#ficmas21

[witch-city]

your twelve days of christmas

marvel masterlist | marvel headcanons | navigation

yelena belova x reader

a/n: i was stretching it a little bit on some of these, but you get the picture...enjoy!

warnings: none! pure, tooth-rotting fluff!

requests are open!

as much as yelena LOVES american holidays and traditions, she's not very clear on all of them

like trick-or-treating

she honestly thought that it was like a truth or dare thing where the trick-or-treater would choose one and that's what they would get

and last new years, when you were visiting your family with her, she nearly grabbed her gun when your family members opened doors and yelled that something was rushing out the door

you had to physically restrain her, which was very hard by the way, just to explain to her that new years tradition

her most recent confusion was about the 12 days of christmas song

she thought that it was a tradition for americans to give their loved ones gifts on the twelve days leading up until christmas

december 14

on december 14, yelena gave you 12 pieces of paper in a jar

needless to say, you were very confused

but when you looked closer at those pieces of paper, you noticed her handwriting on them

you pulled the slips of paper out of the jar and read each one

it took you a moment to realize that she was listing twelve reasons why she loved you

her reasons went as such:

you let me protect you

you listen and try to understand

you never judge me

you try to take care of me (even when i don't want you to)

you can always make me laugh

you enjoy eating the food i cook

you make me smile when you smile

your beautiful, perfect face

you don't mind my family no matter how annoying they are

you are gentle and thoughtful

you never second-guess choosing me

you are you, and that's enough

december 15

on december 15, yelena gave you 11 HUGE bouquets of all of the colors of the rainbow

the flowers she chose were:

calla lily (white)

azalea (pink)

rose (red)

tulip (orange)

sunflower (yellow)

carnation (green)

blue daisy (light blue)

iris (blue)

lavender (indigo)

lilac (purple)

winter pansy (black)

december 16

on december 16, yelena took you to a nearby bowling alley

for every pin you did (or didn't) knock down, of which there are 10, she gave you a kiss

for one game, that would be like 20 kisses

and you didn't play just once

december 17

on december 17, yelena gave you a 3 year old cat (with 9 lives)

it was a BEAUTIFUL fluffy ragdoll

it was mainly white with brownish-greyish bits on the tail and face

you literally fell in love with it

yelena explained to you that she had gotten her from a shelter and she was about to be put down since nobody wanted her

you named her dima, which means "strong warrior"

december 18

on december 18, yelena gave you 8 pies

of course, yelena made them all herself

how? you had no clue

nevertheless, they were AMAZING

she had made:

cherry pie

pecan pie

pumpkin pie

blueberry pie

apple pie

peach pie

coconut cream pie

december 19

on december 19, yelena gave you tickets for 7 separate vacations to each of the seven continents of the world

they were planned for the summer, of course

naturally, you were very excited

december 20

on december 20, yelena gave you a simple little poem that she wrote with 6 lines

she wrote:

"once i sat engaged and blessing, remembering many romances, beloved desires, when my heart got stuck in the briars.

i awoke and flung the feeling; shook and spun off nature's dart, realizing i was the bur upon your heart.

yelena <3"

december 21

on december 21, yelena took you on a day trip through all 5 of the boroughs in new york

on your little trip, you saw or went on:

the bronx zoo and new york botanical garden in the bronx

the brooklyn bridge and dyker heights in brooklyn

the rockefeller center tree and times square in manhattan

museum of the moving image and cunningham park in queens

the staten island ferry and the boat graveyard in staten island

december 22

on december 22, yelena introduced you to the fantastic four

johnny, of course, tried his hardest to get your number, but stopped after his sister, sue, gave him a dirty glare

ben was pretty intimidating

i mean, how could he not be

he was huge

but he was really nice

and so was sue and reed

ugh you loved sue immediately

she was so kind and friendly (and got her brother to stop flirting with you), so what was there not to like?

and reed talked the most, but he seemed really smart and nice

overall, a great experience

you thanked yelena with as many kisses as she would allow

december 23

on december 23, yelena gave you every movie from each of the star wars trilogies

that's a total of 19 hours and 39 minutes worth of star wars movies

naturally, you two spent the rest of the day, curled up on the couch while watching them together

well, you weren't watching the whole time

of course, sometimes one or both of you fell asleep or just had a conversation mid-movie

the movie wasn't that important to either of you though, so it was okay

december 24, christmas eve

on december 24, christmas eve, yelena gave you a pair of ice skates

yelena knew that you were interested in skating, so she thought to get you a pair

and these weren't just a crappy beginner's pair

no, not even close

these were literally over $100,000

like hello?? yelena?? what are you doing spending that much on a pair of ice skates

you were super grateful though

you ended up going out that night to a local skating rink and trying them out

(you loved them)

december 25, christmas day

and finally, on december 25, christmas day, yelena gave you a box

it was a simple, little, velvet box

there was no fancy decoration or anything

it was just a box

but how yelena gave it to you and its contents were not so simple

you opened it and saw a ring

a beautifully adorned ring with a HUGE diamond in the center

when you looked back to her, she was on one knee

she opened her mouth to make some huge speech about how much she loved you

but you didn't need to hear it

you already knew all about that

you didn't even give her a chance to talk

you just whispered a gentle 'yes' and kissed her like you never had before

and that was the greatest gift of all...not the ring

no, you couldn't care less about the ring

it was yelena that was the gift you cherished most

#yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova x you #yelena belova fluff #yelena belova headcanons #request #ficmas21 #mine.

[another-shameless-fangirl]

12 Days of Ficmas- Wish List

Sam Manson was an infuriating person to get gifts for, mostly because she was unhelpful. “I don’t have anything on my list.”

Tucker and Danny groan as the goth shrugged at their dismay. “C’mon, Sam. Literally anything.”

“I have everything. I’m your rich friend. I should be asking you guys what you want.”

“Well I’ve been eying Dead Teacher’s collector edition for a while now and-”“What Tuck means is, we know what we want. What can we get you?”

Sam puts her finger on her chin looking at the grey sky as they walk home. “I would love a South American country.”

“Sam…”

“It’s the one thing my parents would never get me.” she sighs, melancholy and painfully sarcastic. Danny and Tucker look at each other and she smiles at them. “Really, I’m fine. Get me something small. Something you think I’d like and I’m sure I’ll love it.”

“You don’t like anything.”

“I like you just fine despite everything.” she teases and Danny grins back.

“Okay, well why don’t we agree on ten dollars and we can make something for each other.”

Tucker bobs his head side to side in thought. “Not a bad idea, but I wouldn’t say no to a Monster Truck, or the new-”

“Ten dollars and we can make it.”

“You don’t have to make anything, I'm happy to buy you guys something cool. My allowance is more than generous and Hanukkah's over so I’m loaded with extravagant gifts from my parents.” Danny wasn’t sure exactly how Hanukkah was celebrated but from Sam’s clipped tone, he imagined she didn’t approve of the gifts.

“Tucker, you want the collector’s set for Dead Teacher? You got it.”

“Woohoo! You’re the best, Sam.”

“You’re welcome. So Danny, what do you want?”

That made him slow down. Oh no.

“I didn’t make a list this year.”

The other two laugh.

“You were getting on me for not having a list and you don’t have one either?”

“I… I dunno. I’ve been so preoccupied with ghosts this year I haven’t thought about it.”

Everyone slows their walk down the streets of the town they’d vowed to protect. Ghost hunting had been something that infected all of their lives. Tucker offers a tight smile. “Well.. what’s something that you could use?”

“I don’t know.” his shoulders slouch. “It feels like all I do is fight ghosts and do homework and sleep.”

“I dunno about that. You haven’t been doing your homework.” Sam points out helpfully.

“Haha…”

“And you hardly ever sleep.” Tucker quips.

“Hilarious.”

They stop a hundred feet away from Fenton Works and Danny sighs. The levity he had before is gone, sucked into the air and dissipated.

Danny had been running himself ragged lately. Now more than ever they could see the dark circles under his eyes, the way he carried himself changed depending on how bad the fights were. Even though Phantom won just about all of his fights, they always seemed to take a lot out of him. Sam and Tucker barely had to come and help anymore as the ghost boy seemed to have everything under control. He was good, but not good enough to pretend it didn’t cost him.

They walk slow and steady toward the house and with the shorter distance came the sound of short tempers.

Screaming was common in the Fenton house every December as if it were the choir of every Fenton Family Christmas. Something crashes in the living room of Danny’s house and the boy doesn’t even flinch.

“You sure there’s nothing on your mind?” Sam offers. If Danny wanted to talk then maybe-

“I’ll figure it out. I’ll see you guys later.”

Tucker and Sam look on as Danny doesn’t even wait for them to reply and instead bounds up the steps to his house and shuts the door. The goth and the techno geek are left in the silence. In that silence, they create a pact.

Danny didn’t have to worry about a thing this year. The great thing about being a sidekick was that they sometimes knew the hero better than he knew himself. Danny may have not written a list, may not have thought of himself for who knows how long, but that’s what friends were for.

Sam and Tucker were in charge of Danny Fenton’s Wish List. They dash off to Tucker’s house where they start immediately writing down everything they could think of to make the hero’s life easier.

When they finish, they smile.

The next 12 days would lead up to the best Christmas yet.

#ASF Writes #ASF Wrote a Thing #Danny Phantom #Danny Phantom Fanfiction #ficmas2021 #ficmas21 #12daysficmas #Sam Manson #Tucker foley #Danny Fenton

[acesymmetricfool]

12 Days of Ficmas Day 2: Peppermint

Ao3 link!

-----ooo---OOO---ooo-----

The smell of the Manson’s kitchen wafted through the open window despite the December chill. Though the location might change over the years, from her childhood home with her own grandmother, to her cozy first home with her late husband, to the lavish mansion she lived in with her family now, Ida Manson was always in the kitchen in December more often than not.

Hanukkah was at an end, but Amity Park celebrated Christmas and she could never resist baking things for her family and friends no matter what they practiced.

For the third time in two weeks, babka was baking in the oven. One was cinnamon, warm and spiced like her grandmother had taught her to make all those years ago. The second one was chocolate, rich and swirled for her granddaughter’s sweet tooth. Of course two babka could hardly curb that appetite.

Christmas marketing was mainstream and every time she went to the grocery store, it was impossible not to notice the displays covered in ingredients and blown up photos of their featured recipes. Even the kosher section had an end-cap featuring reindeer cookies.

Ida wasn’t immune to charm and she did love peppermint anyway...

As a result of the combined obligation to fill her granddaughter with sugar and the temptations filling the aisles, Ida was busy.

Donuts were rolled out and shaped all over one of the marble counters waiting to go in the oil currently heating on the stove in a good heavy pot instead of the new-fangled digital deep fryers they had two of for some reason. Once those were cooked and cooled they would get stuffed full of custard and rolled in chocolate curls or iced and dotted with crushed candy canes.

Ida had just pulled out the peppermint brownies that would be slathered in cream cheese frosting and more of those little white and red specks of holiday cheer.

Lastly, one of her favorite things, the mighty slabs of chocolate bark that took up the entire kitchen island were ready to break. Parchment paper lined almost the entire 80x40 inch marble surface and was generously coated in dark chocolate. She had planned ahead, then deviated from the plan, and the four quadrants of barely separated chocolate "rectangles" were studded with fixings. They were embedded with candied orange peel (homemade of course), finely chopped dried fruit, roasted nuts, pretzels, precarious drizzles of white chocolate, and of course, a generous section was covered in peppermint candy.

The smell of everything mingled in the air and poured onto the street all day. People slowed and hummed pleasantly as they walked down the sidewalk all bundled up now warmed from the inside. If the scent didn’t make them stop, this next part might.

With a heft and a mighty cry, Ida Manson lifted one of the large chocolate slabs and slammed it onto the counter where it shattered.

CRACK

The sound was deafening and sudden, but then it was over. She smiled at the varying sizes of chocolate bark then reached out to take another slab in her hands.

“Hello!? Is everything- oh.”

Ida looked up and there, sticking his head through the window of her massive kitchen, was the ghost boy of Amity Park. His name was Danny.

“Ah, you could smell it couldn’t ya?” she grinned at him waving the second slab in the air.

He floated in more and more until only his foot was sticking out into the December air and he didn’t even seem to notice.

“I actually-”

CRACK

Ida slammed the second piece of chocolate down and bits of decadence went flying.

“I was coming to investigate but now I know that noise wasn’t a noise , but a wonderful sound .” he blinked at her then put a gloved hand on the back of his neck nervously before starting to babble.

“What I meant to say was like… Ya know, a sound is good while a noise is bad or potentially dangerous and the connotations are different so like if the noise was someone getting hurt that was bad but you were just making chocolate and.. chocolate is… is good.” A little pink tinted his cheek as he started to float away.

He looked tired. His hair was a bit unruly, his shoulders were tense, this boy looked sad.

His butt was just about out the window when Ida brushed her hands on her stained apron.

“You’re right about that. Now why don’t you come down here and have some, deary?”

Green eyes blinked at her owlishly. Obviously he wasn’t used to being offered anything even though he was just a kid caught in the cold.

“I-I really can’t, I-”

“Pish posh. Now come choose a piece, I’ve got plenty.”

“I don’t eat. I’m a ghost.” she could have believed him if it weren’t for his voice or his face or the way his hands moved.

“You’ve got a mouth, don't ya?”

Danny seemed stunned for a second then came inside seemingly dragging some of the outside with him. It grew colder as he very slowly flew down to her level instead of flying above her. Perhaps it was a sign of respect, perhaps for just a moment he was forgetting he was supposed to have all these superpowers.

“Thank you.” he said politely and Ida beamed as she gestured at the broken pieces. Some of the shards were no bigger than a nickel while others mirrored her handbag. It was to be expected, but it was fun to look at all the different bits.

