#only a Little spice of life. to make me not such a miserable fucking bastard

[orcelito]

you can tell I'm at the end of my rope when I've been listening to "Boss Bitch" on repeat while drunk cooking

[jaskierswolf]

hi wolfie it is i, the ramen man, i was wondering if you could write a prompt based on a baking competition tv show ? maybe even christmas themed if you want ?? no stress if you can't/don't wanna write it, i love u 🥺

This got... long? So you can also find on AO3

__________

Jaskier wasn’t stressed. He’d made this recipe a thousand times. It was his speciality!  No one made better chocolate brownies than he did but his presentation let him down. They were messy, gooey and delicious but this was a competition. They needed to look good too. He whined as he sat in front of his oven. Who made chocolate brownies for a cooking competition? Oh god he was an idiot.

He glanced around the room. Valdo Marx was busy finishing up his winter spiced cake and it smelled absolutely divine; the bastard. Plus he’d brought along some holly sprigs to make the whole thing look a bunch more christmassy. Jaskier had baked some orange slices to decorate his brownies. He also had some edible golden glitter for the top and a few spun sugar decoration for good luck. His secret ingredient though was Cointreau. The orange liqueur kept the brownies extra gooey in the centre without them being too rich.

He stared into the oven, chewing his bottom lip anxiously as he ran a hand through his hair. They were almost done. There was a shiny film over the top that would give the brownies a nice crunch. If he did well with these he would get into the next round; the final round. In that round they hand to create gingerbread houses, well more palaces. They had to absolute architectural masterpieces and he was shitting himself. Like his brownies, his gingerbread tasted amazing but it wasn’t always pretty. They were delicious and wonderful but not much to look at on the surface.

He’d only gotten so far because they tasted good.

“Come on, come on, come on!” He muttered and pressed his face against the glass.

He really needed to at least get to the final. There were smaller cash prizes for all finalists and the publicity from the competition would do wonders for his little bakery.

“How’s it going?” Triss Merigold, one of the presenters asked.

He shrugged. “Not much I can do until it’s finished baking. It always goes much faster when you’re watching this at home.”

Triss laughed. “Clever editing.”

“I just hope I’ve done enough,” he sighed. “Maybe I can charm the judges with my guitar skills instead…”

“Ah yes, they said you play. Is that a hobby?” Triss asked with forced politeness.

Jaskier scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. Well, I wanted to play as a kid. I was going to be the next John Lennon but you know how it is. My gran taught me how to bake and I became addicted. I still write my own songs for my YouTube channel though.”

“Wow! That’s amazing!” Triss made it sound like the least amazing hobby on the planet.

Luckily the oven timer went off at that moment and Jaskier was able to crack on. He pricked the brownies to make sure they were cooked through before setting it aside to cool. Whilst they were cooling he grabbed his tray of sugar decorations and the orange slicer.

“Bakers! You have five minutes!” Triss called out.

“Oh bollocks!” He groaned. He wasn’t going to have enough time to let it cool before decorating. Luckily the brownies tasted better warm but they were also harder to get out of the tin in one piece. He whined pitifully but dug a knife around the edge of the tin before slicing the brownies into the neatest rectangles he could manage. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

The camera man glared at him for swearing but he just stuck his tongue out. He was stressed, he was allowed to fucking swear! They were crumbling in his hands as he moved them to the plates. He cleaned up the crumbs as best as he could before showering them with edible glitter. He arranged the baked orange decorations as best he could so they looked slightly less terrible and then finally delicately placed the spun sugar on the top, only breaking two of the little shits in his hands.

“And stop!” Triss yelled and all the bakers stood back from their stations.

Valdo Marx was smiling smugly. His winter spiced cake looked fucking fantastic. On his other side stood Priscilla. She’d made cupcakes that were elegantly decorated to look like snowflakes, each one slightly different and beautiful. Next to Priscilla was Essi Daven. Her chocolate Yule Log looked amazing, Jaskier almost believed it was a real log.

Oh he was so going out.

He sighed and plastered a fake smile on his face as Yennefer Vengerberg re-entered the room.

“Time’s up bakers. You are apparently the best of the best but only three of you will make the final round. My expectations are high. I’m sure you’ll disappoint.” She smirked at them, violet eyes flashing dangerously. “Sadly, it is not only me that you must impress with these bakes.”

Jaskier felt his eyes widen. Shit, he’d forgotten that they brought in a second judge in this round. The bakers never knew who would be until they were introduced but it was always a famous chef and Jaskier suddenly felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“Please welcome, my ex-husband… Geralt.”

Jaskier let out a pitiful whimper as Geralt fucking Rivia entered the room. The man was only his celebrity crush. He would be fine. It was going to be fine and holy shit he was even more gorgeous in real life.

Fuck.

“Now, as I am sure you are all away, Geralt and I have never once agreed on anything except our daughter. So this promises to be fun.” Yen drawled sarcastically.

Geralt chuckled and crossed his arms in front on his chest. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt and Jaskier’s entirely life was suddenly just Geralt’s arms.

They were so big.

“That is precisely why I was invited, Yen,” Geralt muttered with a fond smile. “Evens out the vote.”

“My vote is fine on its own.”

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

Jaskier zoned out the rest of the conversation as the other bakers made their way to the front to be judged. He was too entranced by the god stood before him. The long silver hair that was pulled up into a bun, revealing the oh so sexy undercut. Jaskier watched Geralt’s lips part as he tasted one of Priscilla’s cupcakes. He got some frosting stuck on the corner of his lips and Jaskier desperately wanted to help him lick it off, but instead Geralt’s tongue flicked out to catch it. Jaskier was weak.

He zoned back in long enough to notice with great satisfaction that Valdo’s cake was under-baked and a little bit shit, not even holly could save it. So Jaskier was still in with a chance, and then it was his turn. He was hoping the brownies would still be warm. If they’d cooled down too much then his presentation would probably fuck him over.

“Buttercup?” Yennefer raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “If you could stop drooling over my ex for two seconds, tell us about your… brownies?”

Jaskier’s fingers flexed and he tugged nervously at the edge of his shirt. “Ah yes. Umm. Hi,” He stammered and blushed as Geralt winked at him. “Brownies, orange. Chocolate orange brownies,” he swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. “I used dark chocolate mostly but there are chocolate orange chunks in there too, any orange flavoured chocolate is good. Orange zest, orange juice and umm.. oh ah, orange liqueur.”

“Aren’t you concerned the orange will overpower the chocolate?” Yen asked sharply.

Jaskier shrugged. “I make these every year. They sell well at the bakery.”

“Smells good,” Geralt noted.

“The presentation is shocking,” Yennefer countered.

“Yeah,” Jaskier admitted with a sheepish smile “but I can do better. If you give me a chance.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re running out of chances.”

“Yeah but I’m cute.” The words fell from his lips before he could stop them. He clapped his hand over his mouth and blush furiously. “I am so sorry!”

“Hmm.”

“Let’s just taste them shall we?” Yen suggested.

Jaskier nodded, still hiding behind his hands. “Please.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and he yelped.

“Relax, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured in a low voice.

Jaskier’s blush deepened and he smiled up at Geralt. Oh those eyes were like honey, so warm and inviting. There was still a small smudge of frosting on his lips that Jaskier hadn’t noticed before but now he couldn’t stop staring. He wondered if Geralt tasted as sweet as he looked. “Thanks, Geralt.”

“Geralt, stop flirting and taste the freaking brownie.”

“Yes, dear,” Geralt sighed.

Geralt took a bite of his brownie and fucking moaned. A quiet whimper escaped Jaskier’s lips. God he was going to melt on national television but he didn’t care. He’d had a chance to meet his favourite celebrity and Geralt had liked his baking! It was honestly life goals. The only thing he had left to tick off was his wedding to Geralt by the coast. That had always seemed like an unreachable fantasy that helped him sleep at night but now Geralt was right in front of him… it didn’t seem quite so far away.

“Fuck,” Geralt moaned. Jaskier chuckled, that would have to be beeped out in the final cut. “This is amazing!”

Yennefer looked surprised as she tried her own forkful of brownie. “Not bad, buttercup. Not bad at all. It melts in your mouth.”

“And the orange is actually subtler than I expected.” Geralt gave him a fond smile and Jaskier had to remind himself how to breathe.

“Ah, umm. Thanks, Thank you, Geralt.”

“It looks like dirt,” Yennefer said cooly “but it tastes heavenly. Presentation has always been your weakness, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. Yennefer hadn’t called him ‘Jaskier’ since the first round when Triss had mentioned it was Polish for buttercup. “I know. I know!” He whined.

“If you get through to the final then you will fail miserably unless you can change that,” she added with a raised eyebrow.

“Taste won’t save you, no matter how cute you are,” Geralt smirked.

“I know. Wait hang on what?!” Jaskier stammered at Geralt’s words.

“You did good, buttercup. Well done.” Yennefer said firmly and rolled her eyes. “We’re done here.”

“Thank you, Yennefer, Geralt,” He nodded, definitely not still blushing as his gaze landed back on Geralt. “Thank you.”

____________

Jaskier screamed into the cushions as he threw himself down on the sofa. He’d fucking done it! He was in the final! He’d never imagined in a million years! Not to mention that Geralt Rivia thought he was cute. He wondered if he would be able to get Geralt’s autograph or whether that was just weird considering he was one of the judges.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier rolled over so he could see Geralt, forgetting that the sofa wasn’t that wide and falling onto the floor. “Oh fuck!”

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked as he came over to help him stand up. Jaskier gripped Geralt’s forearm as he was pulled to his feet.

All other thoughts left his mind as he stared at the muscles in Geralt’s arms.

“Arms…” He blurted out. “I mean! Shit. Umm, oh god.”

Geralt just laughed and steadied him on his feet. “Look, I wanted to ask…. once the show is over and I’m no longer a judge. Did you want to get dinner?”

Jaskier gaped at Geralt. “I’m sorry what?”

“Unless I’ve completely misread the situation. Fuck. Sorry. Look you can say no, I won’t score you worse because of it,” Geralt paled and crossed his arms in front of his  chest. “We’ll pretend this never happened.”

“No, Geralt wait!” Jaskier grabbed his arm. “Yes, ask me again after the final but yes. Dinner sounds great.”

Geralt smiled faintly and nodded. “Great.”

“Great,” Jaskier repeated. “It’s a date!”

Geralt nodded again. “I have to go. We shouldn’t be seen alone together until after the final.”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“Good luck, Jaskier.”

Jaskier grinned dopily as he watched Geralt walk away. It looked like Christmas magic was a real thing after all. “Yeah, you too.”

Wait. You too? Oh fuck it. _____________ Tag list: @alwenarin @slythnerd @davidtennan-t @flippinfricks @innocentcinnamonpun @marvagon @elliestormfound @geraskier-trashh @panerato @moonysourenza @artistsfuneral @victorieschild @hailhailsatan @wherethewordsare @havenoffandoms @bitchy-witchy-post-mortem @electricrituals @geralt-of-riviass @00qtee @kittynannygaming @stinastar @scribblesonmapleleaves @thecomfortofoldstorries @fontegagrilledcheese @anythinggoesfandoms @veritasrose @trickstermoose67 @nonegenderleftpain @ohheytheremiss @kueble @love-more-today-than-yesterday @kozkaboi

[joonkorre]

what canst thou give?

@drarrymicrofic prompt: caught

yall cant expect me to watch the witch (2015) and not go insane trying to fit a quote into my work. also, this is the first time i ever write something veering into the 15+ category. so. go easy on me lmao

AO3

“Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?”

Draco’s breath catches in his throat.

