#he says as he strangles the life out of you with tinsel | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seasonsbloom · 1 year

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all the love (under a mistletoe) . benedict bridgerton

pairing ; benedict bridgerton x female!reader

synopsis ; modern!au. you have been in love with your best friend's older brother for years. on Christmas eve, things finally come to a head.

wc ; 6k

warnings ; explicit lanugage, some allusions to reader having a shitty family, christmas angst, pining, one mention of margaret thatcher

note: i'm not british (english isn't even my first language) so pls excuse any inaccuracies in any slang etc etc... also this was supposed to be a smutty thing and no instead it's exclusively tooth-rotting fluff so I'd like to apologize.... merry Christmas??? if anybody does want a steamy part two... well, hit me up I guess!

i stole the title from britney spears' my only wish (this year)!

You never thought something like Christmas at Aubrey Hall could exist outside the hour-and-a-half runtime of Hallmark movies. They've got it all - the stockings above the merrily crackling fireplace, the Christmas crackers twinkling on a long table, the boughs of holly climbing up doorways. It's like a Selfridges on the 21st of December just vomited all over the place.

"Seriously," you say, blinking in a mixture of awe and fear, "how big is this thing?"

Eloise, much more accustomed to her family's display of wealth and Bridgerton harmony, shrugs without looking away from her phone screen. "No idea. Benedict is like 6 feet, and that thing is twice his size, so, like… 12 feet? I don't know, it's Christmas. You do the math."

She turns away, still glued to an Instagram page plastered with pink graphics informing about various social issues in carefully-designed typography, and leaves you standing alone in the entrance hall. If you didn't like the Bridgertons so much, you'd be the first to say their Christmas tree is obnoxious. It's a ridiculous thing, wide enough to commandeer half the room. It's covered top to bottom in tinsel, dark blue ornaments dangling from every branch and reflecting the light until the thing looks less than a tree and more like a hallucination one might have two hours into an LSD trip.

The London townhouse you've crashed at more than once after a night on the town gone to shambles is impressive enough, but the Brdigerton's ancestral home in the countryside is a whole other beast. From the sprawling gardens to the sheer endless rooms, from the stucco ceilings to the servant stairs, from the life-size portraits of nineteenth-century family members to the white marble busts, you half expect a tourist group to round the corner at any moment. You're pretty sure you saw a hedge maze on your way in.

Sure, you've known your college best friend Eloise Bridgerton was loaded, but you didn't expect this. Then again, her sister is married to a Duke and shows up on the Sun's front page semi-regularly, so maybe this one was on you.

"So what do we think? Sufficiently Christmas-y or too much?"

You sink your teeth into the tail-end of a scream, letting out a strangled sound instead. Benedict Bridgerton really is six foot tall, and fuck him for that. Couldn't he at least have been some sensible height? Five reasonable feet and seven nice inches? Has he got to be perfect? Has he got to be the six feet you've been dreaming about for the past four years in increasingly more frenzied fashions?

He stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, with his hair tousled and his face relaxed into the same friendly, good-natured smile he always gives you.

"Uh… What?" Immediately, you curse your lack of eloquence. And earlier on the ride over, you'd sworn to yourself that, for once, you wouldn't act like an actual idiot in front of him.

Benedict, grinning, points forward. "The tree."

"Oh." You crane your neck back to look at the star mounted to the top, floating somewhere above the marble railing hugging the walkway to the second floor. "Well. It's very… big."

Benedict chuckles. "Yeah, I agree. I did tell Mom it was excessive, but she insisted. I'm pretty sure Hyacinth would mutiny if she ordered anything under ten feet."

You hum, faintly wondering what it must feel like to get a tree, let alone one big enough to get put up in front of the Rockefeller center. "Hyacinth can be pretty persuasive," you acquiesce, thinking with a shudder of the time the prepubescent girl stared you down until you gave her your brand-new Charlotte Tillbury lipstick. Sort of like being bullied out of your lunch money.

"You can say that again."

Benedict falls silent, and for a moment, you just stand there, side by side, staring up at the tree. Dean Martin drifts over from the dining room. Your stomach is on the most terrifying rollercoaster ride of its life.

Then, out of nowhere, Benedict says, "You're wet, by the way."

"I…" You splutter. "What?"

He nods down toward the floor. "Your shoes, I mean. You're soaking the rug."

You follow the line of his eyes down to your boots, still caked in the snow and sludge you drudged up on the way up the ten-mile-long driveway. A grey puddle has accumulated around you.

"Bugger," you mutter. "Eloise did say I could leave the shoes on…."

A conspiratorial grin crosses Benedict's face. He says, "Remember when you and El caught me smoking that joint in the study? I won't tell if you won't."

This is the thing: Worse than Benedict's six feet, worse than his messy hair and blue eyes and dimples, worse than all of that, is that he's actually nice. A genuinely good guy who talks to you like you're more than just his little sister's best friend, more than the annoying girl that gets invited to family holidays because her home life isn't the best, who moons over him at every turn. That's the thing that keeps you hoping, stubbornly, stupidly.

"Maybe you should go change for dinner," he suggests. "I'll take your suitcase up for you."

"You don't have to!" you protest, even as he's already bending over to retrieve it, even as you're secretly glad you won't have to try and lug that thing up all those stairs yourself.

"It's fine." Benedict waves you away, then tests the weight of the suitcase. "Jesus. I thought you were only staying for three days. What the hell did you pack in here?"

The sight of your bedroom floor at home, every inch covered with discarded clothes and toiletries and last-minute Christmas present purchases, overcomes you like a war flashback. "Uh… Books," you say, falling into step beside him as you climb the stairs together. "I brought a lot of books."

If Benedict knows you're one of the worst liars in England, he doesn't let it on. Instead, he hums Wham! 's greatest hit while ascending the stairs two steps at a time. You try your best not to stare at his butt when he overtakes you and focus instead on the plush velvet carpet and the actual footsteps you leave on it, cringing.

You follow him down a long corridor, past decorative Chinese-style vases filled with out-of-season greenhouse flowers. "This is your room," Benedict says, pushing the door at the end of the hall, somewhat separate from the others, open with his hip. "Eloise is just down the hall."

Like everything else in Aubrey Hall, the room is so tasteful you're scared to touch anything. Held exclusively in shades of pastels, in the softest blues, pinks, and creams, a huge four-poster bed is pushed to one wall, flanked on both sides by nightstands. The opposite side of the room is covered in floor-to-ceiling French windows that offer a spectacular view of the grounds, powdered with snow. Somebody lit a fire in here too, and above the mantle…

"Oh, God," you squeak, staring at a huge oil painting depicting perhaps the most miserable-looking man you have ever seen. Margaret Thatcher and her iron lady posturings have nothing on this bloke.

"Right, that's Uncle Barnaby." Benedict deposits your suitcase on a stuffed armchair. "Us kids just call him Uncle Fester."

"Yeah," you say slowly. "That checks out."

Benedict laughs. "Sorry, you got stuck in this one. All the other guest rooms are in the West wing, and Mom figured you'd be more comfortable not being that far away from everybody else."

The West wing. You get the sudden, spectacular image of yourself in an ankle-length lace nightgown wandering down stone hallways with nothing to light the way but a single, flickering candle. If you can fantasize about Gothic romances set in your own home, you decide, you should start thinking about downsizing.

"Right." Benedict runs a hand through his hair, and you track the movement, watching the muscles rippling in his forearm. He's wearing a grey cashmere sweater, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sight could make a stronger woman swoon. "I'll let you get settled in."

You don't want him to leave. All your time spent with Benedict is stolen, clipped, bookended by family dinners, or movie nights with his sister. The closest you've ever gotten to him was when you all crowded into the back of a cab on your way to a club, his thigh pressed against your own and his arm awkwardly angled somewhere behind your neck. Just half an inch of space between you, but your ribcage cracked open like somebody wedged a crowbar in there.

"Where are you sleeping?" It's a desperate attempt to prolong the moment, to keep him in this room alone with you for just a little longer, and you regret the question the moment it's out. Either he now thinks you're a stalker or, even worse, that you're secretly trying to draw up a layout plan of the estate to prepare for your inevitable heist. You wouldn't be surprised if there were several million pounds in cash stashed in a vault somewhere in Aubrey Hall, and rent in London has reached astronomic heights. Who could blame you for indulging?

But Benedict doesn't look concerned. Instead, he pauses just a step or two from you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and answers, "I'm right next door. Just knock if you need help with anything."

For a split second, Benedict's hand finds the curve of your spine, fingertips pressing through the thick knit sweater and painting a shiver down your back. It goes through you like a bolt of lightning.

Then he draws back as if nothing happened, gives you a crooked, curling smile, and leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

You drop down onto the mattress with a groan, bury your face in the 400-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, and pretend you're not actively trying to strangle yourself.

"Well," you mumble, voice muffled by the pillowcase, "Happy Christmas to me."

Christmas dinner with the Bridgertons is a bizarre experience. Everybody talks over each other, Hyacinth and Gregory chuck spoonfuls of peas at each other, Colin spills a whole ladle of gravy across the tablecloth, Anthony and his wife Kate spend half the meal whispering to each other and the other half stealing kisses, Eloise starts debating politics with Simon (who isn't half as stuffy as you expected a duke to be) at the top of her lungs, and Benedict drinks at least five glasses of sparkling wine before his mother takes the bottle from him.

You watch the whole thing with a feeling in your stomach like a bullet wound.

After a dessert of indefinable mush Hyacinth swore up and down was her homemade plum pudding, you move to a large sitting room. There is a second tree in here, this one a little less obnoxious and covered in homemade ornaments, the exploits of eight children and countless pre-Christmas arts and crafts sessions. The crackling fire paints flushes into the family's cheeks and gives the whole room a homey, rustic atmosphere that seems at odds with the overall elegance of the house.

Everybody is allowed to open one present. You think you see the instantaneous regret on Violet Bridgerton's face when her youngest son unpacks his new portable speakers with a whoop of joy loud enough to bust several eardrums. Watching the pandemonium unfold before you, you sit squished into a corner of the sofa beside Eloise, your hands trapped under your thighs, and try not to feel out of place.

Maybe this was a mistake, you think to yourself. Maybe you shouldn't have intruded on a family holiday as you are, regardless of Eloise's invitation. It must have been a pity thing anyway, what with you saying you were just going to stay in London for Christmas, in your shitty flat with the broken radiator and the leaking pipes. You pretty much guilt-tripped her into that by mentioning the frozen curry you were planning to get from the Tesco frozen section, now that you think about it, and God, you were definitely forcing yourself on them, weren't you, and they were all just way too nice to mention it and…

"Here," Violet's voice tears you from the downward rollercoaster ride about to plunge neck-deep into the pond of anxiety. "Merry Christmas."

She places a flat present in your lap, wrapped in deer-print paper.

"Oh," you say softly, and your chest feels tight like somebody is pulling a cord taut around it, "you didn't have to…."

"It's just a little thing." Violet has the kind of smile so warm you suspect it could melt ice cubes within seconds. "We're so happy to have you for Christmas."

You feel self-conscious as you unwrap the present, aware of all eyes on you. The paper reveals a picture frame, simple yet tasteful dark wood that feels smooth and supple against your skin. Behind the glass is a watercolor painting, a study of a tulip. The pink petals seem almost life-like in their detail as if a drop of dew should drip off the edge and roll down the picture any moment. You can practically feel it, wet and cold against your fingertip.

"Eloise said you're very fond of flowers. I thought you might find a place for it in your room."

For a head-spinning, gut-wrenching moment, you think you're going to cry. "I… thank you," you choke out. "It's… lovely."

Violet smiles and pats your hand. "It wouldn't be Christmas without a present. You didn't think we'd forget you, did you?"

They move on to Colin, who tears at his wrapping paper with such eagerness he gets a papercut, but you feel stuck. There is a lump in your throat, and you clutch the picture too tightly. Somehow, you realize, you did think they'd forget you. Only that's not really right. To forget you, they'd have to think about you first, and you can't imagine any of the Bridgertons wasting a single thought on you, apart maybe from Eloise. Sure, you spend more time at their house than in your own flat, but that doesn't mean anything, does it? It's not like your own family misses you much this Christmas. You've gotten more than used to being invisible.

"I want this one," Benedict says and, to your horror, lifts one of the presents you left there earlier. "I like the sustainable vibe."

Feeling obliged to get presents for everyone, you'd spent yesterday running through a department store for at least three hours. Mostly it's boxes of chocolates and a book for Eloise, stuff that diminished your already meager savings more acutely than you'd planned for. And then it had come time to choose something for Benedict, and you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time agonizing over possible presents. By the time you'd made it home, only to realize you'd forgotten to get wrapping paper, all the stores were closed. So you'd wrapped everything in the newspaper the ancient couple living next door hadn't picked up off their welcome mat yet. They're in Cardiff visiting her sister for the holiday, and you're supposed to be watering their plants while they're gone. Which is a task that might be a bit hard to accomplish, seeing as you're currently several hours outside of London.

"Oh, that's… that's mine," you pipe up, then immediately clear your throat. You've somehow managed to sound like a cartoon mouse. An especially squeaky, pathetic cartoon mouse.

Benedict glances at you, gives you a smile he most certainly inherited from his mother, and says, "Perfect."

Whatever that's supposed to mean.

He has a similar approach to unwrapping presents as his younger brother, but at least he doesn't injure himself in the process. As you watch him, your heart beats somewhere in your throat. Suddenly you're right back where Violet picked you up, on the verge of anxiety about to perform one of history's most spectacular dives.

It might be dramatic to say that your whole life depends on whether your best friend's older brother likes the gift you picked out for him, but apparently, that's where you are now. In the most pathetic turn of events of all time, you're pretty sure the trajectory of your future hinges on this moment.

The improvised wrapping paper floats to the carpet like that plastic bag Katy Perry immortalized in her magnum opus Firework. For a moment, Benedict says nothing, staring at the gift in his hand.

"I can… If you don't like it, I can just return it," you say, even as you start frantically searching your memory for where in the world you put that receipt. Your heart is pumping blood through your veins at a pace that makes you dizzy. "It's not a big deal. It's fine, it was…."

Benedict holds the box of watercolours in front of his chest like some sacred artefact. He opens the lid and peers inside, examining the different shades wordlessly. Then he closes it, looks up, and right at you. A beat passes with him just looking at you, with your heart fluttering its feathery wings against the cage of your teeth, with you squirming in the spot. And then Benedict smiles, wide and bright and honest. "I love it," he says, "thank you. It's fantastic."

Your chest caves in.

"Oh," you whisper, half deaf over the rushing of blood in your ears. "Okay. Cool."

For a second, it looks like Benedict will say something else, like there are words forming on the tip of his tongue, and you feel like you're clinging to a cliff's edge by the tips of your nails. But then Hyacinth pulls the box from his hands to look at the paint, to run her fingers over the shades, and the moment passes.

If somebody asked you later, you wouldn't be able to tell them how the rest of the unwrapping goes. It's all a blur, a mirage of different exclamation and laughter and more or less well-thought-out presents that passes in front of you like a supercut, all of it accompanied by a playlist consisting mainly of Mariah Carey and Michael Bublé. You stay in your spot on the couch, still sitting on your hands, trying not to think about the way Benedict looked at you. Trying not to dream.

When the younger kids rope Colin and Anthony into a game of charades that requires an exorbitant amount of physical movement, you help the others clean up the abandoned shambles of the dinner table. Benedict is doing the dishes in the kitchen when you enter carrying a pale of plates so high you see nothing but the dried gravy Jackson Pollock sprinkled all across the edges.

"Careful." Benedict's fingers brush yours as he takes the plates from you and places them gingerly on the countertop.

"Thanks," you mutter, then spend just one second staring at the broad expanse of his back, holding your hands uselessly in front of you, before turning back toward the dining room, intent on finding something else to occupy yourself with.

Benedict's voice stops you. "Do you want to help me?"

You whirl on your heel embarrassingly fast, clearing your throat when you find him smiling at you. "Uhm. Sure."

He nods toward a dish towel on a rack and asks, "I wash, you dry?"

"Yeah. Sounds amazing." For a second, you genuinely consider slamming your head into one of the kitchen cabinets. Since when has drying dishes ever sounded amazing?

Benedict gives no indication that he thinks you might be the weirdest girl he's ever met, though, so you take that as consolation. He's rolled up the sleeves of his dark blue button-down again, his arms elbow-deep in the sudsy water of the sink, and you pretend not to notice the droplets running down his skin. Outside the window, snow falls in thick ribbons, covering more of the grounds. The faint sound of the Bridgertons enjoying themselves drifts into the kitchen's silence.

You accept the pan he was washing and start running your towel over it. A wet stain soaks into your dress where you press the Teflon-coated edge to your stomach.

"We can put the plates in the dishwasher later," Benedict says, filling the silence gaping like a canyon. "But I think the big stuff we should do by hand. Pots and pans and all that."

Unsure how to answer, you nod. Your mind is whirling, reeling, somersaulting. For so long, you've wanted to be alone with Benedict, have imagined it, dreamed it, conjured it up in your mind. And now here you are, and you can't seem to open your mouth. And it's not even like you have nothing to say, quite the opposite. You have so much to say you don't know where to start.

Like: You look great in that shirt. I hope you like my present. I think you're a great artist. If the Torys keep passing that PM cap around instead of letting us vote, I'm going to scream. I think capybaras are criminally underrated, and I'm glad they're having their moment on social media. How do you feel about turnips? I might have been half in love with you since the first time I met you.

Benedict, putting an end to your spiral, says, "It can be a lot, right?"

"Sorry?"

"The whole thing." He jerks his head in the direction of the dining room, an indulgent smile on his face that tells you all you need to know about Benedict's feelings for his family. "The whole Bridgerton Christmas chaos."

You shrug, lowering your head so he can't see your face, can't see whatever emotion might betray you. "I like it."

"Even Hyacinth's plum pudding? I think that could pass for a murder weapon."

"Yeah," you say, and find that your voice is much too sincere. "Even that. It's not… I've never had this." You cut yourself off immediately, not even sure why you said it in the first place. It's much too easy to be honest with Benedict, and it scares you in ways you can't describe.

"What do you mean?"

It feels like an impossible task to look at him, so you don't. You're too afraid of what you'll find - pity, maybe, or incomprehension. How could someone like Benedict possibly ever understand?

If you turn on a TV around Christmas time and watch a commercial or a movie, if you walk down a shopping street and look at the advertisements playing on screens or smiling from posters, if you pick up a holiday-themed novel, there is a certain feeling being sold to you: of warmth and joy and community. Of smiling grandparents and colorful sweaters. Of presents heaping like molehills beneath gleaming trees. Of roasts and mashed potatoes and peas and carrots and Christmas puddings and beaming families devouring them in perfect harmony. It's the same feeling you encountered right here in this house, in the perfect rooms populated with perfect Bridgertons. In those images, people are always happy.

Christmas, to you, has always been terrifying.

"It's not…." You hesitate. "In my family," you say finally, and hope your voice sounds steadier than it feels, "it's never been good. It was just a lot of yelling, and… I've never had this. The laughing together and enjoying each other's company and all that stuff. The love. And I… I look at it, and I can tell, you see? That it's just so normal to you guys, I think maybe you don't even notice it. But I do. And it just… it doesn't really seem fair."

You don't wait for an answer, instead turning away from him in a way you hope makes it clear that this is not an avenue of conversation you want to pursue. It's like you've just stripped yourself bare in front of him, exposed yourself to his ridicule and his gaze under the unforgiving kitchen lights. It's like you have handed him a map to the innermost parts of yourself. All those ugly, pathetic parts you've spent your life hiding.

Benedict seems to understand because the next thing he says is, "Thank you again for the present."

For a beat, you close your eyes. There, you think. You've got what you wanted. He's ignoring it. He's looking away.

You chance a glance at his side profile, at the furrow between his brows as he scrubs at a particularly stubborn bit of charred carrot sticking to the pot. "You're welcome," you answer. "I'm glad you didn't think it was shitty."

"Why would I think that? It's perfect." When you chuckle, shrug, when the self-deprecating note sneaks into the sound, Benedict ceases his scrubbing to look at you. "I mean it. It's really special."

"It's not even…." You hesitate, wondering if maybe you're fishing for compliments here. Whatever, the validation feels nice, and Benedict seems willing to give it to you, even if he probably finds you annoying. "It's not even a very creative gift. All things considered, you know?"

Everybody knows Benedict likes painting, even though there was some botched stint with the Academy a few years back. He eventually dropped out, but you don't think his aspirations changed.

He shrugs and turns back to the pot. "It is to me. My family all seem to think I'm not serious about the whole art thing, so it's nice to be acknowledged. It doesn't happen that often."

You pause to glance at him. Thrown into relief by the golden spill of the light, bracketed on one side by the winter night, for a moment, he's so pretty you feel your stomach clench.

"But you're so…" You break off, swallowing. Your mouth is so dry your tongue sticks to the roof. "Everybody sees you."

"What do you mean?" Benedict looks at you with real confusion scrunching up his face, and you feel almost stupid.

Helplessly, you shrug, dry the last drops of water off the pan, and put it down on the counter. "Just… People always notice you, you know? When you enter a room or when you go somewhere. I just thought… I thought you must feel really acknowledged. Like all of the time. I don't know."

Your heart is beating so furiously that you wonder if he can hear it. Embarrassment leaves a bitter taste on your tongue as the words escape you. Now he really should file a restraining order, you think. It would be perfectly justified, with you exposing just how much attention you've been paying to everything he does. God, you're a freak, aren't you?

