a student, and who had, after nearly fifty years, retired from teaching just before I returned to my alma mater.

After staring at the email for approximately five or so minutes, I winced, pressed send, and let my plea sail out into the void. I cannot adequately describe for you the instinctive reverence I possess towards this teacher; suffice to say that Ms English was and is a woman of remarkable character, as much a legend as an institution as a woman of flesh and blood whose enduring influence inspired countless students. There is not a student taught by Ms. English who does not have a story to tell about her, and her decline in her last years of teaching and eventual retirement in the face of COVID was the end of an era. She still remembers me, and every couple months one of her contemporaries and dear friends who still works as a guidance counsellor stops me in the hall to tell me that Ms. English says hello and that she is thrilled that I am teaching here—thrilled that I am teaching honors students—thrilled that I am now teaching the AP students. “Tell her I said hello back,” I always say, and smile.

Ms. English is a legend, and one does not expect legends to respond to you immediately. Who knows when a woman of her generation would next think to check her email? Who knows if she would remember?

The day after I sent the email I got this response:

My friends, I was shaken. I was stunned. Imagine asking God a question and he turns to you and says, “Hold on one moment, let me check with my predecessor.”

The idea that even Ms. English had inherited this mysterious translation had never even occurred to me as a possibility, not when Ms. English had been a faculty member since the early days of the school. How wonderful, I thought to myself. What a great thing, that this translation is so obscure and mysterious that it defeats even Ms. English.

A few days later, Ms. English emailed me again:

(I had, in fact searched through both the English office and the Annex—a dark, weirdly shaped concrete storage area containing a great deal of dust and many aging copies of various books—a few days prior. I had no luck, sadly.)

At last, though, I had a title and a description! I returned to my internet search, only to find to my dismay that there was no book that exactly matched the title. I found THE BRITISH TRADITION: POETRY, PROSE, AND DRAMA (which was not black and the table of contents I found did not include Sir Gawain) and THE ENGLISH TRADITION, a super early edition of the Prentice Hall textbooks we use today, which did have a black cover but there were absolutely zero images I could find of the table of contents or the interior and so I had no way of determining if it was the correct book short of laying out an unfortunate amount of cold hard cash for a potential dead end.

So I sighed, and relinquished my dreams of solving the mystery. Perhaps someday 30 years from now, I thought, I’ll be wandering through one of those mysterious bookshops filled with out of print books and I’ll pick up a book and there will be the translation, found out last!

So I sighed, and told the whole story to my colleagues for a laugh. I sent screenshots of Ms. English’s emails to my siblings who were also taught by her. I told the story to my Dad over dinner as my Great Adventure of the Week.

…my friends. I come by my rabbit-hole curiosity honestly, but my Dad is of a different generation of computer literacy and knows a few Deep Secrets that I have never learned. He asked me the title that Ms. English gave me, pulled up some mysterious catalogue site, and within ten minutes found a title card. There are apparently two copies available in libraries worldwide, one in Philadelphia and the other in British Columbia. I said, “sure, Dad,” and went upstairs. He texted me a link. Rolling my eyes, I opened it and looked at the description.

Huh, I thought. Four volumes, just like Ms. English said. I wonder…

Armed with a slightly different title and a publisher, I looked up “The English Tradition: Fiction macmillan” and the first entry is an eBay sale that had picture of the interior and LO AND BEHOLD:

THE LEAF. LOOK AT THE LEAF.

My dad found it! He found the book!!

Except for one teensy tiny problem which is that the cover of the book is uh a very bright green and not at all black like Ms. English said. Alas, it was a case of mistaken identity, because The English Tradition: Poetry does have a black cover, although it is the fiction volume which contains Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

And so having found the book at last, I have decided to purchase it for the sum of $8, that ever after the origins of this translation may once more be known.

In this year of 2022 this adventure took place, as this post bears witness, the end, amen.

[queenlucythevaliant]

All ye faithful

Lucy counted her years in Christmases. Had, ever since Father Christmas put a dagger in her hands in the melting snow when she was eight. In Narnia, Christmas meant feasting and dancing and presents by a roaring fire. Yet it also meant an evening walk to Lantern Waste, where songs were sung in the holy hush of the Christmas night, underneath the stars.

English Christmases brought loud parties and endless preparations, but what Lucy most treasured were the few blessed hours of the Christmas Eve church service. In her pew, bathed in candlelight, Lucy’s heart rang with music in an expression of joy, devotion, and pure faith. The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight … O come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant! When silence fell and prayers were spoken, Lucy’s heart cried out all on its own.

Before Narnia, Lucy remembered, she had never quite understood what she was supposed to pray for in those long moments of quiet she was forced to spend in church each Christmas Eve. Usually, she had made a fumbling, childish effort to say thank you for Christmastime and ask for her family’s welfare in the New Year. At the time, no one in her family had put much stock in prayers.

Yet since Narnia, Lucy found her words easily. She understood, as well as any person could, what it was like to have a relationship with the King of Kings. She knew the kindness and majesty of the divine voice, even when it had been five Christmases since she last heard it aloud. In time, she even stopped looking for glimpses of golden mane in the colors and angles of the stained-glass windows. Her faith was stronger for it.

Then, six Christmases after Lucy’s final journey to Narnia, Susan did not go with her family to church on Christmas Eve. She went to a party instead, in a red gown that sparkled in the light when she moved. When Lucy saw her sister slip out the side door as the rest of the family prepared to leave for the service, it suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t know where Susan was going to church anymore.

“Peter? Do you know what church Susan’s attending?”

A drawn breath. Peter’s eyes fluttered shut. “Ah. I was wondering when you would notice.”

“Do you mean she hasn’t been going at all?”

“No, Lu. Not for almost six months now.”

“Is—is it like with Narnia, do you think? Has she stopped remembering?”

Peter laid a hand on Lucy’s arm and rubbed back and forth. “I don’t know. She’s been rather tight-lipped about the whole thing. She just says she has other priorities these days.”

“I see,” said Lucy. When Peter took his hand away, she shivered.

And so, that night in the church, between the hymns and Scripture readings, Lucy bowed her head and prayed with all the strength that remained to her, frightened and trembling as she was.

Please, she pleaded, please keep Susan from wandering off. Please bring her home. Oh Lord, I’ll do anything. Just let me keep my sister.

She repeated the refrain again and again as the night waned and the candlelight grew fainter. Again and again she bowed her head, made her entreaty, and tried to imagine the richness of the divine voice. Finally, after the last hymn was sung, Lucy bowed her head one final time, and her prayer changed.

Please keep me near you. Lucy’s lips silently formed the words in the darkness, almost a hymn itself. Please let me always be faithful. Oh, I believe. Help my unbelief.

The timbre of Aslan’s voice, of Jesus’s voice, was vivid in her mind, but no words came. Lucy’s prayer received no immediate answer, no sign that it had even been heard. Yet Edmund was warm beside her; her traitor-brother had been redeemed. He was solid and faithful there in his pew, and perhaps that was answer enough for now.

Three Pevensie children and their parents made their way silently outside. As they stepped out into the night, Lucy saw stars twinkling overhead. She stopped, raised her chin, and stuffed her hands into her pockets, looking up.

Edmund halted at her side, muttering under his breath about the cold, but smiling all the same. A moment later, Peter joined them and began to point out his favorite constellations in the curiously clear winter sky. Cassiopeia. Ursa major. Leo.

There had been an observatory once, in the highest tower of Cair Paravel. Lucy remembered. On a Christmas night when she was twenty-three, she and her brothers and dear, beloved Susan had sipped mulled cider and, laughing, called out the names of all the stars. 

Someday soon, I will be twenty-three again, Lucy thought, burrowing closer to her brothers and trying not to cry. I will have other Christmases to count. Susan will have other Christmases. It will all turn out alright in the end. He is still good.

When they returned to their parents’ house, the boys went off to bed and Lucy retired to the room she shared with her sister. When Susan came in a little after 2 am, flushed and a bit tipsy but still glittering in the light, Lucy heard the door open. “Merry Christmas, Su,” she whispered.  

“Oh. Hullo Lucy. Sorry to wake you.” Susan’s voice was breathy in the darkness. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

[adoremp3]

Unholy Night

In which Harry gifts Y/N with a heartfelt Christmas present & Y/N returns the favour in the most intimate way she knows how.

Or, the one where it’s basically 5k of smut.

A/N: Happy holidays! I was tempted to hold off on posting this one for a little longer, but I have no self control and so here we go. Fair warning, I wasn’t kidding about this being basically 5k of smut. It includes: handjobs, blowjobs, fingering, thigh riding, and, well, the main event of vaginal sex. As always, let me know what you think! I really hope you enjoy this one as much as I enjoyed writing it. It’s definitely the smut I am most proud of! So, enjoy! x

Moodboard // Inspiration // Wattpad // Send me your thoughts

You climb out of the bed and walk over to the window, looking out at the people in the street below and the falling snow around them. Christmas has never been one of your favourite times of the year, but you can't deny how pretty the Hallmark version of this holiday period is. Sometimes you wish it could be just like that, but you try not to think about it too much and just focus on getting through the season as quickly and seamlessly as possible. “It's early,” Harry mumbles from the bed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “Come back to bed, Y/N.”

You shake your head. “I'm fine over here,” you say, not taking your eyes away from the busy streets down below. It may only be very early in the morning, but the world doesn’t stop for anyone or any time. Sometimes you like to think about where the people have come from and where they will go. “But the bed is lonely without you,” Harry says, patting the bed beside him. “The bed or you?” You twist your body around as you ask. Harry's cheeks flush pink. “Maybe a bit of both.” You know that the second you’re back in the bed he'll wrap his arm around your body and pull you in close. Anyone else may find that enjoyable—hell, he has an entire fanbase you know would very much enjoy it—but the close proximity and emotional meaning behind it is the biggest catch. There's always something more behind Harry's words and actions, something that tells you your friends with benefits relationship may not be simply that anymore. “C'mon, Y/N,” he says again, pulling the blanket back to show the space beside him just for you. “It's getting cold.” A little chill down your spine is worth not having to be in cuddling proximity you want to tell him, but figure that's probably not a good idea. It's his last day in the country before he flies back to London to spend the holidays with his family, so you decide to give him just this once to feel whatever it is that he feels. You only nod an acknowledgement to Harry before making your way back over to the bed, sliding in beside him as he lets the blanket fall over your body. Harry pauses on the spot, eyes on the body beside him that makes his heart beat rapidly. He brushes his fingers against your cheek, your skin soft and very kissable. “Morning,” he says, lips tugging into a small smile. “Planning on getting anymore sleep?” You shrug. “If I feel the need to fall back asleep I will, but I'm not particularly tired right now,” you tell him, awkwardly trying to avoid his eyes on you. “If that's the case,” Harry begins, sitting up and pulling the blanket off himself, “might give you your present, then.” “Present?” you ask, raising a brow. You aren’t expecting this at all. “Yeah,” Harry says, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and pausing a few seconds first before standing up. “Got you a Christmas present, hope that's okay.” You pucker your lips. “Oh, didn't realise we were doing that,” you tell him, watching him move around the room towards his bag. “I didn't get you anything.”

“S'okay,” he replies, squatting down to dig through his luggage. “Was a bit last minute myself, but I saw it and couldn't help myself.” A present is yet another emotional bond between you two, or so that's what you are choosing to believe. Harry was always just meant to be someone to keep your bed warm when in the country, but you’re not quite sure when you started to become something more—friendly or otherwise. Maybe you needs to have a word with Harry about the nature of your relationship, reminding him that all you want is sex, but you decide to hold off until after the holidays. It will be awfully rude to bring Harry down during Christmas. “Ah, here we go,” Harry says, standing back up with a rectangular present in his hand. He walks back over to the bed, sits down beside you, and smiles as he holds it out. “Merry…early Christmas.” You gulp at first, unsure how to approach the situation. Are you supposed to thank him? Give him a kiss? This is all too much and a little overwhelming for you. “Uh, thanks,” is all you say as you take the present from Harry, staring down at the perfectly wrapped gift in your hand. 

It's wrapped in red wrapping paper with the words 'Merry Christmas' written in gold repeatedly across it, topped with a gold bow sitting in the corner. You only appreciate it for a few more seconds before you begin tearing at the paper, slowly revealing piece by piece of what your new present may be. Harry's eyes shine bright as he watches you, his lips tugging into a bigger smile as he gets antsy out of anticipation—he knows you’re going to love it. You unwrap the final piece, already having noted it's a book of some sort, and turns it over to see the front cover. Your eyes widen in surprise, much like your lips do as they part. “Harry, how did you…” you try to ask, but stop yourself in disbelief as your fingers traipse over the front cover of a first edition copy of Alice in Wonderland. “Late one night we were talking, and you said it was your favourite book but were awfully upset when the copy your grandmother used to read to you every night until it got thrown out,” he explains, biting down on his lip as he eagerly waits for your reaction. All he wants is to make you happy. You really don't know how to react, though. You vaguely remember telling Harry the story, though you had assumed it was long forgotten with the rest of the nonsense you’ve spluttered out late at night or while drunk. It only makes you wonder what else he remembers and what he plans on doing with that information. 

