#i really only know when christmas is by heart but i have a vague awareness of when yule and hannukah are this year

[hyah-lian]

Kinda out of the blue, do any of my followers want winter holiday cards? I like mailing stuff, like snail mail, and if you would want a card I'd love to send one! Or I can send a digital card if that is something you'd feel better with.

[corroded-hellfire]

Okay. I absolute love ASW serie. And i have a request about the boy’s holiday concert and knowing what Eddie thinking when she arrived. 🥰

I love see you in my notifications. You’re the best 🫶

Ooh I’ve been so excited for this one! Been chomping at the bit for it to be Christmas time so @munson-blurbs and I could write it lol. Eddie’s mentioned before how pivotal of a moment this was in regards to how he feels about reader, so I’m very glad and thankful you requested this. I hope you enjoy ❤️

Words: 4.5k

[As You Wish masterlist]

4:56. In four minutes, Eddie is supposed to take Ryan to school. The concert doesn’t start until 6, but kids have to be there early to warm up. He’s not quite sure how much a vocal warm-up will help second graders harmonize, but he’s not about to be the parent whose kid shows up late. 

His wife apparently does not share that same concern. 

4:57. 

Brittany was supposed to be home to watch Luke; Eddie knows better than to drag him along any earlier than he has to. Ryan is nervous enough about his solo, and he certainly doesn’t need his little brother incessantly asking questions that will only fuel his anxiety. 

4:58. 

“Daddy?” Ryan comes down the hall with you following close behind. “Can you tie my tie?”

Eddie nods, tongue poking from between his lips as he kneels down and fixes his son’s tie. It’s still a bit crooked—there are minimal opportunities for him to wear one as a mechanic, and even fewer now that he and Brittany rarely go on dates—but it will have to suffice. 

Tears gather in your eyes as you look at Ryan’s outfit, the red tie completing his white button-down, black slacks, and shiny shoes. “You’re so grown up!”

4:59. 

You catch Eddie glancing worriedly at the clock. He’s changed out of his coveralls and wears a maroon button-down shirt, cuffed at the elbows, and pants that match Ryan’s. He’s absolutely delicious; the thought of being the one to unbutton him has sweat prickling under your arms. 

“Ry, why don’t you go and get your brother?” Eddie says as gently as he can. Vaguely aware of the tension growing within his father, Ryan nods and heads off to do as he’s told.

As soon as the boy is out of earshot, Eddie mumbles, “shit” under his breath, and rubs his hand across his forehead. 

“He has to be there by—” you start to ask but are cut off by Eddie’s exasperated sigh.

“Yes, we need to leave. Now.” Eddie takes a deep breath and his eyes trail over to you. “Oh shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to jump down your throat like that.”

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” you assure him with a shake of your head. “I completely get it. Brittany’s late, you need to get going, it’s stressful.”

“Yeah, Brittany’s late,” he murmurs more to himself before addressing you. “There’s no reason for me to take anything out on you, you’ve been nothing but wonderful.” His words send a pleasant tingle down your spine. As he takes a step closer, you look up at him beneath your eyelashes. “I’m sorry I snapped, sweetheart.”

“Really, Eddie, it’s okay.” Your hand comes up to rest on his shoulder, trying to emphasize your point. All it does though is leave both of you on pins and needles at the touch. “Why don’t you go ahead and take Ryan?” you offer, reluctantly bringing your hand down. “I’ll bring Luke by for the start of the show. This way you don’t have to try to wrangle the little monkey while you’re getting Ryan where he needs to be.”

Eddie’s brow furrows together and he eyes you warily. “A-Are you sure? Because I don’t have a problem taking on both of them. I’ll use a spare tie as a leash for Luke if I have to.”

You can’t help but giggle at the mental image that conjures. Luke would manage to get a foot or so away and Eddie would reel him back in like a catfish. 

“I don’t mind. Really. Cross my heart and all.”

Eddie takes another moment to consider it and concedes as he nods his head. “That would be really helpful. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you say with a dismissive wave. “I enjoy the talks Luke and I have when we hang out. I always end up learning something new.”

“Oh yeah,” Eddie agrees with a breathy chuckle. “Has he told you that one milliliter of ocean water can contain about 10 million viruses? I got that one at dinner the other night.”

“He has,” you say with a soft giggle. “And yet, he still says going to the beach is what he always wishes for when he throws a coin in the fountain at the mall.”

“Are we going?” Luke’s booming voice precedes both boys as they come into the room. The younger Munson brother looks more annoyed than anything. He probably knows he’ll have to stand around and do nothing before he is forced to sit in an uncomfortable seat and made to listen to his schoolmates unwittingly butcher Christmas Carols. 

“Nope, you’re coming with me,” you tell Luke, poking him on the top of his head as he walks by. “Daddy’s taking Ryan to school now and I’m gonna take you for the show.”

“Oh, good,” Luke says with a sigh of relief. Even Ryan looks a bit relieved; he knows it’s hard to corral his little brother. 

Eddie’s also noticeably calmer as he prepares himself to leave the house. He pats his pockets, and the jingling of keys lets him know he’s got them. Another pat to his back pocket confirms he’s got his wallet as well.

“All right,” he says, looking to Ryan. “You got everything? We ready to go?”

“Uh, I think so,” Ryan says. He looks down at the secured tie around his neck and can’t come up with anything else he might need. 

“Then let’s hit the road. We’ll see you guys later,” Eddie says, nodding at you and Luke.

“Bye, Daddy! Remember, don’t drive on black ice!”

Luke’s warning makes you giggle to yourself as you wave Eddie and Ryan out the door. Once the sound of Eddie’s truck has faded out of the driveway and down the road, Luke turns to you and places his hands on his little hips.

“What’re we gonna do?” he asks. 

“Hmm.” You pretend to ponder over his question as you walk to the other side of the room and pick up your purse. “What about, we go up and get your nice clothes for the concert and put them in your Scooby Doo backpack.”

“Why?” Luke asks, wrinkling up his nose. The small boy has a lot of adorable quirks, but you’re pretty sure that one’s your favorite.

“Well, I was thinking,” you say with a shrug. “Nothing goes better with a Christmas concert than some cookies and hot cocoa. I thought you and I could go grab some at the cafe near my apartment. And I know you, you’ll end up wearing half the snack, so it’s better we don’t get you into those nicer clothes until you have to.”

Luke’s big blue eyes light up at the idea of the sugary confections. His head nods so quickly that, with his small shoulders, he looks like a Munson Bobblehead. 

“Good idea!” he calls behind him as he races towards his room, nearly tripping over his own feet. “I’m okay!”

The auditorium buzzes with excitement as you and Luke make your way down the aisle. Eddie sits in the front row, easily spotted by the mess of curls tucked into a low ponytail. His brown eyes nearly pop out of their sockets when he sees you. 

“Oh, wow—I mean, you made it!” Eddie can’t help but gaze at the way your green velvet dress hugs you in all the right places. It’s flattering without even teetering on inappropriate for an elementary school concert. He recovers awkwardly but quickly, reflexively pulling at his collar to give himself more room to breathe. “Here, um, you guys take a seat…”

Luke bounds over to his dad, plopping into the chair between the two of you. Better off, Eddie thinks wryly, before I do something I really shouldn’t. He glances over at the handmade Naughty and Nice list propped up on the stage; if anyone could read his thoughts right now, he knows exactly where his name would be written. 

“Daddy, I had hot cocoa and cookies! And the cookies had chocolate chunks in them. Not chips—chunks,” Luke clarifies, underscoring the importance of differentiating between the two. 

You shrug guiltily. “Sorry, I needed a way to get him out of the house on time,” you explain. 

Eddie laughs, ruffling Luke’s hair before turning to you. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to negotiate with terrorists?” But above Luke’s line of vision, he mouths thank you, the inaudible movement of his lips sending sparks to your lower belly. 

Someone slides into the seat next to Eddie; you expect him to say that it’s taken, but he barely notices. Neither does Luke, and that’s what breaks your heart. Both he and Ryan are so accustomed to their mom missing important events that they no longer bat an eye. 

The lights in the auditorium dim and the audience breaks into polite applause as the spotlights click on and teachers usher their small students to where they’re supposed to stand. You have no doubt this is part of what they practiced with the children being here so early, but there’s a handful of kids who still don’t seem to have a clue of what they’re doing. 

Ryan is easy to pick out of the crowd. He’s one of the taller boys in his class so he stands up on the back rafter, a spotlight hitting his hair just so to make it look like a honey brown waterfall. Quickly, he catches sight of you as well and waves to you, his father, and brother as the rest of the kids are reaching their intended destinations on stage. Both you and Eddie acknowledge Ryan with small waves, but Luke whips his arm up in the air and waves it back and forth like he’s trying to signal a helicopter where to land. 

Feedback crackles over the microphone on center stage as a teacher steps up to it. She clears her throat and shields her bespectacled eyes from the bright lights aimed her way. She taps once, twice on the microphone before she leans in to speak, short blonde curls falling in her face.

“Thank you, everyone, for joining us this evening for Hawkins Elementary School’s Festive Fun Holiday Concert.” There’s a small smattering of applause before she continues. “I am Mrs. Pierce. My class, along with the classes of Mrs. Lopez and Mr. Abrams, have been practicing very hard to bring you all a Christmas treat this evening.”

Luke has already tuned out the talking, his head on a swivel to take in all aspects of the small auditorium. He looks from the speakers to the light fixtures adorned with green garland, back to the kids on stage, then down the rows of the audience to see who all is there. You gently take his littler hand in yours and give it a soft squeeze. Just to ground him back in this moment from wherever his mind wandered off to. He smiles when you shoot him a wink and, now that the teachers are done talking, finds it easier to zone back into the show. 

Tinny music begins to play over the speakers stationed around the space and it takes you a moment to place the song as Let it Snow. The initial singing by the children is jarring, but not nearly as off-key as you were expecting. Some of the songs are a bit rough, but some are surprisingly pleasant as well. 

As the music transitions to the next song, you see Ryan take a step down from his rafter and make his way towards the front of the stage. He goes to one of the two microphones low enough for the children to access and waits. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer starts with all the children, but by the look of how nervous Ryan is, you’d wager that he has a solo coming up. His small fingers twist against one another as he does his best not to look out into the crowd. Though he’s naturally a shy boy, you can tell there’s some stage fright in there as well. It’s evident that his part is fast approaching when you see his little chest swell with breath, then release it slowly. Grinning from ear to ear, you watch as Ryan takes half a step closer to the microphone and opens his mouth.

“Then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say,

‘Rudolph with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight?’”

A look of relief washes over Ryan’s face, but you can also see a bit of pride in the way that he smiles. And he should be proud! His small solo was excellent, and you can’t wait to dote on him over it later. 

You glance over at Eddie; his grin stretches across his face so widely that you wouldn’t be shocked if his cheeks hurt. He catches you looking and turns his head slightly, one eye winking as if to say, thanks for being here for my kid. Thanks for being here with me. 

And maybe it’s the way you giggle, or the way you make sure Luke is comfortable before easing back into your seat, or the way you cheer for Ryan like you’re at a stadium concert, but something shifts within Eddie. He’s always found you beautiful; tonight, you were downright stunning in that dress. It was the oldest cliché in the book: dad crushing on the hot, young babysitter. That’s how he’d managed to brush it off all this time. He was a man with needs, you were an attractive woman. Simple biology. 

What he’s feeling now is anything but straightforward. He doesn’t just want to sleep with you; no, he wants you by his side at every school function, every birthday party, every moment of his life, big or small. And not as the babysitter; as his girl. 

No, this is not a crush, and it’s not a cliché. It’s love. 

After the concert, both you and Eddie are excited to greet Ryan and gush over how well he did. The unspoken fear that you both have though, is that the seven-year-old will be heartbroken when he finds out that his mother didn’t attend the performance. While Luke fidgets where you wait outside of the auditorium for his brother, you and Eddie trade nervous glances as the kids start coming out.

“Where is he?” Luke bemoans after the third student comes out and it isn’t the one he wants. 

Ryan comes barreling out of the red double doors, laughing with a group of his friends. The moment he spots you and his family, he waves goodbye to the other kids and dashes over to you. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Eddie holding his breath, waiting on pins and needles to hear what the first thing out of his oldest son’s mouth will be.

“I did it!” Ryan cheers.

Eddie sags in relief and even you feel unburdened of a weight you weren’t aware you were holding. The smile on Ryan’s face is pure glee and he’s practically jumping up and down on the spot.

“I’m so proud of you!” Eddie tells him, throwing one arm around the boy’s shoulders and ruffling his hair with the other. “You were the best one up there.”

Ryan’s cheeks turn pink at his father’s praise. Of course, you just pile on top of it, relishing in the way he gets embarrassed and overjoyed at the same time. 

“My little George Michael!” you say as you pull Ryan in for a hug. His nose wrinkles up at your comparison but the smile on his face only grows.

Luke looks up at his big brother. “Y’know, I always thought it was froggy Christmas Eve.”

Despite his better judgment, Eddie asks, “bud…why would Christmas Eve be froggy?”

“I dunno,” Luke shrugs, “maybe Santa was delivering a lot of frogs. Or the reindeer got tired, so he had frogs pull his sleigh. Or—”

Eddie puts his hands on Luke’s shoulders and laughs. “All right, Frog Boy. What do you say we get home and celebrate Ryan’s rockstar moment?”

Everyone agrees to that, the four of you walking through the double doors and into the parking lot. Ryan takes Eddie’s hand, and Luke takes yours. 

“Where’d you park?” Eddie asks you, and you realize he wants to escort you to your car. Heat creeps up your neck at his small act of chivalry. Part of you suspects that if you shivered, he’d offer his jacket. 

Maybe if you were more courageous, you’d test that theory. 

“Oh, um, over there.” You point towards your car, leading the way. You can feel Eddie’s eyes on you; protectiveness with a hint of possession. It’s lust with something you can’t quite put your finger on. 

You dig your keys out of your bag, smiling triumphantly when you find them quickly. “I’ll see you boys tomorrow?” You laugh kindly, ruffling Ryan’s hair. “I’m so proud of you, Ry. You’re brave and talented.”

A blush settles into Ryan’s cheeks. “Thanks. Um, I’m glad you got to hear me sing. You’re the best.”

“Me, too,” Eddie chimes in, clearing his throat. “I mean, I’m glad you got to hear him sing, too. Not that I think you’re the best. Not that you’re not the best, because the kids love you, and you, um—”

“Hey, look what I found!” 

Eddie has never been more grateful for one of Luke’s interruptions. “What is it?”

“Mistletoe!” The little boy holds something that is certainly not mistletoe above his head. “See?”

Ryan scoffs. “That’s a leaf.”

“And a very dead one at that,” Eddie muses, plucking the stem from Luke’s fingers. 

A pout puckers Luke’s lips. “You gotta use your imagination!” he insists, taking the pseudo-mistletoe and jumping up and down between you and Eddie. “Now…you…gotta…kiss!”

“No, we don’t,” you and Eddie blurt out in unison. 

“Yes, you do,” Luke indignantly sighs. “It’s the law.”

Before he can wimp out, Eddie swoops in and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. Your skin tingles where his lips brushed against it, and you’re left speechless. 

Luke, however, remains unimpressed. “That wasn’t a real kiss!”

“Yeah, well, that’s not real mistletoe,” Eddie retorts, trying to compose himself. “C’mon, let’s get home. It’s past your bedtime.”

Eddie was hoping that the ride home would help lull the boys to sleep like it used to when they were babies. Ryan still has adrenaline going through him from the concert though, and Luke is feeding off of that energy.

They’re both talking a mile a minute and neither one of them quiet, but Eddie doesn’t hear a word they say because his mind is so focused on you. You offering to bring Luke to the school later when he had to bring Ryan. You in that curve-hugging dress. You showing up for Ryan when his own mother didn’t. You, with the softest skin when his lips brushed your cheek. 

Realizing that he’s in love with you should make Eddie feel worse than it does. The guilt that’s gnawing at his stomach is somewhat abated by the fact that Brittany’s been screwing a litany of men for years. Does it make it worse or better that she probably had no feelings for any of those men? He’s not sure it’s possible for her to truly love anyone besides herself.

Eddie can’t help the smile on his face as he thinks about his feelings for you, though. The way you make him happy is something that he hasn’t experienced in years—if Brittany ever truly made him this happy at all. Everything about you brings joy to Eddie. Well, other than when he thinks of how much younger you are and how you’re surrounded by college age guys who must be tripping over themselves to go out with you. That provides him with a sickening feeling that leaves him dizzy. It’s much easier to focus on the fantasy of being with you, not the reality of where or who you might be headed home to tonight. 

When Eddie pulls into the driveway, the boys are decidedly less quiet, though they’re still chatting away. Brittany’s car is parked there as well, sitting idly next to where Eddie’s truck now is. Eddie wordlessly gets out of the car and lets the boys keep talking about whatever it is they’re talking about as he walks with them up to the front door, the light dusting of snow floating down kissing their cheeks and noses. 

“It’s late, I want you boys to head to your rooms and put your pajamas on, okay?” Eddie says as he unlocks the door. Both boys agree—begrudgingly, on Luke’s part. 

Brittany isn’t in sight when they first step into the house, which has Eddie breathing a sigh of relief. He really shouldn’t be feeling that way about seeing his own wife, should he? Oh well, that ship sailed a long time ago.

The boys head down the hall and as Ryan passes the kitchen, he skids to a halt and does a double take. 

“Hi, Mom!” he says with an enthusiastic wave. Eddie’s prepared for his oldest to launch into the story of how great the concert was and how much fun he had, but he just continues down the hall towards his room. Luke didn’t even stop to greet his mother. 

Eddie drops his keys in the bowl by the door and shrugs out of his leather jacket. It’s slightly wet to the touch from the flurries that landed on him between the truck and the house.

If Brittany had just missed an event of his, Eddie wouldn’t give two shits or make a big deal of it. But this was Ryan’s big night, something that she should have wanted to and made sure to attend. Now Eddie feels the need to make a stink about it.

He wanders into the kitchen and slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. As soon as he steps inside, he sees Brittany leaning against the counter with a glass of water in her hand, absolutely glaring at him. The look takes him aback. Why in the hell is he getting that look? She’s the one who has to explain herself. 

“I can’t believe you,” Brittany says, further shocking her husband. 

“I…what?” Eddie asks. He almost feels too dumbfounded to speak. It quickly crosses his mind that maybe she somehow figured out the epiphany he had about his feelings for you tonight, but if Brittany could read minds things would have gone downhill a lot sooner in their marriage than this. 

“You left without me. You couldn’t even wait until I got home?” Brittany slams the glass of water down on the counter and takes a step towards him. 

Eddie quickly checks to make sure the boys haven’t stepped in behind him before he raises his eyebrows and lowers his voice.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I did wait, Britt. I waited until the last goddamn minute. But Ryan had to get to the school, and I wasn’t about to make him late just because you couldn’t be bothered to be home on time.”

The sneer Brittany gives him could curdle milk. 

“So now my son is going to think that I don’t care because I didn’t go tonight,” she seethes.

Eddie toys with the idea of telling her that he didn’t seem to care one iota that she wasn’t there, but he doesn’t want Ryan to catch even a smidgen of her wrath. 

“You have a car. You know where the damn school is. Why didn’t you get your ass over there when you got home?”

“That isn’t the point!” she snaps. Eddie now knows that this argument has moved from rational and logic, to whatever bullshit straws Brittany can grasp at. 

“Okay,” Eddie says, knowing full well he’s already fighting a losing battle. “What is the point?” He crosses his arms over his chest and Brittany mirrors the action, as if annoyed she didn’t think of taking up the offended posture first. 

“That you didn’t wait for me. Your wife. I had to come home probably five minutes after you left!”

“And I told you why we left when we did. I also provided you with what you could have alternatively done, but that would mean admitting that you’re wrong and God forbid you do that.” Brittany opens her mouth, but Eddie shakes his head and cuts her off before she can say anything. “Fucking forget it. It’s late, I’m tired, I’m going to bed.”

Eddie goes to turn down the hallway towards the master bedroom when he realizes he never took off his boots. He stalks back to the front door and kicks them off, using the wall for balance. When his eyes flit back up from his feet, they catch sight of his jacket—and Brittany’s next to it. He narrows his eyes as he looks at them side by side. His is still wet from the melted snow coating it, but Brittany’s is wet as well. It’s not just the side where his jacket is brushing up against it, either. Eddie reaches for the arm of the jacket on the opposite side and feels that it’s just as wet as his own. If Brittany had really come home just after they’d left, there’s no way it would still be wet.

Dropping the jacket sleeve and letting out a huff of unamused laughter, Eddie shakes his head in disbelief. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. Brittany is no stranger to lying. She probably got home about five minutes before they did, but in typical Brittany fashion, had to spin everything so she’s the victim even when she’s the one in the wrong. 

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mumbles to himself. He rubs at his eyes as he walks back down the hallway. He’s way too tired to deal with any of this bullshit. 

It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. I’ll just get ready for bed and then I can lay down and think about the woman who actually shows up for me and my boys—and try to imagine she doesn’t do it purely out of the goodness of her heart, and that she enjoys spending time with me as much as I do her.