When he smiles at you, there's something sad to the expression. "I've noticed," he says, forming the words carefully, "that what most people acknowledge about me is my family. But that's not the same as acknowledging me. That's not the same as seeing me."

For a moment, you imagine what it must be like. There was such warmth in that room earlier, such joy and love, but there were so many people, too. All of them loud and charming and lovely. All of them wonderful. All of them captivating in their own way. How easy must it be to get swallowed up by the sheer force of all of them? How easy must it be to feel passed over as the second of eight children, always surpassed by somebody else? Always somebody cleverer or funnier or more lovable? Sometimes, you think, it must be a lonely thing to never be alone. Sometimes, you think, he must feel invisible.

"I do," you say, and your face feels hot, your voice sounds far away, your palms are sweaty. "I see you."

Something in Benedict's gaze changes, something transforms, and then he whispers your name, holds it in his mouth like something precious. "I think you…." He swallows, and his eyes rake over your face as if he's searching for something, as if he's hoping for something, and finally, he pushes on, his voice as uncertain as you feel, "I think there's so much more here than you realize. Because I do, too. I see you. And I know you're lonely, and I know you're scared, maybe even as scared as I am, but I think... I think maybe you don't have to be."

It's like being on a frozen lake, right in the middle, side by side, moving step by step, nothing solid in the world but his hand in yours.

He takes a step closer to you at the same time that you move forward, his hip bumping yours, his gaze on your mouth, his knuckles knocking against yours, your breaths hitched, your hands shaking, your head spinning…

"I've got more dishes," Kate chirps, stepping into the kitchen. Immediately, you and Benedict jump apart. You busy yourself with drying the pot furiously as he accepts the new pile of tableware, eyes on anything but you. Then, completely ignoring her brother-in-law, Kate wraps an arm around your shoulder and leads you away. "I'm supposed to tell you guests don't have to do dishes. And that's coming from the hostess herself."

If Kate noticed anything off between you two, she doesn't comment. But you could swear you see her casting a long, searching look at you when she deposits you on the couch.

You spend a little longer enjoying the overall Christmas charm of the night. You and Eloise pull apart a cracker together, put the paper crowns on each other's heads, and sit on the rug by the fireplace for hours, chatting, ignoring the general mess around you. When Violet starts making people sing Christmas songs whether they want to or not, you excuse yourself. You've been hiding yawns in the crook of your elbow for the past half hour anyway.

On his way back in from the bathroom, Benedict almost bumps into you in the doorway.

"Oh," he says, steadying you with a hand on your shoulder, and then you both say sorry simultaneously. By now, the eggnog and the absolute shame of whatever passed between you in the kitchen have caught up to you and you giggle like a school girl, staring at the bit of skin exposed where his shirt is unbuttoned.

"Off to bed?" Benedict asks. His voice is gentle enough that, for a moment, the yearning resonates somewhere in your bones.

You nod. "I'm tired."

"Okay." It might be wishful thinking, but he sounds almost disappointed to your ears. "Sleep well, yeah?"

It's definitely wishful thinking. Right?

"Hey, Ben!" You glance over your shoulder to find Hyacinth grinning at the two of you with something in her eyes you can only describe as the glint of the devil. A dawning sense of horror sends a shiver down your spine. "You're, like, right under the mistletoe, you realize that, yeah?"

Following the line pointed out by her finger with your eyes, you feel the dread pooling in your stomach. And lo and behold, above your eyes, fixed to the doorway, is an unassuming twig of mistletoe.

Have you mentioned that you feel like you're in a Hallmark movie? One with an exceptionally uncreative screenwriter?

When you finally tear your wide eyes away from the mistletoe, feeling helpless, you find Benedict already looking at you. "Ignore her," he says, smiling the smile of the long-suffering. "Hyacinth just wants to stir up trouble. It's fine, nobody's going to make us…."

"Well." From her perch on the arm of Anthony's chair, a saint-like expression on her face, Kate looks once from you to Benedict. "It is tradition."

And then, to your horror, she winks at you. Your stomach plummets down to your feet.

Benedict stares at Kate like she just told him she thinks the moon landing was faked. "I… I don't think…."

Anthony, after exchanging some private glance probably only decipherable to spouses, shrugs and leans back in his chair. "I agree," he says. "It is tradition."

"And a very nice tradition, too," Daphne affirms, crossing her legs and taking a dainty sip from her wine glass. No wonder not even the gossip columns ever have anything bad to say about her. She's perfect. "It would be a shame to let that opportunity go to waste."

With a look on his face you can describe only as aghast, Benedict turns to you. “I… uhm… Is it… okay?"

If you lived in the nineteenth century, you'd be asking a servant to bring you your smelling salts by now. Slowly, you nod, even though you're so dizzy, you're not sure you don't completely mess up the movement. "It… it's fine, yeah," you agree.

Benedict's hand finds the side of your face. You're so aware of all the eyes on you that, for a moment, you think you might be sick all over Benedict's shoes. He's so close you can feel his breath on your face and smell his cologne. Your toes are going numb.

"You sure?" he mumbles, leaning even closer, only an inch separating you. He has very kind eyes. If you said no now, you know he wouldn't even be mad.

Beyond words, beyond any thought past oh god I can't believe this is really happening oh dear god he's about to kiss me, you just nod.

"Oh, for god's sake!" That's Simon. "Just kiss the girl and be done with it, Benedict."

So he does. It's little more than a quick press of dry mouth to dry mouth, but your heart almost beats out of your chest. You feel his fingers tighten against the side of your face, feel his slightly-chapped lips, taste the eggnog and the chocolate and the wine. Then, when he pulls away, just for a beat, he lingers, his exhale a gasp, and for that instant, it's like you're the last two people on the planet, like he's the only thing that matters, like nothing existed before you and nothing will after you're gone. Suspended in time.

"Great!" Eloise calls, throwing her hands into the air. "First, Colin starts going out with Penelope, and now Benedict is snogging you. Will you people ever leave my friends alone?"

A collective burst of laughter travels through the room, and then the chattering returns, the paused music resumes, and you stand there, unsure what to do with yourself, unsure how to continue on when it feels like the whole world just shifted an inch to the left and nothing is where it's supposed to be anymore.

Benedict's hand is solid against the small of your back. "Will you… will you stay a little longer?" he asks, his voice hesitant.

It doesn't sound like he just means tonight. You don't think he just means tonight.

You swallow, exhale a shaky breath. And then you say, keeping your eyes on nothing but him, "Yeah. I'll stay."

Benedict beams. It's a sight that lights up his whole face, rivaling that ridiculous Christmas tree out in the Bridgerton's entrance hall. "Lovely," he says. For a beat, his eyes flicker back to your mouth, but then he just grins. "Merry Christmas."

You can't help it - you laugh. There's relief in the sound, the kind you haven't felt in a long, long time. Here, with the fire crackling and Gregory and Francesca delivering what could perhaps be the worst rendition of All I Want for Christmas Is You the world has ever known, it feels a little like maybe, just maybe, being seen isn't half as scary as you thought it was.

"Yeah," you agree and slide your fingers into the spaces between his. "Merry Christmas, Benedict."

You never thought something like Christmas at Aubrey Hall could exist outside the hour-and-a-half runtime of Hallmark movies. But, God, are you happy you were wrong.

#bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fluff #christmas #mine #f:atl

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strrvnge · 1 year

Text

Christmas at 221B Baker Street

Sherlock isn't particularly fond of the whole concept of christmas. He finds it to be a pointless excuse of excessive buying, meaningless superficial shows of affections through materials - but wait why are you and John dragging a christmas tree upstairs?

"I think it'd look great in that corner don't you think?"

"We can't, it's part of Sherlock's silent treatment for when I ignore him and Mrs Hudson's gone. He looks outside while humming shsu to annoy me while I'm working I don't know what he'd do without"

"What do you think you're doing?" Sherlock asks storming out of his bedroom only to find John in the ugliest christmas sweater to every be seen and you with a christmas headband on your head

"Decorating for Christmas of course"you said

"John I thought we agreed we wouldnt participate to such stupid thing"

"No, no you said that I was just nodding my head while zoning out. There is no way I'm skipping christmas''

"You can help us if you want. It can be fun as might not be that bad"

"I highly doubt that, but anyway I'd rather do anything else but this"

"Well if you don't want to you can sit somewhere quietly while me and Y/N do our thing"

So like a sulky child that isn't played by their friends he sits at his armchair opposite you two, pretending to be looking through one of his latest composition while stealing a few glances at you and John talking and giggling while setting up the tree completely unaware of his

And you know him he isn't the one to ask for attention much less admit that he's wrong (and well whatever you and john are doing surely looks interesting) so he sits there tutting or dry coughing anything really that could catch your attention and invite him again.of course the sxolia are frequent; "I wouldn't do it that way if I were you" " that color is dull, only a dog would choose it and that's because they are colourblind" "I don't think they go that way"

"Then why don't you come to do it better?"John says, sighing annoyed

"Who me?! No, no, no I couldn't care less"

"We should put on music!" You exclaim trying not to laugh with the two of them.

Eventually he comes to help you after five watching you struggling trying to put a tinsel that was too high for you to reach.

"Thanks for that."

"Come on don't be Grinch (i hope you get the pun) and have fun with us"

So it might have been very hard for you to convince him however here he is with a santa's cap sitting on the floor trying to untangle the christmas lights.

Of course you end up helping him escape after almost strangling himself

"For someone who calls themselves a genius you look like you're really struggling with this"

and then you are explaining why they should go around the tree and not vertically just because he finds it more practical.

"If you don't shut up i'll strangle you myself"

"But Y/N-!"

At some point you decide to make hot chocolate only to find there are no marshmallows in the house.

"Why would I have marshmallows? What am I? A child"

"You certainly act like one" you hear John mumble

"You don't put marshmallows in your chocolate? Why? You hate love?"

So you quickly run to buy some and coming hack ro the apartments you shove some snow down Sherlock's shirt that you picked outside.

"For God's sake you better run for your life Y/N because I swear-!" He yells running behind you but your loud giggles cover his voice as you start running, around the furniture and then from one room to another, jumping on the armchairs and the couch, the bed and maybe even on a table so he wouldn't catch you.

"If you kill me you'll be on the naughty list"

After that quick hunt and a 10 replays of all I want for christmas is you (you know that because after the ninths sherlock sweared it took just one time to hear that song before he rips his ears out and you wanted to see what would happen so you put it again) after all this the apartment looks like it came straight out of some cheesy christmas movie, with a gigantic tree and so many lights Sherlock swears the apartment might catch on fire.

The three of you are exhausted after all the fighting, caroling and decorating. You all sit with a cup of chocolate and your noses fogging the window's glass as you watch outside everything get all white from the snow.

"So if we're going to have a party I really don't want anderson to come" sherlock says

"Don't be cruel! You need to be good or santa won't come"

"Y/N you've been bringing this up worryingly too many times today for it to be a joke. I think there is something we should tell you"

#sherlock x you #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x you #dr strange x reader #benedict cumberbatch #sherlock bbc

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deancaskiss · 3 years

Text

Tinsel and Tourists - Chapter Fifteen

Word Count: 1,182

Cas’ POV

Link to ao3 / Link to masterpost

Bonus: Link to Destiel December Peppermint Ficlet Day 7 (posted earlier today if anyone wants some fluffy cuddles and peppermint candles)

Cas winced slightly, pouting at what would be a rather huge bruise forming across his thigh in the next few hours. But he was far more worried about Dean. He reached out, putting his hands on Dean’s chest and doing a quick once over. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” he asked quickly, moving his hands to cup Dean’s face.

“I’m fine,” Dean muttered, pushing Cas’ hands away forcefully. The movement was jarring, and it sent a spike of panic straight to Cas’ heart. Was Dean angry with him for letting him fall? Had he ruined their date? Dean did not trust him anymore?

“Dean, I'm so sorry-” Cas started to say, scrambling to try and pull himself up and away, but Dean’s hand shot out, grabbing Cas’ forearm and keeping him in place.

“Hey, no, it’s okay. Really. It’s alright. I uh- I overreacted because um-” Dean broke off, scrubbing his face with his free hand and letting out a strangled sound. “Goddammit. Because it’s embarrassing falling in front of you like that.”

Cas looked at Dean, really looked at him, and he noticed the dark stain to his cheeks and the way Dean’s eyes weren’t meeting his; cheeks flushed not from the wind but from shame.

Cas reached out again, letting his fingers settle on Dean’s jaw, and this time, Dean leaned into the touch. “Hey, it’s okay, Dean. Seriously. I’ve wiped out so many times on the ice it’s unreal. It was my fault, not yours. I promised not to let you fall, and I did. I’m sorry, Dean. I should’ve taught you how to stop first.”

Finally, Dean’s eyes met his, and Cas let out a breath of relief he didn’t even realize he was holding onto. There was no anger in Dean’s eyes; only a hint of shyness.

“Are you sure you’re okay? Not hurt, are you?” Cas pressed.

Dean shook his head. “Just a bruised ass and a bruised ego. But I’m alright.”

Nodding in relief, Cas made to move again, and Dean yanked on him harder. “Where are you going, good-looking?”

Now it was Cas’ turn to flush, cheeks tingeing pink at Dean’s words. He kept saying things like that; calling him handsome and hot and good-looking, and it was making Cas’ head spin. How could someone as sinfully gorgeous at Dean be calling him things like that? Dean was the attractive one here, and God, was Dean handsome. Even sprawled out across the ice, Dean was still devastatingly beautiful.

“I’m getting up so that I can help you up. I believe I still owe you a kiss. If you still want me to kiss you, that is?” Cas asked, chewing at his lower lip nervously. Maybe Dean wouldn’t want Cas to kiss him anymore. Especially after he’d promised not to let Dean fall and yet they’d both ended up crashing to the ground.

Dean shook his head, and Cas instantly felt his heart shatter. God, he really had ruined it. How could he have been so stupid? The first guy he’d gone and fallen for in years and he’d managed to screw it up on the first date.

But then Dean’s hands were on his jacket, pulling him in closer. “I’d rather you kiss me right here, right now,” Dean said, drawing Cas’ face in until their noses bumped together softly.

Cas’ heart stuttered to a stop in his chest, before leaping into his throat and beating so fast Cas felt dizzy. “You- you still want me to kiss you?”

“Do you really think one fall on the ice was going to make me not want you? God, Cas. I’m freaking crazy about you, and all I want is for you to kiss me again,” Dean murmured.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. If Cas thought his heart was beating fast before, it all but felt like it was bursting in his chest now. Had Dean really just said that? Oh God. Cas wasn’t just falling anymore. Nope. He was head over heels for Dean. Absolutely smitten.

“I’m crazy about you, too, Dean. Like utterly gone for you,” Cas admitted, words slipping from his mouth unfiltered. It was true though. Cas couldn’t help it. He was so into Dean it was unreal. Completely infatuated.

“Then kiss me, Cas.”

And Cas did, closing the gap and locking their lips together in a searing kiss. Their lips glided together, tongues just ever so softly brushing against each other. Dean let out a little groan, and Cas all but snapped, leaning further forward and kissing Dean harder; mouths breaking apart and instantly crashing back together again.

The kisses melded from soft and sweet to desperate and deep, and Cas’ head was spinning with ecstasy. Catching Dean’s lower lip between his own, Cas licked across Dean’s lip, nipping slightly before finally breaking the kiss as his lungs burned for air. He gasped in a sharp breath of air, before leaning in and kissing Dean once more; this time gentle and slow, just their lips pressing together and sliding against each other before Cas pulled away.

Dean looked up at Cas with starry eyes, and Cas felt the breath get knocked from his lungs all over again. “Did I make up for letting you fall?” Cas asked.

“God, yes,” Dean said, smiling brightly as he pressed their foreheads together. “Best damn kiss of my life.”

Cas felt himself flush again, and he moved to hide his head in Dean’s shoulder. “Every kiss with you is the best of my life,” Cas admitted, words pressed against Dean’s throat.

“You know, not that I wouldn’t stay here making out with you for the rest of the night, but I’m getting extremely cold now,” Dean said with a laugh.

Shit. Cas hadn’t even realized they were both still sitting on the ice. “Let me help you up?” Cas asked, waiting for Dean to nod yes before he disentangled himself out from Dean’s embrace. With practiced ease, Cas used his skates to push himself back up, before he settled his weight and offered Dean his hand. “I won’t let you fall again, I promise.”

“I trust you,” Dean said, linking their fingers together as he let Cas yank him up into his personal space. “Hey you,” Dean said when he was pressed up against Cas again.

“Hey handsome,” Cas replied, ghosting his mouth over Dean’s before leaning back with a teasing smile. “I still have that hot cocoa. What do you think? Time to get off the ice and warm up?”

The grin that crossed Dean’s lips was blinding, and it made Cas’ heart stutter in his chest all over again. “Hot cocoa and more mistletoe. Sounds like Heaven to me,” Dean said.

Cas cocked his head even though he was smiling like an idiot. “Oh? What makes you think I’m going to use that to kiss you again?”

Dean smirked, licking across his lower lip, and Cas tracked the movement with a sharp breath. “Well, if you don’t use it to kiss me, then I’m stealing it so I can kiss you.

Tag List Part 1 Below- (please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the list!)

Tag List: @cas-deserved-so-much-more @hello-x-sunshine @bibelphegor @likepurplemuses @expectingtofly @neo-neo-neo @shadowywerewolfqueen @a-sweet-indisposition @feraladoration @xojo

@oganizediguana @paintdriesfaster @adsp-destielcockles @destielangst @im-your-huckle-berry @justa-crayon @dea-stiel @superduckbatrebel @destielfactory @miluiel-erynion

@y-yo-a-ti-cas67 @cockleslovesdestiel @toxic-nebula @misha-moose-dean-burger-lover @enchantinghairdoherringwombat @proudace @galaxymysteryelephant @aelysianmuse @ramennoodles-dean-cas @you-changedmedean

@gmos-winter-wonderland @deansotherotherblog @trekkie24 @geo-val @dizzypinwheel @hermionevaldez9 @gimmeprozac @iamsherlockedondoctorwho @dickspeightjrs @imbiowaresbitch

@destielle @hopefuldreamers-world @organicpurplepants @dean-you-assbutt-cas-loves-you @shut-up-dean @sapphirecobalt-1 @eshaninjer @spnobsessed50 @mishka @holygoddessofvictory

@jayus-fandom-writer @2musiclover2 @rainbowscas @bennedict @cassiecasyl @jensenacklesruinedmylife @can-i-just-stay-in-the-corner @chaoticdean @destiel-trash-asf @tlakhtwritesdestiel

@bri-winchester @50shadesofcockles @trasherasswood @spittingpagan @castielstolemyheart @becky-srs @phoenix13 @jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets @deancasology @top13zepptraxx

@love-neve-dies @good-things-do-happen-dean @tearsofgrace @thedirtytrenchcoat @a-porno-with-the-russian-mafia @on-a-bender @moi-the-bard @one-more-offbeat-anthem @naturallyathief @queen-rowenas

#spn #christmas #date #wip #deancas #hallmark #destiel

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twoidiotwriters1 · 3 years

Text

Written In The Stars CXIX (Harry Potter xF!Oc)

Words: 3,473

Series’ Masterlist

Previous Chapter // Next Chapter

Listen to: ‘Like To Be You’ -by Shawn Mendes ft. Julia Michaels

Chapter Seventeen: Resolutions.

"So here's the plan," Mel whispered to Hermione as they followed Hagrid deeper into the forest, "if things get out of control, make sure everyone goes back safely and I obliviate them as soon as we reach the castle..."

"Don't be stupid," Hermione said. "Now's not the time for jokes. Oh, I really hope Hagrid knows what he's doing!"

"Gather roun', gather roun'," said Hagrid. "Now, they'll be attracted by the smell o' the meat but I'm goin' ter give 'em a call anyway, 'cause they'll like ter know it's me..."

He let out a high-pitched shout and everyone stood there in anxious silence waiting to see what would happen. Mel's ears picked up the sound of dead leaves crunching, even though no one seemed to be moving. She heard a quiet huff and a few branches breaking.

"Why doesn't Hagrid call again?" Ron whispered beside her.

She felt someone press against her and she jumped lightly, Neville had found his way towards her and now was tightly gripping her arm. He was staring at some point a few feet away from them. That's when she remembered something from the first night back in the castle, when Harry had mentioned something about... what was it? A horse?

She turned to look at him, Harry was eagerly looking around, trying to see if someone else was noticing. Mel spoke up.

"What are they?" It had been a long time since she'd heard her own voice sounding so frightened.

"Oh, an' here comes another one!" Hagrid exclaimed. "Now... put yer hands up, who can see 'em?"

A total of three people raised their hands. Neville, Harry, and a Slytherin boy.

"Yeah... yeah, I knew you'd be able ter, Harry," Hagrid grumbled. "An' you too, Neville, eh? An' —"

"Excuse me, but what exactly are we supposed to be seeing?" Malfoy sneered.

Mel watched the meat Hagrid had thrown onto the grass as it was ripped off piece by piece by some invisible creature, Parvati gasped.

"What's doing it? What's eating it?" She asked in terror.

"Thestrals," said Hagrid. "Hogwarts has got a whole herd of 'em in here. Now, who knows — ?"

