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angelstate · 4 months

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Husband!Soap x Wife!Reader.

Husband!Soap is one hell of a lover, he is everything you could ever ask for in a man. He is attentive and caring, he truly appreciates you and loves you in a way that shouldn’t be possible for humans to feel.

He does everything he can to show you just how deeply he feels about you, and it manifests as much in little things as in the big things. For example, your favorite tea is always restocked in the pantry, the washer and dryer are always empty and the clean clothes are neatly folded in your bedroom closet. The bills of the water and electricity services never meet your eye because he pays before you can see the cost of it, he knows you get anxious and worried about that sort of thing.

He is honest about his feelings and you’re always what he has in mind, he likes you and loves you so much to the point he feels like kneeling at your feet and just worships you in every way he can, more than sexually, his love goes beyond that.

you could come up to him one day and tell him that he could never touch again and his feelings wouldn’t falter for one second, he would make do with only being able to admire you like he did for years before he even dared to ask you to be his girlfriend.

Husband!Soap would take the fault for every one of your mistakes, if you break a plate in his parent's house he would say it had been him, if you’re arguing about something he would apologize first, knowing that it wasn’t worth time to yell at each other for something that was a mistake.

He knows you’ll apologize too after you calm down, not wanting to be trapped between high emotions when saying something meaningful to him. you value the control you have over your words and he is a patient man, he would wait a lifetime if it meant to hear you speak so time isn’t wasted with him, every second he experiences your existence is heaven to him.

Husband!Soap hopes for the day the two of you have children, he wants a family with you, wants to build something of himself that is fully constructed in a foundation of love and safety, the one he didn’t necessarily have as a kid.

He wants a big family in the countryside, a view of hills of greenery, tall trees, flowers, and fresh air every morning, to be woken up by the sight of you lying beside him in bed, your pretty face relaxed and messy hair all over your pillow while the sun creeps in from between the curtains, your children sleeping in their bedroom the quietness of the home being something short-lived when they began to wake up, he wants to grow old by your side, raising a beautiful family.

He allows himself to dream about it more than he cares to admit, he knows it won’t happen in a very long time, his job, your career, and other problems stopping the two of you from taking that step but he is a patient man, and he rather takes his time than rush things and risk losing you in the process.

Husband!Soap is a good man, he knows he did everything he could to make your time together merry and happy, to fill it with more good memories than bad ones. and he allows himself to think he did a good job at loving you while he could.

so when he gets shot on the side of his head and the last 7 minutes of brain activity the body is programmed to experience before ultimately dying begin, his mind is plagued with you, meeting you, becoming your friend, asking you to be his girlfriend but most of all, your wedding day.

and it is as if he’s experiencing that day all over again, your voice as you read to him your vows, how sweet of you to write personal ones, full of inside jokes and promises you had made him years ago when you first started dating. He remembers feeling his heart flutter on his chest.

but right now, lying on the cold floor his heart cannot flutter, but the tears falling from his eyes do the job just fine because the memory as beautiful as it is makes him feel extremely sad, he doesn’t want to leave you behind, he wants to live longer, to experience more things by your side.

He wants to have children with you, he wants to see the passing of time affect the two of you, to see the smile lines on your face and know that was his doing, that a lifetime with him granted you marks of happiness in your skin.

He wants more time, God, he wants an eternity with you, he wants as much time as he can get.

He remembers your face when he came home early a few months ago, the excitement filling in the void in your eyes when you first opened the door, he remembers the weight of your body on his arms as you had jumped on him, wrapping your limbs around him and not letting go.

what he would do to see that face again, to hear your squeals of happiness next to his ear and feel the softness of your hair in between his fingers. if he knew that would be the last time he came home to you he would’ve done so much more.

he would’ve fixed the creek of the door, he would’ve washed the dirty clothes on the laundry basket, he would’ve cooked your favorite meal and hugged you just a bit more tightly.

He knows he did his fair share of bad things in the world, but you were nothing short of an angel, you didn’t deserve his death as much as he deserved to die. He knows the fragility of your heart, he knows that you’re a sensitive being that can only be treated gently, and he is afraid death isn’t kind, that grief will swallow you whole before you get a chance to realize that your life shouldn’t end because he did.

Husband!Soap loves you more than you could ever imagine, so when the 7 minutes of brain activity ends, he goes out with the image of your face in his mind, your voice muttering that everything is alright, that you love him as much as he loves you.

you were everything, the sole reason he wished for a brighter future and the reason he died a happy man.

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hotvintagepoll · 2 months

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Propaganda

Eva Dahlbeck (Smiles of a Summer Night, A Lesson in Love, Kastrullresan)— Beautiful, formidable, funny. Ingmar Bergman called her a "battleship of femininity" and cast her in several of his comedies. It's a joy to see her pulling all the strings in Smiles of a Summer Night while her two boyfriends make utter fools of themselves.

Maureen O’Hara (The Parent Trap, The Quiet Man)—They called her the Queen of Technicolor. That right there should help introduce people to the fiery, wonderful, stunning Maureen O’Hara. She was from Ireland, born in 1920, and started in theater at the age of ten. At 15, she was winning drama awards, including one for her performance as Portia in the Merchant of Venice. At 16, she was the youngest pupil to graduate from the Guildhall School of Music. By 18, she transitioned to film, starting off with a bang alongside Charles Laughton in Hitchcock’s Jamaica Inn, and proceeded to work steadily up through the early 1970s. She was in adventures and comedies and romances, spent a lot of time in westerns giving merry hell to John Wayne (and less merry hell to the indomitable John Ford — she held her own even when he was verbally abusive and demeaning to her). She was in The Quiet Man, which was the first American-made film entirely filmed in a foreign country. She helped make American Christmas what it is with Miracle on 34th Street. She played a lineup of headstrong, forthright women second only, perhaps, to Katharine Hepburn. She was married three times, lived for a while with a boyfriend in Mexico, sued for custody of her daughter in the 1950s, AND sued a magazine for libel in the same era. After mostly retiring from acting, she edited a magazine. She eventually sold the magazine to spend more time with her grandson, but even then ran a ladies fashion store. She was an outspoken, brilliant, passionate lady, with amazing red hair, a career to envy, and — well — that face!

This is round 1 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut]

Eva Dahlbeck:

Maureen O'Hara:

I thought she was one of the most beautiful women in the world when I was a kid and I have yet to really change my mind. Always loved her temper and her red hair. Plus she was kind of a MILF in The Parent Trap

Haughty, red hair, hot.

The hair. The accent. The figure. The acting chops. The perfection.

I would have to give up my passport if I didn't submit Maureen O'Hara but also have you seen her? Not only did she look like that (she was called the Queen of Technicolor, though she wasn't a big fan of that sobriquet), she was also very funny and tough as nails. She faced off against Walt Disney in a contract dispute and the legend goes that when someone mentioned her at his deathbed, he sat up and said 'That bitch!'. Her comment on that story is "At least he didn't think of me and say, 'That wimp'." She struggled to get serious roles for a time, saying ""Hollywood would never allow my talent to triumph over my face," so she plays the sexy princess/pirate/harem girl in a LOT of early movies that she referred to as "Tits and Sand" films, she being the tits in question. She also turned down so many leading men and studio bosses (Errol Flynn and Howard Hughes are among her rejects) that there were rumours spread that she was a lesbian. Many egos were battered it seems. I'm including the infamous Lady Godiva scene in the photo propaganda for the sheer Moment of it [link] . It was a bit of a flop critically, but it was one of Clint Eastwood's first film appearances and she said he told her later that he was very glad of the money at the time. She was a very proud Irish woman and when she went for her American citizenship they insisted on referring to her as British (the timeline of Irish independence is a bit wibbly wobbly, we won't get into it here). She refused to accept American citizenship under that condition and argued her way through every level of US immigration she could find, supposedly saying "I'm not responsible for your antiquated records here in Washington", until a judge finally gave up and said "Give her what she wants, just get her out of here". This made her the first ever person seeking US citizenship to be proclaimed Irish on the record! And while we don't embrace the leprechaun imagery quite so enthusiastically today, her dressing her dog up in a little shamrock hat is too cute for you all to miss so I'm including that in the photo propaganda.

*Marge Simpson voice*: I just think she's neat 🤷‍♀️

#maureen o'hara #eva dahlbeck #fuck that old woman #hotvintagepoll #ladies 1

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lesbianrobin · 6 months

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rating stobin halloween costume options that u guys submitted!

doc brown (robin) and marty mcfly (steve): 7/10 using back to the future for them is very fun but it's a bit expected... a bit normie.... also steve would just look like himself i think like it would just look like robin was an old guy and steve didn't wear a costume.

kurt russell (steve) and the thing (robin): 9/10 the thought of robin constructing some horrific sfx costume to be the thing is fucking incredible and i think steve would enjoy being sexy kurt russell. also he would definitely tell people he was kurt russell and if they said you mean rj macready? he'd be like who?

snoopy (steve) and woodstock (robin): 5/10 ok i know i KNOW it's cute in theory but think about it in practice. how would they actually do these costumes. we know they're diy'ing this. i fear this would just be like t-shirts with some marker on them and perhaps scary-looking face paint. maybe it could be cute but idk i don't have faith in them </3

bert and ernie: 10/10 this would be absolutely iconic and i think they would slay. no notes.

cagney and lacey: 6/10 i must admit this one was my idea. i think it's not recognizable enough and they'd be explaining it all night but i just love the thought of them having such a dykey couple costume.

bonnie and clyde: 7/10 once again i fear this might not be super recognizable but it is a fun idea and they'd look so hot.

ripley and the alien: 9/10 i worry about how they're gonna pull off the alien but i like to imagine that steve is wearing the panties + tank top combo and that is worth enough for me to set aside practicality.

the blues brothers: 9/10 they would look so sexy and have so much fun in their little matching suits <3

batman (robin) and robin (steve): 10/10 this would be so fucking cute and i Know they would spend the entire night waiting for somebody to say robin's name so they could both go "yes?" at the same time and then giggle like little children.

hammer and sickle: 7/10 idk how they would do this one but i thought of it weeks ago and haven't stopped laughing at my own idea since.

merry and pippin: 9/10 because when i got the ask suggesting this costume i almost cried bc it is just so precious to imagine HOWEVER if they went to a halloween party barefoot i'd have to kill myself.

shaggy and fred: 8/10 very cute but i feel like they need a scooby...

twins from the parent trap (1961): 9/10 this one is so funny to me like it's such a funny reference to make and it also implies that either they get wigs or they get the same haircut which is just an incredible visual.

princess leia (steve) and han solo (robin): 7/10 ok listen. listen hear me out. i love the gender fuckery we know this BUT i truly believe that steve would refuse to do a star wars costume if he couldn't be han solo. like i just don't think he would do it. however if she could convince him then robin would absolutely eat! it would be so sexy she would be absolutely crushing it with the ladies.

miracle max and valerie: 7/10 ok listen i support this one but it's just not my favorite. like it's funny it's unique it's original but i think steve wants to be sexy on halloween and i also suspect they would have to explain this one a lot.

salt and pepper shakers: 8/10 it's giving blues clues and i love it. very much classic couples costume but the classics are classics for a reason!

wesley (steve) and inigo montoya (robin): 10/10 hot. imagine robin doing the little monologue. steve wearing the mask. them fencing with like toy lightsabers or something. this one fucking rules.

ok that's it thank you for attending my presentation <3 love u all xoxo bye

#em talks #stranger things #steve harrington #robin buckley #genuinely platonic soulmates

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alwaysbethewest · 1 year

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Triple Frontier fic: A Pilot for Christmas

It's @pedrostories Secret Santa day!! My assignment was for @frannyzooey, who requested domesticity, roommates-to-lovers, and fluff or smut 🥰 I had some of the most fun EVER writing this fic, so I hope it will make you smile, too, Kelli. Merry Christmas!! 🎄 Thank you to @mourningbirds1 and @fleetwoodmactshirt, both of whom I—not to be dramatic but—basically can't live without at this point, and at the very least couldn't have written this fic. And she's not a Pedro fan so I can't imagine she wants to be tagged in this, but thank you to my friend Alyssa for kindly helping me with one of the very few pieces of actual research I did for it.

