#strangecreaturewrites

When you slipped your hand into his underwear and cupped his growing erection, he smiled into the kiss, humming happily.

“I love you so much,” he mumbled against your mouth, and you dived back in, lapping his tongue with yours. He moaned and held you tighter, his fingertips pressing into your back.

No matter how many times you had him, it would never be enough. He was too sweet, sweeter than any lover you’d had before, and he was entirely devoted to your happiness, your pleasure. It wasn’t lost on you how lucky you were. In fact, you were a little smug about it. But in these moments, you always made sure to give him as much attention and care as he gave you.

Like now. You wrapped your hand around his cock and ran your thumb over the head, back and forth, touching him slowly. You listened to his hitched breaths and quiet whines as his erection continued to harden and twitch. His lips moved quicker, more urgently against yours, though you didn’t pick up your pace, working the head of his cock with your fingers, your palm. His hips jerked a bit, but he didn’t try to take more than what you gave him.

With a gentle smack, you broke the kiss and asked him, “Does that feel good, baby?”

It’s too dark to see him well, but the rustle of the pillowcase and the movement of the pillow against your cheek told you he was nodding. It was such a delicious, powerful feeling, working him up like this by, honestly, doing very little.

Clumsily, Mickey brought his hands down to shove off his underwear, and you paused your ministrations to let him take off yours. When your panties get hung up on your ankles for a moment, he grumbled as he freed you, and you were so in love you had to laugh. After a second, he chuckled a bit, too.

“Always gotta mess somethin’ up, right?” he scoffed, tossing your panties somewhere off the bed.

You leaned up on your elbow, reaching out carefully with your free hand until you found his face, cupped his jaw, turned his head back toward you.

“None of that,” you said. You didn’t like it when he got all self-depreciating. “Get back over here.”

He obeyed your command, falling onto you as if pulled by gravity. His hands caressed your body as you two resumed kissing, kneading your breasts, squeezing your waist, parting your thighs. You moaned, not only because it felt good, but because his confidence always grew when you vocalized your pleasure. And just like that, his lips began to travel down your neck, your chest, your stomach. His hot, labored breath sent goosebumps over your body.

“You’re so good, Mickey,” you sighed, threading your fingers through his hair. “So, so good to me.”

He shivered and groaned against your skin. His teeth scraped lightly against your inner thigh, so close to where you wanted him most. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but you could tell that he enjoyed going down on you as much as you enjoyed him doing it. You only wished you could see his eyes right now, so gorgeous, so blue. When his tongue made the first delicate contact with your swollen, soaked clit, you could perfectly picture the way his eyelids fluttered closed, and just the mental image spiked electricity through your veins. You tilted your head back with a keening moan, gripping the sheets with the hand not tangled in his hair.

“That’s it, baby,” you panted as he settled his mouth on your pussy, licking and sucking your clit in earnest. “You always give me what I need.”

His arms were wrapped under your thighs, his hands traveling jerkily from your stomach to your breasts and back again, as if he can’t settle down. You felt his shoulders against the underside of your thighs and realized, though his mouth and tongue were working you over with confidence, he was shivering, shuddering. Desperate.

Heat poured through your stomach, your chest, and suddenly you felt restless, overcome by your desire. You tightened your fingers in his hair, and said, “I want a bit more, okay? Is that alright?”

After all the love you two have made, Mickey knew exactly what you meant by that. With a whine, he held beautifully still, his hands settling on the tops of your thighs, as you began thrusting your hips, rubbing yourself against his mouth, his tongue, his chin. You started with long, slow strokes, warming both of you up to the feeling, the movement, until you were humping his face roughly.

You were mindful each time you did this, would be horrified if you hurt him, but if he’d ever felt uncomfortable, he never told you about it. Not even when you directly asked. And though you hadn’t discovered anything he wouldn’t do for you, particularly in bed, you also knew him well enough to know that he would tell you if you crossed the line. All of that to mean… he must just like it.

You unclenched your fist on the sheet and reached down to hold his face, your palm brushing his cheek, your fingertips curling under his jaw. Again, you wished you could see his eyes right now.

“Look at me,” you told him anyway, knowing full well it made no sense.

Another broken, wobbly whine escaped his throat. You could tell he was moving around a bit on the bed, and one of his hands disappeared from your leg. Soon, the quick, wet sound of him jerking his cock joined the rustle and groan of the bed beneath your thrusting hips, and your jaw dropped open as you felt an orgasm descend upon you.

You lost your control, your rhythm, as you mashed your pussy against his face. You slammed your eyes shut and saw faint flashing lights as you came with a gasp.

When your grip on him loosened and you sank back into the bed, he kissed you, your clit, your stomach, your legs. You floated for a while, biting your lip against a wide smile. How was it always this good?

Soon, Mickey crawled up from between your legs. You were both overheated, sweating, a little breathless, and it added to the perfectly blissful feeling settling over you. He kissed you — his lips felt warm, well-worn, and you couldn’t keep from smiling then — and then laid down next to you on his stomach.

“Hey,” you said, nudging his hip, trying to turn him over. “Your turn?”

