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polaroidpascal · 2 days ago

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i saw frankie kissing santa claus || joel & frankie

AO3 || MASTERLIST

pairing : joel x f!reader x frankie morales

summary : after everyone leaves your house for a holiday party, you find one straggler left behind -or- you catch frankie kissing santa claus joel

tags : M-18+, no use of y/n, everyone in this fic is bi bc i am too and i said so, joel in a santa suit, reader and joel have a little (big) crush on frankie boy, handjob, blowjob(s), face sitting, multiple orgasms for reader, orgasm denial, lots and lots of leaking (from all of them. im sorry.), one in the mouth one down south, sizes mentioned, cum eating, creampie, aftercare bc its essential and they are softies!!!

WC : 6k

a/n : merry christmas to everyone who celebrates!! six months since ive written anything at all and now i'm back with a christmas special LMFAO 😭 honestly, life has been a hectic hell since i last posted and i'm really happy i was able to actually finish something i started to end out the year �� i hope everyone has a wonderful holiday season, and i hope i won't be as much of a stranger as i have been lately!! hope you enjoy this!! <3

“Oh, come on, Joel! People are gonna love it!”

“I am not putting it on, end of discussion, “ he said. You huffed a sigh and plopped down on the couch, Santa hat and suit in hand draping over your legs.

For as long as you had been seeing Joel, you’d begged and begged for him to let you plan one of his company holiday parties only for him to tell you that he’d rather just treat the guys to a night at a nice bar. He’d always let you come along, of course, feeding you whatever fruity little cocktails you asked for to pass the night along.

Last year was… something else. That summer, the company was absolutely swamped with projects, meaning Tommy and Joel had to hire some more help to keep up. One of the new hires, Francisco, “Frankie” for short, outshone all of his peers. He was effortlessly helpful in ways Tommy and Joel hadn’t even intended him to be. Just in the 6 months he had been with the company, he had already (rightfully) climbed a little higher up the ladder to help with the more important decisions rather than just being an extra set of hands on site.

Every now and then, Joel would tell you something else about Frankie that made your heart flutter with gratitude that the extra help was finally letting off some stress that he always seemed to carry. When August had rolled around, the Texas heat reached an all-time high. One particularly hot day, you suggested that Joel invite Frankie over to swim and barbecue so you could finally meet him.

He was a big man, just like Joel. Sturdy frame and tanned skin, and the sweetest manners a man could have, greeting you with a gentle handshake and a kindly playful, “It’s nice to meet you, Joel’s always talking about you.”

You spent the day in the sun and shade, sipping drinks and dipping into the cold water to stave off some of the brutal heat. The backyard filled with laughter all afternoon until the sun had finally set, the last hoorah of golden rays draining from the sky.

“So—“ Joel grunted, settling in bed with you as you curled into his side, “what’d you think of Frankie?”

“He’s great,” you hummed with a smile, settling into Joel’s post-shower warmth. “I can see why you like him so much, he seems exactly like how you always talked about him.”

“Yeah, he’s… he’s somethin’. Ain’t like the other guys. Don’t have to tell him more ‘an once to do somethin’…”

You look up and see Joel staring into space, a glimmer of something else in his eye as he zones out.

A smirk slides into your cheek. “Mhm… kinda pretty too,” you tease.

“Huh?”

“He’s kinda… pretty. I don’t know.”

A ghost of a blush threatens to bloom across Joel’s chest as he shifts a bit underneath you. “Think he’s pretty, huh?”

“Well, yeah. Anyone with eyes can see that,” you giggle, propping up on one arm to fully face him. “Do you think he’s pretty?”

Joel stops, that once threatening blush beginning to spread a little more, a little darker. “Wh—?”

“Do you think Frankie is pretty?”

“Is this some sort of test or somethin’?”

“No, not a test. I just… you do realize you’ve been talking about him for months?”

“Well, he’s done real good for the company. Jus’ happy not to be so stressed all th’ time. You sure have been enjoying it.”

You chuckle and shake your head. “Well, yes. But that’s not my point. Been talking about him for months and he had you laughing all afternoon today.”

“That ain’t fair, he had you laughing too. Matter of fact, them little shrieks could’a woke up a bear in hibernation,” he joked, poking at your ticklish spots and making you recreate those shrieks of giggles from earlier.

“Stop, stop! I get it!” you said between laughs. “Jesus…” You settled back into his arms pulling the covers over the two of you some more. “Doesn’t answer my question, though.” Joel hums and pulls you somehow closer and you get comfortable in his grip, feeling sleep start to claim your mind. “Do you?” you ask, voice dripping with fatigue.

“Do I what?”

“Think Frankie’s pretty?”

You feel him huff and shake his head, then you hear the smile in his voice, “Yeah… yeah, I do.”

You fell asleep that night with a smile.

—

“Bet you Frankie would like it if you got a little festive,” you pouted under your breath, just above barely audible, just where he would have to ask you—

“What was that?”

“I said I bet you Frankie would like it if you got a little festive.”

“‘S that so? And what makes you think I’d wanna put it on just to impress him, hm?”

“N— nothing… Please, put on the suit, Joel?” you beg, donning your biggest puppy eyes you can manage. “The whole house is already decorated. Everyone’s gonna love it. If anyone gives you shit, I’ll show them what’s up. But I promise they’re gonna love it. Pleeeeease?”

Joel stands, silent, crossing his arms and chewing his cheek, thinking.

A beat passes, then another beat, your relentless begging gaze boring holes into his heart.

He sighs. “Gimme the suit,” he says and extends a hand.

“Really? Really, Joel?”

“Gimme the suit ‘fore I change my mind,” he says, fighting the smile curing at the corners of his mouth.

—

You were right, the suit was a fucking hit.

Every one of Joel’s employees that walked in was enthusiastically shocked that the old man would get into the spirit, patting him on the back and hyping him up the whole night. Each reaction made you giggle as you greeted them all and showed them into the house.

Tommy was probably the most surprised of them all, giving his big brother so much shit about dressing up, but Joel just laughed it off and shoved his brother in the house.

Not long after Tommy arrived, the doorbell rang again. “I’ll get it!” you told Joel and made your way to the door.

It was Frankie, dressed in his nicest sweater and least damaged pair of jeans, still wearing that baseball cap he was never seen without, holding a bottle of wine with a ribbon tied around it.

“Frankie!” you exclaimed, extending your arms for a hug.

“Hi! Sorry I’m late, the traffic was horrible.”

“It’s okay, Tommy just showed up and he doesn’t have an excuse at all.”

Frankie laughs and remembers the bottle in his hands. “Oh, this is for you and Joel.” He hands it over with a smile.

“Oh, Frankie… you didn’t have to get us anything!”

“Consider it my thanks for all the hospitality,” he says.

“Well, thank you for the wine. Come in!”

There’s no need for a tour with him, having already been to your house countless times before this. When he rounds the corner into the kitchen, he nearly trips over his own feet seeing Joel.

“Oh yeah, forgot to mention that,” you said, poorly hiding the giggle bubbling up in your throat.

“Hi, Frankie,” Joel says, shyly raising an arm to wave.

“Hey-y-y,” Frankie giggles, waving back with one arm and holding his stomach with the other, almost doubled over in laughter.

The party plays out better than you even thought it would, the warm, bass-y tones of laughter filling the space of your home as everyone mingles and eats and drinks. Minutes easily turn to hours effortlessly dragging the night along. The later it gets, the more people slowly filter out returning back to their homes. You walk Tommy out to his girlfriend, Maria’s car, whom you called about half an hour earlier when you overheard him tell someone one more wouldn’t hurt.

As you close the door and turn back to the house, surprisingly very neat for having just hosted a party of contractors, it’s… eerily quiet. You expected Joel to be just behind you waiting to come back inside so he could whisk you off to bed. But he was nowhere to be found.

You creep back through the house, not seeing him anywhere. You round the corner to the living room and…

You thought everyone had left. But, you guess the last to arrive ended up being the last to leave as well.

You see Frankie and Joel sitting on the couch, Joel lounging as normal, still decked in his Santa gear, and Frankie sitting sideways facing him, one hand cupped on Joel’s jaw, kissing him so slow, so gently… so intoxicatingly beautiful.

You stay in the door frame for a minute watching the two make out on the couch, hearing the tiniest little grunts and groans from each of them. A fire ignites in your belly and quickly grows before you clear your throat to break the silence.

Frankie leaps back, starting to fumble his words and blushing bright red almost immediately. You look at Joel who looks calm and collected as ever, if not just a little dazed and blissed from the kissing he was just doing.

“I-I— um— we— I—“

“It’s okay, I’m not mad,” you say gently, convincingly as you can.

Frankie must have mastered the puppy eye look just as you had and was using them on you now. “Y-you’re… not?”

You chuckle. “No. Furthest from it, really.”

“Told you she’d be okay with it,” Joel pipes up, tugging him closer on the couch.

You inch closer into the room. “We, um… I think Joel and I have a… confession to make.” Frankie watches with big, curious eyes as you make your way to sit on Joel’s other side. “Joel… how can I put it… Joel has a little bit of a… crush on you, I’d say.”

“Now hang on one minute—“

“Thinks you’re an excellent worker, wouldn’t stop talking about you for months.”

“You’re the one that said to bring him over in the first place!” Joel argues.

“That’s true. Just wanted to see the guy responsible for helping you out so much… Remember that first time you came over?”

Frankie nods, still watching as curious as ever.

“Well… y’know what? You should tell him what you said, Joel.”

“Huh?”

“Y’know… about how you think he’s real pretty and all…”

You see Frankie shift a little out of the corner of your eye, barely causing a ripple in the couch attempting to hide the movement.

“If I remember correctly… you’re the one that said that first.”

Your cheeks grow a little hot at the admission. “But you agreed with me.”

“Well, ‘cause I do. Think he’s pretty.”

You finally glance back at Frankie whose blushing cheeks are bright red at this point. “All that to say… I think we both have a bit of a liking for you, Frankie.”

“Yeah?” he asks, completely unsure how he ended up here, but eternally grateful for it.

“Yeah. Is that… are you okay with that?”

“Shit... y-yeah— yes. Yes, I am,” he says, trying to keep a grasp on whatever composure he has left.

You smile back at him. “Good. Joel, you wanna show him to our room, then?”

“It’d be my pleasure,” he says, taking Frankie’s hand and giving it a kiss before leading him down the hall.

The three of you glide down the hall, the tension pouring out of your pores and making the air hotter, thicker, as you cross the threshold of the bedroom.

Joel leads Frankie to the edge of the bed, letting him sit and leaning in to give him a sweet, deep kiss to his plush lips. They both groan into it, savoring the softness of the other’s skin.

“Mmm… you should try, baby. He’s a real good kisser,” Joel offers.

You sit right next to Frankie, cupping his cheek to turn his face to you and kiss him.

Joel’s right, too. He is a good kisser. His velvet soft lips part when his tongue darts out to taste yours, a small whimper slipping from his throat as your mouths dance together, getting to know one another, melting into one. Frankie reaches up to grab your face, willing your mouth closer into him and your body follows, all but climbing into his lap to taste more, more, more as his hands trail up your body under your shirt and up to your chest—

The kiss is only broken when Frankie moans into your mouth, looking away from you with a hooded stare as he finishes yanking off your shirt. You follow his gaze to the floor just between his legs where Joel has sunk to the floor, palming Frankie over his jeans.

“Tha’s gotta be uncomfortable, hm?” he asks, giving his bulge another gentle squeeze. Frankie grunts and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to control his breathing and the slow leak threatening to ruin his pants. “Keep kissing him, angel. Gonna take care’a this.”

Joel’s hand slides up Frankie’s torso, slowly coaxing him to lay flat on the bed. You chase him with your mouth listening to each tiny gasp that leaves his lips as Joel gets to work with his pants.

The clink of his belt… the hum of a zipper… the tiny shimmy of Frankie’s hips as Joel slides his boxer briefs down his legs, stopping mid-thigh and running his hands back up to his hips.

“Jesus christ…” you hear him whisper, admiring the almost fully hardened length of the man in front of him, the tip of his cock shining in the low light from the bedside lamps, a small damp patch just barely seeping through to the outside of his underwear.

Joel’s own cock jumps at the sight. If he wasn’t turned on already from Frankie’s perfect lips, he sure as hell was turned on now. He can hardly keep himself from touching, one hand wrapping around Frankie’s length in an instant.

Frankie’s hips buck up and he pulls away from your mouth again, a low moan bellowing from his chest.

“Yeah? Feels good?” Joel mocks from below, lazily stroking up and down, up and down, swirling his hand at the top making Frankie squirm underneath him. “Look here, angel, look how hard he is.”

You glance down and can’t help the whimper that falls from your lips watching Joel slowly jerk Frankie off, the bright red tip leaking down his own length and making everything slick. And the sounds…

But it’s when you see that Joel’s other hand has his own length grasped in his palm, rubbing over his pants, that you let out a borderline growl… something about watching him get off to this… this idea that you had and felt brave enough to open the door of discussion to… this idea that Joel seemed more than happy to indulge in…

It’s then you realize how damp you feel, the wetness that’s been slowly building and building without you even realizing leaking out to soak your panties. You try to discreetly rub your legs together, seeking some sort of friction, anything at all.

But Joel sees it. He always sees it.

“Feelin’ left out, baby? She wants some attention, huh?”

You look at him with pleading eyes, an unspoken yes, yes please…

“Say, Frankie… that pretty mouth of yours got any other talents?”

Frankie looks down his body where Joel sits, already looking so fucked out and gone. “H-huh?”

“Take his mouth, go ‘head.”

Your body is buzzing as you look back at Frankie, the flame of arousal burning bright in his pupils as he frantically nods, leaning back for you to move. You take off your pants and ruined panties and shift over him, straddling his broad frame and maneuvering your knees around his head.

You hover over his face, looking down for permission to lower, “Is— Are you okay wi—”

You’re cut off by Frankie’s hands on the apex of your thighs tugging you down to meet his lips, and it is fucking heaven. “Oh, fuck…”

His scruff scratches the most sensitive parts of you, giving you exactly the friction you needed as his tongue greedily laps up your arousal, drinking it up like he’s been lost in the desert and you’re his oasis. You rock against his lips taking more and more of everything he’s giving you, and he helps you, coaxing you back and forth as more slick leaks from your hole. “Yeah, like that…” you moan, one hand slipping under his cap and through his ruffled hair, neither of you caring when it falls off onto the bed.

“Keep doin’ that, boy,” you hear Joel rumble behind you, followed by a whine from below right against your clit, making you jolt at the sudden vibration.

You look back and see Joel easing down Frankie’s length, slipping inch by inch down his throat, bobbing up and down taking more and more with each bob until he’s taken it all to the hilt.

God, is it a sight. You’re already whimpering watching him take more and more, but when he’s bottomed out and looks up, eyes barely watering, and he gives you a wink, you can’t help the downright pornographic moan that escapes your lips.

You turn back and look down at Frankie, seeing tears just starting to well in his eyes when he opens them with the most desperate gaze you’ve ever seen. “Fuck, Frankie… so fucking pretty…” you moan out, throwing your head back as his tongue dips inside you and his nose nudges your clit perfectly.

“Fuck…” you hear Joel gasp. “Fuck, angel… turn around, please. Lemme see that pretty face while he eats you out.”

You oblige, gently prying Frankie’s hands off your hips and cautiously spinning around over him. He gives you no time to settle back down, pulling you back flush with his face and drowning himself in you once again.

It’s a miracle he isn’t suffocating, or at least he doesn’t care if he is. He eats, and eats, and eats, your juices dripping down his face and his neck making a mess of him below. He works your hole and your clit, drawing out cries from you until your thighs are shaking, barely holding yourself up.

“Fuck yeah, baby… ride his fuckin’ face like that,” Joel encourages, stroking Frankie in tandem with the rock of your hips. “Gonna fuckin’ cum on his face, baby? Bet tha’s what he wants. ‘S that what you want, boy? Want her drippin’ down your tongue?”

You barely hear it over your whines, but a muffled mmhm is all you need to chase your rapidly building high, the feral need taking over you as you ride his face. His scruff tickles your most sensitive spots and his warm, wet, determined tongue works overtime to send you over the edge, and it fucking works, your orgasm crashing through you as you brace yourself on his belly, riding it out as you spill more slick down his face and his mouth works you through every second.

He doesn’t let up, licking you through every wave until you have to use every ounce of strength to fight his grip holding you down. You flop on the bed to the side and see Frankie’s face absolutely drenched in you, his mustache and scruffy beard soaking wet and his cheeks red as roses.

Frankie’s eyes are closed, his chest heaving as Joel works him faster, harder, the squelching noise from the precum furiously leaking from the tip of his cock almost drowning out the whines leaving his lips.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck… ohhhhh, fuck— waitwaitwait—” he begs, pleads, with any ounce of strength he can still muster up.

Joel stops in an instant, “What’s wrong? You okay, Frankie? What happened?” he asks, concern drenching every word.

“It’s… fuck… nothin’s wrong… just…” he huffs, trying desperately to catch his breath. “Fuck, didn’t… wanna cum yet… shit…”

Worry leaves Joel’s features in an instant, swiftly replaced by contentment and ease that he’s alright. “Ohhh… was gettin’ t’be too much, huh?”

“Yeah…” he answers, breathlessly.

Joel rises on creaky knees to stand from where he knelt, reaching for Frankie’s hand to sit him up again. “You good to stand?” he asks, gently, voice nothing but bass.

He helps Frankie up on wobbly legs and switches places with him, dragging him into his frame between his knees, reaching up to his face and kissing him, licking you off his lips. “Mmm… tastes good, don’t she?” he asks with a smirk before crashing back into Frankie’s mouth.

His hands leave Frankie’s face to tug down the costume pants, finally freeing his fully hardened cock, tugging on it a few times before reaching for Frankie’s hands and guiding them into his lap. Frankie’s hand wraps around Joel’s length, his grasp encompassing his whole girth, but just barely so. Joel helps his hand along, up and down, up and down, a steady rhythm to make his cock slippery in his grasp.

Frankie’s hand feels perfect, but Joel is an impatient man. And when he wants something, he’s gonna get it.

“You wanna sit on Santa’s lap, Frankie?” he says with a downright diabolical smirk.

“Oh, fuck— yes, please. Can I?”

“‘Course you can,” Joel smiles, reaching for the hem of his pants again and tugging them all the way down as Frankie toes off his shoes and steps out of each pant leg. He pats his thigh right where it meets his torso, “C’mon, boy, right here.”

Joel scoots back on the bed to make room as Frankie kneels on the bed lining himself up with Joel’s length. Frankie spits on his hand generously, giving Joel a few more tugs before lining him up with his tight ring of muscle.

“Shit, boy… no stranger to this, huh?”

Frankie just blushes, slowly lowering down to Joel’s lap, moaning as his greedy hole takes inch after inch until he’s sitting flush with Joel’s pelvis. He rises and falls a few times before finding a slow, steady rhythm, throwing his head back and bouncing eagerly up and down.

You watch in awe as Frankie fucks himself on Joel’s cock, resting his arms on Joel’s broad shoulders just like you do, Joel’s hands sitting on Frankie’s hips just like they do on your own. You feel your core flutter at the sight, half unaware of the whiny whimper that falls from your lips and fully unaware of your hand traveling south to play with the slick still drenching your folds.

The noise makes Joel turn his head and he extends his hand to you dragging you closer to him. He grabs your cheek and kisses you, his tongue begging entry into your mouth as you swallow each other’s moans.

Frankie wills his eyes open, watching the two of you make out right in front of him. It makes his cock throb as he bounces harder, a little faster, and Joel can feel him getting impatient.He pulls away from your desperate mouth, holding Frankie’s hips still and met with a whining protest about it.

“Calm down a sec, cowboy. Got an idea…” You both look to him with curious, fucked out eyes. “Gonna lay back an’ you’re gonna ride my face just like you did for him, ‘kay princess?”

You nod back firmly, making a move towards him—

“Ah, ah— eager girl. Wasn’t finished…” he turns and looks at Frankie. “You got a hard job, think you can handle it?”

Frankie nods just as firmly, desperate to hear his rules to follow. “U-uh huh, I can handle it. Please.”

“Gonna keep ridin’ this cock, got it? But… you don’t cum ‘til I say so. Not even when she does. Not ‘til I say.”

Frankie’s chest jumps as his breath hitches, a grunt of a moan stifled at the back of his throat. His eyes flutter as he nods, trying desperately to keep his hips stilled and finding it harder and harder.

“We all good?”

“Yes— yeah, all good,” you and Frankie both enthusiastically agree, desperate for more.

Joel leans back, tugging your hand his way. As you go to straddle him, he stops you. “Face him, baby. He didn’t get to see how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

Your eyes roll a bit as you lazily agree, spinning around to face Frankie. Sweat makes his forehead twinkle as he slowly rocks and bobs in Joel’s lap. You lower onto Joel’s face and immediately brace yourself on his belly, the feeling of his tongue more intense this time, still sensitive from before.

As hard as it is to keep his eyes open, Frankie can’t peel his gaze away from your face, contorted in pleasure as moans spill from your lips. “Oh, Joel… fuck, yes…”

Frankie can’t help but reach towards you, just wanting to touch you, feel your body… he cups your tits over your bra that you quickly undo and toss off the bed, desperate to feel his hands on your skin. “Go ahead, Frankie. Touch me, please,” you beg, holding his hands to your chest and squeezing them.

He mirrors you, kneading the flesh there and quickly throwing you back into the fire as Joel’s skillful tongue brings you closer and closer to the edge already. He never fails to unravel you in an instant, his tongue memorizing every inch of you right down to the softest spots that send you reeling in the blink of an eye.

It’s barely long at all before you feel the fire burning in your belly again, growing and growing as you desperately try to last just a little longer.

You distract yourself in Frankie, mesmerized by his face and his body that you wish you could see more of, hiding under his t-shirt that’s somehow still on.

“This—” you say, pawing at the hem of his shirt, “Off. Get this off—”

He doesn’t hesitate to help you peel his shirt off his sweaty body, throwing it haphazardly off the bed. His body is beautiful, the curves of his belly mirroring Joel’s so closely, and your hands are drawn to his skin like magnets, feeling every inch you can reach.

You don’t realize you’re lifting away from Joel’s face until he yanks you back down again, mercilessly lapping at your folds.

He pulls off again, just for a moment. “‘Member angel, he can’t come ‘til I say. Longer you’re ridin’ my face, longer he’s gotta wait.”

He’s back on your cunt in an instant, and your fluttering eyes barely catch the aroused and panicked expression on Frankie’s face. His cock makes a mess of Joel’s belly below, the leaking head spilling pearly white now as it gets harder and harder to stave off his orgasm. He languidly rocks back and forth trying desperately not to spill all over Joel’s gut before he’s allowed to.

Watching Frankie try so hard to keep his composure, teetering on the edge of collapse, turns you on more than you can even describe. Your hips move on their own at this point, or maybe it’s purely Joel rocking you in just the way he knows drives you crazy.

“Talk to ‘er,” he mumbles to Frankie from under your wet heat.

Your eyes blow wide, the growing fire turning to a blaze when Frankie opens his mouth.

“Fuck… g-gonna fucking cum for him too? Oh, shit… wanna… wanna see your face… when you—”

Frankie’s babbling is cut off by your moans as you cum for a second time tonight, thighs quivering and hips bucking on Joel’s face. He licks you through it, controlling the movement of your hips as you lose all control.

“Oh, my god… h-holy shit—” Frankie stops all movement, seconds away from making a mess of himself, Joel, and you sitting in front of him. His eyes bolt shut as you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm, shaking when Joel eases you off of his face.

He sits up cupping Frankie’s face in his hands. “Got a little more fight in you?”

Frankie takes a deep breath. “Mhm… yeah, uh huh…”

Joel chuckles low, stroking his cheek with his thumb. “Good. Hop off.”

Frankie’s eyes pop open, but he obliges, easing himself off of Joel’s length with a whine at the sudden emptiness.

“Go ‘head and climb up there,” Joel instructs gently as Frankie climbs onto the bed where you lay, still a puddle of overstimulated mess. Joel gently tugs at your ankles pulling you towards the end of the bed, leaning down to kiss you, soft and sweet.

“Can you gimme one more, angel? Can you stay up for me?”

Your eyes try their best to focus on his face, a hazy blur clouding your vision just a bit as you hum and nod to him. “Uh huh… can stay up…”

“Attagirl… alright, hands and knees, baby.”

You do as you’re told, flipping over and around so your backside faces him at the end of the bed. He stands over your body, hands gliding over the globes of your ass, up your back, stroking every inch of bare skin spread in front of him.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous…” he mumbles, before laying a tap to your ass, causing you to jolt a little and whine at the contact. “Alright Frankie…” Frankie perks up, hanging onto Joel’s every word. “‘M gonna take this pretty hole back here… An’ you take that one up there. Sounds good?”

You clench around nothing. The idea of both of them filling you as much as you can take… Using you for their pleasure…

“Fuck… yeah, good, mhm…” Frankie babbles, shimmying himself to kneel in front of you.

You look up at him, down his body, to his ruddy cock, hard as diamond right in front of you. Your mouth waters at the sight and you motion for him to come a little closer.

Joel grabs his length, lining the head up with your entrance. You stifle a whimper at just the contact of his fat tip pressing into your most sensitive spots. “Ready?” he asks. You both whimper a yes, ready.

They both enter you at the same time, sliding into you wet, wanting holes cautiously first, but easily. So, so easily. The three of you groan in pleasure, them from your warmth and you from the fullness.

Joel sets a pace, fucking in and out of your dripping cunt with ease, quite a feat for the sheer fucking size of him, but you’re so worked up that you practically suck him in and dont dare to let him go. Frankie doesn’t follow Joel’s face, testing the waters of your throat and what it can take.

“She can handle it, boy. If she can take all’a me, she can take all’a you too,” Joel says with a wink.

Neither one of them is small by any means, but Joel was right. He was a bit thicker than Frankie is, and it took a while for your mouth to get used to his size. And while Frankie wasn’t as thick, he might have been just a little longer. It was impossible to tell now, though, they both felt impossibly huge stuffed inside of you, each of them chasing their own highs.

Joel’s pace has already picked up, the warm walls of your pussy crying for him to keep going, don’t stop, right there… the grip on your hips unforgiving as he slams in and drags back out over and over and over…

Frankie keeps rocking into your mouth, a little faster now, and you taste the salty precum leaking onto your tongue and down your throat.

“So fuckin’ hot, angel… stuffed so fuckin’ full…”

“God, you feel good…” Frankie whispers down to you, and you wish you could see his face while you take him to the hilt. Instead, you pull away and spit directly onto the head of his cock before taking him back into your throat completely, using one hand to play with his balls. “Oh, fuck… oh, fuck…”

“Ah ah, boy— unh— not— not ‘til I say,” Joel reminds him.

Frankie takes a few deep breaths, holding your face so delicately, like it could break, trying to ground himself and fucking focus…

“One more, baby, one more right on this cock… an’ then you can too, boy…”

Joel fucks you harder, faster, bruising your cervix with every thrust, the ridges of his cock dragging along every nerve ending in your walls bringing you closer, and closer, and closer—

“Oh, fuck, Joel! Right there! Don’t fucking stop!”