Title: A Pilot for Christmas Pairing: Frankie Morales/f!Reader Rating: Mature Word Count: 4.8k Content/warnings: roommates to lovers, hot single dad Frankie, pining, yearning, lusting, questionable romance novel smut, compromising positions, sexual content, fade to black, food, domesticity. Unbetaed, so please let me know if you spot any typos/errors!

There’s a note for you on the kitchen table, written in Frankie’s even, boxy print: Mac + cheese + trees in fridge if you want some.

Your schedules never align on Wednesdays; your boss’s mandatory mid-week team meetings inevitably keep you late and Frankie is always on his way to Laura’s place by the time you get home. You haven’t met his ex-wife, but you think she must be nice enough since he’s usually in a good mood when he gets home from their weekly family dinners. They’re co-parenting, as he’d explained when you first moved in, and along with providing dinner on Wednesdays he does his part by taking their daughter on the weekends. He’s given you a break in the rent to make up for sharing your apartment with a three-year-old two days a week.

This is technically a sublet, and it’s technically temporary, but you get along well enough with Frankie that sometimes it feels a little like kismet. His old roommate had landed a contract overseas for a year just as you were moving to town, and a mutual friend had connected you. There are four months left on the contract, but you’d heard from the roommate recently that he was expecting the position to be renewed, so most likely you’ll get to stay longer if you want to. Nothing is official yet either way, and you’ve decided to give yourself another month before you start to worry about it.

Having the apartment to yourself once a week is the perfect opportunity to watch your favorite guilty pleasure TV shows without fear of male judgment—not that Frankie gets really rude about it but his silent raised eyebrow speaks volumes—and you happily warm up a bowl of macaroni and cheese and “trees” (broccoli; it turns out toddlers lose interest when you use the B-word) and settle in on the couch.

Living with Frankie has gone better than you’d feared it might. Knowing he was the friend of a friend of a friend had alleviated some of your anxiety about moving in with a stranger, and he’s turned out to be a mostly quiet, respectful roommate. After maintaining clear-cut boundaries for the first couple of weeks, you had both relaxed a little bit and settled into something of a shared routine. He likes to cook but doesn’t enjoy grocery shopping, so you often take his list along with your own to the store—and reap the rewards on nights like this when he keeps you well-fed. You both like to keep a tidy home, and neither of you minds the other person throwing in a few items when you’re doing a load of laundry. You’ve even mostly gotten over the embarrassment of the time Frankie had delicately handed you a pair of thong underwear he’d found trapped in the sleeve of one of his clean shirts. The barely-contained amusement on his face had haunted you for a full week.

When you’ve finished your dinner you pause the TV to go wash your bowl, and while you’re in the kitchen you take a few minutes to put away the dishes Frankie had left drying in the dish rack. It’s an easy symbiosis, you muse, a give-and-take that seems to suit you both. Underneath his note, you write back: Delicious!! Thank you, and sign it with a heart.

Most of the time your editing job allows you to maintain a reasonable work-life balance, but this month you’ve found yourself scrambling to get everything done before the upcoming holiday break. Your co-worker Deandra is off on an unexpected leave, and after taking on a share of her work on top of your own, the projects have started to form an intimidating pile. One Monday, two weeks before Christmas, you compromise your typical boundaries by logging back onto your laptop after dinner to work on a manuscript. Frankie is watching a game with the volume on low and it makes for comfortable background noise while you work from the opposite end of the couch.

Deandra’s specialty is romance, and while you’ve had to get used to covering a new genre, having some variety has been interesting. But a detail in this book is bothering you. You glance at Frankie, whose expression is quietly focused. His team is leading the scoreboard by a healthy margin. You don’t think he’ll mind a brief distraction.

“Hey. I could use your piloting expertise. Can I ask you a weird question?”

Frankie raises an eyebrow and shrugs his assent. “Go ahead.”

“Okay, so—is it logistically possible to have sex in a cockpit?”

You have his attention. He slowly turns his head to give you a long, wide-eyed look. After a moment of silence, he narrows his eyes, contemplating. “What kind of aircraft are we talking?”

“Like a regular… A commercial passenger plane?”

He nods, pursing his mouth and tilting his head up so he can gaze off into space, like he’s visualizing it. He glances at you again.

“Two people?” he checks.

“Two—yes, it’s—” he’s surprised you a little, and you fumble for words. “It’s not a cockpit orgy,” you tell him.

He laughs. “Pilots like to party,” he says opaquely, and now you’re the one narrowing your eyes at him, but he’s ignoring your questioning look. “Okay, is it possible? Theoretically, sure. Especially if the other person is short. Is it comfortable, though?” He pulls a face. “It wouldn’t be my choice. It’s a cramped space. Someone’s gonna end up hitting their head, or accidentally kicking the instrument panel, or…” he trails off, shaking his head in disapproval. “It’s… inadvisable.”

“Got it. Thank you.” You make some notes in the Word document on your screen, still internally recovering from his follow-up question, and Frankie turns his attention back to the TV, where the opposing team is starting to close the lead.

You’re no prude, but the genre you usually work in fades to black more often than not, and this author’s penchant for smutty detail has you feeling slightly in over your head. You’ve made it past the cockpit quickie but four chapters later Frankie’s team is on the cusp of winning their game and your protagonist is finally about to have her tall, dark, and handsome pilot love interest in a real bed.

“This love scene is… really something,” you comment. Frankie looks over in interest.

“Read it to me.”

“It’s dirty,” you warn him.

Frankie smirks. “I think I can handle it.”

You take a breath and start to read aloud from the page: “Isabella’s heart raced in excitement. Roderick was standing so close she felt as though his breath was entering her lungs with every inhalation. He took her hand and pressed her palm to himself, making her feel his turgid cock stirring in his pants—Obviously that needs to go—”

“Which part, the turgid cock?” Frankie asks. “I like it.”

“You like it?” you ask, incredulous.

“What?” he says. “A guy can’t enjoy a turgid cock now?”

“Jesus,” you laugh. Your face is starting to feel warm. “Isabella’s petite hand could barely fit around Roderick’s girthy length and it made her whimper with arousal. Roderick smirked down at her. ‘I can’t wait to be inside you,’ he rasped hungrily. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her flush against his body. ‘Tell me you want it,’ he growled.” You glance at Frankie and see he’s got one arm slung across his chest and the other hand resting at his mouth, thumbnail running distractedly over his lips. He’s staring at the TV without really watching it, and after a moment of silence he finally blinks and meets your eyes again.

“It’s weird you get to read porn for work,” he says dryly, and you bury your face in your hands and laugh.

When the game ends, Frankie switches on an episode of Star Trek that he seems to be half watching while he does something on his phone. On your laptop screen, Roderick has you stymied.

Roderick’s muscular arms tossed Isabella onto the bed like she weighed nothing. “Ohhh,” she moaned. “Give it to me.”

“Give you what, baby?” he rasped. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Give me—” Her pale cheeks blushed prettily. How could she say it out loud? But he was looking at her with such lust in his eyes that she knew he only wanted to make sure she was ready to turn herself over to him, to let him use her any way he liked. The thought of it made her shiver with anticipation. “Give me your cock, Roderick. Make me yours.”

With a growl from deep in his chest, Roderick dragged her hips down the bed so that she was balancing on the edge, where his body loomed over hers. Turning her onto her side, he leaned down to nose under her ear, nipping at the delicate skin of her neck and making her moan. His broad hand clutched her thigh, maneuvering her leg to tuck her knee around his hips, and his other hand he ran tantalizingly down her back until he reached her other thigh. He opened her legs, like an explorer unveiling the treasure he’d been seeking, and he straightened up, lifting her ankle to rest against his shoulder, and grinding his hard member against her core.

You go over the last few lines again, whispering the words under your breath to yourself as you try to picture the position. You feel like you need a diagram.

“I’m lost,” you declare.

Frankie glances up from his phone. “Hm?”

“I don’t understand where these limbs are going,” you tell him. “I don’t know if my brain just isn’t working because it’s 9 PM or if this passage needs rewriting. Or if this sex is too advanced for me.”

He laughs and makes a grabbing motion at your laptop. “Lemme see.”

You hand it over, standing up to stretch while he reads it to himself.

“‘He opened her legs like an explorer unveiling the treasure he’d been seeking,’” Frankie reads out dramatically. “Really?”

“Don’t get caught up in the simile,” you say. “Focus on the legs. Is that position even feasible? For someone who isn’t a contortionist?”

“Maybe in the next chapter they reveal she was raised in the circus,” he suggests, but he squints at the screen again, reading through the text. “I think I get it. It’s like—” He gestures with his arms, posing them to mimic Isabella’s legs. It’s borderline incomprehensible.

Later, you’ll blame the late hour and your overworked brain for what happens next. If you’d been running on all cylinders, you would have thought through the boundary-crossing implications of this and stopped yourself, but as it is you frown down at him and say, “Show me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on,” you urge him, already heading down the hallway to your bedroom. He hesitates, but then follows a few paces behind, and it’s then—the moment he crosses the threshold behind you—that your brain finally catches up to your actions and you begin to realize this was a terrible, terrible idea.

But somehow, coming up with an excuse to turn back feels more mortifying than plowing forward. You sit on the edge of the bed, trying to focus on the matter at hand. Frankie is hanging back, but you give him an expectant look and he takes a step towards you. He clears his throat softly.

“On your side,” he says. It shouldn’t sound like a command—he offers it gently, a reminder of the scene you’re playing out—but something inside you can’t tell the difference and you feel a spot deep in your core go hollow and needy. You turn, obediently, and lay on your right side. He touches the knee of your right leg, urging you to pull it forward.

“This leg around me.”

He steps into the crook of your knee, between your thigh and your calf, and looks down at your other leg, tucked awkwardly between your bodies.

“This is where it gets weird,” he says, and you laugh out loud. The sound dies out when you feel his fingers firmly wrap around your ankle and slowly maneuver your left leg, straight in front of you and then pivoting towards the ceiling. You feel the stretch in your hips, your body turning to follow so you’re halfway between your back and your side. It’s awkward, and he must see your face twist in discomfort, because he stops midway through the movement and rests your foot on his left shoulder. His body is solid and warm against the back of your leg.

“I think in the book it was over here,” he says, tapping his right shoulder. “So maybe she is a contortionist.”

“Or I need to do more Pilates,” you lament. He looks amused.

“Does this position even make sense? Would this work for you?” you ask him, regretting the question as soon as it’s left your mouth. He blinks down at you and his eyes rake down the length of your body to where you’re tangled around him. His hand is still resting over your ankle.

“Your bed is too low,” he says.

It’s—You’d meant the question in a more hypothetical sense. With some other partner, in some other scenario, would this position work? The knowledge that he has taken in the question and assessed the situation—looked at your two bodies in relation to each other, here, in your room, and thought about whether he could fuck you like this—makes you lose your breath.

“Plus—” he continues. He nudges at you to roll you onto your back, carefully lowering your foot from his shoulder so he’s standing between your open legs, nothing between you but empty space and a secret, aching want. He leans in, bracing his hands flat on either side of your body, not touching you but close enough he would only have to lean in. “I like to be able to kiss someone when I make love to them,” he says softly.

He shoots you a smile that could almost be a smirk as he stands up and heads out of the room, leaving you clutching the duvet cover as the world around you tilts on its axis.

It’s not like you’ve never noticed Frankie is attractive. Anybody could see that he is. He’s boyishly cute when he’s playing around with his daughter, their matching, dimpled smiles on display; smoldering when he gets cleaned up to go out on the town with the guys, if a little less runway-ready the morning after; and confusingly, unrecognizably handsome on the occasions he goes clean-shaven. But he’s been so firmly relegated to “platonic male roommate” status since you moved in that you’ve never, even for a second, thought about pursuing anything more. Lusting after your roommate can only end in awkwardness and moving boxes.