“Ah, no,” he rasped. He cleared his throat, then continued, “That train has already left the station, I’m afraid.”

You hummed thoughtfully, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek. Your lips brushed his ear.

“Round two?”

His arm curled around your waist. “You know it.”

And you got lost in each other once again.

that time of the night when his world shrank to the size of a bedroom. when the door could be locked, and clothes could come off, and everyone else could go fuck themselves. the only people on the planet who mattered were you and him. and 17. he was there, too.

the only thing 18 wanted to do was feel his body on yours, skin on skin, perfectly aligned. he wanted to lavish your lips with kiss after kiss, quicker than your mind could keep up with, each one deeper and rougher and dirtier than the last. his hands traveled restlessly over your curves, squeezing and gripping like he wanted to leave his mark on every inch of your skin. he kissed and bit his way down your neck, your breasts, your stomach, and his smirk grew wider with every whimper and moan he coaxed out of you. it made him so hard to know he was the one who could do this to you, he was the one who made you feel like this, sound like this. the gratification was unparalleled.

he still remembered the way it felt to fuck you only a couple hours after he’d been printed, still chased that feeling every time you’ve fucked since. it was always a sensory overload, that first time. every mickey was always a little too exhausted for sex straight out of the printer, but there was really nothing else like it, so he couldn’t pass it up — 18 certainly didn’t. electricity firing in all directions, lighting up his nerves in unexpected ways, leaving him boneless, helpless to the pleasure. he kind of floated like that when he was on oxy, but it wasn’t the same. the drug didn’t capture that raw, almost painful feeling that made him want to scream when he sank into you, when you pressed him into the bed, when he came into you, flashing lights blinding his rolled-back eyes.

he wanted that all the time. it was too much, and that’s the way he wanted it. if somethin’ had to take him out, if he had a say in any of that the next time around, then he wanted to go out drowning in you. it was that or nothing.

and also, 17 was there.

the whole thing with the creepers and marshall’s death changed him a bit, he wasn’t such a pathetic lil shit anymore, thank fuck. buuuttt some things stayed the same.

as 18 made himself comfortable between your legs, 17 watched. it was like he didn’t know how to participate, even though they’ve been having sex with you for years now — 1 through 18, all the same difference — and you had sex diagrams and it should all make sense by now.

dumbass, 18 thought as he spread you open, getting that first taste of your arousal in a long, teasing lick before sealing his lips over your clit and getting to work.

the multiples thing still made 17 cagey. he always started off a little nervous, a little uncertain, but he eventually came around. ‘you’re thinkin’ about it, don’t think about it,’ 18 always said, but 17 never remembered. he’d started off just sitting there on the edge of the mattress, eyes wide, jaw slack, hand on his dick — over his pants because he was always the last one to take his clothes off, dumbass — touching himself idly until he decided to do something.

what will it be tonight? 18 would wonder gleefully in the privacy of his thoughts. he would start these nights making bets with you on what would set 17 off if you didn’t scold him for bullying his clone too much. but it was just too easy and too fun.

your whimpers turned into whines as 18’s mouth brought you higher and higher, your voice so broken and beautiful in his ear that he couldn’t stop himself from moaning too. you sank your fingers into his hair, throwing your head back on the pillow with a cry when he pushed two fingers into you. gradually, he worked up to a brutal pace, as fast as his hand could go from his angle, all while his lips and tongue worked you over in tandem. it was a practiced art of his, getting you off this way, and his cock throbbed not only from the pure bliss of getting to do it, but because it was so clear how much you loved it.

when your orgasm hit you, your back arched and you shouted his name — almost. suddenly, you were locked in a fevered, shaky kiss, 17’s hands cradling your overheated face, pulling you up to meet him as he leaned over you. languid as if he’d just come too (though he definitely hadn’t yet, not by a long shot), 18 lifted up from your pussy, laughing at his clone’s desperation.

he yanked at 17’s shirt, his waistband. “you’re overdressed for the party, buddy.”

“shut the fuck up,” 17 mumbled against your lips, but his hands started tugging at his clothes, fussing when 18 tried helping him.

you reminded them of the rules, “play nice, boys, or we’ll stop,” and in unison, they replied, “yes, ma’am.”

even this part was 18’s favorite. the sharing. it wasn’t so bad, when 17 finally figured it out.

he got to sit right beside his clone and watch as your mouth sank over 17’s cock, your lips wrapped so snugly around the head. got to hear the wet sounds as you worked him over, taking in more and more of his shaft until you met the base, fully in, your tongue working magic he couldn't see but knew all about. you swallowed around him carefully, and it was like 18 could feel it, just a psychosomatic response, the memory of how you’ve had him exactly like that before. he grabbed your hand and pulled it into his lap, wrapping it around his own cock, the head so slick with pre-come. you didn’t move your hand so much as you let him fuck it. your attention was focused on the cock in your mouth, the moans escaping from 17’s throat, the shifting of his hips as he wanted move but tried to be mindful not to choke you. 18 fucked your hand fiercely, so enamored with the sight of you like this — it was like watching porn, but it was real and it was him, even if it really wasn't. he knew exactly how it felt, but he could see it in a whole new way.

he didn’t even mind when 17 rested his cheek on the outer curve of his shoulder, leaning into him for support to keep from melting into the mattress, moaning loudly, shakily, as you picked up speed. yeah, he knew exactly how that felt, and it was fucking incredible.