He doesn’t. Not at all. He keeps the same relentless pace, hitting that soft spot deep inside you that he always finds without fail. You flutter around his length, clamping down on him as he reaches around your front to find your clit. He teases your little bundle of nerves, circle after circle after circle, hurdling you closer and closer to release.

“Fuck, tha’s right, baby. Tha’s fuckin’ right.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck— ‘m gonna fuckin’ cum, Joel,” Frankie cries, his hips bucking out of rhythm.

“Yeah? Gonna spill down her throat while she’s creamin’ my cock? Go ‘head, both of y’all, at the same time. C’mon—” he grunts, one strong thrust sending you reeling, spasming, damn near collapsing onto the bed as your third orgasm rips through you at an earth-shattering rate.

“Jesus fucking christ—” Frankie groans before his own thighs are trembling, his cock throbbing in your mouth as ropes of cum shoot down your throat, fucking himself in your mouth through his own high, the vibrations from your moans making his body shiver as you drain him empty.

Like dominos falling, Joel is next to go, painting your walls with his spend at the sight of you and Frankie falling apart right in front of him, throbbing in your overstimulated cunt as both ends suck each man dry.

The three of you are a pile of huffing, heaving messes, catching your breaths and dripping sweat onto your sheets. After a minute, Joel slowly slides out of you, his cum leaking out of your swollen pussy and dripping onto the sheets. The rest of your body plops down onto the mattress when he lets you go.

Joel steps back and looks at the two of you, sprawled out on the bed in a completely fucked out daze, and chuckles.

“Guess that that was a good enough present for the two’a you, huh?”

You both give a tired, breathy giggle stretching and wiggling around the mattress. You crawl up towards Frankie laying on the pillows and curl into him, and he welcomes you like this is something you’ve always done, with ease, with comfort.

Joel walks into your bathroom and returns with a towel, cleaning you up before climbing next to you, now sandwiched between the two burly men, all three of you basking in post-coital bliss.

“That is… not how I thought the night would end,” Frankie says with a sigh and a chuckle.

You giggle back. “No? Not even a little?” you tease.

Frankie hums a laugh. “So, was this… is this something that you guys… talked about before?”

You turn a little and look at Joel who is just admiring the two of you. His eyebrows raise a bit, an exhale of a laugh leaving his lungs. “Hmm… I mean, It’s come up a few times.”

Frankie turns his head to look at Joel, silently asking for more.

“Started that first time you came over an’ it just… I don’t know, it would come up from time to time. Was never opposed to the idea and… Tonight was the night the pieces fell just right, I s’pose,” he explains, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

You can see it haunting Frankie’s lips too, threatening to show just how much he enjoyed this too.

“Think it’s safe to say we all enjoyed it, huh?” you tease again, nudging Frankie and throwing Joel a knowing glance. Frankie turns away, blushing.

The three of you cuddle a little closer, savoring each other’s company, glowing with pleasure as you lay there, falling asleep knowing things might have changed, but for the absolute better.

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #the last of us #tlou #frankie morales #frankie morales smut #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fanfic #triple frontier #joel miller x frankie morales x reader

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lumosinlove · 2 days ago

Text

Vaincre

June Part VII

So so grateful for all of you who love this story even when I take forever to post!! Happy holidays to all <3 <3

No, there's nothin' you can

send me, my own true

love

There's nothin' I'm wishin'

To be ownin'

Just to carry yourself

Back to me unspoiled

From across that

Lonesome ocean

Remus ran down the cottage’s porch steps and threw his arms around Lily. It was easy to lose service out at the lake, and he’d last talked to her at the coffee shop he’d always stopped at halfway through the drive from Gryffindor. He had a beloved photograph of Sirius and Julian sitting at an outside table there, the first time Sirius had come to the lake. He’d tried his best to specifically explain the forks and bends in the roads to Lily, but it was still a relief to see them getting out of their car.

“You made it,” Remus said into her shoulder.

“Sure did. Wow. This is the cutest.” Lily gave Remus one more squeeze before pulling back. She pushed her sunglasses into her hair and smiled up at the cabin. “J, look.”

“Hold on, you know this buckle hates me.”

Remus squinted against the sun to see James with his entire upper body in the backseat of the car. When he emerged, he was red-faced and holding Harry—who was already squirming towards Sirius. The slight delay of James closing the car door was even too much for him. Harry burst into tears, then abruptly stopped as Sirius jogged down the porch steps and scooped him away from James. Remus couldn’t make out what Sirius said to him, but he could read the broad smile on his face just fine.

“Oh, it is cute, for sure,” James said. He had his hands on his hips, and maybe a few cheerios in his hair, as he looked over the cottage, then Sirius. “Yeah, hi, good to see you, too, friend.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sirius said appeasingly, but held a hand out for James to clap and bring their shoulders together. “How was the drive?”

“Very pretty.” James shaded his eyes to look down the stone pathway that offered a glimmering sliver of the lake. He whistled. “That looks inviting.”

Lily brought Remus’ attention back to her with a squeeze to his hands. “How are you, Lupin? Feeling almost married?”

“More almost each day.” Remus wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come in, we’ve got lunch.”

Maybe Remus shouldn’t have been surprised when Julian and Harry took to each other immediately. Harry couldn’t do much, but he could giggle at whatever Julian was doing and take the small pieces of food Julian held out to him. He could sit in the waves while Julian safe-guarded him against any bigger swells caused by a passing boat. If his mom squeezed his hand when she caught Remus watching them one day with his sunglasses firmly hiding his damp eyes, well, that was fine.

James and Sirius took to each other, too, even after just a short time apart. There was lots of football and jumping off the raft to catch flying passes. Remus didn’t mind. With his parents reading in the shade of the lake-facing porch up above and Julian entertaining Harry a few paces away, he basically had Lily to himself, which almost never happened.

“This is heaven,” she said. “Like, it’s more heaven than a tropical resort or something. I mean, the house is right there, it’s way cooler and less humid than some island, and I have you to make me a drink.”

Remus smiled. “I’m glad you like it here.”

“Would I ever have seen this place if you hadn’t started playing?”

“You? Yeah, if you wanted. Everyone else? Probably not if I never got with Sirius.”

She nodded slowly, turning the ice cubes that clinked against her cup. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun, and she had a large, floppy hat shading her face. Remus reached forward and lifted the brim with two fingers.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I was just thinking about…I don’t know. James has been down about losing the season like this. And maybe—” Lily flipped the brim up and turned to him. Her green eyes were the clear color of the lake. “Okay, I forgot after winning the Cup last year about how every summer’s beginning was like…It’s like they forget they’re good at their jobs. And that it’s going to be okay. And this year…It’s just back. James has been so hard on himself.” She sighed. “And probably losing Logan made it even harder, but he’s been down.” She looked back out at the water. Slowly, a smile crossed her face. “I don’t know. I’m rambling. But look at those lunatics out there. It’s just nice to see him smile.”

Remus nodded. Sirius and James were treading water near the raft. Their voices carried across the water, though he couldn’t make out their words. He didn’t need to. James made Sirius laughed so hard that his head disappeared under the water for a second before he surfaced again, flicking his dark hair out of his eyes.

“Ugh, the cutest,” Lily said.

Remus watched Sirius splutter and toss the football at James’ head. “Hm, yeah.”

“Okay, yeah, but I meant those two.” Lily held up her phone towards Julian and Harry. “Boys! Over here!”

“How do you want us?” James shouted over the water. He already had his arm around Sirius’ shoulders, grinning and ready for a photo.

“Not you,” Lily said, waving Sirius and James off.

“No, no,” Remus laughed and reached for his own phone. “Stay like that.”

Julian pointed at Lily so Harry would look, then tickled him into another grin. James wrapped both of his arms around Sirius and pulled like he was trying to lift him up, startling Sirius into a laughing one in his own.

The sight tightened Remus’ throat. He almost forgot to take the picture as he stared over the edge of his sunglasses instead.

“Did you do it?” Sirius called, then pushed James down again into the water.

Remus nodded, flashing a thumbs up.

“Anyway,” Lily sighed. “When does Logan play? James with his little hockey-pout face wants to watch.”

“Rangers are up against the Lightning tonight,” Remus said. “And yeah. I don’t think Sirius has fully realized Tremz isn’t a Lion anymore. I mean, really. Like, even less realization than Finn and Leo.”

“Yeah, those two cubs seem to be doing better.”

“Mhm,” Remus said. “I hope so.”

“Mais, non, non—” A shout of laughter came from the water, and a fast flow of French that got garbled as Sirius did a cannonball off the raft and caught the football. Remus didn’t know what the rules of their game were, but James, floating nearby, wiped the water from his eyes and looked devastated.

Remus leaned forward, digging his cup into the sand. Sirius surfaced again with the football held high. He shook his soaking hair out of his face, threw his head back, and whooped. It traveled to them over the waves, through the sound of sifting sand and Harry’s babbling. Sirius dunked his head again, and his dark hair plastered back from his face. The smile was still in place. Remus knew all about the down of a poorly ended season. In college, getting knocked out early and having to go to classes with that weight on his chest had felt like hell for the first two weeks. And Sirius Black didn’t do just down. He did devastated and punishing. He did end of the world and hard work and nextyearnextyearnextyear.

But there he was. In Remus’ lake, laughing like—

“Re?”

“Yeah,” Remus whispered. He tore his eyes away, looking at her. “Sorry, sorry, yeah?”

Lily had her hat flipped back again. He was watching him carefully with a small smile on her face.

“Sorry I didn’t hear what you said,” Remus said. “I…”

“That’s all right.” Lily leaned forward, too, checking on Harry once when he let out a loud shriek, before turning back to him. “What’s up?”

“He doesn’t always…” Remus passed his fingers over his mouth, over a smile. “It’s kind of like what you said about James. About summer. But it’s also the opposite. Sirius…He doesn’t always laugh like that.”

If there was anything Remus knew, it was Sirius Black’s face. He knew it guarded, and he knew it open.

“Like a little kid’s laugh,” Remus said softly.

“Pretty deep for a little kid.”

Remus grinned at her. “No, like—”

Lily put a soft hand on his arm. “I’m joking, Re. You’re right.” She squeezed his fingers and let go. “It is. It is nice. I mean…You were there. Before.” She shut one eye against the sun. “Did you love him then?”

“Love? No. Want? Maybe. Mostly I just…I don’t know why because he was fucking mean to me…” He smiled. “But I—no, really. You were there. He was so stubborn. Honest to God, I don’t think he trusted me until his ankle.”

“He’s Sirius Black,” Lily said. “I don’t think he was raised to be trusting.”

“That’s why I like hearing that laugh,” Remus said. “Fuck, Lils, I love that laugh.”

The boys were swimming in now. Julian had Harry in his lap and was waving at them.

“Good thing you’re getting that laugh for life, then.” Lily held up her drink. “To good laughs for a good life.”

Remus picked up his own drink. “Oh yeah, you’ve got one of your own.” He clinked his glass to Lily’s, sand sprinkling between them. “To good laughs for a good life.”

Lily flipped her hat back down. “Okay, okay, before we cry, let’s watch their abs appear from the water.”

“Oh, for sure.”

Maybe it was a slight miscalculation on Finn and Leo’s part to walk Logan to Madison Square Garden for his third game against the Lightning, but if there was anything that was worth getting a few good-natured heckles for losing their series, it was watching the Rangers fans waiting at the players’ entrance absolutely fawn over Logan.

Really, for Finn, it was watching fans fawn over Logan while Logan held on tightly to Leo’s hand. It was holding Logan’s bag for him while he…signed a man’s body.

“You really want me to sign…” Logan was staring apprehensively at a shoulder a man was offering him. “For a tattoo?”

“Don’t mess up,” Leo said, then grinned at Logan’s pleading eyes. “Just saying.”

“yeah, yeah,” the man said, grinning. “Just your signature and number. Please. Thank you.”

“Aha,” Finn said, holding up a finger. “Which number?”

“Oh, ten,” the man said hurriedly. “Please. I’m a firm believer that you’ll be back to ten some day.”

Logan looked at Finn.

“Would you look at that,” Finn said.

Smiling, Logan took a breath and uncapped the Sharpie. “D’accord.”

He signed his name and number more slowly than he usually would have, tongue peaking out in concentration.

“Tongue, tongue,” Finn whispered, nudging his elbow into Leo’s side.

“Shh…” Leo was trying hard not to smile.

Logan had had to let go of Leo’s hand to hold the man steady, and Leo wandered closer to Finn, slinging an arm around his shoulders. Others were taking videos, and Finn felt some of the cameras train on them once Logan had finished signing. He flicked his sunglasses down over his eyes, half because he knew he needed to take it easy on direct sunlight for a while yet, and half so he could just stare at Logan all he wanted while he slipped his arm around Leo’s waist.

“Okay?” Leo whispered back, settling his hand over Finn’s.

“Yeah,” Finn said. “Just taking it easy.”

“There you go.” Logan sucked air through his teeth, surveying his work, then laughed and capped the pen.

“Thank you,” the man said, bending to look. “Thanks so much.”

Finn would have thought the guy’s enthusiasm was a little over the top, but he could pinpoint at least a couple times in his life when he would have gladly let Logan Tremblay write all over him.

“Thanks, guys,” Logan said with a wave. He looked back at Leo and Finn. “Ready?”

Finn hitched Logan’s bag more over his shoulder. “Lead on, Ten.”

Finn saw the way Logan’s shoulders relaxed once they reached the elevator, away from prying eyes. He held out his hand to Finn. “You really didn’t have to carry my bag for me. Feels like you’re dropping me off at class.”

“Should have packed you a lunch,” Leo said.

Logan took his bag, shouldered it, and stepped into Leo’s space. “What would be in my lunch?”

“Oh, the usual,” Leo said. “Turkey sandwich, apple slices, a cookie…” Leo slid his hands around Logan’s waist. “A note telling you that I can’t wait for you to get home so…” The rest was lost to Finn as Leo bent and whispered into Logan’s ear.

It was all right that he didn’t hear. He got to watch Logan sway into him like Leo had hooked his very heart and pulled.

“See you for your nap,” Leo said sweetly. He tucked his hands behind his back and gave Logan a quick kiss.

Logan narrowed his eyes at Leo as he put a hand on Finn’s chest, twisting his t-shirt in his fist. Okay, fine, Finn was hooked, too. “Yeah, if I nap.”

Finn wrapped Logan up in a short hug, knotting his fingers in his hair. “Hey Tremblay…Sign my ass.”

Logan pulled back, shoving Finn away. But he was smiling, brighter than Finn had ever thought any of them would be able to do in this place.

“Game three,” Finn said. “You got this.”

They watched the elevator doors close, Logan leaning over to see them until he was just one green eye. Until he couldn’t anymore. They waved off the remaining fans when they walked back to the street level. Finn made straight for the subway—he didn’t want to be in this traffic hell Midtown longer than he had to. Leo followed him closely, their knuckles brushing until Finn hooked their little fingers together, then took his hand.

“So, what’d you whisper?”

Leo’s laugh echoed off the tiles as they descended the stairs underground. “Maybe you’ll find out later.”

“I hope so.” Finn let Leo through to the platform first, then went through himself. “Alex always dared me to jump these, and I never could. Lo did it once. First time he came home to the city with me.”

Leo raised his eyebrows. “That stray freshman puppy you found did that?”

Finn grinned, putting his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “He was trying to impress me. He just didn’t know it yet. Spent the rest of the time waiting for the train looking over his shoulder all nervous.”

“Okay, that’s more like him.” As the train began to pull into the station, a rush of air that did absolutely nothing to break the heat ruffled Leo’s hair. Leo nudged a toe of his sneaker against Finn’s. “Hey, where you taking me?”

Finn reached out and touched the blond strands, then settled a hand against Leo’s cheek. “Surprise.”

Leo wrinkled his nose. “I’m sweaty, sorry.”

“Like that’s ever bothered me.”

As the doors opened and Finn shuffled them inside, he caught Leo eyeing the pole distastefully.

“Hang onto me instead,” Finn said, taking Leo’s hands and placing them on his waist.

“And what are you gonna hold onto?”

“My New Yorker feet.”

Leo rolled his eyes but squeezed his hips. “Twenty bucks say you fall.”

“Not with you holding onto me.”

Leo eyed him until the doors slid shut with a ding and the train lurched forward. Finn balanced like he’d been doing his whole life, easing them both into the train’s rocking and jolting with his hands on Leo’s hips. He tilted his forehead down to Leo’s and winked.

“All right, city-boy. Now really,” Leo said, their lips brushing. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere,” Finn replied. “But don’t worry. We’ll be home in time for me to buy you take-out and watch baby play.”

Finn led them back onto street level when they reached uptown. The sun felt brighter up here, with Central Park relieving some of the crowded, hot feeling that the buildings gave out. Sweat shone on Leo’s temples as he put his sunglasses on.

“Hmm,” Leo said. “Okay. Interesting.”

“You game to walk across the park?” Finn asked. “Because we’re walking across the park.”

“I’m game for anything. But I have one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I want to make out under a tree on our way.”

Finn closed his eyes and turned into Leo. He kissed the salty skin of his neck. “That’s not a condition. That’s a reward.”

“You’re walking with your eyes closed.”

Finn smiled and opened them. He brought Leo’s hand up to kiss. “Sometimes feeling you and seeing you at the same time are just too much.”

He liked the way it made Leo stare at him. He slapped a hand against Finn’s chest, but kept it there. “Shut up.”

“Pick a spot.”

Leo looked forward. They weren’t in short supply. There were baseball diamonds just ahead of them and The Great Lawn beyond that, speckled with picnic blankets and kids running around.

“C’mon,” Leo said. “Let’s get your pretty little head out of the sun.”

Leo jogged ahead, but Finn didn’t mind. He stopped when he found a dappled spot of shade and waited for Finn there, spreading his arms out with a grin before sitting down in the grass.

“Here!” he called. “Get your butt over here, city-boy, and sit in the dirt and grass.”

‘Yikes,” Finn teased, but he let himself down beside Leo with a huff, being careful of his shoulder. “You think I don’t sit in grass?”

“You do love a good leather booth and bistro chair.”

Finn laughed. “Fair.”

“Speaking of.”

“Speaking of?”

Leo leaned in and brushed their noses together. “Take-out is nice. But I think tonight you should take me, sit me down practically in your lap in one of those leather booths, and order us ice cold martinis and that to-die-for steak at that place we love. Then you take me home to watch Logan play.”

Finn grinned and hooked a finger in Leo’s closest belt loop. “In my lap, you say?”

“Yes. The place where they have those garage doors that open and let all the heat in.”

“Okay, I will.”

“So I can start the night watching the sun set, and end it in a dim enough corner for kissing until a waiter has to clear their throat to get our attention.”

“I thought the kisses were reserved for this very tree right here.”

Leo smiled as he tilted his head into Finn’s palm when he cupped his cheek. “Your ears get pink—” His words broke off into Finn’s first kiss. “—when you drink gin.”

“You and Lo say that about everything.” Finn kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, before finding his mouth again.

“We think about it a lot.”

Finn felt his cheeks warm when Leo reached up and tweaked his ear. Maybe he did prefer booths and bistros and couches and warm soft chairs that bookstores kept in their corners, but when Leo laid him down in the grass of the very place he used to wonder about finding someone, about loving someone, he wouldn’t have traded it for the world. Leo’s mouth was soft. He kept Finn still and heavy with kisses that made Finn feel like the warm earth was becoming as cloudy as his head. Everything was so soft, so smudged and perfect, that he almost missed it when Leo said—

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Le.” His time with Logan was invaluable, but there was nothing like the three of them. Nothing at all. “But you came back to me happier, so—”

“No, I mean…” Finn felt him press his mouth down on his shoulder before Leo pulled back to look at him. He was framed by the sky. “I missed you while I was away, yes. But I missed you in the locker room after what Jack did. And when you were home but you were hurting and not yourself. And I missed you when—when…”

“When Logan got traded,” Finn said softly.

“Yeah,” Leo said shakily. He stroked Finn’s hair back from his face. He bent down and kissed the shell of Finn’s ear then came back smiling. “Yeah.”

Finn wished he could see the two of them. The way Leo put one thigh over his, and the grass stain on his t-shirt.

“Needed this,” Leo sighed.

Finn kissed the corner of Leo’s mouth. “I’d like a list of all the things you need, ranked in the order you’d like them.”

Leo’s laugh was soft, and Finn kissed his left dimple when it appeared. “Finn…”

“Okay, fine, we’ll start here,” Finn whispered. “Help me and this slightly bum shoulder up, and come with me.”

The cottage always seemed to take the sunset into its very paint and walls. It soaked through the windows and made it almost impossible to sit at the dining room table without the gauzy white curtains drawn. Those curtains turned the lake into a glistening blur. It set the rosé glasses on fire. Remus wanted to sit between Lily and Sirius and look at Harry happily babbling from his mother’s lap for the rest of his life.

“So, Logan’s sisters called me—well, Noelle called me,” Remus said. “And they’re sticking around in New York until the Rangers—you know.”

“Win or lose,” Julian supplied, and then knocked on wood at the same time as Remus. Sirius was holding the wooden salad bowl to pass to Hope and drummed his fingers on it once.

“Right,” Remus said. “So, that’ll happen. And then they’re going to be at the Shore Hotel, so that’s really close. And Logan is surprising Leo and Finn with a cabin, they think they’re staying at a hotel.” Remus put a hand on the sun-warmed back of Sirius’ neck.

“Ouais,” Sirius said. “I told him to get one because if we’re doing what we said—you get ready here at the cottage, I thought I would get ready with Reg, James, Tremz and Pascal there.” Sirius took Remus’ hand and kissed it, smiling. “Then I meet you at the end of the dock.”

“I have so many plans,” James said. “I mean, Dumo vetoed like eighty percent of them, but I still have so many plans.”

Sirius grinned. “Maybe I have plans, too.”

“What?” James shook his head. “No, I do. You can’t have plans, you’re the—one of the grooms!”

“I also have plans,” Lily cut in, looping her arm through Remus’. At Remus’ face she patted his cheek. “Super chill plans. Leo and I brought Talker down a few notches.”

“A few?”

“A lot of notches.”

“Hold up,” James said. “Whose side is Finn on?”

“He requested to, and I quote, ‘wander between the two,’” Lily said.

“Classic,” Remus said.

“Oh, those O’Hara boys are just the sweetest,” Hope said. Harry slapped the table as if in agreement.

“Why do all parents love Finn so much?” James asked.

“He’s just charming, that’s all,” Lily said. “But yeah, I don’t know how he’s going to pull it off, but he wants to wander.”

“If we forget any last minute things, he can run to the shops,” Hope said.

“I actually think he’d love that,” Sirius laughed.

Remus grabbed for another bread roll and Sirius passed him the butter without a word.

“Plans or no plans,” Remus said. “My original point was we have dates for everyone’s arrival, no matter how far the Rangers make it. Literally all we have to do is remember to pick stuff up.”

Hope hummed. “You’d be surprised at how difficult that can be. The flowers are late, the cake is late—it turns into a whole thing.”

“For sure,” Remus said, but smiled at her then pulled a face at Harry who giggled. “But do I really need flowers and cake or do I just need my husband?”

“For sure,” Lily parroted. “But your guests definitely need flowers and cake.”

Julian raised a hand. “I totally need cake.”

James raised both hands. “I totally need flowers. For reasons that are beyond me.”

Remus laughed and felt Sirius stretch his arm out over the back of his chair. He knew it meant Sirius only needed one thing for this wedding, too, and it was him.

“What kind of plans?” Remus knelt on their bed to push open the windows. The night had cooled, and he wanted to clear out some of the stuffiness the day’s heat had trapped. He got hot enough with Sirius pressed up against his back all night.

Sirius looked up from where he’d been checking the time on his phone. “Puck drop in five. Plans for what?”

“About your bachelor party, you said you had plans.”

Sirius laughed. “Reg and I were talking about it. I just wanted to freak James out a little. We’re gonna have dinner at that place you showed me. Play pool, darts.”

Remus pushed himself off the bed. “Dinner, huh?”

“Oh, come on.” Sirius clicked his tongue. “You know me. Dumo will order good wine, Leo will order the best—”

“Hey, hey, hey.” Remus pointed a finger at him. “Leo’s on my team.”

“Your team?”

“My team.”

Remus loved that outraged, amused smile Sirius was giving him now. He gave it to refs, he gave it to Logan. Remus wouldn’t choose it over the little-kid laugh, but it was something—especially as Sirius walked across their room’s creaking floorboards and set two palms down on either side of Remus’ hips, pressing into the old mattress springs and making them whine.

“Creek creek,” Remus whispered. He tilted his mouth up to brush Sirius’.

“So, we have teams now,” Sirius whispered back. He kissed Remus so lightly. A feather, there-and-gone.

“And here you were thinking you’d finally gotten me on yours,” Remus put his arms around Sirius’ neck, pushing until Sirius was straightening and Remus could put his socked toes on Sirius’ toes and press their bodies together, standing there in a bedroom he’d been sleeping in since he was little.

Sirius smiled. “Almost.” Both his palms pushed under Remus’ t-shirt. “So close. Any day now.”

“Hey, Cap!” James’ voice came from below. “Lo’s taking first face-off!”

Remus sighed. “Self-torture.” Then, he kissed Sirius’ protests until they tasted like a smile.

Leo recognized the steps immediately. They were broad and stone and timeless, leading up to stone pillars. School kids were led in lines—the little ones jubilant, the older ones shuffling. Tourists raised their cameras high, and groups of people on their lunch break made clusters at various heights.

“You’re sweet,” Leo said. “You took me to the MET?”

Finn smiled. “I like watching you look at things. And besides, we better do it while Lo’s busy or else he’ll sulk if we bring him along and sulk if we leave him behind.”

“A-plus timing,” Leo laughed as they began to climb. “Hey, speaking of Lo. I think he doesn’t want to ask if we’ll come to Florida…but.”

“Oh, he definitely wants us to come to Florida.” Finn reached for his wallet. “I can feel it when he stares—” Leo snorted, Finn tilted his head back, laughing as they crossed into the grand entrance hall. “You know the stare.”

Leo pushed his nose into Finn’s cheek, eyes wide open. “This one?”

“Bit of an exaggeration and also wildly true.”

Leo grinned. “You, Logan, ocean. Sounds good to me.” He looked down at the red member card Finn had gotten out. “You keep a membership while you live in a different city?”

“I am nothing if not loyal, Butter.” He held his card out to the guard waiting in front of a long, white room flooded with light.

“One guest?” She scanned his card.

“Yes, indeed.” Finn smiled at her.

“Your name is Butter?” she asked.

Leo stared at her, trying to figure out if she was being serious. She just looked back with slightly uninterested blue eyes.

“I…” Leo nodded. “Yes. My name is Butter. Thanks.”

He pulled Finn into the waiting galleries before she could see him laughing.

Logan found a spot on the floor while they waited for coach to get the pre-game video loaded. He stretched his legs out, kneading one of his thighs. Percy was singing, Will was trying to cover his mouth, and Saint was watching them both with narrowed eyes. Logan didn’t know if he knew he was crushing the red bull can in his hands, but Luke gently eased it out of his fingers and drained the remaining liquid.

“Hey.” Alex settled himself down beside him.