Danny reached forward and picked up the tiniest piece that had a tiny speck of peanut dust on it and she slapped it out of his hand.

He drew his hand to his chest in surprise, betrayal just barely starting to color his expression when she pointed again.

“You pick a proper piece. Do you know how hard it is to work hard when you’re my age? This is art! You wouldn’t do that to a poor old lady now would you? Take a lackluster piece as if I had microwaved a Hershey bar and spilled it.” she shook her head and started pawing through the pieces on her side of the table.

He blinked at her processing the words then nodded. Obediently, he reached out and carefully selected a piece with a healthy amount of peppermint. He looked to her for approval and when Ida took a bite out of her own piece, he took an experimental bite.

Green eyes widened.

“This is delicious.”

“I know. Have some more.”

There were no arguments or attempts at being polite as the kid snapped off piece after piece with his teeth and ate the entire thing. The whole time he stole glances as if she would slap it out of his hand again remembering he was supposed to be a ghost or something. She smiled and he twitched his gloved fingers like he would lick them if she wasn’t watching.

“Um… thank you. I’ll let you-”

“Did you like it? Best you ever had, eh?” she did lick her fingers for crumbs.

Danny’s mouth twitched like he would smile before the expression fell and he answered honestly.

“I never had it before. My folks aren’t good cooks. And they especially don’t cook Christmas stuff.”

Ida smiled at him.

“Tell ‘em it’s not too late. It may say Christmas on the tin but it’s good stuff year round. Especially when you get to share.”

He nodded but she could tell he would not be passing the message along.

“Thanks again for the chocolate.”

“Of course. I’m glad you got to try it. Busy night?” Ida leaned on the counter resting her body against the stone.

“Not really. Pretty slow this time of year with the Truce and all.”

Ah, that would explain a lot.

“Good.” she slapped the table and the poor boy jumped in his seat in the air.

“Here. Help a helpless old woman break up her bark?” she pouted at him with an exaggerated lip. After a long moment, that finally got a little smile out of the boy.

“Yes ma’am.”

“None of that nonsense, Danny, you call me Grandma Ida.”

His face blanked with shock and his eyes, so expressive, grew large.

“I’m Phantom .” he said with his lying voice, face, and hands.

She grinned but innocently lilted her voice.

“Danny Phantom. That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

Danny relaxed a bit and she turned back to the island.

“Now come on, we don’t have all night to do this part. That oil is gonna start screaming soon and I’ll show you how to fry donuts.”

“Yes Grandma Ida.” The boy said picking up a large piece.

“And lemme tell you, if you ever wanna make this, it isn’t actually art. This stuff is stupid easy to make. I’ll walk you through everything then you can make it any time you want.”

Danny smiled back.

“It probably wouldn’t be as good.”

“Darn tootin’ it wouldn’t be as good! But it’ll tide you over until you get your scrawny behind back here for more!”

That smile he gave was bright and wonderful.

“Yes Grandma Ida.”

“Good boy. Now slam that down and we’ll get to work.”

CRACK

-----ooo---OOO---ooo-----

Do not expect this length for the rest this one just spoke to me. Thanks Grandma Ida!

#danny phantom #danny phantom fanfiction #12daysficmas #ficmas21 #ficmas2k21 #Holiday fic #Grandma Ida #Ida Manson #She totally knows guys #I love her #Food

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas: Christmas Eve Edition is here!

Today we have an STL AU one-shot (it's complete!) about what would have happened if Mary-Alice had left with the Major.

I'm so sorry that I haven't been able to post many of the requests, but December was a bit of a disaster and I fell way behind. I plan on finding something from every one of those requests in January to make it up to everyone <3

Onwards to FicMasEve ;)

And I never wanted anything from you,

Except everything you had, and what was left after that too.

Florence and the Machine, Dog Days Are Over.

—

How long have they been away from the South? From Maria and the wars?

She’s lost track entirely.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. She never saw any of it coming.

She watched carefully, she planned and practiced, watched and worried, and she still never saw it coming. Not the Major taking her hand and dragging her out of Mexico and Texas in the dust of Charlotte and Peter’s flight. She never even considered that he’d think to take her with them.

So she does her best, her gaze focused on the future, focused on Maria and their desertion to make sure they see the end of the day, the end of the week, the end of the year. Her head feels tight, so full of what could-might-will happen that she’s glad that the Major doesn’t let go of her hand the entire time, just drags her along behind him.

And that’s how they escape the south.

—

They travel with Peter and Charlotte for many years, a little trio and the shadow. He watches her, the blankness of her face and her emotions as they move past the Mason-Dixon line to peace and safety.

She has no strong opinions about anything, never offers thoughts or ideas about their little trek across the country.

He doesn’t know how to help her. Not at all. He makes sure she’s fed, and that she’s decently clothed. He makes sure she’s not left behind, or alone too often (he knows something about the terror of being alone, and he doesn’t want anyone to feel that way.)

So they continue on. He waits, she watches, eyes empty but all-seeing. They part ways from Charlotte and Peter (there are a hundred little tiny reasons why, and Mary-Alice is one of them. She doesn’t feel safe, doesn’t trust Peter or Charlotte and he’d like to know why, but that’s not the kind of question he can ask her. Especially not now.) They wanted into the north, into wet and damp and green and empty, where the emotions of the cities are long behind them and he can finally breathe a little.

Mary-Alice doesn’t breathe, doesn’t relax or doesn’t seem any less broken. She simply is, still - a shadow, a ghost, his personal spectre of the horror of the wars.

This is not how he imagined freedom would be.

—

The little house had been half-swallowed up by the forest, one half of the building having collapsed under the weight of debris from the trees crowding it, and the smell of mould and rotting vegetation was overwhelming.

The rain had continued for two and a half days unabated, and whilst they ran no risk of getting sick or cold from it, but when it was raining this heavily and for this long, it was unpleasant - their clothes were sticking like a second skin, with rivulets of dirt and old blood running from the fabric onto their skin.

Wiping mud off her face with an equally filthy hand, she followed the Major towards the house; they were both covered in a combination of blood, mud, and ash from the fight. Mary-Alice’s dress was in a far worse state than the Major’s pants and shirt, but neither were particularly salvageable.

The house is a little time capsule of the past, having sat untouched for forty or fifty years, just resting and rotting. The dust that covers the floor is more of a sludge thanks to the dampness and the nearby river, with veins of mould and fungus running up the walls, and vivid green vines twisting and blooming up the door frames and around the ceiling. There might have been wallpaper once, but it’s little more than stained, rotten pulp right now.

(Two fat little frogs have nestled in a hole in the wall, luminous green and content. Mary-Alice watches them for a moment, fascinated. He likes that.)

They move through the house slowly; everything has been abandoned - it was not the home of wealthy people, but there is evidence of a few modest creature comforts - some books, discarded embroidery, painting supplies.

It feels like the other side of the Monterrey mansion; like they’ve stepped through the looking glass to another world. No one would argue that Maria’s home was cleaner - more bodies moving around to prevent dust settling - but the air of disrepair, of abandonment, of a liminal space is the same.

For a moment, he thinks he would prefer dirt and sand and the dry heat. But he’d take the rainiest days, the mouldiest shelter, before he’d go back to the hell of being a soldier in an unwinnable war.

—

The little washroom was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, with lacy spiderwebs strung in the ceiling corners. The tub matches up with his hazy human memories, bringing the smell of castile soap, and the heat of the boiled water sloshing into the the tin tub to the front of his memory.

(It is bittersweet in its simplicity. That once upon a time, he was a boy who washed in a bath like this, with homemade soap and rough rags. That he was a person, a human, a brother and son. A child. Jasper. Those memories sting and feel heavy but at least he has them. There is something amusing but also dreadful at Mary-Alice’s fascination with something as simple as frogs, as folding paper into animals, at how stricken she is out in a brand-new world.)

They are absolutely filthy; it’s been weeks since they washed, in a river somewhere in Virginia. They’ve relied upon the rain, upon the remoteness of their path, but maybe a bath would help. Would make them feel better. Even back with Maria, getting the opportunity to wash, and to claim new clothes made things seem a little less grim.

If nothing else, they’ve both got blood in their hair they need to wash out.

(The first time he had her after their escape, was in the lake somewhere in South Carolina when they stopped to wash the dirt and sand from the south off them. It was rough and hard, because he felt stripped raw, and she had held on to him tightly, her face pressed against him and it wasn’t exactly the cleansing baptism he had hoped for, he realised afterwards. Not for either of them. Maybe this bath will be better.)

—

There’s an old bucket in the corner, rusted tin housing a fascinating colony of something unidentifiable that he takes down to the river when Mary-Alice is exploring the narrow second floor.

It takes a few trips to the river to fill the tub enough for the both of them, and by then, Mary-Alice has crept back downstairs to watch his progress with obvious curiosity.

(A piece of ragged ribbon is clutched in one of her hands, and he wonders why she would want such a thing.)

“Wash yourself,” he says gently, motioning to the bath. The water is off-colour, but it is river water, from an ancient bucket, and it is still cleaner than the two of them.

Mary-Alice nods and strips out of her rag of a dress; there was something utterly pathetic in the wet slap it made when she dropped it on the stone floor amongst the dust and dirt. She’d drag it back on when she was finished in the tub, he knew that - but it looked like nothing. Black and brown and red, the fabric worn thin and frayed. It was barely fit for bandages or as a cleaning rag, let alone as someone’s clothing.

She picks up the dress and rings it out - bloody-muddy water dribbled out of it. And she folds it over the half-broken chair in the corner, as if it is going to be dry or cleaner when she reaches for it again.

The whole thing just feels sad to him. But then, he knows how wrong this is; he vaguely remembers what it was like to have new, clean clothes as a human. Even as a vampire, he got to replace his garments more often than Mary-Alice ever did - so few of their victims were small enough for their clothing to fit her.

He couldn’t remember ever seeing Mary-Alice in clothing that fit her right. Not the ragged hospital gown he found her in, nor any of the dresses she was provided with afterwards. Always swallowing her up, leaving her shoulder bare.

That’s why she had so many scars there, overlapping indiscriminately. It had been like a beacon to others, a vulnerability. Because her clothes never fit right.

(He thinks of homemade sweaters, of crisp afternoon dresses, of pristine petticoats and neat lace. He thinks of rancid dresses and torn hospital gowns and thin, pale limbs unguarded.)

—

It’s been awhile since he saw her bare like this, as she steps towards the tub. (Normally when he does, he doesn’t see her back.)

His fingers have grazed over the narrow plane of her back, but he’s never really just looked at it. At the scars dotting her shoulders and arms, at the long scar that runs from her shoulder blades to her hip raggedly. He wonders how it happened, how old it is.

(Not that old. He knows the small scars under his fingers as well as his own; in comparison, her skin dips into it… how burns on his tongue but he says nothing.)

She turns to him, her head tilted in curiosity some, and she just… stands there. Thin and pale and scarred and completely naked without shame or thought. And that tastes like regret, that she’s been raised up like this, that she doesn’t expect privacy, doesn’t bother with modesty, because she never had a reason to. The Wars take their pound of flesh, and left this girl without the idea that she should-could cover herself. Could turn away, refuse, say no.

Her lack of modesty is something that shames him more than it shames her. It is not enduring, not an ideal. Just another red mark against him.

He turns away and she finally climbs into the bath, a cloud of filth spreading out from her as weeks of dirt and grime and dried blood peel away from her skin. She sits in one end, still watching him as he moves around the little wash room, tugging open cupboard doors and watching the rotten, water-logged door crumple in his hand. Vermin and insects have eaten away at any linens left behind, and water and time finished the job.

They don’t speak as he slips from the room, leaving her in the cold water, waiting for… whatever it is that she’s always waiting for.

—

She sinks into the water when the Major leaves her to wash, and scrubs at her arm with her hand, eyeing the cake of forgotten soap in its dirty little dish. The soap has been left behind and broken down into some mould-riddled pulp that looks almost organic in its curdled decay - it fascinates her, honestly. It’s so innocent, yet so repulsive, a mundane little reminder that nothing last forever. At least, nothing should.

(It’s easy to focus on little things, like rotten soap or the blood dried pink in the Major’s hair, than bigger things. Like her visions. Like the fact that this was never supposed to be their fate. That she hasn’t seen anything in weeks, since they fled. She has no idea what will become of them, truly, and it is ice-cold, hard knowledge that she cannot outrun, that she will not acknowledge.)

Stretching out in the tub, she smiles at the idle thought the she cannot even reach the other end with her toes - unless she submerges herself and stretches right out. Maybe then.

She has to wash her hair, pick out tiny leaves and sticks and crumbs of dirt and matted blood. Will have to wash out her dress, too; it was gingham once. Now it’s just brown. Brown like mud, brown like the bathwater, brown like the dried rivulets of old blood running down her neck. If she ever gets to choose, she thinks she’d like a blue dress. A blue dress with a yellow ribbon around the waist.

(Why can’t she see?)

—

He prowls through the rooms of the house that are still accessible, peeling off things that might be useful - he finds an old wooden comb; a mouldy bedsheet that he rips in half to salvage; and a long-sleeved dress, decades out of style, but perhaps small enough to suit Mary-Alice. It was grey once, and now has water marks and ragged moth holes, but it’s far and away better than what she was wearing.

(He finds himself a cleaner shirt, a little mouldy but certainly wearable. His pants will last until their next hunt - Mary-Alice is a quick study in which human’s clothing will fit him. She might even be convinced into stealing some clothing from a forgotten washing line, so that she finally has something that covers her properly, something that doesn’t leave her vulnerable and exposed.)