He can hear Brittany talking on the kitchen phone, prattling on to her friend about how her awful husband cruelly abandoned her at their son’s holiday concert. Looking over at the empty half of the bed, he pictures you sleeping there. His arms would wrap around you as you whisper about how proud you are of Ryan or relay a funny tidbit from Luke. Eddie would kiss your forehead as you drift off to sleep, reveling in your beauty even as you slumber.  His own eyelids soon grow heavy with the day’s physical and emotional exhaustion. Before he falls asleep, he manages to eke out a wish to dream of you tonight. 

[cinnamontoastcrunch-15]

Are You a Festive Syrup Type of Guy?

This is an excerpt from chapter 2 of my Christmas fic for this year - Melt My Heart with a Peppermint Latte :)

Eventually, finally, the train pulls into his station.  

It’s a bigger relief than Sirius had expected it to be. As he steps off the train, some of the adrenaline that has been coursing through him for the past twelve hours starts to dissipate. It brings on a tiredness that is honestly really bloody inconvenient. 

As he starts his walk home, he pulls his phone out, trying to find a coffee shop open at 7 in the morning. Thankfully, there’s a small shop tucked away on his walk. It’s almost like the universe wants him to get some caffeine in his system. He glances around at the masses of Christmas lights adorning the streets. It’s too early for anyone to have gotten up and switched them on, much to Sirius’ delight. As much as he loves his small town, they have a terrible habit of forced cheeriness. It’s always a little painful. If he wants to get any work done, he’s going to have to hope to every possible god out there that the blaring Christmas music that is undoubtedly on his way won’t distract him from his project. 

He almost checks his phone again to find the coffee shop. That is, until he rounds a corner and finds himself practically blinded. 

One small section of the street is absolutely smothered in lights. A blend of blue, red and yellow. It’s like their sole wish is to blind every passerby. Strangely enough, though, the lights are completely static. He’s used to lights twinkling all the way across the street, like really disappointing strobe lights. These lights almost refuse to move. Sirius turns to look at the small building, reading their sign. 

Canvas Coffee. 

For the artists of tomorrow. 

Oh, fuck. 

They’re the coffee shop Sirius has been looking for. 

Still, his desire to be slightly more awake and aware than he currently is wins over his cynicism. That decided, he wanders over to the entrance and pushes open the door. 

The inside of the coffee shop may as well be the definition of ‘don’t judge a book by its cover.’ The lights are lower, almost making Sirius feel comfortable. The atmosphere is warm, calming. Sirius kind of wants to see it when the sun is shining through the vast bi-fold doors. He glances around at the sleek, artsy decor. There’s a wall dedicated to customer doodles, a mural adorning the wall behind the counter, and shelves selling both coffee grounds and art supplies. 

Sirius actually loves it. 

He turns his head, looking for whoever’s working. There’s nobody behind the counter, but when he looks to the other side, he spots him. A guy is standing on a step-ladder, reaching up and decorating a scarily big Christmas tree. 

“Oh, you fucker, just- just get on there!” He mutters to himself, and Sirius bites back an amused smile as he watches him lean in a fairly unsafe way to clip some decoration to the tree. He’s clearly only just started on the tree; it’s only got a single layer of tinsel and the ornament that he’s been fighting to attach. It also seems disgustingly out of place with the rest of the interior. 

It takes a second for Sirius to realise that he should probably let this guy know that he’s got a customer. 

“Uh… hi, sorry. Are you open?” 

The guy turns quickly, promptly tripping off the step-ladder. He stumbles for a second, much to Sirius’ amusement. He manages to catch himself, straightening up. He turns to Sirius and offers him a smile. His hair sits in slightly messy, light brown curls, his eyes almost amber under the warm lights. 

“Hi! Sorry, yeah, we are. I was just…” he gestures vaguely to the tree. “I don’t even know, actually.” As he moves past Sirius to go to the till, Sirius watches a golden retriever wearing a red vest tailing him. They both settle behind the counter, and Sirius moves to the counter. “What can I get for you?” Sirius quickly scans the menu. 

“Could I grab a latte with as many shots as you can physically get in there?” 

The guy chuckles, tapping his screen accordingly. 

“Got it.” He looks up, and SIrius can practically feel himself being surveyed carefully. “Are you a festive syrup kind of guy?” “Oh, God, no. No, I’m not.” 

“Ah, right. Hard no.” The card reader flashes, and Sirius taps his card accordingly. The guy turns, starting to maneuver around the coffee machine. “So,” he starts, pressing a button, “how come I’ve never seen you before? We don’t get many new customers.” 

“I’ve just gotten back from uni,” Sirius supplies. 

“Nice. What are you studying?” 

“Fine Arts.” 

The guy chuckles, lifting a metal jug and starting to heat the milk. 

“Fitting.” 

Sirius looks around the coffee shop. Huh. It really is. 

“What about you, then?” Sirius asks. 

“What about me?” 

“How come I’ve never seen you?” 

He turns and leans against the counter, swirling the jug in his hand casually. 

“I moved a year back,” he starts. He picks up the to-go cup, starting to pour. “My mate and I moved together for uni. I was really fucking dumb and didn’t save up during my gap year, so…” He gestures to the machine behind him. Sirius laughs, watching as the guy fastens a lid over the cup and hands it over. “We mostly get regulars here. You should probably come back so we don’t break that streak.” He has a smile creeping right onto Sirius’ face. 

“Right. Will do. I’m Sirius.” 

“Remus.” 

“See you around, Remus.” Sirius grabs his cup and walks out. 

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @theydraggedmein!

This turned out a lot sweeter (and not as sexy) as I was originally going for, but I had a lot of fun playing with this idea and I hope you like it! Happy Sterek-y Holidays!

*****

Inter-Pack Politics

The bullet takes Derek by surprise. One minute he’s trotting along the perimeter’s edge on a patrol that is more habit than necessity, and the next the forest’s calm evening is broken by a gunshot. 

Pain unlike anything he’s ever felt before brings Derek to his knees, blossoming around his side and searing into his bones.  He’s crying out in agony before he can stop himself, despite knowing that it will only help the attacker pinpoint his location.

He should be trying to get up. Or at least he should try to howl for his alpha. But it’s like his blood has become lava it’s so hot, and the only thing he can think about is getting away from the pain. All he manages to do is to writhe against the ground as black spots cloud his vision. 

His mom is going to be so pissed when his body turns up. He should have been paying more attention to his surroundings, not responding to texts in the group chat he shares with his friends. It’s a little too late to care about that now, but the fleeting thought still sends Derek spiraling into a well of guilt. Coupled with the pain, the affect is debilitating. 

Cold hands press against Derek’s cheeks drawing him back away from the darkness calling to him. Derek hadn’t even realized that he had closed his eyes, let alone that enough time had passed that someone might have found him. 

Fluttering his eyes open, it take more effort than he would like to focus on the person in front of him and even more effort to understand that the guy isn’t someone he recognizes. He’s saying something, which is a little out of the ordinary for a hunter, but Derek can’t make out the words. His side hurts so bad. It’s all he can focus on, which makes the darkness creeps back in. 

The guy smacks him, jolting him back to reality. His ears pop from the impact, just in time for him to hear the guy curse. “Shit, shit, shit.” Looking over his shoulder, he hollers at someone Derek can’t see, “I need a bullet! Now, Scott!” 

If he could talk, Derek would point out that he definitely doesn’t need another bullet. The one imbedded in Derek’s side is more than enough in his opinion. But he can’t talk so the point is really mute. 

Another guy stumbles into Derek’s line of sight. There’s something vaguely familiar about his uneven jaw line, but Derek can’t pull his thoughts together enough to recognize him. He holds a long silver bullet out to the guy still cradling the side of Derek’s face who accepts it and immediately brings it to his mouth. In a move that Derek doesn’t understand, he pulls the back off of the bullet, spits it away, and then pours the gunpowder into the wound on Derek’s side. 

Only then does Derek realize what’s going on. Wolfsbane. He’s been poisoned and this stranger is trying to heal him before it’s too late. 

Instead of asking for a lighter, the guy snaps and his pointer finger ignites. The fire is a light blue, and the glow casts a soft light over the man’s features making him look impish and beautiful. 

As he brings his finger closer to his side, Derek expects the hot, all consuming pain to return. Instead it’s like his body is dunked in ice. He can tell he’s screaming by the way his throat burns, but he can’t hear anything aside from the beating of his own heart. 

Time passes. Eventually Derek’s autonomous awareness returns. He can feel the ground he’s laying on, cool and hard and steady. He can wiggle his fingers and feel his abdomen relaxing as the pain fades. He’s tired, feels worn through, but the relief that washes over him when he opens his eyes and can see again is a nice balm. 

Both men are kneeling at his side. The familiar one looks like he’s one step away from chewing off his finger out of nerves. The other guy is grinning. 

“There he is,” he says around his smile, looking proud of himself for correctly curing Derek’s poisoning. “I told you, Scott. Easy-peasy.”

The other guy, Scott, groans. “Stiles, dude, this is so not the time. I thought I was going to have to bring his body back to his mother, and then she would have eaten me, and then the girls would have been pissed.” 

“Did you shoot me?” Derek asks. His voice is hoarse from his screaming. He sits up slowly, though Scott wraps a warm hand around his elbow to help steady him. 

Stiles snorts. “Of course. I shot you and then decided out of the goodness of my heart to save your life.”

“Stiles!”

“What? If he believes me and doesn’t see the hunter laying right there, that’s on him.”

Sure enough, six feet away a burly man lays face flat in the dirt. Derek definitely didn’t see him but he isn’t about to admit that to some random stranger. 

“Thank you,” he blurts out instead. “For saving me,” he adds after a moment, drawing the sentence out and sounding a bit like a robot.

If she were here, Erica would be cracking up. 

Stiles’ grin softens into something a little less feral. He’s-. Well he’s kind of pretty. But as his senses finally stabilize, it’s Scott who capture Derek’s attention. 

“Oh shit.” Shaking the hand that is still resting on his elbow off, Derek scoots himself back until he can breath a little easier. Now he knows why Scott looked so familiar. “Alpha McCall.” At the mention of his title, Scott’s eyes blaze red. 

He rubs at the back of his head looking sheepish as the color fades. “I would say it’s nice to meet you Beta Hale, but it would have been better under different circumstances.”

Curiously, Derek turns back to look at Stiles. He thinks about everything he’s overheard his mother say about the McCall pack. He knows that she’s mentioned a magic user, but he can’t quite remember what title he had. 

Stiles examines him back, quirking his eyebrow the longer Derek stares. And then he remembers. “That would make you Spark Stilinski then.”

The feral edge is back in his smile at being recognized. It’s almost hard to look at him when his eyes start glowing a deep purple, but not because Derek is intimidated. 

Gods, Erica would be howling. 

“Stiles and I need to get this guy back to town,” Scott says, gesturing at the hunter. “He’s not going to be out for long and I want to make sure he’s secure before anything else can happen. But then maybe after we should meet up so I can explain to your Alpha what happened?”

Derek knows that’s a good idea. Hell, he should probably call his mom now so they can meet right away and discuss what will happen to the hunter. Even if the McCall pack was hunting him, the hunter shot one of her members, and if Derek knows his mom he knows that she will want a say in what happens to him. But there’s something about the confident way Scott talks about securing the man that makes Derek nod his head. 

Plus, as more of his senses return to normal, Stiles’ scent is a heady thing that Derek needs a break from. 

He watches as Scott hoists the hunter over his shoulder and starts trekking back the way that they had come. Stiles winks at Derek before following after his Alpha. 

He looks back twice before the pair disappears from Derek’s view. 

Derek’s never ran back to his house faster.

—————

Talia takes a lot of pride in her position. The Hales have resided in Beacon Hills for decades, protecting the woods and those in the town. She thinks that she’s done a pretty damn good job leading her pack. 

She takes even more pride in her duty as a mother. Her children are her joy. Watching them grow up, seeing how they blossomed, nothing has been a better gift. And overall, Talia thinks that she’s done a pretty good job balancing being a mother and an Alpha.

When she hears her only son rushing back to the house after sending him out on the nightly patrol, her first thought is of the pack’s safety. She sets her book on the arm of her chair and goes to meet him, preparing for bad news. 

But when Derek gets close enough that she can smell him, rage has her shifting before she can find her control. Wolfsbane. On her son. Talia is ready to rage. 

Derek looks good despite the obvious signs of wolfsbane poisoning. He’s grubby and there are sticks in his hair, but he’s in one piece.

He also smells like another alpha werewolf.

“Derek! What happened?” She circles him, running the backs of her fingers over his neck to scent him. 

Derek allows the treatment. “I was on the East side of the border running patrol about to double back when, “ he swallows, “I was shot.”

Talia exhales through her nose, holding on to her composure. “Wolfsbane.” It isn’t a question. 

Derek nods anyway. At this point, Patrick has shown up. His typically soft eyes are ice cold as Derek recounts the affects of the poison. “Alpha McCall and his Spark apprehended the hunter. The Spark cured my poisoning. They took the hunter. Alpha McCall asked to meet afterwards to discuss the situation with you.”

Nostrils flaring, Talia reminds herself that Alpha McCall is young and doesn’t know the proper etiquette when dealing with another pack. They should have contacted her to discuss what to do with the hunter. Honestly, unless he had injured one of theirs, the hunter should have been given to her. Not to mention that communication should have been sent as soon as they were aware that a new hunter was in town. 

But that doesn’t matter, not really. Talia isn’t one of the stuffy Alphas who live too far in the past. She respects tradition, but she knows that as the times change they must adapt. Besides, she should have done more to build up the relationship between the Hale and McCall packs as soon as they settled in Beacon Hills. As the experienced Alpha, the responsibility fell to her to show Alpha McCall the ropes. Even though she helped some, there was far more that she could have done. 

So long as this meeting goes well, she vows to do better. Especially now that Scott McCall has saved her son. 

—————

Derek knows as soon as the convoy for the McCall pack is on its way. He had sequestered himself in the library after the meeting with his mother, tired from the events of the day. But when the sounds of an unfamiliar vehicle turning onto the little road leading to their house reaches him, Derek goes in search of his mother. 

He finds her standing on the porch. She’s changed into a dark pair of jeans paired with an emerald sweater, giving her a more regal and put together air than the lounge set she had been wearing when Derek returned to the house. 

His father stands at her side in a dark brown sweater and light jeans. Derek is surprised that Laura is absent. As the next Alpha heir, she normally attends all important meetings at Talia’s side. But aside from his parents, the rest of the pack is noticeably absent. 

That makes him question whether or not he too should go back inside. Before he can retreat, Talia smiles at him. “Derek, you’ll be with us. As the only witness to the events of this evening, I would like you to stay. Plus, you were the one who agreed to this meeting on my behalf. You are more than welcome.”

“But-. Laura?”

Talia laughs. “Your sister isn’t as practiced in keeping partial when it comes to her family. She was furious when we told her that Alpha McCall took the hunter back to town and was practically ready to go and find them herself before your father finally talked her down. She’s with Peter.” Derek knows that means that, even though they’re out of sight, they are both definitely close enough to hear this conversation, but he doesn’t point that out. 

“Okay.”

Carefully, Patrick ruffles Derek’s hair like he used to when he was just a boy. “Don’t worry, Derek. This is a friendly meeting. Nothing is going to happen.”

Derek hadn’t really been worried about that, heck Scott and Stiles seemed nice enough and they saved his life, but at his father’s words, he wonders. There isn’t a lot of time to worry though, before a small blue Prius pulls up beside Talia’s SUV. Four people exit the vehicle. Derek recognizes Scott and Stiles. The other passengers are older, probably parents if Derek had to guess. 

There’s something kind of sweet about Alpha McCall bringing them along. Sure he’s on the younger side for an alpha, but the title still belongs to him. Arriving with his family makes the meeting feel a lot more casual, and it shows his dedication to his family which is sure to win him points with Talia and Patrick. 

Scott approaches the porch first, stopping a polite distance away to incline his head at Talia before baring his throat. At his back, the other’s follow his example, but Derek can feel Stiles’ eyes on him like a brand. Heat races up Derek’s spine at the attention which makes him feel like a teenager again. 

Derek scowls. He would be lying if he said that he hadn’t noticed that Stiles had changed into a pair of tight slacks and a dark maroon button up, but this meeting was most definitely not about how attractive the Spark was. No matter how much his gaze feels like a caress, this is more important that that. 

“Welcome, Alpha McCall,” Talia says, voice light but formal. “It sounds like you’ve had quite an eventful evening. This is my mate Patrick, and you’ve already met my son Derek. Would you like to come inside?”

Scott smiles, crooked and endearing, and introduces his group. “Thank you, Alpha Hale. This is  my mother Melissa. Stiles is my Second as well as my Spark, and this is his father John. Thank you for having us.”

Talia’s demeanor softens at his words. She turns and leads them inside. Derek stays where he’s at, opting to fall in behind everyone. Stiles grins as he steps beside him on the porch. “Hey Derek.” Despite knowing that they’re in a house full of werewolves who will be able to hear the conversation no matter the volume, Stiles keeps his voice quiet. “How are you feeling?”

The question is innocent, but Derek can feel his ears heating with a blush. “Better. I-.” He clears his throat. “We should follow the others.”

Stiles raises his eyebrow, eyes gleaming in amusement, but doesn’t press. He turns and continues after their group, allowing Derek to step in behind them.

All things considered, the rest of the meeting is pretty dull. Scott explains how they stumbled upon the hunter on accident and chased him through the woods, hoping to catch him before anyone was hurt. He details how they took the hunter to Chris Argent, the father of one of his pack members and an ex-hunter, who promised to ‘take care of everything.’ Then Stiles steps in and explains the wards he would like to install around town that would act as an early alert system in case anymore unwanted hunters come into town. 

Talia agrees that it is a good idea, but asks that they let her contact her own Druid so that he can help make the wards, that way both packs are involved in their creation and upkeep. Stiles agrees, admitting that he would love to work with him. 

By the time they’re wrapping up the meeting, Derek isn’t sure why his presence was needed. They barely even talked to him, so he spent most of the discussion trying not to look at Stiles. Laura would have been a much better choice to have, even if she was pissed off. At least she was good at talking to people.

“There is one more thing,” Talia says as Scott and his pack are gathering to leave. “Because we share Beacon Hills, I think it is a wise idea to foster a friendly relationship between our packs.”

Patrick steps into the conversation perfectly. “We were thinking it might be nice to have a little BBQ and invite everyone along. The weather is still so nice, and there is a great park in town that would easily house everyone.”

John is all smiles. “That sounds like a great idea.” Scott agrees, and then it is as easy as picking a date to cement the idea.

Derek watches the car drive away when they finally leave, trying to decide if he’s imaging Stiles turned around in the seat to watch him through the rear window.

Laura and Peter appear on either side of him. Both of them are grinning wider than the Cheshire cat. “So,” Laura begins. 

“The McCall Spark?” Peter adds, drawing out each word.

“Wow little brother, you sure know how to pick them. Remind me, how long has it been since you went on a date?”

Derek turns his nose up at both of them. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Peter rubs a thumb across his bottom lip. “Should we ask Talia about dating between the packs?”

When Laura snorts, the sound is so undignified Derek almost laughs. And then he remembers that they are here making fun of him. Gods, sometimes he hates them both. Yes, Stiles is attractive. But that’s all it is. The jokes really on them. 

—————

The BBQ is going pretty well. The day turned out to be perfectly warm and sunny, a fact that Talia is taking as a sign that the relationship between the packs will good. John joined Patrick at the grill as soon as he pulled up. They both have a cold beer in their hands and they’re chatting like old friends. 

Melissa was having a decent conversation with Peter’s wife Mary until he joined them. Then the women teamed up against him and now they’re both sitting close together and laughing like the best of friends. 

Scott’s pack is an unusual one comprising of a banshee, a kitsune, the hunters daughter, 2 werewolves and a hell hound. Then, of course, there’s Stiles, who Derek is trying his best to ignore. Especially because one of Scott’s werewolves keeps leaning down to whisper in his ear. Derek can’t hear what they’re saying, but the blush on Stiles face says enough. 

Thus far, Derek’s kept his distance, sitting with Boyd and Cora on the sidelines and watching everyone mingle about. Considering the fact that Stiles is wearing gray skinny jeans and a form-fitting navy blue shirt, Derek thinks he’s doing very well. It helps that he’s not normally a chatty person. His sisters say that he’s growly, but he thinks they’re exaggerating. He doesn’t growl at people. At least, not al most of them.

Cora elbows him, jeering him from his thoughts. “Why does the Spark keep staring at you?”

Derek does everything he can not to look. “How do you know he’s not looking at you?”

She raises her eyebrows at him and her stare speaks volumes. 

“He’s the one that saved your life, right?” Boyd asks, trying to look over at Stiles and not make it obvious. It doesn’t really work, but Derek appreciates the attempt.

“Yeah. He burned the wolfsbane out of my system.”

“Romantic.” 

Derek groans. “Not you too, Cora. Come on, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

That actually makes her laugh. “Just because I’m sitting over here with you like a loser, that doesn’t mean that I’m on your side. Besides, Laura and Peter might have a point. You obviously want to talk to him, so why don’t you go over there?”