“This is... Harry, I—” You don't know what to say; you’re in shock. After the copy your grandmother gifted you was thrown out after an unfortunate incident, you remember crying and crying because it was one of the very few things you had left from her after she passed. “Do you like it?” Harry asks, unable to wipe the grin spreading across his lips. “Yes, oh my god, thank you so much!” You hug the book close to your chest, but it's your next reaction that takes you both by surprise. You launch yourself towards Harry, wrapping your arms around him in a hug, and press your lips up against his. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you keep mumbling between kisses. Harry's hands fall to your hips, grazing gently against your skin as your arms rest atop his shoulders and your fingers play with his hair. “Is this how we say thanks now?” he asks teasingly, his fingers brushing against your skin just under your shirt. “I mean, yeah, but I also kinda feel bad I didn't get you anything, so...I wanna make you feel good,” you tell him, smirking as you roll your hips into his. “Yeah?” Harry asks, though his voice gets caught in his throat at first. You nod. “Yeah.” “And how do you plan on doing that?” Harry's excitement of what's possibly about to happen is obvious with the corners of his lips tugging into something of a smile. “Well, first of all, I've got to get you nice and hard,” you say. Harry laughs. “I approve already.” His fingers brush against your bare skin still, though they're much lower this time. You are certain he's about to go for your ass, but you have other ideas. “What's the plan of action, then?” “This.” You cross your arms at the hem of your shirt, then lift it up and over your head, revealing your bare chest. Harry bites down on his lip at the sight in front of him, but you’re not quite done yet. “You're gonna have to do better than that,” Harry teases, though he's visibly struggling to keep his eyes away from your naked breasts. You roll your eyes. “I've not finished yet,” you tell him, taking his hands in yours and taking him by surprise. You know this has confused him and can't help the small smirk, but it's no match for the tugging on your lips seconds later as you place his hands on your breasts instead. You massage yourself over Harry's hands until you know he's doing it himself and pulls your hands away. “What about that?” “Could be better,” Harry replies, though he makes no effort to remove his hands any time soon. He's already flicking and twisting your left nipple, letting it harden under his touch. As he glances up at your face, though, his eyes drop to your lips for a second, and you know exactly what he's going to do next. “Are you sure about that?” you ask, giving your hips a little wiggle and instantly feeling movement underneath you. “You're such a fucking tease,” Harry manages to get out seconds before he crashes his lips against yours, unable to stop his temptation any further. You giggle against his lips, but melt into the kiss soon after, continuing to grind your hips into Harry's. “Feeling nice and hard yet?” you ask the second Harry's lips drop to your jaw. Harry pushes his hips up, and you feel his hardening cock against you. “You tell me, babe.” “Only one way to find out,” you reply, your lips tugging into a smirk as you dip your hand between the two of you. The second you begin to palm him through his pants, Harry's breath hitches. “Seems all good from here,” you add, giving him a quick squeeze. “Yeah?” he asks, placing a sloppy kiss against your lips. You nod. “Yeah, but what happens if I do this?” you ask. Before Harry can ask what, you dip your hand into his pants and wrap your hand around him. “Fuck,” Harry curses, his hot breath hitting your skin in a way that sends goosebumps down your arms. “You know I'm always super sensitive in the morning.” “I haven't forgotten,” you reply, swiping your thumb across his slit before you instruct him to lift his hips so you can pump him properly. Harry does as he's asked within two seconds flat, letting you take control; he's the one that usually does, but when the roles are reversed, Harry can barely control himself. He's not sure when the hand he has left on your breast stopped moving, just sitting there and cupping you without doing much else, but he couldn't care less in that moment. His cock springs up against his stomach the second his pants are off, and it takes you all of two seconds to take him in your hand again. “Oh, shit,” he curses as you swipe your thumb across his slit again, coating his tip with his already leaking pre-come. You grin to yourself as you shuffle back on his lap slightly, getting a better angle to fasten the pace as you pump him up and down that little bit harder. Harry presses his lips against yours and sloppily kisses you, but pulls back not long after as his forehead falls against yours and he squeezes his eyes shut; the immense amount of pleasure begins to overtake him, already feeling as though he's not going to last for as long as he wants or for as long as you truly deserve. Harry's heavy breaths are a sure sign of his enjoyment, but you’re not quite done with thanking him just yet. You let go of his hard length and throw your arms back around his neck, resulting in Harry's brows to furrow at the loss of your hand. “What happened to my thank you?” he asks, his lips swollen and stained pink, while his cheeks flush red. “Calm down, I've saved the best for last,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “The best?” Harry asks. “What's the b—” He's cut off by your next move, which is sticking your finger in your mouth and sucking on it. Harry gulps. “Oh, fuck.” You use the same finger seconds later to lift his chin as you pull him in for a quick kiss, nibbling on his bottom lip and leaving him wanting more. “Talk to me, Harry. Tell me what you want,” you instruct, rolling your hips into his. Your underwear is the only thing keeping you apart. “I want you,” he moans, his hands wrapping around you and beginning to roam across your body again. Every inch of your body is covered, from your hair down to your thighs; your shoulders, your bare back, your hips, your ass. “Yeah?” you ask, latching your lips to his jaw. “Tell me more. What do you want, Harry?” “You,” he says, gripping onto your ass in a way that tells you you’ll be bruised tomorrow. “I want you, Y/N. I want you so fucking bad.” You build more friction between you as you grind your hips together again, making use of still being on his lap. “What part of me do you want?” you ask, pressing your lips a little lower on his jaw this time before pulling back. “My fingers?” you question before he can reply, brushing your fingertips across Harry's. “Maybe my tits.” You sits his hand on your chest again, letting his fingertips brush lightly against your hard nipple. “Or what about my mouth?” You stick the tips of Harry's fingers in your mouth, nibbling on them playfully. “Please, Y/N,” is all Harry manages to get out as his eyes are hard on your mouth, watching the way your lips move against his fingers and your tongue swirls around them. You have him right where you want him, but you still want more. You want him to beg for it. “Please what, Harry?” “Your mouth, I want it,” he says. “Where?” “My cock,” he exasperates as your lips meet his jaw again, latching on and suckling lightly as a mild taste of what's to come. “Want your mouth on my cock.” You grin, happy you’ve finally gotten what you want. “Your wish is my command,” you say, pressing your lips against his in a long and languid, and incredibly agonising, kiss. Harry's arms are back around your body, pulling you in impossibly close and feeling every inch of your body pressed up against his. And then, when he's nearly forgotten what he's just begged you for, you kiss the side of his mouth again, then his jaw and his neck, hands pressed to his chest as you gradually make your way down his body. His muscles tense under your touch, but it's no match for his still hardening nature out of just pure excitement from what's about to happen. Your lips have always seemed soft against his lips, whether in a quick kiss or a nibble that drives him absolutely crazy, but in this moment, while your lips are grazing against his collarbone, Harry is certain your lips have never felt better. Your kisses continue to move down his body, down his chest and sternum, reaching his abdomen that clenches tight before you’ve even latched your lips to his skin. Seconds later, you’re a little bit lower on his V-line, ready to follow the path to your final destination. Your name has left his lips before you’re even close, but that may have something to do with the agonising wait and the way your fingers brush against his length in a total surprise. “Fuck, Y/N,” he says lowly. “M'gonna come before you're sucking me off at this rate.” A light chuckle is the only reply Harry gets from you, but you both know he's for sure not coming unless he's inside you in one way or another. But you’ve not got much time to think about it because you have finally reached where Harry so badly wants you, lips pressing light kisses right above his cock to tease him even more. Your lips twist into something devilish as you pull back, watching Harry writhe under your touch in front of you. Your lips are nearing his tip, your warm breath hitting it in a way that's sending Harry crazy. But to be fair, the thought of you going down on him is already making his mind run wild. You run your finger down his length first, his eyes unable to leave your every move, until you finally do what he's been waiting for. Harry's hand is in your hair the second after you’ve licked the first stripe, pre-come dripping from your lips when you sit back up. He could almost come right there and then. “Oh, Y/N,” he breathes out when you dip your head again, your lips latching to the tip of his cock and swirling your tongue around. Your hand is around the base, squeezing tight as you lower yourself a bit further than the tip. Gradually, you continue to roll your tongue against his skin, sliding bit by bit into your mouth. It's not long until he practically hits the back of your throat, his fingers running through your hair, and he's certain life can't get any better. “Shit, just like that,” he says. “Don't stop, baby. Don't stop.” Bobbing up and down, you don't plan on stopping any time soon. Hell, you even plan on going until he finishes. You glance up at him through your lashes, his eyes meeting yours instantly, noting how his bottom lip is nearly red raw from biting down on it. Harry tries to smile his appreciation at you, but instead squeezes his eyes shut and throws his head back, hitting his head on the wall, as you moan around him and send nearly insufferable vibrations up his cock. And just when he thinks it can't get any better, you begin to roll your hips against his thigh, finding your own enjoyment as pleasure begins to overtake you as well. “Fuck,” Harry curses, opening his eyes and witnessing the better than porn visual in front of him. “Like sucking my cock, don't you, baby?” You nod and mumble your answer as best you can, but the vibrations ripple through Harry again, sending another wave of pleasure that has him scrunching the bed sheets with his free hand. Your hips continue to grind against his thigh at a slow pace, matching the same rhythm with your mouth. Glancing up at him quickly, you swear Harry almost looks relieved, his release probably nearing quicker than he wants, but you wrap your fingers around the base and pump him while you give your mouth a quick rest. Your tongue, on the other hand, continues to swirl around his tip to keep him well and truly interested. Your name sounds like magic coming from his lips, like it's made to be said during this moment and nothing more. Harry grips at the back of your head still, watching the sight in front of him with great detail, wanting to remember this exact moment forever. Just as he spots you open your mouth a little wider, sliding his length in once again, he knows he isn't going to last long. Not with this amount of build up and not at this time of the morning. And while that may be the case, something doesn't quite feel right—you may be about to suck an orgasm out of him, but that's not how he wants it to happen. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” Harry says suddenly, trying to sit up a bit as he tugs on your hair.

You pull back from him, furrowing your brows. “What’s going on?” you ask, confused. “Did you want to come on my tits instead?”

“No, I—wait, you’d be into that?” Harry blinks as he considers it for a split second, then shakes his head as he guides you up from his lap, running his fingers through your hair and down your cheek. “No, baby. I’m—fuck, you’re so good, your mouth is literal magic, but I want to be inside you.” Harry bites down on his lip, thinking about how much he wants this. “Baby, please let me come inside you.”

“Oh!” You grin, pouncing forward instantly to take him on a whole new adventure.

Harry lets you plant kisses on his jaw again for a few seconds, forgetting about everything and just enjoying the moment as you still grind on his thigh, until he remembers that it’s time for him to take charge again. “Y/N, no, I—it’s my turn,” he says, his hands smoothing over your bare back.

“Your turn?” you ask, creasing your brows.

“Yeah,” Harry says with a nod. “My turn.” Before you can even say anything else, Harry flips you over so he’s the one on top now, biting down on his lip as his eyes cloud over.

You blink a few times. “But I wanted to make you feel good,” you say, pouting your bottom lip.

“And you’ve done that brilliantly already, but if you really want to thank me, you’ll let me do this,” he replies, pressing his lips to yours in a hungry kiss. 

You want to tell him that you want to be on top, you want to be in charge, but Harry’s fingers are already traipsing over your body and flicking your nipple before you even get a chance—all thoughts on possibly riding Harry through his orgasm are saved for another day. Between grinding yourself against Harry and the general feeling you get yourself when pleasuring Harry, it’s safe to say there’s a fiery ball already building in the pit of your stomach as Harry continues to kiss you, but it’s when he dips his fingers into your underwear and circles your clit that you know you’re done for. You’ve forgotten how to kiss as your head is thrown back against the pillow, moans escaping your lips as the fire builds inside you, while Harry’s lips are latched to your jaw. 

Harry dips his finger inside you next, moving on from your clit. “My my, someone’s been really enjoying themselves,” he teases, his finger moving easily as it bends and curves to find the spot you so desperately need. 

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna get you back for this,” you say, your hands falling to the sheet either side of you as you scrunch it between your fingers. Your back arches and your hips shift slightly, guiding his fingers, and you know for sure your end is near.

“Come for me, Y/N,” Harry muses, his hot breath hitting your neck in a way that would drive you crazy had you not already been mostly there already. 

Your chest is flushed red and sweat sculpts your hair, making a right mess of it against the pillow, but you don't care—all you can think about is the pure ecstasy running through your veins, and then it finally hits you. Expletives fall from your lips as your orgasm pulses through you, hips rising from the bed and sheets still scrunched in your hand, and Harry’s finger continues to pump inside you as you ride out one of the best adrenaline pumping orgasms you’ve had in awhile. Maybe all the build up had something to do with, or maybe Harry just really fucking knows what he’s doing.

“Jesus, fuck me,” you breathe out as it’s over, your arm falling across your eyes as you take a moment to breathe. You feel like you’ve just run a marathon.

Harry chuckles. “Don’t know about Jesus, but I sure am about to,” he says, lifting you up as he pulls down your underwear and throws them off the bed. Harry presses a quick kiss to your lips, when you slide the arm from your face just enough to peek at him. “Ready for round two?”

“I was barely ready for round one.” Really, you weren't; it happened so fast now all you want to do is take a few minutes to both recover and prepare for what’s coming next, but Harry’s also been edged so much that you know all he wants is his final release. “Okay, but be gentle,” you add.

“Gentle?” Harry laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “When have you ever wanted gentle?”

You think about it for a second, then press your lips together. “Okay, never mind,” you reply, realising your mistake. 

Harry has one hand beside you to hold himself up, while the other is rubbing up and down your side, before you even have a few seconds to blink or think about what’s happening next. “Still taking birth control?” he asks, lips pressing lightly against the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah,” you say, capturing his lips against yours. Your friends have tried to tell you in the past that birth control alone isn’t the greatest contraceptive, but in the moment, you don't care—and, quite frankly, neither does Harry. All he wants is to be inside you, your walls clenching against him in a way that drives him to the edge—all he wants is to feel you in a way he’s never felt closer. 

You nibble Harry’s bottom lip playfully, your hands wrapping around his neck as you grind your completely naked bodies against one another, but Harry can’t take it anymore. He sits back a bit, wraps his hand around his cock as he pumps himself a few times to make sure he’s ready—you roll your eyes because of course he’s ready, he’s leaking pre-come again—and then lowers himself a bit as he lines himself up with your entrance. 

“Ready?” he asks as he looks up at you, wanting to double check you want it.

Of course you want it, but you still appreciate the gesture. “Mhmm,” you hum. 

Carefully, Harry steadies himself over you again as he slides himself into you, filling you in a way you’ve felt countless times but will never get tired of. He’s slow at first, finding his momentum and the right angle, but as you moan his name in pure pleasure he knows he’s on the right track. You reach up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer so your mouth is on his once again, deepening the kiss as you continue to pull the two of you impossibly close. You sigh against his lips, while Harry’s lips tug into a smile—he can’t help being happy at knowing just what he’s doing to you. Maybe that’s why you like taking control as well. 

“Good?” he asks against your lips as you pull back, his forehead resting on yours as he still rolls his hips into yours. 

You nod. “Yeah, keep going,” you urges, breathing hard.

Harry picks up the rhythm a bit. “How’s that? Better?

“I’d be better if you stopped asking all these questions and just got on with it,” you tell him honestly, gripping hard onto his back as he finds a particular spot that overwhelms you to the point you can feel the fiery ball beginning to build inside you again. 

Harry grins. “Your wish is my command,” he says, sliding out slightly before thrusting back into you. 

“Shit,” you curse, your nails now digging into his skin. “Do that again.”

Like you requested, Harry thrusts into you again and again and again. “I’m not gonna last much longer,” he says after a while, his breaths shallow and forehead sticky with sweat. 

You nod, knowing full well that he wouldn’t. “I’m surprised you’ve even made it this—” you try to tell him you’re surprised he’s made it this far, but you’ve stopped the second Harry’s thumb is brushing against your clit. 

“You were saying?” Harry asks, his lips tugging into a smirk that you would practically smack off his face had you not been on the verge of a second orgasm. 

“Shut up,” you settle with.

Harry’s free hand that’s everywhere on your body one second is on your thigh the next, sliding underneath as he hoists your leg around his hips to find a new angle as he deepens himself inside you. And that’s when he hits the right spot, his name spilling from your lips as your back arches again, your pleasure overwhelming you. Harry picks up the pace with both his thrusts and his thumb circling your clit, and that’s what finally does it as your second orgasm hits you. Your nails dig further into Harry’s skin as everything goes blurry, vision impaired momentarily and not a care in the world for anything other than Harry helping you through it. 

You want to take a few moments once you’re done to let it consume you, to save this memory for whenever you’re alone, but you know Harry is on the verge of finishing himself. His thrusts are becoming messier and his lips crash against yours sloppily, you clenching against him during your orgasm enough to send him over the edge. 

“I’m gonna—Y/N, I’m—fuck,” he tries to say, but he’s coming before another word can be uttered. He breathes out against your lips at first, your name sounding breathless in that moment, but he drops his forehead to your collarbone seconds later as his hips stop jerking and everything stills. 