Back in the washroom, Mary-Alice looks somewhat cleaner, but not entirely. She straightens up in the bath as he walks back in, curiosity in her eyes at the items that he’s carrying. She always liked getting new clothes back in the South, always inspected each dress she was issued, as if she had to make a choice and didn’t just have to settle for the closest fit, for whatever colour and fabric and style was in the mixed-up pile.

(She always did a little twirl when she tried them on, a little spin as she looked down at her new prize. It was… endearing. Sweet. Hopeful. He didn’t know if she realised that she did it, or that he noticed. He never said anything, but he was always sorry when she came back from a battle with a new tear or stain - she always appreciated her clothes so damn much.)

He nods at her, and she rests her chin on the edge of the tub, her gaze following him as he walked around the room.

The new dress and shirt are folded carefully on top of the bedsheet, so damn obvious in their surroundings like offerings to a pagan god.

(Perhaps prayers for a rebirth, for a revolution and a revelation. New clothes for a new age.

He’s already getting sentimental over a few lengths of moth-eaten fabric.)

When he turns back around, she’s still watching him with that vacant, but half-starved look, grime still streaked on her face.

“Has it helped?” he asks, sitting down by the tub. They are nearly face-to-face this way, neither looking up nor down. Her eyes are darkening, to a deep rose-red. They still have another few days, maybe a week, before they have to hunt again.

“Has what helped?” she asks, confused.

“The bath.” He looks at the stone floor, at the little veins of dirt running through it. “I thought it might help.”

She shifts in the tub, so he can only see the top of her nose and her eyes above the rim, shadows rippling over her face.

“Help?”

He swallows and looks at her. Really looks at her. At the dark circles under her eyes that seem deeper because of the fear. At the way she shrinks back but never breaks her gaze.

(A slim hand gripping his shirt sleeve when the nomads approached them, tucking herself behind him. That had surprised him; he’d never seen Mary-Alice back away from a threat before.)

“I know…” he begins, and he wants to reach out and hold her. But they aren’t there, they don’t casually touch in that way. This was his choice, and he dragged her along for it with little consideration for her, just laser focus on getting them both away.

“I know you didn’t see this coming…” he tries again and he doesn’t finish that sentence before Mary-Alice shudders and folds in on herself, burying her face in her hands.

And crying.

—

He reaches for her, instinctually; her tiny frame shaking as she tries to contain whatever she’s feeling.

(She cries like a little child; little wobbly sobs into her hands with shiny red eyes that will never produce tears but secrete venom down her face, more viscous than the venom from their mouth. It burns white stains on clothing, their faux tears do. Venom from their mouths and limbs eats through most fabrics and papers quickly. But that’s not why he wants to mop up her face and hold her tight.

He wants to because she’s scared and worried and feels like she’s alone. And he never, ever wants anyone else to feel that way, not when he can make a difference.)

The water sloshes in the tub as he climbs in, fully clothed. If the water was cloudy when it was first tipped into the tub, now it’s completely opaque - they would get a better wash, in cleaner water, if they just waded out into the rain-swollen river. She looks up at him with a breath that almost sounds like a gasp, as he sinks into the water, and pulls her into his arms.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs, her thin arms wrapping around his neck, and she pushes her face against the rough, reeking fabric of his shirt and maybe there’s a corner of his mind that is a little embarrassed at the state of him when she’s this close, but she’s naked and looking so very broken that she takes priority, not some half-forgotten lessons on gentlemanly behaviour in the back of his head. It’s not like he’s ever been a particular gentleman to her before.

“I can’t see,” she says, and she shudders with misery and sobs. “I can’t see anything, and I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

Gently rocking her, he ran his hands through her hair, freeing a few small tangles and some debris gently.

“It’s alright,” he says again, because he really is lost at what to say to fix this. To apologise and soothe and heal and repent.

“No. It’s not,” she leans back, and he’s enchanted by her. By her mussed hair, and her big red eyes, and the sheen of venom clinging to the fan of her eyelashes. She really is truly lovely - he thought that the day he found her, with a wide smile and emotions that leapt out at him in their strength and purity. He could have led her anywhere, and she wouldn’t have questioned him. Or rather, she would have, but in excitement and trust. Not in fear or suspicion.

(He aches to go back and make it right. He’s watched her since they left; the blank, cold way she has moved around. Just utterly dull and uncomfortable. Peter had voiced the suspicion that it was him and Charlotte that had been making her so unhappy, that perhaps she hadn’t wanted to leave but had needed to follow the Major’s orders above all else. But even now, weeks after leaving Peter and Charlotte in New York, she was still so miserable, a shadow of all that she had been before - gone was that happy girl he found abandoned in Mississippi; as was the solemn but confident little shadow of the Wars. She was like a marionette with the strings cut away, like an abused animal limping into freedom reluctantly, scared of another set of tests and traumas.

And all of that is his fault.)

“It is. None of us know what’s going to happen next. That’s how it is,” he tries but she scowls.

“We never would have gotten this far if I hadn’t seen,” she murmurs, ducking her head. “I need… it protects all of us.”

It takes him a minute to comprehend what she’s saying - the scope and scale of her gift; of her efforts to protect and guide and manipulate. Of the fact that she was never just looking after herself; that she had stretched and warped herself into the shield that protected him and his.

(‘All of us’ is not just them. It is him, and her, and Peter and Charlotte. And he’s seen the way she and Peter stare at each other, at the way Charlotte inches away from Mary-Alice with varying degrees of subtlety. The only reason for her to have guarded them is because they were his friends. His people. And that is a layer of devotion, of kindness, and of power that he’s not sure how to compute, how to articulate.)

“…You did that for us?” he finally manages, pushing a soggy lock of hair out of her eyes, ignoring the rust-coloured stain it leaves on his fingers. They’ve both been hunting a little more viciously in this part of the country, where easy prey is harder to come by. Bloody hair is hardly their biggest problem.

She blinks and frowns. “Of course. We were meant to…” And she trails off, and for once, he feels something from her. Sadness, disappointment, and grief all tangled up. Something that was lost, then; something that couldn’t be retrieved.

His hand slips to cradle her cheek and he has a million things to say and he doesn’t know what to say first.

(I’m sorry, let me protect you, let me fix this, let me fix you. Let me stay with you, let me touch you, let me make you smile again.)

“How does it work?” he asked. “Your gift?” She’s leaning into his touch and he wonders if she notices. He wonders if it’s just wishful thinking on his part.

“Decisions. The outcomes of choices. Things can change,” she says quietly, “but I’d see that as well.”

(She smells like flowers and salt, even now.)

“Does that mean you haven’t made a choice yet?” he asked, his thumb stroking her cheek.

Mary-Alice shrugged. “I don’t know what choice to make,” she said.

It’s such a simple answer, such an easy problem, and he marvels at it for a moment. The idea that she’s been guided by her visions for so long - a hand pulling her along in the dark - that she can’t bring herself to move forward on an unknown path… it indicates so much power, so much discipline, and such a burden. That, to her, any wrong step on the tight-rope could ruin everything.

“What about a small decision?” he asked, and watched as her hands fell to his shirt, to the few buttons that still clung onto the fabric. “What’s something that you want?”

He can see the thoughts turn over in her head, watches her bite her lip and she looks at him like she can see right through him, see every thought and dream and regret he’s ever had before she breaks her gaze and looks back down at his chest.

“I want…” she begins, and another hint of emotion brushes by him, half gone before he can identify it - embarrassment.

“What do you want?” he asks again, covering her hands with his and she looks at him again with a desperate, starving look.

“I want us to stay together.” Her voice is soft and sad but hopeful. “Please.”

(He wasn’t expecting that.

Not at all.)

“I want that too,” he manages hoarsely.

And she looks at him, her face a portrait of unfiltered surprise. He doesn’t ever want to lose her, to let her go. To let her down. He wants… he wants to find her somewhere safe and peaceful, where her dresses fit properly and she smiles. He’s spent so many years using her as a crutch, as a way to keep himself functioning and alive, with no knowledge that she was already protecting him the very best she could, that he wants to repay her, desperately.

“Okay.” She nods and curls against his shoulder, threading the buttons through each buttonhole of his shirt. Pushing the sides of his shirt aside until he sits up long enough to peel it off and fling it onto the floor, she lies half-sprawled across him, occasionally wiping dirt and blood off him.

(For a moment, he feels her - skin to skin, in the dirty bathwater. They are fragile, her emotions, ephemeral and easily missed. But it is more that he ever felt from her before - little flutters of hope and reassurance, relief and a deep well of devotion; devotion to him.)

They sit there, tangled up in each other, for awhile - until she goes rigid for a few moments and then blinks up at him.

“We’ll be together,” she says, shifting against him, and he wishes they could sleep, just so they could do so curled in each other’s arms. “I can see that.”

He doesn’t know why (or won’t admit it) but he presses his lips to her forehead; despite the amount of times they’ve been together (on his terms, always), this gesture is strangely intimate, oddly binding.

They’ll be together.

That’s a future that will never change.

—

He finally strips off and they sink into the dirty water entangled, sponging off dirt with the use of his shirt, when he insists he found a cleaner one. She drags the comb through his curls so gently; her fingers teasing out each piece of debris, each snarl and knot. He attempts to salvage some of the soap for their hair, but it is a disgusting and futile endeavour.

(And maybe it’s worth it because she almost laughs; the mirth bubbling faintly as they both eye the mess.)

He wants to ask her questions about what she has seen, what was lost, and what comes next. But he doesn’t want to, not yet. There’s something more tangible between them now; soft and almost new, unlike what they’ve had in the past. He already likes this little bubble they’ve found themselves in - the way she wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him like she’s going to be torn away from him. The way she presses her face against his neck, he can feel her inhaling, nuzzling closer. He loves that already, that she wants to get closer, that despite everything, she’s so open about taking her comforts from him.

(He wants to press kisses to her cheeks, and cradle her in his arms properly. He wants to watch her spin in new dresses and memorise every mark and every scar on her skin. He wants this peace, this conviction that they’ve both finally found each other in the right place at the right time - a new certainty that has settled into him out of nowhere - to stay forever.)

Her lips quirk against his skin, and he thinks she might have smiled, and he tightens his arms around her.

(The next kiss he gives her will be one she asks for. He promises himself that.)

#twilight books #alice cullen #jasper hale #twilight fic #jalice #my fic: shadow to light #stl AU #untitled #romance #angst #how many AUs have i written for stl? four at last count #ficmas #ficmas21 #twificmas21

[cannibalschism]

It's the holiday season and Harry finds an unusual invitation to a holiday party unlike any other. A reluctant Draco agrees to attend, but when Harry has quite the reaction to Veela blood wine at the party, things begin to spiral out of control, resulting in a night of debauchery for the two.

#drarry #drarry fic #draco x harry #draco malfoy #harry potter #ficmas2021 #ficmas21 #fic-mas #holiday fic

[12daysficmas]

⭐ Today's Prompt is Star ⭐

Is it up above the sky so high

or twinkling atop a Christmas tree?

Can you connect them to make different shapes and tell stories

or is it just another word for being famous?

Are they small bits of plastic that glow in the dark

or a little sticker that means a job well done?

#ficmas2021 #ficmas21 #12daysficmas #event prep #prompt ideas #Day 03 Star

[witch-city]

home for christmas

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yelena belova x reader

word count: 902

a/n: this was an (unofficial) request from @gigistylestomlinson...also, timeline wise, this occurs after black widow and before infinity war (like 2017). happy holidays everyone and enjoy :)

warnings: a tad bit of angst regarding yelena's family, but otherwise, none :)

requests are open!

malysh - baby

You and Yelena were excited for the holidays this year for a multitude of reasons. First, it was the first Christmas you two would be spending together. Second, you both loved the holidays. And third, you were going to spend Christmas morning with Yelena's family. Yelena wasn't as excited as you were for that third reason though.

Sure, she loved her family so much, but as you knew, there was a long, complicated, and, most of all, painful history between them. You didn't know every little intimate detail of the family's history, especially not of how Alexei betrayed Nat and Yelena when they were little, but you knew enough to understand Yelena's hesitation.

You two got up at the very crack of dawn on Christmas Eve, went to the airport for a flight at noon, and sat on a plane for 17 hours. Travelling actually took longer than that since you spent about 30 minutes in a taxi to the airport, then had a 4-hour layover in Istanbul. That totalled to two and a half hours shy of a full day of travel (21 hours and 30 minutes).

When you pulled up to the little homestead in St. Petersburg, you saw a flash of something on Yelena's face. Maybe it was nervousness or fright or something else. It went away quickly as she saw Melina scolding Alexei outside the pigpen, presumably about something he did (or didn't do) regarding the hogs.

Excitedly, you jumped out of the car, leaving Yelena no other choice but to follow suit. At first, she didn't want to be there, but as soon as her boots hit the ground, she was so happy.

You watched as she ran to her mother and father, practically attacking them with a hug. You noticed the slightest hesitation from her mother, but it slipped away as soon as it had come.

As you watched the three Russians hug happily, you didn't even notice a fourth, a redheaded one who you knew to be Natasha, run out of the house.

After a moment, the family broke away from their hug and small conversation that you couldn't really hear. It was Alexei who noticed you first.

"Who is that?"

"Mama. Papa. This is...well, this is my partner."

You noticed Natasha's little smirk. She had already known since Yelena had called and told her ahead of time so the surprise wouldn't be as big.

"Little one! You're too young to be married," Alexei exclaimed gently grabbing Yelena's face in such a way that her lips and cheeks pushed out.

"Firsht of all," she said, her words slurring together slightly because of how he was holding her face, "I am 28 yearsh old. Schecond, we are not married. And third, get off of me." She swatted the man's hands away from her face aggressively as she said so.

"Yelena, why didn't you tell us," her mother asked, her dark eyes darting between you and her daughter.