“Hey,” Logan said. He sent him a quick smile, then did a double take. “Hey…”

Alex might not be Finn, but Logan liked to think he knew his O’Haras. He knew that lilac color. He knew that slightly vacant brown-eyed stare that only came out when Finn was trying oh-so very hard to be all right. Logan had put that look on his face more than once. He didn’t like seeing it.

“What’s wrong?” Logan asked quietly as someone turned the lights out in the room. The screen flickered to life, showing Florida’s starting line frozen in the middle of a play.

“Hm?” Alex didn’t look at him.

“Maybe I’m summoned when you get that look on your face.”

Alex, recognizing his own words, let out a tired laugh. He glanced Logan’s way.

Logan pushed their shoulders together. “By my inner Finn.”

“I’m all right,” Alex said.

Logan waited, keeping his eyes ahead as Coach began to talk through defense. It felt nice to sit surrounded by teammates. Nice to be in the dark. He was tired and exhilarated all at once, heart fast but limbs sore.

“It’s kind of—I don’t know. I was wrong,” Alex said softly. “You know when you just play something out in your head, but it turns out that what you were thinking only makes sense in your head?”

“If Finn was here—” And maybe Logan couldn’t stand that he wasn’t, that Leo wasn’t, and he wasn’t sure if that feeling was ever going to give him any peace, “he would say I’m the dictionary picture of that.”

Alex smiled slightly. “That boy has a lot of sayings.”

“That boy?”

“What? My baby brother? Fish-Finn.”

Logan smiled. “I remember hearing you call him Fish the first time.”

“When?”

“Well—not the best time. First concussion.”

Alex’s face lit up, but only in recognition. “Oh, that’s right. You were asleep in the chair.”

“Yeah. That was the first time I dreamed about kissing him. Ever.”

Alex’s eyebrows went up. “And you’re telling me I woke you up from that?”

“Yeah, fuck you.”

It earned Logan a smile at least. Alex still looked troubled as he returned his eyes to the screen. They listened. Logan took note of positions and numbers and the warning that there was some bad blood towards him and number 56 wanted to fight. When he shrugged, Luke and Percy laughed at him.

The lights came up to soon, and he was left looking at Alex as they both squinted a little in the sudden brightness.

Alex patted a hand on his chest. “I’ll be okay, Tremz. Really. Let’s do this first.”

The words seemed tired, but not like a lie.

Ice Floes. Claude Monet.

Finn’s shoulder pressed warmly against Leo’s as they stared at the hazy white landscape. The gallery was calm around them. A tour group murmured in another room. Two older women sat on the bench with their canes between their knees.

“For Lo’s birthday once,” Finn said softly. “I took him to a pond to skate because he said he missed it. Looked like this.”

“That first birthday you knew him, right?”

“Uh-huh.” Finn’s pinky finger found Leo’s and he hooked them together. “And—well, you know the rest of that story.”

“That I do.” Leo shivered just remembering it. His eyes found the small, paint scratched signature in the painting’s corner. A thought made him laugh.

“What?” Finn asked.

“Artists sign their work.” Leo pointed to it. “That man wanted Logan to think he was a piece of art.”

Finn laughed—maybe too loudly for a museum. “That man could only be art because he wants Logan’s name tattooed on his body.”

“Oh? Do you want Logan’s name tattooed on your body?”

“No,” Finn said, but he tilted his head. “I would, however, like Logan to get some more tattoos.”

“Mm, yeah.” Leo leaned his temple against Finn’s. “Where? Arm?”

“Forearm.”

“Forearm, yeah. Collarbone.”

“Oh, yeah, good one. Back?”

“Mm. No, I like it as it is.”

“True,” Finn said. “You’d look good with a tattoo.”

Leo wrinkled his nose. “Eh.”

“You would. I’m not a tattoo person. I don’t think.”

“There’s something pretty about just you and all your freckles.” Leo squeezed their linked fingers. “Your head okay? Shoulder?”

“Knees and toes, knees and toes…”

Leo laughed. “Okay, okay. Where to next?”

They walked back downstairs to the bright sky-lit rooms of ancient Greece and Rome. They passed the large column, the intricate vases of fighting warriors and seated Gods. Leo wondered if he could find any replicas of the pretty Roman glass. He lost a wandering Finn while he was taking photographs to show his mom, but found him again in front of Heracles. He had his head tilted at the statue’s thick chest, only covered by the paws of the thick lion skin draped across the statue’s back.

“Halloween costume?” Leo asked, and Finn rolled his eyes and pulled him away.

They walked to the room transported from Pompeii, then deeper into the museum to suits of armor and lances. Leo found himself thinking of a school field trip. He’d been a junior in high school, whispers and stirrings about the NHL already surrounding him so much so that some of his teammates in his history class thought it was stupid for him to be excited about something as small as a field trip to a local museum. He had been though.

At least until Jack wouldn’t so much as look at him on the bus, never mind sit beside him.

Now, he felt Finn’s palm push under the hem of his shirt, brushing a thumb over the small of his back. They were in a darker part of the gallery, dim except for the low lights aimed at the weapons. Finn had pulled out his glasses to read the museum sign, but pushed them into his hair as he finished.

“Cool,” Finn said. “The hilts come off, so you can replace your blade. Or I guess change the hilt with your outfit? Do you think—”

Leo put a hand on his jaw, turning his head, and kissed him.

Finn hummed when Leo pulled away. “Fantastic. Kisses and weapons.”

“Thanks for sitting with me on buses,” Leo whispered. “And taking me to museums.”

Finn put those Jack-tinged pieces together quickly, and his eyes softened.

“Thanks for telling me you wanted me the first time I asked,” Finn said.

Leo’s eyebrows went up, and Finn smiled, wrapping his arm more fully around Leo’s waist.

“Like you didn’t know Logan wanted you,” Leo said.

“I did. I just didn’t know if he’d ever let himself take me.”

“Those words sure sound sweet coming out of your mouth.”

“Oh yeah?” Finn smiled. “Besides, I am pretty Lo-fluent.”

Low on his stomach, Leo covered Finn’s hand with his own. “Funny, he’s said the same thing about you.”

“Oh, I bet he has.” Finn nosed against Leo’s cheek, and stole a slow, leisurely kiss—far too much for a museum, even the quiet corner of one. “But still. You looked me in the eye. One-for-one.”

“And then I ran away from you?” Leo reminded him, kissing his jaw.

“But you let me come find you.”

“He wanted that, too. Believe me.”

Finn laughed. “You don’t have to defend him. You know I’d have kept him in my pocket if I could. Always.” Finn gave his hand a little tug on Leo’s waist and began to nudge him towards a free corner. “I’m taking about you. I’d keep you there, too.”

“Your pocket? Honey, I like it in your arms just fine.”

“Oh,” Finn said around a smile, then “hm” just before he kissed him again.

Leo didn’t know if he should be leaning against a wall here, didn’t know where a guard was to yell at him, and didn’t really care. At one point, he put his hands into Finn’s hair and had to catch the glasses he’d forgotten about. The small gasp he gave as his fingers fumbled for them let Finn right in, and suddenly any sort of footsteps or place was simply gone.

“Ready to go,” Finn guessed when Leo made a wanting sound, then smiled and kissed him again, quick. “Yeah, we are.”

Kasey was waiting for Alex on their floor outside their building’s elevator. Alex was pushing his hair back, still damp from his shower at the rink, and rubbing sleep out of his eyes when he saw him. He’d already begun tugging his tie from his neck. His muscles ached, and his shoulder had felt just a little off since that open-ice hit in the middle of the third, but when those doors opened and he saw Kasey leaning against the wall in the hallway, it all dimmed. The caught gaze between them felt as unfinished as their words.

“Good game,” Kasey said.

“Thanks,” Alex tugged his tie all the way off and let the elevator close behind him. “How did you know I was home?”

“I tracked your location.” Kasey slid his hands into his pockets. “Just like to know where you are. And what you’re doing.” His mouth pulled to the side. “And if you’re okay.”

Alex rolled his shoulder. He dropped his go-bag, walked forward, and kissed him. It maybe came out a little rough. Kasey’s hands found his hips. They slid up the arch of his lower back. Alex held onto his shoulders, turning into the softness of Kasey’s mouth until they had to breathe. He broke the kiss, catching his breath, then tried to lean back in. He was stopped by Kasey’s hand on his jaw. His thumb came to rest just over Alex’s bottom lip. Alex kept his eyes closed, waiting. Kasey’s thumb tapped twice. The silence was long, but it was like basking in sun.

“What, you couldn’t…” Kasey began softly. “You couldn’t talk to me about it?”

Alex was sure he could feel it each time Kasey’s brown eyes shifted over his face.

Kasey grasped Alex’s shoulders. “All the times we… Al, you took me ring shopping. I feel horrible, I feel so, so horrible—”

Alex couldn’t help it. He turned away. He rubbed a hand over his chest and beating heart.

“I need you to tell me things,” Kasey said. “I need you to.”

“I…” Alex’s voice hardly came out. He looked at the warped reflection of the two of them in the elevator doors. More silhouettes than anything. “I want you to be happy.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“Alex, what—” Kasey stepped forward, voice raising. “And you think you don’t make me happy?”

“It wasn’t about me!” Alex turned back towards him. He couldn’t keep the break out of his voice. “It was—”

“I want it to be! I can’t—I can’t come home and—it turns out that you think—” Kasey was shouting now. Alex had seen it happen once. Maybe twice. “It turns out you think you’re sometimes to me? Sometimes?”

“You were getting married!”

“You said you were okay with it! You’re still ours.”

“What the fuck was I supposed to say?” Alex could feel the burn in his throat. “What the fuck was going to happen if I said no?”

“So you decided to lie?”

“I decided to keep you for as—” Alex broke off. Aware they were in a hallway, he dropped his voice. “For as long as I could.”

Kasey flinched. He took a step backwards. He filled up the hallway with his broad shoulders and the way the light caught his hair. He filled up Alex’s head with everything from the way he tossed anything he was holding between his hands like a puck, to the sheepish way he kissed in the morning.

“What?” Kasey’s whisper was hoarse and desperate. “What?”

Alex just shook his head. He wanted to take the words back. Right then, if he could have, he would have reeled back every word he’d ever said in his life. “I…I don’t know. I’m so stupid, Kase, I don’t…I’m…”

Kasey made a frustrated noise, and then Alex was being crowded against the wall. Kasey put his hands on either side of his head so they were eye-level.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Kasey whispered. He nudged his nose against Alex’s cheek. “You—Hazard…”

Alex nodded. He’d always liked his nickname, but right then it just felt like the truth.

“No,” Kasey whispered. It had a scolding tinge to it. “You’re not. Not like that.” Kasey kissed his cheek. He let his mouth stay there, warm and soft. “You’re not.”

Alex realized he was was kissing tears.

“I’m a mess,” Alex said.

Kasey pressed a palm to Alex’s other cheek, thumbing away the trails. “You’re not a mess. You’re crying.”

That made Alex laugh, startled and, well, a little snotty. “What’s the difference?”

“The difference is you’re not a mess,” Kasey said. He kissed the corner of Alex’s mouth. “And you look fucking gorgeous.”

“You’re mad at me,” Alex said.

“A little, yeah.” Kasey leaned back to look at him. “And I love you so much I might lose it.”

Alex sniffed again. “God. God, I love you, too. You’re angry.”

“I can be both. And one part will fade. Guess which? Not the love part. That’s been here to stay since the first day I met you and you wouldn’t shut the hell up up and let me go to sleep.”

“I…” Alex took a few moments to twist an end of Kasey’s hair around his finger. “I don’t—I have this little brother, you may know him?”

Kasey’s eyebrows went up, amused. “Uh-huh. Think so.”

“He had this boy at college that he…” Alex sniffed, blinking away the wetness from his vision. “I don’t remember his name. Liam Trombone, or something.”

Kasey smiled, just a little. “You have the weirdest sense of humor.”

“Lionel Trustfund.”

“Finish the story that I already know.”

“Okay.” Alex dropped his eyes, studying the curve of Kasey’s upper lip. “The little brother burned up a little, waiting for him. And there was nothing I could do to help him.”

“Okay,” Kasey’s expression had softened, listening.

“I didn’t know how to help him, but I knew how much he was hurting.” Alex put his hands on Kasey’s chest. “I think that little brother’s stronger than I am. I think he’s smarter than I am. I think he could survive it. Even if it didn’t work out.”

Kasey’s hands covered his.

“I don’t…think I could,” Alex whispered. “So I tried to stop it before it was too…”

“I get it,” Kasey said. “Don’t worry, I understand now.”

“Maybe I’m jealous,” Alex said. “Or I’m insecure, or something fucking stupid like that—”

“Maybe,” Kasey cut him off, “you’re as in love with us as we are with you. Maybe we’re fucking stupid or something like that. Maybe I was leaving hockey and I knew just one part of this new life that I was about to have, and that part is Natalie.” Kasey ducked until Alex looked at him. “Maybe I couldn’t believe I actually got you back and I didn’t…” Kasey pressed his lips together against tears. “You’re not just sometimes, Al. Of everything in my life, you’re the only thing that’s always been always. I don’t have this incredible family like you do, I don’t have…I’ve always had my teammates, and then I had Natalie, but first I had—first there was suddenly this really kind, fun…loud person—”

Alex let out a breath of a laugh and Kasey smiled, brows drawn together against the tears.

“Really beautiful person suddenly filling up my life,” Kasey finished, carding Alex’s hair back from his face. “First there was you.”

Alex nodded hard. “You’re that for me. You’re that for me, too.”

Suddenly, Natalie’s voice filtered down the hallway. “This hallway has very bad lighting for confessions of love.”

Alex closed his eyes and laughed when Kasey grinned. They turned to see her leaning out of their doorway. She wore Rangers blue.

“Hi, gorgeous,” Alex said, rubbing at his eyes. “Where is my bag?”

“I’ve got it,” Kasey said.

Kasey picked his things up and followed Alex to their door.

Natalie stood aside from the doorway, letting them in, and looked up at Alex. “I would have gone with Leroy Trampoline.”

“Laurence Trespass,” Kasey added from behind him.

For some reason, it was that that truly made Alex cry. Natalie was ready for it. She didn’t let Alex put a hand over his eyes. She caught it and kissed it. She smoothed a hand over Alex’s shoulder, as she kissed his cheek.

“And when were you going to tell us this hurts, too?”

“My shoulder hurts a little,” Alex said somewhat dutifully, and she smiled, shaking her head.

“O’Hara,” Kasey began to protest.

“Barely,” Alex said. He wrapped Natalie up around her waist and lifted her off her feet a little. “Okay, okay, I promise. I don’t know why I hide it, I really don’t. Natalia?”

“Alexander.”

“You look so beautiful when you look at wedding things,” Alex said softly. “Are you sure you…Are you sure you don’t…” Alex shook his head. He looked at Kasey pointedly, then shook his head down at himself. “I mean, I…Are you sure?”

“What can I say,” Natalie said, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I want two diamonds. And two pairs of brown eyes. And two hearts. And you. You.” She kissed him more fully, hands in his hair, and said her next words against his mouth. “Let them call me greedy, see if I care.”

“No,” Leo pushed at Finn’s cheek, laughing. “Lick Logan all you want, don’t lick me.”

They were just a little tipsy after a full dinner and watching Logan play, tucked into a booth at Finn’s favorite place with whiskey and Leo’s mouth on on his neck. Finn was possibly feeling a little riled up from Logan’s intense expression on the TV, and Leo’s bright smile right beside him. He’d let himself be pulled home, pulled through their door, pulled into Leo’s arms, pulled against his body. Leo was salt and sweet. Finn had gotten him off once already—right here, Leo had said, pushing Finn to his knees in the entrance hall. Ever since Lo said about you two…He’d glanced over his shoulder at the mirror and laughed. Finn liked the way that small table rattled against the mirror. He and Logan bit back smiles whenever they locked eyes in that mirror now, coming in from a walk or dinner. He’d never walk through there the same way now. Not with Logan, not with Leo, not alone.

“Okay, okay, okay, come back.” Finn kissed Leo’s cheek, turned against the pillows. He was stretched out against the bed now, bare except for his boxers. “Come back.”

Leo pretended to keep his face turned away, smiling, but his hands were sliding down to Finn’s hips, pushing into his boxers and turning back to kiss him.

“Do I get to—” Finn couldn’t help the low sound in the back of his throat as Leo closed a hand around his cock. “—hear—to hear more of the list of the things you want?”

Leo’s palm was warm, his pulls slow and teasing. “You’re hearing it right now.”

“Oh,” Finn’s voice felt tight and coiled in his throat. “Uh-huh.”

Leo hooked an ankle over the back of Finn’s knee. His free hand scratched through Finn’s hair, angling his chin for another kiss. Finn pressed his hands into the pillows by Leo’s head, fingers fisting the material as Leo’s hand sped up. But then, Leo was using that ankle as leverage, and suddenly Finn found himself on his back.

“Don’t…” Leo whispered the word, even mouthed it. He let Finn slide his palms down his ribs. “Move.”

Then he was grinning and gone, leaving Finn staring up at the ceiling.

“I—wait, I, what?” Finn stuttered. “I—what?”

“Don’t move!” Leo shouted from the living room.

Finn heard rummaging, and Leo’s bare feet on the hardwood.

It was funny, being alone in this bedroom. Logan’s bedroom. He turned his head into the pillow and could smell his scent there. Logan’s bed had been a rare delicacy at one time. Being in it. Being warm in it, being cold in it. Being cramped in it. Waiting for him to come back but waking up alone in it.

He’d never been in Leo’s bed when they’d lived together before they were together. He’d sat on top of the covers. Or rumpled covers. Warm from Leo just waking up, Finn back from his run and showered, watching him go back and forth from the bathroom, getting ready. A little hard in his jeans at Leo’s smile and skin.

“Le?” Finn called. He looked down at himself, briefs tight, and ran his thumbs just above his waistband. He’d leaked a mess while sucking Leo off and he was tempted to kick away the darkened material. But he wanted Leo to do it. “Come back.”

“I’m coming!”

“Whatever you think you need, you don’t,” Finn called again.

“Oh-ho, yes, I do.” His voice was closer now. He came back to the doorway, still in his boxers. Finn’s heart gave a kick at the shape of him, trapped tight against his body. Nothing looked new. He wasn’t holding anything that Finn could see, but his hands were tucked behind his back. He was smiling, teasing almost, but his eyes dropped to Finn’s hips and it turned soft. He bit his bottom lip and tilted his head, then withdrew a hand and held something up—a Sharpie.

“You left me for a pen.”

Leo uncapped the pen with a flourish and pointed the nib at Finn’s body. “Art.”

“Oh my God,” Finn said.

“You are so turned on right now,” Leo said delightedly. He knelt on the bed, jostling them both, and swung a leg over Finn’s hips. They both let out a breath as Leo spent a few moments grinding down on him. Finn got a hand around the back of his neck and pushed his nose against Leo’s left dimple.

Leo smiled into it. “Kiss me.” He traced his tongue over Finn’s bottom lip, coaxing Finn into opening his mouth and kissing him properly. When Finn did, Leo groaned softly, pleased.

“Yeah…Like that,” Leo murmured, and Finn made his own pleased sound when Leo slumped against his chest to be kissed. Finn had just settled back against his pillows, tilting his head to scrape his teeth gently against Leo’s lower lip, his hands guiding Leo’s hips down in slow rolls against his own, when Leo gasped for air. Finn smiled and kissed him again, harder, sloppier, before Leo broke away.

“God, Finn.” Leo leaned back, hand rubbing at himself through his boxers, then Finn. “Okay, okay, where to write first?”

Finn laughed. “There are a whole lot of things we could be doing that don’t involve writing.”

Leo ignored him. He studied Finn’s torso, then spread a warm palm against his ribs and bent down. Finn tried not to jump when the cool point of the pen began tracing a slow line over his skin.

He tried to pick out the cursive letters, but couldn’t. Instead, he let his head rest back against the pillows. “That’s kind of nice.”

Leo capping the pen and admiring his work. He blew softly on the ink, though it had dried, and Finn shivered. When he looked, he saw that Leo had written his signature, and he laughed at the fact that he’d even included his number like he’d do for fans.

“Wow.” Finn reached forward to pull Leo down against him. “Do you have any idea how much I’d be worth on Ebay now?”

“Oh, shh,” Leo said, but let Finn steal the pen from him.

“Shh,” Finn parroted, and grasped Leo’s knees and flipped him onto his back. The pen was warm, so was the center of his chest when Finn kissed it. He sat back on his heels like Leo had. “What do you want, Sunshi—oh, I’m doing that.”

Finn chose the spot on Leo’s hip were Logan’s tattoo resided and drew a small sun. Circle, rays coming out. Over the bump of his ribs, he started the straight line of his signature. F. Then the loop of the O. Then, smaller, 17.

“What number would I be if I wasn’t 17?”

Leo snorted. “Ten.”

Finn smiled. “No way.”

“Hm…Maybe 22.”

Finn made an interested noise. He drew a small heart near Leo’s left nipple. “That’s a good one.”

“And me? And don’t just say another classic goalie number. Like, 30 or something.”

Finn capped the pen and swiped his thumb over the sun. “Maybe…Something with a seven in it. 72. Or a 4. I like 4 for you. 74. Or 3. Three of us, three on your jersey.”

Leo put his hands behind his head, smiling. “I ask for one number, of course you give me four.”

Finn shrugged. “What can I say? You’re versatile.” Finn put his hands over Leo’s wrists where they were resting above his blond, messy hair. “I like that about you.”

One moment Leo was grinning, and the next he was swinging his weight up to put Finn on his back again. “Oh?”

Finn ran his hands down the full length of Leo’s back and gripped the back of his thighs.

“I really, really want you,” Leo whispered. “Fuck, Finn, I loved today.”

“I know,” Finn whispered back. “Me too.” When he messed with the band of Leo’s briefs, Leo was helping him get them off before he could even ask, “yeah?”

Leo moaned into Finn’s kiss, and Finn’s cock jumped at the want and relief in it. Leo just pushed the elastic band below his balls and pressed against Finn’s body like he couldn’t wait any longer. Finn got a hand between them, giving him a tight hold to fuck into. He was already slick.

At the same moment, their front door slammed.

“Hello?” Logan shouted. Keys in a bowl. Bag dropping down to the floor. “I’m home.”

“Oh…” Leo panted. “Oh—”

“Good?” Finn settled a warm hand on his lower back. He didn’t care that he himself was aching. He wanted to make Leo come again the second Logan found them. “Come when you see him.”

Leo was too far gone for his laugh to be anything by half-breath. He was rocking into Finn’s fist more roughly now and Finn crossed an ankle over the back of Leo’s knee to give him more leverage.

“You wanna finish like this?” Finn swiped a soothing thumb over his back. “Hm, baby? Anything you want.”

“I need to.” Leo’s voice was shaky. “I’m so…”

“Yeah, you are.” He could hear Logan’s footsteps coming towards them and knew Leo could, too. Gently, Finn nudged his nose into Leo’s hot cheek until he turned his head towards the bedroom doorway. “Look.”

Leo’s breathing jumped. “I’m coming, I’m—”

Finn felt the first hot streak of Leo’s come on his chest, his neck, just as Logan appeared in the doorway. He was still in his suit, a light grey three-piece that Finn loved him in. His hair was dark, damp still, dripping on his collar. He had a new but shallow cut on his jaw. He stopped hard when he took in the sight in front of him.

“Hello, Lolo.” Finn’s voice was a little tight from the feeling of Leo pressing down on him. “What’s up?”

“Fuck,” Leo panted, eyes hooded.

Logan just stared. “I…”

Finn smiled and turned back to Leo. He carded his fingers through his hair and loosened his grip around his cock, bringing him down with gentle strokes. He was so hot in his palm, spent and softening. Finn felt like even the fabric around him could set him off.

“You,” Leo whispered, smiling as he noticed. “You’re so…”

“I’m good. You’re perfect,” Finn said. “Feel like I’ve come twice just watching you.”

Leo’s smile turned wide and sated. His kiss was slow. Out of Logan’s view, Leo slipped the Sharpie into his hand and Finn grinned, arching into Leo’s hips and the kisses he’d began placing on the underside of his jaw.

Logan just crossed his arms and leaned against the doorway. Slowly, he found the different marks and dark lines on their skin, and frowned. “What is…that?”

Finn brought the pen up to his mouth and took the cap off with his teeth. “C’mere, Ten.”

Logan took a small step back, one corner of his mouth lifting, unsure. “What the fuck?”

Leo leaned back from what Finn was sure was entirely different type of artwork now dotting his neck. “Finn took me to the museum.”

“Artists sign art,” Finn added.

He gave Leo’s shoulder a small push and settled him on his back again and sat up with his knees parted over Leo’s hips. Leo reached out a hand to cup Finn’s covered cock, and Finn let himself rock into it gently as he surveyed Leo’s lean, pale skin, already marked in a few places. He felt like he’d been on the edge for hours. Sometimes, he didn’t want it to end. “Ah. Here.”

He wrote slowly, scrawling his signature again across Leo’s inner arm. He watched the way Leo’s breathing hitched and how goosebumps spread out from the marker’s cold nib. Leo didn’t laugh like he had before. He just pressed up into Finn’s hold as Finn scooted backwards and hooked one of Leo’s strong, slender legs over his shoulder and considered the expanse of Leo’s inner thigh, right where it was softest and sprinkled with blond hair. Finn steadied him, fingers in the strong crease of his hip, and drew a heart.

“Huh.” Logan’s mouth was slightly open. “Isn’t that bad, like, for skin?”

“Not my skin,” Leo whispered. He had his hands above his head and watched Finn through dark, half-closed eyes. “Not in those hands.” He turned his head. “What are you still doing over there?”

“Waiting for someone to take this suit off of me.”

Leo gave Finn a small smack on the hip that Finn took as go. Finn slipped off the bed. In two strides, he was in front of Logan, gently tilting his neck to the side, and writing a small 17 just below his ear.

“Hi, demanding one,” Finn said, then capped the pen a put it between his teeth to hold while he got to work on Logan’s tie.

“Why do you keep putting that in your mouth?”

“To draw your attention to it,” Finn said around the pen.

“Please remember I have to go into a locker room.”

“Oh, come on. You know I gotta show Luke what’s mine.”

Logan tilted his head back and groaned. “Finn.”

“Just kidding.” Finn took the pen out from between his teeth, cupping the back of Logan’s head to pull him into a kiss as he slid his tie out from his collar.

“You’re not kidding,” Logan protested, looking at Leo. “Le’s not jealous of Luke. He’s a mature person.”

“I’m jealous of anyone who gets to spend that much time with you these days,” Leo said.

Logan’s eyes turned soft, still staring at Leo as Finn slipped his jacket from his shoulders. It fell uncaringly to the floor. Finn could have watched them look at each other forever. He could feel their locked eyes like a strand of heat beside him. He undid the top buttons of Logan’s shirt and pushed it off his shoulders just enough to get at the center of his chest.

Logan looked down when he felt the cold pen. “What—”

“This is so much better than writing on shoes.”

H-E-A-R-T. Finn wanted to circle the letters, carve himself a space, and fall in. He settled for a kiss to the skin, then lower, lower, until he was kneeling and Logan’s shirt was on the ground. There was a fresh bruise on his ribs and Finn gently traced its shape before writing Logan Island.

“You’re so weird,” Logan said faintly. He gave Finn’s hair a little tug, brushed a thumb over his bottom lip, then went to kneel on the bed and kiss Leo.