So discovering that the man you live with isn’t just good-looking, but has the ability to leave you wet and aching with desire, without even trying, has you looking at everything through a new lens.

On Tuesday, mid-morning, your phone lights up with a text from him. It’s a picture of a small plane cockpit interior, just two seats and a display of navigational instruments.

See how tight she is? he’s written.

You blink at your phone. SHE??

…

She = the plane. Sorry, pilot speak.

Mortifying. You nearly pull up the local apartment rentals page on Craigslist right then and there. You dive into your work instead—not Deandra’s romance, but the grisly thriller in your regular docket. Roderick and Isabella need to give you some space this week. It’s not them, it’s you—and the images of Frankie and you in compromising positions that had popped into your mind when you attempted to pick back up the draft.

He’s like a specter, haunting you.

Wednesday evening is your night with the apartment to yourself, and you’ve never been happier to be alone. He’s left you dinner, again, and you almost don’t eat it on principle—you’ll have to get used to feeding yourself, after all, once he kicks you out for making it too blatantly obvious you want to jump him.

But it would be an actual crime to pass up his enchiladas. You savor the plate. Maybe he’ll give you the recipe as a parting gift, if you ask nicely.

You pour yourself a glass of wine and catch up on one of your shows, and some of the tension you’ve been holding starts to drain from your body. But underneath is a familiar, restless energy buzzing through you, desperate for a different outlet, that you can’t ignore.

You go to bed early. What you need is just a little quality time with yourself, to reconnect and remind your body that you’re perfectly capable of satisfying it on your own—or with the no-strings-attached assistance of a vibrator.

It’s a valiant, miserable attempt. Every tried and true fantasy keeps rerouting back to Frankie. You turn your toy to its highest setting and the sensation still pales in comparison to the thrill of his fingers wrapped securely around your ankle, the line of his body pressed against your legs, and his low, deadly voice telling you how to move.

You go to sleep more frustrated than when you started, only to dream of him. He’s hovering over you, pressing you into the bed, his hot mouth on your neck and sucking on your tits and working his way down to eat you out and bring an orgasm crashing through you—and you wake up at 3 AM with your cunt throbbing between your legs.

One of the things you’ll miss most about this place when you inevitably have to move out due to your incurable roommate attraction is the in-unit washer and dryer. Perhaps in solidarity with your own resolve and self-control, the dryer abruptly breaks in the middle of the week.

“Do you want me to call the landlord, or will you?” you ask Frankie, but he immediately shakes his head.

“Let me take a look at it,” he says.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek.

Two hours and one trip to a hardware store later, he’s on his knees in front of the machine, working quietly save for an occasional soft grunt of exertion when he has to fit something into place.

There’s a bare strip of skin on display where his shirt has ridden up, and a black waistband peeking out from under his jeans. Your mind drifts, imagining away the denim and picturing how the tight boxer briefs would cup his ass and grip his muscular thighs, until your own thighs are clenching and you force yourself to go clean the kitchen instead.

“I’m moving out,” you call over your shoulder as you go.

“I promise I can fix it,” he says, like he thinks you’re just fed up with one broken appliance, not your own internal breakdown.

If only.

It’s 7 AM Friday and you’re fixing your coffee when Frankie ambles into the kitchen, bare-chested and barefoot and wearing nothing more than a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms. If you allowed yourself to look, you would see the soft curve of his modest belly and the sparse line of hair trailing down to disappear enticingly under his waistband. His voice is early morning-deep when he mumbles a good morning. His hand steadies casually on your wrist when he stands next to you to grab a mug from the cupboard just to your left, and you hope he can’t feel your pulse quicken under his touch. When his coffee is ready and he takes his first sip, he lets out a satisfied groan. You want to die.

“You must be doing this on purpose,” you say, dismayed.

He blinks at you over the rim of his coffee cup. “Doing what?”

You gesture helplessly, at his naked chest and effortlessly rumpled bedhead. “Just—being all—”

He glances down at himself, then back at you, raising an eyebrow. “Being all…?”

“Just—sexy, I guess,” you finally admit.

For a moment, he looks surprised. Then an amused smile spreads slowly over his face and he takes a step towards you, clever eyes taking in how your body straightens and your breath picks up.

“I didn’t realize it bothered you,” he says. “Didn’t you say you were going to move out, anyway?”

“I am,” you say. “I can’t stand you anymore.”

He takes another step closer.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I could give you a reason to stay.”

You slump against the counter at your back, helplessly wanting him.

“Please,” you tell him.

He touches you carefully, one hand skimming your hip and the other on your arm. He cocks his head, looking skeptical.

“You really think I’m sexy?” he asks.

You nod miserably. “It’s torture.”

He laughs and you are desperately endeared by the way it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, and the hint of a dimple peeking out under his beard.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, and he leans in, and the touch of his lips to yours makes you feel like you’re floating, like your body might drift up to the sky if not for his sturdy frame anchoring you in place. Like your legs might give out, sending you sliding to the floor, except that he’s pressing close enough now that his body is touching yours, bending you back just enough to easily reach, and his hand has crept up from your arm to wrap around the back of your neck, holding you securely even as he finally pulls his mouth away, leaving you breathless and dazed.

You think you understand the overwrought prose of Deandra’s romances now.

“I can’t stand you either,” he says quietly. “You were torturing me the other night, with all the dirty talk from that book and then making me go to your room. Christ.”

“Sorry,” you say, not really meaning it. You’ve never felt this intoxicated this early in the morning. You’ve never looked into his eyes this close up. They’re a rich, deep brown that you feel halfway hypnotized by.

He glances away and must spot the microwave clock, because he pulls away with a look of regret. “I need to get ready for work.”

“Take a sick day,” you suggest.

He smiles ruefully and shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says. “But what would you do if I did?

You take a deep breath. Your eyes drop to his waist, and you touch your fingertips gingerly to the soft skin on display there. You lift your gaze to meet his own.

“I’d ask you to take me to bed,” you tell him.

He forces himself to leave. You watch his fingers clenching as he turns away, closing around the empty air as though he wishes it was you.

You go to your own room on unsteady legs and finish getting ready for work, thinking of Frankie’s mouth for your entire commute and almost missing your exit as a result. This time, opening Roderick and Isabella’s romance is a whole new kind of torture, and you end up claiming a headache by 3 o’clock to go home early, not caring if your boss can see through the lie.

Getting home early means you have plenty of time to shower and shave and moisturize with intent this time instead of your regular lazy girl morning routine. You’re soft and smooth and clean, in the kitchen making a snack of crackers and cheese to distract your anticipatory nerves, when Frankie comes home.

He gives you a small, familiar smile and sets a grocery bag on the counter between the two of you.

“You pick which comes first,” he says, nodding to the bag. He steals a cracker off your plate while you peer inside.

He’s brought you two pints of Ben & Jerry’s and one box of condoms.

“All the essentials,” you observe, and he grins. You pluck the condoms out of the bag and hand them to him meaningfully. His smile turns a little sly and he leans in and kisses you, too briefly for your liking, before pulling away again.

“I have to take a quick shower,” he says. “Wait for me?”

You let out a sigh, turning to put away the ice cream. “Don’t take too long,” you joke, gesturing to the pints. “I’ve got two other men waiting for me.”

“Ha, ha,” he says, already halfway down the hall.

Out of the shower, he comes to you with damp hair curling softly around his head, dressed simply in a navy t-shirt and dark grey sweatpants, and looking so good you think you might combust. After a moment of flirtation—your room or mine?—you finally find yourself in his bedroom. He leans in to kiss you and he takes his time this time, cupping your face in his large hand, teasing gently at your mouth, sliding his tongue along yours to deepen the kiss. When he pulls away to trace his lips down your jawline, you take a breath to steady yourself—and then squint in confusion. There’s a familiar scent in his hair.

“Is that—did you use my shampoo?”

He goes still for a moment, caught, and then laughs.

“Mine ran out,” he admits, a little sheepishly. He pulls in closer, nosing at your neck. “Yours is nicer, anyway. I always like how it smells on you.”

“We can share,” you say generously. “I’ve never been one of those roommates who labels all their shit.”

“Good,” he murmurs, mouth hot against your collarbone. “‘Cause I also ate your leftovers.”

You make a sound of exasperation and he tackles you to the bed, promising apologetically that he’ll make it up to you. And then proceeds to do so.

Very thoroughly.

You awaken to find a note on the pillow next to you, in Frankie’s familiar printed handwriting: Going to pick up Baby M. See you soon.

You give yourself a minute to luxuriate in his bed, enjoying the calm, satiated feeling in your body, and the warm scent of him in the sheets, and then you straighten up his bedding and scurry back to your own room to get dressed before he arrives home with his daughter. You’re just pulling your shirt over your head when you hear their voices in the living room, and you go out to greet them. He’s juggling a Starbucks tray in one hand along with his keys and her travel bag. She’s munching contentedly on a snack and doing her part by carrying her favorite stuffed seal plushie.

Over her head, he shoots you a warm, intimate smile. You feel a giddy thrill bubble up in your chest and you grin back at him.

“We made a coffee run,” he says, nodding to the drinks. “Someone wanted a cake pop.” The toddler tips her face up to offer a beatific, icing-smudged smile. Frankie sets her bag on the couch and leads the three of you into the kitchen.

“That one is yours,” he tells you, pointing to one of the cups. Then, to her, “You want some real breakfast, mija?”

You look at the label on the drink and your jaw drops in surprise. “How did you know London Fogs are my favorite?”

He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, but you catch a self-satisfied smile on his face as he turns away. “I notice things.”

He keeps a platonic distance while his daughter is in the kitchen but when she leaves to go put her stuffed animal away in her room, he pulls closer, nudging your hand with his. “You alright?” he murmurs.

You rub your thumb across his knuckles. “I’m really, really good.”

“I convince you not to move out?” he asks. You pretend to think about it.

“Almost. I think you could tip the balance if you make me some eggs.”

He clicks his tongue in affirmation. “Got it.”

Later, when the three of you have settled at the breakfast table with piles of fluffy scrambled eggs and buttered toast, his face changes like he’s just remembered something.

“Hey, how did that book end up, with Roderick and what’s-her-name?” he asks you, taking a sip of his coffee. “You never mentioned it after Monday night.”

You haven’t actually made it to the end yet, but you already know the answer.

“They lived happily ever after,” you tell him. “It’s a staple of the genre. The couple always has a happy ending.”

“Huh,” he says. He gives you a small, private smile, and taps his foot against yours, out of sight under the table. “That’s good to hear.”

#pedrostoriesgift22 #pedrostories #my fic #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal #triple frontier #francisco morales

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wordbunch · 10 months

Text

Their love song (Taylor Swift edition) > Lord of the Rings characters

a/n: welcome to my little self-indulgent celebration of 700 followers! 🥳 EVEN IF you're not a fan/don't know the songs, I hope you can still like and support this fic - a lot of time and love went into it! and by all means come talk to me about it or suggest your own songs! love you all so much and thank you for reading my stories and being a WONDERFUL community 💕💕💕

ARAGORN ♡ cowboy like me

His old wandering lifestyle made it pretty hard to be committed to a person in one place, but he made it happen as soon as it was possible, and he would have done anything in the world to give you safety, protection and all the love that you deserve. And he plans on giving it to you forever, no matter the trials and tribulations that might appear on the way.

GIMLI ♡ love story

This dwarf is a proper gentleman, a confirmed charming sweet-talker and most definitely a deeply romantic soul in a very classical way. He is very respectful towards you, and respects some traditions as well, so he wanted to ensure everything was in order before asking you to be his forever.

LEGOLAS ♡ snow on the beach

Isn't he so unusual, kind of ethereal, and positively vibrant? You never met anyone like him, with all his interesting quirks and his abundance of joy and lust for life. It is impossible not to share his fascination with nature, and you cannot help but smile just a little brighter whenever you are around him.