"Because," she started before a pause. She honestly didn't really know why she didn't tell her family about you. "I-I don't know."

The family spoke in Russian for a few minutes, leaving you unaware of what they were saying. All good things you hoped, but you couldn't be sure.

Soon after, you and Yelena were ushered into the house by her excited family and sat down before a tree. Taking a closer look, you saw little ornaments that had pictures of Yelena and Natasha when they were younger, around 6 and 11 respectively. You didn't know this, but they were copies of the pictures from that old picture book Melina had saved.

You looked at the steady collection of ornaments that hung on the tree. Many seemed to be older, likely 20 years or so. Quite a few of them had little drawings that appeared to be in crayon with a name, mainly Yelena, written somewhere on it. One was a group of people, a tall dark-haired man, a dark-haired woman, and two young girls–one with blue hair and the other blonde. It took a moment to realize that it was a drawing of their family by a very young Yelena.

You were taken away from the ornaments and brought back to reality when Alexei began to give out the gifts he bought or made everyone. His gifts were followed by Melina's, then Natasha's, and finally Yelena's. You were the only one without gifts. Well, that's what you thought.

Yelena presented you with a squat box. It clearly had some kind of jewelery in it, likely a necklace or bracelet. You opened it carefully, expecting some kind of fragile and expensively jeweled necklace. You could not be more wrong.

Instead, you found a simple beaded bracelet with lettered beads. It looked like a friendship bracelet that little kids would make. Not that you minded, of course. You loved the thought behind it. Looking closer, the white beads said "I LOVE YOU" in blocky black letters and they were surrounded by beads of your favorite colors.

It was such a simple, yet meaningful gift. You put it on and immediately wrapped your arms around Yelena tightly. "I love it so much...thank you."

"Of course, malysh. I'm glad you like it."

And so, your present unwrapping in Yelena's family home ended in a tight, loving hug. If Yelena was asked about it, she would've said that you were the real gift.

#yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x you #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova fluff #black widow family #ficmas21 #mine.

[witch-city]

merry christmas, darling

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yelena belova x reader

word count: 400

a/n: for this i used the song "rockin' around the christmas tree" by brenda lee and "merry christmas, darling" as the prompts...enjoy :)

warnings: none, all fluff!

requests are open!

zaychik - darling

malysh - baby

"You will get a sentimental feeling when you hear voices singing, let's be jolly," you heard a familiar Russian voice sing from your living room. Carrying a box of old ornaments, you stood by the Russian, admiring her handiwork with the lights on your tree.

"Nicely done, Yelena. I didn't know you knew how to trim a tree."

"Of course, I do! I figured it out from undoing and redoing the Rockefeller Center tree."

"I don't think I want to ask."

You placed the box down as you and Yelena kneeled down before it to unpack the ornaments. A lot of them were old ones you had as a child, mostly animals, a Garfield ornament one, some Santa's here and there, and normal bulb ones that weren't very special.

While decorating the tree, Yelena found an ornament that had a picture of you as a baby. "Aw, look at you, zaychik. So small! So cute. I can't tell if you're cuter now or then."

"Well, I'm sure you were cuter than I was. Wait!"

"What?"

"We should make you one of those! And we can put them together on the tree! Then, everyone will get to see little you next to little me."

"Oh, malysh," she began, cupping your cheek in her hand with a warm smile spread across her own cheeks, "so thoughtful. I will have to ask my mother if she has any to spare for our little arts and crafts project. But we better finish the rest of the tree first."

And so, you and Yelena continued dressing the tree together, listening to various Christmas songs...well, you would have been if Yelena would stop playing 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree' on loop. Not that you minded though. You watched with joy as she danced around and sang along to her favorite Christmas song.

Soon enough, you finished. Stepping back to get a better look at the tree, Yelena wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her chin on your shoulder comfortably.

"We do good work, huh, Lena?"

"It's all you, malysh."

"Not true."

"Whatever you say," the blonde said happily, looking at you rather than at the tree. She was so incredibly happy here. It was one of her favorite times of the year, and she was with her absolute favorite person. How couldn't she be happy?

"Merry Christmas, Lena," you whispered happily.

"Merry Christmas, darling."

#yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x you #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova fluff #ficmas21 #mine.

[witch-city]

hi imma need more of that ceo!kate 💳💥💳💥💥💥💳💥💥💥😫❤️ it was soooo good!!!

just wear the damn hat

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ceo!kate bishop x reader

word count: 764 words

a/n: ficmas post #1! yay! anyways, i decided to combine this request with the ficmas prompt "if you hand out the gifts, you have to wear the hat.”

warnings: clint (this is for clint-antis...i personally love clint)

requests are open!

Christmas had always been Kate's favorite holiday. As a kid, she loved waking up early, running downstairs, and seeing mountains of presents piled up under the tree. She didn't even care how many she got. She just loved Christmas.

Even now, at 22 years old, she loved Christmas. There was something about the genuine spirit that everyone assumed. And she still definitely didn't mind getting gifts.

This year, Kate decided to do something a bit different. Besides spending it with you, she wanted to spend it with Clint and his family. While you were by no means opposed, you didn't know the relationship between Kate and Clint. Actually, you seemed to not know a lot about Kate and Clint. Pretty suspicious, but oh well. That's a problem for another day, you thought.

You two arrived at the Barton household early Christmas morning, just as little Nathaniel was dragging his parents downstairs to the lovely tree in the living room. Letting yourselves in while carrying a few big bags in tow, you greeted the family.

"Katie!" Nathaniel shrieked with delight as he ran over to your girlfriend, practically attacking her with a hug. "Hey, little buddy! Merry Christmas," she said in response, messing with the boy's hair.

"What's in the bag, Kate?"

"Yeah, and who's that?"

Kate let out a light laugh and you couldn't help but crack a little smirk. "Well, I can't tell you what's in the bag yet. But this is my girlfriend."

"Woah! Girls can have girlfriends? Does that mean boys can have boyfriends?" God, Nathaniel was the cutest kid.

"Yes, it does. Kinda crazy, huh?"

You loved how Kate interacted with this kid. You had never seen her around little kids, but you wanted more. She was gentle and kind (and somewhat childish), but you couldn't stop yourself from falling in love with her the slightest bit more.

"Alright, Nathaniel," Clint said, ushering his youngest son to sit with his older siblings on a couch before guiding Laura to you and Kate.

"It's so nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Barton."

"Oh please, there's no need for formalities," Laura said. "Yeah, plus, it's Christmas," Clint chimed.

Soon, all of you settled on the couches around the tree and present unwrapping began.

You watched joyfully in Kate's arms as Clint's kids joyfully unwrapped their gifts. Nathaniel was practically bouncing off the walls with his new toys, while Cooper and Lila were much more calm and grateful for their gifts.

Once all of the presents under the tree had been unwrapped, Kate decided that it was time for you and her to pass out your gifts for the Barton family. So, you stood up to gift them out, but little Nathaniel stopped you.

"You have to put on the hat!"

"Huh?"

"If you hand out gifts, you have to wear the hat."

"What hat?"

Nathaniel pointed to a Santa hat on the coffee table. And, oh boy, you did not want to wear that. "Why?"

"You just have to," Nathaniel said quite matter-of-factly.

"I don't really have to, do I?"

"Just wear the damn hat, babe," Kate instructed from the couch.

You sighed, but said fine, pulling the hat on and grabbing the big bags of presents. "Now, Kate and I purchased all of these gifts just for you guys, so you will not be paying us back for any of this. Price doesn't exist anymore."

You settled back down on the couch and watched as everyone pulled out extremely expensive gifts. It was obvious that they were expensive. But Kate being the CEO of her company, decided that she didn't care how much anything costed, she just wanted to make people happy this holiday season. And she did just that.

Once everyone was just relaxing in each other's company, Kate nudged you gently with her elbow. "What?"

"I haven't given you your gift yet."

"Oh? What is it?"

Kate pulled a little box out of her purse and placed it on your lap. At first, you thought she was proposing. But she wasn't...yet. "Kate..."

"No, hold on. It's not a wedding ring, and I'm not proposing. But it is a promise ring. I know it seems childsh, like something teenagers would do when they're in love, and we're not that, but...I love you so much, and I want to promise to you that I will keep loving you until the end of time. Can you do the same?"

She opened the box and inside were two matching rings, adorned with jewels of all sizes.

"Kate..."

"Yeah?"

"Of course."

#kate bishop #kate bishop x reader #kate bishop x you #kate bishop imagine #kate bishop fluff #ceo!kate bishop #mine #request #ficmas21

[witch-city]

it's okay, you're okay

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gamora x reader

word count: 365 words

a/n: ficmas post #2! the prompt for this one is getting injured while ice skating...enjoy!

warnings: minor injury

requests are open!

Full of enjoyers of the winter holidays, your family had always had a sort of bucket list of activities you would go through every year–getting a real tree, going out in the snow, seeing the Nutcracker, making tons of cookies, and your favorite, ice skating at the big rink an hour or so away from where you lived.

Naturally, as you grew older, you continued these traditions loyally as if your life depended on you doing those tasks. It just became a normal part of every winter.

No matter what was happening, whether good or bad, you could always fall back on those traditions to give you such endless joy. So, of course, when Gamora came into your life, you had to share them with her.

You, by no means, were an above-average skater. No way. But you didn't need to hold onto the wall or someone else to keep yourself steady.

As soon as you got onto the rink, you were gliding around with an everlasting smile spread across your cheeks.

Gamora followed you onto the rink soon after. She was much, much less experienced with skating. Well, she had never done it before, but for you, she was willing to give it a try.

It took a few moments, but soon Gamora was actually doing it. You called out to her, hooting and hollering with excitement and pride.

As you were turned opposite the direction you were moving in, you bumped into someone and fell, twisting your ankle in the process. You tried to stand back up but quickly went straight back down to the ice.

Gamora skated over to you as quickly as she could, crouching to see if you were alright. As soon as she saw the tears welling in your eyes, she picked you up to get you out of the rink.

While carrying you out, she whispered sweet nothings to you, hoping to calm you down and possibly soothe the pain.

"It's okay, you're okay," she whispered, her voice soft and gentle. Maybe skating didn't go according to plan this year, but, hey, at least you were with someone whom you loved. That's all that really mattered to you.

#gamora #gamora x reader #gamora x you #gamora imagine #gamora fluff #request #ficmas21 #mine.

[acesymmetricfool]

12 Days of Ficmas-Star

Ao3 link

Star Thunder had her act together just fine, thank you. She was at school on time every morning, her friends were the most popular. She had plans every weekend. She got to go and enjoy herself on the weekends because she did all of her homework in a timely manner and even did extra to boost her grades. Sometimes, she even did a little something to use as bribes. Take-home quizzes, term papers, and art projects were all things she could use to sway favor and get some cash. 

Unfortunately, this was a well known fact and brought Tucker Foley to her on what would have been a peaceful Tuesday morning.

"No way." 

Star slammed her locker, glaring at the boy. "It's not my problem Fenton didn't do his work. He still has all next week to finish and it only takes like four hours." 

"Come on, Star. The only time he got above a C last year was when you did his homework during the beauty pageant."

"That didn't exactly work out for me, did it?" 

"He can't fail. I'll pay you." 

"You're notoriously broke, Foley." though the idea that she was smarter than either of them made her smile. The look must have given the boy courage because he persisted. 

"Yeah but I have stuff. What do you want?" 

Pushy jerk. Her smile turned to a smirk. 

"Dead Teacher collectors set" 

"Done." 

Star blinked at him. She said it sarcastically, the box set featuring all 11 Dead Teacher movies, extended director's cuts, behind the scenes footage, and documentary with that guy who now haunts the remakes was expensive and incredibly rare. They only made a thousand and each one was signed by the director. 

"Why?"

"Because Danny's my best friend. He's going through some stuff and this was the only project he didn't at least start. I'll help him finish the others and combined we'll pull at least a C." 

Star crossed her arms. 

"You didn't do yours either?" she asked irritably. Star was very organized. When people didn't do their work or lost track of time, she had a hard time giving sympathy. Dash in particular was a repeat offender. 

"I did... He's been doing a lot of this stuff by himself." He bites his lip as if he regretted saying even that lame tidbit. She brushed some of her hair behind her ear rustling the flower clip. Her voice was starting to lose the stiffness, the ice. 

"Not stuff you can help with?" 

Foley looked away. 

"Not all of it. But I can help with this." He looked up again and determination caught her off guard. "Danny's my best friend. He does so much for me, this is the least I can do for him." 

Star looked at him oddly. 

Fenton was a flake. Everyone knew that. There weren't too many people who knew him personally and he fluctuated between trying way too hard to fit in and not caring what anyone thought. At least he used to. 

Walking by Fenton Works, it wasn't hard to guess why Danny had been down recently. Well, down more than normal. The guy seemed sad a lot… having parents like that must be rough. 

"Fine." 

"What?" 

"I said fine, dweeb. I'll make him a solid B+ paper but only because it's Christmas and I'm feeling like a gift to the world." 

Foley smiled so wide. She wondered if she had ever seen him so happy. 

"You are! You're a shining star! A true gift-" 

"Don't push it, Foley." 

"Got it. Thanks Star, you really are making a huge difference." the boy ran off and she rolled her eyes. He was so excited. She imagined his face when she turned over the paper and revealed she didn't even want the DVDS. 

Fenton could do well with a little help.

She really was a shining star.

