#at some point i will own something made from a holly tree so i can laugh

[fallinallincurls]

Under The Mistletoe (With You)

sooo @tonyspep and i have created this whole verse that you’ve only gotten a taste of so far through my fic without a doubt, my heart will lead me to you (two) and gina’s if home is where the heart is, then i’m homesick for you! this fun little fic is part of the same verse! we don’t get to see the mini macs aka noah, kat or miles here, but this the softest moment of nate and the reading falling in love and i had fun writing this. happy holidays!

there’s PLENTY of background built for this verse already so my asks are open for any and every question in relation to this eek!

hope you enjoy!! feedback is always appreciated! xx

word count: 1.6k

~~~~~

Denver received the season’s first dusting of snow yesterday, signaling winter’s anticipated arrival. It meant the holidays were right around the corner and your favorite day of the year was finally here.

You couldn’t mark the specific date on the calendar, but no matter when the first snowfall happened, it meant you’d be spending the next day decorating the bakery. Stringing up colorful lights, putting gifts under a small tree, hanging ornaments and cutting paper snowflakes. Everything from the display case to the front windows and anything in between got some kind of holiday decoration.

Today was that day. And unlike the last few years where you’ve done it all by yourself, you get to share the tradition with someone else now. Someone you love more than anything. 

“Nate, can you grab the strand of little snowflakes please?” You ask from atop the little step stool you’re currently standing on, a finger pointed at one of the many boxes on the floor. He nods, a soft smile on display across his lips as he finds said snowflakes in the box.

“Where do these go?” The question is gentle like he’s memorizing where every single one of the decorations go so he remembers in the future. That thought alone makes your heart swell. You might have only been dating for a year now, but something about Nate feels like forever. And you’ve never shared decorating the bakery with anyone else, not even your best friend, so the fact he’s here right now with you putting up lights and tiny Christmas trees and making snowflakes is proof he’s special.

“Across the top of all the windows. So it looks like it's snowing.” You reply with a giggle, leaning down to kiss him. “If you want to get started on the other side, we could meet in the middle so that way these are done quicker?”

“Sounds like a plan, babe.” Nate smiles, kissing you one more time before getting to work on the opposite end of the front windows with his own string of snowflakes. The cutest look of concentration crosses over his face as he carefully hangs the decoration and your heart swells at the sight. 

The soft notes of Christmas music fill the bakery and the golden glow of fairy lights make the scene feel even more magical than it usually does. Except you think that has more to do with the man who is taking part in your yearly tradition than anything else. You keep sneaking peeks at Nate, hoping he doesn’t catch you, and it’s another reminder of just how lucky you are.  

He’s humming “Holly Jolly Christmas” to himself as he focuses on decorating, his sweater riding up just enough to expose a sliver of his toned stomach. A long, gold strand of tinsel hangs around his neck and his cheeks are tinted the cutest color pink either from blush or how warm it is in the bakery. There’s that familiar glint of pure joy evident in his blue eyes that not many get to see, but you do and you’re forever grateful for that. 

You almost can’t believe that a year or so ago, Nate was a stranger. Someone who walked into Colorado Cookie Company, shy as anything, to compliment the batch of cookies you made for the Avs charity event. Never in a million years did you think he would become this important, take up this much room in your heart.

And yet, here you are.

“Done!” Nate exclaims, putting his hands up in a mini celebration as he steps off the stool to admire his work. “Not so bad if I do say so myself.”

“Nathan MacKinnon. One of the NHL’s biggest stars and secretly amazing at decorating for the holidays. Quite the tiny snowflake expert.” 

“Hey,” Nate pouts dramatically, picking up on your teasing tone and playing along. You can’t help but giggle at the look on his face but join him to look up at the snowflakes now hanging about the big front windows. 

Before he gets the chance to say anything else in response or think of a comeback, you pull him in for a soft, gentle kiss that speaks volumes without a single word being uttered.

“I love you. Thank you for doing this.” 

Nate is floored. He might still be getting used to the idea of really, truly being in love (although he knows he is) and the kiss might have caught him by surprise, but it just occurs how much this means to you.

Decorating the bakery, a place that’s another home to you, isn’t something to take lightly. This is another step in your relationship, a big one. Nate knew it was important when you invited him to join in on the tradition, but it’s just occurring to him that this is something he could be doing every year for the rest of his life. 

And my god, he wants that so bad.

“I love you too. I’m happy to be here. Nowhere else I’d rather be.” And he means it because every word is true.

The sweetest smile appears on his lips before the two of you share a few more kisses. But you playfully push him away a minute later, your beautiful laugh making Nate undeniably happy.

“Save those for later. We’ve gotta get this done.”

“Okay, okay. What’s next?” Nate questions, following you to another box of decorations where you hand him the small Christmas tree that will be full of holiday wishes soon and a little menorah for the counter.

It only takes a couple more hours of dancing together to whatever Christmas song was playing, sharing kisses and making sure every inch of the bakery was covered in holiday spirit to finish decorating. Even if you do this every year, the final product always takes your breath away. 

“It’s beautiful,” Nate murmurs, kissing the top of your head and wrapping his arms around you from behind. A comfortable moment of silence settles as you both take in the scene together. 

“There’s just one thing missing.” 

Nate’s brows furrow in confusion as you leave his tight embrace. What else could possibly be missing? He’s never seen a place as decked out as your little bakery is right now. But before he can say anything in response, you’re holding up a small bundle of mistletoe. 

“Oh,” is all Nate says, the cutest blush spreading across his cheeks. You can’t help but giggle at how bashful he suddenly is.

“Wanna help me hang it up?” You ask in a soft tone. Nate nods, stepping closer and carefully taking hold of the plant. “Right in the doorway.”

Without any other direction, Nate somehow puts the mistletoe in the perfect spot. He flashes a beaming smile towards you, proud of his work, and a feeling of comfort like no other courses through your veins. You rush into him so fast that he lets out a little “oof” at the impact before pulling you in closer as you hug him as tightly as possible.

It isn’t until you look up at him a few moments later, heart full of indescribable love, that you realize where you’re both standing. Under the mistletoe in the doorway. 

“I think,” Nate starts, cheeks becoming pink again as the cutest smile appears on his face, “this is the part where we kiss. Mistletoe and all, you know.” 

“Well then, handsome, what are you waiting for?”

Nate doesn’t waste any time leaning in and closing the space between you. He feels you smiling against his lips as he deepens the kiss, pulling you impossibly closer. It’s a kiss like no other and you can’t place why, but you try to commit every detail to memory. The warmth of Nate’s hands on your hips, how you can feel his emotions through the kiss and how at home you feel right now; it’s something you didn’t think you’d ever get to experience. 

When you pull away, you find Nate’s blue eyes full of a kind of fondness you haven’t seen before. He kisses you a few more times underneath the mistletoe, earning warm laughs from you in return.

“I can’t wait to do this with our kids one day.” He says suddenly as you’re carding through his hair. The words shock you for a second before the thought enters your mind. Little feet running around the bakery, helping decorate the small tree and Nate lifting them up to string lights around the windows. Handprint Christmas tree art hanging on the wall next to the family pictures and the sound of happy baby laughs mixed with holiday music. 

You can see it all. And standing here, in Nate’s arms under the mistletoe after sharing one of your dearest traditions with him, makes it feel a little more real.

“Our kids?” You tease him, giggling at the expression on his face.

“Yeah, our kids. Can’t you see it?” The look of love and hope are hard to miss and it’s enough to make those recurring thoughts of spending the rest of your life with him reappear. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, bubs. We’ve got a while to go until we get there.” 

“But we’ll get there?”

“We’ll get there. For now, I’m gonna steal as many mistletoe kisses as I can and decorate the bakery with you until a little one comes along.” You giggle, kissing him again to which Nate sweeps you off your feet and twirls you around to the music still playing. The holidays might be the most wonderful time of the year, but you know with Nate here, it’ll be extra special like never before.

taglist: @tonyspep @miracleonice87 @starshine-hockey-girl @kailyn-writes @happer08 @stroopwaffle8 @nateslehky @rosesvioletshardy @sorryjustafangirl @laurenairay @hockeyunits @musiclove-12 @ilyasorokinn @jostystyles @comphyjost @ya-pucking-nerd @beauvibaby @sourjoonie @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69 @itrocksmysocks @typical-simplelove @boqvistsbabe @eightmakar @antoineroussel @suitandtys @equallyshaw​ @andreburakozy​ 

#nathan mackinnon #nate mackinnon #nathan mackinnon fic #nate mackinnon fic #nathan mackinnon imagine #nate mackinnon imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #colorado avalanche #nathan mackinnon x reader #hockey fic #hockey imagine #nathan mackinnon fluff #hwncloud #mackinnon #fluff

[fastcardotmp3]

find the word!

tagged by the illustrious @roguenancy <3 thank you friend this was a fun one!

my words are: soft, bright, time, reach, and burn

most of these are from yet-to-be-posted febuwhump fics because that's what my time has been going to preparing the past few weeks, but there are some old standards too!

i. soft (from a Kali-centric febuwhump fic)

Hunting down One and helping Eleven and her friends to take him down once and for all? That was an arena in which Kali was comfortable, an arena in which she got to be the victor, even in her sharing of the title.  But it hadn’t gone to plan. Of course not.  It hadn’t been a one-off and had instead turned into months trapped within the confines of this town, haunted by more than just those initial days Kali spent small and scared and broken as she ran from the lab and tried to find a way out.  She had been so young then. She feels it around every corner, amidst every patch of trees; she feels the younger version of herself everywhere and at some point during these past few months of battle it went and made her soft.

ii. bright (from a future installment of the bear au)

“You staying here tonight?” Nancy says on a tired exhale as she drops her bag and kicks off her shoes.  “Maybe,” Holly says at length, hands still on her keyboard but no longer typing.  The way her fair hair glows in the bright white light is almost unsettling. She’s such a beautiful girl. “Couch is yours,” Nancy tells her, “I’m going to bed.” “Mike said you flipped this afternoon.” 

iii. time (from the METAMORPHOSES sequel one-shot I'm working on :) kicks feet twirls hair etc)

They decided to move to Chicago on this porch, decided to officially move into the same bedroom on this porch, decided to kiss for the first time on this porch.  It’s a near-sacred place, these panels of wood and screws, the spot that once held a beaten-down couch and now sports the beautiful handcrafted swing that Steve had made for them completely of his own volition.  It’s sacred because it’s theirs, their home, but it’s only that because they decided it would be. They made it this bubble of earnest communication and so when Eddie asks do you ever think about it with a heavy sort of sincerity lingering on his tongue, the only context Steve needs is— “About what?” 

iv. reach (another febuwhump fic, nancy character study style)

There’s a hand around her forearm just before she reaches the edge of the pool, a hand large and strong but a hand, still, which releases his grip with a half-hearted shove from Nancy.  “Don’t,” she snaps, whirling around to look at him, avoiding the confused and concerned and baffled expressions of Robin and Eddie hovering feet away at the edge of the forest like they truly don’t know what to do with themselves. “Don’t.”  Her voice is ragged, she knows. She can see the sound of it in the harsh shine of Steve’s eyes, but she can see something else there, too.  She can see something like understanding, like the crossing of a great divide between them, where they’ve both changed irreparably in the journey, but changed into the kinds of people who can trust each other above all else. 

v. burn (febuwhump again, stobin edition)

There's so much to grieve, even after they win.  There's so much to grieve that Robin doesn't think it feels much like winning at all.  They keep going, she keeps moving forward, because that's what's supposed to happen and that's what they've always done, but no matter how much time passes between them and watching that place, that monster, burn, she still feels it.  Tastes it. Can't swallow around it some days and wakes up needing to rush to the toilet to puke it up on others.  It burns her from inside and as she gets her diploma, as they help rebuild the town into something still broken but at least standing, as people make plans and leave and get away, away, away from the mass grave that is Hawkins, Indiana, she keeps it there. Inside.

tagging with zero pressure but one million love: @kkpwnall @judasofsuburbia @cheatghost @fragilecapric0rnn @thefreakandthehair @yxlenas @snowangeldotmp3 + anyone who wants to join because this is simply fun!

your words are: new, try, still, part, and home

#wip game #dot fic #i feel like i haven't done a tag game in ages this was a delight!

[dragonbinx]

Christmas Wishes

Part of my Christmas series from last winter.  Posted on Ao3 here.

Series: Shadowhunters

Ship: Malec

Characters: Alec Lightwood, Magnus Bane

When Alec came home to an apartment decked out like a window display, he wasn’t completely surprised. Magnus was fond of pageantry, after all, and he liked having reasons to indulge in it. He just wasn’t necessarily expecting Christmas to be one them, or to walk into a low hanging loop of garland when he got home.

“Magnus?” He called out, lifting the strand of evergreen and the ornaments hanging off of it out of the way, only to get shocked still by the rest of the apartment. “Wow.”

Everything was beautiful, but amped up to the extreme. Garland hung from every section of the ceiling; there were twinkling lights in a canopy over the main room, connecting to the chandelier, which had what he was pretty sure was holly stuck in it; their rugs had been replaced with burgundy ones, the glass in the doors was frosted, and if the section of the tree that Alec could see was any indication, it was enormous.

“Alexander!” Magnus swept in, looking darkly festive in a long forrest green jacket over a maroon waistcoat. “You’re home early.” He gave Alec a kiss on the cheek, and he noticed Magnus’ nails were painted a matching deep green.

“I decided to let Izzy and Underhill take the meeting so I could be back for dinner.” He let his eyes drift over the decorations. “What’s going on here?”

“Ah, yes, our own winter wonderland.” Alec’s eyebrows crooked up. “Well, Madzie’s winter wonderland. Catarina is swamped this time of year, and Madzie fell in love with the holiday, so I offered to throw a celebration for them.”

“That’s very sweet. But …”

“What, is it not child friendly enough? I could do something else, perhaps with reindeer?”

“No, it’s not that. Well, actually, that’s not a bad idea, but that’s not what I meant. I just wonder if maybe we could not have the garland so low over the door? And those lights are kinda hurting my eyes.”

“Understood.” Magnus waved his hands and the decorations disappeared. “Perhaps I’ll try again when Madzie is here to bake cookies tomorrow, she can tell me what she likes.”

“We’re baking cookies tomorrow?”

“And decorating the tree. That’ll be festive and I can show her some tricks to conjuring objects.” He snapped his fingers in epiphany. “I should figure out what presents to get her.”

“Presents?” But Magnus was already walking away, muttering about what he should get the little girl, leaving Alec standing alone and sure he was missing something

*

“See you this weekend!” Alec closed the door behind Catarina, waving to Madzie until she couldn’t see him anymore.

When he returned to the kitchen, Magnus was magicking away the mess they’d made baking with Madzie. Alec looked around and noticed something important missing. “Where are my cookies?”

“I put them in the oven while you were with Catarina. Although I don’t know why you didn’t make sugar cookies like I suggested. Much more festive.”

“Because I like oatmeal raisin.” Magnus rolled his eyes, then pushed up his sleeves and moved a hand purposefully over Madzie’s recently decorated plate of gingerbread cookies. “Wait, what are you doing?”

Magnus stopped, confused. “I’m fixing them.”

He started to wave his hand again, so Alec grabbed it and pulled it down. “Don’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t need to be fixed.”

Magnus pointed at the wonky-faced gingerbread people. “These look good to you?”

“Okay, they aren’t the best gingerbread cookies I’ve ever seen, but Madzie worked hard on them and she’s proud of them.”

“Wouldn’t she be even prouder if they looked like this?” He snapped his fingers and one of the gingerbread men with one eye and what seemed to be a row of vampire teeth morphed into a picture perfect cookie with gumdrop buttons and a cheerful royal icing grin.

“Stop that!” He turned Magnus around to face, him, hands on his shoulders to keep him from changing any more cookies. “Look, when I was a kid, my mom made me do everything over and over until I could do it perfectly - archery, training, learning how to address my superiors. I felt pressure all the time and, well, you know how that ended up for me.”

Magnus’s eyes softened. “Alexander …”

“All I’m saying is, let Madzie be less than perfect sometimes. And let her be proud of things she puts a lot of effort into, even if they don’t always turn out just right.”

“Alright,” Magnus acquiesced. “You are very wise, Mr. Lightwood-Bane.”

Alec ran his hands along his husband’s shoulders and tugged lightly at the collar of his shirt. “I learned it from you. You’re the one who taught me to stop trying to be the ultimate Shadowhunter and follow my heart instead of my head.”

“That is true.” Magnus leaned up for a quick kiss, then tapped Alec’s arms lightly. “So I will put aside my aesthetic sensibilities for the time being.”

“Thank you.”

The oven dinged, and Alec spun away, too excited to see how his own baking had turned out to see the chagrined look on his husband’s face. He grabbed a mitt and opened the oven to find the cookies looked a little different than when he’d put them on the pan.

He turned around to find himself alone in the kitchen. “Magnus!” He looked down at the metal sheet with several lines of pristine sugar cookies. “Seriously?”

*

While he probably couldn’t say for sure with only one under his belt, so far Alec was a fan of Christmas. Madzie was thrilled, bouncing from him to Magnus to Catarina, showing off her presents and her cookies. Izzy beamed while Simon explained Hanukkah to Madzie, and his mother and Luke shared smiles over spiked eggnog. Jace even looked like he was enjoying himself, an all too rare sight since they’d lost Clary. And Lorenzo had stopped by between hopping around multiple holiday parties.

Now it was almost midnight. Magnus had split the bed in the guest bedroom into two queens, so the passed out Madzie could sleep in one and Catarina in the other. The rest of their guests had trickled out, and it was just them, out on their balcony under the stars.

“I think that went well,” Alec said, leaning on the railing. “Not that I have anything to compare it to, but everyone seemed to have fun.”

“It was a wonderful Christmas,” Magnus agreed, but he sounded subdued.

Alec shifted so he was facing Magnus fully, studying his profile with newly critical eyes. “Okay, what’s going on with you? You’ve been off ever since this whole thing started.” When Magnus stayed silent, he leaned in closer and pleaded softly, “Talk to me.”

Magnus stared out onto the city, in a way that felt like he was avoiding looking at Alec. “I may have had an ulterior motive for having Madzie over for the holiday. Not that I wasn’t thrilled to have her and Catarina both, but … I’ve been thinking about what you said. About how we’d be good parents.”

That he wasn’t expecting. With their whirlwind marriage, losing Clary, and then a whirlwind honeymoon, they’d only just started settling into married life. While he knew that they needed to revisit their discussion on the topic, he didn’t think it’d be anytime soon. He cleared his suddenly dry throat. “You have?”

“Yes.” Though he sounded as collected as ever, Alec saw his throat bob with a nervous swallow. “I wasn’t sure before, but now … I don’t know when I’ll be ready for it, but I think I want that for us someday.”

Alec laughed, too happy to keep it in. “I want that, too. Of course I want to have a family with you.” His joy faded as his husband’s face grew melancholy. “What’s wrong?”

Magnus turned to him, eyes sad. “How do we do this, Alexander? We can’t adopt mundane children, Shadowhunters will never allow a warlock to raise one of theirs …”

“Wait, that’s what you’re worried about?”

Magnus frowned. “You’re not?”

“No, I’m not,” he said, reaching out to take Magnus’s hand. “Because I know we’ll find a kid who needs us. Like Catarina found Madzie, or how my parents took in Jace. Like I wish someone had been there for you.”

“Madzie and I are warlocks,” Magnus pointed out, eyes fixed on Alec. “We’re difficult to raise, and it might cause problems with the Clave.”

“You think after all this time that matters to me?”

“No, I suppose not.” Looking hopelessly fond, Magnus leaned up and kissed Alec gently, lingering and sweet.

When he pulled back, Alec let go of his hand. “Wait here. I want to show you something.”

He walked quickly back into the apartment, got a pen and a notepad from the desk, then returned to his husband. “Do you know about the Shadownhunter winter festival?”

Magnus turned to him fully, eyebrows drawn together. “I have, though for obvious reasons, I’ve never actually been to one.”

“We don’t really do a lot for it, but one thing is that we take pieces of paper,” he held up the notepad, “and we write down our wishes. Then we set them on fire to send them to the angel. Well, we’re supposed to leave it in a fireplace, but the idea’s the same. Izzy really liked doing it when we were kids.”

“That sounds very her. And what did little Alec wish for?”

“To be head of the Clave someday. And a better bow.”