BOROMIR ♡ willow

This is an absolute Boromir song to me - he likes to be outright, take charge, but maybe sometimes he is just a little bit too flattering (don't blame him, he just needs to express his feelings for you approximately 26 hours a day). With him every day feels like an enchanted love story, and you feel safe with him, and both of you take pride in being together. trophy couple

FARAMIR ♡ starlight

This wonderful man is absolutely a dreamer and an imaginative person, who likes to share his thoughts and wishes with you, and finds it absolutely delightful if you agree with some of them. Everything he promises to you, he most certainly delivers. Also, he has so much love to give, and would be a very big fan of the idea of starting a family with you and just being the best supportive parents ever.

ÉOMER ♡ enchanted

Horse boy's jaw DROPPED the first time that he saw you and he forgot about everything and everyone else in that moment. He just knew he needed to approach you and get to know you as soon as possible, because he was convinced you were either already happily taken, or you would be very soon, and he couldn't live with himself if he just sat aside and let it happen.

ÉOWYN ♡ dancing with our hands tied

Her thoughts and past struggles sometimes still come back to haunt her, and the fear of being trapped resurfaces, but you're there to reassure her that you'll stay, no matter how hard things get. Even if it's the two of you against the whole world, you wouldn't rather be anyone else but by her side, hand in hand.

SAM ♡ fearless

This is such a lovely sunny song, and it instantly made me think of the best gardener boy!! He might be apprehensive about taking some risks sometimes, but you make him feel brave and strong with just one look, and the fact that you believe in him makes him more confident. On the other hand, he makes you feel like absolute royalty and he loves to spoil you and treat you so right.

FRODO ♡ jump then fall

The sweet little song that this is!!! The two of you are each other's safe place and comforting presence, no matter the rude neighbors' comments, the evils of the world, or the occasional nightmares. It's a relationship that comes from a strong friendship first, and it shows in the way that you just silently understand each other and aren't afraid to just be yourselves.

MERRY ♡ glitch

Absolutely nothing romantic was ever supposed to happen between the two of you - you just liked to get up to no good together, sometimes! But somewhere amid setting off fireworks, pulling a couple of pranks on your mutual friends and getting a little tipsy in the Green Dragon on the weekends... something just clicked, and there's no going back.

PIPPIN ♡ our song

It's a cute and a bit chaotic song, so it's perfect! He might be a little childish still (and fairly young, gotta give him that), but that doesn't make your relationship any less valid. It's full of cute little moments and small acts of love that are greatly appreciated by both of you. He loves to surprise you with small gifts and surprise visits, and absolutely makes up silly little songs to make you smile.

ARWEN ♡ delicate

She was always so kind and sweet that it was hard for you to be certain what kind of feelings she harbored for you, but you were falling in love the more time you spent together. Although she liked you back romantically the whole time, you were the first one to mention something about it, though apprehensive, and she was delighted to find out about, and return your love.

✨ taglist my beloved ✨ @starlady66 @queenmeriadoc @entishramblings @thesolarangel @silversword7000 @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @averys-place @valkyriepirate @emmaarenstarr @noldorinpainter @asianbutnotjapanese @adamgetawaydriver @fenharel-enaste @ironmandeficiency @starryeyedrogue @dinofromspac3 @wisheduponastar @lady-of-imladris @frodo-cinnamonroll @unethicallypleistocene @deadlymistletoe @suncran @high-sea-husbands @asianbutnoteastasian @aidansloth @sweetpea-thoughts

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crushedsweets · 4 months

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Bing bong, I got a question.

What is Dina like in your AU?

Also, Merry Christmas!

-Bing Bong Anon

MERRY CHRISTMAS IM SO LATEE!!!

i realized i have no good footing for what i want dina to do in my AU. and so i kept putting this off. but i decided if i just talk, something will get out. so i got this.. THIS COVERS MY REWRITE OF DINA AND LAZARI!! <33

tw for cult topics, suicide mention, death, etc etc

i know i want lazari and dina's stories to intertwine.

i want them to be born into the same cult

dina is born to the leader. her birth is ceremonial and important, immediately she is treated like the second coming of christ. as she gets older, they begin to view her like a prophet of some sort - she's often referred to as a guardian angel just by existing, like her being keeps the cult intact and safe. blessings are attributed to her presence, loss is attributed to her absence.

as a result, she was kept under constant surveillance and incredibly isolated. she wasn't allowed friends, aside from some half-siblings who were still treated as below her. constantly being praised and treated like you are some sort of celestial being . . . really messes with someone.

in turn, lazari is in the same cult, but her mother was infertile, which the cult sees as a complete failure of a woman. so her mom sought out new forms of conception, and a demonic ritual involving zalgo took place. zalgo is lazari's "father", but she is raised by her mothers husband.

for opposite reasons, lazari is kept under constant surveillance and incredibly isolated. her mother is constantly doing rituals on her, trying to 'beat the demon' out of her daughter, as she regretted her actions the second lazari was born. she felt no love for her child. around age 7, lazaris mother does kill herself in front of her daughter. demonic tendencies begin breaking out for lazari

when dina is about 13-15, she begins sneaking out more often. it's just things like sitting on fields and talking to some random boys in the cult, something she'd NEVER be allowed by her parents.

one day, when she's out doing things she shouldnt do, she bumps into lazari. lazari is completely out of it, red eyes and black bloody oozing out of her mouth, all her veins are pure black and it looks fucking scary. and she bites dina. the next day, lazari looks normal.

dina doesnt tell anyone. she wasnt supposed to be out, she'd be in more trouble than it was worth to snitch on lazari. but shes scared, and she begins noticing changes in her own biology

her own veins darken, at night she wakes up black liquid fogging up her vision (crying a bit will get it all out), she is constantly ill, convulsing, etc. her own parents begin getting scared, and the rest of the cult begins whispering

and dina is fucking pissed. shes been given the entire world on a silver platter her entire life(aside from freedom), and lazari took it away in one bite.

after a couple months of dina's health and image deteriorating, dina is overcome with anger. she stumbles her way to lazari's little home, convincing her to go on a walk. lazari is suspicious but was raised to never deny authority, so they do.

dina guides lazari to the forest, deciding it her divine right granted by god to take lazari's life. completely convinced she is allowed to cast judgement on this 11 year old girl as punishment.

it doesnt work, very quickly they get physical - this 17 year old is trying to kill this 11 year old, but lazari is literally half demon. the second blood spills and lazaris adrenaline spikes, dina is slaughtered in the middle of the forest.

lazari tries to run away. but she is a product of zalgo, and zalgo is trapped in the forest due to slender pages decorating the perimeter. she'll stand at the edge of the forest, trying to get out, but there's some barrier that wont let her escape

and all the while, dina's corpse is being overtaken by zalgo

now lazari and dina are stuck in the same forest.

#creepypasta #creeped #creepypasta headcannons #lazari #judge angels #dina angela clark

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stevetonyweekly · 3 months

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SteveTony Weekly - Jan 28st - Week 4

Hey, friends and Stevetony lovers! I actually got to read quite a bit this week which was surprising looking back at my list? Anyway. Enjoy it, and be sure to leave a comment/kudos for the author!

~*~

Masked and Anonymous by panickyintheuk

“When Mr. Stark opened the door, he had his shirt untucked, and no shoes on. It was evening, and it was his own apartment, and Steve was dropping by unannounced, so that was all really fair enough, but it was also the least put-together Steve had ever seen him."

Steve drops in on Avengers benefactor Mr. Stark, but it seems that Mr. Stark was expecting him.

This was so cute, Steve was so excited and confused and Tony was just--uggghhh. I loved it.

Found the place to rest my head by nanasekei

There was blood in the corner of Steve’s mouth.

A tiny slice of hurt/comfort with Tony taking care of Steve? Yes please.

Good Luck Charm by BlossomsintheMist

Steve’s been reckless on the battlefield lately, and gets himself hurt. Tony worries over him. Steve pines over Tony. Things go unspoken, but they still manage to be there for each other all the same. Maybe what they've always had is still as strong as it always was, after all.

I love how gentle Tony was with Steve AND how hurt Steve was. So often he’s untouchable, and him explicitly responding to pain was a lot and very lovely.

The Fight by elwenyere

Steve gets himself kidnapped, and Tony is not happy about it.

Always a sucker for the pining idiots in love who only realize it when the other is in danger.

Demon in a Bottle by AvengersNewB

Young alpha Tony Stark picks up his omega, Steve Rogers, from his dad's place, bruised and battered, and he has to do his best to protect his omega from the harms of abusive alcoholic parents.

I don’t read omega Steve often, but this was really well done.

Transcendental Blues by Carsonian

The best place to be after an argument with your partner is in the collapsed ruins of a building. Having said partner as your only company and being mortally wounded is an especial bonus.

For the prompt fill: trapped together while one of them is injured

This ends very bittersweet? So go into it with your eyes open on that aspect. But it was lovely.

Limit by Saber_Wing

Steve straightened and took a few steps forward, working his way toward a pile of twisted metal that looked slightly more lethal than its surrounding compatriots. Someone could really hurt themselves on that. Sweat poured off him in buckets, and he blinked it out of his eyes, shaking his head, as if to shoo a fly away.

Big mistake. Steve’s head swam in a way it hadn’t in years, and his vision blurred before he blinked it away, dazed, light-headed, more than a little stunned. He stumbled over a jagged piece of rock; limbs heavy, movements sluggish.

Oh. Oh, wow, he was dizzy.

Steve overworks himself. Tony is not pleased.

So often we see Steve taking care of Tony when he’s overworked himself and putting limits on his work, and this is so good because it flips that dynamic and Tony’s so sweet and angry and worried.

End Racism in the OTW - Hypotenuse by derryderrydown

Steve breaks up with Tony because he's in love with Iron Man. That's when things start to get complicated.

This was such lovely identity porn, plus the whole Iron Man fucking Steve was. Yeah. THAT never gets old.

If You Never Say Your Name Out Loud To Anyone by theladyingrey42

Sometimes, Steve has panic attacks.

Or at least he used to. Nowadays, he mostly just has conversations with Tony Stark.

These two taking care of each other. I’ve been reading it for years now and I still can’t get enough.

All That Is Merry & Bright by askaniblue

Steve isn't Captain America anymore and he isn't an Avenger, but when he stops by the Tower for some intel he stumbles into the Avengers holiday party. He knows he should leave, but everything keeps pulling him in.

Look. I am such a sucker for Steve as America’s Top Cop and absolutely miserable, while Tony pines and misses him and knows exactly what he needs. That’s pretty niche, I’ll admit, but it’s one of my favorite dynamics and this was PERFECT.

From You I Cannot Hide by SailorChibi

Being a sub isn’t the worst thing in the world. Being a sub who doesn’t like pain, well. That’s just weird. A sub’s sole responsibility in life is to be anything and everything a dom wants, an open canvas for a dom’s brush, malleable and sweet. Obie taught him that, and that fear ultimately tears him and Pepper apart. So Tony hides his dirty secret and doesn’t sub for anyone now. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting.

I’ve read this before and I still love it. Tony is so damaged and Steve’s patience with him is just. Lovely.

in the storm, we stay clear by Thahire

Beside him, Tony’s getting comfortable, too, unknotting his tie with one hand, the other tapping away on his phone. The light from his phone illuminates his profile. Steve forces his gaze way when he realizes he’s been staring at Tony’s mouth for a solid five seconds.

It’s going to be a long wait.

Steve and Tony's car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. It leads to some misunderstandings and then finally some long overdue conversations.

I really love how, finally, trapped together, they communicate.

We All Need Somebody to Lean On by tnystrk3000

Summary: 5 times Tony fell asleep during movie night and the 1 time he didn’t

Takes place a few weeks/months after the Battle of New York, 2012.

This is such classic 2012 team as family and bonding. I love it, love seeing it in this, 2024. Never change, fam.

5 times tony indulges steve's strength kink + 1 time he doesn't mean to by meidui

Steve really appreciates how strong Tony is.