It’s a few seconds of sweat and laboured breathing before either of you do anything, but Harry breaks your mildly stilled silence by capturing your bottom lip in his once more. “Best Christmas present ever,” he says, his lips tugging into the warmest smile. “Actually, might even be the best present of all time.”

“Don’t go buying me random presents now just so you can get that again,” you tell him, narrowing your eyes.

Harry chuckles as he rolls to his side, ignoring the fact that there’s quite the mess between you both. “And where’s the fun in that?”

In reality, there’s no way you could ever stop Harry from doing what he wants—if he wants to shower you with gifts, he’s going to do it and you’re going to get something new and shiny to add to your collection of other new and shiny things. But then again, if it does end in more orgasms… Who's to deny Harry what he wants?

After a few beats of silence, Harry’s lips tug into something playful as he glances at you. “So, Y/N, I’ve heard Tiffany’s is around the corner…” “I think I’d much rather breakfast,” you say, placing your hand on your stomach as it chooses that exact moment to rumble.

“Breakfast, huh?” Harry asks, pausing as he thinks for a second. “If I get you some waffles, maybe you can suck me off before I leave.”

You sigh very dramatically as soon as Harry says that, throwing your arms across your face as you wonder just what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into.

taglist: @harryswinterberries @niallgolden @callmebeautiful​ @tobefalling​ @kakaym​ 

[loquaciousquark]

Talks Machina Highlights - Critical Role C2E125 (Feb. 16, 2021)

Goooood evening good evening good evening, all! I hope you’re all staying warm and safe and dry in this chilly weather. Tonight’s guests: Travis Willingham and Laura Bailey. 

We open tonight with Travis ribbing Brian for his continuous remodel of his office space. Laura demands a second introduction of herself as she wasn’t paying attention during the first one.

Travis: “You’ve gotta love Julianne Moore. She’s the only actress who can cry and show you all her teeth at the same time.” I was listening pretty closely when he said this and I’m still not sure it had any context. 

Jester thinks there’s a strong possibility at least half the party will die against the Tombtakers. Fjord doesn’t think the odds are quite that high, but it will be dangerous. Laura points out that most of the M9 are also willing to sacrifice themselves for the rest of the party, so that changes their odds as well. Travis: “The game is not a stress reliever. It is not a stress reliever. I mean, it’s fun as shit, but it is stressful!”

Laura thinks Essek will give them a better chance. Travis: “A plus-one? A powerful plus-one, but a plus-one?” Did you see his reaction when we gave him the lowdown? Let’s be real: we kinda trust Essek. I got $50 that when we come back, he’s gone.” Laura is convinced he is trustworthy & wants to lighten his soul.

Jester spent so much time trying to bring out the Molly side of Lucien that to have him then betray them sucked. She knew that trying to bring the good out of everyone they met would eventually fail, but it stung that it was the most powerful one they encountered to first betray them.

She tries to talk about finger gestures during the answer as a reference to the HBO show “Raised by Wolves,” and Brian and Travis tell her to keep digging this hole she gets herself into about fingering. Travis: “Just get off the interstate at the next exit and turn right.” Laura, of course, immediately mimes turning a hard left, and they spent the next few minutes laughing at her inability to tell right from left and that even now she still has to hold up her hands to tell left from right.

Fjord is furious that they nicked the Bag of Holding. The loss of Vess DeRogna is bad enough, but he is genuinely IRL anxious about the loss of the Cloven Crystal. Laura points out that Fjord has also explicitly talked to Lucien about the deep sea creature patron he used to follow as well. He’s terrified one of Lucien’s scimitars is suddenly going to have a big eye sticking out of it. Laura suggests they’ll just succeed, bring back the city, and wake up Uk’otoa for the heck of it.

It was really rough to go from the Gelidon fight to the Tombtaker fight, especially since the first fight sent so well. Travis felt great that he initiated the dragon fight - he knew they had a far advantage in the numbers and felt that it was an open and shut case.

Laura does boggle that if Caleb hadn’t asked for that item from the Bag of Holding, they might have slept all night before realizing it was gone. They’re both relieved that they now know so much more about how the Tombtakers fight, especially the anti-magic cone. The most anxiety-ridden part was when they were trying to run and the TTs weren’t letting them. “You know when you don’t even have squares, when Matt’s black-tableclothing it, you’re in deep shit.” Laura had no spells left - she was so worried if she dropped the polymorph she would have had nothing left.

Travis: “Thanks for healing me, babe.” Laura: “You’re welcome, baby. It was ultimately a waste, though, because we took a rest immediately and you could just spend your hit dice.” Everyone laughs at Travis’s pain. She does say it was worth it in the moment since they didn’t know if they would be able to get away.

They joke that Laura’s just wearing the Fire Resist ring on a chain around her neck/Sprinkle is wearing it now to keep it safe since she’s not attuned to it anymore. It’s pretty hilarious!

Travis hoped that the TTs were originally actively looking for more acolytes rather than just having Caleb & Beau read the book. Otis needs to die. He’s relieved they have an idea of what all their blood rites do. Laura thought the time with them was fun, but it makes her retroactively wish that she’d dropped Zoran in the lava when they had the chance. Travis wishes they’d put a chime on the door of the tower.

Laura loved the tarot card reading, since Taliesin sent her really detailed breakdowns of the cards & gave her a real deck for Christmas. Taliesin told her she did a great job afterwards which she really appreciated, since she’s not sure what she’s doing. She does wish that she knew why Lucien seemed so nervous when she was talking about rebirth.

Cosplay of the Week! @clever_comics on twitter with a lovely Veth in her snowy lavender-colored outfit and pigtails.

Travis on confessing to Jester: “It FUCKING made me crazy!” He’s never been an instigator of campaign romances in the past, but because he loves Laura and was able to connect to her on that level he felt like it was a good challenge instead. He doesn’t think he could have done it with someone he wasn’t comfortable with. It was also important to him for it to be founded on real-game moments and after real-game time had passed, and he felt it was a very natural progression. Seeing the statues rip five years from her in such a benign situation made him realize that to let the opportunity pass wouldn’t have been worth it. He wishes he’d told Vandran what he meant to Fjord as well.

Laura loves that Fjord is becoming more confident as well. The post-Gelidon smooch took Laura completely by surprise since she’s finding Jester is a little surprisingly awkward with IRL affection, and she was surprised Fjord was the confident one there. “It’s so wonderful. It’s a matter of finding a way to get comfortable with it with her away from the Tombtakers.” Travis thought it was important to continue the “go for it” mantra. He notes that he’s pretty private about his personal life IRL, so it’s been a bit of a shift. It’s slower in a way - not a “you’re my one true love” kind of thing, more of a “let’s see where this goes and act on what you can” thing.

They were all “poopin’ in their pants” to get to go to Emon. The worst part was not getting to explore outside the tower since they had to leave again immediately. Kima is so cool, and Travis was actively trying to get Kima to come with them. Everyone boggles that they got to borrow Allura’s staff.

Laura only was thinking about the item-tuned-to-the-target-plane because she’d been texting with Liam trying to iron out their spell choices. She’s so relieved that they were able to get something tuned to the Sea from Allura.

For the most part, Laura knows what spells are the most useful for Jester, but every now and then she does get caught by major component requirements that she hadn’t noted. She wants to get another chalice for Hero’s Feast before they go into the Sea.

Dani points out that a lot of their allies right now are mages (no Kashaws, no Kimas, no Grogs) and they’re heading to a bad place for mages.

Travis has a sudden brain wave about all the TTs being from the Claret Order and wonders if they should investigate that before they pursue. I don’t even remember what that order is and I feel terrible!

Fanart of the Week! It’s a beautiful card by @crovyne on twitter of the Cree counterspell.

Laura really wants Brian to shave the sides of his hair and do Viking braids in the rest. I didn’t want to say anything out loud, but Brian’s hair is really looking pretty...pandemicky.

This is Dani’s four-year-anniversary of her start for Critical Role! Awww, Dani! You’re so short in real life.

Fjord is stoked that the Star Razor is a Vestige, and more now that he knows in-character what that means. It was great to see Allura react the way she did.

Jester doesn’t think they can really go to Nicodranas - they don’t have anymore time. Even more, Jester’s avoiding going home because she doesn’t want the Ruby to see that she got aged up/hurt on her travels.

Travis honestly assumes that the TTs are spying on them 100% of the time now.

Does Jester feel better now that the crest is away from Lucien? Yes, even though it’s gone off course. She thought dropping the crest where they were was a HORRIBLE idea and was appalled so many people were suggesting it. She saw the city with her own eyes, knows the danger of what’s coming, and if they had dropped it in flight she would have dropped with it and defended it as long as she could if that’s what would have kept them from getting it.

Travis thinks that if they can negotiate with Lucien, they should try. Everyone is super worried about Caleb’s and Beau’s new eyes and are fully anticipating they’re on a clock at this point. They wonder if it’ll drive up their exhaustion, allow Lucien to force them to fight against them, maybe make them willing slaves to the mysterious voice...they need to solve it sooner rather than later. 

And that’s all for tonight! New episode this Thursday - usual time, usual place. Stay warm, friends, and is it Thursday yet?

[right-brain-of-froggy2]

Christmas In July Chapter 18

Double posting worked out today! Woohoo! This one is a little darker than the rest but I can't imagine the boys ever skipping on a mission, even if it falls on Christmas. So without further ado, here’s There’s No Place Like Home (For the Holidays).

AO3 link here!

Alan sits curled around his mug of instant hot chocolate. He blows away the steam and slurps half of it in one go. The taste is mediocre at best; in no way is it even comparable to John’s homemade stuff with real melted chocolate or Gordon’s ‘secret ingredient specialty’.

“Here.”

Alan turns his head up to find Scott with a bag in hand. Scott taps him on the shoulder again to take it. He accepts the offered bag and finds them to be a half-opened package of mini marshmallows. His oldest brother collapses down beside him in a heap of tired bones and aching muscles. Alan dumps a handful of marshmallows into his own cup before putting some in a second mug filled to the brim.

“Here yourself,” Alan mumbles as he passes over the fresh cup to Scott. Scott takes it with both hands. They shake without the support of each other. The tips of his fingers are a blistering red. Alan knows it won’t do any good now to bring up the impractical glove design. Scott doesn’t actually drink the hot chocolate; he allows the steam to warm his cheeks and hands. Alan takes another sip of his hot chocolate.

They don’t say anything.

They don’t have to. The silence is enough when sharing twin headaches. Two’s metal scaffolding blocks out most of the mechanical noise from outside, but not all of it. A gust from yet another collapsing building in the distance bellows through her body. The warmth from the hot chocolate suddenly doesn’t seem so warm. It does nothing but slosh in his stomach.

Scott digs out one of the marshmallows from the hot chocolate and pops it in his mouth. He sets the rest aside. The pilot leans back against the wall with his legs splayed out in front of him and helmet knocked aside. His eyes are shut. They look sunken in, even more so with the dirt and grime dirtying his face. Alan knows he looks no better.

With the exhaustion overtaking his body, Alan rests his head against Scott’s shoulder. It’s uncomfortable with the baldric under his temple instead of a shoulder, but he’s not one to complain. Alan shuts his eyes against the horrors of a rapidly declining mission. Another building crashes down.

Five minutes pass, then ten. Alan squeezes his eyes in displeasure as Scott’s baldric chimes.

John keeps his side of communication not audio only. A deliberate move, no doubt.

“Five minutes, Scott.”

“F.A.B.”

Alan jumps at his brother’s voice rumbling under his ear. He thought Scott dozed off.

“What about me John? You want me out too?”

“You’re off the clock for four hours. Go sleep. Wake Kayo up and tell her she’s on duty again.”

Deep inside, Alan is relieved. He was the first to go off rota for a required downtime back in the first twenty-four hours of the mission. They’ve circled back around to Alan’s turn to rest again. Which, speaking in terms of a rescue, is not a good sign.

The hallway to the sleeping quarters is so far. Alan’s energy is sapped from his body. Standing feels like too much work, and now he has to walk to a room to sleep? His resolve is low. But then Scott’s pushing off the wall and downing the rest of his hot chocolate like it’s an espresso shot. Scott doesn’t hide his exhaustion well when it’s this long. He pulls on his helmet with the interior lights on blast to keep his eyes from slipping closed.

“C’mon Allie.”

Scott reaches a hand down to help the astronaut up off the metal ground. Normally he’d have some quip, some smart remark to encourage Alan to keep going. Not today.

Alan takes the offered help. If Scott can keep going, then he can too. Scott turns right at the fork in Two’s halls, Alan turns left. There is only one room meant for sleeping during missions.He doesn’t bother to knock on the door. Instead, Alan tumbles in with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

That doesn’t stir Kayo from her sleep.

“Kayo, Kayo. You gotta wake up,” Alan mumbles. Her uniform is discarded somewhere in the corner, along with Gordon’s and Scott’s. She grumbles and pulls the blanket up higher. “Please. I’m tired too.”

John joins the party. “We need you out there, Kayo. Now rather than later.”

“Five minutes?” she asks John. Her voice is scratchy and monotone.

“Five minutes.”

Kayo forces her body up to a sitting position. She’s only in her undershirt and shorts. With the frigid air leaking in from outside’s storm, Kayo resorts to wrapping the blanket around herself as a cocoon.

Alan strips down to his underwear as Kayo nudges past him to pull out a fresh uniform of her own. No way are any of them digging through the pile of muddy, bloody uniforms to put an old one back on. With a clean uniform, Kayo throws her hair back into her trademark low ponytail and hooks a thumb in her helmet to carry it out. She wraps Alan up in the still warm blankets. He’s eternally grateful for that.

Before leaving Alan alone, Kayo makes a pitstop for a water bottle. She shuts the door with a quiet click. Alan powers down the lighting system until only a soft yellow glow reminiscent of the night light they had many years ago fills the chamber.

John told him four hours. Alan sets the alarm clock for a little under that. He’s lost track of whose turn it is to come sleep after him, but he’s more apt to wake to an alarm than a brother. Alan checks that the alarm will go off. It’s set for six-thirteen PM. The date is displayed by the time. 12/25.

It’s Christmas.

A fleeting thought lost to Alan’s mind as he succumbs to sleep.

[sugar-petals]

hey angel (m)

♡  sub!felix + reader 

↳ The JYP Halloween party is ditched on short notice. That means: You have a down-to-celebrate boyfriend in full angel costume on your hands.

words. 5k 

tags. domestic au, finger sucking, hickeys, latex, corruption kink, fingering, vaginal sex, footjob, harnesses, cunnilingus, kitten antics, edging, aftercare 

★⎡CARO’S NOTE⎦› here goes the cutie on duty 👼

genre. domestic + smut/crack

„So sorry mate,“ Bang Chan’s voice resounds through the speaker. „I thought it could work but… We can’t celebrate tonight. Really sorry, Felix. Changbin and I already got dressed up too, but, you know things got shut down. JYP won’t let us with the Corona rules and stuff.“

„Oh no…“

„Yeah, man. Looks like we’ll have to do it next year.“

„You even prepared the food already, right?“

„We’re handing it out to staff and eat it at home. I know, it sucks. I spent half the morning in the kitchen. I can like keep the pumpkin cookies so you can eat them tomorrow after practice or so.“

„I feel so sorry Chan… and thank you.“

„I’ll be calling Hyunjin and Han now as well. Really sorry we’re cancelling short notice. I hope you’re still having a nice evening bro. Maybe we can make it happen for Christmas.“

„Okay. Cheers mate.“

„Yeah, cheers.“

Felix puts his phone down looking more than deflated in his angel costume, puffs out a big sigh. You can tell he really looked forward to this. Just an hour before, you bothered to sew the wings in place rather than rely on the wobbly back-pack like construction that came with it. 