18 came over your fingers with a grunt, chest heaving, his face covered in a light sheen of sweat. 17 was still stuck there against his side, his eyes fluttering, lost to the pleasure, and he decided to be a good guy and help him along: “just look at that, she’s so fuckin’ beautiful like this. move a little, she can take it, can’t you, baby? yeah, you know she can, man, just fuck her a bit- there you go, that feels fucking good, right?” he said every filthy thought that entered his mind, his voice curling darkly around each word, until 17 tipped over the edge, gasping as he came, lodged deep in your throat.

you should be proud of him, right? for provoking his clone in a good way for once.

this was all that meant anything to 18. there was a whole new world to discover, homes to build, life to create. he knew all of that, and it was all well and good.

But it only took another moment for your watery eyes to dry and for you to notice where you were — then your face became so hot, you thought you would burst into flames.

“Hello, welcome to Tiffany’s,” greeted a sales associate, stationed in the center of the bright, circular entryway. She was a tall, lithe woman, seemingly in her thirties or forties. Her angular face was almost as unnervingly perfect as Rosalie’s or Edward’s, even for a human; in the brilliant, cool-toned light, her features were too severe and you had a hard time looking at her. She wore a bored expression, and paired with her monotone, elongated manner of speaking, you got the feeling your presence was inconveniencing her.

She looked you over briefly, then directed her next words to Edward, “What are we shopping for tonight?”

Your face burned hotter. Great.

“Just browsing, thank you,” Edward replied. He grabbed your hand and led you past the woman. You glanced at the name tag on her pristine black sweater; apparently, her name was Marina.

Beyond the entryway was a wood-paneled, high-ceilinged room full of jewelry counters and display cases. Everywhere you looked, you saw glass and silver, gemstones and crystal. Other salespeople stood along the walls, hands elegantly tucked behind their backs, waiting on a serious customer. Besides the two of you, there was a middle-aged couple huddled over a counter at the back of the room, chatting quietly with a young salesman over an opulent necklace.

You peeked over your shoulder to see Marina lingering in the arch connecting the entry and the salesroom, watching the two of you with an unreadable look on her face.

Does she think we’re going to steal something? you thought, huffing under your breath as you turned away from her.

Edward drifted to a stop in front of one of the unmanned counters, eyeing whatever laid inside — you only stared at his profile, unwilling to even blink until he looked at you.

“I am not bringing diamonds to a white elephant party,” you hissed through your teeth.

He didn’t reply, but the corner of his mouth twitched, revealing the hint of a smirk before he could train his face into an angelic picture of innocence once more. You shoved his stone arm with your elbow, the layers of your coat and his cushioning the impact; of course, despite your effort, he didn’t move an inch.

“Hey, let’s go, this is a waste of time.”

“Diamonds aren’t the only thing they sell here,” he replied, pulling you onward, his hand giving yours a slight squeeze.

The two of you glided across the sales floor and into the next room, which was full of clothing racks and shelves. Rather than the jam-packed displays you were used to in normal people stores, each stack of fabric was elegantly folded and arranged with composition in mind rather than abundance.

As he led you to the other side of the room, you brushed your fingers along a stack of smooth, fuschia-colored fabric on a nearby shelf. You caught a dainty paper price tag hanging from one of the pieces and quickly read it before it slipped out of reach.

Your jaw dropped. “That scarf was four hundred dollars.”

“It’s real silk.”

“You didn’t even look at it,” you fired back at him. “Did you confuse me with Alice when you brought us in here?”

Edward laughed. “Of course not, you’re much taller. Now… what do you think of this?”

He’d led you to a simple display — a white waist-high pillar with a gold metal book stand in the center, holding one Tiffany Blue hardcover journal.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “No one in my family journals, Edward, this won’t work.”

“Do you like it?”

You picked it up and leafed through its pages. You didn’t want to tell him you were impressed by the quality of the paper, unwilling as you were to let him think for a second that he had finally won.

“They also sell pens,” he added.

You didn’t notice him leave your side, but in his hand, he now held a rectangular box containing a shiny sterling silver pen, much fancier than the ballpoint pens you usually wrote with.

You frowned as if you weren’t impressed, analyzing the journal’s silver foiled edges instead. “Thanks, but I prefer Bic. I don’t have to keep them when they run dry.”

“You refill it, silly.”

“I know that, but I’d lose it. You’ve seen my room.”

He grimaced. “I suppose you’re right.”

When he stepped away to put the pen back, you flipped the journal over to look at the back cover. Your eyes nearly popped out of your skull when you spotted the tag.

“A hundred and fifty dollars? Thanks, but absolutely not,” you mumbled. Carefully, you placed the overpriced book of blank paper delicately back on its stand like it was a nuclear bomb — had the oil from your fingertips depreciated its value? Would you have to buy it now?

“It’s not that ex-” he began to say, back at your side once more. You whirled around to him.