He resents that she’s calling him out. But the truth is, since the night in the woods, Derek hasn’t been able to get Stiles out of his head. That isn’t really a conversation he wants to have with his little sister though, mostly because she will tease the hell out of him about it.

“Cora has a point,” Boyd says like a traitor. He ignores Derek’s open mouthed disbelief and continues talking. “There’s obviously something going on there. He’s been practically staring you down all night, and I know you picked that seat for a reason.”

Cora jumps in. “Besides, when was the last time you actually put yourself out there? You could do a lot worse than a Spark. He’s definitely cute enough.”

Her words almost make Derek bare his teeth, but before he can get weirdly possessive about a stranger, the man standing with Stiles bends down and whispers in his ear again and the flight leaves Derek all at once. 

“That’s a pretty good reason to stay over here, don’t you think?” The words sound dramatic and miserable, even to him, but instead of mocking him Cora just hums in consideration. 

Then she grins. “You’re right, it definitely is. Come on Boyd, I need you over here.”

Confused, Derek watches as they both stand up and abandon him. Boyd pats him on the back twice, and then they’re gone. It isn’t until Derek turns back to look at Stiles that he realizes what’s happening.

Instead of standing clear across the park, Stiles is barely five feet away. Derek’s traitorous heart stutters, causing a few of the werewolves around to glance their way (including Peter who winks conspiratorially and frolics off to find Laura). 

As before, there is something about Stiles that is so alluring, be it his little upturned nose or the moles scattered across his pale skin or the way his scent is all lightning and ozone. Now that Derek’s not recovering from the affects of wolfsbane poisoning, his presence is even more captivating. 

Inexplicably Derek imagines biting at the pulsing vein in Stiles’ neck. He clenches his teeth instead. 

As though he could read where Derek’s thoughts went, Stiles’ grin is a feral thing. “Derek Hale,” Stiles says, moving closer until he’s right beside him. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Rolling his eyes, Derek scoffs, “Fancy seeing me at a BBQ my parents set up? Yes, how unusual.”

For a minute there is silence between them. Then Stiles snorts. “Oh man, you’re sassy. I couldn’t tell the last time we met.”

“The last time we met I was dying, so I feel like that might not have been the best introduction to judge my character.” Derek is going to add that he is not sassy, thank you very much, but Stiles' smile turns coy. 

“Oh? Luckily for me then that you’re all healed up. I definitely want to judge your character.”

That’s…such a bad line Derek actually raises his eyebrows in disbelief. Miraculously, his stare makes Stiles blush but he doesn’t take the words back. Instead he raises his eyebrows in a clear challenge that Derek accepts by offering Stiles the seat that Cora vacated. 

“How are the wards coming along?” Derek asks after an awkward moment where neither of them speaks. 

Stiles relaxes back into his chair looking genuinely excited that Derek brought it up. He launches into a overly-detailed description of ward work and weaving that goes well-over Derek’s head. But he listens in rapture just the same, asking questions to keep Stiles talking especially when he starts describing the little magic shop he opened in town that serves the supernaturally inclined. It’s fascinating. He’s fascinating and Derek is hooked.

Eventually, Stiles clears his throat and blushes again. “Sorry I-. I really like magic and most of my friends tune me out when I start in on it.”

Derek smiles and it’s easy to admit, “I liked listening to you. I might not have understood everything, but I can see how much you love what you do.”

“Being a Spark is-. Well, I assume it’s a little bit like being a werewolf. It’s so intrinsically tied to who I am, I can’t imagine not using magic. I actually-.” He stops talking suddenly and blinks at Derek in surprise. “You are not how I imagined you would be, Derek.”

Feeling uncomfortable with the sudden change in conversation, Derek crosses his arms. Stiles rushes to explain. “It’s not a bad thing. I just didn’t really expect you to indulge me.”

“You decided that after one meeting, during which I was recovering from poison?”

Stiles raises his hands and laughs, eyes gleaming gold in the fading evening light. “Okay, first of all it was two meetings. And I would like to remind you how you shut our conversation down when I tried to talk to you up the house. But no, I’ve been told you’re broody and aloof, and your eyebrows seem to speak their own language.” Derek’s not sure which part of that conversation to focus on. “I mean, Peter did say that you were a big softie but-.”

That is enough for Derek to cut him off. “Peter? My uncle Peter? When the hell did you two talk?” Having been casually watching Stiles all evening, he knows for a fact that Peter never got close enough to have a conversation with the Spark. 

Stiles shrugs. “He’s been by the shop a few times since the night we met.” Derek wonders if he can convince Mary to let him murder her husband. “He’s actually kind of funny, in a weird way. And he’s told me a lot about you so-.”

Derek groans. “I can’t believe he-. Actually, I can definitely believe that. I’m just surprised Laura wasn’t with him.” He clears his throat. “Can I ask what he told you about me?”

Stiles’ eyes seem to sparkle. He shifts closer, pressing their knees together in a very deliberate way. “Oh you know, just some little facts here and there. He did lead me to believe that you were a lot grumpier though.”

“I’m going to murder him.”

Stiles laughs. “As sexy as plotting murder is, maybe we can keep getting to know each other. Inter-pack politics and stuff, right?”

Derek almost asks if that’s what this is about, but then he catches sight of the werewolf from before watching them and closes himself off. “I’m not sure how he feels about that.”

Stiles’ face crinkles in confusion until he catches sight of the werewolf, who raises his eyebrows at Stiles. “Who, Jackson? Considering he’s the one who finally convinced me to come over here, I would say that he’s pretty damn happy about it.”

Frowning, Derek repeats, “He convinced you to come over here?” That pulls Stiles attention right back to him. Seeing his expression, Stiles reaches out and grips Derek’s knee.

“Hey, not like that. Now I can see why they say you’re broody. Jackson has appointed himself my personal wing man, so the fact that this is actually working. Well, let’s just say I am going to have to deal with his gloating for weeks.” It takes a long moment before the implication of those words hit Derek. 

“I-. You-.” He can feel his blush.

Noticing how red Derek’s ears are, Stiles eyes take on the faintest sheen of purple. “So,” he purrs, tightening his fingers around Derek’s knee, “inter-pack politics then?”

As Stiles draws him back into a conversation, Derek makes a mental note to ask his mom about what it will mean to date between the packs. Because as Stiles keeps his hand curled possessively on Derek’s knee while launching into a description of how he met Scott and became best friends, it seems a whole hell of a lot more relevant now. 

Not that he’ll ever admit that to Peter and Laura. Not in a million years.

[doueverwonder]

What about Jack and Alfred's relationship? Also, I really like your account :D

OKAY BUT LIKE; Jack was obviously born after Alfred had left. He was William's rebound kid like "oh well! Guess that one didn't work out might as well have another!" but like, a lot more bitter than I can sound through text. Y'know and then Will proceeded to not raise said rebound kid.

That's where Jack's resentment to Alfred starts. Because 'I only exist cause he isn't here'; then there is the William constantly praising Alfred despite acting like he hates him. So then poor Jack is even more confused because??? Do you want me to be nothing like him, or do you want me to be just like him??? or?????

Meanwhile; on the other side of the ocean Alfred is only vaguely aware of Jack's existence, like they don't have a relationship and any semblance of something Jack thinks is a relationship is one-sided on his part.

anyway, their relationship finally starts when Alfred sends Jack (who's probably like 8 btp) a Christmas present. Like out of nowhere, and Matt or Dylan or idk who is like "You need to send him a thank you letter". Jack proceeds to take two months to write this thing because friends, I've never spoken to him before. But eventually its sent. and Alfred decides instead of just letting it be? to send one back? and for like a solid year all of these letters are just 'thank you' 'it's not problem' 'well you took the time to send it' 'it really didn't take that much of an effort I'm just happy you like it' cause neither of them know what to say to each other?????

it takes awhile but eventually they get to other topics, just random things here and there. The letters are consistent but they are something; Jack goes from not liking/being indifferent about Al, to idk, thinking he's pretty cool? Like? He told dad to fuck off and got away with it??? what???? Alfred starts to think Jack is pretty cool too, like bro this kid is possibly the most metal ten yr old known to man?? And he gives dear ol' dad 2.3 heart attacks a day, which is super funny to Al. All good things must come to an end though, and at some point the letter pitter out. I'm thinking like sometime during the Spanish-American war, cause Al came out a super power and in a dick move promptly forgot about little old Jack. It was a two sided thing though, Jack became self-governing and Lord Father wasn't happy about it and basically kicked him out at the age of 13-ish; so he had bigger things to worry about.

Alfred showed back up during WW1 but not really long enough for them to do anything but acknowledge each other before Alfred was back to being an introvert.

WW2 rolls around, the US joins the war and Alfred shows up (begrudgingly) to help Jack and Liam, who are in my hc about 16 and 12. England was very worried about them. Now, Jack is angry about stuff, and he's so worried about keeping Liam safe, and I haven't talked to Mattie or dad or uncle Dylan or Uncle Angus in weeks are they okay???? So despite the fact that for at the very least a few months they're together 24/7 they don't really bond; Jack is stuck between "I need to protect Liam" and "I don't know what I'm doing, I can't protect myself much less someone else" that he just ends up being mad and stubborn while Alfred who's instincts have already added these two children to his Protect At All Costs list is just confused because??? I'm just trying to keep you two safe why do you hate me???

eventually the war ends (thank god); now Liam during the war just added Alfred to his list of People To Cling To Randomly. Alfred was at the bottom of the list albeit, but he was on it. Jack however just got wary of Alfred. He was trustworthy sure, but, this whole thing was technically his first impression of Alfred. and in the middle of a war is not the best time to get a first impression.

by the time the mid-fifties rolled around Alfred in-between stare offs with Ivan decided it was time to actually spend time with his younger two siblings. and this my friends, is when Alfred and Jack finally became the crackhead duo they are; it's not perfect it's really not. But they do get along pretty well, they get in the stupidest arguments like how to make the best pb&j or who Matthieu likes more. Jack rambles about animals for 45 min straight while Alfred listens intently then Alfred rambles about space for 45 min straight while Jack listens intently. It's the only time either of them can sit still that long. combined they give dear ol' dad 4.6 heart attacks a day. There will always be the age gap obviously, and there'll always be the over-arching problem of William and his favoritism. but idk, I think they'll be ok.

[tommyspeakycap]

Shelby!Sister getting poisoned whilst at dinner with the whole family?

changed it up a bit; reader is roofied at one of Tommy’s fancy ball type parties and there’s one particular gentleman around to help her out.

Good Team

Tommy had, since you were merely a little girl, endeavoured to introduce you emphatically as (y/n) Shelby, with your surname stated soaked in ferocity and warning. You are a Shelby. You are his little sister. He makes sure people know this. He makes sure they’re aware. He sees it as a pre-warning, the kind that lets them know that you are very very important to him without actually saying those words. He sees it very much as a pre-warning for grievous bodily harm had any trouble befell you at another persons discretion. It was made incredibly clear from the moment you were born that you were so far from off limits to the enemies that it didn’t even need to be spoken.

However, it was a relatively occasional occurrence that this message was not accurately conveyed no matter how clear your elder brother was about the matter.

You were usually so cautious and so careful, but you were in your brothers own ballroom with his own supplied champagne and you had very few worries of such a simple business gathering for Christmas. You were adorning an extortionate dress that Tommy had made for you with a beautiful fur shoulder wrap, cheeks dusted with a champagne blush and a gorgeous smile as you mingle with rich business people and rich couples who were born into money. They were amazing at times to ogle at, coming from such a poor background. It was hard enough to adjust to your new life flaunting pretty dressed and walking around with a purpose and a job that had significant purpose.

But it would be safe to say you weren’t so worried around these people. You should’ve known better.

You keep blinking, squeezing your eyes shut to try and find vision again that wasn’t restricted by blurriness. The heels on your feet didn’t aid you much in the way of keeping your balance as you stumble into a long hall. You don’t remember where you last saw Tommy and you can’t remember where the glass you were holding had gone. You don’t know much, but you know you have to find one of your brothers.

Heavy footsteps behind you send a rush of hazed adrenaline through your veins, forcing your legs to move you faster, your arms scratching off paintings lining the walls as you attempt to use the wall as a stabiliser.

“Someone’s ‘ad a bit much, eh?”

Your eyelids flicker as you try to keep them open against the light that makes you feel like your head is exploding. “No, no I- there’s someone trying to get me!” You hiss in a slurred whisper with arms that flail somewhat aimlessly as you attempt to point out the person behind you. The man with his his on your biceps steadying you leans around to get a good look behind you. “Mhm, there me no one there love.” He says, confused. You can only vaguely make out who the person is that holds you up and it’s someone you know your brother only invited so as to attempt to talk him into taking on more Blinders for distillery protection.

Alfie Solomons wasn’t entirely the most trustworthy person that surrounded your family. Him and Tommy had a bit of a tendency to betray each other, no matter how expected it always was. The London gangster probably wasn’t the best person for you to bump into and definitely not the most reliable, but he was who you had ended up with and although it could have been him that drugged you, it didn’t seem incredibly likely. He told Tommy and Grace when greeting people at the front door; “No need for the fucking niceties eh Tommy? I’m here for the free booze mate yeah?” and walked on through with a pat on your brothers back.

Despite the fact you didn’t have much trust in him, you really holed that he wouldn’t pass you off as being overly drunk and leave you alone. You feel dreadfully unwell. Alfie looks down the hall, then back at you and with a sigh, he slips his strong arm around your waist and pulls you into his side for your stability. “I think you’re right, Shelby.” Alfie mutters under his breath, barely loud enough for even you to hear. “Something‘s just not right.” He turns to you, using his arm that wasn’t wrapped around you to lift up your eyelid. Beyond the terror in your eyes in huge pupils. “You’ve been drugged,” he states, his voice still low. “Better find those brothers of yours.”

That brings you some form of relief, but the terror still remains. It’s a scary situation, to know what you want to do with your limbs and know exactly what you want to say, but to be unable to speak or walk or even hold up your head. Your heart hadn’t stopped racing and you were drenched in sweat. It’s a shock you didn’t recognise you had been drugged before hearing Alfie say it.

His arm is tight around the waistline of your expensive ballgown, keeping you steady against him as he walked as quickly as he could manage while supporting your weight. He only vaguely knew the way around Tommy’s huge country house, but he did know where the man’s office was, and he’d likely have a maid in waiting there who Alfie could send to fetch him once he got you there. As you both rounded the corner into the corridor that would take you to Tommy’s office, there a man dressed like a waiter standing seemingly waiting for you. “Mister Shelby sent me to collect his sister when he heard she was overly inebriated.” The man spoke. Alfie furrowed his eyebrows tightly, but nodded and walked you closer to him. You want to protest, but your mind still won’t coordinate with your body and the most you can do is grumble. “She’s a bit hard to deal with,” Alfie admits, “So a tip you should really know for the future?“ He pauses, moving as though he’s going to pass you over to the arms of the other man. Alfie leans in until he’s only a few inches away and whispers a warning “I fucking hate liars,” before sharply drawing back his head only to but it forward forcefully into the man’s face.

He stumbles back and Alfie takes that opportunity to grab the front of his suit jacket and throw him behind the two of you with a kick to his ribs a few times for good measure. He wraps his arm back around your waist and continues on down the hall as if nothing had ever happened. “Could tell by his-fuck!”

A yelp leaves you as your legs tangled when you attempt to bare your own weight and instead clatter to the floor with a thud. Alfie grunts and you fight to open your heavy eyelids to see that a man had dove out at him from a doorway along the long hall and there were now two of them and two of you, except they were both conscious and had full control of their own bodies, whereas it fell upon Alfie to fight for both of you. The Londoner truly does not know why he has put himself in this situation for anyone, never mind for a Shelby he had only met a handful of times. But every time he had met you, you were incredibly sweet and kind to him. He knows that they’ll stop attacking him if he allows them to take you and do as they please with you, but something in him prevents him from doing that. There’s a part of him that encourages him to spit the blood from his mouth and stand in front of where you lay in and out of consciousness on the fell, ready to fight for you like he had something to lose if he couldn’t protect you. Tommy would never know Alfie was there with you if he walked away now, but something in him wants to be there. Wants to fight for you.

And so fight he does, throwing punch after punch, trying to take on two at once. Alfie managed to take the blonde assailant out of the game by cracking the wall with his blonde head of hair, leaving him out cold and potentially dying on the floor. When he does that though, his moment of glory is short lived before the other appears behind him with an arm tightly around his throat. Alfie squirms and grunts, kicks and scratches attempting to get him off, but the attacker holds on despite the blows. Alfie thinks he may well have to accept his fate.

Then he clocks you again on the floor, except this time your hands and trailing up your leg, hiking up your dress and he is utterly confused at your behaviour, thinking that it must be the drugs acting weird in your system. That is, until your dress reaches your upper thigh and the London gangster feels what he thinks may be butterflies when he spots the holster and gun that had been well hidden by your long ballgown. He would laugh, grin even if he wasn’t being strangled nearly to death. He watched with blurry vision as you try to steady your hands enough to point the gun at the attacker that was too bury trying to hold Alfie Solomons down to notice your movements. Alfie squeezes his eyes shut as you move your finger over the trigger and he hopes to God your heads are steady enough to shoot the right person.

The bang goes off and very suddenly he can breathe again. He notes that’s a good sign. He scrambles away quickly, turning around to press his foot onto the bullet wound in the shoulder of his attacker. “I will come back for you.” He growls in warning, pressing his foot harder to elicit a scream before he nods and turns back to where you stand. He wipes the blood off the bottom of his shoe on the carpet before he steps forward to swoop your gun off the floor to slip it back into your thigh holster, and then he helps you back up. Except this time, he opts to sweep you off your feet and into his arms bridal style.

“Good shot.” He notes. You breath a chuckle with hooded eyes in response, but can’t manage anything else. If you hadn’t been severely drugged, Alfie might’ve kissed you.

He makes it to Tommy’s office with ease, ordering the maid to get your brother immediately. Alfie lays you down on the soft couch in the office, placing you carefully on on your side for safety in case you’re sick. He uses the not blood tinted side of his handkerchief to wire some blood splatter and sweat from your face gently, and offers a gentle smile. “We make a good team, Solomons.” You hum with words slurred and jumped, but he understand what you said nonetheless. “That we do, Shelby.” He rumbles back in response.

The moment is as any moment of yours often is, interrupted by your elder brothers storming in. Immediately, Alfie is ripped from your side by Arthur slamming the him roughly against the wall with a loud clatter and bang. John goes to stand by Arthur’s side, and Tommy takes a knee beside you. The patriarch places his cool hand against your forehead before dipping down to place his ear just above your lips. “She’s breathing.” He concludes, “What the fuck did you do to her?” He sneers through gritted teeth as he takes steps towards Alfie.

“And why the fuck and you covered in blood.” Alfie sighs heavily, rolling his eyes and flaring his nostrils at the proximity of the three Shelby brothers. “Funny story, you see Tommy.” He grumbles discontentedly, “Seems as though someone tried after your sister right under your fucking nose, mate. Drugged her drink, removed her from the crowd. I found her wandering the halls all fuckin’ disoriented yeah. Now I don’t like a man who targets a woman, much less has to fuckin’ drug her to achieve it.” Alfie shrugs. Tommy narrows his eyes, but something in him believes what the Camden Town Gangster is saying. Alfie doesn’t have much in the way of necessity for taking you and it wouldn’t make sense for him to have the opportunity to but instead to bring you here. Right to them. “Doesn’t explain the fucking blood.” Arthur hisses, slamming his back against the wall again.

Alfie holds up his hands. “You’re little sister isn’t such a damsel as you make her out to be, Thomas. She has a fantastic shot. Some cunts-“ Alfie’s words drop with pure venom as the reminder of the man nearly strangling him to death reenters his mind, “Came after her. On that note, you’ll need a carpet cleaner and some body bags just along that hall. Don’t let the missus see that mess.”

Tommy paused for a moment, his eyes not leaving Alfie’s even when he speaks. “John, check that corridor.” He orders, making his younger brother grunt in annoyance but do as told nonetheless. “Arthur,” He grumbles, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Take our sister upstairs and get Polly.” Arthur is hesitant. Tommy might believe the words that Alfie speaks, but Arthur despises him and the only thing he hates more than Alfie is the thought of Alfie’s hands on you without any of them being there to help you, protect you. He knows that he and a Tommy are asking themselves the same question. How could something like this happen to you right beneath their noses. How had someone managed to get to when they were so close, literally right in the same room in an event organised by them. Arthur couldn’t answer the question, but could probably have killed Alfie in his rage at that moment. “Arthur,” Tommy repeats more firmly, “Go.”

This time, he listens. But that’s not without a warning glare at Alfie, who simply offers a smirk in response. “And you,” Tommy says finally, turning his attention to Alfie, “Fuck off.”

Alfie chuckles, but begins to walk past Tommy to leave the office when the smaller man grabs his arm in a vice like grip that makes the tips of his fingers tingle with the strength of it. Alfie feigns the urge to fight back in reaction to the pain. Tommy leans in close to his ear with a low snarl, “You don’t just help people. I don’t care what the reason was eh, but don’t you ever go near my sister again.”

