#the only thing worse than all their christmas movies is all their movies for OTHER holidays where they try to show that they are 'inclusive | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluebeary-jay · 11 months ago

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Hold me close and hold me fast

Hi, my darling @always-andromeda!! I'm your secret santa from the space sisters server 🥰 I hope you're having a fantastic day and will enjoy what I wrote for you 💕 I tried to mix fluff and angst into your Joel prompt and it was tricker than I thought it'd be but hopefully I did it justice 😌 I wish you all that's best and happy holidays!!

Summary: It's been a long time since Joel was in any relationship and because of that he has absolutely no clue how to react to your affections. It culminates into an angsty conversation which he wanted to avoid at all costs.

Tags: tooth-rotting fluff, fluff and angst, soft and shy Joel, hurt/comfort, established relationship 💕

Word count: 3.3K

A/N: dividers by @saradika, beta read by @reddedmiller ❤️

Twenty years ago, when the apocalypse started and Joel Miller lost his only daughter, he was certain that he’d never feel happy again. Time didn’t heal his wounds – he still thought like that when he was fighting for survival with Tommy, then when he was doing side jobs with Tess in the QZ… It was never going to get better.

But somehow, as he looked up at the massive tree he just helped the others set up in the middle of the square in Jackson, he realized that it could. It did. Now Joel had a home here. He had his brother back, he had Ellie whom he cared for like his own kid and he had a community that welcomed him into Jackson, people who didn’t know about the horrible things he’d done and therefore didn’t hate him.

“Hi, handsome,” he heard from behind his back and turned around to the most beautiful face in the world – the main source of his newfound happiness. You. His girl. “Are you done with work?”

He nodded with a small smile gracing his lips. You were the newest addition to Joel’s life, but the most precious one in his eyes. Unlike everyone else in Jackson (excluding his brother), you knew all about the sins he’s committed. And yet, you still chose him. Every day you continued to choose him, to envelop him with the warmth of your love which Joel wasn’t sure he deserved.

He’d never tell you, though. Not as long as you kept him in your heart.

“Yeah, no, we’re done. M’pretty sure my back will blow if I have to pick up or carry one more damn thing.”

Right at that moment Tommy walked by with another box full of tree ornaments in his arms, and huffed a laugh when he heard his brother complaining.

“Jesus, Joel, you really are gettin’ old.” He put down the heavy box on the snow and sighed, propping his hands on his hips and nodding at you. “You sure you’ll be able to put up with this grump?”

“Positive.” You climbed onto your tip-toes to press a kiss to Joel’s cheek, and he felt his skin growing hot under your lips. He turned his head to hide the embarrassment evident on his face, missing the slight furrow of your brows, but not missing a hearty laugh his brother let out.

“Aww, is the big, scary man gettin’ all shy from a little kiss on the cheek?”

“Get lost, Tommy.”

Tommy chuckled and bent down to pick up the box again. “By the way, you two have any plans for today? We’re makin’ a screening of some Christmas movies for the kids, and after that the adults will head to the bar. You should come.”

“Well, if you want to?” you directed the careful question to Joel, but he shook his head just slightly, causing you to smile. “But we actually have other plans for tonight.”

That was true, and there was no way Joel would trade those precious hours spent in your company for having to sit – or worse, dance – in a loud room full of half-drunk people.

“Sounds like somethin’ I don’t wanna know about.”

“We’re just gonna bake some cookies for Ellie,” Joel murmured when you bumped his arm lightly with a giggle. The irritation at his brother lessened slightly when he heard the sound of your laughter. “But don’t tell ‘er.”

“My lips are sealed.” Tommy winked at Joel, then shifted his eyes to you. “Enjoy your evening, lovebirds.”

“That’s the plan.” You took Joel’s hand in both of yours, beaming up at him with excitement. “You’re ready?”

“Yeah.” He inconspicuously let go of your hands to brush the arm of your jacket lightly, and then nodded in the direction of his house. “C’mon, darlin’.”

He hoped he wasn’t coming off as too harsh as he hid his gloved hands in the pockets, intending to blame it on the cold in case you asked. But instead of saying anything, you just matched his step and slipped your hands around his arm. Joel went rigid when you leaned your head on his shoulder, the side of your body almost hugging his.

Joel loved you like no one before and until he met you, he hadn’t been this happy in years. But there was a problem, a major one, in your relationship that he didn’t at all know how to address.

Because Joel didn’t have any clue how to react to all your touches.

No matter if they were tender or needy, brief or lasting, he always felt out of his depth. It’s been so long since he actually wanted to be intimate with someone that when the chance arose… he was at loss. You were such an affectionate person and he loved that part of you, he cherished all touches and gestures you graced him with – craved them even – but…

He stole a glance at you, wondering if you could feel the stiffness of his body when you were so close, but it seemed that you were none the wiser. He tried to will his muscles to relax, but it didn’t work and he still felt an uncomfortable feeling crawling up his arm.

The problem wasn’t that he didn’t know what he was supposed to do as your partner, but ever since Sarah died, he hadn’t had an opportunity to show affection to someone. Everything he thought about seemed awkward and incongruous, but he really didn’t want you to think that he was an inexperienced old man who didn’t know how to please – and in your case, love – a woman.

He did. In theory.

So he tried his hardest to show you in other ways how much he cares about you. He brought you gifts, whether they were knickknacks scavenged during his patrols or wooden figurines he made for you. He did what he could to relieve you of your duties, helped around the house and out in the town. He found time during the day to spend with you or at least just talk in passing if you both were busy.

But that still wasn’t enough. He knew that wasn’t enough.

Every damn time you cuddled, every time you kissed him or did something as simple as lay your head on his shoulder, Joel never felt better. He never wanted those moments to end, but at the same time he just couldn’t reciprocate, and it was tearing him apart, because he could see how hurtful it was to you.

“You’re quiet.”

Joel snapped out of his thoughts and looked down at you, noting that you’re almost at his place. He breathed a little lighter when he realized that he managed to go all this way without the need of pulling his arm out of your grasp.

“Is everything alright?” you asked with concern in your beautiful eyes and squeezed his bicep slightly, causing Joel to clench his teeth. “Listen, if you’d prefer to go with Tommy, just tell me…”

“Hey, I’m okay, sweetheart,” he assured you quickly and even managed to smile as if the guilt of not being able to even kiss your forehead wasn’t eating him alive. “There’s no one else I’d rather be with right now.”

“Just right now?” you asked teasingly, and Joel couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him.

“Listen here, you little tease…”

A bright smile returned to your face and you tugged his arm down so your lips could reach his stubbly cheek – and (only a little) reluctantly, he let you kiss him with a huff.

But the guilt of not telling you the true reason of his worries was still swirling in his stomach, making him feel sick for the rest of the way.

An hour and a half later the cookies were already done, and somehow the attempt to clean each other off the flour and the colorful frosting you used to decorate them ended up with you sitting in Joel’s lap, kissing him softly.

Not that he minded.

There was nothing as wonderful as the feeling of your lips on his skin, Joel was sure of it. It’s been an embarrassingly long time since he was with someone that made him feel like a young boy in love again, but your every gesture, every sound coming out of your mouth and every day he got to spend with you was just a confirmation of how lucky he was to have you.

Even now, as you were kissing him slowly and without any rush, he felt butterflies fluttering in his stomach. But while they initially appeared from the happiness and giddiness you were causing in him, the longer your hands wandered – and the longer his stayed uselessly at his sides – the worse and more stressed he felt.

“You know you can touch me, right?” you asked playfully at last, and the pit in Joel’s stomach grew almost tenfold in size. “It’s highly encouraged, actually.”

There was an actual question in your voice, which made him feel even worse. He should’ve known you’d address it eventually – after all, nothing went past you – but it still felt so awfully embarrassing to admit it to you. He was an old man, but felt like an inexperienced teenager who didn’t know how to make a woman feel good.

You moved to kiss him again when he didn’t answer, too lost in his own thoughts, but on instinct Joel pulled back – actually ducked – out of your reach. Immediately regret painted his face at the rejected look in your eyes, and he started to rake his mind in search for something he could do to fix it, but nothing came to him. He knew what you’d want from him – you’d forgive him if he took your face in his hands, kissed you with all his strength, let you know that you did nothing wrong… but it made him nervous just thinking about it, let alone do it.

“Sorry,” he quickly muttered. “I didn’t– didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

“Hey, look at me… What’s wrong?” You brushed some hair out of his forehead and Joel exhaled shakily, feeling weak in the knees at your touch. “Talk to me, baby. Did I do something?” Joel shook his head and you pressed your lips together. “Did something happen, then?”

“No.” He shook his head quickly, but he avoided your eyes. “No. Nothin’.”

“Joel…”

The room got too stuffy all of the sudden, the shirt on his back too tight and your body too heavy on his lap. Joel knew he was panicking over nothing, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want you to see him like this, so unsure and embarrassed over his own insecurity and behavior… So he gently removed you from his lap and stood up from the couch.

“Sorry, I gotta… I need some air. I’ll be right back, alrigh’?”

“Joel.”

No ‘baby’. No ‘handsome’. The tone of your voice made him stop dead in his tracks, and he turned around to meet your sad, solemn eyes.

“Just tell me if you don’t want me anymore.”

Your voice, so small and weak, took him off-guard and for a couple of seconds Joel wasn’t sure if you really said that, or if it was just his imagination playing cruel tricks on him. He blinked several times, but you were still in front of him, sad and… oh, god, you were on the verge of tears.

“What?” He couldn’t help a curt, disbelieving chuckle that escaped him – which was a terrible reaction, he realized when you turned your head away from him. “I– I don’t understand.”

“You don’t ever want to touch me first.” You let out a shuddering breath and lifted your arm to wipe your eyes, and Joel realized with mortification that he fucking made you cry. “And when you do it’s only when I initiate it, but sometimes you just pull back and it… it makes me feel so unwanted. And I know I might come off as too clingy…”

“Hey, none of that.” Joel quickly made his way to you and sat back down, gazing at you with his brows furrowed in worry. Your face was tearstained already and you avoided looking at him, but didn’t pull back when he took your hand gently in his. “Darlin’...”

“Just tell me if it doesn’t work for you,” you breathed, your voice thick with tears which also welled up in your pretty eyes again. “I hate not knowing if I… if our relationship makes you happy.”

“Of course I’m happy, babygirl.” Joel lifted your hand as if to kiss it, but hesitated. He had half a mind to draw back, but you needed him now, and he needed to prove that he really loved you. So, tentatively, he pressed his inexperienced lips to your fingers, making you look up with suspicion dancing in your irises. “You make me the happiest I’ve ever felt.”

“You’re pretending.” The quiet accusation combined with you withdrawing your hand caused Joel’s heart to break and he opened his mouth to explain, but you didn’t give him a chance to. “I don’t want you to pretend now that I’m upset, I want– Joel, I need you to be honest and tell me if it isn’t working for you. You always move away when I try to hug you and during all this time we’ve been together I can count on one hand the number of times you kissed me first. I don’t…” you choked down a sob and a new wave of tears flew down your cheeks. “I don’t want to waste either of our time if that isn’t what you want. If I’m not what you want–”

“Sweetheart, you’re the only one I want,” Joel whispered with pain in his voice, moving so he could sit closer to you. “M’so very sorry that I wasn’t…” He searched for the right words, but everything felt flat on his tongue. “I’m sorry. For everythin’ I did that made you feel this way.”

“But why?” you asked pathetically, staring at him with defeat and sadness. “You never said anything and I wouldn’t try to touch you so much if you just told me you didn’t like it!”

“I do like it,” he cut you off with a firm tone, which caused you to stop abruptly. “I fuckin’– I love it when you touch me, darlin’. I’m dyin’ for you to keep doin’ it, but I…”

“You what?” you asked, softer this time, and Joel swallowed hard, nervous how you’ll react. But you had the right to know, so ultimately he pushed through his discomfort.

“I just don’t know what to do,” he finally settled on that. “I really, really love when you touch me, babygirl, no matter in what way.” He took another deep breath, bowing his head to look at his hands so that he didn’t have to face you. “But it’s been so long, damn decades, since I… since anyone touched me in the way you do. I never loved someone the way I love you. I’m very sorry, I just don’t know what I’m s’pposed to do… when someone…”

He trailed off, worried that he might break down and cry in front of you if he says another word, and he’d prefer to avoid it at all cost. The world outside was so harsh and cruel already, and you needed someone strong – a safe haven, a pillar you could lean on. He was that someone for everyone around him for the last twenty years, and even longer before the outbreak.

But it was so much different now. You made him feel safe and loved no matter what he could provide to you and it was almost scary how vulnerable he was becoming in your presence.

“...when someone cares for you?” you asked quietly. Joel nodded, and tears gathered in your eyes again, though now for a very different reason. “Oh, Joel…”

“M’sorry,” he whispered, his own vision also going misty. “I want to give you everythin’ you desire, darlin’. If you give me another chance, I promise I’ll try to…” He shook his head, defeated. “I don’t know. I’ll try to get past it.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” You scooted just a little closer and put your hand on his knee lightly. He looked up with anguish swimming in his brown eyes, not believing that you were still here and not already out of the door. You worried your lip between your teeth for a couple of seconds before inhaling deeply. “How about… I show you what to do? We can go as slow as you want.”

Joel slowly shook his head, not understanding. “...show me what?”

“You said you don’t really know what to do, right? So how about I show you exactly how… you know.” You smiled almost shyly, but it only caused Joel’s heart to beat even faster. “Where to put your hands.”

Joel was nodding before you even finished speaking.

It was embarrassing, really, how excited he got at this idea, but just the thought of your hands guiding his, demonstrating where and how to touch you, had him feeling weak in the knees and hot under his clothes. You smiled, almost with relief, and moved even closer until your thighs were touching.

“Here, just relax. We can stop at any time, just say a word,” you said soothingly, placing his palms on your hips and sending him a small smile. Joel wondered if you could see how red his face surely was, feel how sweaty his palms got. “Is this okay?”

“S’better than okay,” he breathed in something akin to wonder. “It’s easier… Everythin’ seems easier with you.” His chest was tight when he looked up at you. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t a lie. You did make it seem effortless, and though Joel could still feel the rigidness of his muscles and tendons, the tension was slowly melting away, replaced by a tingling warmth on his skin.

You gave him a reassuring smile and his eyes flickered to your lips almost involuntary. You noticed it, of course – Joel didn’t think he was exactly subtle with his staring – and cupped his jaw in your hands. His arm, practically instinctively, encircled your waist and pulled you closer before he could stop himself, but you didn’t berate him – in fact, you seemed delighted by his action.

“Now, are you going to kiss me or not?” you whispered coyly, brushing his cheekbones with the pads of your thumbs. Joel chuckled at your attempt to put him more at ease, but it worked and he leaned in to press – very, very carefully – his lips to yours. He felt you smiling against them and his eyes filled with tears from the overwhelming relief.

“I love you so much,” he murmured with his mouth only millimeters from yours. “So much, babygirl.”

You hummed a quiet love you, too, and moved your lips up to softly kiss his eyelids, then temple, then cheeks and nose. Joel almost wanted to cry when you started running your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp gently. It felt so good, your touch so nice and tender… He couldn’t remember when was the last time someone treated him with such care. Maybe never. “Next time it becomes too much, you tell me, got it? And I promise I’ll make you feel better.”

Your touch didn’t bother him now that he admitted what was weighing heavily on his chest for so long. Now, it felt soothing. Grounding.

So, so loving.

Joel held you closer, melting into your embrace, and claimed your lips in a soft – if not a bit shy – kiss.

There was nothing else he’d rather be doing tonight.

#space sisters secret santa 2023 #joel miller x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller x you

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headkiss · 11 months ago

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maybe this christmas time

pairing: steve harrington x sunshine!reader

summary: working as an elf during the holidays (which he isn’t a fan of) is not how steve would choose to spend his time, neither is doing a bucket list of your creation. you end up changing his mind.

word count: 9.5k

warnings: use of she/her pronouns for r, some grumpy steve (he’s still a softie underneath it, i can’t help it!), some family issues (a phone call from steve’s mom), a rude customer, christmas activities/themes, fluff, and a first kiss!

a/n: merry christmas and happy holidays from me to you!!! i hope u guys enjoy this one, i had a lot of fun writing it!! big big thank you to @bcyhoods for sending the request that inspired me to write this fic and to @bruisedboys who helped me out when i was unsure about things <333 ily guys i hope u all have the happiest of holidays!

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Starcourt Mall is decorated to the brim. Fake snow and garlands, giant ornaments hanging from the ceiling, a Christmas tree that stays lit all day long.

And, in the middle of it all, Santa’s Workshop.

That’s where you are, where you’ve been for a couple of Decembers now. Every other month of the year, you work at the movie theater, scooping popcorn and scanning tickets. But, for December, you trade in your cinema t-shirt for an elf outfit, striped tights and all.

“It’s really not so bad once you get past the itching,” you tell Steve.

“Great,” he says, the sarcasm clear in his tone.

“Great,” you repeat, cheery enough for the both of you.

He wasn’t sure how it could get any worse than the sailor uniform. That is, until he saw what he had to wear for this gig.

It’s Steve Harrington’s first year at Santa’s Workshop, and you’ve been tasked with training him, though the job is mostly self-explanatory.

But unlike you, Steve didn’t volunteer for this.

“I can’t believe they picked me to do this,” he sighs. “Don’t even like elves.”

“Well they had to pick someone, Steve.” You shrug, “who knows, you might end up having fun!”

“Not likely.”

“At the very least, you’re getting paid, right?” You nudge him once with your elbow, “plus, if you’re extra nice, some moms give pretty good tips.”

You and Steve went to school together, but he never really spoke to you then. It was only after graduation that you had any sort of conversation with him. They mostly consisted of him bribing you with free ice cream to let Dustin and the gang into the movies for free.

That was after you caught him letting them into the back rooms to sneak in.

Now, Steve’s wearing a pair of slippers that jingle with every step just like yours, and in the only two shifts you’ve had together so far, you’ve spoken more than ever. Even if it’s mostly been instructions from you and an unenthusiastic comment in response from Steve.

“Do I really have to wear these fucking shoes?” He asks, following you out of the staff room.

“Yes. It’s part of the uniform.” You turn around to face him, walking backwards while he walks forwards. “Don’t worry, you’ll tune out the jingling soon enough.”

“I’ll hear these jingles in my nightmares.”

“At least you look cute!”

You spin back around, and Steve only rolls his eyes as he trudges on behind you.

Steve’s not quite sure how he feels about you, whether he finds you a little annoying or endearing. At the moment, with an elf hat squishing his hair, he’s leaning a little more towards the first.

He didn’t know you during school. Admittedly, he was an asshole for most of his time at Hawkins High, so that explains that. Even still, he doesn’t know much about you, only that you’re kind enough not to snitch on him for sneaking the kids into the movies and that you seem to seep sunshine all the fucking time.

And your sunshine seems to be dialed up during the holidays. Like you really believe in ‘holiday cheer.’

Steve knows, deep down and buried somewhere he’s not quite ready to face yet, that he’s mostly just jealous. Because if you like the holidays so much, if you’re smiling the way you do so often, you must have it pretty good at home.

To him, nothing else makes sense. Not when Christmas at the Harrington household has been absolute shit for years. First, it was the gifts he never wanted, things his parents didn’t care enough to know he didn’t like. Then, they dwindled until, eventually, Christmas did, too.

There’s a travel discount during the holidays, sweetie. We’re visiting dad’s boss’ cabin. Next year, we promise. Excuse, excuse, excuse.

So yeah, Steve’s never really understood the appeal. Walking behind you in a pair of jingling shoes and a scratchy outfit, he’s not sure he ever will.

You lead him towards the area where Santa’s Workshop has been set up, right by the fountain. There’s bright red carpet rolled out over the usual tiled floors, an area set up for the cue of families, and of course, a bench where some guy playing Santa will sit.

“Since we’re opening today I’ll show you the whole set-up routine.” You step over the rope with the sign that says ‘Gone to feed the reindeer!’ with Steve in tow. “Easy peasy.”

Steve steps over the rope behind you, shaking his head at the sound his shoes make when he lands. He chooses to listen to your voice instead.

“First, we count the props,” you nod over at the bin that’s tucked away behind a small tree, “there should be four sets of antlers, two santa hats, a red nose, and some extra elf hats.”

He stares at you—because why on earth would you have that memorized—and raises his eyebrows. For a moment, as he watches you grab the clipboard that sits atop the prob bin and start counting, Steve wonders if maybe he should be more like you. The kind of person who seems to see the good in everything.

Then, he remembers what the outfit he’s got on looks like and shakes the thought away.

“Why would anyone want to be a clown in these pictures?” He says.

“The red nose is for Rudolph, dummy.”

You say dummy with a smile, like it’s something to admire. Steve huffs.

“Rudolph’s a loser.”

“Aw, come on, he’s got his own song and everything! I’d say that makes him the opposite of a loser.”

“Of course you would,” he mutters, cursing the tiniest twitch of a smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What’s next?”

“Right,” you grab the bag that you brought from the staff room and set it on the ground by the tripod that’s already set up. “Next is the camera. Here, I’ll show you.”

The only knowledge Steve’s got of cameras comes from whatever Jonathan has told him, which hasn’t been very much, considering the pair’s history on the topic despite them being friends now.

So, he steps closer to you, watches as you pull the camera out of the bag.

“You just have to switch it on and make sure the battery’s full, right there,” you say, pointing at the small symbol that lets you know if the camera’s charged or not. “And don’t forget to take the lens cap off. I did it once and this dad yelled at me, so...”

You pop the lens cap off, putting it in the bag. Steve’s standing close to you, right behind you, his chin hovering over your shoulder, the warmth of his chest just shy of brushing against your back.

“Finally,” you continue, ignoring the little skip in your heartbeat, the way you breathe just a tiny bit quicker. “Set it up on the tripod, and you’re good to go.”

He watches your fingertips move easily, securing the camera to the tripod. When you’re done, you turn around to face him, and it’s only then that Steve realizes how close he’s gotten.

Close enough that you stumble and land against his chest, his hands on your upper arms to steady you as you pull back quickly, like you’d been burned. Steve, however, doesn’t let go just yet and he’s got no idea why.

He doesn’t let go until the music in the mall is switched on, the opening notes of some Christmas song startling you both. Steve steps back and releases you, dropping his hands by his sides and ignoring the twitch of his fingers.

“Alright,” you say, trying to brush the moment off. “That sound means we’re open. You ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope!”

Your lunch breaks at Santa’s Workshop feel like a luxury, because no matter how much you enjoy the job, it’s nice to get away from the rowdy children it forces you to deal with.

Unlike your job at the theater, where your breaks are staggered, the workshop closes for an hour every day, meaning that even during lunch, Steve’s stuck with you.

The sign by the line for Santa is flipped, and parents groan whenever they see the festive font saying you’ll be back in an hour.

You take the hour spent in the staff room as a time to ask him questions, what his hobbies are (“does driving a pack of 13-year-olds around count?”), if he likes his job at Scoops (“I’m starting to appreciate it more. The lesser of two evils, or something”), if he’d introduce you to Robin someday (“I’m afraid of what that might do to my sanity.”)

Today, you’re trying to tackle the subject of his Grinch-like tendencies.

“What’s your favorite Christmas movie?” You ask.