“But only if you want to, of course. No pressure at all.”

It’s sweet, that tone, as sweet and numbing as the saliva dripping down his nape. If Draco is someone else, an unfortunate bastard even more miserable than he is, he might have believed it.

“I don’t know,” he replies, the unnatural chill on the back of his bare neck too visceral a feeling. Too real. “I think having to choose between that and rotting in a back alley is at least a little bit pressuring.”

“Not too much, though?”

“Oh, no, never.”

“Good,” Edmund whispers. At this point, Draco wouldn’t be surprised if that’s not even his real name, “good.”

Draco stays quiet. With smooth jazz crooning through the walls of bars and eateries to complete the easygoing ambiance of a mid-autumn night in Muggle London, it seems to be the least likely time of the year to find oneself bargaining for their life. But here he is.

“Now,” Draco’s pulse jackrabbits so quickly he can hear it. A delighted chuckle leaks into the night. “Your answer, please.”

When he doesn’t give one, the canines on his exposed shoulder threaten to break the skin. Unexpectedly, they lift off.

“You might want to think it through a little faster, doll,” the large hand pinning Draco’s wrists against the brick wall clenches around them, then drifts down his chest. Lays flat on his quivering stomach, a persistent pressure against Draco’s thrifted bomber jacket. “We have an audience.”

Draco sucks in the stale air with a hiss. He’s pulled his date this far into the alley because he didn’t want curious onlookers as they snog. Bad fucking idea that was. Still, the thought of strangers witnessing this horrid moment fills him with dread. They can’t do anything to help anyway, only to humiliate him even more.

“What—”

“Don’t look,” Edmund nips his ear lobe, “unless you want further mortification. You mortals are ashamed of the strangest things, I can smell it on you.”

Heat rushes through his body. Draco blinks, dizzy with… with something. He doesn’t know whether he wants to rebel, turn his head, and meet the stranger’s gaze head-on, or just rest his forehead against the grimy bricks and find reluctant comfort in Edmund’s instructions.

“What do you,” Draco murmurs, sour notes of alcohol floating back into his nose, “what do you propose I do then? Just stand here and wait for them to get lost?”

“You can make it easy for yourself and say no,” Edmund says.

Those canines are back on the base of his neck. The arm that isn’t wrapped around his middle slithers across his chest, calloused palm an anchor on his shoulder blade. Draco wonders if this looks intimate, possessive—protective, even—to their observer, when he simply feels choked. A mouse gripped within the gentle loops of a snake’s body.

“You’d look like you’re swooning in my arms while I drink from your,” the tip of Edmund’s nose travels up the length of Draco’s neck, ending at where his baby hairs are matted with cold sweat, “gorgeous, delicious essence. And it’d only take a blink of an eye. Our little voyeur would never know.”

“Merlin, can’t I have a single good date?” Draco grits out. “Just fucking say blood.”

“Oh, but you’re no fun,” Edmund says. “Being poetic has its merits, I think. Makes life interesting.”

“Life will be even more interesting when I get to live it, actually.”

The hand on his shoulder takes its time trailing to his face, and when it does, it tilts his jaw to the side. Draco’s eyes automatically slide shut.

“Oh, you will. Once you get used to the ‘undead’ part of it, life will be a joy to live.”

His hands shift against the grimy bricks, one seeking familiarity and warmth as it grips his other wrist, grounding him.

“You must’ve realized by now how anxious I am to have you by me, by us. If I’m not, I’d just pick you up from a club, drink from you, leave you behind that dumpster over there, and you’d wake up feeling hungover with no memory of me,” Edmund goes on, his face close. If Draco tries, he reckons he can swallow down the intoxicating spice of cologne wafting against his cheek. “But I’m not doing that, now, am I?”

Perhaps it’s not even cologne, perhaps it’s all Edmund.

“You see, the blood of mortals is our life force, yes, but few of them ever smell and taste like anything more than diluted shite. Blood like yours, though, that’s rare. Power like yours. That raw, untapped, repressed power hiding under masks and marks. Given enough time, enough resources, it can be brought forth, and you can prosper.

“It’d be a shame if all of what you are made of withers into nothing, don’t you think?”

Draco thinks and thinks. It’s all one can do when they’re held so firmly, quite literally stuck between a rock and a hard place. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple. Edmund kisses it away with false reverence, dotting another kiss behind Draco’s ear. Draco would have jolted if he has any energy left in him.

He realizes it now. Ever since the day Edmund’s gaze lingered a second too long, it was over. There is no one left to remember him, and if he ‘makes it easy’ for himself and says no, nothing will change. Sooner or later, he’d die without a purpose, alone.

What if he eliminates dying from the equation altogether?

He realizes it now. There has never been any choice.

Only one foggy, crooked path forward.

“Yes.”

Draco’s eyes open with a heavy drag, allowing in but a sliver of light. In the misty blurriness, he sees a smirk. One stark-white canine pulls the bottom lip inward, pierces through papyrus skin.

Draco’s vision darkens as red lips touch his. His nose clogs up for a brief moment, overwhelmed by the onslaught of scents and tastes. With every languid swipe of a clever tongue, copper as bitter as Charon’s obol forces its way into his mouth. A sharp needle of pain pricks his bottom lip. Draco flinches, tries to take a step back but the hand on his jaw keeps him close. One long finger sneaks into his mouth, prying it apart.

Swallowing the harsh tang of iron down, a rich, foreign sweetness floods his senses. It’s the nectar of late-June peaches and lingonberry syrup swirled in chamomile, coating his palate with a luscious glaze. A low moan escapes as his muscles relax. If it’s not for the steady hand on his stomach, Draco’s knees would have hit the dirty ground already.

“There we go,” Edmund whispers. His hands guide Draco to lean against him, back to chest, sending intermittent shivers to rack through Draco’s body. It’s cold, so cold, but he can’t pull away, just lets Edmund takes whatever he wants to take. “Good boy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Draco gathers enough of his declining wit to argue. “Sounds like you’re calling a dog.”

“Ah, you’re cute. The Sisters will adore you.”

“Sisters...” Draco says, the furrow of his brow easily smoothened by another leisurely kiss.

“Sisters,” Edmund says. The hand on Draco’s jaw edges to his neck, thick fingers adding a slight squeeze to the vulnerable valley on either side of his Adam’s apple. Draco sighs into Edmund’s mouth. “Surely you don’t think there’s only one of us out there?”

Not very certain of what to say, Draco purses his lips instead. Edmund lets out an amused hum and indulges him, sucking on his bottom lip. It’s good, so good, until it becomes sickening, like raiding the entirety of Fortescue’s stockroom. Being a creature of the night is rapidly losing its novelty.

“Okay, enough, enough, thanks,” he says, tapping the muscular arm around him and turning away. Edmund only continues his little ministration below Draco’s jaw.

He doesn’t know how long his eyes have been closed, so he opens them once more. It’s like… it’s like he’s been floating on thick water and is only recently dragged into shore. Rubbing the creak out of his neck, Draco squints.

Past Edmund’s sturdy form and angular lines, out in the main street, the thin crowd of pedestrians pass by in chattering groups and pairs. Opposite to the alley, however, one lone figure stands just out of reach of the street lamp. The yellowish light merely suggests their existence as they lean against the restaurant Draco and Edmund exited from earlier. The bright tell-tale red of a cigarette butt is visible but other than that, no detail to be discerned. Looks like someone who’s just minding their own business.

“You must think yourself funny,” Draco says, arching his neck to accommodate the kisses peppering his skin, “using my own shame against me. I doubt people even remember there’s an alleyway here.”

“Don’t forget that when a being has lived for as long as I have, has accumulated this much power, nine times out of ten, he knows what he’s saying. I’m powerful enough to catch the scent of every mortal walking by, even know if they’re actually mortals or not. Our little voyeur? He’s still here. He’s watching. He’s waiting for you, doll.”

Edmund pauses, then:

“And whether he’s a mortal? That remains to be seen.”

Draco pushes away as far as Edmund’s firm grasp allows, which is only a few centimeters away. Whatever his blood did with Draco’s own, it snaps him awake with startling clarity just as swiftly as when it’s reduced him to a little more than a rag doll. Everything is so sharp it’s almost disgusting, like his eyeballs are gouged out, scrubbed clean, then shoved back in again. Draco locks his legs, willing himself not to stumble.

“That makes no goddamn sense,” he says.

“You don’t feel them now, but wait until they set in,” Edmund tries to tug him back, shrugging when he doesn’t obey. “Your abilities. We’ll go back to the House of Collective tonight and when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

“I,” Draco says. “Please say that again. With actual information.”

“So demanding,” Edmund leans back and looks at Draco like he’s seeing him for the first time, a hint of humor in his serene demeanor. “The House of Collective is where the majority of us in Britain frequent and reside. The newly Turned are brought there to be with their brethren. Trying to deal with these new abilities alone is what makes them go Rogue and lands them on the front page. Think Jeannette McDermott, the poor woman.”

Jeannette McDermott drained and devoured 6 people in a single weekend. The Aurors got to her first before the news outlets. Being a shut-in and hating being perceived in general—Merlin knows how she got bitten in the first place—the only pictures ever taken of her as an adult was of her mangled body, torn by her own claws and twisted into stillness. It was a once-in-a-century scandal that paralyzed Wizarding Europe for 2 months straight.

Draco frowns. “I’ve always wondered. How did she—why wasn’t she brought back to the House, then?”

“That’s what irresponsible Turning looks like. If we want to Turn someone, it must be carefully considered and planned, for there must always be more prey than predators. Such is the law of nature,” Edmund says it like it’s a walk in the park rather than changing people’s entire lives. “Deacon Frangos was careless—amateur little weakling—and wanted something more thrilling than, say, going to clubs for gullible drunks.

“During the official trial at the House, he confessed that he spent days working through her wards and broke in. Never expected that McDermott was a fighter. She couldn’t get to her wand, but she did have a knife. She stabbed him 3 times as he was drinking from her. Their blood mixed, and Frangos ran off to lick his wounds before we found him. That was Friday.”

“Merlin and Morgana,” Draco breathes, “that quick?”

Edmund only looks at him, silent as he waits for Draco to weigh his decisions. Or lack thereof.

“What about, what about my apartment? My things?”

“You’ll only be at the House of Collective until we get you accustomed to your new life, then you can return home. Or,” Edmund tilts his head to the side, “you can stay. It’s akin to a commune, there’s space for all. It’s in the middle of the woods, too, hidden behind extensive wards and Charms, very private. Don’t you love your privacy?”

“What, do you live there?”

“Yes! Just so you know, I built my own dwelling. It’s stunning, if I do say so myself. Marble floors, 5 balconies. Just added a new pool last month. Plenty of space to… christen, unlike your studio apartment.”

Edmund lets a casual grin grace his face, all jokes. Draco curls his lips. It’s a mystery for the ages as to how he’s ever found this man charismatic.

“I’d rather the, um, the studio apartment. It does have its charms. Checkered bathroom tiles, and, hmm, a working oven. I might paint the fireplace next week, who knows?”

“Big plans, big plans,” Edmund nods solemnly. “However, you will need to pay a visit at least twice a month for resources and news within the community. There are tons; we even have a matchmaking service so you wouldn’t have to explain yourself to some bumbling mortal and worry about lifespans. Isn’t that so very neat? But, you already have me.”

Edmund shoots him a wink. If he’s not, well, Edmund, Draco might think it’s attractive.

“I think,” he starts. His neck is aching something fierce the longer he looks back, so he turns to face Edmund directly, “we need to have a talk about ending this entanglement.”