Then he lets go and Alfie simply shakes off his arm and walks away. He hasn’t listened to Tommy Shelby any time in the past, and it appears as though today will be no different.

[spaceorphan18]

What is your headcanon about Blaine and Burt in season 4 after The Break Up? Do you think Burt knows Blaine cheated on Kurt, if so, when Kurt told him about it? Do you think Burt talked about the cheating with Blaine? Do you think short before the Christmas was the the first time they talked in months or they talked after The New Rachel? Blaine said "I promise, I'll keep an eye on him for you" in 4.10, do you think he kept the promise, I hope so. Any headcanons about them after 5.01 before 5.11?

I haven't fully thought about this - so you're getting some on the spot headcanons here.

I think that - after the break up, one of the things Blaine probably does after Kurt won't talk to him, is get a hold of Burt - probably by showing up at the house 9or maybe just Hummel Tires and Lube). And while Burt recognizes (again) that Blaine is crossing boundaries he probably shouldn't - Blaine has been such a fixture in Burt's life he can't help but take a bit of pity on the kid.

I can see a couple of scenarios involving how Burt gets the information about the cheating/break up - but I do ultimately think Burt knows, not details, but enough. I think Kurt won't talk about it - but Burt knows his son well enough when something's bothering him to call Kurt out on it. Especially if Blaine's been hanging around and moping, too. But I think Burt also knows Kurt well enough to let Kurt unfold details he wants on his own terms. Kurt doesn't ever tell things straight - but has a tendency to talk in vague (and dramatic) terms about how he feels.

(Remember during Dance With Somebody when Burt mildly asked about Blaine - and Kurt just threw his arms up, basically saying idk - and I don't want to talk about it? And Burt kind of let it go? I think Burt lets it go until Kurt finally cracks one night and has a late night phone call to his father sharing his feelings.)

Meanwhile - I can see Blaine just becoming a blabbering mess and spilling the whole thing. But at the same time - maybe not. He's pretty closed off to Sam and Tina about what happened. And I can see him finding a thread to Kurt via Burt, so he might just elude to doing something that hurt Kurt badly, and he wants to make amends for it.

Whatever happened - Burt is aware of the break up, and that Blaine is a lonely kid. And Burt probably knows (because he knows his kid) that Blaine is a special person in Kurt's life no matter what their relationship status. And with all of Burt's health stuff going on - since Burt knows that Blaine has a big heart, he wants Kurt go have someone to help him go through the hard times, especially if he can't be there.

I think Burt takes Blaine under his wing a bit - probably after Thanksgiving -- after the phone call, in which Blaine's name starts to come up in conversations with Burt again, and Burt knows his kid's heart still very much has Blaine in it. I think close to Christmas - Burt confides in Blaine about his ill health - and wants Blaine to help take care of Kurt, if nothing else.

I suppose it's best to remember that the time between Christmas and the proposal is only a couple of months -- and Blaine probably comes over once a week-ish to make sure Burt is taking his meds and to bring him a basket of muffins or something. Blaine takes taking care of Burt very seriously - especially when he thinks of Burt, already, as a future FIL. And keep in mind that Burt provides a family dynamic that Blaine doesn't (seem) to really have -- so for Blaine providing a service (which he loves to do anyway) and finding ways to be helpful to Burt (and Carole - let's be real, he'll do stuff for her, too) makes him feel even more a part of the family.

I think post-Wonderful, and post-LLL world, the dynamic shifts a little. I think Blaine will still pop in once a week or so - but between Blaine's 8000 clubs and the reassurance that he and Kurt are in a relationship again, and with Burt not actually dying of cancer any time soon, Blaine doesn't need to try so hard. And Blaine's around - probably - the normal amount again.

Burt, I believe, grows very fond of Blaine - though always feels just a tinge of sadness over the fact that his own family doesn't seem to value him as much - or is never there. Burt, though, takes in all the wayward strays of Glee club, too, because he always wants them to have a place to go if they need it. And while I think there will be times they see a lot of each other, and times when they don't - that sense of family will always be there.

I suppose those my thoughts ;)

[zevlors-tail]

About Me

Hello! I'm Sweater Dove, the creator of this blog. Below are some things that will help you get to know me and my blog a bit better. OR, you can just search the tag 'sweatercore' on my blog. :)

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This blog is a safe space for me. As such, you will not see me reblogging any political posts, fundraisers, donation posts, or anything that 'spreads awareness' of issues related to said topics (save for an occasional meme or if a friend needs help).

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General:

Sweater | 25 | They/Them pronouns.

Sometimes I post writing here, but mostly I reblog from other content creators. I'm more active on AO3 when it comes to my works. I really love cats, otome games, ASMR, candles, classical piano music, rainy days, and spooky stuff!

I particularly love Halloween and a good, cozy, autumn playlist to listen to with some coffee shop background noise. If you'd like any ASMR recs, I'd be happy to give you some! :) I'm also pretty fond of Christmas and winter decorations/atmosphere. I just really like the colder holidays in general.

Favorite Genres/Tropes:

Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Sickfics, sincere and heartfelt fluff, mundane things romanticized, flower shop/coffee shop, Only One Bed, Friends to Best Friends to Lovers, Domestic Fluff, Seasonal Activities (mostly Fall and Winter stuff), Friends to Enemies, Angst, Life or Death with a Happy Ending

Smut/N$FVV Tag:

sweater is a simp

AO3:

SweaterWeatherSeven

Sweater, do you still take requests?

Currently, no- I do not take requests. Respectfully, please do not leave requests in my ask box as I will have to decline them outright. I just can't keep up with them anymore. But you're always free to come chat with me and share ideas! I may be willing to take a suggestion or two, depending on the situation.

Current Fandoms/Interests That You'll Find On This Blog:

Obey Me!, Arcana Twilight, Mystic Messenger, Tears of Themis, The Ssum, Genshin Impact, Kingdom Hearts, Over The Garden Wall, anything Spooky/Autumn related.

Current Top Comfort Character(s):

Zhongli (Genshin Impact), Venti (Genshin Impact), Albedo (Genshin), and Kaeya (also Genshin)

Check Out My OC's:

Muse, Cypress, & Claire | Auriel/Uriel | Aska & Silas (Next Gen Obey Me OC's) | Rowan (Next Gen Obey Me OC, coming soon!)

[stargazing-enby]

“I can’t believe you told them you were my fiancé” + Drarry 😘

Thank you @stavromulabetaaa @secretlycrazyhummingbird and anon for your prompts! I turned them into a New Years story, I hope that's all right 😁 

Thanks @april-thelightfury115 for betaing!

Drarry | 2k | Teen and Up | Fake Fiancés, Auror Partners, Locked Down Together, Love Confessions | Read on AO3

“...And we’re still unsure whether the situation will be safe enough for us to marry in spring, so that’s why we haven’t organised much yet. Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know as soon as we have a date.”

Harry, mind still fuzzy with sleep, empty mug in hand, stopped in his tracks by the living room door. Had he heard right?

“We understand, Draco,” came Narcissa’s voice from the Floo. “But you must understand our concerns, too.”

“I do, mother. But you know this was necessary.”

“We do,” Lucius said. “The most important thing is that we’re all safe right now, even if we missed having you home last night.”

Harry didn’t hear the end of the conversation—didn’t notice Draco walking into the kitchen a minute later; he was too busy frowning at the kettle. 

“Morning,” said Draco from behind him. “Didn’t know you were up.”

“Didn’t know you were engaged,” Harry said without thinking—without turning around, without even understanding why he didn’t want to turn around; didn’t want Draco to see the whirl of emotions unravelling in his chest.

“Oh,” Draco said, voice low. “You heard that.”

Harry shook his head, eyes still fixed on the kettle. 

“Not on purpose.” His words came out strained, and he cursed himself inwardly. Why did he even care? It wasn’t like Draco’s personal life was any of his business. Sharing a flat didn’t make them friends, now did it? No matter how much Harry had grown to enjoy having the git around all the time, and watching him fall asleep while they watched telly together at night, and getting to see Draco’s tousled hair in the mornings—

Draco sighed—a slow, heavy sound—and leaned against the counter beside him. Harry did look up at him then, and the maelstrom of emotion probably still all over his face came to an abrupt halt when he realised Draco was holding back a giggle.

“I’m not engaged, Potter,” he said, grin widening. “You look really upset at the idea, though. It’s a cute look on you.”

Draco’s mirth was beautiful, and so, so good at softening Harry from inside out. Still, Harry crossed his arms over his chest with an indignant huff, grumbling, “Sod off, I thought you were keeping an engagement from me!” When Draco only laughed at him, he added, “Why on Earth do your parents think you’re engaged, then?” 

“I’ll tell you,” Draco said through another giggle, “but don’t murder me. I’m the best Auror partner you’ll ever have.”

Harry just raised his eyebrows at him—curiosity and concern mixing with a subtle hint of betrayal that refused to fade away just yet.

“My parents are…very traditional,” Draco started.

“I’d gathered that much, thank you.”

“Shut up, you giant prick. The thing is, they firmly believe people must live with their parents or on their own until they marry. Sharing a living space with anyone other than your spouse is…improper to them. I’m sure I don’t need to go into detail as to why.”

“You really don’t,” Harry said, grimacing. 

“So when I told them I was moving in with you temporarily, I sort of…kind of…had to tell them we were engaged, and the only reason I was moving in with you before getting married was that we wanted to wait until the pandemic was over to have a big wedding with all our loved ones.”

To Harry’s credit, he didn’t drop the mug full of piping hot coffee all over himself.

He did gape at Draco for a good three seconds, though.

“Your parents think we’re engaged?”

“That’s what I said, yes.” Draco had the decency to look sheepish, at least. “If it’s any consolation, they also trust me to remain chaste until my wedding night, so they don’t think you and I have—”

“Oh my god.”

“I would never, anyway. They raised me well.”

“Stop. Shut up.” Harry rested the mug on the kitchen table—sat heavily on a chair, gaze unfocused. “But didn’t you explain—”

“I did explain to them I was moving in with you because we work together and it’s safest to have you as the only person in my bubble so I don’t put them at risk, yes. They argued I had enough money to rent a place for myself, and I panicked and told them you and I had plans to marry anyway, so it wasn’t all that bad, since they trust me to wait until my wedding night to—” 

“Yeah, yes, got it.” Harry pressed his eyes closed, desperately trying to will images of a virginal Draco Malfoy draped over a white king-sized bed from his mind. “Were you planning on telling me any of this? You’ve been here for weeks…” 

“I was, of course.” 

Harry side-eyed him.

“It’s just—I guess…I was waiting for the right time to tell you, and it never really came up. And don’t give me that look! Remember how long it took you to tell me you weren’t dating Ginny anymore?” 

“That’s different!” Harry said. 

“Potter, you let me send both of you a Christmas card as though you were a couple and replied to it with her because it felt too awkward to tell me you’d broken up!” 

Harry took a sip of his coffee to avoid Draco’s gaze. 

“That may be true,” he muttered eventually, when he looked up at Draco again and found him still looking expectantly at him. “But this involves me directly. I mean, what if I’d answered a Floo call from them while you were in the bathroom and they’d brought up the engagement?” 

“Excuse you, I never schedule anything at bathroom hours!” 

“I...don’t want to know what that means.” Would it be too much for him to bury his face in his arms and fall right back asleep? “What are we going to do now?” 

“We wait until lockdown is over and pretend we’ve broken up and are no longer engaged, of course.” 

“What, so your parents hate me forever?” Harry asked. “No, thank you!”

“What do you mean, no thank you? The alternative, in case you hadn’t noticed, is to marry me, Potter!” 

“You’re making my year start with a headache,” Harry groaned. “I hope you’re happy.” 

“Very much so, actually,” Draco said. “Because you will pretend you’re my fiancé over Floo, won’t you? My parents have been asking to talk with you directly, and if it doesn’t happen soon, they’re going to start thinking you’re a bad husband…” 

“Fiancé! I mean—flatmate. Colleague. Ugh. Fine. Fine. I’ll do it,” he said when Draco just pouted dolefully. He couldn’t resist those puppy eyes, dammit. “But I’ll be cursing you to hell and back in my mind the entire time.” 

Draco’s grin was definitely not worth the sacrifice. 

***

“Harry! What a delight to finally be able to talk to you. Draco says you’ve been busy with work matters lately.” 

“Y-Yeah, it’s been chaos,” Harry said, resisting the urge to glare at Draco and hoping Narcissa couldn’t see the puzzle sitting on the coffee table or the stack of movies by the sofa through the Floo. “I’m really glad to see you, too.” Fuck, that’d sounded awfully awkward. “Happy new year, by the way—let’s hope it’s a better one.” 

“Oh, I’m sure it will be. The year an offspring gets married is always among the best of a mother’s life.”

“Right. Of course.” Add ‘upsetting Narcissa terribly’ to the list of reasons to curse Draco. 

“And I imagine it will be an even happier year for you two, especially if a future heir is in the picture by the end of it!” 

ADD ‘ALMOST CHOKING TO DEATH ON MY SALIVA’ TO THE LIST OF REASONS TO—

“Mother, please, I think it’s a little bit to early for that—” 

“I know, I know, sorry.” She didn’t sound sorry at all. “I’m just really excited for you, my Draco. You’ve wanted this for so long…”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Harry, you are one very lucky man, I hope you know that,” Narcissa went on, oblivious to the look Harry and Draco were sharing—the colour drained from Draco’s cheeks, a breath caught in Harry’s lungs. “I do hope you will be taking the Malfoy name, too! It would be an honour to have you as a part of our family tree…”

She went on about the Sacred Twenty-eight for what seemed like forever, and Harry was only vaguely aware of Draco interrupting her with the excuse they had to get back to work and ending the call after a round of good-byes. 

For a moment, they both stared into the faceless flames. 

“You’re not going to buy it if I tell you I really do need to get back to work, right?” Draco said after a moment, voice low. 

“You know the answer to that.” 

Draco huffed. 

“Well, then, go ahead and ask what you want to ask. Don’t make me suffer for longer than necessary.” 

Harry sneaked a glance in Draco’s direction. Unlike a few moments before, his face was a dark shade of red, hand clutching the edge of the carpet, knees drawn close to his chest. 

“I don’t want to ask if you don’t want to tell me,” Harry murmured, looking back into the flames. 

“It’s not like I can Obliviate you,” Draco retorted. “You heard what you heard.”

Harry nodded. 

“That you’ve wanted me for a very long time.”

Draco didn’t reply. 

Harry glanced at Draco’s hand again, now playing nervously with the fringe of the carpet, and, after a moment of hesitation that faded with his next exhale, he reached out and rested his hand on it. Draco’s fingers stilled under his touch, and Draco’s eyes found his—wide, scared, vulnerable. 

He dared run the tips of his fingers over Draco’s knuckles, and his own breath caught when he heard Draco’s hitch. 

“Draco…” Harry started, not knowing what he was even going to say. “The past few weeks have been… they’ve been—”

“Don’t,” Draco said, voice strained. “Don’t. Just—” He looked away again. “Just tell me you just want to be colleagues and be done with it, please.” 

“Maybe that’s not what I want.” He slipped his fingers between Draco’s soft own; squeezed them gently. “Maybe what I want isn’t so different from what you want. You don’t know what’s going on inside my mind. You have no idea what the past few weeks have meant to me.” 

Draco didn’t move under his touch—didn’t seem to move at all, except for the quick, uneven rise and fall of his chest. When he talked, the words came out quickly, in a whisper, as though he was terrified to hear himself say them.

“What are you saying, Potter?”

“What I’m saying is I want more of this. More puzzles, and movies, and more of your way-too-salty chicken soup, and more evenings and mornings by your side. I’m saying I hadn’t realised until very recently how much I want more of you, Draco. But I do. Merlin, I do.” 

A sound somewhere between a whine and a choked cackle came out of Draco’s throat.

“You sound like I’ve actually proposed to you, you idiot,” he groaned. Harry rolled his eyes at him, squeezed his fingers yet again.

“I’m being serious!” he said, unable to hold back a laugh. “Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not! I’m just—this whole situation, it’s…”

“I know,” Harry murmured. “But it doesn’t have to be. Things don’t have to be so different now. I mean, we already work together and we’ve been having movie nights every Saturday for, what, three years now? And now we live under the same roof, we cook meals together, we fall asleep together on the couch…Merlin. We’re already like a married couple, aren’t we?” Harry said, horrified. “No wonder your parents bought the engagement story!”

“Wait till I tell you they were actually surprised it hadn’t happened sooner…”

Harry buried his face in his knees to stifle a groan.

“Come on,” he said after a moment, and stood up still holding on to Draco’s hand. “Let’s make some lunch and pretend like this wasn’t the most embarrassing conversation we’ve ever had.”

Draco’s fingers were still comfortably hooked around his as they made their way to the kitchen.

[lucyintheskywithxanax]

Red Roses

Pairing: Wilhemina Venable x Fem Reader

A/N: I wrote this a few weeks ago and gave up on it because I thought it was too messy and too repetitive. But I re-read it yesterday and was surprisingly pleased with it and with its messiness. So here you go.

Credits to Stevie Nicks for some of the words in one paragraph at the end.

Summary: this is my take on the “reader introduces new gf to her family” story, except I decided it should not be cute but angsty

Warnings: homophobia, internalised homophobia, racism

Word count: ~ 5 400

 “Are you ready ?” Wilhemina asked.

You made a face and gave her hand a squeeze. “No? But I don’t think I’ll ever be so let’s just do this.”

“Permission to cane them if they get mean?”

You breathed out a laugh. “Mina, no.”

She gave you a small wicked smile that made your heart skip a beat. “Too bad,” she said in that deep voice that meant someone was in trouble.

“They’re old,” you smiled. “You would break their bones.”

She hummed thoughtfully. You stared down at your linked hands on your lap as you absentmindedly stroked her knuckles. Wilhemina waited a few more seconds, then opened the door of the car and got out.

Well, here goes. You followed her immediately, as she knew you would.

Outside the air was cold and crisp and smelt of the ocean. Every year your family would gather at your grandparents’ house to celebrate Christmas. It was a tradition you dared not break, no matter the toll it took on you. This year, it would just be you, your parents and grandparents.

You stepped closer to Wilhemina as your grandparents appeared at the front door and waved. “Come on in, come on in, it’s so cold!”

“I can smell the ocean from here,” you smiled.

“Yes, but come on in!”

When they closed the door behind you, it felt as if you had just been thrown in jail. They beamed at you, happy and content, as they helped you and Wilhemina take off your coats.

“Welcome! How was the drive? We’re so glad to see you, it’s been too long!”

“I made your favorite cake,” your grandma said with a wink.

“And welcome to you, Y/N’s friend!” your granddad said, opening his arms to Wilhemina.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she said. Her voice was cold, but not cold enough to set off their reproaches.  

Your grandparents gave her polite smiles as they ran their eyes up and down her body, gazes lingering on her cane for a second too long. Automatically you reached out and brushed her wrist, a small gesture of comfort just in case she needed it.

“Are mum and dad here?” you asked, taking a peek inside the living-room.

“Not yet.”

Your parents had always supported you and knew you and Wilhemina were a couple. They had met her three or four times already, had offered her kind smiles that had grown kinder when they’d noticed the fond look that would soften her eyes every time she’d look at you. But your grandparents – that was quite a different story.

You loved them. You really did. They were kind and affectionate and generous. You hated them. They made you feel so small and dirty.

Here was the thing. Your grandparents had their own definition of what was right and what was wrong, and nothing would change their minds. Their convictions were engraved in marble. They pointed a finger at everyone who dared put a toe out of the norms, and laughed at them and jeered and hated. How they hated. It was a terrible monster, that hatred of them. It was too big and too strong and too dark. It stifled you, clawed at your skin, bullied your heart. And how they adored you. You were the perfect grandchild, polite and kind, educated, always respectful, always so proper. If only they knew – they didn’t know you. They only saw what you had allowed them to see, a masquerade, a very pretty picture in a golden frame.  

You had wanted to keep Wilhemina safe from your grandparents’ toxicity, but the alternative was her spending Christmas on her own. Again. While all around her the world celebrated. You wouldn’t have that – it wasn’t even an option. She had been so alone for so long, and it had hurt her so deeply, so viciously, until loneliness had become so familiar she had mistaken it for home. You had been trying to teach her, one gentle touch at a time, what home really felt like. So this Christmas, she would be loved and cherished.

You carried your and Wilhemina’s bags upstairs to the spare room you would sleep in. Wilhemina rolled her eyes at the twin beds. You shot her a sheepish smile.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

She shook her head. “No need to apologize.”

“We can put the beds closer after I tell them about us.”

You wouldn’t get to sleep in that room, part of you knew that. Your grandparents would kick you out like the reminder of a shameful memory as soon as they learnt about Wilhemina and you.

You picked up one of the pillows, so soft and comfortable, expensive pillows that had been carefully chosen for the comfort of loved ones, and stroked it absentmindedly. Your eyes veiled over.

You had been so happy in this house. There had been so much love and joy, so much sunshine. But you had never really been yourself in this house.

Wilhemina slipped one arm around your waist and pressed your back against her chest. A soft kiss on the nape of your neck. You leaned back into her, eyes fluttering closed, gathering strength from her warmth. She gave you so much of it, every day.