They’re firmly attached to his white top now, and all for nothing. He glued them together by himself with a pack of synthetic feathers ordered on Etsy for a ridiculous shipping cost, along with a little halo that he clipped into his hair. Which, because maybe it really does sense his mood, dangles low and even a bit lopsided over his head.

„It’s the party of the year,“ Felix flops down on the living room couch. “I can’t believe this.“

You sit down opposite to him, starting to clean off the table where masses of cosmetic products and leftover feathers have piles up.

„Next time, Lixie. We can keep the costume. Poor Chan, he organized the living shit out of everything.“

„I’ll just go and shower, get this off, and stuff,“ he points at his face. Felix applied his own makeup with a little help from you here and there, including some golden sparkles. Just yesterday, he bleached his hair. It’s sculpted down to every strand with hair spray now. Felix unties his sneakers with the little gold stars on. Just before he starts plucking off his halo, you get an idea, pick up your phone from the table.

„Wait— Let’s at least make some pictures with your phone, you put so much effort in this. You look so cute. The fans might want to see it as well.“

„Oh! You’re right,“ Felix stops right in his tracks. „For Instagram.“

After tightening his sneakers again and you making sure the halo sights right, Felix walks around your flat in search for a nice backdrop. You follow, quickly flipping through some filters to try, and adjusting the flash on the camera.

After posing at the fridge — strange idea — and in the bathroom turns out a little awkward as well, you decide that such an elaborate costume needs a themed background, and only the bedroom offers just that. You recently changed the duvet to sky blue sheets with clouds on them. The overall interior is mostly clean white as well, with some thrifted vintage furniture. Fairy lights, heavy curtains, a wooden ceiling. Perfect.

„We’ll caption it as… post your own stay-at-home costume, something like that,“ Felix plops down on the bed, acting as if he just took a seat on the cloud in the very middle.

„Sounds pretty good,“ you press release, and the first picture pops up on your screen. „Can you turn a little towards the light? That the sparkles are showing.“

„Yay, I love the sparkles!“

„Just like this, just like this. Don’t move. The sparkles!“

A five-picture series of more snapshots ensues, with you adjusting Felix’s face a few times by hand, even, turning his chin by sheer millimeters to find the perfect angle. He’s stunning.

„I have another idea.“

„Oh?“

„I remember what I wore for Halloween three years ago. The costume must be somewhere. I think it fits together with yours.“

„What, oh wow?“

„What was it again, wait…“

You already begin to sort through your wardrobe, checking each hanger, each drawer, end up where you store your socks, and finally pull out a larger plastic zip bag from the very depths of all that chaos. There it is. Nice.

„Lix, if you’d turn around for me, please.“

He immediately does. Blushing.

„Thank you, angel.“

You pull off your sweat pants, your grey shirt, socks, your bra. Time to dress up. Only your simple black panties stay on. On goes a pair of scarlet stockings, snug and high. Then, a dark red latex skirt that goes in big circles and flounces, down to the mid-thigh. 

Added: A tight sleeveless peplum top that admittedly… and deliberately squeezes your boobs a little. Not too much. More important is that your nipples are showing right through, and the cleavage is sweeping, every demon would be salivating at your feet. If an angel does: Remains to be tested.

Around your waist and chest and over your shoulder goes a black harness, pulling everything together. Some very pointed, glossy pumps with thin heels complete the costume. They’re not crafted to be walked on in the very least, their balance is terrible. You’re planning something else with them. Cherry on top: Devil horn headband. Really curved and pointy, too. Can’t go wrong. You click your tongue and take a spin. The skirt flares out perfectly. Ready to go.

„Felix, time to turn around.“

He does. You can tell he didn’t cheat.

„You’re, you’re so hot in this,“ Felix buries his face right in the comfort of his sweater paws, hoping they would not give away his embarrassed little face. But — his voice does, effortlessly so.

„Come on, have a look at me. Real closely, angel, come. You’re allowed to.“

Felix gazes through his fingers with what sounds like a little meep! in a much more high-pitched tone than his usual speaking range. He’s cute.

„Hey pum’kin. Miss Lucifer speaking. Where’s the barbecue?“

Felix and you recently agreed that hell must be one big and extremely hot cave where everyone’s grilling and having a good time. Australia, essentially.

„Welp!“

„Damn right. Infiltrating God’s realm one cloud at a time. Any last words?“

„It’s so intimidating!“

Felix digs himself into a mountain of pillows on the bed, with only his eyes and nose peeking out. You shrug, adjust your horns.

„Hm. Time for my first satanic act I guess.“

„Oh no!“

„Wait just one minute, be a sweet and patient boy.“

You leave Yongbok confused given that you’re quick to hurry to the kitchen. However, what you return with puts a giggle on his lips right away.

„Boom. It is served.“

„Yes, yes, please!“

Poufy black cocoa cupcakes. The ones with the cute little ghost frosting on it, and the melted chocolate inside. Felix finds them irresistable since the last Halloween party, to the point where you bake them mid-July. The current set of cupcakes was meant to be a contribution to Bang Chan’s eerie and delectable buffet. As for now, they’re in deep need of someone hungry since you made a lot of them, assuming a post-workout Changbin would devour at least five or more.

„Good move,“ he admits, a little shaky, and you proceed to tray the cupcakes on the bed — stuffing Felix for a solid ten minutes until there’s chocolate all over his face. What you’ll be quick to confess is that you’ve been deliberately messy feeding him, with all the crumbs in particular.

„Spoiled honey bun,“ you plant a kiss on top of his head.

„These taste so good, I swear.“

Next up is Felix who has to carefully maneuver the sweet treats into your mouth without spoiling your outfit.

„If you get crumbs into my cleavage, I can’t put your face in there later you know.“

Fierce nodding.

„That’s the spirit.“

Under your eagle eyes, he proves to be an obedient little cherub doing his job pretty well. The cakes are delicious in how spongy they are, and the liquid chocolate warms up so well on the tongue, it melts even more. You’re more than pleased and have Felix store away the remaining four pieces only after quite a while.

„I’ll have them for Brekkie, woo!“ is what he’s fast to proclaim, and you agree he’ll need them the next morning. Once you’re done with him, that’s gonna count as a hangover even Chan’s wildest party couldn’t give him.

„We’re talking dinner first, Felix.“

At this point, all the sugar is kicking in. Or it’s the chocolate being some kind of aphrodisiac. Whatever, could be either, you’re feeling like you’re up there at the ceiling, and you’re not the only one. Felix coming back to the bedroom so bouncy and cutieful just gets you even more in the mood.

You sit at the edge of the bed, slanting backward just a little. „You look like you need some more corruption, I won’t lie,“ you pat your lap, beckoning. He can ditch wifi because this is his favorite hot spot waiting for him. Felix sits down looking tiny as ever, eyes full of anticipation and his pants full of… big fat late night erection.

„I don’t mind at all, Miss. I don’t, oh my god…“ he mumbles into his nonexistent Aussie trucker beard, and you’re clear that whatever the skirt did to him, his brain must be doing kangaroo somersaults right now. In the meantime, something very eager is poking right at your lower belly. Captain Boomerang already came fully armed tonight and the Suicide Squad isn’t even anywhere near to be seen.

„Oh hey hey, cupcake. Getting really big there,“ you wipe at the curled little corners of his mouth. Some crumbs come off. His lips already twitch the way you know they want to do naughty things on you. He doesn’t seem to notice. Autopilot Felix has already taken over.

„Don’t hurry with it,“ he stares, mouth half-open, but his little grinds prove him a dirty — in an entirely direct sense — fucking liar. Like he’s literally rubbing himself against your stomach.

„Boy oh boy. You’re not even trying.“

„I’m fucked!“ is what Felix soon realizes with the daggers you’re shooting at him through your hopefully very satanic-looking eyes right now. Alongside catching up with his darn hips doing their own thing.

„You are.“

„I’m sorry for grinding, God help me!“

„He won’t. Cuz I’m here on your cloud. Cue stage number two of my demonic plan. Safeword?“

„It’s chocolate!“

„Mh. Good pick.“

The rest as usual. Tapping the thigh, yellow for pause, towels plus water ready, and always double-checking the lube in case of Jisung putting a glass of vegemite under your bed as his latest practical joke. Yes, it happened. It’s a whole new level of demonic. On the other hand: perhaps Felix’ ass could’ve actually handled it, Made in Australia it is. 

„Let’s go honey angel,“ you curl at his hair with a little finger just to tease him a little more. The answer is a little meow, at this point Felix’ communication skills have simplified to kitten vocabulary which always happens when he is nervous and looking forward to something.

Next thing poor Felix knows, his face has entered the scorching satanic abyss that is your cleavage. Literally, you’re burning up. It’s fucking October and Felix has you breaking a sweat from all your horniness (literally, your horns are just that chic) already. Twice the reason to punish the shit out of him. If that can be considered anything near a punishment.

A shower of various „Mh— nh!“ and mewling noises comes to rain down on you while Felix face takes a trip down mammary lane, and that, too, is literal. He’s salivating. So much about rain. Actually, great lubrication. Felix always does things best by instinct.

„Yes, good boy. Great job.“

Now that his mouth is wet already, you’re unceremonious about shoving your fingers right down his throat after he resurfaces. Blushed, hard, and ready to choke himself since he’s already running short on breath. It doesn’t take long until he’s gagging himself stupid and the sparkles under his eyes start running.

„Pretty, pretty,“ you lean down a little, kissing his nose. „Give me all you got.“

„Gh—gch—“

The answer is as slobbery and unintelligible as can be. To a normal human, at least. You’re a demonic top. That automatically means having an Ivy League major in gag noise translation.

„Oh yes, I know,“ you stroke his hair, using your free hand that usually rests at the back of his neck. „Talk to me about it. Exactly what I was thinking. Do go on.“

And he does, louder than ever. If there’s one satisfying sound, it’s this, that heavenly deep voice doing all kinds of nasty acrobatics is making you go crazy. That Felix is absolutely close to cumming in his angel pants is very much clear to you given how the veins and muscles on his neck are having a chaotic Halloween party on their own.

Which includes his tongue taking turns on your two fingers as well. And a wide-eyed Felix struggling, swallowing, holding on to your shoulders with his little feet twitching in their sneakers. Like mad… and you love it. But also — hopelessly sucking and moaning and slurping and squealing until his neck has way too much saliva on it for you not to make it your next target. Felix is so good at this. Way too good.

„Looks delicious,“ you lean in, your hair tickles his ears. And now, you’re busy nibbling, biting a little… and most importantly, giving Felix a wet hickey that will send his makeup artist — my God, you really torture the unsuspecting man almost weekly — into a meltdown. Rowdy and unholy is the look you’re going for.

In the meantime, Felix is still wrapped up trying to hit your fingers at the back of his throat. If his cute bouncy run and rude boner moment didn’t turn you on already, now you would be. The way he’s just sucking in his own spit makes you realize that you won’t ever need a fire brigade for your flat.

You emerge from his neck and raise your brows. Felix is just hard-wired to impress. „Just how much saliva can you produce!“

„Ch… Mnh— Nh…“

Hitting some more complex syntax and consonants there, is he.

„Oh, I get it now. You stayed hydrated during the day. Thanks for explaining, mate. That’s the secret.“

Whether that’s perfectly scientifically correct down to the enzyme theory and shit neither of you can google right now. At least you know that you’re both drenched on either end so that’s that.

Once Felix is so horny from deepthroating your damn hand that he has pull off and yellow-word, you’re already prepared for introducing a new position which you can prepare while he’s gathering himself and wiping off his chin. You hand him a second towel for his neck, and present him a little hand mirror to see how the hickey turned out.

„It’s shaped like, hm,“ he pants, words still slurring a little. „I dunno! It’s really cute!“

„Let me see… No doubt that’s a rice cake hickey. That’s the shape.“

„You’re right!“

And off he goes snapping a selfie with it while you get comfortable on your back, cleaning your own fingers.

„Just don’t upload that one to Insta instead of the cloud shots, we’re not gonna survive another Manager call at 1:15 AM.“

„Can I use your phone for it? That’s where it’s supposed to be on, anyway.“

Felix giggles a little. That cute brat. Always knowing how it’s done.

„Sure babe!“

And voilà, Felix is already occupied setting a good view of his new rice cake-shaped friend as your phone background. Good thing, helps his erection cool down a little, he was about to blow up his poor white pants. The acceptable unfair feat being that he’s just riling you up even more like that on the other hand.

„If you come to mommy now,“ you wriggle one foot in the air, the other splayed on the duvet, knee slightly bent. „Rubbing her pussy and doing your thing, you know how it goes.“

„Angel duties calling! What am I doing!“

At the speed of sound, Felix stores your phone back on the bedside table and crawls over in an instant. He props his chin on your abdomen and blinks.

„Sorry Ma’am. At your service. Never wanna keep you waiting.“

A big smile rouses his cheeks, and you boop them from either side. His peach fuzz is so soft and his eyes are so beautifully dark. You don’t waste any time keeping your skirt down for any longer. Another blink and Felix is already pawing — well, kneading and caressing technically — between your legs. He’s visibly understanding just how wet the whole finger sucking circus has left you now.

„What if I used my heels on your cock, boo. Still no cumming. Just my heels and my lil’ prince.“

Satanic plan stage number three. Felix has gotten to savor it last Christmas and for his birthday, and some time around the holidays in summer.

„I love it yay!“ Felix claps his hands. Baby, baby.

„C’mere then. Just keep on rubbing.“

His arms are fairly long enough. While you’re dragging the slender heels of either shoe right across the outlines on his crotch, Felix, eyes loosely closed, maintains a steady rhythm on your clit with three fingers lined up on the fabric of your panties.

„Oh fucking hell, Felix, shit—“

Whenever you masturbate, that alone would never do. You’d get frustrated after a while. Need more stimulation. But when Felix is on angel duty to keep your pussy soaked, it doesn’t need much to make your clit throb, even with your underwear still on. Guess that God’s little helpers know how to work their magic to make your head spin.

He’s hitting the right spot, with the right moves, and his other hand doesn’t miss out on a single opportunity to stroke at both the in- and outside of your thighs. The touch is so subtle, you twitch. Felix strokes on, delirious himself. His eyelids flutter.

„Fuck…“

Despite the little pause from earlier taking out most of his tension, your heels leave Felix with pants that are even more bulged out. That’s making it easy to direct your feet to jerk up and down at either side. You’d never know either of you would be so into this. Foot fetish and all.