“My,” Edmund adjusts without trouble, interlacing his hands behind Draco’s waist, just above his bum. “Must you hurt me so? After all we’ve been through in the past three dates, you want to cast me aside?”

“Those three dates were nothing more than bouts of insanity. My apologies, I was in a moment of weakness and was somehow fooled by your… Merlin, I don’t even know. Basically, you were a passing fancy that I will rue ever having for the rest of my life.”

Edmund sighs and lowers his head until it’s nestled where Draco’s neck joins his shoulders.

“My 161st love has broken my heart. Oh, how can I recover from this pain?”

He lifts his head up, meeting Draco’s unimpressed gaze with a smirk. “Perhaps one last kiss will be the balm I need. Come on, just one more for closure.”

Draco gnaws his bottom lip and wets the still-throbbing cut on it. Then, he rolls his eyes, sliding them shut. No big deal.

“You’re so generous, Draco,” purrs a deep voice right at the corner of his mouth. Draco parts his lips, breathing in the hushed words. “Can’t say I won’t miss this. Your blood truly is a delicacy.”

“Hurry the fuck up.”

Sweet, sweet wine.

Draco sags against Edmund’s strong chest, head lolled to the side, panting. They have stopped before it got too much this time, yet Draco still teeters over the edge of insanity with every suckle of lips, every caress of tongue. Edmund has been gentle, large hands cupping Draco’s face like he’s a priceless treasure made of opals and emeralds, combing through the slightly wavy hair Draco has grown out. He has fixed Draco’s shirt as he plucked off every scrap of sense remaining in Draco’s head, has stroked the purple marks in bloom, and covered them with the bomber jacket.

As Draco clutched those broad shoulders and wrinkled the expensive fabric adorning them, he had half a mind to demand Edmund to be rougher, to stop trying to savor it. Stop making it something to go breathless over.

Toying with the shiny button on Edmund’s wool suit, he reminds himself that it was smart to end whatever they had between them. Otherwise, he can see himself becoming addicted, and such a problem has no place in his life.

“It’s getting late,” he says. The street outside is still bustling with people, bursting with sound. The person leaning against the wall opposite is lighting up a new cigarette.

“Oh, doll,” Edmund hugs him tight. “Darling. You’re right, it’s getting late. ”

They stand there for a few moments more nonetheless, clutching each other. Then Draco sees it. Sees him.

As if on cue, the person straightens from their position against the wall. They step forward, one foot after the other, slack and loose, into the buzzing light. Draco can’t observe intricate details from this far away—has to wait until tomorrow, apparently—but he still has eyes.

A pair of snickering women stroll by, and the street seems empty for a split second. It’s enough for Draco to see large, black boots (Dragonhide, the part of his brain that never forgets Mother’s fashion books notes) and dark, well-fitted pants stretching over thick thighs. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing dark arms with a myriad of pink-white scars. White button-up, wrinkled and stained, tied by leather harnesses crisscrossing at the chest, like the wearer has forgone changing after work and instead hurried off to deal with an urgent task. An unusual outfit for urban London, but somehow, it works.

Left hand tucked in a pants pocket, the other tapping the fine ash from a cig into a puddle on the concrete. It lifts to hover in front of full, waiting lips. One sleepy bloke trudges by, a heavy bag slung over his shoulder. A hazy billow of smoke spills forth lazily as the bloke walks out of view, opaque clouds masking an expressionless face before disintegrating into the night.

“Doll.”

Draco glances back at Edmund, who is staring at his lips. His hands run tiny circles over the small of Draco’s back.

“We decided on one kiss.”

“I know,” Edmund’s thumb swipes over the cut, as soft as a brush dipping into paint. “There’s still blood.”

“Obviously,” Draco says with a slight snort, “you bit it. Like a brute.”

Edmund’s reply comes in the form of his thumb pressing against the cut as if wanting to both stopper the blood and squeeze it out. Draco assists by opening his mouth, slipping the finger into moist warmth. And for some godforsaken reason, his eyes travel back to the street beyond.

This time, both hands are in the pants pockets. The cigarette has stopped its light bouncing, now lying still between pillowy lips. Like before, the voyeur is a statue amidst a sea of movement.

Draco swirls his tongue against the pad of the thumb, tasting himself and gulping it down. It’s bitter and sour without Edmund’s blood to sweeten it up, but he keeps licking until all he can feel is the saltiness of skin, the clenched fistful of his jacket against his hip, and—

And green.

“It’s getting late,” Edmund whispers against his forehead, his lips a touch away from kissing his fringe.

Letting the finger fall from his mouth, Draco whispers back.

“Okay.”

The voyeur never stops looking. Draco knows because neither does he.

“We’re never doing this again.”

Draco’s eyes glide back to Edmund. “I never thought you’d be the one to say that.”

“Me, too. But I’m serious,” the man says, but doesn’t clean his finger. “From now on, we keep our hands to ourselves.”

“And mouths.”

“Yes, those especially.”

Draco huffs out a laugh, “Okay. Very well. I’m glad we’ve reached an agreement.”

Edmund shakes his head, then blinks. He looks up at Draco, mischief in his eyes.

“Alright, Draco, you’ve done enough for the night.”

“Pardon?” Draco says, sliding his arm into the crook of Edmund’s. “You Side-Along us.”

“Of course, and I meant. Merlin, you’ve done quite enough. Oh, goodness, that’s pungent.”

Edmund pats Draco’s hand on his forearm and leans toward his ear.

“Say goodbye to him.”

Draco’s fingers tighten around Edmund’s arm in warning. He doesn’t say ‘goodbye,’ but he does look to the street light opposite the alleyway. Before the Apparition wrenches all the thoughts out of his head, Draco vows not to think about the expression on that face.

[salemsoul]

The Gentleman Bastard’s sequence Fanfic. (Spoilers)

Overview: Locke and Jean find Sabetha 5 years after the events in Karthain only to find out she has a child.

It had been five years since Locke and Jean had last seen Sabetha. That fateful night in Karthain played repeatedly on Locke's mind, and despite his pain, he stayed true to his word and did not seek her out. Jean often thought they were being too true, and that just finding her would certainly save him how many more years of headaches until she resurfaced again. His friend Locke was as stubborn as a debt collector but complained like a toddler, and with 10 years total, not including their short time with the bondsmagi, of his bullshit whinging about Sabetha, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

They had heard rumours throughout the years about her. Whisperings about the rose of the marrows resurfacing and destroying lives, some even said she was dead. But that's all they were. Whisperings. When created, myths tend to grow and twist all of their own.

However, Jean followed the rumours as much as he could. If he mentioned any to Locke he would just reply with "Well, I hope she's having the time of her life, and absolutely fucking miserable," often accompanied by said friend guzzling down the nearest bottle of wine until he was in a hazy stupor.

Due to Locke's almost constant drunken, depressed state, Jean was in charge of where they travelled, and the few months they were there Locke would hyper-focus on a new scheme, seemingly cured from his ailments, until it was all over, and Locke the mess would return. During this time, they'd even found themselves in the middle of a war, taking advantage of people's needs for supplies and weapons to charm the coins out of their pockets, only to find themselves in bigger trouble. Thank goodness that was now behind them, and Jean hoped this next city would finally reunite them with Sabetha.

The previous places they had visited had all been due to rumours about Sabetha's whereabouts, not that Jean ever told Locke that, and their arrival at Halgaist, a mountain village, was for the same reasons.

If Locke noticed this wasn’t the best place for a scheme, he didn't say, but they had accumulated a nice amount of wealth recently that they weren't desperate for money.

About a week into their stay, Jean was just about to think that Halgaist was yet another dead end, when they met her.

Earlier that day, Jean had roused Locke enough to convince him that a walk around the markets might spark his mind for a scheme. Locke begrudgingly agreed, dressing himself at a leisurely pace, before following Jean out of the door into the late afternoon chill.

Halgaist was famous for its winter markets, where craftsmen who lived deeper into the mountains, came to the town to sell their wares for the winter period. The whole town centre was filled with stalls selling items from furniture to warmed wine and dried fruit.

Jean and Locke were just at one of these stalls, admiring the intricately carved wooden toys and music boxes when they locked eyes with Sabetha on the other side.

The three froze, not quite believing that who was in front of them was not a spectre before tears started to fall. Sabetha rushed around the table, dodging milling citizens and accidentally hitting a few with the paper bag she held in one hand before launching herself at the two men.

"I never thought I'd see you two again," she said between tears, pulling them into her arms and squeezing again. Locke seemed beyond words so Jean said,

"And us, you." Relief washed through Jean, the hunt was finally over, but a look to his right told him enough about what Locke was feeling. Locke was frozen, staring off into the distance with tears sliding down his face as if he was in a trance. Sabetha didn't seem to notice so ushered them out of the crowds and to the empty side of the large square.

"Would you two like to come to mine, we can talk about our time apart over some spiced wine and cakes." Sabetha looked mostly to Locke as she said this, chewing nervously on her lower lip, and when Locke didn't reply Jean simply said,

"We'd love to," before gesturing for her to lead the way. Sabetha looked at Locke, who was still staring off into the distance, before offering Jean a tight lipped smile and nodded.

Sabetha lead them to a small district just out of the town full of cosy wooden cabins and snow-capped mountain tops. Sabetha talked and talked about the history of the town and about her favourite places to visit while rarely turning around to check if the two men were following her. She led them up to one of these cabins, tucked slightly out of the way behind a few grand pine trees, before welcoming them inside.

Jean and Locke followed her into what served as the kitchen in this quaint two storey cabin, and sat down at the large oak table in the centre of the room while Sabetha fussed, rushing upstairs for a few moments and then added a few logs to the already burning fire in the hearth and grabbing the wine, her paper bag discarded on the table.

Sabetha sat perpendicular to Locke at the table, to Locke's left, while Jean sat to his right. Jean then began spinning the tale of the last few years, talking about their troubles in Emberlain and a few honourable mentions from their latest schemes. Locke would occasionally quip in, and as time passed Locke seemed to relax and become more himself, much to Jean's relief.

Sabetha was looking at Locke as if she had something to say, still nervously chewing on that lip, while nodding along to their tale, barely lifting her eyes to look at Jean. Jean tried not to feel the sting. Sabetha probably missed Locke as much as he missed her, but had yet to tell them the reason for her departure in Karthain in the first place, content to let them take the lead in this conversation.

They were just down to halfway on their second bottle of spiced wine when a small voice arose from behind Jean. "Mama, who are these people?" Jean turned to see a small girl, not more than three or four years too her, clutching a soft toy to her chest. She wore a long white nightgown, grazing her ankles, and had messy red hair. Her steely blue eyes bore into Jean's, leaving him blinking confusedly at Sabetha a question on his face. Locke's expression mirrored his own as his eyes set on the girl, except with an added bit at horror.

Sabetha rushed to the little girl, crouching down in front of her. "Did we wake you up from your nap?" Sabetha said, smoothing the girl's hair. The little girl shook her head. "Do you want to go back up to bed?" The little girl shook her head again. Sabetha let out a sigh, before picking up the girl, carrying her on her hip and setting her on her lap as she sat down back in the chair she had just left. Sabetha reached over and picked up a small slice of cake from the table and presented it to the girl, who greedily accepted it into her tiny hands, leaving her toy to fall on the floor.

Locke picked it up, placing it on the table between them before saying, "So, you have a child." Jean could tell pain laced every calm word. The thought that Sabetha might have moved on, had even started a family, had never crossed their minds. To Jean, it had always been Locke and Sabetha, even when the years drifted on without a sign from her, to think that it could now be Locke, and Sabetha and someone else, hit Jean in a way he couldn't describe. Jean did the maths in his head, if this girl was indeed about three or four years old as he suspected, it means she must have been conceived not long after they split ways in Karthain. Could Sabetha really have found someone and moved on that quickly?