“Are you okay, little one?”

You hummed, turned in her arms to look at her. You poked her cheek. “Never better.”

Your parents arrived half an hour later, and your grandma immediately ushered you all in the kitchen for lunch. Cooking was how she expressed her affection. Her meals were always abundant and delicious. Because she loved you all, so dearly.

“Your house is very lovely,” Wilhemina said as your dad poured the wine.

Your granddad flashed her a smile. “We fled big cities two years ago. Too many freaks, too much filth. We couldn’t stand it anymore.”

Your grandma piled food on your plate, her eyes soft and kind, for she loved you so dearly. Your hands were shaking.

“We are being invaded,” your granddad was saying. “In two years my neighbours will be a couple of fags or a family of black people. And the government is doing nothing to stop it. When I look around, I cannot recognize my own country.”

You fidgeted with your fork, unable to eat, suddenly feeling incredibly nervous. Several times before, you had heard Wilhemina complain about how “worthless” part of the world population was. You had seen her look down on people and snarl at them for merely existing.

You stole a glance at her. And what – your throat closed up – what if she took your grandparents’ side? What if she agreed with them? What if she pulled her chair closer to them, and nodded to what they said, and shared a few laughs with them, and when next she would look at you it would be with scorn and disdain? What if, listening to what they had to say, her eyes finally opened, and she saw you the way you sometimes saw yourself? Freakish, unlovable.

What then?

You shook your head, suddenly angry with yourself. You knew her. You trusted her. She would never think of you like that.

But what if she did?

Your dad laughed loudly, startling you from your thoughts. You met your granddad’s eyes – kind, soft – and offered him a weak smile.

“And how’s your love life, Y/N?” he asked.

Tell them. You had promised it to yourself. You had promised it to Mina. But what if – Lord – what if they were right? What if they had been right all along? What if Wilhemina finally opened her eyes –

“Did you see how the neighbours pruned their apple tree?” your grandma was saying. “It looks hideous now.”

You cleared your throat.

“Uh, guys, I have something to tell you.”

Your heart was beating so fast you were pretty sure it was going to burst any minute now. You couldn’t look at Wilhemina. You had never been more aware of her presence ever since you had met her, her body radiating burning heat that almost threatened to destroy you.

Your grandparents looked up at you expectantly.

Who’s the lucky man? your granddad’s happy eyes asked. Great-grandchildren! your grandmother’s smile beamed. So proud, so satisfied.

You had become ice. Ice that was melting in the fire that was Wilhemina. Your hands were shaking. You wanted to run away so badly.

“Um, so, Wilhemina and I are dating,” you heard yourself say – from very, very far away. The voice wasn’t yours. It echoed in your ears.

Your grandparents didn’t understand.

“We’re dating,” the voice said, “as in we’re together. We’re in love. I love her.” The voice was almost proud. It surprised you.

Your grandparents understood.

This was terrible. This was the worst. The disappointment on their faces, as if you had failed them, as if you had failed to honour your side of the contract. What would they say to their neighbours and friends now? How would they boast about you? When would they get to greet your nice, respectful husband? When would they bounce their great-grandchildren on their knees?  Where were the respectability and the pride and the freaking normal?

You lowered your eyes so you didn’t have to watch as disappointment and pain settled on their faces. You were vaguely aware of the stinging in your eyes and the trembling of your chin. This would not do. You were freezing, ice crystallizing around your heart, to choke it or to protect it you didn’t know. You would break under your grandparents’ gazes and nothing would be left of you. You had failed them.

Warmth. Wilhemina’s hand found yours under the table. She gave it a gentle squeeze, laced her fingers with yours. Warmth, and softness and love.

Your parents weren’t saying a thing. Your dad was staring at his plate, your mum at the ceiling. It broke your heart, their silence. It was like an agreement with what your grandparents’ faces were expressing.

You couldn’t talk either, so you waited, for Wilhemina’s hand to let go of yours as she realized just how pathetic you were, how disgusting, you were disgusting and your love was disgusting and –

“Why are you doing this to us?” your granddad asked. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Wilhemina wince. “Uh? What did we ever do to you to deserve this?”

How sad he looked. How so terribly broken.

There was the sound of a chair scraping on the floor, and then Wilhemina stood up, slowly and threateningly, eyes half-closed, teeth half-bared. You looked up at her, saw the anger on her face, and mechanically you reached out to stop her. She shouldn’t snap at them. They were right. Couldn’t she see that, see how sad they were, how badly you had hurt them?

Wilhemina looked down at you in surprise. For a second she seemed to be at a loss for what to do. Her mouth opened, but you shook your head, jumped on your feet, and flew out of the room.

It was so very cold outside. You had left without your coat. But the cold felt good. You dived into it.

You couldn’t see very well because of the tears in your eyes, but the sky was white, the earth was wet, and the sand was a faded yellow that was almost grey when your feet sank into it. You hadn’t even realized you had run to the beach.

The tide was low, the ocean quiet, barely any waves, which was funny really because your heart was a storm. You had expected the ocean to be raging.

You sat down on the sand and wrapped your arms around your knees. The chilly wind bit your cheeks. You let the cold sweep through you, let it slip its fingers under your clothes. You took a few deep breaths of the salty air.  

Warmth. A gentle hand on your shoulder.

“You left without your coat, little one,” said Wilhemina, her voice firm but laced with tenderness. “It’s too cold. Here, put it on.”

You didn’t move, so Wilhemina draped your coat over your shoulders. She sat down beside you and you hated the tenderness and the love that clutched your heart for it felt wrong – her love felt wrong. You deserved a slap in the face and a few bitter insults.  

You sank into her nonetheless. You couldn’t help it. You had always been drawn to her like a magnet, and she was always craving your touch.

She wrapped one arm around your shoulders to press you close against her. She was staring fiercely at the ocean, eyes black and angry. You saw her blink several times, her jaw working as if she were gritting her teeth to hold back words. She wasn’t good with words. Communication had always been her weak point. But she always tried, for you.

“Maybe they’re right,” you heard yourself whisper after a while – or maybe it was just the wind, carrying the words from your heart to her ears. “Maybe I am a freak. Maybe I am disgusting and there’s something wrong with me.”

Wilhemina’s face hardened. She held you tighter. “Well then,” she said, very low and very slow, “we are meant to be together. I’m a freak, too.”

“You’re not!” you exclaimed. “Don’t say that about yourself. You’re not a freak, Mina!”

Her lips curled into a small smile. “Funny you should say that. It’s what I think of you, too. See, maybe we can help each other.”

She turned her head to look at you. Her eyes were big and so painfully honest and loving you felt like dissolving into tears. You bit the inside of your cheek as your face crumpled.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Wilhemina cooed. Her brow pushed up in concern, her hand coming up to hold your chin. She gazed at you, searching your eyes, then leaned in to kiss you.

You couldn’t kiss her right now. It didn’t feel proper – if your lips met, the gods in the sky would roar in wrath and smite you. And what if one of your grandparents’ neighbours or friends saw you? Your family would be so ashamed. You had already hurt them so badly. So you put a hand on Wilhemina’s chest to hold her back, and you saw the pain and the fear flash in her eyes before she blinked them away.

“No, Mina, I –“

She leaned slightly away, blinking, nodding. You told yourself it was the cold wind that made the tears pool in your eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to Wilhemina. You watched her out of the corner of your eye and reached for her hand.

“It’s okay,” she nodded, smiling through her fear.

You gave her hand a squeeze. “I love you,” you whispered, low and anxious, as if it were a shameful secret. As if it should never be uttered loudly. But the ocean captured the words and sent them back to you and her with a loud groan and spray as a wave almost lapped up your feet.

“I love you,” you repeated, louder. You leaned in and planted a peck on her cheek. Nuzzled her skin, breathed her in. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, love. I understand.”

Of course she did. You had seen the harshness in her gaze when she inspected herself in the mirror in the morning. There were days she would not even dare meet her own eyes.

But she was right. You could help each other. For you both knew what the other was worth, and you both were willing to apply love like a balm on the other’s wounds.

It seemed to you the ocean was whispering. What was it? A secret. Come closer. Don’t be afraid. Closer still.

You sagged against Wilhemina. I’d rather stay here on the beach with her, you told the ocean. Where it’s warm and dry and safe. Keep your secret. I don’t want it.

Tentatively, Wilhemina dropped a kiss on your temple. You hummed, to let her know it was okay. You felt her relax slightly against you, and then she whispered in your ear the secret you had refused to hear from the ocean. You didn’t fail them. They failed you.

Without warning you put one hand on the small of her back and your other hand on her shoulder, and gently pushed her so that she was lying on the sand. She met your eyes in surprise, mouth opening in protest but you kissed her silent. You felt her smile into the kiss.

Her lips were cold, but her mouth was warm and so very sweet. One of her hands tangled in your hair and gently stroke the nape of your neck. Your whole body was tingling. There was no way, you thought, no way this could be wrong.

When you pulled away, Wilhemina’s eyes were shining, and she bit down on a smile. “You’re getting sand in my hair,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“Tough shit,” you teased. You brushed your mouth against hers, marveling at the warmth and softness of her; your tongue darted out to taste her lower lip, then plunged into her mouth and gently licked her teeth.

Wilhemina held your hand all the way back to your grandparents’ house. You mother was waiting for you by the door. She gave Wilhemina a grateful smile when she saw you were safe and sound.

“Y/N that was quite an over-reaction,” your mum gently scolded.

“Thank you for your input,” Wilhemina snapped. With a hand on your back she guided you inside. “And thank you for speaking up for your daughter earlier,” she spat over her shoulder. You couldn’t hold back the small smile that tugged at your lips.

“Y/N?” came your granddad’s voice from the living-room.

He appeared in the doorway.

And just like that you were freezing again. For he looked so sad, so very broken – his anger would’ve been alright, you could stand up to anger, but this look, this terrible look on his face that suggested his whole world had just come apart – you froze. Instinctively you leaned away from Wilhemina, hating yourself for doing so.  

Your granddad took a tentative step towards you. “Can we talk this over? Surely if we talk this over, you’ll change your mind.”

Wilhemina’s hand on your back felt like molten metal. You had to force yourself not to squirm away from her touch. It wasn’t right, your granddad’s expression told you. It wasn’t natural for her to love you like that.

Your body leaned towards him and further away from Wilhemina. Did she notice? Please don’t let her notice. But she did, and you saw her square her shoulders to look taller like an animal sensing a threat.

“Come on, love,” she said, giving your back a gentle push.

Your granddad’s eyes fell on her. “Where are you going?”

“We’re leaving,” Wilhemina answered in a cold but calm voice. “Our destination is none of your business.”

“And you think Y/N’s gonna come with you?” A laugh, of genuine surprise.”We’ve spent every Christmas since she was born together. We’re family.”

Wilhemina’s fingers on your back stuttered. Her eyes widened, oh, just a bit, just the slightest bit, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know her as well as you did.

“Christmas,” your granddad went on, his face growing more and more animated, “is for family and love. What do you have to offer her, apart from depravity and deceit? Did you really think,” here he laughed again – genuine surprise again, so much worse than hatred, “that she meant it when she said she could love someone like you?”, with a glance at her cane, incredulous, pitifying, almost amused.

He was good, you had to give him that. He knew exactly where to scratch so it would hurt the most. But he had also made a mistake. He could abuse you all he wanted, but Wilhemina was off limits. She was sacred ground, never to be sullied by anyone.

“She’s family,” you groaned, raising your chin defiantly, “and I love her.”

Your granddad scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous. Please, you’ve seen her – or maybe you haven’t, and that’d explain why you agreed to date her. Come on, come sit with us, let us talk, let us help you –“

“Just, stop talking.” You closed your eyes and gritted your teeth, trying to curb the anger that was rising inside you – hot, red, like lava. “Stop talking, and leave me alone.”

Only now did you realize that Wilhemina hadn’t said a word for too long. No snide comebacks, no insults. You glanced at her. Her face was hard and blank, but her eyes were veiled, and you knew that look. There was the glaze she always hid herself behind when she was afraid and hurting. Like that Sunday morning at the farmer’s market, when she and you had been browsing a flower stall, bright pink orchids, red and yellow tulips, green buds, and that old woman behind you in the line had made a disparaging remark about “cripples”, loud enough for Wilhemina to hear.  

You reached for her hand on your back and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Come on, Mina, let’s go.”

Your granddad called after you as you stomped up the stairs, Wilhemina’s hand still in yours, but you ignored him. Your body was tingling with a strange mix of anger, fear and relief. You walked into the spare room, picked up your bag and Wilhemina’s – there had been no time to unpack – and turned towards the door. Wilhemina was staring at you, her left arm crossed over her stomach in a hug, her brow slightly pulled down in thought.

“If you’d rather stay here with them –“she started.

“I don’t,” you cut her off firmly.

“I don’t want to get between you and the people you love.”

You heard the pain in her voice, so you dropped your bag on the floor, walked up to her and cupped her face. “Don’t let his words get to you,” you said, tilting her head to make her meet your eyes.”They were lies. You know that. I love you.”

Her eyes locked with yours, wide and begging for reassurance.

Please, you know better than that. You’re so smart, did you really think that she meant it when she said she could love someone like you?

Footsteps on the stairs, your grandma’s voice – how much she loved you. How very much she wanted to be proud of you.

Wilhemina’s eyes reflected the hesitation she saw in yours, and it spread and spread and spread until it threatened to darken the whole room like the falling of night.

“I love you,” you repeated, voice strangled, fingers trembling on her skin.

Oh please – they’re family.

And it was the same fear, the very same fear that was pulsing in both your veins – freakish, unlovable. Your lips curled in a soft smile at the exact moment your grandma entered the room.

With your free hand in Wilhemina’s, her pulse and your pulse drumming between your palms, you walked past your grandma, down the stairs and down the hall, towards the front door, and when you opened it you could have sworn you heard the call of the ocean, singing “come away”.

Wilhemina was half crying, half laughing nervously as she fumbled in her bag for the car keys, hands shaking, so you cupped her face again, kissed her, her mouth, her cheeks, kissed her tears until she could breathe easier. And you heard someone behind you gasp, and someone else curse in the same voice the old woman had used that day at the farmer’s market, when Wilhemina’s fingers had stuttered over the flowers.

A sob pushed out of her throat, a jingle of keys as they fell to the floor; Wilhemina bent down to pick them up, but she couldn’t see well enough through her tears. You picked up the keys for her and opened the car.

Before you got in, you turned and faced your family. When you spoke your voice was firm and hard, a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. “I will sit with you, and we will talk, when you’re ready to apologise,” you growled, staring into your granddad’s eyes, then your grandma’s. You slammed the door of the car, just to make a point.

You drove. A little bit above the speed limit, on winding narrow roads that crossed small, sleepy villages. You had driven almost twenty miles when you realized you had no idea where you were going.

You glanced at Wilhemina. She was staring out the window, her face blank, but at least that veil had lifted from her eyes. When you focused on the road again, you spotted a sign that read a familiar name.

“Let’s go there,” you said. Wilhemina didn’t react. “You’ll like the place.”

The place in question was a small fishermen village surrounded by fields, with a narrow pier and a wide beach that stretched for more than half a mile before it abruptly ended on an expanse of rocks covered with seaweeds. You had come here countless times with your family as a child, to sit on the pier with your feet dangling above the water and ice cream dripping between your fingers.

Today the water was as grey as the sky. You reached for Wilhemina’s hand and led her down the coastal path that weaved among the dunes.  

“I have so many happy memories linked to this place,” you whispered, barely louder than the wind. “Now I want to make one with you.”

Wilhemina let out a small, pejorative laugh.

You shot her a sideways look. “What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, then straightened your shoulders and pointed at something in front of you. “Look.”

There, half-hidden behind a swell of the dunes, rose the ruins of what must have been a manor house, but was now a clustered mess of broken walls from which four seagulls flew out with angry cries. A small stream spurted out from between two stones and flowed lazily across the beach to be soaked up by the sand right before it met the ocean.  

Wilhemina stopped in her tracks and let out a surprised puff of air.

“I told you you’d like it,” you smiled. “Doesn’t it look so very Victorian?”

With a clumsy curtsey you extended one arm towards the ruins. “Would Miss Wilhemina accompany me on a tour of Netherfield Hall?”

Wilhemina’s face lit up with a smirk.

The place was rather tricky for her to navigate with her cane, but she didn’t complain. You and her stepped over the bits of wood and the stones that littered the sand, falling into a comfortable and slightly awed silence. There was something so solemn, and a bit impressive, about those ruins, like walking in a silent church.

Wilhemina stopped in a doorway that led into a small, square room. “What is this room?” she asked in a haughty voice.

You assumed a proud expression. “The library. See all my books? Folks come from all across the country to admire them. I have the largest collection.”

“All I can see is you have very bad taste,” Wilhemina quipped as she turned on her heel and walked away. You laughed and followed her into the next room, of which only one wall remained. It opened on the ocean.  

“Careful!” you screamed, pointing at a brown seaweed on the sand. “There’s a banana skin on the mahogany floor!”

Wilhemina snorted, then assumed a scornful expression. “Call a servant. Somebody get us rid of it. I will not tolerate the state of this kitchen.”

With a grin you pulled her to you and kissed her, slow and sweet. She hummed into the kiss, bringing one hand up to cup your cheek, fingers barely brushing your skin as if it were made of something indescribably precious. When you pulled away, her smile was genuinely happy.

“Hello,” you giggled, giddy and fond.

She bit her lip, ran her thumb over your mouth.

“Hi.”

You took her hand again, and together you made your way through an archway into yet another room.

“This, I believe, must be the master bedroom,” you sang. You shot Wilhemina a suggestive look, which she pretended not to notice.

“I see a bed, but where is your husband?” Wilhemina asked.

A sad smile. When you spoke, your voice had a quaver to it. “Alas, Miss Wilhemina, there is no husband.”

She hummed. Pressed her cane against her stomach. “So who’s to share this big bed with you?” she asked after a while. She was avoiding your gaze, her eyes fixed on a tuft of grass that had managed to grow in the sand. “It must get so cold in the winter. Any suitor waiting by the door?”

She was no longer teasing you. Her voice was serious, her face had become unreadable again. You looked at her, and felt that familiar pain that wasn’t just pain but also sadness, and yearning for an easier, kinder life, clutch at your heart.  

“A hundred, probably,” you whispered. You stroked your thumb over one of her knuckles, back and forth. “I don’t know. I didn’t check. I keep the doors closed.” You tugged her arm to make her turn and face you. Gave her a soft, sad smile, cupped her cheek with your free hand and caught the lonely tear that dropped from her eye. “I already have my sweetheart here with me inside,” you murmured, gazing into her eyes.  

There was so much fear in your heart. So much fear you could have thrown up on the sand in the middle of those ruins that had once been a manor house, where people dressed in pretty clothes had met to share an evening of dancing and revelries. Love had bloomed among those walls before, love that had been so bright it had lit up the whole room and love that had been kept secret behind closed doors. The walls and the ocean were still singing the long-dead lovers’ songs.

You would sing it, too, grab the hand of the nearest dancer and join the farandole.

So you gave Wilhemina’s hand a squeeze that was almost too tight, just like that day at the farmer’s market when, with rage thundering in your chest and your eyes shooting daggers, you had towered over the old woman and shouted profanities at her until all the colour had drained from her face. And you had bought Wilhemina a ridiculously big bouquet of roses she had carried down the aisle, her cheeks flushed with gratitude and happiness and almost as bright and red as the flowers, for the whole world to see how beloved she was.  

You pulled her close and smirked when her eyes flicked hungrily to your lips.

“What is that sweetheart of yours like?” she whispered.

“Most of the time she’s an ass.” Wilhemina gave you a look that made you laugh. “But when I do this – “you leaned in and dropped a soft kiss on her mouth, “I find my home and family.”

Wilhemina’s eyes had fluttered closed; she didn’t open them for a long moment after you pulled away. That was new: she always made sure her eyes were opened when somebody stood that close to her, so that she would see danger come, so that she would not be taken by surprise when her lover suddenly sneered and mocked and laughed. But today she let herself sink into intimacy and trusted it would not hurt her, and you felt yourself melt with gratitude and love.

When she eventually opened her eyes again, she gazed at you with wonderment, as if she were seeing you for the very first time and you were the most beautiful creature she had ever laid eyes on; and then she blinked, and wonderment gave way to adoration and something that was so pure and so genuinely happy.  

[gohyuck]

pairing: best friend!mark x reader; some neighbor!jaemin x reader

genre: university!au, angst, slight smut

word count: 4.7k 

warnings: unrequited love ft. oblivious mark, sex that ends in crying, general heartbreak because what else would it be

playlist recs: heather - conan gray, cayendo - frank ocean, i found - amber run, fools - troye sivan, from here - kafka tamura, drive safe - rich brian

I still remember Third of December Me in your sweater You said it looked better On me, than it did you Only if you knew How much I liked you

“I fucking hate frats,” You grumble, dabbing furiously at the front of your shirt with a crumpled napkin. There’s red - remnants of what you think must be jungle juice - scattered across the yellow cloth of your top, and you just know it’ll remain stained for eternity. “This cost, like, ten bucks at Walmart! I don’t have that kind of money to throw away, you know.” 