Once he’s edged you to the point of moans, last thing you properly remember is calling it quits with the panties and telling him to line himself up. The heels kicked off, the skirt still on, you decide that unpacking your Halloween treat has been long overdue. You slide his pants down, roll down a pink condom, and grab his cock at the base to glide it all over your wet lips.

„Lix, come fuck me. You got me all horny. Satan is recruiting.“

„With me it’s not sinning,“ he smiles, brighter than the sun and you do right along. It’d be hard not to. Felix truly has the innocence of a virgin, the subtle confidence of an intermediate, the caution of a pro, and the kindness of a real veteran.

„You’re right about that Felix,“ you say, prop your entrance at the very tip, let the wetness do its job. „Come kiss your honey girl.“

And he does. Entering you with care for the right angle, letting your hip do the rest. What’s been circling and sucking your fingers so deliciously is now doing a hot job teasing and pleasing your tongue all over. His lips are amazingly soft and plump, they open so gently and feel electric on yours. A gentle squeeze around your left breast sparks a moan into the kiss from you. It’s Felix massaging your breasts while deepening his penetration, and you can tell the vegemite can stay under the bed today. You can tell Felix is getting more than flustered knowing it was all him who made you this dripping wet.

Even his dick seems to blush in sync. It’s fucking pink and red. Oh wait, that’s the condom. But knowing him and from your viewpoint, it’s still more flushed than before, no kidding. Faithfully pumping in and out of you at its full length now. You wrap your legs around his waist, the thrusts become deeper, shorter, parting you open much more, and filling you out so properly.

„So good. Right there, angel. Just right there. I’m loving that.“

Felix has a great dick. Best handy size, the girth’s comfortable, all nice and bendy, virtually no curve, you can always gyrate on it in any way and even take a complete 180 if you go from cowgirl to reverse (which you’d be doing right now but he’d crush his wings if he were on his back like that so no). Cherry on top, compact but soft balls that don’t steal the show but still do the trick during doggy. They’re whipping up the best cum in the world, so.

The slow kissing goes on and on and Felix tries to walk the tightrope of neither letting your pussy lips suck the orgasm out of him, nor making you cream his cock with shaky legs from all that gorgeous sloppy friction, and the kissing, and his sweet cherry shampoo scent that has your brain in absolute limbo.

With everything hanging by a thread like that, every kiss becomes special and full of a suspense that makes your lips tremble — either set, and Felix can hardly bear it himself.

His little halo is dangling back and forth, and you can tell by his face that all that thrusting has him in serious trouble. And you? Are fucking leaking and groaning, and that little shallow series of first contractions before your orgasm is already preparing you.

The sugar high from the cupcakes is fading, but your adrenaline is sure to replace it. You just want Felix to fuck you more and rock against him, and hold his head, and kiss him. God, his mouth is so warm and inviting, tastes so good like cocoa.

The pace joins yours without any effort, it adapts when your rhythm changes, and it stabilizes everything when you’re currently riding the high of his cock really filling you out so you can clench your muscles around him, feel him and tell him just you wait, I’ll milk you. He’s such a good kisser. You can feel all of your wetness running down your ass like it’s Christmas.

„Felix, I’m overflowing.“

„I’m so sorry,“ he whines into the kiss. „I’ll be washing the sheets.“

„Listen, baby,“ you break the tongue-on-tongue, „you doing laundry is really sexy. But the overflow is the best part. Just look what you’re doing to my body.“

You could ravage him on the spot. He’d probably lose it and cum in two seconds. Holding yourself before the edge is so tough right now.

„Shit… yellow again. Need a moment.“

Felix has to resort to a bit of cockwarming, and you use the little break to rid yourself off the harness. It’s not perfectly comfortable when you’re lying down. You’re about to fling it off the bed that Felix asks to wear it. Oh. Very well. It actually goes as a nice contrast on his white top, and the straps make it easy to adjust to him. And he wants it to sit on him really tightly. Oh again.

You realize—

On you, it’s only a fashion piece. Something random that came with the costume.

On him: It’s kinky.

„Hey hey. You look sexy, pum’kin,“ you pat at his chest. „Look at your waist, wow.“

Your sweet boy. It’s like it’s made for him. So cinched and the exact opposite of his costume. He’s a corrupted, dirty angel now, it’s perfect. With his pink neck and all sweaty face, and his little puppy gaze that will haunt you in your sex dreams because it literally just gets into your pants so much. Oh god, you just wanna cum. You have to distract yourself with chaste images of Felix washing the dishes or writing grocery lists with little hearts and emojis on them but that just makes it five times worse.

The way he puts the harness on with his dick inside you is so mouthwatering and cumworthy, you can’t wait to resume and switch your own brains off on that angel cock. Once Felix is ready to exit phase yellow and resume the session, your hands magically gravitate towards the straps of the harness at this waist.

„Can I?“

„M—hm!“

You have the time of your life grabbing and guiding him by the harness, controlling every thrust. Felix clenches up his teeth from how lavishly his cock is squeezing into your pussy.

„Oh babe,“ you groan out. „Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Come on, angel.“

He’s not going to take it much longer. Felix is tensing all over, neck to the knees, it’s a huge shock wave in the making. That climax is going to be like a fucking punch into outer space.

„I’m really at my limit, I’m, I’m…!“

„Cum for me, angel,“ you reach to his neck to bring his lips down again. Your mouths going into shaky contact brings a big soaring moan with it.

„Ahn—!“

You lock lips, his face scrunches up, and you can tell that cum worth of three orgasms is currently pooling into the condom. You don’t belong to the mile high club, but going by how far up this feels, you might as well be. Those sweet shivers. And the little whines. It’s all too much for him, this one got him bad. Felix cumming is like the angels really are singing. With bells and harps and all that shit at once.

After pulling out, the ruined condom goes off lightning fast. Felix’ cock gets some much-needed cooling, but his face is on heavy duty. How he does it after almost getting his lights turned off, it’s a mystery, it must have been six whole loads he shot into you. You’d already be collapsing in his shoes. Felix still being able to put his mouth to work is an act of divine intervention. Honestly though, it doesn’t even take half a minute. Sloppy head from Felix is cryptonite, your stamina comes tumbling down. His tongue just knocks you out with an overwhelming rush of pleasure.

“Oh— yes...”

What is gravity? You don’t know what north and south mean anymore. He laps and sucks you through your high and your legs give up their soldier service. All you see it fluffy blonde strands of hair peeking from below your skirt, a glimpse of the harness, the rest is heavy growling and swearing from all of the contractions and Felix getting raw and dirty Down Under with no fears, literally none, to bury his face and move it around and let his tongue loose. Time and again Felix shows you he’s a swallower. Satanic agenda: success.

For tonight, your pussy will be nothing but glitter, cum, and spit. Swollen like crazy, properly fucked, and tipped to the absolute limit. Felix keeps on slicking up his face completely, and then brings you into the afterglow with his fingers. One at a time, barely adding stimulation. Just fetching you where you are and climbing down. Looks like you’ll share the cupcakes, this is a couple hangover in the making. In Felix’ case in particular. It’s like he signed up for testing a mad scientist’s latest designer drug.

„Wow wow… So you served me choco cupcakes and God’s menu,“ is the last thing he can say in his delirium before falling over. He’s so fucked out and went so wild on eating you, a part of the harness came off. Thank god his nose is so small, all that swiping could’ve broken the bridge and whatnot. And his lips, they’re twice as plump. You really have to compliment in on what his mouth has done today because that was some champ shit.

You’re both buffering on the sheets for a solid five minutes until you roll to the side. Towel… water… forehead kisses. Yes, forehead kisses most importantly. After gathering yourself a little, you pamper Felix into a heart rate around 90 rather than 120. And with the onset of exhaustion for the two of you, that’s not too hard after some minutes passing. Whispering sweet nothings and praise is all you do up until 2 AM and after. Felix is somewhere between worlds, one foot in the door of the dreamland, the other soaking up the care and the intoxicating, thick scent of the room that has a lot of cherry shampoo in it.

At some point. You loosen the harness, pull off his shirt with the wings attached. The halo you unsuccessfully try to spot in his hair. Turns out: It flew off. Felix really must’ve made Satan proud if it fell down just like that. Good job. Felix has earned a title of being a dirty angel now, and by the way he’s chugging water now, a wet one on top of that.

Five tons of spit, six, seven, who knows how many he’s afforded for today. A head pat is not enough, it has to be several, and Felix passes out onto the pillows. As good as you can, you wipe him down, bin the condom, get off his shoes and his half-pulled down trousers. After staggering to the bathroom, your skirt and peplum shirt follows, the stockings stay on, they’re cozy as hell. Last but not least, you remove your devil horns. It feels like they granted you the most unknown demonic powers.

Next time Felix is on his way to making you cum again, you’ll be wearing them, and you’ll last the way you did tonight. Meanwhile, Bang Chan is blowing up your phone because Felix pressed send by accident earlier, but you don’t notice. It just keeps on vibrating on the bedstand and Chris will have to riddle over the rice cake selfie for the rest of November.

Felix dozes with an angelic little smile on his lips and puffs his cheeks in his sleep, his makeup wiped and his hair truly messy. Instagram can wait. Maybe you’ll get to brush your teeth a little later, it usually takes some time until you wake up again and topple to the sink. You huddle together, tuck your sweet baby pum’kin into his second favorite spot at your chest. Ah, the glory of Felix little spooning.

As the last signature, you nibble at his ear, call him your cutie pie, and switch the lights off. You have to listen closely but if you do, it’s like Felix is purring in his sleep. Whatever your own dreamland is planning to launch on you tonight, you’re looking forward to it.

© 2017-2020 submissive-bangtan. all rights reserved. reposts, modifications and translations are prohibited. character depictions are fictional & for entertainment purposes only.

PS — oh, my good ole fellas, a last cursed disclaimer. i must insist on the following for obvious reasons. vegemite makes for some terrible strap lube okay 😂🇦🇺

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[mindofharry]

deja vu

in which harry gets a new girlfriend and it’s giving him major deja vu.

angst ! fluff ! all of the above ! feedback is welcome as always <3 based off of the wonderful song, deja vu by olivia rodrigo!!

“Well, maybe we should end it”

Harry suggested and Y/N froze. end it? why is that even something that came into his mind. It was a small, petty fight about a girl. A nice girl that Y/N is apparently jealous of, she’s not by the way. The girl just is the a little too close to her boyfriend, hugging him and kissing him on the cheek when she thinks Y/N isn’t watching them. And harry just sits there, let’s her do that while Y/N his girlfriend of three years is sitting right in front of them. Never did he bitch about her or complain, just compliments for the nice girl at the party.

“W...What?” Y/N stuttered sitting on the hood of the car. The car they bought together. They both worked at an ice cream place down in town, so with the little money they both had and a little support from their parents, they both this beauty. Of course, harry was the only one able to drive it for a whole year because poor Y/N didn’t have her drivers license yet.

“I think we should end it, this” Harry said pointing between himself and Y/N. Her eyes began to fill with tears and the guilt hit him quickly.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. But i just can’t do this back and forth thing anymore. We’re not in middle school” Harry said and sniffled a bit. Y/N nodded, she had sort of know someone like harry wouldn’t stay with someone like her for that long anyways. It’s just apart of life, right?

Right?

“You can keep the car. I’ll find some other way to get into work” Harry mumbled handing Y/N the keys to their shared car. Her eyes widen and anger surged through her veins.

“How dare you” Y/N yelled, a sob coming out of her mouth. “You’re dumping me? you’re fucking dumping me?” she yelled out and that attracted some stares. They were in their place, their special place in Malibu under the stars and near the beach. That’s all theirs.

“You flirt with this girl for a year of our relationship. you do it right infront of me, harry! and you can’t handle it anymore?” Y/N exclaimed and harry sighed, looking slightly embarrassed as more people started to watch them. “Fine, fuck go be with her! i don’t care” Y/N said wiping the tears off of her cheeks and getting into the car.

“Goodbye, harry”

And a couple of weeks later, harry was with that nice girl. That pretty girl, who was a carbon copy of you - harry figured that out pretty quickly, when they got to know each other more.

They were watching reruns of glee when he got this moment of deja vu. Like he had done this before.

Because he had. With Y/N.

“I love this show” Y/N giggled, her hand in harrys hair. Harry nodded agreeing as they watched the new directions so a performance again, this time tina and mercedes were leading the group.

“Y’know you don’t have to pretend to like it, we can change the channel if you want?” Y/N offered and Harry shook his head quickly and blushed. “No, i like it. Could make a good band name, no? New direction, one direction?” Harry teased and you giggled.

“Huh. You’re more of gleek than i am”

“i hate this show” The nice girl said changing the channel, before harry could speak up. Instead of disagreeing with her, he just nodded and kissed the side of her head. He liked glee.

Other times of this deja vu stuff, it was really honest mistakes. Like, nearly calling her Y/N’s name. You were just on his mind, it was nothing serious. He missed the car, that’s all. He also missed the strawberry ice cream and the late night chats under the malibu sky. So he took her there. He put billy joels, ‘uptown girl’ on the radio and grinned when she sang to it. She wasn’t as care free as Y/N though. Y/N had her own shrine of billy joel, her dad is absolutely obsessed with the man and passed that on to Y/N.

Of course, harry had heard of billy joel but had only listened to his most famous songs. Y/N introduced to him to the real billy joel, it was their thing. Listening to billy joel in Y/N’s basement after a long shift, harry would lay his head on her stomach as Y/N sang to vienna or sometimes harry would pull her up and dance around to piano man. He missed that so much.

The chorus of ‘uptown girl’ came on and harry looked over at the nice girl, he now calls his own.

“I love you” He said and she stopped singing and placed a hand on his knee.

Y/N did that. Had her hands all over him.

“I love you too” The nice girl hummed and Harry sighed, now getting another sense of deja vu.

“Did you see Harry and that girl together, Y/N?” Sarah, her new shift buddy asked. Y/N had seen them together, the nice girl that harrys with likes to post everything on social media. Y/N sees the traded jackets, the billy joel, the i love you’s in malibu, the strawberry ice cream. Y/N wondered if the girl laughed at harry because of how annoying he was during glee, or when he puts a jacket on way too small for him, or when they sing in the car. Does he steal Y/N jokes, like he stole everything else?

“Yeah, i did. Seem like a nice couple” Y/N said with a smile. Sarah, only knowing her a couple days, thought nothing of it. Y/N was breaking inside, she literally felt her heart break in two everytime she thought of the two.

How could harry just replace Y/N like that?

“I’d like to be an actress” The nice girl said licking her strawberry ice cream. Harrys eyes widened, deja vu. Y/N had told him, just before they started dating that she was going to be the next meryl streep - why she chose meryl streep, he’ll never know. Y/N has always wanted to be an actress. She had done a few jobs here and there, and always got the main part in plays and musicals. Being an actress is Y/N’s things.

“That’s great” Harry said supporting a forced grin. The nice girl didn’t think anything of it. Y/N wouldn’t known something was wrong.

A different girl, but nothings new.