“Do not finish that sentence,” you ordered, pushing your finger into the center of his chest. “Why do you have to buy me anything at all?”

A gentle look came over his face, softening his features. “It’s our first Christmas together. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t get you a present?”

Your chest squeezed and you swayed closer to him, warmth and a hint of guilt flooding through you.

Well, when he puts it like that… you thought. Maybe you were being a little too difficult?

But no. No, no. An extravagant gift is not the answer. At least, not in your book.

“What if…” you began slowly, feeling a blush come on as you tried to get the next words to come out.

How does he make romance look so easy? you fumed. Doesn’t he get embarrassed?

“Go on.”

“What if… you were my present?”

His golden eyes searched your face, the intensity of his stare causing your heart to stutter. For a moment, you thought you’d finally found the exact thing to say that would charm him into dropping the subject once and for all.

But when the silence stretched on, you rolled your eyes, clicking your tongue.

“Fine,” you sighed. “I want an ornament.”

“An… ornament,” he replied, his voice flat, brow furrowed.

“Yes. You can get me a little ornament with our names on it. For our first Christmas of many.” You kissed his cheek. “But you can never tell me how much it cost you because I’m sure the number will make me throw up.”

He chuckled, “Deal.”

You caught some movement out of the corner of your eye, only to turn and see Marina, once again lurking on the threshold between this room and the previous one.

You put your face close to Edward’s as if you planned to kiss his cheek again, your lips brushing the cold skin next to his ear.

“Why is she following us?” you whispered.

“She thinks I’m here to buy you a ring,” he murmured. “She wants the commission.”

“If you get me a ring from this place, your death will be painful and imminent.”

He hummed, pulling back to look at your face as if he was contemplating the severity of your threat. “I know a little something about that.”

You blinked, surprised by his response; he didn’t normally make jokes about himself, especially morbid ones like that. A grin pulled faintly at his lips, and his eyes weren’t taking on that sad look he got when the difference between the two of you were brought to the fore.

“Then you should be very afraid,” you replied, lowering your voice more softly than you normally do when you're joking around, too nervous to push him too far.

His eyes sparkled with mirth as he said, “I’m shaking.”

( you'll have to forgive me for a most-likely-inaccurate portrayal of the tiffany's shopping experience — i'm poor, & also it's called fan-fiction, not fan-fact <3 love you, hope you enjoyed! )

⎯ divider by strangergraphics / edward icon from sourcetwilight ⊹⠀ ﾟ ˖

“Okay…” you whispered, coaching yourself, concentrating on keeping your next breath steady. “You’re just gonna start by knocking on the door.”

After that? Who knew what would happen. You wanted to yell at him for abandoning you — don’t think of that word- You wanted to cry and pound your fists against his chest because he knew what doing this would mean to you, he knew-

But more than anything, you wanted to understand. You wanted to grab his face and make him look into your eyes and tell you what was going on. You knew he was worried recently, scared of the looks he was getting from Sam, Paul, all the boys who used to be his friends before they changed. Did they get to him when you weren’t around? Did they force him to change, too?

Would the Jake inside that house right now be the Jake you remembered? The one who held you together when he caused you to fall apart?

Would he still be the Jake you needed?

The thought conjured a tempest in your mind. It’s not fair! It’s not fair! The words spun around your head at hurricane-speed and tore your heart to pieces, the fury stronger than any emotion you’d felt in months.

Face flushed, hands shaking, you killed the engine and propelled yourself into the cold, loudly slamming the door behind you, temporarily breaking the peaceful patter of rainfall on the soft earth. The icy drops felt like pinpricks on your overheated skin as you marched up to the front door.

Your knuckles rapped sharply on the old wood. Rudely, you peered through the glass at the top of the door, searching for any sign of movement in the low-lit front room.

It took a minute, but soon you saw Billy approaching the door. He cracked it an inch, just enough for you to see him.

He greeted you by name, then said, “He’s not here right now. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

“Interesting,” you replied. Your barely-concealed pain caused your voice to shake. “I don’t think I believe you.”

Billy’s mouth pulled into a thin, sad line. “I’m sorry. I’ll let him know you came to see him. Okay?”

You hesitated for one second, two, then you pushed the door open wide and stomped deeper into the house.

“Jacob!” you shouted as you made a line toward his bedroom door. You shoved it open, your eyes darting to his bed to find-

It was empty. Mused, blankets and pillows hanging off the edges of the mattress, but empty.

You turned and marched back down the hall to find Billy making his way toward you, saying something, his voice full of apology. You felt your face crumple into a terrible, heartbroken expression, his words washing over you without really sinking in.

If you couldn’t lay your eyes on Jake soon… you didn’t know if your bruised and battered heart could take it.

“I’m sorry, Billy, I have to find him,” you choked, brushing past him again to break through the front room and trip back out into the cold Washington air.

Your shoes squelched in the mud as you rounded the house, half-running to the garage. You were considering whether you should peek through the windows or just unceremoniously rip open the door when suddenly the choice no longer mattered.

The garage door flew up, revealing the boy you’d been searching for, the boy who held your fragile heart in his hands, whether he wanted it or not. And he looked…

You stopped midway to him, letting your widened eyes understand what they were seeing.