“Of course.” The warlock looked at the paper skeptically. “So you want to make a wish?”

Alec shrugged. “It can’t hurt, right?”

Magnus made a face that said he wasn’t completely sure it couldn’t, but he held his hand out for the pen and paper anyway. Once he’d written his down, he ripped it off and handed it to Alec. He wrote down, Find a kid who needs us. Then, after a few seconds of thought added, Make Magnus happy. He wasn’t sure if it was against the rules to make more than wish, but he was pretty confident both Izzy and Jace had tried it. And in a way, it was the same wish anyway. As much as he wanted their own Madzie to celebrate Christmas with, or birthdays, or whatever holiday they wanted, he really, really wanted to make Magnus Bane as happy as possible.

He ripped off the double wish and Magnus conjured fire in his hand. They fed their wishes to the flames and watched as the ash danced out into the night.

#Shadowhunters #Malec #Magnus x Alec #Alec x Magnus #Magnus Bane #Alec Lightwood #husbands who went to hell for each other #dragonbinx fics

[falling-pages]

Perfect: Jean Kirschtein x Reader

When it's yours and Jean's turn to host the friend group Christmas party, you struggle with feeling as if you've done enough. Luckily, your husband is there to remind you that for him--and your unborn son--you are absolutely perfect.

-

Jean Kirschtein x Female Reader

Genre: Tooth-rotting holiday fluff

Warnings: Pregnancy

-

Twinkling colored lights flickering in time with the music stayed pinned along the corners of your ceiling. In contrast, soft, constant white lights reamed along the fireplace mantle, buried beneath the artificial greenery you had planted in nice, neat rows. Plastic angels on thin sticks peeked from behind the shrubbery, painted faces proclaiming peace on earth in silent song. The air was thick with the scent of spice and cherrywood, all senses clouded by the low lighting and warmth from the fire licking at the logs at your feet.

It was wonderful, peaceful, all you could have ever hoped for in a Christmas home...yet something was missing.

The pointed silver star dug into your palms as you gazed at the top of the tree, wondering just how you were going to get it to the top. You were much too short to reach the top, and your tower of a husband was last seen sneaking bites at the cake you had set out to cool before your friends arrived.

“Jean!” you cried softly, not wishing to disturb the music. Raising your voice over Frank Sinatra’s baritone was a mortal sin in this house. “Jean, I need some help.”

Within a moment he was by your side, clutching a piece of spice cake on one of his mother’s porcelain snack plates. He wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling into the hair you had spent hours coiling into the perfect holiday pouf. “What is it, beloved?” he asked, breath catching on the shell of your ear.

You swatted him away from your hair, though you were sure he couldn’t make a dent in all the hairspray you had used. “Can you please put the star on top of the tree?”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to your cheek before setting the plate down and taking the star from your hands. His were so big compared to yours, long, smooth fingers tracing the intricate dips and points of the design. A gift from your parents for your first married Christmas, custom-made based on one of Jean’s sketches. Holding something he had created always warranted a second awed glance. Still inconceivable to him that someone finally saw his art the way he always did.

“Of course I can,” he mused, stretching one of those big, muscular arms to rest the star on top of the fir. “Maybe next year I can help our own little angel put it on.”

Like fairy dust, the star’s sheen settled over the room, disturbing the lamplight and taking a spotlight of its own. Blown with glass and laden with crystals, it truly was the most beautiful piece of artwork in your house. For three years it demanded attention, which you freely gave; you wrapped your arms around your middle and swayed gently on your feet, letting its magic fill your veins. Christmas had always been celebrated in your house, sure, but with Jean it held a special meaning.

And, depending on when your son decided to enter this world, it might have two.

“Beautiful,” Jean whispered, slipping behind you and securing his hands over yours, adding an extra layer of support as you cradled your bump. “But not as beautiful as you.”

You nuzzled back into his chest, the blush scorching your skin beneath your makeup. The white sweater perfectly cushioned your cheek right above his heart. There were times this year you certainly didn’t feel beautiful. This pregnancy, though very much wanted, had been difficult. Most days of the week you had been ill, queasy and sickly even into the second trimester. As the months progressed, the symptoms lessened, but you still felt heavy, bloated, all swollen ankles and aching hips. Still, Jean thought you were stunning; every day, pregnant or not, but especially at Christmas, doubly getting ready for the party, with your hair coiffed with sprigs of holly tucked in, makeup dazzling and perfect. Even the way your eyes shone in the firelight ignited the feeling under his skin. His beautiful, beautiful wife.

He leaned down to pull you into a kiss, careful to not smear your lipstick. Even the lightest of his kisses left you breathless, the way his tongue lapped gently at your top lip sending a thrill to your core. He kept one hand on your stomach and let the other one arch to the back of your neck, fingers digging into the base of your hairstyle, keeping you close to his embrace.

The spice cake on his breath was delicious, but even more so was the little sighs and whimpers he always managed to draw from you.

“You taste good,” you murmur against his lips.

He chuckled, pressing another kiss to your forehead. Hazel eyes glittered from beneath ash brown hair; you swept aside the strands falling onto his forehead, giving him a soft smile.

“What do I taste like?” he asked, bemused.

So soft and pliable in his hands, you answered sweetly, “Like the cake I told you not to touch until the guests got here.”

A laugh bubbled in his throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Anything else?”

“Mmm hmm.” You leaned up on your tiptoes and kissed him again, drinking in all the flavors he had to offer. “And...eggnog. And Christmas punch.”

“Spiked Christmas punch,” he corrected. “I’m sorry you can’t have any.”

“If the only way I get it is through a kiss, then I’m fine with that.”

His hands anchored around your bump as you pulled him down for another kiss, just centimeters apart when your son delivered a vengeful kick right into your spleen. You peeled away from Jean, wincing in pain, as you clutched your stomach.

“Seriously?” you whined, directed at the baby.

“Someone’s jealous,” Jean teased, caressing smooth circles against your dress. Early in your pregnancy, you had no problem calming the baby; lately, however, he seemed to only respond to his father’s touch. Ungrateful little guy, already picking his favorite parent.

Like magic, Jean’s touches calmed him down. He looked at you and smirked, triumphant, but you pushed him away with flimsy strength. “I’ve had just about enough of you,” you said, waddling away to the kitchen.

His laugh followed you, carrying an apologetic note within its quivers and shakes. “Lovely, where are you going?”

“To see if I can salvage the cake you ate,” you humphed.

But your weighted walk was no match for his long legs, and he quickly caught up, catching you by the waist and hugging you against him. The richness of his cologne, sunk deep in his sweater, rose to meet your nose. His cuddles were your kryptonite, the one thing you could never resist.

“Wait, baby, I’m sorry,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you tight. “I was only taste-testing, and if anyone notices, we can blame it on Eren.”

You smiled, turning to face him. Nervous jitters ran up your spine as your fingers clutched his forearm.

He noticed--he always noticed--and tipped your chin up with a finger. His eyes were as warm as a flame as they bore into yours. “Is everything alright? Really?”

You exhaled, letting the spiders crawl out of your system, reminding yourself that you were in your home, with your husband and child, in a safe, warm space. “I’m just a bit nervous,” you confessed. “It’s our first year hosting the party, and the baby could come any day now. I just want everything to be good enough.”

Tears flashed behind your eyes. From hormones, yes, but also worry, fear, anxiety that you weren’t a good enough wife to him, a good enough hostess to your friends, or a good enough mother when the baby was born. It did no good to wring your hands, but late at night, while Jean slept curled around you and the baby was wide awake and kicking, it was all you could do to focus.

Jean’s face fell as he watched you cry, knowing it wasn’t his fault but feeling the stab of pain anyways. He cupped your head in his hands and wiped each tear as it fell, careful not to disturb your makeup. His wife, his pretty little wife, was scared she wouldn’t be good enough?

“No, sweetie, come,” he whispered, pulling you into his chest. “Come here. Come cry it out for me.”

Your tears flooded his sweater as he caressed your back, gently digging his fingers into the tense knots he found along the way. He repeated affirmations in your ear until your breathing calmed down, slow and steady, relaxing in his hold.

“You are more than enough, beloved. So sweet and good for me. The best wife a man could ever ask for.” He kissed your temple, coaxing you to look at him. “The best hostess, and the best mother to the best son in the world.” He matched your watery smile. “I don’t know what I did in this life to deserve someone like you. I truly don’t. But I’m thankful every day that you saw me fit to take care of you.”

You shifted slightly as the baby kicked softly, rubbing over the swell. He let you go but remained holding your hand, thumbing your knuckles softly. “Do you still want to do the party? Everyone will understand if you don’t.”

“No, no, I can.” You shook your head, thinking of all the food and decor that would go to waste. “It will be fine. Just pregnancy hormones.”

“If you ever need a break, tell me,” he said, and you nodded. The doorbell suddenly rang, and he squeezed your hand before letting go. “Go freshen up. I’ll play host for a while.”

Just before you turned to go, he pulled you into one more hug, warm and heavy with Christmas spirit. “I love you, Mrs. Kirschtein,” he reminded you, grinning at the smile you wore. “And to me, you are absolutely perfect.”

-

Kofi

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #jean kirschtein #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein x you #jean kirstein x you #jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirschtein fluff #jean aot #jean aot fluff #jean aot scenario #jean snk #aot #snk

[fanfics4all]

Banished

Request: Yes / No  roan x reader (smut preferably) where you get banished from skaikru about a month in after landing on earth and you meet roan. since he’s wounded and you’re a healer you patch him up and end up travelling together and become rlly close?? idk i read your trick or treat fic and it was my favourite roan fic i’ve read (and i’ve read them all...no shame)😭 @szhead31​

Requests are closed <3 Have a nice day/night

Roan x Fem!Reader 

Word count: 1735

Warnings: SMUT!

Y/N: Your Name 

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(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)

“What do you mean I’m kicked out?” I asked Clarke and Bellamy. 

“Y/N, you’ve been a danger to the camp.” Bellamy said with his arms crossed. 

“A danger? I’m a damn healer!” I shouted. 

“And half of the people in our infirmary are because of you!” He shouted back at me. 

“Enough!” Clarke shouted, stopping anything before it started. 

“Y/N, Bellamy’s right. You’ve been fighting everyone in camp and with the Grounders wanting to kill us, we need to think of the bigger picture.” She said and I scoffed. 

“Ya know what? I don’t even care anymore. Screw all of you and I hope the Grounders kick your ass!” I shouted and stormed out of the dropship. I went to my tent and grabbed my shit then left without another word. Those assholes can kiss my damn ass. 

*One Month Later*

I was out hunting in the snow. I don’t entirely remember how I got here, but I was alive so that’s all that matters. I had the perfect angle on the deer I was hunting when all of a sudden a scream scared it away. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I groaned. I decided that I should run and see who was screaming. Maybe someone from camp got lost and I could fix them up, it was the damn doctor in me… If I heal them maybe they’ll see I’m not as bad as everyone says I am! I pushed myself to run faster and found a man leaning against a tree with a serious wound in his stomach. I’m honestly surprised his guts weren’t falling out. I kneeled down by his side and quickly pulled out my supplies. 

“Who are you?” He asked with a groan. 

“I’m here to help, who are you? What happened?” I asked as I started to work on his stomach. 

“I am Roan, Prince of Azgeda.” He answered then hissed in pain. 

“Don’t move, I need to disinfect it before I stitch you up. Here, bite on this.” I said and pushed a cloth into his mouth. He bit down on it and continued my work. It took about a half hour to patch him up enough to get him somewhere safe. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” He asked as we were walking through the forest. 

“My Father was a doctor, he taught me everything I know.” I answered with a small smile. 

“Your Father taught you well.” He said, returning my smile. 

“Up ahead, there’s a small cabin I found, I’ve been staying there.” I said and pointed at the building ahead. He nodded and the two of us quickly but carefully made our way into the cabin. I laid him on the bed and checked his wound again. 

“If you’re a Prince, what are you doing out here alone? Shouldn’t you have guards with you?” I asked. 

“I was banished so my people could join with the Commander.” He said sadly. 

“Your parents banished you?” I asked shocked and he nodded sadly. 

“Why are you out here on your own?” He asked and I bit my lip. 

“Same reason you are. I was banished because my people thought I was more dangerous than the Grounders.” I answered and his eyes widened slightly. 

“Why?” He asked. 

“I was a healer to my people, there weren’t many, but the two people that basically put themselves in charge kicked me out because I kept fighting people. Those people talked a lot of shit about me and I was just making sure they knew not to mess with me, turns out that putting your own people in the infirmary while at ‘war’ isn’t a great idea.” I half laughed. 

“How long have you been out here?” He asked. 

“About a month, maybe a little more.” I shrugged. 

“You’re strong.” He smiled and his eyes slowly started to close. 

“Get some rest, I’ll check on you in the morning.” I said and walked off to make myself food. 

*Another Month Later* 

Roan had healed well. He was strong and wanted to get better. He was actually a very good patient and did everything I asked of him. The two of us got to know each other while he was healing and he was amazing. At first he was pretty reserved and hesitant to let me into his life, but eventually he opened up to me. He was sweet with a very strong sense of loyalty. When he was finally better I thought he would just leave, which broke my heart at the thought, but he stayed. He explained to me how he was a bounty hunter and asked me to join him on his adventures. I had agreed, but we always ended up coming back to the cabin we now claimed as ours. The two of us knew we had developed feelings for one another, but we never fully confessed. Sure we acted like a couple, but it was never solidified. That was until we got snowed in our cabin with no way of leaving. 

“I suppose it’s good that we got extra food yesterday when we were out.” I said and Roan smiled. 

“I suppose you’re right.” He said and joined me in the bed. Roan pulled me towards him and I rested my head on his chest. We sat in silence, revelling in the warmth that our bodies gave to each other. After a few minutes Roan pulled my face up to look at him and he did something unexpected. He held my chin with two of his fingers and gently kissed me. I was breathless when he broke away, his eyes shining as he admired me. 

“What was that for?” I whispered. 

“I just finally got the courage to confess how I feel.” He said and I smiled with a slight blush dusting my cheeks. 

“I feel the same way.” I said and kissed him again. The kiss started off as sweet and loving, but it quickly turned hotter. The two of us were feeling each other’s bodies and enjoying the feelings. When Roan dipped into my pants I pulled away. 

“Wait, I’ve… I’ve never done this before.” I said, blushing deeply and looked away. Roan grabbed my face and made me look at him. 

“Let me teach you. We’ll be nice and warm after.” He said with a small smirk. There was something about Roan that made me trust him with all of my heart. 

“Okay…” I whispered. Roan pulled my shirt off and then my pants were quick to follow. My arms immediately went to cover my chest. 

“What about you?” I asked. He smirked and rid himself of his clothing, naked. Roan gently pried my arms from my chest and smiled. 

“Beautiful.” He hummed and kissed me, making my cheeks turn pink. 

“No need to be shy, Y/N.” He promised. He gently pushed me to lay on the bed and his lips went to my chest. 

“Roan…” I breathed, lacing my fingers into his brown hair. He pulled my underwear from me and looked up at me for consent. I gave him a small nod and he moved to my entrance. The sensation was overwhelming as his cock entered my pussy for the very first time. Delightful flashes of tingles coursed through my body. It felt amazing, until he broke through the one thing that indicated I was indeed a virgin. I grunted at the sharp burst of pain in my pussy. He held still, deep within me. 

“Are you alright? Did I hurt you?” He whispered in my ear. My breathing was fast and shallow as I felt my walls absorbing his shaft. The sharp pain dulled to an ache, but was slowly overcome by a heavenly feeling of fullness. The tingles from him pressing against my clit increasing as his body moved subtly with each of his deep breaths. 

“It’s okay… I’m fine.” I finally whispered. Roan’s hips pulled back slowly, his gaze still concentrated on my face, probably looking for any signs of pain. He stopped with the head of his cock placed just in the entrance on my pussy. He teased me for only a moment, making me moan and grip the sheets. 

“Please don’t tease.” I begged. 

“Sorry love.” He said and pushed back inside me. One of his hands found my clit and I arched my back as he played with it. My muscles eased, allowing the pain to dissipate. Roan’s thrusts began to build pressure in my stomach and stars in my eyes. The soft pleasure washed over me with ease. My breaths were coming out in shallow stutters as I tried to hold back my orgasm. I was throbbing around Roan and he could feel every second of my building pleasure. 

“Roan, fuck!” I choked out as I withered on the bed. 

“Harder, harder please!” I begged, squeezing my eyes shut. Roan leaned down, capturing my lips in a messy but loving kiss as he did what I wanted. The ache in my every muscle released all at once. A shudder ran through my body as my orgasm took over me. 

“You look so beautiful when you cum like that.” Roan praised, and it only made it better. Roan pulled my legs over his shoulders and hit a deeper spot inside me. 

“Oh my God!” I shrieked. My back arched off the bed as Roan slid into me with the deep, angled thrusts. My moans were loud, escaping my lips with every other thrust he made. His hips rolled against mine with his hand still trying to pull another orgasm from me. I gripped the sheets tighter as I jolted upward from his powerful force. 

“Oh fuck! Roan!” I screamed, pleasure bursting through my veins. I was cumming for a second time tonight.

“Oh Y/N!” He moaned as he came inside me. I whined when he pulled out of me. He gave a small chuckle and pulled me into him under the blanket. 

“Warmer?” He asked and I nodded. 

“That was amazing.” I sighed happily. 

“We can do that as often as you want.” He smiled and I captured his lips in a kiss. 

“I think I want to do that all the time.” I said and he laughed. 

“Whatever you want, my Princess.” He said and I smiled. This was what earth was all about. This was my new start.

Tag list: @les-bio-lie​ @tashy-bear​ @ashwarren32​ @hollie-blogs-blog1​ @schisbro87​ @lover-of-books-and-teas​ @nerdygaloresposts​ @teenwolfbitches28​ @genius2050​ @drw0301bieber​ @lady-of-lies​ @ravenmoore14​ @ravenempress101​ @cillianchamp​ @rowanthomasknapp​ @rachelxwayne​ @emo-godess-loves-you​ @now-imagine​ @bruisedfists-and-splitlips @vanessa-kom-skaikru​

#The 100 #the 100 imagine #the 100 smut #king roan #roan the 100 #roan x reader #roan x fem!reader #fanfic #request #roan smut #king roan x reader #king roan x fem!reader #king roan smut #Smut

[five-rivers]

imagine if at a christmas truce party the ghosts discover that danny has a second obsession of space

Wrote a fic~ *does a little dance*

.

"Here's your invitation to the truce party," said Skulker, dropping the letter by Danny's head, "and here's the duty list. Pick something." He shoved a piece of paper into Danny's face.

"You know," said Danny, testing the rope Skulker had tied him with, "you get a lot better at chasing me when you're doing it for non-murder purposes."

Skulker scowled, but Danny knew better than to take his apparent facial expression as a sign of his true emotions. After all, the face Danny could see wasn't really Skulker's. It was a mask. One the tiny green jellybean inside could manipulate as he pleased.

"What do you mean, 'duty list,' anyway?" Danny blew the paper off his nose.

"It's a list. Of duties. For people who want to attend the party. You can't possibly imagine that one ghost does it all on their own, do you?"

"I don't know. Some living people are really into the holidays. Wouldn't surprise me if there was someone over in the GZ Obsessing."

"There are," said Skulker flatly. "But going to those parties is risky."

"Oh. Yeah. I guess that makes sense. So, is this, like, a potluck deal, or white elephant, or do I have to come set up, or what?"

"Read the list, whelp!"

"I would," said Danny, "if you held it far enough away for me to see what was written on it. "My eyes don't focus that close."

Grumbling, Skulker adjusted his position.

A lot of the things on the list were already checked off. The rest looked dangerous (fighting the Krampus), time consuming (holly acquisition, with a stupidly high number of branches listed next to it), expensive (providing new holiday table settings), confusing (Danny didn't know what a 'consoda' was, or why he would fetch offerings from it), or simply extraordinarily unappealing (after party cleanup). Except for one.

One that caught Danny's eye because of a very specific word that was included.

"Why's the star all by itself?" asked Danny.

"Because the star is important," said Skulker. "Adding the star to the tree is what starts off the real celebration. A star needs to be impressive. Dramatic! Not one of those little dinky tinsel things you can find at human stores."

Part of Danny knew he shouldn't- But when had he ever listened to that part of himself?

