❄️ Winter-themed prompts 2023 #3

# “Are you warm enough?” - Laurent

As if being stranded in the middle of a no-name countryside wasn’t a shitshow in and of itself, the snowstorm rapidly transforms from ‘mildly inconvenient’ to ‘sharknado but with hail.’

The landscape blinds you with pure white from whichever direction you gaze at. Not to mention the strong air current that compels the edge of your scarf to slap your face. Repeatedly. The joy of joys.

Thanks to that, it only takes three more pleas from Laurent to convince you to return inside, where no snow nor wind can reach and harass you.

And yet, you’re still shivering like a wet cat by the time Laurent rejoins you in his new seven-seater. The car is toasty, growing hotter as he turns the heat up as far as it can go.

“That fast?” you sniff, watching him shrug his jacket off, then drape it over you. The smell of him envelops you within seconds, almost as palpable as physical touch. Laurent, his perfume, and a whiff of petrol. You’d take that over the sting of frost any time. “How’s the engine?”

“I am not sure,” he admits, with a hefty dose of guilt and self-loathing staining his otherwise soft voice. “I did manage to dial the road service.”

“Yeah?” With the signal being, to say it lightly, fucked, it’s a stroke of luck that he was able to connect at all. “What did they say?”

“They can’t give a diagnosis over the phone,” he huffs, needled by the lack of an immediate solution to your problem. “But they should be here within an hour.”

Countering Laurent’s hopeful expression with a doubtful one, you let out a noncommittal hum. Say he pulled the ‘I’m an SPD agent, send help ASAP,’ spiel, there’s no way anyone will get to you that fast. Not in this weather at... ass o’clock, Saturday.

“Are you warm enough?” The call forgotten, Laurent returns to his fretting, observing you with a critical, all-seeing eye.

Perched on the edge of the seat, he’s half the distance away from reaching for the folded emergency blanket, more than ready to wrap you up in it if you so much as sneeze.

Which you ensure not to do. He’s already proposed to push the car back to Alven. And that’s what, four hours on foot? Laurent doesn’t get sick easily, but you’d rather not risk it, even if you were to tow the car for fifteen minutes tops.

“I'm fine, thanks,” you reply, wiggling a little so you can lean into him. “Don’t worry about me.”

Instead of comforting, as you intended, your words have the opposite effect. Laurent’s brow, which started on a light frown, now furrows in a glower.

“I know I am not good at... expressing myself.” He’s quoting someone here. Flavio, most likely, if that mocking grimace is anything to go by. “I just want to make sure you’re... safe and comfortable.”

“I am,” you say promptly, tilting yourself fully into his arms, leaving him no choice but to hold you firmer. “Since the beginning, the whole... You know. You’ve always made me feel safe.” You feel more than see him swallow thickly, either his words or just saliva, but it prompts you to continue nonetheless. “What I’m saying is, there’s no one I’d want to be stuck in the middle of a snowstorm with other than you.”

Your honesty has to reach him at last, because his embrace changes from a semi-limp to a heartfelt one. Still, he opposes, “Even if my... cosseting is aggravating at times?”

“What? Who said that?” Though you try to move, Laurent’s arms prevent you from taking a peek at his expression. “Really, who said that? I’ll beat them up.”

“No one.” There’s no sound, but Laurent’s chest jumps as he laughs, accommodating you when you climb into his lap. His lips are bent in a grin, remaining so after you’re securely propped up, hands splayed on each side of his wide shoulders. “Are you positive you’re not cold?”

“Maybe. I do know a sure way for us to stay warm,” you say, knowing just the thing that’ll take his mind off... well, everything. “You like exercising, right?”

“Yes? What do you have in—” You know the exact second he realizes your intentions because his face goes from pasty to crimson. “Oh.”

“Good ‘oh’ or bad ‘oh’?”

His lips quiver in barely suppressed mirth. “The road service...”

“Is that a no?”

He shudders out a sigh, but the faux reproach is rendered moot when you feel his hands slipping under your jacket. “I can’t say no to you, you understand,” he says, long-suffering.

“I know. Lucky me.”

Laurent snorts. “Yes. Lucky us.”

# “Either you cuddle me, or stop hogging all the blankets.” - Reed

Reed’s mad. Really mad. And you know it because it’s been over an hour since you came home, and he’s yet to utter a single word. Hell, he’s not even breathing in your general direction, lying on his oversized bed facing the wall.

He’s not sleeping, otherwise he’d already be wrapped around you octopus-style, incensed or not. The rhythm of his exhalation is regular, but a tad labored, as if he’s using most of his energy to keep it steady.

The radio hums with the evening news. A road accident, a snowstorm, and a wedding party of some local celebrity or other. Then, a song about grief and loss that makes Reed’s breath hitch.

He holds on strong for a few extra minutes before he inevitably gives up. Keeping his back turned, he clears his throat. Once, then twice, to make sure he has your attention. Like he could ever lose it.

“What’s up?”

It’s not a question he hoped to hear - or maybe your tone is too blasé for his liking - because he takes a solid second before finally opening his mouth for good.

“Spare a blanket, would you?” he mutters, very quietly, as though to himself. His twisted and vaguely outstretched hand informs you that he’s, indeed, addressing you.

It’s not particularly cold tonight, not with the heater slaving overtime, but you decide to oblige him. “Here you go.”

Mumbling out his thanks, Reed cocoons himself up haphazardly, leaving only his toes and most of his head uncovered. This time, though, you don’t have to wait long for him to speak again.

“Can I have another?” Turning to look at him, this time you’re met with a scrunched-up face, or rather half of it that’s unobscured by fabric. “What?”

“Nothing. Are you cold?” you ask dubiously, handing him a second blanket.