The girl was staring at Jean again as she messily ate the cake. There was something about her eyes that felt off to him. They were wise and assessing beyond her years, and hauntingly familiar.

Sabetha drew her gaze from Locke, wiping a few crumbs from her daughters dress. "Uh yes I do. I was going to tell you two as soon as I saw you again, but it was too hard, I'm sorry. I really was going to tell you tonight though."

Locke took a swig from his wine, "well as long as you are happy, and as long as her father cherishes her, and you."

"About that,-" Sabetha was interrupted by her little girl, cake now demolished, reaching over and pulling Sabetha's glass towards herself with her sticky hands. "Ah ah ah, that's not for you." The girl let out a little whinge and started puffing out her lips. Sabetha let out a long sigh, "Fine, but just a sip." She helped her daughter take a swig, and when she pulled the glass away the little girl let out a little giggle from her wine soaked mouth directed at Locke. Locke seemed stunned at the little girl's sudden attention, but gave her a smile before lifting his own glass up in a salute and downing it to the dregs.

Sabetha then wiped the girls mouth on her dress, staining it a light pink, before tucking the girl into her arms in a cuddle and continued, "As I was saying," Sabetha took a long breath, steeling herself for what she was about to say, "her father has not had a chance to cherish her," a look to Locke, "because her father is you."

The words shot through Locke and Jean, and they couldn't quite believe what they were hearing. Locke seemed to have been transported to wherever the Eldren had gone at the words and they were going to have to scrap his jaw off of the table.

Deep understanding settled in Jean. Of course he knew those eyes. Those where Locke's eyes in the little girl that were now slowly drifting off to sleep in her mother's arms, and the maths made sense, she must have been conceived that night in Karthain, when Sabetha disappeared, making the little girl just past four years old.

Locke sputtered, shaking his head, "and you didn't think to tell me, to find some way to contact me." His eyes went dark, and that was the rawest emotion Jean had seen from his friend in a while.

Regret painted Sabetha's face, and she pulled her daughter a little closer to her chest. "I did try. Please believe me I did, but I was also very scared. You see, the night I left, Patience was her name right? Well, she told me that I, that we, were going to have a daughter, and no matter what I did, she was going to find herself into this world, and if I did not leave now, we would lose our daughter because of you, and I was so shocked and scared, and I wanted my own little piece of this world, that I left. I tried to write you a note, but I knew you wouldn't understand, so I just gathered a few things and left. And don't think for one minute that in these last five years I haven’t regretted that decision, because I have regretted every moment. Especially when I gave birth and you couldn't be there to share that with me."

One of Sabetha's tears dropped onto her daughters cheeks and the little girl sat up with a start, her sleepy state gone, and brushed away the tears on her mother's face. Sabetha looked to her daughter and gave her a sweet smile, "thank you, darling, Mama's ok, don't worry." The girl only narrowed her eyes suspiciously, before nuzzling back into Sabetha's chest.

"I need some time to think Sabetha." Locke said, staring at the table. Sabetha stood up, cradling her daughter in her arms.

"I am going to go upstairs and put our daughter to bed, you can stay down here all you like and think away while I'm gone." And she walked out in the direction of the stairs.

"Locke," Jean started but Locke just gave his friend a look that stopped him in his tracks so neither of them spoke for several minutes. "At least we know why she left. And it’s a pretty damn good reason too."

Locke nodded absently, "Fucking patience, I hope she rots in hell wherever she is."

"That I can agree with," Jean said, taking a sip from his wine.

"I have a daughter Jean. A daughter. And I didn't even know. I've been drinking like a lonely widow while Sabetha has been here raising our daughter for me."

"You can't blame yourself Locke, you didn't know." Jean took this time to refill his friend's glass, but Locke didn't touch it.

"I couldn't even be a good garrista Jean. I let the only initiate we had die in front of me. How am I going to be a good father? Bug would be twenty now, twenty. If only I could have looked after him like chains did for us."

"Hey now, none of that is your fault, you did your best, and Bug had a better life with us, no matter how short it was, than he would have had had he stayed Shade's Hill. The Grey King and the Falconer wanted us all dead, we are lucky we escaped that ourselves, and you are lucky to have even fathered that child with the woman you loved. Don't I wish I could have had that opportunity."

"Jean. You know I don't mean to be ungrateful."

"I know, but just think, upstairs you have a beautiful little baby girl. Yes, you may not have been in her life for the first bit, but now you have a chance to be in the rest of it. So prove to yourself that you are worth more than all this drinking and scheming, and be the man I know you can be. That girls got a wonderful mother, and she'll do just fine raised by her, but I'm sure she'd be mighty grateful to have you there too." Jean picked up his glass again and took another drink.

"Jean, I need to go upstairs." Locke said, shakily standing on his feet.

"Then go then," was all Jean said, as Locke disappeared in the direction Sabetha went.

Locke got to the top of the landing and paused at the multiple closed wooden doors. A faint sound of singing could be heard from one just down the corridor and Locke knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open.

Sabetha was sat on the edge of a small cot in a cosily decorated room that was no doubt a child's. A few toys were strewn across the floor and small paintings, painted by a child's hand, hug on the wall. She was gently stroking their daughter's head, while singing an old Camorri tune they often heard the sailors sing when they were growing up. Sabetha stopped at the end of a verse, and Locke continued the song, perching next to her on the cot. Soft snores could soon be heard from the little being on the bed.

Sabetha then stood up slowly, and Locke followed her out of the room, where she closed the door softly behind them. Neither of them made a move to step away from the door, and stood in silence for a few long moments.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here for the first few years of her life, but I would like to be in the future ones." Locke said softly, careful not to speak too loudly.

Sabetha didn't reply for another long while and turned away from him as she said, "Well, that depends. Are you going to insist on continuing your ridiculous schemes, because I told you once and I will tell you again Locke, but I can’t live with you as a garrista. And I don't want that life for our daughter either."

"If that is what it takes, though I don't know what I will do with myself I will admit."

Sabetha turned around slightly, "enjoy life, instead of living scheme to scheme and destroying people's lives. I admit it is fun, but there are other jobs that also require our particular skill set." She took a few steps towards him. "I've taken up acting. There's a small theatre troop here and I work with them. It's not a lot of money, but for once I don't have to worry about being caught. Join us, have a break and raise our daughter with me."

"What if I'm not any good and I mess her up somehow?" Locke said, taking Sabetha's hands in his own.

"You have to trust yourself. She can't be as messed up as we are. I've coped this long on my own, trust me, it's not easy, but it's a lot of fun." Sabetha reached up a hand and cupped Locke's cheek, he gave her palm a small kiss and covered her hand with his own.

"I'll do my best, you can be garrista for this," Locke smiled.

Sabetha gave a small chuckle, "Trust me, the only garrista here is snoring away in her bed."

"Is she really that much trouble?"

"Oh, just wait and see."

[zankivich]

Neighbors: Shawn x Plus Size Reader Chapter 9

a/n: hi. this one hits a little close to home to me, but I thought it was really important to explore the ways in which our perceptions of ourselves get largely created by the people around us, by the culture around us. I also just wanted to look at how being fat and happy is such a radical notion and how it is a difficult, difficult thing to manage. I really wanted to do that justice. I also just wanted to bring Shawn and y/n closer together and I thought, what better way than a messy ass family? idk. Tell me what you think. or don’t. k bye. 

*y/n pov*

You were stupid. Honestly you had to be fucking dumb. What other reason could there be for taking Shawn to the most ridiculous family in all of the world? Your sweet, sweet boyfriend was about to be tainted and it would be all your fault for taking him into the lion’s den. The need to not be miserable for another Christmas had clouded your better judgement, and it wasn’t until you saw all of your brother’s cars parked around your mother’s tiny house that you remembered why you were always miserable. It was because your family was a shit show.

“This was stupid. We shouldn’t be here.” You mumbled.

“What?”

You looked over at Shawn, all curly haired doe-eyed optimism and the sweetest smile you’d ever seen. And suddenly you could feel the distance between the two of you. It wasn’t just the fact that he was a rockstar and you were a regular ole person. It was that he seemed to have a certain level of purity that surrounded his life. Sure, no one was perfect, but Shawn was as close as you’d ever seen. You couldn’t handle the thought of him finally recognizing just how opposites you were in that regard. You didn’t want him to see the ugly, only the good. That’s probably why people wait longer to introduce their significant others to the family. Shit.

“I wanna go home. Let’s just go home, and I’ll call them and say we had car trouble. Please?”

He turned in his seat and reached for your hand threading your fingers through the gloves you each were wearing.

“Hey. This is your family. I--I was really looking forward to meeting them. What’s wrong?”

You shook your head vigorously. “My family isn’t like your family, Shawn. Please, let’s just go.”

“No. I don’t want your family to be like mine. I just wanna understand who you are better. I wanna learn more about you, honey. That’s all.”

“Yea but what if you don’t like what you see?”

He tugged at one of your gloves bringing your bare fingers to his lips to kiss at them. You looked over and his eyes met yours leaving you to realize that he had tricked you into eye contact. Asshole.

“I can’t imagine not loving all of the parts of you. Even the not so great ones. I love the way your hair clogs the drain for example, and your incessant need to organize the spice rack in my apartment. Or your incessant need to make me purchase a spice rack to begin with.”

You pouted at him immediately. “You have to have a spice rack Shawn. It’s a necessity. And I do not clog the drain.”

“Oh but babe you do. Like a werewolf took a bath. But I find it absolutely adorable. It made me learn how to use drain-o.” He smirked. “I don’t care if your family is crazy. I just want to meet them, okay?”

You rolled your eyes the way that he deserved because he was so annoying when he was sweet, but he just kept kissing your fingers like the jackass he was.

“Fine. fine, fine, fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” You groaned.

Shawn pulled the presents you’d gotten out of the backseat and you headed inside together against your better judgement.

It’s one of your older brothers who answered the door and he’s already got a beer in hand despite the fact that it’s not even three o’clock yet, so this should definitely go well.

“Lil sis!” He snorted immediately pulling you into a headlock the bastard.

“Goddammit Rob let me go!”

He doesn’t and you’re transported back to being twelve years old and barely surviving with all the fucking testerone around. It takes a knee to the balls to get him to back off, or fall to the ground, but your family doesn’t play fair and he’d never learned to guard. You remembered when ‘Liyah had opened the door and Shawn and she had just hugged for five minutes straight. Your point was getting more proven by the second.

“Shawn this is one of my older brothers, Rob; Rob this is Shawn.”You panted, stepping over his crippled body.

Shawn winced. “Do you--would you like some help bro?”

“Don’t you dare.” You muttered pulling him deeper into the house. “We show no mercy.”

The rest of her brothers are littered around the living room. There are wives and kids and you’re anxious just looking at it all. You were the only one of the kids to not have gotten married and have children yet. And as if the physical presence of them all wasn’t clear enough, you would surely be reminded at some point in the evening. Once your brothers recognize that you’ve arrived it’s like a swarm descends and you’re suddenly being grabbed and hugged and hit from all angles.  They’re all massive and annoying and you being the baby means that they kind of all adore you, though years of emotional trauma means you all have a funny fucking way of showing it.There’s no place like home.

“Shawn these are the rest of my brothers. John is the oldest. Rob is the second oldest. Noah is the middle. And then there’s me, but you know me. Guys, this is Shawn, my boyfriend. Do not break him. I like him.”