#danny phantom #danny phantom fanfiction #asf wrote a thing #asf writes #Star Thunder #Tucker Foley #They talk homework #Easy going #Ao3 link #ficmas21 #ficmas2021 #12daysficmas

[witch-city]

ficmas 2021!

hello everyone! it's that time of year again, and to celebrate, i will be posting a holiday themed fic/hc/blurb (maybe even multiple sometimes) every 5 days leading up until christmas!

oh, and you guys get to submit concepts for a chance to be in one of these posts! to submit for a post, please look at my rules for requesting and make your request accordingly!

if you're having some trouble coming up with a request, here are some winter themed prompts: 1 2 3

‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎marvel masterlist | navigation post

december 5 - just wear the damn hat; kate bishop x reader

december 10 - it's okay, you're okay; gamora x reader

december 15 - merry christmas, darling; yelena belova x reader

december 20 - your twelve days of christmas; yelena belova x reader

december 25 - home for christmas; yelena belova x reader

#ficmas21 #marvel #marvel fanfiction #reader insert #wanda maximoff x reader #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #gamora x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #yelena belova x reader #melina vostokoff x reader #carol danvers x reader #kate bishop x reader

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas NYD Edition: Hybrid

Happy New Year my lovelies. I come bearing the late final addition to FicMas. Note to self, make sure you post before you drink champagne this year.

Today I bring something inexplicably popular? Like almost all my requests mentioned it? No one has really been gangbusters about this particular fic before, so I was surprised and very excited that people are looking forward to it.

Hybrid.

We have Jasper's POV of the post-sex night, and we have some outtakes of the fic proper. Some changes have been made to the original snippets posts, so if something is different/changed in this version, it's because I improved on the original.

Happy New Year, stay safe, drink some water, have a snack <3

He shouldn’t have gone home. He realizes that as soon as he sets foot in the front door. It’s his own fault, really. He took a detour to hunt and regretfully stopped to wash Alice’s scent off himself (she smelt like rainwater and flowers, a taste still lingering on his tongue, even after the two deer he had found) before going near the house.

But he gave himself away. The press of her warm skin against his, her pale skin stretched soft and smooth over her ribs and hips; the swell of her breast underneath his palm…

Edward’s bedroom door slams open, and he winces because it’s obvious that his train of thought has been heard, and that the door is now most likely embedded in the wall from the sound it made against the plastic

“What the hell were you thinking?” Edward yelled, as he flew down the stairs. “Do you have no sense at all?”

‘Stay out of my head, Edward.’ The warning is mild but razor-edged. That memory of Alice is his, and his alone; that it’s outrageously disrespectful for his brother to acknowledge what he has seen out-loud when it not only invades his privacy but Alice’s too.

“And let you make decisions that risk us all?” Edward’s eyes were black from anger as he glared at Jasper.

“What on earth has happened?” Esme appeared in the living room, Carlisle behind her looking concerned.

The way she blushed when she saw him nude, the pink staining her cheeks and down to her bare chest, clad only in a tiny pair of panties. But her gaze, her emotions were appreciative and she smiled shyly as he moved back towards the bed, reaching out to cradle her cheek as he kissed her…

“Jasper took a risk that was so… so ridiculous and so dangerous and stupid and unnecessary!” Edward was yelling and pacing, running his hand through his hair in agitation.

“Get out of my head,” Jasper snapped, intensely aware of how much of Alice he had revealed - her body, her scars, all the little pieces that she had entrusted to him; not Edward, and not his family. He wanted to be back at the Brandon house, with his beautiful, sharp, funny girl in his arms - the idea of being in her bed as she slept was so tempting, and such a simple one… She’d been getting better at sleeping with him in the room - her terrors had faded to something manageable when he stayed in her room - but he was still cautious, still preferred to let her sleep peacefully alone.

“You are the one who practically shouted what you’d been doing with her all night the second you got within range of the house,” Edward hissed, and Jasper hissed at him.

“Wait, what?” Emmett emerged from the media room still clutching an xBox controller.

“As if I don’t know exactly what you feel every time Bella is in your line of sight,” Jasper snapped back.

“At least I have some semblance of restraint.” That double-edged insult landed harshly; the scar that Jasper had left on Alice’s throat had healed neatly but it had scarred - a constant reminder of his own weakness.

“No way…?” Emmett was looking between Edward and Jasper.

���No way what?” Rosalie sounded bored, where she was leaning against the door to the garage, having appeared suddenly. “Why is Edward yelling?”

“Hell yeah, bro, high five for sealing the deal!” Emmett was laughing delightedly now, and Jasper grudgingly high-five him.

“Charming,” Rose said sourly. “We’ll never get rid of her now,” she muttered. “Another human pet, that’s just fantastic.”

“Oh my,” Esme bit her lip and was clearly trying not to giggle, looking at Carlisle, who was at a loss at how to deal with the situation before him before glimpsing Edward’s murderous expression. “Edward, you need to calm down.”

“This wasn’t just dangerous, this was pure stupidity! Do you have no self-control?” Edward hissed, his pacing getting faster and faster, until he was past a human speed.

“She still alive?” Emmett asked.

“Yes,” Jasper said, annoyed.

“She have a good time?”

“Emmett!” Esme was visibly laughing now.

“Alice is fine,” Jasper said between gritted teeth.

“So what’s the problem, Eddie?” Emmett shrugged. “Our brother gets some tension relief with a pretty girl, didn’t suck her dry, and the pretty girl has enough vampire in her that she survived to see another day?”

Edward’s fist shot out and cracked against Emmett’s shoulder.

“You could have killed her, and how would we have explained that?” Edward was so angry it felt like something was grating against his skin.

“I do think that this… step in your relationship with Alice was a sensitive one, Jasper,” Carlisle began awkwardly. “And that it would have been one that took some inner consideration… and there was significant risk to consider but I’m sure that you and Alice considered these things. I’m glad that it worked out, and I think that this is a private milestone between you and Alice.”

“Thank god someone does,” Jasper muttered, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Edward,” Carlisle continued, clearly uncomfortable with the situation he had found himself mediating, “Whilst I understand that you cannot help overhearing thoughts, you do have an ethical and moral obligation towards maintaining the privacy of the mind of others. I understand that you had reasonable concerns about the welfare of your brother and of Alice, but your concerns should have been brought to Jasper privately.”

Edward scowled, without making eye-contact with Carlisle.

“Please,” Rosalie scoffed, “Edward isn’t worried about Alice’s safety or Jasper having an impromptu snack.” She straightened, her irritation about the entire scenario pricking at him. “He’s jealous.”

A growl rumbled through Edward.

“Jealous? Of Jasper and Alice?” Carlisle frowned and Rosalie rolled her eyes.

“He’s jealous that he knows he can’t have sex with Bella because his control isn’t good enough, and Bella’s a normal human. He’s also jealous that his conscience won’t let him. He’s going to want to marry Bella before he even thinks about her naked.”

The rage coming off Edward was thick and heavy now.

“What? Alice’s existence destroyed any argument you had about her choice to have children or that humans and vampires can’t sleep together,” Rosalie said. “You’ve got nothing, Edward. You’re jealous.”

“She’s right,” Emmett shrugged.

“And if Jasper, the weakest of the family can sleep with his girlfriend, Edward’s got to admit that his martyr act is just that - an act.” Rosalie spun on her heel. “Oh, Jasper?”

“Yes, Rosalie?” Jasper sounded tired.

“I still think she’s a brat and I don’t like her.”

“Understood.”

Carlisle sighed as Rosalie disappeared back into the garage, with Emmett trailing after her. Edward was still looking murderous but remained behind. “I don’t know what to say,” he said frankly, looking over at Esme hopefully.

“We wouldn’t be having this conversation if Edward hadn’t lost his temper,” Jasper said, inching towards the stairs. “So, I’d prefer if we could pretend that…”

“Agreed,” Carlisle said with relief. Jasper turned to flee into his room before Esme called out.

“Jasper,” Esme said sweetly.

“Yes, Esme?” He looked down on her from the top of the stairs.

“Remember to use a condom.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Laughter - Emmett’s - echoed through the house at that and Jasper suddenly wondered why he’d had the bright idea to leave Alice’s place at all.

-------

Alice's POV

That first week of high school dragged on endlessly, frankly. It was hard to settle in at this school - I missed Chicago, missed the huge public school I’d come from where I was just another face in a sea of kids. No one really paid attention to whether I was doing my schoolwork or paying attention or even in class.

Not at Forks High. Most of my classes were around twenty students, and every single one of them knew my name, knew that I went by Alice; many of them knew my house, knew Simon from the hospital and the clinic, knew of or had even baby-sat Cynthia. It was disconcerting to be surrounded by people who knew my family better than I did, who could tell me that I had to try my own stepfather’s lemon meringue pie because it was so good, who knew that Cynthia had been obsessed with Snow White in elementary school. I had none of those memories, none of those little pieces of knowledge that normal families grow up with.

It was awkward, to say the least. And there were a few students that made it clear they knew my father and Simon, and they did not approve of two men being married, so I was on their hit list. Maybe it was the fact that I had spent my life in cities and this was a small town, but I was stunned silent to be the target of homophobic abuse because of my parents. And that’s what Simon was, really - one of my parents.

It was still a mind-fuck to have one father, let alone two, after years of considering myself an orphan.

Another thing I quickly noticed was how carefully I was being watched; the blond Cullen - Jasper - hovered at the peripheral of my vision all week. He was absolutely watching me, even following me, around school and I was genuinely curious what he thought he would learn about me this way. My school bag was very carefully curated to look innocent - the box cutter I carried was disguised amongst my art class supplies; the aerosol deodorant was understandable; the most incriminating item was the plastic pink lighter I had buried in a pocket. But smoking? Not illegal. I tried not to stand out with my fashion choices just yet - it was always better to wait and watch before trying anything outrageous. I had done everything I could to be ordinary, and yet Jasper Cullen continued to watch me.

It wasn’t until I made it to the cafeteria on Thursday or Friday that Jasper Cullen made a move directly against me; getting in the queue to snag two sodas and a package of chips, I moved quickly to avoid dealing with the disapproval of the lunch ladies who seemed to think they had the obligation to comment on every single lunch selection made every single day, as if the mains were even slightly palatable. I had been planning on bringing my own food to school to avoid the old bats, but I wasn’t sure how to broach that decision with Dad yet - neither he nor Simon had offered an alternative to eating lunch from the cafeteria.

As I span around, one of my sodas tipped and nearly went flying - except for the quick appearance and save by one Jasper Cullen, who righted my drink smoothly.

“Thanks,” I said in a flat tone. I shouldn’t have even bothered with a tray, I could have put my food in my bag and it would have been fine.

“Glad to help,” he said in a low voice, staring at me with an indecipherable look that made me feel warm, his nostrils flaring infinitesimally - enough for me to feel uncomfortable. Vampires were always fantastically creepy about their sense of smell, their focus on scents, and I should have known better than to expect that vampires in high school would have managed to repress that. The idea that he was… mapping me, learning what I smelt like, made me shudder internally.

The thing was, I knew this irritating vampire. I knew exactly how his voice sounded when it said my name; I knew the look in his eyes as he gently cradled my face.

I knew the way he felt against me, skin to skin, his name spilling from my own mouth like a plea.

And it felt… too much. So much. I didn’t want to deal with vampires. I didn’t want to deal with a stalker. I didn’t want him to smell me and follow me and watch me. I couldn’t. Something as simple as a vampire watching me felt like the last straw, the thing that would break me.

Especially when it was the one person I had been seeing and dreaming about for so long. It made my mind race that, after so many years of seeing him as a comfort and prize and a good thing, he could be what ruined everything.

I nodded once, and headed to my corner table. If nothing else, I had my sketchbook on me and my headphones. Headphones - even ones held together with tape and determination - are a universal sign for ‘leave me alone’.

//

Simon decided that to maximise familial bonding was required during my first couple of weeks in Forks, and that manifested in being gently encouraged to do my homework at the kitchen table whilst he prepared dinner.

I had noticed that Simon seemed to flit between his love of cooking and his love of home design; I couldn’t identify half of the contents of the fridge, and most of them were clearly homemade and elaborate. There was almost always something cooking, and it was reassuring - the warmth, the smell, the activity… I found myself gravitating towards the kitchen whenever I ventured out of my room.

Which was why I found myself at the kitchen table with my Algebra book opened in front of me as I tried to focus on schoolwork and not the fact that Jasper had had the audacity to kiss me and then not attend school the next day. It had been the first sunny day I had witnessed in Forks, but surely he could have just pulled his hood up and sucked it up instead of leaving me to stress for a full day. I was too nervous to even consider checking my phone.

I certainly wasn’t expecting Cynthia to burst in through the back door with Dad behind her, and pointing at me going, “Alice.”

“What?” I looked up, disorientated (Jasper had smelt like leather and fresh air and salt pressed up close to me…) before looking down at my work and realising I was holding my pen upside down, and the most recent equation I had attempted slanted down the page.

Oops.

“Is it true,” Cynthia began with all the gravitas of a lawyer in a court room, dropping her backpack in the door and appearing next to me at the table, “that you and one Jasper Hale were spotted making out in Rosalie Hale’s convertible?”

I gaped at her. Those middle schoolers were sneaky, gossipy little shits who were embellishing the story for dramatic value. Who had seen us through the tinted windows of the Land Rover? I really loathed small towns.

Both Dad and Simon were watching me in a way that was supposed to be casual but was actually very invested in my answer. I was still trying to work out what had happened on Tuesday afternoon, I hadn’t even spoken to Jasper… I certainly didn’t want to tell my family anything until I was certain of where I - where we - stood.

“Bold of you to assume Rosalie Hale wouldn’t hit me with her convertible if I looked at it wrong,” I managed. “You and your friends need to take up creative writing.”

Cynthia deflated. “It didn’t happen?” she asked, looking disappointed. I saw my father visibly relax out of the corner of my eye. “Jenna swore…”

“Me making out with Jasper in the back of Rosalie’s car? She loves that car more than anything on this planet, there’s no way anyone would get within a foot of it,” I said, turning back to my homework and hoped that the truth wasn’t written all over my face.