Harry had to get away. Away from the nice girl who had ruined Y/N and Harrys relationship. So he went to the ice cream parlour. He knew Y/N was working with sarah, mitch is one of his closest friends and he’s dating sarah — so after some digging and prodding, he got the info he needed and set off to town. Without her. Harry dropped her off at her apartment, made up some lame excuse of not feeling well and needed to rest. Y/N would’ve offered soup, the nice girl just said get well soon and closed the apartment door in his face. It was too easy. It shouldn’t be that easy to lie to her, it was never like that with Y/N. Harry couldn’t lie to Y/N for the life of him, even around birthdays or christmas. He sucked at keeping secrets and telling fibs.

“Welcome to All things nice, how may i help you!” Y/N’s voice rang out as she was cleaning out the sink. The bell had notified her, that a customer was in the shop. She just didn’t know that customer was her ex boyfriend.

“Are we able to talk?” Harry asked wringing his hands. Y/N quickly turned around, almost bashing her head into the shelf. Her eyes were wide and her heart broke, again. She could barley handle the instagram posts. She can’t handle harry in real life. Not after what he did. Maybe if it was a mutual break up - but it really was not a mutual break up.

“I’m sorry, we don’t serve that” Y/N snapped pushing the spoons into a drawer. Harry flinched and nodded placing his hands in his back pockets. “Ok, i deserved that” he mumbled. He just needed to explain, just five minutes.

“Please, Y/N. i just need to explain” Harry pleaded, sounding proper desperate. Y/N couldn’t help but feel anger and sadness as she listened to harry beg for her time. She just couldn’t believe he was back so quick, so early in his new relationship.

“What do you possibly need to explain” Y/N asked dropping the spoons and looking at harry over the ice cream. It was rather cliche, really.

“You dumped me, because i pointed out that a girl - by the way, i was right - was coming onto you. I just needed reassurance, harry. That you wouldn’t cheat, that you wouldn’t leave me!” you exclaimed and harry nodded. “I just needed that. and i’m really glad that you dumped me. because we obviously weren’t meant for each other” Y/N said continuing her clean up.

“We are meant to be” Harry said. “We’re Y/N and harry” he said, his voice breaking. Y/N almost felt bad.

“No. You’re in a relationship. You say i love you, to her. You sing billy joel and swap jackets. You eat strawberry ice cream with her for fuck sakes harry” Y/N yelled, pulling at her hair. Harry sniffled and nodded. “I know, I know” he mumbled.

“Do you get deja vu?” Y/N asked “hmm?” she asked again when she didn’t get an answer.

“Thought so”

[barbasbodaciousbeard]

I can see us Lost in the Memory

Summary: Caring is not an advantage. To Mycroft, this was a belief he found through the calculated logic that ruled his life. If was analytical and detached and certainly had nothing to do with Sherlock or the childhood neighbor.

Love You to the Moon and to Saturn

A/N: In a break from my regularly scheduled SVU writing, here’s a four part Folklore inspired Mycroft Holmes thing.

Salt air, and the rust on your door I never needed anything more Whispers of "Are you sure?" "Never have I ever before"

When the Holmes parents invited Ruth on their vacation to start the summer, she couldn’t resist the chance. Her mom would be busy, and the family would be staying on a beach in a little house for a week. You’re just so good with both my boys Mrs. Holmes had said with a soft smile as she pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Since Christmas, she’d had late night phone calls with Mycroft regularly, sneaking the handset for the phone to her room and staying up to happily listen to the minutiae of his day and tell him about her own. To help calm his worries, she took to dropping by to visit Sherlock. But this trip in May would be their first time together save a stolen weekend after midterms where she’d made it to Oxford.

When she arrived at their usual home, not the country house she was so used to, Sherlock darted out, wrapping around her as she laughed. He was almost not a little boy anymore, though she was certain he’d find something broken that they’d try to rebuild together.  She could see Mycroft’s frame in the doorway, and her breath caught. He’d only gotten stuffier since going to Oxford, always in a suit. It worked for him or she’d have teased him mercilessly for it. There was also the fact that she was simply overjoyed to see him. 

“Missed you,” she said softly, looking up at him as Sherlock watched them suspiciously before going back into the house.

“And I missed you, Ruth.”

“Mummy, I think Mycroft and Ruth are going to start snogging.” The youngest Holmes ran to the kitchen, and Ruth flushed a deep pink and giggled as the very tips of Mycroft’s ears changed color.

“Do you care if she knows?” Ruth asked, and Mycroft was acutely aware of the power he had to hurt Ruth in that moment. He would never dream of it, but this would potentially be over in three years, at which point hurting her would be inevitable. But still he held out hope he could balance both.

“Not at all,” he said softly, the same dignified air he always carried. But instead of staying away as he led her in, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips before placing a hand on the small of her back and leading her into the house. His mother and father had the kindness to leave them be, and the drive went smoothly. When Sherlock became antsy, Ruth watched as Mycroft told him about people he’d encountered at university, problems in the dorms. It was a game the pair had always played when Sherlock had to be kept still too long. The younger Holmes would tell Mycroft how obvious it was his roommate's girlfriend had been eating all the food from the common area, and Mycroft would pretend he hadn’t figured it out with the same reasoning.

“Ruth, come here,” Mrs. Holmes had said, calling her to the kitchen as she left the boys to unload bags from the car. “Are you dating my son?”

“I love him very much.”

“The boys are in the last room on the left. You’ll be the first on the right. Behave yourselves, allright?”

“Yes ma’am.”

The evening found them watching Sherlock as Mr. and Mrs. Holmes went to dinner, and since Christmas, he’d discovered documentaries again, sprawling on the couch to watch one on pirates. It was good to see some things didn’t change. What had changed was that Mycroft was willing to give him a little more space. They cooked dinner together, and Ruth was rewarded with soft brushes of his hand over her back as he passed. She suspected he’d always be himself, not one for casual affection when someone could see. But when his brother was tucked into bed, there were soft kisses that grew more desperate and whispered confirmation they were both sure. She stole the Oxford sweatshirt from his bag after, determined not to let his mother find them anything but decent but wanting to keep everything on her as some extension of him.

“I don’t know why they got you a sweatshirt anyway,” she teased lightly, watching him smoke in the dark. “I’ve never seen you in a shirt without a collar.”

“I suppose mummy thought I might wear it to sleep. I don’t think she expected it to be worn by someone else during a post-coital cigarette.” He wore cotton pajama pants and a plain t-shirt, though she expected he had sets with collared shirts for when he was at school. The wind blew in from the water, and she wished she’d grabbed pants instead of letting the crewneck serve as a dress. He noticed her shiver, holding out an arm as he exhaled smoke. She pressed against his side and his arm wrapped around her. 

“Just someone?” she teased. “You know, I think I might be your girlfriend.”

“How is that any different than we’ve always been?”

“It means we build a future together. Don’t date other people. Communicate regularly.”

“I suppose you are my girlfriend,” he said, though she could tell he didn’t particularly care for the word. 

“So you think about a future with me?”

“Constantly,” he admitted, choosing to omit how much of that was grappling with the danger Rudy’s position could put her in when he took over. That he’d have to eventually tell her about Eurus. But he was young and selfish and certain he could separate it.

Your back beneath the sun Wishin' I could write my name on it Will you call when you're back at school? I remember thinkin' I had you

Ruth had never been able to get Mycroft to the beach in anything but a polo shirt, but it seemed the way the last of his baby fat had melted off at university meant he was willing to join his brother and Ruth in the water. He still wore a polo shirt and boat shoes with his swim shorts, but he slipped both off and followed when Sherlock beckoned he and Ruth to join him in finding the sandbar. He almost said no until he saw how giddy Ruth looked as she peeled the other unworn bit of Oxford merchandise he’d acquired: a t-shirt that would have fit had he not lost weight. He liked seeing it on Ruth; it made him realize he was getting territorial.

“C’mon,” Sherlock called to them from the water’s edge. 

“We’re coming, Sherlock,” Mycroft scolded gently. “You must wait so we can be sure the tide doesn’t whisk you away.”

“Don’t scare him,” Ruth said, swatting his arm before she hurried and ruffled his brother’s hair. “We’ll find the sandbar, but then Mycroft and I are going to come back to land. I think you ought to see how big of a sandcastle you can make. Maybe even big enough you can hide in it.”

“Do you think there are artifacts in the sand, Ruth?”

“Probably not ones we’ll want to keep. But maybe bottles or keys.” The tide was low enough when they waded to the sandbar that Ruth and Mycroft could sit on it and watch as Sherlock ran along. He could dig as well, finding shells and loading them into the pockets of his swim shorts.

“Why must we be in this wet sand instead of on the towels on land?” Mycroft huffed, and Ruth poked his side.

“Your brother missed you. He likes you being close, even if you aren’t a part of his excavation. He’ll want to build soon, and since shells aren’t restorable like a trowel, he’ll go back to land for a sandcastle.”

“He only yells when I call him.”

“And what does he yell about?” Ruth had heard Sherlock during one of these calls. One of the calls where Sherlock yelled at Mycroft for leaving. But this would pass. She always promised Mycroft that it would pass, and Sherlock would understand his big brother would always come home. 

“Don’t look so proud,” Mycroft huffed.

“It’s not often I’m the one who’s right.”

“You’re often right when it comes to feelings.”

“I love you. My big brained robot.”

“I love you, my darling.”

“That sounds way more romantic than big brained robot. But god, I like hearing you say it. I know it isn’t easy for you.”

“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” He had a glint in his eye as he looked down at her, and she smiled broadly up at him, delight apparent.

“You read Jane Austen?”

“Everyone does.”

“You only store things you want, Mycroft.”

“When I read it, I thought of you. I was fifteen. I was a fool and didn’t process what that meant for another year. But whenever I read a poem or a novel and they talk about ardent love, your face is my first thought. I wish I were someone who spoke so eloquently of his own feelings. But I do not understand why I love you. It honestly perplexes me. You are wild and hard headed and love the most mindless things. But I would gladly listen to you describe popular music or the intricacies of a flower crown for hours because of the way your smile and laugh sound more melodic than any symphony. What is unbearable in others only serves to make affection blossom when it is in you. Perhaps it’s because I feel I understand you like I can’t understand most, and I feel that you see me not just as some big brained robot but as who I am. And I am grateful for that, even if it perplexes me to no end.”

 “God, you really can be sappy,” she said, tearing up as she wrapped around his middle. Without his parents or peers there, he was more comfortable to stay sitting as perfectly upright as ever, but slip an arm around Ruth and press a lingering kiss to the top of her head. “You’ll keep calling when you go back to school, right?”

“I will. And we’ll figure how to see each other. I know it hasn’t been easy. Uncle Rudy has so much for me to do on top of my course work.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Mycroft. It’s four to six years we have to get through. We can do that.”

“Have you thought about university?”

“Cambridge or Oxford. The latter, while a delightful institution, is due to a bias for a certain student.”

“What do you want to study?”

“I think I’d be a good teacher. Kids Sherlock’s age.”

“You’ve always done well keeping him engaged. That’s a feat in and of itself. But, I always expected that you’d pursue English. Write.”

“I need a job.”

“Writing is a job. You could work in editing too. But, you write so beautifully. And it makes you so happy. I’m certain you would flourish. It may be harder, but you’re intelligent enough to parallel plan and work until you’re published.”

“You really think so?”

“I know. And I’m always right.”

“Cambridge is about as far as London from you. Or maybe I’ll go to Oxford.”

“I just want you to select the institution you wish to learn from. I’m sure we can find a halfway point. If not, we can alternate visiting each other.”

“You wouldn’t feel weird if I showed up in your daily life?”

“You’re a part of my daily life. It would be a perpetual summer. Who wouldn’t wish for that?”

“We’ve just only ever had the summer.”

“There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there? I suspect you’ll tire of me when you realize I’m relaxed in the summers.”

“I imagine you wear suits everyday. And your socks, tie, and pocket square all match.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. I don’t wear a tie every day.”

“Oh, there are pictures of  Mycroft in a suit with no tie. Is the top button undone? This is simply scandalous.”

She stretched herself up to kiss him, no hesitation now and fingers brushing through auburn hair. Only the screeched order to Stop being so gross from Sherlock convinced them to pull apart, and Ruth was quite sure he was grinning down at her.

Back when we were still changin' for the better Wanting was enough For me, it was enough To live for the hope of it all

“Are we going to have to chase the two of you from each other's rooms all summer?”

“Mummy, she is my girlfriend. Is it the worst thing if I sleep beside her?”

“You’ll do more than sleep.”

“Yes, Violet, because a bed is the only place teenagers will shag. Never a field or a car or the storeroom at their job. They’re good kids. Leave them be.”

“Siger, this is the third time in a week! Do you want to deal with her mother when we return? She’ll be chasing our boy from her house night after night.”

“Since when does Ruth sleep in her own home? She’s in our guest room most nights. We can feign propriety if it is of such importance and say ‘Oh! I didn’t know he’d snuck into her room’ if for whatever reason Debora learns.”

Ruth was by Mycroft’s side, cheeks pink as she watched his parents. They’d tried to be careful, but she never woke up in time to hurry to her own room. She wanted to tell them her own mother wouldn’t notice anyway, so she should be able to climb into bed with Mycroft. They were talking about flats at Oxford, little ones they would stuff full of books and she’d ensure were always stocked with flowers. She’d made up her mind she’d go there. Mycroft was ready to tell Rudy he was in love, and it didn’t matter what the job entailed; Mycroft could balance it if it meant he’d have Ruth. For once, he was hopeful.

“Both of you, listen to me,” he said firmly, arm around Ruth. “Where do you think she stayed when she visited me at Oxford? This began at Christmas, so I hardly believe it to be a phase. I love her, and upon her graduation, we intend to get a flat near the university. Accept it now, or accept it later. It does not matter to me. This is the reality.”

“You’re following him to Oxford?” Violet seemed to be appraising her now. 

“Yes.”

“You really do love him?”

“Yes.”

“Just don’t make me a grandmother any time soon,” she said finally, obviously acquiescing as her husband followed her to the kitchen again with quiet assurances they’d be fine. Ruth’s cheeks were pink, but she wrapped around Mycroft and kissed him.

“What is that for?”

“You professed your love for me to your parents? You finally put your foot down over something and it's me?”

“I wish to maximize every moment I have you by my side between now and August.”

“I’ll miss you so much.”

“We’ll sort it out. Two terms. Then you’ll follow me to Oxford.” 

“Ruth will leave too?” The soft voice of Sherlock came from the hall, and she pulled away from Mycroft to kneel by him. 

“It’ll be just like the end of summer,” she promised. “It was harder with your brother because he lives with you. But, you usually only see me in the summer, and I’ll still be here for every summer. Who else will help me excavate the garden?”

“Why does everyone go to Oxford?”

“They don’t. But lots of people go to uni, and you will too one day. You’ll get a degree to be a detective or an archaeologist or marine biologist.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“It’s a whole year away. You’ll be a teenager.”

“I guess that’s an okay time for you to go to Oxford.” He bent to look around her to his brother. “You could do well to learn from her, Mycroft.”

“You need to stop being so rude. He’s getting a degree so he can afford to keep you out of trouble forever and ever, kiddo.”

“I’m never in trouble.” 

“Mhm. Never, ever have I scooped you up before mummy could catch you performing experiments.”

“Shh!”