Shawn is optimistic and smiley as ever as he reached to shake the hands of all your brothers. It is sickeningly sweet, and you love him for it.

“It’s about time she brought someone home to meet the family!” John snorted. “We were starting to think she was avoiding us.”

“I was and I am!” You interject.

Shawn chuckled. “Family is super important to me. I think she’s indulging me. I’ve heard so much about you all though; She must really love you.”

You know that he’s talking about all the times he got you wine drunk and asked you personal questions, also known as Shawn’s favorite pastime. But, tomato potato.

“She’s got a hell of a way of showing it.” Rob smirked, rolling his eyes when you flipped him off. “Lil sis, got her fancy college degree and moved as soon as possible. We’re surprised she stayed in Canada at all.”

Shawn gave you a look, but this is exactly what you knew was going to happen, so you purposely don’t make eye contact with him.

John looked Shawn up and down crossing his arms at the sight of your boyfriend. They’re about the same height, but John is more burley as opposed to Shawn’s chiseled form. You would hate to ever see them wrestle, there’s no way in hell it could end well.

“And now that she’s got a big fancy boyfriend, we figure we won’t be seeing much of her at all.”

That’s the first inkling you get that they’re not a fan of Shawn, which was something that truly had never occured to you. Shawn seemed to be like a magnet, sticking and pulling in all that came in contact with him. Everyone loved Shawn. That had been the one thing you hadn’t felt the need to worry about. Boy, were you wrong.

“I don’t know man. Like I said, family is so important to me. I’m sure we’d love to visit more if given the chance, but uh she’s her own woman. I wouldn’t want to ask her to do something she didn’t want to.”

“I bet you wouldn’t, pretty boy.”

You take that as officially your time to intervene. Your boyfriend was very pretty, but you got the sense that the way John was saying it was not meant to be a compliment. Being the baby, and the only girl of the bunch, meant that you had to know how to assert your dominance in the family. It was the only way not to get run over and stepped on. You were the most vindictive bastard out of all of them for that exact reason, so when you moved to shoulder check your oldest brother and send a glare his way, there was an immediate understanding to back the fuck off.

“Nice to see you all are still complete and utter assholes at heart. C’mon, babe I’m sure my mom is around here somewhere.”

You tug Shawn along with you and he sends a nervous glance in your direction. You wonder if he’s finally regretting coming to this hell hole.

“Did I do something wrong?” He whispered to you.

You sighed and wrapped your arms around his waist.

“Of course not. My brothers are just exerting their toxic masculinity. I haven’t brought a guy home in a very long time. They want to scare you to see if you’ll break. Don’t let it get to you.”

“Okay. I feel like I’m back in highschool but...mothers are my strong suit. I’ve never met a mother that didn’t like me.”

You snorted. “I’m not sure if your optimism is endearing or exhausting at this point.”

In the kitchen your mother was sitting at the table by herself peeling potatoes. It was a family tradition that no one was allowed inside the kitchen on big holidays when she was cooking. Not your brothers, their wives, not even her grandchildren.The only exception to the rule had been you. It’s where you learned everything you knew about cooking and baking, was afternoons after school spent beside her, when your head still met her hip, and she’d let you stand on a chair to see everything going on. When she peers up to look at you there’s a smile on her face in a very muted way. It’s more of a persing of her lips, but you know what it means and that’s all that matters. You leave Shawn’s side for just barely a second and step up to wrap your arms around her gently in a hug. You’d gotten your hair color from her, as well as your hips, chest, and fuck-off attitude. Your mother and you were very much alike in most ways. This only turned out horribly most times, but in times like this at least, you were okay.

“Hi, Mommy.” You murmured squeezing her tightly.

“It’s about time you come visit me. Your brothers are driving me up a fuckin wall, everyone of em.”

“I say you give them up for a adoption, sell the presents, and we go to Vegas.” You joked.

“Girl, don’t tempt me.”

When you look up at Shawn he’s standing against the door way with his arms crossed and a smile on his lips so big you kind of want to kiss it off of him. You hold your hand out for him to join you both at the table and he immediately links your fingers together to give them a firm squeeze.

“Mom, I wanted to introduce you to someone.” You explained biting back the smile that tended to burst from within you when it came to Shawn. “This is uh--this is my boyfriend, Shawn. Shawn, this is my mother.”

Your mom peers up at him inquisitively. It’s not a mean stare which is good, it’s just more of a searching one. He shakes her hand and squeezes it firmly between his oversized palms.

“It’s so lovely to meet you ma’am.” He grinned.

She raises her eyebrows. “You’re the popstar my sons showed me on youtube? You’re with my daughter?”

Oh lord.

He laughed. “Yes, I guess I am.”

“I like that one song. The blood song? They play it all the time on the radio.”

“In my blood? Yea! Well thank you ma’am; it’s an honor.”

You rolled your eyes at that. Shawn had gotten nominated for a grammy for that song, but as long as your mother liked it, it was an “honor”.

Your mother snorted. “Don’t call me ma’am, call me Julie.”

“Okay, Julie. Julie it is.” Shawn smiled. “Can we help you with the potatoes at all? I think peeling potatoes is one of the only things I’m good at in the kitchen besides eating.”

Your mother laughs and clutches her metaphorical pearls which is just the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever seen, but she lets him pull up a seat in her kitchen. It is genuinely unheard of in your household, and it takes you a second to move because you’re just watching him make your mom laugh and it’s a little bit incredible. He wore a black button up that day and when he rolled his sleeves up to wash his hands, his arms flexed and you wanted to wrap him up in your arms and nuzzle him to death. It was ridiculous the effect he seemed to have on you, and apparently any woman he came across.

“Babe, did I ever tell you? My mom used to have me and Aaliyah have competitions to see who could peel the longest string of skin off a potato. We were so competitive that now we can both peel it off in one.”

You rolled your eyes playfully and grabbed a potato from the bowl.

“Why is that the least surprising story I’ve ever heard. You guys are so wholesome it’s disgusting.”

“If you wanted to have potato peeling competitions with me baby, all you had to do was ask.” He smirked.

You shoved your hand into his face to try and dispel some of the perfection, but it was useless. In fact you were pretty sure all it did was fluff his curls into a better position. Asshole.

It had never occured to you to peel a potato in one even stream before. Because you were a normal person with things going on and who the hell has time for that. But the second Shawn held the curly strand up in front of your face like a cat bringing its owner a dead mouse, you realized that you could not be upstaged in the kitchen with this manchild you were dating. And thus began the dumbest competition to ever occur in the history of ever.

Shawn was actually really fucking good at peeling potatoes. Somehow the mystery of measuring cups failed him, but potato peeling? That’s where he shined. When your mother insisted that that was all of the potatoes that she needed, you ignored her in favor of getting out the sack of the rest of them from the cabinet.

Shawn chuckled. “Don’t worry Julie, we will take all leftover potatoes home with us.”

“You can take them home to your very cold, very lonely apartment by yourself.” You muttered as he bested you again.

Shawn dropped his peeler in favor for wrapping himself around you, half in your chair and half in his, to press all of his weight into you like the annoying man he was.

“Don’t get mad at me. You are better than me at everything else in this life. Can’t I have potato peeling?”

“No.” You moped.

He snickered. “Can I have a kiss?”

“Uh uh.”

“Not even a little one?”

“Nope.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Mmm I don’t know.”

“Well I’m not gonna kiss you until you tell me I can, so I’ll just be here until you’re ready.” He murmured.

You rolled your eyes pulling him by the collar of his shirt to press his lips against yours.

“You’re annoying.” You whispered against his mouth.

“Yea, but I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Your mom asked you to make apple pie. It was her favorite of all the things that you made and it was pretty fun for you to make so you didn’t mind it at all. Shawn brought out the wine that you had brought and poured you a big glass with ice cubes the way you liked it. He was helping you make the pie by handing you the spices one by one as opposed to actually helping at all, when your mother decided that things had been going well for too long.

Shawn and you were standing at the counter while you cut up apples and you just happened to take a sip out of your glass.

“I wish you wouldn’t drink like that. Your father hated when women drank.” She sighed.

You snorted. “Yea, Ma, Dad also hated being a dad, so I’m not sure if his expectations are ones we should be trying to meet. Last time I checked he was an alcoholic anyway.”

“Don’t speak about your dad like that. He was a great man. Especially not on Christmas.”

Your knife slowed to a crawl on the cutting board and you could feel Shawn’s eyes on you as your cheeks began to warm up.

“No, Mom, he wasn’t. He was mean and abusive and a drunk. I’m not gonna pretend that he wasn’t and you shouldn’t either. You worked too fucking hard for us all of to glorify that asshole.”

Your mom goes quiet for a little while. That’s never good, so it’s really just a means of biding your time to see what she comes up with. Shawn watches you take a bigger gulp from your glass than normal, but no one is speaking so it’s fine. You’re used to it by now, but it’s Shawn first time at the rodeo. Your mother was your whole entire world because she had managed to create a life for four children off a nine to five desk assistant job with no college degree. She’d worked her ass off for them, but it had come at a price. And that price was years and year of emotional and physical trauma that she had endured through her husband. When it was all set and done that trauma didn’t just evaporate; it became internalized, and then it got regurgitated back onto you and your brothers. So when she opens her mouth it’s not to say anything good at all, and suddenly all of your fears about this day are just spilling out into the room and you’re helpless to stop them.

“So, Shawn… You’re successful. Young. Very handsome.” She murmured. “What exactly are you doing with my daughter?”

You were facing the counter, but Shawn had leaned against it the opposite way so that he was facing your mother. This meant that you caught a glimpse of his face going into shock without having to see your mother’s reaction to it.

“W--What...I’m not sure I understand what you mean, ma’am.”

If you could have spoken in that moment you would’ve told him that allowing your mother to expand and clarify her statements was never a wise idea.

“You know what I mean, son. My daughter isn’t exactly a supermodel. We l/n women have not gotten through life on the basis of our looks, that’s for sure. All that wine and potatoes certainly isn’t helping things.”

Holy fuck. If global warming could have sped up in that moment just enough for a crater to form in the earth beneath your kitchen and swallow you whole you’d be good with that.

“I happen to love your daughter ma’am. She’s an incredible, intelligent woman, and her body is just one on a very long list of things that I adore about her. You really shouldn’t say things like that.”

The knife isn’t even moving anymore. As many times as you’d heard it and everything like it, you could never grow used to the way your mom could speak sometimes. And as much as you’d learned about your body and the beauty it entailed, something about coming home always brought up the ugliest of thoughts that you were sure you’d gotten rid of. The new thing here was having Shawn defend you. Your brothers, though sympathetic had never jumped to your defense before. His willingness to go against her when he had been so concerned with making a good impression was kind of baffling. You weren’t used to it, or how good it could make you feel. There were so many different emotions running through you in that moment that they felt difficult to contain within you.

“What?! What I’d say? Oh y/n you’re always so sensitive and now you’ve got this poor young man doing the same.” Julie muttered.

You chuckled humorlessly. “Sure thing, Mom. My bad.”

“I wasn’t saying anything bad. I was just pointing out the obvious, dear. I was interested in what had brought the two of you together is all.”

“Then maybe next time you could just ask that as  opposed to asking the guy I’m dating what the hell he could possibly see in me.” You snapped letting the knife clang loudly on the counter. “Jesus Christ, I’m going for a walk.”

It’s cold as shit outside and the snow is up to your ankles, but somehow it feels less cold then being in the kitchen with your mother for another second. You breathed in and out a couple of times to calm yourself down. When you were younger and your mom would say shit like that it would cause a sort of thought spiral to begin in your head. It would be all that you thought about and all that you could focus on. The good news was that it didn’t consume you in quite that way anymore. But, it did hurt and it did affect you whether you wanted it to or not.