“UGH.” Cynthia huffed, taking her proffered backpack. “This was the most exciting thing to happen since Bella Swan and Edward Cullen!” she called back as she stomped up the stairs.

“Then you need to get a new hobby!” I called back, closing my schoolbooks and gathering them up. Maybe I could brave my phone and see if I had any messages. I wasn’t entirely sure what would be worse - if Jasper had left me some kind of text or voicemail, or if he hadn’t. I wasn’t sure the next time we saw each other could be in the high school parking lot.

Dad and Simon were quietly conversing behind the kitchen counter, as I snagged an apple from the fruit bowl as I walked out. “Are you not at all terrified by the stuff she hears at school? Because they cannot be doing much studying with all the gossip.” Biting into my apple, I headed towards the stairs, pausing only when I heard Simon laugh.

“She’s good, alright,” he said.

“Who? Alice?” Dad sounded confused.

“Your eldest daughter just shut down all possibility that she was ever in Rosalie Hale’s very expensive car,” Simon continued.

“Yes?”

“I did not hear a single word denying that she and Jasper weren’t … involved.”

Shit.

“Oh. Oh.”

Wincing, I headed straight to my room, to where my phone was plugged in on the nightstand.

With three unread messages waiting for me.

All of them from Jasper.

Double shit.

Taking a deep breath, praying for some kind of miracle, I opened them.

#twilight books #twilight renaissance #twilight fic #alice cullen #jasper hale #my fic: hybrid #my writing #my fic #ficmas #ficmas21 #twificmas21 #twificmas #alice's pov #she continues to be A Teenage Girl #cynthia continues to be chaotic neutral #simon continues to be family mvp #and alice's father is just trying to keep up

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 11: AU Shadow to Light

Tonight's offering is an AU to STL that I've been playing with - if Mary-Alice had fled the army when she was assaulted, rather than stayed. This will absolutely be a one-shot piece, just an exploration of exactly how close Mary-Alice was that day to a very different future.

I hope everyone is staying safe these holidays - it looks like my sister won't be home for Christmas because she's come in contact with COVID which is really scary. Be smart, get vaccinated, and wear a mask <3

tw: rape/assault mentioned, not graphically.

There’s a girl in the tree outside the kitchen window.

Esme notices her early in the day, when the dew is still sitting on the lawn. She’s small and pale and ragged, and she’s half-lying over a branch, her chin on her hands as she watches the Cullen house. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. Just watches.

It might be one of Carlisle’s friends, but the boys have all gone hunting and she cannot ask. They won’t be back for four days - another bonding trip; Jasper has been doing so well with the family, but they are all careful to reinforce the familial bond, to remind them all of the affection, respect, and enjoyment they get from being apart of a family. It sounds mercenary, calculated, but it works for them. The same way she and Rosalie prize their time together.

Esme thinks about calling Rose but she doesn’t. Instead, she goes outside, smiling as she walks towards the little mite in the tree. She’s not a newborn - her eyes are black, and she’s so still. Her eyes meet Esme’s, and the woman thinks of animals. Animals dying slowly, in pain, hoping for some kind of divine intervention.

“Hello,” Esme smiles up at her, seven feet in the air. “I’m Esme Cullen.”

There is no response. The girl jerks backwards to flatten herself against the trunk, her limbs pulled tight against herself. And without breaking Esme’s gaze, she ascends higher up into the branches. Putting more distance between herself and Esme.

“I’m not going to hurt you?” Esme offers, suddenly concerned. Perhaps she’s not a friend of Carlisle’s, but some nomadic little waif, seeking out her own kind but too fearful to engage them.

The girl turns her head away to the house, and no matter what Esme says to her, does not say a word.

She stays in the tree.

—

It is only a month or two after their arrival, Maria begins to rebuild the army. She is cautious in her selection of soldiers. The first few are harmless – Reina is the vainest creature on the planet, and Felipe is strong but as dumb as a brick. They are both obedient, respectful, and learn their roles quickly.

It is Derrick she does not like. He looks innocuous, baby-faced, but there’s something foul about him. His sly smirks and calculating gazes do not put anyone else on edge, but she stays away as best she can. The newborns are kept in the cellar, but she is finally granted a reprieve from the ‘barracks’, and shares a tiny room with Ariana in the farmhouse proper.

For a little while, she thinks that is enough to protect her from a nebulous threat she doesn’t entirely comprehend.

He finally corners her in the barn, after training. It happens so quickly, and he is so strong, then he has her pinned, his arm around her throat. She cannot move, and she isn’t stupid – so much as a murmur, and he will take her head clean off.

There is nothing she can do.

The things he whispers in her ear are vile, but she is silent, trying to still her unnecessary breathing.

Fear creates predatory behaviour. The Major taught her that.

But it doesn’t help her now; it doesn’t stop him in his assault, his arm still tight and unrelenting. He goads her, clearly eager for her to provoke him into beheading her.

This is not how she dies.

She is rage wrapped in ice and stone. Instead of crawling into a corner of her mind, she tries to drag a vision upon herself so she can figure out what she does next.

But she doesn’t know, so she cannot make that choice, and when he finally releases her, she runs. She runs and runs, until she can see the ocean and there is sand underneath her bare feet. It is there that her rage burns out, and she just feels hollowed out and dirty.

She can still smell that bastard on her. That is easily fixed; the heavy, salt water of the Gulf of Mexico wash away his scent, and leaves her hair gritty and her dress stiff. But the feeling of him pressed up against her, of his arm around her throat, the scent of his hot breath, his mocking words…

She wants to be sick. She wants to vomit up her last meal into the sand. She wants to rip and tear and destroy. She wants to scream and cry, cry real human tears. And she knows if she goes back to the house, goes back and tells Maria what Derrick did to her, she probably wouldn’t care. It’s the flip of a coin whether Maria would raise her eyebrow as if she was whining about the weather, or if she’d destroy Derrick. And even then, it would be more about putting Derrick in his rightful place than what he’d done to her.

If she wanted something done about him, wanted him destroyed, she’d have to do it herself. That’s the truth.

No one has ever protected her for her sake. No one has ever comforted her, ever defended her, ever protected her. In battle, she was the shield that protected the Major and Peter and Maria and Charlotte… She’s always been the one on the frontline, the one that is expendable.

And she’s so very, very tired. She wants…

She wants…

She wants the Major.

She wants the Major who once beheaded a newborn for arguing with her on matters of battle strategy. Who brought her back a dress from a hunt in town one night, because they hadn’t found anything to fit her half-decently in months. She wants the Major, who always made sure there was paper for her to fold, waiting for her on the window ledge.

She wants the Major. He’d tear Derrick apart, slowly and painfully and not just because Mary-Alice was the Major’s property. It would be a lie not to acknowledge it. But because she was distressed. Because she wanted to feel safe. He’d let her light up the body as well, fold her against him and stroke her hair.

Or maybe that was wishful thinking.

Except… it doesn’t have to be.

She’s already wading out to the water before she can wrap her head around what she’s doing. There’s nothing she’s really leaving behind - the Major’s dog-tags are safe around her neck, the only thing in her quarters are a ragged dress, a book she cannot read, and dozens of folded animals and flowers. Nothing worth staying for.

Swimming isn’t something she’s ever done before, but she’s going to try. She’s going to try her goddamn hardest and maybe by the time she’s finished, the only thing she’ll smell on herself is sand and salt and sea.

—

Rosalie is less worried about the girl, and more irritated. “She needs to leave,” Rose says between gritted teeth as she paces in front of the window. “What does she want?”

“I don’t know,” Esme sighs. It’s been a debate since she told Rosalie about her. “She hasn’t tried to hunt, and she looks thirsty. She won’t speak to me… she looks so sad, Rosalie. I just want to help.”

“If she wants help, she has to ask for it,” Rosalie snapped and turned on her heal to march out the back door.

The girl looks at her curiously, but does not leave her perch.

“What do you want?” Rosalie half-yells, and the girl says nothing.

“If you aren’t going to talk to us like a human, you need to leave!” Rosalie insists. “We don’t want you here!”

The girl shrinks into herself, somehow getting smaller, her chin resting on her knees. But she doesn’t budge.

“Rosalie,” Esme sighs but Rosalie already regrets her words, at the way the stranger seemed to shrink away.

//

It’s not an easy escape.

But it was never destined to be.

She is awkward in the water, but fast, keeping as deep as she can because she’s scared she will be caught out by someone. Not just Maria, but Valeria’s people or Emile’s. The fear is like a live-wire in her head, on her skin. It’s all she’s known for days.

The visions hit her lazily. Maria had assumed that Derrick had destroyed her after his assault, and he had been executed without ceremony - he was too dangerous to keep, in a myriad of ways. She was assumed to be dead, but despite two nights of searches, no one had found evidence of a pyre.

That should be a comfort.

Emile is prowling further up the coastline and that is powerfully inconvenient - she wanted to leave the water as close to Alabama as possible. Instead, she’ll go as far as Florida - no matter how good and terrible and vicious Emile is, even if he ever managed to claim Georgia, Florida is a land unto itself.

If Florida ever falls, the South is lost.

Valeria is still hovering around California and that’s good, even if Valeria puts Mary-Alice’s teeth on edge; the woman makes her feel like a trigger about to be pulled. And she hates that. She hates things she can not tease apart and understand - that’s the only reason she got that far in this life, after all.

She swims with panicked urgency, as if she can outrun all the horrors she has left behind. And maybe being so deep in the water, having the grim and blood washed off her, should feel like some kind of baptism. But instead, it feels heavy, it feels dangerous, it feels like something she wants to be rid of immediately.

But the feeling doesn’t ebb when she finally makes it to Florida in the dead of night. She’s shaking for some reason, and her hair and dress feel horrible against her skin and she doesn’t feel better at all. She still feels like a rabbit in the underbrush, trying to dark and scurry to safety.

But her safety is not easy coming. Is anywhere safe?

What will the Major say or do when he sees her?

What if… what if he tells her she’s being silly? A bad soldier. That she was wrong to leave Maria over something so petty. She could have destroyed the newborn herself.

She can’t stop shaking.

It takes another day to get a clear vision of the Major, she’s too jumbled up to focus enough. She’s tucked herself up on the underside of a bridge, her knees tight to her chest as she waits and she finds herself rocking. There is no calm to be found, not in a million different stimulants, in the scent of people and the sounds and the pounding fear in her head. She’s thirsty again but she doesn’t want to hunt. Doesn’t want to leave her ledge. Just wants someone to turn the word right-side-up again.

After hours of waiting, she finally has her vision. He’s in Wisconsin. With the Cullens. In a house with a blue door, surrounded by trees. He’s laughing in the vision, with the Cullen men. He’s clean and he’s more relaxed than she’s ever seen him.

Wisconsin. It’s further than she’s ever run in her whole life, and she’s not entirely sure how to get there, but she’ll figure it out.

She leaves Florida as soon as it gets dark.

—

#twilight renaissance #twilight movies #twilight books #alice cullen #jasper hale #my fic: shadow to light #ficmas21 #twificmas21 #ficmas #my writing #my fic #AU #angst #drama #unrequited love #alice/jasper #twilight fan fiction

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 9: Mermaid AU

Today's offering is a mostly-retired version of a mermaid AU. Retired because it felt a little paint by numbers, and I kind of think a modern mermaid AU might be more dynamic.

As we hit the end of Ficmas, is there anything anyone is *dying* for that I can bump to the top of the list?

Blood stains bloom in the sand as she limps up the beach, dragging the rough cloth around her – the fabric is stiff with salt, and it burns into her cuts, but there is nothing else to protect her modesty. Not here, at least.

The pier hasn’t been used in decades, half-rotten and forgotten on this stretch of beach. A good hiding place.

She remembers when sanctuary meant something more than half-rotten cloth and a dark place to hide.

Little gasps escape her lips - her legs and feet are slashed to ribbons, and the pain radiates hot and agonizing throughout her body. She is exhausted and starving, but she made it. She is safe. For now.

Finally.

The sky and sea are churning, grey and angry, and there is something reassuring about the rage that precedes a storm.

--

“You know, not matter how hard you scowl, it isn’t going to change anything?”

Jasper looked up from where he was staring out to sea – goddamn sea – and looked up to find his cousin smirking at him in, quite frankly, an unladylike way.

Rosalie looked ready for high tea somewhere, not clumping around an old ship – her blonde hair pinned up, delicate jewels hanging from her ears and throat, her dress a soft pink beacon surrounded by muddy blue water, brown wood, and the dark wool of everyone else on board.

“Shouldn’t you be sewing or gossiping below deck?” Jasper asked archly, and Rosalie scowled – the twin of the one on Jasper’s face a mere moment before.

“Utterly hilarious, Jasper,” she sniffs. “It was far too stuffy and unpleasant below deck that I decided to get some fresh air.”

Jasper chuckled. “So, it had nothing to do with the fact that McCarty is working on deck this morning?”

He wasn’t imagining the soft pink tone in his cousin’s cheek as she haughtily looked away. “I have no idea where Emmett is this morning.”

“Oh, it’s Emmett now, is it?” He was enjoying himself. It had been so long since Rosalie had smiled, and joked around.

In truth, the voyage was worth it just to see Rosalie looking like herself again. A little sadder, a little sharper, but still essentially Rose. He would travel on a hundred ships to the corner of the universe, to put Rosalie back together again, so he figured a little teasing wouldn’t hurt too much.

The Hale-Whitlock escape from New York City was currently something of a scandal – mostly because it had been such a quiet season in the city. Within the space of three weeks, people had gone from carelessly debating the appropriateness of the new King residence on Park Avenue (gauche, very ‘new-money’) to whispering behind gloved hands about the Hale-Whitlock family. And whilst the rumours swirled higher and higher, Jasper couldn’t deny there was a great deal of truth to them.

