LOVE ADDICTION

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ⵌ GIRA or JO | she/her | adult | multifandom | NOT spoiler free | requests OPEN | @husbandomail-archive

— me ... menu ... before you request ... all writing

please don't let the updated blog intimidate you, I'm still me and I still love being here with you!

in case we lose tumblr, here's my bluesky, and you can ask for my discord off anon.

this is the shortest, sorry,, I was at work haha

"Okay, I think that's enough for two." You scan the array on the table; the gingerbread is fresh from the oven, the icing has warmed to room temperature, the gumdrops have been upended into a bowl. There's candy canes and chocolate kisses and a flour-dusted work surface and, in the midst of it all, Sebastian, looking mildly bemused.

"All this for just two?" The concept of building gingerbread houses is new to him; they've always just been decorations in television commercials, or holiday displays on store shelves. He pops a gumdrop into his mouth. "You seem pretty serious about this."

Wait, something is missing from the table spread... you frown and reach to dig through the shopping bags. Hadn't you also bought—? "Because I am," you agree absently. "My family made competitions outta these things, and I'm gonna keep doing it. Stop eating those."

Luca Fauntleroy does not get nervous.

He'd prepared for this. The horses had been brushed, manes and tails braided; the carriage with the plushest cushions had been drawn from the coachhouse, every wooden surface polished; he's even wearing the coat that you'd once called your favorite of his, in the hopes of looking even half as presentable as you always are. He doesn't get nervous— he's a Fauntleroy.

It's already begun snowing when the carriage pulls up in front of your house. Luca's quick, shaky breaths mist in the air and then dissolve in the winter wind. He can't remember the last time he'd cared this much about appearances— there's such a difference between your father instructing you to dress nice for guests, and you deciding on your own that you'd like to impress someone. Walking with a cane is currently fashionable... but it doesn't come naturally to him quite yet, and Luca nearly trips himself up your front walkway.

The front door is oddly intimidating; it towers over him, made of a dark wood, with ornate carvings and a brass knocker shaped like a beast. His gloved hand hesitates with the cold metal— he's a Fauntleroy. Luca drops the heavy brass against the door and winces at the sound.

As he waits for some sign of life from the house, Luca glances back at the carriage. The driver tips his hat when they make eye contact. Is this really a good idea—?

Before Luca can decide to just bolt and go home, the front door swings open, and you're peering out into the December cold. Upon recognizing him, your face lights up.

"Let me speak first!" Luca preemptively cuts your greeting off, "before I lose my nerve." He takes a deep breath, trying to recall the script he's been practicing for weeks at this point. It's just on the tip of his tongue—

as mentioned, my schedule got thrown off by starting a new job TT_TT but I intend to get 24 pieces up by Christmas!

Paris only rarely gets snow— especially with the heated airships that drift in and out of the city at all hours and melt whatever flurries may be in the atmosphere. No, Paris might not get snow, but it does get damn cold.

"Let's— ah— go in this one next!" Although you've only just left a quaint boutique, you're quick to point at the lamplit windows of the next shop over, hoping to dart right back out of the winter weather.

Behind you, Vanitas— notably unaffected, in his dark coat and with his scarf tied in a bow around his neck— sighs loudly. "When I agreed to shop with you, I thought you were looking for something specific," he grouses, leaning in to squint at the painted shop sign. "There's simply no way you're in need of a chimney sweep."

Damn. You've been so eager to hide from the biting cold, you haven't been paying much attention to your surroundings. You laugh sheepishly and your breath freezes in the air. "I, uh, misread the sign?"

A weak defense, not that it matters; your teeth are chattering enough that you can barely get the words out.

Vanitas, as always, knows exactly what you're not saying. Granted, it's not hard, not with the way you're trembling. With another sigh his slender fingers deftly untie the bow around his neck and drape it around yours instead.

"C'mon, you gotta see this!"

At first, you'd hesitated; Sora is a very enthusiastic young man who doesn't always think things through, and you'd never left the warmth of the Destiny Islands. But then he'd smiled— that's all it ever takes. You're a sucker.