Steve doesn’t know why he continues to answer your questions whenever you throw them at him—which is often—but he does. He thinks it might be like being mean to a puppy, ignoring you. Unnecessarily cruel.

“Don’t have one.”

“Ugh. Come on, Steve! Everyone has a favorite.” You slump in your seat across from him at the small table in the break room. Steve stares at you blankly as he takes another bite of his lunch. “You can tell me.”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging your foot with his when it comes close. “They’re cheesy.”

“Aren’t you secretly a rom-com fan?”

“How did you-”

“So, you actually enjoy cheesy movies!”

“Okay, well you don’t have to say it to the entire mall. Gosh.”

Steve wonders how you know that about him, how you’ve been able to guess a lot of things without him telling you. Briefly, just for a second, he wonders if that might mean something.

Like, if maybe you’re in his life now for a reason.

“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me, Steve.” You smile what you hope is an honest, reassuring smile. “So, the cheesiness isn’t the root of the issue.”

“No, I guess not.”

“I’m gonna take a guess here,” you start, “and say that you’re not a fan of Christmas.”

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Steve, I’ve never heard someone complain about jingle bells so much in my life.”

“We can’t all behave like we’ve been injected with sunshine.”

You don’t think he means it as a compliment, but you decide to take it as one nonetheless. But you suppose he’s right, there’s always gotta be a balance. Dark and light, happy and sad.

“Thank you,” you give him a quick grin. “And you’re avoiding the question.”

He’s silent for a moment, twisting his fork around between his fingers. “My parents never really did Christmas.”

Your heart squeezes a little in your chest at his words, at the way his tone goes quieter, at the way he looks at the table to avoid catching your eye.

Immediately, you feel guilty for prying, because the last thing you’d ever wanted to do was force him to tell you something he didn’t want to. It’s not your place, no matter how curious you are, no matter how much you’d like to give him a hug or something right about now.

It’s not your place, but you find yourself wishing it could be.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Steve.” You reach for his hand that sits on the table and give it a quick squeeze before pulling back. “You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have bugged you.”

“It’s okay. I’ve had a lot of time to accept it.” He shrugs, like it doesn’t affect him. But from the scrunch in his brows, you can tell it does, at least a little bit. “The Harringtons have better things to do than sit around cleaning up wrapping paper.”

Steve feels embarrassed, his cheeks warm and his head bent. He doesn’t like scraping this wound open, doesn’t like to think about what he was missing out on while everyone thought his life was perfect.

He especially doesn’t want you looking at him like he’s injured or something after this.

Surprisingly to Steve, you don’t. You actually do quite the opposite. You smile brightly at him, like you’ve just had an excellent idea, like you can inject a bit of your sunshine into him with it.

“How about this: I’ll teach you how great Christmas can be.”

“I think it might be a little late for that.” Steve tries to shake his admission away, to clear the room. He points at the elf hat on his head, “this outfit has ruined any last shred of hope I had.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you make a cute elf? You pull it off better than I do.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not!” Steve raises his eyebrows at you. You ignore that look. “Whatever. I cannot in good conscience, let you keep disliking Christmas. Think of how fun it could be. Plus, you owe me for all of those movies I let your children into.”

Steve already finds it difficult to say no to you, because of how kind you remain even when he’s snarky with you, because of the same kindness you seem to offer to everyone you meet.

So, even though he’s not sure what your plan entails, he sighs and says: “okay. Fine.”

“Wait, really?”

“Don’t make me change my mind.”

You cheer, clapping a little in your seat. “Oh my gosh, we can go skating, and go to one of those Christmas light festivals, and make cookies-”

“What did I get myself into?” Steve mutters, while you’re still rambling off ideas.

“-I’m gonna need to make a list.”

Even after your break ends, you seem to have an extra pep in your step, if that’s even possible. Your smile is a bit wider, your eyes brighter, and Steve can’t help but feel a little special for being somewhat responsible for that.

Really, what did I get myself into, he wonders.

In the time between him agreeing to your Christmas plans a couple of days ago and now, at yet another shift, Steve has realized that he actually likes you quite a bit. Even though your seemingly constant optimism drives him a little bit crazy.

You treat everyone with an attitude that’s so rare, he finds that his previous annoyance for you is slowly becoming overtaken by the endearment.

He won’t admit it, not when bantering with you seems to be the highlight of his days lately, but Steve is starting to be sort of grateful that he got selected for this job.

And that has absolutely nothing to do with the outfit he wears. He still fucking hates that.

“It’s alright, cutie,” he hears your voice say, all soft and understanding. He finds you, crouched down to talk to a little girl who seems to be wary of Santa. “I bet Santa will give you something extra from your list if you smile for the picture.”

The girl nods, like she’s determined. But, when you stand back up, she grabs onto your hand by your side.

“What is it?” You ask her.

“Can you do it with me?”

You look over to the girl’s mother where she stands to the side, and she nods, eager to get the picture done. So, with that, you say, “okay, then.”

Steve’s standing behind the camera as he watches you help the girl onto the bench beside Santa. Then you’re sitting beside her and telling her to look at the nice boy behind the camera.

It takes him a second to realize you’re talking about him, but when he does, he forces himself into action, bending to look through the viewfinder.

“Say cheese,” he says.

The click of the camera sounds, and then it’s done. You help the girl down, who goes over to her mom quickly and they head over to grab their picture.

Once they’re gone, the line dies down, giving you and Steve a rare pause from the pictures and overenthusiastic welcomes to ‘the North Pole.’

“I hope that family’s okay with my face in their picture,” you say, coming to stand beside Steve by the camera. “I mean, I know the mom nodded, but maybe they’ll cut me out of it.”

You’ve become more comfortable with Steve the more you’ve worked with him, getting to know him in how his grumpiness is more related to the holidays and early mornings than anything else, in how he turns the same grumpiness down when he talks to the kids.

You think he’s grown more comfortable with you, too, because he’s started bringing you a coffee in a festive cup in the morning, leaving it in your cubby without a word.

From Steve, you think that says a lot. His actions have always spoken louder than his words, you think. Like the free ice cream he gives you from Scoops, or the small nod he’d give you whenever he’d pick up the kids from a movie.

And now, there’s the small tug of his lips, the hint of a smile that has you saying, “Steve Harrington are you smiling right now?”

“Shut up,” he shakes his head at you. “That was sweet. What you did for that girl.”

Steve lets himself say what he thinks for once, because there’s nobody else around, because he wants you to hear it.

You hide your shy smile by looking down at your feet. You know that underneath everything, Steve is probably one of the best boys you’ve ever met, because even with his attitude, he’ll never say anything to truly hurt you, and with how little you know about his family, you also know that it’s rare for someone in his situation to remain so good.

Any resemblance of a compliment from Steve feels extra special, like its own gift in itself.

“Ruining her picture, you mean?” You ask, trying to cover up how you feel about him calling you sweet.

“You didn’t ruin that picture, sunshine.”

Sunshine. That’s new.

“Well I’m glad someone thinks so.”

Before Steve has the chance to respond, the line picks up again, and it’s back to business as usual. The routine click of the camera, the sound of parents telling their kids to smile nice and big.

You and Steve catching each other’s eye when a particularly entertaining family rolls around, laughing at the way he does an impression of a mom after she leaves. With work being sort of like this every day, you wish it could be Christmas all year round. You much prefer this to the theater, you think.

Steve can't say that he likes this job more than Scoops—Robin might call him traitorous—but he finds that you’d been at least a little right when you said that it would get better when he got used to things, when he hears the sound of your laugh rather than those stupid bells on his shoes.

He finds that he sometimes has to remind himself that he doesn’t like the holidays, that they aren’t like this all the time.

At the end of your shift, as you and Steve grab your stuff from the staff room, you turn to him, leaning against the wall as he shrugs on his coat.

“So, I made a list,” you say. “We are going to have the best Christmas ever, Harrington.”

“My standards are very low, so it wouldn’t take much.”

“Don’t care. I have plans. We can make gingerbread houses and get Christmas pajamas-”

“Absolutely not.”

While Steve already agreed to letting you show him Christmas your way, he thinks he can only take so much at a time. Small doses of your jolly spirit are plenty.

“Steeeve.”

“I am drawing the line. No Christmas pajamas. Not happening.”

“But the gingerbread houses are a yes?” You ask, hopeful and smiling like it’ll persuade him.

“I’ll get back to you on that one.”

That’s what Steve decides to say, instead of simply agreeing because he finds that he’d like to spend time with you outside of work, to see if you’re really so bright all the time, to see if he can soak it up a little better when he’s not dressed as a damn elf.

That’s what he decides to say because it’s easier than spilling the rest of it out there. Much, much easier.

“But you already agreed!” You pout at him a little, exaggerated dramatics on your part. “You can’t just tell me I can teach you Christmas and then back out, I mean, I made an actual bucket list. With glitter and shit.”

“Oh no, not the glitter,” Steve places a hand on his chest, sarcastically scandalized. “That makes it serious.”

You blink at him, giving him a blank look. “Don’t diss the list. By the end of it, you’re gonna be jolly as fuck, trust me.”

“Jolly as fuck,” he repeats, shaking his head on a laugh. “You’ve got a way with words, sunshine.”

“Thank you.” You push your tote bag onto your shoulder, fishing out your keys, they clink in your palm when you find them. “I’m not letting you back out of this, by the way. The list is binding.”

“Well in that case…”

You give Steve a little smile, the flash of a sunbeam, before heading out, and he’s left standing in the break room wondering what you’ve got on that list, why you seem to care so much about it.

Huffing, he supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

Steve definitely should not have told you that he’d never been ice skating before.

It all started when you’d been talking about that damn list at your most recent shift, a couple of days after he’d accepted the fact that he couldn’t back out of it (did he really want to?).

“Hey, you have a change of clothes in your bag, right?” You’d asked him in between families.

“Um… yeah. Why?”

“Because, Steve, our festivities begin today after work!” You clapped your hands together softly, excited and encouraging, yet delicate. “I haven’t quite decided what we’re starting with yet.”

“I thought you had a list.”

“I do! But it’s not in order,” you shrugged, “I’m more of a mood-based decision maker, anyways.”

“Of course you are,” he’d said, his usual sarcasm lighter, laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

“So I’m thinking we go skating-”

“Nope.”

“You can't say no to every idea I have. Then how will you get the Christmas experience?”

“I won’t say no to everything.” You looked at him like you didn’t believe him, so, quietly, he added, “it’s just, I’ve never been skating before.”

“Steve, that’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” you reassured him easily, your voice honest in a sort of natural way, like you couldn't lie even if you tried. “All the more reason to give it a try. The point is to have fun, not to be good at it. I’m really not that great, myself.”

“If I hate it, we’re leaving.”

“Deal.”

And that’s how he’d ended up here, standing next to you at the rental counter at the ice rink, telling some teenager his shoe size so he could get a pair of skates.

Steve looks at you as you talk to the teenager, paying before he even gets the chance. He looks at the hat you’ve got on your head, the way your jeans are cuffed just enough to let your snowman patterned socks peek out of your boots.

He realizes that he’s only ever really seen you in uniform, at the theater and as an elf, and he thinks, quickly, like a car driving by, that you look really pretty like this. With snowflakes stuck in your eyelashes and all.

Though he’s never said it, barely let himself think it, he’s always found you pretty in a sort of undeniable way, like it was just a fact. Now, he finds you pretty in a way that makes him feel it.

His heart beats like it feels it, too. The traitor.

“Thank you,” you say, grabbing both your and Steve’s pairs of skates. You turn to him, smiling like always, Christmas lights reflected in your eyes, “ready to go?”

“As I'll ever be,” he says, letting you lead the way to the benches by the rink.

He watches the way you tie your skates, copying your movements on his own pair, double knotting the bow at the end. When you stand, he stays seated for a moment, suddenly more nervous than before, because the last thing he wants to do is embarrass himself in front of you, in front of everyone around.

Like you can read his mind, you say, “it’s okay, the first step is only standing. It looks harder than it is, promise.”

“I feel like you’re lying to make me feel better.”

“Why don’t you just stand up and find out, then?”

He rolls his eyes, more at himself than you, and pushes himself up from the bench. It takes him a second to get used to the feeling of the skates, of balancing on them, but eventually, he nods at you, eager to get it over with.

“‘Kay, so it’s gonna feel weird when you step on the ice, but you can just hold onto the side until you get the hang of it.” You start walking ahead of him, turning back to say, “I have a feeling you’ll be a natural.”

“Sure you do,” he mutters, shaking his head.

The rink is outdoors, the walls surrounded with string lights of all kinds, twinkling and colorful. In the middle, there’s a big tree, a shining gold star sat on top. There’s a hot chocolate stand to the side, the smell mingling with the freshness of the cold.

There are Christmas songs playing over the speakers (of course), and Steve thinks that if he hears one more rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock,” he’ll have to invest in a pair of ear plugs. On top of that, there’s the sound of laughter, kids with their parents, friends, couples, everyone seems to be having fun.

Everyone seems to be at ease except for him.

You step onto the rink first, skating a couple of steps forward to give Steve room to get on. He holds onto the side like you told him to, lifting a foot and stepping forward slowly, his foot slipping a little when it hits the ice.

You don’t say anything, don’t pressure him, only stand there with a kindness in your eyes that tells him you won’t be anything but patient.

Still, he doesn’t take too long to get the other foot on the ice, too, his feet carrying him forward a little bit, his hand gripping the side tighter.

“See? It’s not so bad,” you skate to his side, leaving space between you as Steve holds out his arm for balance. “Now all you gotta do is push yourself forward.”

“You make it sound like it’s easy.”

“It’s called being encouraging, Steve. Let me be encouraging!”

“Fine,” he stares down at his feet, his hair falling over his forehead. “So what do I do?”

“Use one foot to push, and then let yourself glide, switch feet, and repeat. You can do it.”

He gives it a go, and finds that it isn’t awful, but he moves slowly, and looking around at the other people skating, he’s not an impressive skater at all.

Steve has always felt the urge to be good at everything he does, basketball, driving, even fucking babysitting. He’s always tried so hard to do things well, like maybe, if he was talented enough, his parents would care more, would finally be proud of him for something.

He swallows that thought down and pushes forward again.

You follow his speed, gliding easily beside him, “look at you go!”

“I look like an idiot,” he says, his arm outstretched beside him, the other gripping the side, his knees bent.

When you look at him, though, all you see is the pink of his cheeks and nose from the cold, the way his hair brushes against his forehead, the focus in his eyes, the determination. No, you don’t think he looks like an idiot at all.

“You look like you’re trying, and that’s a great look on you, Steve.”

This time, it isn’t only the cold that pinkens his cheeks.

He doesn’t have time to muster up a reply, because the next time Steve skates ahead, he stumbles, his balance wavering until he feels your hand grabbing onto his arm to help steady him.

Then, your hand moves to hold his, and even through the layers of both of your gloves, he feels the warmth in his fingertips, some sort of tingling.

“This way, if you fall, so do I,” you say, squeezing his hand once, winking at him like the thought of falling doesn’t scare you one bit.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Super sure.”

You hadn’t been lying on that one, because eventually Steve does fall, and you fall right along with him, landing on the ice with a little, “oop!”

On his back, Steve turns his head to look at you, your hair a mess around you, some on your cheeks. He reaches out and brushes it away.

“You okay, sunshine?”

The response he gets is the sound of your laughter, a single loud cackle that has your eyes widening and a hand smacking over your mouth.

Your laughter fades into a fit of giggles, one so infectious that Steve—surrounded by all kinds of Christmas-themed things he swore he hated—laughs along with you.

And for the first time, maybe in his entire life, Steve thinks that the holidays might not be the worst thing ever.

Steve’s in a bad mood today, that scrunch in his brows you'd thought had been easing away back in full force.

It’s your first shift back together since you’d been skating only a couple of days ago, and you can’t help but worry that maybe it was too much, that you’d pushed him too far.

Even though, at the time, he’d been smiling more than you’ve seen him smile maybe ever, and you really thought that you had a shot at making Christmas better for him. You worry that he wasn’t as happy as he seemed, that he was pretending to have fun for your sake.

Steve, on the other hand, is actually glad to be at work for once, glad for the distraction it gives him. He’s unaware that his emotions are so visible on his face, that you think an ounce of his annoyance and anger is aimed at you.

All he knows is that after the morning he had, he needs this distraction.

This morning, it wasn’t the beep of his alarm that had woken him up, but the shrill ring of the phone on his bedside table. Groggy, with his eyes still half shut, Steve picked up the phone.

He wishes he didn’t.

“Hello?” His voice was almost a groan, scratchy from sleep, irritated at being woken up earlier than his alarm.

“Steve, sweetie!” His mother’s voice made him squint his eyes shut further. “Why do you sound so tired?”

“‘Cause it’s six in the morning, mom.”

“Oh, silly me. I forgot about time zones,” she said, though she didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. She didn’t even care enough to know what time it was for her son. “Anyways, I’m calling to let you know your father and I won’t make it home for Christmas this year. There’s this banquet we just can’t miss. You understand, don’t you?”

Steve doesn’t know why he’d been surprised, doesn’t know why her words, completely devoid of any kind of empathy towards the situation, made his stomach hurt.

“Yeah, okay,” he’d said, because it was no use to do anything but agree.

This was his normal: an almost monthly phone call from one of his parents from wherever they are in the world, no matter the time, always telling him that they’re missing this holiday, his birthday (which, at this point, he was shocked they even remembered), anything.

“That’s my boy,” she’d said, as if she knew him at all. She didn’t. Hasn’t known him—or cared to—for a long time. “I knew you’d understand.”

“Right.”

“Oh, there’s your father. Gotta go.”

And just like that, she hung up.

Steve almost wishes that they’d never call at all, because maybe then it would be easier to swallow their neglect. If they’d just forget him completely, he could get rid of that stupid, tiny sprout of hope he feels whenever they call, hoping things will be different.

At least it was his mother this time, he thinks. His father is a hundred times worse, only ever disappointed in Steve, asking about his job or when he plans on ‘getting a real life,�� never about him.

So yeah, Steve’s in a bad mood today.

The two of you don’t talk for the majority of your shift, you, afraid that Steve’s angry with you, opting to give him space, and Steve, stewing in every negative emotion that comes along with a phone call from his parents.

You don’t talk until one of the last families in line for the day comes up.

Once the kids are in place, you lean down to look through the viewfinder, counting them down and snapping the picture when they say ‘cheese.’ To the side, the children’s mom looks at you with so much judgment, Steve, even brewing in his thoughts, notices.

With the picture taken, you take the camera over to the mom, letting her see the picture the way you do with all the parents, making sure they approve.

Instead of approval, what you get is, “what the hell is that?”

You’ve dealt with your fair share of rude customers, at every job you’ve had, but this woman all but screams at you, and that’s rare. “Sorry,” you say, “I can take a new one, no problem.”

“I better be getting the new one for free with how these pictures are looking,” she practically hisses at you.

Usually, you can handle stuff like this, can smack on a smile and politely agree to get things taken care of, but today, the mixture of all your self-doubt and worrying about messing things up with Steve and this mother shouting at you, things pile up, and you feel your happy mask slipping.

“Um,” you start, voice small.

“You elves get worse every year,” she says to you. “I can’t believe people this incompetent even exist.”

Steve, hearing the whole thing, is quick to step in front of you, any thoughts about his shitty parents quickly fading in favor of helping you.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but she already offered to take another picture, and if that isn’t good for you, you’re free to leave,” Steve’s voice doesn’t slip one bit, standing his ground with every word.

You’re overwhelmed with everything going on, and when Steve turns around to look at you, nodding his head towards the staff room, you take the escape he offers you quickly, eyes blurry with tears you won’t let fall until you’re alone.

“You can’t speak to me like that!” The woman stomps her foot.

“I can, actually. She,” he points in the direction you’d gone, “is the kindest person I know, and you shouldn’t speak to her that way. I understand the holidays are a stressful time for everyone, but we spend all day helping people like you take these pictures, and the least you could do is say ‘thank you.’”

Rather than respond, the woman takes her children’s hands and stomps off.

Steve turns to find that the few families that had been in line before have decided to leave, and he takes the emptiness of Santa’s Workshop as an opportunity to follow after you.

He finds you sitting on the bench beneath your cubby in the break room, head buried in your hands, sniffling a little like you’re trying to be as quiet as possible. Steve can’t think about anything other than how much he hates seeing you upset, like a cloud covering the sun.

“Hey,” he says gently, sitting beside you on the bench. “Don’t listen to any of that. She was a bitch.”

You’re both grateful and unhappy that Steve came after you. Grateful because he’s kind, because he’s showing you that he cares. Unhappy because you’re embarrassed of him seeing you like this, because he calls you sunshine and you don’t feel like that right now.

It takes a second before you move your hands, wiping at your cheeks before turning to look at Steve, his brown eyes already on your face, unbelievably soft.

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” he assures you. “She was awful to you after a long enough day. You have every right to be upset.”

“You’re being really nice,” your voice breaks a little bit, fighting any more tears that threaten to spill.

“I can be nice. I should be nicer to you.” He knows he should, but with Christmas and everything, it’s easy for him to be grouchy. “You sound surprised.”

“It’s just,” you shrug, almost defeated. “I thought you were mad at me today.”

Steve’s heart fucking aches at the sound of your voice, all small and lacking of the light he’s somehow come to like so much. And when another tear slips down your cheek, he can’t stop himself from reaching out and holding your face in his hands, thumbing the tear away lightly.

“I don’t think I could ever really be mad at you, sunshine.”

“Oh.”

His hands are warm where they hold your cheeks, a thumb still tracing back and forth over your skin. Not mad, then.

“I, uh,” Steve looks at where his thumb brushes against you, like he can’t believe it’s there, like he doesn’t want to look into your eyes for the next part. “I got a call from my mom this morning. They’re not coming home this year. Again. I shouldn’t be surprised but… anyways. That’s why I’ve been so quiet and shit today. Not because of you.”

One of your hands comes up to lay over his where it sits on your cheek, tangling your fingers with his and moving your hands down to your lap.

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

“I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t take this stuff out on you just because you like Christmas and I don’t.”

You smile a little bit, a twitch of your lips, but Steve takes it as a win all the same.

“I’m gonna change that,” you say.

“Sure you will,” he replies, the sarcasm in his voice still there the way it usually is when he teases you, but this time, he’s smiling, too.

Steve told you to go home after that, assuring you that he’d take care of the few families left, and when you’d opened your mouth to tell him you were fine, you could stay, he’d pinned you with a look and told you again to let him do it.

So, you did.

You’d thought it would be a day at least until you’d see Steve again, but it’s only a couple of hours after your shift ends.

There’s a knock at your door, your apartment one of the ones built above a shop on Main Street, and even though you have no idea who it could be, you get up, sock-covered feet padding against the floor as you go over to answer it.

You’re surprised to find Steve on the other side—one, because you don’t think you’ve ever told him where you live, and two, because you didn’t think he’d want to see you more today than he already had—a bag in his hand and a shy sort of question on his face.

“Steve? What are you doing here?”

He scratches at the back of his neck with his free hand before responding, a nervous gesture that he hasn’t been able to get rid of. “I thought that maybe, after the day you’ve had, you could use some cheering up. I could, too.”