Actually, that wasn't really fair. He listened, otherwise he'd be fully dead instead of just half.

Still.

(The idea of making a star made his skin feel sparkly and fuzzy, like his whole body was half an inch from the surface of freshly poured soda, but all over.)

"I'll take it," he said.

"Humf," said Skulker. "Don't screw up, or you'll be in for a beating as soon as the truce is over." He made a mark by the name and started to fly off.

"Hey! Aren't you going to untie me?"

"Nah."

.

"He's late," said Desiree, sharply, glaring at Skulker as if he had any control over what the whelp did or did not do.

She wasn't the only one.

"He's not late yet," defended Skulker.

"You shouldn't have given him the star as a choice," complained Technus, his voice squaking like a poorly connected computer speaker. "You should have just told him what he'd have to do. Something that wouldn't ruin the party. He's a teenager! Teenagers are easily distracted."

"I didn't know you were a teen, techie," drawled Spectra, who really shouldn't have been at the party at all, seeing as she wasn't, and never had been, invited. Skulker was hoping someone would find a way to throw her and her little minion out before midnight.

"It's TECHNUS, MASTER OF TECHNOLOGY, CONTROLLER OF ALL THINGS ELECTRONIC AND BEEPING."

"I am sure Sir Phantom is on his way," said Princess Dora, softly, ignoring Technus's continuing rant with the ease of long practice. She would not be here the whole evening. Her kingdom had its own, separate celebrations, but they wouldn't start for well over half a human day. "He is a very responsible person, and he was speaking to me about stars just earlier this month." She frowned, slightly, swirling the darkly luminous wine in her glass. "That is, I think he was talking about stars. The conversation was somewhat difficult for me to follow."

"Oh, no," said Desiree, putting one hand delicately over a smile.

"What?" growled Skulker.

"It always bothered me a little, you see, but I hadn't realized quite why until just now." She was barely even trying to hide her delight. "The second time I fought him, it was during a meteor shower."

"So?" asked Amorpho.

"He was rather cross with me during the fight. At the time, I thought it was because he was missing that girl's party, or because of the whole memory wiping thing, but in retrospect..."

"Just spit it out already," said Skulker.

"I do believe you gave the task of making the tree star to a ghost Obsessed with outer space."

Inside the suit, Skulker's true hands slip off his controls for just a moment. "Oh, Ancients," he groaned.

"We're not getting a star this year, are we?" asked Ember.

Phantom chose that moment to barrel through the door. "Sorry!" he exclaimed, looking and sounding more like a little kid than Skulker had ever witnessed. "Am I late? No, I'm not. Never mind. I'm not sorry. What do you think?"

He held out the... thing in his hands for the assembled ghosts to view. It was... It was definitely a star. A round blue star. Complete with solar flares and sunspots. Animated flares and sunspots.

"How the hell?" whispered Walker in the background, despite the fact that he and his pink prison really had no room to talk.

"Is it no good?" asked Phantom, managing to shift his weight even though he was floating. "I turned the brightness way down so that everyone could see the details, but I think I could turn it back up again without too much trouble." He blinked up at the other ghosts, and Skulker noticed with some unease that his pupils were currently shaped like crescent moons. "I mean, the other one exploded, but I think I've got it, now."

All of the ghosts slid back, just slightly. Not that they were afraid of explosions, but, well, being cautious didn't hurt.

"Er," said Dora, "what is it, exactly?"

"A star! A blue giant, specifically. Well, a model of one, anyway, but I think it's a good model. I mean, it's a blue giant right now. I've got it set up so that it'll go through the whole life cycle of a massive star. Or, not the whole life cycle, because that would include the nebula, but the life cycle from this point? It'll change color and expand as the night goes on and it uses up its 'hydrogen'- I've scaled the expansion, though, don't worry, it won't take over- and then the core will collapse and the outer layers will be ejected, and- BOOM!- supernova!"

"Ghost child," said Technus, in a more strangled than usual voice, "are you telling us that's a bomb?"

"No, it's a star," said Phantom, blankly. On closer inspection, the crescents in his eyes were not the only modification to Phantom's appearance. He had pale green and silver stars scattered liberally across his nose and cheeks, and similar shapes in the black of his costume.

In the background, Desiree was dying of laughter.

"Don't you think a supernova might be... dangerous?"

"Oh, a real one, sure. But I tested one before I brought this, and all it did to me was singe my eyebrows off, and I was standing really close."

"Whelp," said Skulker, searching for some reason to reject Phantom's 'contribution,' "how is that even supposed to stay on the tree? It's just a ball."

"Oh, it'll float wherever I tell it to, don't worry, I've tested it!"

.

It perhaps said something about ghostly parties that the sudden detonation of the tree topper several hours later, the subsequent glee of the supposed superhero in attendance when the room was filled with star-shaped glitter and confetti, and the attempted homicide on the part of several glitter-unfriendly ghosts was not the most exciting series of events to occur that night.

#danny phantom #ask #answer #fic

[pet-genius]

The Death Eaters as a Cult - Part 1

This is a very lightly edited old Reddit post, that I'll publish in parts because the whole thing is like 7000 words. Analyzing Voldemort, the DE and their dynamics, Dumbledore and Harry in comparison, and individual Death Eaters. Hope you like it!

Some say Voldemort is a cartoon villain, or wizard Hitler. I think he is very realistic, and that the focus on his political aspirations ignores interesting aspects of him. I cannot prove that JKR had cults in mind when she wrote Voldemort and his followers, but this is how I read them. It’s nearly impossible to define a cult, so, for the purpose hereof, I’m going with “a group dedicated to the worship of a person”. Many cult leaders in real life present themselves merely as “god’s voice” or “the messiah”, but Voldemort specifically didn’t bother to hide behind a power higher than himself.

Tom Riddle comes from humble beginnings, like many cult leaders - he’s raised in an orphanage. He already has delusions of grandeur, only in this case they’re not delusions, because he really is magic, which makes it all the more dangerous. Look how he reacted to discovering he was a wizard, and how Harry did.

Immediately following the revelation that Lily and James did not die in a car crash, and that Harry is famous, and that he survived an attempt at his life by the worst wizard in history:

Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had been a horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could he possibly be? He’d spent his life being clouted by Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn’t they been turned into warty toads every time they’d tried to lock him in his cupboard? If he’d once defeated the greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley had always been able to kick him around like a football?

“Hagrid,” he said quietly, “I think you must have made a mistake. I don’t think I can be a wizard.”

Heart-breaking. Harry doesn’t believe he can be special, he blames himself for the way he’s treated.

This is Tom Riddle:

“I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic.”

There was silence. Riddle had frozen, his face expressionless, but his eyes were flickering back and forth between each of Dumbledore’s, as though trying to catch one of them lying. “Magic?” he repeated in a whisper.

“That’s right,” said Dumbledore.

“It’s... it’s magic, what I can do?”

“What is it that you can do?”

“All sorts,” breathed Riddle. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked fevered. “I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”

His legs were trembling. He stumbled forward and sat down on the bed again, staring at his hands, his head bowed as though in prayer.

“I knew I was different,” he whispered to his own quivering fingers. “I knew I was special. Always, I knew there was something.”

His megalomania and violent nature are already apparent, as is his preternatural control of his magic. It also hints at rudimentary legilimency.

Dumbledore spells out that young Tom Riddle equated magic with immortality and liked to collect trophies, and that Tom Riddle liked being special, as he resents the name Tom for being too common; he already lives behind a mask and only shows his true face in shock. This, and not Dumbledore’s magical prowess, is what always scared Tom. Voldemort knew Dumbledore knew what he was. That was the only tactical advantage Dumbledore had.

It’s also one of JKR’s strokes of brilliance: Dumbledore saw Tom for what Tom was, and others never did until it was too late, not because he was that clever, but because he knew from experience. Dumbledore had allowed himself to fall for a charismatic but heartless man before, and it took Ariana dying to slap him awake. Dumbledore knows good people can be led astray: It happened to him. It has nothing to do with intelligence or “goodness”. Gellert was able to give Albus exactly what Albus lacked, stuck at home taking care of Ariana: the promise of freedom and a bright future, and the companionship of an equal. Albus fell for it, despite warning signs that should have been obvious.

Later, we know Tom is chosen by a wand of yew and phoenix feather. Both yew and phoenix are associated with immortality; yew trees are very long-lived. Compare this to Harry’s wand, holly and phoenix feather: both these characters will experience death and rebirth, except Tom Riddle’s wand tree is yew, and Harry’s is holly.

From Wikipedia: “The Christian church commonly found it expedient to take over existing pre-Christian sacred sites for churches. It has also been suggested that yews were planted at religious sites as their long life was suggestive of eternity, or because, being toxic when ingested, they were seen as trees of death.” Also from Wikipedia: “Christians have identified a wealth of symbolism in the holly tree’s form. The sharpness of the leaves help to recall the crown of thorns worn by Jesus; the red berries serve as a reminder of the drops of blood that were shed for salvation; and the shape of the leaves, which resemble flames, can serve to reveal God's burning love for His people.”

The two orphans’ wildly different views of death are also apparent in their wand trees. Voldemort will murder to attain his goals; Harry will sacrifice himself. That the phoenix feather came from Fawkes is also meaningful - Dumbledore taught both magic in some capacity, but he never could defeat Voldemort, because they’re too alike. One of Harry’s advantages in this battle is the integrity of his soul, which cannot be compromised.

Next, Tom Riddle is sorted into Slytherin. For a child who is already prone to megalomania, the house values bring out the worst in him, and under Slughorn, he grows into a manipulative, cunning, ruthless young man. I’m not blaming Horace for Tom being a psychopath, but some of the particular ways his psychopathy manifested in seem to have been directly due to Slughorn’s influence. Slughorn is a blood-supremacist, who was convinced Tom must come from fine stock. Slughorn tests drinks for poison using house elves; Tom Riddle tests the effectiveness of his Horcrux’s protection on Kreacher. Slughorn emphasizes the importance of connections and outright praises Tom for knowing more than he needs to, and encourages an attitude of “it’s only wrong if you get caught.” But Slughorn, prejudiced and cunning as he is, is not violent - he is academically curious about Horcruxes, but he finds them repugnant. Tom’s heart is not so faint - at the point of asking Slughorn about Horcruxes, the diary is already a horcrux, and Tom has already murdered his father. This is how Dumbledore describes Tom’s original gang, who were the proto-Death Eaters:

As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want of a better term, although as I have already indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. This group had a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts. Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected in open wrongdoing, although their seven years at Hogwarts were marked by a number of nasty incidents to which they were never satisfactorily linked, the most serious of which was, of course, the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was wrongly accused of that crime.

Dumbledore explains what motivated people to join Tom: some were afraid, some ambitious, some cruel. He controlled his so-called friends, and already started framing others for his own crimes (Hagrid’s framing was followed by Morfin’s and Hokey the house elf’s).

This is followed by Tom’s attempt to become a teacher (Dumbledore spells out his motivations: He is attached to the school, he wants to study its magic, and he already wants to build himself an army). He is denied, oddly chooses to work for Borgin and Burkes, a choice fueled by the desire to trace down more items to make into Horcruxes. Through the memory of the meeting with Heptzibah Smith, we see that Tom was definitely charming when he needed to be, and knew how to make people feel good. He did not use magic to trick her into showing him her precious locket and cup: he used muggle manipulation - flattery, making an old and forlorn lady feel valuable, perhaps even flirting with her (she’s certainly flirting with him). He was pleasant enough that Ms. Smith eagerly looked forward to his visits - but as she showed him her treasures, he was caught off guard by hearing about his mother and how she sold the locket, and she saw him for what he was, although she quickly fell into denial. Sadly, she was murdered two days later.

Why rely on Horcruxes to gain immortality? Tom must have known about Nicholas Flamel and the Philosopher’s Stone, and the Horcruxes require someone else to perform the resurrection ritual. Either making the Stone is so hard that it would deter Tom (unlikely), or he already expected to rely on followers who would find him and revive him - he certainly seems to have expected his followers to have searched for him earlier. Maybe Horcruxes were appealing because they require murder. In any case, this is followed by the memory of Tom asking Dumbledore for the DADA job again, a decade later. Tom has spent a decade gathering followers, and he has already changed his name to Lord Voldemort. This is reminiscent of real life cult leader David Koresh, and the leaders of the Children of God, Aum Shinrikyo, etc. The meeting between Voldemort and Albus is interesting, because it’s clear that Dumbledore had tried to teach Tom about the power of love:

“The old argument,” he said softly. “But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore.”

“Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places,” suggested Dumbledore.

This did not help. Tom never learned - how could he? At 16, he was already a murderer - who could love him now for who he was? He could never be truly loved, and he could never truly love another, and he underestimated the power of love for his entire life, leading to his downfall - twice (were that it was so simple in real life).

Voldemort is trying to obfuscate the nature of the relationship, like all cults - they never admit this is what they are.

“I am glad to hear that you consider them friends,” said Dumbledore. “I was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants.”

“You are mistaken,” said Voldemort.

But LV can’t lie to Dumbledore, who changes the subject. He denies him the DADA job again, and the curse is placed on the job. LV’s ascent is due to begin in a few years. Hagrid tells the story:

Anyway, this — this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin’ fer followers. Got ’em, too — some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ’cause he was gettin’ himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn’t know who ter trust, didn’t dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches...

Voldemort isn’t just interested in immortality. He wants complete control. He wants everyone fearing him - even fearing his name. He has people isolated and distrustful, fearing for their lives.

But we know his reign of terror was dreadful - what I’m interested in is the way he treated his own followers. We know little about how he treated them in the first war, but we do have what Sirius had to say about Regulus’s fate:

From what I found out after he died, he got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out. Well, you don’t just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It’s a lifetime of service or death.

We know the real story of Regulus’s disappearance, and it’s different. Kreacher tells us that Regulus died in the Horcrux cave - but more telling is that Regulus forbade Kreacher from telling his parents what had happened to him. Why did he feel the need to do that? This suggests that Regulus knew LV destroyed traitors’ families, which is a tactic used in cults and other abusive dynamics. We know LV would leverage Draco’s welfare against Lucius for his failure in the Department of Mysteries, too. We know also that instead of going to Dumbledore, or to his own brother, Regulus chose death – unless he was really dumb, and I don’t think he was, he must have been manipulated into believing that was his only option, or his world made no sense after his faith had shattered. So many people never readjust to life outside the cult.

Voldemort “dies” about two years after that, having successfully recruited about 400 followers (“the death eaters outnumbered us the Order 20:1” - Lupin). We can’t say if all these people were genuine Death Eaters or people who had been Imperiused or otherwise coerced, or allies like Narcissa, but that coercion is used to recruit shows that Voldemort did not take his own followers’ ambitions and wishes into account. People who use outright coercion don't suddenly draw the line at manipulation.

#death eaters #cult #death eater meta #voldemort #voldemort meta #harry potter #meta

[aerial-jace]

In the auger au, will Alderheart be forced into being a med. Cat? (If he exists.) Hoe many kits does Lionblaze end up having? Also, what happened to Cinderheart?

I'll leave that Alderheart question for last under a read more because he has an important role to play with SkyClan and all and it's a whole thing.

As for the other questions,

Lionblaze and Honeyfern have the two canon Lionblaze litters: the first one consisting of Sorrelkit, Hollykit (named after her still living aunt, hahah!), and Fernkit, and the second consisting of Beekit (totally canonical I swear), Flykit, Spotkit, and Snapkit.

Cinderheart is doing well! Just like in canon she healed from her injury and all.

I decided to go for HoneyLion and CinderHolly for this one instead of having Lionblaze end up with Cinderheart. Helps twist the knife on Berrynose's misery with how Lionblaze ended up with the girl he liked. And CinderHolly is just a cute ship, what else can I say?

First change, Alderpaw definitely wants to be an augur, but he's being passed over. He's patrician, sure, but because of how the line of succession works, he's pretty low on the list of candidates. A child or grandchild of Jay is the first option, and failing that a child or grandchild of Holly or Lion.

However, soon enough StarClan sends a prophecy~ Turns out they have selected Alderpaw to reestablish Moth Flight's lineage in SkyClan. So he has to go on a quest to find and marry Echosong's daughter. So he sets out on the journey alongside Sandstorm and his warrior mentor and Sparkpaw and her warrior mentor like in canon, and all.

Partway through the trip they encounter a mysterious she-cat who introduces herself as Needlepaw. Knowing this is a Clan name, they interrogate her and end up learning of the whole debacle with Darktail. They still want to see it with their own eyes so they stubbornly make their way to the gorge and Needlepaw gets to go "I told you so".

So they set out back to ThunderClan and in between all the journeying and adventuring Needlepaw ends up casually mentioning her mom Echosong and would you look at that! Just who they were looking for!

So, Alderpaw and Needlepaw become mates and have their own little arc about going from bad influence friend and naive friend to lovers. Needlepaw is her troublemaker self. Alderpaw gets to train as an augur and earns the name Alderheart. Needlepaw trains as a warrior and ears the name Needletail. And just in time for SkyClan to make its way to the lake they have two daughters: Violetkit and Twigkit.

They deal with the Darktail situation but they notice something is afoot once they are helping them set up. Is this other Frecklewish person another daughter of Echosong's? What about her apprentice Fidgetpaw, is he her son? No? What's this madness?

So it turns out SkyClan wasn't playing these silly games and the lake cats are kind of outraged at that. So after a huge controversy, Leafstar finally kind of begrudgingly agrees to let Alderheart and his wife and kits come live in SkyClan. And as part of reaching a compromise and doing the bloodline reestablishing thing, they agree to train Twigpaw as an augur and having her marry Fidgetpaw.

Violetpaw meanwhile ends up in ShadowClan as part of an agreement about territory sharing after their debacle with SkyClan is sorted out and trains under... either Flametail or Dovewing. Flametail gets to live longer than canon just so TigerDove can pretend Shadowsight and siblings are theirs. But like, maybe he has to die at some point so maybe partway through AVoS, IDK. How lucky they already had Violetshine by the time ThunderClan decided to yoink Shadowpaw for themselves.

Mentioning @mallowstep to remind him to make all the additions required to the family tree he so generously made for me. <3

#warrior cats #wc #warrior cats au #augur au #lionblaze #cinderheart #Alderheart #Needletail #Twigbranch #Violetshine #Echosong #Frecklewish #Fidgetflake

[popculturebuffet]

House of Mouse: Mickey’s Magical Christmas: Snowed In At the House of Mouse: A Rope of Sand Review (Patreon Review WeirdKev27)

Ho ho ho all you holly jolly people! We’ve come to the end of my christmas reviews for the year (i’m saving Danny Phantom for next year, don’t you worry), as I take time to spend with my love ones, relax, and bask in the warm glow of christmas. 

So with that it’s approriate to cap it off witht he final of the trilogy of house of mouse christmas specials: the DTV movie snowed in at the house of mouse. Like the last one it reuses wraparound material, shorts and what have you.  But also like the last one it has more theatrical shorts, and unlike that one the wraparound is actually charming this time instead of a waste of a REALLY great premise. SO a nice little bit of christmas. 

As with the last complation film, due to doing the other house of mouse christmas episode i’ve also done 2 1/2 of the shorts contained within. So like last time I did this with House of Villians i’ll be copy and pasting my reviews of those segments into this one, except for the christmas light fight as only a part of that segement made it over and frankly, most of it was spent on something they threw out, this monstrosity

 That way if your just coming in for snowed in at the house of mouse you don’t have to redo those segments. It’s also.. weird being this close to done with House of Mouse. As I said last time i’m not going away from it entirely, i’ll return for the right episode.. but it’s going to be weird NOT having this show on my monthly schedule. It won’t be quite the same when I go back so i’m going out on a high next time. As for this time see what I thought of this movie, it’s shorts, and it’s holiday cheer under the cut. 

Going segements first again since the wraparound ties things off more climactically again. Let’s a go.

Donald On Ice:

This one is pretty good but hampered by the ending. The boys build a snowman for a contest while donald skates with himself baby, and slides his way on over into some shenanigans. Again it works fine: the slapstick is pitch perfect, with mouseworks having really gotten what makes Donald work a lot of the time, and it goes a bit nuts in the best way possible as Donald gets chased by a mutant killer snow goon at one point.

Yup. No explination just a murder snowman. The boys snowman gets ruined in the process of the chase and.. donald gets chased off into the sunset.. because a snowman tried to kill him because he.. wanted to skate peacefully on his own? Yeah the ending sours what could’ve been a true classic, and thus weakens the whole short. Still might be worth a look just be wary of that.