Finn grinned at his soft salut and the sound of a kiss. He pushed himself up and sat on the edge of the bed. While they were busy, he tugged Logan’s socks off and pushed his pant leg up enough to draw a couple stars on the back of his calf. He heard Logan laugh into the kiss. The ink looked different against Logan’s more tan skin. With Leo it was stark and beautiful. Logan made it like it had always been there.

“Good win by the way. We watched you from that corner place we love,” Leo said when Logan rolled on his back to kick off his pants. Leo turned on his side to touch the bruise. “Maybe you should take it easy.”

Logan grumbled something Finn didn’t catch, down to his underwear now.

Leo glanced at Finn, smile knowing. “One more time?”

Logan huffed. “I’ll have big Florida hotel beds to take it easy all by myself all I want.”

Leo reached out for the Sharpie and gave Finn a nod. He hooked a knee over Logan’s thigh and began drawing small stars over Logan’s collarbone.

“Big Florida beds, huh?” Leo asked.

Logan watched Leo’s face as he drew. “Yes.”

“All by yourself?” Finn repeated.

That got Logan to look at him. He still looked put-out by the thought, but there was hesitation there, too.

“Ouais,” he said.

Finn tilted his head. “Says who?”

Leo capped the pen and blew on his stars. They were in a pattern, Finn realized. A constellation.

Logan pushed himself up onto one elbow. He looked between them, mouth open. “Quoi—non. What?”

Finn moved forward to settle in between Logan’s legs, smoothing his hands up Logan’s thighs when he wrapped them around Finn’s waist. “I said, says who?”

“Merci.” The word nearly got lost in Logan’s relieved sigh. Then he was reaching for Finn, locking his fingers around his wrists. “Really? Really?”

“Of course we’re coming with you,” Leo said. “What do you take us for?”

Logan looked like someone had just taken some heavy weight off his shoulders. He turned his head to put Leo’s forehead against his own.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you…”

“Honey, there’s nothing ‘thank you’ about it,” Leo said. “If we can follow you, we will. You know that.”

“I—still. It’s not like I’ll have much free time,” Logan said. “And—And I thought you’d probably want to go home.”

Leo smiled into Logan’s kiss. “Take a look at Harzy. I think he feels pretty at home right where he is.”

“Oh yeah,” Finn said. He leaned down over their them, barely having to turn his head to place a kiss to the corner of Leo’s mouth, then Logan’s. “We’re going to get you some silver. We’re going to go watch our best friends get married. There’s nothing not ‘home’ about any of that.”

It almost felt strange, to watch hockey like this again. To worry about who was going to win and not be able to help a team get there. Sirius spared half a moment to glance at Remus as he set his tea down on the table. He said something soft and smiling as Lily handed Harry over to settle sleepily against his chest.

Sirius watched for a moment as a drone image of a Florida beach took up the TV screen. He stood behind the couch with his arms crossed, and as long as the blue water was on the screen, he could lower his hands to mess gently with the hair at Remus’ nape. Remus, rubbing Harry’s back, looked backwards and upside down at him.

“All right, Black, I’m not kidding, you standing there like that is not going to make the Rangers win.”

“I’m not—” The TNT logo flashed and suddenly Logan’s face filled the screen. He had his mouthguard half out of his mouth, and there was a neat line of stitches on his cheek from a re-opened cut. The camera panned to the ice where the Rangers were about to lose the last seconds of a power-play, and Sirius crossed his arms again, back into their original position. “I don’t want them to win.”

Lily scoffed. “We do for right now.”

“Gah,” James put a finger over her lips. “La-la-la.”

“I won’t say that out loud,” Sirius replied.

Around Harry’s sleeping back, Remus mocked Sirius’ position, crossing his arms. “You’re saying you don’t want Logan to win you-know-what?”

Sirius actually flinched. “I’m saying—I’m not saying anything that could influence anything. I’m standing here, watching a friend on television.”

“You’ve had your arms crossed like that since Logan scored in the first period.” Lily looked at the living room clock. “That’s about an hour and a half ago.”

“Oh my God.” Remus let out a loud ha, then put a hand over Harry’s head as if to say sorry. He held up his phone to Lily and James, who made similar sounds, then flipped it to show Sirius. Leo had sent a picture of Finn to the team group chat. Finn was sitting with his back straight in what looked like a hotel room, palm trees outside. He had his hands placed specifically on his knees, his eyes on an out of sight TV.

Leo had written, he hasn’t moved at all since Lo scored but he “isn’t superstitious.”

Sirius pointedly looked back to the television. Logan was on the ice now, gliding into Florida’s zone.

Sirius glared when he heard the sound of Remus’ camera click.

They were about to go into their second over time, and Logan had blood in his mouth as he walked down the tunnel to the visitor’s locker room. He checked his teeth, but it was just a cut lip.

“Fucking seventy-four,” Luke said from two steps behind him. “Got a fucking mouth on him.”

“Ouais.” Logan handed his gloves over to be dried and pulled his helmet off. He rubbed at the red mark the tightness had left and tried to think what Finn would be saying over his shoulder right then. He would be talking a mile-a-minute and pressed right up against his back. Logan could text him and Leo and read the words, but that wouldn’t feel the same.

He could imagine it in snatches. If we had gone around—Too early—So fucking gorgeous, Tremzy—I tried to but he cut me off, so next time—

That wasn’t the same, either.

He got a bag of ice, twisting it closed, before sitting down heavily in his stall and holding it against his mouth. It felt swollen already. The bleeding had stopped, at least.

From his stall, he heard his phone buzz.

Sixteen texts from Finn and Leo. Two from Remus.

One from Sirius.

The Sirius one, for some reason, sent his heart all funny. They talked. Of course they talked, but not much and never during games. Too many lines blurred like that, and it was bad enough that Logan still couldn’t look at Sirius without thinking of him as his captain. But there it was. Sirius Black. One new message.

Finn and Leo’s texts were a tangled string of admiration that ranged from sweet to dirty. Logan bit back a smile and vowed to take another look at those later.

Remus had sent him a screenshot from the Lion’s group chat. A photograph of Finn, sitting tensed on the couch. The beat of warmth that Logan got when he realized that intense look on his face was because he was watching him was another thing to be examined later. The second photo, sent by Remus, was of Sirius standing behind a couch with his arms crossed. He wore the same intense look on his face.

Sirius’ lone message was simple. Bring it back home.

Logan knew Sirius was talking about the game. Bring it back to New York, finish this round on home ice, and move on to the final round for the Cup. But the word bled and healed like the cut on Logan’s cheek and lip. Sirius shared more than one home with him. Home was speaking French. Home was Pascal. Home was letting themselves go, and letting themselves love. Logan had been sitting there, trying to imagine home around him. Home was waiting for him in a hotel room not even twenty minutes away. He’d be washed in blue eyes and sun later tonight, in pale skin and auburn hair. The lonely feeling was half-habit when it came to Logan—and Sirius. Sirius knew that better than anyone.

For a fraction of a second, Logan’s world didn’t feel so very far away.

#vaincre lumosinlove #sweater weather lumosinlove #wolfstar #coops #sports au #o'knutzy #finn o'hara #Logan tremblay #Leo knut #o'darwin #Alex o'hara #kasey winter #Natalie darcy

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goblinontour · 2 days ago

Text

Mr. And Mrs.

the christmas special

part 12 | series masterlist

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

word count: 15.3k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It almost works. Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, quieter, closer: “Mrs. Turner.”

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

Yes, you should. Yes, you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh and place the statues back on the shelf.

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

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

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

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

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

“Alex.”

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

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

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

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

“Thoughts?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

“Who said I’d get coffee with you?”

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

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

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

“Alex-”

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

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

“I don’t like you making fun of me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We are.” he concludes.

“Yes.” you say, exasperated.

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

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

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

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

“Alex!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows he’s broken through.

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

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

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

“Annoyed?”

You nod, barely.

“Because of me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re annoying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traffic, of course, is terrible.

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

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

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

“Alex.”

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

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

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

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

“Leave it.” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums in response.

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

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

“Yes. It’s unnerving.”

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

“About?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Help me out ‘ere.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s the book coming along?”

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

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

“It’s not the same.” you argue.

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

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

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

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

“Babe.” he says, trying again.

You ignore him, pretending to adjust your hair.

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

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

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wouldn’t say no. Who would?

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

You really were that predictable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m your trouble.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was absurd, but it worked.

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

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

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

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

“Whatcha doing?” you ask.

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

“Well, wake up.” you prod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably.”

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

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

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

“Stay, then.”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t exaggerate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alex notices everything.

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

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

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

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

“Even when I’m right here?”

“Especially then.”

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

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

“Miss you too, y’know.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to have a baby?”

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

It takes a long moment for him to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

But you can’t stop. Neither can he.

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

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

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

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

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

“I want-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You could live off this. Off him. Easily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Demanding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.” he says softly. “Full.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I-” you start.

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

“Yeah.” you admit cautiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And your mom?”

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

“Define bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t make it worse.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“Merry Christmas, trouble.”

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

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #alex turner fluff #alex turner smut #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #smut #mr turner #goblinontour

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koenigami · 2 days ago

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soft kissing hour. tags : fluff, fem!reader, touchy togame, mentions of reader wearing make up wc : 950 - Less is more. Togame likes to live by that simple rule in more than only one way. Whether that be his clothing, his minimalistically decorated home, or his decision to exchange his long messy mullet with a plain short undercut a few years ago. As cheesy as it sounds, he just thinks that it is important to appreciate the mundane things in life.

His conviction is even further undermined once your silhouette appears in the doorway of his bedroom.

It is the first time that you’re actually spending the night at his, and to say that he’s more than elated is an understatement.

Being able to watch you pad around his room in his own clothes, hold you in the comfort of his bed, and having the honor to have you being the last thing he sees before falling asleep as well as the first thing when he wakes up the following morning. The simple thought of it makes him only now aware of the fact that his home has been missing something significant all this time. You.

That's why you're met with the most gentle smile once you walk over to the unoccupied side of the bed, clad in an old shirt of his and sweat shorts.

A light shiver runs through your body accompanied with goosebumps rising along your skin once you slip under cold sheets. Yet when Togame's arm reaches out and pulls you in by your waist, you can't hold back the little hum of contentment once you feel his warmth.

You always tell him that he's a walking furnace. Especially on days when he calls you a living icicle. When your freezing fingers meet his warm palms, or when you bury your cold nose in the crevice of his neck, soaking in his warmth and the woody scent of his that you've gotten so very addicted to.

"I don't think I've seen you like this before." He speaks lowly once you're nestled against him, your head resting on his upper arm.

"Like what?" You breathe out and wonder whether he can feel your heartbeat like this, chest to chest. His lips are so close, all you would have to do is lean in the slightest bit only to taste him, slot your mouth against his and forget the entire world around you.

His soft gaze travels across your face. Your eyes, your lips, your jaw, your nose, again your lips-

Your eyebrows perk up when he opens his mouth, obviously unsure about how to word his thoughts. There's a stuttering beat against your chest, and you have no clue whether it is yours or his. A second passes, then another, and when the suspense is getting almost unbearable, Togame only sighs. You both giggle in unison when he just curses while a rosey blush suddenly dusts over his cheeks.

"Jo! Come on, just say it already." The corners of your mouth are starting to hurt from the bright grin plastered on your face. Though it falls slowly when his palm cups your jaw, and he just silently looks at you.

Your heart swells at how tenderly his thumb swipes over the skin of your cheek. Togame Jo, a man so strong yet a man who knows that the blessing of such a strength comes with certain responsibilities.

His broad shoulders and back have always been an advantage when facing adversaries, allowing him to intimidate them easily. Now, he knows that those same shoulders are meant to carry any burdens that seem to weigh you down.

Big strong hands that have punched and broken so much, been covered in blood for way too many times. Now, he can use those same hands to gently hold your softer ones in his, glide them over the plush skin of your curves and feel your warmth.

"What are you doing?" You giggle quietly when his thumb slides higher up to the corner of your eyes, tracing the dark shades which are usually covered by a light sheen of concealer. He can easily move the pad of his finger over your eyebrows and down your nose bridge without you whining about how he's messing up your make up.

"You're just-" You follow his eyes which somehow seem to drift all over your face, as if he wants to take in all of you and burn every single detail into his memory. There's just something so satisfying about being able to see every single mark and blemish on your skin, and it's crazy how he has thought that you could not be any prettier. Yet here you are, taking his breath away and leaving his mind empty, and unable to come up with words to properly describe you. "Pretty. Very."

A beat of silence passes, while you blink at him.

"My boyfriend has such a way with words." Your voice is a pitch higher as you fan your face, containing your smile with a bite on your lip until you shriek when his teeth suddenly graze your jaw.

"Maybe my girlfriend should have dated a poet instead then." There's something darker in his voice as he looks at you through hooded eyes. As if even the single thought of you with someone else is able to kindle a fire inside him that could only ever be extinguished by you yourself.

No, Togame may not be your classical poet. However the way his body language speaks to you, reacts to you, how his fingers trace all kinds of shapes into your skin, how his eyes roam all over your body, pupils dilating and throwing shadows into the green forest in his eyes- It's probably more worth than simple words on a piece paper.

"Nah." You quip and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself impossibly closer to him. The tip of your nose touches his. "I think I'm more than fine like this."

#togame jo #togame #wind breaker togame #togame x reader #wbk togame #togame jou #togame fluff #togame jo x reader #togame drabble #wind breaker x reader

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wosos-stuff · 2 days ago

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The journal of secrets

Chapter 1: The Hidden Crush

---

The air was sharp and cool, carrying the distinct scent of fresh-cut grass and the distant hum of the city just outside Arsenal’s training grounds. Y/N always loved the mornings, when the world felt quiet and the rush of the day had yet to catch up. But today, her mind wasn’t on the training drills, or the upcoming match this weekend. It was on her Alessia Russo.

Across the pitch, Alessia was surrounded by a few teammates, laughing at something one of them had said. Y/N stood a few meters away, trying not to stare, but failing miserably. Alessia looked stunning, her blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun, cheeks flushed from the morning warm-up, and her laughter—it was one of those things that echoed in Y/N’s mind long after she had walked away.

Alessia Russo, Arsenal’s golden girl. The new star, the one everyone adored both on and off the field. For Y/N, it had started as admiration. How could it not? Alessia was talented, passionate, driven—everything Y/N strived to be. But as time went on, admiration had twisted into something deeper, something more dangerous.

“Are you gonna stare all day, or are we actually gonna get some work done?” McCabe’s voice cut through Y/N’s daze, snapping her back to reality.

Y/N blinked, realizing she had been standing there, football in hand, for longer than she should have. She cleared her throat, forcing a laugh as she turned to Katie. “Sorry, just…lost in thought.”

“Lost in Alessia’s orbit, more like,” Katie teased with a smirk, nudging Y/N with her elbow. “You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

Y/N’s face flushed a deep shade of red, but she shook her head quickly, trying to play it off. “What? No, it’s not like that.”

Katie raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Sure, whatever you say. Just try not to trip over your own feet when she’s around, alright?”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at the corner of her mouth. Katie had always been able to read her like an open book. But even so, there were things Y/N never admitted aloud—things that were too complicated, too risky to say.

Like how her heart sped up every time Alessia smiled at her, or how she secretly replayed their brief conversations in her head on the way home. No, those thoughts were saved for the one place Y/N felt safe enough to express them—the pages of her journal.

---

Later that evening, Y/N sat cross-legged on her bed, the soft glow of a lamp illuminating the small room she rented near the stadium. The journal was in her lap, its leather cover worn from months of use. She twirled a pen between her fingers, trying to figure out where to start.

The journal had started as a way to cope with the pressures of professional football, a way to get her thoughts out of her head when they became too much. But at some point, it had morphed into something else—something more personal. Now, its pages were filled with thoughts about Alessia. Memories of fleeting glances, stolen smiles, and the way her laugh seemed to make everything else fade away.

Y/N opened the journal, flipping to a fresh page, and stared at the blank space for a moment.

*What do I even say this time?*

She hesitated for a moment, then began to write:

*It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? The way she makes me feel. Like my heart can’t decide if it wants to race or stop altogether when she’s around. I know I should just get over it, but…how? She’s so kind, so talented. Every time she smiles at me, I feel like the world tips on its axis. But it’s pointless, right? She’s way out of my league. Even if I tried, even if I told her—what would she say? What if she laughs? What if she thinks I’m crazy?*

She paused, staring down at the words, feeling the familiar weight of unspoken feelings settle in her chest. This wasn’t new. This was her ritual. Confessing everything to the pages of a journal that could never talk back.

---

The next day started like any other—early morning training, a long list of drills, and the chatter of her teammates echoing across the pitch. But as Y/N rummaged through her gym bag before practice, a wave of panic washed over her.

The journal wasn’t there.

Her heart raced as she frantically searched every pocket, every compartment of the bag, but it was gone. *No, no, no—this can’t be happening.* She tried to stay calm, but her mind was already spiraling. Who had it? Where could she have left it?

Training was a blur. Her usual focus was shattered as her thoughts kept drifting back to the journal. What if someone found it? What if they read it?

---

Y/N barely registered the drills she was supposed to be focusing on. Her mind was a haze of panic, spinning out scenarios of what would happen if someone—especially Alessia—found the journal. The thoughts she had written down weren’t just about admiration; they were raw, real feelings, laid bare in ways she couldn’t imagine anyone else seeing.

“Y/N, you alright?” Jen Beattie’s voice snapped her out of her daze. Y/N had been standing in the middle of the pitch, ball at her feet, while the rest of the team had already moved on to another drill. She blinked, scrambling to compose herself.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good,” Y/N said, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. She kicked the ball aimlessly, praying she didn’t look as rattled as she felt. But she could feel the stares from a few of the other girls. Even Alessia, from across the field, had glanced in her direction.

She tried to shake it off, knowing she needed to keep her head in the game. But the weight of that missing journal sat heavy on her chest, refusing to let go. After what felt like an eternity, training finally came to an end, and Y/N made a beeline for the locker room, hoping to search her bag again. Maybe it had fallen out in her car. Maybe it was somewhere else. Anywhere but in the hands of someone who could read it.

But as she approached her locker, her stomach dropped.

Sitting on the bench was Alessia, casually holding something familiar. Y/N froze in place, her eyes locked on the journal in Alessia’s hands. The world seemed to tilt, and for a split second, Y/N wasn’t sure if she was about to faint or run in the opposite direction.

“Hey, Y/N,” Alessia said, her voice calm and curious, though there was something unreadable in her eyes. She held up the journal with a small, almost playful smile. “I think this is yours.”

---

There were moments in life when time seemed to slow to a crawl, when every heartbeat thudded loud and heavy in your chest. This was one of those moments for Y/N. She tried to find her voice, but nothing came out. Alessia—*Alessia Russo*—was holding the one thing she had never intended for anyone to see.

Y/N swallowed hard, her mind scrambling for an excuse, an explanation, *anything* to make this less of a disaster than it already felt like. But Alessia didn’t seem angry or even particularly shocked. In fact, she looked…amused.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t read everything,” Alessia added quickly, perhaps noticing the growing look of panic on Y/N’s face. “Just a few pages.”

Y/N felt like she was going to throw up. *A few pages?!* That meant Alessia had seen at least *some* of what she had written—her thoughts about Alessia, her fears, her stupid little fantasies that she had kept hidden for so long. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.

“I… uh…” Y/N stammered, her throat dry as sandpaper. “I don’t—how did you—?”

“It was on one of the benches after training yesterday,” Alessia explained, leaning back slightly against the locker behind her, still holding the journal with a relaxed grip. “I thought about just giving it back to you straight away, but… curiosity got the better of me.” She raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eyes. “You’re a pretty interesting writer, Y/N.”

Y/N could feel the heat rising in her face, her ears burning as a thousand thoughts collided in her mind. This was it. The end of her career, her friendships, her *life* as she knew it. Alessia Russo had read her journal, and now she would probably laugh in her face, tell the rest of the team, and Y/N would have to move to some remote island where no one would ever find her again.

But Alessia didn’t laugh. She didn’t mock. Instead, she tilted her head, studying Y/N with a thoughtful expression.

“I didn’t know you felt that way,” Alessia said softly, her tone no longer teasing but… curious. Almost gentle.

Y/N’s heart pounded. Her legs felt like they might give out any second, but she forced herself to stand still, to meet Alessia’s gaze. What could she say? There was no denying it now. Alessia had read enough to know. She had seen Y/N’s feelings laid bare in black and white.

“I—” Y/N started, then stopped, feeling like her throat had closed up entirely. “I didn’t mean for anyone to… it’s just, um… a stupid thing I do. Writing stuff down. To, you know, deal with things.”

Alessia nodded, and for a moment, the room was filled with an awkward silence. Y/N could barely breathe. She couldn’t tell if Alessia was uncomfortable or just thinking, but either way, the tension in the air was almost unbearable.

Then, out of nowhere, Alessia smiled. A small, amused smile that caught Y/N completely off guard.

“Actually,” Alessia said, leaning forward a little, “I had an idea.”

Y/N blinked, confused. An idea? This was the part where Alessia was supposed to tell her how weird and creepy she was, not… smile and suggest ideas.

Alessia continued, her voice calm and casual. “There’s been a lot of gossip around the team lately, right? About people dating, who’s seeing who, all that crap. It’s getting kind of annoying, to be honest.”

Y/N nodded, unsure of where this was going. Sure, there had been plenty of rumors floating around—locker room gossip was as constant as the drills they ran every day—but how did this relate to her journal?

“So,” Alessia said, her eyes gleaming with mischief, “what if we used this? What if we pretended to date? You know, to get everyone off our backs for a while.”

Y/N stared at her, utterly dumbfounded. “Wait… what?”

Alessia leaned back again, crossing her arms over her chest. “Think about it. We pretend to be together. The team stops asking questions, the media stops poking around, and we get a little peace and quiet. Plus…” she raised the journal with a smirk, “this little secret stays between us.”

Y/N’s mind was spinning. Fake date? Alessia Russo was proposing that they fake a relationship. The very thought made Y/N’s heart do somersaults, but she wasn’t sure if they were good somersaults or ones that would make her throw up.

“But… why?” Y/N asked, still trying to wrap her head around the idea. “Why would you want to pretend to date me?”

Alessia shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Like I said, it’s easier this way. We’ll make it look real, keep people out of our business, and I’ll even make sure no one ever finds out about this journal. Win-win, right?”

Y/N felt like she was in a dream—or maybe a nightmare. This was too surreal. Alessia Russo, the girl she had been secretly in love with for ages, was offering to fake a relationship with her. And not only that, but Alessia was acting like this was the most normal, rational thing in the world.

But it wasn’t normal. It was the exact opposite of normal. It was wild. Unbelievable. *Terrifying*.

And yet, a small, reckless part of Y/N’s mind whispered: *What if?*

What if she said yes? What if she agreed to Alessia’s crazy plan? Sure, it would be fake. But at least for a little while, Y/N would get to be close to Alessia, to pretend that her feelings weren’t one-sided, even if it was all an act.

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat dry. “I… I don’t know.”

Alessia smiled, that playful glint returning to her eyes. “Come on, Y/N. What’s the worst that could happen?”

*Everything*, Y/N thought. *Everything could go wrong.* But when Alessia looked at her like that, it was hard to say no.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Y/N took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

---

The words were barely out of Y/N’s mouth when Alessia grinned, looking genuinely pleased with the answer. “Great! We’ll start tomorrow. We’ll make it look real—hang out together, do some dates, post a few pictures. Everyone will buy it.”

Y/N’s stomach was still in knots, but a strange excitement bubbled beneath the nerves. This was happening. She was going to fake date Alessia Russo.

*Fake*, she reminded herself. This was all pretend. Nothing more.

But as Alessia handed her the journal back, their fingers brushing for the briefest second, Y/N couldn’t help but wonder if pretending might just be the hardest part of all.

#woso x reader #alessia russo #alessia russo x reader #woso #woso fanfics

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kashedelic · 20 hours ago

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A HAT OF HEARTH - trafalgar d. law x f!reader

SUMMARY: Sometimes if you look closer (to a certain hat), you’ll find that Law loves in ways you didn’t expect.

NOTES: law x reader, second pov, established relationship, fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, some possessiveness if you squint, law being lovey dovey, i just need law fluff tbh.

wc: 900

a/n: this is the first fic im uploading and I can’t say that i’m disappointed. currently working on some more fics and i’m hoping to get those out soon, but I cant exactly say when because i NEED those ones to be a little bit more detailed than a silly little drabble like this. and yes, those include the reqs! anyways, I need a law in my life frl.

Be sure to like, reblog, or even follow! Your support means everything to me and helps more people to find this story! Thank you for reading!

The hat was an emblem that Trafalgar D. Law, the Surgeon of Death, was capable of loving. Sure, the man was never too forward with how he showed love, but who said love had to be overt? Could it not manifest in quieter forms? What was wrong with loving in silence? Was it such a sin to care, to praise, to cherish quietly before daring to be bold? “We’re headed into a colder climate, wear this.” The clipped, brusque command might make anyone else think he was chastising a petulant child or begrudgingly tending to a nuisance. Yet, with the way his eyes flickered over your face for a moment longer than necessary, and the subtle brush of his fingers against the side of your head, the truth was far from that assumption.

Law was a doctor, after all - one fully capable of nursing you back to good health, but just the mere thought of seeing you feverish, voice weak and body frail, made his chest tighten with unease.

Even if your falling ill meant more one-on-one time together, he’d never risk it. He would rather see you well than selfishly enjoy your dependance on him. However, in the scenario that sickness did strike, Law would be readily beside you, caring for you every step of the way.

Law cared.

“Take care of it for me, will ya?” He hastily flopped the hat on your head, slightly askew, its brim tilted awkwardly. Your fingers instinctively reached up to adjust it, bewilderment etched into your features. Law, who rarely ever parted with his signature hat, had entrusted it to you. There was a small pause, a moment of lingerment, before he adjusted his grip on Kikoku and dashed back into the fray.

You watched as the blade caught and reflected light, clashing against a formidable enemy. The hat sat heavy on your head, a reminder of its significance. You didn’t know too much about the hat’s origin, but you know one thing: Law didn’t part with it lightly.

The thought of joining the battle crossed your mind - you were perfectly capable to - but something about the weight of the hat felt grounding, as though it was urging you to stay. Something in your gut told you that it wasn’t just a token of trust; it was a silent request to hold down the Polar Tang, to handle any threats to the ship. In that moment, you weren’t merely entrusted with just the hat, but you were entrusted with Law’s entire livelihood. That alone made it more symbolic. It was a quiet testament to how Law trusts.

“Need to cover yourself more,” he muttered, tugging the brim down until it shaded your face. It was definitely larger on your head than on his and if his expression hadn’t been so grumpy, you would have joked about his supposedly “mega-sized head.” The hat swallowed you whole, but he would rather it that way. In fact, if it were really up to him, it would come with a veil to shield you from every prying eye.

Law didn’t care - he wanted to protect. Law often thought the world didn’t deserve you. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he deserved you. In his eyes, your smile put the sun to shame, and all your curves and edges make him think that there’s another place he wants - no, needs - to explore. Though again, he won’t admit that to you and he reluctantly agreed with himself to put those thoughts aside and instead focused on the desire to shield you.