There were lies circulating, too – he hadn’t been completely left out of the will when his parents died; no debtors had chased him from the country, and his two sisters had made good marriages long before he packed up his things and headed to his closest kin. Though it was true that neither of them had opened their houses to him, and he was fairly certain he was persona non grata in Texas at the moment.

It didn’t matter though - Aunt Lillian had welcomed him, delighted at the idea of her dashing nephew joining Rosalie in the social circuit, no matter the scandal that had sent him over the Mason-Dixon Line. Rosalie had taken some time to thaw to his presence in her home, as her chaperone and escort, but they were kindred spirits, as close as brother and sister. And New York had been good for him – something new, a challenge to conquer, a strange riddle to understand. Whitlock Ranch hadn’t exactly prepared him for Manhattan cocktail parties and box seats at the opera.

Of course, some days, he had felt like packing up Rosalie and taking her back to Texas. He had tried to talk to Vernon a few times, but the man had made it clear that he didn’t care a whit what Jasper had to say. After all, Rosalie was the flower of the family, the most beautiful and envied socialite, and Jasper was short of disgraced, the orphaned son of his sister-in-law. What could he possibly know?

If it hadn’t been for Rose, Jasper would have washed his hands of the whole mess and high-tailed it back to Texas the following day, no matter what was waiting for him. There had to be a way to protect Rose without drawing Vernon Hale’s ire.

Royce King was dangerous, moreso than his aunt and cousin could ever comprehend. There had to be a way out.

Before he worked it out, there had been the terrible accident.

And the worse aftermath.

Whatever their misfortunes, Jasper was eternally grateful the hideous emerald ring was gone from Rosalie’s hand. Whatever else fell apart, at least he could protect his cousin and make sure she was taken care of.

--

The letter had come in the spring, crumpled and stained, all the way from England. From an Esme Cullen, a name that had made Rosalie smile. The exceptionally polite missive offered sympathies for the loss of Lillian and Louisa, and their respective husbands. Esme had been school friends with both Lillian and Louisa, and was Rosalie’s godmother – though she hadn’t seen Rose since she was very young, when Esme had left for England to marry a doctor.

I understand how difficult it can be to be left utterly alone in your youth, and whilst you have each other, I would very much like to invite you into our home and our family for as long as you will have us.

The offer was unexpected at best. London. London. How far from Texas could he possibly get? And who was this woman, truly, opening her home to them for as long as they wished?

But Rosalie had still looked utterly haunted and miserable then, and Jasper had wondered aloud at the possibility of a London season, she had perked up some. And it wasn’t like his sisters had invited either of them into their marital homes, or any of Rose’s father’s family had reached out. It was London, or haunting the halls of Rosalie’s empty childhood home – he knew better now than t0 suggest they retreat back to Houston.

“London,” Rose said certainly. “It will be good for us, Jasper. Even if we only stay for a little while. We can see Paris and Berlin, too.”

For the first time in weeks, Rosalie put herself together and began to make plans. Jasper was sure he’d be bankrupt in a week, the amount of telegrams Rosalie sent to Mrs Cullen to plan their journey. Dr Cullen knew of a privately-owned ship leaving Boston for Europe, with a stop in Portugal and Spain, that had spaces for passengers and arranged for them to join it in New York.

And here they were, two days into their journey.

The ship was hardly the luxury liner he pictured Rosalie insisting upon. It was clearly a modest business venture, loaded with cargo. There were roughly a dozen very small rooms, half of which were reserved for the crew. The rooms themselves were basic – a narrow metal closet, a set of bolted-down bunk beds, a sink and a bolted down desk and chair. Most of their luggage was strapped down with the rest of the cargo, though Rosalie had taken the time to unpack her things for the journey and settle in.

The other travellers were an older eccentric named Alistair, who had shut himself into his berth every morning after breakfast, emerging at dinner. He was erratic, haunted and reeked of stale liquor; and an Irish trio – Liam and Siobhan, who were travelling with Siobhan’s cousin, Maggie. Maggie was younger than Rosalie, but both girls got along well, though Siobhan encouraged Maggie to stay close and not roam the ship like Rose.

The crew were a very nice group – the ship was owned and captained by Emmett McCarty and a man simply known as Garrett to all, who used it to run a respectable but modest shipping and transport business. Then there was Randall, Riley and Laurent – the crew – and Mary, the cook.

Jasper had asked about the smallness of the crew, and Garrett had mentioned a few other crew members who were remaining behind in the US for the next few months, as the ship fulfilled its European contracts and would re-join the ship when they returned to New York in the late summer before Emmett and Garrett shut the business down over the winter.

//

It had been an ordinary evening. He and Rosalie were in for the evening – Rosalie was recovering from a cold, and Aunt Lillian had declared the evening’s invitations inappropriate for people of their status. But Uncle Vernon had an invitation for him and Lillian to attend a dinner party at a colleague’s house, and they had gone.

No one knew why the car had burst into flames in such a way, or why Vernon and Lillian hadn’t been able to escape the burning vehicle. But they were dead, leaving Rosalie an orphan in one dreadful night.

The police had turned down Jasper’s offer to identify the body, since there was nothing identifiable about them – just the remains of Uncle Vernon’s cigarette lighter. The sight of which made Rosalie faint.

The funeral had been two days later, with Vernon’s family prominent at the event. Rosalie had looked small and young in her black lace, tucked into Jasper’s side.

And then there had been the will reading.

Rosalie had been left her belongings, some jewellery and modest assets, mostly art and ornaments and a small allowance. The money and property would have only been hers had she been married. Everything else had been left to Vernon’s brother Maxwell.

Maxwell, who had smiled victoriously across the table at them, and given them twenty-four hours to pack and get out of his house. The servants, the house, everything inside the house – it was all Maxwell’s. Rosalie could claim nothing but a modest allowance from the trust.

Jasper had stared at Rose’s pale face, and sneered at Maxwell, and bought the house for Rosalie. In both their names, so that Rosalie might never have her birthright stolen from her. He paid a ridiculous amount, though consoled himself that the artworks in the Hale house were worth more than conniving Maxwell realised.

And then Jasper realised Rose might be a Hale first, but she was also a Whitlock lady, and in his care. There was money from Grandfather Whitlock, for all his grandchildren, and goodly amount. Jasper had invested much of his in his horses and had a good return (he would trust no one but Peter with his horses during his absence). His oldest sister had spent hers on a London season. His other sister had used hers as a dowry.

But Rosalie’s was untouched, and forgotten.

It took little more than a day to pen all his letters, and arrange things. To dissolve Rosalie’s engagement – easy to do when Maxwell Hale’s inheritance was so well reported – and Royce had a new debutante on his arm within the week. To set up Rosalie a trust. To direct all Hale accounts to the office of Maxwell Hale. To sell and trade and secure.

//

The girl blinked owlishly back at him, worry and fear etched into her face.

She was beautiful. A black cloud of hair framed her face, and a rope-like braid was tossed over one shoulder. Enormous golden eyes stared out at him, from alabaster skin. She was huddled beneath a filthy piece of cloth,

//

Rosalie smirked at him as she presented Alice to him.

Her hair had been washed, cut and brushed, a loose tumble of curls over one shoulder. Her cheeks were tinted pink, and her dress was soft blue-grey, that made her eyes even brighter. A choker of pearls wrapped around her throat, and she wore tiny dancing slippers.

“I managed to cobble together a wardrobe for her,” Rosalie said and Alice shyly smiled.

//

Jasper gasped.

Alice perched on the rocks, looking sad. Grey-blue scales were forming on her legs as the water washed over them, slowing pulling them together and covering them in swirling patterns, delicate fins that were almost transparent forming at the ends. Her hair hung wetly against her face, and the dress seemed to have dissolved into sand across her torso, her hair providing a small amount of modesty.

Mermaid.

Thin scars rested on her neck, and as he watched, they deepened and gills. They were actual gills. He wanted to be sick.

She reached out to touch his cheek.

“I am sorry. I never meant for harm to come to anyone when I ran.” In his head, her voice was sweet, like bells, and full of such sorrow. “I know not who perished, but your cousin and her paramour are quite safe. You should be found here within the day.” She looked at the ugly wound on his leg. “I can wait with you until they arrive, if you would like me to.”

“Please. Stay,” he croaked, his mouth dry. She offered a small and adorable smile, sliding off the rocks and into the water, reappearing seconds later at his side, resting on her arms.

Jasper knew that he had a head wound, an angry wound on his leg, had nearly drowned, and various other cuts and bruises, making him somewhat delirious. But the sight of sweet Alice, her black hair shiny with water, her pale skin almost glimmering, and the swell of her breasts above the water was just the sort of image he wanted to carve into his memory forever.

Her story was terrible. An orphan delivered into the care of an uncle who, when the ship went down, prayed to the old gods to take his niece in his place. And they had snapped her up and cursed her, turned her into a mermaid, whilst her uncle had been found and saved, and lived out his life.

The shoal of mermaids she had taken up with traded with a few of the older boats and fishermen – they knew of the mermaids, of the old legends, and were always pleased to see the girls. Most of them were good men, respectful of the girls and of the ancient magic and laws they represented. But there were the younger men who weren’t. Who looked upon the girls with greedy desire, as animals to be captured and imprisoned; they ignored the warnings from the older men, who knew that the ocean would not be pleased at the loss of one of its daughters, especially in such a cruel way.

One of those men was James.

James, from his first glance of Alice, had planned to take her for himself – if not as a lover or child bride, then as a trophy. It had been almost ten years and Alicia had tried to escape James, had left behind everyone she knew to hide from him, but still he came after her.

“He nearly caught me in Barbados,” she told him through their minds, the images flashing in his mind, of tiny Alice with a tall, thin blonde girl sprawled on the beach, watching the scales pale and dull and peel off their bare legs. “Irina and I. Irina was looking for the one she fell in love with, and I was running, so we went together.

“A fishing boat came close, and we thought it might be Marcus. A good man, gives us news and helps us out. His own wife was cursed a long time ago, and he spends his days searching for Didyme,” Alice continued. “In return, we tell him whatever we can; we are fairly certain she was caught in her early days, but Marcus won’t stop. Not until he has drained the sea and named us all. He loves her so much.

“I drew the short straw and swum out to see Marcus. He was kind, warned me James was close. And that he’d found Irina’s sailor – he kept a home in Brighton, she should go to him there.

“We talked too long. He liked our stories, liked to tell us about Didyme, before she was cursed. It was late afternoon by the time I went back to the beach.

“Irina was there, but James was there too. He knew all our tricks, all our magic,” she shuddered. “He’d bound her and raped her and cut her throat. It… it doesn’t kill us like humans. It silences us and it is the most terrible pain, but we do not die. She couldn’t even scream for help… Afterwards, he wet her legs down and cut her scales from her, right to the bone. Cut her braid from her head. That’s what killed her, cutting the scales away. She bled out, slowly.”

She was crying now, white cloudy liquid that spilt down her cheeks and left flecks of salt behind. “And I couldn’t do anything but hide in the caves and wait til he’d gone.”

Jasper wanted to hold her, to sooth her.

“I took her necklace, though, and decided to take it to the sailor and let him know she had been murdered. Perhaps he could stop James in Irina’s name. So, I went to Brighton. It took me a few days to make such a trip - and made me ill, going from warm, to so cold – but I made it. The sailor’s place was remote, an old boatshed you could swim up to through the floor. So I did.

“And he sat there, with James. James plunked down a chunk of Irina and her lovely pink and grey scales and the sailor paid him. And he knew they were Irina’s, knew and still paid the monster for them. He used them in jewellery, in medicine, in magic - they were valuable. The brighter, the better. Our hair is stronger than rope, and he took that too. He never loved Irina at all.

“I followed James when he left, and he had another girl, another mermaid he’d caught. Victoria, he called her. Victory, his first live catch. She had curly red hair and a vicious temper, and he had her chained in iron, so she could never retreat back to the water, and it was slowly poisoning her. She was nothing but a toy for his pleasure. Their babies were born dead, and he’d burn the little corpses. When they ran out of money, he’d wet down her legs and rip her scales out clean. I watched for a long time – he’d had her ten years, since she was cursed, stuck in a shack in the middle of nowhere, but close enough so she could hear the ocean. The iron bracelets around her wrists were melted into the skin.”

She shuddered. “There was nothing I could do. She could never go back into the water again, not with the iron melted into her skin, and she was too weak to run as a human girl. The iron’s poison had left her mostly blind. I couldn’t do anything. I had to leave her there.”

//

The aid ship arrived in the earliest morning hours. Jasper had finally convinced Alice to return with him, and she had finally climbed out of the water, scooping up handfuls of sand and rubbing it over her torso. As her scales dried and fell away, revealing her pale legs, the sand too dried, and began to weft together until she was wearing a very thin, ragged dress.

“That’s a good trick,” Jasper managed as Alice knelt beside him.

“At heart, I am rather modest,” Alice said, peeling off the cloth to examine his leg. “I could use it to wrap your leg properly, but if it becomes wet again, your wound would fill with sand.”

Jasper winced at the prospect of pain. “I’d rather not test that out.”

Alice giggled. “Understood.”

When the aid ship arrived, Rosalie was white with fear for Jasper, and mortified at his wounds. Alice quickly wove a story about Jasper protecting her at his own cost, to explain her own lack of serious injury. Riley and Mary had perished, Randall hadn’t been found, and both Garrett and Maggie were injured, but everyone else was okay.

By the time they arrived in Dover, they were all glad to be done with the journey. The aid ship had taken them to the Spanish port of A Coruña, where Emmett and Garrett’s ship was waiting for repairs. The bodies of Riley and Mary were buried there – neither had significant family. They had stayed in Spain for a week, where Garrett, Maggie, and Jasper were seen by doctors, and new supplies were gathered.

