#[ 🎄 ] — smiles' secret santa. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joelscurls · 11 months ago

Text

a heart for melting

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

words: 2.7k

warnings: post-outbreak, implied age gap, themes surrounding child loss and grief, some angst but mostly festive fluff, grumpy x sunshine dynamics (Joel is a grinch & reader loves the holidays), reader is described as having long-ish hair

summary: Jackson's first annual Holiday Market brings about more than just cheer.

a/n: Merry Christmas @thetriumphantpanda; I'm your pedrostories secret santa! I hope you enjoy this lil festive take on grumpy!joel x sunshine!reader — I had lots of fun writing it 🤍🎄 🥧 🪵 🦌

Joel doesn’t want to be here — surrounded by garland and ribbons and so much unadulterated joy, it’s nauseating. No, he was forced to be here.

Please, Ellie had begged, it’ll be good for you to do something other than patrol or drinking with Tommy. Plus, they’re too good to keep to yourself.

They, being wood carvings — the tiny sculptures of deer and bears and birds, tufts of hair and bunches of feathers drawn out of driftwood with the tip of his blade. It was only ever meant to be a hobby, a way to busy his hands after they’d been wrapped around the cold metal of his rifle all day. Something lighter, creative rather than destructive, an act of giving rather than taking.

But sharing them with other people? He hadn’t been interested. Maybe he’d make one for Ellie or Tommy. Wrap it up in a piece of cloth and offer it as a gift for their birthday.

Not that he thought they were any good, really.

With the announcement of Jackson’s first annual Holiday Market, though, came Ellie’s pleading. “I’ll help you,” she’d bargained. “You don’t even have to give me anything!”

“Who said I would anyway?” he’d grumbled, digging his spoon into the bottom of his bowl of stew and sifting out a chunk of meat.

Joel despises the Holiday Season. He’d welcomed its disappearance with the end of the world. Because he had no reason to celebrate, with Sarah gone. Her absence stung like salt in an open wound on any normal day. But on Christmas, memories of her hanging her favorite ornaments on the tree and sneaking one of the cookies baked for Santa burned behind his eyelids. Left him heaving through hot tears.

The holidays had no place in his world, but they certainly had a place in Jackson. The first time he and Ellie had strode through those gates, they’d been met with that damned Christmas Tree, towering over the settlement like a beacon. And he hated it, hated the way it brought about that pounding in his chest and that spinning in his head.

How could anyone find any good in such a poignant reminder of loss?

Tommy says it’s about new beginnings, finding ways to be happy again. And what’s happier ‘n Christmas? God damn Santa Clause, hot chocolate, children singin’ carols?

Still, Joel isn’t convinced — not yet.

Standing across the mess hall, at your table piled high with baked goods, you are far too cheerful. You’re humming some song with a jovial beat, absentmindedly swaying as you rearrange rows of gingerbread and muffins and scones — all of which are draped in white icing, like flocking on Christmas trees. You pause to wish a happy holiday to everyone who passes through.

Joel knows he’s seen you before, flitting in and out of the community’s kitchen, always with that signature smile scrawled across your face.

And god, you’re so bubbly, taking to everyone you meet like a bee to honey, letting them in without a care in the world. Popping from table to table, making sure they have enough to eat. That they’re doing well.

It shouldn’t surprise him that you’re so…spirited, too. You seem to find the good in everyone and everything, after all.

It infuriates him, nonetheless.

Joel groans to himself. Stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans as an elderly couple rounds on him.

He grumbles a hello to them when they approach. They offer him half-smiles in return, beginning to pick up some of the carvings laid out on the table — turning them, inspecting them.

“This one’s nice,” the man says to his wife. She hums in agreement.

“You got any tigers?” the man asks.

“Tigers?”

“Yeah — I used to love ‘em as a kid.”

“Got what’s on the table,” Joel grumbles.

“You make ‘em custom? I can offer some homemade jam in return — elderberry.”

Joel sighs in annoyance.

“Don’t make ‘em custom. Got what I got.”

The man seems defeated, nodding and walking off without another word. The woman follows closely behind.

Just as they leave, Ellie appears. She sidles up to Joel and shrugs her jacket off. Pulls a chair up next to him.

“There’s so much cool shit here!” she exclaims, too loud. A judgemental set of eyes flit her direction. She glares right back at them.

“Do you mind?” Joel huffs, jaw ticking.

“Jesus, who pissed in your Cheerios?”

“How do you even know what Cheerios are?”

“Don’t,” she admits. “I read it in a book.”

“Of course you did.”

Ellie leans back in her chair, pulling an apple out of her backpack and biting into it. She shuffles some of the carvings around on the table. “Gotta fill in these gaps, man,” she says, juice dribbling down her chin.

Joel ignores her. He sneaks a glance at you; finds that you’re already looking. Your expression is unreadable, gaze unmoving as he studies you.

Despite your upbeat disposition bothering him, he can’t deny that you’re gorgeous: bright, beckoning eyes, siren-like smile — it’s like you’re peering into his soul.

He didn’t think he still had one of those.

“Dude.” Ellie nudges him. He peels his eyes from you reluctantly. “I asked how many takers you’ve had.”

“Uh.” He pretends to think.

“You have no fucking idea, do you? Too busy staring at that girl.”

“Wasn’t starin’,” he clips defensively.

“No? Well she’s coming over here, man.”

Sure enough, you’re striding right toward him, abandoning your post. Joel barely has time to prepare for impact.

He unconsciously straightens up and pulls his hands out of his pockets. He brushes them on his jeans just as you stop in front of his table.

“Hi there,” you say.

“Hi!” Ellie chimes.

You pick up a carving of a two-headed deer. His favorite.

“This is beautiful,” you coo. “The craftsmanship is lovely.” You’re running a finger along the grooves in the wood, holding the piece delicately in the palm of your hand — as if it’s made of glass, not wood. “You have a real gift…”

“Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeat. He ignores how sweet his name sounds coming out of your mouth. You tell him your name, and it fits you, he thinks. It’s pretty.

“How long have you been making them?”

“Just since I got to Jackson. ‘ts somethin’ to pass the time.”

You nod. Continue scanning over the intricacies of the deer. “I was never much of a baker before I got here, either,” you joke, gesturing back toward your table.

“Good one,” Ellie laughs. “You’re funny — isn’t she funny, Joel?”

In his head, he’s glowering at her. Outwardly, he feigns amusement.

“Real funny.”

“I’d love to see how you make these sometime,” you say, then, placing the deer back on the table gingerly. “Do you have a workshop?”

“In our shed,” Ellie pipes in before he can say anything. “You should come by tomorrow! Joel’s off patrol.”

He shoots her daggers. She pretends not to notice.

“I’d love that! I have to work in the kitchen, though. I could come by after?”

Joel starts to shake his head no. Ellie’s hand wraps around his arm like a vice grip. He stills.

“Sure,” he grits.

“I can bring some pastries, if you’d like.”

“Don’t like sweets.”

“Oh,” you say, a little thwarted, but you’re undeterred. You shift on your feet. Chew your bottom lip. “Well, how about something not sweet, then?”

Your brows lift, narrowed eyes on him as you await a response. Joel still isn’t thrilled about the prospect of a visitor. Really, he doesn’t like anyone on his property that isn’t Ellie, or Tommy and Maria if he’s invited them. But you don’t seem so bad, offering to bring him food.

He can probably deal with your sunny disposition in exchange for a full belly. Lord knows he went too long without that luxury, and he’d be a fool to deny himself of it ever again.

So, he agrees, the garbled sure less than enthusiastic leaving his mouth. Still, you don’t seem too offended. In fact, you smirk at him, wordlessly sauntering back to your table, sneaking glances at him every so often for the remainder of the afternoon.

Sure enough, the next evening, while Joel is whittling in the shed, you show up.

You’re wielding a basket of savory hand pies, as promised, and Joel has to stop himself from drooling. They smell incredible. And they’re still warm, somehow, steam wafting off of them even after your walk here.

“Come in,” he gruffs, his nose following the scent like a dog’s as he trails behind you inside.

His set up is minimal: a rocking chair next to a bench, a couple stools he made for when Tommy comes by to play poker. But his works are scattered throughout, every surface in the small room cluttered with little carvings.

He settles atop one of the stools as you begin to wander around the room, plucking sculptures off shelves and awing at them with such genuine admiration, it causes something to pull in his chest.

Every so often, you make a remark about the details in a piece, how the fur on the deer looks real, how you can practically smell the replica evergreen in your grasp.

And something shifts — carried by your kind words through the stuffy shed.

Taken by the slight lilt in your voice when you speak to him, the almost-shy smile that pulls at the corners of your lips — Joel is attracted to you.

He’s following the line of your neck down to your collarbone, ogling at the exposed skin there when you pick another carving up off the shelf. And he feels guilty — he shouldn’t be looking at you like this. You’re just being nice, being neighborly, and he’s gawking at you like you’d have any interest in him.

No; you’re young, beautiful, could do a lot better than an old grump like him.

He averts his gaze quickly when you suddenly set down the tiny, carved bird that had been in your palm, round the workbench and perch yourself atop the stool next to his. You retrieve a handpie out of the basket and pass it over to him.

“It has braised rabbit and carmelized onions in it,” you explain, taking a bite and letting the steam roll out.

He follows suit and — it tastes just as good as it smells, if not better. He’s salivating again, letting the dough melt in his mouth before swallowing.

The two of you eat in comfortable silence, getting through the entire basket in mere minutes.

When you’re finished, you ask him where he’s from.

The question shouldn’t feel like such a shock to the system. But after a year of being in Jackson, successfully avoiding conversation about his life before the outbreak, it sets off a panging between his eyes, a dull ache in his viscera.

“Texas,” he tells you plainly. “From Austin, originally.”

You nod. And you must be able to tell that he’s not used to talking about himself — by the tick of his jaw or the lack of eye contact — he’s not sure. Because you don’t pry. Instead, you say, “you can ask me something.”

He nods. Thinks on it for a moment.

“When did you arrive here? To Jackson?”

Unlike him, you do not grimace at the intrusion. Instead, you tell him: about your parents, their untimely deaths, the harrowing road that led you here. You do not cry, but Joel can see the pain in your shiny eyes.

It’s inevitable; there isn’t a single person here who hasn’t been dealt a bad hand. But you wear your past like a badge of honor, like you’re still grateful, after it all, to be alive.

Joel envies your tenacity.

So when you ask him about Ellie, if she is his daughter, he lets the walls around him down — just an inch. He doesn’t get upset when he stumbles over his words while telling you about Sarah. He finds comfort in confiding in you, in the way you so attentively listen, quietly nodding along as he recalls his version of the end of the world.

“Thank you,” you say when he’s done, burying his hands back in his pockets.

“For what?”

“For sharing that with me. I know it can be difficult to relive it.”

“I relive it everyday,” he admits. “Everything reminds me of her in one way or another.”

“I understand,” you nod. He believes you do.

So sweet, gaze like honey, you are an enigma to him. He hasn’t met many people who are kind just for the sake of it — not in a long while. Maybe that’s why he’d been so bothered by it at the market. It had felt almost unnatural to him, bound to be laced with an ulterior motive.

He’s still learning how to trust people again. It doesn’t come easily after twenty-odd years of rationing it like the pills he’d stowed. Still, there is something innate about baring his soul to you. Letting you in through the cracks in his battered being. You are safe, he’s sure of it; benevolence radiating from you like warmth.

It drips off your tongue when you ask him to show you how he does his craft — slips down your fluttering lashes. No longer can he deny you of anything — he’s accepted this swiftly — and so he obliges.

A half-whittled fox materializes from his coat pocket, along with his blade. He passes both to you and pulls his stool closer to yours.

He guides you, taking your hand in his, encouraging the press of the blade into the wood. Shows you how to round out a corner with a subtle twist of the knife. You’re a fast learner, Joel notes, attentive, taking every instruction like gospel.

The slow drag of steel, your fingers wrapped tightly around the handle; you’re so focused that you jump slightly when he places a reassuring hand on your knee.

“Doin’ great, darlin’,” he says, and your lips pull around pearlescent teeth. Joel feels as enraptured by you as you do the carving — the loose tendrils of hair that drape over your shoulder, the clinging of cotton to your soft curves. Though he hardened into stone a long time ago, he feels smelted in your presence. So he cannot help it when his fingers begin to drift up your leg, settling at your side as he turns his body toward yours.

The blade stalls, tip still stuck into the wood, puncturing the fox’s non-existent spine, and your face lifts.

“Is this okay?” he whispers. You nod, gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips.

You’re so close like this; Joel can smell the floral perfume dappled along your neck, can feel your warm breath fanning his face. He has half a mind to stop himself from sealing the sliver of distance left between you. But then you’re sighing, placing the blade and the wooden fox on the tabletop. And it’s your turn to guide him — winding your delicate fingers around his wrist and settling his hand at the small of your back.

The air in the tiny workshop grows heavy with unspoken desire, a longing to disrupt; to create. Your body forms to his languidly, arms interlocking behind his neck, fingers weaving in his hair to pull him closer to you. And then your lips press to his — hesitant at first, then not. You drink from each other until you are drunk, breathless and giddy when you separate.

“That was nice,” you whisper, and Joel chuckles.

“Just nice?”

“Great,” you amend. “It was great. Better than I imagined, even.”

“You imagined this?”

“Yes,” you smirk. “On a loop since I first saw you at the market.”

He pulls you back in. Gives you another chaste kiss. “For good measure.”

“Joel,” you say then, “will you and Ellie come by mine on Christmas? I could even cook — it’s just-”

“Yes,” he’s accepting before you can finish. “I’d love that. As long as you make more of those,” he gestures toward the empty basket on the workbench.

“That can be arranged,” you grin.

As soon as you leave that evening — sent off with a goodbye muttered between slotted mouths — Joel starts on your Christmas present.

end notes: thank you for reading! Please consider reblogging or leaving a comment if you enjoyed <3

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller oneshot #joel miller x reader #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal as joel miller #pedro pascal #pedrostoriesgift23 #pedrostories

446 notes · View notes

storiesforallfandoms · 11 months ago

Text

santa's sister in law ~ bernard the elf;the santa clause

word count: 4292

request?: no

description: in which he is adamantly against the in laws coming to the north pole, until he meets santa's sister in law

pairing: bernard the elf x female!human!reader

warnings: christmas fluff, sylvia sucking a little bit but that's just canon

masterlist (one, two, three)

Merry Christmas everyone! 🎄

a special christmas gift for @omeletdreamer 😌

Bernard was firmly against Carol's family coming to the North Pole. He liked Carol, don't get him wrong. She was a fantastic Mrs. Claus, and he loved her idea to start an elf school at the Pole. He understood that it was hard to adjust to life at the Pole, especially while she was pregnant. But bringing outsiders there was a big no-no. They were already pushing things by letting Laura, Neil, and Lucy in on the secret of Santa.

But all of his protests fell on deaf ears. Santa wanted Carol to have her family while he was going to be busy, and the other elves just wanted Carol to be happy. It was a thousand against one. So, Santa got into his sleigh and flew to get Carol's parents while the elves fixed up the Pole to look like Canada.

"This is never going to work," Bernard said to Curtis. "There's no way they're going to think this is Canada. Even if they believe these ridiculous store signs, they'll never believe Canada is inhabited by a bunch of children."

"Can you not be so negative for once?" Curtis asked. "It'll be fine."

"We are seriously pushing it with how many people know about the Pole and Santa. You can't blame me for being stressed out over it."

"Everything will be fine, Bernard. We have a plan. We got this."

Bernard huffed a sigh and walked away. He was tired of being brushed off like this. He didn't become head elf for nothing. He knew what he was doing. If only someone would just listen to him.

As he was walking away, he heard something in the distance. He looked up to see Santa's sleigh breaching through the entrance to the Pole. He couldn't see them yet, but he imagined Carol's parents in there, asleep from Sandman's magic, expecting to wake up in "Canada". He cringed to himself. There's really no going back now.

"I need a hot cocoa," he muttered to himself.

The kitchen elves were busy baking away when Bernard walked in. Carol had told them her mom's favorite cookies so they were hard at work making a batch to welcome Mrs. Newman. They were wearing comically large chef's hats pulled down to cover their pointy ears, which made Bernard glad his hair was long enough to do that naturally.

"Hi Bernard," Abby said, giving him a bright smile upon noticing him. "Want a hot cocoa?"

"I'd love one, Abby," he responded, sitting down at one of the tables.

She rushed off to make it for him. He picked up a cookie from a plate in the middle of the table to eat while waiting. Abby returned with his hot cocoa. He blew on it, disturbing the steady steam coming from the drink. He hoped that escaping to the kitchen would give him some time to prepare for Carol's parents.

He was taking his first sip of his hot cocoa when the kitchen doors opened again and in walked Santa, Mrs. Claus and her family in tow. Bernard nearly choked on his drink.

"And here's our kitchen," Santa was saying. "Oh, and Bernard's here too! Bernard is my, uh, he's my...assistant."

Bernard tried not to roll his eyes at the title.

He reluctantly stood and plastered a smile on his face. "Hi, nice to meet you...eh."

Carol's dad shook his hand while her mom pulled him in for an embrace. Bernard wasn't prepared for a third person to approach; a young woman with a smile so beautiful it left him speechless.

"This is my sister," Carol said. "We didn't know she was coming too."

"I'm (Y/N)," the woman said. "Mom and dad mentioned they were coming for a visit, so I asked Scott if it was alright for me to tag along."

"Of course it would be alright!" Sylvia cut in. "Scott's already had Carol from us for so long, he'd never say no to bringing Carol's loving sister with us to finally see her again."

Sylvia had a smile on her face but there was venom in her words. (Y/N) cringed and tried to ignore her mother's comment. "It's really lovely here so far. I'm glad I could come."

Bernard was still tongue tied. He kept opening and closing his mouth like an idiot trying to figure out something to say. (Y/N) was watching him, waiting, while Scott and Carol shared an amused look.

"Let's show you the rest of the place," Carol said, putting an arm around her sister. "We'll meet up with Bernard again later."

(Y/N) smiled and waved goodbye as the group left the kitchen. Once they were gone, Bernard felt like he was freed from a spell. He let out a long breath and slumped back down to the table. His hot cocoa had cooled down enough that he finished the rst of it in two gulps.

~~~~~~

Bernard was up late that night doing his rounds of the workshop. All the other elves had left for the night, but Bernard was often the last one up making sure everything was shut down and nothing was left out of place. With the in laws visiting, he was also making sure the workshop was locked up so no one would accidentally wander in and discover everything.

He was preparing to leave when he noticed the door to the kitchen was slightly ajar. He was sure all the baker elves had left for the night, but maybe someone had stayed behind. He poked his head into the room and almost gasped aloud when he saw it was (Y/N) who was leaning against the counter, a mug of hot cocoa in her hands. She was in her pajamas, clearly preparing for bed. Bernard was about to back away and leave her be, until she looked up form her mug and caught him. She smiled and waved to him.

"Good evening, Bernard," she said.

There was no escaping now. He stepped into the kitchen and cleared his throat, trying not to seem as weird as he had earlier. He discretely made sure his ears were tucked away under his hair.

"Hi," he said. Simple, easy. You can't mess up a "hi".

"What are you doing up so late?" she asked.

"I could ask you the same thing."

She giggled. "Touché. I was having trouble sleeping so I decided to come out for a hot cocoa. That nice baker, Abby I think? She offered to make me one before she left. I was told she makes the best hot cocoa in all of the town."

"Oh, she does. She's the one you go to when you want a good hot drink made."

"She works magic, I'm sure."

Bernard tried not to let his smile falter. "You have no idea."

A silence fell over them. (Y/N) softy blew on her hot cocoa before taking a sip from it. A small trail of foam stuck to her upper lip as she pulled her mug away. Bernard couldn't stop himself from chuckling.

"What?" she asked.

"You just...you have something..." He gestured to his top lip.

She ran a thumb along her top lip, only smearing the foam more.

"Here, let me." Bernard reached up and wiped the foam off with his own thumb. He was suddenly very aware of their closeness when he looked into her eyes. Any words he could ever say were stuck in his throat yet again and he could only imagine how insane he looked, staring at her with wide eyes.

"Thank you," she said. "And thank you for having us here, too. I know it's a busy time of year for you guys. We don't mean to impose."

It took Bernard a moment to remember the story they had been telling Carol's parents: that Scott was a toy maker in Canada and that's why he would be so busy this time of year and needed someone to be there with Carol while she was pregnant.

"It's not imposition," Bernard assured her. "If anything, I think it's going to make Sa - Scott feel better to have you guys here for Carol while he's working."

(Y/N) nodded. "It's very nice of him to have us here considering how my parents tend to treat him."

Bernard thought back to the comment Sylvia had made earlier. The strained relationship between Scott and his in-laws wasn't anything new to him. Scott had mentioned it a few times before, most recently when he was voicing his concerns about bringing Bud and Sylvia to the Pole with Bernard in private. It was evident that both Newman sisters also noticed how their parents treated Scott, and it seemed neither of them were too happy with it.

"I understand why mom and dad get upset," (Y/N) continued. "One minute Carol was a proud principal at the local middle school, and then the next thing we know she's writing us to tell us she got married to a guy we've never even heard of and moved off to Canada to be with him. I mean, even I was skeptical then. But when she'd write to me about Scott and about being here, it was clear that she was so happy and she found the man of her dreams. Who are we to judge the quickness that they got married? As long as she's safe and happy, which she clearly is. But mom and dad don't see it that way. Dad is still convinced that Scott is a cult leader who stole Carol away or something."

(Y/N) paused and looked at Bernard. He had been listening as she spoke, just nodding along and not saying a word. She chuckled a little and shook her head. "Sorry, I'm rambling on about my family drama."

"No! It's-it's fine. Trust me, I've heard similar stuff from Sa - Scott."

She gave him a look. "You keep stuttering on Scott's name."

"Yeah."

He couldn't think of a better explanation besides that. He felt an unfamiliar burning sensation in his cheeks. He wasn't sure if it was embarrassment or just from being so close to her that made him feel that way. She giggled, though; a sound more beautiful than any of the twinkling bells that were often heard around the Pole.

"I'm just glad to be here," she said. "And I'm glad mom and dad can be here for when the baby is born. Maybe that will help them be a little less harsh on Scott."

She finished what was left in her mug and looked around the oversized kitchen. When Bernard realized she was probably trying to figure out where to put the dirty mug, he said, "Oh, I can take care of that for you."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. You're our guest, and I can handle this."

She smiled and passed him the mug. "Well, thanks for talking to me, Bernard. I guess I should try to sleep again."

"Goodnight, (Y/N)."

"Goodnight, Bernard." She started towards the door, but then paused to turn back to him. "I hope you're not too busy tomorrow. I'd like to spend more time with you."

His face was on fire as she left.

~~~~~~

For the first time in his thousands of years as the head elf, Bernard wasn't concerned with his head elf duties. Of course he was still there if Santa needed him, but he decided not to spend the entire day in the factory and to seek out (Y/N) to spend time with her. She was delighted to see him and was more than happy to accept his offer to show her around "Canada" for the day.

This became a regular occurrence for a few days. Bernard would make sure to check in often to see if he was needed, but if he wasn't he was with (Y/N). He would feel bad about taking her away from her time with her family, but it seemed her parents were more concerned with fussing over Carol than they were about all four of them spending time together. And (Y/N) also assured Bernard that she was making time for Carol and her family as well as spending time with him.