“I’m so freakin’ sorry for freezin’ over here, by the wall,” he whines, bundling himself up tighter, from the tip of his nose all the way down to his feet. “Alone.”

Ah, so that’s what he’s getting at.

Velour is soft, but not especially warm, that’s true. It would be a problem if the temperature in the loft wasn’t rivaling a tropical island. “Those blankets are very thin, hm?”

Ignoring your sarcasm, Reed humphs, “It’s not my fault you kept the warmest one.”

You’d roll your eyes, but you’re risking permanent injury. The blankets are from the same set. The only difference is the pattern, though all of them are some sort of floral.

“Uh oh. What are we to do now?”

“Simple,” he says, too fast for it not to be pre-planned. “Either you cuddle me, or stop hoggin’ all the blankets— Ooof!”

Having figured out his ruse, you don’t bother letting him finish the demand before throwing an arm over his midriff, pressing yourself to him as closely as you’re able. His body tenses momentarily, but it melts under your touch just as fast.

“Are you mad?” you whisper into his back, tracing the line of bare skin between his pants and shirt with your thumb, preparing to attack him when he least expects it.

“Me? Mad? What gave you that impres— Ah!” he yelps as your fingers dig into his side, forcing a peal of choked laughter out of him. “Merda! Stop it!”

“Hm, I don’t think so. Are you mad, or not?” You don’t let him answer - not that he has enough oxygen in his lungs for it. He tries, but the laughter wins every time.

When you finally release him, he flops back down like a dead fish, sucking in the air in big gulps. “I hate it when you do that,” he wheezes, but his tone couldn’t be any more telling.

“No, you don’t,” you counter, wrapping yourself around him once more, letting him clutch at your hand as a precaution. “So...”

“So?”

“Are you mad?”

“Yeah,” he sniffs, slipping his fingers between yours and squeezing. “Very.”

“Maybe we can talk it out.”

“No.”

“But we’re talking right now.” And your second hand is unaccounted for.

“No, we aren’t—Ah! Basta! Basta!”

# “I don’t need mistletoe to kiss you.” - Alan

Knowing just how much Alan despises overcrowded thoroughfares - and people in general - you’re traversing the lane as far from the other passersby as you possibly can without venturing onto the street. Which isn’t very far, but you’re not brushing against anyone as you go. Aside from Alan, that is.

He’s already doing you a huge favor by shopping with you so close to New Year’s - instead of sending one of his aides to deal with the omnipresent queues - going as far as to help you pick seasonal decorations (gasp!) and a tree (gasp!) for his office (GASP!). So you’re thinking of repaying the courtesy by ordering your drinks to-go instead of having them in the middle of the busy square.

There’s also Alan’s car, and you have it on good authority that he’ll let you eat in it if you beg long enough. Then again, given the vast number of people sauntering by, he might be doing the begging for a change.

His annoyance at being out and about is hidden well behind that peasants-be-gone glare of his, but what he can’t conceal is how often his gaze strays to the mistletoe hanging from the liquor shop’s portico.

The full journey of his eyes is as follows: a store window, the mistletoe, you. And so on. He doesn’t tire of it. But when you pass it by, he makes no move to kiss you.

“What is it?” he asks in a low tone, quirking a perfectly manicured eyebrow when you shoot him a glare. “Am I walking too fast?”

“That too,” you say, just for the sake of keeping the conversation going. With your arm linked with his, he has no way of speeding up without you tugging him back, so your complaint is only a tell-tale of your poor mood.

“Then, are you tired? Do you want to go back?”

“You wish,” you rumble, steering him towards yet another portico... Yet another opportunity.

There’s no way he’ll kiss you right in the middle of a crowded street for no reason, right? Reputation, whatever. But if you give him an excuse? That’s what you thought.

And he’s interested enough, clearly, he spots the mistletoe faster than you, repeating his earlier antics for the good minute it takes you to reach the store. With the same conclusion.

Maybe he wants you to initiate? Hardly likely, but... Well, it would be romantic.

“Look,” you exclaim, yanking him to a stop just in the spot. “A mistletoe.”

“I can see that,” he says without actually looking, suddenly interested in the paper bags he’s been carrying for you in his free hand. “A bunch of leaves and berries hanging from the awning.”

“How cliché, right?”

“Mhm.” His face does that thing where he tries not to smile but fails. He looks stupid, not endearing, thank you very much. “There’s a tradition around it.”

“‘Tradition,’ yeah. Didn’t take you for a fan.”

Now, his mouth forms more of a smirk rather than anything hoping to pass for even semi-polite. “It’s festive.”

“‘Festive,’” you repeat with a snick. “Are you waiting for something?”

“No. Are you?”

“No.”

Okay, so you chickened out, big deal. Alois would either piss himself laughing or scream from relief. Whatever.

Resuming your walk, you resort yourself to dragging Alan to every single shop on your way back to the parking lot. Every. Single. One. At least, you would if he didn’t abruptly pause just as you’re about to step off the sidewalk.

“What’s— Mph!”

His bare hand is freezing cold against your rapidly heating cheek. His lips are no better, but his tongue is scorching, invading your mouth and stealing your breath away. It’s not a peck - he’s devouring you, and he keeps at it until someone whistles.

“Ill-mannered,” he mutters, frowning at whoever dared to disturb him. Like he wasn’t just eating your face right in the— Wow.

“Yeah, so rude.”

Eyes returning to you, Alan lets his hand fall back, though not before wiping the edge of your mouth with his thumb. Were you drooling? If you were, that’s completely his fault.

“I don’t need mistletoe to kiss you,” he says, as though it isn’t completely clear by now. But he loves to state the obvious, so you let him have that. “Nor do you, for that matter.”

“...Good to know.”

“That’s what I thought.”