Beyond the fact that he wasn’t wearing a shirt or shoes in the dead of winter, he was noticeably broader and taller since the last time you saw him. Like he’d gained several years on you in that time. Slowly, he walked toward you, his face pulled into a scowl, his dark eyes unreadable.

“You- you cut your hair. You got a tattoo. And you’re so… Have you been hitting the gym instead of calling me back?” Your voice was too thin and wobbly to let the joke land the right way. You blinked at him, your eyelashes heavy with water, unable to make sense of him.

It was as you feared it would be: the Jake in front of you was intimidating, unfamiliar. Changed.

“Talk to me! I know you heard me pull up, you were just gonna ignore me?”

“What are you doing here?” His voice was sharp and cold like the winter rain on your skin. “You should’ve never come.”

You flinched, body aching. “Why are you avoiding me?”

Rather than answering your question, he stopped only inches away from you. You could feel the heat pouring off of his body, and you swayed closer to him as if pulled by gravity. His gaze roved over you before he reached up and held your face in his hands. You shuddered, shocked by the difference in temperature between the two of you.

“Your lips are turning blue,” he murmured. “You need to go home. You can’t be here anymore. It’s not safe.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that, but I know I’m safe with you.”

He shook his head. “You have to leave. I’m not good for you anymore.”

No no no no no no no no no no

Your brain parried his words, and your vision flashed white, erasing his face and all the pity you saw there. All the resignation.

But you wouldn’t let this happen to you again.

Your hands moved of their own accord to find his face and pull him to you. Your mouth sealed over his, your teeth clanking with the force of your kiss. You drank in his surprised gasp; when his arms wrapped around you, the ice encasing your heart melted away. You didn’t notice your wet clothes sticking to your skin anymore, and the sound of the downpour striking the earth might as well have been the pounding of your heart, an all-encompassing roar.

His lips moved against yours with fervor, his warmth soothing your shivers, even though your body ached. You met each of his kisses with a smile, which grew and grew as time slipped away from you.

It had been too long since you felt this good.

His mouth broke from yours, only to laugh against your lips, “I need to get you inside. You’ll catch your death out here.”

Shuddering, you replied, “I’ll be alright,” but when he leaned away from your next kiss, you huffed, “Fine, but you have to explain to me what’s going on.”

His brow wrinkled, worry clouding over his features.

“I’ll do my best,” he promised, and he took your hand and led you toward the garage.

Your stomach clenched at the thought of what might come next, but you knew you had the strength to face it, as long as he was close enough to touch — as long as you could squeeze his hand, and you could feel him squeeze back.

⎯ divider by strangergraphics ⊹⠀ ﾟ ˖

The living room was warm, heat borrowed from the kitchen as dinner cooked in the oven. The smell of roasted chicken made your stomach rumble, and you popped a piece of popcorn into your mouth before stringing the next piece.

From your place on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, you watched Jake wrap a string of lights around the Christmas tree, fiddling with the branches as he went. The thing was slightly too wide for the room, tucked away in the corner as it was, but you knew it was going to look beautiful.

“You’re sure popcorn and lights are a safe combination?” you asked as you put another piece in your mouth.

Jake rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve only told you yes a million times now. I don’t know why you’re so worried.”

“I’m not worried,” you grumbled, concentrating on pulling the next piece along the thread.

Jake snickered. “Whatever you say, my love.”

And as you looked up from your work to pout at him — an ineffective move, since he was turned slightly away from you to adjust a branch in the front — the feeling was suddenly washing over you.

Through the window over Jake’s shoulder, you saw as rain began to intermingle with the snow, the branches of distant trees white and heavy with ice.

You took in the room's wood paneled walls and the mismatched frames that decorated them, the faces of your loved ones smiling back at you. You took in the TV playing Rudolph at a low volume and the sound of the bulbs clinking together as Jake adjusted the cords in his hands.

You took him in: your Jacob, the man you loved, the man who would be devoted to you for the rest of your lives. The plaid button-up he wore, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows revealing warm skin you wanted to brush your lips against. The dark wash jeans that hugged him well. The profile of his face, handsome and focused, his dark eyes intent on his work.

You thought about getting up and going to him, wrapping your arms around his middle and kissing his face. You imagined the way his eyes would dance with love. The way he would kiss you in return.

But in the end, you didn't move. In fact, you weren't sure you could. You were spellbound, captivated by this candid, intimate image of him you got to see.

You felt the worn material of the couch against your back. You saw the totes of decorations, waiting to be unwrapped and unboxed: hand-me-down ornaments, sparkly gold garland and velvet bows, and a brass star to place at the top. They were things accumulated over time and well-kept, indicating a life spent together, your heirlooms blended with his.

And you could hear his voice now, asking a question that you distantly recognize as a continuation of something you’d been talking about earlier — both of you were trying to recall the word for when rain mixed with snow and came down in pellets — but you were too lost in your head to truly hear him.

You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. It was a refrain you’d heard time and time again, and in a way, you could acknowledge there was some truth to that.

But you knew better. You knew exactly how much you had to be thankful for, and it was all right here.