The sight of Dover was one they were all grateful for. Emmett had rented a smaller ship to take their surviving cargo, Alice, Rosalie, Jasper, and Alistair on to England, whilst Garrett was waiting for repairs of their ship, and Maggie healed enough for Siobhan and Liam to continue on their journey.

Rosalie had occupied herself by fashioning Alice a second wardrobe, and teaching the girl to sew, looking a lot more solemn than she had before the storm. By the time they reached Dover, Alice looked like any other young lady travelling.

//

When James finally comes for her, she is unprepared. They are within days of leaving for America again – Jasper has come to an agreement with Esme and Carlisle to build them a house on Cullen land, bring his beloved horses from Texas, and breed and train horses. Alice knows that Emmett has already approached Carlisle and Esme, asking if he and Rosalie could remain in the cottage once they are married, so he might save for a respectable home for her, though he has yet to ask Jasper’s permission or choose a ring.

Packing the cases, Alice hummed as she worked, making sure they had everything. They would arrive in very early spring, and leave in early summer, to avoid the terrible heat. Emmett had agreed to take them, drumming up some extra, early shipments to put towards his future.

“Hello Alice.”

Whirling around with a shriek, Alice stared wide-eyed at the man in the bedroom doorway.

James.

#twilight books #alice cullen #jasper hale #jalice #twilight movies #my fic: mermaid and sailor #my fic #my writing #twificmas21 #ficmas21 #ficmas #AU #tropes #mermaids

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicMas Day 12: Human Alice/Vampire Jess AU

The counterpart to Jess's story is Alice's story because I haven't written anything for the girls' this month that I'm particularly happy with <3

But god, I love a good human/vampire fic <3

TW: Domestic Violence; Homophobia.

Before lunch time, Cynthia had already integrated herself into the popular clique of the sophomore class; I passed her chatting away at a million miles per hour, tossing her hair and genuinely being her very best self - though I was still absolutely furious she’d borrowed my necklace.

The junior class were polite to me, but no one really attached themselves to me like Cynthia. That was probably my fault, truly - I should have played it safe and worn jeans and a sweater and smiled nicely and then gone full Alice-Brandon on them. But Anne-Marie had irritated me this morning, and this skirt always made me smile.

I had made it myself in sophomore year - three-tiers of black mesh with a wired hem, making it stiff and stand out from my body. For modesty, I’d worn a black pencil skirt and tights underneath it, and then combined it with a vintage puffed-sleeve sweater in grey that was fitted at the waist and gave me the illusion of having a decent bust-line. I’d added sequins to the shoulders and neckline, and added black arm-warmers so that I didn’t freeze to death. And my boots - rubber ankle-high ones, with a block heel and square toe - was the crown jewel in the outfit; definitely one to post to my social media, but stood out like a beacon in Forks High.

I slipped into the cafeteria to snag something to eat, and took a seat at the end of one table, content to sketch out new ideas whilst I ate - before we’d left Biloxi, I’d scavenged two ancient prom dresses, a hideous but high quality red wool coat, and a pair of black satin bell-bottoms that I already had big plans to recut. I’d spied a thrift store on our drive through Forks the previous day that looked like it had potential but I was saving that for Saturday morning - even the worst thrift shops were bountiful sources of wool, and there was always eBay.

I looked up from my sketchbook as a chair across from me dragged across the lino.

The next table was now occupied with the most uncanny looking people I had ever seen - they had to all be related. I stared at them blankly for a moment - a redheaded boy, a dark-haired boy, and two of the most striking blonde girls I had ever laid my eyes on. One was astoundingly lovely, as if someone had sculpted her to represent feminine beauty (to a white, Euro-centric standard). It was hard to imagine how she hadn’t been headhunted as a model, even in dismal little Forks. And she was wearing a designer sweater I’d been eyeballing online for the last week, despite its total impracticality for Forks weather, and its outrageous price tag.

And the other girl…

She was beautiful too, just in a different way. Her blonde hair was darker, and twisted into a messy knot at the back of her head, some of it falling into her face. Her eyes were a dark yet odd shade of gold, and she looked totally humourless; I could see an angry scar on the left side of her neck; just a knot of rough, torn skin. She was tall and slender, and somehow made some well-worn jeans, combat boots, and a loose sweatshirt look like it was tailored specifically for her.

And she was glaring at me, with a nearly murderous expression.

I turned back to my sketchbook, trying to resist the urge to redraw my models to match these girls - or at least, the angry one. Whilst the former girl looked untouchable and cold, the latter looked like she was crackling with life, that she was restraining herself somehow. And I liked that, when people’s energy and zest for life was barely contained in them. It was important to have that passion, that curiosity, that sheer joie de vivre.

By the time lunch was over, I had carefully shaded in a new top to go with the satin pants - black, with a deep V of intricate jet beading that would take the place of a necklace and puffy chiffon sleeves with velvet cuffs.

I slipped through the hallways quickly, towards my Biology class. I hated Biology with a fiery passion; it was messy and boring and your grade depended entirely on whether your lab partner would do the work and participate. There was no room for creativity in Biology, and if I had been able to take any other class, I would have.

“The older Miss Brandon, I presume,” the Biology teacher seemed to be a nice man, who smiled at me as I walked in, and handed me a textbook. “I had the pleasure of meeting your younger sister this morning. If you could take a seat next to Miss Hale, we can get started.”

I look up and immediately spotted the only unoccupied seat in the room - next to the girl from the cafeteria. She looked distastefully at me as I moved across the room. Hopping up on the stool, I turned and smiled brightly at her.

“I’m Alice Brandon,” I said.

“Jessamine Hale,” she grunted, turning to look out the window - clearly dismissing me.

—

I pretended not to notice Jessamine playing with the fringe of my skirt.

“Mom was half Korean, and Dad basically married her as part of a business deal,” I said, “My great-grandfather was managing director of a very profitable drink and snack distribution company in Korea and Taiwan, and my father’s company was in trouble. Mom was never informed that she was part of the deal, and thought they were in love. She shouldn’t have been surprised - my grandmother was married off to an American businessman for the same purpose.”

Jessamine frowned. “She found out?”

“After roughly fifteen years of marriage, she found out that Dad was having an affair with Anne-Marie,” I made a face at the mention of my stepmother. “She was… completely broken. She miscarried my little brother. But they stayed married for another couple of years - she was miserable.”

“Where is she now?” Jessamine looked at me, and I was struck by the gold of her eyes.

“Dead,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Dad told her that he didn’t need her any more, that Brandon Imports was independently profitable, and he wanted Anne-Marie. He moved out and she killed herself.”

Jessamine moved closer, her fingers lacing through mine. “I’m sorry,” her voice was soft and calming.

“Thanks,” I said, looking at my feet and letting my hair fall across my face as I composed myself. “It was… almost two years ago.”

“That’s not that long,” she replied.

“No. Feels like an age, living with Dad and Anne-Marie,” I sighed. “If I’d had anywhere else to go…”

“You wouldn’t be here then,” Jessamine said softly. She hadn’t pulled her hand away yet.

“No.” I looked up at her and was once again struck by how pretty she was.

—

I laughed at her, leaning back against the brick wall, and all of a sudden, Jessamine’s lips were against mine.

The girl kissed like she was going to war. Her hand slipped around to cradle my cheek, pulling me closer, her kiss hard and desperate. I gasped in surprise, and was struck still for a moment before I kissed her back, leaning into it.

It was then I heard the wolf-whistling and I pulled back out of embarrassment that we clearly had an audience.

“So hot,” said some guy I recognised from gym, and I spied more than one cellphone and a lot of whispering.

“Fuck off,” Jessamine snapped at the onlookers, and I shrunk back against her when I noticed Cynthia standing with her friends, and Cece didn’t look happy.

I looked back at her, and Jessamine looked furious, but her hand was still on my thigh. “I should probably go,” I stammered. “The bus…”

Jessamine looked at me carefully and then nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I nodded, scooped up my bag and moved across the carpark.

—

Cece stood in my doorway; her hair was down and she was already in her pyjamas.

“So, when are you going to tell them?” she asked, looking around. I missed the days Cece and I were close. Before Anne-Marie managed to wedge herself between us.

“Tell them what?” I asked absently, knotting the thread and stepping away from the dress. I’d made it out of a tweed mini dress with a badly-torn back, and a black dress coat. I couldn’t decide what to do with the sleeves.

“That you… you know,” Cece looked uncomfortable, “Like girls?”

I looked over my shoulder. “I don’t like girls,” I said shortly.

“Really?” Cece gave me a look.

“I like Jessamine,” I said, looking away from her. “And I have no plans of telling Dad or Anne-Marie anything.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes. “You should tell them, because they’ll find out,” she warned. “Everyone from school is talking about it.”

I hated that.

“Go do your homework,” I said.

I’d dated a little in middle school and up until we’d left Biloxi. Boys, exclusively, because neither of my parents were what you’d consider accepting. Mom had been raised a staunch ‘one man-one woman, no sex before marriage, church on Sunday’ Christian, and Dad was so focused on appearances that it was unspoken in our household.

And I was hardly a shining beacon in this household - if Dad thought I was in love with a girl, my life wasn’t worth shit.

—

My father hits me.

Actually, he punches me with a closed fist and pain explodes up the left side of my face as I tumble back onto the kitchen floor, the world spinning. Before I can catch my breath, my father grabs a fistful of my hair and half drags me before he stops and just kicks me, ranting and yelling.

His side of the family has always had anger issues. I remember my grandfather, a man who prided himself on his genteel manners and chivalry, once smash a decanter of whiskey over my uncle’s head because my grandfather took offence to a joke that my uncle told. I remember so much blood, and silence because no one was brave enough to call out grandfather, and then the ambulance came. And my grandfather got away with it because he was so prominent in society, so well liked. My uncle had recovered but he’d never been the same - so quiet and twitchy about people walking behind him. Grandfather always mused that he’d finally taught his son a lesson that he remembered, as if the entire thing wasn’t a terrible, nightmarish situation.

I can’t make out what my father is saying, as he stomps down hard on my leg and I scream - which just makes my father hurt me worse for making too much noise, blows landing on my face and head.

“Daddy! Stop!” I can hear Cynthia, and I want to ask her if it was worth it. If telling him about Jess and I was worth this.

—

I get myself two blocks away, to Main Street, where the good bus stop is - with the awning. I’m cold and my head is hurting badly; I’m wearing a tank top, some pyjama shorts, an old hoodie, and a pair of socks. No phone, no shoes, no purse.

There was nowhere for me to go. If Dad found me on the porch or in the garage, he’d hurt me worse. Most businesses were closed for the night. I hadn’t made friends at school except for Jessamine.

Jessamine.

I knew, roughly, where the Cullens lived. It was out of town, but I could walk. I had nowhere else to be.

Sighing, I pulled my hood over my hair and started walking along the main road.

—

The Cullens lived about ten miles out of town, off the main road. An easy drive, if you had a car. But as a walk it was a long trip. Especially in socks, after a beating. My knees were skinned and stung, my ankle was tender, and I had worn though my socks after the first hour.

I had started to sing, to keep myself company as I limped along. My head ached; Dad had hit me pretty hard.

—

It was the mailbox that drew me out of my fugue. Black and brass, with ‘1102’ and ‘Cullen’ on the front. I could have cried with relief. Except the driveway was so long, and gravel. I was exhausted and in so pain.

Taking a deep breath, I knocked on the front door, barely able to keep myself standing upright.

The door swung open, and there was a woman there. She looked so gentle, in a lavender sweater and grey pants, her hair swept off her face.

“Is Jessie - Jessamine - here?” I asked in a wobbly voice.

The woman looked at me curiously. “Why don’t you come in, sweetheart?” she offered. “I’m Esme Cullen.”

I nodded, sniffling.

I didn’t realise how cold I was until I stepped inside. The house was warm and light, with art and photographs. I was trying not to cry and shiver and I hurt so much.

“Let me get you a glass of water,” Mrs Cullen said, guiding me into the living room. “Please sit down.”

—

I was floating again.

“Esme?” A man in a green sweater was standing over me; I was slumped on the couch. He was checking my pulse.

“She arrived here looking for Jessamine,” Esme said, looking worried. “I went to get her a glass of water, and when I came back she was unconscious.”

“Let’s get her upstairs,” the man said, scooping me up. “She’ll need some clean, dry clothes.”

I watched as I was swept upstairs to a fancy study, with a corner devoted to medical items, including an old-fashioned wood and leather examination table, which was where I was settled. He quickly removed my hoodie, frowning at the bruises on my neck and shoulder - they were old ones, and barely hurt anymore. He checked over my arms, legs, and torso before he grabbed a first aid kit.

Mrs Cullen returned with some folded clothing and a basin of warm water. And over the next hour, he and Mrs Cullen washed my bloodied, raw feet, and my poor skinned knees. Then there were gels and creams applied - probably antiseptic - and finally, reams of bandages.

“Poor little mite,” Mrs Cullen smoothed my hair back. “She couldn’t have walked from town, could she, Carlisle?”

Carlisle. As in Carlisle Cullen, Dr Cullen. That made sense.

“It’s possible,” he said.

“Why wouldn’t she go to the hospital or to the police?” Mrs Cullen looked distressed.

“She could be scared. She might have been threatened,” Dr Cullen sighed. “And she came here looking for Jessamine?”

“She asked for Jessamine specifically,” Esme said. “She called her ‘Jessie’.”

“So we’re working off the assumption this is the infamous Mary Alice Brandon?” Dr Cullen said with a teasing smile flashing on his face.

“I suspect so,” Mrs Cullen said. “I’ll make up the sofa in my studio for her, so she can get some rest. She will be okay?”

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