You remember him telling you about the phone call from his parents, and something in your stomach flutters a little when you realize that his plans to cheer up involve you of all people.

“Okay.” You smile, you can’t really help it, “come in, then.”

He does, closing the door behind him and toeing off his shoes before stepping inside any further. Steve spots your kitchen table easily, and moves to set the bag he’s holding down.

“I thought we could do another thing that might be on your list,” he says. Steve tugs things out of the bag, gingerbread house kits, to be exact. “Gingerbread houses are Christmas bucket list worthy, right?”

“Absolutely,” you search his face, a little confused because last you heard, Steve was not into your whole bucket list thing, but here he is. “And you’re doing this… voluntarily?”

“I have the receipt. I can return them, if you prefer.”

“No! Don’t do that. I just mean- I thought you didn’t like Christmas or my list and that you were just playing along to be nice.”

“I might not be the biggest fan of Christmas, but,” he shrugs, opening one of the boxes of gingerbread, “you’re a good teacher, sunshine.”

You resist the urge to pinch yourself, like you might be dreaming because Steve, who you’ve grown to like an embarrassing amount, is here, offering to do this with you and giving you a compliment like it’s nothing.

When you respond, you hope your voice doesn’t give away how you really feel. Excited, happy, your heart jumping. “Can I get that in writing?”

“Shut up.” He shakes his head, pointing to the unopened box, “now will you come build this gingerbread house or what?”

“Mine’s gonna be way prettier than yours.”

Steve simply rolls his eyes, but there’s the hint of a smile there, too. He’s happy to see that your light is back, that you didn’t let what happened at work get to you too much.

You sit down beside each other at your table, gingerbread kits laid out in front of you. Icing and sprinkles, a cookie roof and chimney. You’re sure it’ll leave a mess, but right now you don’t mind.

There’s a sort of lightness in the air, the knowledge that this thing—friendship, more, whatever it is—between the two of you is something that you’re both happy to bask in. It’s unspoken, and that doesn’t bother you.

You and Steve start by unpacking all of the pieces, yours laid out neatly, his in a leaning pile that makes you bite back a laugh.

“The fucking roof won’t stay on,” Steve says once you’ve both started to put the houses together, and he sounds genuinely annoyed about it.

“Just put some more icing on it,” you say, “there’s no such thing as too much.”

“I don’t think icing will save me now, sunshine.”

You look away from your own gingerbread house over to Steve’s. His hands are holding the roof up, pushing them together so they meet at the top, and he’s staring at the thing with so much determination that you can’t help but giggle.

“You laughing at me?” Steve quirks a brow at you, but there’s a shine in his eyes. They smile even when his mouth doesn’t.

“I can’t believe you’re taking this so seriously,” you laugh, and that smile of his spreads slowly on Steve’s face, blooming like a flower. “It’s alright to admit defeat, Steve. My house is already better than yours.”

“Woah, this isn’t over yet, alright? Mine just needs time, don’t you worry.”

“Whatever you say, Steve.”

“Someone’s feeling brave tonight,” he teases, nudging you with his elbow without letting go of the roof of his house. “Don’t speak too soon, sunshine. I could be the underdog here.”

You lean over with your icing bag in hand, piping some more into the gap in Steve’s roof. “Here, let me help.”

Steve—always reluctant to accept help of any kind, even the smallest things—lets you. While he watches your face as you pipe the icing, the focus, the way your tongue pokes out from between your lips, you take his distraction as an opportunity to move, letting your icing fall onto his hand instead of the house.

“Oops,” you shrug, your tone suggesting that it wasn’t a mistake at all.

Steve gasps overdramatically, then leans closer to you, “Oh, looks like you’ve got something right there.” His hand reaches for your face, and he spreads the icing from it onto your cheek.

“You’re done for, Harrington.”

He only laughs, bright and quick.

Before you know it, you’re having some sort of food fight, putting a dot of icing on Steve’s nose, him tossing sprinkles at you. It’s a mess, but all you can hear is Steve’s laughter, all you can see is his smile. Unguarded for once, free and genuine.

By the time it dies down, there’s stripes of icing on your cheeks, red and green sprinkles scattered about the floor and on the table, and Steve’s got his own patches of icing to deal with.

“You better help me clean this, Harrington,” you say, your giggles still spilling, fizzling out softly. “What are we gonna decorate these houses with now?”

“Mine’s a lost cause,” he admits, the pieces now in a pile the way they’d started.

“So I won, is what I’m hearing.”

Steve looks at you, at the sparkle in your eyes that had been dimmed earlier at work, at the smile that spreads across your face when his eyes meet yours. Fuck. He thinks you’re completely beautiful, icing across your face and all.

His gaze snags on a piece of green in your hair, and before he can think about it, he reaches up and tugs it out for you.

“Sprinkle,” he says.

You look at his hands, messy from the gingerbread houses but never any less strong, and you remember how they felt in yours when you’d been skating. And when you flick your eyes back to his face, he’s already looking at you, gaze dipping to your mouth quickly, like he can’t help it.

And shit, you think. You really, really like this boy.

Before either of you can say anything more, you’re leaning towards each other, meeting in the middle and you’re not sure if you kiss him or he kisses you, but you end up with your mouths pressed together.

It’s featherlight at first, testing the waters. Then, Steve’s hands cup your jaw gently and pull you back to him, and you wouldn’t dream of doing anything but follow.

He kisses you again, still soft somehow, but more certain, his lips dancing with yours like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

You reach up and grasp his wrists in your hands, feeling his pulse under your thumbs. His heart is racing just as much as yours, you notice. Like your heartbeats have synced to a twin pattern, like this kiss was enough to do that.

And while you’re not sure what will happen after this, you know that something has shifted, that both of you are saying things you’re too afraid to say out loud.

When he pulls back, Steve presses one, two more pecks to your mouth, his thumbs tracing over your skin so lightly you might’ve dreamt it.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever think about kissing the same way after you. Steve feels warm the way he does when the sun beams on him in summer, and quickly, he thinks, I could get used to this feeling.

Then, he gets up and finds a small towel in one of the drawers by your sink, wetting it with warm water before coming back to sit with you.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, using a finger to tilt your chin up, swiping the towel over your cheeks to get rid of the icing there as lightly as he can.

And that’s that.

December twenty-fourth is your last day at Santa’s Workshop. Christmas Eve snuck up quick, and tomorrow, the twenty-fifth, the mall will be closed.

You’ve always enjoyed the job, but this year’s been your favorite by far. Usually, you and your coworkers would get along just fine, talking during shifts and laughing but never expanding outside of work, but it’s completely different with Steve.

He knocked on your door with gingerbread houses in hand and kissed you like it meant something. You like him so much that it’s in your bones, this feeling he brings out of you, how special you feel when you think about the trust he’s shown you.

But looking back, you think you were screwed from the start. From his scrunched brows asking you if the bells on the elf shoes were really necessary, to confiding in you about his parents, that list you made that seemed to be the beginning of what things have grown into now.

Green elf hat lopsided on his head, Steve smiles at you from where he stands by the camera. You smile back without thinking, like it’s natural, an instinct.

“Alright,” he says, talking to the kids sitting on the bench with Santa. “Everyone say ‘cheese’ on three. One, two-”

“Cheese!”

The camera clicks, and then it’s onto the next, the system you and Steve have created moving along smoothly, family after family.

If someone told Steve when he’d started this job, grouchy and prepared to pout about it every day, that he’d grow to like it, that he’s realized he’ll miss it when it’s gone, he would’ve laughed in their faces.

Never in a million years did Steve think he’d come remotely close to enjoying being an elf, but he has (he still fucking hates the outfit, though). You have everything to do with his surprising not-so-hatred of the job, of his careful fondness growing towards the holidays.

It’s all because of you.

Christmas Eve is a busy day at Starcourt mall, parents rushing about for last minute presents, teenagers taking advantage of holiday sales, and families lined up for their Santa pictures they’d forgotten about until now.

You don’t get breaks between families often today, but once you do, you and Steve are next to each other, making imaginary backstories for random people that pass by, dramatically reading lips of conversations.

The next time there’s an opening, you walk over to Steve, holding up your fist as if there’s a microphone in it. “So, Steve, tell me, how does it feel to have survived December as a Christmas elf?”

“I feel like I should get an award, maybe,” he says into your fake microphone. “I’ve gotten two rashes from this scratchy outfit. Two! And I’ll never hear jingle bells the same again.”

You laugh before clearing your throat and getting back into your news anchor character, “wow. You heard it here folks, North Pole outfits are not luxurious.”

“No, they are not.”

Steve can’t help but grin as he looks at you, as he jokes around with you so easily it feels like he’s known you for years instead of a month. He supposes he has known you longer, but never the way he does now.

“Now, will you be returning to Santa’s Workshop in future Decembers, mister Harrington?”

“Well, that depends,” he says. “I think I’ll require a certain presence to be with me if I come back. Can’t survive it without my doses of sunshine.”

My doses of sunshine.

You’ve never reacted to words the way you do with Steve, but when he says things like that, how can you not react? He compliments you in these indirect ways that only you could understand, and this secret language of yours has your heart skipping, your world tinted-pink.

That one makes you break character, “really?”

“Really.”

Looking up at him, at those soft, melting brown eyes that have always told you more than anything else about him, at the fondness in them, you think about that kiss.

You haven’t spoken about it, but you haven’t felt the need to. It meant something, you know that much, and by the way Steve sneaks touches—a squeeze of your hand, a palm on your back—he does, too.

“You make Christmas better,” he tells you.

He leaves you with that as the next family walks up for their picture, but you don’t miss the way his eyes linger on you, his gaze spreading sparkles over your skin.

It’s hard to focus when all you can think about is him calling you sunshine in that soft voice of his he’s only used when you’re alone, but you have to, so it’s back to work you go.

You don’t get to speak much again until your shift is over, the Christmas Eve evening rush swooping in and keeping you both busy.

It’s bittersweet, walking to the back room for the last time from Santa’s Workshop. You’re excited for tomorrow, because it’s Christmas and it’s one of your favorite days of the year, but it’s hitting you now how much you’ll miss seeing Steve nearly every day.

You’ll still see him, of course you will. Whether it’s him getting you to help sneak kids into a movie or maybe something more, something for just the two of you. Either way, you’re at least sure of one thing: Steve Harrington is one of the best people you know.

He’s the first to speak as you step into the staff room. “I have something for you,” he says.

Steve scratches the back of his neck, the smallest hint of pink on his cheeks. He’s nervous, and it’s the sweetest thing. He reaches into his bag, pulling out a small box, a white ribbon tied in a bow around it, a little lopsided, like he’d tied it himself.

You take it from him, smiling down at the box, because no matter what’s in it, he cared enough to get you a gift and that’s what matters, that’s what you’ll hold onto.

“Really?”

“Open it, please.”

You listen, tugging the ribbon loose and opening up the small box. Inside, you find a delicate chain, the pendant in the shape of the sun.

“Steve.” It comes out in a breath, your eyes welling the tiniest bit because this is the best gift you’ve ever received. He’s a gift himself, looking at you shyly, searching your face for a reaction.

“Do you like it?” He asks, his voice soft. “If it’s too much I can-”

“It’s perfect,” you say, and you mean it. “Put it on for me?”

He flashes you a grin, the corners of his mouth tugging up as he nods and takes the necklace from you, undoing the clasp as you turn around and move your hair out of the way.

You can feel his warmth against your back as he drapes the necklace over your collar, his fingers brushing the back of your neck as he fiddles with the clasp.

“There you go,” he says, taking a small step back to give you room to spin back around to face him.

You look down at the sun pendant sitting against your skin, touching it lightly. Steve’s actions speak volumes, and this one makes you feel so many things. But above it all, you feel like his.

He watches your face as you look at the necklace, the slope of your nose and the softness of your cheeks. The flutter of your lashes and the smile you don’t even try to hide. He’s been resisting the urge to kiss you since he’d done it the first time, but it’s stronger than ever now, with his present around your neck.

Your eyes meet when you look back up at him, his brown ones never failing to show how he feels, and your heart skips with how he looks at you. Like he cares, like he doesn’t intend on stopping.

He brushes your hair over your shoulder, fingertips gentle as ever when they brush against the side of your neck.

“I love it, Steve, really. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sunshine.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything, I didn’t expect-”

“Hey,” he cuts you off, his hand shifting to hold yours, fingers lacing with yours easily, “you’ve given me so much.”

Steve doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to get paired with you for this job, how he got lucky enough to have someone look past his slight grumpiness and really see him. You’ve given him Christmas as a whole, erasing bad memories, replacing them with new ones, and he doesn’t think any present could repay you for that.

“Oh wait!” You squeeze his hand before letting go and heading towards your bag, digging until you find what you’d been looking for. You hand Steve a folded piece of paper, “you should have this.”

As he unfolds it, he realizes it’s the bucket list you’d made for him what feels like forever ago, glitter and all. There are activities with check marks beside them, the ones you’d completed, and he shakes his head with the smile he seems to only wear when you’re around.

Very last on the list, your handwriting spells out words that make his chest feel light, his heart full.

‘Make next Christmas just as good.’

Steve finally stops holding himself back and kisses you for the second time, and you’re both certain it won’t be the last.

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ ⁺₊❆⋆

thank you for reading!! if you enjoyed, please please consider leaving a reblog or comment and let me know what you think! it would mean a bunch <3

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ananashart · 1 month ago

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"You're going to miss the falling stars if you keep looking at me"

Remus Lupin x Hufflepuff!Reader

Summary: On winter break the sky reserves a surprise for you. Or, Remus and You sneaking out of Hogwart at night.

Word count: 3 488

CW: the grammar is dead / eng isn't my first language

Quick note: I wrote that for a friend of mine who's a Hufflepuff, hence the Hufflepuff!reader. I wrote while knowing absolutely nothing about Harry Potter, haven't watched the movies nor read the books. My only knowledge on this Wizarding world is what I searched, what I was told and the little time I played hogwart mystery on my phone to kill some time (Charlie Weasley my beloved) to say I deeply apologize if some things seem out of place or even worse, occ. But if this can be comforting, my friend validate the os, even saying it seemed like I knew the universe.

The small white dots falling from the sky indicated that winter had arrived, and with it, so did winter break. Students of all years had prepared their belongings for the two weeks off the school. But not you. You weren't going back home for the holiday. At the beginning of December, you had received your monthly letter from home, the same one indicating that your family was facing troubles and other issues you didn't have the heart to be a part of. Which was why, while writing your answer, you had decided to not go back this year. Preferring to stay at Hogwart to focus on your magic studies. That had been your best lie of the year.

To you the situation was kind of sad, you wanted to go home as you were feeling nostalgic and pretty homesick. A hint of regret was settling within you, you were going to miss out on most of your family, ones you hadn't seen in a long time. Worse, you were going to miss out on your parents’ homemade Christmas cake, and that was the real tragedy of it all. The happy faces of your cousins, aunts and uncles flashing before your eyes.

Alone in your dorm room, swinging on your chair, you let a sigh cross your lips. You were bitter, bored and in need of a change. So you put on your shoes as well as your black and yellow scarf around your neck, while you gathered your book in your arms.

Each of your steps was echoing against the stone walls of the almost empty castle. It was eerie, in a good way, how empty the chilly corridors were. Everything seemed higher, more grand, nearly intimidating and scary.

Readjusting your scarf, you walked to your favorite spot near the Quidditch pitch, behind an old tree. Since your first year, the place had strangely grown on you. It was calm but not silent, perfect for you. So naturally, needing a change of scenery you went there, as you slowly but certainly grew tired of the dorm wall. Setting a foot outside, you immediately get hit by a swirl of fresh air, filling your lungs, making you feel instantly better.

Luckily for you, it wasn't snowing at the moment nor raining. It was just wendy and cold. Arriving at the old tree, you settled yourself, putting down an old blanket you had used previously for picnics with friends. In all truth, you had half lied in your letter, you really wanted to get some work done. And the peace and quiet the place was offering was the best way to achieve it. And quicker than ever, you engulfed yourself in your books.

It took the abrupt crack of a twig to tear you out of your head space, making you aware of your surroundings again. Too immersed in the book you were reading, you didn't hear the three Gryffindors coming your way. Being on the other side of the tree, they didn't know you were there as well.

"Why come here when you could've told us your oh so great plan in our dorm?” Had questioned one of the three, sarcasm dripping from their lips.

"Because people can snitch on us.” Answered another voice like it was the most obvious thing to exist. “And I don't want this old bag of Filch to hear us.”

Putting your book aside, you tried to concentrate on the different persons on the other side of the tree. You couldn't quite place the voices, but that wasn't the first time you were hearing them, you were sure of that. Furthermore, the mention of a ‘great plan’ made you curious, very curious. You knew you shouldn't be eavesdropping, but that plan, whatever it was, had picked your interest.

“So? What's your plan?” Inquired a third person, more calm and composed than the other two.

“Let's sneak out tonight, and go to Hogsmeade.”

The silence was deafening, but to you the idea was an interesting one. It would be lying saying you had never dreamed of exploring Hogsmeade and the surroundings at night.

"Sneak out to go to Hogsmeade? Like we do almost every month.” Taunted the first person who had spoken. “ Really Sirius?"

When the name dropped, everything clicked in your mind. Sirius, like the famous Sirius Black. Which meant the other two were James Potter and Remus Lupin. The troublemakers Gryffindor trio. However, at the back of your head, you were sure someone was missing. You couldn't replace his name. Not that it was important anyway, you had a more pressing matter at hand; the boy with the scars across his face.

You were familiar with the trio, not that you were a part of their friend group no. You talked, here and there. You mostly conversed with Remus as you were sharing some classes with him. The first time you engaged, you had requested his help, not sure you had understood well a part in the transfiguration class.

“Why me?” He had uttered, hint of self-defense in his demeanor.

“I noticed how easy it seems for you.” You had simply answered, shrugging your shoulders. “Also, you pique my curiosity.”

You were being authentic, and knowing that someone was genuinely interested about him made a warm feeling spread through his entire body. So he gladly helped you. And the feeling intensified the next day, when during the lunch break, you boldly sat down next to him proposing to pull a mean joke on the dumb guy who had dared mock him in the morning.

The persons who were willing to get in trouble for him were few. He could count them on his right hand only.

It was the voice of Sirius that brought you back from the depth of your mind. “You didn't let me finish Prongs. I've heard the teachers say that something was going to appear in the sky tonight.” He exclaimed, excitement in his voice.

“Then why not just go to the astronomy tower?” Proposed Remus, calm as ever.

"Where's the fun in that Moony?" Answered Sirius, as a smirk was shaping his lips, you were sure of that.

Processing the new information, it was when James and Remus agreed on the plan that you decided to show yourself, standing up in a hurry. “Can I go with you?”

Your sudden appearance has the trio stuck in place, silent. “Y/N?” Had questioned the one you considered the most being your friend.

Nodding, a shadow of a small smile was dancing on your face. Looking at the two others, you saw how they carefully studied you, dissecting every parcel of your skin under their eyes.

It had been James who spoke first, while Sirius had, oddly enough, stayed silent one eyebrow raised. “You're spying on us.”

Their septic attitude was laughable, funny to you, considering how harmless you were. But you complied, explaining yourself to them why you had been hiding behind the tree. Not without forgetting to mention you had been there first.

“But about your little excursion?” You focused back on the discussion, the smile fully drawing your lips, almost showing your teeth.

“Well,” started Remus, turning to his friends for their approval. “I can't see why not.”

There was no reason for them to refuse, as you weren't one of the students they bullied nor a Slytherin. Furthermore you were friends with Remus, and they already knew you, quite well for that matter.

Sirius’ gaze went back and forth between Remus who smiled at him, and James who only shrugged his shoulders, agreeing. “Sure, whatever.”

With that settled, he continued to reveal the plan for tonight. It was fairly simple, sneaking out of your respective common rooms then meeting in front of the stairs to the fourth floor and going straight to the secret passage behind the mirror. Your only issue here was knowing how you were going to leave your dorm without getting caught. It was crystal clear to you that the boys were going to use Remus’ prefect status to get out without much trouble. But you choose to not voice your problems as you already felt like you were already imposing yourself to them. You didn't want to add more to the list.

Once the evening came, you all decided to eat together, chatting and gossiping about students and professors. Eventually, the discussion turned onto why the four of you were still here instead of back home.

“Everyone has their reasons.” Had said Sirius, a somber tone in his voice that no one dared questioned or pushed further.

Done with your meals, you all went back to your respective dorm. The boys' attempt at fooling everyone by waving at you goodnight had you wholeheartedly chuckling on your way back. It was your own way to distract you from the warmth in your cheeks, remembering Remus who had decided to throw you a knowing wink.

At the entrance of the common room, while automatically knocking rhythmically on the barrel, you searched through your mind every spell you knew that would help you sneak out. Why choose the curfew hours in the first place? It wasn't making a lot of sense to you. Why not do it while everyone was still eating, being busy with their meals. Those were questions for later, right away you needed a way out.

Inside, you made a beeline to your dorm room, preparing a small bag with what would eventually be useful for your night out. Looking around the room, your eyes lingered on one of your roommates bed, that was when it struck you. You were going to use their Dungbombs to have everyone hurrying out of the common room, and use the disorder at your advantage to disappear.

Once curfew hours hit, you got the case out from under your friend's bed, pinching your nose as best as you could before opening it. Quickly you gathered two Dungbombs in your hand, going to the common room to throw them. They were quick to diffuse their horrid smell, and quicker than ever, the remaining Hufflepuffs were out.

And just as expected, the ruckus was the perfect moment for you to leave. On your tiptoes, you kept your eyes on the crowd until the first turn. But you didn't get that far as your back bumped into someone. Turning around, you expected anyone but one of the Gryffindor prefects to be here. Luckily for you, it was none other than Remus Lupin.

Readjusting your bag on your shoulder, you jogged with him away from the possible prying eyes. You were surprised to see him here when he was supposed to wait at the stairs with Sirius and James. You didn't wait to question him.

“What are you doing here?” You whispered, “Not that I'm complaining.”

Your simple comment brought a smile to his face, instantly illuminating it. “I was worried, so I decided to come and wait here.” Looking around the corner for a few seconds, he continued, sparkles of mischief hiding in his eyes. “But I was worried for nothing, you handled the situation well.”

His smile was everything, and knowing he was suppressing a laugh made you wish he hadn't. You had heard him laugh a handful of times, it truly was music to your ears. You could never get tired of it.

“That's very sweet of you, but you left James and Sirius alone?” Watching realization drown onto him made you suppress a laugh on your own. “Not a very prefect attitude off of you dear Remus.”

“Let's hope they can behave themselves.” Hearing noises coming your way, the brunet took your hands in his, leading the both of you away. “But I have to admit that's pretty reckless of me. Which is why we better hurry.”

He was amused more than anything, peeking behind him to look at you. He was sublime, a dazzling smile you wanted to frame. You wish he could be this happy and free more often. Those were definitely feelings that were suiting him perfectly.

Carefully, you ran hidden in the shadows, only for the ghosts and awake painting to see your nightly escapade. All the way to the stairs, he never once let go of your hand. Strong and warm hand securely wrapped around your own, less calloused than what you could have expected. And somehow, it wasn't odd.