Bernard was more than well aware he was falling in love with (Y/N), and he was also more than well aware of how bad that was. Elves falling in love was nothing new; he had officiated quite a few elf weddings in his time. But falling in love with a human was out of the question. Elves were immortal, humans were not. Scott and Carol were different - upon becoming Santa and Mrs. Claus, their aging processes had slowed down considerably. They weren't completely immortal, but they weren't aging as fast as normal humans did. But that wasn't possible for a human that an elf fell in love with. Even if (Y/N) felt the same way towards Bernard, she would still continue to age while he would stay the same for the rest of time.

But he couldn't stop himself. He was falling fast and hard. Carol's due date was creeping closer, and once it came it would only be a matter of time before the Newman family would have to go back home, meaning that (Y/N) would leave and likely would not come back. That thought hurt Bernard.

Bernard was approaching where (Y/N) was staying one day when she slipped out of the house instead. He was surprised; she had never left before he had gotten there before.

As he got closer he realized that her face was tearstained.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

(Y/N) jumped and turned to look at him. "Oh, Bernard. Sorry, I didn't see you coming. Nothing's wrong."

He was about to point out that she was very obviously upset over something when the door opened again and Sylvia slipped out. She looked like she was about to say something, but she noticed Bernard and gave him a tight smile, one that he had come to learn was very much her fake smile.

"Hello, Bernard," she said. "I was just having a conversation with my daughter. We were talking about spending the day with Carol. We haven't had an all girls day since we arrived. So, unfortunately, I don't think she'll be able to spend time with you today."

"No mom," (Y/N) said. "I said I would join you later for girls time. Besides, you know Carol has an appointment with the doctor. She won't be ready till later."

Her mother was smiling but her eyes were glaring daggers into the younger Newman girl. (Y/N) held the glare before turning to Bernard and taking hold of his arm. She didn't say anything as she dragged him away. He followed anyways, wanting to get as far away from Sylvia as he could.

"God, I don't understand what is wrong with her," (Y/N) said, letting go of Bernard long enough to wipe the tears from her eyes. "I swear she just doesn't want Carol and I to be happy."

"What was she saying?" Bernard asked.

"Oh, she was going off about the fact that I spend so much time with you. Had her usual rant about Scott taking her precious daughter away from her and dad, and then said she'll be damned if she lets it happen with me too. Basically tried to guilt me into not spending time with you today by saying that Carol was upset that she didn't get to see me much, which I know isn't true because just the other day Carol was saying how happy she was that you and I were getting along."

She shook her head. "I'm so sick of it. It's like she can't wrap her head around the fact that maybe, just maybe, life is so busy here that Carol doesn't always have time to visit. It has nothing to do with Scott being manipulative or a cult leader or whatever conspiracy her and dad have cooked up on a certain day."

Bernard listened in silence. He felt bad that (Y/N) had to have these issues with her mother. Carol was hearing it all now, but he was sure (Y/N) heard much more of it when she was back home with her parents.

None of the Newmans could ever understand the way things were with Carol and Scott. They could never know why things were like this, but they likely wouldn't understand even if they knew.

Unless...

It was an idea that shocked even Bernard that he had it. Head elf of the North Pole, Santa's righthand man himself, considering such a thing? After being so against Carol's family coming to the Pole? It was preposterous. But his brain was so clouded by love for (Y/N) that he wasn't thinking proper.

"Come with me," he said. He didn't wait for an answer, just took hold of her hand and pulled her towards the workshop.

His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in hips pointed ears. He had to remind himself there was no going back. This was going to be huge, and it could likely get him into a world of trouble.

He opened the doors to the workshop and (Y/N) stepped in. She looked around in awe at the working elves, most of which were not hiding their ears as the workshop was supposed to be off limits to the Newmans. None of them seemed to notice the two of them enter, and if they did, nothing was said.

Bernard watched (Y/N), nervously waiting for her reaction.

"Is this...what I think it is?" she asked him. "No, it can't be. I must be dreaming. I fell and hit my head and now I'm in a coma having a very vivid dream that all of these small people who are supposed to be Canadians have pointed ears like they're elves."

When she looked over at him, Bernard had taken off his hat and allowed his ears to peak out from under his hair.

"I've lost it," she decided.

"You haven't," he assured her. "All of this is real. It's why Carol hasn't been able to visit as much, or why you couldn't visit until now. Look, there's so much to know about all of this. So much that I want to tell you but technically I can't because there are strict rules about humans knowing about the North Pole."

(Y/N) had another quick moment of shock that she was able to very quickly recover from. "Rules that you're currently breaking by showing me...Santa's workshop. By admitting that you're an elf, these are all elves...oh my God, my sister is Mrs. Claus."

"It is all very complicated," he said. "But you deserve to know that Carol is truly happy here. She's not being held against her will, Santa isn't manipulative or holding her captive. He loves her so much that he risked you and your parents finding out about him - about us - so that all of you could be here for her while she's pregnant."

(Y/N) still seemed to be stunned. She looked around the bustling factory again, her eyes wide with wonder.

"Wait," she said. "But...if you all went through so much to make us think this was Canada, to keep who Scott is a secret...then why are you telling me now?"

Because I love you. Because I want you to stay. Because I want to be with you more than anything, even though I know that will never happen.

"Because I want you to know the truth," he replied. "About all of this. About...about me."

She was looking at him. He didn't know what else to say, so he just looked back. He waited for an answer. He willed her to say something, anything.

She didn't say anything, though. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed Bernard. It was quick, almost hesitant, and when she pulled away she looked embarrassed.

"Sorry," she said. "I...should I have done that? I should've asked first. Was it okay that I did that?"

He smiled. "It was more than okay."

"Okay. I'm...I'm going to do it again, if that's still okay."

Bernard chuckled and moved in to kiss (Y/N) first. He had only ever kissed one person before - when he was young one of the other elves had gave him a quick peck on the lips and ran away afterwards. Not exactly something glamorous or anything like that. So he was a little worried about whether or not he was a good kisser. Although, something felt so natural about kissing (Y/N), like he could never do it wrong even if he tried.

He paused when he realized a slight hush had fallen over the workshop. He and (Y/N) pulled away to see that all the working elves had stopped what they were doing to look at the two of them.

"Back to work!" Bernard commanded. They all quickly fell back into what they had been doing before. "Bunch of gossips, all of them. Everyone in town will know about this by nightfall."

"I don't blame them. I'd assume it's not every day that they see an elf kissing a human."

He chuckled. "No, I guess not."

They decided to step out of the workshop to talk more in private. (Y/N) looped her arm through Bernard's as they walked, a gesture that suddenly felt much more intimate than it had before.

"I guess it goes without saying that I can't tell anyone about this," she said. "Not even my parents."

"No. Which I know is a big ask, but we can't have the secret of Santa going around," Bernard explained.

"Not like anyone would believe me. They'd think I was crazy if I went home talking about how my brother in law is Santa and how I started crushing on one of his elves. They'd sent me to an institute for sure."

Bernard smiled at her word choice. So she had liked him this whole time, too. Had it been obvious? Or had she been trying to contain it just as much as he did?

"How...would things work...for us then?" she asked.

It was the question he was dreading. The one he continued to ask himself despite knowing the answer to: it wouldn't. He couldn't let (Y/N) hold on to him when she left the Pole. She'd likely never see him again, which was for the best.

Seeing the look on his face, (Y/N) stopped. "No, do not tell me it's not going to work."

"It can't work, (Y/N). There's too much complications between a human and an elf being romantically linked. It's never happened before, and for good reason."

"There's a first for everything."

He shook his head. "No, there can't be a first for this. I can't let you throw away any other romantic opportunities you have for me. We may never see each other after this visit."

"My sister is married to Santa. There's no way I'm not coming back after this. And besides, long distance relationships are a thing."

"This one would be...very long distance."

She slid her arm from his and took his hand in hers. "I'm willing to try. I like you too much to give up without a fight."

Every rational part of his brain was screaming for him to stop. He could not let things go further. It was better for her if they ended everything after that first kiss and went hteir separate ways.

But the less rational part of his brain was louder than the rest, telling him not to give up this chance at happiness outside of work. He deserved to love and to be loved, just like anyone else in the world. If it worked for Scott, it had to work for him too, right?

He sighed and squeezed her hands. "It won't be easy."

"I don't expect it to be."

"You won't be able to be here a lot unless you're willing to give up everything the way Carol did."

"That's fine, we can make that work."

"And if you do end up coming here permanently, you can't tell anyone who I really am, or who Scott and Carol really are. You'll have to lie to everyone in your life. Is that something you can be okay with?"

(Y/N) stepped closer to him so that their noses were nearly touching. "I'm already lying about Scott and Carol. What's one more lie about the man I love?"

Love.

It was enough for him to abandon all hope at resisting her. He closed the space between them, kissing her again so passionately that it made her head spin. She wrapped her arms around his neck to steady herself, while he wrapped his arms around her waist.

He could've kissed her forever. He could've stood there, wrapped around her and her wrapped around him, the cold nipping at them but barely bothering them, forever. He wanted to take this moment and freeze it, to never have to go back to his busy life as Santa's right hand elf ever again.

But she pulled away first, resting her forehead against his.

"I did promise my mom a girl's day," she said with a sigh. "And I think if I blow her off for this, she'll probably actually kill me."

"I guess I'll have to let you go then."

But he didn't, and she didn't let go of him. They laughed and kissed again.

It would be another several minutes before he would finally (and reluctantly) let her go.

#bernard the elf #bernard the elf imagine #bernard the elf x reader #david krumholtz #david krumholtz imagine #david krumholtz x reader #the santa clause #christmas #merry christmas #happy holidays #christmas imagine #imagine #one shot #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

444 notes · View notes

whatsnewalycat · 11 months ago

Text

Once in a Blue Moon

One Shot // Dieter Bravo x HotelStaff!F!Reader

Description: You're the only person working when a Christmas blizzard rolls into town and snows you in with a notoriously difficult guest, Dieter Bravo.

Rating: E (Explicit 18+ Only)

Word Count: 12.9k+

Tags/Warnings: one shot, slight dub con elements (power imbalance, isolation, alcohol) although both parties are enthusiastically consenting, hotel guest x hotel staff, blizzard, Minnesota because that’s my best friend, dieter generally being an ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ ass bitch, kinda enemies to lovers???, Christmas, loneliness, palm reading, food and eating, cannabis, conspiracy theory mention, fluuuuuufffff, smut, dirty talk, a dash of conflict, painting stuff, power outage, poverty mention

Note: Merry Crisis! This is part of a secret Santa gift exchange and a present for my dearest Syl (@all-the-way-down-here @im-sylien). I hope you enjoy!! Have an excellent holiday, friend ❤️🎄

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 2:00 PM

“We are right in the bullseye for what people are already calling The Great Christmas Storm. Blizzard Warnings remain in effect throughout most of Minnesota until Tuesday morning. Forty to fifty mile-an-hour winds, combined with an anticipated twelve to twenty-four inches of heavy snowfall, are expected to create whiteout conditions, making travel dangerous or impossible in the Blizzard Warning areas. If you must travel—”

You kill the engine and look up through the windshield at Blue Moon Manor. The white exterior of the three-story Tudor Revival mansion seems to glow in contrast to the dark clouds hanging overhead. Some rich guy built it as a family home in 1905. It stayed in the family for over a century before a property management company scooped it up. Now the ornate family heirloom is a boutique hotel. Go figure.

You open your car door and grab your backpack from the backseat, swinging it over your shoulder as you step out of the vehicle. As you walk up the path to the staff entrance, snowflakes start floating down from the gray, low-hanging clouds like teeny-tiny feathers, landing on your cheeks and nose, melting on impact.

So it begins.

You press your security code into the door lock, waiting for the quiet beep-beep-beep of approval before shoving the door open to the back office.

Your coworker Jenna looks up at you when you enter giving you a nod of greeting as she zips up her jacket, “How is it out there?”

“Just starting,” you drop your backpack on the built-in bench and take off your stocking cap, shaking out your hair as you ask, “How’s it been here?”

“Let’s just say I’m ready to go home and drink some wine,” she snorts, “Should be a piece of cake for you, though. 202, 203, and 101 checked out early because of the storm, and the check-in today cancelled.”

“Storm of the century,” you mutter, “Merry fucking Christmas.”

“I hear it’s gonna get nasty. Do you really have to stay the whole time?”

You wave her off as you peel off your jacket, “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry I can’t cover some of the shifts.”

“Really, it‘s fine,” you insist while hanging up your coat, “Bossman said he’d pay me double time to stay ‘til he gets back to town.”

“You’re goddamn right he’s gonna pay you double time.”

Trying to change the subject, you go over to the daily checklist, “Ok, 202, 203, and 101 are gone,” you frown, running over your mental tally of guests, “So, what? Just 302?”

“Just 302. Lucky you.”

“Yeah, lucky me,” you roll your eyes, then look out the window at the snowfall, heavier now, “You better head out before you get stuck here with me and Mr. Fluoride Mind Control.”

“I suppose,” she sighs, grabbing her purse, “Well, have a Merry Christmas?”

“You too,” you smile and meet her eyes as she extends her arms and beckons you closer. You groan, but accept the hug, face pressing against her puffy winter coat.

When she steps back and starts towards the door, she tells you, “Don’t have too much fun now.”

“I’ll try not to,” you snort, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, letting in an icy-cold draft of snowflakes before closing it behind her.

You sigh and wiggle the mouse on the computer. The second you do, the service bell dings.

“Fucking already?” you mutter to yourself as you follow the floorplan through the kitchen, into the formal dining room, then finally arrive at the archway to the parlor.

You find the man staying in Suite 302 leaning against the grand piano, thrumming his fingers on the shiny surface.

Wearing pajama pants and a grubby t-shirt, chestnut curls shooting up every which way, he sighs and taps the call bell again. The shrill ding makes your eye twitch a little, but you paste on an amenable smile, “Mr. Bravo, how can I help you?”

He spins towards you and looks at you over his sunglasses, dark eyes flicking up and down your body before settling on your face, “Can I get some towels?”

“Of cour—”

“And can you do that thing where you fold them into animals?”

You furrow your brow and tilt your head at him, lips parting to ask what he means, but he preemptively answers.

“Some hotels fold them into swans or elephants or whatever. You know what I mean? Towel animals.”

There’s no way he’s not fucking with you.

“I, uhh…”

He raps a knuckle on the piano, then saunters off, calling back, “Thanks, you’re the best!”

You stand there for a moment, mouth agape as you watch him disappear up the stairs, thinking: No fucking way I’m doing that.

And yet, half an hour later, you’re sitting in the back office watching a YouTube video on how to fold two towels into an elephant.

Following along with the step-by-step, you make the legs. Easy enough. The head ends up looking like an uncircumcised cock with wings, though. You set it on top of the legs and take a step back, glancing between your creation and the video’s example. As a final touch, you stick a couple googly-eye stickers on it.

“Good enough,” you sigh and tuck the microfiber monstrosity under your arm.

When you arrive at Suite 302, you pause for a moment, turning your ear towards the door. You hear the old wooden floor creaking as he walks around humming to himself. It smells like paint and skunk spray.

You swallow your buzzing nerves and knock on the door, fidgeting a little as you wait.

Inside, a fit of coughing erupts, and he chokes out, “Hang—on—”

His footsteps squeak across the floor to the kitchen. Clink of glass. Water faucet. The coughing stops for a few silent seconds, then he groans and the footstep squeaks grow closer.

A cloud of weed smoke bitch slaps you when the door to Suite 302 swings open.

He frowns at you, crossing his arms in front of his broad chest as he leans against the doorframe, “Hey, uhhh…”

“I got your towels,” you smile, presenting the towel elephant to him.

His eyes drop to the elephant, then he raises his eyebrows, “What is this?”

“An elephant?”

He glances between you and the elephant, flattening his mouth into a line before telling you, “Looks like a dick and balls with googly-eyes.”

The force you use to hold down your laughter makes you snort.

So fucking professional.

Your eyes meet his. An amused smile graces his lips as he takes the elephant.

“Anything else I can get for you?”

“Yeah, can I, uhhh… can I get some snacks? Something sweet, something savory.”

“I’ll see what I can find,” you nod, peering over his shoulder into the hazy room, “Just a reminder, we don’t allow smoking.”

“Oh, it’s not cigarette smoke.”

“I can smell.”

It goes straight from your brain out your mouth, drenched in sarcasm. So fucking professional.

His eyebrows shoot up in a surprised expression.

“I apologize, Mr. Bravo—”

“Oh, fuck that. Don’t,” he chuckles, waving off your stammering, “Call me Dieter, by the way. Mr. Bravo makes me sound like a fucking… karaoke machine.”

“Ok,” you chuckle, then put your customer-facing demeanor back on and tell him, “I’ll go see what we have for snacks. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.”

He pushes off the doorframe, giving you a nod of acknowledgment as he steps back into Suite 302 and closes the door.

You return sometime later with a silver serving tray hosting a variety of cheeses, dried fruit, olives, spreads, and crackers. When you knock, he hollers to leave it outside the door, so you do.

The remaining daylight you spend cleaning.

Blue Moon Manor has eight suites: one on the first floor, four on the second, and two on the third. Working from the bottom up, you rid the recently vacated units of dirty dishes and trash, then collect the linens and haul them up to the laundry room on the third floor.

By this time, the serving tray you left outside Suite 302 has disappeared. The pot smoke, however, dissipated throughout the entire level. It seems even stronger than the last time you were up here. Almost like he completely disregarded your polite reminder of the no smoking policy.

You decide to table the issue temporarily. If he was still smoking by the time you returned to take his dinner order, you’d remind him again.

The prospect of confronting what your boss referred to as “a very important client” intimidates you, though, if you’re being honest.

Not that you’re particularly intimidated by him as a person or anything.

Sure, he has an IMDb page and some awards, but beyond that, he’s just another entitled guy.

It’s more so the influence he has on your employment that intimidates you. Sometimes your feral mouth speaks before your poorly-domesticated brain can articulate a proper response. If you were to say something combative, and this guy complained to your boss, you’d probably lose your job—a loss you cannot afford.

When it’s time to take his dinner order, you gather yourself before knocking on his door, repeating your script in your head as you wait. Then the door swings open and you’re absolutely blindsided.

He answers while wringing his hair out with a towel. It’s one of the two you brought him earlier. You can tell because there’s still a googly-eye stuck to it, pupil shaking around inside its little plastic dome. The other towel clings to life around his waist, parting to show off a slice of his tan thigh.

Regrettably, you follow your knee-jerk reaction to ogle him, looking him up and down before returning to his expectant eyes.

This results in an uncomfortable staring contest, where you’re trying to make your mouth work and he’s trying to figure out what the fuck you want, as made evident when he asks, “Do you need something?”

“Dinner,” you blurt out, then shake your head, “Sorry, I mean—What’ll you be having for dinner, Mr. Bravo?”

“What’re the options?”

“Chicken roulade or salmon.”

He groans, throwing his hair-drying towel over his shoulder.

“Do you guys have any normal food, or does it have to be upscale bullshit?”

You pause to once again gather yourself, and in that two-second silence he decides, “I’ll take the chicken roulade.”

“Dining room or room service?”

He shrugs, looking over his shoulder into the suite, then back at you, “Dining room.”

“Fabulous. While I’m here, can I take your tray from earlier?”

“Let me get it,” he mumbles, closing the door. While he’s gone, you go over the lines you rehearsed, and when he opens the door to hand you the tray, you tell him, “Just as a reminder, we don’t allow indoor smoking—”

“Look, usually I open the window and use a doob-tube, but, uhhh… the weather outside won’t allow it. I don’t want the wind to fuck up the crank windows.”

“But still—”

“And not that it’s any of your business, but I have a medical condition that I treat with cannabis. This is prescribed to me—”

“What? I’m not—”

“Besides, it should be legal—”

“Ok, you know what? Fine! Smoke away, but don’t be surprised when the manager fines you for it, plus the cost of extra cleaning charges.”

He crosses his arms and straightens his spine, “I can live with that.”

“Great,” you snip, taking a big step back, “Dinner will be ready at six.”

He closes the door a little harder than necessary and you stomp down to the kitchen, fuming the whole way.

Lucky for you, dinner prep involves flattening chicken breasts with a meat tenderizer, which helps tame your frustration. As you follow the recipe, sprinkling seasonings and feta cheese onto the breasts and rolling them up like neat little sleeping bags, potential consequences for your outburst run through your mind. Bad review, getting canned, all that.

Maybe if you hadn’t been dealing with this guy’s shit for the past two weeks, you would’ve been able to handle the situation with a level head. But his haughtiness is fucking grating. He can’t just answer a question or make a simple request. It has to be a whole production that makes it clear: he thinks he’s better than you.

By the time you finish cooking, though, you come to peace with the fact that you’ll probably have to kiss his ass to rectify the situation.

When the grandfather clock in the parlor chimes six times, you plate the chicken roulade and bring it to the dining room, slightly surprised to see him already seated at the table.

“Mr. Bravo,” you smile in greeting.

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you repeat as you set the plate down on his place setting, “Can I get you anything to drink? We have a Sauvignon Blanc that would pair well with the chicken—”

“I’ll take it.”

You go to the sideboard and find a bottle of wine. As you pour him a glass, he wrings his hands together and glances around, “Anyone else coming down?”

“Just you.”

“What about you, where do you eat?”

You shrug, setting the bottle down beside his glass, “In the kitchen.”

“You could eat out here.”

“Oh. It’s fine, sir. Really, I don’t mind.”

His nose wrinkles up under his sunglasses and he shifts in seat. You study him for a moment, sensing an air of loneliness about him.

“Unless you want me to join you.”

He shrugs, “Seems silly for both of us to eat alone.”

“So true,” you nod, clasping your hands together, “I’ll uhhh… I’ll be right back.”

When you return with your plate, you sit across the table from him. An uncomfortable silence settles in the room. The kind that makes your skin feel too tight and amplifies every little noise. The chewing, the utensils clinking, the wet swallows, everything seems ten times louder than reality.

Clearly, it’s not just the two of you in this dining room. There’s a third guest, the giant invisible elephant wedged between you.

He finishes his glass of wine and pours another, asking, “Do you want some?”

“I… shouldn’t.”

“Uh-huh,” he raises his eyebrows, looking at you over his sunglasses, “Do you want some anyway?”

You consider it, squishing your face to one side with indecision.

“I won’t tell on you, sweetheart, I promise.”

Your eyes flick to his, finding a sort of amused playfulness there.

“Fine,” you smirk and push back your chair, going over to the wine cabinet to grab a glass, “Just one.”

“No one’s twisting your arm about it.”

You return to your seat and reach across the table to grab the bottle, pouring only a small helping.

“Cheers,” he holds up his glass.

You mimic the sentiment and take a big sip, then tell him, “Mr. Bravo—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod, glancing at your wine glass, “I, umm… I apologize if I was rude earlier.” You meet his eyes and shrug, “If I’m being completely transparent, my boss will have my ass if the whole third floor smells like weed when he comes in next week.”

He watches you as he absorbs this, face inscrutable.

“But if you want, I can show you the back patio. You can smoke out there all you want, I really don’t care about that part.”

Leaning back in his seat, he takes a swig of wine, then says, “Fine.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” you smile.

“Uh-huh,” he sets down his glass, wiggling around a little as he tells you, “For the record, you weren’t being that rude. Well, maybe a little, but… I don’t mind. Suits you better than the bullshit customer service thing you do.”

You blink at him, biting your tongue, then return to cutting your food and making small talk, “Well, I hope you didn’t have any big plans for the holidays. Traveling might be tough the next couple days.”

He shakes his head, “Not doing it this year.”

“Not doing Christmas?”

“Nope. What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas? Any plans?”

“You’re looking at ‘em,” you gesture around the room with your wine glass and take a sip.

“No shit, you have to work?”