It’s always Tony appreciating Steve’s strength, so this was a very nice role reversal.

Tinsel Rings by NotEvenCloseToStraight

On New Years Eve, an attempt at one-upping Justin Hammer goes awkwardly wrong and Tony suddenly has to come up with a fake fiancee at a moment's notice.

Thankfully Steve Rogers is gorgeous enough and sweet enough to get the job done.

Ahh, Tony getting himself into a mess and find something lasting on accident is perfect.

***Truth or Dare, Do or Die by itsallAvengers

Honestly? He'd brought this whole debacle upon himself. It was Friends With Benefits rule 101: whatever you do, don't get attached. Don't become too familiar. And do not, under any circumstances, fall in love.

Tony Stark had always been a bit shit at following rules, though.

Hanahaki disease in a way I’d never seen it? Two idiots pining? Soft absolutely smitten Steve? Check, check, check. I loved this so fucking much.

The Most Amazing Things (Some Terrible Lie) by copperbadge

Tony's decision not to reveal his identity as Iron Man to the world was shrewd and calculated. Too bad it's about to backfire on him like a Jericho missile.

I am actually a big fan of Tony not revealing he’s Iron Man in the MCU, and this one is so incredibly well done.

#stevetony weekly #steve rogers #tony stark #stevetony #stony #iron man #captain america #stevetony fic #stony fic #fic rec

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drivinmeinsane · 4 months

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Don't Go Breaking My Heart

※Chapter One ※ Holland March x Jackson Healy ※

{ masterlist } ※ { ao3 } ※ { next chapter }

※ Summary: Even during the most wonderful time of the year, Holland March can't help but be clumsy. A stressful hospital trip to set the detective's re-fractured arm leads an unfortunate revelation about his relationship with Jackson Healy.

Part of the Butterfly Effect collection. Can be read as a standalone.

※ Rating: T for mature topics. Concluding chapter will be rated 18+ for mature content.

※ Content/Tags: Fluff and Angst, Established Relationship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Injury, Canon-Typical Alcohol Consumption, Reference to Religion, Typical Idiot Holland March, Insecure Jackson Healy, Holly just wants her dads to get their shit together, Mention of Christmas, Collaboration

※ Word count: 3,673

※ Status: Complete/Multichapter, Chapter 1 of 2.

※ Author's Notes: I'm back with another Healland collab with @danime25. She was a huge contributor to the outline and to the proofreading of this fic! This was originally going to be a bonus fic for our separate 12 Days of Goosemas projects but we (mostly I) needed a break from the seasonality of it all for a couple of days.

Holland had never been particularly fond of Christmas, even before the house fire that had taken his wife. He never would have expected to find himself being a participant in any festivities, and yet here he was, seated on the couch with the trappings of the holiday scattered around him. His daughter is laying on the floor in front of the television set flipping through the latest Nancy Drew book. His partner is tucked under his arm. They are all wearing appallingly merry sweaters. Holly had insisted, and neither he or Jack could deny her something so simple.

The appearance of Jackson Healy had really turned the March household on its head. Holland had been quite content to drink himself into an early grave, but then the other man had, quite literally, knocked some sense into him. Now, he is finding himself doing things like “paying the bills”, “being a better parent”, “celebrating holidays”, and “cutting back on his drinking habits”. He takes a long pull of his spiked eggnog. It’s Christmas, he could be allowed the indulgence, besides, he’s not the only one drinking tonight. Healy has his own glass of the stuff.

“This ain’t very festive,” his partner says suddenly as the men on the screen harpoon the shark’s fin.

Holland supposes that Jackson is right. Jaws isn’t the typical Christmas movie. He still decides to push just for the sake of it. “You don’t like seeing some idiots getting eaten by a shark?”

“I’m not sayin’ I don’t like it, March,” Healy argues back, clearly a little drunk. “I’m just sayin’ that it ain’t very festive.”

“So what?” The private investigator asks, rising from the couch, glass empty.

Intent on a refill, he crosses the room to the kitchen. Behind him, Healy drains the rest of his glass before following suit. Holland can hear the other man’s back pop in protest from across the room. Life hasn’t been kind to the bruiser. They meet at the counter. Both men’s glasses are placed side by side on the polished surface.

He takes a swallow of rum directly from the bottle before pouring a healthy measure of it into his cup. He sets it aside to fetch the eggnog from the refrigerator. Holland returns to his drink to find Healy adding a splash of alcohol to his own glass. The nog swirls into the rum easily, he doesn’t bother with stirring. He pours for his partner when the other man tilts his cup at him in a silent request for eggnog.

Feeling the weight of the rum bottle, the PI decides there isn’t enough left for another serving. He is poised to throw the remainder of it back when Healy’s hand on his arm stops him. The other man’s grip is strong.

“Careful,” he grouses.

“I was just going to get us another bottle,” Holland protests. He flashes a winning smile and a wink at the shorter man. Charm was unlikely to work here, but it couldn’t hurt to try.

Uncoordinated, his partner puts his glass back on the counter and puts his now free hand on the collar of his sweater, holds onto it.. “You,” he clears his throat, “you’ve gotta try staying a little sober for tonight. We got, y’know, plans.”

“Relax, I’ll be fine,” Holland says with a half-smile.

Briefly checking over his shoulder to make sure his daughter is still enthralled in her book, he bends down and meets Jack in a brief kiss. The other man tastes good, like spiced rum and eggnog. He pulls back only for his partner to tighten his grip on his sweater and draw him back in for a second kiss. It’s a little messy when the bruiser brushes his tongue over the seam of Holland’s lips, but he lets out a moan that he wishes was quieter at the sensation. The older man is having a hard time keeping it together. His partner has a way of making him feel at least twenty years younger.

In the other room, Holly turns up the volume on the television. The sound of yelling and the clanging of metal in water gets louder. It provides the cover Holland needs to drag a hand from Healy’s chest to his stomach, right above the waistband. He’s drunk enough to slide his hand right under the other man’s Christmas sweater and swirl his fingers through that rich forest of hair that adorns his soft stomach. The bruiser has just the barest trace of sensibility left and redirects Holland’s wandering hand out from under the fabric and to his waist instead. He is not deterred in his capture of his partner’s mouth.

Somebody is moaning. It might be him. It might be Jack. He’s too out of his mind to tell, drunk on spiked eggnog and arousal.

“I love… your sweater,” Holland says in between kisses. It’s not exactly what he meant to say and Healy looks at him like he’s lost his head entirely. It’s a sobering moment, enough of one that he decides he’s going to need a second bottle of rum. The first is nearly empty and the PI is going to need a couple more drinks for courage. “I’ll be right back, let me grab another bottle.”

His partner tenses up initially at his words, but sags back. Jackson lets go of him and gives him a little shove towards the liquor cabinet. “Fine, knock yourself out.”

Briskly, he sets off. He’s so consumed with thoughts of how he’s going to finally tell the other man that he loves him that he doesn’t notice the wrapping paper strewn out on the floor. He goes down hard, slamming his previously broken arm into the wall on the way down. The detective makes a wounded, little noise when he makes contact with the carpet. The air is knocked out of him and his arm is throbbing with such pain that he feels like a strand of blinking lights.

“Jesus, March. I didn’t mean it literally,” comes Jack’s voice from somewhere above him. All he can do is let out a wheezed utterance of the man’s name. There is a rapid discussion between his partner and his daughter. His head is swimming and he suddenly feels sympathy for the men on the boat in the movie still playing in the other room. He was really too harsh in calling them idiots, just look at him.

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbles before trying to sit up only to let out a piercing yelp and fall back to the floor. He can’t string the words together to ask for a trip to the hospital so he settles on making a siren noise with his mouth. It gets the point across.

“Shit,” Healy groans. “March, we’re going to have to get you up. We need to take a trip to the uh… to the hospital. Holly, can you get the keys? I can’t drive like this.”

Holland feels him wedge an arm under his back and wrap the other around his chest. He is bodily hauled to his feet in a smoothly effortless motion. He often forgets just how strong Jack is. The other man murmurs apologies and soothing words when he wails in pain at his arm being jostled.

Stars erupt across his vision as he’s escorted out the front door and into the back of his Benz. He falls flat on his back across the leather seats, dazed from alcohol and pain. It’s a comfort to him when Healy wedges himself into the vehicle after him and carefully guides his head to rest on a broad thigh before combing calloused fingers through his hair. The PI distracts himself while Holly drives on backroads and sidestreets to the hospital. In the part of his brain that’s not consumed by his current predicament, Holland’s glad she’s taking the extra time to avoid traffic. It wouldn’t look remotely good for an unlicensed thirteen year old with two drunk, old men in the back to be pulled over.

To help pass the time and to distract from his throbbing arm, Holland mindlessly sings. It’s a mixture of half-remembered songs he had heard on the radio and some improvised verses when he forgets the actual lyrics. He doesn’t have to see the other man’s face to know that Healy has to be gritting his teeth at the warbling voice filling the vehicle, even still the bruiser's hand doesn’t falter as he strokes Holland.

Upon arriving at the hospital, the detective gratefully allows his partner to help him out of the vehicle. He ends up clutching onto the shorter man as though his life depends on it. Through the haze of pain, he can make out the shapes of a couple of the nuns serving as nurses at this facility. They’re lingering in front of the building. He can feel their disapproval from here.

Holland remains cradled against Jackson’s chest as the other man soothes him with a tenderly calm “Easy, March, I got you.” before directing his next words to the girl waiting behind the wheel. “Park the car and meet us inside.”

The injured man can hardly walk under his own volition, head swimming, completely relying on Healy to support him into the waiting room and up to the check-in desk. His arm is dangling at an awkward angle with each dragging step. The appearance of it does not improve when the other man props him against the counter. The receptionist has a politely horrified expression on her face as she unceremoniously shoves a clipboard at the both of them. He can’t help but notice his partner is sporting a similarly nauseated face. A functioning human arm would not be moving around the way his is.

“So uh, pretty sure my partner has a broken arm.” He hears Jack tell the woman. Holland helpfully waves the limb in question to demonstrate the point just in time for his daughter arrive to reprimand him.

“Stop doing that, that’s gross and stuff,” Holly snaps.

March pushes down the pain and drunkenness for just long enough to scold his daughter, “Don’t say, ‘and stuff’, sweetheart.”

“What was that, March?” Healy asks, clearly not paying attention. Holly and the receptionist share a look.

“Don’t say, ‘and stuff’,” he replies, mostly ignoring the other man, “Just say ‘stop doing that, Dad, that’s gross’. Isn’t that easier?”

Immediately, he hears the bruiser start to speak before he cuts himself off. After a pause, he sheepishly speaks. “Oh, uh.. Your dad’s right, Holly,” he says, sounding choked.

With a long suffering look, the receptionist tells them that a nurse will come collect them shortly and to have a seat. His partner gamely drags him to a chair in the waiting area. Holland groans at the thought of having to wait while his arm continues to plague him. He’s barely seated before Holly shoves the intake paperwork into his good hand. The words on the paper are nothing but smears of black against white. He lets out a helpless whine and offers the clipboard back to his daughter for her to fill it out. God knows that she’s done this for him enough times to do it in her sleep. She takes it back with a frustrated sigh.

After Holly takes a seat in the chair beside him, Jack leans into his space, way too close to be appropriate. “Hey, you doin’ okay? I know your arm hurts, but you alright?” He takes hold of his hand and gives it a strangely, business-like squeeze. He doesn’t let go and instead just… clings to it.

Holland tries to give his partner a reassuring smile, but he’s sure it comes across as a grimace. Spots are floating across his vision in bright, sizzling flashes. The PI is feeling simultaneously more sober and faint as the minutes pass. His arm had just barely been freed from the cast before tonight’s re-fracture of it.

“Mister… March?” A nun approaches the group.

Holland stands up and winces in pain as the movement jostles his arm. “That’s me.”