Shawn found you on the porch sitting on the bench that was sat outside and letting the snow sink into your pants. He was wearing that hideous yellow flannel jacket of his that made him happy, and he simply plopped down beside you so that your shoulders touched. You were still focusing on breathing at that point in time because you really didn’t want to cry in front of him. It felt like an admittance of some sort if you did, although to what you weren’t sure.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” He mumbled  as you leaned your head against his shoulder. “I--I didn’t know.”

It was cold enough that the wind was biting at your cheeks and your eyes were watering without ever asking you if it was fucking okay to do such a thing.

“It’s fine.” You whispered. “Everything’s fine.”

He lifted his arm up to let you nestle closer to him and pulled you against him to press a kiss to your hair.

“It doesn’t have to be. It’s okay for it not to be fine. You taught me that.”

You sniffled. “I don’t have the time to fall apart right now.”

“Do you wanna go?”

“It’s too late. I can’t let her see that it got to me anymore than I already have. Leaving would only fuel her.”

“Okay...Well I have this very absorbent, beautiful jacket here that I know you know love so much. And I’ve heard that anything that happens to this coat stays in this coat. So, I think if you were to hide your face against it, it might be our little secret.”

You roll your eyes and laugh a little as a tear falls down your cheek. But when he’s offering you solace your helpless but to take it, so you tucked your face into the safe confines of his coat and let the tears seep angrily into the fabric. He rubbed soothingly at your arms and kept his face hidden in your hair. It was also as if he was protecting you from the world. That’s how it felt anyway. And you thought that if you’d been able to provide a fraction of the comfort that you got when he held you, than maybe you’d actually given him something good as well.

When you pull your face back ten minutes later the air hits aggressively at your cheeks but he’s immediately there to kiss and wipe away the tears.

“I think you’re really beautiful when you cry.” He smiled. “Not that I want you to do it unless you need to. You’re just beautiful to me.”

“Thank you.” You sighed still sniffling. “I told you we were a shit show.”

“That’s okay. No family is perfect y/n, not even mine. There’s still no place I’d rather be than here with you right now.”

You feel that pressure in your nose that happens when you cry. It’s like a clogging of your sinuses but instead of it being through illness, it’s just through sadness. Your shoulders are tense and your body is on guard the way it usually had to be. Something about having Shawn with you made you want it to be different. You had invited him after all because you knew you could be happy with him beside you. There was a need to take control of the narrative that so far your family had been running. And you thought that maybe you could make it better for the two of you.

“Do you wanna get high right now?”

His eyes widened and you couldn’t help but laugh a little into his neck.

“I’m sorry?”

“Noah? My brother? He’s a total pothead. We’re the closest in age though so he always shares with me. I need to mellow out before I go back in there.”

“You didn’t tell me you smoke.”

You laughed. “Neither did you. You just told the entire world instead.”

That’s how you end up hotboxing your garage with your brother and your boyfriend. You’d never seen Shawn put a blunt between his lips, but it might just be the hottest thing you’d ever seen in your life. Weed tended to make you horny, so it’s genuinely a matter of not jumping his bones on the hood of your mom’s ‘98 Honda. Noah had always had ridiculously strong weed too so within twenty minutes you’re all leaning against any hard surface you can find having a conversation about the ethics of mass female consumption in the music industry.

“It doesn’t bother you that like your body is essentially for sale?” Noah asked as he took another hit and passed it to you.

Shawn was answering but your brain had only caught the “your body” part and was working on undressing Shawn mentally right then and there.

“I don’t think so. I mean...I think my fans think I’m cute or whatever, but like the vast majority are here for the music. If my music sucked they could find someone just as good looking if not more and move on to the next guy. I know it’s about the music because they tell me about it constantly. It's always been about that for us.”

“Okay but like is it ethical to sell your body for fame, I guess is the question. And then like it is ethical to request hundreds of hundreds of dollars from what are essentially children?”

Shawn sort of squinted as he took the blunt from you and nestled it between his lips. Jesus, his lips. His hands. Hmmmmm.

“I gotta be honest dude, you’re kind of blowing my high.” He chuckled.

You snorted wrapping your arms around your boyfriend and sending your brother an accusatory look.

“Noah likes to get philosophical when he’s high. Let him get baked before we go bake please.”

Noah rolled his eyes. “Fine. Mom’s gonna be pissed when you come into the kitchen smelling like weed though.”

“Exactly.” You grinned.

Eventually Noah went inside to check on his wife and it was just the two of you. Shawn’s eyes were red and his cheeks were the same sort of hue and he was sending you this lazy smile that you wanted to lick off. It was really sort of ridiculous, what he did to you. And you wished more than anything that you’d gotten high together months ago because it probably would have solved all of their problems, if how good he looked right now was anything to go by.

“You’re kind of hot when you’re high.” You murmured stepping between his legs. “Why haven’t you told me about this again?”

His hands came to settle on your hips before immediately finding purchase on your ass the way that you liked. He pulled you closer between his thighs so that your hips touched.

“I don’t know. It’s a uh a sort of self-care thing for me I think? I don't do it just to get high, I do it because when I’m very anxious it calms me down. I like the way it makes me feel. I didn’t want you to think it’s all that I do though.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and smiled goofily at your incredibly endearing and constantly overthinking boyfriend.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Stu, Bryan, and I went to Coachella?”

He pressed your foreheads together as if every part of your bodies needed to be touching, and in that moment they kind of did.

“No, but I’d love to hear it.”

“Basically I had student loan money out the ass that I definitely shouldn’t use. Stu and Bryan were like highschool sweethearts or some shit, and since they didn’t go to the same school Bryan surprised Stu with tickets to Coachella. We all go. Bryan sneaks us into some boogie ass tent that I’m positive we weren’t supposed to be at, but they had drugs set out like it was a fucking candy bar. So, we smoke enough weed to put Snoop Dog into a coma, I think Bryan and Stu did like cocaine or E or some shit, and then we all went and watched The fucking Wu Tang Clan perform in the middle of a mosh pit. I think I almost died that weekend.”

He laughs a laugh that you’ve never heard come out of his body before. Shawn usually had a laugh that was quiet, it was always a sort of silent chuckle. Whatever the hell was being produced in front of you was nothing of the sort. His whole body shook and the laugh seemed to stem from his belly and explode outwards. It was the cutest shit you’d ever seen in your life, and you’d happily smoke him out all of the time if it meant getting him to laugh like that.

“Holy shit, I can just imagine you doing that too.” He laughed. “I’ve always wanted to go to Coachella.”

“Yea? We can go next summer. You, me, Bryan and Stu, maybe your friends can come too. We’ll get high as possible. It’ll be fun.”

He hummed softly and snuggled deeper into your arms.

“I think Andrew would hate that idea...Let’s do it.”

***

*Shawn’s pov*

Christmas with Y/n’s family is more of a shit show than he could have ever imagined. But it also served as the most informative experience to understanding who she was as a person. To see her be this confident, take-the-world-by-the-balls woman now knowing the context of where she came from made him fall in love with her all over again. He understood her necessity to do everything on her own, with the role model of a mother who hadn’t had a choice, and a relationship with her family that hadn’t really felt supportive. It was clear that she was the baby and that they had wanted her to follow in the pattern of everyone else, to get married like her mom had, and maybe have some kids. It was also obvious that they didn’t understand the success that she’d achieved in her life thus far, couldn't wrap their minds around her having her own assistant instead of being one. And yet at the heart of it all every single one of her family members absolutely adored her. It felt incredibly disorientating and conflicting just watching it, and so he he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live it.

It isn’t until later when the pie is baking and the ham is still in the oven that she takes him to her childhood bedroom. There’s not much to explore because her mom had gotten rid of her stuff when she went off to school. So, they just lie on her twin size mattress with her head on his chest as she opens up to him again.

“My dad left for the final time on Christmas.” She murmured. “He’d always disappear for weeks or months at a time on benders or whatever, but when I was seven he left for good. I was so young that I-I didn’t understand you know? That he was sick and dealing with addiction. I thought...I thought it was my fault.”

He reaches to tangle his fingers in her hair and kisses soothingly at her forehead.

“Holidays are hard. I’ve just never really worked through that feeling I don’t think. And I try not to feel that way. So that’s why I don't come home very often and that’s why,” She pauses to smile and squeeze him. “That’s why it meant so much to have you here...Thanks.”

“Anytime.” He promised kissing her forehead. “I’m sorry if I forced you to stay when you didn’t want to. You should always have a choice and I feel like I took that from you.”

“No. Don’t apologize. Now when I think back on this room I’ll remember this moment, and not all the fucked up shit that happened here. That alone is worth it.”

It doesn’t really make him feel less guilty. There’s so much history there for her and so much of it seems to be bad. He had forgotten that just because home for him had always been this incredible, special place that not everyone got to have that. And it wasn’t fair of him to assume that of her, that maybe even making that assumption had hurt her more in the end. All he knew was that he wanted to make it up to her, because she was so good to him that even if he had done something wrong she’d never admit it, but he was high as a kite with so few good ideas in his head.

“You think maybe I could give you some more good memories here?”

“Like what?”

He moved to press his lips to her ear, all the more better to whisper his plans to her like the delicate secret it was.

“Like if I ate you out so good the only thing you can remember about this place is the time you had to try not to shout my name.”

Sometimes she looked at him with wide eyes when he would say things like that. His girlfriend was an absolute vixen, but it always seemed to surprise her that he could do the same. He was definitely the softer, more reserved one of the two, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be open with just had badly he wanted her always. But then she would grin at him a lot like how she was now, and it always led to good things. Very. Good. Things.

“You’re high right now.” She mumbled as he climbed his way on top of her body.

He was already working on the button to her jeans but sent a lazy smile up to her from above.

“Absolutely. Now be a good girl and open wide for me.”

***

He watched her hug her family as this sort of bittersweet moment. Her brothers all rallied around her, sweeping her up in their arms. It was love, and love was complicated and messy and deeply impacted by the circumstances one occupied. But, it was their love, and if there was anything he’d learned from their time there was that love could be good and bad simultaneously. When he shook the hands of all of her brothers for a final time, he got the sense that much wouldn’t change. She would always love every single one of them, but if she had her way, and she would have her way, they wouldn’t be visiting here again soon. And if it meant that she would be happy; he was absolutely okay with that.

In the car they sit for a moment in silence, nothing but the sound of the heater filling the space. She looks a little overwhelmed, a little tired, but she’s also smiling. So he figures it’s as good a time as any to do what he’d been planning.

“Hey can I...can I give you one of your presents right now?” He murmured.

She’d been lying her head against the headrest but now she fluttered her lashes at him in interest.

“Sure. I thought you wanted to wait until we got to your parents’ house though?”

“Yea. No, I did, but uh...I wanted to give you this one in private.”

She grinned. “Is it a sex thing?”

He snorted and pressed a hand against his heart in mock disturbance

“Jesus, y/n, no it’s not! I’m trying to be sentimental here and you’re ruining it.”

She pressed her lips together to try to mask her smile and it only made her even more adorable.

“Sorry. Sorry. My bad. Please continue.”

He rolled his eyes playfully but reached over her to grab the box from the glove department. It was a smooth satin box, long and rectangular. He turned so that their bodies were close to one another and rested the box on his thigh as he took her hands in his.

“I just...this year has been the most incredible year of my life. Not in a gloaty way but my music has never been better--there’s the grammys and we sold out the Rogers centre and all of the festivals, and I’ve just been working as hard as can ya know? It’s been incredible and yet...you’re my favorite part of this year.”