"But they're really, really unlucky!" Parvati exclaimed. "They're supposed to bring all sorts of horrible misfortune on people who see them. Professor Trelawney told me once —"

"No, no, no! Tha's jus' superstition, that is, they aren' unlucky, they're dead clever an' useful! 'Course, this lot don' get a lot o' work, it's mainly jus' pullin' the school carriages unless Dumbledore's takin' a long journey an' don' want ter Apparate — an' here's another couple, look —"

Parvati yelped. "I think I felt something, I think it's near me!"

"Don' worry, it won' hurt yeh," Hagrid smiled. "Righ', now, who can tell me why some o' you can see them an' some can't?" Hermione raised a hand. "Go on then."

"The only people who can see thestrals are people who have seen death."

Mel should've known that a creature with such fame had to be related to death. Still, far from scared, Mel was intrigued, she knew what it would take to be able to see them, and yet, part of her wished she could.

"Tha's exactly right. Ten points ter Gryffindor. Now, thestrals —"

"Hem, hem." An unpleasant tension settled on Mel's shoulders. Umbridge had arrived. "Hem, hem."

"Oh hello!" Hagrid beamed.

"You received the note I sent to your cabin this morning? Telling you that I would be inspecting your lesson?"

Mel didn't like the way Umbridge talked to him, she clenched her fists and took a deep breath.

"Oh yeah! Glad yeh found the place all righ'! Well, as you can see — or, I dunno — can you? We're doin' thestrals today —"

"I'm sorry?" Umbridge dramatically leaned forward and put a hand on her ear. "What did you say?"

Mel gripped the hand that Neville kept firmly around her forearm.

"Er — thestrals!" Hagrid repeated loudly. "Big — er — winged horses, yeh know!"

Hagrid flapped his arms as if they were wings, Umbridge quickly started to write that down.

"'has... to... resort... to... crude... sign... language...'"

"Well... anyway..." said Hagrid, blushing a little. "Erm... what was I sayin'?"

"'Appears... to... have... poor... short... term... memory...'"

She hadn't been so rude to any of the other teachers and Mel was wondering exactly why was she giving Hagrid such a terrible time when it came to her. Of course, she hated Hagrid, at this point everyone knew he was a half-giant and Umbridge was the biggest piece of racist rubbish she'd ever met, she wanted to get rid of him.

"Please continue teaching as usual. I am going to walk" She pretended to walk. "among the students... and ask them questions."

"Neville," Mel whispered. "I need you to let go of my arm."

"Why?"

"Because if I blow up, I don't want to get you in trouble," She growled.

"Do you find that you are able to understand Professor Hagrid when he talks?" Umbridge asked out loud to Pansy.

"No... because... well... it sounds... like grunting a lot of the time..." Pansy was shaking with silent laughter.

"Don't do it, Mel!" Neville warned her. "If you get in trouble you won't be able to attend the D.A. this week!"

"Er... yeah... good stuff abou' thestrals. Well, once they're tamed, like this lot, yeh'll never be lost again. 'Mazin' senses o' direction, jus' tell 'em where yeh want ter go —"

"Assuming they can understand you, of course," said Malfoy.

Mel made a movement to reach for her wand and Neville gripped her arm with unexpected strength. That caught Umbridge attention, she walked up to them with a smile.

"You can see the thestrals, Longbottom, can you? Whom did you see die?"

"That's a personal question," Mel replied. "I don't think Neville has to answer that if he doesn't want to."

Umbridge raised a brow with disinterest.

"You can't see them, Miss Dumbledore, am I correct? Well, at least that's one mental detriment we don't have to worry about in you..."

"Excuse m—" Mel started, but Neville was quick to step in.

"My grandad," He retorted. "That's whom I saw..."

"And what do you think of them?" Umbridge acted like her insult to Mel hadn't happened.

"Erm," Neville glanced between Mel and Hagrid. "Well, they're... er... okay..."

"'Students... are... too... intimidated... to... admit... they... are... frightened...'" muttered Umbridge, scribbling it down furiously.

"No!" Neville frowned. "No, I'm not scared of them — !"

"It's quite all right," Umbridge patted Neville's shoulder and Mel glared at the woman wishing she could do something. "Well, Hagrid, I think I've got enough to be getting along with... You will receive... the results of your inspection... in ten days' time."

She lifted all her fingers, smiling in that cold way of hers.

"I'm sorry," Neville mumbled next to her. "I didn't want to..."

"It wasn't your fault," Mel said roughly. Neville flinched, and she immediately softened her tone, reaching up to place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze a little. "You did nothing wrong, Nev."

"That foul, lying, twisting old gargoyle! You see what she's up to? It's her thing about half-breeds all over again — she's trying to make out Hagrid's some kind of dim-witted troll, just because he had a giantess for a mother — and oh, it's not fair, that really wasn't a bad lesson at all — I mean, all right, if it had been Blast-Ended Skrewts again, but thestrals are fine — in fact, for Hagrid, they're really good!" Hermione rambled as they made their way back to the castle.

"Umbridge said they're dangerous," said Ron.

"What does that bitter fat rat knows about magical creatures?" Mel spat. "I'm with Hagrid here, those are all superstitions..."

"Well, it's like Hagrid said, they can look after themselves," Hermione nodded in agreement, "and I suppose a teacher like Grubbly-Plank wouldn't usually show them to us before N.E.W.T. level, but, well, they are very interesting, aren't they? The way some people can see them and some can't! I wish I could."

"Do you?" Harry asked carefully.

Hermione winced.

"Oh Harry — I'm sorry — no, of course I don't — that was a really stupid thing to say —"

"It's okay, don't worry..."

"I'm surprised so many people could see them," said Ron. "Three in a class —"

"Neville was extremely sweet, helping Hagrid out and trying to keep me away from detention," Mel lowered her gaze, her fists tightly closed. "I'm so sick of that woman..."

"Weasley, we were just wondering," Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were walking up to them. "D'you reckon if you saw someone snuff it you'd be able to see the Quaffle better?"

"That's rich coming from you, you puny ferret— Did the beating Harry and George gave you whipped the memories of your lack of skill?"

Malfoy's smile faltered a bit, but it didn't vanish.

"Moody, are we?" He said. "I'd be too if I were losing my marbles..."

Ron made an attempt to move but Hermione and Harry held him back. Mel glared at the Slytherins as they walked past them.

"One day," She said through gritted teeth. "One day I'll get him... and Umbridge too."

"Peeves, this is my last warning!" Mel warned as the poltergeist attempted to strangle Ron with tinsel. "Go away or I'll make a fanged frisbee follow you for the rest of the year!"

Peeves stuck out his tongue but flew out of the Great Hall anyway. She was helping with the Christmas decorations, Flitwick had asked the prefects to lend a hand and so Ron and Hermione had been expected as well as Erick, though he had to keep his distance. Mel noticed he was more tired and jumpy than usual.

"You know, I have to admit it," Hermione said as she handed a few fairy lights to her. "I was worried about you dating Fred— Thought you'd get out of control, but you're getting better!"

"What do you mean?"

"She means you don't fight people as much as you used to," Ron replied bluntly. "By people, she means Harry."

"Yeah well, we don't talk at all," Mel shrugged. "Can we not discuss this? I don't feel comfortable discussing my love life..."

"I don't love talking about you snogging one of my brothers either," Ron scoffed. "Can't say I hadn't seen this coming though, I knew this would happen, Fred and George always flirt with you..."

"They flirt with everyone," She clarified. "They even tried to flirt his way out of detention with McGonagall once."

"That was different," Ron rolled his eyes. "They were joking then, with you it was clearly intentional."

"Clear, was it?" Mel snorted. "How come you're suddenly an expert?"

"I've always been good at it when it comes to you and my brothers," He replied matter-of-factly. "You were really obvious."

"You want to talk about obvious?" She glanced at Hermione to make sure she was distracted. "You really want to go there, Ronnie? I can list all the times you've been obvious..."

Ron's eyes widened.

"Either way," He quickly changed the subject. "Hermione's right. You're in a better mood now, and if dating my brother does that to you, then I have no problem with it."

"How kind of you," The girl replied distractedly

"You and I," Ginny sat down in front of her. "We're trying for the Quidditch team."

Mel choked on her pumpkin juice.

"What gave you that idea?"

"You have pent-up anger and being able to push someone out of their broom might help," Ginny smirked.

Mel lowered the book she'd been reading and thought about it. Hadn't she dreamed about trying out for the team a year prior? Well, yeah, but only because Harry said she could be a great addition. It didn't mean she was good... but it didn't hurt to try, though.

"Dunno, Ginny," She bit her lip. "I have so much to do already..."

"C'mon!" The girl insisted. "How many times have we stayed up till late talking about it? I know it's not exactly how we planned it, but we can't give away our chance!"

Hadn't she said she would find a way to get back at Malfoy and Umbridge? This was her chance, she could drag Malfoy's butt on the field.

"Oh, all right," Mel groaned. "But not a word of this to anyone! I don't want more people breathing on my neck, I have enough with them waiting to catch me and Fred snogging in the halls!"

"It's kind of weird how you never kiss," Ginny mentioned, a little giggle escaping her lips. "Never thought Fred wasn't into public displays of affection..."

"Oh, he is," Mel raised a brow. "But I refuse to give a show."

Most people were rendered speechless with Ginny's display, she had a natural talent. When it was her turn, Angelina asked what place she wanted.

"Er..." Mel shrugged. "I guess beater would be okay?"

"Really?" Angelina frowned. "You and Ginny are small and not too strong... the both of you are great options to be seekers."

"I suppose that's true," Mel looked back at her friend, who was watching from the stands. "Well, if you take both of us we can take turns to be seekers and beaters."

She'd meant that as a joke, but Angelina's eyes shone with excitement.

"You're right I could. You don't need to be all muscle to be a beater, you just need to have a decent aim... Okay, Mel, show me what you got and I might consider your idea."

First, she tried her skills as seeker and released the snitch at the other side of the field, throwing golf balls to distract her and see if she'd lose sight of the golden orb, but it was hard to miss its glint between a bunch of white dirty balls. She did this a total of four times. Nothing too impressive, two times the snitch was close to escaping, but she put up a good fight.

Then she was placed in the beater position, she was a bit clumsier with the bat and she didn't have the deathly aim George and Fred had, but she figured she could develop a decent one with time. It was up to Angelina though, Mel could only hope she hadn't looked like a complete idiot.

"Okay, gather round!" Angelina called after a few minutes.

Ginny and Mel stood side by side, holding hands and squeezing.

"Thank you all for coming," Angelina continued. "I've made a decision. It's my duty to choose those that did it best..."

Mel held her breath, already thinking about how the twins were going to tease her once they'd found out she'd been rejected.

"WE MADE IT!" Ginny was jumping around happily.

Mel was elated, she laughed loudly and let her friend do all the noise. She still couldn't believe she wasn't dreaming, she was part of the Quidditch team!

Officially, Ginny had the Seeker spot and Mel was beater along with Jack Sloper, but Ginny promised to take turns even if Mel had insisted on letting her take the spot completely.

"It's better this way," Ginny discussed. "If we practice in both, we'll be brilliant in more than one way!"

Mel was still flushed red and sweaty when she walked into the castle, she couldn't wait to find the twins and tell them the news...

"I'll go grab us something to eat on our the way to the D.A. meeting, keep going!" Ginny turned around and rushed to the Great Hall.

Mel kept walking, an easy-going smile on her face as she replayed the events of that morning, she felt herself floating, happier than she'd felt in weeks. Things were starting to get better, she was popular, and now she was part of the team, what else could she—

"Erick?" She watched as the boy appeared around the corner, his eyes glued to the parchment on his hands. "Erick, you won't guess what just happened!"

Forgetting all about discretion, Mel ran up to him ready to talk about the tryouts. Then, as she got closer, she noticed his face was strangely pale, and he was shaking.

"What's wrong?"

The boy looked up to her but his eyes were lacking their usual presence. His gaze was absent, when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. Erick cleared his throat and tried again.

"I... I just got this," He said. "During lunch... I went to the owlery to send a letter to Joseph... though probably my parents sent a letter to my aunt as well..."

"What is it?" She insisted.

Erick blinked furiously, and it was then she realized he was trying not to cry.

"I... I have to..." He cleared his throat again and shook his head. "My grandad, he..."

"I'm sorry," She said, skimming through the contents of the letter in shock. "I don't know what to say..."

"Mel!" Ginny appeared again, holding two sandwiches. "There you are! C'mon, we need to hurry!"

Mel gave a start, but Ginny didn't seem to notice Erick as she ran up to her and caught her arm, dragging her away from the boy. Mel barely had time to return the letter before Ginny pulled harder.

"What are you doing? Hurry, the meeting starts in five minutes!"

Mel was going to protest and go back to the boy, she looked over her shoulder to call his name and realized he was gone, she didn't know how he'd managed to disappear so quickly. She let Ginny take her away, thinking that tomorrow she would hopefully have the right words to comfort him.

When they arrived at the room of requirement Mel had finished eating even though it all had tasted like cardboard. She was no longer excited for her new position as a beater, and she wanted nothing but to end the meeting so she could go and look for her friend. He needed her.

"Okay," Harry started. "I thought this evening we should just go over the things we've done so far because it's the last meeting before the holidays and there's no point starting anything new right before a three-week break. What d'you think, Mel?"

"Hmm?" She looked up, desperately trying to remember what the hell Harry'd been saying. "Yeah, that's fine..." She replied absently, Harry stared at her with a small frown.

"We're not doing anything new?" Zacharias Smith asked in annoyance. "If I'd known that, I wouldn't have come..."

"We're all really sorry Harry and Mel didn't tell you, then," said Fred.

"We can practice in pairs," Harry continued, realizing Mel wasn't going to be helpful that night. "We'll start with the Impediment Jinx, just for ten minutes, then we can get out the cushions and try Stunning again."

While the group divided into pairs, Harry pulled her away from the crowd discretely.

"Mel," He repeated, his tone urgent. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," She blinked. "I just... I ran into Erick a few minutes ago..."

"Did he upset you?" Harry scowled. "What did he do?"

"Nothing," She grabbed his hand and pulled it away from her. "He got a letter this morning... his Grandad... I just need a moment, I'll be fine."

"...You can leave if you want."

"They need me here."

"You need a break."

"Look who's talking," Mel said defensively. "Why do you care, anyway? You've been ignoring me for weeks, please continue."

Harry stepped back taken by her sudden outburst.

"Fine," He eyed her up, then added carefully, "...I heard you got a place on the team. That's excellent."

"Yeah," She said shortly. "I'm a Beater, like my mum."

"Angelina said you and Ginny were taking turns to be seekers. You'll be wonderful, I'm sure."

He was trying to be polite, he could see she was in distress and wanted to distract her, even if she was doing all in her power to upset him. Harry had to stop a groan from falling out of his lips, he had no idea of how to talk to her now, it was as if they no longer knew each other.

"You know," The boy continued over her silence, not knowing why he was trying so hard to cheer her up. "They've come a long way, haven't they? I think we're making a difference, even if it didn't look like it at first..."

Her eyes landed on Neville as he successfully managed to freeze Ron in place for a second time. She thought back on the little shy thing he used to be, and how confident he looked then. A small glimmer of optimism peeked through Mel's sense of hopelessness, and somehow, Harry felt it too.

"Yeah..." She smiled lightly. "I think you may be right..."

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@dee123ksha @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @stardusthigh @mikariell95 @vernon-dursley @thesuitelifeofafangirl @tomshollandz @kylosleftbuttcheek @reverse-hxlland @bloodorangemoonlight @omiwashere @t-rexs-world @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @21bruhs

#twoidiots writing #hp fanfic #Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter xoc #WITT fic

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narcissawilted · 3 years

Photo

n a r c i s s a l u c r e t i a b l a c k

basics:

name: narcissa lucretia black. pronunciation: naar·si·suh loo·kree·shuh blak. meaning: narcissa- daffodil, narcissism, numb. lucretia- to succeed, wealth. birthday: october 3rd. age: eighteen. pronouns: she & her. sexuality: heterosexual. siblings: bellatrix black, andromeda black. parents: cygnus black, druella black nee rosier. other family: orion black (uncle), walburga black (aunt), alphard black (uncle), sirius black (cousin), regulus black (cousin), evan rosier (cousin). languages: english, french, spanish, greek, gaelic, russian. current residence: walden macnair’s home. hometown: norfolk.

wizard fun:

hogwarts house: slytherin. year of graduation: 1979. occupation: socialite. pet: two pet snakes named ophelia and desdemona. blood status: pureblood. species: witch. patronus: luna moth. luna moths represent rebirth, renewal of body and spirit, regeneration and may even symbolize the soul itself. luna moths, like many types of moths and butterflies, are quite beautiful in appearance and have docile personalities. their physical beauty and charm make these large moths symbols of reflection, nourishment and life. boggart: narcissa’s greatest fear is always feeling as powerless, controlled, and alone as she has been for the majority of her life. she sees so many people, even lowly mudbloods, with friends and love and warmth in their lives, but she doesn’t have it. she’s so afraid she never will. amortentia: snow. the crisp, biting scent that hits your nose the second that you step foot outside the morning after a fresh snow is one of narcissa’s favorite things in the world. especially if it’s the first snow of the year. something about that is just so different and special. she couldn’t quite put into words the way winter made her feel. christmas garland. christmas was always exciting to narcissa because it meant that there would be more people in the household than just her sisters and parents. she loved seeing her aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins, especially when they brought her presents. she also loved how much effort went into decorating their home for the holidays with garland, wreaths, candles, tinsel, and charms. narcissa was nothing if not a connoisseur of beauty. peppermint. narcissa, nor any of the Black sisters, were allowed sweets growing up. druella insisted that it would make them fat and lazy and completely undesirable. as a result, the closest thing they were allowed to have was peppermints, and narcissa went overboard on them. she almost always keeps a tin of them next to her bed. wand type: 12 1/3″, pine wood wand with a unicorn hair core, understandably delicate. pine is a quiet wood, not powerful, not weak. it is a softwood, and thus has a bit more yield, making it more inclined to a quick-learning but less powerful wands. it is, however, excellent for divination. pine wands choose independent, individual masters who may be perceived as loners, intriguing, and perhaps mysterious. pine wands enjoy being used creatively, and unlike some others, will adapt unprotestingly to new methods and spells. many wandmakers insist that pine wands are able to detect, and perform best for, owners who are destined for long lives, including garrick ollivander who had never personally known the master of a pine wand to die young. the pine wand is one of those that is most sensitive to non-verbal magic. delicate wands are a special case. it takes special care to learn spells with this wand, but it is rarely extremely powerful. they tend to choose witches and wizards with somewhat frail personalities, and once a spell is learned, although it is not as strong, it is extremely reliable. unicorn hair can be used in wandmaking; they produce the most consistent magic, least subject to fluctuations and blockages, most difficult to turn to the dark arts and the most faithful of wands. however, they do not make the most powerful of wands and are prone to melancholy if mishandled. affiliation: narcissa is loyal only to her family.

appearance:

height: 5′6″. hair color: pale blonde. eye color: mint green. typical hair style: parted in the center and hangs straight to her shoulders. fashion style: narcissa wears only the color black unless it is a very special occasion. she only wears skirts and dresses, no pants. she prefers a short black dress with a high neckline and no sleeves with a late modern appearance. cissy wears boots with a heels most often. she has a love for jewelry that looks like bugs. [ fashion ] distinguishing features: narcissa is known for being pale and icy in appearance and demeanor, but strikingly beautiful especially against the darkness usually around her. her eyes are hawklike and intelligent, but the rest of her expression is almost always unreadable. she has no blemishes to speak of, but a scar on her thigh and one on her collarbone.

personality:

positive traits: maternal. thoughtful. observant. negative traits: icy. haughty. deceitful. theme song: behind blue eyes by the who

headcanons:

narcissa likes bugs and insects decidedly more than she likes most people. there has never been a time when she wasn’t completely enamored and fascinated by the often spurned creatures. in her opinion, they are by far the most beautiful and stunning creatures. she has extensive knowledge of them and has created a haven for all manner of insects in the greenhouse at black manor.

narcissa has always secretly dreamed of going to study dragons in romania. she’s always loved them and been fascinated by them. however, she knows that would never be allowed so she would never voice it out loud. in fact, only a handful of people even realize how much she loves the creatures.

christmas is decidedly narcissa favorite time of the year. it is the one time that she allows herself to warm up and be totally enraptured by the holiday. her face will light up as bright as any tinseled tree. she will spend hours out in the snow and picks her presents meticulously for everyone she deems deserves one.

biography:

From the moment she entered this world, during that liminal time before the sun has risen, but the sky is still lighter than in the depths of the night, Narcissa was the antithesis to the traditional Blacks. Where her sisters, mother, father, cousins had dark hair, sharp features, cutting eyes, and venomous mouths, Narcissa was a ghost; soft, curved, delicate, haunting.

The third and final disappointment to Cygnus the Third who so desperately wanted a son, Narcissa was all but ignored by her father from the beginning. If he wasn’t presenting her with a lavishly expensive doll or gown, he didn’t care to talk to his youngest. Bellatrix was the apple of his eye.

Alternatively, Druella became enamoured with their fair daughter. Her features were unlike any others in the family, and Druella valued two things above all else; beauty and how that beauty can be useful to her. Before Narcissa was even capable of speech, she had a string of pearls too tight around her neck like a collar that her mother used to remind her that her grasp was inescapable. Her youth consisted of years of lessons, tutors, and strict schedules. Even by Fitzwilliam Darcy standards, Narcissa would be considered an accomplished young lady. The better she became at any given task, the more her mother demanded of her. There was no such thing as perfect to Druella, only more to improve upon. That was the beginning of Narcissa’s deceptions. She was certain to never show how talented she was, and let her family believe she was completely average.

She envied Andromeda, whose quiet nature and subdued appearance made her free of their parents tutelage. The middle child was left to her own devices and could go as she pleased throughout the day. If ever given a moment, Narcissa would soon enough steal away to a private corner of the attic, basement, or garden with an old tome from the Black’s personal library. Of course, her respites never lasted too long. The house elves, her sisters, or even her mother would find her and drag her back into the endless lessons. Narcissa never complained. She did all that her mother asked, biding her time.

The solitary light at the end of the tunnel was Hogwarts. Bellatrix had gone, Andromeda had gone, and Narcissa had been left solitary for a year, yearning for the day she’d be able to board the train at King’s Cross Station and disappear to a year away from her suffocating mother. It occurred to her a few months before she was meant to leave for school that perhaps her mother wouldn’t allow it. She even thought she’d overheard Druella begging Cygnus to let her homeschool Narcissa for the rest of her academic career, but thankfully, he’d sternly refuted his wife. Narcissa needed to be sociable and influential at school if the Black family was to continue its powerful grip on society.

Druella wept when Narcissa packed her trunk for her first year. She’d been distraught about her youngest daughter leaving for weeks. Their mother kept wringing her hands and proclaiming that she had no idea what she would do with her time now. Narcissa feigned regret for leaving and assured her mother that she’d find some way to fill her time. However, Narcissa had never been more excited to experience the freedom that came with school. From the moment she stepped on the train, it felt as if a world lifted from her shoulders. Even her pearl necklace didn’t feel quite so strangling.

Narcissa sat in a compartment with Andromeda and a few of her classmates instead of trying to find other first years to talk to. Frankly, she appreciated simply looking at the scenery as they went along. She enjoyed just sitting and being without having to do anything. Andromeda warned her that there would be people at Hogwarts who would have heard of her, and there would be plenty of rumors about her and her family, but Narcissa didn’t care. They could say that she was the devil incarnate, and she’d still be excited to hear a voice that wasn’t her mother’s saying it.

After the sorting ceremony, she began to realize the full implications of her sister’s warning. She unpacked her trunk in the Slytherin dormitory with the rest of the first year girls and attempted to make her first friends. They all smiled until names were exchanged. She heard the whispers when her back was turned. They only intensified when the eldest Black sister appeared to check on Narcissa her first day. After a quick greeting and good luck, Bellatrix told the rest of the Slytherin girls to be nice to her sister or else. As kind as the gesture had meant to be, it assured Narcissa a rather lonely first year. Even those who wanted to suck up to a Black sister didn’t bother to talk to Narcissa for fear of invoking Bellatrix’s wrath. Not to mention, Andromeda came off far more personable- an easier friend.

Narcissa threw herself into learning who she actually was. She had plenty of free time without friends to worry about and without her mother’s constant presence, though she did have to dedicate a portion of her week to responding to her mother’s letters. She decided to have average marks in her classes despite fully understanding the material and even studying further than what the classes required. It was to her advantage the world continued to see her as the beautiful sister. While the rumors about her spread even more, Narcissa became more and more lonely. She decided to play into the persona that everyone had created for her.

Her school life continued as such until the middle of her third year. Narcissa began to study legillimancies and occlumencies. She was very good at it. Disturbingly good at it. During the middle of the night, she began to explore the innermost thoughts of her schoolmates, professors, and anyone else she thought would be interesting to understand. The more accomplished she became, the more willing she was to do what was ethically questionable. The more ethically questionable her decisions became the more her curiosity for the darker arts and divination became. However, her studies no longer fill that space in her that craves connection.

Things changed when she agreed to an engagement with Lucius Malfoy prior to her graduation from Hogwarts. He was one of the few to ever see through her facades, and managed to melt away a bit of her ice over the years. However, it was soon revealed that he’d been promised to her by her father from the beginning making everything a lie. This enraged the girl who promptly called off the engagement and absconded from her parents home. While the Blacks are trying their best to keep this a secret, Narcissa has been well hidden from everyone looking to pull her back into the fold.

#ahintro #;about #;biography #;cissy #;inspo

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robronsecretsanta · 4 years

Text

Fic: let the Christmas spirit ring

a series of what-could-have-been christmas’ for the absolutely marvellous @thisdamndesire with lots and lots from your secret santa! merry merry christmas <3

1. Joyeux Noël

Robert’s started a fire with the logs Aaron thought were fake. He doesn’t let on that he’s surprised by it, instead he just sort of stares at Robert until he comes back to the sofa.

“You OK?” Robert asks, maybe for the twelfth time today and Aaron rolls his eyes, then turns to run a hand over his husband’s arm.

“We’re together.” Aaron says plainly. He shrugs a little and then looks down at the stupid jumper Robert’s got on. “You even tried haggling with that market guy over the price of this.”

Robert frowns, there’s this smile that sort of radiates out of him and Aaron’s not seen it for a while. He looks relaxed, shoulders slumped and this sleepy haze to him.

“Just ‘cause I don’t speak fluent French don’t mean he had to take the piss.” Robert turns himself a little so he’s looking at Aaron and then he holds his hand. “I’m so lucky you’re here.” His chin goes and Aaron cups his face, brings them closer together as their foreheads brush.

“Don’t.”

“It’s true.” Robert frowns. “‘Cause tomorrow they’ll be a whole Christmas you’re missing out on.” He closes his eyes. “Stupid Dingle knees up that I know you love.”

“Yeah. I do.” Aaron shrugs. “But you know what I thought about last night, me there without you. I couldn’t *bare that.”

Robert looks up, eyes flickering as Aaron rubs small circles into his cheeks. “Me here without you.” He punches the words out and hangs a hand in Aaron’s arm. “Couldn’t do that either.”

Aaron leans up, kisses Robert until he’s flat on the sofa and then he falls on top of him. They’re kissing and moving as the fire crackles around them and then after Aaron’s falling into the crook of Robert’s neck and hugging around him.

“You know what we can do tomorrow?” Aaron whispers, hands delicate over Robert’s chest. “See if those farming abilities of yours have worked.”

Robert smirks, thinks of the fact that Aaron made him dig up a patch outside the patio of this dingy flat they’ve got. He laughs, thinks about Aaron seemed to think him getting all frustrated over the mud over his jeans was somehow a turn on. He kisses Aaron’s head lightly and then sighs. “It won’t have worked yet.”

Aaron frowns, the lines hard on his forehead as he turns his neck and looks up at Robert. “Not even the spuds?” He asks and Robert kisses him again.

“No. Maybe next year.”

Aaron huffs out something gentle and moves closer into Robert’s neck. There’s this light inside of him as he thinks and then finds his hand in Robert’s. “Next year.”

“We’ll be out of this place. I promise.” Robert kisses Aaron’s head again like it’s his responsibility to make Aaron’s Christmas this bonanza. “We’ll be in that chateau.”

Aaron laughs almost breathlessly. “Will we?”

“Yeah.” Robert nods. “Have a proper tree n’all.” They’ve got this plastic little one that plays this Christmas tune over and over again when you twist it. There’s mistletoe hanging off their bedroom door but that’s about it. “And we’ll still …”

Aaron looks at Robert, pushes himself up and nods. “This where you say I’ll still be here like it’s a question.” He frowns. “Because it ain’t one. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Couldn’t if you wanted to.” Robert smirks, he’s got this hair all soft and pressed against his forehead. He looks like a right kid and Aaron strokes his face slowly to get him back.

“I wouldn’t ever want to.”

Robert’s not an idiot. He’s been draping tinsel around his neck and thinking about how in a few years time this is all going to get harder.

“Not ever?”

Aaron gulps, he practically sits on Robert’s lap and raises his chin to squeeze and smile at him. “Remember when we got married?”

“Which one?”

Aaron’s sure he’s the luckiest man on earth to be able to laugh at that. He does, dips his head before sighing. “I’m not ever leaving ya.” He gulps. “This life … me and you and Paris, it’s what I want forever.”

Robert just stares up at him, eyes green and wet. He breathes in deeply and then out again.

“I don’t deserve you.” Robert soaks Aaron in and has delicate hands skirting close.

“I decide that.” Aaron whispers before leaning down and kissing Robert gently. “And you’ll decide where the chateau is.”

“Will I?” Robert’s closed his eyes and pictured it for a while now. It’s like this soft soothing ideal that he wishes they’ll get to one day. “Why’s that?”

“Did a good job on our first home didn’t ya?” Aaron mumbles, turns himself down to lay next to his husband again and holds his hand. The fire is still crackling and the sky is heavy and dark outside now. They lay thinking in silence until Aaron’s phone vibrates and he sees its Liv. “She sent us …”

There’s this picture on the screen and it’s instantly blurry when Robert gets the chance to look. He’s crying almost on cue and it’s nearly as embarrassing as Aaron’s already snotty nose.

Liv’s somehow managed to get a picture with Seb in this little Santa hat. He’s showing his teeth as his grins and they’re both clearly surrounded by presents.

“Says, that they’re missing us so much but they’re going to have a good day tomorrow and so are we.”

“Ordering us is she?” Robert strokes a hand through Aaron’s hair and then wipes at his face when Aaron just sits and stares. Then he’s stroking the picture and almost existing in his own little world for a second.

“She’s right.” Aaron says, he looks at Robert with this certainty in his eyes. “We’re going to have a good day and so are they.” He smiles weakly and then leans in towards Robert again.

“I love you Mr Sugden.”

It comes out of him with this force and Aaron must realise because he closes his eyes and smiles a little, almost savours how much he knows Robert means it.

“Sugden-Dingle actually.”

Robert smiles, leans in for a kiss and thinks of tangled Christmas lights and Aaron refusing to move because he’s had too much turkey tomorrow. He thinks of them and this quietness they won’t be used to.

Then Aaron’s hand is in his again and he’s grounded.

“Merry Christmas.” Aaron whispers against his ear an hour later, the clock ticking past midnight now. Robert smiles to himself, places a hand over Aaron’s chest and nods.

“It’s going to be, yeah.” He says before kissing his husband’s chest and staring out the window.

It’s almost snowing, it makes him smile before he closes his eyes again. *

2. A one hour Christmas

The journey feels like years. There’s this ache in his chest that won’t go away as he holds firm on the letter deep in his coat pocket and keeps flicking down to look at it just so he knows this is actually real.

There’s been this letter telling him that Robert’s requested to see him and he’s been beside himself with this feeling ever since.

It’s here again now as the guards start to pile people in and Aaron’s faced with Robert for the first time in nearly a month. They’ve been doing this. Once a month visiting because the travelling takes it’s toll. Last time Aaron yawned and Robert was a wreck telling him they can’t do this anymore, that he’s being selfish and cruel and it’s taken so long to get back to this moment.

They’ve tried to do up the visiting room. There’s a stupid Christmas tree in the corner and it’s not got any tinsel on or anything. He thinks of it being a potential weapon, it’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth when Robert claps eyes on him.

He looks a little battered and bruised but that’s not showing on the outside. He’s got his hair still flat against his forehead and this gentleness to him that Aaron wasn’t expecting. He was worried he’d harden, he was petrified of it.

“What?” Robert whispers. They’re both still standing, looking at each other like there’s nothing else they can do.

“They’d probably try strangle each other with the … the tinsel.” Aaron almost smiles and then he breathes in and watches the guard wave a hand down towards them. He sits slowly and then leans towards Robert. “I thought you wouldn’t let me see you after last time.”

Aaron watches a family in the corner of the room. The woman’s got a toddler on her knee and a paper hat on her head. She’s bought the bloke a box of chocolates and it sits there on the table in front of them.

“It’s Christmas.” Robert’s voice is there and Aaron latches on to it. He gives him this small smile. “Well not really but … I wouldn’t let you spend it here alone.” He won’t because that means Aaron would have an hour instead of half an hour with him on the day and then he’d be forced to spend hours driving home.

“I would if you’d let me.” Aaron’d do about anything for Robert if he’d let him. He smiles slowly and then Robert looks away.

“That’s why this is so hard.” Robert bites his lip, his shoulders tense and Aaron finds this strength to lean right over.

“Look at me.”

Robert doesn’t. It’s like he can’t even bring himself to see how much Aaron absolutely adores his stupid self.

“Rob, look at me.” Eventually he does. “Seeing you today is enough. More than … you know how much I wanted to see you for Christmas?”

Robert’s chin wobbles.

“Haven’t thought of anything else.” It’s been on his mind, Robert’s been on his mind and there’s absolutely nothing new there. “What naff jumper to get ya.”

Robert gulps down something hard and sad. “Can’t do that now.”

Aaron wipes his face and he didn’t know he’d been crying. “No but we can think of what they’d say. Look like.” He bounces his knee and thinks. “Yours would say … uh … pull my cracker?”

Robert’s face almost lights up and it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. His heart actually constricts and he doesn’t know what to do with himself until Robert is gazing at him.

“Or … um … jingle my baubles.”

Robert drops his head and laughs. It comes out stifled and sad like he’s not used to it and for a second they’re in their own world. It’s like no one else is around them at all.

“Clever.”

“That’s why you married me.” Aaron says, he puffs his chest out and then leans a hand out over Robert’s arm before hesitating. “Sorry. Shit. I’m …”

“Put it back.”

Aaron frowns, looks around them and then back into Robert’s eyes. “I’m not causing you trouble.”

“You won’t be.” Robert says, because he’s determined with everything in him not to let anything ruin this moment right here. It’s Christmas Eve and Aaron’s making him laugh and for a second he can forget about having to say goodbye to him.

Slowly Aaron puts his hand back of the length of Robert’s arm, squeezes and then he’s crying again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Robert says, he gulps, twists his lip to stop him from mirroring Aaron. “How’s our boy then?”

Aaron deflates slightly. “Missing you. Took him to see Santa. There’s a picture on my phone. I’ll … I’ll add it to the scrapbook for you yeah?”

Robert nods tightly. “And Liv? Vic?”

“Coping.” Aaron runs his hand over Robert’s arm again and again. “You?” It’s like they’ve worked backwards to get to the question and Robert tenses up a little again before sighing.

“I get by.”

“On your charm?”

Robert rolls his eyes.

“Oh it’s the good looks then?” Aaron’s got this strength within him whenever Robert is close by. It’s like he’s able to just pull through, push past everything in front of him.

Robert’s eyes flicker. “How can you be …”

“It’s Christmas.”

“Eve.”

Aaron frowns. “Still Christmas ain’t it?” He gazes up at Robert and then looks towards the small desk at the front of the room. They’re handing out mince pies and it makes him raise an eyebrow. “Do you want one?”

Robert breathes out and nods timidly. Aaron stands and goes to get one before Robert holds his arm and feels this light rush through him.

“I love you.” Robert whispers. He says it in this way that scares Aaron and it’s like he knows because he shakes his head. “I just want you to know.”

Aaron nods. “I’m not forgetting any time soon.” He says, and then he pulls out this necklace and Robert recognises his ring almost immediately. “Am I?”

Robert shakes his head for the smallest of seconds and then Aaron’s squeezing his shoulder as he walks towards the table and takes two. Robert feels this tightness in his chest and he’s so overwhelmed with this feeling of love for him.

He walks back towards him, probably still broken and splintered inside, but smiling. He’s even put a paper hat on his head and everything.

Robert smiles back without anything stopping him.

3. A Christmas delivery

The ward has a Santa going around handing chocolates out to all the mums and dads and they both don’t even register him as he walks up and down.

Robert’s just staring down at this tiny bundle of joy Aaron’s got in his arms. He’s holding their baby for the first time and it’s so clear that he’s mesmerised by her already.

“Think she’s too young for all that.” Robert whispers, voice low in Aaron’s ear as Santa waves at them.

Aaron gazes up. “Hmm?” Robert looks at the man walking out of the ward again and a few kids chasing after him. “Oh.” He smiles and then their daughter’s little arm waves up out of the soft blanket she’s draped in.

Rosie’s on the bed, half asleep and exhausted. She offers Aaron the smallest smile when he tells her she’s amazing.

“Now you get to be.” Robert tears up at it, feels this heaviness drop inside him as he squeezes her hand and thinks of how mad she was for even listening to them in the first place. They’d bustled into her life after Natalie fell through and now they’ve ended up with a little girl and a friend out of it all.

Aaron rocks her back and forth for a second more before she makes this sound and he smiles, kisses her head. “Thinks she wants daddy Robert’s cuddles.”

Robert pulls this face and he’s petrified of dropping her as Aaron passes her over with this ease. He’s got tears in his eyes and he smiles with this soft giddiness about him.

“Pretty cool Christmas present hey.” Aaron comes closer, tilts his head into Robert’s shoulder as he stands behind him on his tiptoes and stares down at their baby.

“Pretty unexpected one yeah.”

They’d been reading Seb a bedtime story, Aaron making these faces and trying to sound like an elephant whilst Robert tried roaring like a lion for him.

“Christmas Eve.” Robert shakes his head. “She picks her timing don’t she?” He curls a finger over her cheek and her eyes open. She’s got these blue eyes that make him almost stagger back. “God, she’s beautiful.” He whispers, feels Aaron kiss his shoulder and smile.

Later, Seb runs in with his dinosaur printed pyjamas still on and his hair a mess. Liv’s bought him in and he can’t help but stare at the baby like it’s magical.

“Is that our one?” Seb sucks his thumb, then takes it out to speak before looking up at his dads.

Robert’s still holding her, he leans over and nods at his son. “Yep. Look.” Seb does, cautious and almost afraid. “She’s your little sister. So that means …”

“You’re her big brother.” Aaron sits on the chair and then feels Liv squeeze his arms.

Seb still looks all unsure and they’ve been through this so many times. Robert’s worried until Seb frowns. “But she hasn’t got a name. I can’t just call her little sister.”

Aaron snorts. “You’re right buddy.” He picks up, holds him on his hap and taps his nose. “Daddy, should we let them know.”

“Duh.” Liv unfolds her arms and peaks over to smile at the baby.

“Annie.” Aaron says, eyes all soft as he stares at Robert and then down at her. “Annie Grace Sugden-Dingle.”

“Not a mouthful then.”

“Shut your face.”

Seb practically hauls himself down to try and get her from Robert’s arms. “Hello Annie!” He shouts, like if he does she’ll hear him.

Aaron runs a hand through his hair, kisses him as he pulls him away. “She’s too tiny to say anything back.” Seb pulls a face. “But you can still talk to her. All the time.”

“Is she coming home?”

Robert frowns. “Of course mate.” He thinks of the state of the nursery. They’d put up Christmas lights on a temporary basis and they’ll have to do now. It’s probably fitting or something.

“So she’ll get presents from Santa?” Seb’s gasp makes Robert stop staring down at Annie. “But Santa … does he have her on his list yet?”

The genuine concern makes Aaron’s heart melt and he starts smothering Seb with kisses until he giggles.

“Da — daddy. Tell me. It’s important.” Seb wrangles out of Aaron’s grip and then looks at Liv like he needs help.

“Of course Santa knows. He knows everything.” Liv throws a wink at her brother.

“Is he at our house now?” Seb asks, eyes wide and heavy and Aaron realises he has to bring up that track Santa app he’s got on his phone for just this moment. He’s in Croatia apparently. It settles Seb for now.

Eventually they get back, it’s officially Christmas Day by the time Seb is asleep on Liv’s shoulder and their tiny little girl is asleep in her car seat. Chas has dropped over this heap of my first Christmas stuff she’d bought them just in case and they’re so grateful Robert nearly cries.

Then Chas really did cry when they told her Annie’s full name. It was a lot. Now, they’re alone again because Liv’s crashed out on Seb’s bedroom floor talking to him about where Santa could be.

They just watch her for ages. They stare down and watch her breath, make those breathy little noises that make them both petrified and happy at the exact same time.

“Best Christmas ever I think.” Robert holds at Aaron’s hand and sees how scared his husband looks at the sight of all of what’s to come. “We’re going to have the most bonkers Christmas you know. Your lot. My lot. Our lot.” Aaron looks at him. “But it’ll be …”

“Perfect.” Aaron’s still watching Annie. The lights from the Christmas tree twinkling and light up her face into colours of red and green. He tilts his head up and kisses Robert, lazy, soft, gentle. “We did it.” He says, tears in his eyes that fall when Robert kisses him again.

“We did it.” Robert’s voice is thick with this emotion he doesn’t ever want to let go of. “And that’s Christmas is going to be perfect.” He holds Aaron by the waist until they’re both falling asleep on their first and Annie demands some attention again with a wail.

“Merry Christmas.” Robert says, shaking a bottle for Annie by the sink at half three and Aaron taking a turkey out to defrost. He expects Aaron to tell him to piss off, roll his eyes but instead he holds Annie over his shoulder, draped in her yellow blanket, and he nods. He proper nods, then shows teeth as he smiles.

“Merry Christmas.”

#robron secret santa #robron fanfiction #thisdamndesire

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tonyandpeterstark · 4 years

Note

Can I get Mafia boss Peter Parker, whos soft and sweet, and everything no one expects from the mafia. He’s femme and he loves pink but he’s utterly deadly. Tony is the detective who’s been trying to nail Peter, in more ways than one.

“What is this, some kind of anime bullshit,” The Prowler groans as he’s thrown at the feet of a sparkling throne with a dancer or something draped over the arms.

That -dancer- is actually the ruler of the kingdom this super villain unwittingly infiltrated. Peter “Pinker” Parker. Adorable in mood, appearance, and affectation. Brutal in combat. A mind-numbing contradiction.

“Asks the dumbass in the purple cape,” Peter cackles from where he contorts his body around the throne to show off his baby pink, satin suit with its tinsel pinstripes and giant “PINKER” patch across the ass. He takes a slow tumble from the seat’s cushion to the floor. Standing with ease. Graceful as a ballerina. He sneers at the man his guards are holding to the floor. “I heard you had news for me and tried to -bribe- my guards to let you in. What an insult. I love gossip. You could have just slid into my DMs on Twitter.”

Aaron sighs. He hates when people rip on his cape. It’s useful if you know how to use it. It’s not some dumb superhero thing he grew up dreaming about. It’s definitely not to impress his nephew if he ever gets caught and ends up in the newspaper. “Man, I’m just trying to let you know there’s some guy here who’s real name is Tony Stark. He works for the cops and has a whole case built up on you. My contact at the station says you make one more false move and they got you.”

Peter perks a brow at The Prowler and then cuts his eyes to his crew. They don’t share his aesthetics. Just a group of old, tired men. Trying their best to make it in a world that’s been eaten to death by mob men like him. He pities them… but not enough to treat them any better.

Men like them made his life hell before he got enough power to take any and all of them down on a whim.

“Oh, Tony dear… now that you’ve been caught,” Peter offers as he gestures for his guards to let go of their latest capture. For lack of anything better to do, The Prowler simply prowls behind Peter, hoping he can cut toward the door and leave before he ever has to find out why this kid as a reputation for brutality. “I’d hate to have to kill all of my men just to make sure you don’t finish this case. Be a dear and turn yourself in?”

The saccharine sweetness in his high-pitched voice makes it hard for even Aaron, who knows to be terrified of him, to take him seriously. He edges closer and closer to the exit. Most of the room seems to be focused on Peter’s cotton-candy combat boots and shimmering hair. He commands the room with a flirty twinkle in his eye. “New recruits to the front. Everyone, enforce, please.”

Peter gives a dainty clap while turning on his heel back to Aaron. “Oh, Prowler. I didn’t say you could leave. I have a very special job for you.”

Aaron nods to himself as if accepting that the universe hates him and returns to Peter’s side. Hell, at least the kid let him off the floor. “What do you want from me? I came here to help you out. Maybe have you owe me a favor.”

Peter sighs. His shoulders dropping and eyes rolling. “I’ll pay you. Is that enough?”

Aaron shrugs. “Yeah, actually.”

Peter stops in front of the lined up recruits. In front of Tony Stark, specifically. He taps a hand against the center of the man’s chest and looks to Aaron.

“You seem useful. A genuine mercenary,” Peter says rather cheerfully to Aaron as he taps out a rhythm against the traitor’s heart. “See, most of the men here have seen me carry men up buildings and drop them from the top floor. …or maybe strangle a man with string as thin as a spider’s web. Oh, and I do love blood.”

Aaron meets eyes with Tony Stark. The man looks, reasonably terrified… and he almost feels bad for getting him caught. But hey… one less cop out there looking for him. Tony Stark also looks…

Aaron and Peter look down at the same time. Notice at the same time. Meet each other’s eyes.

Petere giggles. “I was going to ask you to use one of those claws to pass me his beating heart… but I think I’ll actually dress him up and have a little fun first.”

Aaron doesn’t know how to feel about the way the detective twitches at the news. Different folks, hmm.

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let-me-love-you-loki · 5 years

Text

Hounds of Justice--Ch. 61

Chapter 61

Twinkling lights wound around a Christmas tree. The scent of pine and sap filled the house, making my nose itch. Seth rifled through a plastic tub, searching out ornaments that his mother had dropped off.

“Why the hell are there so many of these things?” Seth muttered under his breath. His hair was tied back in a knot at the base of his skull. Silver tinsel stuck to his black tee.

I watched from my place on the sofa. The brown leather had been covered with blankets and towels, lined over with bed pads from the hospital. Pillows were piled up around me, not quite certain if they were there for comfort or to keep me upright. Kevin curled up in my unfeeling lap, snuffling softly as if he realized something was wrong.

Pain had become a constant companion. I ached from the top of my head to the bottom of my ribs. Everything below was still a heavy numbness that refused to dissipate. The medication I’d been given blunted the edges of the agony, but failed to take it away entirely. Most movement was uncomfortable. Being touched was torture.

It had only been a week, and I could tell Seth was growing frustrated and miserable. The rift between us seemed to grow wider every moment.

Carl had gone back home to North Carolina. Hannah had taken up Seth’s offer to stay with me in Davenport for a while. While he did the heavy lifting, Hannah was my nursemaid—doing more than any adoptive parent should ever have to do. Shame weighed heavily on my shoulders, the load expanding with every act of assistance.

“Why are you putting up a tree at all?” I asked, trying not to seem callous. “You’re going to be here for a week.”

He looked up, bruise-like shadows beneath his brown eyes. “Because it’s Christmas, Llane. And we’re here together—you, me, your mom—for the first time. Is it so wrong to want a little bit of cheer?”

I bit my lip, desperate to hold back the waspish response that bubbled on my tongue. A dark fog had settled over the house since we’d returned, and I knew I was the one who had brought it.

“What?” he huffed, straightening up with his hands on his hips. “Say whatever it is.”

I will not cry in front of him, I swore. There had been enough tears in my life over the past few weeks. I cried myself to sleep each night, stifling the sobs in my pillow as Seth worked in his office and Hannah cleaned up from whatever mess I’d made. If they heard, neither of them mentioned it the next morning.

“It’s nothing. I’m just… I’m crabby today.”

Seth crossed the room, sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of me. His hands reached for me, drew back when Kevin growled protectively. “It’s our first Christmas together, Llane. I know things haven’t gone the way we wanted. And I know that you’ve got to be miserable and pissed as hell.”

He went quiet, eyes losing focus as he stared at a spot over my shoulder. Time stretched, took on solid form, settled around me like a strangling vine.

“If you’re not happy here, I’m not going to force you to stay. As much as I want you with me, I want you to be happy—even if that’s without me.”

Blink. Again. So rapidly that the world passed by in a strobe light sequence.

Don’t cry.

Not in front of him. Not Colby. Anyone but him.

He stood, leaned forward, cradled the back of my head in his hand as he kissed the top of my head. Then he slipped away down the hall, the door of his study closing quietly.

The sadness came, tearing through me, shredding my insides to ribbons, punching my chest open. It was nearly impossible to breathe. This was no longer about the loss of a life I’d loved. There would be no more championships, shouting fans, tee-shirts or posterboard signs. Wrestling was forever lost to me, and now the very thing that terrified me the most was becoming reality.

Seth was pulling away.

“Don’t give up on him, Llanie,” Hannah said as she brushed and braided my hair. Her hands were gentle, reminding me of the times she’d styled my hair when I first came to them. She’d said it was because she had always wanted to be a stylist. Carl told me it was because she had always wanted a daughter.

“This is why I didn’t want them to know. Why I just wanted to go home,” I whispered. “It’s exactly what I didn’t want to happen.”

Hannah ran her fingers through my hair, tutting at how the red had started to fade. “This hasn’t been easy on him either, Lanie. He’s trying. You have to believe that.”

“He shouldn’t have to do this.” It was hard to look at myself in the mirror. The weight had already started to melt off since I’d been eating less and less. My eyes seemed dull and sunken. “None of them—none of you—should. There are places I could go that are designed to care for people like me.”

“No,” Hannah said with venom. “You are not going to spend the rest of your life in some nursing home alone. You deserve more of a life than that.”

I wiped at the tears collecting against my lashes. “The rest of you deserve a life without having to care for me.”

Hannah stood up, kissed the side of my head. “What kind of life would we have without you? I don’t think you know how much you mean to us, Llane. Since the moment you came into our lives. I know those boys love you desperately—each in their own way. And that man in the other room…”

She paused, sniffling against her own tears. I watched her in the mirror, saw her take several measured breaths. “That man would die for you. I don’t think you know how much he adores you. You could ask him for the moon, and he’d break his back trying to bring it back for you.”

“Momma…” The word came out small, fragile. It wasn’t often that I called her anything other than her name, but in that moment, I felt horribly lost. The weight of the future that bore down on me was too much. The ache that settled in my heart at how I had turned Seth’s world upside down was too painful to carry alone. Acidic tears cut rivulets down my cheeks.

Tag List

@sammyfireheartashryver @easyobsession @echrai @lakamaa12 @bethany99stuff-blog @themumbler @vebner37 @queenofthearchitect @cburdine @xbutterflius-effectusx @0paint-the-stars0 @bigdunneenergy

#hounds of justice #seth rollins #seth rollins fanfiction #dean ambrose #roman reigns #llane black #wwe #wwe fanfiction #real person fanfiction #ofc #oc #multi-chapter

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shadesofdeviant · 5 years

Text

Meet Me By The Mistletoe

Pairing: IronStrange Fandom: MCU Rating: G

My entry for the IronStrange Reverse Big Bang over at @ironstrangehaven. Based on the beautiful artwork by @ironstrange-is-the-endgame who was such a delight to work with.

Can be read here or on AO3. Whichever you prefer.

The early hours of December 1st saw Tony Stark in his exhaustion riddled bouts of wisdom, balancing precariously atop a step ladder as he tried to string garish strands of lights across the ceiling of the common room, singing ‘Santa Baby’ loudly and proudly off-key at the top of his—albeit slightly diminished—lungs. Hips swaying to his own internal beat, glittering tinsel wrapped around his neck like the feather boa of some Vegas showgirl and an oversized Santa hat perched atop his head that kept slipping down into his eyeline every time he looked up, Tony made quite the sight as various members of the team grumpily slouched into the area having been woken up by what sounded like a cat being strangled underwater.

“Tony? What the hell are you doing?” came Rhodey’s call of disbelief, that somehow managed to be louder than both Tony’s singing and Friday’s exasperated instructions combined, the AI trying valiantly to help direct the lights straighter despite her boss clearly not paying attention to her guidance.

“Oh! Hey Honey bear! It’s December, that means it’s Christmas!” Tony laughed, the sound slightly manic as he tried to turn on his perch and almost fell off. “I’m making the Tower look all festive and shit!” he added with a completely unnecessary sweep of his hand around him as if anyone could have missed the chaos that resembled an explosion in Santa’s workshop around them.

“I—Tones, I get that bit even if I do personally think it’s a little bit too early for this, what I meant was: What are you doing singing that loudly and putting decorations up at 5:30 am?” Rhodey replied, his voice much softer now his best friend wasn’t trying to deafen them all.

Yet, all that achieved from the eccentric billionaire was an elongated blink, as if Tony believed if he took long enough to do so everyone would vanish and reveal it was just his imagination before he slowly raised his arm to gaze at the watch strapped around his wrist in confusion. Because surely it wasn’t that—

Oh. Oh.

“Oops?” Tony offered, wincing as he gazed sheepishly over at the group stood watching him, the whole thing looking ridiculous as the hat once again slipped down over his eyes. “I thought that was 5:30 pm. I was wondering where everyone was actually.”

“When was the last time you slept Tones?” Rhodey dared to question, pinching the bridge of his nose, partly in disbelief, but mostly to hide the amused smile at his friend’s actions.

Boss has been awake for almost 84 hours sir.

“Thank you, Friday.” was said at the exact time Tony muttered an almost petulant “Traitor.”

Without another word, which was probably a testament to how many times this had happened in the past, Tony let the string of lights drop and climbed down the ladder, allowing himself to be led away by his oldest friend past the other Avengers—all of whom were kept quiet about their rude awakening by the War Machine glare shot their way—and guided up to his penthouse and into his room, where Rhodey went through the familiar routine of nudging Tony into his en-suite bathroom to get changed and ready for bed, before finally all but shoving him into bed with strict instructions not to move for at least five hours and disappearing once again back to his own room.

Tony sighed and resided himself to five hours of laying there bored out of his mind, thankful that he had access to his blueprints and schematics from wherever in the tower he was, otherwise he would have gone stir crazy in minutes. The truth was that despite his reputation for spending all hours in his workshop, ever since Stephen Strange had literally appeared out of nowhere into his life with a shower of orange sparkles, and promptly magicked his way into Tony’s affections, the mechanic had been getting a fairly regular amount of sleep.

Apparently once a Doctor, always a Doctor, and Stephen had taken Tony’s lack of self-restraint in the workshop as a personal slight, often turning up to forcibly portal the billionaire off into bed. And if Tony managed to convince Stephen to climb into bed with him in order to make sure he behaved then that was all for the better.

However, in true ‘Stark style,’ once Tony had gotten used to having Stephen in bed with him while he fell asleep, it had become increasingly difficult for him to do so without him. Now, every time Stephen was away fighting some inter-dimensional threat that even his brilliant imagination couldn’t fathom, Tony struggled to fall asleep; and if he did, he often woke up multiple times a night with his night terrors until he gave up and barricaded himself in his workshop, preferring to wait for Stephen to return so he could sleep then instead.

This time, Stephen had been gone for three nights already with no real idea of how long he’d be, promising Tony he’d aim to be back for Christmas Eve, but could otherwise not say when he would be home. Tony had been disappointed that they wouldn’t get the chance to spend the lead up to Christmas together, but the absence had also given Tony the chance to create the perfect Christmas presents for his Wizard partner without giving anything away to those sharp, curious, two-toned eyes that had an uncanny ability to sweep once across his work and be able to work out what he was building.

Reaching across for his Stark pad tucked away in his bedside drawer, Tony smiled as he scrolled through everything he had planned for Stephen. His plans for such an extravagant Christmas had begun almost a month ago. The pair of them had been laid in bed, Tony’s head propped up against Stephen’s stomach as he lay perpendicular across the width of the bed, reading out loud from the list of Iron Man merchandise that Stark Industries were planning on releasing for Christmas, trying not to purr as Stephen’s slightly trembling fingers played with his hair. Offhand, Tony had held up the holopad to show Stephen the designs for Iron Man naughty Santa briefs and joked about getting the first pair as a gift for the Sorcerer, when Stephen had laughed, fingers pausing against his scalp and explained that he hadn’t really celebrated Christmas since before he’d become a surgeon.

Knowing how long ago that was, Tony had blinked in shock up at his partner, before the sharp wave of determination had swelled within him, deciding in an instant that he was going to give Stephen the best Christmas he’d had in years. This year would not be a simple exchange of presents on Christmas day before going off to work, Tony was going to use the whole month to his advantage until Stephen had Christmas cheer coming out of his ears.

Tony had explained how he and Jarvis—the original one, not the AI—had quickly come to develop a ritual of sorts over the years, in which on the four Mondays leading up to Christmas gifts were exchanged. Thus ensuring that the full month was considered festive and everyone involved felt appreciated. Knowing from personal experience how such a small weekly act could liven the mood of what to most is an incredibly dark month, Tony had carried on the tradition long beyond Jarvis' passing by gifting toys to Children's hospitals, supplies to public services and such. But this was the first time since losing his only decent Father figure that Tony had wanted to try the tradition on someone close to his own heart.

Of course, that plan had completely collapsed in on itself when Wong had turned up to warn him of some threat causing havoc in other dimensions that needed his immediate attention, and Tony had barely had time to kiss Stephen good luck before the Sorcerer was vanishing through a portal to go do his thing.

But that didn’t mean Tony was going to completely abandon his plans, no sir. Even if he was planning on delivering Wong the biggest bag of coal in punishment for stealing his wizard away at such a pivotal time, he was still determined to get Stephen’s gifts sorted.

Once he was sure Rhodey wouldn’t come to check on him, Tony got up and re-dressed before sneaking back down to the workshop to start working on the actual creation of his gifts, quickly setting Friday to the lock-down protocol to ensure he wouldn’t be accosted and sent back to bed like an unruly child. He was going to use his time to ensure Stephen was utterly spoilt, and Rhodey and the others could kick and scream and pound on the windows of his workshop all they wanted but he wasn’t leaving.

------------

Monday 3rd December saw Tony sneaking his way into the Sanctum Sanctorum—although he doubted he was actually sneaking in unnoticed, he may be bitter towards Wong right now, but the man was not that oblivious—and making his way upstairs towards Stephen’s bedroom. The man was still not back, but a quick phone call to Wong had assured him that the Sorcerer would be returning ever so often to replenish his strength, but not long enough to include a trip to see Tony. As much as that fact stung, Tony was focusing on the positive, that Stephen would be returning to the Sanctum and would hopefully be able to find the gifts Tony would be leaving every Monday up until Christmas Eve when they should—hopefully—be reunited once more.

Setting the ornate, slim, velvet box onto the bedside table, Tony stepped back and shuffled around the room to make sure it would be visible from all angles, before setting a small envelope atop the box, propped against the bedside lamp. Nodding to himself in approval, Tony span on his heel and rushed out of the building, forgetting all sense of stealth as he raced and all but dived into the car where Happy was waiting patiently for him to return, holding his chest as he tried to calm his thumping heart of its nerves.

Inside the box he’d found tucked away in his closet, Tony had painstakingly laid out a pair of rich, dark apricot leather gloves, the wide gauntlet cuffs, embossed with a small row of runes asking for strength, support, dexterity and calm that Wong had aided in the design of, and had helpfully agreed to activate before Tony had placed them in the box. Whilst they appeared to be normal gloves, Tony had spent hours fusing the insides of the fingers and back of the hand with supports; lightweight, conductive splint-like supports that worked in sync with Stephen’s hands and not only helped to soften the tremors, but offered strength and grip to do things that the Sorcerer normally had to rely on magic or the cloak to do. All without dampening his magical output, or at least Wong had said so when he’d been badgered into testing them out. The envelope atop the box contained a rarely done hand letter, the beginning a little scratchy with how Tony had all but forgotten how to write on real paper.

Dearest Stephen,

Today is the first Monday of December and the first of your gifts for the holidays. I know you’re off fighting some weird alien, magic squid-like Gandalf, but Wong has assured me you’ll be returning at some point to recover your strength. If he lied to me I’m downgrading him from coal to an Orange! Anyway, I hope you don’t mind the gloves, I wanted to make them subtle whilst still offering you the support and strength you might need. Plus this way if you think about it, whenever you wear my technology, it’s almost as if I’m there with you to hold your hand. I hope that gives you the strength you might need in whatever darkness or despair these dimensions lead you to.

Stay safe Dumbledore. Remember, help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.

Love, Tony.

What Tony hadn’t been expecting when he arrived back at the Tower, was to find the common area completely decorated. Ever since his attempts at decorating had been thwarted two days previously, Tony had been locked in his workshop and had not bothered to continue with his interior decorating in case the others had tried to stage an intervention and tie him to the bed. But he had assumed that everything would have been left how he had abandoned it. Except now, the lights were strung across the ceiling delicately, leading the eye like runway stripping to the large real-life tree in the corner of the room, perfectly decorated in a rather explosive amount of colours to try and accommodate every superheroes costume choices. Even more amazing, was the mistletoe branches hanging innocently over every doorway leading to the rooms, support beams, the stairs and even the elevator where he’d just come from.

“Ah! Friend Tony!” jumping at the sudden booming voice from across the room, Tony blinked as he realised Thor was still by the tree, somehow camouflaged against the branches despite his size and stature, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he attached baubles to the Christmas tree. “Do you approve of our attempts at your Midgardian decorations?”

“I—Yeah! Point break this looks amazing thank you!” Tony grinned, eagerly moving forward to take a closer look at the tree. “You did this by yourself?”

“Nay, I had help from the man of Spiders. He explained a lot of the traditions to me. Including your strange adaptation of our mistletoe tradition.” Thor returned the grin with one of his own as he attached a Spiderman themed bauble to a branch, leaving Tony to wonder where it had even come from. “Did you know that the mistletoe comes from Asgard? Brave Balder was slain with an arrow of mistletoe, which was then given to the Goddess of love who mounted it and declared that all who passed beneath the arrow must share a kiss to celebrate the new meaning of love not hatred for the flora.”

“Really?” Tony queried, blinking up at the God of Thunder in a mix of confusion and awe.

“Really man of Iron. And on that note--” Thor started before pointing upwards to the support beam above the tree, where a small bundle of mistletoe was hanging, barely giving Tony time to register what it was before the God was bending down to press an almost bruising, loud, brotherly kiss to Tony’s cheek and proceeded to saunter off towards his room as if nothing was out of the ordinary and he hadn’t left one of the most intelligent men on Earth spluttering, lost for words.

------------

Monday, December 10th came and Tony smiled as Wong opened the door this time to let him in, not bothering to hide the roll of his eyes as he stood to one side and let the genius head off towards Stephen’s bedroom again. Upon opening the door, Tony felt his grin widening when he spotted the envelope had been opened and carefully tucked into the book Stephen had been reading on his bedside table, the box left open and empty on the bed, which the mechanic hoped meant the Sorcerer was currently off fighting the forces of evil wearing his new gloves.

This time, Tony sat a large, rather heavy, ornate box down on the bed, rubbing at his lower back as he groaned and stretched back to try and ease the strain in his muscles. Depositing another envelope on the box as he turned to leave, Tony stopped in the hallway only to cheerfully hand Wong a lump of orange coal, having decided to combine his punishments for maximum annoyance. Tony barely getting chance to enjoy the look of sheer annoyance he got in return, before he was running from the sanctum and laughing rather obscenely as the coal suddenly multiplied with a swift wave of Wong’s hands and started to chase him, diving down to pelt him like he was being hit with bags of chalk dust, until his once pristine designer suit was covered in orange smudges.

It had been so worth it though.

Dearest Stephen,

Second Monday, which means the second present. I hope you’ve managed to return by now to find your first one, if not, then you’re being even more spoilt by having two presents to open at once. This time I had to really go out of my comfort zone to find what was needed, but I guess that’s all I’ve been doing ever since I met you. You’ve really opened my eyes to what I’ve always believed impossible, and I’m not just talking about your magic (which I’m still determined to prove through science) but the way you’ve managed to make me believe that something about me is still worth loving. As for your gift, I found this wonderful little shop and got you your own personal Grimoire. I know you’ve been working on your own spells and other stuff I don’t understand, but apparently, this kind of thing is helpful? I hope this helps to show how much I’ve embraced your world, as much as I like to make fun of it. You amaze me with the stuff you can achieve, and your strength and power just utterly astound me every time I see you in battle. I hope this can be of assistance to you to help expand that vast knowledge of yours.

Whoever you’re fighting, make sure to give them an extra kick from me. I don’t appreciate you being taken away from me.

Love, Tony.

Back at the tower, Tony laughed as he found Peter and Ned covered head to toe in flour in the kitchen area, the remains of what looked like an attempt at cookie dough forgotten on the counter in favour of some kind of flour fight.

“This looks productive,” Tony smirked, laughing as the boys jumped and turned to look at him guiltily.

“M-Mr. Stark! W-We were making cookies!” Peter spluttered in his attempts to speak fast enough, his eyes widening as Tony tugged his slightly ruined suit jacket off and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Awesome, let's get baking then shall we?”

------------

When Tony pushed his way into Stephen’s bedroom next Monday on the 17th, he couldn’t help but sigh in relief when he saw the grimoire had been opened and moved to the end of the bed. Unable to resist, Tony crept closer and carefully reached to open the book, only to yelp as he was shocked like he’d just ran his hand across a bunch of static.

“A Sorcerer always guards his grimoire against outsiders Stark.” Wong’s irritatingly monotone voice spoke from the doorway. “You would do well to not touch, as hard as that may be for you.”

“You know me too well Wong, I just can’t help but touch,” Tony smirked, enjoying the way Wong’s eyebrow raised in a telltale sign of amusement. Or irritation, Tony always seemed to cause one or the other in the other Sorcerer. "I was just curious about what Goatee'd Merlin was planning on creating."

“Yes well, I assume you are here to leave your next needless gift? Stephen has become almost distracted by it all whenever he returns. It was unclear whether I would let you in today, he needs to remain focused on his job, not wondering what the next gift he’s going to receive from the Iron Santa.” Wong retorted, clearly concerned about Stephen’s work ethic, but without any real heat behind his warning, Tony almost proud of himself to be able to recognise the fact the Librarian was approving of the attention Stephen was getting. Even though he'd probably rather spend time locked in with Tony than admit he cared for his fellow Sorcerer.

That aside, it didn’t help the slight sensation of guilt that bubbled in Tony’s gut. He hadn’t wanted to distract Stephen from his job, only leave him gifts to celebrate the season even with him dimensions away, wanting the Sorcerer to know he was being thought of and missed. Setting the small jewellery box down on the bedside table once again, Tony snatched a pen from Stephen’s desk and hastily tore open the envelope of the letter he’d written, ignoring as Wong walked away muttering to himself about idiot engineers, and quickly penned a postscript onto the end of his letter, before tucking it back into the envelope and setting it on the new box.

This was another one of Tony’s inventions, a small, almost delicate, round talisman, engraved into the shape of one of Stephen’s signature mandalas. He hadn’t needed any kind of help with recreating magical symbols this time, Tony had watched the Sorcerer work so often that he practically had the whole sequence of mandalas memorised depending on what he needed them for. And true to Tony’s form, the talisman was embedded with a small tracking device that remained quiet and resistant to magic. Call him paranoid, see if he cares, but he felt better knowing that he could potentially know where Stephen was when he wasn’t in his direct vicinity.

Dearest Stephen,

Here is gift number 3. I saw that you’d opened gift number 1 so I’m hanging onto the idea that you’re still managing to get home in time to see the gifts. Your third gift is a talisman. Nothing magical, I didn’t know how it would react since I recreated your signature designs, I didn’t want to accidentally teleport you somewhere every time you put it on. I won’t lie though, it contains a tracking device that I have connected to my satellites. The strength of it should mean that no matter where you are on Earth, or even to a certain distance in space I will be able to locate you. I’m not sure how it works through dimensions, but if there’s ever a time I need to come to help you on Earth, I am determined to make sure I can get there as soon as possible. I hope you don’t find this too clingy or smothering, but I just want to keep you safe. It works both ways too, if you need me, you can use it to call for me, or find where I am.

It drives me insane not being able to follow you through the dimensions, but knowing I can get to you in this dimension helps my peace of mind. I hope you don’t mind.

Love, Tony.

P.S. I just tried to open your grimoire and got a shock. Wong enjoyed that far too much. I’m writing this extra bit as I drop off your third gift this time because Wong said something that bothered me. I never wanted to distract you from your work with these gifts. Please stay safe and come back to me okay? Focus on defeating the big bad and then we can spend Christmas together.

More love, Tony.

------------

Christmas Eve rolled around both far too quickly and not fast enough for Tony’s liking. The final Monday before Christmas meant the final gift for his Sorcerer. He had spent the previous night sprawled across the sofa in the common room, Peter tucked against his side, the rest of the Avengers gathered around them on various surfaces as they watched a variety of Christmas movies. There had been a Stephen shaped hole next to him on the other side of the sofa, but he had quickly squashed the feeling, knowing the Sorcerer was working hard and hadn’t entirely gone off on his own violation. That didn't detract from the fact that Tony felt both incredibly prepared for Stephen's return and yet so worryingly not ready at the same time.

The final gift was probably not as physical as the rest, but Tony was confident that Stephen would understand the meaning behind it and appreciate the trust involved in such a gift. But that did nothing to stop the nerves from rolling in his stomach as he stepped through the main doors of the Sanctum, already able to tell Stephen was back, just from the way the building felt around him, it filled him with a sense of euphoria that he knew wasn’t entirely his own, as if the Sorcerer’s building was excited that its Master was back permanently for the time being.

However, as Tony stepped into the bedroom, whistling happily and once again wearing his oversized Christmas hat and the comfiest brushed cotton designer cardigan he owned, his glasses perched on his nose to try and ease the strain of the past few weeks work, Tony frowned as he found the room empty. His gifts had been moved, the grimoire now tucked carefully onto a shelf, and his empty gift boxes stacked neatly on the bedside table but otherwise not a single sign of the Sorcerer even being here.

Just as he was about to leave, since his final gift had nothing to be left behind, Tony blinked as he spotted a small envelope atop the empty gift boxes with his name on. The excitement once again building, Tony grinned and quickly snatched it up, feeling like he would expect a giddy child would on Christmas morning as he hastily tore open the flap and tugged the small fold of paper out of it.

Meet me by the mistletoe.

Frowning at the vague, anonymous note that he only just recognised as being written in Stephen’s stereotypical Doctor’s handwriting, Tony forgot about leaving the note he'd prepared just in case behind for his partner and instead returned home, still clutching the slim piece of paper from Stephen in his hand even as he stepped into the elevator and then out again onto the common room floor.

The soft tinkling of Christmas music had Tony snapping out of his daze, attention refocusing on his surroundings, his eyes widening as he found the entire crew gathered in the lounge area having a Christmas Eve party, food and drink cluttering up every available surface as everyone stood around in groups chatting and generally having a good time. Those caught under the mistletoe laughed and obligingly pecked at each other’s cheeks before rushing off once more, determined not to get caught out again, apart from Thor who seemed to enjoy loitering under the foliage as if determined to get a kiss from everyone before the clock struck midnight.

Since everyone was in various forms of Christmas regalia, Stephen was visible almost instantly as he stood to one side having what seemed to be an in-depth conversation with Bruce about something scientific, Peter stood beside the pair of them, head swivelling like he was observing a tennis match, eyes glittering in awe as he listened to them speak. Still dressed in his traditional robes and sentient cloak, Stephen’s hair was a little windswept, and Tony was struck by the possibility that Stephen had come straight there after leaving him his note, and that was all the nudge Tony needed to make his way over to the group.

The conversation stopped instantly as Bruce caught sight of his approach, the Doctor quickly taking his leave and wandering off to find someone else to talk to, managing to somehow find himself ensnared under the mistletoe by Thor who jovially declared that Bruce was the first to receive his third kiss before promptly kissing his cheek sharply.

“I thought I was supposed to meet you by the mistletoe?” Tony teased, holding up the paper aloft as Stephen quickly turned to face him, his cloak eagerly perking up and waving a corner at him in greeting as it detached from Stephen's shoulders, which he returned happily. Yet, what really caught Tony’s attention was the shining silver of the talisman around Stephen’s neck that settled snug and flat against his chest just above the eye of Agamotto, as well as the deep, rich, apricot coloured leather, wrapped securely around the Sorcerer’s hands. He was wearing his gifts. Stephen was wearing the gifts he made for him and wearing them proudly, and suddenly the long month waiting had been worth it.

“Well...” Stephen began, before he lightly nudged his head back in a small upwards gesture, causing Tony to glance up and laugh loudly as he found Peter now attached to the ceiling, one sleeve of his uniform on as he held a sprig of mistletoe—the one from above Thor if the God’s petulant pout was anything to go by—over their heads with a cheeky grin on his face as he winked at the mechanic.

“Oh, would you look at that. How convenient, I guess it is a tradition...” Tony hummed as he returned his focus to Stephen’s face, swallowing at the way his eyes had darkened in those short moments his attention had been elsewhere. “Did you know the tradition actually comes from Asgard? Something about Balder getting shot with an arrow m--”

Anything else Tony had been trying to explain was lost as Stephen suddenly moved and curled his large, leather encased hands around his face and held him steady as he lowered his head to press his lips to Tony’s, effectively cutting off his rambling. The grip on his face was sturdier and stronger than anything he’d felt before with the Sorcerer, and somewhere in the back of his mind Tony congratulated himself on a job well done, the rest of him however, ignoring that little boost to his already large ego as he eagerly wrapped his arms around Stephen’s neck and pushed up into the kiss, one hand sinking into the hair at his nape, the other sliding to gently rest over the sharp point of the Sorcerer’s cheekbone, the rest of the world disappearing until there was only this moment here and now, where Stephen kissed him, that talented tongue tracing a familiar path, promising so much but remaining reserved, because at least one of them seemed to stay attentive to the fact they were not alone.

Pulling away a few moments later, Tony smiled as he moved to wrap his arms around Stephen properly in an embrace, sighing at the familiar feeling of warmth and security and a slight bit of static that Tony always attributed to the man’s magic. From his new position, Tony could enjoy the way the shine of the talisman complimented the rich colours of the Sorcerer’s robes, his fingers curiously moving to play with it as he simply enjoyed being close to the person he’d missed the most this season.

“Oh!” Tony suddenly exclaimed pulling back, tucking Stephen’s note back into his pocket which he was somehow still holding onto, and retrieving another envelope that he’d intended to leave in the Sanctum. “Here’s your final present,” he explained, handing the paper over to the other man, watching nervously once again as Stephen took it and carefully peeled it open, unfolding the paper inside and reading over the words on the page. It only takes a moment before Stephen’s head shot up in surprise to meet Tony’s gaze.

“Is this what I think it is Tony?” Stephen questioned softly, fingers playing with the paper in what was his own nervous type of gesture. “Are you sure about this?”

“Of course I’m sure. I trust you, and, you’re probably one of the only people who would understand what that means, and I want you to have it.” Tony explained, ignoring the now curious looks of everyone else as Stephen pulled Tony flush against his side with one arm as the other clutched carefully to the paper. Written out across the final gift wasn’t another letter, but a list of codes and commands. Codes and commands to Friday’s systems, that allowed Stephen the same level of control as Tony had himself, meaning the Sorcerer could override commands, set up protocols and even tear them down, including ones that Tony himself had set up. Tony had already programmed Friday to accept Stephen’s orders at the same level as his own, and she had seemed rather happy that Tony was at such a point in their relationship already that he was allowing his partner to have the same level of control as he did.

“Thank you, Tony, this has been the best Christmas I’ve had since I was a young boy,” Stephen spoke softly, leaning for another kiss even though Peter had long since moved away to return the mistletoe to Thor after caving under his glare.

“Oh darling, you think this was good, just wait until next year.” Tony laughed softly, going easily into the kiss with an almost dreamy sigh. “Just you wait.”

------------------------------------------------

#ironstrangerbb #ironstrange reverse big bang #ironstrange #tony stark #Stephen Strange #tony x stephen #fanfic #rinwrites #strangeiron

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complicatedandstained · 5 years

Text

The Other Day at Hot Topic: Chill Blacksmith

Evergreen tinsel and strings of white lights frame every store window along the upper floor of the Destiny Island Shopping Mall. Roxas admires them as he walks to work, the silver wire of his earbuds playing at his neck, protecting him from “All I Want For Christmas Is a Real Good Tan” and the other tongue-in-cheek island favorites that had gotten old when he was all of twelve. He stops when he gets to the window where the tinsel falls short, and ducks inside.

With the front windows blacked out and the floorspace crowded with fixtures, Roxas, at his height, can’t tell who’s at the register or walking the aisleways until he’s right in front of them, and by then it’s too late.

But Roxas isn’t one to back down from confrontation, even when maybe he should.

By the time Lex’s bulking form appears behind a rolling rack of soft-hued dresses with lacy collars in subtle prints of florals, skulls, and florals with skulls, Lex has likely seen him coming for miles.

With his russet hair, towering form, bulging muscles, and solemn expression, Lex initially reminded Roxas of the Greek god Hephaestus. Good old Hephaestus was a plain-faced blacksmith who chilled all day at his forge making badass weapons and armor instead of starting drama and shit like all the other gods.

Despite their argument last shift, Roxas still gets the impression that Lex is usually chill, and if for his sheer size alone, not someone he wants to be on the bad side of, like ever anyway.

So Roxas squares his shoulders, plucks out an earbud, and strides right up to the man. “G’morning, Lex.” It comes out pleasant enough, if a bit tired, but hey, he had to get up before noon for this, so he’s allowed to be tired.

“Roxas…” Lex starts, expression sheepish, voice pained, chill blacksmith status confirmed. “Good morning.”

Roxas nods, a good natured, bro nod, because it’s all he can think to do, and shuffles his Conversed feet to keep going.

Lex clears his throat as if he has something more to stay, and Roxas stops.

“How did it go, your first day?” Lex’s question sounds nonchalant, or it would if he weren’t wearing the expression of someone having a splinter pulled from their palm.

Roxas pockets his hands, shrugs. “Axel got me all sorted out, so.” He doesn’t want to seem like a pushover, but the gentle giant looks so damn apologetic, Roxas can’t even be properly mad.

The image of Axel sprawled out on his back with a popsicle stick poking out of his mouth like a happy toddler after a tee-ball game sends an unexpected gush of gooey warmth to his chest. This doesn’t help him with his bitter thing any either.

Roxas musters a smile. “All good, right? How was…” Roxas cringes. He hadn’t even asked Lex what the emergency was before getting pissed at him for trying to take off. “…your thing?”

Lex tucks a dress he hasn’t been actually paying attention to back in amongst the other hangers and then looks down at Roxas, thoughtfully. “Look,” he says in his narrator voice, “I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have left you like that; it’s not something I do, ordinarily.”

Roxas gets the odd feeling that he has just heard more words from Lex in a minute than he typically says in a day. Again, Roxas smiles, tries not to laugh outright at the thought that this god of the forge is like eleven times his size and hulking over him all concerned, anxiously shuffling his feet.

“It wasn’t your fault nobody showed up. I get that. I was just nervous and when I’m nervous I get a little ticked.” Roxas, rubs at his arm, and his smile turns a little self-deprecating. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Lex smiles. Well… he stops frowning, which Roxas thinks counts. “My sister had this holiday choir concert.” His arms cross, thoughtfully, almost brooding. “I didn’t have time to change, so my mother kept grumbling that I looked like a hoodlum, but my sister had this solo and it was… incredible… I mean, she’s in middle school, so she sang it like a prima donna,” he chuckles, a deep, almost wistful sound, “but she was just… so happy that I was there.”

As Lex turns back to lift an armful of dresses, Roxas imagines him smushed into a tight row of auditorium seats, next to a tiny old lady with paler russet curls, dressed in some hideous lavender get up that she calls her Sunday best, tugging at the giant’s ear and gesturing menacingly to his fading, black pants, brown leather jacket, and white muscle tee.

Roxas bites down on his tongue to keep the giggle in.

Lex must mistake the strangled sound he makes, because when he’s settled the dresses hung on his arm amid the others on the wall display, he turns back to Roxas. “What Axel said, about me hitting you…”

“Hey, hey,” Roxas tosses up innocent hands, seeing grief in the sag of the man’s shoulders, “he was joking. I knew you weren’t going to…” Roxas gestures vaguely rather than finish the sentences. He knew nothing of the sort, but it seems like the right thing to say to avoid a repeat scenario.

“No.” Lex nods, stepping back to avoid the hand Roxas reaches out with to pat his arm with and say ‘there, there’, which okay, fine. “But there was a time in my life I would’ve.”

These people are an absolute fucking mess.

Roxas works his jaw. He figures he probably shouldn’t say that.

“I haven’t always… been the best brother, so,” Lex settles the last of the dresses in place, and meets Roxas’ eyes more steadily, “I’m trying to make up for lost time.”

“That’s…” Roxas’ chest fills with warmth and he reaches once more to pat Lex’s arm, and this time Lex lets him, “really cool of you, man. Congrats.”

Lex nods and the silence begins to stretch between them, filled with beats which somewhere in the back of his mind, Roxas is relieved to hear still sound like regular Hot Topic jams and not punk rock Christmas covers or some other hybrid atrocity.

“Now,” Roxas adjusts one of the dresses about to give its hanger the slip, “please tell me nobody actually buys these things.”

Lex does that thing where he frowns less again, tugging at a beige number with a black lace collar and a scorpion print. “I’ve seen worse.”

#kingdom hearts #roxas #lexaeus #organization xiii #axel #hot topic au #my writing

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vankoya · 6 years

Text

Sticky Date Deals.

➢ A Christmas drabble series based on this list!

Genre | College / Fake Dating AU.

Pairing | Park Jimin / Feminine Reader.

Conspectus | Park Jimin is always asking favours of you in exchange for beneficial deals. But no deal seems as appealing as the one that he offers when he smells of hot chocolate, pudding, and a warm embrace that calms you down when you need it most.

For the nth time that evening, you wonder why you ever agreed to this. You do not even like Christmas, nor crowds of people that you cannot remember half the names of, which only adds to the whole fatuousness of the situation.

It started with a favour. It always does. A favour asked by none other than Park Jimin, a biology major, just like yourself, who you met two years ago when you were both freshman. Over the years, as your friendship with Jimin has blossomed into something that is simultaneously the best thing that has happened to you, and a pungent taste of fresh Hell, you have become known as–

“Fake girlfriend!” Jimin had screeched across the library on the day of his proposal, which earned him nothing more than a chorus of violent hushing and a fierce glare from you. Completely ignorant to the laws of the sacred quiet place, Jimin had stormed over to where you were sat, taking notes from your textbook, and draped his whole torso over the table. “Duty calls. I need another favour.”

“First of all, keep your voice down, oh my god,” you had hissed, pen clutched in a death grip in your fist as you had sent apologetic smiles to the surrounding, annoyed students. “Second of all, if I have to save your dumb ass from a date you don’t want to go on, then save it. I’m not experiencing that again.”

“Okay, look, that glass of water Hyesoo threw was aimed at me and not you. It was just an unfortunate natural instinct to hide behind you when she did it,” Jimin had sighed and propped himself up on his side by an elbow, black hair a tousled mess from running over to the library. A heart-shaped something had risen in your throat at the sight, but you were quick to swallow it down. “But no, I need you to get your festive cheer on. I have my family’s Christmas get-together this Saturday night, and mother dearest has made it explicitly clear that she will strangle me with tinsel if I don’t rock up with a date.”

“You know I hate Christmas,” you had immediately grunted and dropped your pen so you could drag your hands down your face. “And people.”

Jimin had leaned in close, a grin on his face like a half-moon, curved in bright light against a dark night sky. You had swallowed again, harder. “But you love me. I’ll be right by your side all night. And I’ll help you study for next week’s test with my trusty, holy Book of Notes. Deal?”

At that point, you had no idea what made you agree. Whether it was his proximity that allowed the pleasant scent of his cologne to drift into your senses, the divine smile that was all plush lips and pearly teeth, or the promise of the Book of Notes which is as close as to the Holy Bible that any biology student can get. You were not sure. Maybe a lethal combination of the three, because less than a second later, you had closed your eyes and muttered a barely perceptible, “Deal.”

Whiplash back to the present, and you are enduring one of the top ten most uncomfortable experiences of your life. Worst of all, you have not seen Jimin in roughly fifteen minutes, and you can feel an anxiety-shaped chisel beginning to chip away at your collected facade.

“Sorry love, how long did you say Jimin and yourself had been dating again?” An aunty, dressed in a catastrophe of festive snowman earrings, an ugly Christmas sweater, a Santa hat, and candy cane trousers, asks you. You hardly know where to look, for your eyes burn no matter where they land on her attire.

“T-Two years,” you stammer, resorting to staring into your half-full flute of champagne. Even the alcohol cannot soften the edges of your unease. Another family member bumping into your back as they pass by does nothing to help, causing your throat to close over with a thick film.

“Oh, I swear that boy said it was three,” she scrutinises, and you take a hasty sip of the crisp bubbles. The fizzle on your tongue is a comfort that scarcely lingers, and you know you need to get some air.

“Um, you’re right, I guess it just, uh, feels like we started dating last week,” you stumble over your words, and you are certain that the aunty must notice your feeble coverup. Blinking away the wetness beginning to cloud your vision, you take a deep, shuddering breath, and lie, “Sorry, I’m feeling a little tipsy. I’m going to go get some fresh air.”

Before the aunty can protest, or perhaps, offer to join you, you are twisting on your heel and charging through the clustered space, placing the champagne flute on the kitchen counter in your rush towards the backdoor. An icy gust hits you the instant you step outside into the snow, wracking your bones with a chilly shiver, yet you are too embarrassed to go back inside and retrieve your coat. So, in nothing but your jeans, a thin sweater, and your boots, you huddle down on the step and let the cold shake you back to your senses. Calming you from the threat of a panic attack that had you teetering on the very edge of a breakdown inside the party.

“You’re okay, don’t freak yourself out,” you try to soothe yourself through the trembling, letting the tears stream hotly down your frosty cheeks. “It’s fine, you’re okay–“

“___?”

The voice catches you off-guard, and in your bout of surprise, you snap your head up to face the owner before you think to wipe away the evidence. Jimin stares down at you, eyes like planets, shock painting his features with distress once he notices the sparkling lines trailing down your face.

“Hey, hey what’s wrong? Are you okay?” He immediately asks, concern laced tight through his tone as he drops down beside you, pulling you close to his chest. “Jesus, you’re freezing. Where’s your jacket? Come here.”

A fresh surge of tears overcomes you as you are pressed to the warmth that is Jimin. Smelling like hot chocolate, sticky date pudding, a comfort that you never quite realise how much you long for until it is right there before you, arms open. You let him pull you onto his lap, tuck your damp face into his neck and softly sob, feel the way that he rocks you into an equanimous state.

“I’m sorry, ___. I left for too long, didn’t I? I’m so sorry. I just, I completely forgot, I shouldn’t have, I’m an idiot,” Jimin mumbles his apologies against the crown of your hair, but they are fruitless, for you forgave him the moment he stepped outside.

You shift back so you can capture the worry that frames his features with your own eyes, and try not to think about how this might be the closest your faces have ever been. “You’re not an idiot. I’m just,” a sniffle, “stupidly emotional.”

“It’s not stupid, you can’t help feeling that way,” Jimin smiles softly, unwrapping an arm from your waist so he can wipe at your tears with a thumb. He almost appears entranced when he whispers, “How can you still be so pretty, even when you’re crying?”

You blink, shocked, eyelashes sticky. “You think I’m pretty?”

“Have I never told you that before?” He responds in a similar tone, the hand that was drying your skin now remaining in a soft caress against your cheek. Your heart begins to thud at a rabbit-like pace for a much different reason. “Yeah, you’re super pretty. Unbearably pretty.”

“W-Well, you are too. But you know that already because you’re such a cocky, self-confident asshat,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes in faux accusation, and he only grins wider.

“True, but it’s nicer when you say it,” he quietly admits, licking his lower lip, and you cannot help but follow the action with your sight. In the air, a static something crackles, sparking to life.

Jimin, always the brave one, acts upon it before you can even consider to.

It is as you always imagined. His lips are as soft and plush as they look; delightfully warm and damp. They move in gentle motions against your own, like waves calmly rolling onto the shore. His tongue dips into your mouth, touches to your own, feeling like velvet, tasting like cinnamon. In his embrace, you melt; snow beneath the sunshine of a new day.

Making a sound that appears suspiciously akin to a pleasant moan, Jimin pulls away. All over, roses have blossomed in the pink of his cheeks and nose, the slight swell of his lips. He looks so beautiful that, when he goes to speak, you cannot help but cut him off with another quick kiss that he smiles into.

“That, wow,” he breathes, and the white cloud that exhales with his words settles warmly on your face. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

“You were too busy asking me to be your fake girlfriend that you never thought I could be a real one, hm?” You tease, poking at his chest, and Jimin clasps your face and presses your foreheads together, grinning. You distantly wonder why you ever felt so anxious in the first place. How one being can calm you so effortlessly, just by his presence.

“Something like that,” he chuckles, kissing you once more, and you curl closer. “Is that a deal, then? Be my real girlfriend?”

This time, you do not question your decision. You do not regret it. You do not wonder why you ever agreed to it in the first place. Because now, you absolutely, wholeheartedly mean it when you say, “Deal.”

#jimin fluff #jimin x reader #bts fluff #bts scenarios #jimin fics #park jimin #bts fics #vankoya #lights in the pines #/ anxiety #I haven't edited this rip

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frostcryptid · 6 years

Text

Subtlety and Care

Before anything, there is mentions of animal abuse in this story. For @wolvesamongstdeer, my Hannibal Holiday Giftee. I really hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you ❤❤ Thank you to @hannibalholiday for organizing this event as well!!

—-

Will hummed along with the Christmas music playing as he decorated the tree. Hannibal was in the kitchen baking some cookies to be shared by the fire after dinner. It’s the most domestic they’ve been since the Fall. He lowered his hand from hanging the next ornament with a sad smile.

Why was murder always the solution between them? It had been Garret Jacob Hobbs first. That kill was the one that started him on the path that led to where he was now. Matthew Brown followed; he didn’t actually die due to Jack coming to the rescue, but to be fair he did attempt to kill Hannibal on Will’s word. Abel Gideon’s death was both to prove a point and to punish Frederick.

The Great Red Dragon was their most recent kill together.

Hannibal was always disappointed when Will refused to go out with him, but Francis Dolarhyde was a life or death situation. Anyone else now would just be murder, even though Hannibal was careful to only pick out other criminals who escaped the broken system

“Be safe,” Will always tells him when he leaves.

“Will do,” is always the reply. Will can’t figure out if that’s supposed to be a pun or if it’s just Hannibal confirming he will do as Will asked.

Hands moved up to rest upon Will’s hips from behind, and he couldn’t help but relax. His husband was always there to help him when he couldn’t do it himself. Hannibal’s gentlest touches were the easiest way to do so.

“Will, are you finished?” Hannibal was talking about the tree, but it was plain to see that it was still a little bare. Folding his hand over Will’s brought him pleasure as Hannibal helped hang the ornament still dangling between the other’s fingers. “Take a break.” A shiver ran through Will as the words were whispered into his ear. “Come with me?”

Will know what he meant. God, did he know. His irritation grew more every time he told Hannibal no, but the tightness in his chest tonight was new. It was worse than anything he’d felt before in his life. It may have been why his next response came as a surprise to the both of them.

“Yes.”

What better way to get into the holiday spirit than to grant Hannibal the one thing he’d been craving the most: Will by his side, killing their target beautifully and making the kill a work of art.

“I pick who,” Will stated. There’d be no negotiations on that. Either Will chose or Hannibal would be on his own, and back to square one trying to convince Will.

Instead of answering, Hannibal pulled his partner into a deep kiss. Only after they were both flushed and left wanting did Hannibal pull away. He planned for much more after they killed together.

“Take time to finish decorating, as long as you need. I’ll finish up in the kitchen as you do so, dear Will. Come find me afterwards.” No more needed to be said as he left for the kitchen.

Will definitely needed a breather. What better way than doing as Hannibal said? He dug through the box to find more bulbs for the tree. The tinsel was already in place and some bulbs along with other knick knacks were carefully hung. As he worked, more thoughts about who they would make into art came about. Will remembered an article in the newspaper that day about someone abusing animals, especially the breeds with a bad name. He hoped Hannibal hadn’t thrown it away.

When it was all settled, Will found the other in the kitchen where he said he’d be. Their eyes met.

“Brie O’Malley,” Will said.

A feral grin spread across Hannibal’s lips. They were always on the same page about everything. Why did Will think he needed an explanation for this?

“Wonderful. When and how?” Hannibal asked. That was the question, wasn’t it? A very loaded one too.

Hannibal knew what Will felt during kills but he himself couldn’t let it go. They had connected more than ever when they killed the Great Red Dragon as a team. As one.

The thought of another shared kill made Hannibal shiver in anticipation. More of his sweet Will killing was one thing, but him actively liking it enough to keep doing it alongside Hannibal was something else entirely. The person hurting those innocent animals would be one of the last steps to Will becoming his true self. He’d been denying it for quite some time.

“Tonight, with one of your cooking knives?” Will asked. He was flattered that Hannibal was allowing him such freedoms but he’d let Hannibal take the lead while he could. After this, he knew the other man would cease letting him go back into his shell.

What was it Hannibal had said before? Don’t retreat. Well, Will was finally done with retreating. One thing would always lead to another in some way, as long as Hannibal had a say.

“He deserves less than nothing,” Will said, more to himself than to Hannibal. “After what he did, I won’t allow him to come into this house.”

Hannibal watched him with dark eyes. “Please, choose a knife that feels right to you. I shall do the same. We’ll grab our coats afterwards and head into the heart of the city.” Hannibal’s grin widened as Will’s fingers danced along the handles, before settling on one of the knives. “Shall we bring Brahms?”

Brahms, a Dalmatian, was always excited to be with his humans and always managed to make Will smile with his goofiness. Hannibal had also been teaching him to attack and defend should the occasion arise that neither of them were suited to do so themselves. The sound of his name had the dog lifting his head in their direction, his tail thumping gently on the floor. The sound echoed throughout the mostly quiet house.

Will clicked his tongue and the dog jumped from his bed to sit proudly next to his human. A nice ear scratch later, the three of them were off. Hannibal wrapped an arm around Will’s waist and let Will lean against him while the other hand held onto Brahms’ leash. The Dalmatian was well behaved for being so young, but that was Will’s doing of correcting bad behavior and giving treats for good behavior. Hannibal was always impressed with how naturally the animals obeyed him.

It was a quiet evening as the two strolled the streets like an old married couple. The thought had Will chuckling and clinging tighter to Hannibal. Will couldn’t think of anything else better on his finger than Hannibal’s ring. He sighed happily as they settled on a park bench together, to await their prey. After sitting for a moment, he kissed the man on the cheek.

“This is really nice, Hannibal.”

“It’s about to get better, Will.”

Both their eyes followed movements of an individual who was approaching. Brahms perked up from where he’d been laying to growl low. Will gave a sharp whistle to Brahms, making him stop growling but not stopping him from tracking the stranger’s movements.

“What a well behaved little thing. Do you mind if I pet him?” As the man reached down, the two recognized him as the one they were looking for. The Dalmatian gave another low growl, and Hannibal pulled him away to give the two some space.

“He’s not friendly with strangers. I apologize, Mister…”

“O’Malley. Brie O’Malley.” Brie supplied all too happily. “I help animals you see. Train the viciousness right out of them and they come home perfectly behaved. None of this ‘stranger danger’ nonsense everyone keeps talking about with their animals. I’ve provided a way to help with that though.”

“Would you be able to show me? Right now?” Will could be forward when he had to be. As of this moment, it’s exactly how he needed to be with this horrid person. Brie nodded a little too eagerly, and led him around the corner to his own home.

Brahms turned to see his human missing along with the stranger. He barked as he tugged Hannibal with all his might. Snow started falling and it just made the Dalmatian work faster to find Will, despite Hannibal’s strength and his refusal to be pulled. Hannibal took his time to enjoy watching the snowflakes fall.

They eventually came to an apartment complex with the main door left open. Hannibal noted that the lock had been blocked, and felt a swell of pride at Will’s forward thinking. Hannibal had no need to actively search for their target as Brahms was doing a good job leading based on Will’s scent.

Their final destination was closed to them. The door was locked and they could hear what they assumed to be a fight. Hannibal reached down to pet Brahms, and then unhooked the leash from his collar.

Will was just on the other side of the door, fighting to keep the whip from being struck again him or the poor dog chained to the radiator under the window. He threw Brie against the kitchen counter, and pinned the man’s arms above his head. Brie anticipated the move and knocked his head against Will’s own.

Will hit the ground and struggled to get back up, still conscious enough to see Brie coming at him. Brie was wrapping the whip around his hand, preparing to strangle Will. The man’s dark, dark eyes only had murder and admiration in them. They made Will’s skin crawl.

“Of course you already knew. The knife, the same darkness in you… I could tell, you know? It was easy. That’s why I chose you over the other one. I knew he could take me down without blinking, but you? You struggle and rebel at the thought of murder.” Brie circled Will, and Will matched the movements step for step.

“He’s not the one you should worry about.”

Brahms leapt down from the small window above the doorway. He tackled Brie to the ground, getting the man’s throat between his jaws.

“You should worry more about what my dog is gonna do,” Will rose his eyebrows at him.

At any sudden motions, Brahms would have Brie dead. Will wasn’t too worried when he unlocked the door. Hannibal was standing there with a wicked smile, the leash folded nicely in his grip.

“He’s mine,” Will demanded. The only answer he got was a nod to go along with the smile. Hannibal entered and closed the door behind himself as Will went back to the kitchen, finding his knife.

He spoke to Brie softly but not without hate, kneeling over him. “I’m going to cut you into tiny pieces. That’s only after I tear your back to shreds using the whip you’ve used on countless animals, and the other various tools you kindly showed to me.” He stood but not before forcing the knife through Brie’s thigh. The man let out a strangled noise, his windpipe damaged from the dog’s bite.

“Get Brahms and the other dog out of here. I’ll be done in an hour.”

Hannibal did as he asked, only after kissing the blood from Will’s face. Hannibal took his time walking the dogs home. He attached the leash to the German Shepherd they’d found in the apartment, trusting Brahms to walk by his side. Only after he fed and watered the new dog did he leave again, taking the car back to the apartment complex. When he was satisfied that the job was done, Hannibal got out of the car and went to into apartment.

Will was still there, staring down at the blood on what was left of the man, his stormy eyes transfixed. The man’s body had been broken and bent and shoved into the corner beside the radiator, mimicking a sitting dog. The whip was around his neck, keeping his body tied there like all the dogs he’d mistreated.

“Come back to me, Will.” Hannibal wound his arms around Will from behind, licking his neck free of blood. He interlaced their fingers to help ground Will.

“Where would I go?” A squeeze was given in reply.

“Nowhere now that we’re together,” Hannibal supposed. This kill hadn’t been together like originally planned. It was better. Will overcame what he’d been afraid for some time now, and that outshined Hannibal’s lingering guilt for forcing him to kill alone.

“It feels good.” It felt good to God too, Hannibal had once told him. Neither of them decided to bring that up again.

Hannibal’s Christmas wish had come true and, secretly, so had Will’s. Hannibal wanted Will to stop denying himself and Will just wanted to feel whole again.

Killing, he was certain of now, was part of them both.

Hannibal licked more blood from his neck, savoring the metallic tang of blood mingled with the natural musk of Will’s skin. Will could feel Hannibal’s excitement, but he would put his foot down on doing anything next to a corpse.

“We’re done here.”

“Let’s get you home, then. You’ve had a long day.”

After all, they still had two dogs to take care of as well as Will’s own injuries in the struggle with Brie. Neither worried though, since they both knew Hannibal would take gentle care of him.

*Patreon* *Ao3* *Twitter*

#hannibal #hannibal holiday gift exchange #hannigram #trigger warning animal abuse #tw animal abuse #my fic

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digressfromreality · 7 years

Text

The Day The Tables Turned

Synopsis: This was PERSONAL. That much was obvious. What does one clown do when a mobster doesn’t learn his place in Gotham’s new criminal hierarchy? Of course, kidnap their life blood, the one that literally means more than the filthy air they breathe. First he isolates her, second manipulates her, third the mutual companionship was completely unexpected. Revenge at its finest.

Original Inspiration: Heath Ledger’s Joker Part 4 of 6

Warning: SMUT, DEATH, my terrible grammar lol

THE CHALLENGE

"Is the men ready?" His lieutenant shook his head.

"We're ready to send a message to the clown."

"Listen closely, I want to destroy that clown. If you see him, you litter the area with bullets. Anybody with a clown mask gets shot." He was about to end his rant but Maroni had one last thought, "Rip the masks off the women and bring them to me."

----------------------------------------

"GCN news hotline, Tiffany speaking, we are currently broadcasting. Please state your questions and/or comment and I will direct you to the right department." Tiffany waited patiently for the caller to answer.

"Well, Ms. Tiff-fawn-knee, ha ha ha." Joker swooned, "I crack myself up sometimes."

"Sir if you could please," Joker roared at her in rage.

"DID I SAY YOU CAN SPEAK, MHM?" Tiffany gasped in response, the voice terrified her.

"No." She replied in a small voice.

"Good, good." He chided her like a naughty child, "so Tiffany how's about you patch little ol' me through to Matty boy and Claire bear?"

"Sir I can't just send you through to the news castors, we are currently broadcasting." The voice was silent for a few moments before replying.

"How's bout this Tiffany? How's about I come down after work and gut you like a fish and string your intestines around like Christmas lights? Would that be better? I could layer with some green and purple shiny stuff, uh, tinsel? Yes, yes, I can see it now, the people will tell tales of their children of Tiffany the lowly operator who couldn't do one simple task,"

"Don't scare the poor girl," a woman in the background interrupted the terrifying rant. Tiffany could hear the male caller mutter something, and then she heard a loud smack and a yelp of surprise. "Please don't cut my face, anywhere but the face." The female voice cried out. Tiffany heard the yelp again.

"You wait your turn." The voice demanded. Another yelp could be heard again.

"Please sir, I'll send you through please just stop hurting her. All I need is a name to pass along to the floor managers."

"A yes doll," Tiffany let out a breath of air, she had caught this psycho's attention once more. "It's uh, the Joker."

----------------------------------------

"GCN News tonight reports several executions cited and several arrests made but not of the murderers. A clear message has been made to the Joker, escaped Arkham patient that terrorized Gotham just four years ago, the message is from what we, and the GCPD suspect, as from the Maroni crime family. Every male clown was lined up and shot in the back of the head with their masks on, while any female clowns had been stripped of their masks and tied together. Every female was shot except a few that were turned over to the police. We can't help but wonder why all were killed but the blonde participants?"

The anchor turned to his partner, "why do you think that is Claire?"

"Well, Matt I believe this has to do with a missing accountant. Three weeks ago, Ms. Codwell of Gotham Finance LLC was plucked out of her business and the building was burnt to the ground. Ms. Codwell had been seen and well documented on the charity circuit and working at several homeless shelters. Many of the surrounding businesses had only pleasant things to say about her and her work. It came as a surprise to them that GCPD had uncovered her dealings with the mob."

"Not surprising since her trading portfolios were the highest grossing in the financial district."

"Yes, Matt. Not a surprised that she was recruited by the Maroni family." She paused to clear her throat, "I'm wondering Matt why the Joker is so interested in Ms. Codwell? Her body hasn't turned up anywhere and the last mob accountant, Mr. Lau was found in a warehouse burnt to a crisp."

"This seems more personal than just a missing business associate."

"Well losing more money is personal for the mob. They lost millions last time."

"We at GCN News are receiving a phone..."

"Hheeellllloooo Gotham, did you miss me?" The Joker giggled. People at home watching could see the breath leave the news anchors' chests. "Aww….Matty and Claire I thought you guys would appreciate me calling you personally." Joker giggled. "Mikey never got a warming shout out like I will for you." Both anchors let out another strangled breath. After being kidnapped by the Joker, Mike Engel had to leave broadcasting. He couldn't handle the pressure anymore, he changed.

"What is it you want?" Claire asked bravely, but panicked, "Mr. Joker, sir?"

"Oh, I like you! Manners. Well to put it simple, we're all going to play a game. I've been locked up too long. Cage birds, want to be, uh, well uncaged. To fly free and peck some eyes out." Joker paused to laugh he could almost hear the trepidation through the phone. "But instead of having all the fun, I will give the citizens of Gotham a chance to participate. Three days for someone to kill Salvatore Maroni. Each day he still breathes Gotham will meet a side of chaos-sah that they will wish they hadn't. Now, toodle-loo Gotham. Matty. Claire."

----------------------------------------------

"Damn it!" Gordon threw his file down angrily. Loose papers flew from the manila folder. He warned Maroni that it would turn into a blood bath.

"Commissioner, the Mayor's office is on line one." He waved off his secretary, of course, the Mayor would rush to Gordon ready to press him on strategic plans and counter measures.

"I want Foley in here now!" Gordon shouted before picking up his phone. Foley entered his office as quickly as he could. It wasn't hard to figure out what Gordon was stressing about, they had all watched what had just aired. Gordon rubbed his head in anguish, the Mayor must have been grilling him for information about the situation. Gordon slammed the phone down with a sigh.

"Gordon?" Without looking up he answered his next in command.

