#isawthreeships

a/n @frostyleegraham sent me these prompts on twitter! here’s #10, marlana style, because i used #20 for beardogs

Margot loves her children--all of them, the living son and the not-yet-born daughter and the one that never was. Morgan is the loudest of the three by default, though Margot’s sure that, once Alana delivers Abigail in February, she’ll challenge her older brother’s claim to the noise throne. For now, he practices shouting and running up and down the stairs and pulling breakable things off shelves.

Or, this morning, pushing the Christmas tree over when he tried to climb it. Margot’s beginning to understand why her mother’s hair was so thin.

Broken shards of shining gold and glass ornaments still nestle in the carpet by the time Alana comes home, Margot on hands and knees plucking out the bits the vacuum cleaner refused to pick up. Trapped inside the play yard, Morgan knocks the plastic pigs from his Fisher Price farm together, over and over, making car sounds when they crash.

Alana leans against the doorjamb, briefcase in one hand, the other absentmindedly rubbing her belly over her striped suit. “I’d ask how your day was,” she says, “but I think you might kill me.”

“Christmas is cancelled.” Margot glares at Alana’s obvious amusement. “When the family comes over, we’ll invite them in, take their coats, immediately hand their coats back, and tell them to leave presents at the door on the way out.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I’m not putting the da--the blam tree back up.”

“Of course not. We’ll let Morgan do it.”

Morgan perks up when he hears his name. “Mommy!” and he waves at her with both pigs. “Feed the baby!”

Usually, Margot laughs at Morgan reminding Alana to eat. Today, she’s just too tired. “Is it time for him to start preschool yet?”

“He doesn’t turn three for another four months.” Alana gives her belly one last parting pat. “Did you know you’re bleeding?” she asks, setting her briefcase down on the entryway table. “Where’s the first aid kit?”

Margot sits back on her heels to examine her hands. “On top of the fridge.” She glances down at the carpet. “I hope you like red polka dots.”

“I love p--”

“Feed the baby!”

“Morgan, just a minute, honey--I love red polka dots.” Alana’s kitten heels click against the kitchen floor’s ceramic tiles. “Where on top of the fridge?”

Margot wipes her hands off on her yoga pants. Might as well match the carpet. Behind her, Morgan makes an excited whoosh, and then a bright pink pig lands in the armchair to her right.

“Mar?”

“Sorry, behind the cookie jar.”

“Drink the baby, Mommy!” Morgan rattles one of the wooden sides of the play yard.

“Why is the cookie jar on top of the fridge?” Alana’s voice echoes as she shouts to be heard over their son.

Margot sighs, looking forlornly at the toppled tree. “Take a wild guess.”

Send me a prompt from this list (kpopfanfictrash . tumblr . com / post / 167140890336 / holiday-drabble-prompts) and one of the following pairings: beardogs, marlana, or shyan. I’ll do a prompt more than once, but not for the same ship. To keep track of the story and what prompts have been used, check #isawthreeships on my tumblr!

a/n: @frostyleegraham​ sent me these prompts on twitter! here’s #20, beardogs style.

Nigel closes his truck door and stares at the roof. He blinks, then keeps staring. Rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, and yes, it’s still there. Both the decorations and the roof which, considering Lee’s house-husbanding prowess, Nigel should be grateful their home survived while he was at work.

There are very few times Nigel has been struck speechless in his life. This could possibly be the first time--his memories are hazy up until his forties.

“Well?” Lee shouts from where he sits on the shingles. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure I fucking am right now.”

Lee inches his way down toward the edge, a crab walk on a slide. “Can you read it?”

Nigel turns his construction helmet in his hands like he’s still driving. “That’s part of the problem,” because there, in pink and purple lights--“You realize children live in this neighborhood, yeah?”

Lee grins and shrugs. “It’s a classic Christmas song!”

“Darling, there’s a cock on our roof.”

“I’m offended.”

Nigel rolls his eyes. “Fine, two cocks.”

“Thank you for acknowledging my penis.” Lee laughs, then gestures at both his fly and the bulbous pink outline of a chimney. “Both of them.”

The truck creaks as Nigel climbs onto the hood. He reaches for his pack of cigarettes, then remembers he’s quit smoking. Lee almost slips on the ladder trying to get off the roof, because Nigel’s nerves weren’t frayed enough already.

“So what’s this classic Christmas song of yours?” asks Nigel once Lee is safely on the ground. “‘We Wish You a Merry Dickmas?’”

“‘Santa Claus is Back in Town.’” Lee jogs down the driveway--Nigel does his best not to ogle him. Even all bundled up, even continuing to recover, Lee’s the best snack Nigel’s ever had. “It’s by the King, you know?”

“Wenceslas?”

“Elvis.” Lee takes Nigel’s hand, lets Nigel pull him up to sit on the truck. “Please tell me you’ve heard it.”