And that's how you've ended up in some place called Christmas town, wearing three layers of clothes but still freezing your butt off, and experiencing this thing called 'snow' for the first time.

"Okay, hold onto this!" Sora has you perched on what he'd called a sled; he's handing you the reins, and once he's sure you've got a grip despite not being used to your gloves, he clambers on the sled behind you. The warmth is welcome— before today, you'd never comprehended the idea of being this cold.

You shuffle backward on the sled a bit, pressing yourself against Sora's chest in search of a bit more heat. "This better be worth it," you grumble; you can't feel the tip of your nose.

Sora chuckles, that stupid little laugh that convinces you to do anything and everything, and wraps his arms around your waist. "It will be, I promise! And if you don't like it..." he hums and glances at the sprawling winter wonderland around you, "...you can shove snow down my shirt. Deal?"

You just snort. Sora takes it as an agreement. "Okay, ready? Hold on, and don't freak out!"

Freak ou—?

Before you can question, Sora shoves off. The sled tilts; your grip on the ropes tightens; in the blink of an eye, the sled picks up speed and you're rocketing down the hill. The cold stings your eyes and steals the breath from your lungs. You're not sure which of you is shouting.

sorry this one was late, thank you for your patience!

"—real?" Michael's smile is placid; he's usually too polite to disagree to your face, but you can tell your suggestion has him baffled.

Honestly, though, you're baffled too. Your face scrunches in confusion. "Do you guys not use real trees? They're the best— they smell good, and if there's pinecones in 'em that's good luck—" it's clear from the look on his face that Michael doesn't grasp the same enjoyment from the concept. "You're telling me, all your family money, and you've never had a live Christmas tree?"

The two of you are standing in one of Heartland's many vast department stores; Michael had been ecstatic when you'd mentioned buying Christmas decorations together, only to become visibly confused as you'd lead him off towards the gardening section. He at least has the sense to look sheepish whenever you mention the Arclight fortune.

"You've seen how big our home is," he reminds you, trailing along through the first row of freshly-cut pine. "If we had as many real trees as we do fake trees, there'd be so much shedding—"

A display catches your eye, and you drop his hand so you can shake a very glittery package in his face. "What about tinsel!" You demand. "Tinsel is iconic, you gotta have tinsel. It's mandatory."

Just the expression on his face tells you Michael still doesn't really follow. "That looks like it'd make a mess. My parents didn't really like messes."

—ah. That comment cuts you off before you can feverishly declare about the necessity of garlands. It's easy to forget just how different the Arclights' childhood had been from your own.

"...y'know what? Let's start over." Once more, you thread your fingers through his, gently leading Michael deeper into the store's artificial forest. "I'll show you how to pick the best tree, and we can get a cute pair of matching ornaments, and we can race to detangle strings of lights—"

When he's in a good mood, Floyd Leech is a miracle in the kitchen. You have to wonder where the skill comes from; what is it that merpeople do under the sea, really? He's like a machine with as effortlessly as he lifts one tray from the oven only to immediately replace it with another. Again and again, no regard for how the metal baking sheets scald his fingertips, or the fact that he's made way more batches than you'd asked for.

"And what's Shrimpy think'a that?" He's all bright eyes and sharp teeth, presenting the final tray of cookies with a flourish that doesn't quite suit his bulky frame. It's rare he's in a good mood for this long— perhaps the upcoming holidays have lent you a little luck. "Whaddaya need eight dozen cookies for anyways?"

"I don't need eight dozen," you're only halfway through frosting the second of eight trays, mouth smeared with reds and greens where you'd been taste-testing. "I only needed a batch, but I'm glad you're having fun? We've got more than enough to eat and still have plenty leftover for Santa."

Instantly, Floyd's face shifts— he'd gone through all that trouble, and for what? He snatches up a handful of the frosted cookies and talks around them as he chews. "What do cookiesh have t'do with that red guy?"

Maybe it's a good thing he'd made so many cookies after all, because there's no doubt Floyd could inhale all of them; you try to shield the remainder of your frosted ones, but he just reaches around you.

"It's tradition!" You huff. "Leave cookies and milk out at night— so he has the energy to keep going, or something. I dunno."