On his side, Remus was debating with his inner self. Was he supposed to let go of your hand? He didn't want to, but for all he knew you were uncomfortable. But surely if you were, you would have separated your linked hands a long time ago. That was the only reassuring argument he had found to keep your hand in his. It was a selfish action, the only one he wanted to keep doing. In all his turmoil, he could feel his cheeks getting warmer and warmer by the second.

After surviving each floor, you both finally reunited with the two impatient Gryffindors, waiting at the stairs.

Sirius, who had been previously pacing, stopped upon your arrival, throwing his hands to the sky. “Merlin, finally!” He almost shouted, earning a nasty look from James, who was sitting down at the beginning of the stairs.

Standing up, he dusted his trousers before starting his way to the fourth floor. “Come on, we're going to miss out on whatever is in the sky.”

Not needing to be told twice, Sirius followed shortly after, quickly joined by Remus and yourself. And before you knew it, you arrived in Hogsmeade.

The streets were faintly light, busy with people, more than usual. It was nothing new for the boys, but for you it was all very new. So you took in the scenery playing in front of you; the sweet smells in the air, the loud chatting of every passerby, the sudden heat hitting you.

The Gryffindors noticed right away it was your first time here at night. The sparks in your eyes alongside your silence being a huge give away for them. You were mesmerized. Knowing it was because of them made them feel kind of proud of themselves, exchanging knowing gaze at each other. The proudest of them all was most definitely Remus, an adoring look fighting to be seen in his eyes. At that moment, he only wanted to keep you close to him.

James' abrupt yelling brought everyone's attention back on track. “Now what?” He questioned, directed to Sirius.

"What do you mean now what?” He had questioned back, furrowed eyebrows, not sure about his friend's request. “We have fun, that's what."

"I think James wants to know about the sky event." You had intervened, taking a step toward them to be heard.

Remus, still by your side, wasn't listening at all. Too focused on the sensation of your hand still in his, he couldn't. It was a perfect fit, like his hands had been sculpted to be wrapped accurately around yours. He was supposed to be the most mature and responsible one of the group, he should be taking the lead, telling his two friends to not do anything stupid. But he wasn't. Too hypnotized by you and how you looked under Hogsmeade low light. Maybe the sirens of those Muggle's legends were real, and you were one of them. With the sole purpose to distract him from everything.

It was you pulling on his hand that broke his trance. "You're coming?" You asked, head slightly tilted to the side. It could have been an order, Remus would have followed all the same.

Walking through the crowd, you all watched for anything interesting. The two troublemakers in front, trying to get themselves in trouble, arguing about why going to the three broomsticks wasn't a good idea.

After some time, it was easy to see the crowd walking in the opposite direction from Hogwart. Kids, who should have probably been asleep, were running through the passerby, talking about ‘falling stars’. At that, you all exchanged a look before running along the kids, wanting to have a good place yourself to witness the event. That time, you had been the one leading the way for Remus. Weaving in and out of the crowd, hand in hand, like it had been since the start of the night.

Arriving at why you had gathered was the place, it was James who found a spot. It wasn't front row like you would all have wanted, but it was good enough to admire the night sky. The only thing left for you to do was to wait. A torture for Sirius, who had already started complaining about his neck hurting. Maybe going to the astronomy tower like Remus had suggested would have been better in the end.

But as soon as the few remaining lights on the streets were blown shut, you were able to see one dot running through the sky. Soon followed by another, and another, and a thousand others. They were all, indeed, falling. It was majestic. The four of you were fascinated by the show happening in front of your eyes.

All of those dots raining on you reminded you of something you had read about the Muggle word. A tradition they had about making Wishes for falling stars. So you made one only for the stars to know. Wishing for this moment to last forever. Wishing for Remus to stand by your side as long as he would allow you to do the same. And you made your wish known to the sky, your grip tightened around the brunet's hand. A gesture he mirrored.

Unfortunately, the show of stars raining into the horizon came to an end. Meaning for the four of you it was time to sneak back inside the prominent castle. Making your way backwards, none of you talk, all feeling content about what you had just witnessed. Behind the two troublemakers, neither Remus nor you found the strength to let go of each other's hand. Even if removing your hands was as simple as lighting your wand, it was just as easy to keep them linked.

Walking behind his two friends, Remus knew he was doomed. He had seen the mischievous glances they had shared during their trip back. Of course they had to notice how he never once tried to detach his hand from yours. But in his defense, you as well didn't try, neither did you voiced your discomfort or your desire to have your hand back. What was he supposed to do? He was a mess, letting his selfishness take the upper hand because of you. But strangely, it was a Welcomed feeling.

Getting back inside your school, you were unhappy. You didn't wish for the night to end, you didn't wish for Remus to remove his hand from yours. You were brooding and it was showing as you all climbed down the stairs in pure silence. The brunet, feeling all the same, decided to extend your night, even just a little.

"I think it'll be better if I take Y/N back to the Hufflepuff dorm."

Processing what he had just said, your eyes went wide. Never once in your life have you felt this lucky.

On the other hand, the two troublemakers didn't try to taunt their friend with his statement, both grinning at Remus silently coming to an agreement that they were going to tease him later. So they said goodbye to you, for real this time, before disappearing.

Seeing as none of you was ready to move, you tried. "Shall we?" You offered with a smile, extending your hands, hope glittering in your eyes.

Linking his hand back, he returned the smile, a fond smile that made you melt on the spot. He was the sweetest and you couldn't fathom why people weren't, wouldn't, see it. Since you introduced yourself to him, your days have been funnier, better, colorful. And knowing he was going to be stuck here with you for the holiday made you selfishly feel better.

The stroll back was slow, quiet. And too rapidly for you, you were back in front of your dorm.

“Well, this is it.” You spoke first, breaking the comfortable silence. “Thank you for the trip, and the escort.” And at last, with an aching heart, you let go of his hand.

Smiling softly one last time at you, Remus turned back on his heels, ready to make his way back to his dorm, ready to leave you. But you didn't want the night to end like that. So you called back for him, strolling back to catched up with him. At his level and without giving him the chance to question what was the matter, you kissed his cheek.

“Good night Remus.”

By the time he processed what had happened, you were already back in your dorm. Leaving a Bashful Remus behind you.

Is it that hard to reblog?

#remus lupin x reader #remus x reader #remus x y/n #remus lupin oneshot #marauders era #hufflepuff reader #libraryᯓᡣ𐭩

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galvanizedfriend · 9 months ago

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Klaroline Fanfiction Masterlist

It's been a minute since I last updated my masterlist so I decided to go ahead and start a new one. Yokan // ▪ Multi-chapters

. The Wolf Series [I, II, III and Outtakes - Incomplete] When Caroline wakes up shackled, powerless and very far away from Mystic Falls, she knows she's in serious trouble. But when a woman named Sophie Deveraux reveals the reason why she's been kidnapped and taken to New Orleans, she realizes things are far worse than she could've ever imagined.

[The Originals rewriting where Caroline is a witch and gets pregnant with Klaus' child. Seasons 1, 2 and 3 complete, season 4 coming.]

. Vice and Virtue [6/6 - Complete] As the second son of a Duke, Klaus Mikaelson has the means and all the time in the world to indulge in every manner of wild activity with very little respect for the regiment of polite society. That is until his brother decides he's had enough of his vulgar ways and gives him an ultimatum. Caroline Forbes is a young debutante in search of true love and adventure. Except her aunt wishes for her to marry a somber Viscount who's already buried three wives. When their paths cross, they realize they might yet strike a deal that could satisfy their relatives and benefit them both.

[AH Regency!AU inspired by Bridgerton and a dozen other period novels I have been reading lately.]

. Pedulum [2/2 - Complete] This is what Klaus Mikaelson knows: death isn't the end for him. From the moment he is brought into the world to his final shuddering breath, Klaus' life is pretty much the same as everyone else's. The difference lies in what happens after he dies: he goes right back to the beginning, a child in London with the memory of dozens of lives lived before. Nothing ever really changes, including the fact that no matter how hard he tries, he can never save Caroline Forbes' life for too long.

[AH/soulmates!AU with a slight magical twist. Technically a one-shot, chapter 2 is just an alternate ending.]

. We'll Always Have New Orleans [3/15 - Incomplete] Caroline wakes up in a world where everything looks exactly the same, only nothing really is. For starters, she's no longer a vampire, and no one else in Mystic Falls has ever heard of witches, vampires or werewolves - no one except for Klaus, who woke up just as human and twice as angry about it. Their search for answers and a way out takes them all the way to New Orleans, and Caroline could never anticipate how much this crazy fake world was about to alter her reality forever.

[Canon-divergence!AU. Set right after TVD 4x18.]

. Speed Dating [3/4 - Incomplete] Klaus is having a bad month, so Caroline decides it's a great idea to drag him along to a round of Speed Dating. Other men in the room do not approve.

AH/AU fluff that was inspired by an episode of House (yes, it is fluff, I promise).

. Gasoline [2/2 - Complete] "He doesn't apologize, of course he doesn't. He doesn't care. He calls everyone love. It's not meant to mean anything. Except it did, once, and it makes Caroline's stomach churn away inside, as she feels Klaus crawling underneath her skin like he never left at all. I've still got you."

AH/Band!AU. Two years after Klaus walked out on his band - on her -, Caroline finds herself in her least favorite place on earth - New Orleans. She really did try to stay away from him, escaping an event just to keep off his radar. He finds her anyway.

. Like It's Christmas Again [2/2 - Complete] As Christmas approaches, Caroline Forbes, a New York-based event planner, is sent to a quaint small town in Virginia to organize their holiday festival. But her plans are momentarily hindered by the presence of Klaus Mikaelson, the Mayor's brother and a grumpy billionaire lacking in any holiday spirit, who's in town to close the sale of his family's manor - the charming estate she was hoping to use as a venue.

[AKA that time when I committed Christmas fic. AU/AH inspired by a Hallmark movie, I kid you not.]

. Spin [5/5 - Complete] Since she was seven years old, Caroline Forbes has been preparing herself to become President of the United States. But before she gets to the Oval Office, she needs to win the election for senior student president at the prestigious Saint Sebastian High - which would be in the bag if only goddamn Klaus Mikaelson hadn't decided to run against her.

[AH/AU lovers-to rivals-to-lovers The Politician!AU where everyone takes school elections way more seriously than they should.]

. How Far I'd Go [2/2 - Complete for now] Set in TVD S6/TO S2. Unable to control Caroline after she turns her humanity off, Stefan reaches out to the only person he can think of for help.

[Slices of moments of Klaus in Mystic Falls while Caroline has her humanity off.] ▪ One-shots

. The Sound of Settling Klaus hates his job at Mikaelson & Sons. He hates wearing a suit. He also hates his brothers constantly butting into his life. Everything will be better once he gets his much desired transfer to the New York branch. Caroline Forbes is the owner of Mystic Café, and when Klaus accidentally wanders into her coffee shop, his whole perspective changes. [AH/Coffee Shop!AU where Klaus is a lawyer. Fluffity Fluff. Lots of Mikaelsons and some Carenzo friendship.] . The Witch Queen Caroline always knew she was different. She was keyed into her own otherness very early on. Strange things happened around the Forbes women. Her mother never really had to spell it out to her, give it a name. Caroline could always sort of feel it, and then at some point the feeling blossomed into comprehension, and comprehension hardened into fact. And with that came an altogether different kind of certainty: this was not a secret she'd be able to keep forever. One day, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, everyone would find out. And when they did, they would come for her.

. Worst Things Have Happened Klaus Mikaelson is a prince with a very dark secret that threatens to destroy his family's legacy. Caroline Forbes is a sorceress whose job is to make sure his secret remains buried. But would it hurt him to put some clothes on? [Royal!AU, with a magical twist.] . The Unexpected Grace of Falling Apart The whole incident was bound to go down as a funny anecdote to be shared among friends, a Oh, you think you've had the worst hook-up ever? Hold my beer kind of story. Provided, of course, that she never had to see him ever and could just wipe him out of her life and memory for good. Given that they live in different time zones, it shouldn't be too much of a hassle.

That is precisely why Caroline is livid when she emerges from the arrivals area at Richmond airport to find Douchebag, in the flesh - sunglasses indoors and all, like the proper jerk that he is - holding up a sign that readsClarisse.

[AH/AU. It's Tyler's wedding weekend and Caroline is back in Mystic Falls for the first time after the most traumatic and depressing year of her life. And it's about to get even worse as she's made to share breathing space with Klaus, The Worst Guy Ever. Except they might have to join forces to save the wedding, and to the discovery that things might not be what the seem. As Caroline teeters on the edge of a breakdown she'd been trying very hard to conceal, an unexpected savior appears to help her through the haze.]

. love, the monster's got me now [Canon compliant. Set in TVD S03E09 Homecoming.]

"Don't run," he says calmly, sounding almost bored, but with a clear warning. "I'm in the mood for a chase. Little spoiler: you can't outrun me." His eyebrows twitch up when he finally turns around to face her, lips curling into an amused grin. "Tyler's girl," he states, gesturing towards the now empty yard. "You missed out on the celebrations, I’m afraid."

[Or: the missing Klaroline scene between "There's your pretty little girlfriend, Caroline" and "There's a whole world out there waiting for you." Klaus and Caroline meet after Homecoming.]

. When It's Gone Suddenly, Caroline hates how nice the bed feels. How soft the pillows are. How smooth and cool and expensive those goddamn sheets are against her skin. She hates the giddiness in her belly, like she's a stupid schoolgirl when she's not allowed to be one anymore. She hates how right the space between Klaus' arms felt, how easily she molded against him. His lips were as full and as soft as they looked, but his hands were gentler and more reverent than they had any right to be, and Caroline hates it. Hates it, hates it, hates it. She hates that it suits her, hates that she wants it, hates that none of it is hers to keep.

[Set after TVD S04E19 Pictures of You. Caroline hears about Klaus' impending departure after a mysterious letter and decides to have some words.] . Wishing Each Sigh Might Be the Last The first time she sees him, Caroline thinks he's an angel.

[Set in 1800s New Orleans. As Caroline lies dying, she prays for God to send help or end her torment and save her soul. She thinks an angel has come for her. But he's no angel at all.] . Feel the Madness Closing In Set in TO S3. Caroline is in New Orleans when Lucien and the Ancestors make a move against the Mikaelson family - and they know exactly who to target in order to get to Klaus. Paranoia sets in, sending him to a very dark place, and Caroline finally learns the price of being loved so profoundly by a monster. . Issues When Klaus' Hollywood career takes a down turn after a nasty divorce and a viral mug shot, his manager decides his life is not yet miserable enough, bringing in a PR company famous for its high-profile damage control cases.

[AH!AU where Klaus is a problematic movie star and Caroline is a PR agent with no time for his BS.] . Urban Legend "I hate myself for saying this, but I have to agree with Little Miss Sunshine," Caroline cuts in. "This is Whitmore. Nothing ever happens here. Least of all a possession that leads to a massacre of slasher movie proportions."

"Thank you, love," Klaus returns brightly. "Very flattering to be validated by you."

"Bite me, Klaus."

"Find me later, after my shift, and we can see to it," comes the shameless rejoinder.

[Or: Caroline tries to navigate life in college having the worst roommate ever, a douchebag who cannot take a hint and a nosy journalist whom she's definitely not attracted to. Never in a million years.]

#klaroline #klaroline fanfiction #klaus x caroline #klaroline fic #kc fanfiction #kcfic #kc fandom #klaus mikaelson #caroline forbes #the originals rewriting #the vampire diaries fanfiction #yokan writes #masterlist

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writeyouin · 11 months ago

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Hello, for holiday fics, can i request MTMTE Bots X Reader Headcanons where its Christmas time and there's a gift exchange? Thank you!

MTMTE Bots X Reader - Gift Exchange

A/N - A-All of them?! There's… That's a lot of bots. Imma just pick a few, then if anyone wants more you can just ask me for them.

Warnings - None

Rating - T

Swerve

Swerve is far too nervous for this.

It's your first Christmas aboard the ship, and he is determined to confess his love for you. Like, he has spent every last second planning this for months.

Now that it's time though, he thinks he might purge his tanks.

What if you don't like his gift? Worse, what if you reject him? He knows you won't be mean about it, but... he doesn't want to spend his life without you. He really loves you, and nothing terrifies him more than his own feelings.

Still, here is the moment. You've given him your gift.

It was a crocheted blanket, so he'll be comfy on movie nights. When did you have time to make this? Oh wow. He presses the material to his face. It's so soft, and if he takes in some air, it smells like you. Of course it does... You've clearly spent ages making it.

Swerve hugs you and he holds on for a few seconds too long. You laugh amiably, and make a joke about being Christmas crushed.

Finally, he lets you go and bashfully presents you with his gift. It isn't wrapped very well. It must have been difficult for him, since it's relatively small. You can see where the tape has come up a few times, stripping the paper of some of its colour. All this just makes you smile more.

You tear open the gift, and it's a datapad, specially made to be human-sized. You flick on the screen and find that it's filled with music, in a specially arranged playlist.

Admittedly, Swerve doesn't know a whole lot about Earth music. He's more into TV and movies, but he knows how much you love music, so he really tried with this.

Moreover, the first word of each song creates a message, and it is a long message. It's a confession. You might have missed it, had the first word of each song not been highlighted.

You take a while to read what's written. Meanwhile, Swerve is stuck in limbo, feeling entirely sick. Part of him wants to snatch the datapad back and laugh it off like it was all a mistake or a stupid joke. Instead, he waits, trying to stop his servos from shaking by resting them on his thighs.

When you've finished reading his confession, you let your thumb glide over the first song, hitting play.

You smile, get to your feet, and approach Swerve.

"I love it," You say quietly.

Then, you kiss him.

At first, Swerve is completely taken aback. Then, his hands find their way around your back and he's holding you close, your first kiss to Nat King Cole's 'The Very Thought of You.'

Rung

Rung didn't actually want gifts. The only thing he asked for was an evening alone with you.

Normally, he's so busy with his patients, and everyone always wants time with the ship's only human, usually so they can ask you questions and place bets on what the answer will be - Rodimus is still pissed that he lost 100 shanix when you were asked what a colander was (Sufficed to say, his answer wasn't kitchen utensil for draining water).

So, that's exactly how you spend Christmas Eve with Rung. You're sat in his lap, laid back on the sofa while he reads to you from a book you chose.

His fingers gently glide over your head - You feel safe with Rung - loved - and you know that he feels the same when he's with you.

Despite that, you did get him a gift, and little do you know, he's got you one too. They will both wait for tomorrow however, as you relax into one another, with no obligation to anyone else.

The next day, you wake up atop the berth, and realise that you must have fallen asleep when Rung was reading and that he has carried you to bed.

Yet, he isn't there with you. You're just getting up when you hear him humming. Your shared hab-suite isn't like the others on the ship - it's the only one wherein the rooms are separate as if to recreate a normal Earth apartment.

So, upon getting up to explore, you find Rung in the kitchen - He's never been in here before, except when he's looking for you.

This is his gift and his surprise. He knows how much time you always put into cooking, and unfortunately, there's nobody else who could ever cook for you, which he has been led to believe is a normal part of human relationships and something most humans are grateful for.

It took a while to research the recipes, and even more time to find out what ingredients could be substituted. Moreover, Rung has spent months practising this, between meetings, and now, he's rather good at it - he always was good at following instructions and handling delicate objects.

So, your Christmas brunch is courtesy of Rung, and you make sure to tell him how delicious everything is, kissing him afterwards so he might get a taste of the wonderful meal he's made as his arms wrap around you and he presses you against the dining table.

Later, after a long, and frankly heated make-out session, you present him with his gift. It's a model ship of the only one missing from his collection - the Lost Light itself. His eyes light up when he sees it, all ready to be put together.

That afternoon, the two of you sit together and start building the miniature, all while listening to Christmas music which plays serenely in the background.

Megatron

Megatron is staring at you quite intensely. If you weren't used to him, you might think he was glaring at you.

Still, you feel like you might have done something wrong or that he hates your gift to him. It was after all, rather personal, and Megatron isn't a huge fan of PDA.

The gift in question was a song. As it turned out, Nautica was something of a musical prodigy, so with her help, you had written a song about Megatron - She had composed the tune, while you wrote the lyrics.

You assumed that by involving another bot, Megatron felt exposed; it was entirely possible that he didn't like the idea of someone else singing about him or your relationship with him.

You couldn't be further from the truth.

The truth of the matter was that Megatron loved the song. You had poured your very soul into it, and it was so much more than he could have asked for.

... And in return, he had gotten you a gift basket. Soaps, shampoos, lotions - His research had led him to believe this was the social norm on Earth. He couldn't give you that now!

How would that look? You had given him a piece of your soul, and he got you L'oriel "because you're worth it."

No. It wasn't good enough.

"Excuse me a moment, I need to retrieve something from my hab-suite," Megatron said coolly, before leaving you.

You deflated, feeling that all was lost, especially since Megatron took a good thirty minutes to return.

Yet, when he came back, he held out a datapad for you, mumbling an apology that it wasn't wrapped.

You swallowed nervously when he wouldn't meet your eye, and then you took the present reverently.

You flicked on the screen and found it open in a folder - "(Y/N)'s Poetry."

There were well over a hundred entries, all of them dedicated to you.

'The Radiance of a Smile', 'Promises of Forever', and 'Forgiveness of the Past', were just a few at the top of the list. Even more surprising was the fact that a great many of them were written before the two of you began dating. When you looked at the earlier entries, you saw how Megatron's feelings towards you had come about and evolved into something more.

You were speechless, yet on your face, Megatron was pleased to see that you knew how he felt for you, and that your love for him was just as much of a weight, though it was one you were glad to bear.

#fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert #reader #maccadam #transformers #mtmte #more than meets the eye #ll #lost light #the lost light #transformers idw #swerve #swerve x reader #rung #rung x reader #megatron #megatron x reader #gift exchange

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aziraphales-library · 11 months ago

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The requests for Christmas fics have started to come in... far, far too late. Remember folks, it takes us months to answer asks and then they're in the queue for a while before publishing.

Luckily this blog is a resource, not simply an ask blog. We already have a #christmas tag you can check for fics we've recommended before!

As a little bonus, here are a few new fics from this year...

City Of Blinding Lights by ShadesOfDeviant (G)

“Well, I sometimes—that is to say—I often considered an early evening walk round the area to see the lights quite the romantic endeavour. Arm in arm under the glow of the fairy lights, I even have a route planned out for should I ever get the chance to go.” “Should you ever get the chance?” Crowley snorts in a way that would be unattractive to almost anyone other than Aziraphale before he folds his newspaper in half and then half again, and casually tosses it onto the coffee table beside him. “You need to be a bit more subtle when you’re aiming for a temptation angel.” He adds with a quick wink before he rolls up onto his feet. AKA: Aziraphale has always wanted to go on a romantic evening walk round London to see all the Christmas lights. Now free of Heaven & Hell and able to openly express his feelings for Crowley, Aziraphale can't think of a better time to implement a plan nearly 40 years in the making.