He knew you were pretty, too pretty for his liking - at least when it came to the crooked world around him. The thought of anyone else noticing, of anyone else having thoughts about you, grated on his nerves. He hated the way men stared when you dressed up, hated the way his chest tightened and his breath caught when you twirled in new clothes, showing them off to Bepo. “They've got beady little bird-brain eyes,” he’d grumble under his breath, his hand tightening around Kikoku’s hilt whenever anyone started a second too long. Still, even as he kept his guard up, the hat stayed on your head. A silent declaration, a mark of who you belonged to.

Law protected.

“Didn’t know I got us a clown on the Tang,” he chuckled, placing the hat on your head once again - this time even more lopsided and deliberately so. He turned away, and leaned his back against the ship’s railing, one leg crossed over the other. Taut muscles flexed as his elbows lazily rested against the bar, his chest tattoos peaking through the wifebeater he donned. Law lets you humor him as he humors you back by sloppily placing the hat on your face. You scowled at his teasing, but Law snickered at your ruffled appearance, finding you endereaning despite the exaggerated frown on your lips.

Law humored.

The hat rests carefully in your hands, the fluffy material caressed between your digits. You hadn’t meant to look into the hat so much, but now, as he silently slipped the hat onto your lap before heading off to shower instead of placing it on a shelf like usual, you couldn’t help but reminisce on all the fond memories associated with the hat.

You noted that this hat would not only bring heat to your head, but to your heart too, because Law loved.

Please don’t repost, translate, or redistribute my work without permission. Likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated. All rights to One Piece and its characters belong to Eiichiro Oda and respective copyright holders. This is a fan work made for fun. kashedelic 2024 ©

#one piece #op #op law #one piece ff #trafalgar water d law #trafalgar d law #trafalgar law #trafalgar d law x reader #law x reader #x reader #ff #one piece fandom #one piece fanfiction #fluff #tooth rotting fluff #fanfiction #one piece fic

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secriden · 4 hours ago

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Watching Joong's Hurt Me Please MV with the context of how episode 6 ended and how this is likely a song about Fadel's thoughts and feelings about Style after Finding Out, I wanted to take a deeper look at the lyrics.

I have transcribed the English lyrics on Youtube side by side with a fan translated version (credit: bl_zonee on Twitter) just because there's different shades of meaning between them that I find really interesting and I'm curious which one is the more accurate translation or if both are valid, but just give different nuance. (Perhaps a mutual who understands Thai would be willing to give some insight? *u*)

Verse 1 makes a lot of sense to me: Fadel must be wondering how Style could be so cruel ("unkind" / "heartless") because every instance of Style being honest and asking for honesty in return, all of Style's genuine desperation to bare his heart to Fadel in episode 5 and 6, now looks like a calculated, cruel deception.

And after being so afraid to reveal his secret to Style for fear that it would make Style walk away from him, there's a painful irony in Fadel now wishing Style had walked away before. Because the betrayal hurts so much more now that Fadel has given in to his heart.

The chorus is where the nuance between the translations gets interesting.

The Youtube version seems almost like a Fadel is taunting Style, putting up a front that he can take the pain Style is dishing out and more.

The MV also depicts Style smiling sadistically after slapping Fadel, as if he's enjoying the pain he's inflicting. Meanwhile, Fadel looks up almost in adoration, a strange softness in his eyes at odds with how cruelly he's being treated. The knowledge of Style's betrayal has turned Style into a monster in Fadel's mind, one which he cannot help but to still have soft, affectionate feelings.

But the fan translation sounds much more hurt and accusatory. Fadel is expressing his pain and anguish much more plainly and "you did this to me" is a line that demands responsibility.

In both translations, though, the last line ("can't get enough" / "enjoying the pain") gives us a hint that Fadel isn't willing to give Style up even now. Despite the pain, despite feeling as if he's simultaneously burning up and drowning, there's a part of him that still wants this. That still wants Style.

Interestingly, as Fadel sings the last line he begins to visibly struggle against the rope tying him to the chair. The soft look vanishes and in place is a determination and shadow that spells trouble for Style. The shock is wearing off and Fadel is starting to fight back.

Verse 2 is where the agony really hits, for me.

In both versions, Fadel recognises the way Style's love was (maybe still is?) precious to him ("your love feeds my soul" / "your love nourished my heart"). But because Style's love is a lie, it's transformed into a weapon ("poison"). It twists Style's love into a source of "hurt" to Fadel.

Which is why I think both versions have a line where Fadel admits that there's a part of him that wants Style to keep hurting him -- or rather, to keep loving him; because these are the same thing to Fadel now -- ("hurt me, make me feel used" / "the more I was hurt the more I enjoyed it") whilst also remaining accusatory (both: "the more I loved, the more sorrow/I suffered").

The lines about "nothing left to write about our love" / "our story" also feel very pointed and final. A closing of a chapter; a closing of the possibility of their former, uncomplicated happily ever after. Style has nothing left to write (report) back to his superiors (the police) because Fadel's love is already complete and his deception has reached the inevitable conclusion of Fadel being found out/destroyed.

All this happens while we see Style continuing to threaten Fadel with a golf club juxtaposed with flashes of Fadel and Style in much happier times.

Also the fact that this line comes with this scene *sobs uncontrollably):

The first chorus comes back once and the music reaches a plateau. We are clearly preparing for a drop, a key change, or a modulation and we get exactly the last one (twice!) with the second chorus:

Here, both versions converge: Fadel is angry, he's furious. Style hurt him and he's going to repay all of it and more ("you'll hurt [by much more]" / "you must suffer more than I did"). The lyrics tell us that, while Fadel cannot take back the hurt (take back his love), he can certainly ensure he isn't alone in the suffering.

It is at this part where my heart sank as I realised that Fadel's "I think I love you" line in episode 6 now takes on a much more sinister tone.

Because I think that discovering Style's betrayal was also what made Fadel realise the truth of his love for Style; the very agony he was in was the sign that Fadel's heart was lost to him. But even as it is true, I also think he still made the choice to ruin Style in the same breath.

There is, however, one piece of hope:

Despite Fadel's expressed fury, what the MV shows us is Fadel breaking out of his bonds, shoving Style back and punching him once and then:

For all his anger, for all his rage, for all his threats of manifold vengeance, what we see is Fadel pressing close and kissing Style; once on the lips, and once on his chest (heart), all while the lyrics makes space for one last plea:

("don't betray me")

For me, its the way the line is shown together with this direct visual parallel between the ignorant Fadel in the past (left) and the Fadel of the present who has seen through Style's deception (right) that I find particularly compelling.

Conclusion: Style will be given a chance to prove himself to Fadel.

Because Fadel cannot help himself. Because Style made Fadel's bleeding heart whole again; and it beats, it feels, and despite how much it hurts, what Fadel still wants more than anything else in the world -- desperately and simply -- is Style.

#joong archen #the heart killers #thk ost #thk meta #fadelstyle #fadel #another detail i loved was how the style that is beating fadel up looks NOTHING like the style we see in the show #he's dressed in dark colours; he's cold and sinister and seemingly unfeeling; he doesn't even MOVE the way style does in the show #but the style in the flashback scenes very much DOES looks like the style in the show - warm and affectionate and playful #and notably in all the flashback scenes style and fadel are always in the same state of undress (tank tops)#because that suggests an equal level of vulnerability #ahh i loved this although i hated it #but ngl i felt a bit comforted by the ending #i mean i know the narrative/genre/source already tells us that we'll get our happily ever after #but a part of me is so so grateful that the potential for this forgiveness is still present even NOW; even at the point of discovery #because that shows just how much fadel LOVES [intentional present tense] style #dunk natachai #did a fantastic job with all the “roles” he had in this mv #but dammit joong was BREATHTAKING #also the almost screech-like quality his voice takes on during the 2nd modulation which mimics the way fadel's fury has reached a frenzy #its crazy he's crazy THEY'RE CRAZY <33333

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mshalfemptygirl · 1 day ago

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Under the Tree (S.R)

Plot: Y/N decorates the apartment for Christmas with her boyfriend, Spencer Reid, and things get pretty cute between the two of them. Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Contents: A sweet Christmas fic where they’re being cute and flirting with each other. Maybe it releases a lot of oxytocin. A/N: I hope you all like it! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate, and if you don’t, I hope you have a wonderful day anyway and enjoy this little piece of joy. Love you all, and thanks for reading my fics! Happy Holidays!

The sweet scent of hot chocolate filled the apartment as I curled up on the couch, wrapped in a soft blanket. Across the room, Spencer was intently focused on his self-proclaimed mission to “perfectly top” our Christmas tree. I watched him as he studied the golden star in his hands, his brows knit together in concentration as if he were tackling one of his impossibly complex equations. “If you spend five more minutes deciding the exact angle of that star, the tree’s gonna give up and decorate itself,” I teased, trying to hide my amusement behind a sip of hot chocolate.

He glanced at me over the rim of his glasses, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “Did you know that the probability of a Christmas tree being perfectly symmetrical is practically zero? The branches are almost always uneven, even if they’re artificial.”

I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Is that your fancy way of blaming the tree for how long this is taking?”

He turned back to the tree, the corner of his mouth twitching as he fought back a smile. “I’m not taking that long,” he said, climbing carefully onto a slightly wobbly chair. “I just want it to be… perfect.”

“It’s already perfect, Spencer,” I said softly, my words more for me than for him.

But he heard me. Spencer paused mid-movement and glanced over his shoulder. His gaze was steady, the warmth in his brown eyes making my chest tighten in the best way. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” I replied with a small smile, meeting his gaze. “And I’m not talking about the tree.”

His ears turned a deeper shade of red, and I couldn’t help but laugh quietly. He always got adorably flustered when I caught him off guard like that. But this time, instead of deflecting or looking away, he stepped down from the chair, the star forgotten in his hand, and walked toward me with deliberate calmness.

“You know,” he began, leaning one hand on the back of the couch as he hovered just a little too close, “flirting is actually considered a sign of intelligence.”

“Oh, really?” I asked, my voice softening despite the playful edge in his tone. “So, what does that say about you, Dr. Reid?”

His lips curved into a smirk, the kind that made my heart race and my knees feel just a little weaker. “It says I have exceptional intelligence... and impeccable taste.”

Heat rose to my face, but I managed to keep my composure, raising an eyebrow at him. “Humble as always.”

He chuckled, settling onto the couch beside me and tugging the blanket over both of us. His arm slipped around my shoulders, pulling me closer, and I leaned into his warmth without hesitation.

“You want to know something else interesting?” he asked, his voice dropping slightly, the rasp in it sending a pleasant shiver through me.

“Let me guess,” I said, tilting my head to look at him. “You’re about to hit me with another weirdly sexy statistic?”

Spencer laughed, the sound low and warm, and I couldn’t help but smile. “I could,” he admitted, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “but I was thinking of something a little more practical.”

“Like what?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Like the fact that you’ve got hot chocolate on the corner of your mouth.”

Before I could react, he leaned in and wiped the spot with his thumb, his touch lingering just a moment too long. My breath hitched, and I swore his smirk grew as he noticed my reaction.

“All fixed,” he said softly, his voice casual, but his eyes held that undeniable spark that left me completely disarmed.

“Thanks… I guess,” I managed, my voice quieter than I intended.

“No need to thank me,” he replied, leaning in to press a quick, feather-light kiss to my cheek. His lips were gone before I could fully process the touch, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “But if you wanted to repay me,” he added, his voice lower, more daring, “I have a few ideas.”

I laughed, trying to steady my racing heart. “Ideas, huh? Like what?”

He leaned back slightly, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts playful and enticing. “Well,” he began, his tone light but purposeful, “we could finish decorating the gingerbread cookies. You know, keep things wholesome. Or…” His voice dipped, his gaze locking on mine, “we could forget about the cookies entirely and stay right here. See where this... takes us.”

I tilted my head, pretending to consider his words as my pulse hammered in my ears. “And what exactly do you think ‘this’ is going to lead to, Spence?”

He didn’t hesitate, shifting closer until his knee brushed mine, his presence impossibly magnetic. “That’s the best part,” he murmured, his voice soft but full of meaning. “I don’t know yet. But I’m pretty confident I’ll like wherever it goes.”

#spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fandom #doctor spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer reid x fem!readr #christmas #christmas fic

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tinybeetiny · 2 days ago

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I'll Make You Sing: C.S

SMUT | 18+ | MDNI

->Starring: Rockstar!SanXafab!Reader

->Genre: Smut

->Cw: Explicit language, oral (f receiving), SAN is down bad fr

Masterlist | Ateez Masterlist | Rock Never Dies Masterlist

You stand in the sea of people watching your best friend get lost in the lyrics. You love watching San perform. Something about how he's a different person is so captivating. His usual soft personality is nowhere in sight. This particular show had you looking at him in a whole new light. The way his hand gripped the microphone and the way his lips moved made your thighs clench. You can't focus on anything; the bodies around you disappear, and the sound muffles. His head leans back and the sweat drips down his neck. When his eyes meet yours, you feel a strange feeling shoot through you. Sure San was attractive, but you've never looked at him that way until recently. You don’t know if it’s the little dry spell you’re going through but everything he does seems to affect you in some way and the fact that you both live together doesn't help at all. You wonder if he notices the way you stare when his shirt rides up when he's reaching for something or if he can hear your moans from your bedroom.

Your mind wanders thinking of how he would kiss you softly as if he was going to break you and the next thing you know you're on your couch. Your shirt is discarded by the door. He reaches behind you and unhooks your bra letting it slide down your arms, the cold air causes your nipples to harden. He stares at you in awe and you can’t help but cover yourself, cheeks flushed a deep shade of red “No no don’t hide yourself. You’re beautiful” he says softly. He presses another light kiss to your lips before peppering little kisses to your neck and trailing down to your breast, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently. Little moans leave your lips and he switches over to the other nipple giving it the same amount of attention. He trails more kisses down your stomach to the waistband of your jeans "Please San. I need you" You beg, squirming around on the cushions below you. He wastes no time unbuttoning the denim pants and sliding them down your legs. You're left in your pretty pink lace panties that makes his cock achingly hard. You bring your legs up as he slides the frilly fabric off.

San places a hand on both of your knees spreading them to get a good look at your glistening folds, the sight of your sticky lips peeling apart causes a low growl to escape his chest "Look at that. Such a pretty pussy" his thumb comes down and presses against your clit “So wet for me. So responsive” he watches as your grip the couch cushion when he rubs little circles on your sensitive nub. "Such pretty little noises just for me yeah? Just for me?" his fingers travel down to your fluttering hole pushing just his fingertip in "Fuck San just for you" you gasp, bucking your hips trying to get more "What do you want? Use your words pretty girl" He kneels down on the ground, eye level with your dripping cunt and he can feel his mouth water.

He leans down and presses his tongue flat against you before dragging it up and attaching his lips to your clit. A soft chorus of moans leave your lips as your fingers weave their way into his hair, pulling him closer into your pussy. His bruising grip on your thighs only added to the pleasure you felt "Fuck San that feels so good." You tug a little more harshly on his hair as you grind against his face.

The lewd sound of his slurping fills your bedroom. He pulls away and his thumb comes to rub circles in your clit. His lips and chin glisten in your essence and you don’t think he’s ever looked so good. He looks at you with drunken eyes “I love you” he sighs resting his head against your thigh and you feel your heart flutter "You what?" You're not sure if you heard him right "Sh we'll talk after" His lips attach to your clit and your head falls back onto the couch. His soft tongue felt like heaven as he licked “Oh fuck San you’re gonna make me cum” Your hands grip his hair again and your back arches off the couch as your orgasm washes over you. He lets out a deep moan lapping up your release with his tongue. He gives your clit a couple of small kisses before looking up at you “You look flustered are you okay? (y/n)" You look down at him confused "(y/n)?"

You feel someone shaking your shoulders and you blink, looking around you. San stands in front of you looking concerned "Are you okay?" He asks, hands still on your shoulders "Hm?" You look at him feeling lost "The show ended 45 minutes ago and you were just standing here"

Taglist: @e3ellie @yoonshiiu @yunlazia @jonghoslilstar @sugakooie

@lemonkait00 @ginevrsstuff @atztrsr @honsans-atiny-24 @zaynsfl4m3s

@life-is-a-game-of-thrones @atzlordz

If you would like to be a part of the taglist please fill out this form

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez choi san #ateez san #choi san #san smut #san x reader #san #san x you #ateez smut #ateez san smut

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amalythea · 2 days ago

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「 secret santa 」

⤷ info: diluc, wanderer x gn! reader (separate) || fluff and hurt/comfort || wc: 1564 (total)

⤷ warnings: oblivious reader (and diluc himself tbh), wanderer is,,, himself? brief mentions of reader being hurt but not too many details. half the time i write for genshin i dont care to match flower names into canon ones, this is one of those times and you guys just need to deal with it/lh wanderer's part is shorter bc i didn't know how to continue it.

⤷ extra: This is my gift to @daosies for @2024gisecretsanta 's secret santa event! Hope these are okay, haha i was gonna post this on christmas morning but i got impatient.

diluc.

The warm hues of the Mondstadt sunset cast a golden glow over the familiar stretch of rolling vineyards. You sat cross-legged under the towering oak tree by the edge of the Dawn Winery estate, twirling a small daisy between your fingers. Diluc sat a little distance away, leaning back against the bark of the tree. The setting sun framed his fiery red hair like an ember glowing in the dusk, and his sharp, focused eyes stared out at the horizon.

“You’re quiet today,” you said, breaking the silence.

He hummed in acknowledgment, tilting his head slightly to look at you. “Just thinking.”

“You always say that,” you teased, tossing the daisy at him. It landed on his lap, and he looked down at it with the faintest smile.

“Because it’s true,” he replied, lifting the flower and twirling it between his fingers the way you had been moments ago.

You shifted to lie back on the grass, staring up at the sky now painted in shades of pink and orange. “What’s got you so deep in thought?”

There was a pause, long enough that you almost thought he wouldn’t answer.

“...You,” he admitted softly.

You turned your head sharply to look at him, heart skipping a beat. “What about me?”

Diluc avoided your gaze, looking at the daisy instead as if it held all the answers. His usually confident demeanor faltered, replaced with an unfamiliar shyness.

“Just… how long we’ve been friends,” he said after a moment, his voice measured. “How much you’ve always been there.”

“Of course,” you said, trying to sound casual despite the sudden flutter in your chest. “That’s what friends are for.”

Friends. The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meanings. You wanted to say more, to ask if he ever thought about you the way you thought about him. But instead, you sat up and plucked another flower from the ground, holding it out to him with a playful smile.

“Here, another daisy for your collection,” you said, trying to lighten the mood.

He took it, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting moment that made your pulse quicken. “You’re strange sometimes, you know that?”

“You’re the one keeping them,” you shot back, grinning.

“I only keep what’s worth keeping,” he replied, his voice soft but steady, his crimson eyes locking onto yours.

The weight of his gaze made your teasing smile falter. For a moment, it felt like the world had gone still—no rustling leaves, no distant chirping of birds, just the two of you under the fading light.

“Diluc…” you began, but you didn’t know how to finish.

He looked away first, his ears tinged red. “It’s getting late. I should walk you home.”

Your heart sank at the abrupt shift, but you nodded. “Yeah, let’s go.”

As the two of you walked back toward Mondstadt, the silence was comfortable, yet filled with the words neither of you dared to say. You stole glances at him, wondering if he could hear the rapid thrum of your heart.

And as Diluc walked beside you, his hand brushing against yours ever so slightly, he wondered the same thing.

Days turned into weeks, and the memory of that sunset evening lingered like a half-forgotten dream. Every shared glance with Diluc made your heart race, every accidental brush of his hand left you aching for more, but neither of you said anything.

You told yourself it was for the best. What if he didn’t feel the same? What if confessing ruined the years of friendship you cherished so much?

But your heart had other plans.

It was another quiet evening at the Dawn Winery, this time in the cozy warmth of the study. The crackling of the fireplace filled the room, casting dancing shadows on the walls. You sat in the armchair across from Diluc, clutching a cup of tea he had prepared.

“I’m surprised you had time for this,” you said, trying to keep your voice light. “Doesn’t Master Diluc always have work to do?”

He glanced at you over the rim of his cup, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I can make time for important things.”

You nearly choked on your tea, heart skipping a beat. Was that a compliment? Did he mean you? Shaking your head, you forced yourself to focus on the fire instead of his piercing crimson eyes.

But the moment wouldn’t let you go.

“Diluc,” you said softly, almost without thinking.

He hummed in response, setting his cup down. “What is it?”

Your grip tightened on the porcelain, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “I think I love you.”

The weight of your confession crashed into you like a thunderclap. Your eyes widened in panic, your breath catching in your throat as you realized what you’d just said.

“I-I mean—forget I said that!” you stammered, setting the cup down hastily and waving your hands as though you could physically take the words back. “I didn’t mean it, or—no, I did, but not like that, or maybe I did—Oh Archons, just forget it! Please, forget it!”

Diluc blinked, stunned for a moment. Then, to your utter shock, a soft chuckle escaped his lips.

“Why are you laughing?!” you exclaimed, burying your face in your hands.

“I’m laughing,” he said, his voice warm and full of something you couldn’t quite place, “because you’ve just made this much easier for me.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, confused. “What… what do you mean?”

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze soft but unwavering. “I’ve felt the same way about you for a long time.”

You froze, the world tilting on its axis. “You’re joking,” you said flatly, shaking your head. “You’re not serious.”

“Do I look like someone who would joke about this?” he asked, raising a brow.

You hesitated, searching his face for any hint of insincerity, but all you saw was quiet certainty. “You… really mean it?”

Instead of answering with words, Diluc closed the distance between you. His hand cupped your cheek gently, giving you plenty of time to pull away, but you didn’t. His lips pressed against yours, soft and sure, like a promise made in silence.

The kiss stole the breath from your lungs, and when he finally pulled back, your heart was pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“Does that convince you?” he asked, his voice a low murmur.

You could only nod, too overwhelmed to form words.

He smiled—a rare, genuine smile that made your chest feel impossibly warm. “Good,” he said, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Because I don’t plan on letting you forget it.”

wanderer.

The sharp scent of antiseptic stings your nose as Wanderer kneels in front of you, his deft hands busy cleaning the gash on your arm. His touch is precise and gentle, yet his words sting more than the wound ever could.

"Do you have any idea how reckless you are? You’re a complete idiot, you know that?" His indigo eyes bore into yours, sharp as a blade, but there's something softer hidden behind his glare. "What were you thinking, throwing yourself into danger like that?"

"I was trying to help," you mutter weakly, unable to meet his gaze.

"Help?" His voice rises, then falls into a low, simmering growl. "You call this helping? Getting yourself hurt like this? You could have—" He cuts himself off, a rare flicker of vulnerability breaking through his irritation.

He sighs, exasperated, and reaches for the bandages. "Hold still," he orders.

The bandage feels cool against your skin as he carefully wraps it around your arm, his hands so steady and gentle that you almost forget the scolding. His fingers brush over your skin with deliberate tenderness, and the contrast between his harsh tone and his delicate touch is almost dizzying.

"You’re so infuriating," he mutters, shaking his head. "Why do you always make me worry like this? It’s like you’re trying to give me a heart attack—if I even had one." His lips twitch into a smirk at his own sarcasm, but the worry behind his words is unmistakable.

"I'm sorry," you say softly, daring to glance up at him.

He pauses, his hands stilling as his eyes meet yours. For a moment, the air is thick with unspoken emotions. Then, with a sigh, he leans in, his forehead briefly pressing against yours. "You really are an idiot," he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost affectionate.

Before you can respond, he tilts your chin up and presses a kiss to your lips. It's firm, lingering, and filled with a quiet desperation that he’d never put into words.

When he pulls away, his glare returns, but it’s less convincing now. "Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you. Next time, stay out of trouble—or I’ll tie you to a tree until the danger’s gone. Got it?"

You can't help but laugh, even though it earns you a half-hearted scowl. "Got it."

"Good," he says, wrapping the final bandage with a precise knot. Then, to your surprise, he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering just a moment too long. "Because if you pull something like this again, I won’t just scold you—I’ll haunt you. Permanently."

Despite his words, the way he cups your cheek and presses a featherlight kiss to your temple tells you all you need to know about how deeply he cares.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

@amalythea 2024. | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.

#gixrsecretsanta2024 #「 birth of a supernova」#astronetwrk #—stellaronhvnters.#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin fluff #genshin impact fluff #diluc x reader #diluc fluff #diluc x reader fluff #wanderer x reader #scaramouche x reader #hurt comfort

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thethirdromana · 3 days ago

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I'm watching the edited version of the War Games (it's on BBC4 right now and my parents wanted to see it), so, have some thoughts.

I'm normally a bit iffy on colourisation but this is genuinely very well done. The titles are gorgeous.

Squishing it into 90 mins makes the opening very zippy. The pace feels a shade too quick if anything.

It also gets a bit weird when the cliffhanger is turned into continuous action.

This is despite the fact that they only cut about 10 mins of episode one.

They drink a lot of tea in the War Games but it comes across as even more when you cut out of the non-tea-drinking bits.

OK, there's some very fun editing around the redcoat and Buckingham remembering the mist coming down. (Dare I say possibly an improvement on the original?)

But then it goes back to feeling too zippy, but least because episode 3 is brutally cut. Very little of it left.

Gah, I'm trying to like this, because it's clearly been lovingly made and the colourisation is genuinely superb, but the grinding relentlessness of the War Games has been replaced by rattling through the plot at a frenzied pace and it's not really working for me.

Ooh, Murray Gold's Master theme has been added over the War Chief's appearance. Not sure how I feel about that, but it's certainly an interesting choice.

They've dealt with the cliffhanger issue at the end of episode 4 by taking it out entirely.

The little added CGI bits are not hugely successful - they look oddly plasticky. Which is a bit disappointing, because have I mentioned how good the colourisation is?

It's taken my dad until the episode six cliffhanger to note the place where the original cliffhanger was.

(My mum has given up because she doesn't like how much fighting there is. Not sure if the original edit would have been any better on that score.)

Episodes 6 and 7 are so thoroughly chopped up that it's tricky to trace the original storyline. It's neatly done but it's not really the War Games any more.

More of the Master's theme when the War Chief admits to knowing the Doctor.

My dad comments that this bit seems like it was inspired by the Prisoner (which he also watched when it first aired).

It feels a bit weird when it switches from Murray Gold to 1960s incidental music.

This really centres the War Chief et al over the rest of the storyline.

"Complete loyalty and devotion" - oh, Jamie. This loses a lot of character beats in favour of the Time Lord-centric storyline, but not all of them.

Oof, their last desperate attempt to escape is still just as grim and desperate in the edit. Like there's still part of me wondering if they might somehow get away this time.

There are new Who-style images of Gallifrey on the view screen.

"Is the next episode The Trial of a Time Lord?" asks my dad, who has seen all of Doctor Who, but mostly not very recently.

The middle bit of episode 10 is cut, which means that I can watch the ending without crying for once.

Lots of establishing shots of Gallifrey.

The too old/too young/too thin shows a series of New Who Doctors. Not entirely sure how I feel about that choice either.

And it ends with the Doctor regenerating in the TARDIS - again, New Who style - before the date ticks back and forth erratically between 1970 and 1980, a joke that will appeal to a small number of people that includes me, and finally the very opening scene of Spearhead from Space.