Pluto’s Christmas Tree

One of only two shorts here that wasn’t recycled.. and it’s Chip N Dale.. and Pluto. Again

It’s what you’d expect from the title: Mickey finds a tree to chop down, dosen’t realize the two banes of my existance when their not two gumshoes who have our backs in it and they procede to torment pluto a bit who Mickey dosen’t seem to get has a reason for acting up. It’s still BETTER than a lot of these as Mickey dosen’t tourture the poor dog and Chip N Dale have a reasonable catalyst for their bullshit. Mickey chopped down their home and took it in his home. They just want revenge and to not get set on fire... oh yeah Mickey nearly sets Chip on fire because he imitated a santa candle. Or was it dale. Point is Mickey nearly set another rodent ablaze and angered his mousey god that’s the take away here. 

It’s.. fine. Obviously the fact I typed that like a man who just had his toe stepped on by an innocent child means i’m not the target audience for this short but it’s decent enough and Mickey sparing the two rodents because it’s christmas, while being saranaded by his friends doing carols is really sweet. TLDR, not for me, but not bad. And for a Chip N Dale short that’s the highest praise I can give it.  ood lord the one upside of not doing this is never having ot see those assholes outside of a trench coat or hawiaan shirt again unless I WANT TO. Hallejuah and holy shit where’s the tyllenol. 

The Nutcracker:

This is another one of those big, beautiful two part shorts they did, the kind that really stuck with me all these years. This is easily the best of the two parters i’ve rewatched and were it not for the two part Blot short, which we’ll get to soon enough.

It follows the basic plot of the nutcracker well enough: A vaugely aged girl is given a nutcracker by her eccentric uncle, said girl shrinks down, dances and romances with the nutcracker. Then she gets kidnapped by the rat king who wants to make her his bride because that’s all villians could think of back then, the nutcracker breaks his testicles with a silver baseball bat, everyone’s happy and then you loose 20 minutes of your life watching the dance of the sugarplum faries. And that’s without having seen the play in 20 years, it’s homaged and redone like this that much.

This short has fun with that by using the narrator, who interacts with the cast. THe best of this is at the start when Ludvig, playing the uncle (Minnie is naturally the girl, Mickey the nutcracker and Donald the rat king), gets increasingly pissed off at the narrator not letting him speak and narrating over all his lines. Ludvig is always a delight but here he’ sin top form with just the best expressions. Eventaully the narrator gets fed up with this and LITERALLY throws him out of the story uncle phil style. IT’s great stuff.

Donald meanwhile grumbles about his roll and only agrees when the narrator lies and says he’ll win in the end which only works due to Donald’s war on literacy.

Finally we have Goofy showing up and the narrator refusing to get in the middle of his whose on first shenanigans, and goofy simply putting a hat on to signify he’s the snow fairy. It’s truly fantastic and the ending, with Ludvig becoming the sugarplum fairy, is great and lampshades how utterly pointless that segment is. A true christmastime classic. Check it out.

Mickey’s Christmas Carol And now for the real meat of this movie. Clocking in at 28 minutes, this is the longest work featured on House of Mouse, with the HOM cut chopping it down only slightly. But frankly it’s the perfect showstopper to this movie, and i’m glad I finally saw it as this special, i’ts more of a special than a short really, is a true christmas feast.

Like some other shorts we’ve covered, this takes Mickey and Co and transplants them into classic literature. And given this came LONG before Mouseworks and this very show, I feel those shorts later on wouldn’t of existed without this for good reason. Out of them this is the best, a nicely crafted, short and sweet take on Dicken’s well worn tale. 

Like the other looks at classic literature, the beats are the same: Ebeneezer Scrooge, played here by Scrooge McDuck .of course, in Alan Young’s first time in his long career voicing scooge, is a wealthy old bastard who mistreats his only employee Bob Cratchet (Mickey Mouse), his nephew Fred (Donald Duck of course), and some guys coming to collect for the poor (Ratty and Moley from Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride), all while reveling in his greed. He’s then visited that night by the Ghost of his Partner, Jacob Marley (Goofy) who warns him of the grisly fate his past leaves him on bound by the chains of his sins and tells him three ghosts will be here to set him straight: The Ghost of Christmas Past, who shows Scrooge his past as he was a kind young man with a loving girlfriend and a nice boss who gave up love for greed, the ghost of christmas present (The Giant from Mickey’s take on Jack and the Bean Stalk) where he sees Bob Cratchet barely strugglyg to feed his family and support his sickly son tiny tim, and Future (played by pete ) where Tiny Tim and Scrooge is dead, the latter unloved. Scrooge turns things around, donates a bunch to the poor, offers to go to freds and makes Cratchet partner. It’s a story we all know and love evne if it’s been told so. many. times. 

So rather than go blow by blow, i’d rather go into why this special is so amazing.  For starters we have the main reason: Alan Young as Scrooge. This is his first time playing the character in an actual story (having done some records before this), and he nails it, steps into the roll like he was born for it and let’s be real, he totally was. Scrooge’s greed, selfishness and arrogance are all well on display, as is his vunerabliity as the ghosts strip away his ego and reveal the consequences of his actions. He truly and perfectly merges Ebeneezer Scrooge with Scrooge McDuck, a feat that isn’t easy to the point Muppets had a human just play the role outright instead of try to make one of their own step into it. Here though Scrooge, and not just ofr the name, is perfect for the role and is damn hilarous too, from the simletaniously heartbreaking scene where he fines his fiance for their honemoon cottage, to him shoing out the charity guys by using some roundabout logic to say they’d be out of work, to finally on christmas day saying he can’t go out like this (with his coat over his jam Jams).. and then simply grabbing his cane and deciding he can now. This is one of Young’s best performances at the character and steals the show. 

The rest though just works: each character is well represented but also has bits of their disney selves: Fred gets angry at one point (while still being mostly joyful) since he is donald, and Goofy gets some wonderfully awesome slapstick as ebineezer, while Pete has his signature sneer yet is somehow just as terrifying as the ghost of christmas future should be. It makes this feel wholly i’ts own depsite again the story having been told 80 dozen times before and after this. I also like all the clever animated canon character uses: Jiminy cricket as christmas past, the giant as christmas present, mr toad as fezziwig. It’s all inspired and wonderful stuff. 

Finally we have the animation: it’s beautiful even decades later, to the point I watched the Disney+ cut of this rather than house of mouse to get it in the best quality, and it was worth it. Gorgeous crisp and expressive animation. 

All in all easily one of disney’s standout works with the classic crew, and a holiday classic i’ll be revisiting every year after this. Truly a miracle. 

Snowed in At the House of Mouse:

Finally we have this wraparound and while like last time it reuses some bits (the what i’m thankful for bits from the thanksgiving ep and Ludvig’s display of how santa gets around which I feel I neglected to ention so I am now: it’s a fun one where Ludvig clones himself, steals his mom’s cookies and in general is just nice to watch) it has a more solid throughline and story, opting to go simplier. Given House of Villians wasted a far more ambitious premise this was the right call. 

This time around Mickey is finishing up his christmas show for the year, only to find out their snowed in. So Mickey decides to double down, and have a big christmas party with everyone to make their spirits bright.  Donald naturally is a humbug about everything, so Mickey makes it his goal to cheer his friend up with some shorts and cheer. It’s a nice, wonderful idea that uses both well.  The scene where Mickey, seeingly defeated talks to jiminy, realizing both the true meaning of christmas (making others feel good) and wishing for a way to make everyone feel it, thus getting a christmas star is great as is the ending: Mickey gives Donald the star, which geninely warms him with the gesture, to put on top of the tree, finally winning him over in time for christmas carol. 

Then.. it all ends in a way that melts my heart. All the disney cast get together.. and sing a warm and lovely christmas song. Seeing all these characters, including Belle and Aerial in solos of all characters, such a lovely little bit, and by their va’s too if i’m not mistaken, come together, good or bad to share in christmas and the warm glow.. it just warms my heart so hot it’s now replaced the sun. It’s a truly touching and joyous way to end this film. 

As you can probably tell.. I think this movie is great. LIke House of Villians it packs the best themed shorts in with a few nice bonuses, capping it off in one of Disney’s finest works. They even have a nice original bit of the man on the street segment from the other christmas special I loved and no mortimer sexual harassment! Huzzah! It’s a truly nice, breezy little film, full of great shorts, cheers and a wonderful lesson and song to play us out. Check this one out if you can, still not on Disney+ still have a grudge about that. 

I got one more bit of house of mouse to get to but for now.. i’m going to enjoy this christmas eve, enjoy my family, and my own warmth of cheer. And i’d like to thank kev for getting me to watch this wondreful film. I hope you have a merry christmas bud, as do all of you. Whatever you celebrate, I hope it’s making your spirit bright. Thanks for reading, I Love you all. 

#house of mouse #snowed in at the house of mouse #mickey mouse #donald duck #goofy #minnie mouse #mickey's christmas carol #scrooge mcduck #mr toad #ebenezer scrooge #feziwig #daisy duck #disney+ #huey dewey and louie #ludvig von drake #huey duck #louie duck #dewey duck #belle #ariel

[permanentcrossfics]

Blurred Lines: A Different Christmas // h.s.

How do we write Christmas fics in a really weird year? I’m still not sure, but I tried to string together a bit of relief for the end of December. I’m shutting myself up now, even though there’s lots I want to say. This is for anyone who wants it, anyone who needs it, anyone who enjoys it (or hates it!) silently and vocally alike. My Christmas gift is the happy and unexpected bonus of anyone reading what I have so much selfish fun thinking of and spinning out. Happy and Merry Christmas if you celebrate it, and a happy and merry end of December if you don’t and are just doing you! x

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It was the big Christmas tree you’d dragged back home by yourself on top of a rickety shopping cart all the way from a place on Second Avenue that had been your breaking point. Picking it had its own bittersweet undertones, but the smell of fresh pine tickling your nose even through a mask had kept you afloat as you struggled to get it off and onto curbs before traffic pancaked you in the middle of the road. It wasn’t until you were back inside, still wrapped in your coat and struggling to get it upright in the stand the correct way that you burst into a torrent of hot, selfish tears and bowed your head, kneeling next to the mass of needles and branches. He should be here! He should be helping you. He should’ve helped anchor lights in windows, he should’ve had an opinion on the scented candles, he should’ve made you go back for decorations you just weren’t sure of because you wanted them regardless of what he thought, and he should’ve helped pick, and carry, and set up the tree. The whole reason you’d gone out to get a fresh tree – something real in a year that had felt anything but – was to lift your spirits, but instead you were sobbing next to it and it all felt a little dramatically pointless. It was everything you’d avoided last year by flying off to England but that you couldn’t escape this time. What was the point? What was the point of pretending?

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“You coming home with me this year?” 

Again. He asked the same question you’ve been dodging for weeks since plans had started to look uncertain again, not because he was pestering you, but because somehow, some way, you were both hoping for an answer with a loophole. 

“I can’t,” you said softly, regretfully, holding your phone close to your face with one arm as you curled up under the duvet of a bed in an apartment that had somehow become yours together instead of his alone throughout the course of a very new, very different, very unsettling year. “For a few reasons.” 

And he knew that. 

Harry’s deep breath crackled and he dragged his hand down his face, holding it there as he shook his head, the thought processes you’d learned to read so well hidden from view. 

You’d liked going home with him last year -- loved it, even. You’d hardly had time to look forward to a repeat when the world had flipped in the first quarter or sooner, and the sand had just kept slipping through the hourglass until all time for hope of a new and normal Christmas was gone and sucked away into the void of the year. 

So many plans. So many memories that lived only as memories of daydreams now. So much else, so much more important, devastating, and tragic you couldn’t even put it into words and, frankly, didn’t want to. Not now -- you spent too much time thinking about it to think about it now, too.

“Filming’s done soon,” he said from behind his hand. “I can book my flight to New York--”

“Harry--”

“And then go to Manchester after Christmas -- after the New Year, we always take a bit of a longer break. Mum won’t mind--”

“Your mother’s barely seen you since last Christmas,” you said. “Your sister, too, and there’s not enough time to--”

“Course there is!”

“Two weeks quarantine in each?” you asked. “That’s a month of staying put, let alone--”

A split second glance at his face was all you saw before the screen went black and you bit your tongue. He hadn’t hung up, because you’d heard the soft thud when his phone collided with his chest, and you could hear him breathing now, so you waited, suppressing your own urge to snap as he had his. Despite having spent the better part of the year together, it was frustrating to think about not being together for the season. All you wanted was him, though you knew better than to voice it out loud. He’d do it -- for you, he’d do it if you asked him to -- and you’d have to live with the guilt of taking him away from his family at the time of year where family should be together most, if it mattered to them. And you’d been weirdly lucky enough to have him most of the year between carefully navigated business trips. He was only one man with one body. It didn’t -- couldn’t -- matter that you wanted him, too. 

That you wanted to be with the man you loved. 

When he picked up the phone again, his face was drawn, tired, and not just from filming, you suspected. 

“Go home,” you urged, swallowing the break in your voice. “You miss home, and home misses you. I’ll have fun decorating and send you all the pictures you won’t be able to do anything about.” 

His throat bobbed hard, audibly, and his eyes looked dangerously shiny. 

“Next year I’ll go home with you,” you said, burrowing half your face into your pillow. “London and Holmes Chapel both.”

“Next year,” he said eventually, voice raspy. “We’ll have Christmas at home next year.” 

You nodded, forcing the lump rising up, up, and up back down. “You should go to sleep,” you said. “It’s late and you have to be up early.”

“Later for you,” he said and you sighed, noting the 3:08 timestamp at the top of your screen. 

“Let’s go,” you said. “Call me when you can.” 

“I will.” Sad, but resigned. You wanted to reach through the screen and touch the downturned corners of his mouth to push them back upright again. “Sleep well, and I love you.” 

Taking a deep breath, you murmured, “I love you, too,” before hanging up the call and the room descended into darkness and you into a fitful sleep. 

***

At first, you were determined to make the most of it. Your studio had always been small, cozy, and Christmasy to the best of your abilities, but his -- your -- apartment had so many more possibilities. Candles were the first to be set out, with strategic clusters of red, green, and gold-colored wax placed all about and nestled in fake holly wreaths. String lights that cast a pretty glow lined windows even in the bedroom for some last minute holiday cheer, and despite the urge to drive him up a wall, you did your best to only pick out other decorations that you’d both like and want to use in the future. Because as much as you might avoid talking about it in many certain terms the longer the relationship went on (it still felt so funny to think that a one night stand had turned into a relationship), there was a future. He was your future. It wasn’t your first Christmas together, but it might be your last one apart. 

It was the big Christmas tree you’d dragged back home by yourself on top of a rickety shopping cart all the way from a place on Second Avenue that had been your breaking point. Picking it had its own bittersweet undertones, but the smell of fresh pine tickling your nose even through a mask had kept you afloat as you struggled to get it off and onto curbs before traffic pancaked you in the middle of the road. It wasn’t until you were back inside, still wrapped in your coat and struggling to get it upright in the stand the correct way that you burst into a torrent of hot, selfish tears and bowed your head, kneeling next to the mass of needles and branches. 

He should be here! He should be helping you. He should’ve helped anchor lights in windows, he should’ve had an opinion on the scented candles, he should’ve made you go back for decorations you just weren’t sure of because you wanted them regardless of what he thought, and he should’ve helped pick, and carry, and set up the tree. The whole reason you’d gone out to get a fresh tree -- something real in a year that had felt anything but -- was to lift your spirits, but instead you were sobbing next to it and it all felt a little dramatically pointless. It was everything you’d avoided last year by flying off to England but that you couldn’t escape this time. What was the point? What was the point of pretending? 

Wiping your nose, you stood, eyes heavy, swollen, and itchy. With your coat gone, you heaved the tree up until it was sitting securely in its stand, needles scattered in its wake but branches full and outstretched, enveloping you in the warm smell of Christmas in a way the cedar- and balsam-scented candles couldn’t. Stepping back with your hands on your hips, you looked up at it, the swell of your anxiety simmering, thanks partly to your crying fit and partly to succeeding at the task. You’d decorate it bit by bit to draw the season out, and then on Christmas Eve, you’d call him and you’d both sit by your own trees and talk until it was Christmas Day for him. It was just for now -- this wasn’t the way of all ways for all time. 

Click.

You nearly passed out cold from the rush of fearful adrenaline shooting through you when the lock on the door clicked. In three seconds, you ran through whether or not you’d locked the door, determined that you had but then had forgotten, and figured out that somehow, someone had gotten in and they weren’t supposed to. You spun, frozen, brain zooming to determine if you dove behind a sofa or if you charged, but you didn’t get the chance before the door opened. 

A duffle bag, a foot, a body, in that order, and then a pair of wide, green eyes rimmed with circles just above a cloth mask.

“You do not get to be mad at me,” he said, voice muffled. He grunted and pushed the door open wider to bring in the rest of his luggage as you stood there, as equally speechless as you were breathless. “I tested before I came here,” he said, speaking with a loud if exhausted sort of authority, like he was trying to get the words out before you could protest. “But I’ll take the guest room, and I’ll get my own food, and we’ll keep out of each other’s space until the two weeks are up.” 

He brought his bags in the rest of the way, and it was only when he was halfway by you that he stopped in his tracks. “Y’haven’t moved,” he said, eyebrows furrowing as he narrowed his eyes on you. “Are you all right?” 

Lightheaded, you nodded. 

“O… kay,” he said, stilted, still eyeing you. “M’just gonna go get settled and showered, then.” 

“What are you doing here?” you asked, the words finally forcing themselves from you. 

“S’Christmas.”

“You’re supposed to--”

“Mum knows,” he interrupted. “M’taking Christmas here this year. Gem’ll have Christmas with her and I’ll go along after. She’s excited about having two. ‘Scuse me….” 

Nodding, you waved him away to hurry, shoo, because you could feel the emotions rising in you again and your confusion wasn’t enough to quell them. Fifteen minutes ago, you’d been kneeling on the floor with aching knees, crying, and now here he was. 

You’d wrestle with the confliction of doing what was right and doing what you wanted… later. Later, when you could wrap your head around it and the choice he’d made. 

Two weeks. That would put you just on Christmas Day, basically. Just two weeks.

***

Dodging him around the apartment was a lot more difficult than you would’ve guessed for how big it was. More than once you nearly slammed into him in the kitchen, and someone was always in the favored bathroom. For his part, he’d taken to wearing a mask when he roamed, and even though you told him he didn’t have to do that, all he did was hum behind it. You got it -- the positive result from the crewperson on set had spooked everyone, and he was being safe. You both were being safe, but for as mindful as you’d been throughout, all you wanted to do was hold him, hug him, kiss him. Video calls were ridiculous when you were in the same house and you could hear his laugh through the walls. But you got it, and if you kicked too much he’d book a hotel to quarantine away from you, so you’d rather have him here, as selfish and risky as it was. 

It was three days into your little bubble that he finally dared to get within arm’s reach of you. You were mulling over where to put the chimney sweep ornament when he shuffled over to the foot of the ladder you were leaning on, and you raised an eyebrow, arm outstretched.

“Can I help you?” you asked.

He shook his head, the lights from the tree reflected in his eyes. “Just watching,” he said from behind his mask. 

“You’re standing a little close, aren’t you?” you teased. Jokes were all you had -- all anyone had this year, if they were lucky. 

Immediately, he scowled -- how funny you could tell what his face looked like so clearly even with the cloth stretched firmly across it -- and you giggled. “Watch what you’re doing,” he said, taking his hands from his sweatshirt pocket to grab the ladder legs, and with his support, you held on tightly and leaned over to place it on the prime branch. 

“Thank you,” you said. “Do you want to pass me that box?” 

He did so and you murmured your thanks, resting it on the top step as you pulled ornaments out to hang them. 

“Not there,” he said before you could drop a hook over a branch with a snowflake. “Give it… thank you.” He took it carefully from you and placed it on a different one closer to him, lower than where you were placing it but slightly higher than you could reach without a ladder. 

“Thank you.” 

Together, slowly, ornaments were hooked and rehooked (and rehooked yet again when one of you noticed the other had moved them from a spot you each thought was perfect) until the tree was trimmed, each branch heavily laden, bearing the weight of ornaments and of providing joy after the year behind. 

“How’d you get this home?” he asked, looking up at it with you once you were off the ladder. 