A Dream Is A Soft Place To Land (may we all be so lucky) by randomramblingsofme (T)

Crowley feels as if the universe won't let him get his feet back under him. He has no plan, is juggling two jobs, coping with chronic pain from an old injury, expertly (so he thinks) hiding a raging crush on the bookseller across the street, and he is currently covered in tree sap. But things could be worse. For example, he could forget all about the Whickber Street Christmas party being hosted by said crush until five minutes beforehand. Oh shit. --- Modern AU, Barista Crowley/Bookseller Aziraphale

Eggnog and Effervescence by RepQueen15 (T)

Crowley turned so as to be able to watch the rest of the movie, and his ear pressed against Aziraphale’s thigh. He felt the angel tremble a little, as though this weren’t just some small service to him either, though that was nothing short of ridicule. Or perhaps…? No. This was just Aziraphale being his perfect, soft self. Though maybe, just maybe, Crowley wasn’t the only one who needed a little more physical contact in his life. *** Crowley and Aziraphale spend a quiet Christmas Eve putting up fairy lights, getting tipsy on eggnog, watching ridiculous Christmas movies and... cuddling.

Here’s a Hand (My Dearest Friend) by perilit (T)

Wherein Crowley allows himself to be comforted in the days leading up to the Christmas holiday, and repays with some comforting of his own.

I’m Dreaming of a Light (and Dark) Christmas by cheeseplants (T)

Aziraphale had begun plotting his revenge a few days after the encounter with the man he had begun to refer to as the demon in his head. Not that he was a vengeful person. He was a good and righteous person who believed it was important to bring light into people's lives. Lights, in fact. Several of them. _______ Two shopkeepers with very different ideas about Christmas battle it out on Whickber Street to create the most extravagant Christmas lights in London. But when the lights go out, they start to find they may have more in common than they first thought. An enemies to lovers human-AU Christmas decorations feud!

If the Fates Allow by catherineland (T)

Crowley makes a shocking discovery: Aziraphale claims to hate Christmas. Crowley’s new mission is to show his angel what he’s been missing.

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #christmas #fluff #domestic fluff #human au #mod d

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covetyou · 11 months ago

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freeze-thaw

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: no outbreak, fluff, smut, fingering, playing in the snow, temperature play, Joel probs has super bad circulation, established relationship but it's their first Christmas together and reader has some relationship insecurites word count: 2.7k summary: With your holiday plans ruined when a freak snow storm blows through town, you spend the fesitve period holed up with your partner, Joel Miller, learning exactly how warm you can keep each other in the snow.

A/N: happy holidays and merry sunday @oogaboogasphincter, from your Pedrostories Secret Santa! I went mostly for a snow, with a sprinkling of established relationship, and a dash of doing cozy things. I don't think I've written any of these things before, so it was a learning experience! I used just about every synonym I know for the word cold too.

snowy dividers by @saradika-graphics follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

Your holiday plans had gone to shit the moment that first flurry fell from the sky. Icy roads, cancelled flights, and downed power lines - Texas infrastructure at its finest - had put a halt to your plans to head back north for the holiday. Joel's holiday plans didn't fair much better, and instead of your first Christmas together being spent apart, you were spending your first Christmas together, well, together.

Then, to make a bad thing worse, the power went out, leaving you stuck in the dark and the cold in your apartment, and together suddenly became very together.

It hadn't been the plan - you still felt so very shiny and new at this, at being with him, and the idea of spending such a significant holiday holed up with him terrified you more than the dark ever did. But still, Joel drove on treacherous roads to come pick you up at 3am, dragging you and the perishable food from your refrigerator back to his place for the holidays. He had a generator, and fuel, and enough space for both of you to be comfortable, he said.

You spent the first day keeping to yourself, tiptoeing around, not wanting to disturb him any more than you were. Then he'd caught you circling around the back of the sofa, so as to not disturb his view of the TV, and his deep laughter stopped you dead in your tracks.

A "the fuck are you doin'" later and your insecurities came tumbling out, quickly quashed by Joel as he made it very well known just how much he wanted you there. That night, it didn't take you long to learn how warm you could keep each other.

The second day was spent bundled together on the sofa, him between your legs or you between his.

On the third, you worked up such a sweat together that you'd walked around his house naked, never more grateful for the generator chugging away in the garage.

Eventually, domesticity took over, and you spent a day wrapped up in each other in different ways. Watching a movie, drinking hot coffee, cooking a meal.

You'd trailed behind Joel into the yard on his way to check the generator that same day, Joel wanting to check it was well fueled, and you wanting an excuse to be out of the house for five minutes.

You kick at the snow, enjoying it for a few moments before it inevitably seeps through your shoes and chills your toes. Reaching down, you fluff it through your fingers, throwing a little into the air just to watch it fall again - as if you hadn't seen enough falling snow this last week. Joel is watches you, his eyes burning into your back and a smile tugging at his lips.

"You get inside, I'll deal with all this."

You stick your tongue out at him, trudging further over the snow to spin in the middle of the yard with your arms flung wide. He's laughing along with you when you stop, disorientated and unsteady on your feet. Looking back to him you stop in your tracks, finally seeing the deep gouges that mar the otherwise pristine white crust covering the ground. Yours and Joel's boots, footprints in the snow. Something about it, your foot steps mingling there together for all to see, wretches open your chest and captivates you.

And so, drawn in as you were by the footprints, you write your initials in the snow. Yours first, and then his, joined together and underlined as fact. You hesitate to carve out a frozen heart - too fearful to freeze something so warm and new and growing in something as rigid and fragile as ice - and turn to Joel again, a smile spreading across your face as you gesture to the letters in the snow -

"Oof."

- and a snowball, aimed perfectly at the back of your head a moment ago collides directly with your face. You cough and splutter, briefly blinded by ice as you swipe your freezing fingers over your face, hearing the creak of Joel's boots on the snow as he approaches you with apologies and laughter spilling from his lips in equal measure.

You glower at him, snow undoubtedly caught in your eyebrows, hiding a laugh of your own.

"Get," he says, turning you by the shoulders and pushing lightly to get you back inside. "I'll handle out here, check on the generator. Get warmed up."

Inside, the warmth almost burns as you peel off your layers and check on the food still baking away in the oven. Holding your hands in front of it like it was an open flame, you warm your fingers and wait for Joel, who comes back a few minutes later, chilled to the bone, stomping the snow from his boots and shaking his head as he shudders with the cold.

"Generator's still lookin' good," he says, slapping his gloves down on the counter. He rubs his hands together, blowing on them in an attempt to warm them up faster. Four days now, and the power was still out thanks to a new downfall of snow overnight.

"Your turn to get warm then," you smile, bending down to peer into the oven. "Dinner won't be long now."

"Sounds great, darlin'."

The bitter bubble of air he brought in with him surrounds you as he pulls you into his arms, nuzzling his frosty nose into your hair, laughing with you as you twitch away from the cold.

You expect him to move to the stove, to warm his hands on the heat of the oven just as you did, but instead he draws his fingertips up your belly, pushing your sweater up. Cold fingers meet the soft warmth of your bare skin and you gasp, gripping his arm.

"Joel! Don't you dare."

It was karmic justice really, given the number of times you'd warmed your feet on him in the night recently. You couldn't help it if the man was like a radiator.

"Got old fingers, baby, cold gets to my bones quick. Lemme warm 'em up, I know just the place."

"Fine," you say, tensing and preparing for the incoming press of his icy hand to your belly.

It doesn't come. Instead he tucks his hand down the front of your leggings, dragging the cold with him and holding you tight with his other arm.

"Joel..."

"What? Friction gets 'em warmer quicker. You don't want me to lose 'em to frostbite, do you?" You can feel him smiling into your hair as you gasp at the cold press of his fingertips to the white heat between your legs.

"No. Wouldn't want you gettin' frostbite."

Joel hums into your hair, breathing you in, just as he starts to rub softly over your clit. The sensation makes your skin prickle, first with warmth, then with cold, then something deliciously inbetween.

A moment later he's already slipping them from you and you twist, raising your eyebrow at him and preparing to call him a tease, only to watch as he slides his fingers into his mouth, slicking his cool digits up with his saliva. He's tucking them back into your leggings with a mocking raised eyebrow of his own, kissing the gasp from your lips as his fingers make cold, wet trails down your warm stomach again. They slip against your clit with ease now, but the wetness only exacerbates the chill of his fingers.

The layers of your panties and leggings can't warm up his hand fast enough, and even as he starts to rub gently at you, doing much more than just warming his fingers, you feel a shiver of cold run through you.

"Friction is b-bullshit," you stutter. "Your fingers are still cold as hell."

"Just think how I feel, they're my fingers."

"My heart bleeds for you, Joel," you retort, leaning your head back onto him.

"If it don't feel good, I can stop."

"... I never said anything about stopping," you sigh, closing your eyes and widening your stance a little so he can reach further down.

Joel doesn't need further prompting, his spit slicked fingers slipping through your folds to dip lower between your legs to swipe at your entrance. It seemed counterintuitive, putting something so cold somewhere so warm, but Joel's fingers sliding with ease through the wetness pooled between your legs was proof enough that it did something.

Small strokes become broader, his cold fingers swiping up and down the seam of you as if to prove friction was all he was after. The heat from your core soon begins to warm his fingers, pulling warmth back into his bones and easing the ache in them with each passing moment. Still, it's slow going, and your arousal seems to grow exponentially quicker than the warmth in his fingers.

When they finally feel warmer, and your soft sighs turn to deeper moans, you arch your back, winding your hips along with the movement of his fingers. The cold was no match for how hot you were starting to feel. You would burn the cold right out of him before he was through.

"Joel-"

You gasp again when he slides a single cool finger down and presses it slowly inside of you. His fingertips may have been warmed by friction, but the length of his digits had not, and they still felt icy cold, making you clench and grip around him. Still, no amount of clenching can hide the wetness dripping out of you as he slides in with ease, slicking his finger up before pushing in with a second. He fucks you with them slowly, restricted by the fabric of your leggings, before pulling your arching back flush to his body. A second later his fingers still inside you, anchoring you down just as his palm presses flat against your mound. Warming you up and then cooling you down again over and over was making your head spin, and while you shudder and shiver in his arms, you know it's not the cold that does it this time.

"How are your hands still so cold," you pant.

"Bad circulation, darlin'," he whispers, and you feel yourself grow wetter still at the low gravelly sound of his voice.

"Should get that seen to."

"Good job I got you in the meantime."

The slow curl of his fingers isn't enough, and you find yourself rocking into his frigid palm, eager for the friction to return to your clit now that his fingers are buried deep inside you.

"Grind on it, darlin', that's it. Warm me up."

He rubs the heel of his palm against your clit in sync with your movements, and before you know it you're holding back twitches and biting your lips to stop moans from spilling too loudly out of you.

"You're gonna make me come, Joel."

"Just warmin' my hands, nothin' else."

You can hear the smile in his voice and feel it against your neck as he nuzzles his cold nose into your cheek.

"I know your game, Miller," you say, before groaning once again, pressing back against him with each rock of your hips, feeling the rapid swelling of his cock against your lower back. It seemed you were warming him in more ways than one as his fingers curled inside you, pushing and dragging against that spongy spot on your front wall that he never failed to find.

"Pussy's like a damn furnace. Who needs the generator, when we got this."

His palm is still cold, but you're starting to sweat, feeling the prickle of it across your scalp as you move, panting into the warm air of Joel's home. He could hold you like this forever, be buried in you like this forever as the world outside turned to ice, and you wouldn't mind.

But you're made painfully aware that this can't last forever as you feel yourself getting closer, pressure building inside you with each buck of your hips.

"Joel."

It's dizzying - his slowly warming palm and fingers, now red hot inside of you as they press and press and press at you in a way that would normally have you boneless if you were lying on his bed. But, standing here in the kitchen, you lock out your knees and hold on, white knuckle gripping the counter with your own still cold hands.

A shudder hits you when his cold face nudges yours again, and you turn your head to meet his lips in a kiss. He pulls the warmth from you there too, his cold nose nudging at yours. Even through your panties and the restricted movement of his hand, you can hear how wet you are, sloshing beneath his palm as you let out a keening moan straight into his mouth.

"S'okay. I got you."

He coaxes it out of you, you can feel it coming, his fingers picking up the pace, making the nudge of his palm just right, for just long enough, to send you skyrocketing in his arms.

It's white hot, sending a shiver down your spine as an orgasm ripples through you, twinkling behind your eyelids before exploding in your core, a muted breathy scream pulling from you with each gasping breath that leaves your mouth. You're falling apart as he holds you together, coming on his fingers and beneath his palm as he grinds it into every rock of your hips. Well practiced hands stop just as you're hitting a point of oversensitivity, cupping and holding onto you gently as you go as limp as you can in his arms, knees locked to keep you upright.

He swallows down each of your moans greedily, until you're left breathing heavy, forehead pressed to his. You feel half asleep, even standing on two feet.

"S'your turn," you mumble, only to be dissmissed by Joel with a promise of "later". You're grateful for it, feeling too sleepy to function all of a sudden, until Joel's voice rumbles through you once more.

"I'd say you make a great handwarmer, darlin'."

Laughter spills out of you, warm and bright, the heat in your cheeks warming his nose as he nuzzles against you once again.

"Only one problem," he murmurs, the cottonwool slowly clearing from your head.

"Mm?"

"Got two hands."

His other hand is still cold, he knows it is, but that doesn't stop him from snaking it up your waist, under your sweater and tickling at your bare stomach. You crumple in on yourself, legs that had held you through orgasm buckling as you twitch and laugh into him, smacking your fists into his sturdy chest.

"Stop, stop! You ass- asshole! J-Joel! Stop it!"

He lets you taste the laugh on his lips, kissing you once more as his cold hand rests against your bare skin.

"C'mon, let's eat."

You end that day as it started, wrapped up together, oblivious to the world outside and warmer than you had any right to be in a snow storm.

By the fifth day, the storm has passed, and by the sixth the power is back on, just in time for the big day. You both barely notice, staying wrapped up and warm together over the holiday.

You return to your apartment in the New Year and, even though the power has been back on for days and the heat has been pumping steadily, the place has never felt so cold.

In the years to come, you'd ask Joel about that week - the first of a New Year, and the first without you after having you around for so long. He'd tell you how cold it felt, how empty his house was without you in it. And when you turn up on his doorstep at the end of that first week, sniffling and crying and telling him you missed him, he'll crumple, telling you he felt exactly the same before drawing you into his arms and pulling you inside.

And then, eventually, in a home that was his and is now yours, you'll be sat in warmth and sunshine - as unexpected to the you of back then as a snowball to the face - watching your combined families meet for a Christmas not turned on its head by a Texan snow storm.

taglist: @jupiter-soups @wannab-urs @bean-is-reading @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @youandmeand5bucks-blog @bbyanarchist @vickywallace @kamcrazy123 @valkyreally @ashhlsstuff @a-literal-goblin @ariundercovers @iluvurfather @stevie75 @toxicanonymity @thesevi0lentdelights @sp00kymulderr

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#pedrostoriesgift23 #pedrostories #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #coveted fics

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callsign-venus · 1 year ago

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I'll Be Home for Christmas | Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Reader

Description: With Bradley on deployment, you don't find the Christmas season as cheery as usual. The Daggers make it their mission to help you get into the holiday spirit. Cue intensely competitive gingerbread house decorating competition.

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Fluff with a teeny dash of angst. Drinking. That’s pretty much it. Really just self-indulgent, friendship-heavy fluff with lots of pining. Enjoy x

Nat King Cole’s voice dances out of your record player has you put the finishing touches on your cranberry Aperol spritzes. Their cherry warm color makes you smile despite yourself.

You have always loved Christmas, but this year it hits you like a truck – and not even one with a tree strapped on top. All the little traditions that usually warm your heart with holiday cheer feel just plain sad to do alone. You had a tremendous battle with your artificial tree, which fell on you twice. You were proud of yourself for not crying, and in the end you were able to admire all of its eight feet of glory. Then you remembered you had to light the whole thing. Two hours later, you had undone no less than three tangles of light strands, found out two of them were dead (and all your untangling had been for nothing), and had one big cry fest for yourself. Not even a steaming cup of cocoa made you feel better after that disaster.

Wrapping presents for your friends and family, rewatching all your favorite Christmas movies, and driving around rich people neighborhoods to admire their lights hadn’t gone as poorly, but they all made his absence grow harder to ignore.

When Bradley told you his deployment would last through the holidays, you struggled to keep your disappointment to yourself, though you’re sure he could see it shining in your eyes. As much as you would miss him during the holidays, you knew it was worse for him, with only emails and skype calls for comfort – no silly little Christmas rituals to occupy his mind.

“You need help in here?” Natasha’s voice jolts you out of your pity-party spiral.

“No, I just got distracted,” you say, scooping up two of the spritzes and offering her one. “Let’s get this party started.”

Phoenix smiles and accepts your cocktail. She herself had just gotten back from her own deployment, and pretty immediately sensed your holiday ennui. She was the one who suggested this festive evening, and you’ve never been more grateful for her friendship.

While you were listless in the kitchen, she had assembled the most perfect gingerbread house making station you’d ever seen: frosting packed into several near-bursting bags, candy canes arranged in perfect rows, gumdrops with a shimmering dusting of sugar, and a scattering of gingerbread roofs and walls waiting patiently to be dressed.

“Wow, Nat, this looks great.”

“Thank you. I’m sure the boys will mess it up in three seconds flat, but at least you appreciate it.”

As if on cue, your front door bursts open, and a clot of merrily dressed sailors spills into your home, arms stacked with presents for Secret Santa. You point to the open space under the Christmas tree, and quickly your and Natasha’s presents are joined by all the others.

After the presents are unloaded, you and Phoenix are engulfed in hugs. Fanboy is wearing a Santa hat, and he has two in hand that he passes to you and Phoenix, insisting that you put them on right now. You happily oblige, as you’re inching closer to how you usually feel during the holidays now that you’re surrounded by friends. Even Jake is cheery, having rocked up in an ugly Christmas sweater covered with bows and tinsel, which is bizarre yet comforting. You do your best not to think about the person you wish was here most, as the Daggers seem dead set to help you have a great Christmas despite his absence.

“This is for you, our gracious host.” Bob hands you a potted poinsettia. “Thanks for putting up with us.”

“It’s really no problem,” you insist as you place the flowers on the side table by your couch. “I love you all.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Still, we’re a lot, I know.”

He’s not wrong – Coyote and Payback have already found the spritzes and Fanboy’s popped three gumdrops into his mouth – but you don’t mind. Even when the gingerbread house decorating competition starts. Calling it a competition might be an understatement. The Daggers are more than competitive, especially about inconsequential things. Nobody speaks as they draft their houses in bright white icing and stud them with decorative candies. The only way to get them to quiet is through arts and crafts, you muse as you decorate your house with swirls of icing like snow drifts and tiny snowflakes dotting the roof and walls.

The sabotage begins early, when Hangman reaches for a bowl of peppermints and not-so-subtly brushes his hand over Phoenix's roof, smearing the frosting.

“Hey asshole,” Natasha says. “That’s my house.”

“Oh really? Looks like you got a little smear there.” Jake slides a finger across Phoenix’s carefully piped shingles, messing up her roof even more.

“You’re a dead man, Seresin.” Nat narrows her eyes. She won’t go for Jake’s gingerbread house, she’ll bide her time. You’re glad you’re not Hangman right now.

“Got anymore spritzes?” Coyote asks you.

You nod your head. “In the kitchen, help yourself.”

When Coyote gets up to refill his glass, Fanboy snatches his piping bag and swaps it for his almost empty one. While Fanboy’s distracted, Payback helps himself to the pile of Twizzlers Fanboy’s been hoarding since the beginning of the competition.

“Who is even going to judge these?” You ask almost absentmindedly as you stand a gingerbread couple together at the door of their house with copious amounts of frosting. “We all know whose house is whose.”

There’s a smattering of laughter.

“We’ll figure it out after Secret Santa,” Nat assures you as she completes the retiling of her roof, the eaves perfectly punctuated with peppermints.

Before you can question the logic of that solution, Bob asks for your opinion on colored versus strictly green and red gum drops.

“Hey, no helping the competition,” Fanboy complains.

“What?” You level a heavy gaze on him. “Scared you won’t win if Bob and I combine forces? I would be.”

“I’m just saying, this should be a fair contest,” he says.

You shrug him off and answer Bob, but in the spirit of sabotage, you neglect to tell him about the frosting dried on his cheek.

Even though you’re risking your gingerbread house’s safety, once you’ve finished, you slip into the hall. You refresh your inbox on your phone, and you smile as you see an email from Bradley.

Subject: Miss you

Hey pretty girl. Been missing you all day today. Wish I was there to hang stockings and give you the best mistletoe kiss the world’s ever seen. Don’t forget to hang it – you can leave it up until I get back. Don’t have a lot of time, but I just wanted to let you know that I love you and I can’t wait to come home to you.

Your heart flutters, as it always does when you get an email from him. You quickly type out a response.

Subject: Miss you more

Hey hot stuff. I’ve already hung the mistletoe and have no plans to take it down until you make me see stars under it. I miss doing holiday things with you (you really know how to wrangle the tree), but Nat especially has been helping me through it. Still, I really miss you. All I need is your arms around me and everything will feel right again. Can’t wait to see you again.

You press send and sigh. You never want to complain – it’s Bradley who had to live on an aircraft carrier for months at a time – but sometimes it feels so unfair for two people to be so in love and yet spend the holidays all alone.

You give yourself a moment to collect yourself before you go back to the increasingly hostile competition. Jake has icing in his hair – you know Phoenix is responsible, but her wrath won’t end there – and Payback’s house had a giant fist-sized crater in the roof. Surely unrelated, Coyote’s knuckles are dusted with gingerbread crumbs. You couldn’t help the smile the chaotic scene pulled from you. Especially since your gingerbread house remains in pristine condition.

You thank Nat for watching over it, and she responds with a bright smile. “No problem, I can’t have the boys messing up your Christmas celebration.”

“Hey!” All the boys except Bob protest in unison. Phoenix raises her brows, point proven.

Once all of the gingerbread houses are complete and aligned in a row like a candied neighborhood block, the party shifts toward the Christmas tree. Bob distributes presents to each of you. Yours is an envelope, and you know it is from Nat. Your name is written on the thick, cream paper in Nat’s graceful script, which you know like your own after years of friendship.

“No one can beat my present,” Nat boasts as she catches you studying the envelope.

“Oh we’ll see,” Coyote says.

You swallow down a little lump, seeing everyone around the tree without Rooster. Though you love and appreciate your friends, the emptiness of his presence is almost smothering.

Your mood warms when Jake volunteers to go first. You’re his Secret Santa, and just as you predicted, he loves the smartphone-controlled paper airplane you got for him. He opens it and has it folded in a matter of seconds. He syncs it to his phone, and his first flight ends with the plane crashing into Coyote’s head.

“Durable.” Hangman remarks as he picks up the paper airplane, which holds its shape just fine.

“Asshole.” Coyote replies.

Payback is next, and he gets a bottle of scotch from Jake. You don’t know much about scotch, but from Payback’s reaction, you can tell it’s a really nice bottle.

Coyote gets Bob a navy Aran sweater, which Bob wastes no time throwing on.

“Feel how soft!” Bob says as he smothers Coyote in a hug. Cue three minutes of Bob inviting everyone to touch his sweater – you can’t blame him, though, it is really soft.

Bob’s gift to Coyote makes you wonder how Nat is going to top it. Bob made a crochet version of Taffy, Coyote’s miniature pinscher.

“Thank you, I love it.” Coyote cradles the crocheted dog tight, and you wonder if you’re just imagining the tremble in his voice or if he’s actually about to cry.