“Not fucking once,” but Nigel’s typing it into the YouTube app on his phone. “Is that really one of the lyrics?” He nods toward the carefully crafted letters on their roof.

“More or less.” Lee snuggles into Nigel’s side and hums happily when Nigel’s arm settles on his shoulders. “It’s a remix.”

Nigel plays through the song twice, if for no other reason than he likes the feeling of a content Lee by his side. “That’s some damn remix, alright.”

“I’m an artist at heart.”

“And I can’t believe you wrote that on our house.”

Lee brings his knees up and wraps his arms around them. “I think it’s cute. Pinterest-worthy, even.”

Nigel snorts. “I don’t see Pinterest moms going for, ‘Santa came right down my chimney.’”

“Hey, it doesn’t have to be dirty.”

“How’d you get it all to work? I mean, that neon dick is--”

“The dick is smoking,” Lee says. “The chimney is smoking. It’s totally smoke coming out of a chimney. Eye of the beholder.” He elbows Nigel as best he can and adds, “Dig a little deeper, grasshopper. All art is open to interpretation. Like...I don’t know, like how every mall Santa’s different from the other.”

“I’m surprised you think Santa’s going to fucking come at all this year.” Nigel pulls Lee closer, practically into his lap.

“One day of coal, 364 days of fun? I’ll take my chances.”

“Oh, no, you’ve earned an entire mine full of coal.” Against Lee’s cheek, Nigel murmurs, “And at least one angry letter from the Verger-Blooms.”

Lee presses his face into Nigel’s kiss. “I love Margot’s Christmas cards.”

Send me a prompt from this list (kpopfanfictrash . tumblr . com / post / 167140890336 / holiday-drabble-prompts) and one of the following pairings: beardogs, marlana, or shyan. I’ll do a prompt more than once, but not for the same ship. To keep track of the story and what prompts have been used, check #isawthreeships on my tumblr!

a/n: I hadn’t intended to take drabble prompts, but here we are. Send me a prompt from this list (kpopfanfictrash . tumblr . com / post / 167140890336 / holiday-drabble-prompts) and one of the following pairings: beardogs, marlana, or shyan. 

Nigel rubs at his nicotine patch as if it will help, like it can calm his nerves as well as a cigarette could. Not even the view distracts him; if anything, looking up at Lee’s skinny ass makes it worse, no matter how much Lee wiggles as he hangs icicle lights from the edge of their roof. He gives the patch one last press before extricating his fingers from beneath his coat, returning his hand to the ladder to join his other.

“Can you pass me another light clip?” asks Lee, voice muffled by his thick scarf.

“Why couldn’t we just blanket the fucking hedges with those…what the fuckever they’re called. Net-shaped fire hazards?” Nigel pulls the same hand off the ladder again to dig a clip out of his pocket. “Do a string around the porch. Buy a goddamn light-up plastic creche for the yard. Maybe a Santa.”

Lee snorts, reaching down to take the clip without looking, trusting Nigel to put it in his hand. “What, let Santa visit the Christ child? That sort of thing?”

“Why not?” The rung is cold beneath Nigel’s palms, even with the mittens Lee haphazardly knit him during his last round of chemo. “Give Jesus a Rudolph nose and be fucking done with it.”

“I’m not letting the Verger-Blooms win the neighborhood light contest ag–” Lee hisses, finger caught and punctured on a shingle, and all Nigel can think of are germs and low WBC counts and infections and spending another Christmas in the hospital. “I don’t suppose you have a first aid kit on you, huh?”

Nigel puts his foot through a rung, wraps it around the back of a rail, the sole of his shoe flat on the ground. “Believe it or not,” he says, unzipping the inner pocket of his coat, “I come prepared.”

“But are you prepared to come?” and Nigel can practically hear Lee’s eyebrows waggle.

Still, “A cut’s fucking serious!”

“It’s just a flesh wound, good sir,” Lee says, laughing.

“Will you please come down here?”

“Would be far more adventurous to come up here.”

“Darling.” The ladder rattles, and Nigel finally looks up, gravity-pulled from his bandage search to moor in Lee’s eyes, more cerulean tonight than blue–Nigel swears they shift color along with Lee’s mood. He watches Lee carefully turn his whole body around, putting his elbows around the rails and his back to the rungs. “Gorgeous,” he says, soft as Lee makes him feel.

“Don’t get your tinsel in a tangle.” Lee shakes his head, all fondness and amusement. “You need to stop acting like I’m going to die if I get pinched.”

“Old habits.” Nigel sighs, unwinding himself from the rung. He plants his hands next to Lee’s shins. “Only been three months since the all-clear. Don’t want you to fucking overdo it, yeah?”

“And miss the chance for you to dote all over me?” Lee’s smile is brighter than the Verger-Blooms’ lights across the street. “Never.”