“That’s just an hour’s worth of wages from the bookstore.” Mark, your best friend, points out, handing you another napkin when you exhaust the one in your hand. There’s mirth in his eyes and the threat of a laugh underlying his tone, but the warning glare you throw at him has him putting his hands up in surrender instead of making fun of you. 

“God,” It’s only when someone pushes past you, opening the door behind you to get inside the cursed party house you’d been so quick to rush out of, that you realize just how cold it is outside. The warmth emanating from the inside of the house you feel against your back is short-lived as the door slams shut, but the damage is done: you’re already hyper-aware of what you don’t have. “God, it’s freezing, what the hell?”

“This is literally an end-of-semester party,” Mark, ever perspicacious, points out, adding insult to your injury without a second thought. “It’s early December. Be glad it isn’t snowing.”

“I’m in a t-shirt,” You only whine in response, ignoring everything your friend has said. The night hasn’t gone your way, and if Mark wasn’t here with you you wouldn’t have come at all. Unluckily for you, Mark Lee is popular amongst fraternity circles on account of being Jaehyun Jung’s hometown neighbor and friend, so you find yourself attending parties intermittently. If you could say no to Mark, maybe you wouldn’t smell vaguely of vodka and artificially flavored fruit punch right now.

“I’m in a t-shirt,” You repeat, ignoring any and all thoughts of your best friend you’re having, as always. “And it’s wet which is making me even colder. I hate it here.” 

Mark only rolls his eyes, though you’re surprised to see him shrug off his windbreaker before pulling his black sweater over his head to reveal a thin white shirt. He hands it to you wordlessly before pulling his jacket back on and zipping it up, and when you only stare at the piece of clothing he’s given you, he has the audacity to laugh. 

“I’m tired of your complaining,” He explains when your gaze meets his, though he jovially knocks his shoulder against yours when your eyes narrow momentarily. “And besides, you always look better in it than I do. Before you ask, I’m not cold anyways, so it’s all good.”

You don’t miss the comment about you looking better in it than he does. For a moment, just a moment before you pull the proverbial wool over your eyes and black polyester over your head, you imagine that he actually means it. He does let you borrow it an awful lot, after all: it’s in your dresser half as often as it’s in his. 

“I wasn’t going to ask,” You huff out a lie, putting an arm through before pulling the rest of the sweater on. You’re immediately met with Mark’s cologne, and you pull his sleeves over your hands into sweater paws on habit. His clothes are always just a little long on you. “You’re like a human furnace.”

“Whatever dude,” Mark rolls his eyes again, though there’s fondness evident in them. “Come on - I’ll walk you back to your place.” He loops his arm through yours in a way you’ve gotten dangerously used to, dragging you away from the Nu Kappa Theta house. 

He keeps his word, leaving you right in front of your door. When you go to take off his sweater, he stops you, telling you that there’s no rush to get it back to him. A quick hug and a short goodbye later, Mark is walking down the hallway, hands shoved into his jeans’ pockets. You watch as he gets to the stairwell, so desperately wanting him to turn back.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t - you aren’t Heather. You fall asleep in his sweater hours later, still drowning in his cologne. Come morning, you fold it neatly and place it in the bottom drawer of your dresser, out of sight and out of mind. 

But I watch your eyes, as she walks by What a sight for sore eyes Brighter than a blue sky She's got you mesmerized While I die

You still remember the first time you’d seen her. It was mundane, really - she’d sat next to you during your first Computing class of the semester, and you’d introduced yourself to her and found her to be a sweet girl, the kind of girl people like being around. There wasn’t anything past that - the two of you went on with your lives, sometimes making idle conversation in class. You hadn’t thought much of your meeting with her until later.

Far more importantly, frankly, you remember the first time Mark had seen her, even if he doesn’t remember it himself. You’d been lounging under a tree, Mark’s back against the bark while you had your head in his lap. He’d been rambling on and on about something Donghyuck had said during their intramural dance team’s practice when he’d stopped speaking mid-sentence, forcing you to turn your head to see where his eyes were leading him. 

Heather, in a pleated skirt and a beige sweater over a pristine white button down. She’d looked positively radiant while standing in the grass and laughing with friends, the sun shining brightly directly behind her. Mark, feeling your eyes looking up at his slack-jawed expression, had unfrozen eventually, raising a hand to scratch at the nape of his neck out of embarrassment. He’d been about to launch back into his story - this time likely punctuated by glances over at the other girl - when you’d interrupted him before he could begin.

“Her name’s Heather,” You’d told him, mentally kicking yourself even as you spoke. Who tells the love of their life the name of someone they’re obviously ogling? You hate the value you place on your friendship with Mark almost as much as you hate the fact that you’re in love with him. “She’s in one of my classes. She’s really nice, if you’re into that.” 

“Of course I am,” Mark had muttered then, ears burning red. “Why wouldn’t I be into nice people?”

“You spend all your time hanging with me and Hyuck.” You’d pointed out, reaching a hand up to poke at his chin. He’d flicked your fingers away from him, though he’d immediately grabbed your hand right after, holding it tight for a moment on impulse and as if to show you he’d never really hurt you. 

You’d wished the constant Mark-inflicted ache you’d felt - feel, still - was physical. 

“You’re nice, dude,” Mark had insisted then, finally looking down at you. You’d felt suddenly insecure then, realizing that the angle you were at wasn’t the most flattering. There was no way you could compete to Heather, not with your disheveled hair and eyes that pierced through Mark like arrows. You’d wrapped your arms around yourself in insecurity and Mark had thought nothing of it, only continuing to speak. “You’re nice enough, at least, when you aren’t kicking my ass. Hyuck is… a thought best left for another day.” 

You’d laughed then, and Mark had responded in kind. The rest of your break between classes had been spent like that: talking and laughing with your favorite person, irreplaceable by all accounts. 

If he hadn’t chanced glances at Heather throughout it, you might’ve been able to consider that he found you irreplaceable in the same way you found him. 

Mark hadn’t been subtle then.

He isn’t subtle now. 

Why would you ever kiss me? I'm not even half, as pretty You gave her your sweater It's just polyester, but you like her better Wish I were Heather

Mark asks for the sweater back the day before you leave for winter break. Your flatmate is staying back - has research to work on through Christmas - so you’re free to visit your parents back home, and although you dread all the questions you’ll be asked, you can’t help but feel the slightest bit excited. 

“I’ll drop by and pick it up before I head out, then,” Mark says, voice still warm as ever even as the phone makes him sound the slightest bit tinny. “What time is good for you?”

“I’ll be at the bus stop by 5,” You respond, phone between your shoulder and your ear and heart between your mouth and your chest as you pull his polyester sweater out of your dryer. “Come by any time before then.”

He drops past your place a little before 4, eyes sparkling when he tells you that Heather only lives about a half an hour away from him, so he’s taking her with him on his drive home. You muster the brightest smile you can when you tell him how wonderful that is, all while handing back the sweater that smells like your own detergent for now but you’re sure will soon smell like Heather’s perfume. 

A week after seeing Heather for the first time, Mark had, by chance, joined your university’s Literature Club, not knowing that the girl who’d stolen his breath was a member. He’d had the same sparkle in his eyes when he’d regaled his first conversation with her to you, talking for ages about her opinions on The Picture of Dorian Gray and Slaughterhouse-Five. They’d clicked immediately, in his words. Two fitting puzzle pieces. 

You’d bawled like a baby into your flatmate’s arms once your best friend had left your apartment that night, feeling entitled to the tears after so many hours of half real (you truly were happy for him) and half fake (you truly were sad for yourself) smiles. 

It’s been three months since then. Heather and Mark aren’t dating just yet, but they’re an inevitability. You remind yourself of that after Mark leaves, sweater in hand and a promise to text you once he gets home sliding off his tongue. 

He messages you a picture - a selfie of him and a smiling Heather - five hours later, a ‘we’re home safe!’ text accompanying it. It isn’t a surprise to you that she’s wearing the black polyester sweater in the photo, but it still stings nonetheless.

Mark had said you look better in the sweater than he does. Heather looks far better in it than you do. 

When you reach your own home, you’re not alarmed to see Jaemin, your next-door neighbor who’s home from his own school for break, sitting at your kitchen counter and eating grapes out of a plastic bowl. His parents and your parents are great friends, and you’ve always gotten along fairly well with him. His hair is dyed a light blue, gelled back slightly to show his forehead, and he smiles the same cheeky smile he’s had since his sophomore year of high school at you. Jaemin’s always been breathtakingly handsome, always been as good looking as he is just good. He’d been a decent friend to you when you’d lived here, close enough to tell secrets to but not so close that he’d reveal them to anyone. 

Jaemin had been your first kiss way back when, had been your first time barely after that, and you allow yourself to see the purely sexual tension that still exists between the two of you. You feel nothing but friendship - maybe just acquaintanceship - for him, and he for you. It’s perfect. 

When both sets of parents go out for dinner, unable to drag the two of you out with them, you pull Jaemin up the stairs to your childhood bedroom to ride him frantically as if you’ll never feel this good again. He coaxes not one but two orgasms from you, cool hands roaming your body and nails raking gently over your thighs. Jaemin fucks up into you when you can’t move any longer, when your thighs shake from overwork, and he doesn’t complain, not once. 

He pulls you down to him, bites your shoulder hard when he cums, spilling into the condom he’d managed to get on in the rush to be inside of you. When you don’t pull off of him afterwards, instead only beginning to sob quietly into his shoulder, he’s kind enough to run his hands over the span of your back to soothe you. 

“That bad, huh?” He jokes, not letting you go. His hands are warm now. You shake your head adamantly even as you know he’s kidding before muttering a ‘it’s not you, it’s Mark’ into his skin. 

“Did you just ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ me?” Jaemin questions, this time more confused than anything. You shake your head again, your tears glistening against his collarbone as you pull away enough to look him in the eyes. 

“Mark. It’s Mark,” You say, swallowing the lump in your throat. You’ve never voiced it aloud before - that it’s Mark. That it might just always be Mark. Jaemin’s okay, though - Jaemin won’t tell. How could he? He doesn’t even know Mark.

Your childhood neighbor stares at you, though not unkindly, for a long moment before nodding slowly in understanding and pulling you into his chest once more for a tight embrace. He doesn’t ask any questions - you assume he just gets it. 

Jaemin manages to finger you to one more climax like that, with you curled up in his lap and your head against his chest. He murmurs sweet nothings that really mean nothing into your ear as he does, and you find that you could get used to this. You won’t, but you could. When you cum again, you only whimper and moan, incapable of forming words. 

Mark’s name is on the tip of your tongue, and even though Jaemin would understand if you say it, you don’t. You can’t tempt yourself with a reality that isn’t available for you. It would be too cruel.

By the time your parents and Jaemin’s parents get back home, you’re wearing a sweatshirt you hadn’t been wearing earlier, mainly to hide Jaemin’s bite mark. You hug your neighbor goodbye, and he whispers a ‘it’ll be okay’ into your neck before pulling away, giving you a soft version of his devilish grin and waving before leaving with his mom and dad. 

Maybe it will be okay someday, but for now, God, how you wish you were Heather. 

You only text Mark back right before you go to bed, a quick ‘damn, guess i’ll have to hire a better hitman next time. for you, not for heather, she’s lovely’ before you rest. Is she at his house, her head against his chest as they talk about books or movies or whatever they talk about? Or is she on her way home right now, wishing for more time with Mark? 

Your sleep is dreamless that night, despite the thoughts of Mark and Heather, Heather and Mark that run through your mind constantly. It’s the one stroke of luck you have. 

Watch as she stands with Her holding your hand Put your arm 'round her shoulder Now I'm getting colder

You sleep with Jaemin intermittently during your break, finding quite quickly that he’s very willing to solely be a receptacle of your pent-up urges catalyzing. It’s hard to have sex with people at school because you’re always aware that Mark could be waiting at your apartment with food when you get back, or that he could be texting you while you’re getting laid. With Jaemin, you can truly push Mark out of your mind, if only just for a moment.

It’s good that you find a momentary respite in your childhood neighbor, because once you’re back on campus, it feels like the universe is purposefully tugging your stars out of their alignments just to torture you. 

The weather still leaves much to desire, and although it isn’t as cold as it had been in December, you still carry a hoodie around with you wherever you go. They’re easy to pull over long-sleeved shirts and sweaters; after all, Heather’s always pulling Mark’s favorite forest green hoodie over the familiar black sweater that she wears. 

Before, it had just been you, Mark, and occasionally Hyuck getting together and hanging out. At restaurants, you and Mark would sit on the same side, sharing appetizers while Hyuck actively guarded his food from your roaming hands. Now, when you go out to eat, you sit beside Donghyuck, Heather right across from you with her perfect smile and kind eyes while Mark sits right beside her, leaning back with his arm thrown over the booth behind her easily. 

She’s genuine: when she asks about your hobbies, your likes, your dislikes, she truly wants to know. It’s good of her: after all, you’re one of the most important people in Mark’s life. You figure she must know that, the closer she gets to your best friend, the closer she should get to you. 

You appreciate it. You also hate it. 

When Heather gets up mid-lunch to go to the bathroom, parting from the three of you for the moment with a dazzling grin and an airy laugh that makes Mark visibly redden, the boy she’s wooing turns to you and your other friend, eyes full of hope. Donghyuck arches an eyebrow even as he knows what the other man is about to say. 

“Man, isn’t she literally the best? There’s something between us, right? I should ask her out?” Mark’s running a hand through his hair as he speaks, a nervous habit he’s had the whole time you’ve known him (freshman year Intro to Film, he’d spilled his cold coffee all over you and panic-offered you his black sweater to wear as a cover-up and, the rest, as they say, is history). 

“She’s on the higher end of the cool spectrum, yes there’s something, and it’s your life, dude, I can’t tell you who to date or not date.” Donghyuck responds before you can, and you catch him darting his eyes over at you in mild concern as he speaks. You haven’t told him about how you feel about Mark, but you’re sure he’s known for some time. He’s nothing if not deductive. 

Mark rolls his eyes, mutters something about Hyuck always being the bare minimum amount of helpful, and then looks you directly in your eyes, waiting for your verdict. In that moment you know that he’ll seriously consider whatever you say, that if you don’t like Heather, he’ll do his best to dislike her too. Friendship above all else.

The word friendship leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, even if you value it so highly. 

“Ask her out,” You finally say, the corners of your mouth quirking up together. The smile you wear doesn’t reach your eyes, but Mark’s too elated to notice. Under the table, Hyuck gently rests a warm hand against your knee for a split second, a show of ‘I’m here’ that you’re grateful for. 

Before you can continue speaking - what would you even say? - Heather is sliding back into her seat, back from the bathroom. You can’t very well talk about her while she’s there, so you close your mouth inconspicuously, watching as Mark puts his arm around her shoulders rather than against the booth this time, pulling her just a little closer to his side. 

You’re wearing two layers of clothing, but the air suddenly feels freezing. Donghyuck casually hands you a fry off his own plate, not keeping his food all to himself for the first time ever. 

You accept it, even though it’s cold by now. Bleakness added upon bleakness changes nothing.

But how could I hate her? She's such an angel But then again, kinda Wish she were dead, as she Walks by What a sight for sore eyes Brighter than a blue sky She's got you mesmerized While I die

He asks Heather out a week later with a bouquet of flowers you help him pick our just hours before his trek to her apartment. Donghyuck comes over the night of your florist trip - your flatmate had left for a trip the night earlier, leaving you a tub of ice cream and a pile of 80s movies as a placeholder for human comfort - and holds you for hours, not saying anything as you sob through The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Stand & Deliver. 

“I w- I wish she didn’t exist,” You hiccup into your friend’s shirt as he rests his chin on top of your head. “And then I feel awful because she’s just so nice. She’s always so nice. He likes her because she’s so nice.” 

“It hurts worse when they’re nice, especially when you’re also nice,” He murmurs into your hair, pulling you closer into his chest. “Because then you can’t plot ways to get revenge without ending up being the asshole.”

“The jilted ex,” You agree, though it only causes you to cry harder. “Except I’m - I’m not even an ex.” 

“Someday, you’ll be glad that you aren’t one of his exes.” Donghyuck assures you, and you know he’s right so you say nothing else, only wrapping your arms tighter around him. The healing process for your heartbreak starts then, as you stain your friend’s thin shirt with your tears and he rubs soothing circles into your back. Your heart might just sew itself back together. 

The single stitch holding the halves of your heart together rips easily when Mark brings breakfast to your doorstep the next morning, obvious hickies dotting his collarbone once he pulls off his white pullover. The sight alone makes you feel like your lungs are airless and will forever remain so, and you realize that you’ll have to start healing all over again. 

Still, you welcome your best friend into your apartment for breakfast like you do every Sunday morning, right before he goes to Church. Mark’s bought bagels today, from the café at the end of the block, and once he’s prayed like he always does before eating he spreads strawberry cream cheese all over one half of his bagel while talking about how well his ask had gone and thanking you for your floral expertise. 

“I just thought they looked pretty,” You shrug, mentally begging for him to stop relating you to any aspect of his relationship. “No need to thank me.”

“I’ll always thank you, dude,” Mark says with ease, licking cream cheese off of his thumb. “You’re my best friend.” With this, he finishes off his breakfast, stands up from his chair at your breakfast nook, and wears his pullover again. 

“Gotta pick Heather up, she said she wants to come to Church with me,” Mark says, and your heart twinges at how quickly she’s been introduced to the more intimate aspects of his life. You say nothing, only smile and nod, and Mark thinks nothing of it. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“We literally have a class together.” You scoff, doing your best to banter with Mark like you always do. He rolls his eyes at your statement, though his grin never falls from his lips. 

“I’ll see you,” Is all he says, before leaning in and pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. He’s halfway out your door before he turns back - turns back like you’d always wished for him to - and calls your name. 

“Yes?”

“You really did do me a favor by helping me with the flowers,” Mark says, giving you the most grateful smile you’ve ever witnessed. “She said the bouquet had all her favorites. I don’t know how you do it. You’re a lifesaver. Love you!”

With that, he’s out the door, and you can only watch as it slams shut behind him, trapping in his last two words as they curl around you like currents, pushing you deeper into the water that’s drowning you. It’s platonic, of course it is, it always has been. Still, you believe that if you never hear those two words together again, you might be all the better. 

The bouquet had all of your favorites, too. 

You need to stop wishing you were Heather.

Why would you ever kiss me? I'm not even half, as pretty You gave her your sweater It's just polyester, but you like her better I wish I were Heather Wish I were Heather Wish I were Heather

It’s a little less than three months later when you’re out shopping by yourself at the local mall, in desperate need for some winter clothes before the next year’s winter starts. Everything’s on sale now, and you’re not one to pay extra money for no reason at all. You’re sitting through a rack of jackets when your phone vibrates, and you fish it out of your pocket to find that Mark has texted you four images, accompanied with a message asking ‘which one should I post O.o’. 

They’re all of Heather in that black polyester sweater - the one you used to wear often - at an ice skating rink, and you assume Mark’s just gotten home from a date. She’s grinning brightly at the camera in the first picture while finishing tying up her skates. In the second one, her back is to the camera and her head is turned to the side, her hand holding onto Mark’s as she leads them across the rink. She’s looking right at the camera in the third one as well, eyebrows raised sportingly as she sips hot chocolate from a styrofoam cup.

You tell Mark to go with the fourth one: a candid of her just stepping on to the rink, eyes wide but smile even wider. Her head is turned, though she can’t see that her side profile is being captured. She’s beautiful without effort in a way you refuse to find in the mirror, and you know the fact that Mark has even taken a picture of Heather without her posing means he wants to cherish every memory with her. It’s sweet, and you tell him so. 

You pocket your phone before reading his response, doing your best not to let his earnestness affect you. Mark is a good man, and Heather is a good woman. They’re good for each other, and you’re good for both of them as a friend. 

As you turn around to inspect another set of for-sale winter clothes, this time on a table rather than a rack, you realize that, over the past few months, you truly have done your best to try and move on. It had been slow at first, yes, but by throwing yourself into your studies, taking time for yourself, and hanging out more with Hyuck and your other friends - though not less with Mark - has done you good. The ache has weakened, the stinging has stopped, for the most part. You’ve killed almost all of your Mark-related hangups or fixations, almost all of them except… 

You rest your palm on top of a light blue sweater - cotton, not polyester - and run your thumb over it, exhaling slowly and blowing air out through your barely-parted lips as you do. It’s pretty, and your size, and you’re in need of one, and the one sweater you used to wear the most isn’t available to you anymore. 

Jaemin’s words from months ago echo in your mind: ‘it’ll be okay’. You grab the sweater and make your way to the cashier’s counter, suddenly not needing to buy anything else anymore. 

The breath of air you take upon leaving the mall, sweater in bag in hand, feels like the first one you’ve taken in a while. As you settle into your car and turn the ignition key, placing your purchase on your passenger’s seat, you’re hit with a realization that you didn’t think you’d ever have. 

It’s all okay...

And you’re starting to no longer wish you were Heather. 

Why would you ever kiss me? I'm not even half, as pretty You gave her your sweater It's just polyester, but you like her better Wish I were.. 