“I’ll be working until the storm passes. Tuesday at the earliest, by the sounds of it.”

“Yuck. You guys have a staff bedroom, or do you get to stay in a suite?”

“I have my pick of the empty suites.”

He pokes the food on his plate with his fork, “Which one are you picking?”

You chuckle a little before answering. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you detect a certain vibe coming from him. Not only that, but he’s attractive in a way you’re not entirely immune to.

“I think I’m gonna try a new one each night,” you tell him, “101 for sure, maybe 301 and 203. Not 201–“

“Oh well obviously, fuck 201.”

“Obviously,” you laugh, shaking your head.

He smiles at you, sparking heat at your center, then both return your attention to your food. The rest of the meal passes in a much more comfortable silence. Not wanting to overstay your welcome around a guest or veer further into unprofessionalism, you rise as soon as you finish.

“I’ll get out of your hair, but if you need anything, ring the bell. I’ll be around.”

“Sure,” he studies you over his sunglasses as you gather your dirty dishes, his jaw ticking back and forth, then he says, “Hey, thanks for keeping me company. It was nice.”

You want to tell him you thought it was nice, too. Or maybe say something about how it felt like a mildly off-putting but not entirely unsuccessful first date. Not at all what you assumed it would be like.

Instead, you give him a polite smile and nod, “Of course.”

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:00 PM

DING

You look up from the cribbage game on your phone at him, just a few strides away but apparently oblivious to your presence. He fidgets with the sleeve of his high-drama fuzzy jacket, shifting his weight from side-to-side. Waiting.

“Hi—”

“Holy shit!” He startles, gripping his chest, “Where the fuck did you come from?”

Before you can stop it, you snort out a laugh, then cover your face reflexively, “I’m so sorry Mr.—”

“Dieter.”

“Dieter,” you nod as you rise to your feet, stuffing your wide grin into a neat smile, “How can I help you, sir?”

“Call me a fucking ambulance for the heart attack you just gave me,” he jokes, shaking his head, then takes a step towards you, “No, uhh… I was gonna step out to smoke, do you wanna join me?”

“Oh—umm,” you chuckle a little, briefly considering the offer before politely telling him, “No, thank you.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you glance down at his feet, clad in mismatched socks and crocs, “But here, let me clear off the back patio so you don’t have to stand in the snow.”

He shrugs and follows you through the parlor into the dining room, where you tell him, “Just give me a minute, I’ll put my stuff on.”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, going over to the sideboard, “Is this fair game?”

“Help yourself.”

“Do you want one?”

He flips over a lowball glass on display and sifts through the decanters of liquor, plucking out a bottle of finely aged whiskey. A drink sounds good. But the prospect of this virtual stranger fixing you a drink makes you uneasy.

Does he know that it’s just you and him under this roof for probably the next few days? Between the offer to smoke you up and pour you a drink, is he intentionally trying to intoxicate you? Or is he just being cordial?

You realize he’s staring at you, waiting for a response. Heat rises to your face. Shaking your head, you tell him, “I’m fine, thanks.”

He uncorks the decanter and turns to pour whiskey into his glass, so you dismiss yourself to the back office.

After bundling up in winter gear, you grab a shovel, then start towards the dining room. You stop short in the kitchen. The motherfucker walked right past the STAFF ONLY sign and started rummaging through the fridge.

“You’re not supposed to be back here.”

He glances back over his shoulder at you, “Why not?”

“Because—well, because—”

“Can you make me grilled cheese?”

He straightens and closes the fridge door, turning to face you. You, clad in your coat and boots and hat and all that shit, holding a shovel, just blinking at him, mouth agape.

“Right now?”

His jaw shifts to one side as he genuinely considers the question.

“Can I shovel first?”

“Sure,” he shrugs.

“Thanks,” you mutter, then trudge past him into the dining room.

He follows along behind you, through the hall to the back door, asking, “Do you have tomato soup?”

“Probably. Want some with your grilled cheese?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

When you twist the door handle and yank it open, a knee-high snow drift topples over at your feet.

“Jesus Christ,” you hiss and flip on the outdoor light switch to peek outside. A strong gust of wind knocks you back a step, carrying a flurry of shimmering, swirling snowflakes. Your cheeks sting at the icy cold sharpness of it, eyes watering in protest.

What a fucking nightmare.

“Forget it,” you huff, slamming the door closed. You prop the shovel against it and turn to Dieter, pulling your gloves off, “I don’t care, can you just use the doob-tube and turn on the fan in the bathroom?”

“The fan doesn’t work.”

You release a big sigh, tugging off your hat as you lean on the wall and kick off your boots, “Of course it doesn’t. Alright, plan C.”

—

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 23RD, 8:45 PM

The range hood’s fan roars to life.

“Have at it,” you tell him as you walk over to the sink and unlock the window, pulling it up a few inches.

Dieter pulls a palm-sized wooden container from his coat pocket and leans back against the stove, twisting the top open. A one-hitter pops up from one of the two barrels of the container. He takes it and stuffs it into the dugout, “So, what, we’re all trapped here until the storm passes?”

You cross your arms in front of your chest and shrug, “Theoretically.”

“Figures,” he mutters, then pinches the pipe between his lips. He pulls a pink lighter from the pocket of his fuzzy coat and brings the flame to the other end. The tip brightens to a glowing ember as he inhales.

“I thought you didn’t have any plans.”

He holds the smoke in his lungs and croaks out, “I don’t,” before turning to blow the smoke into the fan intake.

“Are you upset that you’re snowed in with me?”

“It has nothing to do with you, sweetheart” he glances at you, then takes another hit.

“Ok, let me rephrase,” you shift, casting your gaze to the floor, trying to conceal the warmth blooming beneath your skin, “Are you upset that you’re snowed in?”

He shrugs, “I don’t like being stuck places. Especially another fucking hotel.”

“Whadda you mean?” you frown.

Your question hangs in the air while he takes another hit. He grimaces and steps over to the sink beside you, tapping ash from the little metal pipe with his lighter, then returns to his place at the stove and packs another onie.

“Did you ever watch the documentary Beasts of the Bubble?”

You shake your head.

“Don’t, it’s dogshit,” he snorts and takes another hit. On the exhale, he asks, “You know that I’m an actor, though, right?”

You nod.

“Right, well, long story short… Early COVID days, I was out in England shooting a movie and they wouldn’t let us leave the hotel.”

You have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes, sensing heavy dramatics on the horizon.

“They wouldn’t let you leave the hotel?”

“My friend—well,” he wrinkles his nose, “Yeah, my friend. She tried to escape, got her fuckin’ hand shot off.”

“Holy shit, seriously?!”

“Yeah, Lauren Van Chance. Pow! Shot right off. Fucking brutal,” he shakes his head and takes another hit. As he blows the smoke into the fan, he coughs a little, then shakes his head, “Anyway—wait, why am I talking about this?”

“Because we’re snowed in.”

“Oh—yeah. I dunno, feeling like I can’t leave… my therapist said it’s a trigger, I guess.”

“I get that,” you search his face, watching him frown at the one-hitter. Apparently satisfied with how stoned he is, Dieter releases a relaxed sigh and sets the onie down on the counter.

“If it’s any consolation, I promise I won’t shoot you if you try to leave. Like… I don’t know, you might need some snow shoes or whatever, but you could—”

He waves you off, “Eh, it’s fine. It’s just a thing, you know? Makes me feel all fuckin’ cagey and on-edge. Restless.”

You lick your lips and nod, glancing at the floor before you look at him, “Anything I can do to help?”

“Bud helps,” he shrugs, “Talking helps.”

“Does grilled cheese help?”

It takes him a moment to understand what you’re asking, but when he does, he chuckles, “Grilled cheese is basically a fucking Xanax.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then let’s get you a grilled cheese.”

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 10:00 AM

“The Department of Transportation has declared a state of emergency, and urges people to shelter in place as snow will continue to fall in the Twin Cities and across most of central and southern Minnesota through tomorrow. Overnight, some places received as much as 10 inches, with 40 mile-an-hour winds creating drifts—”

DING

Regrettably, your heart skips a beat.

You tuck your phone into the back pocket of your slacks and cross the kitchen, pushing through the swinging door into the dining room. When you get to the parlor, you find Dieter fiddling around with priceless antiques displayed on the shelves of an ornate built-in bookshelf. He glances over at you, “Hey.”

“Good morning, did you sleep ok?”

Nodding, he pulls his attention away from the bookshelf and takes a step towards you, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants, “Did I miss breakfast?”

“No, what can I get for you?”

“Denver Omelet?”

“Sure,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, “Hashbrowns? Fruit? Anything to drink?”

“Yes, yes, and yes—coffee, water, orange juice with pulp.”

“Down here or in your room?”

“Here is fine.”

“You got it,” you smile, walking back to the kitchen. The creak of his footsteps mimic yours on the old hardwood floor, so you think he’s going to sit at the dining room table, but the duo whine of the swinging kitchen door takes you by surprise.

You turn to face him, “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“May I?” He holds up the wooden onie box.

“Sure,” you nod, clicking the range hood on, then go to crack the window open.

The soft murmur of the radio fills the silence while you prep his breakfast and he smokes. You absentmindedly hum along to the Christmas music, dicing a green pepper, an onion, and some ham. By the time you approach the stove to start cooking, he’s tucking the paraphernalia away in the pocket of his pajama pants.

“Have any big plans for the day?” He asks as he goes over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup.

“Ahhh, well… I think I’m gonna knock out some tasks that are hard to do when we’re busy. Inventory and deep cleaning, things like that. What about you?”

He shrugs, leaning back against the counter, “Gonna try to keep plugging away at painting ideas.”

“Oh yeah? What’re you painting?”

“It’s uhhh… it’s part of a series I’m working on, capturing the essence of interesting hotels across the country.”

“Really? That’s—that’s actually really cool. I love that. And you chose Blue Moon Manor?”

“Well yeah,” he sighs, looking around, “It’s gorgeous. The original features are well-preserved, all the intricate woodwork and craftsmanship. It’s unique, I like it.”

“I agree, it’s a special place.”

“I’m just… I don’t know, I’m stuck at the starting line, not sure what to paint. I haven’t found anything here that feels right yet.”

You look between him and the menagerie of omelet fillings sizzling in the pan, “Have you seen any of the other suites?”

“In pictures.”

“If you want, I can show you around today? All the vacancies are made up pretty. You can poke around and see if you find any… I don’t know, inspiration, or whatever.”

“Yeah?” He grins, “That would be… yeah, fuck yeah, that would be amazing.”

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 2:00 PM

You may be in trouble.

Not the kind of trouble punishable by anyone but yourself, but still.

What you mean is that you think you might have a crush on Dieter. Or, more honestly, what you mean is that you know you have a crush on Dieter.

This revelation occurred to you about halfway through your impromptu tour of Blue Moon Manor.

You were standing in the sunroom of Suite 203 while he wandered around, jotting down notes and taking pictures on his phone. The snow fell heavy outside, coming down in thick wet clumps that made it difficult to see beyond the border of the property. Everything blanketed in a pristine, shimmering white.

A deep sense of isolation plummeted your heart to your feet. Christmas Eve, when people all across the world gathered with loved ones, and you were working. Not that your empty one bedroom apartment missed you much. At least if you were there, you could lay in bed eating raw cookie dough while watching your comfort tv show. Throw yourself a proper pity party.

So, there you were, wallowing in your circular loneliness, going around and around the drain of self-pity, when Dieter approached you.

“Hey, you alright?”

You snapped out of your trance and looked at him, finding something very earnest and knowing in his eyes. It surprised you. He didn’t strike you as the kind of person who generally cared about what others were feeling.

“Yeah, just… thinking about how much I’m gonna have to shovel,” you chuckled, brushing off his concern.

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know, kind of sad.”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with all the sincerity of someone whose pants were on fire.

“Uh huh,” he studied you for a moment, then looked down at his phone and shook his head, releasing a big sigh, “I think I’m ready to move on.”

“Alright, follow me,” you pushed off the window and walked past him. As you did so, you misjudged your space and brushed up against him.

Pure negligence or subconscious desire, you’re still not sure, but the contact was a static shock. This quick jolt of heat that made you gasp and jump away from him, stammering, “Oh shit. Sorry, I, um—”

He chuckled, a handsome, dimpled smile stretching across his face, “It’s fine.”

“I’m embarrassed,” you blurted out. As if it wasn’t obvious enough.

“Don’t be,” he shoved his hands into his pockets and shrugged, “Accidents happen.”

“Ok,” you laughed and buried your heated face in your hands, then regained your composure and said, “Ok, let’s see Suite 201.”

“Is that the shitty one?”

“It’s not shitty,” you snorted, starting towards the door, “It’s perfectly fine, just not as glamorous as the rest of them.”

“Uh huh. Like the ugliest Miss America contestant.”

“Sure—”

“Or the uhh… the smallest blue whale.”

“Yeah, I mean—”

“Suite 201 is to this hotel what Def Leppard is to glam rock.”

“Wow, ok,” you laughed, ushering him through the doorway into the hall, “Yeah, I think you got it.”

The whole dumb interaction is all you can think about. It plays over and over again. That look, the accident, Def fucking Leppard. The rush of excitement you feel when you see him or even just think about seeing him.

It is undeniable.

You have a big fat crush.

So fucking professional.

For what feels like the hundredth time, you lose count. You toss your clipboard down on the stack of fluffy white towels in defeat, scrubbing your hands over your face.

Maybe a cleaning project would be more productive. The first floor common rooms need dusting, or you could scrub the floors, or prep dinner, or blah blah blah… god, it all sounds so fucking boring.

Curiosity prods your heart.

You tiptoe through the laundry room, out into the third floor hallway, and linger there for an indecisive moment, listening to the low bass of his humming to himself and the thick pulse behind your ears. A few cautious steps towards Suite 302 reveals a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the doorknob.

Rejection takes the shape of a stone in your mouth, heavy and hard and cold as you swallow it down. It settles uneasy in your gut.

Dusting it is.

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 6:59 PM

Every minute that drags on feels like an eternity.

The grandfather clock in between the library bookshelves mocks you.

Tick-tock-tick-tock

Begins to sound more like:

He-doesn’t-like-you

You glare at it, then down at your phone, swiping away a low battery warning to continue playing cribbage.

Outside, the wind snarls. Blue Moon Manor groans in resistance, and you wriggle deeper into the sofa cushions, telling yourself: Five more minutes then I’ll check on him.

It’s so dumb.

Really, you know how it sounds.

But not once has he put out the DO NOT DISTURB sign. For two weeks, he has been consistently demanding, never letting more than three daylight hours go by without asking for something.

As soon as you let yourself feel some affection for him?

Can’t get far enough away from you.

He-doesn’t-like-you-DING! DING! DING! DING!—

You sigh at the clock.

—DING! DING! DING!

“Fuck’s sake,” you mutter.

The lights die.

All white noise drops except the crackle of the fireplace, howling wind, and ticking clock.

“Fuck.”

Two floors up, something clatters to the ground, then Dieter hollers something unintelligible.

Well, he seems chipper.

You climb off the couch while googling power outages in the area.

Footsteps thud down the steps onto the first floor landing.

“Hello?”

“I’m in the library,” you call, not looking up from your phone as you text your boss.

His steps draw closer, then there’s a light in the doorway.

“This place is so fucking creepy in the dark, Jesus Christ,” Dieter hisses, “What’s the deal?”

You squint up at his dim figure, “Storm took out the power. I texted the manager to see if there’s a genny.”

“Genny?”

“Backup generator,” you turn on your phone’s flashlight, “Sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll go see if I can find some lighting if you wanna wait here—”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, sir—”

He gestures for you to lead the way, so you start towards the back office with Dieter hot on your heels. Once inside, you go over to the desk and pull open a drawer, fish out a headlamp, and slide it around your head. When you press the on button, a beam of light shoots from your forehead onto the desk.

“Cute,” he teases.

You look at him, unintentionally shining the light in his face.

He steps back and shields his eyes, “Jesus!”

“Ope. Sorry sir,” you stifle a laugh, grab a second headlamp from the drawer, and hold it out to him, “Do you want one?”

Grumbling under his breath, he takes it from you and slides it over his fluffy hair, then turns the light on.

“Ok, this is pretty sweet,” he admits as he starts wandering around the room, “I feel like a miner or something.”

“There should be a tote in here somewhere that has a bunch of candles,” you tell him as you start rifling through cupboards. When the search comes up empty, you try the closet, where you find a big purple tote labeled CANDLES.

“Here we go,” you pull the heavy container out into the room.

“Want me to carry that?”

The offer holds about as much conviction as a drain holds water. He leans back against the desk, plucks a pen from the pencil cup, and starts doodling on your daily checklist. Barely interested.

“No, I got it.”

You lift it and shuffle past him, slightly demoralized, then immediately bump into the doorway, “Oop.”

His headlamp blinds you, making you wince, then he chuckles, “Here.”

Dieter pushes off the desk and steps towards you, laying a gentle touch to your shoulder.

When you forfeit the tote, you notice the dark smudges dried onto his hands and forearms.

“Were you painting?”

“Yeah,” he awkwardly adjusts his grip, then starts back the way you came. You follow behind him, trying to aim your light at the ground by his feet.

In the kitchen, he says, “It smells good in here.”

“Probably the roast I made for dinner,” you pause for him to maneuver through the swinging door into the dining room, “I can get some for you after we get the candles going.”

He holds the door open with his foot and waits for you to pass through the threshold before setting the bin down on the dining room table.

“Thanks,” you say as he steps aside.

The white candles come in three shapes: pillar, votive, and stick. All of them unscented, so when you pop off the lid to the tote bin, the only thing you can smell is wax and dust and old flames.

You grab a half-melted pillar and ask, “Hey, do you have a lighter?”

He rummages through his pockets and pulls one out, then takes the candle from you. The flint sparks into a tiny flame that he holds up to the wick until it ignites, casting a warm golden glow onto the walls and ceiling. You pass him another pillar. The pads of his fingers brush against your hand when he takes it, sending your heart racing.

“Hopefully this isn’t a uhhh… weird or alarming thing to ask—”

“Oh god, what?”

“Is there anyone else here?” He lights the pillar and hands it to you, “You’re the only other person I’ve seen around.”

You take the lit pillar and set it down shrugging, “There, aren’t umm… no, it’s just me and you.”

“Oh.”

Where hyper vigilance should be, that old warning to not take candy from strangers, or not to turn your back on a man you don’t trust, something hungry and loud starts to grow. A devastating need for him to creep closer. For him to cross the boundary of what might be considered moral or right in such a situation. To touch you in ways that inspire heat between your thighs.

He doesn’t, though.

He just helps you light candles and strategically place them around the common rooms on the first floor, uncharacteristically reserved. You both remain quiet while you go about doing this, but the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a peace treaty than a punishment.

Your phone buzzes with a notification, and you pull it out, reading the text message out loud, “We don’t have a backup generator.”

“Shit.”

“And power might be out until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Are you fucking serious?”

“I apologize, sir—”

“Don’t do that,” he scoffs, shaking his head, “That whole… hospitality voice thing.”

The words come out sharp and bitter.

Your blood pulses hot, and you hear yourself say, “I’m a hospitality worker, exactly what tone of voice do you expect I use?”

“Like I’m a person, not a fucking client or whatever. I’m so sick of that shit, everywhere I go people kissing my ass,” he goes to the sideboard and flips over a glass, pouring whiskey while attuning his voice to a feminine, mocking tone, “Oh, Mr. Bravo, sir yes sir, do you need anything? Do you want a snack or a nap, do you need to be swaddled, do you want your dick sucked?”

He pauses to take a swig of the liquor.

Meanwhile, steam might as well be coming out of your ears. Just fucking boiling with rage, needling the red danger zone.

“I hate it. You all talk to me like I’m a goddamn toddler, it’s so fucking annoying—”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m annoying?”

He leans back on the sideboard and blinks at you, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

Stomping over to the liquor display, you pour a drink and seethe, “Ever think that maybe if you didn’t act like a fucking toddler, people wouldn’t treat you like one? I mean, for Christ’s sake, dude. You literally take a nap every afternoon and demand we cut the crust off your sandwiches. Last week you threw a temper tantrum because we put tap water in your sippy cup.”

“Ok, first of all that was a water bottle. And, have you ever tasted the water here? It’s disgusting. Not to mention the fucking—”

“The fluoride, I know,” you roll your eyes, “I know I know I know. It’s gross and contains fluoride and tastes like blood or whatever the fuck—”

“I did not say it tasted like blood,” he quips, pauses to take a sip, which you mimic, then he adds, “It does, though, for the record.”

“My point is that… If everywhere you go smells like shit, maybe you should look under your own shoe. You dig?”

For a moment, you can’t read him. He stares down into his glass, twisting his wrist around in a way that draws attention to the thick-banded rings on his fingers. Then he glances up at you, a smirk playing on his lips, “That’s perfect. Can you just talk to me like that from now on?”

Your head jerks back, and you let out a little scoff, “What, like a bitch?”

“No,” he chuckles, “Like… I don’t know. Real. Real-er, anyway. You seem cool. You, though. Not your toothless, sanitized worksona.”

“Jesus,” you scoff into your glass, shaking your head, “I’m not sure what to say to that.”

“Anyway. I just mean… talk to me like I’m a person, not a fucking guest or whatever.” When you look up at him, he shifts a little and adds, “Please.”

You hold his gaze long enough for your stomach to flip, then chicken out, dropping your eyes to your glass, “Sir yes sir.”

He lets out a chuckle, shaking his head, “Uh-huh.”

You appraise the remaining whiskey in your glass, then tip it back, wincing at the burn as you set the glass down.

“Do you want me to bring some candles up to your room, or will you be dining down here?”

“Will you be joining me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yeah, of course,” he shrugs, “If you’re not busy.”

“I think I can squeeze you in,” you tease.

His tongue pokes out to wet the seam of his lips, then his smirk breaks out into a big, boyish smile, “You think so, huh?”

The innuendo makes itself clear. Your face heats up and you snort, “Shut up.”

“Hey, you said it, not me,” he raises his hands defensively, following you as you start towards the kitchen, “Is it cool if I smoke?”

You push through the swinging door, holding it open for him, “I can’t turn the fan on.”

“Uh-huh,” he ambles over to the counter beside the sink and casually hops up onto it, “Is that a yes or a no?”

After taking a moment to weigh the pros and cons, you sigh, “Just… blow it out the window, ok?”

So he smokes while you pull the roasting pan from the oven and prepare two plates, piling on potato wedges and green beans and hearty slices of roast beef. You wrap up your activities simultaneously, then move back to the dining room.

While you set the table, he goes over to the wine cabinet and asks, “Wine?”

You hesitate, once again contemplating the pros and cons of answering in the affirmative. If the wine goes to your head, you could make a mistake. On the other hand, maybe it would help untangle your knotted stomach. Make it easier to converse with him.

“Don’t feel like you have to say yes,” he adds when he notices your trepidation.

“Fuck it, why not?”

So fucking professional.

With his back turned to you, he surveys the bottles displayed in the wine cabinet, “Pinot? Cab?”

“Actually, I was thinking of breaking out the 2016 Cos d'Estournel.”

He looks over his shoulder at you, “The what?”

“Left side, second row from the bottom,” you point to it from across the room, “Dark bottle, white label.”

Once he finds it, he lifts it from the rack and studies it, “Cos d'Estournel. Ritzy stuff,” he sets it on the table between your seats, “What’s the occasion?”

“What is this, a role reversal?”

He grins at this. Then, as if committing to the bit, he strides over to pull out your chair. When you raise your eyebrows at him, he smirks, “Humor me.”

You roll your eyes a little as you sit down, but truthfully, your heart stutters.