I think if you accept the premise that a 90-min version of the War Games could be done, it's about as good as it could be. A few of the choices make it pretty clear that this is primarily for a New Who audience - particularly that it becomes a very Time Lord-centric story - not really for existing fans of the War Games.

Still, I wasn't expecting to love the colourisation as much as I did, and it made me wish I could watch a colourised version of all 10 episodes.

#doctor who #the war games

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ratcatcher0325 · 1 day ago

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A Fraction of Justice (Chapter #35)

Chapter #35. SURPRISE!!!🎄 🎁 Merry Christmas! 🎁🎄 I couldn't leave us on that big of a cliffhanger! Not on Christmas! Anyway, here is a little holiday gift from me to you. I want to sincerely thank everyone in this community who takes the time to read this story. I am so grateful for each and every one of you! Where is Natalie taking Alexander? Is he going to love it or hate it? It's usually 50/50 with him.

Previous: Chapter #34

Next: Chapter #36

Word Count: 8,756 Read Time: Approx. 90 mins

CW: Physical intimacy. SO much physical intimacy.

Btw, DM me if you wanna be added to the tag list!

___________________________________

A Fraction of Justice

Chapter #35: La Petite Aiguille

[Alexander’s POV]

Rows upon rows of bolts of fabric in every color, shade and pattern I could fathom, lined the walls. Custom racks accommodated spools of thread all arranged in the gradient of the rainbow, while tungsten sconces bathed the room in an orange, electric glow. The solid wood beams of the ceiling gave the room an old-fashioned gravitas, while the smell of polished wood and starched linen ignited my olfactory senses.

Everything was immaculately organized, each thread having its place.

There was a break in the floor-to-ceiling shelves on the left, where a maroon curtain separated us from whatever lay on the opposite side.

On display on the tables in front of us and on the counters of the classical oak desk that served as the register, were mannequins sporting all kinds of clothing, from impressive gowns fit for a runway stage, to elaborate, themed costumes, to, yes, even beautifully crafted suits in every cut.

But the best part?

Every single article of clothing on display, from the dresses, to the outfits, the hats and shoes, were perfectly proportioned to my dimensions. This entire, wonderful place accommodated people like me.

I stared, slack jawed, unable to believe this wasn’t some sort of very realistic dream, when I felt Natalie’s gaze on me, “What do you think? This is supposed to be the best place in all of Massachusetts…” She hummed softly, the fingers of her left hand stroking the outside of the pocket, about level with my chest.

Unable to tear my eyes away, I swallowed, gripping the fabric to keep from showing her any pathetic emotions, “I—“

Before I had a chance to complete, or even begin, that thought, the sharp clink of metal rings sliding across a curtain rod hit my ears, as someone crossed the threshold.

My heart jumped. Another human. What was this one going to be like?

My hands itched for something to defend myself with. Whether she could feel my body stiffen, or just guessed by instinct, Natalie gently pressed her fingers over my heart, caressing my forearm with her thumb. I looked up to catch her gaze. Her eyes seemed calm, reassuring. I did my level best to relax.

As the figure crossed behind the main desk, I endeavored to take in all of her details, reading her for any signs, positive or negative.

Her hair was cut short, tight pin curls looping and twisting in a gravity defying mop of pure white. Her keen, bright eyes shone beyond the rim of her, golden reading glasses, perched low on her nose. Her vintage jewelry, including an elegant gold watch, sparkled in the light of the lamp beside her. Her outfit was clearly custom made, a beautiful matching vest and skirt in warm earth tones, with white dress sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hands were lithe, yet possessed a certain air of intentionality with every move she made. She held a leather bound tome under her arm.

“Apologies for the wait, we’re at the peak of our holiday orders at the moment. How can I help you?” She locked eyes with Natalie, seemingly not noticing me quite yet. Her voice was soft and clear as a bell. She set down her book, cracking it open and scribbled something along its many columns and rows. Natalie stepped up to the counter as she spoke. I leaned forward, enjoying the swooping, artistic motions of her calligraphic script as she wrote in incredibly ornate cursive.

“Oh, hello, there.” She’d stopped writing. I looked up to find her gaze, dulled with age but not without a keen spark, was fixed on me.

I clenched my jaw as I hardly dared to breathe… I waited for the condescending comment to come next. She leaned down to address me again, “Sir? What can I do for you today?” A smile played about her lips, but it was far from anything like a sneer. It was warm, friendly.

I breathed a sigh of relief. She was waiting for my reply. She was addressing me directly. I cleared my throat. “I, uh, I believe I’m here to purchase a suit.” I raised my voice to cover the distance, trying to sound like I did this sort of thing all the time.

“More than just one. He’d like to be fitted today, please.” I whipped over my shoulder to look up at Natalie. Was she serious? When I met her eyes, she nodded and winked at me.

“So you want the full custom package?” The woman looked at me, I looked to Natalie, Natalie nodded in the affirmative. The human across from us checked her wrist, nodding with an exact precision I couldn’t help but admire, “Perfect timing. I believe I can squeeze you in between our other standing consultations. Right this way.” She motioned for us to follow her into the curtained room.

We entered the back area and were greeted by two tables with ornate lion’s paw legs. The one on the left was piled with fabric, neatly folded, with tools of the trade including rulers, pushpins, scissors and measuring tape. On the right, the surface of the table was bare, save a series of pristine white boxes, each sitting side by side, along its center. I wondered what those were.

Instead, we curved toward the left. I supposed I’d just have to wait to find out more.

We came to a stop in front of the table with its neatly organized tools. I was beginning to deeply appreciate the pristine organization of this place. It was far more comforting than Natalie’s rat’s nest approach to every inch of her living space, though I'd managed to train her out of her most egregious lifestyle habits.

I was torn from my musing when fingers descended all around me, the pad of Natalie’s thumb resting over my chest while two fingers hooked under my arms as she applied light pressure.

I met her eyes to see her arched brow, as she sought permission to pick me up and set me down. With a curt nod from me, she lifted me up and out, placing me on my own two feet in the center of the table. As she fished for my crutch, the other woman approached the table, setting a clipboard and red ink pen down on the surface beside me.

She adjusted her glasses as she pulled the chain to a lamp behind me, bathing my surroundings in a soft glow. I couldn’t help but notice the way my jaw involuntarily clenched and I held my breath as her arm loomed overhead.

I realized with a sharp pang the indignity that was about to commence.

Natalie was finally granting me the opportunity to dress like the gentleman I was, a wonderful thing indeed, but… no tailored suit, big or small, was possible without acquiring that gentleman’s measurements.

I felt a twist in my stomach, as I pictured being pinched, grabbed, and puppeted about like a doll, as string was cinched too tightly around my arm or leg to quantify the size of limbs. This strange woman’s hands who I’d admired from a distance for their precision and poise, now intimidated me in the lamplight, seeming too aged, bony and frighteningly precise in their movements to be anything but painful when they seized me.

The liver spots that dotted her arm, the thin and almost papery nature of her skin that displayed the blue veins snaking beneath and the pronounced knuckles on her arthritic, littlest fingers all reminded me of a particular set of hands I’d fought very hard to forget.

“… Alexander?” The present circumstance came back into crystal clear focus at the sound of my name from Natalie’s lips. I blinked hard and looked up at where the sound had come from. Her finger and thumb held my crutch between them, as she bent at the waist to address me, her brow slightly furrowed with worry, she gently brushed my arm with the side of her curled fingers, nudging me back into reality, “… Here you go.” She offered me my walking aide, and I cleared my throat, taking it from her while staring at the floor.

“Ah, is that your name? I don’t think we got properly introduced.” This time it was that voice that tinkled like a bell in my ears. I’d admit, it had a pleasant ring, despite my trepidations, “Hello, Alexander, I’m Marianne. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She offered a finger to shake. I admit, I was taken aback. Why was she so courteous? She was smiling at me.

It put me on edge.

When was she going to burst into laughter? Was it when I gave in to her invitation to shake, like equals, only for her to pull her hand away? Or would it be the moment I turned over my shoulder where she’d take the opportunity to snatch me up by the collar? I refused to believe this wasn’t an act.

She was still offering her finger.

I was taking too long, if I waited much more I’d be questioned.

I took a few steps forward and stiffly shook the pad of her finger with my hand. Immediately retreating the few steps back when it was over. Good. No funny business. Not yet. I decided as long as she continued this charade of being polite, I’d do the same. An eye for an eye and all that.

“Well, we’re delighted to have you here. And what’s your name, young lady?” Natalie introduced herself and shook hands with the older woman with a warmth I found reassuring. “Welcome to La Petite Aiguille.” I suppose she thought that name was terribly clever. How gouche. Of course, she probably assumed I couldn’t understand French, which would be a false assumption.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, as she addressed us again, “May I interest either of you in any refreshments?” She had my attention, now, as she acquainted us with our options. I ordered herbal tea, Natalie chose coffee. The woman, Marianne, excused herself to prepare them both.

After the clack of the woman’s shoes on the hardwood faded, Natalie leaned down, resting her chin on her forearm, setting down her free hand close to where I stood, “So? Whaddya think?” Her eyes gleamed. Always so excitable, wasn’t she?

“It…” I felt heat rise in my face. I mustn’t come across like some giddy child let loose in a toy store, “It seems like a professional and respectable establishment.”

Her face fell, she was clearly hoping for more enthusiasm from me, but I was far too embarrassed to show her just how excited I was. Before she could form a response, Marianne returned with a tray, including a steaming mug of coffee I could’ve taken a dip in if I so chose, as well as a teapot, mug and saucer balanced on an embossed tray, all sized to me. But that was not all. In hand, she also clutched a proportional end table and chair which she gingerly placed beside me. I served myself the tea as she continued.

“As you can see we specialize in custom clothing for those of nimbler proportions than our own.” Nimbler, eh? I quite liked that. “So what’re we getting outfitted for today? A holiday party? Gala? Wedding?” Me? At a human wedding? I nearly spit a mouthful of tea back into the cup.

“No, nothing like that.” Natalie swooped in to save the conversation, “He just likes to be sharply dressed. Personally, I love lounging at home in sweats and a t-shirt but this one wants cufflinks and starched collars.” Her index finger brushed the toe of my shoe, “He’s suffered for way too long in casual clothes. Now that he’s more healed up, he deserves to dress to the nines every day if he wants to.” She winked at me. My heart knocked at my ribs. Stupid, impressionable, laughable idiot! Just drink your tea and stop with the flushed face already! I swallowed everything in the cup in one go.

“A true mondain, I see. Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Let’s see what we can do.” What was this woman’s deal with sprinkling French into every other sentence? Was she trying to show off? She grabbed her pen and started to jot things down on the form before her.

I poured myself another cup of tea, and directed my words to the ceramic vessel, “Vous pensez que vous êtes si intelligent, n'est-ce pas? Je peux aussi parler français, tu sais.” The woman, I supposed I could start thinking of her by her name, Marianne, never paused in her writing. The line came and went without her understanding. I pursed my lips and couldn’t help the smug smirk that crossed my face. It seemed she didn’t know the language nearly as well as she’d put on. I continued to revel in my superiority, until I heard the human to my right clearing her throat theatrically.

I looked up to see Natalie’s eyebrows raised as she scowled at me disapprovingly. “Be nice!” She mouthed. I opened my hands and shrugged as if to say “What?”. She didn’t get a chance to retaliate, however, as Marianne raised her eyes from the page and addressed us.

“Now, first thing’s first, we’ll need your measurements.” Damn. I came down from my temporary high and felt my heart in my throat again.

Evidently I wasn’t as skilled at masking my feelings on the matter as I’d thought, because she reassured me while preparing her tools, “Not to worry, Alexander, there will be no rough treatment here. I’ll be as gentle with you as Natalie would.” I snuck a glance up at the woman she’d mentioned, only to find, much to my embarrassment, that she was already looking me over.

We both instantly turned our attention back to our drinks.

Marianne carried on unperturbed. I was beginning to wonder if this woman was one of the least observant people on the planet, or if she was just exceedingly polite. She scribbled things on her paper, before organizing her rulers and measuring tapes before her. She addressed me as she prepped, “So, you’re fond of gentleman’s wear, hm? Not many young men care about keeping up appearances anymore. I’m glad you’re an exception to the rule. My Henri was fond of his pinstripes and pocket squares. A perfect pairing for a seamstress, you can imagine!” Her eyes sparkled with memories long past.

“I… I’m sorry for your loss…” Natalie’s voice was kind and genuine.

“Oh, that’s alright, honey. We had many wonderful years together.” She turned to me, “I think he would’ve quite liked you, Alexander.”

Me? I couldn’t imagine how much I and an older human man could possibly have in common, besides our manner of dress. And in any case, this woman had only just met me, how could she possibly make such a rapid assessment?

I nodded politely in agreement anyway, hoping to move past this rather somber moment and return to the exciting part of getting me into a beautiful suit.

Of course, Natalie couldn’t help but ask follow up questions. Annoying, the way humans always politely placated each other with niceties and small talk, “Did he help you run this place?”

Marianne cracked a smile, “Oh, yes! The whole thing was his idea. Down to the name. I was perfectly happy to stitch away on my little creations at home, but he encouraged me to share my skills with others. He was always the gregarious one…” you don’t seem to have any problem talking at length, as far as I can see. “… and much better at putting our clients at ease, though, I try my very best. I know the constant invasion of personal space can be unwelcome.”

Finally someone acknowledges this well-known truth!

“Now, Mr. Alexander, if you’ll take a few steps forward, I’ll get your height to start.”

The flattery of being addressed so formally was quickly counteracted by an unwelcome reality that the aforementioned invasion of personal space was about to begin.

I looked about myself to set down the cup in my hand. The side table was just out of reach from where I stood. I shifted my weight, about to turn over my shoulder to cross closer to the surface when a finger brushed the length of my forearm, warm and soft. I stopped in my tracks and looked up.

Natalie was offering to take the cup from me. Her lips curled into a soft smile as my gaze locked with hers, “Don’t worry, I won’t accidentally drop this one. I promise.” She winked.

I couldn’t help but crack a smile, and shake my head before balancing the cup on the pad of her index finger. She pinched it between finger and thumb and carried it to its proper place for me.

*****

As Alexander stepped forward, away from the tiny furniture, the experienced hands of the craftswoman carefully slid a polished wooden ruler behind his back. I found myself balancing my chin over my crossed arms to get a closer look at what the measurement tool showed.

He stood very still, his posture perfect, and his chest puffed. I could tell he was stretching his spine to stand as tall as he possibly could. As I squinted to discern the tiny lines that Alexander could easily trace with his fingers, I saw his exact height for the first time.

Five and half inches, exactly.

My heart melted.

As the ruler was removed, I searched his face for signs of unease. I wouldn’t blame him for being nervous. He was already grumpy enough being handled by me, I knew having a stranger’s hands all over him wouldn’t exactly be a walk in the park.

“You okay?” I mouthed, unable to resist brushing the toe of his shoe with a fingertip. He nodded, sucking in a sharp breath. I could see he was steeling himself.

I trusted Marianne, she seemed extremely kind and respectful. Still, her fingers, though aged and thin, were each over half the length of his entire little body.

She prepared a length of bright crimson thread, tying it off in a knot in one graceful pull.

“First, I’ll ask you to let your arms rest at your sides…” he shuffled his weight, unsure what to do with the crutch in his hand.

“You okay to stand without it for a few? I can hold it for you.” I offered. He nodded, clearly disinterested in needing any help, but having no choice.

“…And then I’m going to measure the width of your shoulders, will you turn to face Natalie?” I liked that she walked him through every single step she was taking. I could see he was starting to relax a bit as he shuffled his feet to face me. Marianne used the bit of string to measure along his shoulder blades, from point to point. The scribble of her pen on paper and the hum of the heater somewhere behind us, were the only sounds in the room.

Until…

Thunk, thunk, thunk.

I think I jumped more than he did. Someone was knocking on what I assumed must’ve been the back door of the shop.

Marianne had a different reaction, “Oh!” She dropped the thread and checked her watch, “They’re early! I apologize, someone is here to drop off a bulk order. You’ll have to excuse me. This is the trouble of running things all by myself!” She looked flustered and embarrassed for having to pause, “I should only be a minute!”

She stepped through the curtain and after a few moments I could hear the sounds of a door opening and the low rumble of male voices mixing with hers. The activity faded into the background as I took in the little life before me.

“You wanna sit down? Rest your leg?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” I wasn’t convinced but it didn’t seem worth it to argue over. I found myself reaching for the bit of string that had served as his measuring tape. Threading it in and out from between my fingers.

That’s when we heard Marianne’s voice cut through, far more flustered than we’d heard before, “No! No, this is all wrong. You have half of my satin and georgette mixed in with someone else’s bolts of polyester! How difficult is it to keep your orders straight?” I could hear the clack of her shoes on hardwood growing louder as she suddenly thrust aside the curtain, “I’m so sorry for this little hiccup. I’ll just be a bit longer… Oh—“

Her eyes cast down to the crimson thread pinched between my finger and thumb. “Were you measuring him yourself?”

Alexander and I both exchanged flustered glances before I tried my best to respond, “Well, I—“

I heard the low voices of men and the shuffling of heavy feet beyond the curtain. As Marianne checked over her shoulder, her eyes widened, “Be careful with that! You almost knocked it over!” Her head of curly white hair, popped back in to address us, “No, no. Please. Go ahead! It’ll save us time! You’ll have to excuse me!” She gestured at the thread between my fingers before dashing off, footsteps fading even as I could hear her shout in exasperation about some other mishap those workers were creating in her shop.

And suddenly it was just he and I.

He cleared his throat, pulling at his collar.

“So…” I finally mumbled, breaking the silence. His blue eyes met mine when I spoke. My face felt warm.

“So.” He shifted his weight, his face splashed with pink, while he craned his neck to stare up at me.

“I guess, I’m gonna— I mean, if you’re okay with… me??”

He thrust his hands in his pockets, nodding his head, while his blonde bangs hung in his eyes, “Right, no. I mean. We must… Musn’t we? For the sake of-of the time. Like she said.”

“Yeah. Totally. Uh. Okay. So…” I twirled the piece of thread around my finger, while I glanced at the sheet of paper, “It looks like I’m supposed to measure your chest next…” My hands inched toward him. I could feel my pulse in the tip of every finger, I had to concentrate to keep them steady. Alexander watched my encroaching hands like a hawk, his spine stiff, his lips taught.

“Wait!” He threw up his own little palm. I stopped, confused. His brow furrowed as he addressed me, “You’re practically towering over me, standing like that. Do you know how exhausting it is to practically break my neck just to be able to address you? Go find a chair.” I raised my brows, he rolled his eyes, “Please.”

I pulled it up before the table and sat down, “There, better?” I was so much closer to eye level with him now, and yet, he still seemed so far away, standing in the shadow I cast.

He won’t seem so far once I’m physically touching him. I felt a thrill rush through me at the thought.

I took the knotted end and gently held it against his sternum. He rocked back on his heel from the pressure, nevertheless. His little heart was pounding against his ribs. I melted again.

After a moment, “Ahem, Natalie?” I was frozen in place, just mesmerized by the thrumming of life beneath my fingers.

“Right, right! Sorry!” I shook my head. “Okay hold that for me, please…” his lithe little fingers took over for my gigantic one, as I wrapped the string around his chest and arms. I pinched the string where it met the knotted end and pulled it away from his body. Finally, I laid it flat to the tape measure before jotting down the number. We proceeded to do this with the length of his arms, the circumference of his tiny little wrists, even his neck, which I tried to be painstakingly delicate with.

With his chin thrust in the air, I could feel him gazing up at me as he held the knot against the hollow of his throat. He opened his mouth to speak and I bit the inside of my lip, worried he might snap at me out of discomfort, but instead he spoke so softly it was almost too quiet to hear, “You’re not too bad at this, Ms. Marquez…”

As he spoke, I could feel the tiny vibrations in his neck as I very delicately brought the string around. What a mesmerizing feeling. I swelled with pride, “Oh really? Approval from the Little Nightmare? Not a single criticism yet? It’s my lucky day. What’d I do to deserve this?”

“Don’t let it go to your head… it’s big enough as it is!”

“Hey! Rude!” I released the string, pretending to be offended. To my delight, his little face broke out into that lovely crooked smile I adored so much.

“You’re awfully pleased with yourself, aren’t ya?”

“As I ought to be! It was a shining example of my cracking wit, and you ought to be more impressed.”

“You ready for the next part, Mr. Chuckles?”

“Oh! Come on!” He wrinkled his nose in disgust, “That was terrible. Was that the best you could come up with? I’ll take Xandy over that, any day!”

“What’s that? I can call you Xandy now??”

“No!!! No that’s not what I said! Don’t you dare– Hey! What’re you doing?!”

**********

As I spoke, her fingers and thumbs rushed up from behind and landed on either side of my waist. The warmth was intoxicating, her grip all encompassing, and intimate. My face flushed with color and heat.

“Don’t look at me like that! It’s the next thing on the list!” She was defensive. I twisted and squirmed feeling the tension in the thread as it rested at the small of my back.

She had to be playing coy with me! Couldn’t she see how flustered she was making me? It’d been hard enough to keep my composure when she rested her fingertip over my heart, or gently guided my arms where she wanted them, or leaned down so close while she regarded me with such care and gentleness that her fingertips left electrical pulses where they brushed against my skin. But now this?

I was finding it hard to breathe.

“You could at least warn a man before you trap him in your colossal grip! Have you learned nothing?”

“I’m not– Look, we don’t have to do this. Especially if you’re gonna get all pissy about it.” She looked crestfallen. That soft warmth dissipated as suddenly as it had appeared when she pulled her hands away, the thread dragging limply along the table’s surface, pinched between her finger and thumb.

No, no, no! This isn’t what I wanted at all. Couldn’t she see I was addicted to it now? That warmth, that soft touch? This was all her fault.

“Wait!” I stepped forward, snatching up the opposite end of the thread before it snaked away from my reach. She looked at me with curiosity, waiting to see what I’d do next, “If you’re going to hold me by the waist, have the courtesy to let me participate.” Her golden green irises dilated as her mouth parted slightly. I had her complete attention.

A tremor ran down the nape of my neck to the curve of my lumbar as I pulled the string toward me. She let this tension in the thread move her hand forward with no resistance. My heart skipped a beat. She was letting me control her.

I guided her fingertips to the soft flesh just above my hipbone, where my obliques flared and rippled as I fought to keep my composure. I transferred the thread to my right hand and fed it behind my back, allowing the tension to hold my weight as I leaned back, feeding it around to my right side. I could count each and every quaking beat of my heart as I held the crimson thread in my fist, offering it to her. She slid the tip of her index along the inside of my forearm, making me suck in a sharp breath, before uncurling my fist and taking the string from me.

“Now what?” she whispered, two pairs of a finger and thumb resting on either side of my body, waiting for my instruction.

I’d never felt so big in all my life.

I guided one set of fingers to rest on my navel. Could she feel how my breath shook when she touched me?

I grounded myself and brought the other side to meet, letting the string cross itself at the proper place. She pinched the spot with her thumbnail and slowly, gently, retreated to measure and write down her findings.

“Okay, now hips,” She held the length of string in front of me, waiting to be guided once more. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from beaming.

I performed the same little ritual with her, and this time her fingertips landed over a much more intimate part of myself. I flushed bright, hissing between clenched teeth, “Careful!”

I expected her to scoff at me, but the eyes that met my upward gaze were soft, “I’m only going where you put me. You’re in control.”

I don’t know what came over me, but suddenly my legs buckled and gave way beneath me. She was quick to act, wrapping a finger around my hips and pinning me between finger and thumb.

Dear god, what was she doing to me?!

Before I could take another breath, the clattering of human footsteps and the scrape of metal met my ears and made me jump.

Marianne’s voice cut through our built up tension like a razorblade, as she seemed completely unaware of our situation, “Okay! So sorry about that, you two!” Natalie quickly let go, as I rushed to tidy myself and readjust my crooked clothing. The seamstress rounded the corner of the table and entered my periphery, glancing over the measurement sheet “Looks like you got the vast majority completed. That’s perfect, we’ve got a great place to start.” She clapped her hands with a sharp crack, a smile warming her aged features as she leaned down to address me, “Now, Mister Alexander. What’re we in the market for?”

My head spun as I tried to engage my brain, lips and tongue again, “W-what am I—? Uh, um…” It was a truly foreign sensation for words to elude me. I shook my head trying to clear my mind, “A, uh, A classical cut is always best, single breasted, three piece, wool, tweed or cotton, with a notch lapel and double vent.” The words flowed with an easy familiarity, and I found it easier to breathe for the first time since she had left Natalie and I to our own devices.

“You were right,” She addressed the woman before me, “He really knows his stuff!” Natalie nodded vigorously and smiled, as if to say “You have no idea”.

“Ah— And no pinstripes. I hate pinstripes.” I added in haste.

“Duly noted! I think I have quite a few pieces you’ll be interested in.” She gathered the paper with my measurements, Natalaie’s chicken scratch contrasting sharply with the older woman’s elegant script. As she crossed the room, opening a cabinet and searching for something, she spoke over her shoulder, “Please, feel free to come to this other table here…” She gestured to the table with those mysterious boxes on them.

Natalie and I exchanged a glance, before she slid her palm beside me, hooking her thumb beneath my left arm. She gathered me in her hand, her other fingers supporting my weight before she lifted me off the table.

She crossed with me to the opposite side, her free thumb gently stroking my cheek. It wasn’t all that long ago I would’ve recoiled at such a caress. Now I melted beneath it.

What has gotten into me??

Soon, I was being lowered to my feet, before one of those mystery boxes. I could see now that the front was obscured by a curtain.

“Go ahead,” Marianne had just placed a polished wooden case of some kind on the table just to my right, as she seemed to register my curiosity. I took a step forward, only to feel a warmth and pressure on my shoulder. I turned to see Natalie offering me my crutch, balanced on a fingertip. I acquiesced and took it, before thrusting the curtain aside.

I’m not sure what I’d expected but it wasn’t this.

Beyond the veil of the fabric, and just a small step up, was what I imagined a dressing room to look like. I’d never been in one myself, human-sized or otherwise, but it fit my expectations and then exceeded them. On the wall opposite me was a full length mirror, held in a gilded, golden frame. A beautiful Persian rug softened the faux wooden floor. There were hooks along the wall to hang clothing, as well as a vanity complete with a mirror and chair. Along the walls were framed prints of famous art pieces. I admit, the Lady with an Ermine was the only one I recognized. Everything felt… authentic. Real. Human. Is this what rooms looked like to them all the time? There was a wide variety of plants that looked… were they real? Not just plastic bastardizations of the typical human houseplant?

I stepped into the ‘room’ and as I marveled, heard a breathy “Wow, fancy…” from up high. I craned my neck to find that this room, for all its proportional realism, lacked a ceiling, and, therefore, Nat was easily able to peer down, her arms crossed, and smile at me from above.

But there was one area in the corner, also sectioned off by a curtain, which, when I peered into it, I realized was actually fully enclosed, complete with an electric wall sconce to brighten the space.

Oh. What a relief. I wouldn’t have to change in front of these two women. I never expected humans to think of these things. This was a nice surprise.