The nun makes a gesture to follow her down the hallway and he does. He doesn’t even look back, knowing that his partner will be right on his heals. They’ve become damn near inseparable since they had finally danced around some of their mutual feelings. He makes it past the doorway, but Healy does not. The nun stops the other man at the door with a curt “Family only.”

Holland whirls around to see the woman physically blocking Jack. His temper flares, but before he can come up with a protest, the bruiser is already speaking.

“He’s my partner…. My business partner. We do business. Wherever he goes, I go.”

The nun scoffs and suddenly Healy looks cowed, all of ten years old again in front of his teacher, being lectured for holding another boy’s hand. He’s looking down at his battered shoes in a show of submission that makes Holland feel sick.

“I’m sure you do. But as I said. Family only,” she says, booking no room for argument. She silences Holland with just a look. His mouth audibly shuts as she glowers at the two of them in turns, tapping her foot impatiently.

“I’ll go.” Holly says, coming up to the small group. “C’mon dad.” She trails them down the hallway, leaving Healy to slink back to his chair in the waiting room.

Setting the fracture goes as smoothly as it can be with Holland as a patient. Despite his best efforts, he fails at keeping still and quiet. There’s screaming and flailing on his end of things and barely bitten off curses from the doctor’s. Eventually, sweating and hopped up on pain meds, the arm is secured once more in a cast and he’s turned over to the supervision of his exasperated daughter.

Holly promptly takes him by his good arm and drags him down the hallway into the waiting room where chain of custody continues and he becomes Healy’s responsibility. He can’t help the slightly drugged smile that spreads across his face at the sight of the gruff man.

“Doc said it’s not nearly as bad as what you did the first time you met, but he needs bed rest, and to stay away from the bottle for a while.” Holly rolls her eyes, knowing that her dad has at least been putting in a good effort in reducing the amount of alcohol that he’s been pouring down his throat.

Relived to nearly be done with tonight’s ordeal, Holland shuffles close to his partner and leans against him. He’s desperately craving some reassurance and comfort. He can’t bring himself to care about the heavy presence of eyes on the two of them. Two grown men should be able to have friendly contact without everyone getting upset.

“Let’s get him in the car,” Jack says to Holly, ignoring Holland further by shrugging away from him to walk out the door.

Stung, Holland follows after him. Surely the events of tonight wouldn’t have been enough to keep rattling the other man. Jackson Healy doesn’t get bothered, not like this. He’s always surefooted and reliable. Perhaps he himself had done something to personally upset him. Yeah, he had gotten a little drunk and hurt himself in a typical March fashion, but usually they would just laugh it off together.

The trio gets to the parked vehicle, and Holland shunts himself into the back again. He doesn’t bother to listen to the conversation between his daughter and his partner over who will be driving. His mind is too focused on pinpointing exactly where the night really went wrong.

He startles out of his thinking when Healy settles himself into the front passenger seat. It looks like Holly will be the one to drive them back to the house. Holland can’t help but feel as though he got slapped in the face by the other man’s decision to sit in the front rather than join him in the back again.

Leaning forward, he presses the side of his face into the headrest. The leather is cool under his cheek. “Jack, what-”

“Just sit back, March,” the other man responds before he can get all of his sentence out. It seems like everyone is determined to cut him off tonight.

Merry Christmas, Holland thinks bitterly, letting himself flop back against the seat. The ride back to the house is silent aside from Holly’s occasional sighs. Jackson keeps his eyes focused straight ahead through the windshield. He doesn’t speak a single word after shutting him down, doesn’t even make a noise until Holly hits the curb in the driveway by accident and forces an involuntary grunt out of the man.

“Christ,” Holland grumbles, getting out of the car as soon as it’s put into park.

He tries to initiate contact with his partner once they’re all on the porch waiting for Holly to unlock the front door, The PI is desperately hoping that the other man won’t slide away from him again. Slowly, carefully, he leans on him. Relief floods him when Jack doesn’t move. The porch is bathed in darkness, making it difficult to make out anything distinctive, and besides, it’s not like the neighbors haven’t seen already seen the two of them be affectionate with one another anyway.

A glance over at the man he’s leaning on reveals nothing blatantly transparent. Healy’s face is carefully blank. Even still, Holland can make out the tense set of his jaw. It’s enough to worry him further.

Holly gets the door open and immediately darts off to her room after dropping the keys in the bowl in the entryway. Holland is carefully escorted over the threshold by his partner who calmly closes and locks the door behind them. They’re left standing uncomfortably on the tile while Healy seems to be looking at everything else but him.

Fed up, the PI reaches out and takes the other man by the collar of his Christmas sweater and hauls him in for a kiss. He normally doesn’t have to fight for affection like this. Healy is still against him. He doesn’t resist the kiss but he doesn’t exactly return it either. The bruiser pulls away after a moment.

“You should go to bed, March, it’s late.”

“Come with me,” he instantly responds. He needs his partner with him. He hates nothing more than sleeping alone. It always makes him think of those sleepless nights right after Holly’s mom had died. He takes an unsteady breath and wraps his arms around the other man. “I love…”

Healy’s fists clench at his side for a moment before he hooks a broad hand over Holland’s shoulder. He holds it there while he’s hugged. Holland all but burrows against him. He feels the exact moment when the other man relaxes just a little and gives in. “Alright, I’ll stay with you for a while.”

“A while? What do you mean a while? I thought we had plans for tonight.”

“I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep,” Jack supplies, nudging at him to walk to the bedroom.

“What about after?” He questions, his worry surging back up into his throat. Jesus, what he would give for a drink right now.

Unsurprisingly, his partner doesn’t respond right away, lost in his own troubled thoughts. He pulls back the covers on the bed for Holland, correctly assuming that he would struggle to get under them on his own. The other man doesn’t so much as look at him while he works his own holiday themed sweater off over his cast. Maybe he did something so heinous in the past few hours while inebriated and injured that Healy doesn’t find him attractive anymore? Could that be a possibility?

The younger man finally answers Holland’s question, abit unwillingly and still not looking at him. “Probably gonna clean up the living room.”

“Hey. Don’t be like this… Please.” He stops himself from reaching out, realizing that it likely wouldn’t do any good right now. He awkwardly drags himself into bed, motioning for Jackson to join him.

With clear reluctance, Healy sits stiffly on the bed with his back against the headboard. He looks down at his clasped hands. “I’m not your wife, March. I’m just your business partner,” he says suddenly without any preamble.

Holland is left reeling. “I... do you think I don’t care about you? About us? Is that what this is? Because I do. I care about you. I lo-,” he bites the confession off before it can fully escape.

“Care all you want. That nun was right, we’re not family. We can’t be real family.” The other man seems taken aback by his own outburst. He clears his throat unsuccessfully, poised to get off the bed, to flee from the conversation.

“Healy…” The detective’s heart breaks. This feeling is devastating. He’s not sure what to say. He can’t just tell a joke or make an asinine quip to smooth this over. He can’t argue that his partner is wrong. Even in his current, foggy state he knows that people won’t accept their relationship as being a legitimate one. It’s not going to be like it was with his wife. The silence hangs in the air.

Finally, the other man reaches over and gives him a pat on the shoulder. It's similar to one that another man would give a friend, nothing more. Reassuring but detached. “Look, March. We’ll deal with this in the morning.”

“Fine,” he agrees hollowly. He rolls over, putting his back to the man sitting beside him. He doesn’t want him to see the tears that have decided to start streaming from his eyes. Despite his best efforts, he can’t fully contain his sobs.

Healy doesn’t leave his side while he cries. Through his tears, he keeps looking at the analog clock on the bedside table. Every minute that passes feels like an hour. His crying slowly abates and he’s left to slip into an exhausted slumber.

{ next chapter }

#the nice guys #the nice guys (2016)#ryan gosling #holland march #jackson healy #russell crowe #holland march x jackson healy #healland #ryan gosling fanfiction #holland march fanfiction #the nice guys fanfiction #.collab with danime25 #.my work #.my posts

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remyfire · 1 month

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I think the funniest thing about Hawk being Like That is that Alan Alda has writers credits on the show. This man voluntarily made his character the most touch starved needy desperate person on the planet and that's so fucking insane of him. But also Mr Alda I would like to give you a little hug and a kiss for giving him to us because I love him with my whole heart. And don't even get me started on the fact that Hawkeye yelled to a general "I want to have your baby!" In literally the first season. Like Hawkeye my love not everyone needs to know you want to be pregnant 😂 And truly he deserves to be absolutely smothered with cuddles, everyone loves him and he loves everyone and I think it could help fix him.

Listen my Trap brain is always on, he's my man, I am thinking about him quite literally daily. And now that you reminded me of the priest line I'm gonna think of that too! Like Trapper my love what happened in your past? Did your parents give you that many names in hopes you'd be a priest? Did you pick one yourself for confirmation? Why did you keep all of the names despite seemingly abandoning the religion? I am peering at him like a bug under a microscope and there's nothing he can do about it.

That little coffee through line with Margret is so cute! Even though I'm sure it was unintentional on the show's part I definitely couldn't help but think of it and flash back to The Nurses in both the scenes in Temporary Duty and CAVE. Margaret and cups of coffee representing her character growth is honestly so sweet and I love it. Also ooohhhh self proclaimed Military Brat Margaret Houlihan realizing that the Army Way isn't the only way or even the best way, and the things that would DO to her. The realization that what she's learned her whole life isn't necessarily good, and having to contend with what that means for her and her career and her personality. And also having to face her father after that, because we see in Are You Now, Margaret? that she cares very much about disappointing him and even affecting his career. Would such a realization maybe help her become more of her own person that isn't living only to make her father proud and keep up the Houlihan name? Or is her desire to be a point of pride for her family more important to her than her personal development? Truly she's so fascinating to me. And it's definitely an interesting parallel with Mulcahy, both of them having something so deeply ingrained in them that it h u r t s when it's finally inevitably broken out.

Everyone in this show suffered enough in the narrative for several lifetimes but damn if I don't wanna give them a little bit more hardship to really crack them open and wrap up their character development in the way they deserve. I'll definitely give them softness and love but first they need a little bit of pain I think 😂

(Also I am officially onto season 8! I finished Goodbye Radar last night and was a Wreck. Man I love this show)

Okay hi again anon, sorry for making this sit while thinking too hard about Hawk and Beje and Trap things.

I swear that Alan did more to break and attempt to breed Hawk than any of us fanfic authors have ever done. I am not entirely convinced that this man didn't start getting the bends once he couldn't whump Hawk anymore and instead pivoted to writing fanfics for the old distant zines that popped up in the '80s. He probably has multiple AO3 accounts right now just churning out agonizing pain. Alan we know what you are.

I do hate that we got so little development for Trap compared to Beej but it's also delightful because it means all of us get to sit here and rotate him on a merry-go-round that goes faster and faster and never stops. Anything is possible. He's so INTERESTING!!! He's like half a guy! No matter what anyone says, they could probably make it work! And that means I am in fact slam dunking the religious trauma into him at breakneck speeds. Sorry, bud (lie).

I'm so glad you mentioned Are You Now Margaret because that's one of those underrated episodes that always has its teeth so deep in me. We learn so much about her so fast. Her big friend group!! She had so many people who loved her and who she loves enough that she refuses to endanger them even though she hasn't spoken to make in years!! The fact that she will give her father that kind of deference even though we all know in our bones that he doesn't deserve it! God, Margaret.

I love people like you who run in with a wrecking ball just absolute decimating all these characters that we know and love so that I can come in after in my little clown car with hot chocolate and blankets. I am a simple author. I know what my duty is here. And it's getting everybody laid by everybody else but ALSO giving them extreme amounts of aftercare and pillow nests ;v; We all share such a vital role in this ecosystem.

#and my role is to be very simple and i know this #my ramblings #long post

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fairy25 · 4 months

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I'm not joking how am I supposed to continue living as a woman who has suffered serious trauma? I dont know what to do anymore.