Dieter walks back to the cabinet and picks out two wine glasses, “So? The occasion?”

“I don’t know,” you frown, “Well, I mean, I do know, but it’s hard to explain.”

He doesn’t say anything as he twists a corkscrew into the wine bottle and yanks out the cork, then pours the rich red wine into one glass, and the other.

“It’s just… I don’t think I’ve been in a situation like this before. It’s strange. The storm, the holiday, the manor, the-the you.” He smirks, sliding a wine glass over to you, and you give him a nod of thanks, “I feel like anything could happen or nothing at all and I wouldn’t be surprised either way.”

Again, he doesn’t respond, but a thoughtful expression creases his face as he takes the seat across from you. Not sure what to make of it, you ask, “Does that make sense?”

“I know what you mean, yeah,” he leans back in his chair and swirls the wine around in his glass, meeting your eyes from across the table, “The possibilities within the confines of these walls are endless.”

The way he looks at you conjures impure thoughts. Hand between your thighs, nails digging into his back. Bending you over the table and pulling your hair.

You raise your glass in the air, “To the possibilities.”

“To the possibilities.”

—

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 24TH, 9:30 PM

You sit at either side of the lush Victorian sofa in the library, cashmere blankets draped over each of your legs. Illuminated by the warm glow of candelabras and the crackling fireplace, you flip through a book on palm reading while Dieter draws in a sketchpad.

For a while, he seemed quite engrossed in the project. Brow furrowed, hunched over the pad of paper as he scribbled. But with each monotonous tick-tock-tick-tock from the grandfather clock, he starts to stir more and more.

He finally tosses the sketchpad down beside him, leaning back and letting out a long groan, “I’m so boooorreeeeed.”

“Drama,” you tease, peeking over your book at him, “Can I do anything to help?”

“Can I open another bottle?”

“Go for it.”

Dieter jumps to his feet and clicks on his headlamp. The dancing beam of light fades out of sight as he walks into the hallway.

With a sigh, you look down at the book and try to continue reading, but keep losing your spot. Your attention instead is drawn to the fireplace. Its flickering flames seem to pull you into some kind of a trance, coaxing out bite-sized daydreams and nightmares, trying to predict what will happen when you and your fresh new crush start drinking in the dark.

What happens if we get drunk? Would we fuck? Would we fight? Would he be mean? Or pushy? Would I make a fool of myself?

You sit here for a while, letting these tiny fires burn out in your brain, so engrossed that you barely notice Dieter mosey back into the room.

“Hope wine is ok,” he says as he clicks the headlamp off, then he sets out two wine glasses and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the coffee table.

“Of course, sir.”

He snorts and shakes his head while leaning over to twist a corkscrew into the bottle.

“Sorry. Habit.”

“Don’t sweat it, sweetheart,” he yanks the cork from the bottle, then pours out two servings, “What’ve you there?”

“Hmm?”

“The book.”

“Oh,” you hold it up to show him the cover, “Cheiro’s Palmistry for All.”

He holds out a glass to you. You set the book aside and take it from him, crossing your legs to get more comfortable.

“Palm reading?”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, “I don’t know, it seemed interesting.“

“Have you ever been to a palm reader?”

Shaking your head, you take a sip of wine. Then another. A warm buzz tingles on your tongue and you ask, “Have you?”

He nods, “Yeah. Well, kind of. I dated this girl who dabbled in divination,” he takes a big gulp of wine, then sets his glass on the coffee table and moves closer, gesturing for your hand, “Here.”

“You know how?”

“I picked up on some stuff,” he shrugs.

Leaning forward, you place your glass next to his and bring yourself closer, extending your hand to him.

He holds it like a fragile thing, gentle but steady, “Is this your dominant hand?”

You nod.

Smoothing a thumb over your palm, he coaxes you to unfurl your fingers. His skin is warm and soft on yours as he examines you, thick fingers tracing the creases of your palm.

It feels nice. Intimate, almost. No thanks to the wine and ambient lighting.

“This side shows your conscious mind. Your life right now,” he clears his throat and says, “You’re perceptive, intuitive, a little moody. Emotions tend to run the show, but you’re also a realist. You have a passion for life and adventure, but often find yourself paralyzed by the reality of your situation, leaving you in a constant state of dissatisfaction. Logical, hard-working. You’re independent. You’ve had financial and emotional hardships. Not many serious romantic relationships, mostly flings. But this doesn’t mean you don’t get attached easily. You do, but tend to put up walls to protect yourself and disconnect before it gets too serious.”

Static vibrates through your skin. An eerie, frantic feeling of being seen too close for comfort. You swallow hard and study his face, too afraid to confirm or deny its accuracy.

“Cup your hand,” he instructs, guiding your hand to do so. Furrowing his brow, he examines the soft fleshy bits on your palm, poking and prodding them, “You have a temper, but you’re shy. You’re cynical. Closed-off. Reliable, because you have to be, but you wish you could just say fuck it and run away sometimes. That’s umm… that’s who you are in practice. Other hand.”

You give him your non-dominant hand. It’s shaky and sweaty and as he takes it you chuckle, “Sorry, I’m… nervous.”

Grinning, he glances up at you, “So I’m doing well, then?”

“Yeah,” you gulp, heat rising to your face, “It’s… yeah. Hang on, can I…?”

You take your hand back and wipe it on your pant leg, then reach over to grab your wine glass, swallowing the remainder of your wine. He does the same, then refills them.

While this is happening, you can’t help but notice the thick current of electricity pulsing between you.

You take turns stealing fleeting glances, and when you return to face each other, legs crossed, you’re much closer than you were before. Your knees meet his, maybe probably definitely crossing the line of what is considered appropriate distance for you to have with a hotel guest. Neither of you seem to mind, though.

In fact, it seems like quite the opposite.

As you extend your non-dominant hand to him, he huddles even closer, so close you can smell the Bordeaux on his breath, and cradles your hand in his.

“This side shows your natural tendencies. Who you are in theory, who you will be if you follow your intuition,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to yours, then back to your palm as he slides his index finger along a deep, diagonal crease, “First of all, your fate line is strong. If you follow your intuition, you’ll succumb to it.”

“Ominous.”

He frowns and shakes his head, reverentially tracing the sensitive map of your palm, “No, actually. You’ll have a crisis or two. One big one, at least, some kind of a revelation that causes you to upend your life. But it sets you on a path of vitality and happiness and strength. A few smaller ones, not as momentous, but still significant. The hopeless romantic you are, you’ll fall in love hard and fast, but that’s the one that sticks. You freely express your emotions and feelings. It’s… I mean, it seems good. Who wouldn’t want that? Cup your hand for me, sweetheart.”

You do.

He smooths his thumb over the mounts and divots, tilting his head at them, “You’re stubborn and you have a strong sense of self. Hedonistic. Imaginative. You daydream a lot. I don’t think you’re as reserved and shy as you let on. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism you learned along the way.”

You look up at him, finding his eyes locked on yours. A deep longing bubbles up your spine and you feel yourself lean in a little closer. He continues caressing your hand, dropping his gaze to your mouth, and asks, “Do you want my advice?”

“Sure.”

“I think you should follow your intuition. See where it takes you. I think… you need to let go of whatever reservations you have from the past, because it’s holding you back from a beautiful life.”

There’s a part of you that boils red and hot with denial. It screams from the back of your head that this is all bullshit, he’s just trying to fuck you, to use because he’s bored and tipsy.

But really, you know he’s right.

You know you’re dissatisfied with your white-knuckle, fake smile existence. You ignore your desires and inner-most knowing in favor of security. You attribute more weight to the negatives than the positives in every aspect of your life.

“You’re saying I should follow my gut?” you ask, studying his face.

He brushes your palm with his thumbs, “Yeah. I think so.”

You look down at his touch, hesitantly bringing your unoccupied hand to his forearm, allowing yourself to feel his warmth, “But what if it’s wrong? What if I make a mistake?”

“But what if it’s right?”

Meeting his eyes, you recognize the longing in his heavy-lidded gaze. You bring your hand to his cheek, sliding your thumb across his patchy facial hair, heart pounding, nerves buzzing as you close your eyes and lean in.

His soft lips meet yours. A gentle, questioning kiss that flips your stomach upside down. You pull back to make sure it’s ok. He seems to do the same, dark eyes flicking around your face before slipping a hand behind your head and pulling you back in.

The second kiss holds more conviction. A spark that ignites you both, quickly leading to the third and fourth kiss, at which point they start to blend together, a mess of tongues and spit and gasps.

You climb onto his lap, straddling him, pressing your body onto his. Through the fabric of his pajama pants, you feel his hardened excitement and use it to your advantage, rolling against him to gain friction. He grabs your hips and rocks them in sync with your movements, groaning into your mouth.

Heat builds steady at your core, tingling and gushing through your veins, screaming for more more more. Aching to feel the warmth of his skin on yours, you slip your hands under the hem of his shirt and slide your palms up his back, pulling him closer.

He parts from your lips to take off his shirt. You do the same, unbuttoning your shirt and tossing it aside, then reach back and claw at your bra clasp.

“Let me,” he signals for you to turn around. You do, climbing onto your knees with your back facing him. His fingers ghost along your spine, leaving a trail of twitching, hungry nerves in their wake.

“That feels good,” you tell him, arching your back with a whine.

“Good,” he murmurs, continuing the tedious touch, “I wanna make you feel so fucking good, sweetheart. Is that what you want?”

“Yes.”

When he unclasps the bra, you slip it off while he slides a hand around your belly and pulls you back into his lap.

He leaves a trail of kisses from your shoulder to the nape of your neck, where he stops to massage his tongue against you. A moan erupts from your throat at the tingling, hot sensation it cultivates. His hands roam around your body, over your breasts and ribs and abdomen, activating all those often-neglected nerves, but never staying long enough to bring relief.

“Fuck, Dieter,” you whine, “You’re teasing me.”

“Maybe,” he chuckles, smoothing a palm up your sternum and urging you to lay back onto his chest. You follow the suggestion and recline against him, head resting on his shoulder. Your skin buzzes where it meets his, the warmth of him flooding your brain with feel-good chemicals. He drags his fingers along the soft skin of your belly, making you whimper.

“But it feels good, doesn’t it?”

You nod.

“Don’t you want to savor it?” He cups your breasts and rolls your nipples between his fingers and thumbs, sending a rush of pleasure to your head, “Don’t you want me to show you how good it feels when you finally let go?”

“Yes,” you gasp, nodding, eyelids fluttering closed, “I want it, I want it—”

“Good,” he coos, pinching your nipples harder, “I want it too. Wanna see you fall apart in my hands. Will you let me do that for you, sweetheart?”

“Yes.”

He releases your tits and tugs at the waistband of your pants, “Take these off for me, will you?”

You roll off the couch onto your feet, facing him as you slowly tug at your waistband, teasing every inch of skin you reveal. He watches you with lust-blown eyes, palming himself as he drinks in the spectacle.

“Underwear too?”

He nods.

You hook your thumbs under the soft fabric of your bikini, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I wanna see it.”

“You wanna see it,” he mutters, chuckling a little, “Ask and you shall receive, Princess.”

He shimmies out of his pajama pants, keeping his eyes on yours as you slide the underwear down your thighs. His thick, hard cock bobs out and waves hello.

“Fuck,” he sits up and rests his warm palms on your hips, glancing between you and your cunt, “Look at this pretty pussy, holy shit. Come here, baby. Come sit on my lap again.”

“If I sit on your lap, will my Christmas wish come true?”

“Maybe,” he smirks and leans back onto the sofa, tugging on your hand to follow. You turn around and carefully lower yourself onto his thighs, his knees between yours. Guiding you closer, he murmurs in your ear, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart, I’ll see if I can make it happen.”

You lay back on his chest, once again letting your head rest on his shoulder, and stroke his cheek as you tell him, “I want you to touch me.”

“I can do that,” he chuckles, kissing your forehead as his hands begin to wander, sliding down your sides to your hips and thighs, between your legs to pry them apart, “There we go, baby.”

When he touches your entrance, you both groan. His cock twitches against your back. He drags his fingers up and down your seam, spreading your slick, hissing in your ear, “Fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

“Uh-huh,” you whimper, nodding, watching him pet your swollen clit so soft and slow it sends sparks of need up your spine, “That feels so fucking good holy shit—”

“Yeah? You like the way I play with your sweet little cunt?”

“Oh my god—I do, Dieter, I do.”

A feral noise rumbles in his chest, and his fingers pick up speed, working in quick, tight circles as he pants in your ear, “I love it when you say my name. Sounds so fucking good on your lips. Say it again for me, baby.”

“I love the way you touch me, Dieter, please don’t stop.”

“Wouldn’t fucking dream of it, sweetheart. I just wanna make you feel good, make you feel so fucking good—”

You moan when he sinks one thick digit inside you, making your body buzz with pleasure. Your eyes flutter shut and you reach back, blindly carding your fingers through his hair, caressing his cheek, his neck, tugging on his earlobe, anything you can do to ground yourself and somehow repay the ecstasy accumulating thick and hot inside your belly.

He kisses your palm and asks, “Do you want more?”

A sort of strangled noise comes out of you, but you nod in the affirmative, and he obliges, sliding another finger inside you. They rut in and out at a steady pace, keeping tempo with his undulating touch on your clit. Heat branches out at the center of you, coursing through your veins, making your heart race.

You gasp and nod, “Keep doing that, Dieter, don’t stop please don’t stop holy shit—”

“You gonna cum for me, baby, hmm? Cum all over my fucking fingers?”

“Yes yes yes yes yes—”

Your whole body clenches as the feeling grows and grows, reaching a precipice.

“That’s it, sweetheart, let it go,” he pants in your ear, and when you plummet over the edge, whole body twitching with blinding pleasure, he coos, “Theeere we go—”

You whimper and clamp your legs shut, letting out a series of gasping breaths as the waves of your orgasm pulse, then start to peter out. Your tensed muscles go limp, and you open your eyes to look up at Dieter, “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah?”

He gives you a boyish grin that makes your chest swell with desire. You sit up and turn around to face him, straddling his lap with his cock pressed hard against your wet, throbbing pussy.

Tracing the curve of his lips, you purr, “I have another Christmas wish.”

“What’s that?”

You roll your hips, gasping at the pressure of him against you, “I want you to fuck me.”

He moans, eyelids fluttering and lips parting, head falling back against the sofa as he grabs your hips and silently urges you to keep going. You whimper and start to move to the rhythm of his suggestion, sliding up and down his length.

“Wanna feel your cock inside me,” you breathe, brushing his cheek with your knuckles, meeting his dark, wanting eyes, “Want you to stretch me out and make me yours—”

“Holy fucking shit—”

“Do you want that?” you coo, searching his face.

“God yes, please, baby.”

You situate the tip of him at your entrance and hook your hands behind his head, then lower yourself down.

The stretch of him is exquisite. He activates every nerve ending he touches with an aching, hungry need. Your mouth falls open with gasping breaths and pathetic little whimpers, and you hear Dieter groan, “So fucking tight, Jesus Christ—”

“Feels so goooood,” you croak, closing your fists in his hair.

He sucks in air through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into the meat of your ass, and rocks you back and forth, each thrust rubbing along something absolutely devastating. You blink your eyes open to meet his, all lust-blown and wide with awe, searching your face. His hand slides up to your face, cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb against your heated, damp skin.

“Kiss me,” he pants, reeling you in.

You fold over on top of him, meeting his lips with desperate urgency, a frantic exchange of messy kisses marked with gasps and moans. As the heat in your belly grows, you roll your hips faster, and he thrusts up into you, parting from your lips to growl, “You take my dick so well, sweetheart—that sweet pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around me, oh my fucking god—”

“Feels so fucking good, Dieter, don’t fucking stop,” you whimper, pressing your forehead against his, nodding in approval as he grabs your hips and fucks up into you hard and fast, “Oh my god, just like that baby yes yes yes—”

He captures your lips in his and you both moan into the heated, needy kiss, static building and building, spreading hot from your center. It feels so fucking good your eyes start to tingle and swim with tears, and you cry, “I’m gonna fucking cum, don’t stop—”

“That’s it baby, just let go, let it go, let me feel you—”

“So fucking good—Ffffuck—”

The force of your climax steals your breath, ecstasy pulsing liquid static through you, then yanks you down from the clouds and sends you crashing into the earth. Your body convulses and you let out a choked sob.

“Oh my god—oh my god, fuck,” his hips stutter and he pulls out, stroking his cock to completion, shooting hot ropes of cum onto your bodies with a moan.

Both of you remain rigid for a few moments, chests heaving, silently reveling the sweet rush of release before going slack. You collapse on top of him, eyes closed, and release a content sigh as you play with the damp curls at the nape of his neck.

He hums and wraps his arms around your middle, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, “How do you feel?”

“Amazing,” you chuckle, “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” he snorts, then pets your hair and asks, “Any other Christmas wishes?”

After thinking about it for a few seconds, your lips part with an answer, but you chicken out and close them.

“Hmm?”

“It’s dumb.”

“Uh-huh,” he pulls back to meet your eyes, “Tell me anyway.”

You chuckle a little, tracing his jawline, “It’s ok.”

He just blinks at you, waiting, so you swallow and shrug, “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

He hums, pressing a kiss into your forehead, then your cheek, “Do you wanna spend the night with me?”

“Is that weird?”

“I don’t think so. Do you?”

You shake your head.

His gaze drops to your mouth, and you lean in to kiss him. It’s warm and soft and sparks hopeful optimism in your chest, like this is something and not nothing.

When he pulls back, a sly smile spreads across his face, “Your place or mine?”

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 8:00AM

When you wake in Suite 203, it takes a moment for the events of the previous night to catch up to you.

The power going out, the candlelit dinner, the palm reading, the best fucking sex you’ve had in your life.

Was it a dream? Did that actually fucking happen?

But when you hear rustling from the other side of the bed, and feel an arm slip around your waist, pulling you back into his chest, reality punches you in the gut.

You stay still and wait for Dieter’s breath to fall back into a pattern of soft snoring, then slip out of bed and take a shower. With the power still out and the blizzard still raging outside, it takes a bit of guesswork to navigate the process in the dim bathroom, but you emerge successful.

When you tiptoe back into the bedroom, Dieter is still sleeping. You get dressed and go downstairs to make some coffee and think about your decisions.

For an hour or so, you pace around the kitchen island, ruminating over the things he said to you, the things you said to him, the way he made you feel, and the reality of your position in life versus his.

What felt good and right last night takes a different appearance in the harsh light of day. He could hurt you in so many ways if he wanted to. He could get you fired. He could be using you. He probably doesn’t actually care about you, he was just bored and horny and you were wrong this isn’t something, it’s nothing and you’re no one—

“Hey.”

You freeze and look up at Dieter, standing by the fridge in a soft chartreuse bathrobe.

“Hey,” you flash a nervous smile and wave, “How’d you sleep? Can I get you some coffee, anything to eat?”

He frowns, squinting at you, “Why’re you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

For a few seconds, he just stares at you, letting tension twist your guts to shreds, then he drops his gaze to the floor and nods, “Ok. Ok sure.”

Your whole body turns to cement. Cold and heavy and unmoving.

He walks over to the French press and pours a cup of coffee, “So… you’re having some regrets, and you’re gonna go back to this now? Miss hospitality?”

You swallow down a feeling like fire, avoiding eye contact as your vision blurs with tears, “I don’t know, I’m just… I’m just kind of freaking out, I guess?”

“What’re you freaking out about?”

“I guess it’s just that you were right,” you shrug, wiping at your eyes, “You know, with your palm reading. I get attached easily and, I don’t know… I don’t wanna scare you away because, umm… yeah.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you glance up at him, finding a warm smile on his face. Surprised at the expression, you sniffle, “What?”

He approaches you, still smiling, “Because you like me?”

Heat rises to your face. You hold his gaze, watching him lean back on the counter beside you, and you mumble, “Maybe.”

His smile grows wider, digging out dimples in his cheeks, “Yeah? Maybe a little bit?”

You shrug.

“And you think that’s gonna freak me out?”

Again, you shrug.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging on your hand. A fresh wave of tears floods your eyes when he wraps his arms around you, stroking your back as he assures you, “I like you too.”

“You do?”

“Cross my heart.”

“You’re not gonna get me fired and ruin my life?”

“What? No—I mean, I hope not. Unless your boss somehow finds out you got dicked down in the library—”

You laugh through the tears, “Oh my god, that would be a fucking nightmare.”

He chuckles, pulling back to look at you. You hook your hands behind his head, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds, humor fading from your faces, then you whisper, “This is… this is something, though, right? I’m not crazy?”

“I think it’s something,” his eyes flit around your face, and he shrugs, “You know, I’m a lot like you. I, umm… I tend to keep people at a distance, because I fall easy and hard and yeah… it’s scary. But, I don’t know. I have a good feeling about you.”

You nod, glancing down at his mouth, “Intuition?”

“Yeah,” he smirks, leaning in closer. His lips press against yours, giving you a slow, tender kiss that blossoms in your heart.

When you pull back, he tells you, “I do have one immediate problem, though.”

“What?”

“I don’t know how to ask you to make me breakfast without sounding like an asshole.”

“Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

“Wow. That’s it, I’m docking a star from my review.”

“Uh-huh,” you grin, running your fingers through his messy hair, “I cannot imagine what your review of this place would be.”

He takes a deep breath, then puts on an infomercial voice and says, “Four out of five stars. Gorgeous building, the food is amazing. Truly unique place. One of the employees let me eat her pussy for breakfast—”

You snort with laughter.

“—could not recommend enough. Deducted a star because she said I was an asshole.”

“Lovely, but you did not eat my pussy for breakfast. I’m sure I would’ve remembered that.”

“Not yet I didn’t,” he waggles his eyebrows at you, sneaking a few kisses as he herds you backwards onto the kitchen counter.

—

MONDAY, DECEMBER 25TH, 6:00PM

After breakfast—real breakfast, not oral sex in the kitchen, which was a treat in itself—Dieter went up to Suite 302 to finish the painting he wasn’t able to finish yesterday.

On paper, you had a very busy day. Your daily checklist gives you credit for every single item and some extras.

In reality, you cleaned up the messes made yesterday, which mostly involved washing dishes and following a wiki-how on getting cum out of velvet, and put together a charcuterie board for whenever dinner would happen.

With the remaining daylight hours, you laid on the chaise in the parlor, then the bed in Suite 203, and flipped through books of poems, and successfully resisted your many urges to disrupt Dieter’s work.

The snow stopped overnight, but the blizzard continued to howl all day. Strong gusts whirled the freshly-fallen snow through the air like some kid shaking up a snow globe. But when sunlight started to fade, so did the wind. Everything settled in its place, and the thick blanket of white finally became distinguishable from the nighttime sky.

Inside Blue Moon Manor, Dieter completed his painting, then crawled into bed with you. Apparently it had been just as difficult for him not to disrupt his own work.

He said he thought about you all day. He said he wanted to say fuck it and put the painting on pause to spend time with you, but felt he needed to finish it. He wanted to show it to you after dinner.

Naturally, your nerves have been buzzing since.

You insisted on an earlier dinner, blaming the lack of a lunchtime meal, but the look on his face when you made the argument made it clear he could see right through you. He didn’t mind, though. He helped you pour out glasses of wine to pair with the charcuterie board, then the two of you set everything up beside the fireplace in the parlor and fucking demolished it.

Afterwards, you washed the dishes while he smoked pot by the window. You didn’t even care if your boss smelled it anymore. It seemed trivial.

As Dieter tucks away his onie-box in his pocket, you recount the thought to him. He hops down off the counter and scoffs, “I mean really, what would he do? Fire you?”