( even when i make an effort to write a shorter scene, i'm just incapable of keeping it simple >.< please forgive me )

⎯ divider by strangergraphics ⊹⠀ ﾟ ˖

“Do the sweaters have to be ugly?” you asked skeptically, peering into the shopping bag before you. You had seen these gaudy shirts before — in movies and TV shows, on humans trotting down slush-covered sidewalks as they did their holiday shopping. Your mouth twisted into a frown at the thought of donning one yourself.

What’s more is, she’d gone to a craft store and bought little accessories to make the sweaters even more atrocious. Bows, ribbons, tinsel — name it, and it was somewhere on the coffee table in front of you. It went against everything you understood about her fashion sensibilities, and yet…

“Yes! That’s the entire point,” Alice huffed. She was in the process of shoving a bag into Edward’s reluctant hands, shooing him wordlessly up the stairs.

“And the winner is the one who looks the ugliest?” Emmett asked, slumping a bit to rest his cheek against your shoulder. The two of you were seated on the couch in the living room, which you’d secured as your temporary work space.

Alice arched an eyebrow at him, then responded, “That’s one way to put it, yes.”

“Huh,” he grunted, still sounding a little bemused. When Alice had declared this would be a competition, you’d almost groaned aloud. Emmett could never resist the opportunity to win, no matter how ridiculous it was, no matter how little ‘winning’ meant in the grand scheme of things.

It was one of his qualities you found most endearing — except when it involved you looking like an idiot in front of people.

“Babe, we’re totally gonna win this,” he’d said after Alice finished explaining what they were even meant to be doing. He gave your shoulders a psyched little squeeze. “Pick out a bag, you’ve got this.”

Now, here on the couch, he watched as you delicately extracted a thin-knit sweater from the bunch you’d chosen. It was a red-white-and-green plaid monstrosity whose front was covered in tiny jingle bells. You gave the sweater a shake, causing the bright ring of bells to bounce off the high ceiling.

He snickered, smoothing his hand over your thigh and giving it a squeeze.

“Yes, this is so stupid, it’s gonna be perfect.”

Alice grumbled an annoyed little sound, seemingly offended by his word choice. But before she could respond any further, Esme’s voice, full of confusion, drifted in from the dining room, and she scurried away to help her.

You sighed, dropping the sweater into the floor by your feet. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Feeling him against your side made you long to spend the day with him the way you would prefer to spend it: curled up on the couch, watching Christmas movies until you couldn’t stand the sight of a Santa suit any longer. And considering how much you loved Christmas, that meant the marathon would likely last well into the night.

But no. You had a silly party to attend.

He gave your thigh another squeeze. “Babe, it’s okay. We’ll do what Alice wants for a little while, and then later, we can do whatever we want. We’ve got nothing but time.”

You turned to look at him, a warm little smile curling on your lips. Another quality you loved about him: he had such a way of making the weight of immortality feel so much lighter. His outlook on this existence was so unburdened, so simple, and sometimes, so infectious.

You kissed him, and your smile widened as he returned it.

“Let’s get to work,” he mumbled against your lips.

You groaned, breaking away from his mouth. “We’re going to look ridiculous!”

“Hey, that’s the spirit.”

And that’s the way the afternoon progressed. You moaned and groaned about the task at hand, and Emmett kept up your morale. In the end, you did most of the finicky work, hand-sewing button eyes on snowmen and pinning cotton balls to wool to create snowy scenes. To your surprise, it was Emmett who came up with the ideas, his suggestions growing more and more creative as the vision came to life.

You heard the others in the house coming up with their own designs, laughing and grumbling in equal measure.

And because of all your vampiric advantages, it wasn’t long before everyone had finished their sweaters. Alice had presented her idea at noon, and the sun was only just starting to set when you all reconvened in the living room.

“Edward, where’s your sweater? Why aren’t you wearing it?”

He narrowed his eyes at Alice, and after some span of silence, he sighed impatiently. He crossed his arms over his chest, which was clothed in a white long-sleeved button-up, the very opposite of everyone else’s attire.

“What’s the point?” he snapped. “I’m judging the competition, I’m not taking part in it.”

“Aw, now where’s your Christmas spirit?” Esme chided him gently. Her sweater was bright pink, the front of it dominated by a wide-eyed puppy with googly eyes and a glittery candy cane in its mouth. 

He pointed at the stereo, currently playing some holiday record he’d brought down from his room, as if that would be sufficient enough participation.

You snickered. He should know better by now.

“No, c’mon now, Esme’s right, put on the sweater,” Emmett crooned, his own sweater jingling every time he moved. His was a deep red sweater featuring a felt fir tree, decorated with bells, pom-poms, and real peppermint candies, affixed with hot glue.

Despite the overall nonsense, the shirt fit Emmett well, hugging his chest and arms in a very appealing way.

You certainly liked his better than your own. The fit was all wrong on you, and the puffy snowmen that wrapped all the way around the torso were so offensive to your eyes, you couldn’t look down at yourself. The midnight blue color was nice, but that’s about all it had going for it; the original sweater even had a Nordic snowflake pattern along the bust that had you curling up your nose unpleasantly.