“Carefully,” you said dryly. “Oh! The top.” You turned, but he cut across your path.

“I’ve got it,” he said, grabbing the box from the precarious stack next to the coffee table. 

“I want to,” you whined and he snorted.

“You’ve done the whole bloody thing,” he said without venom. “Let me do just the one.” With it in hand, he climbed the ladder as you held it steady, and he set it on the topmost branch, prodding it until it was tall and straight up, all five points outstretched and shining. 

“That’s perfect,” you said under your breath, resting your head on his leg, and he patted the top of your head gently. You stayed like that for a minute, two, three, and more, with your arm curling around his calf, embracing as much physical contact as he’d allowed since he came home. “How many more days?”

“Eleven.” He sounded thoughtful, resentful, and exhausted all in one go. You squeezed his leg and kissed his knee through his joggers. 

“Then it’s Christmas,” you said.

He exhaled slowly, still patting your head. “Christmas morning.” 

***

Eleven. Whole. Days. 

Eleven days of more of the same. He’d eased up, thankfully, and dared to venture a little closer with a mask on, because, as you’d reminded him, he had tested negative. You sat on opposite ends of the couch, enjoying the Christmas tree and decorations together, laughing, talking, planning, and exchanging stories about everything that had happened while you were apart. His, of course, were wildly more interesting, but he somehow managed to hang onto every word of even your most droll and mundane ones, and always with the right questions and supportive murmurs of agreement as necessary. 

Eleven days of saying goodnight and crawling into a bed that was too big for one when two was next door. 

Eleven days of not being able to share meals properly or touch each other -- sex aside -- and eleven days of Hell.

“It’s your fault,” you said one night from your end of the couch, scowling with your arms crossed. The tree twinkled happily despite your sour mood, and music that was too merry and bright played from the television. 

“Me?” he asked indignantly. 

“Yes! You had to do that stupid film.” 

“It’s not stupid.”

“You’re wearing a mask in our home,” you said, burrowing into the cushions. “If I want to call it stupid, I will.” 

He groaned, dropping his head forward. “Baby….”

You grunted. 

“It’s only a couple more days. A couple more days, and then it’s Christmas. Think of it like a present you’re waiting for.”

Despite yourself, you snorted. 

“I’m all you want for Christmas, aren’t--?”

“Shut up,” you said, kicking his thigh with your extended leg. He snickered, eyes crinkled and full of light all their own. 

“Couple more days,” he said, patting your ankle. “Couple more days, and then you won’t even be able to get rid of me. We’ll be in bed all weekend.”

“I’m not calling your mother from bed.”

He waggled his brows with some exaggeration and you rolled your eyes. 

That had been around day five, maybe six. Suffice it to say, by Christmas Eve, you were done. 

“It’s one day!” you said over breakfast in the kitchen. “One day, Harry!” 

“We made it this long,” he said, pouring hot coffee into a mug that had his face printed onto the head of dancing elf -- a gift from his mother shipped along with a matching one for you that she insisted you both open ahead of time to enjoy for as long as possible. “We can make it a couple more hours.”

“If I stripped naked, what would you do? Stand there and watch me?” 

He froze and looked at you over his mask, the heated warning pinning you in place. Huffing, you pushed the stool away from the counter and hopped off it.

“Where are you--?”

“Out,” you said. “I’m going to get--” You floundered. “Coffee.” 

A beat passed and his eyes dropped to the mug in his hand.

“We literally have--”

“I’m going out!” you said, wrapping your neck and half your face up in a scarf to keep warm. You were going out, because you were mad, and the tantrum was burgeoning. That poor man had seen more unreasonable tantrums from you this year than he had in the entire two and a half you’d reciprocally acknowledged each other’s presence, and you hated it. But he’d hate it, too, if you’d gone on a trip for work and come back and things were off.

Could be worse, you reminded yourself. It could be so very, very much worse.

“I love you,” you said, calmly, firmly. “I’ll be back. I’m only going around the block. Take that--” You waved at his mask, “--off. I’ll let you know when I’m on my way in..” 

When you returned, he was in the guest room, but a fresh cup of coffee in your own dancing elf mug rested on a mug warming plate. The last of your frustrations that hadn’t melted with the walk deflated and you picked it up, enjoying the aroma before taking a deep sip. 

He always made it better. And the coffee was nice, too. 

His mother called in the afternoon and you hardly noticed he was at your side until the phone was in front of your face and you gave a startled hello. 

“Has he been wearing that the whole time he’s been home with you?” she asked, her gleaming eyes and wide, genuine smile matching her son’s own warmth. 

Home. With you. 

“He has,” you said. 

“S’posed to be proud of me,” Harry said and Anne laughed.

“Of course, sweetheart. We’re still calling tomorrow?” she asked you. 

“Yeah,” you said. “We’ll be here.”

“Next year will be different, won’t it?” she all but clucked. “Did you like your mugs? I got one for me, Gemma, and Michal, too.” 

“Used them just this morning,” he said, squeezing your hip and wandering away. “Won’t be posting them anywhere for people to see, though….” 

Eventually -- finally -- the day drew to a close, and you crawled into bed with the knowledge that it was just one more night. One more night, and then in the morning you could say hello like you wanted to. One more night and you wouldn’t want to bite his head off. One more night and you wouldn’t feel so mental, as he would put it. 

And yet, lying there, the minutes dragged. Ten? No, just one. Fifteen? Five. 

It felt like Christmas, though. As much as this was pure torture, this was what Christmas was supposed to feel like -- like it used to feel when you were a kid and you’d wait for weeks tingling anticipation, counting down, hoping that you’d find what you wanted under the tree, bursting with more energy than any amount of sugar could give you. Except instead of presents, or money, or sweets, you were waiting for the man who’d been under your nose for two weeks by this point. You got to kiss your boyfriend tomorrow. You got to see your boyfriend, hold your boyfriend, and celebrate Christmas with your boyfriend. 

Twenty minutes? Two. 

12:02.

Two minutes after midnight.

Christmas.

Fourteen days. 

Oh!

You sprang from the bed before you could think about the matter and darted to the door over the cold wooden floor, but when you rounded the corner in the hallway, out of nowhere, something all but slammed into you. Sucking in a sharp breath with a screwed up face, you squeaked when you collided with a very warm, very sturdy frame. Belatedly, two arms shot out to grab you by yours to steady you. “Oh my God, I--”

Hair, forehead, eyes, nose, and mouth, too. No mask. 

“Are you o--?”

He didn’t get to finish his question. You clapped your hands over his cheeks and kissed him soundly before he could kiss you first. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d laugh -- you both would -- but rather than that, he locked both his arms around you tightly and spun you, teetering precariously with you in tow until you got to the guest bed. Tackle was an apt word for how he delivered you to it, but you were the farthest thing from upset at finally having not even an inch of space between you. The bed smelled like him and it was warm, he was warm, and you were kissing again, and again, and again, cold noses smushing together as you found new angles. 

“Christmas,” he mumbled between them.

“Mmhm,” you returned against his mouth, legs interlocking with his. “I missed you,” you whispered.

“Missed you, too.” 

Shivering, you both pulled the duvet up over your shoulders, and you curled up against him. Cologne, skin, and laundry detergent, with a bit of his minty toothpaste. There was no scented candle for that. You pressed your fingers against his chest and scratched lightly through the smattering of hair there. “We could go to our bed,” you reminded him, but he shook his head.

“Y’here now,” he rasped, leaning in to press his lips comfortably to your hairline, one arm draped over your back. “Let’s stay here tonight and we can change things later.” 

“Were you coming to get me?” you asked, voice shaking as the last of the shivers left your bones. 

“Yeah,” he admitted. You laughed, teeth chattering, and he pulled you closer. “Don’t laugh!” he said, rubbing your back and warming you. “S’been two weeks for me, hasn’t it?”

“For you!”

“You try bein’ home with you for that long,” he mumbled. 

Shaking again, but less than before, you kissed the underside of his chin. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, darling.” 

***

When you woke up, his back was to you, and his one shoulder was rising and falling with the rhythm of his sputtery, wheezy snores. You smiled, closing your eyes, and snuggled into the pillow. Better -- much better. You dozed on for an unknown amount of time, and you were walking the line between sleep and consciousness when featherlight kisses across your brow startled you and you jerked awake.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, only sounding slightly truthful. You made a noise and stretched, shaking from head to toe before curling up into a tight little ball next to him and opening your eyes fully. His own were puffy with sleep, but he grinned radiantly as if he’d been awake for a while.

“What?” you asked in a croak.

“Nothing,” he said. “Mum’s gonna call soon.”

Groaning, you halfheartedly turned your head to look over your shoulder. “What time is it?” you asked, straining to see the window and get a gauge. 

“S’ten,” he said. “So about three for them. Sure you don’t want to call from bed?” 

You glowered at him and his lip twitched. “I’ll put the coffee on.” 

When you finally managed to leave the warm nest of the bed, the living room had been transformed. The tree was on, twinkling under the streams of light pouring in through the windows, and he’d lit the fireplace, too, flames licking up and up behind the glass. Soft, melodic Christmas music floated from the far corners of the room, and the smell of coffee tickled your nose. 

“So,” he said from his spot at the island as he unwrapped cheeses and opened jars of olives, and jams, and honeys, and other goodies. “What time do we pop the bubbly?” 

Laughing softly, you shuffled over. “It’s ten.”

“Little after ten now,” he said, lips pressed tightly together and arms flexed until the lid popped. “And somewhere in the world it’s five o’clock.” 

You pulled a grape off the bunch lying on the counter and popped it into your mouth, chewing not so delicately but enjoying the sweet burst of freshness. You’d no sooner swallowed than his phone started buzzing and you grabbed it, sliding your finger to answer the call from the incoming Mum and pointing it at him.

“Happy Christmas, honey.” Anne’s voice was warm even through the phone, and Harry’s head whipped up.

“Wh-- Happy Christmas-- didn’t know you were-- ‘scuse the mess,” he said as you giggled behind the phone. 

“Having a good morning so far?” 

“Goin’ ok, yeah,” he said. “Just getting started, heating up the coffee.”

“Where’s your better half gotten off to?” 

Trying not to melt, you waved your hand in front of the camera. 

“Hello, love,” she said. “Happy Christmas.” 

“Happy Christmas, Anne.”

“Are we going to get to see you today?”

“Fair’s fair,” Harry chimed in. “Turn that thing around, why don’t you?” 

Rolling your eyes, you flipped the phone and waved, sliding around the counter to stand next to him. 

“That’s better,” Anne said with a firm nod. She had a red top on with a festive, sparkly necklace, and looked a good deal more put together than either one of you.

“Where’s Gem?” Harry asked, taking the phone from you so you could unbox the crackers. 

“Upstairs napping off the morning,” she said. “She’ll want to call again later.” 

And that was how the morning went, with each of you passing his mother back and forth while you carried plates and trays full of snacks to the coffee table and couch in front of the tree to nibble while tearing into gifts on camera, including a box full of chocolates for you, Branston pickle for him, and Christmas crackers for both of you to have, “A little bit of home this year.”

“Thank you,” you said, clutching your sweets close. “And thank you for--” Unbidden, you choked up, and Harry glanced at you sharply, his inquisition vanishing with his understanding. For sharing him -- allowing you to steal him away during the holidays in a year where everyone needed family, either by blood or choice. He squeezed your shoulders and his mother, as adept as he was at redirecting a conversation, piped up. 

“Promise you’ll come see us again next year,” Anne said. “It’s been too long.”

“It has been,” you agreed, resting your cheek on his shoulder. 

“Maybe sooner.” Harry looked down at you. “If things ease up?” 

You nodded. “Summer in London,” you mused. “That would be nice.”

“And then a bit of time back home. We could go before things pick up in August.”

Summer in London. A beacon of hope you couldn’t erect just yet, but a beacon nevertheless. A bit of time with him before he, hopefully, went back to work and you got to revisit adjusted and postponed plans. 

The rest of your Christmas Day was quiet -- different from the year before when you’d been overwhelmed with names, faces, screeches of Uncle Harry, and not being sure how to break your way in. You kept trays of cheese, crackers, and other snacks within an arm’s reach, and by the early afternoon both of you had a comfortably steady buzz from the bubbly he was good at topping off both your glasses with -- never sloppily drunk, but enough to be warm in your fingers and toes and to seek out cuddles from him under the blanket you were snuggled in on the sofa with paper crowns on both your heads. 

“Can I tell you something?” you asked, ribs crunched from how far you’d slid down on the sofa to nestle into his side, all but eye-level with his chest. “And have it not be as awful as it sounds?” 

You felt his laugh before you heard it. “Sure,” he drawled. “What is it?” 

Squeezing his wrist, you turned your mouth into his forearm, eyes on the television as a snowman leapt and bounded over a wide, snowy plain before jumping into the air. “I like this Christmas,” you admitted into his skin. 

Harry snorted. “S’not awful, s’the point -- Christmas is supposed to be likeable.”  

“You know what I mean,” you said, sighing. “I know it’s just us and there’s no family or anyone around, but… I dunno… it’s not all bad, is it?” 

“Like having me to yourself?” 

You groaned and rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “Shut up,” you mumbled. 

He kissed the top of your head, crown crunching under it, and you grunted. “S’not so bad,” he said into your hair. “Like having you all to myself, too, y’know.” 

“You’re just saying that because you have to because you’re stuck with me,” you said and he laughed with another smacking kiss. 

“Not stuck with me yet,” he crooned. “Can leave any time you want.” 

“Maybe I will….”

“Oi!”

Giggling, you untangled yourself from him and squirmed out from underneath the blanket. “More bubbly?” 

***

Boxing Day was a Christmas redux, with more cheese, sparkling wine, music, and calls with family and friends. Long distance versions of old favorite games were adapted and adopted, and you snickered quietly from the corner of the couch, staying out of his way when he shouted about how he had hit the button, it was his trackpad that hadn’t worked. 

The late afternoon and on, though, was yours together and alone with the time difference breaking up the party earlier than it normally would be. The bittersweet cloud vanished, though, when you at some point you separated even further into your own activities -- him with his stack of new books and you with a film you played quietly on your laptop. Able to be near each other without having to be wrapped up and begging with your bodies for sorely missed attention, it finally, really, felt like home again. 

“It’s so pretty out,” you murmured, nose pressed to the windowpane to see as much of the light-lined streets as you could. It got dark earlier and earlier these days, and yet later than it had even a few days ago. “I love Christmas in New York. I wish--” You caught yourself ahead of finishing the sentence, thinking better. 

You wished it was a normal year -- for many reasons -- so you two could go out and see the city. So you could show him your favorite places, so you could make memories together like you had with him last year. It wasn’t anything life altering or new, but it was different when you were with someone you loved. You wanted him to know you -- all of you, even the unknowable parts. 

“Y’know,” he said next to your ear, hand on the back of your neck as he slunk up behind you, “it’s getting pretty late.”

You turned your head slightly, looking at him in the reflection of the glass. “Do you want to go to bed?” 

Too early for sleep. Was he asking for sex? 

Harry hummed and shook his head. “How ‘bout you get your coat on?” he murmured. “Let’s have that Boxing Day walk we didn’t get last year.”

“Now?”

“When else?” he said. “Haven’t been out yet, and it’s late. Streets’ll be empty. We can go wherever, do whatever, see whatever.” 

“You’re serious?” 

Nodding, he pulled you by the arm and you stumbled with him, still processing it even as you pulled beanies on with masks and (winter) gloves.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

He shrugged, calling the elevator. “Dunno,” he said. “Figured you’d lead the way. Show me your favorite bits. Seem t’remember summat about Bryant Park last year.” 

There were sobering realities at the street level, too. Gates were down on storefronts that hadn’t been pulled up since March, awnings above them tattered from months of neglect and ‘For Rent’ signs flapping against them in the wind. The usual post-holiday influx of tourists was thinned, with hardly a white sneaker in sight, and everything was just a little quieter than it should be and would be in a usual year.

But there were lights. Broadway’s may have dimmed for the time being, but endless, endless displays of lights, brighter without the ambient light pouring from storefronts diminishing their power, offered beacons of hope -- literal lighthouses in a storm of a year -- and led you uptown like a trail of breadcrumbs. 

You pulled him this way and that way, weaving through side streets to look at any display that looked bright enough from a distance, fingers locked tightly with his in a way they never were outside of the house. As bittersweet as it was no one was out, it afforded you a level of privacy you never had, anywhere. Not even Holmes Chapel. You couldn’t remember a time where you’d ever held his hand for this long at one time, if you were honest, and while you didn’t need it, you enjoyed the option. 

In between zigs and zags, he mumbled stories to you about this time, and another time, and a time after that, pointing at buildings, venues, restaurants, and hotels, and you listened half in awe and half in earnest. It was a whole other life he’d lived without you before, and you’d only been aware of the surface of it. Nobody knew what he was telling you except the people he’d lived it with, and you didn’t think you’d ever get over or be able to thank him for trusting you to be someone he chose to share it with. 

“I love Sixth,” you said, sighing as you walked past giant red Christmas ornaments three times the size of you both, the reflection of the string lights wrapped around tree branches bouncing off their shiny surfaces. Radio City’s electric red script beamed at you both from a distance, and traffic lights winked and waved in the wind up and down the avenue. “They do a lot with it.” 

“It’s pretty,” he said, squeezing your hand. “Tree’s this way, isn’t it?” he asked. 

You raised your eyebrows. “Yeah,” you said. 

He jerked his head and you blinked. 

“You want to?” you asked. 

“Just a bit,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

“There’s people!” you warned him, because even from here you could see the trickle of people with the same thought. “And I saw online they have a schedule--”

“We don’t have to get close,” he said, pulling you firmly. “S’big enough we don’t need to, just wanna take a peek.” 

He was so certain, but you were less so, because all you needed was someone to see him to break the serene bubble you’d blown around yourselves. Despite that, you shuffled with him until the tree was visible, a bright, glowing ball of multi-colored lights stretching towards the sky. “Wow,” you whispered under your breath. 

“S’nice,” he said and you nodded your agreement. It was nice -- despite the sad press it had gotten, the tree had turned out very nice at the end of it all, tall and impossibly beating all odds. What a metaphor for the year.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured, squeezing him around the middle. 

“Come here,” Harry said next to your ear.

“Hmm?” Reluctantly tearing your eyes from the tree, you gasped when he pulled your mask down first and then his own in two swift tugs, revealing a cheeky grin with a face cradled by the fabric. “What are you doing?” you asked, eyes darting around. 

“Getting a kiss by the tree with my girlfriend,” he said. “Now, come here,” he repeated. This time, you obliged and allowed him to steal one, two, three kisses, each one of them smashed against your lips with a palpable sort of eagerness that made you think he would drink you if he could. This felt… normal. Normal, safe, and free. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt like that. 

When you broke and burrowed against his neck, he covered the back of your head and wrapped his other arm around your back, cocooning you in the shell of the most protective embrace he could give. Just a man -- any man, a regular man -- holding the person he loved, and, after his decision to stay with you through Christmas and New Years, he arguably loved you most. 

Through the thick knit of your beanie, you felt him kissing your head, and you nuzzled into his scarf. “Thank you,” you said, face safely out of sight. “For coming here.” 

“Not mad a’me for it?” he mumbled and you shook your head. “‘Kay, good.” 

Shivering, you huddled closer and he tightened his arms, shielding you from the brisk wind. 

“People will see,” you said, but despite that you held him closer. 

“Who cares?”

He did, despite his quiet rasp. He did, and you knew why he did, but right then, you could pretend that it didn’t matter at all. 

***

It was simultaneously the longest and shortest week of your life. 

The longest, because time didn’t exist, much like it hadn’t for most of the year. Days, afternoons, evenings, and nights blended together, blurred by a happy holiday haze onset by too much of everything good -- sleep, sustenance, and spirits. The weird, if nice, part of all the extra time was having the chance to do things you’d enjoyed over the course of the year all over again. Nine times out of ten, when the two of you were together, it was rushed even on the long layovers. You’d watch one series or a film the whole way through, and next time you’d have to be on to the next one you’d agreed to hold off on until the other was there, but after having spent most of the year under the same roof, the typical race to the next one was paused. Instead, you settled in for old Christmas films and other ones you hadn’t seen since you first started properly dating, lending a timeless sort of quality to the week. 