"That'sh shtupid." Floyd drapes himself over the end of the kitchen island, still chewing. "Y'know he'sh not real? So we should eat 'em."

You roll your eyes, tucking a few cookies off to the side in the hopes of saving something. "Maybe he is real in this world! Magic exists! I just know I'm not taking any chances. Don't eat them all—"

You're lucky Floyd's mood hasn't shifted too far; very little escapes him, despite his attitude, so he notices the sweets you set aside, but doesn't push for them.

"C'mon, yeh can't go in there!"

From your spot in the threshold of the ride's operating booth, you glance back at Pluto. His shoulders are hunched around his ears, nose tipped red from the cold. "Since when do you care so much about the rules?"

He scoffs. "Yer gonna get me in trouble."

"With who!" You toss your arms open wide as if to encompass all of Blackpool's Promenade; the expanse of the ocean, the well-walked piers, the rides and the lights. And the very Ferris wheel that Pluto is being trained to operate when the park finally reopens next season.

A harsh winter breeze nearly takes you off your feet. Pluto's hand closes around your wrist before you can topple over. The pier is empty— the sky is overcast, windchill bitter, all signs pointing to snow. When you'd asked him to lead you around the empty Promenade, Pluto had expected something... a bit more intimate, maybe, than being crowded together in a raggedy ride booth.

"—okay, say yeh've got a point." The wind shoves again, Pluto taking a few stumbling steps before he's able to close the door behind him. "Nobody's around t'get me fired. But," he dips his hands into his pockets to turn them out, "I still don't have th' ride keys."

At that, you sigh dramatically and drape yourself over the control panel. One of the levels digs into your shoulder blades. "Oh noooo," you whine. "What are we supposed to do with our alone time now?"

Before Pluto can decide if he wants to be snarky or scandalous, you've jolted back upright, neck craned to peer out the booth's frosted glass. "—it's snowing!"

The booth is small, so it only takes a few steps before Pluto is at your side, the warmth of his breath fogging the window as he leans over your shoulder. "Well wouldja lookit that," he huffs, "it's snowin' just like I warned ya, and yeh didn't bother with gloves—"

Your cold fingers close around Pluto's hands— which really aren't much warmer— and you drag him back outside, both shuddering at the blast of cold when the door reopens. That does nothing to slow you down; you dart into the new flurries, only dropping Pluto's hands so you can freely twirl amidst the drifts.

"Yer excited." Pluto's sharp gaze follows as you twirl back and forth, pausing to catch snowflakes on your tongue. "It's just snow. We get plenty of it."

"And I like snow, no matter how many times I see it." Your spins finally come to a halt and your eyes cross as the world tilts around you. Shaking off the dizziness, you jut your arms back out, petulantly motioning for Pluto to come closer. "Dance with me."

"Eh? There's no music—"

"Hum something, then!" You snatch him by the lapels of his coat and drag him into a fumbling, swaying waltz, no sense of rhythm in sight.

hiiii I'm back! thank you guys so much for bearing with my absence!

Y'know? You're beginning to think you look forward to his birthday more than he does.

"C'mon—" you grunt; your shoulders are braced against the bedside wall, heels digging into the expanse of his back as you try to kick him out of bed, but Ikuto won't be moved. This shouldn't be so impossible— in this moment, he's just a normal man, bundled up in the warmth of your bed. "Ugh, get up!"

Ikuto just yawns, loudly, baring his teeth in a way that does make you question his humanity— and then he's yanked the comforter up over his head to hide from the morning light. You squeal.

"What is wrong with you? It's your birthday!" Your hands tangle in the plush blankets and pull.

Ikuto blinks wearily as the winter sunlight hits his face. Not for the first time, you're reminded that you could drown in the depts of his eyes. His voice seems to have rusted overnight. "You're so loud."

"Because it's your birthday!" You repeat yourself. With him, you're always repeating yourself. "Aren't you excited this year? I'll make breakfast, and then you can open your gifts—"

There's a shuffling and, before you can protest, your world tilts. Your head hits the pillows, Ikuto's arm tightens around your waist, and he tucks his face into the dip of your neck.