I do not want to live (not a threat, just a fact. I am not in danger.) I don't know how I can go about my life when I am scared of men. Half of the people on the planet. I have been jobless for 3 years living with parents because I'm scared to be trapped in a confined space with male strangers again. In my last job, I was sexually harassed, touched, stared at, grabbed, threatened, and followed by male coworkers. It was a minimum wage BAKERY job. You'd think that would be an innocent place to work. I wore a hairnet, had hairy legs, and talked about my boyfriend at the time. and I still got harassed and they wouldn't stop even when i would talk to HR. When I told my ex-boyfriend I was raped he said I deserved it. I'm thinking maybe it's me who is wrong and maybe I just should somehow turn off my brain and let it all happen since I feel like I'm screaming and nobody even notices???

I genuinely don't want to live in the world anymore I'm just tired I wish I was a little girl again and I just want to play with my toys but i can't because im trapped in a 26 year old woman.

Sorry for ranting on christmas. I'm just having a bad day. I hope you had a good Christmas.

baby i would seriously recommend you find a female trauma therapist you feel comfortable with and commit to therapy once a week for at least a year. i would also recommend talking to a psychiatrist or even your primary care doctor if you feel comfortable to discuss getting on some anti-anxiety medication. i personally take propranolol & mirtazapine for anxiety (and migraines).

i know it feels endless right now (i have been there and i’m so so sorry you’re stuck in this dark place rn) but it is possible for things to get better, and for you to lead a “normal” life. i am rooting for you and i want to say your feelings are completely valid. i’m so sorry this is the state of the world. i’m so sorry that you’re unable to ignore the fear you feel, which is very real and very challenging to overcome. but you can overcome it. that doesn’t mean you have to be around men—i work fully remotely and the only men i talk to regularly are gay, old friends, or married to my friends/relatives.

merry xmas to you angel. i hope 2024 brings you more peace than this year. even if you don’t feel like it’s going to get better, please just keep going. sometimes progress is so gradual we don’t even realize it’s happening. sometimes it’s ok to distract yourself and take breaks from the real world. but keep going. if not for you, for other women. we need each other if we’re ever going to create a world where women don’t feel terrified just existing.

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apocrypals · 1 year

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Weird question maybe but how do you both like Christmas so much?

I am ex-evangelical in the way that probably lots of your listeners are and now that I don’t have the like church-y part of Christmas I just kind of feel bad about it :/ and you guys have such a genuine love for Christmas it seems like !! So if you have any advice about liking Christmas and not getting bogged down in bad theology feelings i would appreciate !! Or if that’s too big of an ask thanks for the show anyways and I hope you’re listening to Darlene love !!

A number of years ago, Chris did a podcast episode with our mutual friend Elle Collins about the joys of secular Christmas, but it doesn't seem to exist on internet anymore, alas.

But without even diving deeply into the semiotics of the thing, I feel there's much to like about Christmas at an absolutely surface level with minimal religious trappings: lights, decorations, music, food, candy, hot drinks, getting together with friends and family, parties, that kind of stuff. For a lot of people, that kind of thing is enough to enjoy Christmas even if they don't have a religious attachment.

However, if you need something more, the things I like to think about when it comes to Christmas are that it's a celebration at the darkest time of the year, when much of nature sleeps or dies, and in a way, we're forced to confront our own mortality. BUT, Christmas (and other winter holidays; this isn't a Christmas exclusive) reminds us that life and death is a cycle: today is dark, but tomorrow is a little brighter. If you're no longer into the idea of an incarnate deity born that man no more may die, consider the holly, the evergreen. If they can tough out the winter, so can we. "Hope," saith the holly.

And we foster that hope with lights and songs and games and music and good food and good will and forgiveness toward the other people around us. Consider these verses from a favorite song of mine:

All hail to the days that merit more praise Than all the rest of the year And welcome the nights that double delights As well for the poor as the peer Good fortune attend each merry man's friend That doth but the best that he may Forgetting old wrongs with carols and songs To drive the cold winter away 'Tis ill for a mind to anger inclined To think of small injuries now If wrath be to seek, do not lend her your cheek Nor let her inhabit thy brow Cross out of thy books malevolent looks Both beauty and youth's decay And wholly consort with mirth and sport To drive the cold winter away

In that podcast I was talking about at the top, Chris talked about how he loves the very idea of Santa Claus, because he represents humankind at their most selfless. Not just in the idea that there's a powerful figure whose whole deal is giving other people things, but that Christmas morning is likely to be the happiest a kid will feel all year, and parents are willing to give someone else credit for it. It almost staggers the mind, tbh.

On top of that, for me personally, one of the major draws of the Christmas season is the wealth of folklore that comes along with it, but your mileage may vary on that.

Anyway, of course, all this winter stuff only applies if you're in the Northern Hemisphere; sorry if you're in Australia or something, I don't have any metaphors for you.

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heliads · 2 years

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Waking, Dreaming

Based on this request: "Newt x fem reader. The characters are high school students. Y/N and her parents move because her father got a new job. She joins Thomas, Newt, Minho, Gally, Alby, Teresa, and Brenda’s friend group. Thomas and Minho are on the boys’ basketball team. Sonya and Harriet are on the girls’ soccer team. Thomas is the valedictorian."

ok so this ended up taking a far more surreal twist than i really intended. have you ever wanted a modern au in which newt was semi aware of the fact that he was in a modern au? here you go!

masterlist

Newt wakes from a dream, and he doesn’t know that he’s ever been so happy to see his familiar ceiling stretching out in front of him. It almost doesn’t feel real for a second, that perfect plain white paint, uncracked and unbroken and utterly without care. If he keeps his eyes trained on only this impersonal bit of wall, Newt can pretend that none of this is actually his, that the whole place is just on lend from some other kid lucky enough to be born in a time when he was completely safe.

This makes no sense, of course. This is Newt’s room, this is Newt’s life, this is Newt’s happiness. Perhaps it’s the nightmare getting to him. The vision he’d had just before forcing himself awake had been a terrible one. He’d been trapped in a city burning to the ground, and as Newt lay on his back, staring up at the smoke and stars, he knew with unsettling certainty that it would be the last time he’d ever see such a sight again. Or any sight, for that matter.

Newt woke up, of course, so clearly his dream-based paranoia is just that, the stuff of nightmares and nothing more. Newt is here, and everything is alright. He has always been here. He will never be anywhere else.

After all, when would Newt have a chance to see any other scenery? Newt grew up in this town, he’s been here for as long as he can remember. His friends are just down the street, probably waking up to a myriad of alarm clocks and shouted warnings about missed school buses. This is their home. No other place would ever make sense as much as this does.

Newt shakes himself and starts getting ready for the day. That’s the problem with dreams, after all, they get you thinking about what life would be like if you weren’t here, in the same place as always. Maybe somewhere out there another Newt is looking up at the stars and wondering why he tastes copper on his tongue, but this Newt, the one in his body and thinking these very thoughts, is safe. He doesn’t know why, but he gets the feeling that safety is pretty rare, and thus something he should treasure instead of find reasons to deny.

Newt heads down to the bus stop, early as always. He likes to get there before anyone else so they can only get the view of him leaning casually against a nearby tree, not the visual of Newt’s walk over. Despite all this time spent around the same friends, Newt is still wary to show off the fact that he isn’t quite like the others. He can’t walk the same way they can, and any difference from the norm makes Newt’s teeth stand on edge.

It’s all because of an injury, one Newt sustained when he was just a kid. Hypothetically, it happened when he was in preschool or something, but Newt has no recollection of the actual incident itself. You’d think he would remember something like that, a pivotal moment leading to a pivotal injury, but no, it’s all been smoothed over in his head.

Sometimes, Newt has different dreams, nightmares in which he’s falling and only regrets it halfway through the plunge. He bolts upright to find his leg throbbing like it had been freshly broken, even though everyone tells him the injury is older than anything. Still, the facts don’t lie. Newt can’t walk properly because of the limp. The actual source of it shouldn’t matter, especially not since his friends all seem to avoid bringing it up.

The rest of his merry group arrives soon enough. Alby first, Alby always first. He’s the oldest of them, the leader. Newt doesn’t remember when they all decided that Alby would take up that role, it just makes sense. Minho is next, then Gally, Thomas, and Teresa. A girl named Brenda who used to go to another school. She started hanging out with them a while ago and long since fit in like another piece to their grand puzzle. Y/N, too, newly moved here from a different city. She changes everything for the better, Newt thinks, like they’ve all been put on this earth for the sole purpose of being there to see her.

They all have their own roles to play within the friend group. Thomas and Minho are on the school basketball team. It feels like they’re out at practice every day, spending hours in that gym just to be able to score a little better and build a better championship team inch by inch. It always surprises Newt that they’d choose basketball of all sports. Not that they’d be athletes, of course, that goes without saying. The guys are full of restless energy, always eyeing the doors to a crowded room like they’ve already plotted twelve different ways to get out and are just deciding which would be the fastest.

No, Newt is mainly surprised that they’d choose that sport in particular. During the first few months of freshman year, Newt was constantly switching up what sport they did. He knew they told him they were on the basketball team about a thousand times, but he could swear that he’d seen them doing something else, something involving running. Maybe cross country or track, that would explain why Newt keeps seeing snippets in his head of the two of them sprinting side by side, half out of their minds from exhaustion but full of the urge to keep pushing, keep fighting until the very end.

Once, Newt almost convinced himself that he might have been out there too. Thomas hadn’t been there, for some reason, only Minho. He can still feel the desperate gasping of air in his lungs as Newt hurled himself forward towards something he can’t remember. The dreams, the false memories, they’ve been going on for a while. Newt can’t explain it. Neither can his doctor, Ava Paige, although she just shakes her head and hands him some new medicine to try whenever he brings it up in his annual physicals.

Still, it’s not like they’re hurting anyone. No one knows, just Newt. He distracts himself by trying to commit the details of everyday life to memory. Maybe if he does it better this time around, he won’t have issues like this, problems where he can’t quite tell which memories are real and which are just figments of his slightly confused imagination.

When he gets confused, he goes to his friends, and they welcome him with open arms every time. Alby has always been a good listener. Gally’s biting sarcasm is welcome, it cleans Newt’s wounds like a cauterizing flame. Teresa always knows the right thing to say. Y/N has a way of distracting himself from the bewilderment of his own thoughts every time.

Y/N. She only moved here a few weeks ago, but she’s already quickly made her way into Newt’s heart. He swore he knew from the first time he saw her that Y/N would be someone to watch, and what do you know, he was right. Newt spends the most time with her out of anyone from his friend group. He hadn’t intended on it, it just works. They spend long hours talking, and if there’s anyone who can straighten out Newt’s head, it’s her. Everything makes sense when Y/N is nearby, like she’s rewriting the tangled mess of words and sentences in his head whenever she’s around.

That’s how things go around here. Slowly, surely, Newt makes it all work. He leans into his friends, both the old and the new. His little sister, Sonya, is a freshman at their high school this year. Newt can’t deny that he’s already tried to be the overprotective older brother to the max, but it’s not like she needs it. Sonya’s a firecracker, same with her friends.

The girls have come over to hang out with Newt’s group on more than a few occasions now. Sonya and Harriet both play on the girls soccer team at their high school. Their fierce spirits remind Newt of Thomas and Minho, but somehow slightly different. They’ve been shaped by different events, their rivers running through different turns. Newt can’t entirely decide who had it worse, not that it’s a contest.

The comparisons are interesting, though. They all seem to be the same sort of person at their core, all of them, the boys and girls alike. Newt wishes that Sonya wasn’t quite so much younger than him. She and her friends are freshmen, after all, and Newt’s group are seniors. They’re graduating in a matter of weeks, and then that’s that, all over. Newt wishes he could have had more time to get to know the second group of friends. He wishes he had more time for far more things, too, but that’s beside the point.

In truth, Newt doesn’t know where his life will lead. He did his college applications, of course, same as anyone else, and he’s got a place to go once he gets his diploma, but that’s not what really matters. Somewhere out there, a world waits for Newt to discover. There are thousands of cities that call his name, a million roads to travel down.