Ruth simply laughed, moving to stand again, Sherlock’s gaze again fluctuating between bored and curious about the world around him as she moved to sit in the arm chair beside the one Mycroft had settled into with his book. She opened her own, feet tucked under her, reaching towards him and resting her hand on the small table between them. He looked at it before resting his hand in hers.

“I like this,” she said softly. He made a noise of agreement, legs crossed. “I could get used to it.”

“We’ve a whole summer ahead, dear.”

That night found them tangled in bedsheets, not bothering to pretend he was going to be sleeping in the room with Sherlock. He rather liked sleeping by her, and he was grateful she was so content to lay against his side, close enough it was intimate and safe, but not requiring their bodies to be tangled. But she did like to play with his hands, especially in the afterglow. She would trace the lines of his palms or the veins on the back of his hand, watching her own actions in the moonlight. He stopped her tonight, letting his fingers slip between hers. She smile down at him, her hair a curtain as she leaned to press a gentle kiss to his lips. 

“Get some sleep, Ruth.”

“Does anyone ever take care of you, Mycroft?”

“I don’t need to be taken care of.”

“Everyone does. And I’m going to from here on out, okay?”

“I don’t need to be taken care of.”

“How often do you sit in the sun and read for pleasure at Oxford?”

“There isn’t time.”

“I’ll make sure there is when I’m there. You need to give yourself breaks.” He didn’t agree, but instead of arguing, he pulled her to his side, deciding he could tangle himself with her awhile, savoring the closeness. 

“You are too gentle for this world, darling. Please never change.”

[capsironunderoos]

Cold

DINCEMBER - December 14 - Cold

Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Reader

Summary: This really doesn’t have a plot, it’s more so just a snippet of life with Din in the small cabin you share with him and Grogu. Din returns from the marketplace one morning to find that you have a cold, and he makes it his job to take care of you.

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: Mentions of sickness, but nothing besides a temperature and a headache

Author’s Note: I AM SO BEHIND ON DINCEMBER! It’s literally over and here I am, still posting... Anyways! I had to finish up my first semester of student teaching, and then Christmas hit, and I’ve been trying to write in-between those things, but I’ve also been really sad lately, so there’s that. Regardless, I think I have five more posts for Dincember after this one (?) and I plan to have them all posted within the next few days. Also, this one is short, and as stated earlier, doesn’t really have a plot, it’s just kind of a glimpse into a domestic life with Din in a cabin with your small green kiddo on a planet where you’ll always be safe... I hope you enjoy!

Here’s the previous prompt: Dincember - December 11 - Please, Come Home

And the link to my masterlist: capsironunderoos masterlist

“Cyare? Are you here?” 

At the sound of Din’s voice echoing throughout the cabin you try your best to sit up on the couch, but the sudden movement further spurs the headache you’ve woken up with. 

You can’t even bring yourself to let Din know you’re currently laid out on the couch, fighting possibly one of the worst colds of your life. 

You hear a noise beside you and your attention turns from the sound of Din placing his armor on the counter to the small coo beside you, so you glance to the floor to see Grogu staring up at you, his sweet little ears perked up as if he’s trying to sense what’s wrong. 

You smile at him as best you can, slowly shaking your head to let him know there’s nothing he can do for you. 

He seems to sense the distress the movement sends throughout your body, and you watch as he begins to slowly lift his hand. 

“Alright kid, I think it’s time you played in your room for a bit.” 

At the sound of Din’s voice so suddenly close, you and the child both snap your focus in his direction. 

He’s standing just beside the couch looking down at the pair of you. His beskar has already been removed, and he’s standing in a dark green sweater and deep gray shorts, his arms crossed over his chest as he glances over you with concern. 

“Go on,” you mumble out, and with your blessing the small child waddles to the hallway to return to his room. 

Once you and Din have watched him turn the corner, you return your gazes to each other. 

“Cyare, what’s wrong?” He asks as he moves around the couch so that he can squat just in front of your face. 

“It’s just a really bad cold, Din. It’ll go away in a few days.” 

Din can’t remember the last time he’d been really sick, but he knows what to do when you fall ill. 

He slowly moves his left hand to brush a few stray pieces of hair away from your face before allowing it to rest against your forehead. 

“You definitely have a fever,” he states, and you smile. 

“It’ll break. I just need to stay here for a little while.” 

He nods, agreeing with you, before his eyebrows furrow in the same way they always do before he asks a question. 

“How did you get here?” 

You laugh as best you can, but the movement brings on another pang of ache in your temple. 

“Very slowly,” you mumble out and he smiles. 

“How about some soup?” He asks, and you nod. 

“Has the kid had anything to eat yet?” 

A look of guilt flashes across your face and Din is quick to answer his own question. 

“Okay, I’ll fix some for us too then,” he responds with a soft smile and you nod in agreement as you burrow further into the couch and under one of the many blankets you keep in the cabin. 

Din makes the soup quickly, thankful that he decided to make a trip to the small marketplace down the road this morning, which reminds him of something as he places three bowls of soup on the small wooden table in front of the couch. 

“I meant to tell you,” he starts, and you look up at him as you slowly move to a seated position. 

“Waye asked where you were this morning, and that booth, the one you like to buy clothes for the kid from, got a new shipment in. The owner stopped me and told me that so that I would tell you specifically.” 

Waye had quickly become one of your closest friends on this small planet. She ran a small food cart and always had the best ronto wraps, which always came with a side of pleasant conversation. 

As for the owner of the clothing booth, he only knew that you were one of his best customers, as you and Grogu loved to spend hours perusing his stock while Din completed the actual grocery shopping. 

You laughed at Din as he told you of the clothing booth owner. 

“I think you’re his favorite customer,” Din responded, and you laughed again, nodding slowly this time. 

“I ought to be, me and Grogu spend enough credits there that they should just start shipping the new outfits here.” 

Din smiles at that as you both turn to see said child waddling into the room, clad in one of the outfits from the booth. It’s a deep blue sweater material that encompasses his small body like a romper. 

He must feel the stares of his parents, as his eyes quickly dart up to look at you and Din. When he does, he lets out a gurgle of laughter before running, as best he can, it’s more like a fast wobble, to latch onto Din’s leg. 

Din bends down to pick him up before setting him in front of his bowl of soup on the small wooden table. Grogu wastes no time and immediately digs into his lunch. 

You smile at the sight as the couch shifts beside you with Din’s weight. 

“C’mere,” he whispers, and you move to sit with him, resting perfectly between his legs as you lay against his chest. 

“I really don’t want you to get sick,” you mutter before looking up at him. 

He plants a soft kiss onto your forehead before leaning up to grab your bowls of soup. 

“I’ll be fine, cyare, don’t worry about me,” he responds, handing you your bowl. 

You smile and lift the bowl to your lips, taking a small sip of the warm liquid. It warms your throat as you swallow, and a sigh of relief escapes your lips as you nestle further into Din’s chest. 

He chuckles at your actions, slowly sipping on his own bowl of soup. 

Once the three of you have finished, Din doesn’t worry over cleaning up, opting to sit the bowls to the side to pick up later. 

He lays down further on the couch, pulling you with him. You turn to lay on top of his chest, your right arm wrapping around him as the left rests just below his neck. 

It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep, and Din makes sure to keep your blanket in place as you do so. 

He watches Grogu as he plays with some blocks in the floor in front of the couch, the fireplace illuminating his creations. 

Din suddenly notes a feeling of contentment settling into his chest. 

He had never considered his life to be one that would grant him such wonderful things, but here he is, his riduur asleep on his chest, and his son playing in the floor with blocks he had been gifted during a past Life Day celebration. 

“You think so loudly,” he hears you whisper, feeling you shift so that you can turn and see Grogu playing. 

He chuckles, and the deep rumbles of his laugh shake you ever so slightly. 

“Are you feeling better?” He questions, and you nod. 

“I think my fever broke, and my headache has gone away.” 

It’s silent for a few moments, save for the small sounds of Grogu’s wooden blocks knocking into one another. 

“What were you thinking about Din?” You ask, and he sighs as he begins carding his hands through your hair. 

“You. Grogu. Our cabin, our lives. The way everything has so perfectly entwined.” 

Your fingers fiddle with the collar of his sweater. 

“You deserve this and so much more, riduur.” 

Din hugs you tighter to his chest at your words. 

“I could never do anything to deserve you, or the kid, or this life, but whatever I’ve done to earn my place here, to create this life with you… I would do it again. I would do it over and over and over if it meant that I could have this, with you, forever.” 

Here’s the next prompt for Dincember: DINCEMBER - December 16 - Blankets

[whatiwillsay]

what really inspired the babe music video though...

So if you’ve read my babe mv analysis you know it’s one of the world’s loudest and best gaylor proofs in existence.  What I want to explore here however is why 5-6 years after Swiftgron was over, is Taylor digging up the grave another time to drag her ex.  

Seriously stop and think about it.  Why on God’s gay earth did Taylor decide to Swiftgron her ass off in 2018.   When she’s supposedly moved on to the London Lover and happy? The simplest explanation is that Babe is about Dianna so Taylor made sure people knew that.  And hey that’s completely possible. 

However it’s Christmas and I’m feeling generous so buckle up for some crack and reaching.  (read: this is mostly a joke post so don’t come for my neck for playing around and making it. if you don’t like it don’t read✌️)

What if Taylor painting herself as the desperate other woman in this music video all about Dianna has a meaning further than it just worked out like that?  What if Dianna was cheating on Winston with Taylor in a late stage illicit Swiftgron affair 👀👀👀????  (no I don’t think IA is about dianna, she doesn’t take runs)

Taylor said herself that “the narrative is never truly over” about her and Dianna so right after she and Karlie broke up why wouldn’t we expect a Swiftgron fling:

Babe was released in late spring of 2018 so let’s try and pin down when this Swiftgron tomfoolery could have taken place...

We know Dianna was in London at the beginning of 2017 (with Carey Mulligan no less, a friend of Taylor’s!)

Thanks to @swiftiesleuth​‘s (who is probably going to make fun of me for this theory but THAT’S FINE W ME) realistic Kaylor Timeline we know Taylor was hiding out in London at this point in time as well:

3 January 2017 - Taylor diaries that she’s “essentially based in London” and that “we have been together and no one has found out for three months.” (This could be three months with Joe from September 28 OR three months from Tily’s Halloween party. Either way, not Karlie).

8 January 2017 - Taylor and Zayn film the I Don’t Wanna Live Forever MV in London.

So the question is, can we build a theory about Swiftgron having a late stage affair simply because they were in the same city at the same time?  Well if Kaylors can claim Kaylor got engaged solely because Taylor was not papped while Karlie went on vacation then I say YES!  Tis the damn season!!!

Let’s look at social media clues.  Dianna seemed to be in on Rep promo.  You want proof?  Well what else could she have meant when she posted a photo captioned “please don’t eat the daisies” a few months after the London affair. We know Karlie called Taylor daisy so perhaps social media criminal mastermind Dianna “queen of shade” Agron was trying to humiliate Karlie because Karlie smirked at her at that fashion show in 2015:

Emboldened by her own crimes she then flexed her insider knowledge of Rep promo by posting video of her singing on instagram with the caption “Zombie Love” a mere three days before Taylor appeared in the LWYMMD music video dressed as a zombie in the OOTW (a song about Dianna) dress.  Why is Taylor a zombie in specific outfit?  Because Swiftgron is back from the dead of course:

Not only that but in the music video she buries the Taylor in the met gala dress from 2014.  She attended that met gala with Karlie.  RIP KAYLOR LONG LIVE SWIFTGRON!??!?

Now positively DRUNK with power, Dianna seems to stalk Karlie to an event only to tauntingly call her goooeeoeoeooueuueugoussssssss to her face, the queen of manipulation and psychological warfare has struck again!!!  This happens in Feb 2018 a mere matter of weeks before babe is dropped as a single.

We of course know Dianna admits to her own commitment issues on instagram two days before Babe drops but what if she is referencing her commitment issues not with Taylor but with her husband Winston because she is cheating on him with Taylor at this point in time or did some time in 2017???

Taylor releases babe and then later the music video seeming to be screaming to the whole world that yes she is cucking Winston Marshall and she wants you, your mom, and your cat to know about it!

Dianna voices her support of this by posting this to her IG stories at the end of May:

We know Taylor’s symbol was a snake during the rep era and she couldn’t trust just about anyone but, Dianna was letting her know to trust in her!!!

I’ve always suspected DBATC is a Swiftgron song due to the lyrics “i look through the windows of This Love, even though we boarded them up” -that references the flood that happened in Clean that taylor says she and the London Lover (or Karlie) boarded up the windows of after the storm in CIWYW.  

I see you everywhere The only thing we share Is this small town

What if “i see you everywhere” is literal? because they’re sneaking around and actually seeing one another in a literal since?

My heart, my hips, my body, my love Trying to find a part of me that you didn't touch

Sounds like an affair to me!!!

When she says “the morning comes and you’re not my baby” she’s saying speaking present day because Dianna is still married to Winston.

and while Dianna seems to love rubbing Karlie’s face in it, like the evil villain we all know she is, Taylor likewise seems to like to rub Winston’s cuck status in his face in it since she adds a song he wrote about Dianna to her me! playlist in June of 2019:

look at the other songs she taunts him with “glad he’s gone”, “just friends”, “hey, ma”, “open my mouth”!! she’s sick!!!

Winston has had enough of this and he and Dianna split in July of 2019 though it doesn’t go public for a year.

To add insult to injury (and to personally attack tumblr kaylors all over the world) Taylor performs false god at SNL, a song she wrote about her and Dianna’s late stage affair with Dianna in attendance. 

So in summation, perhaps Taylor is referencing Dianna so much recently because they hooked up more recently than 2013 and that’s why Taylor paints herself as the other woman in the Babe mv and has become obsessed with adultery lately.  Because maybe Dianna was cheating on Winston with her 😌😌😌.

[adeleneblack]

We just passed the 20th anniversary of 9/11. I watched a video of someone expaining how she remembered that day when she was 8 and realized that we don’t really talk about that.

There’s an occational comment, a breakdown of how it was weaponized in politics, there was a meme floating around that millennials are the way they are because “we watched thousands of people die on live TV and nothing ever got better” and that’s the end of it. No real unpacking of what that did to us as individuals or as a generation.

I was pretty far removed from the actual events by virtue of not living in the Northeast.  I lived far enough away from New York that I didn’t personally know someone who died or even been at ground zero. I only knew my parents’ two friends that had moved to New Jersey before I was born. We had visited them a few years before and saw them every few years when they flew home for Christmas.

We don’t talk about how the adults in our lives seemed to freeze. Our teachers turned on TVs to see what was happening (totally understandable looking back as an adult). But this meant that we sat in silent classrooms watching as a world that seemed safe a moment ago went up in smoke. I was in seventh grade. Our student teacher turned on the TV and we just sat in silence watching. A second plane hit the next tower. Another crashed into the Pentagon. I don’t remember hearing about the plane that the passengers took back crashing until later in the day.

We didn’t talk about it after. There was nothing to say at the time, we all saw what happened and none of us knew what would happen next. We didn’t know why someone would do it. I didn’t ask my parents if their friends were okay when I got home, I didn’t want to know if I had watched them die. 