“Come on Javy,” Jake says, “don’t go all soft now.”

Fanboy gets a countertop pizza oven from Payback, which instantly becomes one of his most prized possessions based on the sheer amount of pizza he consumes.

“Thanks, man.” He gives Payback a friendly punch on the arm. “You all have to come over for pizza night.”

You all hum in agreement. Fanboy’s pizzas are amazing, and you wouldn’t mind spending another night with everyone together. Well, almost everyone. You swallow down the lump in your throat.

Phoenix opens her gift from Fanboy slowly, as if she’s afraid of its contents. She peels back the shiny green paper to reveal a charcuterie board and a set of cheese knives with wooden handles that match the board. She hugs it close to her chest and mouths thank you across the room to Fanboy, who doesn’t notice because he’s reading the pizza recipe included with his oven.

Finally it is your turn. All eyes in the room land on you, strangely sober despite the freely flowing spritzes. You give Phoenix a quick glance as you slide a finger under the flap of the envelope, but her expression is unreadable.

“It's a…” you say as your fingers graze a satiny band of fabric. “Blindfold?”

You hold it up for everyone to see. Everyone’s expressions are carefully arranged to not convey anything. Not quite the laughter you were expecting. A sense of uneasiness blooms in your stomach.

Nat stands up and takes the blindfold out of your hands. Quicker than you can think, she’s tying it around your head.

“What is going on?” You ask.

She finishes the bow and pats your shoulder. “Just you wait.”

A few suppressed snickers fill the room and make your uneasiness melt into dread. The gentle shush of a door opening and closing makes it worse.

“I swear, if you guys are ‘How the Grinch Stole Christmas-ing’ me right now I will be so angry.”

The silence that falls after you speak is so, so loud. No one turned the record, so even Nat King Cole is quiet. But then you hear it. It’s hard to explain, but you’d know that breathing anywhere. You’d spent many nights falling asleep to that gentle lullaby or hearing it as he held you close in the kitchen, neither of you caring that dinner was burning on the stove.

You rip off the blindfold, and there he is. Bradley. Bradley. Standing next to your Christmas tree, a bow tied around his chest. The Daggers surround him like magician’s assistants, all their hands raised in a sort of ta-da manner.

You leap off the couch and into his waiting arms. He smells like an aircraft carrier and shitty coffee, his clothes rough and government-issued, and his hair cropped a little too close to his head than you know he likes – but he’s yours. He’s yours in the way his embrace consumes you, blurring the line between you and him, erasing the months and miles of distance between the two of you. He’s yours in the way the beat of his heart drums in rhythm with your own. Yours in the way that you are his as well. He lifts you up so your feet dance in the air, pressing kisses to the top of your head.

He sets you down and crashes his lips into yours. He slips his tongue into your mouth unabashedly, and despite your audience, you let him. The kiss is long enough that you start to feel bad for everyone else, so you sheepishly pull away.

“Goddamn, Rooster,” Hangman says, “let the girl breathe.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves the comment away.

But you don’t want to breathe. Not if your other option is to kiss Bradley until you’re both oxygen starved. Because you’re starved for him, need to feed on his presence.

Then the realization sets in. Rooster is supposed to be deployed for another month. You wheel around to face Nat. “How the hell did you do this?”

She shrugs. “Loverboy emailed me last week, just after I got home from my deployment. Said he was coming home earlier than expected, and he wanted to surprise you.”

“Wait, so all of you knew?” You pointedly look at everyone, but nobody can quite keep eye contact with you.

Bradley wraps an arm around your waist. “They all did pretty good keeping it under wraps, huh?”

“I would hope so, given our clearance levels,” Jake says.

Everyone laughs, but you’re still reeling. You can’t believe Bradley is here. His calloused fingers rubbing the skin of your back, just under the hem of your shirt. His gentle laugh reverberating against your body, reminding you what wholeness feels like. His lips, slightly chapped (with none of your chapstick to steal on the carrier), murmuring into your hair. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you know what he means nonetheless.

You’d imagined Bradley’s homecoming as a flurry of ripped clothes, bruising kisses, and mutual insatiable hunger, but this is better. All of your friends in the same room, sharing in this festive homecoming, looking like absolute dorks. Fanboy’s Santa hat sits askew on his head. Payback and Coyote are obviously drunk off their asses (they definitely pregamed the festivities, as Payback has been reduced to giggles and Coyote has actual tears streaming down his face). Jake has yet to realize the frosting in his hair, Bob the frosting on his face. And Natasha is a dork by association. You and Bradley too. But the overwhelming love in the room makes you want to sob happy tears.

Bradley happily indulges you all in judging the gingerbread houses. He gets down to eye level with each entry, runs his fingers along the roofs, occasionally snaps off a piece of candy and pops it in his mouth.

“Very good job, everyone.” He speaks to the group as if you’re all kindergartners, reveling in the building anticipation. There’s never a prize for Dagger competitions, but there doesn’t need to be. Bragging rights is all they need, no matter how menial the situation.

Bradley carefully reshuffles the houses in order from last to first place. Fanbody. Jake. Payback. Coyote. Nat. He purposefully shields first and second place. Only you and Bob are left – maybe the least competitive people in the room – and still, tension is thick in the air.

“And the winner…” Bradley’s voice booms like an old-fashioned gameshow host, “...is…”

He finally slides to the side to reveal your house sitting in first place.

Bob sticks his hand up for a high five. Your hands collide with a solid thunk.

“Not fair,” Fanboy protests. “Rooster’s obviously biased.”

“Come on, he didn’t know whose house was whose,” Phoenix says. “Besides, you weren’t even in the top five, and Payback had a hole in his roof.”

“It’s ok, Nat,” you voice oozes with fake sympathy. “I’d be upset too if I spent so much time on a shit gingerbread house.”

Fanboy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh you want to play that game?”

He lunges around the table, and you immediately grab Bradley to use as a human shield.

“Lots of talk from someone who’s gonna hide behind her boyfriend,” he says teasingly.

“I’m not hiding.” You tighten your grip on Bradley’s waist, his hands covering yours. “You can get to me, you’re just gonna have to get through him first.”

Bradley puffs out his chest. “Nobody disparages the gingerbread contest queen. She earned her title by being the best.”

Later, because he can’t keep a secret from you (the only thing that saved the Secret Santa surprise was only being able to communicate through email), Bradley confesses that he knew which house was yours the moment he saw it. But still, that one little detail doesn’t negate the fact that you are the gingerbread contest queen.

And Bradley defends your honor well as you maneuver him from behind to keep a distance between yourself and Fanboy. Eventually, Bob steps in to broker a peace deal to end the conflict. Somehow, you are roped in for bringing more spritzes to Fanboy’s pizza night, but he can no longer dispute the fact that you have the best gingerbread house. A win is a win, and your gloating privileges remain.

Later, when everyone is winding down and glancing at their coats hanging by the door, Bradley pulls you into the kitchen.

“Honey, I think our guests are about to leave.” You try to move back toward the living room, but Bradley keeps hold of your hand. “Please, let’s not be rude.”

He shakes his head. “They’ll understand. They know. They know exactly what it's like.”

You relent because he’s right. Even you don’t know what it’s like. Loneliness has been a long lingering companion of yours, but you suffer her presence at home surrounded by close comforts and your parents a short drive away. For Bradley, for Nat, for Jake, for Bob and all the rest, it’s different. It’s their job. They suffer loneliness with mostly long shifts and shitty food for company.

So you let Bradley chase out his – and your – loneliness in the kitchen. As he pulls you ever closer, his palms flattening you against him, you wonder how you ever survived apart when it was so clear that your souls were really just one.

You break away panting. God knows how long you were indulging, but you just about jump out of your skin when you realize Phoenix is in the kitchen right behind you, pouring herself a glass of champagne.

Your cheeks warm. “Nat!”

“Sorry, didn’t bother me, so I didn’t want to bother you.” She shrugs. “Want a glass?”

You decline, and you and Bradley shuffle out of the kitchen like teenagers caught in the act. Nearly everyone is shrugging their coats on, chatting about the night, when they catch sight of the two of you.

“Now, just where in the hell did y’all run off to?” Jake prods.

You can’t even look at them.

“Just the kitchen,” Rooster says, locking his hand in yours. “Needed to make sure the champagne was still flowing.”

Everyone shares the same knowing look that makes you want to shove them all out the door. Instead, you and Bradley post up at the door like perfect hosts and thank everyone for coming as they slip into the surprisingly chilly night. Then, only you, Bradley, and Phoenix are left.

While everyone was saying their goodbyes, she was sipping her champagne and quietly wiping sugar, gingerbread crumbs, and crusted frosting off the dining table.

“You bitch,” you say as you swoop in to help her clean up. “How come you didn’t tell me as soon as you found out?”

She laughs and takes another sip of wine. “Why don’t you ask Rooster?”

You raise your eyebrows at him. He sheepishly grins.

“In my defense,” he says, “it was a really good surprise.”

“I can’t believe you two.” You laugh. “But thank you for the surprise. It was wonderful.”

You try to direct your gratitude to them both, but something in Rooster’s expression snags your gaze and won’t let go. There’s still an unsatiated hunger heavy in his eyes.

Nat sets down her now empty glass. “Alright, lovebirds, I’ll take that as my cue to leave.”

She gathers her things, and you walk her to the door.

“Thank you.” You give her a hug. Neither of you are super touchy, but your gratitude for her tonight is almost endless. “Thank you for everything.”

“Don’t mention it.” She squeezes you tight before letting go. “Goodnight, Rooster!”

“Goodnight!” He calls from somewhere deep in the house.

“Sounds like he’s waiting for you,” she winks. “See you soon.”

“Get home safe!”

And with that, it’s just the two of you. You expect Bradley to pounce the second the door closes, but he doesn’t appear as you linger by the doorway. Odd. You check the kitchen, living room, and dining room. All empty.

“Bradley?” You call.

“Right here.”

His response floats from down the hallway, from your bedroom.

And sure enough, there he stands in the doorway. Right under the mistletoe you hung up earlier in the week, the biggest grin on your face when you pictured his homecoming some time after New Years, all the Christmas decorations gone except the lonely mistletoe, waiting patiently for his arrival. But now, you can put the mistletoe to good use while Christmas is still bright on the horizon. The warmth of the season bleeds into the warmth of your kiss. Christmas will come as surely as it would have if Bradley was on deployment, but now you welcome it. You want lazy days sipping eggnog and baking cookies. You want late, festive nights at the Hard Deck with the Daggers, getting into pool competitions with Bradley as your loyal teammate despite how disastrous you are at pool, assured in his easy we-lose-together attitude. You want a Christmas morning with presents that don’t matter because the best gift you could ask for has already appeared right by your tree tonight, wrapped in a bow.

“Don’t leave me ever again,” you whisper against his chest.

“I won’t,” he says, “I won’t.”

You both know it’s not something you can ask of him, not a promise he can keep. It’s not fair to either of you to pretend like this will be his last homecoming, the last time you both are starved of each other for months. But right now, it feels good to pretend.

You can’t think long about his future deployments, however. Your worries melt away as Bradley makes good on his promise to give you the best mistletoe kiss the world’s ever seen.

#bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw #top gun maverick fanfiction #rooster fluff #bradley bradshaw fluff

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ac3may · 1 year ago

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" the wag diaries "

How You Met

~ Leah Williamson ~

~~~~~~~~~~

if being called up to play in England’s 2022 Euros wasn’t rewarding enough

it was also what led you to meet Leah

outside of a rival environment at least

despite playing in the WSL from 16-yrs-old and junior England squads from even younger, the nerves for your first senior call-up were real

having your older sister, Millie, and her vast experience, accompanying you should have been comforting

but the moment she teased you over your stuttered introduction to the skipper you were questioning whether that was true

you’d known each other less than a day before Leah was helping you through a panic attack

and another 48 hours later and you were pulling her out of her own stress spiral

a moment that happened to lead to a movie playing on her laptop and her head on your chest as she napped

but you accepted that a crush on the England captain was probably not a recommended thing to act on

unfortunately Rachel and Millie (aka your honorary pains in the ass) wouldn’t let it go quite so swiftly

with their encouragement, you found yourself in for some harsh rejection

Leah didn’t feel mid-competition was the right time to begin a relationship

particularly not with a fellow teammate

despite it being expected, it hurt

as quiet as you tried to keep it the news spread

your camp mums (Lucy, Mary & Jill) finding out particularly fast

the mother hen in them all jumped out, leading Leah to receiving a stern talking to

and maybe some threats

hearing the message loud and clear Leah spent days asking to speak to you

not intending to hurt you, she had just done what she thought was best for both of you

after some incredible, slightly mortifying, begging you finally let her explain

in doing so you realised just how much you’d missed her

enjoying falling into the routine of laughing with and teasing the older blonde

but when Leah let it slip she did feel the same, you have to make a bet

“Oh, so you do like me back, Miss Williamson? Hmmm. That’s not what you said before”

*splutters in response at the cockiness*

“Well in that case how about we make a deal? If we win the Euros you have to take me out. And then we can reconsider this whole girlfriend thing?”

Leah had never found herself so speechless

she was usually the one making bold claims not the other way around

she liked it

she had to agree

and low and behold you won the euros

unfortunately the mass introduction of media to both of you following the Euro’s was not healthy for your relationship

nor was the league rivalry of Arsenal vs. Chelsea when you were both as passionate for your teams as you were

you didn’t even make it to Christmas

but of course that wasn’t the end of your story

as passionate as you were about football you were about each other too

it came down to figuring out a balance

the realisation came first to Leah when she got injured and the one thing she longed for more than anything was to have you at her side

two weeks later you were playing your dream match-up

a Champions League semi-final, away at Camp Nou

what wasn’t a part of the dream was the part where your sister limped off the pitch, an injury in her knee

and even less dreamlike was the moment where you got barged roughly, mid-save

the shove causing you to land uncomfortably on your shoulder, excruciating pain immediately shooting through your body

after being rushed to the hospital, you’re told later that evening you had severely torn your rotator cuff

worse than that, you were out of the Champions League

you were out of the game for at least six months according to the doctors

joining the ranks of the England injury gang you spent even more time with Millie

who had happened to be spending a lot more time with Beth Mead

who was of course spending time recovering with Leah

Millie knowing she was likely to be back in time for the World Cup forced you into outings with the Arsenal players

she thought it’d help you process your injury and loss

it only made you hurt more, seeing how distraught Leah was

and not being able to help

you had more time for these big competitions

even the last one still felt like a fluke to you!

slowly though you returned to the roots of your friendship with Leah

supporting each other when you needed it most

taking it slow this time you worked to build a healthier relationship

you developed good communication and set plans in place for when you were stressed

or competing against each other

~~~~~~~~~~

If any of you have ever read my Wattled story Amorousness about Leah, this is essentially an amalgamation of all the ideas I had for that. So spoiler alert ig?? But also I don't know if I'll ever finish the full fic so I'm glad it'll exist somewhere!

#wag diaries #ace writes stuff #lionesses #woso x reader #woso blurb #leah williamson x reader #leah Williamson blurb #arsenal women

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andreafmn · 11 months ago

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12 Days of Ficmas ❅ Day 1

Word Count: 4.8K Paring: Stiles Stilinski x Fem!Reader Prompt @alloftheprompts: Character A and Character B broke up but now they meet at a Christmas party.

Summary: In unpredictable Beacon Hills, Stiles and (Y/N) being together was one of the only things that made sense. But sometimes the smallest of changes can create the biggest of chaos. And a simple college admission letter can do just that. Maybe all it takes is the right Christmas gift to make things better.

A/N: yup, that's right, I'm doing 12 Days of Ficmas again (even if I haven't finished Kinktober 🫣🫣 but I am nothing if not a masochist (and a slight procrastinator) But enjoy!! This story actually made me tear up, honestly. But it wouldn't be one of my stories if there wasn't an insane amount of angst 😅 Also, disclaimer, I have not seen the last two seasons of Teen Wolf or the movie so, sorry for any inconsistencies.

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“Let’s just get this over with,” (Y/N) sighed as she fixed the Santa hat on top of her head. “They don’t have to know yet.”

“Yeah,” Stiles grimaced. “It’s better to wait until after the holidays, I guess.”

It was the first time Stiles and (Y/N) had ever been terrified to enter Scott’s house and face all of their friends. Even worse, they had to pretend everything was fine between them.

Since they were little, the pair had been inseparable. Being next-door neighbors allowed them to grow close at a rapid pace. It was in her that he found solace on the nights his mother’s illness would take the best of her mind. He would run over to her house and climb the lattice that ran all the way up to her room.

And she wouldn’t ask questions. (Y/N) would simply let him in through her window and distract him until he eventually drifted off to sleep. She did not need any explanations or reasons to comfort Stiles. She simply knew he needed her, and so she was there for him. Because if there was anything she knew of, it was the pain of slowly losing a parent.

They shared a bond that no one could break. Even as Scott entered their duo and they became the perfect trio, Stiles and (Y/N) shared a connection like no other. So, it came as no surprise to anyone when they got together. Even after Stiles had continuously professed his love for Lydia. Even after (Y/N) and Boyd had a quick fling. Everyone knew that it would be the two of them at the end of the day.

What no one expected was that one day, they wouldn’t be Stiles and (Y/N) anymore. Hell, not even they had seen it coming.

Their downfall had begun the second week of December. For some reason, the couple had not spoken about what happened after high school. In their senior year, they were focusing on the present, leaving the future where it was. Because what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.

(Y/N) had applied under early action to various colleges, thinking nothing of it. But there was one college that had been her dream since her father had passed, and that was her only early decision application. She had worked every day since to make sure she was at least close to being accepted. But it was never a sure thing.

She had promised herself to put it in the back of her mind. Stressing over that envelope would only drive her into madness. As much as she wanted it to be true, she knew the reality of the situation. The chances she could ever get in, much less with a full ride, were slim to none. And hoping only made things worse.

Still, that hadn’t stopped her from applying; it hadn’t stopped her from wishing.

“Honey,” her mother had said one afternoon after she got home from school. “Look what came in the mail.”

In her hands, there was a white manila envelope with blue lettering that clearly read: University of Oxford.

(Y/N) could have sworn she could feel her heart in her throat, beating at an unnatural pace and threatening to leap out of her body. She crossed the distance between her front door to the kitchen faster than she had ever done before, needing to feel the paper in her hands. Only seeing it was not proof enough that it was real.

“I don’t think I can open it,” the girl worried. “What if it’s bad, mom?”

“You won’t know unless you see, my darling,” she smiled softly. “But no matter what, you will still be the most impressive young lady I have known. And any college would be lucky to have you.”

With trembling hands, she broke open the envelope and pulled out a beautiful and crisp piece of white paper. “Dear (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” she read before taking a steadying breath. “It is with greatest pleasure that we inform you that the Admissions Comittee has decided to offer you admission to Oxford University through our binding Early Decision (ED) option on a full scholarship.”

As (Y/N) read those words, tears spilled from her eyes, and the papers fell from her hands. Her mother wrapped her arms tightly around her, showering her with words of love and encouragement. It had been everything she had worked for. Something not even the supernaturals of the world could take from her.

“You’re going to Oxford, baby girl,” her mother cooed. “I knew you could. Your dad would have been just as proud as I am.”

That moment should have been the happiest in her life so far. But there was a dark cloud that lingered over her as she celebrated. She had not told anyone she was applying to a college so far away, much less the reason she would be doing so. Mostly because she was terrified she wouldn’t get in. But part of her knew it was because she was leaving all her friends behind, leaving Stiles behind. And that was the hardest part.

For the rest of the week, as she celebrated internally, she hid the biggest news of her life from all of her friends and the boy she had deemed the love of her life. Anyone would have thought she was the one harboring a secret supernatural life with the way she was guarding her secret. And, maybe it shouldn’t have been something she kept to herself. Maybe they would have all been excited for her and understood the reason for the distance. But something deep in her stopped her every single time.

If her friends had noticed there was anything different from her demeanor, they didn’t say a thing. In the midst of final exams and the Christmas holidays soon approaching, everyone seemed to be stuck in their own heads. So, if they were in their heads, they couldn’t know there was something happening in hers.

But that Friday night, at the same hour Stiles would always sneak in, (Y/N) knew there was no way she could continue to hide her secret any longer.

“Come on,” he chuckled as he jumped onto her bed, holding his arms open. “Tell me what’s going on with you.”

“What do you mean?” she said, forcing a smile. “Why do you say that?”

“You know you can’t lie to me. I may not have super hearing, but I can tell, (Y/N).”

“Yeah,” she chuckled softly. “You know me too well.”

“Of course I do,” he smiled as he crossed the distance between them and caressed the softness of her cheek. “Now, please, tell me what’s wrong?”

That was it. That was the moment that had changed them, the moment that had broken them.

(Y/N) took a steadying breath and took his hands in hers, focusing on the veins on his hands rather than his worried eyes. “I got a letter last week,” she started with a sigh. “I told you about all the colleges I had applied to as early action.”

“Of course, you bright mind, you,” he said. “Did you already start getting the acceptance letters?”

“Uh, there’s another college I actually applied to. Early decision.”

“Like binding early decision?”

“Yeah, exactly,” she said, her voice trembling as she spoke. “I, uh, I applied to the University of Oxford. And I got in.”

Instead of embracing her, Stiles dropped her hands, taking a step away from her. “In England?” he asked as though he was offended. “Why would you wanna go that far?”

“It’s not about the distance,” she grimaced, finally meeting his hurt eyes. “It’s about what that school means. That’s where my dad went to school. That’s the place my parents met. That was the school that started my entire life, Stiles.”

“So, why didn’t you tell me about it? If it was so damn important, why did you never mention it?” Stiles seethed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “You wanna start a new life, is that it? Follow in your parents’ footsteps and meet the love of your life there? Great, (Y/N). And you made sure you did it in a way you couldn’t back out.”

“Stiles, that’s not…”

“So, what? Were you gonna wait until graduation to tell me that you were moving halfway across the world to get away from us? From me?” the boy cried. “Or were you simply going to disappear and start a new life without telling anyone? But I guess that’s your thing now, huh? Keeping big shit like this until you can’t anymore.”

“That’s not fair, Stiles,” she frowned, hugging her arms tightly across her torso. “I didn’t want to get my hopes up, so I didn’t say anything. That doesn’t mean that I would have never told you about it. I’m not looking to escape. I’m looking to start my future.”

“And it looks like you were starting it without me then,” he croaked. “What does that mean for us, (Y/N)? We ride it out until graduation, and then you leave for the rest of your life?”

“I don’t… you wanna b-break up?”

“It’s inevitable now, isn’t it?” Stiles said in a tone that broke her more than the words he was speaking. “You’re gonna be in England, and I’m gonna be god knows where. It’s better just to do it now.”

That night was nothing like she had imagined it would be. She had hoped Stiles would have been excited for her and promised her everything would be alright. That somehow he would have the answers to how they could withstand so much distance because they had to make it. Out of everyone in their friend group, those two had to make it.

Instead, it had taken a turn for the worse. One second, Stiles was standing before her with a smile on his face, and the next, he was leaving through her window with tears streaming down his face. What she had most been dreading was that scenario to play out, and a week before their friend’s holiday party, it had. They had gone through life-threatening and mind-boggling situations, but it was a college acceptance letter that broke them apart.