“I don’t think he even can. There are three people that work here, and I am by far the most reliable.”

“I believe it,” he takes your hand, leading you from the kitchen to the dining room, “Tell you what, if my smoking gets you fired, you get to stay here with me and make his life hell.”

You laugh at this, shaking your head, “Yeah, ok.”

He turns around, “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you. I just think it’s the kind of bet someone knows they’ll win.”

“And winning in this case would be, what? You keep working this dead-end job while I drive myself crazy thinking about you?”

“Hey—it’s a good job,” you release his hand and cross your arms in front of your body.

“No, that’s not—” he sighs, glancing around as he shifts his weight from side-to-side, “It’s a fine job, I just mean… I don’t know what I mean. I mean I wouldn’t mind it, you staying with me. That’s all.”

Searching his face, you deadpan, “That’s so romantic.”

“God, I can’t wait for you to see this,” he chuckles, then takes your hand and pulls you along, “Come on.”

You follow him through the dining room into the dark hallway, where you pause to turn on your headlamps, then climb the service stairs to the third floor, coming to a stop in front of Suite 302.

“Alright, lights out,” he clicks the off button on both your headlamps and leads you through the doorway, then the pitch black room.

“Ok, it’s probably gonna look weird in the lighting, but,” he turns your headlamps on, and you gasp.

The canvas shows a sunroom with windows of blinding white light. Suite 203. And there you are, staring out the window, shadows falling over your face.

“Dieter—”

From behind you, he slips his hands around your waist and kisses your cheek, then tells you, “I was taking pictures, you know, on the tour you gave me. And… I don’t know, I saw you there and took a picture because you just looked so…”

“Sad? Lonely?”

“Kind of. More like a, uhh… a palpable kind of longing. Sorrow and isolation. Like you’re looking for something or someone, but you don’t know what.”

You reach back and cup his cheek, brushing your thumb against his patchy facial hair.

“I wanted to capture that because it is… exactly how I’ve been feeling for years. Just so fucking lost and alone.”

Butterflies flutter around in your stomach, and you whisper, “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

“Neither do you,” he murmurs, “Better yet, people all over the country will see you and know they’re not alone, either.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, your light bouncing around the canvas, then say, “It’s fucking beautiful, Dieter. What’s it called?”

“Once in a Blue Moon.”

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #dieter bravo #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo fluff #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x f!reader

545 notes · View notes

sadesluvr · 11 months ago

Text

"Santa, Baby" - A Mike Schmidt blurb

After years of hating the holidays, Mike gets a Christmas miracle.

A/N: Merry Christmas / Happy Holidays everyone! 🎄✨ This is just me writing a silly little blurb bc I’m sad yet obsessed with the idea of spending the season with Mike and Abby. They deserve the world :’)

Set in the 2000’s like the movie.

Word count: 463

Tags: FLUFF / GN! Reader / Not much really / Mike gets to be happy for once

Mike couldn’t remember the last time he enjoyed Christmas. It was no secret that it was difficult for him, working a minimum wage job with two mouths to feed didn’t leave much room for luxury dinners or fancy gifts, but it didn’t mean they didn’t try. They always put up a tree, a few decorations, and Abby got at least one present…Other than that, they spent the actual day watching whatever was on TV and listening to the radio. Then, he was usually back to work in a few days.

He hated not being able to give Abby the holiday she deserved. It killed him to think that the kids at her school would talk about all the cool things they got, whilst she got barely anything.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he received a present.

This Christmas was different. It was his first with you, someone who happened to have money at your disposal. Ever since you'd visited their house, you’d made efforts to turn it into a home - replacing the curtains, buying a new fridge - even spoiling Abby with art lessons. At first, Mike had been hesitant; but he saw the way that Abby smiled just a bit brighter, and the way slept just a bit easier, and slowly gave into the idea of being spoiled.

“Open it!” You buzzed, Santa hat bobbing slightly as you handed a large box to him, Abby engrossed in her new toy, but glancing up briefly to watch the interaction. Mike raised an eyebrow, blushing even at the idea of having a gift. Slowly, he tore off the wrapping paper, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he realised what it was.

“It’s a PS2!” you buzzed happily. “I remember you talking to me about how much you loved to game and had an NES when you were a teenager…I know memories of that time aren’t the best, but maybe you can make new ones..?”

Mike felt the tears well in his eyes, clenching his jaw as he trembled.

You’d listened to him. Not only had you listened, but you’d remembered. You’d cared enough to go out of your way and get something that connected his past and present, when you could’ve just as easily got a cashmere sweater.

He felt twelve years old again; wasting hours in front of a tiny TV, shoving popcorn into his mouth as a gamed. His mom never understood the appeal.

With shaky hands, he looked up at you. You’d even bought him a game alongside it.

Smiling, you felt your heart break just a little, but you could see that he was practically screaming thank you.

“Go ahead,” you smiled, watching as Abby rushed over to admire Mike’s new gift. “I’ll watch the food,”

#florence writes!!#mike schmidt x reader #mike schmdit x gn!reader #mike schmidt x male reader #fnaf x reader #fluff #fnaf fluff #mike schmidt x reader fluff

317 notes · View notes

milla-frenchy · 11 months ago

Text

2k3 | Javi Peña x fem reader Summary/prompt: brat!tamer Javi puts reader in place after she’s been teasing him at the office all day. Warnings: 18+ mdni. secret relationship, semi public sex (office sex), oral (f/m), dirty talk, biting, unprotected piv, creampie. No age specified a/n: secret Santa with mutuals 🎄❤️ @multiversed-daydreamer I hope you'll enjoy these 2 brats 😊 Thank you for this prompt 👌🤌 @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog Thank you for beta-ing 💕🫶

Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

Masterlist | ao3

“Can you show me where the La Quica files are in the archives room, Steve?”

Javi rolled his eyes when he heard you. Since this morning, you’ve been trying to make him jealous any way possible.

You showed your painted nails to Steve (it’d been Javi who had chosen the nail polish - his favorite color - for you), you swayed your hips way too much, walking before Stechner in the hallway (while you were wearing Javi's favorite skirt, which he had bought for you, expressly asking you not to wear it at work), you brushed against Crosby's arm before pressing the elevator button to leave the office that afternoon (while Javi was a foot away from him, and right in front of you).

Several times, Javi gave you a look that seemed like a warning, but you offered him your best smile and redoubled your efforts to tease him even more.

You two had started a relationship a few weeks ago, and no one knew about it at the DEA’s office. Javi wanted to keep it that way.

You were supposed to see each other at the weekend but he canceled at the last minute, and today, on Monday, you wanted to make him a little jealous.

You were hoping that he would join you in your apartment tonight, to punish you (a little), and to make amends (a lot).

As Steve took you to the archives room to give you the La Quica file, Javi lit a cigarette before throwing his lighter on his desk. You couldn't help but smile, preceding Steve into the hallway, hoping that Javi was craning his neck to watch his coworker follow you. You knew Murphy didn't care about you, in love as he was with Connie, but he was still a great target to make Javi jealous.

The afternoon passed, and by the early evening the offices were practically empty. You cleaned up your desk and took La Quica's file to put it in the archives.

Just as you were putting it in the box, you heard the door open.

“Who’s there?”, you asked without getting an answer.

“Javi?”

You put the box back in its place and headed towards the door, when Javi appeared from behind a shelf. He smiled, the way a cat might smile before playing with a mouse.

“Have you enjoyed teasing me all day, Hermosa? I told you I didn’t want people to suspect anything about us.”

He turned towards the door and locked it, then moved closer to you, one slow step after another, his eyes fixed on yours. When he got close, you stepped back as he continued to advance towards you, until your back hit the wall. His piercing gaze made you lose your composure in a matter of moments, and yours was now moving from his eyes to his lips. His smirk made you melt, but you couldn't believe that he took the risk of locking himself in this room with you, even if there were only a few people left in the offices.

“What are we doing here, Javi?”

He leaned over you, pressing his cock against your pussy, his nose brushing against yours. He was so hard that you felt your pussy get wet instantly.

“I think you need a good lesson, Hermosa. Need me to put you in your place.”

“Oh really? Put me in my place, then, Javi. Make me shut up”, you dared him.

“I will. But you might moan a little.”

His face was so unimpressed, in complete control, that you stopped talking.

He released you and took a few steps back, slowly again.

“You wanna act like a brat? I'm gonna treat you like a brat. Get on your knees."

He undid his belt and unzipped his jeans. You moved closer to him and got on your knees immediately.

“You want it that bad? Suck it.”

You wanted to take his cock in your hand and jerk him off, but he pushed your hand away.

“I said, suck it.”

He grabbed his cock and then your neck and said “spit on it. And suck it.”

You let your saliva run down his cock, and he pressed your neck harder. You took the tip in your mouth, your lips rounding around his cock. You ran your tongue along the slit, and licked up the precum that was leaking out.

You heard him moan, and his hand tightened on your neck. Still holding his cock in his hand, he leaned his pelvis forward, forcing you to take him deeper in your mouth. He set his pace, thrusting in and then retreating slowly.

“This is what you needed, mmm? Me taking care of your attitude?”

He clenched your hair in his fist, keeping his other hand on your neck.

“Well Hermosa, you don’t seem to act like a smartass anymore, with that big cock stuffing your mouth?”

He released you and you caught your breath.

“You’ve been a very bad girl today, Hermosa. Wanted to make me jealous?”

“A little, yeah…”

“I am Chilean, bebé. I don't know what "a little jealous" is. You need to make it up now. Use your hands and suck it.”

You grabbed his cock and slid your tongue from your hand to his crown, slowly, looking up at him. You took the tip in your mouth, and started sucking on it, still jerking him gently.

“Come on Hermosa, take it deep in your mouth. You’re not gonna act shy because we’re at the office, are you? You weren’t shy when you were all over those men...”

Your groaned, and your tongue played with his tip one last time, still leaking with precum, and your mouth moved further down his shaft.

“That’s it, take it all now, like a good obedient girl.”

You grabbed his thighs with your hands, and you moved further down his shaft, slowly, so that your mouth and then your throat got used to his girth. Your nose in his pubic hair, you kept it at the back of your throat for a few seconds, your tongue pressed against his shaft.

“Fuck… yeah, that’s good. Your mouth feels so much nicer taking my cock, instead of flirting like a little slut all damn day.”

You moaned hearing him, and pulled back slowly, all the way to his tip, swirling your tongue over it, before pushing his cock fully into your mouth again. You felt his fingers tighten in your hair and he groaned.

You were sucking on his cock, your head bobbing up and down, giving him your all. You loved feeling him in your mouth, feeling that vein against which your tongue was sliding.

“You are so much more docile now, Hermosa.” He caressed your cheek, and added “Get up now, I’m not done with you.”

He grabbed your elbow to help you up, then he knelt down as well, facing your crotch. He lifted your skirt, revealing your panties. You heard him moan, then sigh heavily when he saw your swollen folds. The fabric was wet, and he couldn't help but sigh deeply one more time.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked, baby. This pussy is so desperate to get fucked. But she’s gonna have to cry a little bit more before taking it.”

He came closer, his eyes fixed on your panties, and he licked the fabric with a long stroke. Then he grabbed one of your thighs, and hoisted it over his shoulder, pushing the fabric of your panties to the side. He tilted his head, and the tip of his tongue licked your pussy, slowly, up to your clit. He did it again, and you let your head fall back against the wall. This time, he let the tip of his tongue play with your clit, and your hands came to lose themselves in his dark curls. His mustache rubbed gently against your folds, and you moaned. He pulled back and looked up at you, smiling when he saw your face.

“I really shut you up this time Hermosa, and I didn’t even start really eating you out.” He dove in your pussy without giving you a chance to respond, spreading your folds with his thumbs and pushing his tongue into your soaked hole. This time you couldn't help but moan too loudly, and he pulled away saying “shhhh. Don’t make me stop. There are still people in the office.”

You looked down at him and nodded, and he slipped his middle finger into your pussy, still looking at you. He fingered you, and placed his lips against your clit, sucking it gently. He added a second finger in your pussy, and the tip of his tongue swirled against your clit.

Javi knew damn well how to make you cum. In a few weeks, he had become an expert. Whether by taking his time, to the point where you ended up begging him to make you cum, or in two minutes. You knew he wanted to make you unravel quickly, this time.

He turned his fingers upward, rubbing them against that squishy spot, and his tongue swirling faster against your clit, making you moan again. Your nails were lightly grazing his head. You whispered, “Javi…I’m gonna cum.”

He grunted, his lips still placed around your clit, and his tongue quickly playing with it. You came, the back of your hand pressed against your mouth to muffle a possible cry, your pussy contracting on his fingers. He placed his tongue against your clit, waiting for the jerks to stop. Always, he was waiting like this, his tongue poised, as if he was amused by the jolts of your little set of nerves.

He placed your leg back on the ground and stood up, catching you in the process as you reeled from your orgasm. He smiled and said, “I’m not done with you, Hermosa. I don't want you to play your little game again in a few days, and for that, you need a full lesson, don't you?”

He spread your feet with his, gripped your hair in his hand, pinning your head against the wall. Holding his cock, he rubbed it against your folds, under your skirt, before pushing inside, bottoming out in a single thrust. He buried his nose in your neck, growling against your skin as he felt your pussy spread for his cock.

“You’re so tight… you’re squeezing my cock so hard.”

“Fuck me Javi, please. Fuck me hard.”

“Damn, three days without taking this cock and you’re begging for it that much”, he said, grabbing your thighs in his hands, and lifting you so that you wrapped your legs around his waist. The position allowed him to thrust deeper into you, and each stroke hit your G spot. Your back against the wall, each thrust of his hips made you slam against it, as you were holding onto him, your arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“Still wanna tease all those men, baby? Just to get fucked in here, like a good little whore?”

Before you could try to respond, you heard someone walking down the hall, and Javi put his hand over your mouth, continuing to fuck you just as hard, as your eyes were fixed on each other. You licked the palm of his hand, and he shook his head still looking at you, frowning. The footsteps moved away, and he removed his hand, grabbed your throat and pressed your head against the wall, his gaze moving from your eyes to your lips. You grabbed his wrist back, and squeezed it with your fingers, to make him squeeze your throat tighter.

He released your thighs and just as your feet hit the ground, he pulled out of you and grabbed your hips, spinning you around, to make you face the wall.

You just had time to put your hands against it, when he was already lifting your skirt, and pressing his cock against your entrance, sinking in in one go.

“I’m gonna give it to you just like you wanted. Hard,” he said, thrusting deeply in your core.

“Oh! F… fuck!”

The thrusts of his hips sped up, pinning you against the wall each time he thrust into you.

He bit your shoulder lightly, and his grunts turned you on more and more. His hands gripped your hips tightly, helping him thrust deeper. Wanting to feel him even more, you tilted your ass back, so that the angle would allow him to hit your g-spot with each stroke.

“What are you doing, little brat? Wanna come on this cock?”

“Yes Javi, please, I’m so close...”

He squeezed your hair in his fist, and said “you think you deserve this?” still thrusting deep into you with every stoke.

“Yes!! Please, Javi”

“No more brat attitude at work?”

“No… I promise.”

He bit your shoulder again, and repeatedly hit the spot you needed, saying “I want you to come on it baby, give me another one. I want another one.” You came a second time, hearing him.

“Fuck… Hermosa. You pussy is squeezing me so hard… Keep coming on my cock, fuck…”

Your voice trembling, you said “come in my pussy, Javi. Fill me up. Wanna feel you shoot your cum in me, please…”

He grunted again, before you felt the pulsing of his cock as he expelled his cum inside you.

He released his fingers' grip on your hips, stroking them where they had been pressed seconds before, and kissed where he had bitten you, still buried in your cunt. Both of you regained your senses for a few minutes, your breathing gradually returning to normal.

He pulled out and got dressed, while you put your panties and skirt back in place. He looked at you while fastening his belt, then said “don’t forget your promise, Hermosa.”

You looked at him, gave him your best smile, and said “and not getting fucked like that in this room again? Come on Javi…"

You went to open the door, a smile on your face, feeling his cum making your already soaked panties even wetter, and heard his long sigh when you brushed against him.

**********************

Thank you for reading 🙏

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️

Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

Merry Christmas Darthfuzz 🎄

I love these tlou videos that we share regularly 😍

#javier pena fanfiction #javi fanfic #javi pena #javier peña #javi x reader #javier peña smut #javier pena smut #javier pena x you #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal characters #narcos fanfiction #narcos #narcos fic

303 notes · View notes

psychedelic-ink · 11 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓

ㅤㅤ70s rockstar!dieter bravo x innocent fanf!reader

genre: smut, minors dni, 70s rockstar au

word count: 2.2k

summary: it's the 70s and your friend invites you to an underground club where one of your favorite musicians is playing: dieter bravo.

warnings: innocence kink, mild corruption kink, backstage s.ex, piv, dirty talk, weed, oral + handjob (male receiving)

a/n: this is my secret santa gift for @dark-scape! I hope you like it! 🎄🎄🎄 and thank you to @pedrostories who hosted the event, I had a blast writing this and I hope you enjoy, happy holidays! ♡♡♡

You stand at the entrance of the dimly lit alley, feeling the air thick with anticipation. Diane stands right next to you, equally as excited but way more relaxed compared to you. The muffled sound of a soulful guitar seeps through the cracks, sending shivers down your spine.

“Come on, don’t look so scared,” Diane says, taking you by the hand. “There’s a reason why I brought you here today. A little birdie told me Dieter Bravo is playing tonight in secret.”

"Dieter? Like, THE Dieter Bravo?" you stammer, your eyes widening with disbelief.

“The one and only. Now let’s go!”

Excitement bubbles within you as you process the information. Dieter, the musician whose records adorn your bedroom walls, is playing. You can’t believe it. Knots form in your stomach and you have the sudden urge to gag. What would you do if he tried to talk to you?

You vigorously shake your head. That wouldn’t happen. There’s no way he notices you among the crowd.

Nonetheless, you’re still excited.

As you walk in, your heart beats madly within your chest. The air carries a sweet, heavy scent of incense, and the dimly lit space is adorned with wild tapestries. The soulful strumming of a guitar creates a low buzz as people chat and laugh, immersed in the ambiance.

The shifting colors of the lights cast a dreamy glow over the scene. You notice multiple people making out, most of them pushed against the walls. It’s a very close-knit scene. A lava lamp flickers in the background now and then, the shadows playing over the colorful walls.

Navigating through the crowd, you discover the heart of the club—a small stage bathed in psychedelic lights. It’s empty for now and once more you feel your pulse racing. The room pulses with a different kind of energy, experimental and free. Occasionally, there's a hint of something herbal in the air.

Diane leans closer to you, her lips brushing against your ear, “Let’s head to the front, they’re up in five!”

The anticipation in the room reaches its peak as the lights dim even further, and the crowd hushes in unison. The stage comes alive with a burst of colors, and there he is—Dieter Bravo, center stage, bathed in the vibrant hues.

The crowd erupts in cheers and applause as Dieter starts strumming his guitar, the soulful notes resonating through the room. His voice, smooth and magnetic, weaves through the melodies, casting a spell on everyone in the room. You find yourself swaying to the rhythm, completely captivated.

While the music envelops the space, you catch Dieter's eye. His mischievous smile sends a shockwave through you, and you feel your body tingle with embarrassment. Is he really looking at you? The possibility sends your heart into a frenzy.

Diane nudges you, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Looks like someone caught the eye of the rock god himself," she teases, giving you a playful grin.

You can't help but glance back at Dieter, and this time, he holds your gaze. His fingers glide effortlessly over the strings, but his eyes stay locked on yours. Your breath hitches as you watch Dieter play, his fingers moving over the strings with such skill and fluidity. You had never felt this way before, so drawn to someone like this. . . You can't believe how he can make a simple guitar sound so sensual and seductive.

You find yourself unable to look away, and Dieter notices, a sly grin spreading across his lips. Your eyes meet and you feel a jolt of electricity shoot through your body. He winks at you and slowly licks his lips, sending a shiver down your spine.

You can't help but imagine what it would be like to have those talented hands caressing your body, making you feel things you’ve never felt before. But deep down you know it won’t work out. He probably wasn’t even looking at you but at the crowd in general, there’s no way the heat in his gaze was directed at you.

The last note fades into the air, Dieter finally breaks the spell and looks away, confirming your thoughts, yet, a coy smile still plays on his lips. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart and the fire that his performance has ignited inside you.

Dieter stands up from his stool and enters the backstage area. You watch him disappear behind the curtain, but before you can snap out of your daze, someone taps you on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, Dieter would like to see you backstage," a stagehand says, gesturing towards the curtain.

You hesitate, unsure if you should go. But something inside you tugs at your curiosity, and before you know it, you're telling Diane you’ll be back in a second and following the stagehand toward the backstage area.

Stepping behind the curtain, you're hit with a flurry of activity: instruments being packed away, band members chatting, and Dieter standing in the corner, a small smile on his face as he sees you enter.

"Hey," he greets, walking over to you. "I'm glad you came back here."

You smile nervously, feeling a rush of excitement and nerves all at once. You can't believe you're actually standing backstage with Dieter.

Dieter leads you to a secluded small room. You sit down on a couch, and Dieter sits down next to you, his thigh brushing against yours.

"I saw you in the crowd," he says, looking at you with a hint of admiration in his eyes. You notice him pulling out a joint and lighting it. He takes a deep breath before offering it to you.

You shake your head, declining.

"No thanks, I don't smoke," you say, a small smile on your lips.

Dieter raises his eyebrows, his grin growing wider.

"Interesting," he says, his voice laced with amusement. "Usually the people that come to my shows can’t wait to get a hit. I can’t wait to get to know you more. . . intimately."

Dieter's words send a shiver down your spine, and you can't help but feel a spark of excitement at the thought of him being interested in you. You've always had a bit of an innocent personality, and the idea of Dieter being drawn to that only adds fuel to the fire.

He leans in closer to you, warm breath tickling your cheek.

"I have a bit of a soft spot for innocent types like you," he says, his voice low. "It turns me on."

A surge of heat spreads through your body, and you can feel yourself burning up under his gaze. You can't believe this is happening, that Dieter of all people is showing interest in you.

He leans in even closer, his lips almost brushing against your ear as he whispers, "I want to show you a good time."

Dieter's words send a jolt of arousal through you, and you get lost in the moment as he starts kissing your neck. But a sense of embarrassment washes over you, and you feel the need to stop him before things go any further.

"Wait," you murmur, pulling back slightly. "I've never done this before."

Dieter smiles, his lips brushing against your skin as he speaks. "That's even better."

Your heart races at his words, and you feel yourself getting even more wet. Dieter takes your wrist and guides your hand to his impressive bulge, causing you to gasp at the feeling of him underneath his pants.

"See how much you turn me on?" he murmurs, his lips still on your neck. "Do you want to explore more?"

You nod, unable to find the words to express how much you want this. Dieter moves his hand down to the hem of your dress, deftly sliding it up your legs. You feel a surge of nervousness at the thought of him fingering you, but the excitement and desire coursing through your body overpowers it.

Dieter smirks, his fingers finding their way to your underwear. He starts rubbing teasing circles against your clit, making you moan breathlessly. You try to muffle your sounds, but Dieter stops you.

"Don't hold back," he whispers, his hot breath tickling your ear. "I want to hear how much you're enjoying this."

With his permission, you let yourself go and start making louder noises, each touch of his fingers sending waves of pleasure through your body. Dieter continues to tease you, alternating between slow and fast movements, driving you crazy.

"Does it feel good?" he asks, his voice a seductive whisper against your ear. "Being fingered by your favorite rockstar?"