“Is it suitable to your tastes?” Marianne appeared beyond the edge of the far wall, “My Henri designed every detail. We had such fun putting them together. Oh speaking of… try these on for size…”

A wrinkled finger and thumb descended into the space, shattering the illusion that I was in anything other than a highly detailed doll house. Pinched between her digits, was a suit jacket, vest, and matching slacks, each hanging on their own seemingly custom wooden hangers. She carefully placed each of these on one of the wall hooks. Her hand disappeared and then returned with another set and another and another.

I admit, I felt my heart race at just the sight of them. I’d missed the familiar fit of a suit so very much. My grip on the walking aide was becoming clammy as I absentmindedly bounced on the ball of my good foot in anticipation.

She also laid down a folded under shirt on the vanity (the folds were crisp and tidy. Impressive for fingers that big) and several different collared shirts on the remaining hangers.

“I’ll work on ties, belts and shoes while you start with these. How’s that sound?” I nodded in agreement, already making a beeline for the undershirt, a white collared dress shirt and the first vest and pair of slacks on the rack before she’d finished speaking.

I was just about to disappear into the changing room when a finger on my shoulder stopped me.

My mouth twisted into an instinctive grimace as Natalie halted me. What?? What did she want?? I was moments away from shedding this baggy loungewear for something sophisticated and elegant. What could possibly be so important that she needed to interrupt me at this very moment?

I turned to face her, only to realize precisely what. Offered up between her fingers was that pair of tweezers. The same ones I’d used to help myself change since I’d blessedly escaped that god awful tie dye shirt. She’d brought them from home for me.

“Just in case,” she winked at me. Oh. Now, I felt like an ass.

I breathed out from my nostrils, releasing the tension in my shoulders, “Thank you.” I even briefly patted the side of her finger as a show of appreciation as I took the object from her. I figured she’d like that, what with her love of touching me all the time.

The sudden thought of her touch and heat and softness completely overwhelming me just moments ago on that other table top made my face flush with shame.

I hurried inside the changing room, where, luckily, no one could see my changed complexion.

**********

I drummed my fingers on the table, just dying for him to throw that tiny curtain aside and reveal himself. Marianne flitted about the room, opening drawers, cabinets and boxes, finding just what she was looking for, all while peering over the rim of her glasses with the keen eye of a master at work.

Soon she had a lineup of tiny accessories displayed on the vanity table for him to peruse.

I caught her gaze and mouthed “Thank you”, she nodded warmly and winked, before catching something out of the corner of her eye and gesturing for me to look too.

That little curtain fluttered with movement, and before I knew it, there emerged one tiny socked foot, then another, with a metal and rubber crutch complimenting their rise and fall.

Then, my heart skipped.

Hello there, Alexander.

He looked absolutely incredible, and he wasn’t even fully dressed yet. The slacks sported a flattering pleat down the length of his leg, settling perfectly about his waist. The vest fit beautifully, cinched slightly in the back, the white dress shirt contrasted nicely and the sleeves fit him just right.

I immediately dropped my chin to the surface of the table to get a closer look.

He emerged with his head ducked as he gracefully threaded the final button on the vest, the royal blue wool lacing through his lithe little fingers.

Suddenly, two icy blue irises like crystals of frozen flame were trained on me and I had to bite my lip to keep from embarrassing myself. The blue of the suit made his eyes shine even more brightly than before.

“It looks like a perfect fit. How does it feel?” He craned his neck to listen to the voice looming above him. He adjusted his shoulders, made sure the vest was perfectly centered, and he toyed with his shirt sleeves until they were just right, before he turned to the full length mirror.

With my head balanced on my hand, I could just make out a sliver of my face reflected in the tiny mirror over his shoulder.

Seeing his entire body against the backdrop of one small part of mine reminded me of that first day, when I’d forced him into that ugly little doll shirt and held him up to my bathroom vanity admiring our size difference. That truly felt like a lifetime ago.

Marianne passed him a silky rust colored tie, and I watched with flustered amazement how his fingers expertly worked the flimsy material into a pinprick of a complicated knot, even and perfect. I felt like I was glimpsing into a whole other world of his, a past I only faintly understood.

With each infinitesimal adjustment of his collar, sweep of his hair, and threading of his tie beneath his vest, I felt myself staring slack jawed at this new version of the little man I thought I’d known so well.

Now for the jacket. She handed it to him, and he spread the lapels to admire the inner lining (a gorgeous, patterned silk with flowers of purple and blue) when his eyes stopped at something sewn into the collar just as the nape of the neck.

*****

I stared at the inside of the jacket, almost in disbelief.

Sewn with expert precision, were a handful of stitches that unmistakably spelled out “For My Henri”.

I was flabbergasted.

Marianne had said he was the love of her life, that they’d built this business together, that he’d encouraged her to use her talents to help others, and this man had been… like me?

“I-I can’t possibly accept this…” I shook my head, thrusting the beautifully crafted garment away from my body and offering it back up to this kind hearted woman who peered down at me.

She simply smiled, “Just try it on, at least.”

She couldn’t be serious. But it would be nice just to try it on for size. She could use it as a reference. I was determined to refuse her offer if she brought it up again, but I saw no harm in at least donning the final piece of the suit, just to see it all together.

I took a deep breath and easily twirled the garmet over my shoulder, sliding my arms along the silken lining and letting it fall around my body, gazing into the mirror once more.

Oh, hello there, Alexander. It’s good to see you again, old friend. How I’ve missed you.

It was beyond perfect. It was the most beautifully crafted suit I’d ever had the pleasure to wear. I looked wonderfully smart. My chest swelled as a small smirk creeped onto my features, threatening to boil over into a boyish grin if I wasn’t careful.

I refocused the lenses of my eyes to take in Natalie’s gaze, dominating the landscape behind me. Her pupils were dilated, her expression dreamy. I turned to face her, leaving my crutch behind for now.

I thrust a hand in a pocket, unbuttoning the jacket to show the vest underneath and spun on my heel, feeling altogether like a million bucks.

“You look… incredible” She practically breathed. The way her eyes shone when she gazed at me… Why did my knees suddenly feel weak at hearing her sigh at me like that? Perhaps I needed my crutch after all.

“She’s right, you know. It suits you. I suppose I can’t convince you to try on the rest of them can I?” The older woman issued me this challenge with a twinkle in her eye.

Natalie furrowed her brow and cocked her head. As if to say “What could possibly be the problem with that?”

Of course. She didn’t understand what Marianne and I already did.

I slid off the jacket and held up its stitching to her. She leaned in so close I could feel the heat of her exhale as she finally managed to squint enough to read the name sewn there.

“Oh, oh my god. So…your… he was…?” Natalie stuttered.

Marianne nodded, a smile sparkling with decades of memory igniting in her eyes. Eventually, she busied herself with handing me the next suit, this one a beautiful gray, continuing to address Natalie, “He was the best thing to ever come into my life. We found each other when I spent a summer in Paris, a whole lifetime ago. I couldn’t bear to return home without him. Luckily, he agreed to travel halfway across the world to be by my side. It took us a while to come to terms with our feelings, believe me, most people couldn’t possibly understand… especially not in those days. I hope you two don’t let your fear get in the way.”

My face burned and my mouth felt so dry, my voice cracked as I spoke, “Oh, no, we’re not… we-we—“

Suddenly Natalie’s louder voice tumbled atop mine, cutting me off, as she spoke through a strained smile, “Thank you.”

I sensed that I’d committed some sort of social faux pas, though I couldn’t understand what. Natalie and I weren’t… that is to say we didn’t have that sort of dynamic. Despite this, I decided to bite my tongue out of a desire to spare Natalie any unnecessary embarrassment. Judging by her bright pink complexion, she was already suffering enough from my attempt to set the record straight.

I put that interaction out of my mind, though, as I returned to the garments in my hands. I admit, I allowed myself the small pleasure of trying all four of Henri’s suits, each one as beautifully crafted as the last and still in such incredible condition for their age.

I tried on various loafers, belts, ties and even, to my utter delight, tie clips and cufflinks!

As a boy coming of age, I’d been repeatedly reprimanded after asking for cufflinks to match my larger counterpart, being told they’d be “much too small to be worth any effort to make them in the first place”.

Once I’d enjoyed everything those suits had to offer, she asked me to describe what I’d like to have custom made, letting me touch various fabric swatches and color options to help me make my decisions.

This was all a dream, right? Some sort of beautiful, wonderful dream that I never wanted to wake from? It had to be. Well, if it was all make believe, I supposed asking for what I really wanted wouldn’t hurt any.

She took notes as Natalie watched on. Why was it every time I turned over my shoulder, she seemed to be looking at me?

I sat in the chair, pulled beside the vanity, palming the perfectly proportionate cufflinks, and rolling them between finger and thumb. They were so detailed and well crafted I wondered if Henri had made them himself.

What is wrong with me? These things aren’t mine to take. No matter how wonderful they were.

I deposited the little metal pieces on the counter beside me, folding my hands in my lap, determined not to fidget anymore.

As if reading my mind, Marianne travelled around to the side of the table to face me.

“Well, you’ve been quite the model today.” I nodded in agreement, “I think we’ve put you through more than enough. Now, your custom orders will be shipped to you in approximately ten to twelve weeks. If you need any alterations at all, feel free to come back to the store.”

What a lovely dream this was.

She continued, gesturing to those beautiful suits hung along the dressing room the wall, “Which one was your favorite?”

“Oh, well… I couldn’t possibly— they’re all equally wonderful. You possess incredible skill…”

“I want you to have them.”

Both Natalie and I let out an incredulous exclamation, in sync with one another:

“No, no you’re being far too kind—”

“We couldn’t take them, they belong with you!”

She shook her head smiling warmly first at Natalie, then to me, “He would’ve wanted them to go to a fine young gentleman who can appreciate every stitch, rather than gathering dust in some box. I’d be honored if you’d take them. Think of it as Christmas coming early!”

I was completely taken aback, a rush of emotion making my chest swell and my throat tighten as my vision suddenly blurred, “I— I’m at a complete loss for words… T-thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Alexander. Thank you for coming to visit today.” She leaned down to offer me her finger to shake. With a trembling hand, and biting back tears, I shook her finger tip, squeezing it much harder than was called for, and yet I didn’t imagine it was enough to hurt her, “I’m delighted you like them so much. Why don’t you wear the blue one home? It was always my favorite. Now I’ll finish packing the rest and will wait for you to check out in the other room.”

And suddenly, it was just the girl with the wild hair and warm eyes, and me. She caught my gaze, a smile playing on her lips “Surprise!” She chuckled.

The swell of deep gratitude, delight, overwhelm and pure joy flooded through me once again and I was perilous to keep it at bay. I rushed forward, my leg aching from the effort, as I crashed into her hand, squeezing myself into the hollow of her palm, as I clutched the base of her thumb and wept, mumbling my thanks between tears of joy.

“Oh, Alexander…” she breathed, gently enclosing her fingers around me, embracing me back. Her index finger on her free hand gently caressed my hair, neck and shoulders as I wiped the tears from my eyes. I couldn’t stop smiling, no matter how hard I tried. She held my chin with her fingertip, wiping tears with her thumb, “I’m so happy you’re happy. You deserve this. I’m sorry it took so long… but I’m so glad you finally got what you wanted.” She beamed at me. I bit back more tears. She arched her brow and jutted her chin in that mischievous way she always did, “Now pull yourself together and go be all dapper and shit.” She nudged my arm with her thumb. I couldn’t help but laugh along with her.

Before long, I found myself perched on the countertop of Marianne’s desk in the front of the shop, dressed to the nines from head to foot. I wore the blue suit, of course, with brown leather shoes, and belt, a silken ochre tie with matching pocket square, cufflinks, and a tie clip. I stood tall as the women above me exchanged money for goods.

I felt a lightness in my body and mind that I hadn’t felt in… well, had I ever felt it? I couldn’t be sure. I had to keep biting the inside of my cheek to stop from grinning ear to ear like some stupid little boy. I’d never been spoiled like this. I’d never been treated like this. I had no idea what to do with myself.

As we were about to leave, Marianne turned to me, her lips curled into a smile. She gazed at me over the rim of her glasses, giving me a clear view of her keen eyes. “Alexander? N'ayez pas peur de lui dire ce que vous ressentez. Il est clair qu'elle t'aime de tout son cœur. Vous méritez le bonheur autant que nous tous.”

*******

I had no clue what she’d said to him, but whatever it was, he looked like he’d been shot through with an arrow, after hearing it. His little eyes went wide and his face burned bright red.

“Hey…” I rubbed his little shoulder, and he seemed to snap out of it. I smiled apologetically at the woman on the other side of the desk, “Sorry, I think he’s just really excited and overwhelmed about everything that happened. Thank you again, for all you did for him.” As I spoke to her, I coaxed the little man into my hand, his movements suddenly sluggish and distracted.

“It was truly such a wonderful thing to meet a pair like you. You give me hope for a better future. Thank you for coming in today. You’re always welcome back at any time.”

“Thank you so much, Marianne!” I echoed her warmth. When Alexander stayed silent, I nudged him a little with my thumb and he seemed to come to.

“Y-yes! Thank you. V-very much!”

What had gotten into him? Maybe the thrill of the whole thing had worn off and he was just exhausted. Because of his dogged determination to push himself to the limits all the time, it was easy to forget how much more effort it took someone of his size to just interact with people so much bigger than him. He was also standing and walking on his injured leg without his crutch for much longer than normal. I wondered if he was in pain and trying to fight through it.

Whatever the case, I was looking forward to getting him home with me, and giving him a chance to relax.

I took in the wonderful sight of him lounging in my palm, his head resting on the pad of my index finger, his calves and ankles hanging off the far edge of my palm, his little hands spread against my skin, keeping himself steady. He stared at his tiny leather shoes, and seemed disinterested in looking in my direction. How funny he was. I wondered what on earth was on his brilliant little mind.

Strange little nightmare, let’s get you home.

___________________________________________

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zepskies · 16 hours ago

Text

@lamentationsofalonelypotato

Merry Christmas, my friend!! ❤️💚 First of all, I'm so honored that 'Twas the Night gave you some inspiration! 🥹 I'm excited to dive into this special Christmas edition of Take a Chance.

Aww poor Ben. I love how we start with shading in his past Christmases compared to what he's starting to experience now with the reader. We come at it from the same angle of headcanon, that Ben's mom was the only person who truly loved him in his family. So it was such a good detail that after she died, Christmases became just more of the same toxic/apathetic atmosphere with his father, compounded by the impact of his mom's death.

Of course he's having a hard time choosing a proper Christmas gift for her, because when was the last time he gave someone a gift because he genuinely loved them? I feel like Countess wouldn't be a good example lol. So what's going to be a reflection of the relationship he has now? Especially because she's not one for flashiness, or more materialistic gifts.

And as much as Ben loved that about you, it was only making this worse for him.

Yup. 😂😂

"Still not quite right?" She asks, adjusting the sleeves of her navy blue blazer. "We have some bigger jewel-" "It's not the fucking size." Ben snaps frustrated.

Lmfao come on, Ben. Let's not take this out on others. 🤣

"I'm not your fucking buddy." Ben sighs under his breath.

Okay, Ben. You do you. 🤣🤣

Ben had no intention of setting foot inside, but you were curious and even though it made Ben's throat tight to walk down the dusty cobwebbed halls, the wonder on your face as you walked through made the cold memories of the world he knew before he was a supe fade into the background. And this storage unit was all that was left of that life.

Wow, that's so interesting. Taking a trip literally through Memory Lane and walking through his family's mansion. I've never thought about that before, but I imagine it would be one of those things that Ben, for the longest time, couldn't bring himself to sell, but also couldn't visit. Like a mausoleum of his old life.

When Ben opens the trunk, he catches the smell of the floral perfume his mother used to wear and after all these years it makes him remember the tight hugs she'd give him the moment she sent him off to bed and the tight hugs she'd given him when he rushed down the stairs on Christmas morning.

You're killin' me, friend!! 😭😭

Something that you would have ended up doing about an hour before you had to go to the airport, but you knew that would only annoy Ben. But you liked annoying him.

Lmaooo deeply relatable. I feel like it would be oh so funny to intentionally getting on his nerves (knowing he wouldn't hurt you). 😂

He might not have been big on sharing, but your boyfriend was good at listening. Not just pretending to listen, but actually being quiet and wanting to learn more about what you're saying. You'd thought it was odd when you became roommates and you realized just how much Ben listened and remembered what you told him, but now it was one of the reasons that made you love your boyfriend more.

Oh, it's because he actually cares. 💗

In all honesty, you didn't hate how old fashioned Ben was, if anything it was a relief, a reprieve from the way the modern boys treated women. It was nice to finally be with a man who actually gave a shit about you and cared what you wanted.

People want to think there aren't any good aspects to "traditional/old-fashioned" men, but for the men who are actually good men, traditional doesn't necessarily mean outdated or toxic, so thank you for including this tidbit.

Her gift to him was so very sweet!! Of course she made him something heartfelt, and he appreciated it because it was a genuine "first" for him, having someone give him a hand-made gift from the heart. 💚💚💚

And his gift to her was absolutely perfect. 🥹 A keepsake from his mother? Him basically saying he wishes she could've met his girl? I'm dying of happiness from the sheer fluff. 😭💗

This was a beautiful addition to the Take a Chance story, and kind of feels like an epilogue in a way, even though I know you're working on that one too. I loved this, friend!!

Pairing: Soldier Boy x f!reader, Reader POV, Soldier Boy POV and Reader POV

Summary: All Soldier Boy wants for Christmas is to find the perfect gift for you and all you want is for your boyfriend to have the best Christmas he has in forty years. Reader is a supe with plant powers. (Takes place in my Take A Chance On Me Series- 4 months after they get together, but can be read as stand alone!)

Tropes: Established Relationship, First Christmas, Age Difference (Reader is in her 20s), Soft Ben/ Soldier Boy, Protective Ben/Soldier Boy

Word Count: 8.5K

Warnings: I'm going to label this 18+ because Soldier Boy (he's a warning and everyone knows it), Swearing, Mentions of Sex, Sexual Innuendo, Illusions to Sex, Fluff, Soft Soldier Boy, A little bit of self-deprecating thoughts, Soldier Boy is Mean to Hughie, Mention of drinking/drugs, Ben/Soldier Boy might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Take A Chance On Me Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Song Inspiration: Little Things By ABBA

A/N: I know I should be working on the epilogue of "Take a Chance on Me," but @zepskies wrote a lovely Christmas fic called 'Twas the Night for Dean Winchester, and it really just got me in a mood to write some Christmas Fluff! 🥰

Soldier Boy POV

Ben frowned at the delicate necklace laid on the black velvet cloth in front of him, the 10 carat diamonds catching in the brilliant lights that lined the ceiling of the jewelry store. It was the eleventh piece of jewelry that he'd asked the woman behind the counter to remove from the display case, and it still wasn't right.

Ben had waited until the last possible moment to go Christmas shopping. It wasn't because he'd forgotten or because he'd been so busy he hadn't had time to shop or because he'd been called away on a mission, but rather Ben kept putting it off because he didn't want to think about it.

It was his first Christmas back in the U.S, and it was already proving to be one so different than the ones he'd known before.

Christmas for him in his youth when his mother was alive was filled with light and joy. Each room of his family's mansion strung with tinsel, adorned with holly and festive wreaths, and a Christmas tree so large that it put all others to shame and sent the smell of pine wafting thorough the large home. He remembered the lavish parties his mother threw with women in gorgeous gowns and men dressed in suits taking crystal glasses from silver trays, remembered the warmth in the kitchen as his mother baked and rolled fresh pastry, remembered the taste of the hot chocolate on the tip of his tongue that his mother made him before she sent him to bed on Christmas Eve, and remembered her tight embrace and the smell of her floral perfume on Christmas morning when he'd run down the stairs into the living room.

Ben's jaw tightened.

Christmas without her was different, the large mansion where he lived with his father was cold and dark. The hallways desolate and frozen in the winter months that lead into spring, the kitchen no longer heated by the warmth of the oven or infused with the smell of gingerbread, the parlor no longer tinkling with the sounds of glasses and the laughter of guests, the living room no longer housed a Christmas tree so tall that it made the Eiffel tower look like a trinket, and there were no longer Christmas parties where people danced into the wee hours of the morning and poured themselves into bed smelling of champagne and eggnog.

All that was left was the drunken stupor of his father, the harsh words that echoed down the long hallways, and the urge for Ben to find the nearest bottle and drown himself in it.

Ben spent most of his years as a supe trying to forget the years that followed his mother's death and also his Christmases as a supe washing away the memory of the ones that seemed to be infused with the magic of Christmas in his youth.

Ben spent them at Legend's Christmas party with his woman of the hour clinging to his arm, making painful small talk and waiting until the party turned into a hedonistic thrall of sweat and skin as so many others had. And the next morning when he woke up from the fog, he turned back to the little white line that promised to make him forget and the amber bottle that did little to ease the reality that started to sink in.

But this year was different, because he had you.

You who loved Christmas more than anyone he'd ever met, you who was slowly reminding him how much he used to love Christmas as a child, you who'd dragged him to go Christmas tree shopping before Thanksgiving, you who had encouraged him to help decorate the small apartment the two of you shared with so many Christmas lights it was blinding, and you who had planned something Christmas themed every week for the past month whether it be baking Christmas cookies or watching Christmas movies while drinking hot chocolate on the couch. And in each moment, you'd found some way to include him in it.

Ben wasn't used to that.

He wasn't used to someone wanting him there with them and someone like you going out of your way to include him in everything you did.

If a person had tried to tell him in the past that he'd ended up with someone like you, someone who smiled easily, someone who always put other people first, someone who actually gave a shit about him, someone who was always so damn warm and welcoming, someone who included in him everything you did in a way that didn't make Ben feel like an old grump, and someone who tried their best to make sure that Ben remembered every day that you wanted him around, he would have laughed in that person's face.

And yet there you were.

Truth be told Ben knew that the old version of him probably wouldn't have let someone like you close to him, let alone fall in love with them.

Ben hadn't met anyone else like you in the numerous years he'd been alive and he really didn't want to fuck it up. He'd fucked up so many other things in his life and he hadn't cared, but if it involved you, he wouldn't dare.

Hence, the current dilemma of him standing in the crowded Tiffany store at 8 pm two days before Christmas with you waiting at home for him to exchange gifts. Ben wanted to pick the perfect gift for you, but nothing felt right.

He'd never given much thought to what to buy someone for Christmas. In the past usually an expensive piece of jewelry, a handbag, a dress, or a car would have made any of Ben's many escapades swoon, but not you. Ben had tried to give you jewelry before, expensive jewelry that would have made any of those other women drop to their knees, but you were different.

And as much as Ben loved that about you, it was only making this worse for him.

The one time that he'd tried to give you a gift outright, a beautiful diamond and emerald drop pendant with earrings to match, you hadn't been impressed. Sure, you'd thought that it was beautiful, but you'd told him that you liked gifts that "meant something."

Whatever the fuck that meant.

And he knew for a fact that the 10 carat diamond necklace on the velvet pillow in front of him would mean nothing to you.

"Fuck." Ben murmured under his breath, and the saleswoman stiffened.

"Still not quite right?" She asks, adjusting the sleeves of her navy blue blazer. "We have some bigger jewel-"

"It's not the fucking size." Ben snaps frustrated.

He was running late. He knew that you were waiting at home for him to bring back dinner and to give him his present, the one that he was sure would be thoughtful and perfect for him because you were always so damn caring.

The other shoppers were pushing and shoving their way to the counters where other salespeople stood in identical navy blazers and white button down shirts, the tension and buzz of two days to Christmas electrifying the air, while Christmas music that Ben couldn't recognize played in the background.

His supe hearing made it worse. Sometimes it was a bit overwhelming and as much as Ben pretended that he didn't have PTSD, he did. Being surrounded by this many people was not helping. It was in moments like this when you were there, would hold entwine your fingertips with his and brush your thumb gently over the back of his hand to ground him as if you could sense his discomfort.

Ben hadn't ever had someone care enough to notice things like that. Another reason why he wanted to find you the perfect gift, because you put up with all his shit and didn't ask for anything in return.

"Ben?" He hears a familiar voice ask, hesitant, and he turns to see Annie standing a few feet inside the open doorway. S

he's wearing a black puffer jacket and her hair is hidden under a red stocking cap, while Hughie holds the door for her. Hughie's arms were laden down with bags while Annie's remained bare. The winter wind blew in through the space, flecking bits of snow onto the rugs that had been laid out to avoid the customers sliding through the sludge.

"Hey." Ben grunts, not quite smiling.

He wasn't good at talking to your best friend or her boyfriend. Personally he thought that Hughie was a fucking pussy and that he didn't have the balls to tell Annie no, but the one time Ben had told you that, you'd only rolled your eyes and told him that Hughie "loved Annie."

Ben loved you and he did have the balls to tell you no, but Ben thought that sometimes it was better to keep his mouth shut and do what you asked. Not to mention Ben hated saying no to you when it was something that could make you happy. Ben liked making you as happy as you made him.

He flinched at the thought. The self-deprecating monologue was beginning to seep in, the one that told him you were turning him into a "pussy" and that he should cut and run. The same monologue that made him make a mistake and run back to Vought a few months ago when he should have run to you.

Ben shakes it off.

"What are you doing here? I thought you two were going to leave this morning for Illinois?" Annie asks in surprise used to Ben's grouchy demeanor.

Your grandmother turned Christmas into a two day extravaganza, complete with a Christmas Eve and a Christmas Day party. And although Ben and you were supposed to begin the 14 hour drive to Illinois this morning, your grandmother had insisted the two of you catch a flight first thing tomorrow.

"Decided to catch a flight tomorrow." Ben replies.

Ben was secretly happy, because flying meant that he wasn't going to have to drive 14 hours in the snow. The two of you had driven to Illinois once before, and Ben hadn't minded it. You’d been more upset with him for not letting you drive, but Ben liked driving. Driving meant that he was in control and in an emergency situation he wouldn't have to reach over the console and yank the wheel to save the two of you and driving meant that you could relax in the passenger seat and work on whatever it was you were crocheting.

"Like us!" Hughie flashes Ben a wide smile that Ben doesn't feel the need to return. “You should have told us. We could have all traveled together!”

Ben's frown deepens at the thought at being stuck in a metal tube for hours with Hughie and he knew that if you were here you would probably elbow him in the side and tell him to "be nice." If anyone had ever tried to do that to him in the past, he would have ripped their arm off, but not you.

"Last minute shopping?" Hughie asks trying again.

Ben dragged his eyes over the numerous bags hanging from Hughie's arms. "Yeah. You too?"

"Mhmm. We just finished." Annie replies. Her gaze drops to the diamond necklace on top of the display case that the saleswoman is fiddling with. "Is that for-"

"No. Of course not!" Ben says sharper than he means to, shoulders tensing. But him standing in this store when he knew that you were waiting at home for him to celebrate Christmas made him feel like Annie and Hughie had caught him red-handed. "She doesn't like jewelry." He adds referring to you as he takes a step back from the counter and the sales associate who looks confused.

“But sir-“ The woman begins to say, but Ben waves a hand to shut her up.

"Why do you think that?" Annie asks interrupting the woman.