If he was just going off of his memories, Newt would say that it’s too good to be true. It feels like he spends more time looking back than looking forward. Some secret part of him always assumed that his life would end here, on the precipice of moving forward. His friends all have their eyes towards the sun and what will become of them, but not Newt.

No, he’s still stuck in the past, caught between deciphering what all the fragments of his history could mean and the relentless surge forward of time. Try as he might, Newt cannot stay the same forever. Something will always come to pluck him out of his normal life and bring him to his fate. No one can fight time forever, not even Newt. Not anyone.

Graduation comes soon enough, and Newt has the pleasure of watching his friends don their caps and gowns. They’re laughing, the lot of them, all out in the parking lot outside the building before the ceremony starts. Newt’s next to Y/N, watching his friends talk in excited, loud voices about the end of all things they’ve ever known.

Thomas and Teresa are trying to shout across to each other from opposite sides of the tight bundle of friends, but they’re not having much luck in getting their voices over to each other. Minho watches the proceedings with an ill concealed grin. The dark-haired boy has been swearing to Newt for months now that he’s going to lose his mind if Thomas and Teresa don’t manage to confess their feelings before graduation. Looks like insanity is a promise he’ll just have to keep.

Deep inside, Newt thinks that Thomas and Teresa are a hopeless case. They might get along better than anyone else, and Newt is certain that the two of them have about a thousand inside jokes that no one could even hope to understand, but that’s all they’re ever going to be. A million secrets, too many kept, not enough spoken aloud until it was too late. That’s not a strong enough foundation for a proper relationship, even if their feelings seem worth the fall.

Thomas is distracted by Brenda at his side, asking him a question. Thomas’ smile is easier now; he never has to try so hard when he’s around Brenda, Newt wonders if the other boy has ever realized it. Teresa shakes her head with a laugh and joins Newt soon enough, filing into the building where graduation will be held once the teachers start calling for everyone to head inside.

Newt dutifully takes his seat in the long rows of chairs. Alby on his left, Teresa on his right, Newt feels safe in this impossibly large gathering of people. This is where it all changes, then. This is where his old life ends and something else begins.

Thomas takes to the stage. He’d been named valedictorian to the delight of everyone in the group. It makes perfect sense to Newt, of course. Thomas has been a braniac for about as long as Newt has known him; always one to come up with the perfect answer, the capable solution. Combine that with his athletics and natural leadership abilities, and you couldn’t make a better valedictorian if you crafted one in a lab.

Thomas is the survivor, Newt thinks. He wonders why that would occur to him, but it feels right somehow. Thomas up there on that stage, separated impossibly from Newt and Alby and Teresa and the rest of them, it makes sense. Thomas did it, he took all the challenges of school and the future and life and made them work out for him. When the sun sets, Thomas will be there, ready for the dawn to come. Newt doesn’t think he could say that about everyone here.

Someone turns in the row in front of him. Newt glances to the side to see Y/N looking at him. She smiles at him, and it’s a happy sort of look, carrying with it a thousand unspoken messages. They’re alright, then. They’re going to be okay. This is only where one story ends, but a thousand more begins. When the doors open up and the newly graduated kids get to run out into the bright sunlight of a new day, Newt and Y/N will be among them. That’s how it ends, a perfect resolution. Newt couldn’t ask for anything else.

requested by @thornyrose463, i hope you enjoy!

tmr tag list: @rogueanschel, @ellobruv, @retvenkos, @neewtmas, @thatfangirl42, @hiya-its-amber, @gods-fools-heroes, @hope92100, @23victoria, @w1shes43

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whimsicallyenchantedrose · 5 months

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Christmas Reruns 2023 Day 10: Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas (3/3)

Merry Christmas if you celebrate it and happy holidays if you don’t! One of the things I love about Christmas is watching reruns of all the old classic Christmas movies–Christmas is a big time for nostalgia. A few years ago, I decided to incorporate that tradition into my fandom life and post my CS holiday reruns. So here you go! Enough holiday (mostly) fluff to get you to New Year’s Day. (With a new story posting on Christmas Day.)

Rating: G

Word Count: 1724

Other chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32

Notes: This story was originally posted in 2014

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

Killian surged forward, lips crashing against hers, body pressing her to the immutable surface of her apartment door, arms binding her to him.

Good thing too. At the touch of his lips against hers, the sensation of his tongue seeking entrance, the feel of his heart racing beneath her hand trapped between them, Emma sagged and her knees threatened to buckle altogether.

Emma opened for him, moaning his name as his tongue came to tangle with hers. She rose to her toes, threading her fingers through his hair, seeking to bring him ever closer, they would never be close enough.

Her apartment complex was normally a busy bustling place, but tonight, at 11:30 on Christmas Eve night, it was as empty as Gold’s black heart. Just as well. The way she and Killian were going at it, anyone passing by was liable to get quite the show—and definitely not one suited to children.

With a groan Killian pulled away, but Emma was having none of it. She wasn’t done kissing him yet; not nearly. She chased his lips with her own, giving her pirate no quarter.

“Emma,” he moaned, as he gave up all attempts at resistance and met her head on.

They’d just returned from the town Christmas party at Granny’s. Her mom had really outdone herself with that one. The food, laughter and eggnog flowed abundantly. Everyone seemed to have imbibed the Christmas spirit, buoyed, no doubt by the fact that they’d gone a full month without a villain in sight.

It seemed Killian had enjoyed his first Christmas party. He’d particularly enjoyed the dirty Santa gift exchange, throwing himself into the spirit of the game with wild abandon. He’d put his pirate skills to good use, stealing one after another of his neighbors’ gifts. Emma suspected it was more for the thrill of mayor-sanctioned theft than it was for the actual gifts he’d gained. She laughingly said as much to him as he gleefully stole a bottle of lavender-scented bath salts from under Ruby’s very nose.

“You’re really going to tell me you want girly bath salts?” she’d teased.

“And why not?” he’d asked with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I happen to be well aware that you favor the scent of lavender. It was my hope that were I to acquire these salts I might persuade you to…um…help me put them to use.”

When all was said and done, Killian had been left with a gift certificate for free dinner at Granny’s for a week. She….well, she’d made a last minute swap for the bath salts, a fact that made Killian’s eyes light up like a kid let loose in a candy shop.

When the party broke up, Killian walked her back to her apartment door where he was currently kissing her so thoroughly she could barely remember her own name.

After long moments, Killian pulled away and then rested his forehead against hers. “Best we slow down love,” he said breathlessly. “Much longer, and we’re bound to start a conflagration that will consume this entire building.”

“Yeah,” she said, equally breathless. “But what a way to go.”

He laughed and took a step back. “I suppose it’s time I take my leave. You’re to be at your parents’ bright and early tomorrow for Christmas morning festivities.”

Emma took hold of the lapels of Killian’s coat and gave him another quick peck. “You mean we’re to be at my parents’ bright and early.”

He looked suddenly uncertain. “I don’t wish to impose. It is after all a family event.”

Emma shook her head, her heart turning over with tenderness for this man. “When are you going to learn that you are family? We all want you there, and I, well, I’d really miss you if you bailed on us. Besides, if you don’t join us for Christmas morning, when am I going to get to give you my gift?”

“You bought me a gift?” His voice was awestruck.

“Of course! I have a feeling you’re going to like it too.”

Emma knew how much he enjoyed reading. His cabin on the Jolly Roger had been practically covered, floor to ceiling with books. She’d bought him as many of this realm’s pirate tales and stories as she could get her hands on.

“There’s no doubt of that, love,” he said gently. “I have a gift for you as well, but I have been assured that Christmas is the day for gift giving. It would be quite bad form to spoil my surprise the night before.”

“All the more reason to join us in the morning.”

His smile turned infinitely tender, and he cupped her cheek. “I’d love to be there, Swan. Which is, of course, why I’d best take my leave so that you can get your rest for the big day.”

Emma’s eyes flitted away from his for a moment before focusing back on him. “Stay with me tonight? Henry’s staying with Regina, and, well, no one should have to spend Christmas Eve alone.”

Killian dragged in a ragged breath. “I’d be honored to spend the remainder of Christmas Eve with you.

Emma unlocked her apartment, gave Killian another quick kiss and then waved him in behind her. “Go ahead and plug in the tree; maybe see about starting a fire. I’ll make us some cocoa.”

After their conversation in the woods, Killian and Henry had tag teamed her until she’d agreed to just about every Christmas tradition Henry could think of. The three of them had bought and cut down a Christmas tree, decorated the thing within an inch of its life (Killian’s hook being surprisingly handy in the endeavor), hung all three of their stockings by the chimney with care, and baked and decorated what felt like enough Christmas cookies for the entire town. When Killian learned of the tradition of sending people Christmas cards, he’d even convinced her to send the damn things out—complete with a photo of the three of them sitting before the fire, steaming mugs of cocoa in hand, the lit tree in the background.

It was cheesy as hell.

She loved it.

She finished preparing their drinks—which for her consisted of boiling water and pouring it over packets of cocoa mix—and then headed for the living room.

“Well, you’ve made good use of your time,” she said with a smile. The tree was lit, a roaring fire crackled in the hearth, and a smug pirate sat on the rug before it, surrounded by pillows.

“I aim to please darling.”

She sat beside him, depositing their cocoa on the end table and settling in his waiting arms.

“I do believe you’re forgetting something, love,” he said, mischief in every syllable.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“Look and see for yourself.”

Emma sat up and stifled a laugh. The idiot sat before her holding the largest sprig of mistletoe she’d ever seen. She leaned forward and kissed him playfully. “You’re insatiable.”

“Aye,” he said, returning the kiss with exuberance, “but you wouldn’t have me any other way.”

Without warning, it all crashed over her once again. She’d nearly lost him. His heart had nearly been crushed in front of her, and she’d been powerless to stop it. The memory made her start to shake, and Emma clung to Killian so tightly he’d end up with bruises in the morning. She buried her face in his neck and breathed him in, her hand slipping beneath his shirt to rest over his heart. She needed this; she needed the confirmation that he was still there, that his heart was still where it belonged.

“Emma, love,” he said, rubbing her back, “is something the matter?”

Emma forced herself to sit up and look him in the eye. If nearly losing him had taught her anything, it was that every day with this man was a gift—a gift that could be snatched from her at any moment. The fact that he might have died not knowing, not truly knowing how she felt about him was like a slap to the face. She needed to remedy that. Immediately. Emma was terrified to say the words, but it was time; it was far past time.

“Killian, I…I just need you to know something.”

“Very well, Swan,” he said hesitantly, “you do know there is nothing you cannot tell me, do you not?”

“Yeah,” She took a deep breath and then plunged in. “It’s just that…well, I don’t know how to do this but just come out and say it: I love you. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. It scares the hell out of me, but, well, I just needed you to know. Whatever happens, no matter how many evil villains try to tear us apart, I needed you to know. I need you to…”

He leaned forward and captured her lips, effectively cutting off what was threatening to turn into babbling. This kiss was different, soft, gentle, unhurried. Emma reached up between them and caressed his face with gentle strokes. This was right. This man was it for her. If he’d died up there in the clock tower she didn’t know how she’d ever have survived it.”

“I love you too,” he whispered as he finally pulled away. “Until the end of time, I’ll love you. With every breath I take, every beat of my heart, I love you. There’ll never be another for me but you.”

She grinned against his chest. “Better not be.”

“No other lass stands the ghost of a chance against you. I swear to be unfailingly true to you until I take my last breath and long, long after.”

“I know,” she said tremulously. “And you can expect the same from me.”

He gathered her back into her arms and they sat in silence for some time. When he spoke again, the teasing note was back in his voice. “So, Swan, how do you propose we while away the rest of this Christmas Eve?”

She sat back and gave him a grin. “Well, I was thinking we could resume that make out session we had going on outside…and then we could, kind of, see where that takes us.”

“That, Swan, is the best idea you’ve had all year.”

NEXT CHAPTER-->

#christmas reruns 2023 #cs fanfiction #captain swan christmas ff #my fanfiction #have yourself a merry little christmas

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