[grittyreadsfic]

haha welcome to my newest rec list, what a run we had tho, a collection of all of my favorite nate bastian/mikey mcleod fics. rip superbuddies, they're not dead, nate's just in fuckin SEATTLE

the only hard part of making this list was not just listing out every fic ao3 user lotts has for the pairing which i did consider doing. so.

all that by lotts

summary: If Mikey gets a soulmate soon, he’ll have to explain the whole Nate situation.

Not– not that there's a real Nate situation, per se, but it’s just– Mikey has Nate, and it’s kind of a thing.

(Or: there very much is a Nate situation. There's also a Mikey situation. Eventually, they realize this.)

why i love it: to me, this is the superbuddies fic-it’s got the perfect pacing from friends to lovers with just the right around of blurred lines between what’s normal for friends and what’s something more, and their characterizations are just *chef’s kiss* it’s also such a great take on soulmates, and it really covers the different ways people can feel about their soulmates/the concept in general

kiss the night air by clementiae

summary: Jersey, Jersey. Whispered into the warmth of their laced fingers like a prayer.

It was a stupid dream. Mikey wanted it to last.

why i love it: never has under 1.3k words made me want to cry as much as this fic has. the way talking about their dream of playing together evolved, the narrative structure that builds? absolutely hits, very good if you want to cry about the expansion draft

sure thing by bitter_leaf

summary: In the history of hockey, there’s no way something like Nate suggested has never happened before and Mikey feels out of control following that thought down the rabbit hole, how he’d be powerless to stop it if it did, and that’s if he’d even want to stop it. The terrifying thing is that even though he can’t see it happening—they’re both straight, this whole fucking thing is just a thought experiment, pretend—now that Nate’s painted the picture for him, he can’t stop thinking about it—whether he’d even notice the signs until it was too late.

__

Sick of their teammates chirping them, Mikey and Nate pretend to date.

why i love it: i’m SUCH a sucker for fake dating aus, and this one does it so well. It really leans into the messy and complicated feelings part of fake relationships that i don’t think gets explored enough, and it handles it so, so, so well.

you let him wonder but you never let him sink in his teeth by anonymous

summary: Mikey didn’t really pay attention much in biology— didn’t have to, not really— but he vaguely remembers something about doing heat by yourself in a pinch. There were lots of warnings about it.

“You can’t just be alone,” he says and Nate lets out something that sounds like laughing.

Mikey is just trying to be helpful, and Nate is just trying to get through it.

why i love it: i really love omegaverse fics that invert the usual takes on the tropes (and this is one of them!) and it just really is a great look at their dynamic. i really like this take on mikey and nate as a whole, as well

though far away, we’re still the same by rathands

summary: Mikey wishes he wasn’t in love with Nate, because everyone knows that juniors shit—it doesn’t work out. Like Dylan and Mitch.

why i love it: lots of fun bad communication between nate and mikey, and i think this one really handles the emotion of it all so well. absolutely peak idiots to lovers, and i really love that it gives us both of their point of views

so i don’t have to keep imagining by preciousthings

summary: “It was a mistake. That’s— I didn’t mean that, and that’s it.” Mikey says, but he can’t quite meet Nate’s eyes. “That’s where I’m at, I guess.”

“That’s what I thought. So, we’re on the same page.” Nate nods.

(or: lost gold medals, ill-advised snapchats, love confessions, meddling teammates, and a whole lot of miscommunication.)

why i love it: i just think the premise of this works so, so, so well for them-it’s another great idiots to lovers vibe for nate and mikey, and the whole concept of drunkenly telling your crush you love them via snapchap? yes, good, correct

there is a bridge over a river, and some days it is lovely by lotts

summary: “What are you doing here?” Mikey asks, trying and failing not to stare, but Nate’s staring right back, like he’s also not sure what’s going on.

“I figured I’d meet you here,” Nate says. “Put a familiar face on the Binghamton welcoming committee.”

Mikey looks around. “There’s no one else here.”

“Well, it was either a familiar face or no face,” Nate says with an uncertain smile, like he’s not quite sure he’s allowed to make a joke.

why i love it: perhaps i love it because i like to hurt my own feelings, but this is really just a well done fic that really just hits. it’s honest and emotional and you can feel the weight of that throughout it, but it does have a pretty light hearted ending that is good and hopeful. bonus points for being one of my favorite break up make up fics ever and currently my most read fic of 2021

a catch in the curse by aliquis

summary: Mikey McLeod is gifted — or cursed — with the power of psychic persuasion. With the ability to bend people’s ears to his will, Mikey is well aware of how dangerous a power he wields, and the responsibility he bears to not abuse it.

Though he rarely uses his gifts, new developments in his friendship with Nate Bastian may threaten his control. Mikey would do anything to protect his best friend, including finding a way to get rid of his powers for good. Luckily, Newark’s own witch in the woods may be able to help.

why i love it: magic au!!!! i cannot stress how fantastic the world building is in this series (you don’t have to read the tknp fic that’s first to follow what’s happening, but it is worth the read) and mikey’s feelings towards nate and his own struggle is just!!!! honestly i’m just a series of exclamation points about it all

Invisible string by philatoi

summary: Mikey has known he’s liked guys since the first time Nathan Bastian smiled at him. That’s the thing, almost everything about Mikey’s sexuality has involved Nate — which isn’t necessarily bad. In Mikey’s humble opinion, Nate is the perfect person to fall in love with. Highly recommended. Mikey doesn’t regret putting all his eggs in that basket for the last six years.

why i love it: the pining in this, the emotions of it all-just absolutely top notch all the way around, and really just what i wanted out of a superbuddies fic. it really just feels so right for nate and mikey, and i just love it

you are a diamond and i’m just coal by hannah_baker

summary: When Mikey learns his roommate Nate isn't going home for Christmas, he drags Nate back home with him for break.

Or, the one where Mikey thinks all of his feelings for his roommate are platonic, and everyone laughs at him for it.

why i love it: me picking between this and hannah_baker’s other christmas centric superbuddies fic was like picking a favorite child. this is one of my all time favorite takes on mikey in any fic, and i always love a good college roommates au. just such a wonderful fic

turn the lights off, i’m in love by awoogah123

summary: “I can’t go to sleep yet,” Mikey murmured against Nate’s mouth, “I’m not tired.”

Nate knew this couldn’t be true, his and Mikey’s season had just finished and they were both exhausted. Still, Nate knew what Mikey meant when he said he couldn’t go to sleep yet, that he was too wired up, because he felt exactly the same way.

“I think I’ve got a way to make you more relaxed,” Nate said, mouth curving into a smirk as he brushed a hand over Mikey’s cheek. Mikey’s mouth smiled against his own.

***

Nate and Mikey are there for each other when the Devils don't make the playoffs.

why i love it: do you ever just need some soft comfort to cope? yeah me too! this fic is that and i was very 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 about it when i read it

[annabethy]

under the mistletoe, watching the fire glow day 24: christmas carols

Character A doesn’t feel the Christmas spirit but Character B, who lives above them, keeps playing Christmas carols really loud,, percabeth

Annabeth has never been one to thoroughly enjoy the holidays. She doesn’t necessarily have anything against them, but they’re just not for her. They never have been, for as long as she can remember.

She didn’t get any presents when she was little. Her family did the bare minimum for Christmas. There might have been a tree with the blandest decorations, but that was it. So she grew up with a rather distasteful opinion towards Christmas too. To be fair, it’s more to do with her family than the actual holiday itself, but there’s an association, and now she can’t stand either.

That’s why she decided to move away from California as fast as possible. She graduated high school and booked it, not looking back since. And it was difficult surviving in New York City without any financial support, especially as a college student, but she managed. She worked hard and found a decent apartment.

Or she had thought she found a decent apartment, but there’s ear-shattering Christmas carols playing above her head that cause her to rethink that particular detail.

“You’re kidding me,” she mutters as another starts to play. It’s not even muffled – that’s how loud the music is, and she genuinely doesn’t understand how another person can be so oblivious.

She tries to brush it off for the better part of an hour, assuming that someone else would ask them to shut up, but nothing happens. If anything, it gets worse because the Christmas carols get louder and more unbearable.

An hour finally passes and her willpower fades.

Annabeth tugs on a jacket and slides her feet into the first shoes she sees. She’s vaguely aware of moving around with much more aggression than the situation calls for, but now the person above her seems to have started singing along, and she thinks that violence is the only language this person understands.

It only takes a few seconds of knocking at their door before it swings open. The person she now knows is a guy has a smile on his face that quickly falls when he takes in her own face.

“Hey,” he starts, eyes roaming her face. “Are you okay?”

“Actually, I’m not,” she says. “I think my brain may be hemorrhaging.”

She can see his face morph into confusion. His green eyes actually look a bit concerned for her as he scratches his neck. “What do you mean?”

“Your music is so loud it’s making my brain bleed,” she snaps. “Can you just, you know, have some consideration for those around you and turn it down?”

“My music is too loud?”

“It’s giving me a headache, so I don’t know how you haven’t gone deaf yet.”

“But… they’re Christmas carols.”

“Yeah, I was able to hear that. Because they were loud.” “You don’t like Christmas carols?” He asks it with such passion that she thinks he’ll be seriously offended if she says no.

“I think Christmas carols are a disgrace to humanity.”

He actually gasps, a hand over his heart, but there’s a subtle grin on his face that lets her know he’s only messing with her. “I am so sorry for you.”

Annabeth’s jaw drops slightly. “Sorry for me? I’m sorry that you have horrible music taste.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “You don’t even know me, so how could you possibly know I have bad music taste?”

“I’ve been listening to you blast music for an hour, so trust me when I saw I know.”

He laughs. “Come on, you have to at least give me a chance to prove you wrong.”

“Prove me wrong?”

“To show you I have amazing music taste, and that Christmas carols are the best things to exist.”

She watches as his eyes trace over her, and she can practically sense the approval in his eyes. It makes her heat up just a little bit, and she crosses her arms over herself. “How do you plan on proving that to me?”

“You could come in and I will give you a three hour long monologue about the history of carols and their importance to the Christmas culture.”

She blinks.

“Or you could come in and help me make a gingerbread house while singing Christmas carols with me,” he suggests.

“You’re inviting a stranger into your apartment? What if I were a serial killer?”

“Jokes on you because I don’t have any cereal in my apartment.”

It takes her a moment to get the joke before she snorts at its pure lameness.

“At least let me make up for destroying your brain,” he says, opening the door wider.

“I still don’t know your name.”

“I’m Percy,” he says as though it makes up for everything else.

He’s funny, she decides. “Annabeth.”

He lifts the side of his lips in a lopsided smile. He doesn’t say anything else, simply stepping aside to let her in. She can’t believe she’s actually considering walking into a stranger’s apartment, but then she remembers that he was blasting Christmas carols, so how dangerous could he really be?

She walks inside and the music seems to increase tenfold. He goes to lower the volume from his phone, and it offers immediate relief as the pounding in her eardrums stop.

“Is that better?” he asks.

“The volume is better,” she says, “but the music is still abhorrent.”

“You take that back.”

Annabeth laughs softly as she joins him at the counter. There’s a gingerbread house out and in complete shambles. There is also piped frosting, and it gives her the impression that this is not his first attempt at this.

She looks up at him and finds his eyes already on her. It’s not in a rude way — he seems to be more intrigued by her than anything, and she doesn’t blame him. They’ve lived right next to each other, yet they’ve never met before. She’s just as fascinated by him and his distasteful melodies.

“You wouldn’t happen to be good at gingerbread houses, would you?” he asks, hopeful.

“Actually, I happen to be a competitive gingerbread house maker.”

“Really?”

“I’m an architect,” she tells him, twisting the plate with the house on them. “And I make a mean gingerbread house.”

“Please help me.”

“Why do you even need to make this?”

“I was bored because all my friends went home for Christmas, so I figured why not make a gingerbread house except I can’t get the sides of the house to stick for shit.”

“Enough said.” With that, Annabeth ties her hair up in an impromptu bun, grabbing the frosting from the counter. She truly did not come up to his apartment with any intention other than to make him feel pain for the suffering he’s caused, but then he presented her with this challenge, and she just couldn’t resist.

She certainly didn’t intent on liking it in his apartment either. He’s super kind she learns quickly. He offers her a helping hand and complements her every move, and he’s generally a very inclusive person. He asks her questions about herself and seems to be genuinely interested in her answers. It’s subtle, but in the back of her mind she thinks that she really likes him.

It’s mortifying that it happens in the span of one night, but even the three hours spent with them attempting to piece together a masterpiece (and baking more pieces at Annabeth’s request so that they can recreate a mansion) she finds herself laughing more than she has in months.

“I can’t believe you’re actually this good at making gingerbread houses,” he comments, leaning in close as she pipes an individual icicle onto the roof of it.

“I’m not sure what you expected from an architect.”

“Yeah, but… the person who just happens to come so they can murder me is exactly who I needed. You know what they call that?”

“Coincidence?”

“A Christmas miracle!”

She rolls her eyes, setting the icing down. “I’m only here for the decorating.”

“And because I need to show you that Christmas music is a blessing,” he reminds her. “It’s not possible.”

“It is, actually, because while you’ve been decorating, you’ve also been doing this little dance.

She freezes, just now realizing what she was doing. “I have not.”

“You have,” he says. “It’s cute.”

“I would simply never dance to Christmas music because I hate Christmas.”

“What reason could you possibly have for hating Christmas?”

“I never got to put the star on top of the tree.”

“Is that it?” Percy rolls his eyes. “You can put the star on top of my tree.”

Annabeth’s heart immediately jumps up, and she can’t stop the smile that spreads across her face. It’s so silly, putting a star on top of the tree, but it’s made her so excited for some reason.

“Do you want to?”

“It’s okay,” she says, keeping her voice steady. He smiles softly, grabbing her hand and dragging her away from the kitchen counter. His tree is small in the corner of the living room, and it’s mostly decorated. There is a box of ornaments sitting on a table besides him that lets her know he just hasn’t gotten the chance to finish decorating, and the star is beside it. He picks it up and hands it to her, an amused look on his face.

“Here,” he says.

She crosses her arms. “I’m not doing it if you’re going to laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you!” he assures.

“You’re laughing right now.”

“Because it’s adorable. Come on. Please?”

She gives him a last look before setting the star on top of the tree. It’s a bit taller than her so she has to stand on her toes and lean over it, and he steadies her with a hand on her waist. She takes a step back to look at it. It’s a bit crooked, but as she goes to fix it, he stops her.

“Leave it. It’s perfect.”

“It’s crooked.”

“That’s the point of Christmas! It doesn’t need to be perfect. It’s supposed to be warm and fun and leave you with that fuzzy feeling.”

Annabeth definitely feels that fuzzy feeling, but it’s not from the tree. It’s from the look he’s giving her that makes her face blush.

“You’re not going anywhere for Christmas, are you?”

She glances at him. “No. Why?”

“I just assumed because you said your family wasn’t the best. But I don’t think you should be alone for Christmas.”

“You’re alone for Christmas,” she points out.

“And I was trying to blast music to forget that little fact. It wasn’t working very well, but now you’re here!” She smirks.

“I think you should come over tomorrow so that neither of us have to be alone on Christmas.”

“I don’t want to intrude, Percy.”

“You’ve been here for hours now, and I’ve loved every second of it.” He elbows her lightly. “Come on. We can even make another gingerbread house.”

“I do love making gingerbread houses,” she says with a smile morphing into her face.

“Also I kind of like you.”

“Even if I came here with the intention of yelling at you?”

“To be fair, you did yell at me. I just thought you were cute and invited you in anyways, and you came in so you must also think I’m cute.”

“I think there might be a flaw in your logic there.”

“But am I wrong?”

She doesn’t answer because he’s not wrong. He’s sweeter than frosting, and he’s looking at her with such adoration that she really doesn’t want to leave and be alone on Christmas. Now she doesn’t have to.

“I’ll stay,” she playfully concedes, “if you really want me to.”

“I do.”

“But only on two conditions,” she says.

“And what are those conditions?”

“One, you have to put on some good Christmas music.” “What do you mean good Christmas music!”

“And two,” she starts, laughing at his bewildered expression, “Kiss me.”

That gets him to laugh, throwing his head back. “A kiss?”

“A kiss,” she confirms. “After all, you think I’m ‘cute.’”

His fingers curl around her waist. “You’re very cute. My cute neighbor.”

“And if you kiss me, then… maybe it can be more than just a cute neighbor.”

She knows she’s pushing her luck, but she’s always been good at reading people, and she can read him. She knows he feels the same thing she is. His eyes burn bright.

“If you say so,” he whispers, pulling her in and kissing her hard. It takes her breath away, and she wonders how she’s missed someone right in front of her.

Hours earlier, she’d been upset that he was playing music so loud, but now…

She’d never tell him, but she thinks she might like Christmas carols.

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Drowning 6 pretttttry please. Your writing is amazing, honest to god. Wish I had your talent. Keep writing!!!!

Thank you for the ask and lovely message ❤

Drowning Part 6

Masterlist

This one is a tad different that the other parts, some segments are in from Supervillain's POV which are very vague because they are meant have an altered state feel to them. You also learn a lot about Villain and Hero's past in this one.

@shydragonrider @asrasmysoulmate

Warnings: unreality, wheelchair, schizophrenia, elecric shocking, hallucinations, hate towards another, possessiveness, restraints, drugged whumpee, sick whumpee

~

Supervillain emerged from whatever fluid contraption held him in place. His body went numb, pins and needles filling every limb, every muscle like wildfire.

But, nearly as quick as he broke the surface, he fell back in...

Falling...

Falling...

Falling...

His body seized up, a ringing in his ears... then he hit solid ground, his body going slack. Nearly immediately, he felt conscious of the tubes and moniters embellishing him like ornaments and garland on a Christmas tree.

His lead-filled mouth yanked open on its own free will, trying to force a scream out, but his tongue only managed a hoarse whimper.

He jerked his head about, finding it laid nearly on a pillow, but another trap locked his head in. He clenched his hands, but his body was already falling back into the sea- all feeling washed away by the waves.

Sand. He felt sand in his body, dehydrating and numbing, as consciousness was snatched away from him once again. The tubes faded, as did the traps- leaving Supervillain with an empty void.

He had a sense, but couldn't remember what happened in brief moments of waking like this. He hardly recognized the difference between unconsciousness and consciousness and if he did, it wouldn't matter. He never could escape. Never could escape the agonizing water in and around his body.

All he could do was fall.

Fall back into the water.

《~~》

"Mistakes are always forgivable, if one has the courage to admit them," a voice spoke. Hero had given up on trying to tell apart the various differences between the countless heroes and doctors that spoke to her on a daily basis. Trying to just intoxicated her mind with a weird feeling of displeasure and annoyance that couldn't be placed. It was right in between her eyebrows, where she would have a unibrow if she didn't wax it all the time in highschool.

"Do you know who wrote that quote, Hero? Hmm?"

Hero didn't respond. Why would she? It gave her no clearance, no escape, no epic prison break that one may expect from such a person of stengths and wits. She just sat there, limbs tied to the ground by unrelenting steel, her head angled to watch the suffering man on the bed slowly fade away with persistent illness and everyday drugs.

"Bruce Lee," the speaker answered the question after quickly realizing that Hero wasn't going to.

Hero tuned out of the conversation, leaving it as background noise as she studied the scene in front of her. Supervillain was hooked up so many moniters, it was as if he was in a coma. Hero twitched her jaw. Maybe he was. The ventilation and feeding tube stuck all the way down his nose and mouth, opening it forcibly, definitely made that thought come alive.

Hero did this a lot, zoning out whenever someone tried to talk to her. Her once vibrant personality and optimism was dampered, replaced by a dull depression. Even Villain, who watched Hero daily, was getting nervous of this rapid decline in attitude- not that Hero knew of her betrayer's thoughts and emotions. To her, in this foggy hole of misery, Villain was an outcasted shadow, adding depth to the painting, but never a main topic. Heck, if she didn't concentrate, she didn't even see the light shade on the white surface.

There was only Supervillain.

But even that has changed, and not just in the extra moniters and tubes, but her whole aspect of him. He was the cause of her pain, he was the cause of the insufferable cloud that ascended over her.

There was no fondness in the way she viewed him anymore, just resentment. The deepest kind of resentment that could also be described as despising.

But even that was an understatement.

One day, a movement drew Hero out of her hate-filled thoughts and back into reality. It was Villain, playing with something by her wrist.

"Back off," she snarled, her voice sounding unnaturally deep and cracky.

"And so she speaks." The glint in his eyes revealed the sarcasm that his monotonous voice hid. "How are you Hero?"

Hero snarled, raising her lips in an animalistic manner, but didn't reply. Once her wrist was let go, the unused muscles allowed it to flop aimlessly against her equally thining thigh. She was fed yes, a vile piece of bland, moist garbage that gave her body its much needed vitamins, minerals, and nutrients, but lack of use degraded the once hefty muscle.

Villain worked on each of the restraints. Each arm fell limp as her legs splayed out, thankful for the break from the locked position they were kept in. When her head was let free, it flopped, her neck unable to keep it up.

Villain steadied her, putting his hand unceremoniously against the base of her neck. Hero squirmed, aware of her vulnerability.