The shortest, because he’d only just gotten there. How had it been three weeks since he’d walked in the front door with a mask on and a warning? Three weeks, two of them masked, and now it was over and done. The whole year was over and done, with 2020 coming to a slow close after feeling simultaneously like it never would and like it was moving much, much too fast. Who would’ve known this would be how it would turn out after kicking it off in the back of his car with a paper plate full of snacks and the countdown on his phone? You’d made it through another year, together. 

“Do you know what I just realized?” you asked as you unpacked the bag from El Diablito at the kitchen counter. In the background, the low hum of commentators on the TV remarking about how different this year was provided a steady buzz amidst familiar scenery of lights in different cities. Berlin had gone first, then London, and now, gradually, the new year on the east coast was gliding ever closer. 

“What?” he asked over the noise of him unfurling the bag of tortilla chips. 

“This was our first year together,” you said. “Full--” you drew an arc through the air-- “year, I mean. Saying it and all that.” 

He didn’t say anything, but when you looked at him the corner of his mouth was lifted up slightly. “S’pose it is, yeah. Feels like longer.” He fished a chip out with his index and middle fingers before crunching into it noisily. 

“Almost three years of everything else,” you murmured, unwrapping a taco to inspect it. “This one’s yours.” 

“‘Everything else’?” he teased, snickering when you slid the taco across the counter to him. “Watch it, it’ll fall apart….” 

“Shut up and eat,” you said and he barked a laugh, grin permanent and eyes sparkling as he unwrapped it to peek.

“In a minute,” he said, setting down his food, satisfied it looked right. “Come here,” he said.

“Why?” you asked, smiling slightly though you eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want?”

He motioned with his hand. “C’mere a minute,” he repeated, voice light but eyes tight, and he swallowed hard. A cold wave washed down you from head to toe. You didn’t know why you were suddenly so nervous, but the nerves themselves spiked your anxiety and made your scalp prickly and your palms sweaty, and they got worse when he grabbed one of your hands -- your left hand -- to hold between his. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about summat.” 

Oh, God. 

“Harry,” you said, but he shook his head.

“Lemme do this.” 

Five seconds. Five seconds was all it took to imagine the words coming out of his mouth, quietly, with soft, trusting eyes waiting patiently, hopefully for an answer. Five seconds was all it took for you to imagine mucking it all up with a twisted tongue, not because you weren’t sure what to say, but how to say it. No, no, no -- you didn’t want to hurt him, not even temporarily, not even by accident. 

Clearing his throat, he squeezed your hand. “I dunno how to do this,” he said, and for the first time ever, you were pretty sure he laughed without his eyes. You made a noise in your throat and curled your fingertips into his palm. “I love you,” he continued, Adam’s apple bobbing, lips trying and failing to form a smile. He was terrified, but determined, and you held his hand tighter while pressing your opposite one into his cheek.

I love you, too. You couldn’t say it, but you felt them swelling in your chest, growing your heart not two, not even three, but six times over. 

He opened and closed his mouth a few times before saying, “M’going to spend the rest of my life with you,” with a thoughtful quality in his rasp. “I think, if-- if that’s somethin’ you….”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t, you were trying, but it was like sucking in helium. 

“So, m’kind of wondering if--”

“Harry--”

“I’m not,” he shook his head. “I’m not asking you anything right now, because we’re not ready.” He rubbed the back of your hand assuringly. “We’re not ready, you have… and I’m….” He exhaled sharply, dropping his head, and your hand moved from his cheek to his hair and you rubbed the back of his neck. “I just want to know,” he said, breathing heavily, with his voice muffled into his chest, talking very fast, barreling through and tripping over words, “if I’m totally off base here. Cause m’not gonna now when there’s so much shit happening, but like… I don’t want to put my foot in my mouth when-- if I do, so if I could just get an idea of what you think, because we had a talk once but now every time you cut me off at the knees and--”

He sputtered, stopping short, and you pressed your face into his short hair. 

“I want it,” you said, sounding braver than you felt admitting wants out loud. “I do. I will.” 

His shoulders fell with his slow, deep breaths, and you rubbed your fingertips into his scalp gently.

“I will,” you say. “Promise,” you added, voice cracking. “You’re not off base.”

Neither of you said anything for a while. You couldn’t -- you quite literally, physically couldn’t -- and he was gulping for air as quietly as he could. 

“Okay,” he said into his chest finally, sounding inexplicably embarrassed. “S’good to know.”

Silly, silly man. Did he really think… did he doubt…? “I love you,” you murmured. 

“I know,” he said. “I know y’do.”

“No, you don’t.” You kissed his head. “I love you, I-- you’ll never know.” 

Harry took a deep breath before straightening up, head high and curls falling over his forehead above the weariest, most agonized eyes you’d ever seen. His cheeks were bright red, and he might as well have just run a marathon for how spent and miserable he looked. 

“I promise,” you repeated. “I promise, honey.”

He nodded slightly, mouth still set in a thin, grim line, and, instinctively, you stepped in to kiss him, because no. No, that wouldn’t do. Stiff and unmoving at first under your lips, gradually he warmed and softened, releasing your hand to grab your hips and you moaned softly, hands running across his shoulders over his hoodie. You promised -- when it was right, when you both could, if he asked and it was what you both wanted? There was only one answer you’d ever give. 

The stool scraped against the floor when he stood, but he never broke the kiss, and you squeaked when you stumbled back against the counter. You opened your mouth wider when he coaxed you to, dizzy behind your closed eyes, and you let your hands wander freely, pulling him into you as the intensity behind the kiss escalated from comfort to need.

Two weeks. Two weeks -- three -- of pent up energy. Of hardly being able to touch each other, of being close but not close enough. 

“Come here,” he demanded in a mumble, the firm hold he had on your jaw to hold you in place as he kissed you the way he wanted leaving you breathless. Rarely did he ever do that; usually, he guided you into what you both wanted to build it until the bubble of tension popped. There was something thrilling about being told though -- something that reminded you of when you were new, three months instead of almost three years in. Something that was like when time was limited and you had to be efficient to learn each other and what would feel good and do good for the other and yourselves, and telling was sometimes all you had. 

Harry broke away with a wounded little noise and you blinked, dazed. “M’just….” He grabbed two tacos with one hand and threw them back into the paper bag. “M’moving these.” Tacos, nachos, and burritos all went back in, topped off with the chips, and he shoved them aside with some impatience. You laughed breathily and lifted yourself up onto the counter with his help, but it faded when he stepped between your legs and cupped your cheek and jaw and you caught a glimpse of the blown pupils and flushed cheeks that gave him a wild, primal look before your own eyes shut. 

Each and every tender sponging of his lips across your jaw and down your neck made you ache, and it was all you could do to stay upright and not collapse back, limp from how weak you were. His needy, mesmerized groans made your belly tighten, and when he tugged the hem of your shirt you nodded. 

Shirt, sweatshirt, bra, and undershirt were the first to go, and the straps had no sooner fallen down your shoulders than you let out a wordless, guttural shout from deep in your chest when Harry latched on and sucked your nipple with greedy enthusiasm, moving with you when you squirmed, his stubble scraping the soft skin of your breast. 

“Oh my God,” you gasped, eyes watering and elbow nearly buckling underneath you in your effort to hold yourself up. “Yes, please,” you said when he pulled the strings on your sweats. 

“That’s my girl,” he said, releasing with a pop and latching on again. “That’s my girl… gonna make it better for you.” He stood tall again when he pulled by the waistline, and you wriggled until they were at your knees and you could kick them off the rest of the way with your underwear as he dropped his own to his ankles. 

With nothing left between you, you shivered, shrinking into him when he stepped closer and drew his hands around your body in a circuit. Legs first, stomach, back, breasts, shoulders, arms, and repeat, each squeeze and dig of his hands and fingers just a little restrained and not as zealous as his groans and heavy breathing made him out to be -- like he was trying to be good, or patient, or….

“It’s ok,” you murmured between kisses. “You don’t have to wait.” They’d done the waiting -- more than enough of it. You just wanted him now.

“Sure?” Harry rasped and you nodded, eyes rolling up when he slipped his fingers between you both and they slipped up and down your folds. “Sure,” he confirmed under his breath. “Open a little more for me, love-- there we are, thank you.” 

You folded your arms around his neck and over his back and locked your ankles loosely just under his ass, heart racing in your chest. 

“Breathe in--” Harry murmured and you squeezed your eyes shut when he fit his head against your entrance. It slid and you laughed, kissing his jaw when he kissed your brow through his grin. “Deep breath for me.” 

Every time. He did that almost every time with you, first asking for a deep breath and then, invariably, pulling a long exhale from you when he thrust into your warm, wet cunt. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered in awe, holding still. You could feel the tremors pulling each fiber in his muscles, and when he throbbed inside you, you bit your lip. “Holy shit, you’ve got me good,” he groaned. 

You laughed once. “Yeah.” Yeah, something like that. Wincing, you rolled your hips forward and gasped softly from the stretch before tightening your arms and pressing your face against his hot skin. You nuzzled in between your own slow, lingering kisses, taking deep, grounding breaths. He was soft, and smooth, but firm, and hard, and he smelled amazing. Clean -- all soap and cologne with some detergent that smelled even more from the warmth of his skin. 

“Oh, God,” you whispered. “Oh, God, I--” You sucked in a harsh breath, abdomen tightening as you pulsed around him, feeling wetter, and you moved your face higher, nose pressed into the base of his sheared hair as you moaned quietly. “Oh my God, I love you.” Pitchy, bordering on hysteria, but you’d be hard pressed to remember a time you felt it as much as you meant it like you did right then. “I love you, I love-- I-- you feel--” Good. Better than good. No one had ever fit like he had -- too much, but just enough, physically, mentally, emotionally. 

“I love….” Harry gulped. “Shit, ok, m’gonna….” He made to pull his shoulders back, but you shook your head. 

“No, no, stay,” you begged, wrapping your arms and legs tighter. “Stay, please,” you murmured. 

“I can’t-- ok,” he panted. “Lemme….” He gripped your ass and pulled you closer and your back arched as you opened your thighs just a little more. “There we go,” he grunted, hips snapping forward as he finally moved. “That’s… fuck, that’s better now.” 

You could hear the effort you could feel between your legs -- each sharp pull of breath between his teeth, each muted grunt between his driving thrusts, and the pants he let out when he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath. “M’ok,” he said every time between labored gulps for air. “M’good, I just need to--” and he grit his teeth before he began again, and again, you gasped and whimpered, shrinking closer to him. 

You didn’t want to be anywhere else, with anyone else, now or ever. You didn’t want to be this close to anyone else again ever. This was never supposed to happen. He was never supposed to meet you, know you, fall in love with you, nor you with him, but now he had, and you were, and you couldn’t imagine it any other way. You couldn’t imagine a world in which he didn’t come home to you, for you, and where you weren’t there. Not waiting -- never waiting on a man, any man, but ready for him when he returned and ready to move forward together. 

He was yours. He was yours, and you were his, and the mere thought pulled something behind your belly button, making you groan.

“What?” he asked, kissing the side of your head. “What, darling, what?”

“I’m gonna cum,” you whispered and then whimpered, tightening your hold around his neck and in his hair. “Harry--” you choked, shuddering with your deep breaths.

“I know.” He grunted, thrusting with slightly more power. “Fuck! Tight little--”

“Don’t stop,” you begged. “Don’t stop, I’m close, I’m so-- I just need--” Faster and faster you rolled your hips against his, crying out against him when he wedged his thumb between you both to catch your clit, a stream of mumbled, “I’m gonna cum, you’re making me cum,” confessions hidden in his neck. Deep breaths. Long, slow, and deep, with your toes curling behind him until you were barely breathing in your efforts to concentrate, because you were right there. And then, you did cum, hard, convulsing and sucking in harshly as you trembled your way through whimpers of his name, immediately and thoroughly exhausted. 

Both his arms locked around you, then, all but crushing you to his torso in his efforts to hold you up, and he thrust hard, fast, deep, getting the right rhythm and stroke he needed. Barely able to keep your eyes open, your mouth moved soundlessly around the demand -- request -- to cum. Cum, Harry, cum, baby, please. Wordlessly, he sputtered through a sharp exhale, and it was the only indication before you felt the hot, wet release accompanying his groans.

“Fuck,” he choked, one of his hands landing hard on the counter to prop both of you up. You laughed, eyes rolling up, and you held on tightly through his turn to shake. 

“Happy New Year,” you said, still feeling a little punch-drunk from your orgasm.

He nodded. “H-Happy--” he gulped. “Happy New Year, darling.” His shoulders slumped. “Reckon this was the problem,” he said. “Should’ve fuckin’ rung the year in right last time, y’know?” 

“Right,” you breathed even as you shook your head, not quite caught up with what he was saying. 

“M’only sayin’,” he said. “We had sex the one time last Christmas. Should’ve had… a bit more,” he said indeterminately. 

“We haven’t had sex since you’ve been home.” 

Sighing heavily, he kissed your shoulder. “S’pose we’d better start,” he slurred. “S’not the new year yet.” 

#harry x reader #reader insert fanfiction #harry smut #harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #harry imagine #harry styles blurb #harry blurb #harry styles one shot #harry one shot #christmas #blurred lines #blurred lines: adc #blurred lines: a different christmas #a different christmas #permanentcross #original writing

[citrus-cactus]

Finished the story of Psychonauts 2 last week! It was really good. Like, REALLY, really good. I don’t have anything profound to say, but here are my thoughts if you wanna read ‘em. Obviously there are SPOILERS BELOW, so click at your own risk if you haven’t played into post-game! (FWIW, I HIGHLY recommend playing this game as spoiler-free as possible. And play the original, while you’re at it!).

Here’s a pretty tame spoiler that I don’t think anyone will mind me sharing though: RAZ IS A CUTE. JUST LOOK AT HIM:

Things I appreciated:

Raz asking permission before entering almost every brain

PET THE GOATS

BOBBY DANCE

Getting to see Whispering Rock a couple of different ways! Actually, the theme of showing events from multiple perspectives (and the different forms of trauma resulting from certain events) was really good.

Raz helping the Psychic Seven help themselves. The game is so gentle with these old damaged hippies. SO GOOD.

QUEEPIE AND FRAZIE and just… all the Aquatos, man. What a group.

The family being given space to grieve together (important) before yeeting their middle boy into the whirlpool (badass). And them still having a lot to unpack/figure out post-game. It’s complicated, man! Of COURSE they wouldn’t have it all figured out yet!

Larry and Pam! LOL.

SAM BOOLE, WTH. Best dialogue tree in the game??? XDDDD

WHOMST in-universe put the graffiti on the back side of the funicular? Oleander?? :O

I have not finished the Scavenger Hunt yet, so idk if Raz gets his clothes back. I’m betting not *shakes psychic fist at Norma* XD

Powers and combat were all really cool!

ANIMATION! ALSO!! REALLY!!! GOOD!!!!!

I’M STILL LOSING MY DANG MIND OVER RAZ’S ARCHETYPE, good god. Double Fine, you mad geniuses, how DARE you stage a Zim/Gir reunion in the year 2021??? If anyone has ever equipped the pin that mutes that delightful little paper lad, I cannot emphasize enough how dead you are to me XD

I thought Cassie sounded a little like Mona Marshall?? The credits proved me wrong, but there were several moments I thought “…maybe??” (I have a much easier time ID’ing her when she’s playing a boyish character than a woman, whoops!)

So much symbolism in the brains! “Subtle” is maybe the wrong word to use, but between some of the throwaway dialogue, the different subsections in each, and the different set designs, most of the mental states just felt more… complex? nuanced? than the first game.

I don’t actually know if I could pick a favorite level! Compton’s Cookoff was definitely the most unique (I would have appreciated the option to try the food challenges again, but “getting the best time” is obviously NOT THE POINT, so kudos to the game making it about the story/character and not about the player here!), and I really enjoyed the paper-and-book-aesthetic of Cassie’s! Bob’s boss battle was one of the most poignant, but the 60’s psychedelic aesthetic and Nona’s different layers were really creative and fun. I also liked that we got a few different styles for Raz (especially in the 2D sections!) but I always could have used more!

On that note though, CENSORS! IN!! SEQUINS!!! XDDDDDDD

THE MUSIC!!! My husband and I JUST realized that Peter McConnell scored the Sly Cooper series as well, so we have newfound RESPECT and AWE for this guy’s ability to write absolutely fantastic music in so many distinct styles and genres. Both of the songs w/ lyrics also slap.

The return/spiritual successor of Goggalor (Pootie-lor???). Amazing. Incredible. Did not expect it, loved it for how narratively important it was. The ending in general just made me quite emotional.

The post-game conversation between Truman and Lilli. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but it absolutely RADIATES Tim Schafer dad/real-life daughter energy.

The Grulovia level was a really interesting way to introduce a villain. Based on every level previous, I was actually prepared for the game to offer some sympathetic facet of Gristol (such as finding out the ride was something he had been conditioned to think from a lifetime of hearing an idealized version of the story from his parents, and it was somewhere he would go to rationalize his actions despite not really believing them… or something), but obviously the longer you spend there, the more you realize it’s something he constructed himself, and he is actually delusional (er, delugional) about Maligula and his family’s legacy. Really sets up an interesting parallel with Raz, in a way. Gristol’s mental state is essentially that of a child… but Raz is an ACTUAL child, and demonstrates more maturity, empathy and understanding than both Gristol the kid (see the Mental Vaults) and Gristol the adult. Kind of amazing he was able to fool a whole building full of psychics for as long as he did (and I guess he was a fine mail clerk too??), but tl;dr I like how the game’s “true” villain is the only one who is unable to change/experience any sort of remorse for his actions (maybe the jury’s still out on Dr. Loboto though XD)

A little concerned that Hollis said Gristol’s fate was to be “experimentation,” and only corrected to say “therapy” when questioned by Raz. UM. This game does make it part of its point showing us the flaws in the Psychonauts, both as an organization and as individuals, leaving them in a bit of a mortally grey area (who are clearly mismanaging their resources if they have a whole Motherlobe of agents doing who-knows-what and their primary source of funding is running summer camps for psychic children). I am… definitely concerned about what Hollis said (as well as Otto’s assertion that he would be picking up where the Seven left off!), but I guess I can accept it as part of the theme that no one and nothing is perfect. Maybe that’s sequel fodder though??? (hey, I can dream about Psychonauts 3, can’t I? XD)

Genuinely though, I’m just… SO PROUD OF RAZ. He’s going to be such a good agent someday!!!*cries forever over one begoggled psychic acrobat son boy*

#psychonauts 2 #psychonauts 2 spoilers #double fine #the cactus speaks #video james

[derinthescarletpescatarian]

Trees Are Stupid.

There are some things in life that people learn without ever having to experience them. For me, one of those things really should have been ‘do not sneak out of a second story bedroom window if you have a broken leg’.

In my defense, I’d never had any trouble with the window before. The peach tree in our neighbour’s backyard was broad and healthy and one of its thick, strong branches was within easy jumping distance from my room. I’d silently slid the window open, checked to be sure that I was in the poorly-disguised undercover policeman’s blind spot, and was halfway out before I realised that balancing on the sill might be a little difficult with my right foot and calf encased in plaster.

I gripped both sides of the window frame and balanced as well as I could on my left foot. I’d always been small for my age, looking closer to eleven than fourteen, so the jump wouldn’t require very much strength. The branch, barely visible in the fading light, seemed to wave in time to the gunfire and screaming wafting up from my parents’ movie downstairs.

I leapt, and smacked right into the branch. It was a jump I could normally make without thinking about it, but the broken leg had thrown me off; I smacked chest-first into solid wood and instinctively wrapped my arms around it to keep from falling. The pain rushed through my ribs all the way to my spine, then faded, lingering for an extra moment in the little scar just to the left of my breastbone that I always tried to ignore. Not that I’d be able to ignore it any more, after the accident.

No, not accident. After the attack.

The back porch light was on. Most people would take this to be an accident, but I knew it was my parents’ plausibly deniable polite concession to the undercover police officers we were all pretending not to notice. They needed a clear view of the back door to make sure I was staying in the house like a good little boy. The light clearly illuminated the word WITCH that somebody had spraypainted across the back of our house, but it didn’t reach me in the tree. After a few seconds of stillness in which I waited for someone to move or shout, I felt it was safe to continue.

Arms and knees around the branch, I slid along it over the fence bordering our yard and towards the trunk of the tree. Our neighbours were still awake; light was visible around the kitchen blinds. This wasn’t unusual. It wasn’t all that late.