The coming days (Y/N) spent buried in bed. Although she should have been celebrating one of her biggest achievements –other than saving lives and defeating many, many creatures– she had wasted more tears during that time than she had done the past years of her life. She was distraught and defeated, and she had no idea how she would make it through the last semester of high school, much less how she would have made it through a Christmas party.

Somehow, they had arrived at Scott��s house at the same time, even after she had made sure she left twenty minutes after Stiles. The universe liked to play its mean tricks, but that one was almost unforgivable.

“Let’s just try to stay out of each other’s way,” he grimaced. “The less we are near each other, the harder it’ll be for them to find out.”

“Harder to find out what?” Scott asked as he swung the front door open, his signature goofy grin stretched across his mouth. Instinctively, Stiles draped his arm around (Y/N)’s shoulders and smiled brightly. “Ooh, did you bring your brownies, (Y/N)?”

“Yeah,” she smiled. “Still warm from the oven.”

“Wouldn’t be a party without them,” Stiles commented. “Now, let us in. It’s kinda cold out tonight.”

The second they were inside, Stiles broke for the living room while (Y/N) moved to the kitchen with Scott. She set the tray on the overfilled kitchen island, noticing to the side that the dinner table was perfectly set up. “Oh, the table looks nice,” she commented. “But I thought we’d be doing something more low-key.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled awkwardly. “Lydia thought it’d be fun to do a more grown-up dinner party.”

“Yeah. Place settings and everything.”

“We were waiting for you guys to start eating,” he said. “We’re doing gifts after.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Slowly, the rest of the group trickled into the kitchen, greeting and hugging (Y/N) as they looked over all the food and served themselves their plates. And, of course, her seat was right next to Stiles’. Even if she had wanted to sit anywhere else, the rest had already taken their assigned seats, and the only open spot was the one that had her name.

She gave her ex-boyfriend a small smile, looking anywhere but into the brown of his eyes. Her heart beat against her chest, threatening to jump out of her body. It made her fidgety as everyone ate, thinking any of the wereanimals around her would be able to tell how she was feeling.

But Scott was laughing with Stiles, Malia was talking to Lydia, and Hayden, Liam, and Mason had their own conversation running. (Y/N) was all by herself. She was surrounded by all the people she loved, but it was the loneliest she had felt in a long time. Without the usual comforting words from Stiles, she couldn’t help but feel so out of place. It was the happiest time of the year, but the girl was miserable, and it hurt that it didn’t seem like the boy she loved was sad as well.

“Alright,” Lydia spoke up as everyone ignored their mostly empty plates. “Now that our bellies are full, I think it’s time for Secret Santa! And I truly hope you all kept it a secret this time.”

“Not that it’d matter anyway,” Liam chuckled. “We all know we ask for help every time.”

“Anyways,” she said, ignoring the soft laughter that erupted from the group. “Let’s go to the living room, and (Y/N) you’ll go first.”

“Oh, uh, sure,” she smiled as she followed the group into the living room. She crouched under the decorated Christmas tree, pulling out the gift that had been there for almost two weeks. “I got Lydia.”

“How wonderful!” the redhead mused, quick to hug her friend and rip away the wrapping paper. Inside the gift box was a mosaic picture of Lydia, Allison, and (Y/N), the first time they had finally considered each other friends. “Oh, it’s beautiful! I wish I could take it with me everywhere.”

“It was hard to get it just right, but I loved how it turned out.”

“It’s perfect, (Y/N),” she beamed. “Thank you.”

“Of course. I love you, Lids.”

“Love you too,” the girl said as she wrapped her friend in a tighter hug. “My turn!”

Lydia had gifted Liam nine books out of his TBR list —nine because of his lacrosse number. Then, Liam gifted Scott a new leather jacket so he could “actually look cool when riding his motorcycle,” Liam snickered. Scott then gifted Malia a light blue hoodie to add to her ever-growing collection, while Malia gifted Hayden a journal and pen set, saying it was for when her mind felt too busy. After a warm smile and a hug, she announced her gift was for Mason, laughing as he pulled out an ugly cat sweater. Once the loud laughter subsided, Mason gifted Stiles a massage mat for his Jeep.

“For when you’re taking really long drives,” the boy smiled, clearly proud of himself. “There’s quite some distance between here and D.C. It’ll come in handy.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled as he hugged Mason. “Thanks, man. It’s great.”

“Don’t mention it.”

As Mason sat back down, Stiles cleared his throat as he pulled the last gift. Everyone knew by then who it was for. There was no one else left. “Well, I guess you all know who this is for,” he said. “I hope you like it, (Y/N).”

The girl received the bag with a soft smile, trying her best to swallow the tears that were threatening to spill. She had forgotten for a second how cruel the universe could be. She pulled out the white tissue paper first before finding a beautiful brown bear dressed in a blue knit sweater. Around its neck, there was a necklace with something she could only assume was a soundwave. With curiosity washing over her, she looked to Stiles for an explanation.

“Uh, so, it’ll make a lot more sense if you press the bear’s hand,” he stammered. Once she died as told, the sound broke her. From deep in the belly of the teddy bear, her father’s voice rang out, singing the words of “You Are My Sunshine.” There was not a single night when she was little that her father didn’t sing that to her, and even as she grew old for the lullaby, he would call her sunshine. “I got a recording from your mom of your dad singing the song when you were a baby,” Stiles spoke over the music. “And the necklace is the image of the soundwave of your dad calling you sunshine.”

Tears had long since fallen down her cheeks, clutching the bear in her arms as though it was her own father. With her eyes closed, it was almost as though he was right there, singing to her. But it was what came after the song that shattered her. “You’re gonna do great things, (Y/N),” her father said through the bear. “I love you forever, my little sunshine.”

At that moment, all she wanted to do was hug Stiles and kiss him like she had done a million times before. That was the boy she had fallen in love with. The one that cared and listened. The one that had made her heart race and her stomach turn into butterflies. She wanted to tell him she loved him and never let him go, but she couldn’t. Just like she could never do with her father.

“I, uh,” she said as she stood from the couch, feeling as though she would faint in the crowded room. “I need some air.”

(Y/N) stammered her way out of the living room and through the front door, only allowing herself to break down when she was at the end of the driveway. She fell to her knees and hugged the bear to her chest as she cried, letting the hurt that had accumulated over the years spill onto the pavement. In less than six months, she was going to walk into a new life halfway across the globe without the support of her father and now, without the support of Stiles. All alone.

She should have been celebrating. She knew that. She should have been crying tears of joy and jumping into her love’s arms. Instead, it was the bear’s arms that she could feel. The softness of its fur, the sound of her father’s voice.

Without even realizing it, she had begun singing along to the lullaby, sniffling between words as the tears didn’t relent. “You’re gonna do great things, (Y/N),” her father said once more through the bear. “I love you forever, my little sunshine.”

“I love you too, dad,” she cried.

“Hey,” his voice startled her. Through teary eyes, she looked up to find Stiles draping a jacket over her shoulders. He slid to the ground next to her, facing the house before them as she was now. “I’m sorry. I bought the gift weeks ago, and I wasn’t sure if I was still allowed to give it to you.”

“No, it was… i-it was perfect,” she stammered, running her hand over the bear’s fur. “It’s just everything rushed over me. Like the breakup, the fact that I won’t be here next year, the fact that my dad won’t even see me gradua…”

Another string of sobs ransacked (Y/N)’s body, but that time it wasn’t the bear she was hugging. Stiles had wrapped his arms around her, pressing her into his chest. She could smell his cologne and feel his warmth, a feeling she had missed for the past seven days. All she wanted was to melt into his touch and profess to him all that she felt. But she couldn’t. Not anymore. Because he didn’t want it.

“I didn’t want things to be this way,” she cried into his chest. “I didn’t want everything to fall apart.”

Stiles remained quiet as she cried, a hard feat for someone like him. But he let her cry and cry until only quiet sniffles filled the air. Because he hadn’t wanted things to be that way either.

He knew he had overreacted. When he had told (Y/N) his plans of enrolling in George Washington University all the way across the county, she had told him they could make it work. Especially if she got into any of the ivy leagues she had applied to on the East Coast. It had been fine. Hell, it had been perfect.

But when she told him that she wouldn’t just be a couple of states away but that she would be on another continent, he couldn’t help but let his abandonment issues take control.

He knew she was brilliant. He knew she deserved to do and be all that she had dreamed. But he feared that once she achieved all of her goals, he would just not fit into her life anymore.

“You’re gonna go on to do great things, (Y/N),” he sighed sadly as her tears stopped. “You’re gonna go to Oxford, just like your parents, and you’re gonna probably graduate at the top of your class on your way. And I’ll be here —well, in Washington, technically—cheering you on.”

“But why couldn’t we be great together, Stiles? We couldn’t we both go on to do great things, together?”

“Come on, (Y/N). Once you’re there, you’re gonna meet so many people, and you’ll have guys falling on their knees for you,” he chuckled dryly. “I won’t fit into your new world. I mean, you said it yourself: that’s where your parents met and your life began. And now, maybe you’ll have a new beginning. And years from today, we’ll run into each other, and you’ll tell me about your job and your husband and your kids, and I’ll be so happy for you. Because you serve all the love and happiness in the world, even if it’s without me.”

“Have you even asked yourself if that’s what I want?” (Y/N) asked as she left his warm embrace, her red eyes boring into his. “I’m not leaving because I’m searching for a new life. I want to go to Oxford because it’s one of the last things I can share with my dad. I can walk down the same halls he did, I can take classes in the same classrooms, and eat at the same places he did. But I was always going to come back, Stiles. Because my friends are here, my mom is here, because you are here. I don’t want to run into you and talk about another man or the kids I would have with him. I don’t want to run into you at all. I want to walk beside you, Stiles. If I ever have kids, it’s only if they’re a part of you too,” she cried, fresh tears falling down her already-stained cheeks. “If you don’t love me anymore, then fine. I can understand that, and I can walk away. But don’t you dare say that you wouldn’t fit into my life because you’ve been there longer than anyone I know, and I need you to be there until the end. Because I already lost someone important to me and I can’t lose you too. Not you.”

“(Y/N), I don’t want to lose you either,” he sobbed. “But how can we fight with the distance? How could we ever withstand the fact that we’ll be an ocean away?”

“We have gone through worse battles than a plane ride, Stiles. We have been on the brink of death more times this past year than any person would in their lifetime. Do you really think being in a different time zone is the limit to our relationship? I know the future isn’t promised but you were the one person I always knew would be there.”

“I’m scared, okay?! I’m scared that you’ll meet someone better than me, (Y/N). I’m terrified that you’ll realize that maybe I’m not the guy that can give you your happy ever after,” he finally confessed. His voice croaked, and his chest heaved as the words fell out of his mouth faster than he could ever stop them. “This week has been torture without you. But it’s made me realize that Beacon Hills has always been too small for you. After May, you’re gonna go out there and find your place. And this town will be nothing but a memory you’ll come back to.”

“There is no one better for me than you, Stiles, and Beacon Hills will always be my home,” she replied softly. Her cold hand found his cheek, and she wiped away his tears with her thumb. “I don’t want to know a life where you’re not there. You can’t give up on us without even trying, Stiles. You just can’t.”

Without thinking twice, (Y/N) crashed her lips onto his, sinking into the warmth of his mouth. After a week, kissing him felt like the very first time. It was desperate and filled with need —the need for closeness and passion, the need for love. Instinctively, Stiles’ hands found her waist and pulled her closer to him, wondering how he ever thought he could live without her touch.

“I love you, Stiles, and I don’t even want to think about ever having to love someone else,” she whispered as she parted from him. “My heart belongs to you. And if this is the end, it’ll still remain in your hands.”

“I couldn’t love anyone else like I love you, (Y/N),” he replied with a soft smile. “But I just can’t help the thoughts that flood my brain sometimes.”

“Then don’t listen to them and listen to me when I say that since the moment I met you, I’ve known you were it for me. There is no other man waiting for me in Oxford. It’s you, and it will always be you,” (Y/N) said before kissing him softly once more. “You’re the best thing that has happened to me, Stiles Stilinski, and you’re the only thing that I want to keep happening to me.”

“I can’t believe I ever broke up with you. Especially during Christmas,” Stiles chuckled as he rested his forehead against hers, flicking the tip of her nose with his own. “It was honestly the worst week of my life.”

“Including being possessed?” Scott’s voice startled them as he came into view. “Although, I get it because this was completely avoidable.”

(Y/N) chuckled as she took Scott’s extended hand and got on her feet, wiping away any tears that still remained. “Did you hear that whole thing?”

“More or less,” he chuckled. “It’s a bit hard not to when I was coming to see if you guys were okay.”

“We’re good now, Scotty,” Stiles grinned. “Just had some unresolved feelings to work, though.”

“Can you not mention the whole thing about the breakup? I don’t wanna make it a whole thing.”

“That’s a bit hard, (Y/N),” Malia called from the open front door. “We all kind of already know.”

“Oh, cool, great,” she said as she hid in Stile’s embrace. “That’s not embarrassing at all.”

“Eh, at least our parents are back together,” Liam commented. “Best Christmas present.”

“It really is, huh?” Stiles whispered as he kissed the top of her head.

“Yes. Very cute and adorable,” Lydia added in a desperate tone. “Now, can we go back inside before Hayden and Mason finish all the brownies?”

As the group walked back into the house, Stiles and (Y/N) shared one more moment together on the front porch. “Hey, look up,” Stiles said with a smile. “Mistletoe.”

“Funny that they’d hang that at a werewolf's home,” she chuckled. “Although, I’m pretty sure that one’s plastic.”

“And I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to kiss me.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for another guy to kiss under the plant.” Stiles frowned at her words, and all she could do was laugh. “Too soon?”

“Much,” he said. “Now, come here.”

He snaked his hands on either side of her face and kissed her passionately. He kissed her for every day they had spent apart. He kissed her for every hurtful word he had spewed. He kissed her as a promise of his love for her. Stiles kissed her like she was his future.

Next ->

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creativity-deficient · 2 months ago

Text

Random Tweek Tweak hcs bc im thinking bout him yet again :)))

-Has an undiagnosed anxiety disorder, made worse by the increased use of Methamphetamine over the years and mistaken for adhd (canon/implied canon), which I do like to think DOES have as well. He is also on the autism spectrum.

-Has mild Seborrheic dermatitis, a skin condition that causes red and flaky patches of skin and usually flares up due to stress. It starts mainly on his head/under his hair as a kid but worsens in his teens years. Also has dermatillomania (a skin picking disorder), as well. Both of these become a lot worse in his teen years, with the addition of meth induced skin sores and hormonal acne to boot, but do become a lot more manageable for him as an adult. Still however, he does have some faint scars from all the picking and scratching over the years.

-Small tubby lil guy :) (sorta?? implied canon??), below average in height and considerably pudgy compared to most of his peers (genetics/stress eating). Loses a lot of this weight in his teen years due to health issues, but does gain a lot of it back as an adult. Also has a pudgy baby face that he never quite grows out of, even as an adult.

-His eyes a blue hazel, a rare eye color

-Sometimes snaps and hums to calm himself down.

-Enjoys baking as a casual hobby, though he’s still an amateur and doesn’t know how to make much. (implied canon)

-Once joined every school club because he had an anxiety attack and couldn’t decide what to pick

-Habitual nail chewer, again something he usually does due to stress. Nails are very short and stubby because of this

-Bandages on his fingers due to burns, skin picking, and nail biting

-Chronic ice-chewer

-Never learns to tie his shoes. Kept tripping over his laces before finally taking them out. Untied laces to laceless shoes to crocs to socks with sandals to velcro shoes pipeline

-Also never learns to drive, too much stress. Forever in his passenger princess era ✨

-Lowkey a backseat driver, though not in a “know it all” type of way. He mostly just freaks out the entire time.

-Can not sleep in the car because he’s afraid the second he closes his eyes, they’ll crash.

-Doesn’t know much slang/internet lingo and has absolutely no idea what his peers are talking about half the time (pretends he does and usually just ends up looking stupid 😔)

-Has a fear of rubberhose cartoons, as well as those weird old stop motion Christmas movies (he just finds them unsettling)

-Told about the secret family recipe as a teenager by his father, and is reasonably freaked out about it. Is forced to keep his mouth shut about it and suffers through major withdrawals before his parents are eventually exposed and arrested for the distribution of meth/counts of child abuse. Spends most of his high school years in therapy and rehab, though it’s all made easier with Craig by his side

-He and Craig try breaking up their freshman year of high school, both of them feeling like they need to try new things for a bit. It lasts about a week before they get back together.

-TERRIFIED of scissors and refuses to let anyone come near him with them. Grows his hair out long as a teenager before finally caving in and shaving it off as a young adult. He now keeps it managed, but Craig is the only person he trusts to do so.

-Did once try to cut his own hair in middle school though, and he spent weeks looking like a train-wreck before finally letting his mom fix it.

-His relationship with his mom is considerably better than his relationship with his father, and though he never quite forgives her for what she’s done, the two of them are able to reach some sort of closure with each other in Tweek’s older age

#idk I just love him hehe #half of these are me projecting lmaooo #I’ve had a lot of these in my mind for a while now #south park #tweek tweak #sp creek

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dpr-stay · 1 year ago

Text

Dino Slippers and Wooden Cabins.

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Warnings: she's unedited, omg so much crack. WC: ~2.6K

I wanted to write and yes, it's shit, and yes, it's crack, and yes, I hate it. but what can you do? it got kinda sentimental towards the end, but the closing lines terrible.

also don't do what the reader does, be safe when you're in a cabin alone.

A knock at your cabin door caused you to look up from the TV. The firelight cast from the fireplace danced around the wooden room, reflecting on your drawn blinds and making you blink. You waited for a second before turning back to your TV, wincing as you saw one of the main characters trip and fall.

You were quickly distracted from your show when the person at the door knocked again. Seriously? You take a week away from work in an isolated cabin in the snow to not be bothered by people and this is what happens. A random person knocking on your door in the middle of the night. In the middle of nowhere. While you were alone.

Maybe you should heed the warnings your friends had given you and not open the door, certifying that you wouldn’t be caught by some lunatic or something. That thought unnerved you, what if the person knocking on your door was an escaped prisoner or even a murderer? You shivered despite the warmth from the fire heating you.

Your friends had all exchanged glances when you’d told them of your holiday plans, side-eyeing each other so that one of them would try and make you not go. Lily, one of your friends since you were little, had sighed before standing up and saying that you probably shouldn’t travel solo. You had immediately protested, waving off her concerns and saying you’d take your mum’s dog, Popcorn, as sort of a guard dog.

Popcorn who now stood shaking in the corner, glancing between you and the door with wide eyes. Right now, you were unsure why you thought you could bring a Papillion as a guard god, but past-you had wanted to take this holiday so bad that you were eager to think that an axe-murderer could be dispelled by one of the ugliest, smallest, and most rancid looking dog’s you’d ever seen.

That was a joke, Popcorn wasn’t rancid, just crusty (as your mother lovingly called him.) The way spit hung from his jaw, wobbling everytime he shook made you breathe through your teeth, subconsciously wondering how Popcorn got on the family christmas card instead of you.

Another knock on the door made you sigh before standing up and making your way to the large wooden door. You placed a hand on the handle, turned the lock, and opened the door to a sight that was worse than you could have even imagined.

A head of wavy brown hair, slightly ruffled, tilted upwards to reveal stunning blue eyes. An easy smile settled over his face when you made eye-contact, his hands bunching in his pockets drawing your attention to his snow-dusted puffer jacket.

“Hi,” He said, his nose and eyes bright red, showing how the cold had been affecting him. You could only look on in horror as he shook his head, his hair whipping around as though he was in a movie, and a few dollops of snow cascaded from his hair.

It was worse than a murderer, it was a hot man.

You immediately felt a heat begin to rush to your face. You could handle a crazed, knife-wielding psycho, but you couldn’t handle attractive men. It was a well known fact within your friend group, you made a fool of yourself in front of every mildly-hot guy.

Whether it be tripping over your feet in highschool and falling flat on your face in front of a long-time crush or trying and failing to chat up a guy at a bar, you’d always return to your group of friends, tail securely between your legs and dragging your feet.

Hell, your friends had even tried to fix it for you. Lily had set you up on countless dates, none of them working because as soon as you made eye-contact, you couldn’t speak and you ended up being mute for the entire 30 minutes a guy stayed. Her boyfriend, Alex, found it to be the funniest thing, laughing at you (goodnaturedly, he’d assured you one time after you gave him the stink eye) everytime you recounted one of your increasingly unfortunate stories.

So now, out in the freezing cold and looking at one of the most beautiful people you’d ever seen in your life, you knew something would go wrong and you’d make yourself seem like a dunce. You didn’t have to wait long, as his eyes cast downwards and you were reminded of the fact the only pajamas you’d brought on your trip were a cheapie set that you’d bought for five bucks at some random retail store. The issue with them was that they were clearly designed for kids, dinosaurs decorating every inch of the fabric.

At the time you’d hadn’t minded that they’d probably been made for degenerate adults, only happy to snag a bargain, but now you were really regretting it. Regretting it even more as the man’s eyes dropped down to your slippers, accompanying dino claws that you’d laughed at when you’d put them on earlier. Now you were cursing yourself for your whimsy, eyeing the clearly expensive fabric that made up the man’s scarf wound so tightly around his neck. His eyes climbed you, reaching your face before he made eye-contact again.

“Uhm, my car broke down and this is the only place for several hundred kilometers. My friend Alex said that one of his friends was staying around here and that I could pop in.” The man explained, the friendly smile never dropping from his face. Holy fuck he has an accent as well.

As if timed perfectly, a ding sounded on your phone, causing you to reach for it. A message icon with Alex’s name was on your home screen, reading further when you opened it that ‘a friend of mine might show up for the night because of his car breaking down. I hope that’s ok.’ You could only stare at your phone. As though he was waiting for the read receipt to pop up, Alex then sent another message.

‘Thank me later.’

Having enough of that, you closed your phone and shoved it rather forcefully into your pocket. You plastered a smile onto your face and turned to the man.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were coming. I probably would’ve… gotten changed.” You trailed off, the smile on the man’s face quickly changing to one of amusement. Trying to rationalise that he was laughing at your joke and not your outfit, you moved to the side of the doorframe and welcomed him in with a sweeping hand.

He took a few steps into your rented cabin before you closed the door, the coldness of the night getting shut out in place for the heat from your cabin. The man’s eyes took the place in, sweeping over the log walls and the tv that was still on. He nodded his head slightly as though agreeing with your choice of programming.

“Would you like a tea?” You asked, desperate to try and be in solitude for a few minutes. He turned to you and nodded with a thankful smile. Jesus that smile was about to be the death of you. You quickly scurried off into the small kitchen, boiling the kettle and then releasing a stream of air yourself.

Oh god. He was really, really attractive. How were you supposed to live peacefully, this was your holiday after all. You tilted your head back till you were glaring at the ceiling, before snapping it down and whipping out your phone.

When the kettle stopped boiling, you set down your phone, mildly satisfied with the amount of mean emojis and phrases you’d sent to Alex. The ding from the kettle made you quickly grab two mugs before debating on either earl gray or english breakfast, two of the complimentary items included in the cabin. Unable to decide because both contained caffeine, you reached into a cupboard and grabbed out two sleepytime tea bags. The good stuff, you thought affectionately as you bobbed the tea bags up and down, before grabbing both mugs and walking back into the living room.