When Jasper jumped in on the goading too, Edward eventually stomped off to his room to retrieve his sweater.

“The rest of you might as well crawl off to your rooms, too,” Emmett taunted, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to his side. “You’ve got nothin’ on us.”

“You remember only one person can win, right?” Jasper asked, his lips quirking as he held in a laugh. Looking at him, you wanted to laugh too. The patchwork button-up cardigan he wore contrasted greatly with his intimidating scars.

“So what? It’s gotta be a bummer for you, hoping for third place.”

“Can’t say I know that feeling.”

“Can you just tell us who he picks, Alice?” you asked, curling your arm around Emmett’s, lacing your fingers with his. “I need to throw this thing in a fire, like, ten minutes ago.”

She’d gone quiet, her eyes taking on the vacant quality that meant she was looking forward in time, so you didn’t bother repeating yourself. Instead, you leaned into Emmett’s side, relaxing your eyes as you stared out one of the many floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding you.

You didn’t sleep anymore, didn’t dream but over time, you’ve found ways to let your attention drift when you wanted to. So, you missed it when Edward returned. You only realized he had when, distantly, you heard Esme being declared the winner. And you only picked up on that by the tone of Emmett's voice, demanding a rematch. A smile pulled at your lips; even though his indignation was very real, it was also very cute.

But right now, all you saw was the darkening woods. All you noticed was the snowflakes, drifting down to coat the grass and the tree branches. And all you felt was your love at your side, strong and solid, so full of life that you felt as if at any moment you would feel your heart starting to beat once more.

( esme won bc edward is a mama's boy, pass it on )

⎯ divider by strangergraphics ⊹⠀ ﾟ ˖

“Oh! Sorry,” Mickey whispered, wincing a little. “Didn’t mean to wake you up. Let me just get undressed, an’ I’ll join you.”

If you had to be honest, the last thing you wanted was to stay in bed. Your body ached from sleeping too long, your empty stomach was cramping so hard you felt sick, and your head felt like it was full of sand after crying the way you did. Instead of saying any of that though, you sat up and silently watched Mickey take off his standard issue shirt and pants. You swallowed and swallowed against the lump in your throat so that you could talk to him without sounding too emotional, too upset.

He filled the silence with chatter, seemingly oblivious to anything that might be wrong with you.

“-said I nearly fell to the floor when I came out this time, how funny is that? Bet I looked pretty goofy there for a minute, floppin’ out of the printer like that.”

He balled up his clothes and tossed them into the corner of the room. You admired his body the way you always did, thought about how it wasn’t fair that he could look this good in the generic white boxers inventory handed out, and you worked to not let the raw, tender feeling in your chest get the best of you. How lucky you were, you reminded yourself.

His new body always moved a little sluggishly, so when he swung his arm back, he clipped his hand on the edge of the table, hard. He yanked it to his chest with a pained hiss, and on a different day, you might have teased him for his clumsiness or reminded him to be careful. This time, you just winced, tears stinging your eyes. Why did you have to be so damn sensitive right now?

With an exaggerated, silent ‘ouch!’ Mickey shook out the pain in his hand. He sat down on the edge of the bed near you. “Don’t worry, pain receptors are working just fine. Anyway… how was your day? Y’ looked like you were sleeping hard, so you must’ve had a rough shift. I hate that I missed- oh, hey- mmh!”

You pulled him into a deep kiss, cradling his face. The tender feeling coiling around your heart surged, and you dragged him further into you, your fingertips pressed into his jaw, his neck. The angle was awkward, your front pressed into his side, your body wrapped around his from behind. But he moaned anyway. Smiled against your lips anyway. Shifted his body to curve toward yours so he could wrap his arms around you, as if nothing burdened him.

Your lips moved roughly against his, opening up to taste his tongue, and he met you with the same fervor, though the energy felt different coming from him. You felt out of control, wound up, hungry; he was passionate, but he was also blissful, relaxed. There wasn’t a bit of tension in his body — he would take your onslaught happily, without question.

Didn’t he remember what happened? Didn’t he remember you were there?

Mickey’s arms tightened around you, pulling you in until your knee slid over his legs. You straddled him, not a whisper of space between you, and your body felt like it was singing. Your mind floated away from you as your hands roved over his shoulders, his back, his arms. He was here and well and whole and alive. He died in your arms, and when he woke back up, the first thing he did was find you. Was there any fact more monumental than that? Could anything else ever matter more than that?

Head swimming, you pulled back to take a shaky breath. Before you could dive in again, Mickey tilted his head away. His eyes, soft with exhaustion, looked over your face thoughtfully.

Then, so gently that you knew exactly what he meant, he asked, “Are you okay?”

Your breath hitched. You were stricken once again by every complicated thought and emotion you couldn’t put words to this morning.

Are you okay? Would he feel guilty if you said no? But how could you be anything other than okay now? All of your tears and heartache — hadn’t it all been for nothing, when you knew you would be with him like this?

“Yeah,” you replied, already leaning in to claim his mouth once more.

He let you kiss him, let you tip him back onto the mattress, but before you could lose yourself in him, he drew back again.

“You don’t… seem… okay,” he murmured, his voice quiet, hesitant.