Normally I’d just drop to the ground and go ring the doorbell, but there was the issue of the police. Something else gave me pause, too; the small wreath of holly and mistletoe hung on the back door. That hurt more than hitting the branch had. Contrary to myth, neither holly nor mistletoe had ever stopped me from entering a building – I wouldn’t be able to enter most shops or cafes if it did – but the Nebits weren’t to know that. They’d always made a point of not warding their doors, and the fact that they’d done so now… well. I couldn’t really blame them, could I?

I switched to another branch, one stretching towards the Nebits’ house. The window I was aiming for wasn’t all that far from my own; it seemed like an awful lot of work to reach it by treeclimbing. If we’d been on the ground floor, I’d almost be able to reach it from my own window.

I couldn’t quite reach it from the tree, though. Again, this was a jump I’d made dozens of times, but it had been hard enough jumping into the tree with a broken leg; even I wasn’t going to try to jump out of a tree at a closed window when I couldn’t even safely stand up. I could envision the result – me slamming face-first into the wall below the window, and the Nebits coming to investigate the noise and finding a broken, bleeding body under their peach tree. Not an ideal situation.

Instead, I plucked a peach from the tree and threw it at the window. A moment later, it opened.

Melissa was sihlouetted in her bedroom light, so I couldn’t see much more than the halo of brown hair she was in the process of brushing, but I knew she was glaring at me. Melissa has the kind of glare you can feel through lead walls. When she grows up and has kids, they’re going to be the most well-behaved children in the world.

“Kayden, what the hell?”

“Are you going to let me in or not?”

“You shouldn’t be here! You’re under house arrest!”

“I know, that’s why I’m in a tree. But it is Saturday.”

Apparently, Melissa couldn’t argue with this logic. She fetched the usual climbing rope from her closet and tossed one end to me. I tied it to the tree, slid my way over to the window, and climbed in.

“Are you alright?” Melissa asked, checking over my arms for scratches and bruises. I didn’t pull away; Melissa gets focused when she’s worried, and it’s generally best not to get in her way. There were dark shadows under her eyes, I noticed, and her normally rosy, freckled cheeks were pale; had she lost sleep over me?

I shrugged. “They discharged me, so nothing can be too wrong with me. It’s not the first fall I’ve taken.”

“You know what I meant.”

I shrugged again.

“We tried to visit you, you know. They had you in some kind of high security ward and Chelsea almost got caught trying to pickpocket a nurse’s keycard.”

I suppressed a chuckle. “Of course she did. She’s not here yet?”

“She was grounded after the keycard thing, so I don’t think she’ll be able to convince her mum to – ”

Just then, Melissa’s bedroom door opened. “Don’t tell my mum I’m here,” Chelsea said quietly. “I’m grounded.”

Melissa threw up her arms. “Did anyone in this neighbourhood not sneak out of their bedroom window today?”

“Um, you didn’t,” I pointed out.

“Neither did I,” Chelsea said. “I’m not an idiot. I used our bathroom window. First floor.”

“Well la-de-da, Miss Police-Aren’t-Watching-My-House,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Kayden, did you climb a tree in your pyjamas?” Chelsea asked.

I glanced down at myself. “Maybe.”

“You’ve lost a button.”

Chelsea, unlike Melissa and I, was not in her pyjamas. She was wearing a flannel shirt that I was pretty sure was mine. Despite being a year younger than me, we were exactly the same size, and more than once she’d joked about getting me a jaw-length blonde wig and herself a shorter brown one to see how long we could pretend to be each other before someone noticed. Said jokes were getting worryingly serious.

“It’s your turn to hide the tracker,” Chelsea reminded me.

Melissa glared at her. “That stupid tracker game created this mess, and you still expect him to play?” she snapped.

“That’s pretty insensitive, Chel,” I agreed. “Especially since I’ve already hidden it. You think the school roof was a clever hiding spot? Oh, man. You are in for a wake-up call.”

She frowned. “You’re bluffing,” she said. “You haven’t had a chance to hide anything. They took you straight home from the hospi – ” She put her face in her hands and groaned. “You found the tracker before you ended up in hospital. You had it with you. And the only other places you’ve been are your house, and a high security ward in the hospital. And you know better than to hide it in your house.”

I spread my hands. “Hey, the circumstances aren’t my fault. If you want to find it, might I suggest stealing a nurse’s keycard? Oh wait.”

“You’re both crazy,” Melissa said.

“That’s a weird way to pronounce ‘incredibly awesome’,” Chelsea said. “When does the cast come off?”

“In another week and a half.”

“Just in time for school holidays!”

“I’m suspended anyway, so it’s kind of a moot point.”

We fell silent. None of us wanted to talk about the next obvious point of conversation.

Eventually, Melissa asked, “What about after the school holidays?”

I shrugged. “They haven’t set a date for the trial or anything yet, so…”

“So you’ll probably get a super long holiday before you’re found innocent and everything goes back to normal!” Chelsea threw an arm over my shoulders. “I’m so jealous.”

I shrugged her off. “I’m not innocent. My victim – ”

“Victim!” Chelsea scoffed. “You know this is Matt Parker you’re talking about, right? If I’d been up there I’d have pushed him off myself, curse or no curse.”

“You’re innocent,” Melissa said. “You know the law. Accidental consequences of curses can’t be prosecuted, unless the carrier of the curse was knowledgably negligent.”

“Fourteen-year-olds shouldn’t use words like ‘negligent’,” Chelsea frowned. “You sound like my dad.”

Melissa ignored her. “You’ve had that curse stuck in your heart since before you could walk, and nobody could ever say you were negligent. It’s done absolutely nothing for fourteen years. No causing sickness, no turning things to gold, it doesn’t even sour milk. There was absolutely no way you could have predicted it to lash out here.”

“That’s the point,” I said. “I should have expected it to lash out, because I should always be expecting it to lash out. My control slipped, and now everyone knows I put that jerk in hospital. He nearly died, you know. I nearly killed him.”

“Your curse nearly killed him,” Melissa corrected.

“I would have nearly killed him if I got the chance,” Chelsea shrugged. “Don’t even need a curse. I would’ve just hit him.”

“Everyone knows that Matt’s injuries are more self-inflicted than anything,” Melissa added. “Nobody blames you for any of this.”

“Then why is there a wreath on your door?” I asked.

Melissa looked away. “My parents are idiots.”

“No, your parents are scared, and they’re right. Your family have known about my curse since I got it. Your parents never had a problem with it, or with me, until now. But now they finally see what it means, what it can do, and they want nothing to do with me. They think I could hurt you, and they’re right. I could kill both of you without warning. Doesn’t that bother you?”

The two girls stared at me, completely unimpressed. Chelsea rolled her eyes.

“Why would that bother us?” Melissa asked. “It’s not exactly new information.”

“You’ve always known about the curse, but now that it’s active and – ”

Melissa waved me silent. “Not the curse. I mean in general. We’re all capable of killing each other if we want. You don’t need a curse for that. Five minutes ago I threw you a rope to climb in my window; I could’ve untied my end and you could very easily have died. Does that bother you?”

“That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m not saying your curse doesn’t suck, I’m just saying it doesn’t make you a terrifying monster, and anybody who looks at you differently now that it’s attacked Matt is an idiot for not taking it seriously and getting over it years ago.”

“That’s easy for us to say,” Chelsea said, “but to be fair, people have been kind of freaking out. Your family and mine were the only ones around here who ever really knew about the curse. To everyone else, it kind of…” she shrugged.

“Looks like I lied to them about something really dangerous I was carrying around the neighbourhood?” I asked.

“… Kind of, yeah. But they’ll get over it.”

“What’s the internet look like? The police confiscated my phone and I haven’t been online since the whole thing happened.”

The girls exchanged a worried glance.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Mum turned our wi-fi off. I don’t think she wants me to see what people are saying.”

“You don’t want to see what people are saying,” Melissa said quickly.

“Don’t worry about it,” Chelsea said. “If anyone gives you trouble, point at them and babble nonsense until they run screaming.”

“Yeah, because that would help his court case,” Melissa said.

“Nobody can give me any trouble. I’m not supposed to leave the house. Actually, I should probably get back before Mum and Dad notice I’m missing.”

“Righto. Liss, do you have some rope?” Chelsea headed for the window.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Stringing a rope from the tree to your window. Or did you have another plan for getting back in with that?” She nudged my cast with her toe. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” She took a rope from Melissa, slipped easily out the window and within seconds was walking along the tree branch outside.

“I’ll never get how you two can do that,” Melissa remarked.

“It’s easy. It’s just one foot in front of the other. Until you slip and break a leg.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll stick to the ground like a normal person, thanks.”

“Sounds boring.”

Melissa chuckled and shoved me playfully. I grinned, trying to keep the mood light. Trying not to think about the future.

Whether I was found guilty of assault or not, I was dangerous, and now the whole street and the whole school knew it. There was no going back from that.

And I didn’t know what to do.

Story continues here.

#writing #curse words #yeah that's right I'm just fuckin' #dumping chapter 1 here #I'm out of marketing ideas #this is what I have been reduced to

[starbuckie]

𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬

challenge: winter warmers writing challenge by @spaceodditybarnes

prompt: “it’s beginning to look a lot like christmas” by michael buble

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

words: 2k without lyrics, 2.1k with lyrics

warnings: i genuinely don’t think i can say anything besides FLUFF, oh wait theres some mentions of the shmexy sex (i promise im a functioning person)

summary: in which they take a little holiday stroll and talk about what they are.

a/n: THIS MADE ME VERY HAPPY THANK YOU FOR HOSTING THIS CHALLENGE JADE!!! i kinda veered off the idea of christmas with this one, but my mind created another idea and i kinda just went with the flow. anyways, i really enjoyed writing this one, and i hope you all had a lovely holiday season <3 LOTS OF LOVE Y’ALL

main masterlist || sebastian stan characters masterlist

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Everywhere you go

Take a look at the five and ten, it’s glistening once again

With candy cane and silver lanes that glow

Snow sprinkled to the buildings and sidewalks of Midtown Manhattan, making the traffic clog up to the oh so lovely sounds of taxis and cars honking. It was far from what people pictured it, really, New York was absolute hell during the holiday season. Sloshing boots and teens smoking pot outside the scantily decorated discount store that held very little, sad-looking Christmas lights.

It didn’t bother Bucky. No, he had never been a big fan of the holiday season. Even back in the forties, with his ma and little sisters, they had never been huge on celebrating Christmas, instead choosing to work those shifts during the holiday so they could make a buck or two more to hold them over. Now in the twenty-first century, the holiday just reminded him how truly lonely he was, everyone and everything he used to know long gone.

But then he found Y/N. Granted, it had not been a formal introduction. The poor girl had nearly damn run him over with her motorcycle for Christ’s sake, but nonetheless she crawled into his heart that cold December morning two years ago, and had not left ever since. 

Now she walked by his side at Rockefeller Center, her cold fingers intertwined with his warm ones, admiring the tree while he admired her. He already had every part of her memorized, from late night escapades in the sheets to studying the slope of her nose at team breakfasts. Even when he wasn’t with her, he was always looking at her, unable to pull his eyes away from Y/N’s radiance. 

This little… dalliance of theirs had only started a year back, and they had still yet to put a label on it. Sam had called it friends with benefits, Sharon called it being a couple without the name. Bucky had shut both of those ideas down, claiming that they were taking it slow and weren’t looking to call it anything yet they still had not really talked about it. Was it really worth ruining the bond he had with the girl he fell madly in love with? Whatever it was, they had never taken time out of their day to actually discuss what they meant to each other, but, God, he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t want to know.

“Bucky?” Her sweet voice brought him out of his thoughts, the glittering red and white lights of the Christmas tree reflecting in her eyes. “You seem kind of distracted right now, sweetheart, are you bored? We can head back to the compound if you like.”

He smiled at her worried tone, delicately kissing the tip of her nose. “‘M just thinking, doll, wanna stay as long as I can out here with you.”

The grin he received in return was breathtaking, her red-painted lips turned upwards and a little twinkle (literally and metaphorically) in her eyes. “Good.”

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Toys in every store

But the prettiest sight to see, is the holly that will be

On your own front door

“Oh, look at that helicopter, Buck! That’s so cool!” Y/N pointed at a little boy in the store controlling the airborne toy with a small remote. “They didn't have those when I was a kid, I just had my Tamagotchi.”

He scrunched his nose, staring at her with an emotion that could be described as nothing other than distaste. “What the hell is a Tamagotchi?”

“A Tamagotchi was like this little digital pet thing that you could take care of, mainly used for kids who were trying to prove to their parents that they could take care of a real pet. That’s why I had one at least, but I never did get a tabby cat like I wanted.” Y/N continued to ramble about her weird pet thing as they walked through the toy store, though Bucky didn’t really care. But he’d never stop her either. The way her eyes lit up in childlike wonder and her fascination with the toys on the shelves was too precious to destroy. This was the girl who he had seen slit throats and blow aliens’ brains out, and in the moment she was ogling an American Girl Doll like it was the last pancake at the breakfast table. 

Y/N finally convinced herself that she was done looking at the toys, claiming that she was too mature for such things (she really wasn’t), but he let her lead him out the door, before she halted right in the doorway. “What is it, honey?”

“Mistletoe.” He glanced up at the little sprig of green and red berries above their heads, hanging by a small strand of twine. A small group of kids with families stood around, watching them with both happy and annoyed faces. How could they not notice Y/N L/N and Bucky Barnes? Bucky’s vibranium arm may have been recognizable, but Y/N’s cheery, a little-louder-than-normal humming had caused a little group to watch them throughout the store. “I think they’re waiting for us to kiss, Buck.”

She leaned into him, placing her lips on his and placing her freezing hands on his cheekbones. Though Bucky had never been big on PDA, the rest of the world seemed to slip away when he was with her. He grinned into her lips, hugging her tightly around the waist so she squealed. When he forced herself away from her intoxicating mouth, she was sporting a bright smile and smudged lipstick that had rubbed off onto his. 

Giggling, she took her thumb and swiped off some of the red residue she had left. “You had a little something there, sweetheart.” 

A pair of hopalong boots and a pistol that shoots

Is the wish of Barney and Ben

Dolls that’ll talk and will go for a walk

Is the hope of Janice and Jen

Bucky watched Y/N point out all the different street cart vendors as they walked to Radio City Music Hall. She’d insisted that they go look at the window displays there as well, and who was he to argue? Strangely enough, they hadn’t talked much, other than the occasional “are you cold” from Bucky, to which Y/N assured him she was not. Her quiet voice sang the lyrics to Last Christmas when a little girl stopped in front of them, two auburn braids and green eyes boring straight into hers. 

The small child pulled on Y/N’s skirt, a silent plea to go down to her height. “Hi there, are you lost, sweetie?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” she looked back to an older woman, who gave her a thumbs up and a smile, “because you are my favorite superhero and I hope you have a very good Christmas.”

Y/N nearly melted at the toothless smile the girl, who she assumed was named Sadie by the necklace she wore. “Thank you so much, sweetheart. I hope you have a good Christmas too, and do you know this guy?” She dragged Bucky down next to her, the large, buff man hulking over the small girl. “This is my friend Bucky, do you know him?”

He eyed her warily, as if he were absolutely terrified of the tiny human. “You’re the Winter Soldier!”

Uh oh. The name was one that struck a chord of fear through everyone, still in shock of the events that had taken place in D.C. in 2014. While he and Sam had tried to label a new brand for the Avengers, people didn’t forget all the horrors of HYDRA and their prized assassin. Of course it hadn’t been him, even he knew that, but trying to convince people otherwise still made him feel guilty.

“You’re my second favorite Avenger, after Y/N, of course.” Sadie brought her hand to hover over Bucky’s vibranium one, her eyes wide with excitement. “Mr. Bucky, can I touch your metal arm?”

The man in question could barely utter out a word, muttering some sort of agreement before nodding with a timid smile. Giddily, she touched his arm, feeling all the cool ridges of gold-plated vibranium against the gun-grey metal. Sadie continued to pelt questions at him, about Sam and Redwing to his “adventures” with Y/N on the team.

Bucky, though shy at first, got more and more relaxed as they continued their conversation, his grin growing wider. Y/N loved her fans, she loved them so, so dearly, but seeing them interact with the man she loved was something different. Not a bad different, but a word that could only be described as pure joy. 

“Darling, I think we better leave Ms. L/N and Mr. Barnes alone. Say thank you and happy holidays.” The little girl looked sad, turning to look at her mom with a little pout, but she reluctantly obliged and soon the duo were off, into the crowded streets once again. 

“Y’know once upon a time I had dreamed about having kids,” Bucky commented. They walked along the sidewalks in a comfortable quiet after the encounter with Sadie, but Bucky’s mind had not stopped reeling from the happiness his conversation brought him. “Was gonna come home from the war, settle down with a gal, and live to be at least seventy years old.”

“Well, I can tell you you’re good on the last bit of that, Buck.” He snorted at her jab at his age, something that has become a norm for their little makeshift family of four. “What do you want now?”

He stopped in his tracks and looked over at her with a fond tilt of his lips. “Oh, just something real special.”

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

Toys in every store

But the prettiest sight to see, is the holly that will be

On your own front door

“Y/N, what are we?” She glanced over at him from where they sat on the Met stairs, giving their feet a break from walking for hours. 

“What do you mean, Buck?”

He grabbed her hands and held them to his chest, trying to make her understand the amount of confusion and impatience he had with this one burdening question. “We’ve been sleeping together for a year, Y/N. We make each other breakfast, we go out together, I literally have half of my closet dedicated to your stuff, but even after all that we haven’t given us a name yet.”

Y/N sat in stunned silence, staring at the outburst from the man in front of her. To be completely honest she had never really thought about the question, choosing to enjoy each second she got to spend with the wonderful man with her. What she had noticed however, was how whenever they parted ways or were in the most intimate of moments, three little words nearly slipped off of her tongue. Every. Single. Time.

“Well, what do you want to be, Bucky?”

“I want to be the man you love. I want to be the man who loves you with his entire heart, though I like to think I already am. I want you to be my best gal more than anything in the world, and that I want to be the man who gets to hold and love you every night.” Slowly they drifted to each other, a magnetic pull bringing them to each other. “What do you think, doll?”

“I think,” her lips split into a grin, hovering over his own with the exact same expression, “that I want to be your best girl and the one who gets to make you pancakes in the morning and I want to be the one you get a cat with, who we’ll name Alpine because if I know you, names are the most important part of having a pet. I want to be held and loved by you every night, Bucky Barnes, and I am the girl who loves you more than anything in this entire damn world.”

Not another second to spare, Bucky pulled Y/N in close, letting himself get lost in one of her sweet, loving kisses, finally knowing that he was hers and she was his. At long last.

Sure, it’s Christmas once more

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #james buchanan barnes #marvel #James Buchanan Bucky Barnes #james barnes #buckybarnes #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x yn #Sebastian Stan #sebastianstan #reader insert #Self Insert #sebstan #readerinsert #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian x reader #marvel fanfiction #bucky barns imagine #bucky barnes headcanons #bucky barnes headcanon #mcu x reader #mcu #jadeswinterwarmers #jade's writing challenge

[pomegranates-and-blood]

The Holly And The Ivy

My Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader, Sigurd/Reader, Sigurd/Margrethe

Summary: “I had this idea where Sigurd (or any of the brothers really) were to marry a Christian, but their marriage is dry and more political than anything, but Ivar is fascinated by her attitude (being opposite of him) and her love for life and simple things. He hears the reader and who she's married to talking about how she loves Christmas and he shuts her down, but Ivar decides to let her pick out a tree from the forest and put it up in the Great Hall and decorate it any way she wants. And the ending would include a kiss under mistletoe? If you can work with it.”

I’m very sorry if I dissapoint you anon, but the story was easier or smoother for me to write as a Modern!AU. I really hope you don’t mind. I can try something in the actual time period still, if you are not happy with au’s.

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: Mentions of cheating, passing mentions of abusive relationships (not involving any of the relationsips in the tag btw), angst, my poor attempt at holiday fics or holiday spirit. Also, a part is not smut or explicit but getting closer to it than most of my work, so that too.

A/N: I really hope I don’t dissapoint whoever requested this. Also, I made this way more complicated than it needed to be, bc I always do, and for that I’m also sorry. Hope you like this, thank you for reading!