You can only nod, unable to form a coherent sentence as Dieter's skilled fingers bring you closer and closer to the edge. And when you finally reach your climax with a cry of pleasure, Dieter smirks triumphantly before leaning in to kiss you.

Dieter breaks the kiss and guides your hand to his already hard cock. Your breathing quickens as you wrap your fingers around it, feeling its impressive size and girth. Dieter groans, his head falling back as you start to stroke him, your hand moving up and down his shaft.

You feel his pulse racing beneath your touch, his breathing becoming more ragged with each stroke. You glance up at him and see the intense desire in his eyes, fueling your own fire even more.

"Fuck, keep going," Dieter moans, his hips slightly thrusting into your hand. And you do, picking up the pace as you stroke him faster, your own arousal building again at the sight of him losing control.

His grip on your wrist is firm but not too tight, guiding your hand up and down his length. The heat emanating from him as you work your hand makes your head spin, feeling the softness of his skin contrasting with the hardness of his arousal.

"Is this what you wanted?" Dieter asks, his voice low and gruff as he watches you intently.

You can only nod, unable to find your voice as you focus on your task at hand. Dieter's breathing becomes heavier and his hips start to move in rhythm with your strokes. His eyes are locked on yours, and you can see the desire and pleasure in them.

Feeling bold, you lean in and press your lips against his, eliciting a groan from deep within his throat. His hands move to your hips, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth.

Dieter's body tenses under your touch, and you know he's close.

"I can't take it anymore," Dieter groans, stopping your hand and pulling you over his lap in one smooth motion. You gasp as he positions himself at your entrance, his hands gripping your hips as he thrusts up into you.

"Oh god, Dieter," you moan, your head falling back as he fills you completely. His strokes are deep and powerful, rocking your entire body as he pounds into you.

As he continues to move inside you, Dieter starts to whisper in your ear, his voice deep and full of gravel.

"You have no idea how much I love defiling such a pretty fan like you," he growls, his hands gripping your hips even tighter. "Seeing you lose control like this, it drives me wild."

You can feel his words send shivers down your spine, igniting a deeper fire within you. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as you meet his thrusts with your own.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Dieter groans, his pace becoming even more frenzied.

You can't help but moan and whimper as he continues to tease you, his words adding to the intense pleasure coursing through your body. He knows exactly how to push your buttons, and you can't imagine anything better than this moment.

"Dieter, I'm close," you cry out, your body trembling with each thrust. "Please, don't stop."

Dieter's eyes darken at your words, and he thrusts into you even faster. The pleasure building in your body becomes almost too much to handle, and you can feel yourself reaching your peak.

With a loud cry, you climax, your body tensing as you gush around him. Dieter groans and thrusts a few more times before pulling out and telling you to get on your knees.

You quickly comply, sinking to the floor and opening your mouth, eager for his release. Dieter stands above you, his hand stroking his cock as he looks down at you with a hungry expression.

"Such a good girl," he says, his voice filled with desire. "Now, open wide and take all of me."

You obediently open your mouth wider as he guides his cock between your lips, pushing himself inside. You moan around him, the taste of him driving you wild as he begins to move in and out of your mouth.

His thrusts become rougher and more erratic, and you can feel his release getting closer. You suck and lick him eagerly, wanting to taste every drop of his release.

With one final thrust, Dieter cries out and spills himself into your mouth. You swallow it all, eagerly taking every inch of him until he is spent.

As he pulls away, he looks down at you with a satisfied smile. "You did so well, my little fan," he says, helping you to your feet. "Nothing beats sex after a concert."

“Was. . . was I good?”

Pulling you on top of his lap once more, he claims his lips, his cock twitching as he tastes himself on your tongue.

“You were perfect.”

#dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x fem!reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo smut #dieter bravo fic #the bubble fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedrostoriesgift23 #pedrostories

293 notes · View notes

pinkthrone445 · 11 months ago

Note

hii!! i saw you’re taking requests for smutty stuff.

i was hoping to request a melissa x reader smut. where the reader gets something sexy to surprise mel with

🎄Merry Christmas everyone, smutsanta it's here.🎄

Sorry for not writing so much but the work at the end of the year is crazy. I hope you have beautiful holidays, don't forget to tell those you love how important they are to you. Thank you for the requests your naughty little monsters. Enjoy

-The perfect gift-

Pairing:Melissa Schemmenti x Reader

Gender: smut smut smut

Warnlings : (+18) strong words, use of double ended strap, oral.

Summary: You give Mel something seemingly innocent that led them to the perfect night.

One more year that is about to end, Christmas dinner would be the last time you would be at school before a beautiful and well-deserved holiday.

You and your wife Melissa had agreed to participate on the game 'invisible Santa' exchanging gifts with your coworkers, what your wife didn't know was that even though the gift assignment was random, you were her secret Santa and you had thought of a good gift for her.

All week Melissa tried to guess who you got, but you never let her know, saying that the rules of the game were not to tell anyone to make it more fun. Mel knew you were terrible at keeping secrets from her, so she was surprised by your decisiveness in not telling her anything, but that also made her suspect that you were her secret Santa and that's why you didn't want to tell her anything. Either way, you resisted the urge to tell her what your gift was, even when she was driving and your present was in your hands resting on your legs. Melissa noticed that the bag was quite small and light because of the way you held it when you got out of the car, so she didn't imagine what it could be, she just felt the perfume, your perfume that she loved so much, emanating from the small package so she imagined that maybe it was a blouse for her. Although it didn't make much sense because you weren't one to give simple gifts, but well thought out. You even remembered things that others liked that no one else remembered.

When you entered the teachers' room you left the small package with the other gifts and went to greet your colleagues, now your wife's gaze was no longer on the gifts, but on what the dress you were wearing showed, your beautiful legs that were adorned with high black boots to keep you warm on the cold winter night. It wasn't until Barbara distracted her that the redhead stopped staring at you, but her mind didn't stop for a second. It's not that it was a novelty to see you like this, short dress and high boots, after all you had been married for two years now, but it was strange to see you like that at school. When the kids were there, you always wore long pants or dresses that didn't show much, but seeing yourself dressed like that at school was something new that fed your wife's fantasies, which involved slamming you against her desk and rasing your skirt to touch you until you scream her name.

Ava's voice made everyone take their respective seats to exchange gifts, Mel was next to Barbara and you were across the table from her. You smiled a lot when you saw how Eddie gave you a set of legos, specifically one of the Scarlet Witch, your favorite heroine. This year everyone received gifts because you made sure Ava didn't cheat so that more than one person would give her gifts.

When it was Melissa's turn to receive her gift, you handed it to her smiling from ear to ear. The redhead opened the small package smiling at the smell of it, but her face turned to confusion when she saw that it was a large, green, very soft hand-knitted scarf

-"I made it, you always knit things for me, so I learned and I also made you something that could remind you of me when you wear it"-You commented and the redhead smiled stretching out on the table to give you a small kiss on your lips and a great view of her cleavage

-"Thank you, I loved it, you're so cute"-she answered

-"There's a little note as well"-You whispered blushing a little, trying not to stare at your wife's cleavage in front of your co-workers for too long. When Mel saw the note at the bottom of the bag, her eyes became darker than usual and she looked at you like a hungry wolf looks at its prey, the others didn't notice the way her gaze changed, but for you it didn't go unnoticed. No doubt the note had had its effect and she had liked the gift, she no longer saw it as something cute, but as something tempting, because for the rest of the night, the redhead didn't take her eyes off you, wishing she had x-rays to see under your clothes.

A few moments later, everyone had laid down the meals they had brought on the table, along with a good deal of drinks and eggnog. This time, you took your seat next to your wife, who, as soon as you settled down, put her hand on your thigh, where your high boots did not reach and your short dress did not covered. Her hand felt hot on your skin, like the comfortable warmth radiated from a campfire on a cold night, it was something she normally did, to have her hands on your waist or legs whenever you were close, so you didn't think much of it, you almost forgot that her hand was there if it wasn't for her gentle squeezes every time something made her laugh.

You were happy to see everyone gathered for Christmas dinner, at first it was just Barbara and Mel, but it made you happy that they passed on their tradition to everyone else.

The nice moment shared with your co-workers and your wife, plus a few drinks, made you very relaxed listening to others make jokes and tell anecdotes, you even felt a little sleepy, as Mel was going to drive, you didn't worry much about controlling how much you drank.

Your head rested delicately on your wife's soft shoulder, feeling her perfume made you smile and you closed your eyes as you felt the gentle caresses that Mel gave on your thigh. Taking advantage of the fact that your legs were under the table, the redhead took her caresses a little higher, putting her hand under your dress, which made you quickly open your eyes and sit up straight taking her wrist trying to stop her without attracting attention. Your wife just smiled and kept running her hand up your leg, until she nimbly hooked your underwear with her pinky and quickly removed it from your body without the others noticing what was going on. When you realized what had happened, you blushed a lot and stared at her surprised, Melissa just smiled arrogantly looking at you and with your underwear in her hand, she took a quick look at it underneath the table and then she hide it in her bra between her breasts

-"You were right on the note, your underwear matched my scarf, I can't wait to get home and take the rest off you"-The redhead said in a hoarse voice in your ear making you feel chills, leaving your brain not working enough to respond to her.

Since it was winter, and you didn't have any underwear thanks to your wife, a shiver ran through your whole body even though you felt very hot. While the underwear you had was lace and didn't cover much, not having it made you feel very exposed and a little desperate, especially when Mel kept stroking and scratching your thighs. Every damn second that passed, any breeze you felt, or every time your wife talked or laughed, made you more desperate and more restless. Every minute that ran was eternal.

You needed your wife, you had even thought of telling her to come to your empty classroom to help you with your desperation and need. Without you noticing, a small whimper came from your lips from squeezing your thighs so hard while you thought about all the things your wife could do with you

-"Baby, are you okay, do you want to go outside to get some air?"-Mel smiled at you and spoke loudly so everyone could look at you and your needy state, but you needed her too much to think of anything else or feel embarrassed

-"Yes please"-It was the only thing that came out of your lips before you grab your coat and head outside. On the way out you didn't even have time to check if your wife had followed you, that you were already pressed against the wall with her lips on you kissing every inch they could reach. A happy and relieved moan left your lips as you finally felt her kisses and caresses. Her hands were pressed on your hips, your body was attached to her, and her lips and tongue were dancing with yours.

Your legs lost strength when you felt the redhead's hands go down to your ass and squeeze hard drawing a moan out of you. Mel bit your lip and tried to pull away from you to get a breath, but you, taking advantage of the fact that she had put on the scarf you gave her, took the garment and pulled her to kiss again, which made her laugh on your lips. You firmly grabbed her hand and tried to guide her under your dress, but she shook her head and smiled over your lips

-"Let's get back inside before you catch a cold"-She spoke in her voice hoarser than usual and you pouted looking at her

-"But I'm not cold and I need you so much... Please Mel, touch me a little, get me to climax at least once..."-You begged and she smiled looking at you, it's been a long time since she've seen you this desperate

-"Love, it's starting to snow, we can't do it out here... Let's go back to the others and I promise we'll be home in a few minutes" - she replied and kissed your pout to then guide you inside the school again.

Your wife had noticed all your sighs and how restless you were and even though she was desperate to be with you, she liked to see you despair, to hear you beg. That was the reason why she didn't touch you at that moment and the reason why she started talking to Barbara for a long time while you were trying to play cards without being able to concentrate and losing every time.

An hour later, your wife took pity on you and decided to say goodbye to the others and go home, but not before warning you that you had to behave like a good girl on the car or she will not touch you at home.

When you got home you barely let her open the door before you started kissing her again, the only thing you could do was take off her coat before she stopped you from letting you remove her clothes anymore

-"In the note you said that in addition to the scarf, you had worn green underwear like the scarf to match and that you would also be my gift... I want you to go to bed and get naked, take all off but your bra and wait for me there"-Your wife said in an authoritative tone and you nodded before rushing upstairs to the room while you took off your shoes and dress. After a few moments, while you were sitting on the bed waiting for her, Mel entered the room wearing a black corset that highlighted her beautiful breasts and made your mouth water. Her hair was tied in a ponytail, her leather pants still on her legs, and her tall boots too. What particularly caught your attention, it was that the scarf you gave her was still on her neck. The redhead approached you with desirous steps, her heel echoing on the wooden floor of the room, filling the silence with noise as well as the labored breaths of the two of you that could be clearly heard. She smiled as she stood inches away from you, watching as you looked at her body with desire. Carefully she sat down on your lap and took your face in her hands

-"Do you want to kiss and lick my breasts hon? - she whispered inches from your lips and you nodded eagerly-"go ahead, make mommy happy with your soft mouth... But put your hands behind your back, use your mouth only"-Excited and dumbfounded you did what she told you, with your hands behind your back, you started giving wet kisses on her neck and cleavage, at first you tried to stay calm and go slow, but the more you kissed and bit her breasts, the more desperate you were, especially when you heard her soft moans. With more determination, you began to mark and bite her breasts causing her to growl. Forcefully she grabbed your hair making you lift your head so she could kiss you, her tongue connected with yours starting a slow and wet dance, moans escaped your lips as you felt how the redhead rubbed against your leg. Without much effort and still kissing you, she pushed you back so that you were lying on the bed and she was on top of you. Even though you felt that while she was kissing you she was moving a lot, you didn't think much of it as you were gawking and focused on feeling the way she exploded your mouth with her tongue. It wasn't until you tried to grab her hips so that she rubbed more forcefully against you, that you realized that your hands were tied to the bed with no more or less than the scarf you had given her

-"Mel..."-You barely whimper and her smile grow

-"You're my christmas present and I'm going to make the most of every second" - she replied in a very deep voice. With soft, moist kisses, she began to mark your skin, from your jaw, to your neck, your breasts (In which she took a pause to massage and suck them through the lace bra until they were sensitive and then continue through your body), your abdomen and your legs.

With your hands tied to the head of the bed, you were at the complete mercy of the redhead who had her face between your legs, carefully caressing and kissing your thighs leaving pink marks that would later become deep, dark purple marks, deep memories of the night that was just beginning. Each mark was followed by her tongue, relieving the tingling and pain immediately, only adding to your desperation and desire. Your wife laughed as she saw how your legs trembled with desperation, because of the desire you had, because of her caresses, because of her. She had barely started touching you and you had already lost control of your body. Not to mention, you were already so wet that you were dripping the bed

-"Melissa, please..."-You whispered, you didn't even realize that you were begging her or why you were doing it, maybe you were begging her to be faster, maybe to not torture you, to touch you where you needed her the most, to put you out of your misery, maybe you were begging her to make you come and at the same time to prolong the moment, you were begging her for something, for anything

-"Shhh shh shh, It's my Christmas present, I want to enjoy it as best as possible"-the redhead whispered kissing your hip and marking you, you subconsciously lifted your hips to rub against her to feel something. But with strong hands she glued you to the bed again, following her kisses, almost reaching where you needed her most but stopping to look at your desperate eyes making you whimper under her strong gaze. You tried to put your legs together to feel some relief but she wouldn't let you, with a single stroke of her tongue, she swept from your entrance to your clit, causing a gasp to escape your mouth. You thought she would finally take pity on you, but no, she didn't touch you again, she just looked at you smiling with her face stained with your juices-"You're being such a good girl for me and you are so delicious" - She whispered against your pussy. Your eyes began to water, everything was too much and at the same time it was not enough, if only you could squeeze your thighs and get some relief, you were sure that if you put your thighs together because of how sensitive you were you could climax easily, but no, the redhead was using her strength to stop you. Sobbings escaped your mouth. Your wife was lost looking at your crotch, your body, all your responses to her touch-"you're clenching around nothing my love... I've never seen you so wet, you're soaked, so soaked that maybe I'll take pity on you... Maybe... Maybe if you had behaved well I would have taken pity on you long ago eating you out on the car, maybe if you hadn't decided to tell me the kind of underwear you were wearing in a place where I couldn't touch you... Maybe if you had behaved better I would have pulled you out of your misery a lot sooner... Tell me love, are you enjoying this as much as you enjoy teasing me?"-She asked in a hoarse voice kissing your abdomen but you didn't answer, which caused the redhead to slap your pussy, sending a current of electricity throughout your body

-"Melissa!"-You screamed and she bit your neck

-"I asked you a question... Are you enjoying it? Because if you're not enjoying this, I might stop right now" - she whispered in your ear and bit you there, making you sob

-"I'm enjoying it, don't stop, I'm begging you"-you answered her and a tear dropped from your eyes-"I need you Mel..."-You whispered with not much strength left

-"What do you need me to do?"-She asked innocently

-"Fuck me, please... Eat me, do something please"-You responded pathetically whimpering but she walked away from the bed looking you up and down smiling-"Melissa, please, I can't take it anymore, don't leave me like this"

-"You look so beautiful begging...I also have a gift for you my good girl"-The redhead began to peel off her boots and then her pants as you watched her intensely, unable to move from the bed because you were still tied with the scarf. Your eyes almost went to the back of your head and your mouth started salivating as the redhead took off her pants letting you see the strap she was wearing. This one was different from the one you normally used, this was a double-ended one, which meant that the two of you would enjoy it fully. The toy was as red as your wife's hair and made you wonder how she had bought it without you noticing. You also wondered if she had been wearing it all night and if was as desperate as you were to feel it inside you.

Your wife took off the corset she was wearing dropping your underwear that had been tucked between her breasts to the floor and climbed back into bed while watching you look at her. Carefully she climbed on top of you and sat on your abdomen, you moaned as you saw how her breasts bounced and how the strap came out between her legs standing hard and almost brushing your breasts with the tip; your wife groaned as she felt pressure inside her as the toy rested on your abdomen. Slowly she began to rub herself on your abdomen, riding you as she kissed you slow and deep, wetting your skin with her juices. When you started moaning desperately to have her so close and not being able to do anything or touch her, the redhead got up from your abdomen and lined up with your entrance looking into your eyes and biting her lip, when you nodded, she began to enter you very slowly stretching you like never before, as soon she bottomed out and her hip was connected to yours, you began to desperately move your hips without expecting to get used to the discomfort of being so stretched out. Melissa moaned loudly every time you moved your hips, the other end that was inside her was pressing on the perfect spot inside her when you desperately moved your hips. With her strong hands she grabbed one of your legs and placed it on her shoulder before exiting you and re-entering with force, making you scream when she hit your g-spot. That new position where you were halfway on your side and with your legs wide apart made you feel much more pleasure than any previous time you had been together using a strap.

Even though you wanted to hide your face in the pillows, Mel grabbed your jaw so you could look her in the eye

-"Are you ready?" She asked and you nodded without trusting your words, but it wasn't enough for her-"Speak or I won't move, use your big girl words" - She was making fun of you and you knew it but you were so desperate you didn't care about a thing

-"yes, please Melissa, fuck me, destroy me, I'm begging you"-You spoke on the verge of tears because of the need for her that you had.

The redhead finally took pity on you and began to move her hips in and out of you, first slowly and then harder and harder. The two of you were very close to heaven, the room was full of screams and moans that no doubt that it could be heard from the sidewalk. Every time her hips collided with yours it made a beautiful sound, her breasts bounced with every movement and her hands gripped your hips tightly to fuck you harder. Out of her mouth came many obscenities and words which you did not understand because of how far gone you were. Your body began to spasm and hers began to spasm as well, making more desperate and clumsy movements. Her hand went down to your pussy caressing your clit

-"Cum with me my love"-It was the last thing you heard before you had one of the most intense orgasms of your life. Your wife kissed you hard and kept moving her hips against you to lengthen the blessed feeling. For a few seconds you kissed her sloppy, lost in the aftershock.

When you returned to the present, you felt how your wife untied your hands without leaving from inside you, delicately kissed your wrists relieving the burning of the pressure the scarf had left. When she went to come drag out of inside you, you whimper sadly and she understood that you wanted her to stay inside a little longer, so she settled on the bed and made you snuggle on her chest, which you did smiling a lot when you felt her warmth and how she hugged you. You hid in her chest listening to her fluttering heart and enjoying feeling the caresses she gave on your back and legs whispering sweet words.

The redhead saw the time on the clock on the nightstand and smiled seeing that it was already past 12 o'clock.

-"Merry Christmas my love..."-she whispered and kissed your forehead making you smile

-"Merry Christmas my life"-You answered and kissed her affectionately slowly staring to move your hips again a little sleepy.

#melissa schemmenti smut #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti x reader #abbott elementary #fanfic #lesbian

289 notes · View notes

milaisreading · 1 year ago

Text

🌱🩷: 2nd story for my Blue Lock Christmas special. Hope u like it🩷

Pairings: Gin Gagamaru x Manager!Yn

Warnings: Reader uses she/her

⚽️Blue lock belongs to Muneyuki Kaneshiro and Yusuke Nomura⚽️

🎄Dec 11th🎄

"Secret... Santa? What's that?" (Y/n) asked as an excited Anri held a bowl filled with different pieces of paper in front of her. The woman smiled as she pushed the bowl towards her, Ego kept quiet to himself as he rewatched some of the plays.

"It's a game. When you pull out someone's name, you buy them a gift for Christmas."

"So it's a blind game?" (Y/n) wondered as Anri nodded her head.

"If you want to call it that, sure."

(Y/n) looked a few times between Anri and the bowl, wondering if she should really participate in it. While she was pretty much familiar and close with the Blue Lock team, buying any of them a gift would be quite a challenge. But, on the other hand, the game sounded really interesting.

"Ok, it sounds like a fun thing to do." (Y/n) nodded and grabbed a random paper in the bowl. Anri nodded as the girl took the paper and went to put it on the table as the girl unfolded the paper.

'Who did I get? Who did I get?' She chanted as she went to read the name.

'Gagamaru! I am surprised he took part in it.' (Y/n) thought, not seeing him as someone who found fun in these things.

'This will be pretty hard. Gagamaru is more silent on his wants than the rest.' (Y/n) pouted and closed her eyes, trying to think of something, not noticing Anri and Ego staring at her in interest.

"So, who did you get? Do you have any idea on what you will buy?"

The girl jumped at Anri's question and looked at her with a sheepish smile.

"Ah! I will think of something. I need to go and finish something now." (Y/n) said quickly and ran out of the room.

☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄

'I have exactly 7 days till Christmas... what would be a good gift to a guy like Gagamaru?' (Y/n) wondered as she silently ate her dinner, watching the said boy eat his a few tables away from her.

'Maybe gloves... no, that's stupid. A scarf? Too basic... hmm...' (Y/n) sighed, solemnly eating her rice as Hiori and Kurona joined her.

"What's with the long face?" Hiori raised his eyebrow.

"Are you tired? You should take some rest." Kurona said in worry as (Y/n) smiled at the duo.

"I am fine, just this Secret Santa thing is worrying me a little."

"Oh! That thing? Yeah, it's a challenge to think of gifts for others." Kurona said, understanding her struggle.

'Especially when you were cursed to find a gift to Reo... he is a billionaire, what could I possibly get him?' The boy silently groaned as Hiori smiled at them apologetically.

"It will be alright. Don't worry, you two."

'At least I got Isagi and not someone random.'

🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️

'6 days till Christmas... and still no idea what to get him!' (Y/n) groaned as she silently watched Gagamaru train with one of the robots. It was another busy day at the Blue Lock building. Part of the team was in the practice area, while the other part was at the gym. And while (Y/n) was planning on foing her part today, the Secret Santa was still nagging her. She really wanted the gift to be good, and she didn't have much time left either. Anri said she would take her to the city in 2 days to buy something.

"Think, think, think, idiot." (Y/n) muttered to herself, not noticing the goalkeeper walking towards her.