"The door with the exit sign is unlocked," he whispered, so close to her ear that Hero cringed.

At first, her brain using its old habit, began to block out his words, but suddenly stopped and rewinded, shoving them back to the front of her mind.

Unlocked...

She could get out.

Villain helped her into a nearby wheelchair and was about to wheel her away when a strand of her empathetic nature fought against the newfound distant demeanor.

"What 'bout Supervillain?" She asked, her voice a weak whisper.

"This is for you," Villain replied casually grinning down at Hero, happy that she was back to somewhat normal.

Hero sunk into the plushy cushioning of the seat and looked at Supervillain's still figure and snarled. Ha, he didn't get to leave. She did. She got to escape the inhumane confines that kept her bound up like a trapped goat.

He didn't. He could now pay for his crimes.

Yet, as stubborn as this thoughts of retribution sounded, they weren't. That sympathizing portion of her protested against the new arrangement. And, being the stronger of the two opposites, it left her tongue in forms of coherent words.

"I won't leave him," she said, her heart bursting. Whether the internal explosion was due to anticipation or exaltation, it don't matter. It felt natural, like herself.

"You really don't have a choice."

"Why do you want me free?" Hero asked.

"This place is the definition of boring."

Hero was silent and contemplated Villain's statement. He really didn't care about her levels of bore and joy, never did. Any interaction or any relationship that the two once cherished was borne of platonic care of the other's well-being. Nothing too deep, and barely held any real intent. Are you alive? Are you dead? Were the only two questions that brought along any vowels of conversing.

It was weird, abnormal. Hero might've even went as far as to say suspicious.

But it was also promising. Very, very promising. It held the possibility of freedom that the chair did not.

But he was Villain. He did not have one ounce of good will or honesty in his cold veins. He was a liar, a cheat, and as much as she would've loved to call them friends, it was close to impossible. They couldn't build a relationship off of trickery as much as the two once wanted to.

This was a scheme, a lie, to get to Hero and make her mess up. Mess up and then she gets hurt.

Or worse, Supervillain does.

That thought stood out from the rush of others in her brain for it held an interesting style to it. As close as she was to the old Hero and away from the shadow that "choosing who gets hurt" made her into, she wasn't it yet.

Not yet.

"Boring, but I am alive," Hero retorted, rolling her eyes as well as the stiff rectus muscles in her eyes allowed.

"That is otherwise obvious." Villain placed a hand on the barred door that only purpose served as an aesthetic.

"Yeah, in a way I suppose, but Supervillain isn't."

"He's breathing."

"He sleeps all day and when he does manage to wake, he passes out almost immediately. I need to stay with him!"

"You do nothing but glare daggers at him. You are released dear."

"No, you are not helping me escape from this damn place!"

Villain was silent, paused in the motion of pushing the door open.

"Amidst your utter hate for him, you still have the decency to protect him; Hero there is nothing to protect. With one simple flick of a switch, he is dead," Villain pointed out, turning to Hero with tears in his icy blue eyes that Hero once found gloriously gorgeous. Ones that she used to gaze into as they fought, unable to tear herself away. She lost many fights that way by being too distracted to actually land a punch.

But the innocence of that gaze was really just hiding the fact that Villain was a scandalous bastard- only giving half-truths and fake emotions about everything.

"Then why do you give him the serum. You guys know that I won't hurt those civilians," Hero pointed out with a shrug.

Villaim remained silent and wheeled Hero out of the room.

《~~》

Supervillain seemed to always arouse when the nurses swarmed him to administer the vile liquid that plagued his veins with nauseating adrenaline. He felt the hot- not warm, but scorching hot- drug enter his veins.

But it wasn't the beginning, the actual pain of the procedure, that caused Supervillain his horrifying misery. It was afterwards and he wasn't thinking of the dizzying fatigue that usually pushed him into another deep sleep, but the memories it brought.

Some were nostalgic, others taut with grief. Others held regret while some even had remnants of agonizing torture he once endured.

Or gave.

But they were never happy, nor comforting to any degree.

So, when a reverie of kind touch swarmed Supervillain's sensations, his lethargic heart started to pump in rocket speed, motorizing the boat to accelerate...

"Go to sleep."

Hero's voice. One that brought him so much comfort. Hands scratched at his scalp and he felt his heavy eyelids drop.

"I'll be hear when you wake up," Hero lulled, humming softly as the sweet scent of vanilla hit Supervillain's scent receptors. He smiled, the tiniest of grins and nuzzled his nose into her warm, fleece sweater.

But, even delirous as he was, in the back of his head, Supervillain knew this was a vision. A hallucination. The model of schizophrenia that the drug brought upon his mind.

But it was just so real.

So he gave in, purposely allowing himself to be washed away by the unreality of the dream.

Because he loved it. He loved the touch as if it was actually real.

A warm figure slid next to his body wrapping its- her- arms around his shivering body. Phony yes, it gave stability as the fatigue pushed itself to its maximum.

As consciousness dripped away, Supervillain hummed slightly, happy with the feeling.

《~~》

Hero's hand buzzed over the door, considering the possibilities of opening it, but in the end, she blatantly refused.

"No," she said, her old self returning. "I am not going to leave Supervillain."

Villain's eyes widened, chin shaking.

"You care for him?" He asked, voice slightly elevated like a flute's pitch. Such a change from the droning audibles that usually slugged off his tongue. "Like actually."

Hero's brows crunched together as she read Villain's new face expressions. Blond hair draped down to his pointed eyebrows where it slightly curled. Tears seemed to well in his azure eyes.

"Are you crying?" Hero asked, scoffing, but in reality, she cared.

Cared a whole bunch.

"It's just," Villain stepped forward, leaning down and resting his hand on Hero's shoulder. His other hand balanced delicately against the holster of whatever weapon he carried.

Suddenly, without warning, his hand shot up and an bolt of electricity flashed through her body. Hero fell forward, screaming and withering on the floor.

Villain leaned forward, breath warm against her sweaty cheek. "You are mine Hero. I won't ever let you hold, or care for Supervillain again," he growled, bringing thr taser back to Hero's neck. "Goodnight, my love."

The electric shock came again, and the world descended into blackness.

[cinnonym]

last christmas (i gave you my heart)

Written for Day 4 - Food & Drink of 12 Days of Supercorp @supercorpbb

Read on AO3

Fifteen years on Earth and Kara still failed to understand human customs sometimes.

In her defence, some of them made very little sense.

Like, road traffic regulations? A mystery. (And even though Kara had a license –  had, in fact, fought very hard to get it in the first place and then keep it in many, many other occasions – she was secretly more than relieved that Supergirl didn’t have to abide by red lights.)

But, as much as she’d hated to learn them by heart, at least traffic followed rules. Actual, written, publicly available rules that, for the most part, evaded ambiguity.

The same could not be said for dating. And therein, unfortunately, lay the problem.

See, Kara’s intentions with the dinner invitation had been as pure as could be. (Which, considering it was Lena they were talking about, might translate to “not quite 100% pure” because, like, have you seen Lena? You didn’t invite someone like that over without secretly dreaming about maybe kissing her a little, platonically.)

So anyway, she’d invited Lena for dinner. And it happened to be Christmas, like, the evening they decided on. Because for one, Kara’d meant for Lena to meet Eliza for ages, and also the thought of Lena celebrating Christmas alone in her spacious and endlessly empty apartment made Kara’s stomach cramp into a nauseous lump.

Once issued, Kara hadn’t paid the invitation much thought beyond the routine “Does this dress make my boobs look flat and why do I care” worries that accompanied every meeting with Lena. Oh, and maybe she had been counting the days a little, but like, that was just what people did for Christmas. That was why advent calendars existed (an earthly custom Kara’d always been delighted about).

But in any case, preparations had run smoothly. It was only when the doorbell rang, at 6 pm on the dot just like Kara’d expected, that trouble started looming ahead.

Because Eliza reacted with a “This must be your girlfriend.”

Because Alex rolled her eyes and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “you really should have told me.”

Most of all because Lena greeted Kara with a kiss on her cheek.

(To clarify: the kiss wasn’t the problem. In fact, it was so very much not the problem that it almost became the problem again, because Kara’s body responded so violently to the soft press of Lena’s lips to her skin that she all but forgot about the brief confusion as to why things were happening as they were happening. A grave mistake on her part, as it turned out.)

And then dinner was served. Kara felt vaguely aware that she was smiling maybe a tad too widely through the entrée and first toast (“to expanding our family” from Eliza, if Kara remembered correctly – she’d been distracted by Lena’s soft blush at the words), but since she couldn’t have stopped if she’d tried, she figured it was okay.

Besides, Eliza was beaming too, Lena’s lips were permanently curved into a little smirk that was one of Kara’s favourite expressions on her, and Alex…

Well, Alex was frowning, for the most part.

And in hindsight, that really should have been clue number two.

(Or three, considering that there were a million other second clues happening simultaneously. Like Eliza asking an endless string of questions, starting at “Where did you meet” and ranging up to “Who did ask whom out?” Like Lena finding Kara’s gaze and holding it while answering “depends on who you ask, I suppose” before Kara could ask if Eliza was talking about lunch or what. Like Lena’s foot brushing against hers under the table and then, instead of moving away, just staying there, lightly resting against Kara’s. Kara would like to plead that particular circumstance as an excuse for not catching on sooner.)

It took until dessert.

Dessert until Eliza’s bottomless well of seemingly arbitrary questions was exhausted and her eyes, which had been going back and forth between Kara and Lena with sparkling intrigue, settled on a sort of satisfied shine.

Dessert until Lena’s hand had moved from the table to the backrest of Kara’s chair and down to the small of Kara’s back, where it now rested with a casualness that made neurons in Kara’s brain short-circuit.

Dessert until Alex had finally had enough to drink to stop glaring and – much to Kara’s surprise and absolute horror – start sharing anecdotes about how “Kara’s always liked Lena” and how she “should have known this was coming”.

And, like, Kara’d been in a haze ever since Lena’s lips had connected with her cheek, but even she noticed that this was going somewhere in the direction of downhill. Fast.

Before she could protest, however, before she could sit up straight and avoid Lena’s eyes as she denied the truth in these stories, denied she’d ever thought about Lena like that, denied she’d ever woken up with the shadow of Lena’s name still on her tongue, Lena spoke up.

“I have to admit,” she said, her tone so calm that a treacherous hope somewhere in the back of Kara’s head sets fire to all her lies, “that unlike Alex, I was surprised to receive Kara’s invitation the other day. It’s quite the first step, as first steps go, but I am glad for it. It probably would have taken us years to get to this level of intimacy if we’d chosen the conventional way. In fact, who knows if we’d ever moved beyond the friend zone. I, for one, would have never dared to confess my feelings if I hadn’t been 100% sure that they were reciprocated. So,” she lifted her glass, and pinned Kara down with a stare that seemed to say everything at once, “here’s to the courage to grand gestures.”

And while Eliza and Alex toasted back, Kara’s world shattered.

(But like, in a good way.)

***

Sixteen years on Earth and Kara still fails to understand human customs sometimes.

Dating, for example. A mystery. Especially because there are no written rules to it, no actual guidelines that can be read up on if you for example aren’t sure whether celebrating Christmas together counts as a love confession.

(And even if a rule book does exist, dating seems to be a horribly ambiguous matter, in which you coucanld never be sure how the people around you understand or misunderstand your intentions. Or misunderstand them in a way that was already understanding them again. Or even understanding them so well that they can actively pretend misunderstanding them, only so you can understand them yourself.)

In other news, Lena invited Kara to dinner today. It is their first year anniversary.

It also happens to be Christmas.

[harlot-of-oblivion]

Your Wildest Dreams

Merry Christmas, @shiranyaaww!!! 🌹🎄🌹 Tis I! You’re local harlot and Secret Santa from @dmcsecretsanta! Hope your enjoy the sweet and spicy goodness! 😘

Rating: Explicit 

Abandon all pants ye who reads below the cut!

“It seems my little butterfly has revealed her beautiful wings to me.”

You shiver at the tone of his sensuous voice while your body flushes under his intense gaze. Your arms begin to fidget as you fight the urge to cover yourself, wanting to show the spark of brazen hidden within your bashful soul. 

After all, you and Vergil have been seeing each other romantically for a while now. But you haven’t been very intimate with him yet...just some chaste kisses here and there with the occasional hand holding whenever he’s feeling comfortable. And you don’t mind taking the relationship slow; it’s nice dating someone who respects your boundaries and doesn’t judge your demure nature.

And now, you want to take your relationship to the next level, but every time you think to mention it you suddenly feel too anxious to speak up. 

Which is why you decided to let your body do the talking right after he escorted you back to your home. You were hoping the subject just might pop up after a few heated kisses, but when he breaks away to get a couple of glasses and some wine from your kitchen...you seize the chance to really say what’s on your mind by stripping off your evening dress.

You didn’t plan on revealing your sheer and lacy lingerie so soon, nor did you expect to take a more direct approach. And you almost lose your nerve when he comes back, wondering if you should cut and run as his eyes widen in surprise at your scanty wardrobe. 

But the amorous look on his usually stoic face along with his flattering observation tells you that he definitely got your message loud and clear. 

Vergil remains silent as he slowly stalks towards you with desirous intent. You hold your hands behind your back, showing off the blue bralette hugging your breasts while pushing all your worries aside. His silver blue eyes flicker down while a husky growl emits from his throat, making you tremble under his blatant gaze as he admires your petite form. 

He sets the bottle of wine and glasses down along the way, long forgotten now as he stands before you. His body heat gently warms your exposed skin while the scent of mint and cedarwood makes you giddy with lust. It grows quiet as he studies you closely, smirking a little as you crane your neck up to meet his inquiring eyes. 

“Are you sure?” he asks softly, reaching up to cup your cheek with his tender touch.

Your heart beats nervously as you try to speak, but your voice gets stuck in your throat. The only response you can muster is a shy nod of your head. 

Vergil gives you a patient smile as he lowers his head, tilting your face up before resting his forehead atop your brow. His ardent gaze bores into you while the breath of his gentle command brushes across your parted mouth. 

“Let me hear it from your sweet lips.”

You softly gasp at the request while your hands swing around from behind your back. You work up the courage to comply as you grab the lapels of his fine dining jacket, whispering your desire for the handsome devil before you. 

“Make love to me, Vergil.”

A small yip of surprise escapes your throat when his lips come crashing down upon your own. You softly moan and lean into his gentle yet firm kiss as he slowly wraps his arms around your waist. He lingers over your mouth for a moment, letting out a pleased hum when you nibble on his bottom lip. Then, he parts your mouth before sweeping in with his eager tongue. 

You feel yourself getting lost in the passionate kiss, following what your heart and body wants while pulling yourself closer to his body. Your arms slide up and around his neck, barely noticing when he lifts you up into his embrace. He prompts you to wrap your legs around his waist before whisking you away towards your bedroom. 

Vergil sits you down on the foot of the bed, breaking away from your lips to remove his coat. You watch him throw it on a nearby chair while moving further up the bed, never tearing your hungry gaze away as he unbuttons his dress shirt. His lips curl into a knowing smirk as the shirt slides off his shoulders, giving you a good view of his lean and sturdy chest. 

“You truly are a vision in blue lace,” he murmurs, praising your choice of lingerie while his eyes openly roam your body.

Your flushed cheeks grow hot at the compliment while your heart thrums in excitement. “And your beauty,” he continues as he slowly crawls over your dainty form. “So delicate…” he trails off while pressing a soft kiss against your brow. 

“Like the wings of a bewitching butterfly.” 

You whimper as his flattering words caress your skin. Vergil captures your lips once more as he carefully enfolds you within his arms. His husky grunts mingle with your sensual moans as he utterly consumes you, drinking you in like a starved devil. Both of your legs intertwine as you let him take the lead, giving him your heart and complete trust. 

Vergil gently pulls away from your gasping mouth and turns his attention elsewhere. He kisses a trail down your neck, leisurely asking if his touches feel good in between soft lovebites. You try nodding your head, but you quickly learn that he won’t move on unless he hears your approval. This goes on until he comes face to face with your cleavage, nuzzling his nose along the blue lacy fabric of your bralette before looking up at you. 

“May I?” he asks with a sensuous whisper while grazing your skin just below the hem with his fingertips. 

You bite your lip and start to feel bashful again, but he calmly awaits your answer while soothing you with a gentle kiss atop your hand. Your heart flutters at the caring gesture, and only after taking a couple calming breaths do you feel ready for the next step.  

“Yes,” you murmur, lifting yourself up off the bed a little as his hands slide under the bralette. 

Vergil slips the scrap of fine fabric over your head, tossing it aside as he quietly stares at your bare breasts. You shyly look away while folding your arms beneath your bosom, pushing them up slightly as you glance back with a coy smile. The faint blush coloring his cheeks let you know that you’ve successfully tempted the devil as he moves back in with a guttural growl. 

He takes his time exploring again, lavishing your breasts with searing wet kisses in between the same whispered question: 

“May I kiss you here?”

And you mumble the same reply between desperate cries and elated moans:

“Yes, please!”

This sweet ritual of mutual consent descends further down your body. You lift your bottom up off the bed as he drags your lacy blue panties down your legs. He brings the soaking wet gusset up to his face and takes a deep breath through his nose. Your whole body flushes with fervid desire as you watch him take pleasure in your aroused scent, groaning in ecstasy while pinning you down with his fierce gaze. 

You shiver at the intensity of his stare, but you still manage to invite him back by spreading your legs. Vergil tosses the soiled panties over his shoulder with an impatient huff before slinking towards you. He carries on with the ritual between your open legs, fervently kissing his way up past your knees. Your body quivers in pleasure as he softly bites your innermost thigh, gently sucking until your whimpering for more. 

“Oh, my lovely butterfly,” he murmurs adoringly, making your heart soar while his hot breath blows against your slick sex.  

“May I taste your sweet nectar?”

Your eyes widen at his naughty request. You look down in disbelief, but his captivating gaze instantly tells you that he really wants to… 

You feel yourself getting wetter as you wiggle your hips at the thought. He remains absolutely still between your legs, patiently waiting for your response with a wicked smirk on his lips. You take another deep breath before giving him a slight nod of your head. 

“Yes, my love.” 

Vergil softly growls as unbridled desire ignites within his smoldering eyes. You watch him move in even closer, tickling your thighs with his silver white hair. The soft giggle that bubbles up your throat turns into a choked gasp when you feel his questing tongue. He slowly laps along the length of your slit, giving you plenty of time to adjust before sucking your delicate bud.  

You keen and roll your eyes back, swaying your head on the pillows as he indulges both of your needs and desires. The room is soon filled with the sounds of your delirious moans with the occasional greedy grunt from your devilish lover. A thrilling tingle starts to build up in your belly as you steadily approach the highest peak of your pleasure. You bury one of your hands into his slicked back hair, feeling yourself teetering on the edge while your other hand wrings the bedcover beneath you.

Vergil hums as he reaches up and grasps your clenched fist, coaxing you to open your hand so that he can lace your fingers together. This tender gesture along with his deft tongue finally has you coming undone with a rapturous cry. You pull on his hair as intense pleasure flutters through you, sweeping you away on the winds of delight while holding his hand in a tight grip.

It feels like an eternity has passed when you finally come back to your senses. You’re vaguely aware of him withdrawing from between your legs. The distinct sound of a zipper quickly clears your dazed mind as you turn your head towards the end of the bed. You let out a weak whimper as the delicious sight of Vergil lazily stroking his cock greets your wandering eyes. He meets your heady stare before asking one last time with a lustful purr:

“May I make love to you now?”  

His final request rekindles your desire as you answer with a desperate cry: 

“I wanna feel you inside me!”

Vergil groans at your shameless response before pouncing on top of you. He seizes your lips with a fiery kiss while your arms encircle his neck. Both of your tongues clash against each other as he lifts your legs up before wrapping them around his hips. Then, he reaches down and adjusts his length before pressing the tip against your aching sex.

You relax and brace yourself as he gently sheathes every inch of his cock within your wet and velvety heat. He pauses for a moment, watching for any sign of discomfort before thrusting his hips at a leisurely pace. Your loving gaze never strays from his affectionate stare as both of you revel in each other’s pleasure.  

Your blissful sighs gradually turn into euphoric moans as his hips drive into you faster and faster. His brow furrows in concentration as he shifts your legs further up his waist, making you whine helplessly as his cock hits your sweet spot over and over. It doesn’t take you long to reach the precipice again, begging him to join you with a whispered plea:

“Please...come inside me, my love!” 

Vergil roars as your silken sex flutters around his cock, softly milking every drop of his seed as both of you come in each other’s embrace. His demanding tongue devours every ravished cry that spills from your lips, grunting with every stroke as he prolongs both of your pleasure. The sight, the smell, the sound of this moment...you never want it to end! 

But eventually, both of you drift back down to the waking world to bask in the afterglow together. You whisper your love and adoration for the devil that stole your heart while Vergil softly sings your praises with a gentle smile. Then, he fetches a damp washcloth and cleans you up before pulling you into his protective embrace beneath the covers. And as the rhythm of his soft heartbeat lulls you to sleep, you feel certain of one thing after this night:

Never in your wildest dreams have you ever felt so loved.