The title is from a Christmas carol, cause why not lol

Taglist: @1950schick @youbloodymadgenius​ (I realized you once asked to be tagged on my Vikings works and I forgot, sorry)

“When we are done with this trip we’ll go back home.” Sigurd points out one night as you both say goodnight, in some hotel somewhere in Norway.

“Home?”

“To my mother’s, in a week. Family time and all that.”

Before you are to leave for your own room, you call out, “For Christmas?”

The blond shakes his head, “Yule. You can celebrate your Christmas when we return.”

“That’ll be after the New Year!” You complain softly, offering a smile because you cannot help it.

“I will have to deal with Ivar and my mother, you can deal with this.” Sigurd sentences, the harshness startling you and prompting you to accept the words with a nod.

He mutters a goodnight again, hesitating for a moment on his bedroom door, as if questioning whether he should say sorry or not. You choose to relieve him of that choice, going into your own room and closing the door with a quiet click.

As if it were waiting for the door to close, your phone lights up on your nightstand.

How’s Oslo?

You type a quick response,

You could just ask me if we’ll be attending your mother’s celebrations, you know.

The response takes a while longer, and you cannot help the smile that pulls at your lips.

…Are you?

I expect all those lessons of yours with Floki to come to use. I’m going to need to learn about Yule, apparently.

So I’m supposed to teach you?

Who else?

Your fiancé. Is the reply you get, so fast you think he already knew what your reply was going to be before you even sent it. After a moment, before you can even think on what to answer, another message comes through. Nvm, my brother is useless. I’ll do it.

Your lips pull into a wide and stupid smile, and God, not even the shame at the quick beating of your heart or the warmth that spreads through you could make you be any less thankful for this, if anything. For him.

Thank you. Are you going to be there by Christmas?

This time the answer takes a while longer, and the indication that he is typing appears and disappears a few times.

I don’t know. Before you can ask anything, or send anything, a new message pops up. Princess, this doesn’t get any easier. I don’t know if I can.

Tears rise in your eyes because a part of you knows you’re meant to say goodbye at the end, and every time you are reminded, either by the pain in your own chest or Ivar’s words, that you are on borrowed time; you realize that end is close than you think.

Well, in that case, Merry Christmas, Ivar.

____

You find yourself being driven to that massive and fancy house by your fiancé.

You toy with your engagement ring as the car approaches the house. You know, rationally, that you have nothing to fear. The brothers have never been mean or hurtful -well, most of them haven’t-, and Aslaug has always been courteous and kind and…incredibly performative.

A part of you never ceased to feel like an outsider looking in. Between the pariah that a stupid business practice will be made into Sigurd’s wife, and the silent and soft woman they ignore as if she were another piece of furniture, you’d much rather be the latter.

“Heavy little thing, isn’t it?” Sigurd teases as he turns off the engine, motioning with his head to the rings on your left hand.

You don’t say anything in response, simply getting out of the car in silence. You know he meant well, he always does.

But a part of you that is hopeful and childish and still looks at the snow that starts to fall lightly over the ground as some miracle that means Christmas is upon us…that part of you cannot help but feel bitter about it all. Regretful, or, maybe, resentful.

You never imagined life would be this, engagement -marriage- would be this. You thought of happiness and warmth and fidelity.

Foolish hopes, really. The hopes of a child that watched her parents dance to the light of the Christmas lights, to the music of the soft music her father hummed. Nothing but foolish hopes.

So, when Sigurd steps out and hesitates in offering you his hand, you offer a smile and take his hand in yours, choosing to appreciate that at least the man you will be forced to marry is one you might call a friend, a partner, one day.

It is easy to forget, it is easy to let your heart be light and just enjoy the adorable giggles of Björn and Torvi’s children, the sympathetic smile of Margrethe, the warm and brotherly embrace of Hvitserk.

You are sipping on wine and watching Ubbe throw Asa over his head as she yells for him to throw her higher when a presence stands by your side and a wine glass clinks with your own in silent toast.

“I know you know about Sigurd and me,” Margrethe whispers, “And I want you to know I am sorry. But…I won’t leave him, not until he asks me to.”

If a year ago someone told you that you’d spent Christmas Eve being told by your fiancé’s mistress that she refuses to stop seeing him, you would have assumed the world turned on its head.

It did, but…you still find it in you to love this world that hurts you, this life that tests you.

You offer a smile, “I know you love him. It started as…”

“Gold-digging?” The blonde supplies, a sheepish grimace on her face.

“I wouldn’t be as unkind as to-…”

“You should. That’s what it was,” Her smile loses the edge, and she falters, “At first.”

You accept her words with a nod, and another sip of your wine.

“Then as long as you are discreet, I don’t mind. Keep him happy, Margrethe, he deserves it.”

You start to walk away when she stops you with a call of your name.

“And you don’t? Deserve to be happy, I mean.”

You hesitate, faltering for a few seconds too long. Her blue eyes are big and uncharacteristically honest as they look at you.

“I…”

You take your gaze off hers, because it feels like she will know something she shouldn’t, something you don’t want her to; but your eyes betray you, it seems.

“Oh, him. Well-kept secret, that one,” She states, and when you open your mouth to argue, Margrethe shakes her head, “It’s okay, I don’t…I don’t blame you. Even if I don’t understand at all how that came to be.”

“It’s…”

“Complicated?” The blonde supplies, and you allow yourself a smile, you loosen your shoulders and close your eyes with a deep breath.

“Ivar, he…understands me.”

“But you two are nothing alike,” She states, and at your shrug, concedes, “Maybe that’s why.”

“Maybe,” You offer, and after a breath, because bitter regret at being the thing that keeps her from the man she loves chokes you for a moment, “Margrethe, I…”

“Don’t you even think of apologizing to me,” She laughs, “Gods, woman, you truly are a soft thing, aren’t you?”

“I have the privilege of being it.” You offer with a kind smile, because you’ve seen the scars, because you remember her when she was more fragile.

Margrethe shakes her head, “The burden.” She corrects, and with a soft squeeze of her free hand on your arm, she walks away.

____

It’s on the day before Christmas that the last of the Lothbrok arrives. You walk down the stairs to a very early breakfast, and jump when the front door opens to reveal Ubbe and Ivar.

He came.

“You are up early.” Ubbe comments as he passes you by, dropping a kiss on your cheek.

You greet Ubbe absently, your eyes on his brother. Numbly, you hear him say something about telling Aslaug that Ivar has come home, and quick steps carrying him up the stairs.

Your lips curve into a smile, or at least they try to, “Hi.”

“Hello, Princess,” Ivar greets, what months ago would have been a smirk curving his lips. Now, now it’s more tired and worn than anything. “Just in time for your…Christmas, right?”

You nod, feeling the stupid urge to cry, “Yeah. Means a lot, you know.”

“Well, I could feel you pouting over the phone, love,” His eyes check the stairs before he moves aided by his crutch towards you with a wince of pain -the cold, you remind yourself, the cold making his legs ache-, and once he is before you, a hand that shouldn’t feel as tender as it does cups your cheek and brings your mouth to his. “I couldn’t leave you alone here. You always find ways to embarrass yourself.”

You chuckle, burrowing your head on his chest as you embrace him.

“I may have fucked up a few times,” You concede, eyes closed as you take in his scent, his warmth, “But I’m cute, I get away with a lot of things.”

____

As the timer on your phone dings, you get up from the couch, leaving a warm but strong drink behind, and make your way to the kitchen, ready to take out the sponge cake -no, a voice too alike Ivar corrects you, Bûche de Noël-.

Uneven steps behind you let you know of who walked in behind you, and you turn around with a slight frown on your brows, meaning to ask something before he interrupts you.

“He’s groping and kissing her in front of you, and you say nothing?” Ivar demands, anger shining clearly in his blue eyes.

“Sigurd and Margrethe?” You ask, and shake your head, “Why would I say anything?”

“You know about them.”

“Of course I do. He doesn’t hide it from me, and he shouldn’t hide it from his family. He loves her, and she loves him.”

“You don’t care that he’s humiliating you?” He presses, and you sigh.

“Everyone here knows how things truly are between Sigurd and me.”

Ivar’s mouth curls into a snarl, and cruelty spews from his lips, “Well, if you had let Ragnar know you had no problem letting your husband fuck whoever he wants, you might have been able to marry Björn, like your father wanted.”

You close your eyes, “Don’t be like this.”

“Like what, hm? Like someone that’s watching the woman he-…What am I supposed to be then, hm? What would make you happy?” He accuses, not losing the cruel edge in his voice even if you both know what he stopped himself from admitting. When you don’t answer, Ivar takes a deep and angry breath through his nose, “I’ve always been jealous of my brothers, you know this. Growing up their poor crippled brother is nothing to knowing Sigurd gets you and doesn’t even know what he-…what I’d do to be him.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Make him be the man you deserve!”

“He’s not the man I want,” You point out before you can keep the words trapped behind your lips. Ivar is inexplicably stunned by your words, it seems, and you lower your gaze. Resting your hands on the counter you drop your shoulders and shake your head, letting go of the previous argument and returning to…peace, or as close to it as one can get with Ivar. “Your brother deserves to be as happy as he can, with the woman he loves. It will not hurt me to see him with her. As long as-…”

“‘As long as it is discreet’, yes, I know. My mother and Ragnar have the same agreement.”

“It works for them, does it not?”

Ivar meets your gaze and doesn’t answer for a few moments, long enough that dread sets in your chest and questions arise in your mind.

Eventually, on the side of his jaw the clear tell of gritted teeth, he replies,

“Not as well as you think.”

“Well, Sigurd and I are friends, we…things will work out. They have to.”

“They have to, of course,” He mocks, moving his head as he rolls his eyes, “Anything to keep Ragnar and your father happy, hm?”

“Ivar…”

His eyes search yours, searching for the answer to a question he has not yet asked,

“I-If I asked you not to do this, if I…if I asked you for more time…” He leaves the words hanging between you, and you blink past helpless tears. He knows the answer, you know the answer.

Thankfully, you don’t have to remind him -and yourself- of the world you live in, of the lives you were meant to live, because the door to the kitchen opens and Aslaug walks through.

You keep your eyes firmly set on the tray before you, even though you can feel Ivar’s eyes on you, demanding an answer. When he realizes he will not get one, he grunts, a clenched fist hitting the counter once before he walks away.

“I’m sorry.” You offer the matriarch as she keeps her all-seeing eyes on you, but Aslaug offers a smile. A fake one, but a smile nonetheless.

“The cold gets to Ivar, it makes him irritable. It is not your fault.” She soothes, but the smile you offer her in thanks still trembles. You both know these are lies you are sharing with one another, and though it makes you falter and stumble, Aslaug moves gracefully from one lie to the next.

“I’ll-…” You point behind you, to the living room, but the woman shakes her head.

“Surely you have time to help me with this?” She asks. It feels like walking into a wolf’s den when you nod your head and approach her.

“Of course.”

She watches raptly as you assist her in preparing the Yule Log, and you focus on doing your best to keep your hands from trembling.

“For someone that doesn’t follow the Gods, you know a lot about tradition, girl.”

“I…It was the least I could do, learning about what is important to your family, to Sigurd.” You offer, and whatever she -who always has the look of someone that sees beyond what normal eyes can- can sense in your words makes Aslaug stop.

She turns to you, and surprises you with a hand on your cheek. The woman towards over you, but the gentleness in her touch, the warmth in her eyes, they help you to not feel threatened.

“Still loving the world that hurts you, sweet thing?”

“It’s all I know how to do.”

Aslaug’s smile is almost sad when she looks into your eyes, “To love, yes, I know. Wish I saw that sooner,” You don’t know what to answer to that, so you offer her only a shaky smile and a shrug. Aslaug chuckles gently, “And you love my son, don’t you?”

The terrifying thought that she knows what she’s doing when not saying any names, the realization nothing gets past her and neither did whatever is between you and Ivar, it all settles in your stomach with a dead weight.

Still, whether she asks about Sigurd or Ivar, the answer is the same.

“Yes.”

One as a friend, a partner, a man you can learn to respect and build a life alongside of. The other, as everything you ever wanted, as someone that will always make you wonder about the ‘what if’s.

She shakes off whatever takes a hold of her, and before you can ask what she means, why it pains her, she steps back from you and turns her back to you.

“You know, Ragnar isn’t the only one in this family with an eye for business. I was once in the same position you are now, the heiress to an empire,” Aslaug’s smile seems to thaw as she hands you a refilled glass of wine to match hers. Resting her backside on the counter behind her, she continues, “My parents were able to teach me a few valuable lessons before their death.

She grabs your left hand, stopping you. Her eyes look deeply into yours, but her thumb rolls your engagement ring on your finger.

“Like how to understand when I can’t make any more moves. And when I can change the wording in a deal to make it favor me.

Your lips part, you think to say something, but Aslaug stops you with a smile.

“Let’s hope you’ve learned the same lessons, my dear.”

____

Ubbe is dancing with Asa standing on his feet, and you watch with a smile on your face as the family enjoys time together, and celebrates the holidays in their own way.

A part of you misses the Christmas lights, the decorations you’d help your parents put up when you were a kid. A part of you misses how simple life was back then, how in this time of year you could forget there was a world past the snow drifting down and the warmth of a hearth and a home.

Ivar comes right up to you, but doesn’t sit next to you, choosing to remain standing.

“Grab your coat,” He orders, and at your confused frown, he rolls his eyes and amends, “Please.”

The most insincere please in the history of pleases, but you know you get more than most, so you don’t comment on it.

Still, you have to ask, “Why?”

“I-…a surprise,” He says, and insists you move with a gesture of his head, “Come on.”

You follow him to the small house the Lothbroks have by the pool, a cozy little home of big windows. When Ivar motions for you to go in ahead of him, a part of you is suspicious, but you still skip your way inside and try not to ask questions as to how it is so warm here when it should be vacant.

Ivar turns the lights on, and you find in the middle of the living room a Christmas tree.

The tree is bare, but still lively and familiar.

You turn to Ivar with tears in your eyes, because you cannot help it.

“You did this for me?”

“You love your Christmas,” He mumbles, embarrassed at the reaction his -to some, uncharacteristic- thoughtfulness got out of you. “I figured you deserved to have some of it with you here.”

“Did you buy Christmas lights?” You ask softly, almost moving up and down in the balls of your feet in excitement, eyeing the bags on a chair nearby.

Ivar chuckles, endeared, and nods, “Go ahead, Princess.”

You skip your way to the bags, quickly looking over the goods and already planning on how to decorate it, how to make it look pretty, how to make it yours.

You don’t truly know how long you spend on it, gleefully putting up Christmas lights, and little ornaments. During the whole time you spent excitedly decorating the tree, you can feel Ivar’s eyes on you, and when you look back at him you find him staring with a strange softness in his gaze.

You choose not to think too much on it, and instead ask his opinion on the decorations, that he gives gruffly and with a very poor attempt at making you believe that -either because Christmas grew on him, which you find very unlikely, or because of your own happiness- he isn’t happy to be here.

____

You smile at the warm and twinkling lights, and burrow closer to Ivar’s warmth, refusing to take your eyes off the dancing lights and refusing to put your feet back on the ground.

Refusing to step out of the fantasy that this could be your life.

Ivar shifts his position, and you lift your head from the juncture between his neck and shoulder and meet his eyes in question.

His eyes give away so much, always have, at least to you. And now they reflect the warm sparkle of the Christmas lights, and they reflect hesitation, fear, uncertainty, love.

Before you can ask what is wrong, Ivar leans in, his hand previously around you tangling in your hair as his lips claim yours.

His kiss is always demanding, but this time it holds desperation in the way Ivar begs for your lips to part with his own, it holds an urgency in the way his tongue dances with yours, it holds a ragged edge in the shaky breath that he lets out through his nose, it holds a goodbye in the way he ends the kiss as if forcing himself to pull away from you.

You try getting your breath under control and your voice to be yours again, but he’s so close, and warm, and yours; and all you want to do is kiss him again.

Kiss him again, and make the furrow in his brow, the pain in his eyes, go away. Kiss him again, and pretend you are not living on borrowed time.

So you do.

You kiss him, and take control of the kiss, and make him groan lightly against your mouth when you tug on his hair, and whimper his name against his own when you straddle him and feel him getting hard underneath you.

When your need for breath makes you part from his kiss, Ivar wastes no time trailing fervent kisses down your neck, panting breaths against the hot skin that he kisses and licks and bites.

You moan his name, forgetting everything but the touch of his lips on your skin, forgetting everything but the scent and taste and feel of him.

Either at the sound of your voice or the grind of your hips against his hardening cock, Ivar’s breath stutters and he breathes your name back at you, voice low.

His brow rests against your collarbone as he takes deep breaths, and your fingers toy at the hair that flows down to his shoulders.

“You know…” He murmurs, pressing a kiss that makes you shiver right on the dip between your collarbones, “There’s nothing I want more right now than marking this pretty neck of yours. Leaving you with…” His teeth scrape against your skin, a tease both for you and himself. Ivar does it a few more times, and moves up your neck again. Your breath shudders past your lips, and you tug on his hair to remind him of what he was saying. You always did love hearing him speak. For all the months you spend apart, his voice telling you what he’d do to you, what he’d have you do to him, is all that keeps you warm. Ivar chuckles, but continues, “Leaving you with my mark all over you, where everyone can see, so…so that they don’t doubt you’re mine.

His hands tighten on your waist, before they travel down, caressing your thighs as he sighs.

“But you’re not, are you? And I can’t…I can’t do any of that. I can’t-…”

You interrupt him before his thoughts can get ahead of him, before he can twist himself into knots about the situation you are both in.

“I am yours. Only yours.” You remind him softly, your lips by his ear. You lean back so you can meet his eyes, and seal your promise with a soft kiss over his lips.

Ivar’s eyes search yours when you pull back, with the same look as before. Uncertain, lost, tender and yet almost sad.

“Marry me.” He whispers, keeping his eyes on yours.

“What?” You squeak, eyes wide. He couldn’t have…he knows that…none of this makes any sense.

“Marry me instead of Sigurd,” He insists, and as if remembering the part he forgot, he curses and hurries to fetch something from his pocket. He offers you a simple but beautiful ring, and swallows, “I-I can make you happier than he ever could, I…I love you.

I know you can, you already do.

I love you too.

But you can’t say any of that, because your breaths are shallow and your head is filled with thoughts and…and you need space.

You scramble to stand, to put distance between the two of you. After a few controlled breaths, you return your eyes to Ivar, whose hand has now fallen back to his lap even if he still holds on to the delicate ring.

He grits his teeth, the obvious tell at the side of his jaw, and he seems to want to divert his eyes from you, but he only blinks and keeps certain eyes on you.

“Your father wants you to marry one of Ragnar’s sons, he doesn’t care who. I…have talked with my father, he agrees that if you want to, we can…” He licks his lips in a nervous gesture, “Mother says any backlash from breaking the engagement can be handled.”

“You’ve thought this through.”

“Of course I have, y-you’d be Sigurd’s wife if I didn’t think of something,” A twitch of anger, of uncertainty, of fear, on his face, and then he amends, “You still can be. But I want you to be able to choose.”

Choose me, is what he doesn’t say.

Your heart is lodged in your throat, and you try a few times before you can finally speak,

“Ivar, we haven’t…it’s been only a few months.”

“And it will not work out, that’s what you’re saying?” He huffs, defensive, “It won’t work out if you marry my brother either.”

“I-…this-…”

“Stop thinking of excuses,” He snaps, gritted teeth and hurt written in his eyes, “I’ll handle everything, no matter your answer. Just…just give me an answer, Princess.”

____

It is open ended cause there’s two ends to this, I wanted to leave the choice to you guys! So, follow the link for the epilogue of your choice:

Will you accept the proposal and be bound to Ivar, for better or worse?

Or will you stay with Sigurd, and be content with companionship and friendship?

Hope you liked this, even if it wasn’t very holiday-ey. I wish you all very happy holidays and a great (or decent, after 2020 I’m happy with decent) 2021!!

(Ik it’s like the 13th and I’m gonna be very much around here posting and bothering the whole lot of ya till the holidays and beyond, but holiday fic and all that, ‘twas the perfect time to send good wishes and all. Love ya!)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar