Smile (Dean/Reader) Angst. Like a lot of angst. I’m sorry.
Please(Dean/Reader) Angst. Tiny bit of fluff. Mostly angst. Pt. 2 of “Smile.”
Stay(Dean/Reader) Fluff. Super fluff. Tasteful smut (I’m making that a thing).
Sam
Now (Sam/Reader) Smut. Violence. Fight scene, blood, etc.
Decode: A Mycroft Holmes/Reader Series - Masterpage
Decode, I
Decode, II
Decode, III
Decode, IV
Decode, V
Decode, VI
Decode, VII
Decode, VIII
Decode, IX
Decode, X
Decode, XI
Decode, XII
Decode, XIII
Decode, XIV
Decode, XV
Decode, Coda
Capture: A Decode Sequel
Capture, i
Capture, ii
Capture, iii
Capture, iv
Summary: Mycroft’s first foray in to gift giving for a significant other requires a little assistance.
Word Count: 1399 words
A/N: I know, I know, it's February... but have some Mycroft Christmas fluff.
Mycroft Holmes had faced international crises with less trepidation than he felt standing in front of the glass display case at Fortnum & Mason.
He stared at a watch. Then another watch. Then a third watch, which differed in ways he could classify with ease, and yet, all distinctions felt irrelevant
You were not a problem to be solved, he reminded himself. You were a person.
Someone who had, against all probability, slipped past his defenses: through late-night takeout shared at opposite ends of his sofa, through dry remarks over tea, through the easy silence of simply coexisting. And now it was Christmas. His first Christmas with you.
Mycroft adjusted his scarf, turning away from the watches, already aware that he was undeniably out of his depth.
He required assistance.
Anthea did not look up from her tablet when he entered his office, though she was perfectly aware of his presence. She rarely missed anything.
The room was quiet, cloaked in soft winter light filtering through the skylight. Every object in the space, leather-bound volumes, antique maps, gleaming brass instruments, sat in deliberate order, an environment curated for control. And yet, on his desk, a single unopened Christmas card disrupted the symmetry.
“You’re pacing,” she said mildly. “Which suggests either geopolitical collapse or a personal matter.”
“Christmas,” Mycroft said.
That earned him her full attention. It wasn’t often he gave weight to something so ordinary.
“I see,” Anthea replied. “And?”
“And I require advice.”
Anthea’s lips twitched. “For whom?”
“For… someone special,” he admitted reluctantly, the words tasting foreign and oddly weighty.
She smiled then, genuinely. “That narrows it down.”
Mycroft folded his hands behind his back. “I am uncertain what would be appropriate. Excess is… unwise. But underwhelming would be unacceptable.”
Anthea leaned back in her chair, considering him with the expression of someone deciding how much truth another person could handle.
“Well,” she said, “if you’re feeling festive, there’s always jewelry.”
Mycroft grimaced. “That is precisely the sort of thing I fear.”
“Not diamonds, necessarily,” Anthea continued smoothly. “Something tasteful. A piece with history. Something that says you paid attention.”
She tapped her tablet and turned it toward him. Vintage rings. A delicate necklace. Earrings that looked like they belonged to another era.
“Nothing ostentatious,” she said. “But meaningful. A symbol. Something they can wear and think of you.”
Mycroft studied the screen. He could see the appeal. Permanence. Tradition. A quiet statement of value.
“Jewelry implies ownership,” he said slowly.
Anthea shrugged. “It can also imply commitment.”
He thanked her and dismissed the suggestions without quite dismissing the idea. Anthea, he suspected, understood that better than most.
Still, the unease remained.
The corridor outside St. Bart’s morgue smelled faintly of disinfectant and cold air, the institutional quiet broken only by the distant hum of fluorescent lights. Mycroft Holmes had no particular reason to be there, at least none he would admit, when he rounded the corner and nearly collided with a familiar figure.
“Oh! Mycroft,” she said. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Molly looked up at him with the air of a startled rabbit, eyes wide and uncertain.
“No harm done,” he replied, then hesitated. Opportunity, however uncomfortable, rarely announced itself twice.
“Molly,” he said, “may I ask you something?”
She blinked, adjusting her grip on the file folder in her arms. “Of course.”
“It concerns… gift-giving.”
Her expression lit up with immediate understanding. “Oh! Christmas?”
“Yes.”
“For your..?”
“Yes.” Mycroft interrupted hastily, not enjoying the vulnerability which came with people being aware of his… affections.
Molly smiled, soft and knowing. “That’s sweet.”
“I assure you this is a logistical concern,” Mycroft said stiffly.
“Of course it is,” she said, entirely unconvinced. “Well, I don’t know them very well, but I sort of know you.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’re not flashy,” Molly continued. “But you notice things. Little things. So maybe something indulgent, but fun. Something they wouldn’t buy for themselves.”
“Such as?”
She thought for a moment. “A trip, maybe. Somewhere warm. Or something classic. Cashmere. Perfume. Something luxurious but personal.”
She paused, then added, “The kind of gift that says you want them comfortable. Happy.”
Comfort. Happiness. Those were concepts he understood, even if expressing them remained a challenge.
“Thank you,” he said, more sincerely than he’d expected.
She hesitated. “For what it’s worth… I don’t think they seem like the kind of person who cares about price tags.”
That lodged itself firmly in his mind.
He hadn’t planned to stop by Baker Street. He simply found himself there, cold and thoughtful, and somehow sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of him before he could object.
“You look troubled, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, setting down a plate of biscuits. “Is it your brother?”
“No,” Mycroft said. “It’s Christmas.”
Mrs. Hudson gave a knowing laugh. “Oh, that explains it. Men always look like that around Christmas. Like they’re about to be audited by Santa.”
He sighed. “What does one give someone whose presence in your life is already the greatest gift?”
“A car,” she said immediately. “One of those convertible ones in their favourite colour. Or a yacht. Oh! Or one of those diamond mines, like in that song! You know the one that Michael Buble changed the words to, as if he couldn’t flirt with Santa. I quite like the Ertha Kitt version myself. I wouldn’t recommend a sable though, fur and all…”
Mycroft gave her a confused look.
“Well, they deserve something stunning, don’t they?” she said, entirely unrepentant. “To make up for all the other men they haven’t entertained because they chose you.”
He sipped his tea, already regretting bringing this up. This was possibly even more painful that asking his mother for advice on the matter.
She chuckled. “Alright, alright. Let me be serious. Let’s start simple.” She stirred her tea and leaned forward, gentler now. “Do they need anything?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Do they want anything?”
“I don’t believe so. There have been no significant requests or hints.”
“Well then,” she said, with the confidence of someone who had once guided two consulting detectives through emotional disaster, “what do they enjoy?”
He didn’t answer right away, a soft frown on his brow as he considered the answer carefully. The silence lingered.
“You,” she supplied, kindly.
The word landed between them, soft and unavoidable.
Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Sometimes the best gift is time. Attention. Being there. You clever men forget that.”
He stared into his tea.
“It is lovely to be spoiled,” she continued. “but it means much more to be chosen.”
Christmas morning was quiet.
No snow. No dramatic soundtrack. Just the low winter light filtering through the windows of his Pall Mall apartment.
You padded into the living room in socks, hair still sleep-tangled, wearing one of his jumpers like it belonged to you.
Which, he supposed, it did.
“Merry Christmas,” you said, smiling.
“Merry Christmas,” he replied.
He handed you a small box. Modest. Wrapped neatly.
You opened it slowly.
Inside was a simple pendant. Antique. Subtle. The kind of thing Anthea had suggested. Something that felt like a story rather than a statement, a keepsake with a past, delicate but enduring..
“Oh,” you breathed. “It’s beautiful.”
Relief loosened something in his chest.
“And,” he said, clearing his throat, “there is also this.”
He held out a second envelope. Inside was not a ticket, nor a receipt, but a handwritten note. An itinerary of sorts. Days blocked off. Dinners planned. Walks. Evenings in.
Time.
You looked up at him, eyes shining.
“Mycroft,” you said softly, “you didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to,” he replied.
You set everything aside and crossed the room, wrapping your arms around him. He stiffened for a fraction of a second before relaxing into it, still not entirely used to receiving affection and yet craving it from you. His chin rested against your hair, and for a moment, everything was still, the hush of the morning, the warmth of you in his arms.
“You know,” you murmured, “I don’t need diamonds or trips or anything like that.”
“I suspected as much.”
“I just want you,” you said simply. “That’s always been enough.”
He closed his eyes.
For once, Mycroft Holmes felt he had gotten it exactly right.
And that, he thought, was the best Christmas gift of all.
Summary: A festive experiment proves Sherlocks hypothesis and melts the Ice-man just a little.
Word Count: 3580 words
Prompt: Mistletoe and Wine – by Cliff Richard
A/N: @savv-devine666 threw this pairing at me, and I have definitely been smiling to myself as I got back to writing Mycroft, so thank you for the prompt. I hope you enjoy.
The first thing Sherlock noticed was the pause.
Mycroft Holmes did not pause. Mycroft Holmes moved through rooms the way weather moved through London: inevitable, controlled, never once caught off-guard by the petty physics of other people.
And yet, the moment you stepped into the kitchen at Baker Street with your hair still damp from the rain and your hands wrapped around a steaming mug like it was the only reasonable thing in the world, Mycroft paused.
It was a fraction, a stutter in the air. The smallest hitch in his gaze before he smoothed it away and asked Mrs Hudson, with polite precision, whether her gas meter had been repaired.
Sherlock had watched murderers keep their pulse steady and liars swallow their guilt, and still the pause interested him more.
You were there because you always were, these days. You’d started popping by in late autumn, “just for a cuppa,” you’d said, the first time, and then somehow Baker Street had become one of your regular places, like a bus stop you didn’t mind waiting at. You brought biscuits, and you argued with Sherlock when he forgot to eat, and you didn’t look at Mycroft like he was a particularly severe statue. You looked at him like he was… a man.
Sherlock had filed it away as a curiosity.
Then he noticed the second thing.
Mycroft, who usually treated the world as a well-run meeting, adjusted. Tiny changes in posture. A step angled to let you pass. His voice softened by half a shade when he addressed you directly. A question that wasn’t necessary, like: “Are you warm enough?” or “Did you get home safely last night?”
Sherlock had heard his brother speak to heads of state with less concern.
It was, from a purely scientific perspective, intolerable not to test.
The Christmas period presented itself like a wrapped gift with a bow.
London turned festive the way it always did, lights strung across streets, paper crowns on heads of people who didn’t know quite how ridiculous they looked, carols leaking from shop doors, and the thick, sweet smell of mulled wine and roasting chestnuts making you feel nostalgic for a childhood you couldn’t quite remember.
The saccharine tone of Cliff Richard seemed to follow you everywhere – mistletoe and wine, children singing Christian rhyme…
You hummed it under your breath as you entered the flat one evening in early December, stamping snow off your shoes. Mrs Hudson had gone all out, as usual. There was tinsel draped over the mantelpiece, a lopsided little tree in the corner, and a sprig of mistletoe pinned to the kitchen doorframe like a trap disguised as tradition.
“You do realise,” Sherlock said, without looking up from the violin he was tuning, “that mistletoe is a parasitic plant.”
You hung your coat and gave him the look you always gave him when he was being insufferable, which was, to be fair, most of the time. “You do realise,” you replied, “that Christmas is allowed to be nice.”
Sherlock plucked a string. “Nice is rarely useful.”
“Neither are you when you haven’t slept.”
Sherlock ignored that, because he didn’t have an answer that wouldn’t sound like sulking. Instead he glanced, casually, at the doorframe. Mistletoe. An excellent variable. A cultural tradition that came with a built-in behavioural expectation.
Mycroft arrived ten minutes later, an air of discomfort about him at the thought of forced social interaction. He didn’t remove his coat straight away, as if signalling his intention to leave at the nearest possible convenience, but he did pause again when he saw you.
You turned. “Mycroft! You made it.” You smiled brightly.
“I said I would,” he answered, and if Sherlock didn’t know his brother as well as he did, he might have missed the faint warmth in the words.
Sherlock set his violin down with exaggerated nonchalance and drifted, like smoke, toward the kitchen. “Oh,” he said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him, “you should stand there.”
You blinked. “Where?”
“Under the doorframe,” Sherlock said, pointing directly beneath the mistletoe. “The light’s better. I need to see if your pupils dilate when you smell cinnamon.”
“My pupils?” you repeated, amused. “What are you on about now?”
“Science.”
You rolled your eyes but stepped obediently into the spot he indicated. You stood directly under the mistletoe without noticing it, because you were still trying to work out what nonsense Sherlock was planning.
Mycroft noticed.
His gaze flicked upward for the barest instant. His throat moved. A swallow. His hand, which had been halfway to unbuttoning his coat, stalled.
Sherlock watched all of it, delighted in the way he always was when he found a new puzzle.
There. Proof.
And then the door banged open and Greg Lestrade stumbled in with a blast of cold air and a paper bag.
“Evening,” Greg called, cheeks pink from the weather, scarf half-unwound. “Sherlock, I brought those mince pies you said you didn’t want.”
Sherlock lifted his eyes. “I didn’t want them.”
“You did,” Greg said, already moving toward the kitchen. “You texted me three exclamation marks. That’s basically begging.”
“You text with the enthusiasm of a Labrador.”
Greg laughed, and then he saw you under the mistletoe.
His grin changed into something teasing. “Oh, no. Is that mistletoe?”
You looked up, finally registering the green sprig above your head. “Oh. Right. That’s… a thing, isn’t it.”
“It’s tradition,” Greg said, and his voice took on that gentle, joking warmth that made witnesses relax in interview rooms. He set the paper bag down and stepped closer. “And I’m a man of tradition.”
“You are,” you agreed, smiling because Greg made it easy.
Mycroft stood very still. Sherlock watched his brother’s fingers tighten, just slightly, into fists.
Greg leaned in and pressed a quick, friendly kiss to your cheek. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured.
You laughed. “Merry Christmas, Greg.”
Sherlock’s eyes darted to Mycroft like a cat watching a bird. Mycroft’s expression didn’t change.
Only his pulse, which Sherlock could see in the small movement at his throat, jumped once.
Interesting.
Mycroft cleared his throat. “Lestrade,” he said, and the word sounded like a correction.
“Holmes,” Greg replied cheerfully. “Didn’t expect you here.”
Sherlock filed the first trial away. Response: elevated heart rate, micro-tension, uncharacteristic attention. But no action taken. Perhaps inhibited by social setting, perhaps lacking confidence.
He needed more data.
Two days later, Sherlock engineered the second trial.
He did it, of course, by behaving so strangely that everyone ended up doing exactly what he wanted, purely to make him stop.
He’d insisted on stringing fairy lights across the sitting room “for observation.” Although observation of what, he declined to specify. He’d pinned another sprig of mistletoe over the doorway between the sitting room and hall. Mrs Hudson had squealed with delight and declared it “very romantic,” which made John groan and retreat behind his newspaper.
You arrived with a box of cheap baubles and a packet of gingerbread men, and the flat instantly smelled like sugar and spice and warm nostalgia.
“Mycroft’s coming by later,” Sherlock said, casual as a shrug.
You glanced up, surprised but pleased. “Is he?”
“Yes. He’s dropping off something for Mrs Hudson. Or rather, he’s sending someone to deliver something, and then he’ll arrive to ensure it’s been done correctly.”
You snorted. “That sounds about right.”
Sherlock pretended to rearrange the lights, but really he was watching you. You’d been humming again, that same song, as you hung little ornaments on the tree.
Mistletoe and wine…
It was, Sherlock decided, an irritatingly infectious tune. Like an idea you couldn’t stop thinking about once it got into your head.
Greg showed up again, because Greg always did, drawn to Baker Street as if it were a crime scene and he’d forgotten he could go home. He arrived with a bottle of wine and the look of a man who’d spent all day dealing with paperwork and would rather be anywhere else.
“Oh, thank God,” he said, dropping the bottle on the table. “Normal people. Or… you lot.”
“Flattering,” you said, and handed him a gingerbread man.
He bit its head off with dramatic satisfaction. “Cheers.”
Sherlock waited. Timing mattered.
“Can you pass the tinsel?” you asked, standing near the doorway to the hall.
“Sure,” Greg said, stepping toward you.
Sherlock, ever so gently, nudged you into the exact spot beneath the mistletoe. It didn’t take much. You were focused on the tree and the tinsel and the smell of gingerbread, not on where your feet landed.
Greg looked up, saw the mistletoe, and made a show of stopping short.
“Oh, come on,” you said, already laughing because you knew what was coming.
“I don’t make the rules,” Greg replied, mouth curving. “Christmas does.”
He leaned in and kissed you properly this time, quick and light, a peck on the lips that tasted faintly of gingerbread and wine.
The room went quiet for half a second, not because it was scandalous, but because John made a strangled noise into his paper and Mrs Hudson squealed again from the kitchen like she’d just watched the ending of a romantic film.
You pulled back, cheeks warm. “You’re impossible,” you said, but you were smiling.
Greg grinned. “Tradition.”
Sherlock’s gaze flicked, sharp and immediate, to the front door.
Mycroft had chosen that moment to arrive.
Of course he had.
He stood in the doorway, perfectly composed in his dark coat, his umbrella angled just so, snow melting on the toes of his shoes.
He took in the scene in one glance: tinsel, fairy lights, you with your lips still parted in laughter, Greg too close, the mistletoe overhead.
For a moment, something crossed his face so quickly Sherlock almost missed it.
Not anger. Mycroft didn’t do anger in public.
It was… something tighter. Something that looked dangerously like loss.
Mycroft blinked once, and it was gone. His mouth curved into a polite line.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Evening,” Greg replied, cheerful as ever, as if he hadn’t just kissed the person Mycroft was clearly staring at.
You stepped away from Greg, not flustered exactly, but aware. “Hi, Mycroft.”
“Hello,” Mycroft said, and for you, the word softened again. The pause returned, the slight delay before he added, “I hope the weather wasn’t too harsh on you.”
“It’s fine,” you said. “I’ve had worse.”
Mycroft’s eyes flicked to the faint red at the tip of your nose. “You should drink something warm.”
Sherlock watched his brother’s hands, because hands told the truth.
Mycroft’s right hand had tightened around the handle of his umbrella until the knuckles paled.
Sherlock’s hypothesis sharpened into something almost solid.
He didn’t need more trials to know. But he wanted confirmation with action, not just reaction.
Mycroft was a man who could love, perhaps, in the same way he did everything else: quietly, carefully, with a terrifying amount of restraint.
Sherlock was going to remove the restraint.
Christmas Eve was perfect. Everyone was softer on Christmas Eve, so he had been told, possibly even Mycroft, though he’d probably rather walk into traffic than admit it.
The city outside was all twinkling lights and late shoppers, carols floating out of pubs, and the distant sound of bells. Somewhere in the neighbourhood, children were singing badly, but with heart.
You arrived wrapped in a scarf and carrying a small paper bag. “I brought you something,” you said to Mrs Hudson, holding it out.
Mrs Hudson’s eyes widened. “Oh, love!”
“It’s just a little thing,” you said.
Sherlock, perched on the edge of the sofa like a vulture pretending to be a man, leaned forward. “What is it?”
“A tin of shortbread,” you said, batting him away. “Not for you. For Mrs Hudson.”
“Outrageous.”
John chuckled. “You’ll live.”
Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He glanced down and felt a rare sense of satisfaction. Mycroft: Arriving in ten.
Sherlock stood. “Everyone,” he announced, “I require the kitchen.”
John looked up. “For what?”
“An experiment.”
“Of course,” John sighed.
Greg, lounging with a glass of wine, raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”
“Not unless you’re allergic to pine,” Sherlock said, and then he walked into the hall and, with the decisive calm of a man moving chess pieces, repositioned the mistletoe.
He didn’t just hang it. He placed it. Exactly at the threshold of the sitting room, where Mycroft would have to pass. Exactly where you were likely to stand while talking, because you always did, angled toward the tree, half in the doorway, half in the room.
He stepped back and admired his work.
Then he returned to the sitting room and waited.
Mycroft arrived precisely on time, because, much like a wizard, Mycroft was never early or late, he arrive exactly when he meant to.
He entered with a small gift bag for Mrs Hudson and a bottle of something expensive no one had asked for. His coat looked like it had never seen a speck of dust in its life.
“Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft said, and there was genuine fondness there, tucked under the formality. “Merry Christmas.”
You turned at the sound of his voice, and your whole face brightened in a way that made Sherlock’s fingers itch for a notebook.
“Mycroft,” you said, warm as mulled wine.
He paused. Again. “Hello.”
“You’ve been busy?” you asked.
“My schedule remains consistent,” he said, which was Mycroft for yes, but I also thought of you, and I hate that about myself.
Greg wandered over, glass in hand. “Well, look at this,” he said, and took a sip. “Family Christmas at Baker Street. Never thought I’d see the day.”
Mycroft’s eyes flicked to him. “Lestrade.”
Greg grinned. “Holmes.”
Sherlock watched them like a scientist watching chemicals. Greg was easy. Mycroft was not.
You stepped toward the doorway, because you were about to head to the kitchen to help Mrs Hudson with something, and Sherlock’s heart gave a little leap.
You landed exactly beneath the mistletoe.
Sherlock lifted his eyes to Mycroft.
Mycroft saw it. His gaze snapped upward. His shoulders stiffened by a fraction.
You, unaware, turned back to him. “Are you staying long?”
“I—” Mycroft began, and stopped.
There it was. The hesitation. The internal calculation.
Greg noticed the mistletoe too, because seemed to be programmed to notice you under mistletoe.
He stepped forward with an easy smile. “Well, looks like you’re trapped, then.”
You laughed, a little embarrassed. “Oh, no.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” Greg said, as if that explained everything. He leaned in.
Sherlock’s eyes stayed on Mycroft.
Mycroft’s face stayed composed, but his entire body went taut. The hand at his side flexed, fingers opening and closing once, like he didn’t know what to do with them.
Then something changed.
Mycroft moved.
It wasn’t fast, not like Sherlock had anticipated, but it was decisive. A step forward. A shift that placed Mycroft between you and Greg with the smoothness of a man who’d spent his life positioning himself between threats and the people he protected.
Greg blinked, surprised, and stopped short. “Uh—”
Mycroft didn’t look at him. Mycroft looked at you.
And the expression on his face, the one he never wore in parliament or palaces or war rooms, softened into something almost unbearably human.
“May I,” Mycroft said quietly, “have a word?”
You blinked. “With me?”
“Yes.”
Your laughter faded into something gentler. “Okay.”
Sherlock held his breath. John was watching now too with a smirk, his eyes curious. Mrs Hudson hovered in the kitchen doorway, smiling like she could see the story writing itself.
Greg took a step back, palms up in surrender. “All yours, mate.”
Mycroft’s gaze flicked to him briefly, cool as winter. “Thank you.”
Then Mycroft turned back to you, and for the first time that evening, he looked… nervous.
It wasn’t obvious. It was in the way he swallowed. In the way his shoulders held a fraction too high. In the way his eyes didn’t quite know where to land, as though looking at you directly might undo him.
You looked up at the mistletoe and made a small sound. “Oh,” you said, suddenly understanding why everyone was staring. “Right.”
Mycroft’s mouth tightened. “If you would prefer—”
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, and your voice softened too. “It’s just… silly.”
“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, and there was something almost bitter in it. “It is.”
“But… it’s Christmas,” you added, like you were offering him an excuse to be human for a moment.
Mycroft’s eyes held yours.
Outside, somewhere in the street, someone started drunkenly singing, off-key but joyful
Christmas time… Mistletoe and wine…
Mycroft lifted a hand, very slowly, as if he were approaching a wild animal. His fingers brushed your cheek, not quite a caress, more like he was proving to himself you were real.
You didn’t move away.
That, Sherlock thought, was the crucial detail.
Mycroft leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t like Greg’s kiss, light and joking. It wasn’t quick, either. It was careful, controlled, and yet there was a tremor in it, like a man who had been holding back for so long that letting go felt like stepping off a ledge.
You made a small sound of surprise into his mouth, then melted into it, your hands lifting to rest against his coat.
For one breath, Mycroft forgot to be Mycroft.
When he pulled back, his forehead hovered close to yours, and his eyes were dark with something that made Sherlock’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t like.
Mycroft’s voice, when he spoke, was quieter than usual. “I apologise,” he said, as if this were a breach of protocol. “I should not have—”
You smiled, breathless. “Don’t apologise.”
Mycroft blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You wanted to,” you said simply, as if stating a fact. “Didn’t you?”
Mycroft’s throat moved again. “Yes,” he admitted, and the single syllable sounded like surrender.
Your smile widened, soft and delighted. “Then don’t apologise.”
Mycroft’s eyes closed for a brief moment, and when he opened them, there was something in them that looked terrifyingly like relief.
Behind you, Greg cleared his throat awkwardly and decided to stare very hard at the Christmas tree as if it had suddenly become a fascinating object of police interest.
John’s mouth was hanging open.
Mrs Hudson pressed a hand to her chest and looked like she might cry.
Sherlock, for his part, smiled with the sharp satisfaction of a hypothesis confirmed.
“Well,” he said lightly, stepping forward. “There we are.”
Mycroft’s head snapped up, all warmth disappearing in a blink. “Sherlock.”
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. “You’re welcome.”
Mycroft stared at him, and something dangerous flickered behind his eyes. “What,” he said slowly, “have you done?”
Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Provided the appropriate conditions for observation.”
You looked between them, confused. “Observation?”
John, finally finding his voice, sputtered, “Sherlock, you absolute—”
“Mycroft loves you,” Sherlock announced, with the bluntness of a man who saw no need for tact. “I needed proof.”
There was a moment of silence so thick it felt like you could cut it with a knife.
Then you burst out laughing, half disbelief, half delight. “Sherlock, are you serious?”
Mycroft went very still.
His ears, Sherlock noted with glee, had gone faintly pink.
“You manipulated—” Mycroft began, voice clipped.
Sherlock waved a hand. “Yes, yes. You’re furious. Save it for later. The important thing is that you’re in love.”
“I am not—” Mycroft started, and then his eyes flicked to you, and whatever denial he had lined up died on the spot.
Because you were looking at him like he was the best surprise you’d ever received.
“Mycroft exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh but not quite. “I appear to be,” he admitted, as though he’d discovered it in a report.
Sherlock watched your face change, watched the way you softened, the way your fingers tightened gently around Mycroft’s sleeve.
“Well,” you said, voice low, “I’m glad you are being honest about it.”
Mycroft held your gaze. “So am I.”
Sherlock cleared his throat loudly, because he could feel the room shifting into something private and he hated being excluded from anything, even emotions. “Right. Experiment complete.”
John stood up and jabbed a finger at him. “You are not doing experiments on people at Christmas.”
Sherlock blinked. “Why not? It’s a time of tradition.”
Greg snorted. “You’re insufferable.”
Mrs Hudson beamed. “Oh, let him have his fun,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “It’s Christmas. Peace and joy and all that.”
Mycroft turned his head slightly toward Sherlock, voice like ice wrapped in silk. “We will speak later.”
Sherlock’s grin widened. “Looking forward to it.”
You leaned into Mycroft a little, as if you’d decided you belonged there. “Ignore him,” you murmured.
Mycroft’s gaze softened again, just for you. “I’m trying.”
Sherlock watched the two of you, your heads bent close together under the green sprig he’d hung so carefully, and felt an odd, unfamiliar satisfaction that had nothing to do with being right.
Mycroft had always been his brother. A mind. A force.
Now, he was also a man who had been kissed under mistletoe and had let himself be changed by it.
Sherlock decided, reluctantly, that perhaps “nice” could be useful after all.
How is everyone? Is anyone still here? I've been lurking a bit every great once in a while and I've seen a few fellow Tumblr Veterans return....(C'mon, at one point, this hellsite was a damn warzone and we all know it. LMAO!)
So, I know I was on here last year, talkin' about a comeback, but my whole reality took a sharp left turn at Albuquerque and I've just been trying to survive, as we all are. I'm finally in a place where I not only want, but NEED to come back and be a part of this place again, if I can. (It doesn't hurt that I have the help and support of my besties this go round. Unfortunately, I think one deleted Tumblr ages ago, but I still got @bobby-singers-daughter here with me.)
A few differences this go round:
I'm open to requests. Shocker, I know. LOL! I need to get back into practice with writing again and need all the help, motivation, and kicks in the ass that I can get! The people I write for will be the same as on my "About Me" page.
I'm gonna interact with people more. This includes me stopping being "starstruck" by the big famous writers that I've followed since 2014. The ones with hundreds of thousands of notes/likes/reblogs/followers. I can't go into this being intimidated again. It was stupid then and it would still be a hindrance today. Ain't nobody got time fo' that! I'm also gonna start reblogging my fave peeps and their stories. It's my miniscule attempt at getting the SPN/Criminal Minds side of Tumblr awake again. (Hopefully I have at least a modicum of success) I'd love to tag some people in this post, but from my following list, it looks like the majority of my moots haven't updated in 5-7 years. Maybe they still lurk like I have? We'll see.
This will be a NO STRESS ZONE! I won't work myself into the ground to post PERFECT FICS like I used to, I won't stay up until 5am trying and failing to curate the perfect reblog queue like I used to, and I also want this to be a place for others to come and decompress as well. All the vibes, none of the horrors of reality, if only for a few minutes so we can all catch our breath and then get back to it.
That's all I can think of right now. If anyone sees this, PLEASE, interact and let me know this corner of Tumblr isn't dead and buried. You can even send an anonymous "Why are YOU back?" if you want LMFAO!!!!!!
Here is my complete alphabet for the lovey, ineffable Mycroft Holmes. Enjoy.
A Affection - How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?
Affection is not something that comes easily to Mycroft Holmes. He is aware of the standard ways of displaying affection, but they feel awkward and forced when he attempts them, even when he really does mean them. Gentle touches, usually brushes of his hand against yours, moving a strand of hair from your face, those are where you can find the affection he longs to show you. He may be a restrained man, but that doesn't mean he does not care passionately about you.
B Best friend - What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?
Let's be honest, Mycroft is completely uncomprehending at the notion of 'friendship'. He has acquaintances, colleagues, his family, but friends? He views people as tools, if he needs something done then he simply has to use the right tool for the job and then he moves on. He enjoys spending his time alone, or at least he thinks he does, his brief forays into companionship seem to only bring frustration and resentment, but perhaps being comfortable with his own company has been born from necessity. Then his path crossed with yours. He had been standing in a bookshop, contemplating purchasing the leather bound copy of Anna Karenina in its original Russian when he noticed you out of the corner of his eye. You were weighing up two books in your hands with a slight frown upon your face, and he couldn't help but be intrigued. It was unlike him to instigate a social conversation, and yet he found himself asking if you were alright. "Yes. Just trying to figure out if it is better to buy a book that I know that I will enjoy even though I have read it several times before and have more than one copy of already, but this one has a beautiful cover... OR do I gamble on something I have never read which may lead to disappointment and regret?" You looked up at him and Mycroft's brow furrowed. He looked at the two books in your hands and offered his opinion on both. This led to you gambling on the unknown, with the joking threat that if you didn't enjoy it that you would track him down and throw it at him. That comment made him laugh, something entirely unexpected, and so he had given you his personal mobile number, so you could keep him updated about the book. Mycroft never really expected to hear from you again, so when you texted him a few days later he was pleasantly surprised. This led to several book related conversations, your own mini bookclub, and still Mycroft would never have placed the label of 'friendship' on your relationship. It wasn't until the two of you met up for tea and the waiter had been taking your order that the idea occurred to him. You had placed your order, including a slice of cake for you and one for your 'friend' too. To hear that you considered this a friendship was all he needed. He had a friend, and as you were his only one that made you his best friend, and as such he became determined to make this friendship thing work.
C Cuddles - Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?
Cuddle? Mycroft? Such a thing would only be done under extreme duress or if he felt you really needed it. Cuddling is time consuming and wrinkles suits, it is not practical. That said, if the two of you are lay in bed he is more than happy to have you pressed against him, his arms wrapped around you in an almost possessive manner. Sleepy Mycroft is an excellent cuddler, but he would never admit that he enjoys it.
D Domestic - Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?
Mycroft had never really thought about settling down. He had his career and the thought of having to factor in someone else into his schedule felt like an inconvenience. Then, he fell in love. Not something he had been planning on, but now he had someone in his life he did TRY to do the whole domesticated bit. He can cook, although he rarely does if it's just for him. Everything else he can pay someone to do so don't expect to see him dusting any time soon.
E Ending - If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?
Mycroft would end a relationship the same way he does everything else he fears… with precision, logic and a heartbreak he will never let you see.
He rehearses it, of course. In the mirror. In his office. In the back of a car while London passes by in a blur. He would tell himself he is doing it for your sake, that you deserve someone who can give you all the soft domesticity he struggles with.
When the moment comes, he sits across from you, hands folded to stop the trembling. His voice is even, painfully so, but his eyes give him away. He will not raise his voice, he will not cause a scene, he will not let himself fall apart.
He steps back politely, calmly, folding himself away like an umbrella no longer needed. And when he closes the door behind him, that is when the devastation hits.
He will love you for years after, quietly, silently, privately. He will protect you even then, from a distance.
Mycroft Holmes never ends love cleanly. He simply… withdraws until he disappears from view.
F Fiance(e) - How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?
Mycroft is rather traditional and, while he may never have really envisioned himself finding someone to marry, he would wholeheartedly commit to you in this way. There would be all the usual trappings, asking permission, official proposal, the whole nine yards in a very Mycroftian manner. He would explain how practical it would be to legally marry, because who could argue with logic, right? Basically, as soon as he realises he wants to spend the rest of his life with you, a proposal is not far behind as he sees little point in waiting.
G Gentle - How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?
It would surprise people to learn that Mycroft is an incredibly gentle person. True, he has many sharp corners, but when it comes to you he is so soft. He touches you as if you might break or like he fears you are a mirage that will disappear. The poor man can never quite get used to the fact that you choose to be with him, the Iceman, the aloof power behind the British Government. It is sweet, really. Emotionally though, he is very attentive to your emotions, when he remembers to be, but he is not someone who finds it easy to open up so sometimes he can be emotionally distant.
H Hugs - Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?
Much like cuddles, hugs are rare, at least at the start of your relationship. He tends to give hugs when his emotions have bubbled up, when he is thankful his idiot brother is alive, when he is worried about his mother when his father is in hospital, when he's had a tough day and come home to your soothing presence. When they happen, they are intense and full of all the things he cannot articulate.
I I love you - How fast do they say the L-word?
It takes ages. Glacial ages.
You will feel it from him long before you hear it. The way he watches you from the doorway. The way his fingers linger a beat too long on yours. The way he adjusts your scarf without saying a word.
The first time he says it, he doesn’t mean to. You’re doing something painfully mundane, like making tea or putting a book back on the shelf. He looks at you and it slips out, soft and shocked. Then he blinks as if someone else said it. He straightens his posture, clears his throat, tries to amend it with something logical or qualified. But you’ve already seen the truth bloom across his face, and his attempt at retreat is pointless.
After that, he says it sparingly, but every time is intentional. Precise. Like he’s placing gold leaf on your soul.
J Jealousy - How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?
Mycroft Holmes does not get jealous, he does not have time for such petty emotions The irritation he is feeling right now, as he watches you across the room, is purely because that FBI agent talking to you is a little too close. The man has invaded your personal space and this prickling sensation, this heat on the back of his neck is simply indignation on your behalf. The rage he feels when the agent dares to touch your arm, that isn’t jealousy, no, he just wants to protect you and anyone who has physical contact with you makes him wary. Mycroft gravitates towards you naturally, and it is certainly not because he has an overwhelming desire to glare at this man who thinks it is perfect acceptable to smile at you in such a seductive manner. His hand finds its way to rest on the small of your back, his cold, icy stare not leaving the agent for a moment. His shoulders are tight, his whole body ready to engage in some sort of confrontation be it verbal or physical, although he quickly calculates his chances in a physical altercation are not favourable. He feels your arm slip around waist and your body pressed against his side and it’s like a weight has been lifted from his chest. His gaze shifts down to you and the anger subsides, he is once again at peace. His eyes find the the FBI agent once again but this time his vision is unclouded. This man is no threat to him, no threat to your relationship. That doesn’t stop the cutting remarks that fall from Mycroft’s lips and the smug satisfaction he feels as the man scuttles away. Mycroft Holmes likes to believe he does not get jealous, but you know better.
K Kisses - What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?
Mycroft is a man of many kisses. There are the chaste peck of the lips on his way out of the house. The hot, heated, desperate kisses where he has you pressed up against the wall after far too long apart. The soft, sleepy kisses first thing in a morning when he is just grateful to wake up beside you. He likes to kiss the top of your head. You could be sat down, in bed snuggled in his arms, dancing in the kitchen, it doesn't matter, he likes to press a tender kiss to the top of your head. As for where he likes to be kissed, if you trail soft kisses along his jaw then this man will melt. Just be careful with this power, because if you use it to distract him from his work you had better make sure you follow through.
L Little ones - How are they around children?
Mycroft around children is… almost comically awkward.
He stands stiffly at first, unsure what to do with his hands or his voice. Children seem to sense he’s important, powerful, vaguely terrifying, and therefore treat him like an endangered species. But the moment a child asks him a serious question, something melts. He kneels, speaks to them like they’re rational adults, offers thoughtful answers that make parents blink.
With his own? He would be… devoted. Quietly so, privately so, but absolutely and unshakeably dedicated. He reads bedtime stories in multiple languages. He ensures they never doubt they are safe. They will grow up thinking their father hung the moon, and they would be right.
M Morning - How are mornings spent with them?
Time together is not always available but on the rare occasions you do get to spend the morning together the two of you will be found sat at the kitchen table eating a leisurely breakfast. He would be reading the paper while you read whatever book you are in the middle of. Your hand rests in his on top of the table as you both exist together in the moment, the radio on in the background and a contented smile resting on his lips as he glances over his glasses at you.
N Night - How are nights spent with them?
As with mornings together, nights together can be even more rare due to his work schedule. When you do get an 'evening off', the two of you disappear off up to the home cinema room, popcorn in hand. You always make it a double feature, watching something Mycroft chooses and then something you choose. He may not always like your choice, but he is happy to sit beside you, watching your face in the flickering light from the screen.
O Open - When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?
Mycroft Holmes is quite a closed book, it's just how he has programmed himself to be and to change that mindset is very difficult. When he does start to open up, it is rather stilted but you can see he is trying. Be patient with him, you may never know everything about the enigma that is Mycroft Holmes but you will certainly know more than anyone else.
P Patience - How easily angered are they?
He is not really a very patient man, but he does try when he is with you. Mycroft is aware, in theory, that relationships require a level of compromise and, for you, he is willing to attempt that. That being said, Mycroft is not called the Ice Man for nothing. He hides his emotions behind a cool exterior but that does not mean his frustrations do not get the better of him at time. Sometimes it is a quick flash of anger, a raised voice, a fire in his eyes, other times it is a slow burning rage, his voice low and slow as he responds to whatever has caused such a response. These moments where he cannot control his emotions are rare, but when they happen it will be because someone has dared to threaten someone important to him either directly or indirectly.
Q Quizzes - How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?
Mycroft does not simply remember you. He archives you.
Not in some cartoonish, sentimental scrapbook way. Sentiment is difficult for him, almost abrasive against the grain, but he compensates with structure, with curation, with discipline.
So yes, he builds a wing of his mind palace for you. He would never call it that. If you asked, he'd claim it was “a mental annex for the efficient storage of relevant information”. But he maintains it with the kind of quiet care other men reserve for vows.
Here’s the truth of it, he remembers the things that define you, not the fluff. He forgets, which actor you said was in that film, the random anecdote you told while he was working, the name of your neighbour’s terrible dog…
He remembers, the cadence of your laugh when you’re truly happy, the exact shade of blue that makes your eyes do that thing he pretends not to notice, the topics you avoid because they hurt, the way your voice changes when you’re overwhelmed, the foods that comfort you, even when you say you’re not hungry…
He stores these things like fine documents in a climate-controlled archive, but the sentiment itself is hard for him. The handling of it feels clumsy, like emotions require a muscle he has failed to maintain.
But memory? Retention? Organisation? That’s where he loves you best.
If something matters to you, he can retrieve it instantly. If something matters emotionally, he files it, labels it, protects it… even if he struggles to respond to it gracefully in the moment.
R Remember - What is their favourite moment in your relationship?
Mycroft’s favourite moment isn’t one you would ever guess.
It’s not romantic in the traditional sense, nor is it something you’d think to treasure. It is the first time you did nothing together. No crisis. No sibling drama. No political emergency humming in the background. Just… existing.
You were reading. He was working, or at least pretending to. You were both in the same room, breathing the same quiet air, comfortable enough with one another that neither felt the need to fill the silence. And then you shifted, just slightly, resting your foot against his under the table. Not demanding attention. Not checking on him. Simply anchoring yourself to him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He didn't look up immediately. He didn’t dare. Because the warmth of that tiny, unconscious connection hit him harder than any declaration could.
You trusted him. You felt safe around him. You reached for him instinctively, without thought, without fear. And for the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes realised he was someone’s home.
He returns to that moment constantly. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was ordinary. And he has never been ordinary to anyone before.
S Security - How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?
Protectiveness is practically Mycroft’s love language.
No, he will not smother you, and no, he will not invade your privacy. What he will do is make sure the world bends around you like a shield. No threats reach you. No inconveniences linger. You say “I feel unsafe walking home tonight,” and without moving a muscle he simply replies, “You won’t be.”
He trusts you to protect yourself, but he also knows the world is sharp. So, he sharpens himself in return to ensure those edges of the world are softer for you.
T Try - How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?
Mycroft doesn’t dabble in effort. If he commits, he commits with the terrifying efficiency of a man who can topple governments before breakfast. But the trick is this; He’s not flashy. He’s deliberate.
He is not the man who showers you with extravagant gestures for the sake of romance. He is the man who quietly removes obstacles from your life before you even notice them.
Here’s how his effort shows:
Dates:
He plans them like military operations, but only the ones that matter. If you mention wanting to try a new restaurant, he’ll book it for a night he knows you’re less stressed. If you say you want a quiet evening, he arranges exactly that, with the same level of precision. He never wastes your time with noise or fluff. His dates feel curated rather than performed.
Anniversaries:
He downplays them verbally, of course. “Arbitrary milestones,” he’ll say. Then he’ll present you with something so personal, so specifically tailored to you, that the comment becomes laughable. An edition of a book you loved as a child. A framed print of a place you once mentioned missing. Something that proves he listened, even when he seemed not to. His effort is silent, meticulous, almost reverent.
Gifts:
Not impulsive. Not generic. Mycroft gifts with intention. He will never buy you something simply because it’s expensive. He buys what will matter five years from now. Items with longevity. Meaning. Craft. And if he realises there’s something you want but would never ask for? It appears, seemingly without source. He never gets it wrong, because he only chooses when he is absolutely certain.
Everyday tasks:
This is where he shines in the most understated way. He makes your favourite tea without asking. He adjusts the heating before you get cold. He restocks things you forget to replace. He remembers the chores you hate and ensures someone else does them. He commits effort to making your life easier, not louder. Mycroft tries hardest in the moments no one sees. His love lives in competence. In commitment. In those tiny adjustments that say, without words, “I’m paying attention. You matter.”
U Ugly - What would be some bad habits of theirs?
His bad habits:
He overworks.
He catastrophises.
He shuts down instead of speaking up.
He assumes he is a burden.
He thinks he’s easier to love from a distance.
And sometimes, he forgets that you chose him. Actively. Repeatedly.
V Vanity - How concerned are they with their looks?
Mycroft’s appearance is a fortress, not a flourish.
People assume he is vain because he is always impeccably dressed, every line crisp, every detail deliberate. But vanity isn’t the truth of it. Control is.
He worries about his weight far more than he will ever admit. It’s one of the few areas of his life he feels he cannot entirely outthink. His suits are armour. They hide the parts of himself he critiques most harshly. He chooses dark colours, structured cuts, heavy fabrics… all strategies, not preferences. Some days he avoids mirrors altogether. Not dramatically. Not with angst. He simply… doesn’t look too closely. He smooths his tie, checks nothing is out of place, and moves on before his brain can spiral.
But here’s the thing, he tries. Quietly. Stubbornly. He takes the long route on purpose when he walks on days he is feeling bloated. He eats with clinical discipline even when he’d rather not during these little ‘spells’. He critiques himself in ways he would never allow you to be critiqued. And then there’s the part he’d die before saying out loud… you change how he sees himself.
Not with flattery, but with the way your gaze softens when you look at him. He trusts your eyes more than his own. Your touch steadies him. Your affection rewrites the narrative he’s carried since he was young.
So is he concerned with his looks? Yes. Deeply. But not out of vanity. Out of old wounds and impossible standards and a lifetime of believing he must be perfect to be valued.
With you, slowly, painfully, he begins to let that belief crack. Because when you call him handsome, he doesn’t quite believe it…but he wants to.
W Whole - Would they feel incomplete without you?
Would he feel incomplete without you? He wouldn’t admit it. But yes. You are the axis his world slowly shifts around. You soften the spaces between seconds. You make the loneliness less… structural. With you, he is not the Iceman. He is simply Mycroft."
X Xtra - A random headcanon for them.
Random headcanon? He keeps a private diary written entirely in shorthand.
It’s not about state secrets. It’s about you. Moments he doesn’t want to forget. Things he’s not brave enough to say out loud. And he will deny this until his dying breath.
Y Yuck - What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?
He hates:
Lateness.
Crumbs in the bed.
People who don’t listen.
Anyone who flirts with you.
Cheap umbrellas.
Tea brewed incorrectly.
Sherlock’s experiments.
He also absolutely loathes seeing you cry. It makes him feel powerless.
Z Zzz - What is a sleep habits of theirs?
Mycroft sleeps like a man who has fought thirteen battles before breakfast: stiff, tense, barely trusting the mattress.
With you beside him? He softens. His body unwinds. His breathing evens. He sleeps with a hand on you somewhere, always, as if grounding himself in reality. He dreams less, and when he does, they’re gentler.
Summary: George struggles with grief and guilt after Fred’s death, haunted by memories, until comfort and quiet understanding help him begin healing.
Word Count: 2245 words
Prompt: Before You Go – Lewis Capaldi
A/N: This is for the amazingly wonderful @caplanbuckybarnes and the decades challenge. I would like to apologise in advance.
The familiar images did little to ease the ache in his chest or the rising panic. It always started the same way. A cold, grey day. The kind where the sky stretched endlessly, smothered in a thick blanket of clouds, where the air was damp and heavy, pressing in on him like unseen hands.
Everything felt distant, as if he were watching the world through translucent glass. The shapes around him were familiar but amorphous, shifting and warping at the edges, never quite solid. A cruel imitation of reality.
He stood alone, the earth beneath his feet damp and unyielding, the scent of rain and churned-up soil filling his lungs. It felt as if his footprints would be etched here forever, carved into the ground cementing his position at the headstone. As if he were trapped in time, doomed to return to this spot every day for the rest of his life.
And then came the words. The ones he could never take back.
"I hate you."
The memory struck like a curse, reverberating through him, shattering against the walls of his mind. The words echoed, again and again, looping endlessly, filling every space inside him.
Warm tears carved silent paths down his clammy cheeks as the air was ripped from his lungs. He had meant the opposite. He had always meant the opposite. But hatred was easier to claim than the unbearable, clawing anguish that had infected every fiber of his being. It was easier to pretend he was angry than to admit he had been afraid—so, so afraid.
He would have done anything to go back, to undo it all. But time was merciless, and the past remained unchanged, its weight pressing down on him like an anchor, pulling him deeper, suffocating him beneath the endless tide of regret and guilt.
Every night, this moment replayed in his mind, the grief as raw and sharp as the day it began. No matter how many days passed, the wound never closed. A million moments that should have been shared, a million thoughts now his alone. The laughter that would never come again, the secrets that would remain forever unspoken.
All the words he could have—should have—said now tasted like ashes on his tongue.
Had he told him enough? Had he ever made him understand? Did Fred know—really know—just how much he meant to him?
The scene in his dreams shifted. The solid ground beneath him gave way, turning to sludge and mud, thick and suffocating, wrapping around his ankles like grasping hands. It pulled him downward, an unrelenting force determined to drag him to the place where his twin lay waiting.
He thrashed, clawing at the earth, at the air, at anything that could save him. But there was nothing. His fingers sank into the wet, rotting dirt, slipping through his grasp as if it, too, refused to hold onto him. Cold tendrils of soil slithered into his mouth, filled his lungs, choking him with the taste of decay. The more he fought, the deeper he sank.
Above him, the light shimmered—distant, unattainable. A cruel reminder of the world that still existed without him. His limbs were leaden, his chest tight, the weight of guilt pressing down until his body no longer felt like his own. The ghosts of the past clawed at him, whispering, murmuring, dragging him further beneath the surface.
And then, he was falling.
Endlessly, weightlessly, through a deep, almost tangible darkness.
A flicker of warmth. A voice—laughter, breathless and wild. The past swept past him in flashes, fragments of a life that once felt eternal, unbreakable. Bare feet pounding against cold stone, echoes chasing them through winding castle corridors. Then warmth—the sun-heated floors of his mother’s kitchen, the scent of freshly baked bread and the sound of giggles bursting from their throats before they could suppress them.
Fred’s eyes, alight with mischief. His hand, reaching out.
And then—nothing.
George gasped, desperate to hold onto it, but the memories shattered like glass, slipping through his fingers.
It had never been the right time to talk about feelings. There had always been another joke to make, another prank to plan, another moment to laugh instead of say the things that mattered. They were two halves of the same whole—Fred had to have known how he felt… hadn’t he? Did it need words? Did it need to be spoken aloud?
But what if it had? What if he had waited too long?
Fred had always been the brave one. The ideas man. The eldest, always ready to take the first step into the unknown, dragging George along with him, making the unknown seem thrilling instead of terrifying. But now, Fred had stepped too far, gone too deep, and for the first time, George had been left behind.
Without him, George felt himself unraveling. A thread pulled loose, fraying, unraveling, until little by little, there would be nothing left.
Nothing at all.
The scene shifted again.
This time, everything came into brutal focus.
No haze. No distance. No mercy.
The air was thick, pressing in on him, suffocating. His limbs were heavy, as if he were wading through water, time stretching unbearably, slowing his movements but not the inevitable. His chest tightened with a familiar, crushing panic. His mind screamed at him to look away. But he couldn’t. He never could.
His eyes widened in horror.
Knowing what was about to happen didn’t soften the blow. It made it worse.
Fred’s face—so full of life, his bright eyes dancing with mischief, laughter spilling from his lips—was frozen in time. George wanted to reach out, to grab him, to shake him, to tell him to run. Don’t turn around. Don’t move. Just stay here. Stay with me.
He prayed. Pleaded. Begged for the scene to shift again, to twist into something else, something he could wake up from. That this time, he could change it. That this time, it would be him instead.
But the nightmare never listened.
A bright flash. A blinding eruption of light, striking the wall behind Fred like a thunderclap, illuminating him in an explosion of gold and red—like fireworks, dazzling and deadly.
And then came the cracks. The crumbling.
The world tearing itself apart.
The deafening roar of destruction.
And then—
Silence.
The kind that swallowed everything. That stole breath and sound and life itself.
The kind of silence George had been drowning in ever since.
George jolted awake, his body tense, breath hitching in his throat. His heart pounded violently against his ribs, his pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm that echoed in his ears. The air in his bedroom felt thick, suffocating, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His sheets were damp with sweat, twisted around him as if they, too, had been caught in the nightmare.
It didn’t matter if he slept for hours or barely at all. It didn’t matter what time he went to bed, how exhausted he was, how desperately his body craved rest. He knew, without looking at the clock, that it was 3:33 AM. It always was.
Rubbing a trembling hand over his face, he let out a stuttering breath, trying to steady himself, to slow the ragged gasps that clawed at his throat. His fingers pressed against his temples, as if he could physically push the memories away, as if he could will them into silence.
Everyone said time would heal. That grief would fade.
But six months had passed, and the wound was still as raw as the day it was torn open.
The nightmares never stopped. The weight never lifted.
Some nights, it felt like he was still trapped in that moment, still hearing the explosion, still seeing Fred’s face frozen in that last instant of laughter. Some nights, he thought maybe he’d wake up and find that it had all been a terrible mistake—that his twin would be there, grinning at him, nudging him, cracking some joke about how dramatic he was being.
But the silence that followed was always the same. Heavy. Hollow.
And George was still alone.
“George?”
Your voice was thick with sleep, soft and uncertain in the stillness of the room. He heard your bed shift as you stirred, your warmth just within reach. Guilt settled in his chest like a heavy stone. He hadn’t meant to wake you.
“It’s okay. I’m okay.”
A lie. One he told far too often, uncertain whether he was trying to convince everyone else or himself.
You had stayed by George’s side through the aftermath, through the quiet devastation that followed the battle. For three months, you were there—through the empty stares, the sleepless nights, the moments where he barely seemed present at all. Only when work forced you to return did you leave, though even then, you worried. You knew he wasn’t okay.
Molly saw it too.
She heard the muffled sobs through the walls at night. She watched her son wear a mask for the world, smiling when he had to, making jokes when he could, as if it would ease their pain. As if it would somehow lessen the weight pressing down on them all. But you both knew the truth—his grief wasn’t lessening. It was sinking deeper, burrowing into his bones, stretching the wound wider with every passing day.
A few weeks ago, Molly sent you an owl, worry woven between every line.
"He won’t let us in," she wrote. "But maybe he’ll let you."
And the moment you stepped into the Burrow, you knew—you weren’t leaving again.
George sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead, as if sleep were a distant thing he had long forgotten how to reach. You didn’t hesitate.
“You aren’t okay, and that’s alright,” you whispered, slipping from your bed and into his. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, grounding him. “I don’t expect you to be okay, Georgie.”
His breath hitched, his body trembling. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he let go.
His head fell against your shoulder, his walls crumbling as sobs tore from him, violent and unrestrained. His hands fisted into the fabric of your shirt, clinging to you like you were the only thing tethering him to this world, the only thing keeping him from vanishing into the void that had swallowed everything else.
You held him tighter, running your fingers through his hair, steadying him as he shattered.
You wished there was something, anything, you could say to make it better. To dull the ache in his chest. To take even a fraction of his pain away. But there were no words for a grief like this. No comfort that could mend the hole left behind.
It was a tempestuous storm—a violent, merciless thing, and George was drifting through it on a fragile raft, the waves towering fifty feet high, threatening to pull him under.
So you held on.
You held on for both of you.
The two of you lay down, limbs tangled, bodies pressed close as if proximity alone could keep the weight of grief at bay. The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of sheets and the slow, uneven cadence of George’s breathing. His warmth seeped into you, grounding both of you in the present, even as the past loomed just beyond the edges of consciousness.
“Fred would have been making kissing noises if he could see us now,” you murmured, your voice a careful whisper in the dark. A gentle attempt to pull him from the heaviness that had settled over him, to remind him that laughter—Fred’s laughter—still existed somewhere between the sorrow.
For a moment, there was silence, and you worried the words had fallen flat, that the ache inside him was too vast to be reached.
Then, a low, tired chuckle vibrated from his chest, muffled against your skin, and relief flooded through you.
“He always said he was the better-looking twin to everyone—except you,” George mumbled against your shoulder, his voice thick with exhaustion, with something heavier. “Said there had to be an exception.”
You smiled, threading your fingers through his hair, feeling the way he instinctively leaned into the touch.
“How gracious of him,” you said, a quiet chuckle slipping from your lips, the sound gentle, easy.
The two of you fell into a more comfortable silence, the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. The rise and fall of his chest became steadier, though the tension in his limbs never fully faded. You knew sleep would take him eventually, but peace—that was something different.
It was true—George had never told Fred how much he meant to him. Not the way he should have. Not nearly enough. Maybe words had always felt unnecessary between them, as if the bond they shared transcended the need for them. But now, in the hollow space Fred had left behind, all those unsaid things sat heavy on George’s tongue, turning to ashes before they could ever be spoken.
But Fred had known. He had always known.
And maybe, in his own way, Fred had left behind a final reassurance.
"He always made a point of saying you belonged to me."
Maybe that had been Fred’s way of giving his blessing. His way of making sure George wouldn’t be left completely alone.
And maybe, just maybe, George could hold onto that.
Summary: After discovering Remus Lupin's lycanthropy, you help him heal emotionally, offering unconditional love and unwavering support.
Word Count: 1201 words
Prompt: ‘Love is putting someone else’s needs before yours.’
A/N: This one is for @caplanbuckybarnes for the Disney Celebration.
The soft light of dawn filtered through the window, casting delicate hues of orange and gold over the sparse furnishings in the small cottage. A faint breeze rustled the curtains, making the silence feel even more tangible. You sat in the chair by the bed, unmoving, staring at the figure under the sheets. Remus Lupin. His chest rose and fell slowly with the rhythm of sleep, but there was a tension in his features, even now.
It had been a full moon two nights ago.
The first full moon since you learned the truth.
You had been in the library at Grimmauld Place, sifting through texts to help with the Order’s efforts, when you stumbled across it. An old parchment, detailing lycanthropy and its effects, hidden in a forgotten corner. Your breath had caught in your throat. You had pieced together the signs, the strange disappearances, the mysterious injuries, the exhaustion that gripped him after certain nights.
You had confronted him gently, wanting him to feel safe enough to share the burden he had carried for so long. And he had. With a trembling voice and downcast eyes, he had told you about the affliction he had borne, the nights that stripped away his humanity and left him as a creature he could never fully control.
He had expected you to turn away in fear, or disgust, or perhaps pity. But you hadn’t. You stayed. You promised him you would always stay.
Yet now, after the long, harrowing night, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of that promise.
Remus stirred under the sheets, a faint groan escaping his lips. His body still bore the angry marks of the transformation—scratches and bruises, evidence of the battle he fought against the beast within. He had spent the night locked away, alone, for your safety, but the knowledge of what he endured gnawed at you.
Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, revealing the familiar warmth of amber irises, though they were dulled with fatigue and lingering pain.
“Morning,” he rasped, his voice hoarse. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes when he saw you sitting there, waiting.
“Morning,” you replied softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You moved closer, careful not to disturb him, your heart aching at the sight of him so fragile.
“You didn’t have to stay,” he murmured, his gaze flicking to the clock on the wall. “You should’ve slept.”
“I wanted to be here,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. His skin was cool, but you could feel the faint tremors running through him. “I couldn’t sleep anyway.”
A shadow passed over his face, and he swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t… You shouldn’t have to see me like this.”
“Remus, don’t,” you said gently, taking his hand in yours. His fingers were rough, calloused, and yet the way he clung to you was hesitant, as if he was afraid to hurt you.
“I’m… dangerous,” he continued, his voice barely audible. His eyes refused to meet yours, staring instead at the ceiling as if he couldn’t bear to face the reality of his own words. “I’ve spent so long hiding it, locking myself away. And now… you know. You shouldn’t have to—”
“I don’t care about any of that,” you interrupted, squeezing his hand. “I’m here because I want to be, because I care about you. Not just the parts that are easy to love, but all of you.”
He shook his head slightly, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t understand. I’m a monster. What if… what if I can’t control it? What if one day—”
“I trust you,” you whispered. “I know what you’re capable of, Remus. You fight so hard against it. You won’t hurt me.”
His hand trembled in yours, and for the first time, his gaze met yours, searching for any sign of doubt. But there was none. Only the steady resolve in your eyes, the unwavering love that he could scarcely believe.
“You deserve more,” he said, his voice cracking. “Someone who isn’t broken.”
“Maybe,” you replied softly, “but I don’t want more. I want you.”
Tears filled his eyes, and he quickly looked away, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. The vulnerability of this moment was overwhelming for him—showing you the part of himself he had always hidden, the part he feared would drive you away. But instead, you had stayed. You had seen him at his worst and still chose to love him.
You moved closer, gently pulling him into your arms. His body stiffened for a moment, but then he melted into your embrace, his head resting against your shoulder as if seeking the comfort he had denied himself for so long. You ran your fingers through his hair, soothing him, whispering words of reassurance.
“I’ll always be here,” you murmured. “No matter what.”
Remus clung to you as if you were his anchor in a storm, the one constant in a life that had been filled with so much pain and isolation. You could feel the weight of his exhaustion, not just from the transformation, but from years of loneliness, of pushing people away to protect them from the truth.
“Love is putting someone else’s needs before yours,” you said softly, echoing a phrase he had once told you. “And I love you, Remus. I’m not going anywhere.”
He lifted his head, his eyes searching your face as if trying to find something to hold onto, something to believe in. His lips trembled as he spoke, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I don’t deserve you.”
“You deserve everything,” you replied, cupping his face in your hands. “You deserve love, and care, and someone who will stand by your side. Let me be that for you.”
For a long moment, he just looked at you, his emotions too tangled to unravel. Then, with a shuddering breath, he nodded, a small, broken smile forming on his lips. “You already are.”
You stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the silence between you filled with unspoken promises. The fear, the pain, the self-doubt that had haunted Remus for so long seemed to fade in your presence, replaced by a tentative hope. He wasn’t alone anymore. And perhaps, for the first time in his life, he truly believed that he didn’t have to be.
The morning sun continued to rise, filling the room with a gentle light that seemed to push away the shadows. And as you held him close, you knew that this was just the beginning. There would be other nights, other full moons, other battles to fight. But you would face them together. Because love wasn’t just about the easy moments. It was about standing by someone’s side, even when it hurt, even when it was hard.
And in that moment, you knew that no matter what the future held, your devotion to Remus would never waver. You would be there, through every storm, through every transformation, with a heart full of love and a quiet, unshakeable resolve.
Because love was selfless. And for Remus, you would give everything.
to those of you who are moving here from tiktok, from someone whos used both tiktok and tumbr for years...
1. DO NOT censor your posts
dont censor sex, abuse, suicide, dont censor it. we dont have censors like tiktok does, you wont be banned for talking about these things and tagging them properly helps people avoid them (also, we dont have shadowbanning here)
2. we dont really have an algorithm
you follow who you follow, and you see posts from who you follow or what you search. the 'for you page' is basically useless here. this also brings me to my next two points
3. dont crosstag
we get it, on tiktok you have to crosstag for reach, but thats not really a thing here. just tag your posts properly (also posters often leave more info about the post in the tags!! and when you reblog stuff you can leave your own notes in the tags, kind of like the old "repost comments" on tiktok)
4. dont expect to go viral/be famous
"viral" isnt really a thing on here (at least not for the average blogger). your posts will probably get 2-10 likes and you wont get nearly as many followers than on tiktok. thats just how tumblr is
5. blocking is your best friend
tiktok is VERY discussion based, and while tumblr is much more discussion based than other social medias, its still not a good place for ragebait/discourse. dont interact, itll make your experience worse in the end, just block and move on
6. you cant go into someone elses house and start rearranging their furniture
this is tumblr, not tiktok. dont diss old tumblr users for how they use the site or try to change them, thats like going into someone elses house and trying to rearrange their furniture. we've been here longer and we're familiar with the site and its culture, either find your niche, adapt, or find a different app
You need to actually reblog posts for this site to work as it should.
Liking posts only saves them in a spot that no one checks except for the user who liked them. Most people have their liked posts hidden.
Also, this site has a spam bot problem. One way we weed those out is to check the blog to see if it's actually being used to post legitimate content. If there is absolutely nothing on your blog you're getting blocked and some users may just straight up report you as spam as a precaution.
Not to mention that the posts you reblog will only be seen by you and whoever follows you. Tagging it "fyp" does absolutely nothing.
Hello lovely people! It is that time of year where I create myself a new calendar. This year I thought I'd do different colour mood boards for various character using texture, songs, quotes, general mood... I've got 10 done and boxed off BUT I need 2 more. One for lilac and one for pink.
Summary: On a snow-kissed Christmas Eve, the quiet magic of a museum visit brings unspoken feelings between you and Steve Harrington to light, culminating in a heartfelt confession under twinkling lights.
Word Count: 1321 words
Prompts: Museum. Mutual pining. A hug that lingers.
A/N: This is the final of my Build a Christmas Fics, and a birthday gift to myself. A sweet anon requested it, and after writing it I decided it had to be my Christmas Eve post, so enjoy.
The museum was aglow with warm light, golden and soft, casting long shadows across the gleaming marble floors. Christmas Eve had brought a quiet charm to the usually bustling space, and the twinkle of fairy lights strung along the banisters only added to the enchantment. Outside, snow fell steadily, blanketing the city in a layer of pristine white. Inside, you wandered the halls, your hands stuffed into the pockets of your coat, your breath still thawing from the cold.
Steve Harrington was a few steps behind you, his gaze less on the exhibits and more on you. He wasn’t subtle about it—he rarely was when it came to his feelings. But you’d managed to ignore it for months, chalking up his lingering looks and sweet gestures to Steve just being Steve. Today, though, something felt different. There was a charged warmth between you, one that even the vast, echoing halls of the museum couldn’t dissipate.
“This place is nice,” Steve said, finally breaking the comfortable silence as you entered the Impressionist wing. His voice was soft, reverent even, as if afraid to disturb the peace.
You glanced over your shoulder, smiling at him. “Told you it would be. Thanks for agreeing to come.”
“Yeah, well, it beats sitting at home with a TV dinner,” he teased, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
You frowned, catching the hint of melancholy in his tone. Christmas Eve had a way of amplifying loneliness, and you knew Steve’s family wasn’t exactly the “let’s gather around the tree” type. “You’re not spending it alone,” you said firmly. “And this place has paintings, history, charm… what’s not to love? I mean, I know you have to put up with me…”
He laughed, his eyes crinkling in that way that made your heart stutter. “You say that like it’s a bad thing to hang out with you.”
You laughed, shaking your head and bumping your shoulder against his arm. “Come on.”
Steve didn’t reply, but his gaze softened, lingering on you a moment longer than necessary before he turned his attention to the nearest painting.
The museum was nearly empty, save for a handful of other visitors and a few staff members. It made the experience feel more intimate, as if the grand halls and priceless artwork existed solely for the two of you. You wandered from gallery to gallery, pausing every so often to admire a particular piece or read the accompanying placard. Steve trailed beside you, his presence steady and warm, even in the cavernous space.
In the Renaissance wing, you stopped in front of a painting of a winter scene. It depicted a bustling village square, with townsfolk ice skating and children throwing snowballs. The colors were rich, the scene alive with movement and joy.
“That one’s nice,” Steve said, standing close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.
“It is,” you agreed, your voice softer now. “Makes me wish we had more days like that.”
“Like what?”
“Simple ones,” you said, gesturing toward the painting. “Skating on a frozen pond, building snowmen, spending time with people you care about. No chaos, no stress. Just… peace.”
Steve was quiet for a moment, and when you glanced at him, you found him looking at you again.
“Sounds nice,” he said finally, his voice low. “You make it sound really nice.”
Your stomach flipped, but you pushed the feeling aside, turning back to the painting. “It’s just a painting, Steve. Don’t read too much into it.”
He chuckled softly. “Too late.”
The hours passed quickly, the two of you slipping into an easy rhythm. You found yourself relaxing, the weight of the season—and everything left unsaid between you and Steve—falling away as you shared quiet moments and exchanged lighthearted banter. The museum’s festive decorations added to the atmosphere, each twinkling light and garland reminding you that it was, after all, Christmas Eve.
Eventually, you found yourselves in the sculpture garden, an open-air courtyard in the center of the museum. Snow drifted down from the sky, the flakes catching in your hair and on Steve’s coat. The garden was lit by warm golden lights, and the sculptures cast long, intricate shadows on the snow-covered ground. It was breathtaking, the kind of scene you’d expect to find in a holiday card.
“This is amazing,” you said, spinning slowly to take it all in. Your breath formed little puffs in the cold air, and you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face. “It’s like a dream.”
“Yeah,” Steve said, though his voice was distracted. When you turned to look at him, you found him watching you again, his expression unreadable.
You felt your cheeks heat under his gaze. “What?”
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Nothing. Just… you look happy.”
“I am,” you admitted. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this… light.”
“Good,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You deserve that.”
The air between you shifted then, growing heavier but not uncomfortable. It was as if the snow, the lights, and the golden glow of the courtyard had wrapped around the two of you, drawing you closer together. Steve stepped forward, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his breath visible in the cold.
“Hey,” he said softly, his gaze meeting yours. “I… uh… I’ve been meaning to say something.”
Your heart skipped a beat. “Yeah?”
He hesitated, glancing down at the snow before looking back at you. “I know I’m not always the best at this stuff, but I just… I wanted you to know that I… that you mean a lot to me. More than I think you realize.”
You blinked, his words sinking in slowly. “Steve…”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly, his cheeks flushing. “I just… I needed to tell you. Because being here with you, it’s the best Christmas I’ve had in… well, maybe ever.”
For a moment, you couldn’t speak, your heart pounding too loudly in your ears. Then, without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, his hold warm and firm, as if he was afraid to let go.
“You’re such an idiot,” you murmured against his shoulder, though your tone was affectionate.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice muffled. “But you love me anyway.”
You laughed softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. His hands lingered on your arms, his touch gentle despite the strength behind it. The golden lights reflected in his eyes, and you felt yourself falling for him all over again.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “I do.”
Steve’s breath hitched, and for a moment, he just stared at you, as if trying to memorize every detail of your face. Then, slowly, he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.
“Is this… is this okay?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
You nodded, your gloved hands cupping his face as you close the gap between the two of you.
His lips met yours, soft and warm, and for a moment, the world seemed to fall away. The snow, the lights, the sculptures—everything faded until there was only Steve, his kiss gentle but full of unspoken emotion. When he pulled back, his gaze searched yours, his expression equal parts hopeful and nervous.
His smile was radiant, and as he saw nothing but adoration in your eyes, he pulled you back into his arms, holding you close as the snow continued to fall around you. In that moment, wrapped in his warmth and the golden glow of the courtyard, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.
And as Christmas Eve gave way to Christmas morning, you couldn’t help but think that this—Steve, the snow, the kiss that had left your heart racing—was the best gift you could have ever asked for.
Summary: Best friends, winter magic, and a holiday resort straight out of a dream—will a week of snowy escapades spark something more?
Word Count: 1496 words
Prompts: Ski resort. Best friends to lovers. Wearing their clothes.
A/N: The fantastic @savvy-devine666 requested a little festive Loki and who am I to object?
The air was crisp and smelled of pine, the snow falling in thick, glittering flakes that coated the resort like powdered sugar on a gingerbread house. Christmas lights twinkled in the distance, casting a warm glow across the frosty landscape. You adjusted your scarf and rubbed your gloved hands together, staring up at the grandiose lodge that you and your best friend, Loki, would be calling home for the next week.
“This place looks like it belongs in a holiday movie,” you said, nudging him with your elbow.
Loki arched an eyebrow, his dark hair falling just shy of his shoulders, and gave you that trademark smirk that always seemed to hold some secret. “A bit over the top, isn’t it? All the glitz and glitter. Too festive for its own good.”
You laughed, rolling your eyes. “You say that, but I know you’ll be the first to steal the best seat by the fireplace.”
“Not if you claim it first, darling.” There was a teasing lilt to his voice, but you noticed the faint flush on his cheeks. Probably the cold, you thought. Definitely the cold.
The truth was, being here with Loki already felt like magic. After years of being inseparable friends, this trip had been your idea—a break from the chaos of life and a chance to finally relax. Loki had reluctantly agreed, muttering about “tourist traps” but secretly excited, as you’d caught him researching the best ski routes days before you left.
Inside the lodge, it was even more beautiful. A roaring fire crackled in the stone hearth, and the scent of mulled cider and cinnamon wafted through the air. Loki, ever the gentleman, helped you out of your coat and scarf, his touch lingering a moment longer than usual. You ignored the way your heart skipped at the gesture. This was Loki, your best friend. Nothing more.
“I’ll grab the key for our suite,” he said, his green eyes flicking toward the reception desk. “You find us some hot chocolate, perhaps?”
“On it,” you replied, grinning as you made your way to the cozy café corner.
When you reconvened, steaming mugs in hand, Loki led you to your shared suite. It was charming, with rustic wooden beams, a Christmas tree adorned with silver and green ornaments, and a balcony overlooking the snowy slopes.
“This is... nice,” Loki admitted, setting his bag down and glancing around.
“I knew you’d like it,” you teased. “It’s practically screaming your aesthetic.”
“I suppose it’s tolerable,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
The next few days were a whirlwind of winter activities. You dragged Loki to the slopes, where he proved to be a surprisingly graceful skier, despite his earlier complaints. You weren’t nearly as skilled, but Loki stayed by your side, catching you every time you wobbled.
“You’re doing splendidly,” he said after your fifth near-tumble.
“Liar,” you laughed, breathless. “You’re just saying that so I’ll keep humiliating myself.”
“Nonsense. I’m saying it because it’s true.” His voice softened, and for a moment, his gaze lingered on you, unguarded and vulnerable. Then he cleared his throat and turned away.
Nights were spent curled up by the fire, sipping cider or cocoa while playing cards or talking for hours. Loki seemed more relaxed than you’d ever seen him, the usual sharp edges of his sarcasm dulled by the holiday cheer. You found yourself watching him more often than you should, noting the way the firelight danced in his emerald eyes or the rare but genuine smiles that crossed his face.
You tried to shake it off. He was your best friend. Nothing more.
On Christmas Eve, the resort hosted a moonlit snowshoe hike. Loki was skeptical, but you convinced him with the promise of a quiet night under the stars. Bundled up in layers, you followed the group through a trail that wound around the forest. The snow sparkled under the full moon, and your breath puffed in white clouds in the frigid air.
Somewhere along the way, Loki fell behind the group, and you stayed with him.
“You’re brooding,” you teased as the two of you trudged through the snow.
“I am not,” he replied, his voice defensive but tinged with amusement. “I’m merely... thinking.”
“About?”
He hesitated, glancing at you briefly before looking away. “Nothing of consequence.”
You stopped walking and grabbed his arm, forcing him to face you. “Loki, what’s going on? You’ve been weird all day.”
He sighed, his breath visible in the cold air. “It’s nothing. Truly. I suppose I’m just not used to this sort of... festivity.”
“You mean fun?” you teased, earning a small chuckle from him.
“Yes, fine, fun,” he admitted. Then, softer, “I suppose I worry I’ll ruin it for you. I’m not exactly the ideal companion for such a cheerful holiday.”
“That’s ridiculous,” you said, stepping closer. “Loki, this trip wouldn’t be the same without you. I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.”
His eyes met yours, wide and vulnerable. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he gave a small nod, his lips quirking into a faint smile.
Later that night, back in the suite, you found yourself rifling through your bag for warmer socks. Loki had gone to take a shower, leaving his clothes draped over a chair. Without thinking, you grabbed his oversized sweater and pulled it on. It was soft and smelled like him—a mix of cedarwood and something you couldn’t quite place.
When he walked back into the room, his damp hair curling at the edges, he froze.
“Is that my sweater?” he asked, his voice somewhere between curious and flustered.
You looked down at yourself and grinned. “It’s mine now. It’s warm.”
Loki’s cheeks flushed, and he looked away, muttering something under his breath.
“What was that?” you asked, stepping closer.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, his gaze darting anywhere but you.
“Loki...”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I said you look lovely in it”
You blinked, startled by the sudden confession. A warmth spread through your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you smiled. “You did. And thank you.”
His eyes met yours, and for a moment, the air between you seemed to shift. He opened his mouth to say something, but then hesitated.
“What?” you prompted gently.
“Nothing. It’s... nothing.” But his tone was soft, almost wistful.
The next evening, Christmas night, the resort held a small gathering outside by the firepit. Guests milled about, sipping hot drinks and chatting. But you and Loki had wandered off, drawn to the quiet beauty of the moonlit slopes.
You stopped by a clearing, where the snow fell gently around you, the world bathed in silver light. Loki stood a few steps away, his hands tucked into his coat pockets, his expression thoughtful.
“Penny for your thoughts?” you asked, breaking the silence.
He turned to you, his green eyes catching the moonlight. “I was just thinking how odd it is that I’ve spent so much time resisting things like this. Happiness, connection. I’ve always thought they were... out of reach.”
“They’re not,” you said softly.
He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the snow. “Perhaps not. But they’re frightening, nonetheless. To care for someone, to let them in... it’s a risk.”
“It’s worth it,” you replied, stepping closer.
Loki’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, he looked as if he might argue. But then his expression softened, and he reached out, his gloved hand brushing against yours.
“You make me believe that,” he said quietly, his eyes widening as he realised the words had escaped him. “Did I just say that out loud?” he chuckled sheepishly.
Your breath caught as he stepped closer, his gaze searching yours nervously. Snowflakes clung to his dark hair, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. He looked impossibly beautiful, and your heart ached with the intensity of it.
“Loki...”
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
You shook your head, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop.”
His lips met yours, soft and tentative, as if he was afraid you might vanish. The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you, caught in the moonlight with snow falling around you. When he pulled back, his gaze searched yours, uncertain and vulnerable.
“Was that...” he began, his voice barely audible.
“Perfect,” you finished for him, a smile breaking across your face.
He let out a soft laugh, his tension melting away as he pulled you into his arms. For the first time, Loki looked at peace, his insecurities replaced by the quiet certainty of your presence.
And as the snow continued to fall, the two of you stood there, wrapped in each other and the magic of the moment, knowing that this Christmas had given you something far more precious than either of you could have imagined.
Summary: A glimpse or ‘normal’ might just give Dean the space to figure out what he feels and how to tell you.
Word Count: 1276 words
Prompts: Library. Mutual pining. A hug that lingers.
A/N: This one is for @roseblue373. A very merry holiday season my friend. I hope you enjoy this.
The ski resort buzzed with energy, laughter ringing through the crisp mountain air as snowflakes swirled lazily from the sky. Twinkling Christmas lights adorned every corner, and the scent of pine and cocoa seemed to follow you wherever you went. You tightened your scarf against the chill and glanced around, wondering where Dean had wandered off to. He had a knack for disappearing in the middle of your adventures, only to reappear with some grand excuse or, more often, snacks.
This trip had been Sam’s idea. He’d insisted you and Dean needed a break from hunting, a chance to experience something “normal” for once. While Dean had grumbled about it being a waste of time, you’d caught the faintest hint of excitement in his eyes when Sam had mentioned the ski resort. It wasn’t often Dean let his guard down, but you’d hoped this trip might coax out the softer side of him—the one you secretly adored.
“There you are,” a familiar voice said, and you turned to find Dean striding toward you, his green eyes bright against the winter backdrop. He was holding two cups of hot chocolate, steam curling into the cold air.
“Took you long enough,” you teased, accepting the cup he offered.
He smirked, his cheeks tinged pink from the cold. “I got held up. Some kid tried to swipe my marshmallows. Had to defend my honor.”
You rolled your eyes, sipping the rich, sweet drink. “Right. Because nothing says ‘Dean Winchester’ like battling a seven-year-old over hot chocolate.”
“Hey,” he said, mock-offended. “That kid was scrappy.”
Laughing, you bumped your shoulder against his. “Thanks for this, by the way. I needed it.”
His expression softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you. “Yeah. Me too.”
The next few days passed in a blur of snowy adventures. You’d managed to convince Dean to try skiing, which had been equal parts hilarious and terrifying. He’d started out cocky, insisting it couldn’t be that hard, only to end up sprawled in the snow after his first attempt.
“You okay down there?” you called, trying and failing to hide your laughter.
“I’m just taking a rest is all.” He huffed.
“A rest? In the wet snow?” You smirked
He pushed himself up, snow clinging to his jacket and hair, and shot you a mock glare. “You say that like it’s a bad thing to take a break.”
“Break?” you said, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve been on the ground more than you’ve been on your skis.”
“I’m just…assessing the terrain,” he said, brushing snow off his gloves. “You know, making sure it’s safe for you.”
“How noble of you,” you teased, offering him a hand.
He took it, his grip warm and steady despite the cold, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary. It sent a shiver down your spine, though it had nothing to do with the weather.
By Christmas Eve, the resort had transformed into a winter wonderland. Strings of lights twinkled in every tree, and a massive Christmas tree stood in the center of the main plaza, its ornaments reflecting the golden glow of the fire pits scattered around.
You and Dean had spent the day exploring the quieter trails around the resort, enjoying the rare peace. As the sun set, painting the snow-capped peaks in shades of pink and orange, you found yourselves at the lodge’s outdoor terrace, overlooking the slopes.
“Pretty view,” you said, leaning against the wooden railing.
“Yeah,” Dean agreed, his voice softer than usual. You turned to find him looking at you, not the mountains.
Your cheeks warmed, and you quickly looked away, focusing on the falling snow. “So,” you said, trying to lighten the mood, “what’s the verdict? Are ski resorts better than hunting demons?”
“Tough call,” he said, stepping closer. “I mean, the food’s definitely better. And the company’s not half bad.”
You laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet night. “Not half bad, huh? I’ll take it.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know,” he said, his tone turning serious, “I’m not great at this kind of stuff.”
“What stuff?” you asked, your heart pounding.
“The…normal stuff,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Holidays, relaxing, just…being. It’s not exactly my wheelhouse.”
“You’re doing fine,” you said softly.
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and you felt like he could see every thought you’d ever had about him.
“You make it easier,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
Before you could respond, a sudden burst of laughter and music from the lodge broke the moment. Dean stepped back, his usual mask slipping into place.
“C’mon,” he said, his tone light again. “Let’s grab some food before Sam eats it all.”
Later that night, you found yourself alone in the lodge’s library. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the rows of books. You’d come here for some quiet, needing a moment to process the way Dean had looked at you earlier. It had been different, more intense, like he was on the verge of saying something important.
You were so lost in thought that you didn’t hear him approach until he was right behind you.
“Figured I’d find you here,” he said, his voice low and warm.
You turned to see him standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, his expression unreadable. “Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.
He shook his head, stepping closer. “Nah. Too much on my mind.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Dean Winchester, overthinking? Never thought I’d see the day.”
He chuckled, but it was short-lived. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he said, his tone suddenly serious.
Your heart skipped a beat. “What is it?”
He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I… I’m not good at this, so I’m just gonna say it. Being here, with you, it’s the best thing I’ve had in a long time. And it scares the hell out of me, because I don’t want to screw it up.”
You stared at him, your chest tight with emotion. “Dean…”
“You mean a lot to me,” he continued, his voice rough with emotion. “More than I know how to say. And I get if that’s… too much. But I needed you to know.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, without thinking, you closed the distance between you and wrapped your arms around him. He froze, surprised, before hugging you back, his arms strong and steady around you.
The hug lingered, neither of you wanting to let go. His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, his touch gentle despite the strength in his grip.
“You’re not screwing anything up,” you murmured against his chest.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his green eyes searching yours. “You sure about that?”
“Positive,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
And then, before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned up and kissed him. His lips were warm and soft against yours, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded away. When you finally pulled back, he was staring at you like you’d just flipped his entire world upside down.
“What was that for?” he asked, though his lips curved into a small smile.
“For being you,” you said simply.
He grinned, pulling you back into his arms.
As the fire crackled and the snow fell outside, you stayed there, wrapped in each other’s arms, savouring the quiet and the promise of something new. Amidst the chaos of your lives, this moment was yours, and it was perfect.
Summary: Snow falls softly at Hogwarts, but George Weasley’s mischief sparks warmth in the library—and maybe, something more.
Word Count: 1247 words
Prompts: Library. Mutual pining. A hug that lingers.
A/N: A lovely sweet anon requested this one, so I hope you see it. I have missed writing my favourite Weasley.
The library was quiet, the soft rustle of pages and the occasional scratch of a quill the only sounds breaking the stillness. Snow fell softly against the windows, casting shifting patterns of light on the stone walls. Christmas was just a week away, and most of the students had already left for the holidays, leaving the Hogwarts library eerily empty. You had told yourself you stayed back for the quiet. The peace. But the truth was, the silence felt heavier than you’d expected, wrapping around you like a too-tight scarf.
“You’re staring at that book like it insulted your gran,” a familiar voice broke your concentration, and your heart did a little flip. George Weasley slid into the chair across from you, his signature mischievous grin firmly in place.
“Maybe it did,” you quipped, snapping the book shut. “I’m not entirely convinced Potions theory isn’t some form of cruel punishment.”
George chuckled, leaning back in his chair, and you couldn’t help but admire the way the firelight turned his hair into copper and gold. He was always so at ease, like the world bent just slightly to accommodate him.
“What are you still doing here, anyway? I thought you’d have escaped this place by now.”
“I could ask you the same thing,” you countered, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugged, an easy motion that somehow felt practiced. “Fred and I thought we’d stick around. Fewer teachers means more room for…creative experimentation.”
“Ah, I see. And by ‘creative experimentation,’ you mean causing as much chaos as possible?”
“Precisely.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for a moment, his grin softened into something thoughtful. “But what about you? Why spend your holidays buried in books when you could be…I don’t know, having fun?”
You hesitated, twirling your quill between your fingers. The truth was, you’d stayed back partly because you enjoyed the quiet, but mostly because of him. George. His laugh, his jokes, the way he made everything seem brighter. Not that you’d ever admit it.
“Maybe I like the quiet,” you said finally, glancing away to hide the heat rising to your cheeks. “It’s…peaceful.”
“Fair enough,” he said, though there was a glint of something knowing in his eyes. “But don’t you ever get lonely?”
“Not when I have people like you interrupting me,” you teased, grateful for the shift in tone.
He laughed, the sound warm and rich, shattering the stillness of the library. For a moment, the cold stone walls seemed to fall away, and all that was left was him.
Over the next few days, George seemed to pop up wherever you went. In the Great Hall during meals, he’d slide into the seat beside you with a cheeky comment about your “intense focus” on your soup. In the common room, he’d swipe your parchment to doodle absurd caricatures of Snape, complete with a crooked nose and bat wings. And in the library, he’d appear from behind the stacks, always with a joke or a story that left you laughing despite yourself.
“You know,” he said one evening, as you both sat in the library again, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”
“Avoiding you?” you repeated, feigning innocence as you turned a page in your book. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, leaning back in his chair and tapping a finger to his chin, the picture of mock seriousness. “Maybe because you’re worried you’ll fall madly in love with me.”
You rolled your eyes, though your heart raced. “Please. I think I’ll manage.”
“Suit yourself,” he said with a wink. But his grin faltered—just for a second, the smallest crack in his usual bravado. His eyes lingered on you, softening in a way that made your stomach twist, before he quickly glanced away.
It wasn’t until the evening before Christmas Eve that things came to a head. You were alone in the library, the faint strains of carols drifting from the enchanted suits of armor in the corridors. The fireplace crackled softly, casting long shadows across the rows of books, and snow tapped gently against the frosted windows. The quiet was almost soothing, and you’d been lost in thought when you heard footsteps behind you.
“Don’t tell me you’re actually studying so close to Christmas,” George’s voice rang out, tinged with mock horror.
You turned, startled, to find him standing there, a box wrapped in red and gold paper in his hands. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, and there was a certain nervousness in the way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“What’s that?” you asked, eyeing the package.
“A present,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “For you.”
“For me?” You blinked, surprised. “Why?”
“Why not?” he said with a shrug, though his grin was unusually subdued. He stepped closer and set the box carefully on the table. “Go on, open it.”
Your fingers brushed the crisp paper as you peeled it back, the firelight reflecting off the gold paper. Inside was a small, intricately carved wooden box. You lifted the lid to reveal a quill, its handle engraved with your initials and the crest of your house. The silver feathers shimmered faintly, catching the glow of the fire.
“George…” you began, your voice catching. You ran your fingers over the smooth handle, marveling at the detail. “This is beautiful. Thank you.”
“I thought you could use something special for all those notes you’re always scribbling,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding your gaze. “Figured it might make studying a bit less miserable.”
“It’s perfect,” you said, looking up at him, your chest tightening. “Really. Thank you.”
He grinned, but this time there was a softness to it, a vulnerability that made your heart ache.
“You know,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter, “I wasn’t entirely honest earlier.”
“About what?” you asked, though your pulse quickened.
“Why I stayed for the holidays,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the floor. His hand drifted to the edge of the table, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the wood.
Your breath caught. “Why did you?”
He looked up then, his brown eyes meeting yours with an openness that made your stomach flip. “Because I… I didn’t want to spend so much time away from you.”
The words hung in the air between you, soft and tentative, like snowflakes that might melt if you moved too suddenly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, before you could think twice, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. He froze for a heartbeat, then pulled you close, his hold firm and warm and lingering just a little too long to be purely friendly.
“You’re an idiot,” you murmured against his shoulder, though your tone was affectionate. “But thank you.”
His breath was warm against your hair. “For what?”
“For staying,” you said softly, tightening your hold for just a moment longer.
When you finally pulled back, his hands lingered on your arms, his touch warm despite the chill in the air.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, his gaze locked on yours.
“Merry Christmas, George,” you replied, a smile tugging at your lips.
And as the snow continued to fall outside, you couldn’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something wonderful.
Summary: Snowy Hawkins sets the stage for Eddie and his best friend’s Christmas Eve adventure, leading to heartfelt confessions.
Word Count: 1369 words
Prompts: Best friends to lovers. Wearing their clothes.
A/N: This one is for the brilliant @saramelaniemoon and I can honestly say Eddie has been such fun to write.
Snow coated the small town of Hawkins like powdered sugar, the streets lined with twinkling lights and festive wreaths. Christmas was in full swing, and Eddie Munson had somehow convinced you to help him pick out the "perfectly imperfect" Christmas tree for his uncle’s trailer. You’d been best friends for years, ever since Eddie decided you weren’t like the others who shunned him for his love of all things metal and his disdain for conformity. Now, here you were, bundled up in Eddie’s worn denim jacket with the furry lining, trudging through the snow at Hawkins' only Christmas tree lot, which was somehow still open on Christmas Eve.
The air smelled of pine and sap, a mix of freshly cut trees and the faint burn of a fire pit at the lot’s edge. The snow crunched rhythmically under your boots as you stepped around crooked rows of evergreens, each one dusted with sparkling frost under the glow of the overhead lights.
“Eddie,” you called out, your breath puffing like smoke in the crisp winter air. “I can’t feel my toes. Can we please pick a tree that isn’t taller than the trailer?”
Eddie turned around, his unruly curls poking out from beneath a Santa hat he’d adorned just for the occasion. “Sweetheart,” he drawled, dragging the word out like he was savoring it. “You can’t rush art. The Munson Christmas tree must be chosen, not settled for.”
You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. Eddie Munson was a force of nature, even in the dead of winter, and the warmth in your chest had nothing to do with the jacket you were wearing. You stuffed your gloved hands into the too-big pockets, the frayed lining a reminder that this was Eddie’s favourite jacket.
The fact that he’d handed it over without hesitation earlier, when you’d started shivering, made it even harder to ignore the growing ache in your chest—the one that screamed you were hopelessly in love with your best friend.
Eddie let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head like a disappointed artist. “Fine,” he said, pointing to a tree so lopsided it looked like it had been in a bar fight. “This one speaks to me.”
You laughed, a sound that melted into the winter air, and for a second, the cold didn’t matter at all.
“Oh! Or maybe this one!” He pointed out a tree that looked even more dilapidated than the last.
After much debate and a lot of teasing, Eddie finally found “the one”—a small pine tree that was more branches than needles.
“Perfect,” you say, rolling your eyes as he gesturing dramatically like a proud artist unveiling his masterpiece.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he replied with a wink, hoisting the tree onto his shoulder with ease.
Back at Eddie’s trailer, you helped him wrestle the tree into the corner of the living room. Wayne was at work, and Eddie had insisted that tonight was “tree night.” It didn’t matter that the two of you were the only ones decorating.
The heater in the corner of the room hummed loudly, fighting off the December chill that seeped through the thin trailer walls. The faint scent of pine mingled with Eddie’s cologne and the unmistakable aroma of old, second-hand furniture. Eddie put on his favourite Christmas album—a rock-infused holiday record you were sure Wayne would grumble about later—and started untangling the multicoloured lights.
“Here, hold this,” Eddie said, thrusting a tangle of lights into your arms with the enthusiasm of someone handing off a live grenade.
You helped him drape the tree in mismatched ornaments, some homemade and others clearly rescued from thrift store bins. Eddie held up a tattered angel with one bent wing, his face alight with mischief.
“Think we can fix her?” he asked.
You grinned, your fingers brushing the delicate figure. “She’s perfect just the way she is.”
Eddie’s gaze lingered on you a moment too long, his brown eyes catching the soft glow of the Christmas lights. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the hum of the heater and the distant croon of a holiday ballad on the stereo. Then he cleared his throat and climbed onto the couch to place the angel atop the tree.
He perched her in place with exaggerated care, as if she might fall apart in his hands. For a moment, you thought about how fitting she was: a little worse for wear but still shining, still loved.
When Eddie hopped back down, his shoulder brushed yours, lingering just a second longer than it needed to. You smiled at him, but he was already untangling another strand of lights, the moment slipping through your fingers like smoke.
Hours later, you found yourself on Eddie’s couch, wrapped in a scratchy but warm blanket while a cheesy Christmas movie flickered on the TV. The heater hummed softly in the corner, filling the trailer with an uneven warmth, and the faint scent of pine from the tree mixed with the sharper tang of Eddie’s cologne. Eddie was sprawled out next to you, his legs stretched across the cushions, one arm draped over the back of the couch like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Admit it,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his own. “This is the best Christmas Eve you’ve ever had.”
You laughed, leaning your head against the back of the couch. “It’s up there. You make things… fun.”
Eddie’s expression softened, and the teasing glint in his eyes faded into something quieter, more sincere. “You’re the fun one,” he said. “I’m just the weirdo who drags you into my ridiculous schemes.”
“Eddie,” you said, shaking your head. “You’re not a weirdo.”
He smirked, his dimples flashing. “You say that like being weird’s a bad thing.”
You huffed a laugh, but your heart was racing now. His gaze was intense, locking on yours like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
“I mean it,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You make everything better. You always have.”
“Eddie…” Your throat tightened, the weight of his words wrapping around you like the blanket. You weren’t sure if it was the heat of his confession or the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
He leaned closer, his curls brushing against your cheek. “I’m serious. You’re the best part of my life, and I’ve been trying to tell you that for years, but I’m a coward.”
Your breath caught. “You’re not a coward.”
“I am when it comes to you,” he admitted, his voice cracking just slightly. “You’re my best friend, but… I want more. I’ve wanted more since the day you sat in Garreth’s garage for hours, fixing my amp after that disaster of a gig. You didn’t even complain once—just sat there, rolling your eyes at every bad riff I played.”
You blinked, your heart hammering in your chest. The crackle of the TV, the hum of the Christmas lights—everything else faded, leaving just Eddie and the raw vulnerability in his eyes.
“I want you too,” you whispered, the words trembling on your lips.
Eddie’s face broke into a grin, the kind of smile that could light up even the darkest corners of the trailer. He let out a breathless laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Before you could overthink it, Eddie cupped your face with one hand, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. He leaned in slowly, giving you all the time in the world to pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you met him halfway, your lips brushing his in a kiss that was soft and sweet and electric all at once. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but the kiss was perfect—filling you with a giddy warmth that spread from your chest to your toes.
When you finally pulled back, Eddie rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
You smiled, your cheeks flushed and your heart racing. Outside, the snow fell softly against the trailer’s windows, but inside, everything was warm and bright. “Merry Christmas, Eddie.”
Summary: Caught between holiday cheer and lurking danger, you find solace—and sparks—in the unexpected devotion of the King of Hell.
Word Count: 1579 words
Prompts: Crowded party. First kiss. Protecting.
A/N: This one is for the amazing @scolfer77. Merry Christmas!
The Christmas lights strung around the room twinkled like stars, casting a festive glow over the bustling party. The air buzzed with chatter, laughter, and the occasional clink of glasses, but none of it mattered to you as much as the man—well, demon—standing in the corner.
Crowley was his usual brooding self, impeccably dressed in his signature black suit, sipping something dark from a crystal tumbler. The crowd parted around him like he carried an invisible force field, and maybe he did. After all, even on Christmas Eve, he was still the King of Hell.
You weren’t sure why you’d invited him, and even less of a clue why he’d actually shown up. Maybe it was the way his dry wit made even the most desperate situations bearable. Maybe it was the fact that, against all odds, he always seemed to have your back. Or maybe—though you’d never admit it—it was because the thought of celebrating without him felt... wrong.
“Enjoying yourself, darling?” Crowley’s smooth voice broke through your thoughts as you approached.
You shrugged, offering him a smile. “I’d enjoy myself more if you looked like you were having fun.”
He smirked. “Christmas parties aren’t exactly my scene. Too much... cheer, not enough deals.” His tone dripped with disdain, but there was a twinkle in his eye that suggested he wasn’t entirely miserable.
“Well, if you’re going to stand there looking like the Grinch, at least hold a plate of cookies to complete the aesthetic.”
Crowley chuckled, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “You’re adorable when you try to boss me around, you know that?”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the warmth creeping up your neck. “Whatever, Crowley. Just try to mingle, okay? This party is for everyone, including you.”
He gave a mock bow. “As you wish, my lady.”
Hours passed, and the party grew even more crowded. You moved through the throng, making small talk and ensuring everyone was having a good time. Every so often, you caught sight of Crowley, always at the edges of the room, his sharp eyes tracking your movements. It was comforting and unnerving all at once.
At one point, you found yourself at the makeshift bar, pouring yourself another drink. A man you didn’t recognize sidled up next to you, his smile a little too wide, his gaze lingering a little too long.
“Hey there,” he said, leaning closer than necessary. “Having a good time?”
“Yeah,” you replied, taking a step back. “It’s been great.”
“I bet it has. A pretty thing like you must get a lot of attention.”
You forced a polite smile and turned back to the bar, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t. Instead, he placed his hand on the small of your back.
Before you could respond, a familiar voice cut through the noise. “I believe the lady’s made it clear she’s not interested.”
You turned to see Crowley standing behind you, his expression dark. The man faltered under his gaze, mumbling something incoherent before retreating into the crowd.
“Was that really necessary?” you asked, though you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude.
Crowley shrugged, his lips twitching into a smirk. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.”
“I wasn’t in distress.”
“Of course not. You’re perfectly capable of handling yourself. But sometimes, it’s nice to have a little backup, isn’t it?”
You hated how easily he could get under your skin, how effortlessly he could make your heart race. “Well, thanks. I guess.”
“Anytime, darling.”
The night wore on, and the party showed no signs of slowing down. But something about the atmosphere had shifted. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but there was a tension in the air that hadn’t been there before.
You found Crowley again, this time leaning against a wall near the fireplace. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes flicked toward you the moment you entered the room.
“Something’s wrong,” you said quietly as you approached him.
“I know,” he replied, his voice low. “There’s someone here who doesn’t belong.”
“What do you mean?”
Crowley’s gaze swept over the crowd. “Call it a hunch. Stay close to me.”
Your stomach twisted with unease, but you nodded. The festive atmosphere suddenly felt oppressive, the cheerful decorations like a cruel mockery of the danger lurking beneath the surface.
It didn’t take long for Crowley’s instincts to be proven correct. A loud crash shattered the hum of conversation, and the room erupted into chaos. Guests screamed and scattered as a figure stepped forward, brandishing a gun.
“Where is she?” the intruder demanded, his wild eyes scanning the room. “Where’s the girl?”
You froze, your heart pounding in your chest. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who he was looking for. He was the husband of someone you’d failed to save, not through lack of trying.
Crowley stepped in front of you, his posture radiating calm authority despite the weapon pointed in your direction. “I suggest you think very carefully about your next move, mate.”
“Stay out of this,” the man snarled. “She knows what she did.”
“I don’t think she does,” Crowley said smoothly. “But you’re welcome to enlighten us. Preferably without the theatrics.”
The man’s hand shook as he tightened his grip on the gun. “She ruined everything! My whole life—gone! And now she’s going to pay.”
Before you could process his words, the man pulled the trigger. You barely had time to register the sound of the gunshot before Crowley moved.
The world seemed to slow as Crowley stepped in front of you, his body taking the full impact of the bullet. He staggered but remained standing, his eyes locking onto yours.
“Crowley!” you cried, reaching for him as he swayed.
“I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Takes more than that to take me down.”
But his pale complexion told a different story. You felt a surge of anger and fear as you turned to face the intruder. Before you could act, Crowley raised a hand, and with a flick of his wrist, the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
“Problem solved,” he said, his voice strained. “Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll sit down.”
You helped him to a nearby couch, your hands trembling as you pressed against the wound. “You idiot,” you muttered, tears stinging your eyes. “Why did you do that?”
He gave you a faint smile. “Couldn’t let anything happen to you, could I?”
“Crowley—”
“I’m fine, darling. Demons don’t die so easily.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re invincible,” you snapped. “You scared me.”
His hand covered yours, his touch surprisingly gentle. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
The room had cleared out by now, the remaining guests either too scared or too tactful to stick around. It was just the two of you, the flickering firelight casting shadows across Crowley’s face.
“You’re an idiot,” you said again, though your voice had softened.
“And you’re annoyingly stubborn,” he countered. “But I suppose that’s part of why I love you.”
“You… what?” Your brow furrowed slightly with confusion, not entirely sure you’d heard him correctly.
“Did I just say that out loud?” he asked softly, not breaking eye contact.
You let out a shaky laugh, the tension in your chest easing slightly. “You really scared me, Crowley. I thought—” You broke off, unable to finish the sentence.
He cupped your face in his hand, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “I’m not going anywhere, love. Not as long as you need me.”
His gaze searched yours, and for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid hung between you. Then, before you could overthink it, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, but it quickly deepened, the weight of your emotions pouring into the moment. Crowley’s hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you close as if afraid you’d disappear.
When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless. His forehead rested against yours, a rare vulnerability in his eyes.
“Well,” he said after a moment. “That was unexpected.” Crowley chuckled, his voice warm and full of affection.
You laughed despite yourself, the sound breaking the tension. For the first time all night, you felt safe.
The party was long forgotten as you sat together by the fire, Crowley’s arm wrapped around your shoulders. The wound on his side had already begun to heal, his demonic nature working its magic.
“So,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence. “Does this mean you’re sticking around?”
He smirked, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Someone’s got to keep you out of trouble.”
“You’re the one who attracts trouble,” you teased.
“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I’m also the one who keeps you safe.”
You couldn’t argue with that. For all his flaws—and there were plenty—Crowley had proven time and again that he’d do anything for you. And tonight, he’d proven it once more.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “For everything.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice low and sincere. “Anything for you, darling. Always.”
As the fire crackled and the snow fell softly outside, you realized that this Christmas, you’d received the greatest gift of all: the unwavering devotion of a demon who, against all odds, had found his heart in you.
Summary: Anxiety spikes at a holiday party until an unexpected ally, Armitage Hux, helps you fake-date your way to triumph—but is your evening as fake as you first thought?
Word Count: 1274 words
Prompts: Crowded party. Fake dating.
A/N: A sweet anon requested this one, and I hope they see it.
The clamor of the holiday party swirled around you like a chaotic symphony. Laughter, the soft hum of music, the clinking of glasses—sounds that should have been comforting felt anything but as you scanned the room for a familiar face. The sprawling penthouse, draped in tasteful holiday decor—gold and white lights twinkling against polished wood and sparkling glass—felt more like a museum than a place for merriment.
You had one mission tonight: survive this.
Across the room, you caught sight of your co-worker, Lila, and she wasn’t alone. She was surrounded by her usual gaggle of friends, none of whom you could stand. They'd zero in on you the moment they spotted you alone, hurling the same passive-aggressive questions as always: "Oh, you're here alone again this year? How independent of you!"
The air caught in your throat at the thought. Not again. Not tonight.
You edged closer to the refreshment table, trying to look busy by fussing with a glass of eggnog. The bubbling anxiety gnawed at the edges of your mind, but then, as if summoned by some miracle—or maybe just sheer desperation—you saw him.
Armitage Hux, the last person you expected to be at a party like this.
He wasn’t mingling. Of course he wasn’t mingling. The man looked as out of place as a cat in a dog park. His tailored suit was immaculate, the dark fabric setting off his ginger hair and sharp features. His arms were crossed, his expression one of thinly veiled disdain as he surveyed the room with the air of someone who would rather be anywhere else.
But he was here, and more importantly, he was alone.
You’d worked with him tangentially—sort of. He was a consultant for a neighboring department at your firm, and while you’d only exchanged a handful of words, you knew one thing for certain: he was someone who commanded respect.
Or fear.
Either way, the idea struck like a bolt of lightning.
You could ask him to fake date you. Just for tonight.
You almost laughed at the ridiculousness of it, but then you caught sight of Lila again, her eyes narrowing as they landed on you. Time was running out.
You squared your shoulders, grabbed two champagne flutes, and approached Hux.
“Hi,” you greeted, forcing a smile and holding out the extra glass like a peace offering.
He raised one perfectly arched eyebrow, looking at you as if you’d just interrupted a very important thought.
“Yes?”
You resisted the urge to wither under his gaze. “I… I need your help.”
His other eyebrow joined the first. “My help?”
“Look,” you said, glancing over your shoulder toward Lila, who was now whispering to her friends and shooting pointed looks your way. “There’s this group of people here who always make my life miserable at these events, and I just—well, if I could pretend I wasn’t alone tonight, they’d leave me alone.”
Hux blinked slowly. “You want me to pretend to be your date?”
“Just for tonight,” you said quickly. “No strings, no weird expectations. Just stand near me, maybe talk to me every now and then, and let people assume we’re together. Please.”
He stared at you for a long moment, his green eyes piercing. You braced yourself for rejection, for mockery, for him to laugh in your face and leave you to fend for yourself.
But then he said, “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes,” he said curtly, taking the champagne flute from your hand. “Let’s get this over with.”
It didn’t take long for the ruse to kick into effect.
Hux, to his credit, was an exceptional fake boyfriend. He stood close enough to you that no one would question your supposed relationship, but not so close as to make it uncomfortable. He offered you his arm when you moved through the room, and his sharp, dry wit kept even the most insistent small talkers at bay.
You found yourself relaxing in his presence, the initial awkwardness giving way to something almost… fun.
Lila, of course, made her move.
“Oh, wow,” she said, sidling up to you with an exaggerated smile. “I didn’t know you were bringing someone. Who’s this?”
“This is Armitage,” you said, keeping your voice steady. “My boyfriend.”
Her eyes flicked over to him, and for the first time in your life, you were grateful for Hux’s intimidating demeanor. Lila’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second before she recovered.
“Boyfriend?” she repeated, her voice a shade too sweet. “How… unexpected.”
Hux, who had been sipping his champagne, gave her a cold, thin smile. “The best things in life often are.”
You almost choked on your drink.
Lila, flustered, made some excuse and quickly retreated, leaving you and Hux standing together in victorious silence.
“Thank you,” you said, your shoulders dropping as the tension left you.
Hux shrugged. “It was nothing. People like that are… predictable.”
“Still, I appreciate it. You’ve made this party a lot less miserable.”
He glanced at you then, his sharp features softening just slightly. “You’re welcome.”
As the evening wore on, you found yourself talking to Hux more than you’d anticipated.
It turned out that he had a dry sense of humor, one that matched your own. He wasn’t as cold and unapproachable as you’d once thought; he was just guarded. But beneath that icy exterior was someone who was intelligent, quick-witted, and—dare you say it—kind.
You told yourself not to read into it too much. This was just a favor, after all.
But as the party wound down and the crowd began to thin, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment at the thought of the night ending.
“You’ve done more than enough,” you said as you both stood near the exit, coats in hand. “You’re free to go. I mean, you were always free to go, but—”
“I’ll walk you home,” he interrupted, his tone brooking no argument.
“Oh. You don’t have to—”
“It’s late,” he said firmly. “And cold. I insist.”
You didn’t argue.
The walk back to your apartment was quiet, the snow falling softly around you. The city lights reflected off the white blanket covering the streets, casting everything in a golden glow.
“Thank you,” you said again, breaking the silence. “For tonight. Really.”
Hux looked at you, his expression unreadable. “You’ve already said that.”
“I know, but I mean it. You didn’t have to help me, but you did. That means a lot.”
He was silent for a moment, his breath visible in the frosty air. Then, he said, “You’re not as insufferable as most people. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant.”
You laughed, the sound echoing in the quiet night. “High praise coming from you.”
His lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you’d seen all night.
When you reached your building, you turned to face him, suddenly unsure of what to say.
“Well,” you began awkwardly, “this is me.”
“So it is.”
“Thanks again. I guess I’ll see you around?”
He hesitated, his green eyes searching yours. Then, to your surprise, he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“Perhaps we should try this again sometime,” he said, his voice soft.
“Try what?”
“Pretending,” he said, though there was a hint of something in his tone that suggested he wasn’t entirely pretending anymore.
You felt your cheeks flush, the cold forgotten as you nodded. “I’d like that.”
And as he walked away, his coat billowing behind him, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe, just maybe, fake dating Armitage Hux wasn’t such a ridiculous idea after all.