"Set up task forces, include the riot and gang unit. This needs to be contained and done quickly. Understand?" Foley nodded leaving Gordon to mope. He knew deep down that this was already above their heads, hopefully Batman could save them. He would be mocked if anyone had caught on that he was working with Harvey's 'killer'. God have mercy on their souls if Batman ignored this trouble.

-------------------------------------

Alfred watched as Bruce began filling his utility belt, his mask still not yet on.

"Master Bruce what are we to do, these are two very powerful men."

"I can't just sit by and let this happen. The people of Gotham will be caught in the middle." He was more determined than ever to get out onto the streets. He needed to help contain this.

"Yes, but the last time the Joker had tested the citizens of Gotham he lost his gamble." Alfred added fearfully.

"Yes, because Harvey died!" Bruce slammed his fist against the mahogany desk. His arms trembling with rage...and guilt.

"This doesn't seem to be the case this time. It seems Mr. Maroni had done something to personally upset the Joker. And judging him taking his daughter this is calculated revenge."

"But what about the casualties Alfred? We cannot stand idly by and let more people die on our watch. There is too much blood on our hands already."

"I'm sorry about Ms. Dawes, but we cannot change what happen. You cannot storm in without a plan." Bruce clicked his cowl in place. He couldn’t wait anymore.

"I don't have time to sit around. THREE DAYS, Alfred. I need to end this before it gets out of hand." Alfred bit back a response as Bruce put on his mask. There was no talking him out of this disastrous plan.

-----------------------------------------

"Now Rosey, why did you have to make me do that?" Joker watched her cradle the side of her face. He almost nicked her eye, he had been too impatient, and therefore he couldn't keep nice things. He played too rough with his toys. He waved his hand at her, "let's play doctor and I'll make you feel aalllll better."

"Fine." Joker rubbed his hands together and began to examine his 'patient'.

"Now, lay down and lift up your dress."

"How is that going to help my face?" Joker shoved her down on the lumpy couch. His hand putting pressure on her chest.

"Shh...shh... Doctor knows what's best. Uh, open your legs a bit."

"What are you going to do?" Joker pulled a rag from his pocket and stuffed it in her mouth. She was asking too many questions.

"As much as I like hearing your luscious screams, you're distracting the doctor." He grinned as her muscles clenched under his calculated finger movements. "How's bout we take a closer look-see, mhm?" Before she could do anything, Joker had hooked her knees over his shoulder and slid his tongue quickly up her slit.

He felt her buck from the sudden pleasure. "More tense that I thought, should we continue the procedure?" He grinned extra wide when she hesitantly shook her head up and down. Her happy tears mixing with the blood from her wound. He inserted his fingers into her, pumping at a quick pace, his tongue matching his quick strokes over her clit. After about a minute or two she couldn't take it she wanted the gag out of her mouth. She ripped it out.

"Joker!" He smirked, raising an eyebrow at her. His tongue and fingers had traded places, she nearly jumped at the change. He kept his other hand firmly pressed against her hip. "Joker…jokerrr," she gasped getting close, "Joker please, ugh."

"Kind of busy doll, take a message." He went to bob his head back down but she grabbed his collar.

"Please. Unbutton. Pants." She panted out.

"And?" He laughed while maniacally staring down at her. He nipped at the hand restraining him.

"I'll show you." He grinned while shoving her legs from him, he plopped down on the couch and undid his belt. He continued to watch her as she loosened the front of his pants, grabbing what had been uncomfortably pressed against the seams of his pants. Yes, yes, her hands were soft, but he couldn't get lost in the subtle touches. He needed to see what, what his little Rose counted as a surprise.

She straddled him, her thick thighs engulfed the sides of his legs, her opening rubbing his head. Teasing more like it. Staring into her devious eyes, he watched her carefully kiss the end of his scars. The gentle gesture almost made Joker throw her off, but she had wrapped her arms around his shoulders and slammed him into her! Surprised he was!

"Bounce!" He growled at her, and she quickly obliged. Rose could feel his body whither and wince beneath her. Thinking there was too much friction from her harsh drops down, she tried to adjust her pace, but Joker was having none of that. He wanted to see her spill out of the top of her dress. Her pink nipples kept rubbing near the edges of the fabric. Her long blonde hair a frenzy cascading in different directions with every movement.

Her face screamed of ecstasy which brought him closer towards the end, he bit down on her scarred chest as her pace began to slow once more. He could feel her fatigue from her constant rebounding restrictions, but he wasn't there just yet. He pulled her upper half forward tight against his chest. Wrapping his arms around her hips and began to thrust her back and forth on his lap. His grip on her wide backside dug deeper and deeper into her skin as he was close to coming. Rose tried to cry out on his final thrust, but Joker smother her mouth with his own.

Rose could hardly keep her eyes open, sleep was gnawing at her mind. She laid her head on his shoulder as she steadies herself, her body was still reeling from the rough contact. When he calmed his breathing and his heart stopped racing, he noticed that Rose had fallen asleep while he was still in her. Instead of shoving her off, he examined her chest. He could feel and see it rise and fall against his own.

Her warmth was welcomed in the coolness of the room. He grinned, he would have to match her surprise with one of his own! Tomorrow, tomorrow he would reveal his surprise to her, to all of Gotham.

#joker fanfiction #joker imagine #joker imagines #joker smut #heath ledger joker

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pendragonfics · 7 years

Text

Down to Earth

Paring: Mark Watney/Reader

Tags: female reader, set after The Martian, Christmas, fluff.

Summary: It's December, and Christmastime is approaching, and Mark has returned from not being dead on Mars. Of course you're celebrating.

Requested by: @libraryalice ♥

Word Count: 1,475

Current Date: 2017-06-20

here’s a link to a song which I based the title on + always think of Mark Watney while listening ♥

When Mark returned to Earth, it had been the greatest day in your life. Yes, even greater than the day you were married, or perhaps met the guy. It felt like all the worrying and the fear that followed the phone calls – Mrs. Watney, your husband has been left on Mars and has died and Mrs. Watney, your husband is alive and stranded on Mars and Mrs. Watney, your husband is returning to Earth – had dissipated. After the quarantine and debriefing and all the protocol that followed returning from space travel, you were strangling Mark with one of your famous hugs.

He doesn’t mention this, and neither did the NASA psychologists, but he’s different since returning to Mars. His quirks are accentuated, and humour seems to be something he relies on heavily. Mark never wastes food, conserves energy meticulously. It’s almost like a PTSD thing, but with Mark being the first human to have survived so long on Mars, there’s not enough facts to back up the condition. It’s okay. It saves the electricity bill a lot. But it’s been months since he’s returned home to you, and now it’s December. The world around the family home is starting to be covered in the seasonal dusting of snow. It’s like you’re living in a snow globe, this Yuletide, with Mark in the house once again.

On the first day of the Christmas month, you’re woken to find him not in the bed. It’s funny, Mark usually tries his best to sleep in most days when he doesn’t have classes to teach at NASA, and when you’re not at your laptop freelancing art to major stationary companies, it’s a snugglefest. But it’s December one, and his side of the sheets are cooling, slippers missing, the bedroom door ajar.

“Mark?” you call out, wrapping your dressing gown around you, following your nose to where he might have ended up. “Honey?”

There’s a small crash, from the cupboard under the stairs. “I’m here!” He calls back. As you wipe the sleep from your eyes, you find yourself staring at the back of Mark, his ass sticking out as he wrangles the backed boxes in the storage space below the staircase. It’s a nice view – you’re not going to start complaining – but the early hour isn’t quite as nice. “It’s right where we left it, before I went to space,” he muses, and at that, straightens, holding a cardboard box labelled XMAS.

“I thought you wanted a quiet Christmas,” you blink, realising that your assumptions hadn’t lined up with his intentions. “Didn’t think you’d want all the tinsel and lights this year.”

His face grows a smile so bright it could cure cancer. “You kidding? I’m home with my wife, I’m alive, and we’re going to make this place look like it’s the place where mall Santa goes for a holiday.”

True to his word, Mark gets out the boxes of baubles and Christmas lights, little ornaments of half-dressed baby angels with chipped wings, popsicle stick Christmastime art, the whole shebang. Halfway through untangling the lights, you see him pause, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

He’s off like a shot, grabbing his keys to the car, and motioning you to follow. “We don’t have a tree!”

At once he's off like a shot, and following Mark, he jumps into the SUV, and you're both driving to the farm down the way which seasonally sells their homegrown trees. The CD in the dashboard begins to play the last thing you had in it - an NSYNC best hits compilation - and he grins. Without words, you question his smile.

"Just glad you're not a fan of disco," he chuckles, and sings along.

But not too long later, you're at the farm, and having picked out a cute little tree that's about five feet tall, you're on the way back home. The hard part is bringing the tree in.

"Lounge room, or what?" You ask him.

"Yeah, lounge room." He nods, "Under the window, by the sofa that looks like a grandpa used to own it."

You huff, but it's hard to huff around a Christmas tree when the branches are pressed close to your face. "That sofa was a wedding present, an antique!" You remind him, "I thought you liked that sofa!"

The pair of you move the tree into the lounge room to the spot you chose, carefully stepping over the half-untangled mess of Christmas lights left on the floor. You'll decorate the tree tomorrow, it's not like there's any infants around to make the ornaments into hazards.

"I do like that sofa, I fall asleep in it a lot," Mark confirms, standing the tree up in the bucket. "like an old grandpa."

---

It's December 20 when you hear a shout in the middle of the day, from somewhere in the house. Scared out of your wits that there was an accident, or that Mark had let the neighbourhood raccoon into the house again (he stole Mr. O'Malley's prosthetic leg last autumn), you leapt up from your laptop and rushed toward where the hullabaloo was at. But when you get there, Mark is okay, albeit sad.

He's standing over a blackened tray of what probably was supposed to be cookies, but the tray appears to have twelve scorched circles, and reminds you of the coal that Santa Claus gave to naughty children.

"Honey, you baked." You hum, pushing the hair that had fallen into your eyes away, waving your hand to waft the smoke away. "How nice of you."

Mark shakes his head. "I'm shitty at it. I'm a shitty baker. Shitty!" He drops the ruined cookies onto the rack, his hands up in defeat. But he doesn't look as depressed as he could be - he's wearing your flowery apron, and has purple oven gloves on. "I was trying to make the cookies to bring to NASA; Vogel’s kids'll be in tomorrow and I'm not Fun Uncle Mark without cookies."

You go to open a window, and give him a kind smile. "How about we make Cookies 0.2? I'll help out." You ruffle Mark's hair, and peck his cheek. His hair has a few grey hairs, and his face has stubble. You wouldn't blame the grey hairs; he's survived living alone on a planet all by himself. You'd say he earned them. "There's no Fun Uncle Mark without Fun Aunt ______, remember?"

When you get back from NASA the next day, you realise that in the span you had both been out, there was a lot more snowfall that anticipated, and the driveway is piled high with freshly fallen snow.

"I'll get the shovels," you open the car door, leaving Mark idling the car in the street, as you grab the tools from the shed. Not five minutes later you have two shovels, and with Mark helping with the task it makes quick work of the driveway. It's after dark when you finish, and with the car parked in the garage, you both warm yourselves up with warmed milk and the surplus cookies. In the orange light of the dying bulb in the kitchen, you take in Mark's profile, and smile. "You're cute, you know that?"

Mark laughs, a ripe blush taking over his face. "I was under the impression you married me for my money, not my looks," he jokes, and putting his cookie down, takes you in for a kiss. "How about we make this evening about Netflix, leftovers and warm hugs?" He proposes.

"Mark, you sure know how to make a girl swoon."

---

On Christmas morning, it’s cold inside, and waking, you wonder if you forgot to adjust the thermostat, or maybe if Mark had changed it to be more earth-friendly (money wise, he is, your father had noted on your wedding day, and chugging his champagne, added, hope it works out, the botanist and the artist). But it feels good, being cold – the blankets are close around your face, the tip of your nose feeling the cold, and is probably red like a cherry. You turn in the sheets, a smile growing on your face.

Mark too is waking, his eyelashes fluttering as he rises through the layers of sleep from the land of dreams. He seems to notice you’re waking too, almost like he’s a mind reader amongst being a famous astronaut and a fantastic husband.

“Hey,” you whisper.

“Hey,” he whispers back. His voice is hoarse, just like it always is in the mornings, and this morning, you roll to his side of the bed, and wrap your warm arms around his. “Your hair is all messy this morning,” his fingers move to run through it, slowly detangling sleep’s touch. “Happy Christmas, ______.”

You give him a kiss, happy that he’s back with you, back on Earth, alive and well. “Happy Christmas, Mark.”

#mark watney #mark watney the martian #mark watney x reader #the martian #the martian movie #the martian x reader #matt damon #matt damon x reader #chaotic--lovely #pendragonfics #Female reader

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coreglia · 4 years

Text

“And the angel said unto them: Fear not, for, behold, I bring you tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day, in the city of David, a savior which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you.” Linus

I am as enchanted as I am distressed about the encroaching darkness, our search for new life at the end of a heralded gestation, waiting in joyful hope for a glimpse of God wrapped in swaddling cloths, ushering in salvific annuities for all. It’s an explicit narrative, a radical call to love in the most difficult of circumstances, while embracing uncertainty with unwavering faith. This is a stretch for us humans.

As the Winter Solstice approaches we notice how the lumbering nights encroach on the light of day, there is this acute drop in temperature, the trees strip down to bare branches, and we scramble to make final preparations for the highly anticipated mystical nativity that is about to unfold. As a woman I have a love hate relationship with this pivotal celebration because I spend much of my time endlessly wrapping the wrong gifts.

So I’ve been thinking about the slim possibility of transforming all this divine darkness into a more fertile and transformative experience? I mean God gave the wise men a direction, not a list of detailed instructions, with links to the perfect gifts.

For goodness’ sake, it’s as if I have borderline personality disorder, and I’m stuck in the manic phase, as in decorating the entire house including the bathrooms, purchasing a trinity of gifts for each kid, with coordinating wrapping paper, ribbons, and bows, finding the perfect family picture for the greeting card, hunting down Christmas red nail polish, not to mention all the festive celebrations that require extraordinary culinary skills, Marta Steward table settings, and glamorous attire! This is insane, I’m purging through money, time, and my blessed energy as if there were no end in sight. Resistance is futile, and like it or not I’m stuck in this endless cycle, addicted to the sound of good tidings, the expectation of joyful hope, totally in the red, knowing the aftermath will leave me depleted and spent instead of hallowed and holy.

Maybe I need to watch Charlie Brown’s Christmas again, resurrect my latent yuletide priorities, instead of bastardizing the season with all these meaningless tasks? Who’s with me?

Truth be told I am able to avoid some of the chaos with a highly customized self care regime (which I’m happy to share), one that involves on-line shopping in my pajamas, coffee a short walk to the kitchen, roaring fire for ambiance, with It’s a Wonderful Life playing on the television. In this scenario I’m not dealing with the pouring rain, parking garages, crowds of shoppers, coats, scarfs, packages, or the long lines at the cash register.

In fact, Amazon not only takes my money instantly, this year they also shared my card with others (how generous), and then shoved it under the sofa as if a two year old hiding a broken ornament. This is the downfall of shopping on-line but my sister came up with a brilliant solution. Use gift cards for all your on-line purchases and no one can steal your credit card information! Now I get calls from Larry complaining about how much I’m spending at Safeway! Where’s the love?

There are serious seasonal concerns, ones we don’t talk about, because honestly Christmas is not all laughter and good cheer for everyone. In fact suicide rates soar in the winter, all this blessed darkness can instigate a general malaise, triggering severe depression for some. We miss our loved ones who have passed away, forcing many to contend with surges of powerful grief, as we are haunted by the memories of Christmas past. Financial concerns, separations, disappointments, and loneliness are common contentions.

I ache for my Mom and Dad especially at Christmas, and this year we are painfully aware my brother-in-law David is no longer with us, along with my son Tony who won’t be home for Christmas. I find myself humming along with the throaty voice of Judy Garland, “Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Let your heart be light, next year all our troubles will be out of sight. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Make the Yuletide gay from now on our troubles will be miles away…’

It doesn’t matter where you live the winter solstice happens for everyone at exactly the same time as opposed to Christmas that rolls across the planet like a glittering tsunami. Early societies would celebrate this time of year as the end of darkness, the end of limited meals, and frigid temperatures. No wonder the church intentionally moved the incarnation from the spring to winter as a way of competing with all these glorious celebrations of light. I mean it doesn’t make sense to celebrate both the birth and death of the long awaited messiah at the same time?

Or does it? I’m just wondering if I can return to the deeper meaning of solstice, salvation, and a savvy savior in the wake of all these self-imposed expectations?

John Matthews says the Solstice is a time of quietude, of firelight, and dreaming, when seeds germinate in the cold earth, and the cold notes of church bells mingle with the chimes of icicles. Rivers are stilled and the land lies waiting beneath a coverlet of snow. We watch the cold sunlight and the bright stars, maybe go for walks in the quiet land. . . . All around us the season seems to reach a standstill — a point of repose. And that is exactly why Larry and I decided on our own kind of blessed pause.

Solstice roughly translates to “sun stands still,” sol derives from the Latin which means sun, and the past participle stem of sistere, meaning “to make stand.” I say if the sun appears to pause in the sky then maybe it’s a worthy practice for all of us to employ. We’ll call it a Christmas pause, because Jesus said himself advised, “Come aside and rest for awhile.” 6:31

Larry and I headed north, all alone, arriving at our magical manger in Lake County, to participate in our first annual Christmas pause. Waking early I slip quietly out of bed as to not wake my slumbering mate, I’m now capable of simultaneously feeding the dog and brewing coffee so neither of us is forced to participate in loud and obnoxious barking, it’s sort of miraculous, but these are teachable skills. This is when I notice the fog caressing Mt. Knocti with this magnificent ethereal hand. I pause to observe the intimacy of this gesture, it feels a little voyeuristic, but I’m unable to look away.

Just to be alive on this fresh morning in the broken world, I beg of you, do not walk by without pausing, to attend to this rather ridiculous performance. Mary Oliver

I’m still standing there gawking at the hand of fog (get it?) when Larry walks into the dining room and exclaims, “will you look at the pod of pelicans lounging on our beach.” I’m stunned, totally missed that, they’re like a fluffy white blanket someone casually laid out on the sand. Hundreds of large beaked birds flutter into the water as Larry and I try to Instagram the scene, Shaggy is not helpful, as he prances about defining his territory. One stubborn female spreads her mighty wings claiming her space. You go girl.

While I am devoted to our new practice of extreme pausing, Larry starts clearing the gutters, patching the roof, and decluttering the courtyard but that is how he likes to unwind. I say to each her own. The point being we gave ourselves permission to do exactly what we wanted all weekend and that included bacon and eggs, coffee, reading, writing, Italian nachos, calamari, wine, Netflix and chill. Alleluia!

Remember back in 2012 when a number of enlightened people thought the world would end? Well that didn’t happen even though December 21, 2012 corresponded to the date 13.0.0.0.0 in the Mesoamerican Long Count calendar used by the ancient Maya, marking the end of a 5126 year cycle. Advent is not an end, it’s the beginning of the liturgical year, when we consider the implications of incarnation, and wait in joyful hope for God’s eventual return.

As the winter solstice fast approaches, along with the accouchement of God, I’m trying to untangle myself from the all the tinsel, tidings, and traditional expectations that threaten to strangle the meaning out of Christmas. It’s not like I’ve become the Scrooge, I’m a lover of thoughtful gifting, but I truly believe we can herald the birth of Jesus as a new era of transformation if we don’t cave to all the extraneous details. God knows I need time to work on my holy habits and I am grateful for this annual summons so to speak, but this year I declare the labor is done, the real work of loving others can only continues in and through us, but how we manifest this pure and essential call to love makes all the difference.

“May you grow still enough to hear the small noises earth makes in preparing for the long sleep of winter, so that you yourself may grow calm and grounded deep within. Br. David Steindl-Rast

I say we take a respite from all the clamor, be perfectly still, because God isn’t going to shout over all the clatter in our lives. As long as the sun continues to shine, the darkness will wax and wane, and our trust in God’s ability to gift us with salvation becomes the culmination of all of our beliefs. We are a people bound together by love, not twinkle lights, praise be to God. How do we make this glittering tsunami more fertile and transformative? Let’a take a collective and abiding pause…

I’m Living in the Gap, drop by anytime, we’ll discuss our next journey around the sun.

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Winter’s Cloak by Joyce Rupp

This year I do not want the dark to leave me. I need its wrap of silent stillness, its cloak of long lasting embrace. Too much light has pulled me away from the chamber of gestation.

Let the dawns come late, let the sunsets arrive early, let the evenings extend themselves while I lean into the abyss of my being.

Let me lie in the cave of my soul, for too much light blinds me, steals the source of revelation.

Let me seek solace in the empty places of winter’s passage, those vast dark nights that never fail to shelter me.

Anecdotes:

The Pilgrims arrived at Plymouth on December 21, 1620, to found a society that would allow them to worship freely?

On the same day in 1898, Pierre and Marie Curie discovered radium, ushering in an atomic age.

December 21, 1968, the Apollo 8 spacecraft launched, becoming the first manned moon mission.

During the winter solstice of 1988 Kelley Ann came whirling into the world and she certainly ushered in a unique source of light.

The Christmas Pause "And the angel said unto them: Fear not, for, behold, I bring you tidings of great joy which shall be to all people.

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