The last time I had seen them was a few years before when we went out to visit them. They took us to the Statue of Liberty, Coney Island, and we got some beautiful pictures of us with the skyline in the background. The Twin Towers are the focus of the background in those pictures. They were both okay, but one of them worked in the City and I still have no idea if he saw what happened or how close he was and I doubt I ever will. I do know that he had recently turned down a job in one of the buildings next to the Towers. 

We went home from school and saw clips from the original footage and people digging through rubble for weeks. We watched them give up hope of finding anyone else alive. We watched them keep diggin hoping to find bodies instead. We watched people get so angry, people demanding that we punish the people that did this. We were told to ‘Never forget.’ We watched a war begin. 

After it happened we didn’t talk about the trauma and adults only spoke about it with anger and sometimes sadness. We watched that day become a weapon as the country went through the stages of grief. So many people stopped at anger and never bothered to try moving past it. Some people still haven’t.

We haven’t really spoken about that even being trauma until very recently and its not a very big conversation. Its generally just people doing this, a post with what they remember and the changes they saw. In fairness, I don’t think we really talk about any generational trauma, but we should.

This day was a huge part of shaping our generation in a thousand little ways because it affected all of us so deeply during and through our development. Because it didn’t end on 9/11. I don’t have much of a concept for how long the clips were played on TV or when the music on the radio changed but it always seemed to be in the back of everyone’s mind.

I don’t think we talk about how this made so many millennials anti-war. We got older and understood more of what had happened and how the US responded. So many of us just want the violence to end. We want to move past Anger but there are people who want to stay Angry and are still lashing out either on purpose or because they have no concept of where their anger comes from and how its been fed for 20 years.

I don’t think we talk about how this is the root of so much dark humor in the millennial generation. If you’ve ever seen M*A*S*H you’ll see a similarity in humor that caused it to make a bit of a comeback. That alone is a whole luggage set to unpack.

I don’t think we talk about how, during this very pivotal moment, as we watched those planes hit on the news every night, the country came together. For a while it seemed like there was a single purpose for everyone in the country. And I think that one impression is the one that is overlooked the easiest because it might have been the only bright spot at the beginning and it was unspoken but you could feel it. We all wanted to help, we all wanted to see someone pulled from the rubble alive, we were all so proud of the people on Flight 93, we all wanted to know what happened, we all wanted to know why it happened.

I think there’s a sizable group of our generation that grabbed that feeling as the only thing that made sense at the time and we’ve never let it go. Frankly, I don’t think we should.

Maybe those moments of community and support have helped push us to be the way we are. How much of current progressive politics is from wanting our neighbors to be safe and happy and healthy? A practical way to make sure we’re all okay. Because we once sat there, powerless, as our world became a much scarier place.

[theowhy]

[thiam] following footsteps

2.4k / g / oneshot

note: hello friends :’) long time no post, i just never have any free time these days. my writing brain cells are rusty but here’s a short thing that was meant to be a, uh, christmas fic but that i couldn’t wrangle into shape until now. it’s not terribly contingent on the christmas season and i hope it’s enjoyable even two months late lmao

The cold is the worst thing when Liam finally comes to. Everything bombards him at once: the bruising ache in his back, the smell of dirt and pine and damp clothes. But the cold—that chills him straight to his bones.

“Shit,” Liam says.

“‘Shit’ is right,” says Theo, a disembodied voice somewhere off to Liam’s left because Liam can’t even bear to open his eyes yet. He’d recognize Theo’s presence even if blind or dead.

How annoying. Though in this moment, it gives Liam a weary sense of comfort, knowing he’s not alone.

“What happened?” he groans, bringing a hand up to gingerly touch his temple where a headache currently pounds.

“You got your ass handed to you,” Theo says. He shifts, clothes rustling, a crunching sound beneath his feet.

Ice? Liam opens his eyes.

They were in the forest, he finally remembers. And sure enough, they’re surrounded by dark trees and a white landscape, grey clouds beyond them, a hard ground beneath. There are rocks, too: Theo must have found some kind of outcropping in the hills to shelter from the snow flurrying through the air. Had he dragged Liam under here after… whatever happened before he was out?

“Yes, I dragged you here,” Theo says, then rolls his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, your face was obvious.”

Liam grimaces. “Did I get hit?”

“Thrown through a tree, actually.” There’s way too much pep in Theo’s voice when he says it. He points out away from them, towards a splintered tree stump in the distance. Its other half lies not far past it, slowly being buried beneath the snow. “That one.”

“Ouch.” Explains why Liam’s back is killing him. “What was it?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I got thrown through a tree, cut me some slack.” Liam gingerly moves to sit up and rub some warmth back into his arms.

“It was… I don’t even know how to describe it.” Theo frowns as he remembers. “I’ve never seen anything like it before. This big white ball of… energy. Ice. It got mad when it saw us and blew you into that tree. There’s been a snowstorm ever since.”

“Did you… kill it?” Liam asks apprehensively.

“Hell no, I grabbed you and hauled ass. You’re lucky it didn’t follow.”

“So it’s still out there? We have to tell the others.”

Theo wordlessly digs into his pocket and pulls out his phone. He taps the home button. The screen doesn’t light up.

Liam gapes. “Did you seriously bring an uncharged phone out into the middle of nowhere?”

“It’s not my fault you were out for an hour, okay?” Theo snarls. “We were supposed to take a quick look around and go back, I didn’t know some mythical snow spirit whatever the fuck was going to attack us. At least my phone is still in one piece.”

“What?” Dread sinks into Liam’s stomach. He digs into his back pocket, pulls out a mess of circuits and glass and dented metal. He squeaks, “Oh no.”

“Yeah, nice.” Theo sighs. “What is that, your second phone this year?”

“Third.” Liam buries his head in his hands. “My parents are going to kill me.”

It was hard enough convincing them to let him go on this trip to the mountains, where Scott and the rest of the pack had rented a cabin for the weekend. Ostensibly it was to investigate reports of sudden blizzards and extreme snowfall, something Deaton had thought concerning enough for them to check out. But in actuality, none of them expected it to be anything more than some random meteorological weirdness. Scott brought his Nintendo Switch and Mario Kart. Lydia brought wine.

But they’d hardly settled into the cabin before Scott suggested they take a look around before dark, just to get some work in before Mario Kart and chill. Figures Liam didn’t even get the chance to kick Theo’s butt at Mario Kart before the universe decided to screw him over and make his parents ground him forever. It’s not his fault his life suddenly became full of a whole lot more fighting than Liam ever expected, even into his senior year of high school.

“There’s no way I’m gonna try and find my way back in this blizzard,” Theo says, with the finality of a nail into a coffin. “So I suggest you get comfortable.”

Liam sighs, watches the white puff of his breath fade into the air. The wind howls in long, drawn out tones. His whole backside is wet from lying on the ground. His head still hurts.

“Yeah, real easy,” he mutters, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. First things first, try to get his body to stop shivering.

There’s quiet for a moment. Liam’s so preoccupied finding any vestiges of warmth in his body that he startles when something soft is pushed onto his head. He turns his gaze towards Theo.

Theo, whose beanie has now been placed on Liam’s head.

“It ain’t much, but take it,” Theo says, hardly more than a murmur, nearly lost to the sound of the wind. But Liam hears him.

“I’m fine,” he says.

Theo rolls his eyes. “Liam, just take it.”

“But what about you?”

“I can handle a little cold.” Theo crosses his arms tighter, breathes a big exhale that sends a shroud of white around him, thick as smoke. It hides him for a moment but fades away soon enough. His hair is mussed from tugging his beanie off. His nose and cheeks are red, and there are stray snowflakes on Theo’s shoulders, caught in strands of his hair.

It’s more than just a little cold. The beanie helps, in a small way; Theo had given what little he could. That matters, Liam thinks.

It must be that—along with instinctual, human need—that compels Liam to scoot closer until he’s pressed up against Theo’s side.

Theo goes rigid.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Liam.

Finally, Theo says, “What are you doing?”

“It’s cold,” Liam says simply. “You said get comfortable.”

“Comfortable does not mean sitting on top of me.”

“I’m not on top of you,” Liam scoffs. “We gotta huddle for warmth.”

“Sure, huddle. Not cuddle.” Theo pointedly scoots away. Liam follows. “Liam.”

“Theo, come on. I’m not dying out here.”

“I’m not dying out here, either,” Theo says, then shuts his mouth.

Liam laughs.

“Glad you find this funny,” Theo grumbles, but this close together, Liam can feel the way he relaxes, the way he presses in by one reluctantly given inch. But it’s something.

Liam tugs the beanie more snugly onto his head, trying not to smile. Yeah. It’s something.

It doesn’t change the fact that they’re stuck out here until whichever happens first: the blizzard goes away (not looking likely), the pack finds them (even less likely, given that Liam hopes they have the wisdom to stay out of the blizzard, too), or God intervenes. Liam’s never had much luck with the last one.

So he takes in his surroundings instead. There isn’t much to see, really, besides trees, trees, and more trees. The occasional bush. Plenty of snow. And—

“Oh!” Liam says, sitting up straighter and pointing. “Mistletoe!”

Theo doesn’t even look and says, “Nice try, Liam. If you wanted to kiss, you could just ask.”

Liam sputters and shoves Theo hard on the shoulder, which hardly budges him. Theo smirks. “No, dude, ugh. Christmas was like a month ago, anyway. I mean there’s literally mistletoe growing on the trees.”

“Riveting,” Theo drawls, but humors Liam anyway. He looks out to where Liam’s pointing at a bushy mass growing in the branches of one of the trees ahead of them. “That it?”

“Yeah.” Liam squints. He can see its leaves rustling with the wind, how different they are from the leaves of the oak tree it rests in. “Phoradendron villosum. Pacific mistletoe. Don’t eat it.”

“I know that.”

“Did you know mistletoe is a parasite?”

“It’s poisonous, that doesn’t surprise me.” Theo looks mildly interested anyway, and Liam feels a small thrill of victory over it. It’s not often that he gets to share some biology knowledge that Theo doesn’t already know. “So why are people obsessed with hanging it in doorways and stuff?”

“Why do people do anything? Superstition. Folklore.” A particularly strong gust of wind sends a branch of the mistletoe flying. It lands in the snow a few feet ahead of them. “Some cultures saw it as a symbol of fertility. I guess the white berries remind them of—er.”

An awkward beat of silence.

Theo says, “I hope the snow kills us soon.”

Liam’s face burns. At least he feels a little less cold now.

He clears his throat. “Anyway… It’s also associated with protection from witches and demons and stuff.”

“I never took you for a mistletoe nerd.”

“I wrote a report about them in freshman bio. It was kind of interesting. Makes it a little less romantic to know they actually kill the trees they grow on.”

“How beautiful,” Theo says flatly. “You’re still a nerd, though.”

“Shut up.” Liam nudges his shoulder against Theo’s. The corner of Theo’s mouth tugs up just slightly.

Liam’s never done it before, kissed someone under the mistletoe. Hayden came and went too quickly for them to ever reach Christmas, and there hasn’t really been anyone since. There was never any time. And, more honestly, no one else has ever made him feel quite the same.

Well. Almost no one else.

But that’s only ever been a passing daydream, one that’s plagued him in random moments. On an elevator ride back down to the first floor of Beacon Hills Memorial. In the passenger seat of a truck. In sparse texts, shared late at night long after pack meetings have ended.

In a snowy forest, surrounded by no one else.

“Hey, Theo,” Liam says.

Theo grunts and turns towards him.

“What?” he says.

Liam presses their lips together. Theo stops breathing.

A kiss would describe it generously. Liam breathes when it becomes evidently clear that Theo won’t. That’s fine. Taking him by surprise is pretty nice. In any case, the kiss ends almost as soon as it began, and Liam pulls away from the corner of Theo’s mouth. The warmth lingers afterwards.

“W-What the hell was that for?” Theo stammers—Theo, stammering—and brings his hand up over his mouth.

“Mistletoe,” Liam says.

“You—idiot.” Theo brings his other hand up to cover his face, but it’s not enough to hide the red lingering at the tips of his ears. It’s a nice color. “You are so… You…”

“Yeah, you too,” Liam says, not bothering to suppress a grin.

Theo gives him a look through the gaps between his fingers, and Liam expects him to grind out another poorly executed insult when Theo drops his hands, his eyes widening, mouth falling slack.

“What?” Liam says.

Theo just grabs him by the shoulders and tugs him back, further into their little shelter.

“What?” Liam says again, more irately. He turns to look where Theo keeps gaping over Liam’s shoulder.

He finds a great, big ball of blue. Liam’s voice dies in his throat.

His first thought is of ball lightning, something he and Mason had spent one sleepover watching way too many videos of on YouTube. In truth, they didn’t care for the science of it rather than the fact that it looked super fucking cool. Just a sphere of pure energy and light, sweeping through open plains or swathes of sky. This doesn’t feel quite like that, but on the surface it seems the same: crackling, blue-white energy, swirling in a sphere that must be a meter wide, at least. Its core is opaque, like hard ice, and there’s a strange hum about it as it drifts closer to them.

It is frighteningly close. Theo draws an arm out across Liam, pushing him against the rocks at their back. But the sphere doesn’t attack them, doesn’t whip them with a sharp slice of wind like Liam was hit with earlier.

It only drifts over their hiding spot, passing by like an elk through the woods. Calm and constellated with flecks of ice and snow. Something about it feels as old as time itself.

Both of them hold their breaths as it passes. It disappears over them, drifting over the hill. The winds calm. The snowfall begins to diminish until it ceases completely.

It’s quiet.

They stay still for one, two, three heartbeats. Then Theo drops his arm. They both exhale.

“Holy shit,” Liam says, panting like he ran a marathon. “Was that it?”

“No, it was a different big blue ice ball,” Theo says. “Of course that was it.”

“That… was awesome.” Liam crawls out of their shelter to look around for any sign of it. It’s long gone, not even a trail left in its wake.

“I see you’ve already forgiven it for trying to kill you.”

“I don’t want to get thrown through a tree again, but it didn’t attack us this time. We probably spooked it earlier. And look, it stopped the blizzard.”

“You’re way too chipper for seeing something that unreal,” Theo says, following Liam out.

The newly returned sunlight falls over Theo’s shoulders, making him that much easier to see. Theo turns his face up to the sun. His damp hair curls at his temples.

Despite Theo’s griping, Liam can see the wonder in his eyes, the way they glow. He looks alive. Liam thinks about how the blood inside him and the blood inside Theo must be the same, despite everything.

Liam says, “Hey. Thanks.”

Theo frowns. “Why?”

“For saving me earlier.” And the time before that. And the time before that.

Theo scoffs, and where Liam usually sees shutters falling over his face, a mask piecing back together, now he sees a hint of a smile. Something brighter, underneath.

“Whatever,” Theo says, and snatches his beanie off Liam’s head so he can ruffle his hair aggressively.

“Dude!” Liam yelps. 

Theo laughs and whirls away, tearing through the snow in a direction Liam will have to trust is home.

There’s no hesitation at all before Liam chases after him.

--

note: big ice ball inspired by the leschach entite of ffxii. because..... im a nerd :p