The man stood up from the couch where he was sat as you rounded the corner and grabbed the tea from you with a ‘Thank you’ before sitting down. The couch itself wasn’t entirely fantastic, it was quite small and very hard. On the first day you’d arrived, you had launched yourself onto the couch in a small way of celebration that you had a holiday, only to roll off and a light bruise to form the next day.

“I’m Charles, by the way.” The man spoke up and you looked at him before nodding and smiling. He kept looking at you till you finally got the cue and jolted a little. You introduced yourself and Charles nodded, repeating your name while glancing around the space. He took a sip of his tea.

“Alex says that this was your holiday,” He mused before looking back to you. “In that case, I’m sorry to interrupt it.” He spoke calmly and you shook your head.

“No, it’s ok. It was getting a little boring anyways.” You promptly lied, if not just to make him feel a bit better. He nodded, obviously not convinced. You both sat there in silence before Charles made to take the puffer off.

You watched for a second before thinking it was too weird and taking a sip of your tea. Immediately you could tell that Charles had skewed tastebuds as you felt your tongue burn. Oh my god. You held yourself back from spitting it out or pouring it back into the cup, deciding it was too disgusting to do in front of Charles.

You looked around, only to see Charles, arms bared and looking at you curiously. Ashamedly, you weren’t exactly looking at his face, seeing the way his arms flexed around the mug. It took you five seconds before you started coughing on the liquid in your mouth, quickly standing up as Charles reacted. He stretched a hand around your shoulders, his eyebrows drawing.

“Are you ok?” He asked, rather simply as though he was unsure about what exactly was happening.

You only nodded, your face scrunched together before you finally swallowed. The liquid burned your throat on the way down. A gasp left you when you opened your mouth before you quickly started fanning your mouth.

Getting the message, Charles moved to where he assumed the kitchen was, returning with a glass of water. He strode towards you, looking strangely determined before that was completely wiped away when the sound of a yelp was heard.

Except it didn’t come from Charles. Not even when his eyes widened and he was suddenly slipping, going down and taking the glass of water with him. The water splashed up when he hit the floor, the only sound audible being the barking of Popcorn as he jumped around Charles. You were stood still, jaw on the floor as Charles groaned.

You took a second to regather the events. A stranger showed up at your door, you made tea, you burned your mouth, Charles took his puffer off, he went to get you water, he stood on Popcorn and then accidentally tipped a whole glass of water over his head.

After five seconds of silence you rushed over to Charles, variations of “I’m sorry!” slipping free from your mouth. You pulled him up into a sitting position, resting him against the wall. Your mouth felt completely useless, burnt to a crisp, while you placed a hand on Charles’ wet shoulder.

He took a second or two before rolling his head on his shoulder to look at you. You were crouched at your knees, looking at him in concern. He looked at your knees, taking in the triceratops front profile printed on both of your knees before looking at your face

“You know,” He started, his voice more subdued than before. “Your mouth isn’t the only hot thing in this room.” You rolled off your knees and onto your butt, completely gobsmacked. Was he flirting with you after your dog nearly killed him?

You could only look at him, jaw slightly agape as he made continued eye contact with you. A different look, one that hadn’t been displayed during his non-stop smile fest a few minutes prior, flitted over his face for a second. After a few more seconds of you sitting there in shock, he spoke up.

“I’m sorry, have I read the situation wrong?” He asked hesitantly and you could only look on in abject disbelief. What on earth was going on, why had this hot man who was friends with Alex shown up and started flirting with you whilst you were clad in dinosaur pj’s?

Alex.

You stood up. What were the chances that Alex had sent one of his friends to fuck with you. Probably very low, he was a nice guy, but there was literally no other reason this incredibly handsome man would take a look at you hand-fanning your mouth and decide to start throwing out pickup-lines.

Charles looked up at you curiously as you were silent. It didn’t make sense though, Alex wasn’t cruel. He always seemed as though he wanted the best for you. Maybe he was two-faced? But no, why would he fuck with you?

“I’m sorry, have I made you uncomfortable?” Charles piped up and you looked down at him. He seemed sheepish.

“That wasn’t my intention. You just seemed to be interested,” you both cringed, him at using that word, and you at the fact that he’d caught you, “so I thought I’d y’know. Let you know it was reciprocated.”

“Huh?” Was the only thing you could manage.

“Should I go back to my car?” Charles asked, placing a hand down to lift himself up and stand. You, in a split-second decision, shook your head. Charles looked at you.

“Uhm, you can take my bed for the night.” You decided to shake yourself off and completely ignore the events that had transpired.

Charles then shook his head. “No, I can’t take the bed. It’s your cabin.”

You really weren’t in the mood to argue and endure a back and forth so you just shrugged.

“Fine, let’s share it then.” Ignoring how forward that seemed, you just turned around and lumbered to the bedroom, opening the door to the kingsized bed. Charles followed after a second, he seemed to be collecting himself, standing in the doorway.

“I’m ready for bed so I’ll just hop in after I go around and turn everything off.” You said and moved through the doorway. You ignored his incredibly close presence as much as you could.

After a quick sweep of the cabin, turning everything off and closing Popcorn in the cage your mum had insisted you bring, you returned to the bedroom. You found Charles lounging on your side of the bed, under the covers and scrolling on his phone.

When you walked in, he turned it off and placed it on your side table. You chose not to mention that it was your side and just settled for the other. You turned off the light and made your way to the other side, slipping off your slippers and rolling under the covers.

A few minutes had passed of your staring into the darkness, Charles’ breathing cluing you in that the man hadn’t fallen asleep either.

“Charles.” You called out into the darkness and you felt the covers move a little.

“Yeah?” His voice called out.

“Did you actually mean it?” You asked.

A few seconds passed and you felt Charles roll over, causing you to roll over as well. You made eye contact, a small ray of light from the moon coursing through the blind and landing on Charles's face.

“Yeah.” He said simply, his smile stretched across his face. You nodded before starting to smile too.

“Cool.” You said dumbly and Charles laughed. “Yeah, cool.” He responded, the warmth that leaked into voice causing your smile to grow wider.

it's so bad but i wanted to post something so here it is

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #f1 oneshot #formula one imagine #f1 imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fanfic #yipee!!

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battleangel · 3 months ago

Text

A History of Violence

I wonder if Kris Jenkins who was recently drafted in the second round by the Bengals, same name & same position as his father who was a Pro Bowler who played 10 seasons for the Panthers, Patriots & Jets, ever bothered to read what his father told the New York Times in 2011 about what it was like playing in the trenches in the NFL?

Kris Jenkins - View of Life in the NFL Trenches

Article Excerpt

"N.F.L. fans, people outside, they have no clue what goes on. This isn’t like playing Madden. This isn’t like being the popular kid in high school. When you do those things in the real world, and it don’t work out, you still have your health. The thing about football is you’re directly playing with your life, the quality of it and the longevity of it. The stakes are up there.

You ever been in a car crash? Done bumper cars? You know when that hit catches you off guard and jolts you, and you’re like, what the hell? Football is like that. But 10 times worse. It’s hell."

Nothing is questioned, nothing is learned.

Cycle and history of violence from father to son continues.

The son will just repeat everything his father went through.

Life in the trenches, on the line.

His fathers New York Times article was only written 13 years ago — did his son even bother to read it?

Article:

"The debate about concussions wasn’t there yet. I’ve had more than 10, including college and the pros. Nobody cared. And that’s the thing. We play football."

Are we as an audience, as fans, as a nation of football loving fanatics so blasé about the same violence that was visited upon the father being visited upon his son?

Does that not even get us to collectively pause before checking pre-season match ups in preparation for Week 1 next month?

America's collective Christmas in September — footballs back!!!!!!!

Do actual thoughts ever creep in amongst the unbridled ebullience, enthusiasm and unchecked joy of, "Football!!!!!!!!!!!!".

Or is the unthinking emotion inherent in football fanaticism across all levels, players and non-players alike, the point?

The pure emotion and the short circuiting of logic.

Its probably not a great idea for me to go bash my head against that dudes head 70 to 80 times a game, every game, every season.

But, its football!!!!!!!!!

So, nothing else matters?

Unlike rules now protecting quarterbacks and other positions from helmet to helmet hits, absolutely nothing has changed for offensive & defensive linemen and running backs — you're still smashing yourself head first into a concrete wall — as a running back, 20 to 30 times a game and as a lineman, 70 to 80 times a game.

No matter how much the NFL lies about this and tries to pretend the issue is concussions, its not — the existential issue threatening the sport of football itself is the repetitive SUBconcussive head impacts involved in every blocking and tackling play in football.

They are absolutely unavoidable and occur literally over a thousand times every single season.

It is these repetitive subconcussive head impacts — average 1500 hits to the head per season in high school, football & the pros — that 10 to 15 years after their playing careers are over, can cause neurological disorders and conditions like CTE, Parkinsons disease, Alzheimers disease, ALS and dementia in former players.

We have seen the movie before.

Im pretty sure Will Smith was in it.

And even that movie was nothing but masterful subterfuge from the NFL as they named it as their eternal smokescreen — Concussion — instead of what actually turned Mike Websters brain into CTE mush — Repetitive Subconcussive Head Impacts.

Doesn't have the same Hollywood ring to it, does it?

But it doesn't make it any less true or the NFL any less deceptive.

The NFL's own disability paperwork for former players says players can be compensated as early as 36 for early-onset dementia.

Is a game really worth someone losing their literal mind at 36?

When do we question the every day violence inherent in every tackling and blocking play in football?

Article:

"I remember one game, at Carolina, my second year. We played Arizona, and the double team weighed 780 pounds combined. They just kept double-teaming me, hoping I would fold and cave in. I didn’t. But that was probably the most painful day I had.

From the double teams, over the years, I wore the left side of my body down. I was past hurt.

I was at the point of numb. Like my body was shutting down nervous systems, so I didn’t have to deal with pain.

The numbness started at the very beginning. I couldn’t feel part of both arms. I couldn’t feel part of both legs. It was worse on the left.

I’m just starting to get feeling back in my left side. Look, football is no joke.

But I’m going to say this much: somebody has to be the grunt. That’s why there’s no better position on the field than interior defensive line. Forget quarterbacks or specialists. They’ve got it easy. If we don’t come to play, nobody else on defense can do their job. We’ve got the toughest job on the field. We don’t care about our facial hair. We play a grimy position.

Piles, oh, my God, they’re brutal. I’ve had my ankles twisted. I’ve been bit. I’ve done stuff. I’ve tried to break guys’ elbows, pinching people, twisting ankles, trying to bend up their arms, pop an elbow out. Why? I had to fight back."

Tackle football is cognitive dissonance & constant dissociation.

The inherent violence of football is never seriously questioned nor is it held up under a critical lens.

The most violent, punishing plays are casually dismissed post-game by players waving their hands and saying, "It was just a football play."

Yeah — thats actually the exact problem.

Ah, pile ups. Just a good old fashioned rugby scrum.

Nothing dehumanizing, nothing to worry about.

As long as its not my dick being grabbed at the bottom of a pile as I dig my way through my second bag of Fritos Scoops, safe and secure on my couch, while those dumb fucks kill themselves for an oblong shaped ball for my entertainment.

Exploitative, much?

The spectacle of the pile up.

The brainwashing so clearly evident when grown adult men who would be ashamed to act this way publicly over anything else suddenly leap in unison into the air like feral animals as Troy Aikman shouts with unfettered glee, "The ball is loose!!!!!!".

So is our collective humanity in watching a several ton mass of flesh undulate, eye gouge, scrotum twist, bite, spit and hurt each other for...what?

Us? Them? Football?

Article:

"Mentally, we’re conditioned to be tough. We’re conditioned to feel no pain. The only injury I ever felt while playing was when one of my knees tore. That’s the only time I felt pain and was like, O.K., that hurt.

But Mondays, you wake up, and it’s hard to get out of bed. It hurts wherever you got hit. I remember one time getting hit by Edgerrin James. He put his head in my chest. I woke up, and I couldn’t even move, because it felt like my chest was going to collapse. It was sore for days. All you want to do is get the blood circulating.

Hot tub. Cold tub. Hot tub. Cold tub."

Hot tub. Cold tub. Hot tub. Cold tub.

That's brainwashing.

A dissociative brainwashing ritual to dissociate the self from the pain & violence of the game.

It's like Junior Seau when he referred to himself in third person when he was mic'd up for NFL Films before every single hit for the duration of an entire game.

Very creepy if you can find it on youtube.

It literally sounded like he was programming himself to hit, then he would hit the hole, collect himself on the ground and do it.

Hard. Goddamned hard.

Again. And again. And again. And again.

If thats not brainwashing, what is?

Article:

"The brain fog? It still hasn’t stopped. It feels like you’re punch-drunk, like someone hit you over the head. It’s like you knock yourself stupid. When you have to concentrate on things, then it becomes an issue. My head gets foggy to the point where I really can’t function."

And yet you put a helmet on your son's head and you sent him out to play the same position.

Like father, like son.

Just like fathers in the military who have sons who "follow in their footsteps".

Often, articles will speak of a newly drafted player's heritage and lineage in the sport and if his father had a storied career, the hyperbole of the newly drafted son "being born to play" is routinely trotted out.

Smacks of eugenicism, genetic determinism, militarism, rigid heirarchies, dynasties.

Capitalist masculine toxicity.

Article:

"We know it’s going to hurt. We know because pain in football is consistent over time. You’re still hurting in the off-season. You’re hurting when the next season starts.

I mean, guys play hurt, but it’s a choice. They do a pretty good job now, with all the scrutiny around concussions.

On the line, it’s still painful. By the end of the year, half an offensive line might be getting shots, draining fluid from their knees. Most stay away from cortisone now, because it’s degenerative.

Everything gets off center. Bulging disk. Herniated disk. For linemen, it starts in the lower back. Throws everything off."

What did Jason Kelce recently say on his podcast with his wife?

His back is so fucked up from playing football that he cant bend down to pick up his 1 year old daughter nor can he hold her while standing.

Kelce also played on the line as the center for the Eagles.

Is it worth it?

Should children be playing this game?

Should anyone in its current incarnation?

Has science shown that the risk of repetitive subconcussive head impacts causing neurological conditions & disorders is too high for any child to assume?

What about teenagers in high school who are legally minors and not adults?

Should they be able to assume risks as teenagers that can mentally incapacitate them later in life as soon as their 30s?

Potential suicide due to CTE in their 20s?

1500 hits per season every season starting in high school.

So, that's 6k hits to the head in four years of high school football.

Another 6k more hits to the head in four years of college football.

12k hits to the head before the pros not counting youth football prior to high school which is ages 5 to 14 aka Pop Warner.

Even 5 year olds endure on average 336 hits to the head every season in Pop Warner.

5 year olds!

Kindergartners!

Ask yourself where else you could hit a 5 year old child 336 times in the head over the course of a few months without being arrested and jailed?

Is it really okay just because it's football?

Does that truly justify that amount of head impacts to a 5 year old child?

Wouldn't we call that abuse if it was happening in the Boy Scouts or any organization other than Pop Warner?

Should it be happening at all?

In service of whom and for what?

Football? Glory? Masculinity? Manhood? America? Pride? Militarism?

All of the above?

Article:

"I can’t blame anybody for my death. I made the choice to play football. I made the choice to walk through the concussions. I could have stopped. I could have said, my head hurts. It was my choice, as a man."

But who told you that playing through permanent brain injuries is what makes you a man?

Can't we blame that person?

Your father and your coaches from youth, high school, college all the way to the pros?

Militaristic views of masculinity kills boys and young men for the game of football.

It's a militaristic war game that simulates combat yet kills people in slow motion for real.

The violence suffered by players in football is as celebrated as militaristic ideals of what soldiers suffer through in war: valor, courage under fire, physical courage, endurance, stoically fighting through unimaginable injuries & pain, the quarterback heroically leading his squad as their captain marching his troops down the field to victory just like any military commander complete with a chevron like system that awards stars for each year or season of service very similar to how stripes function in the military.

This militaristic ideal of masculinity is endlessly promoted, encouraged, rewarded and valorized in football just as it is in the military.

Football is Americas killing fields.

High school players — teenaged boys, not adult men — die every year playing football.

Over a million boys play high school football each year and only a handful die or suffer permanent, disabling and/or catastrophic injury.

Would you be so glib about the numbers though if it was your son or your brother or your boyfriend or your best friend who died playing high school football?

What if they were permanently paralyzed from the neck down playing college football?

It's easy to treat the above numbers as a statistic or rounding error when you can close out of the Facebook support page for the now dead or disabled high school or college player and get ready for Chiefs/Ravens next month.

What if you couldn't just X out of the Facebook page because you had to quit your job to take care of your disabled son for the rest of your life?

Or what if your brother killed himself from having CTE from playing college football?

The reality is, we can drop a "sad crying" emoji on a Facebook status and move on — the families of the young boys and men sacrificed to this sport definitely can't.

Go ask Tyler Sash's mom if she's "moved on".

Hasn't science proven at this point that tackle football just doesnt work the way it is currently played?

Why are we okay risking future Junior Seaus, Mike Websters, Justin Strelczyks, Phillip Adams, Tyler Hillinskis with every boy and young man that straps on the pads and helmet and charges on to the field?

Is it 10% of players that get CTE? Is it 20%?

Is it more? Is it half?

More than half?

The truth is we wont know until a CTE test is developed for living players.

Pop Warners Chief Medical Director is working with the FDA to develop the test as I type this.

Why do you think that is?

The NFL's own study funded through a university admits that NFL players are 19 times more likely than non-NFL players to develop neurological conditions and disorders.

19 times!!!!!

As long as its not your brain getting scrambled right?

And you can just sit there and watch the leagues reigning back to back MVP and reigning Super Bowl Champ slowly deteriorate their minds while accumulating permanent brain damage for your entertainment.

Pass the chips.

Article:

"We consider football a gladiator sport because we understand you’re going to get hurt. You’re putting your life on the line.

You might not die now, like in an old Roman arena, but 5, 10 years down the road, you could. You know that.

I wouldn’t change anything.

During my career, I kept my mouth shut. This now, speaking out, it’s about telling you my life. There’s no agenda, no vendetta. This is what football’s really like.

The first warning is the first meeting you have with an agent, when you realize this is real. My choices count at this point. I’m going to be prostituting myself for the next 18 years of my life.

That’s the first warning.

The next one is that good old combine.

That’s when you realize, when you march in that room half naked, I’m a number now."

No, thats when you realize that the NFL is MODERN DAY SLAVERY.

It's a modern day meat market.

6% of the US population is Black male. 75% of the NFL is Black.

0% of the owners are Black. Only 2 out of 32 coaches are Black.

Almost all of the NFL owners are white with very few exceptions and exactly none of them are Black.

The NFL is a modern day plantation.

Article:

"I loved New York. I loved playing there. I loved the spotlight. I was fine in New York, but I also played for Eric Mangini. We started 8-3, Brett Favre, all of that. Everybody told Mangini, stop with the long practices, you’re killing us. You practice too hard. We’re on turf."

36% of all injuries that occur in the NFL are due to turf & 1/4 of all concussions are a result of players heads slamming against turf.

So...

Why won't the NFL replace turf with grass in their stadiums as the NFLPA has been asking for for years?

Because they're cheap as hell and would rather injure their own investments then pay for grass.

The owners & the league have the same exact disregard and disdain for their own players.

The NFL has agreed to switch out turf for grass for the World Cup because the soccer players refused to do what NFL players are forced to — fuck their bodies up on turf.

It proves the NFL and owners could do it and, in fact, they did do it so they could host the World Cup in their football stadium — unless it's actually for the players in their own league.

In that case, you're shit out of luck.

Should have played soccer.

Article:

"What you hear from guys like Ray Lewis, James Harrison, what they’re saying is we’re well aware what we’re signing up for. The violence, we love it. The madness, we love it. We love measuring ourselves in it.

Those guys express themselves with their pads. You soften the game, you’re taking away their freedom of expression. Nobody wants to see flag football, and now, you might as well give guys flags, tell them to hug afterward, all that."

Did he even read the beginning of his own article???

Constant cognitive dissonance is the distillation & essence of tackle football — by the players, the audience, coaches, trainers, medical personnel, announce team, play by play, color, pre-game & post-game hosts, team & network journalists.

I see no repetitive head impacts causing CTE.

I hear no repetitive head impacts causing CTE.

I speak no repetitive head impacts causing CTE.

Article:

"The violence is what I remember. Like against Buffalo in 2009, when I had the game of my career. Or the time I slapped a lineman out of the way in Houston with one arm. Winning, the physical part, the mayhem, finding the line between insanity and sanity, that’s the exact reason why you play. That’s the reason fans like football in the first place.

A guy like James Harrison, he’s possessed, and that’s the guy you love to play with, love to watch. He doesn’t need to be babied."

Protection from permanent brain damage & trauma, fans bloodlust, coaches unreasonable demands, neurological disorders & conditions, neurological symptoms including suicidality, depression, memory loss, confusion, irritability, volatility, aggression, amnesia, mental incapicitation, deteroriation & decline is being "babied"??????????

Article:

"The N.F.L. is too big to fail. If that happened, it would be a slow death. It’s still the ultimate game. For us, it’s like legal prison rules. You have to protect your manhood, your well-being. You’re going to be challenged. You’re going to be tested."

"You have to protect your manhood."

Protect The Shield.

Brainwashed into the cult of American masculinity.

Just like all the other 2.6 million young boys & adolescents playing youth football.

Another million playing in high school.

100k playing in NCAA college football.

1600 play in the NFL.

All brainwashed into the cult of masculinity.

Millions of young boys and teenagers sacrificed on the altar of tackle football, Americas true religion.

Article:

"There aren’t too many places a 400-pound guy with an attitude can go and beat the crap out of somebody and not get locked up for it. I have a violent streak. I have to fight it out of my system. We signed up for it. All of it. We’re not trying to be sane or rational."

What does an 8 year old playing tackle football for Pop Warner sign up for?

Tradition, rigid authoritarianism, toxic masculinity, ideals of manhood worth sacrificing your body, mind, memories, personality, self and literal life for.

A 13 year old football player committed suicide after an egregious hit and post concussion symptoms that lasted for over a year in 2018.

He played through the hit and practiced in pads the very next day — think that might have made his concussion worse?

Prior to the hit, he was a straight A student, a voracious reader, erudite, sociable & well-liked.

After the hit, he became withdrawn.

He lost vision in one eye. He lost his balance frequently.

He was unable to read for more than a few minutes at a time.

He started tackle football at 9.

He played two ways as a linebacker and running back and was known as a ferocious hitter who never complained of pain.

He attempted suicide, was hospitalized, seemed to be improving, then the second suicide attempt was tragically successful.

Dead at 13 for the sport of football.

When is enough enough?

Football is a game, it's a magical talisman, it's a sport, it's a crucible, it's a maker of men, it's the distillation of manhood and masculinity, it's what being a man is.

It's worth bashing and battering your brains repeatedly.

It's worth your mind.

It's worth not knowing who you are at 50.

It's worth you committing suicide.

Just remember to shoot yourself in the chest so your brain can be donated and studied.

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