A snort came past her lips like she couldn’t believe that and so he squeezed down harder on her fingers.

“No, listen. This has been the most incredible year of my life, but it’s also been the hardest. And I haven’t really been able to deal with it all very well. I’ve just sort of kept pushing and kept working but you . . . you’ve become my best friend. And you make me appreciate it all. And honestly every time i flew home this year I couldn't sit still on the plane because I knew as soon as I landed I might get to see you. I know we haven’t been friends super long, and we’ve dated even less than that but I can’t imagine my life without you, sweetheart. I--I love you so much and I just want to make you happy, okay? Always.”

“Shawn.” She mumbled letting her hands fall to where their fingers were intertwined on her lap.

He reached for the box and settled it on her knee instead, flipping the lid to reveal its contents. They were two necklaces, sterling silver, and each of them were tiny swallows. He’d thought about it a thousand times, had almost returned them and gotten something else dozens, but when she gasped and her hands came to cover his mouth, he thought just maybe he might have gotten it right.

His fingers trembled slightly as he lifted one of the tiny birds into his palm.

“I thought it might be pretentious and annoying and stupid.” He sighed softly. “But, I know how much you like the pennant my grandmother gave me, and I know that my swallow is your favorite tattoo. And I know that...next year is gonna be so crazy for me, and for us, so I thought if we both had these that you would know I’ll always come back to you. We’ll uh--we’ll always come back to each other.”

Seconds feel like minutes, like hours, when you’re trying to do something nice for the person you love. It’s either an incredible gift, or the dumbest thing ever, and he genuinely couldn’t tell which. They’re sitting in the middle of a snowy driveway in the middle of a nowhere town in Ontario, and he’s professing his love for her with a gift, and she’s absolutely silent. And then she begins to cry and his heart is pounding in his chest and he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do.

“Did I--Did I fuck it up? Shit, shit it’s dumb. Look, I’m so sorry. I can fix it though. I can send it back and I can get you something else, just don’t--don’t cry!  Please, baby don’t cry!”

She brings her hands up to cover her face and he wonders if a man has ever been dumped in his own vehicle before. Surely, that would be a new one.

“UGH!” She groans something that sounds vaguely flemmy. “That is the sweetest thing in the whole entire world. I cannot believe you right now.”

He collapsed against the car seat, his hand coming up to press against his heart and make sure it hadn’t exploded. His girlfriend was slightly dramatically and he was all here for it when it wasn’t giving him a heart attack.

“You don’t hate it?” He checked.

Her eyes were still covered but now her lips were trembling and tears were oozing down her cheeks.

“No I don’t hate it, dammit. That’s so fucking sweet. My heart, Shawn, my heart!”

When he went to pull her hands away from her face, she was genuinely a sight to behold. Her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks tear stained, and her lips had somehow become more red. Maybe it was a bit sadistic, but she was beautiful. And so he kissed her, the saltiness of her tears touching his lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, his slipping around her back in the tiny space of his jeep. Though there had been nothing but absolute fear and terror just moments before, now his heart was full, warm. She had that effect on him. He figured it meant he was just as gone on her as he thought himself to be.

“Will you put it on for me?” She whispered sniffling.

He fumbled embarrassingly with the clasp, his fingers not built for tiny metal pieces, but eventually managed to secure it around her neck. When the swallow nestle along her throat, she pressed her fingers against the smooth metal and smiled at him lovingly.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you, Shawn.”

He shook his head pressing another kiss to her cheek.

“Anything for you.” He mumbled. “Anything.”

She insisted on putting his around his neck as well. There’s an extremely cheesy moment where he presses his fingers against the bird along her throat and she does the same for him, but it doesn’t feel cheesy in the slightest. It feels important. It feels like maybe they’re deeper into their relationship than even either of them could have guessed.

When they arrived at his parent’s place again for Christmas day, his Mum notices their necklaces almost immediately. She doesn’t ask any questions, she just looks at him like she knows something that he doesn’t. It’s a smile of a mother who knows her child better than they know themselves. And he wonders if she knows that he loves her more than anything else in the world, because that’s what it feels like for him in the moment. But he just hugs her and lets her kiss his forehead instead.

Taglist: @kitykatnumber @lou-and-me @ourlittleshawnie @mutuallynotmutual @wanderingmendes @peacedolantwins2 @chels-nyc @illloveyouforever1 @justbeingoceana  @hayyitsfayy @claredolphinbear24  @september-lace @grittyisathot

[emospritelet]

Woven Lace, 27

27: “Wow, I had no idea the Grinch was a real person”

[Part 1]

Festive ficlet prompt list

AO3 link

Lacey hurried back to her apartment, relieved that she actually had the means to bake her cookies and make her Christmas dinner.  Okay, so she would have to share it with someone for whom Christmas spirit appeared to be in short supply, but on the other hand she supposed Weaver could easily have told her to bugger off.  She’d make the miserable bastard enjoy himself if it killed him.

She dashed into the kitchen, gathering up everything she thought she’d need and packing it into a wooden crate, emptied of its cache of books.  She wasn’t sure what equipment Weaver would have in his kitchen, so she packed some pans and utensils of her own, along with wine and brandy, spices and oranges, eggs, milk, cream and sugar, and the vegetables she wanted to prepare.  Bowls of cookie dough and some cutters were balanced somewhat precariously on top, and Lacey struggled a little with the door as she tried to carry everything.

Weaver said nothing as he answered the door to her again, his only reaction a lifting of one brow, and Lacey barged into his apartment, huffing a little under the weight of the box.

“Kitchen’s that way,” he said, jerking his head, and she stomped off, hearing him lock the door behind her.

He didn’t follow her in, and she spent a moment or two looking around herself.  The kitchen was very clean, and she wasn’t sure if that meant he was just a tidy person, or that he never used it.  A quick look through his cupboards revealed that he certainly didn’t cook as much as she did, but she had everything she needed.  She rolled up her sleeves, tied her apron and set to work.

Her first task was to put on some music to work to, and so she found a Christmas compilation on her phone and set it on the kitchen worktop.  It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year began to play, and Lacey sang under her breath as she turned on the oven and prepared to bake the cookies.

It was less than a minute before Weaver entered the kitchen with a scowl on his face.

“What the bloody hell is this?” he demanded.

“Christmas music,” she said.  “Fun, right?”

“For who, exactly?”

“Oh, come on!” she protested.  “You can’t hate this one, it’s so positive you could punch yourself in the face!”

“That’s what I feel like doing right now.”

“Well, I have like a hundred songs just like it, so you might want to wear earplugs,” she said.

He gave her a very level look, eyes flashing a little.  Nice eyes, she decided, or they would be if they weren’t glaring at her.  He had high cheekbones, his hair greying at the temples.  She wondered what his story was, and how he had ended up half way around the world in Seattle, of all places.

“I thought I told you to do this quietly,” he snapped.

“No, you told me to keep the noise down,” she retorted.  “And I am, the volume’s low.  Do you mind if I use your pans?”

He blinked at her abrupt change of subject.

“What?”

“Pans,” she said patiently.  “I’m gonna make eggnog.  I’ll need a saucepan.”

He opened and closed his mouth, and then shrugged, as if he didn’t care what she did.

“In the cupboard,” he said.  “Wash up after yourself.”

He disappeared again, and she rolled her eyes, turning back to her work.

x

An hour and a half later, she washed her hands a final time and took off her apron, rolling her shoulders with a sigh.  The kitchen smelled wonderful, warm with spices and sharp with citrus.  Lacey had prepared the spiced red cabbage she wanted to serve with the meal the next day, and it was bubbling slowly on the stove top, sending up the scents of orange, cloves, star anise and cinnamon.  The cookies were cooling on wire racks, and the eggnog was chilling in the fridge.  She turned off the music, and as though the sudden silence was an invitation, the kitchen door opened.

“Finished, have you?” said Weaver grumpily.  “Took your bloody time.”

“I’ve mostly finished,” she confirmed.  “The cabbage needs time to cook down, but we can just leave it for a couple of hours.”

“A couple of hours?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, were you wanting to use the stove to cook yourself some actual food?” she asked sarcastically.  “Seems to me like whisky’s your main course and dessert.”

“My bad habits are none of your business.”

“Got that right,” she said.  “You want to kill yourself with zero nutrition and too much booze, be my guest.  Just wait until after Christmas, don’t be a buzzkill.”

Weaver stared at her, and barked a reluctant laugh that made her eyes widen in surprise.  The guy had a dark sense of humour, but then she supposed cops had to.  He must have seen a lot of shit in the years he’d been a detective.  She wondered if he slept okay, or if he carried the victims with him when he left work.  Did he drink to shut out the dark world he tried to make sense of, or was it something more personal?

“So I’m stuck with you for two hours, am I?” he growled.

“You’ll find I’m an excellent guest,” she announced, and tossed her apron on top of her box of ingredients, raising an eyebrow at him as she put her hands on her hips.  “Wanna taste the goods?”

He gazed at her for a moment, his expression cautious.

“Alright.”

“Go sit down then, and quit getting under my feet,” she ordered.

He muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath, and stomped out again.  Lacey looked in the cupboards, finding glasses for the eggnog.  She poured two large measures, finishing with grated nutmeg, and put some cookies on a plate before setting everything on a battered old tray and carrying it through to the lounge.  Weaver was seated on the couch, nursing a glass of whisky, but he put it aside, sitting forward as she came through and set the tray down on the coffee table.

“What’s this?” he said suspiciously.

“Eggnog.”

“Never had it.”

“Well, then your life is about to become infinitely more enjoyable,” she said dryly.  “Tastes like Christmas, trust me.”

“Really?” he remarked.  “The subtle flavours of rampant commercialism, family feuds and disappointing holiday parties?”

Lacey put her hands on her hips.

“Wow, I had no idea the Grinch was a real person!”

“I’m only saying what most people think.”

“Yeah, well maybe you’ve been hanging out with the wrong people,” she said, and picked up one of the cookies, almost shoving it in his mouth.  “Eat that and stop being a miserable shit.”

Weaver glared at her, but took a bite of the cookie.  Lacey took one for herself, slumping onto the couch next to him and watching him out of the corner of her eye as he ate.  He didn’t say anything, but took another, larger bite.  She allowed herself a tiny smile as he sat forward and reached for one of the glasses of eggnog, taking a cautious sip, his eyebrows shooting upwards.

“That’s actually okay,” he said reluctantly.

“Shut up, it’s fucking delicious.”

She reached for her own glass, and Weaver took another drink, coughing a little.

“Fuck, it’s strong!” he said.  “Is that brandy?”

“Told you you’d like it,” she said smugly, and he looked amused.

“What’s in it?” he asked.

“Egg yolks, milk, cream, sugar and spice,” she said, taking a mouthful.  She swallowed, letting out a contented murmur.  “And a shit ton of brandy.”

“So it’s alcoholic custard, then?”

Lacey chuckled.

“I guess,” she allowed.  “You can use rum instead, but I had brandy, so…”

She shrugged, and took another sip.  There was silence for a moment, and Weaver reached for another cookie, this one studded with chocolate chips.

“Do you always make all this just for yourself?” he asked.

“Pretty much,” she said.  “Sometimes there’s someone around to help me eat and drink it all, but usually it’s just me.”

“Surprised you don’t make yourself sick.”

“My bad habits are none of your business,” she said, throwing his own words back at him.  “Besides, if you don’t enter the New Year feeling hungover, nauseous and filled with regret, you won’t want to make all those promises to yourself about how things are gonna change, right?”