"Hey, (Y/n), can I have one of the towels?" Gagamaru asked as the girl looked at him in surprise for a moment.

"Oh, sure!" She smiled and quickly went to get one for him.

"Good practice, your reflexes are getting much better the more time passes." Gagamaru blushed at the compliment and gave her a small nod.

"Thanks. I try my best to keep up with the rest. I am happy the progress is being noticed."

The girl's heart melted a little at his words and smile he gave shortly after. Gagamaru wasn't as expressive as the rest, so she cherished things like this.

"Mhm! Trust me, it's not just me who noticed it. But that's besides the point. Take a small break for now." Gagamaru nodded his head and sat down on the ground as (Y/n) went to get him a water bottle.

'Food, maybe? Gagamaru likes to eat, as far as I know. And everyone likes food.' (Y/n) thought as she walked back to the boy.

"Huh? Gagamaru, what happened to your ear?" (Y/n) asked in worry, noticing a scar behind it.

"What do you mean?" The boy blinked in confusion as he took the water bottle from the girl.

"The scar behind your ear. Where did that come from? Nobody told me you got injured." She said. Gagamaru kept silent for a moment.

"That's just from a bear I found in the forest once. Nothing to worry about."

"A bear? You got thus from a bear?!" (Y/n) asked in bewilderment. On one hand, she was worried, but on the other she was impressed he survived a bear attack.

"Yeah. I like being in nature amd around animals, especially bears. I like them, a lot." The boy admitted, blushing a little as (Y/n) silently looked at him.

"That's... that's quite impressive, actually." The girl spoke up, surprising Gagamaru.

"Really?!"

"Yeah, surviving a bear attack is quite something. I knew you were strong, but this is beyond anything I could have imagined."

Gagamaru felt his whole face turn a bright red a the compliment and looked away. (Y/n) finally realized what she had said and blushed as well, trying to apologize but Gagamaru cut her off.

"Thank you... it means a lot." The boy said with a soft smile as (Y/n) stared at him for the moment.

'He has a really pretty smile.' She thought as her heart beat quickened.

'And... I think I figured what I could buy him...'

The next 2 days (Y/n) spent in running errands for Ego as well as preparing everything for Gagamaru's gift. The plan was pretty easy. She knew that a local mall in Shibuya had a store where she could costumize stuffed animals,so she made a sketch on what she wanted on the the bear and how it should look.

"I just hope they will have the skin I need..." She muttered to herself, staring down at her final plan.

☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄

"I will pick you up in 3 hours, is that ok with you?" Anri asked as she stopped her car. (Y/n) nodded her head and took off her seat belt. She was pretty anxious about the gift, even if she wasn't showing it to anyone.

"Sure! I will wait for you outside the mall then."

"Mhm. Have fun and good luck." Anri sent her an encouraging smile as the girl left the car, and then drove off. Taking in a deep breath, (Y/n) looked up at the building.

"Ok, time to do this." She said to herself and went to the entrance.

🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️

After a short while of searching for the store, (Y/n) finally found it. Much to the girl's relief, it wasn't really crowded. It gave her hope that she will maybe be able to get what she planned.

Once inside, the girl was greeted with Christmas music, decorations, and displays of seasonal plushies.

'So cute!!' The girl thought as she noticed a pink cat plushie, but quickly shook herself out of that state.

'No no no, we are here for Gagamaru. Let's look for that skin... or something that resembles my idea.' (Y/n) scolded herself as she went to look among the pile of different skins. It was a real variety of both colors and animals, but none of them were what she was looking for. Finally, after 10 minutes of searching, (Y/n) silently cheered to herself as she found a gray bear. It was similar to the idea she had!

"Thank God... seems like you were the last one in this pile, too." (Y/n) sighed in relief then went to get the clothes before it got stuffed.

'What could be better than a football themed bear!' She smiled to herself, looking for something resembling a football uniform.

🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️

Eventually, after an hour of searching for everything and setting up the bear, (Y/n) walked put of the store. She was quite happy with how everything turned out and she liked the cute Christmas packaging she got.

'I just hope Gagamaru likes it...' (Y/n) thought back on the boy. Sure, he was more silent than the rest and peculiar as well, but it sort of added to his charm. Sitting down near a food court, (Y/n) blushed as she thought back om the small conversations they had.

'He is really nice and kind... also, he causes the least amount of trouble, too. Gagamaru also seems very genuine when he talks, I am still confused how he never had a girlfriend before.' The girl felt her heart race again.

'And he also has the cutest smile.' She smiled to herself.

'I hope I can see it again one day...'

🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️

The next few days were filled with awkward and rushed interactions between the duo. As much as she tried, (Y/n) felt always felt like her heart was about to escape out of her chest when Gagamaru talked, and she tried her best to not say something stupid. (Y/n) wasn't stupid, she knew she fell for the goalkeeper, but that didn't mean she didn't feel any less awkward around him. Especially after she promised to herself not to fall for any of the players.

'Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.' She sighed, plopping onto her bed, sending a short glance at the present. It was the night before they were supposed to give their gifts, and the girl felt her mind race through every possible scenario.

"Gagamaru... will he like it even? I hope he will." She smiled nervously.

'He deserved a better gift... he is always so nice and considerate of me.' She thought.

"I wonder... would he ever like me the way I like him?" (Y/n) thought, her cheeks flaring up at the thought.

'Stupid, there is no way he would like me. He just sees me as his manager and friend. I should be fine with that.' She bit her lower lip, trying to ignore the slight pain in her chest.

'But... the idea does hurt a little...'

Unbeknownst to (Y/n), the said goalkeeper was laying on his bed as well, staring at the present wrapped in nice, (f/c) paper. The boy had returned from Tokyo a few hours prior, and he was quite happy with the gift. It was nothing big, just a pair of earrings Anri had helped him pick out.

'Will she like them? She did say to Teieri-san that this color was her favorite, and that she was eyeing them for a few months. Hope her mind didn't change.' Gagamaru sighed, feeling the same nervousness come back. The same one he felt ever since he realized his own feelings for the girl.

'Should I confess? I mean, would she ever think of me like that? I am nothing special compared to the rest, is there even anything she would like about me?' Gagamaru thought nervously.

'I don't want to ruin the friendshiwe built... but I also don't think I can handle all these emotions for long.'

🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️🎄☃️

The next day...

"Gagamaru! Thank God I found you!" The black/white haired boy jumped in surprise and looked back at the girl, who was running down the hallway to where he was.

"(Y/n)..." The boy felt all the heat rush up to his cheeks again as he watched the girl stop in front of him, taking a few deep breaths.

"Thank... God...I found you. Here, marry... marry Christmas. I hope you like it." (Y/n) smiled nervously at the boy, presenting the box to him. Surprised, Gagamaru stared at it for a moment and then looked back at (Y/n).

"You... you got me?"

"Y-yes..." The girl answered, hoping he wasn't disappointed by it.

'Maybe he didn't want a gift from me!' She gulped. But, jer nervousness went away as soon as Gagamaru chuckled softly, presenting a smaller box in front of her.

"What a coincidence, I got you. Marry Christmas, (Y/n)." The boy smiled. (Y/n)'s eyes widened for a moment and she held back a squeal as they exchanged the boxes.

"Thank... thank you. Can I open it now?" She asked nervously.

"Sure, can I open mine now?"

"Of-of course."

Still blushing, the two quietly started unwrapping their gifts. With an uncontrollable heartbeat, Gagamaru opened his. The boy's eyes widened as he saw a gray bear staring back at him, wearing a uniform closely resembling his goalkeeper one.

'It's a bear... it's adorable! Just like her.' Gagamaru thought, nervously watching (Y/n) open hers. The girl gasped a little as she saw a pair of heart-shaped, (f/c) and gold earrings. The same ones she was talking about for months.

'They...they are even more beautiful up close. He really got them for me?' The girl thought, looking up at Gagamaru.

"Thank you... they are beautiful!" She smiled brightly as Gagamaru let out a sigh.

"I am happy you like them. The bear is really adorable, I will keep it close with me from now on." The goalkeeper said, hugging the plush toy tightly.

"R-really?"

"Mhm. I like it... and I like you too." Gagamaru blurted out the last part, surprising both himself and (Y/n). The girl stared at him in shock for a good minute... the longest minute in Gagamaru's life.

'Idiot! Why did you say that?! She will feel awkward now-'

"I... I like you,too." (Y/n)'s words interrupted the boy's thoughts as he looked back at her in shock.

"You... you do? You really do?" Gagamaru gulped as (Y/n) moved closer to him with a bright smile.

"Really."

"I am... glad, then." Gagamaru said back, moving closer as well. It felt nice to get those words off of his chest.

"Told you it will work." Anri silently snickered as both her and Ego were watching the couple from their hiding spot down the hallway.

"Anri, you literally gave them bowls filled with just their names. Of course it worked-"

"Shush! That's not what you said a week ago." Anri sent the man a side-glare, the man only rolling his eyes at her.

#bllk #blue lock anime #blue lock manga #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock scenarios #manager reader #blue lock gagamaru #bllk gagamaru #gin gagamaru #gagamaru x reader #gagamaru x you #secret santa scenario

157 notes · View notes

hischierswhore · 1 year ago

Text

cindy lou who

i'm back, and just in time for ficmas! this was inspired by sabrina carpenter’s song “cindy lou who”. i highly recommend listening to it as you read 🎄

pairing: lando norris x ex!reader

You, Kika, Alex, Carmen, and Lily all sat around your Christmas tree as you began your Secret Santa exchange. It was a girls' night, and you all thought this would be the best way to spend your final girls' night before Christmas.

The holiday spirit was evident within your cozy little flat, as the elegant pink and white ornaments decorated your tree and the pine-scented candles spread a wonderful aroma throughout your home.

"Oh my gosh, this is adorable! Which one of you got me this?" Lily questioned, looking around at each girl, trying to see who could barely contain their smile.

When Lily got to you, her bright smile slightly fell into a frown.

"Y/n? Is everything alright?" She asked as she rested her hand on yours, the contact waking you from the daydream you were in.

"Oh yeah. All is good!" You gave her and the rest of the group a thumbs up.

Truthfully, you were reminiscing on last Christmas. It was the last one you spent with your now ex-boyfriend Lando. This time last year you were at his house, kissing underneath the mistletoe.

After a few more Secret Santa reveals, the whole exchange was over. You picked up your phone and began to scroll through Instagram. As you scrolled, you saw a glimpse of Lando, leading you to scroll back to view it properly.

I saw you laughing in one of his pictures But you'll be the one with his ring on your finger There's red and green everywhere But I'm so blue Cindy Lou Who

You felt your stomach drop when you came across the photo of Lando... with a girl. She was stunning. Her long brown hair curled to perfection. The smile on her face was bright and huge. Her arms wrapped around Lando's neck. Her eyes weren't on the camera, they were on Lando.

He was smiling back at the girl. You wondered who took the photo, or rather, who captured them in that moment, and why did they want to torture you for the rest of your life?

You turned your phone off, desperately trying to find something to distract yourself with. You looked at the tree, you looked at the candles. You stupidly looked at the picture frame that was placed right in front of your TV. The one that had a picture of you and the girls. The picture that had replaced the one of you and Lando from Christmas 2 years ago. The frame that always reminded you of him.

Maybe he met you somewhere in the desert While he was soul-searching, he found someone better Guess you make him happy like I couldn't do Cindy Lou Who

As the night went on, you began to think of the girl in the picture. When did they meet & was it after what you had assumed was going to be a sort break?

Your breakup with Lando was a result of him claiming that he needed space to find who he truly was. You understood, but you always thought he'd come back for you when he was ready.

Now it seems as though you were never part of his plans after his "self-discovery".

You couldn't ignore the fact that he looked happy with this girl. He hadn't looked that happy with you in a long time. It pained you to see how happy he was without you in his life. His smile, the one you loved to see, was now causing you so much pain.

With your hair so long, lips so red Maybe we met once I forget Scrolling five years back, I'm obsessed Breaking my heart 'Tis the season I guess

After successfully distracting yourself with a Christmas movie that you watched with your girls, everyone was beyond tired and headed home. You dragged yourself to your bed, grabbed your pillow, and put it over your head. You were so done with the holiday season.

You tossed and turned for what felt like hours, when in reality it was just 30 minutes. You knew you shouldn't, but you did it anyways. You picked up your phone and went back to Lando's post. You clicked on the girl's tag and pulled up her profile.

Your breathing faltered as you were met with the brunette's feed: it was basically just pictures of her and Lando. You scrolled all the way down until you were five years back. She was a model, so of course Lando fell in love with her.

Just as you scrolled to the top and refreshed the profile, a new post appeared on her feed. It was a picture of the girl and Lando, her red lips pressed against Lando's underneath the mistletoe. You tried to hold back tears as you looked over the photo, along with the caption.

"meet me under the mistletoe :)"

If you're waking up now in his old bed At his family's house, know that you're just Breaking my heart 'Tis the season I guess

You desperately wanted to tell him how you felt, but it was no use. Lando had moved on and he appeared to be in love, but you were in love with him too. You never stopped, and now there was nothing you could do to get him back.