"Because she yelled at me when I bought her that diamond and emerald necklace!" He shouts so loud that some of the other customers turn to stare at him. "This was a fucking mistake, I have to go-" Ben starts to stomp out the door and past Annie not sure where he's going, but she shifts to stand in his way. His eyes narrow in annoyance, thinking about all the ways that he could move her.

He only put up with Annie because she was your best friend and he knew that if he did anything to her then it would upset you, and Ben didn't like upsetting you.

Well, he did think that it was cute when you got angry with him. Your eyebrows scrunched together, your cheeks turned a cute shade of pink, and your eyes seemed to glow with the force of your anger. There were few people who had the courage to tell him off, but the more you did it, the more he started to like it.

But this was different, and now thinking about you only reminded him of his current dilemma.

"Ben, wait a minute." Annie says.

"What?" He snaps

He could practically feel the seconds ticking away until he had to go back to the apartment. It was the first time that he'd ever dreaded going home and seeing you and fuck he hated every single moment of it.

"She does like jewelry." Annie's mouth drops into a sympathetic smile.

Ben tried not to get more angry when he saw the pitying look in her eye. He didn't need her pity, didn't need anyone's pity! He was still Soldier Boy damnit!

"Then why the fuck did she-"

"She doesn't like this kind of jewelry." Annie clarifies. "She like vintage stuff, simple, refined. Hell, I have to practically drag her away from the display cases at Atomic Archives."

"Atomic Archives?" Ben asks hesitantly. He had no idea what Annie was talking about. You'd never mentioned that place before.

"Yeah, it's our favorite antique store. It’s about two blocks over from where the plant shop used to be.”

"Can you show me where it is?" Ben says it before he can stop himself, his heart surging with hope at the possibility of finding the perfect gift for you.

"I mean I-" Annie begins to say, but Hughie interrupts.

"Babe, didn’t you say that the owner was closed this week because she went out of town?" Hughie asks her, throwing a sympathetic look in Ben's direction that made him bristle.

"Oh, right." Annie sighs.

Ben felt the hope inside pop and deflate like a pricked balloon, but the longer he stood there in the crowded shop, with the ostentatious jewelry twinkling under the lights, the buzz of the chatter of other shoppers, and the ridiculous new-age Christmas music that grated on his ears, he began to have an idea.

"Come on." Ben might have said it as a suggestion, but it wasn’t open for debate. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he needed Annie and unfortunately that meant that Hughie was going to tag along.

"What?" Annie sputtered.

"Come the fuck on. I don’t have time for this." Ben snaps back and stomps out the doorway past Annie and Hughie into the snow.

"But what about-" Hughie begins to say and Ben whirls around to glare at him, eyes narrowing. "Okay you got it. Lead the way buddy." Hughie nods his head in agreement.

"I'm not your fucking buddy." Ben sighs under his breath.

Soldier Boy POV

"This place is really murdery." Ben hears Hughie whisper to Annie from somewhere behind him. "Do you think Ben is going to try to kill us? Should I call Butc-"

"I'm not going to fucking kill you!" Ben snaps, pulling out his keys, the jingle of the metal echoing down the long hallway. "And I guess you really can't make a decision without that British fuck can you?”

The storage unit warehouse was desolate, but that was to be expected, it was after all two days to Christmas and most were more focused on buying things to put in their storage units than moving things out. The lights along the roof of the steel gray hallway flicker and throw long shadows over the navy blue doors of the units doing little to alleviate the creepy aura.

In hindsight Ben did agree that this particular storage space was "murdery," but it was the only one that he could get close to the apartment last minute. The same apartment that Ben has been trying to convince you to move out of.

It wasn't the safest neighborhood, and Ben hated the thought that you'd lived there as long as you had, walking home at night alone before he moved in. Now it wasn't a problem because Ben never let you walk by yourself. And as hard as you'd fought him not to live in a "big fancy apartment" all Ben wanted was to live somewhere where he could imagine staying permanently. Not in a small one bedroom apartment where he had to stoop in the shower, the bed barely fit in the bedroom, and seemed too small for one person let alone two.

He knew that he was wearing you down, but he still had a long way to go.

"Why are we here then?" Hughie asks.

"You're here because your girlfriend wouldn’t come without you.” Ben rolls his eyes as he fits the key into the thick padlock.

He was getting tired of listening to Hughie’s whining. He heard enough of that when he was stuck on missions with him, but he was tolerating him, for the moment at least. He had to, because if he didn't then he was never going to be able to find the perfect gift for you.

The interior of the storage unit isn't anything special. Ben didn't have much that he wanted to keep from his old life, as a supe or from his childhood. The things inside this storage unit were the only things that Ben had left that didn't cause him to be reminded of how his father chastised him or the drafty home that Ben returned to each time he got kicked out of another boarding school.

The mansion that had been in his family for decades had sat abandoned and locked up, hidden from the main roads so it was undisturbed after Ben's father died. Ben had gone to Philadelphia a few months ago to get things in order with the bank and prepare it for sale, but had been surprised when you told him you wanted to come.

He didn't think that you'd want to be involved in something so tedious, but it was almost as if you could sense how hard it was going to be for him, and you'd insisted.

And this storage unit was all that was left of that life.

Ben located the old steamer trunk with ease. It was a faded gray now, but Ben remembered the day his father bought it for his mother. When the grayed sides were a soft supple black, the metal lock and edging were a polished gold, and the rose patterned fabric that lined the inside was soft and covered in bright pink flowers.

He didn't like thinking about her or talking about her, but sometimes he would think of her when he was with you. Whenever you did something caring without being asked or whenever you took the time to check in to see how he was doing. Not that you were motherly, just that Ben hadn't had anyone in a long time care about little things like that.

The only other "relationship" he'd tried to have was with Crimson Countess and she didn't do any of the things for him that you did. There wasn't any comparison between the two of you as far as Ben was concerned.

He shakes off the memory the way he always does and moves some of his mother's clothes for the cherry wood carved box that he knows is in the bottom.

He opens it slowly, extracting a small velvet box from within, one of many inside that Ben probably should have taken to the bank ages ago for safe keeping. Ben's father had a tendency to buy things for his mother whenever he "messed up" and the small velvet boxes inside were proof of that.

Ben turns back to where Annie and Hughie are watching with curiosity at the door of the storage unit. "Here."

"Here?" Annie says hesitantly looking at the velvet box in Ben's hand.

"You brought us out here for a box?" Hughie huffs.

Ben narrows his eyes. "No. And if you tell anyone about this I'll turn you inside out, ass-wipe."

"Why do you always have to be so-" Hughie begins to say, but Annie nudges him in the side.

Ben wondered briefly if Annie and Hughie also tried to tolerate him the same way that he tolerated them for you.

"Wow." Annie says, her voice hushed and reverent when she opens the box with strands of her blonde hair falling out around the hat.

"You think she'll like it?" Ben clears his throat, trying not to wince at the question.

He hated that he was relying on Annie for this or relying on anyone in general. Ben would have rather taken a long walk off a short pier than anyone for help, but he was just so desperate to make sure that the first Christmas the two of you spent together was perfect.

You deserved that and Ben wanted to give it to you.

"She will."

"Good." Ben takes the box back, but decides to bring the wooden box with him back to the apartment just in case. His eyes narrow as he looks over at Hughie. "If you tell anyone about this, I'll shove your head up Butcher's ass. Then again, you two would probably enjoy something like that."

"You're welcome." Annie raises an eyebrow.

"Whatever." Ben mutters.

Reader POV

Ben was late and you were starting to worry.

Not that Ben was always punctual. The man was about as punctual as the White Rabbit, but rather Ben was sure to let you know when he was running late. Not to mention Ben was rarely late to things that he knew were important to you.

And tonight was special or at least you wanted it to be.

You look at your phone again to check the time, noting that it was nearing nine and Ben had told you he was going to be back at eight. You were trying not to think too much about it, busying yourself with other little things, like packing for your trip to your grandmother's home in Illinois. Something that you would have ended up doing about an hour before you had to go to the airport, but you knew that would only annoy Ben.

But you liked annoying him.

Ben's nostrils would flare, his jaw would flex, and the green of his eyes would darken in a way that sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine, but tonight you were too anxiety ridden at how late he was to care about making him annoyed.

Ben and you were supposed to leave this morning to drive the 14 hours to your hometown in Illinois, but you'd called your grandmother a few days ago and asked her if Ben and you could fly in instead.

You wanted the two of you have a Christmas alone before you dragged him back home and made him sit through the two holiday parties your grandmother threw. So you'd planned a quiet Christmas at home where the two of you could drink eggnog, watch some holiday movies, and exchange gifts before Ben was subjected to every single person you'd known since you were six.

But Ben didn’t seem to mind any of that.

Regardless, you were going all out this Christmas. It was Ben's first since he'd come back to the States and you wanted it to be perfect and it was the first Christmas the two of you were spending together as a couple.

The anxious energy that thrummed through your veins reached out into the numerous plants in your apartment, that shifted and stirred as your powers coaxed them forward. The vines that crept along the walls shook with an unnatural breeze, the Christmas tree grew an inch taller, the mistletoe hanging above the front door grew another few shimmering berries, the blackberry and raspberry vines that hung over your refrigerator fidgeted and wove together into a curtain while the tomato plant in the garden box above your sink dropped bright red fruit onto the counter, and the orange/lemon tree that sat behind your kitchen table blocking the view of the alley beyond shook it's branches for a moment. You could feel everything alive in your apartment leaning towards you as if waiting for your silent command.

Rex, the creature you'd created from broken vines and trampled leaves four months ago, flicks his eyes over to you sensing the same disturbance the rest of the plants inside could.

You bite the inside of your cheek fighting your urge to check your phone even though you know that less than a minute has passed since you'd last checked. Instead you fiddle with the ribbon on the lumpy wrapped gift that is perched on your lap.

Shopping for Ben had been difficult to say the least.

You weren't sure what to get your 104 boyfriend who'd lived as a hedonistic playboy for most of his life and you didn't like giving gift cards (you didn't think Ben would understand the concept) or giving people meaningless trinkets that they used once and then threw away (the Grinch was right about some things). You liked giving gifts that you put time and effort into that you were sure the recipient was going to love.

And you were sure that the package on your lap contained the perfect gift and you were excited to see the look on Ben's face when he unwrapped it.

Your cat Bean purrs where he sits beside you on the couch and Rex your, for lack of a better word, Dragon was watching the multicolored lights on the Christmas tree in the corner blink on and off.

It was bigger for your apartment than it should be, but Ben had insisted on getting it and you couldn't complain. Not when he genuinely seemed to be happy to stand there in the snow picking out a tree with you.

And after when no Uber driver agreed to pick the two of you up because of the tree, Ben had carried it on his shoulder fifteen blocks while you begged him to let you help. When you'd tried to take some of the tree, Ben had shifted it to his other shoulder and taken your hand instead, which wasn't what you meant when you reached out towards him, but you didn't let go, not when it was cold and Ben's hand was warm.

The one jammed into the corner of your small living room didn't have a leaf out of place or any signs of decay. You'd fixed that with a flick of a finger.

You'd gone all out with decorations.

Every plant in your apartment had lights of their own and ornaments that swung just out of reach from your pets. Christmas lights were strung down the hallway and there was a wreath on your bedroom door. Strands of mistletoe hung over every doorway in your apartment and there was one taped to the wall above your bed. That one was Ben's doing, but you couldn't complain, not when it felt so damn good to kiss him.

Ben hadn't spoken about the Christmases he spent in the past, but he'd listened to you talk about your Christmases growing up when the two of you decorated the tree with ornaments you'd collected over the years.

You sighed, a happy smile on your face. You didn't think that you could feel this way about anyone, let alone someone you hated for so long, but you did. Ben was changing the belief you had about what relationships should look like, and you were sure that you were doing the same for him.

You hear the jingle of keys and the fumble of the doorknob as Ben slowly opens the front door and you leap from the couch.

"You're home!" You exclaim as your body hits his full speed, but he doesn't move. It was difficult for you to produce enough force to move him, difficult for anyone really.

Ben chuckles "Miss me Petals?"

He moves the plastic bag of Chinese food to his left hand so he can hug you back, his right hand fitting comfortably over the small of your back to hold you tighter against him.

You could remember the first time you hugged him, when all he did was stand there with his hands at his sides awkwardly while you held on to him as tight as you could. This was better. Ben's embrace is warm and strong, unyielding, but full of the love that he’d had such a hard time admitting.

"Yes." You squeeze him hard, smiling into his jacket that's flecked with melting snow, cold against your skin, but the warmth of his body soaks through the chill and into you. You sigh, nuzzling further into him. "I was worried-"

"Why?" Ben's voice rumbles through his chest, against your cheek.

"Because you weren't home yet." You pull back to stare up at him. His brilliant green eyes catch in the multicolored strands of Christmas lights, strung through your apartment. There's snow caught in his dark hair, turning to water and dripping down into his face in the warmth of the apartment.

Ben frowns. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You're here now." You smile arching up to kiss him. Ben groans into your mouth, his grip on you tightening as he deepens the kiss, pressing the hand on the small of your back just a little more to secure you against his chest.

You sigh softly, content in living in this moment with him for another few precious seconds. The heat of his body transferring into you the longer you stand pressed against him, soaking through your sweatpants and chunky sweater in the best way.

You'd never felt this way about anyone in the past. There hadn't been another boyfriend who'd treated you the way Ben did, no other boyfriend who'd cared about the little things, and no other boyfriend who you were so in love with. Even your first love so long ago faded into the background, the one you thought you'd never get over, and all that was left was Ben.

You're too excited about giving Ben his gift to eat. You sit cross-legged on the plush gray couch so close to him that your knees are touching the outside of his thigh as Ben places the boxes of food onto your coffee table. The anxious energy tingling in the pit of your stomach and buzzing in your chest so much that it's difficult to sit still.

And before Ben can give you your chopsticks, you thrust the lumpy wrapped package onto his lap with a wide smile.

"You first!" You say.

Ben shakes his head. "It should be ladies first."

“I’m not a lady Ben. We both know that-“

“Sorry sweetheart that’s the way it goes.”

“Don't be so old fashioned Gramps. It's 2024.” You roll your eyes at him, laughing at the cute frown that pulls at his lips when you use the nickname. Ben never liked it, but when you'd first met, Ben hadn't told you his real name, and you'd assigned him the nickname and it had stuck when you realized how much it annoyed him.

That was when he did everything in his power to annoy you as well, so it seemed like a good fit.

"And I really want you to open yours first." You plead as you lean towards him. "Oh, and this goes with it."

You reach down behind the couch to grab the small golden barrel cactus, avoiding the sharp yellow spines, and place it on the minimal space left on the coffee table. You'd crocheted a dark green sleeve to go around the terra cotta pot.

"You got me a cactus?" Ben snorts.

"I mean, I have so many plants in here and I thought that you'd want one that was yours. Plus, you'll never have to water it." You gesture with one hand to the numerous plants around the room, the ones bathed in the multicolored lights from the Christmas Tree, the ones with bright green leaves that unfurled towards the light, the others with hanging vines that trailed to the ground so thick that you couldn't remember the color of the wall, the apple tree with ripe red fruit, and the numerous herbs in the garden box that hung over your kitchen sink. "And I gave it a sweater."

"Why did you give it a sweater?"

"It’s used to a warm climate and because I had some yarn left over."

"From?"

"You're just going to have to open your gift and find out." You shrug, but can barely contain your excitement.

Ben shakes his head at you, but a smile twitches on the corner of his lips. You knew that your boyfriend loved you because you were different than anyone he'd ever met, and you reveled in that. You liked that even though Ben was older than you, that no matter how many other experiences he'd had in his life, you were a first for him just as Ben was a first for you.

He rips through the paper carefully, trying hard not to ruin what was inside, the sound of crinkling and tearing blocking out the Christmas playlist for a moment that you'd put on before Ben had come home, but you can hear the ABBA song clear as day.

For a moment he stares down at the gift not quite comprehending what the lumpy mass in his lap is, but then he picks it up.

It had taken a month for you to pick out the perfect dark green yarn that was soft but not too soft, green but not too green, and another two months for you to finish it when Ben wasn't home, but you were proud of the sweater that you'd made your boyfriend.

He stares at it for another few beats, holding it up to the light, and it makes you worry that maybe you should have bought him something at the mall instead.

"You made me a sweater?" He asks, there's something on the edge of his voice that you can't place, some traces of emotion that you're not able to identify.

"Yeah. I wanted to make you something." You clear your throat, worried. "I mean- you don't have any and I know that you keep saying you run a little warm, but I figured we're going to Illinois for Christmas and it might be cold."

Ben doesn't say anything and you start to feel the self-doubt come roaring in.

Why did I make him a sweater? I should have bought him some cologne or something.

"And you complained when Butcher sent you on that mission to Alaska last month and I just thought that-“ You press your lips into a tight line, shoulders drooping. “If you don't like it I can keep it for me-" You fumble, but before you can finish, Ben yanks you into his lap.

His hands cup your cheeks as he kisses you so fiercely that it wipes any doubts from your mind. You make a surprised sound in the back of your throat, but sink into the kiss. “Don’t you fucking dare.” Ben mutters against your lips.

Your blush burns against your face. “You like it?”

He nods. “ No one’s ever made me anything before.” His voice comes out a little bit gruff, as if he’s embarrassed to admit it, but it makes you smile.

“I figured and I wanted to change that.” Your fingertips dance over his forehead, brushing away the hair that’s fallen forward before your hand drops to cup his cheek, feeling the scratch of his beard against the palm of your hand. “But you’re sure you like it?”

Ben kisses you again, his large hands settling on your hips with an encouraging squeeze. “I do.”

“Good. Merry Christmas.” You wrap your arms around the back of his neck to hug him for a minute, sinking into his embrace with a happy smile.

"Merry Christmas doll." Ben murmurs into your hair, affection lacing his words.

Again, you send a mental thank you to your grandmother for understanding that Ben and you needed a day to be together and celebrate the way you wanted to before coming to stay. Not that you didn't like the Christmas Eve party or the Christmas day party, but you wanted to give Ben this. You noticed that Ben still had a hard time being in places with a lot of people when the PTSD came roaring back, and you wanted to show him what Christmas meant to you and hopefully show what Christmas would look like between the two of you as long as you were together.

“Sweetheart you gotta open yours now.” Ben’s voice rumbles, the warmth of his breath on your ear. It makes a pleasurable shiver thrill skate down your spine when you think of all the other times the two of you have been this close.

“It’s okay I can wait.” You hum into his throat, content, but Ben won't give in.

He pushes you back gently from his chest shaking his head. “Too bad. It's your turn."

"Fine." You start to move back to the space beside him, but Ben's hands catch on your hips to stop you.

"I didn't say I wanted you to move did I?" His smile turns more smirk.

"I-"

"How many times do I have to tell you that I like having you on top of me?" Ben purrs, kissing under your jaw, his beard scratching in a way that makes your throat tight.

"Keep doing that and the only thing I'm going to unwrap is you." You sigh in a half-moan, fingers curling into the hair at the base of his neck.

"After." Ben leans back to reach into his coat pocket and pulls out a small black velvet box that fits in the palm of your hand.

You hesitate to open it.

It wasn't that you didn't want jewelry for Christmas, it was that Ben and you had done this song and dance before after he tried to make you wear a diamond and emerald necklace with jewels bigger than your index, middle, and third finger put together. The whole time you wore it the only thing you could think about is how many groceries you could have bought with the necklace, how much you were afraid that it was going to break, and how much you feared that you were going to lose it or someone was going to try and steal it.

Maybe that was ridiculous, but extravagant gifts never appealed to you. You liked gifts that meant something, gifts that were heartfelt and thoughtful, gifts like the bookshelf Ben had gotten you months ago before you were dating because he noticed you needed one. Not to mention you loved just spending time with Ben. If he hadn't gotten you anything you would have been content with just sitting with him on the couch and watching a Christmas movie.

But you smile, because you don't want to hurt his feelings and because it's his first Christmas in forty years and you wanted it to be special.

It's Christmas and I will be thankful and happy with whatever he got me, because Ben was thinking of me when he bought it.

You think to yourself as you open the box.

The first thing you notice is that the box isn't as new as you thought, the inside of the lid is printed in ancient script that's a little faded, worn against the aged white silk that lines it. Your eyes drift to the piece of jewelry nestled on the pillow. It's a silver locket, hexagon shaped, and about the size of your thumb. The face is printed with weaving ivy leaves and roses that reach to a simple plain border.

Simple, stately, and completely you.

Ben is uncharacteristically quiet, but he breaks the silence first. "Do you-" He clears his throat, "Do you like it?"

He asks it hesitantly, as if he's afraid to hear your answer. It was unusual for Ben to look so nervous.

You can only nod, any words you had stuck in the back of your throat. Your fingernail finds the seam between the two pieces of metal and you gently unlatch the locket to see the picture inside. There's a piece of glass protecting a yellowed photo of a little boy who looks no more than five standing in a small black suit. You didn't think that they made suits for kids that small. He's smiling and one of his teeth are missing, but he looks oddly familiar.

"Who is this?" You ask. The more you look at the photo the more you think that you've seen him before.

"It's me." He says it quiet, almost a whisper.

"You? But-"

"It was my mother's." He clarifies and you inhale sharply in surprise.

"Really?"

He nods once, looking uncomfortable. By now you knew that moments like this usually made your boyfriend uncomfortable no matter how many times that you'd told him that he didn't have to be uncomfortable about being vulnerable. He was getting a little better, slowly, very slowly.

"Oh Ben I don't know if I should-" You shake your head, afraid to touch something so old.

Ben didn't often speak about his mother, but when he did, it was always reverent and respectful. You could see in his eyes how much he had loved her and how much he had cared about her. His father, Ben also didn't like talking about, but Ben never spoke of his father with the kindness that he'd spoke about his mother.

And you didn't want to take something like this away from him, something that meant so much to him, because of how much he loved his mother.

"No. I-" He clears his throat and Ben's hand tightens on your waist. "I want you to have it."

"But-" You stutter.

"What else am I going to do with it Petals? Can't exactly wear it myself." Ben chuckles, but the humor doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“Yeah, but it’s your mom’s and I-“ You trail off still looking at the photo of Ben as a little boy. He had the same mischievous twinkle in his eyes that you loved, the same unruly dark hair, but there was something different about him. He looked happier. It was the same look that Ben had when it was just the two of you together, the happiness that you wanted Ben to feel the rest of his life when he understood what it was like to be loved and cherished.

And it made you understand that the last time Ben must have felt loved and cherished was when his mother was still alive. It broke your heart to know that Ben had lived all these years without her and missed that in his life.

The locket was beautiful and the fact that Ben remembered what you said about liking gifts that “meant something” made your heart flutter.

Because this meant something. Ben taking the time to go through his mother’s jewelry and pick something out just for you that was special to him that he wanted to share with you, meant more than the emerald and diamond necklace he had tried to give you months ago.

There were tears burning behind your eyes the more you look at the photo of the little boy.

Ben is watching you. “Well-“ He shrugs. “I'm an only child. Which means I don't have any siblings who have wives to fight over this stuff so, I figured that if anyone was going to get it, it should be you. If you don't take it, it'll sit in that fucking storage unit. Seems like a shame."

You don't answer.

"And-" He hesitates, "I think my mom would have wanted you to have it. Hell, she might have given it to you, if I'd brought you home to meet her."

Your cheeks flush.

Ben studies you for another minute, before you watch his smile twitch into a frown. "Fuck, I knew I shouldn't have gotten you jewelry. Annie said that you liked jewelry, but I told her you didn't and now the bitch is probably having a good laugh with that pussy of a boyfriend! Forget about it sweetheart, I'll go get you something else right now-" Ben tries to take the box from you, but you swat his hand away.

“Don't you fucking dare!” You shout, using the same words that he said to you when you tried to take his sweater away.

"But you don't like it-"

"I do! And knowing how much this means to you, makes it better."

"Really?"

You nod, a wide smile wiping away any uncertainty in his gaze. "Will you help me put it on?"

"Sure." Ben says gruffly. His voice has lowered a little, and you know that it's a mixture of pride and love mingling in the tone. It made something break open deep inside and flood your ribcage with love.

You turn your neck to the side, pulling your hair away from the skin as Ben hooks the chain together at the nape of your neck. The cool metal of the necklace against your skin and the weight are unfamiliar, but you already knew that you wouldn’t be taking it off anytime soon. "It's perfect!" You pull Ben in for a kiss, threading your fingers into his dark hair.

Ben smiles into your mouth, holding you tight against him as if he never wants to let you go and you don't want him to.

It was odd to think that you'd only been together for four months, but you couldn't imagine your life without him. It seemed ridiculous for you to think that Ben was it after such a short time, but he was. You'd never rushed into anything in your entire life, but then Ben was there shattering every expectation that you had, enough to make you throw your inhibitions to the wind and jump feet first into the unknown if it meant he was with you.

The kiss is softer than the one the two of you shared at your front door, filled with more emotion than Ben usually let the world see, but he was opening up bit by bit, learning that you wouldn't judge him for that and it made you feel sky high.

This was the relationship you'd always wanted, and you never thought that you'd have it with Ben, but now that you were here you wouldn't change a thing, because it wouldn’t have put you in his arms.

"You can change the picture." Ben murmurs into your lips.

"No way. I don't have any kid photos of you. And I'm pretty sure you'll see all of mine this week.”

“I bet you were cute.” Ben smiles, raising one of the hands from your hip to push your hair from your face. “Hard to imagine you being any other way sweetheart.”

"Debatable." You sigh, nipping at his bottom lip in a way that makes Ben pull you back to him.

And when the kiss turns hungry, with you gripping his hair so tight you'd be sure that it would hurt anyone else, and with his fingers pushing up the bottom of your t-shirt to feel the warmth of your skin against his hands and find the dips and curves of your body that make you moan into his mouth, you can't help but think that this is the best Christmas you'd ever had.

"I do think it's later sweetheart." Ben's eyes shine with mischief, mouth pulling into the familiar smirk that makes your knees weak.

"Good. Because I have one other gift for you." You moan as Ben's mouth trails down to your jaw, his beard prickling against the sensitive skin, in a way that drives you mad.

"It's not another plant is it?" He bites just under your jaw and you tighten your hands in his hair, gasping softly. "Fuck, I love those sounds you make baby." Ben murmurs.

"No." You've lost all ability to form sentences, not when he's so perfectly warm and the trail of his hands working up your abdomen consumes you.

"Give it to me later." Ben's eyes flash a startling green. "I want to unwrap my favorite gift right now."

"Keep going the way you are, and you're gonna find it."

Ben hesitates, before he raises his hand to feel the end of the brand new lingerie that you'd bought special for tonight, his eyes darkening with the realization. "Well then, Merry Christmas to me."

Ben's mouth falls against yours, but before he goes further, he pulls back just for a moment, his hand coming up to gently cup your cheek. Your eyes widen in surprise.

"Ben?" You question.

"Merry Christmas Petals." He whispers, dragging his thumb over your cheek, and nudges his nose against yours in a gesture that warms your heart. He didn’t do things like that often, but whenever he did it always stood out to you, because it added on another layer to the man you loved with all your heart.

"Merry Christmas Ben."

A/N: I thought that they deserved a little Christmas fluff. I'm hoping that I have time to drop a follow up to this before Christmas, because I kinda want to write what happens when they go back to Illinois, but we'll see what happens! ❤️

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! I love hearing what y'all think 🥰

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