Weaver grunted, although whether it was in recognition or disagreement she was unsure.  He glanced across at her, the tip of his tongue sweeping a creamy droplet from his lower lip.

“So what promises are you gonna make to yourself this time, then?”

Lacey took a sip of her drink, settling back against the cushions.

“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully.  “Maybe this year’ll be different.  Maybe I’ll decide to give myself a break.”

He looked weary then, his brows lifting in the middle, his forehead creasing as his eyes seemed to look far beyond the room itself.

“A philosophy I can support,” he said.  “Even if it’s one I won’t embrace.”

“Maybe it’s time you did.”

“Maybe it’s too late.”

“What did I say about being a buzzkill?”

He grinned at that, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Alright,” he acknowledged.  “I’ll promise to try my best not to kill your buzz, if you promise no more Christmas music.”

“I can’t agree to that.”

“Fine,” he said.  “One miserable bastard, coming up.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Shut up and drink your custard.”

[muertawrites]

Death’s Door - Part 3

Summary: Loki gives Persephone an ultimatum about her involvement in his twisted scheme, and things are beginning to change, both in the Underworld and in Olympus. 

Word Count: 2,218

Author’s Note: Someday I’ll start writing one of my traditional short story ideas and not just focus on fanfiction. Until that day, Death’s Door will continue to progress really fucking slowly. I’m gonna be honest about this one, this part is just kind of a filler chapter with lots of unexciting plot progression and foreshadowing before we start getting to the good stuff between Loki and Persephone. It’ll come next chapter, I promise. Life is happening to me tho, so I might not update as regularly as I have been. Setting myself up to be a Young Professional™️ is exhausting.

                                                ~ Muerta 🌸💀🌸

(Part 1) (Part 2)

It had been three nights since Persephone had locked herself in her chambers, and Loki had yet to see her reappear. He had attempted to lure her out as many times in as many days as she had been hidden, but each time he came to her door, he was met with curses, accusations, and threats of death by her hand. He had resorted to summoning her servant to his chambers each night after she’d fallen asleep, asking it how she was faring.

“She still has not eaten,” the wispy figure reported on the third night. “She lays in her bed. She paces. She steeps in the bath for hours. She sleeps longer than she should.”

Loki sighed. He was sat at the desk in his own chambers, shirtless and inspecting the deep wound in his shoulder where Artemis’s arrow had pierced him. He had barely escaped with his life after announcing his tethering of Persephone unwillingly to the Underworld, having underestimated just how skilled the bow-wielding goddess was at hand-to-hand combat. When she’d run out of arrows, each one of them dodged masterfully by the trickster god, she’d pounced across the dining hall table and taken to assaulting Loki with one of his own knives, which she had skillfully removed from the inside pocket of his cloak without his noticing. There were deep gashes on every inch of his skin, many of them so extensive that his powers could not heal them, requiring the use of primitive stitches. He had gotten the black eye that Persephone had so wished to see accompanying the scratches she’d left in his cheek, and had an impressive split in his lower lip that was now swollen to twice its original size. If he had been a humbler god, he would have admitted that he was hardly a match for the women he was up against.

With a wave of his hand, the servant was sent back to Persephone’s quarters, and Loki was left in solitude. He gazed off into the distance for a long while, looking at nothing in particular, raking his cunning mind for an idea of how to get his evasive guest to come around to him.

Perhaps you could try not deceiving and manipulating the girl at every turn, a voice inside him whispered, and he tried very hard not to let it get louder. The longer he contemplated, however, the more its volume intensified, until all he could hear within his head was its furious, unrelenting screams. He growled in frustration and relinquished himself to its ceaseless assault on his thoughts, dressing himself and making his way down to Persephone’s chambers.

At first, Loki was met with silence. He gently rapped his knuckles on one of the chambers’ gilded doors, listening to the sound echoing throughout the corridor as he waited for a response, but none came. He knocked again.

“Persephone,” he called softly, making an effort to keep his tone tender and unthreatening. “Come to the door, darling. I simply want to talk.”

A few more minutes passed and still, nothing. Loki knew that trying to coax her out would not be enough, and, seeing as it was his own palace, he forced the doors to open, rendering their locks useless and gliding inside, peering about in search of his captive.

Persephone was sprawled out on the bed, laying face down, and had propped herself up by her elbows when she’d heard the doors begin to unlock. She glared at him, eyes red and stinging with tears, throat raw from sobbing. The sight nearly broke Loki, it silently killing him that he’d caused her such pain. He showed none of his inner turmoil, however, as he made his way calmly to the foot of the bed, regarding Persephone with a barren yet benign expression, offering his hand to her.

“Please, sweetling,” he murmured. “I mean you no harm.”

Flames flared in Persephone’s eyes as she threw herself from the mattress, standing upright with fists clenched and shoulders stiff.

“No harm?” she spat. “No harm?? You abducted me! Lured me into a false sense of safety and betrayed me! Entrapped me! Lied to me! You have done nothing but harm me since the moment I first laid eyes on you, you… you vile, terrible, reprehensible bastard!”

Persephone had steadily made her way towards Loki as she’d spoken, now barely apart from him, her jaw set and her teeth bared. Her fingers had curled around the lapels of his jacket and she’d shoved him, hard, away from her when she’d finished speaking, her chest rising and falling rapidly in fury. There was murder in her eyes. Loki had never once thought he would see this petal of a woman become so ruthless, and he silently reveled in the fact that he was the one who had pushed her to this point. He loved how she wore her animosity, and he wanted more of it.

“I apologize for my behavior,” Loki replied, bowing his head slightly in an attempt to show sincerity. “If you will let me, I would like to take a meal with you and discuss my plans with you further.”

Persephone said nothing, simply continued to glare at him with a wary, almost hateful expression. Loki sighed.

“Please, darling, it is not as if you have anything to lose,” he chided her. “You are already bound to this place, just as I am. At the very least, you must be starving.”

Finding no argument to his proposition – despite trying desperately to seek one out – and in fact quite exhausted from exerting what little energy she had by screaming at him, Persephone surrendered and hesitantly took the arm that Loki offered, hooking her fingers around his elbow and allowing him to lead her through the palace, assuming he would take her back to the dining hall they had eaten in just a few nights ago. She was surprised, however, when he took her to his chambers instead, sitting her down at a small but ornately carved table in front of his fireplace, where an impressive meal was already laid out for them. She knew she should be uncomfortable with the intimate setting, but it calmed her; without the formality of the dining hall, Loki seemed far less threatening.

The pair dined in silence, Persephone filling her empty belly with as much food as she could without being impolite and Loki only taking small nibbles from his own plate, though downing a considerable amount of wine. When they had finished their meals and were being served sweet, spiced tea by the counterparts of Persephone’s own ghostly servant, Loki cleared his throat, looking into Persephone’s eyes as he spoke.

“Again, I am sorry,” he said gently, this time in earnest. “I have not been a very amicable host.”

The shadow of a smile appeared on Persephone’s lips only for the briefest of moments as she took a sip of her tea, it fading back into the forlorn expression she had previously been wearing as quickly as it had come. She raised her eyes to him, fingers curled delicately around her teacup as she tried to keep her chest from heaving.

“I am unsure if I can forgive you,” she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “I understand you are unhappy about the way Odin has treated you, and you have my empathy for that. But it does not excuse what you have done to me.”

Loki nodded, his eyes dropping in what Persephone could only interpret as shame.

“It does not. If you will join me, however, I will try to repay you for all I have done.”

“I will not marry you,” Persephone responded immediately, almost indignantly as Loki’s gaze shot up to meet hers once again. “I will help you so long as you treat me well, but I will not marry you.”

“And why not?” Loki whined, unable to phrase the question more elegantly due to the shock of being so bluntly and promptly objected.

“Among various other reasons,” Persephone replied, “I have always been under the impression that courtship is not a hostage situation.”

Loki stared at her, searching for something clever to say in response but coming up emptyhanded, his expression blank. He huffed after a moment, leaning back in his chair and placing a hand on his chin, contemplating.

“You realize that I cannot, will not, just set you free with the promise that you will be my ally,” he said, regarding her with a piercing stare. Persephone nodded.

“… Is it courtship that you desire?” Loki asked, edging himself forward again with interest.

“If you will allow me to be honest, it is not,” Persephone confessed, “but it seems that, being bound to you, I have no choice in the matter of my future; I can only strive to make it less unbearable.”

Loki hummed, his elbows resting on the table in front of him, hands forming a steeple as his chin touched his index fingers. He continued to eye Persephone, though his thoughts were not entirely fixed on her, instead focused on the various ways he could approach the situation that was unfolding before him. Somewhere deep in his mind, he was also considering ways he could earn Persephone’s favor.

“Give me the chance to sway you,” Loki finally proposed. “Spend your days with me. If after a month’s time you find that you are pleased with me, I will court you, and you will become my wife with dignity.”

“And if I find that I am not pleased with you?” Persephone probed.

“I will force you to marry me, and you will be just as miserable as you are now for the rest of eternity.”

Persephone narrowed her eyes at him, pursing her lips together in misgiving.

“That hardly seems a fair choice,” she said, to which Loki smiled wickedly.

“You are a sacrificial lamb, my dear,” he crooned. “You are not entitled to fairness.”

Persephone lowered her eyes to her lap, forcing the tears starting to sting the corners of her eyes not to come to the surface. She would not cry in front of him. She would not show weakness. She swallowed the considerable lump that had formed in her throat as she looked back up at him, holding her chin high and regarding him with an even, unbroken gaze.

“I will give you the chance to win me,” she agreed. “But if you do not, I swear to you, I will give back as much suffering as you inflict upon me for as long as I am yours.”

Loki smirked, his eyes growing dark. How little she knew that that unbreakable viciousness within her was exactly what he wanted, and one way or another, he was going to get it. He reached out and took her hand, placing a cool, delicate kiss on her knuckles as he ran his thumb over the back of her palm.

“I look forward to our time together,” he purred.

 Persephone was released a few moments later, allowed to go back to her chambers and consider the following days in privacy. She went immediately to the bath, finding that it was the best place for her to be alone with her thoughts, as the warm water soothed her from the fear that lay just beneath her dauntless exterior. She stayed there for a long while, long after her skin began to wrinkle with moisture and her eyelids began to droop with exhaustion. It was when she almost fell into a dreamless sleep and slipped under the surface of the water that she pulled herself out, drying with one of the plush towels provided to her and standing in front of the large mirror on the room’s far wall, examining herself in its reflection. Her face looked considerably more sunken than she remembered, with dark circles under each of her eyes despite the hours that she’d spent sleeping over the past few days.

It was not the raggedness of her face that concerned her, however. Her skin and her eyes seemed to be darkening, deepening in shade and vibrancy. The tips of her fingers were tinged with the slightest of orange hues, and the gold undertones in her complexion were more pertinent than ever, despite the dimness of the room. She blinked rapidly, trying to comprehend what was happening to her.

Perhaps the darkness of the Underworld was starting to take her, and she was unsure if she was willing to let it.

 In Olympus, things were changing. The air that was endlessly warm and carried the scent of luxuriant foliage was now becoming chilled, the breeze tinged with a brisk bite. The plants that once bloomed in lush greens and a cacophony of bright pigmentations began to fade into dull browns, their leaves and petals drying until they were as crisp as paper. The trees, once a patchwork of stunning emeralds, now began to boast sickly yellows and tans.

In her home at the base of the mountain at Olympus’s center, Demeter sat under the cherry tree in the courtyard of her home. Her howling sobs echoed up to the mountain’s peak as the tree’s flush leaves rained down upon her, each one drifting away until its branches were completely bare.

{poppin' tags: @fairlightswiftly}