Maybe he hadn’t been so oblivious, like you had assumed before.

You pressed your forehead to his, closing your eyes. “I’m fine. I just need to be with you.”

“Okay, well… I wanna say something first, before we do anything else.” Then he paused for a moment, brushing his nose with yours. Your heartbeat thrummed in your ears, roaring over Mickey’s soft voice. “You know I can’t resist you, but some things are more important, y'know? What you did for me, in the tank… I never would’ve asked you to do that, not in a thousand years. It must’ve been hell. I know you’re strong, but… that’s the type of stuff that breaks people, and… I just wanted to say, you never have to do that again. You never have to watch me… y’know, die like that. Ever again.”

“If I’m there when it happens again, I’m not leaving you,” you said before your brain could catch up with the words. Your voice sounded more confident than you might have expected, and after a moment of reflection, you realized that you weren’t just saying it. You really meant it.

Mickey laughed, breathy, incredulous. “Why d’you put yourself through this stuff for me?”

You looked into his deep blue eyes, and you knew no one else could look upon you and make you feel this way. Something in you clicked into place, and you felt solid, stable for the first time since Mickey took his most recent last breath. You didn’t have the answers you were agonizing over before — all of the questions simply disappeared. It was ridiculous to ask them in the first place.

You ran your fingers through his hair. The way his body melted a bit under yours made you smile.

“Because I’m yours, and you’re mine. And I don’t think anyone should suffer like that alone. Especially not you. Not when I love you so much.”

“I love you too, you don’t even know how much,” he said, leaning up to kiss you. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What kind of person would I be if I said I loved you then left you like that?”

He scoffed, kissing you again. “A normal one.”

“Do you want me to be a normal person?”

“No.” Another kiss.

And another. And another.

You choked on your next breath, and you turned your face into the pillow as tears welled up in your eyes once more.

The worst part was that they didn’t understand, and it was impossible to explain it in a way that made sense to them. Them being everyone. The lab workers, your superiors, Timo, everyone.

“You’re so upset, and for what?” Timo said to you in the cafeteria. What was the tail-end of last night for you was a brand new morning for him. “He’s being reprinted as we speak. In a few hours, we’ll have our boy back.”

You could’ve slapped him. Normally, you would have. It was a testament to the enormity of the pain coursing through you that you didn’t.

Our boy. What a load of shit.

“I held him as he died, you asshole,” you seethed. Timo scoffed and resumed eating, an awkward silence settling between the two of you. You knew the bastard wouldn’t apologize, and you wouldn’t say anything else about it.

To your credit, you held it together fairly well immediately afterward. You climbed out of the tank and took off the biohazard suit. You let the medics look you over until you snapped at them to back off — you were fine — and you pretended to listen to the lab workers as they explained how important their work was and how you’d be seeing Mickey again before you knew it. That bumbling lead scientist was at your heels from the tank all the way to the door; you told him to shut his fucking mouth as you left.

You were numb. To everyone else, it looked like anger. Inside, you were roiling. Reeling. Shocked.

From the very beginning, you forced yourself to make peace with Mickey’s position as an Expendable. You had to if you were going to be involved with him, romantically, sexually — honestly, in any way. He quickly became your best friend, your lover, your favorite person, and you had to accept that every so often, he would die. And over time, you really did manage to grow accustomed to this brand of strangeness. (Humans really were remarkably adaptable creatures.) Maybe because there had been a routine to it: he would get an assignment, kiss you goodbye, disappear for a handful of hours, and then he would be back, a little tired, very hungry, and looking to be held until the funk from the printer wore off.

This time was different. You were there. You looked into his eyes, and you weren’t sure if he saw you. You stroked his cheek, and you knew he couldn’t feel you; his skin was so red and raw, how could his brain process any sensation besides pain? You talked to him the whole time, told him that you were there, that you wouldn’t leave him, that it would be over soon.

‘Soon’ ended up being a relative term, and though you knew him better, part of you worried he would remember your reassurances as cruel nonsense, spoken by someone who had no idea…

That’s what all the experiments were: cruel nonsense.

Your shock, your numbness, melted into incredulity.

You held him as he died. He stopped moving. Stopped breathing. How did a person cope with witnessing that?

For everyone else, the death of their loved ones was permanent. They mourned, and eventually their lives grew around the grief. You wouldn’t have grief. You would have terror. Would you be there to hold him when he died again? How could you possibly handle it? Leaving wouldn’t be an option, even knowing what you knew now. But what would it do to you, the second time around? The third?

The answers didn’t matter right now. You were in the interim between the last Mickey and the next one. Even being as perturbed as you were, you could recognize your good fortune. How lucky you were, to only be alone for a handful of hours, to know you would touch him again in less than a day.

Exhaustion seeped into your bones, and discomfort set in as you noticed the sensation of the cold, tear-soaked pillowcase against your temple, your cheek. You got out of bed, ran some water, and wiped your face clean. You dried your skin, brushed your teeth, and stripped to your underwear.

The last thing you remembered doing was flipping the pillow to the dry side. You didn’t even remember laying back down.

As the saying goes, you slept like the dead.