The snow's gonna fall and the tree's gonna glisten And I'm gonna puke at the thought of you kissin' The boy who I love is now in love with you Cindy Lou Who

~~~

hope you all enjoyed 🫶🏼

#✎ natalie writes #lando norris #lando norris x y/n #lando norris angst #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris fanfic #Spotify

174 notes · View notes

abiiors · 1 year ago

Text

under the mistletoe 🎄// ross macdonald x reader (pt 2 of 2)

twelve days of christmas - day 3

a/n: best friends to lovers? no. it's idiots to lovers. this is also part 2 of secret santa cw: kissing, alcohol, very tame and cheesy. there might be typos... wc: 3k

a cheer cuts through the chatter in the room and ross finds himself standing under a mistletoe, liv first in his arms, then standing on her toes and then they’re kissing—sweet, long kisses that make him smile despite the butterflies in his stomach.

butterflies that should have been a result of the kiss. instead, it feels more like a swarm of bees buzzing in his chest from anticipation.

ross doesn’t expect to be this nervous. more than that, he doesn’t expect to pull away from the kiss before she does. even when liv looks at him with slight concern.

he certainly doesn’t expect himself to be so hung up on secret santa. he has bought plenty of gifts for people he cares about before! good ones too; sure, he’s no pro at gift giving but he’s not entirely hopeless. but this time he simply cannot afford to mess up. not when it took him two turns to get the name he really wanted.

everyone looks festive in some shade of red or green on white—and one silver but charli really pulls it off. liv has a beautiful green velvet dress on, her curly hair piled on top of her head and gold hoops dangling from her ears. liv looks stunning!

it’s her that really takes his breath away—the girl who’s been his best friend for over a decade now. the girl who now stares at him with a tight smile on her face, cheering almost on autopilot with the rest of his friends. she’s in a classic red slip dress and matching red lipstick that contrasts her skin so perfectly that ross almost feels guilty for staring at her longer than necessary. he’s right next to his girlfriend for fucks sake. he needs to focus!

the excitement in the room is off the charts! everyone’s buzzing to get to the main event—the secret santa gifts—and he feels a tiny pit of nervousness at the centre of all his enthusiasm. what if she doesn’t like his gift? what if it’s something she already has or something that’s too personal… too intimate.

liv breaks his little spiral.

“you alright?” she slides onto his lap with an easy smile and pecks him softly.

“yeah, just excited about the gifts! i wonder who got my name.” even with her on his thigh ross can’t stop his knee from bouncing up and down. the weird mixture of anticipation and butterflies is something he’s rarely felt before—not since… well not since her last birthday when he’d gotten her two tickets to the play she’d been dying to go to.

(if he’s being honest it was not since she’d asked him if he’d like to go with her.)

“me too!” liv beams and it’s as if that’s matty’s cue to announce that they can all finally, finally move to the living room.

the living room is adorned with twinkling lights and tinsel, creating a warm and cozy atmosphere. a decently sized pile of gifts sits under the pretty tree—the current object of everyone’s interest. his nervousness aside, ross feels as giddy as the others do, still like a child on christmas morning about to get the long anticipated pokemon card collection.

matty gets to the pile and starts calling out names one after the other.

ross is barely even listening—his mind races with a million different possibilities. what if it’s a shit gift? what if she doesn’t like it or has something similar or doesn’t get the significance of it?

what if she thinks he put no thought into it?

he’s barely even listening when polly coos over the “cutest jumper ever!” or when george cackles over his gag gift or when matty almost goes misty eyed over the vintage book.

he only snaps out of it when matty calls out her name and envelopes her in a hug.

“it’s perfect,” he sniffles and ross burns with envy.

not envious of matty. never envious of matty but… a tiny, irrational part of him wishes she were his secret santa instead. that she spent days thinking about him, obsessing over finding the perfect gift just like he had.

that maybe she spent her nights in bed, wondering a thousand times over if her gift would make him smile (it would, ross thinks. she could get him a £10 bottle of wine and he would still cherish it dearly.)

“ross!” matty calls out and he startles a little.

matty looks at him with a slightly puzzled expression and wiggles a neatly wrapped gift in front of him. it’s square and thin with a small note attached to it.

he recognises it instantly—a handwriting he’s only recently come to know as liv’s.

liv. his girlfriend. his secret santa.

and he’s an awful, awful boyfriend for the feeling of disappointment that rises in him.

his fingers move deftly, tearing apart the wrapping paper until the gift inside becomes visible. the first thing he registers is the word “untitled” printed front and centre in big bold letters. and below it: “divine connection: the last unreleased album”. it dawns on him slowly—the band, their band. the last album from their band. just his and hers. and on autopilot, his gaze snaps up to her.

“ross?”

for the second time that evening liv’s voice cuts through his spiral and he turns around to see her standing at the door to the balcony with a half-drunk champagne flute in her hands. she’s beautiful, he thinks. she’s always been stunning but his heart doesn’t skip a beat when he looks at her.

“can we talk?” she walks in and stands next to him, shoulders brushing with his. it’s a cold night. it’s silly being outside but he’s in a weird mood. he even kinda prefers it here.

“yeah of course,” he clears his throat and tries to appear casual.

“did you like your gift?”

“i did. it was… it was perfect.” at least that much is true. at least that much he can say with 100% certainty. “thank you. really, i mean it.”

“i know you do.”

for a minute she doesn’t say anything but her eyes roam over his face—a scruitinising sort of a look that makes him want to shy away. she’s never been particularly intense but in the few weeks he’s known liv, she’s had a way of guessing his little tells. it takes everything in him to not look away.

still, he closes his eyes for a minute.

the scene is still so fresh in his mind—ross opening the gift and looking up. ross staring at her and not liv. ross murmuring “thank you. it’s perfect.” and smiling at her before he even remembered that the gift was supposed to be from liv.

ross only looks at her, his best friend. and she can’t seem to meet his gaze.

liv clears her throat and brings him back to the present. she takes another swig of her champagne and offers him the glass. ross studies her lipstick smudge on the rim and accepts the drink gratefully.

“you’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

a second sooner and he would have choked on the drink or done a spit-take like a fucking idiot but the question leaves him so speechless that he almost drops the glass.

“who?”

“don’t play dumb now.” her tone’s a bit sharp but her words aren’t unkind and the thought of being scolded like that makes him blush slightly and straighten up.

he’s about to speak when she continues.

“i see how you look at her—how you looked at her when you opened the gift i gave you. you knew it wasn’t from me didn’t you?”

wordlessly, he nods his head.

“you knew i didn’t think of it. you were right though. i didn’t. i went to her because she’s you best friend.”

“and she told you about the band?”

liv clicks her tongue. “she handed me the record. turns out she had you for secret santa before we picked the names again.”

“oh…”

there’s another beat of loaded silence in which he struggles to maintain eye contact with her and not feel like an utterly shit boyfriend.

“liv i—”

“i know,” she smiles briefly. “but you can’t string me along, babe. look i like you a lot. i really do and i know… i know you told me you were trying to move on from someone but i assumed that was a past relationship. i didn’t realise you were talking about…your best friend.”

“i’m sorry,” he shakes his head. “i really am. i know that was shitty of me.”

“it was a little.”

none of them speak for a few minutes. ross looks at her champagne again, wishing he’d had a drink with him for this conversation. or maybe not—maybe a clearer head is what he needs. he is getting dumped, after all.

and yet… there’s no sadness. just a faint sense of disappointment.

“so this is it i guess?”

in one gulp liv finishes the rest of her champagne and nods. “yeah. this is it. for what it’s worth ross… i have no hard feelings.”

this time when she smiles at him, it’s open and sincere. much to his relief, it’s friendly. liv stands on her toes and presses a kiss to his cheek. it’s chaste and quick—a goodbye, one that he returns by hugging her tightly.

liv pauses at the threshold just as she’s leaving.

“why don’t you tell her?”

ross shakes his head in disappointment and feels the familiar ache settle bone deep. the night suddenly seems so much colder than before—no longer the cosy kind that makes you want to snuggle up with a loved one. this feels sharp and biting.

“can’t,” he shrugs, “i don’t want to ruin years’ worth of friendship.”

he expects liv to understand that. it’s a perfectly normal sentiment—to love someone enough that you’d rather have some of them than none of them. but she just shakes her head at him.

“wow…” liv sighs, “for a man so smart… you really are fucking dumb.”

and then she leaves him on the balcony, shivering and confused.

by the time he gets inside, there’s a lull in the party. everyone’s either drunk or loved up or both. well, maybe not everyone.

ross finds her huddled in front of the fireplace, absently staring at her wrist. at the pearl bracelet he got for her.

a near-perfect match to her beloved pearl necklace from her grandmother.

the fire casts a warm, golden glow on her—on her hair and the curve of her shoulder, the hollow of her throat, and down her chest. he stands transfixed at the threshold, waiting for something to happen.

maybe matty (passed out on the sofa) will wake up if he moves or polly might need something from him or george and charli might see them and he loves his friends but they have barely any concept of personal space after all these years. maybe he could just do it tomorrow when he’s not half-drunk, half-sober, and fully freaking out.

“ross?”

too late to hide now.

“why are you stood there? come on! it’s so cold!” she opens up her blanket cocoon—an invitation for him to join.

ross, startled by her voice, stumbles into the room. his cheeks flush with embarrassment and he clears his throat, trying to mask the awkwardness that has suddenly enveloped him.

fuck! she’s pretty. and yes he thinks that every single time he looks at her but it’s moments like these that really hit him like a gut punch.

liv’s words echo in his mind over and over again. for a man so smart… you really are fucking dumb. was she trying to say what he thinks she was? or is he just delusional and projecting his own feelings onto her.

her body is soft and warm when ross settles next to her, pulling her into his side and tucking her head under his chin.

“you were deep in thought.” ross teases a bit, not ready to broach anything serious just yet. what he really wants to ask is about the record—how she’d somehow known his perfect gift before he figured it out himself.

“just thinking about how good i am at gift giving,” she teases back. “matty was ecstatic.”

she's right but he can’t help but find a different meaning in her words.

“that you are,” ross murmurs in her hair, resisting the urge to press a little kiss there. it’s too much for him—this intimacy. something like that might just tip him over the edge.

for a while she doesn’t say anything and ross wonders if she’s fallen asleep. it’s quite late and they’re quite cosy, it won’t be the first time she's fallen asleep on him. maybe, if she is asleep, he might even press that kiss onto her head after all.

“liv’s not here?” her voice breaks his train of thought. it’s not teasing anymore—she sounds neutral and controlled and… and like she’s trying not to pry.

“we broke up.”

“what?!”

she almost shrieks and matty stirs slightly but goes back to sleeping again. ross feels guilty for just dumping it on her without any context.

“i’m so sorry,” she says before he has a chance to speak. “fuck, at a christmas party too! that sucks, love. are you alright?”

“it wasn’t like that. it was…” this is it, he thinks. his one chance to get it right. “i’m perfectly fine. i’m… i’m better than fine. it’s… well she–you… fuck okay!”

he cheeks grow warm. it’s worse now that she’s properly looking at his now, her face a mixture of concern and curiosity; that she’s now an attentive audience to his pathetic flustered words.

“let me…” he takes a big deep breath and squares his shoulders. “okay. let me get this right. for the next, i don’t know, two minutes, you aren’t allowed to speak, okay? okay. so! liv and i talked.” the skepticism on her face grows and ross tries not to let it deter him. “the gift, the record—”

“was it not good?”

“oi! no speaking, remember? two minutes.” ross scolds lightly and almost laughs at her sheepish face. “as i was saying, the record. it wasn’t her idea, was it? i asked her how she knew and she told me you gave it to her. for me! why didn’t you… why didn’t you give it to me yourself?”

for all her talking a moment ago, now she seems speechless. so much so that she can barely meet his eyes.

“it was a lovely gift, darling. maybe even one of the best and… i just want to know why, that’s all.”

her cheeks flush a subtle shade of pink, and she fidgets with the edge of the blanket. “i guess i wanted you to have something meaningful without making things awkward. i’d already bought the gift and i didn't want to complicate our friendship with something that felt so… personal, especially with liv being in the picture. and…fuck! if that’s what made you break up, i’m so sorry, i—"

“it didn’t,” he cuts her off firmly. ross can’t help but notice the small details of her face then—the tiny smudges of mascara from no doubt when she sleepily rubbed her eyes, the glitter on her eyelids reflecting the firelight. her big, beautiful eyes and dilated pupils.

her slightly smudged lipstick…

fuck, it’s the tiny lipstick smudge on the corner of her lips that makes him lose his ability to think straight.

“we broke up because… well there’s someone else,” he speaks in a low volume. subconsciously, she leans forward.

“someone else?”

the room falls into a heavy silence, broken only by the crackling fire. she waits, her eyes searching his face for any sign that he's joking or playing some elaborate prank. but the sincerity in his expression leaves no room for doubt.

“you’re my best friend,” he says, “and fuck, do i resent that! how am i… darling, how am i meant to pretend you’re just my friend when you’re the fucking focal point of my world?”

her breath catches so audibly that it’s almost a gasp. he waits for her to say something. anything. instead she leans in an presses her lips to his.

it’s so unsure at first, almost like she freezes and her brain can’t figure out where to go next. the kiss lingers, soft and tentative—both testing the waters of something uncharted. ross's mind races, trying to process the warmth of her lips against his, the subtle taste of her lipstick.

she pulls away before he’s even had the chance to kiss her back and hides her face in his chest.

“oh god, that was too soon, wasn’t it! that was–you just broke up and i—”

“love, don't hide your face, don't…” his hands gently cup her flushed face, making her look up at him once again even when she can barely meet his eyes and in that moment he realises he’s never seen someone so beautiful.

so this time when ross crashes his lips against hers, he makes sure to pull her closer. to hold onto her tightly. his arms are around her, her hands in his hair and oh she fits so perfectly in the crevices of his body. like a perfect puzzle piece.

by the time they finally pull apart, slightly breathless and grinning uncontrollably, ross hears her giggle.

“wow, that was my first kiss under a mistletoe…”

“we aren’t—”

“i know, but we’re next to one so it’s almost the same.”

he looks to where she’s pointing, to the little bunch tied above the fireplace.

“we could do better, darling.”

“yeah?”

“mm-hmm,” he murmurs, stealing another quick kiss from her. “let me take you home.”

and she agrees in a heartbeat.

lemme know what you think <33

taglist: @scooby-doodoo @partoftheairforce @justgoatsbreakinghearts0855 @beachesgetpeaches @you-muppet @mcabister @alexmarie29 @at-her-very-foreign @hfkait @squishysoupy @sierraeslaprincesa @harrie-fic-center @alien-girl-violet @thereisaplaceintheheart @kennedy-brooke @lolidontknowanymore @theoriginalwhatsername @celestcies @sugarkane1001 @ari-turner @thewaywewereinsaigon @daphnesutton @beliefandsayingsomething @ros3chu @nothingrevealedeverythingdenied @zzzhealy @mattymybeloved @fck-off @indiaamars @sofaritsalrightt @k4tie75 @wondersecret @humptyhoran @indierockgirrl @hanbiior @moreyoulove-moreyouknow @rossgirly @if-my-heart-bleeds @little-lovely-darling @abriefnirvana @renitypoem

add yourself to the taglist

#christmas75 #12 days of christmas #the 1975 #ross macdonald #ross macdonald x reader #ross macdonald x you #ross x reader #ross x you #ross macdonald angst #the 1975 angst #minor angst #matty healy #george daniel #adam hann #angst to fluff???#in all honesty i kinda hate this because writer's block is a bitch but i can complain here because no one is going to see these tags #yeah. genuinely not very happy with this but also not in the position to rewrite it so we move

114 notes · View notes

kiraixi · 11 months ago

Text

This is my contribution to the Harringrove Relay Race! 🎄❤️@harringrove-relay-race

Santa Baby ~

Billy wasn’t happy with his predicament but honestly any extra cash would do… even if it meant babysitting your crushes ex’s younger sister.

Holly was a sweet kid. Shy at first, but after becoming a frequent swimmer at his Turtle Tots classes in summer Billy’s come to know what a bubbly yet devious inside she had. Adorable baby blues not even he could say no to along with a pixie laugh when she got her way.

Here he was, standing outside the mall, about to spend his Christmas day with a five year old.

To be fair it was way better than whatever burnt roast Susan would salvage, forced to choke down undercooked potatoes with his father’s threatening glare across. Forced to match Max’s tight smile and fake gratitude as she opens her third present while he gets none. Always. Only to left alone with his asshole dad and mouse of a wife while she runs off to her nerd friends' houses, blissfully ignorant of what waits for him behind closed doors.

Mrs Wheeler stopped him a week ago. Hand on his arm caressing, asking if he could be ‘ever so kind’ and watch her youngest on such a special day. Billy doesn’t care what she deigns so important she can’t look after her own child, but from the amount of cash stuffed into his hand he’s not complaining at all.

Twenty dollars to babysit her and another twenty five to buy her a gift. He can keep the change.

Holly takes him left and right. Kinda embarrassing how this little kid knows her way round more than him. Up the stairs they go to Claire’s, receiving a few warm chuckles from the lady running the till when Holly asks him which stuffed plushie is superior.

Billy personally thinks the reindeer one is cuter. It’s called Antler Claus.

They pick up some hot chocolate and share a gingerbread cookie. Holly called the thing Hermon and then decapitated its head, handing him the torso and legs. She’s darn cute.

Tugging on the arm carrying her teddy, she points down the hall. He turns to her,

“Mm?”

“I wanna see Santa!”

“Santa?” Billy looks where she’s pointing. A Christmas set up. A tree and a couple presents laid out, theres’ a small queue of people waiting to talk to a guy in red lounged on a chair.

“Oh… Santa.”

“Yep!” She tugs him forward with the mighty force of a toddler and they line up behind, Billy squinting at that floppy brown hair under the hat. Even though the boy’s face is hidden under that ridiculous beard, Billy could recognise him anywhere.

Steve Harrington in all his glory, sweating under layers of heavy velvet, trying with all his might to sell a jolly man accent.

He can’t suppress a smirk as they walk up for their turn. Steve tries hard to not make eye contact with Billy, instead listening intently to Holly.

“Hi there little miss! Have you been a good girl for Santa this Christmas?”

She giggles, swaying back and forth on Steve’s knee, “Yes! I spent today with Billy, it was so fun! We got a rei- rain—“ She frowns at Billy.

“Reindeer.”

“Reindeer!” Shining her brilliant three teeth smile at the older boy. They both laugh at her adorable antics.

She pulls Steve’s ear in, whispering in that way only children do, loud yet secretive all the same. “Don’t tell my mummy but this is way more fun than being home.”

Steve sends him a soft smile and Billy tries with all his might to tape down that warm shakiness building in his chest. Steve tells her to grab a gift off the shelf and while she’s away for a few minutes Billy’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“What made you do this instead of..” He waves his hand around lamely, “Festivities at home.”

Steve looks down at his lap a little forlorn, “I don’t think anyone would even realise I’m gone..”

“Ah..”, that sad pout makes Billy regret asking.

The other sighs, “Well why are you not at home? I wouldn’t have pegged you getting along with Holly.”

“Well, she’s a good kid and any extra money is useful,” Billy shrugs, not wanting to get into the details of a shitty house to go back to.

Steve nods in understanding, then snorts “Well haven’t you been a good boy this year,” pats his lap like the jerk he is. “Why don’t you sit on my lap”.

Billy blushes and looks heavenward, cursing god for making his fall for this absolute dork. Holly comes to save the day. Another plushie, a penguin this time, tucked under her arm and pulls him toward the churro stand.

He looks back at Steve, questioning how much he owes for the toy. Steve shakes his head and smiles, “Don’t worry about it, maybe instead you could stop by at four? It’s when I clock off, we could hang if you're free?”

Billy looks away, face warming but not from the temperature. He tickles Holly’s side and taps her nose, “Once I put this bug in her bed I’ll come back” They awkwardly wave goodbye, Holly giggles at him and he smiles back.

This Christmas isn’t turning out to be so bad after all.

Happy holidays everyone! Please look forward to the lovely work from the next person 🎉@thatgirlwithasquid

#billy hargrove #harringrove #steve harrington #christmas #harringrove relay race

90 notes · View notes

alwaysbethewest · 2 years ago

Text

Triple Frontier fic: A Pilot for Christmas

It's @pedrostories Secret Santa day!! My assignment was for @frannyzooey, who requested domesticity, roommates-to-lovers, and fluff or smut 🥰 I had some of the most fun EVER writing this fic, so I hope it will make you smile, too, Kelli. Merry Christmas!! 🎄 Thank you to @mourningbirds1 and @fleetwoodmactshirt, both of whom I—not to be dramatic but—basically can't live without at this point, and at the very least couldn't have written this fic. And she's not a Pedro fan so I can't imagine she wants to be tagged in this, but thank you to my friend Alyssa for kindly helping me with one of the very few pieces of actual research I did for it.

Title: A Pilot for Christmas Pairing: Frankie Morales/f!Reader Rating: Mature Word Count: 4.8k Content/warnings: roommates to lovers, hot single dad Frankie, pining, yearning, lusting, questionable romance novel smut, compromising positions, sexual content, fade to black, food, domesticity. Unbetaed, so please let me know if you spot any typos/errors!

There’s a note for you on the kitchen table, written in Frankie’s even, boxy print: Mac + cheese + trees in fridge if you want some.

Your schedules never align on Wednesdays; your boss’s mandatory mid-week team meetings inevitably keep you late and Frankie is always on his way to Laura’s place by the time you get home. You haven’t met his ex-wife, but you think she must be nice enough since he’s usually in a good mood when he gets home from their weekly family dinners. They’re co-parenting, as he’d explained when you first moved in, and along with providing dinner on Wednesdays he does his part by taking their daughter on the weekends. He’s given you a break in the rent to make up for sharing your apartment with a three-year-old two days a week.

This is technically a sublet, and it’s technically temporary, but you get along well enough with Frankie that sometimes it feels a little like kismet. His old roommate had landed a contract overseas for a year just as you were moving to town, and a mutual friend had connected you. There are four months left on the contract, but you’d heard from the roommate recently that he was expecting the position to be renewed, so most likely you’ll get to stay longer if you want to. Nothing is official yet either way, and you’ve decided to give yourself another month before you start to worry about it.

Having the apartment to yourself once a week is the perfect opportunity to watch your favorite guilty pleasure TV shows without fear of male judgment—not that Frankie gets really rude about it but his silent raised eyebrow speaks volumes—and you happily warm up a bowl of macaroni and cheese and “trees” (broccoli; it turns out toddlers lose interest when you use the B-word) and settle in on the couch.

Living with Frankie has gone better than you’d feared it might. Knowing he was the friend of a friend of a friend had alleviated some of your anxiety about moving in with a stranger, and he’s turned out to be a mostly quiet, respectful roommate. After maintaining clear-cut boundaries for the first couple of weeks, you had both relaxed a little bit and settled into something of a shared routine. He likes to cook but doesn’t enjoy grocery shopping, so you often take his list along with your own to the store—and reap the rewards on nights like this when he keeps you well-fed. You both like to keep a tidy home, and neither of you minds the other person throwing in a few items when you’re doing a load of laundry. You’ve even mostly gotten over the embarrassment of the time Frankie had delicately handed you a pair of thong underwear he’d found trapped in the sleeve of one of his clean shirts. The barely-contained amusement on his face had haunted you for a full week.

When you’ve finished your dinner you pause the TV to go wash your bowl, and while you’re in the kitchen you take a few minutes to put away the dishes Frankie had left drying in the dish rack. It’s an easy symbiosis, you muse, a give-and-take that seems to suit you both. Underneath his note, you write back: Delicious!! Thank you, and sign it with a heart.

Most of the time your editing job allows you to maintain a reasonable work-life balance, but this month you’ve found yourself scrambling to get everything done before the upcoming holiday break. Your co-worker Deandra is off on an unexpected leave, and after taking on a share of her work on top of your own, the projects have started to form an intimidating pile. One Monday, two weeks before Christmas, you compromise your typical boundaries by logging back onto your laptop after dinner to work on a manuscript. Frankie is watching a game with the volume on low and it makes for comfortable background noise while you work from the opposite end of the couch.

Deandra’s specialty is romance, and while you’ve had to get used to covering a new genre, having some variety has been interesting. But a detail in this book is bothering you. You glance at Frankie, whose expression is quietly focused. His team is leading the scoreboard by a healthy margin. You don’t think he’ll mind a brief distraction.

“Hey. I could use your piloting expertise. Can I ask you a weird question?”

Frankie raises an eyebrow and shrugs his assent. “Go ahead.”

“Okay, so—is it logistically possible to have sex in a cockpit?”

You have his attention. He slowly turns his head to give you a long, wide-eyed look. After a moment of silence, he narrows his eyes, contemplating. “What kind of aircraft are we talking?”

“Like a regular… A commercial passenger plane?”

He nods, pursing his mouth and tilting his head up so he can gaze off into space, like he’s visualizing it. He glances at you again.

“Two people?” he checks.

“Two—yes, it’s—” he’s surprised you a little, and you fumble for words. “It’s not a cockpit orgy,” you tell him.

He laughs. “Pilots like to party,” he says opaquely, and now you’re the one narrowing your eyes at him, but he’s ignoring your questioning look. “Okay, is it possible? Theoretically, sure. Especially if the other person is short. Is it comfortable, though?” He pulls a face. “It wouldn’t be my choice. It’s a cramped space. Someone’s gonna end up hitting their head, or accidentally kicking the instrument panel, or…” he trails off, shaking his head in disapproval. “It’s… inadvisable.”

“Got it. Thank you.” You make some notes in the Word document on your screen, still internally recovering from his follow-up question, and Frankie turns his attention back to the TV, where the opposing team is starting to close the lead.

You’re no prude, but the genre you usually work in fades to black more often than not, and this author’s penchant for smutty detail has you feeling slightly in over your head. You’ve made it past the cockpit quickie but four chapters later Frankie’s team is on the cusp of winning their game and your protagonist is finally about to have her tall, dark, and handsome pilot love interest in a real bed.

“This love scene is… really something,” you comment. Frankie looks over in interest.

“Read it to me.”

“It’s dirty,” you warn him.

Frankie smirks. “I think I can handle it.”

You take a breath and start to read aloud from the page: “Isabella’s heart raced in excitement. Roderick was standing so close she felt as though his breath was entering her lungs with every inhalation. He took her hand and pressed her palm to himself, making her feel his turgid cock stirring in his pants—Obviously that needs to go—”

“Which part, the turgid cock?” Frankie asks. “I like it.”

“You like it?” you ask, incredulous.

“What?” he says. “A guy can’t enjoy a turgid cock now?”

“Jesus,” you laugh. Your face is starting to feel warm. “Isabella’s petite hand could barely fit around Roderick’s girthy length and it made her whimper with arousal. Roderick smirked down at her. ‘I can’t wait to be inside you,’ he rasped hungrily. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her flush against his body. ‘Tell me you want it,’ he growled.” You glance at Frankie and see he’s got one arm slung across his chest and the other hand resting at his mouth, thumbnail running distractedly over his lips. He’s staring at the TV without really watching it, and after a moment of silence he finally blinks and meets your eyes again.

“It’s weird you get to read porn for work,” he says dryly, and you bury your face in your hands and laugh.

When the game ends, Frankie switches on an episode of Star Trek that he seems to be half watching while he does something on his phone. On your laptop screen, Roderick has you stymied.

Roderick’s muscular arms tossed Isabella onto the bed like she weighed nothing. “Ohhh,” she moaned. “Give it to me.”

“Give you what, baby?” he rasped. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Give me—” Her pale cheeks blushed prettily. How could she say it out loud? But he was looking at her with such lust in his eyes that she knew he only wanted to make sure she was ready to turn herself over to him, to let him use her any way he liked. The thought of it made her shiver with anticipation. “Give me your cock, Roderick. Make me yours.”

With a growl from deep in his chest, Roderick dragged her hips down the bed so that she was balancing on the edge, where his body loomed over hers. Turning her onto her side, he leaned down to nose under her ear, nipping at the delicate skin of her neck and making her moan. His broad hand clutched her thigh, maneuvering her leg to tuck her knee around his hips, and his other hand he ran tantalizingly down her back until he reached her other thigh. He opened her legs, like an explorer unveiling the treasure he’d been seeking, and he straightened up, lifting her ankle to rest against his shoulder, and grinding his hard member against her core.

You go over the last few lines again, whispering the words under your breath to yourself as you try to picture the position. You feel like you need a diagram.

“I’m lost,” you declare.

Frankie glances up from his phone. “Hm?”

“I don’t understand where these limbs are going,” you tell him. “I don’t know if my brain just isn’t working because it’s 9 PM or if this passage needs rewriting. Or if this sex is too advanced for me.”

He laughs and makes a grabbing motion at your laptop. “Lemme see.”

You hand it over, standing up to stretch while he reads it to himself.

“‘He opened her legs like an explorer unveiling the treasure he’d been seeking,’” Frankie reads out dramatically. “Really?”

“Don’t get caught up in the simile,” you say. “Focus on the legs. Is that position even feasible? For someone who isn’t a contortionist?”

“Maybe in the next chapter they reveal she was raised in the circus,” he suggests, but he squints at the screen again, reading through the text. “I think I get it. It’s like—” He gestures with his arms, posing them to mimic Isabella’s legs. It’s borderline incomprehensible.

Later, you’ll blame the late hour and your overworked brain for what happens next. If you’d been running on all cylinders, you would have thought through the boundary-crossing implications of this and stopped yourself, but as it is you frown down at him and say, “Show me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on,” you urge him, already heading down the hallway to your bedroom. He hesitates, but then follows a few paces behind, and it’s then—the moment he crosses the threshold behind you—that your brain finally catches up to your actions and you begin to realize this was a terrible, terrible idea.

But somehow, coming up with an excuse to turn back feels more mortifying than plowing forward. You sit on the edge of the bed, trying to focus on the matter at hand. Frankie is hanging back, but you give him an expectant look and he takes a step towards you. He clears his throat softly.

“On your side,” he says. It shouldn’t sound like a command—he offers it gently, a reminder of the scene you’re playing out—but something inside you can’t tell the difference and you feel a spot deep in your core go hollow and needy. You turn, obediently, and lay on your right side. He touches the knee of your right leg, urging you to pull it forward.

“This leg around me.”

He steps into the crook of your knee, between your thigh and your calf, and looks down at your other leg, tucked awkwardly between your bodies.

“This is where it gets weird,” he says, and you laugh out loud. The sound dies out when you feel his fingers firmly wrap around your ankle and slowly maneuver your left leg, straight in front of you and then pivoting towards the ceiling. You feel the stretch in your hips, your body turning to follow so you’re halfway between your back and your side. It’s awkward, and he must see your face twist in discomfort, because he stops midway through the movement and rests your foot on his left shoulder. His body is solid and warm against the back of your leg.

“I think in the book it was over here,” he says, tapping his right shoulder. “So maybe she is a contortionist.”

“Or I need to do more Pilates,” you lament. He looks amused.

“Does this position even make sense? Would this work for you?” you ask him, regretting the question as soon as it’s left your mouth. He blinks down at you and his eyes rake down the length of your body to where you’re tangled around him. His hand is still resting over your ankle.

“Your bed is too low,” he says.

It’s—You’d meant the question in a more hypothetical sense. With some other partner, in some other scenario, would this position work? The knowledge that he has taken in the question and assessed the situation—looked at your two bodies in relation to each other, here, in your room, and thought about whether he could fuck you like this—makes you lose your breath.

“Plus—” he continues. He nudges at you to roll you onto your back, carefully lowering your foot from his shoulder so he’s standing between your open legs, nothing between you but empty space and a secret, aching want. He leans in, bracing his hands flat on either side of your body, not touching you but close enough he would only have to lean in. “I like to be able to kiss someone when I make love to them,” he says softly.

He shoots you a smile that could almost be a smirk as he stands up and heads out of the room, leaving you clutching the duvet cover as the world around you tilts on its axis.

It’s not like you’ve never noticed Frankie is attractive. Anybody could see that he is. He’s boyishly cute when he’s playing around with his daughter, their matching, dimpled smiles on display; smoldering when he gets cleaned up to go out on the town with the guys, if a little less runway-ready the morning after; and confusingly, unrecognizably handsome on the occasions he goes clean-shaven. But he’s been so firmly relegated to “platonic male roommate” status since you moved in that you’ve never, even for a second, thought about pursuing anything more. Lusting after your roommate can only end in awkwardness and moving boxes.

So discovering that the man you live with isn’t just good-looking, but has the ability to leave you wet and aching with desire, without even trying, has you looking at everything through a new lens.

On Tuesday, mid-morning, your phone lights up with a text from him. It’s a picture of a small plane cockpit interior, just two seats and a display of navigational instruments.

See how tight she is? he’s written.

You blink at your phone. SHE??

…

She = the plane. Sorry, pilot speak.

Mortifying. You nearly pull up the local apartment rentals page on Craigslist right then and there. You dive into your work instead—not Deandra’s romance, but the grisly thriller in your regular docket. Roderick and Isabella need to give you some space this week. It’s not them, it’s you—and the images of Frankie and you in compromising positions that had popped into your mind when you attempted to pick back up the draft.

He’s like a specter, haunting you.

Wednesday evening is your night with the apartment to yourself, and you’ve never been happier to be alone. He’s left you dinner, again, and you almost don’t eat it on principle—you’ll have to get used to feeding yourself, after all, once he kicks you out for making it too blatantly obvious you want to jump him.

But it would be an actual crime to pass up his enchiladas. You savor the plate. Maybe he’ll give you the recipe as a parting gift, if you ask nicely.

You pour yourself a glass of wine and catch up on one of your shows, and some of the tension you’ve been holding starts to drain from your body. But underneath is a familiar, restless energy buzzing through you, desperate for a different outlet, that you can’t ignore.

You go to bed early. What you need is just a little quality time with yourself, to reconnect and remind your body that you’re perfectly capable of satisfying it on your own—or with the no-strings-attached assistance of a vibrator.

It’s a valiant, miserable attempt. Every tried and true fantasy keeps rerouting back to Frankie. You turn your toy to its highest setting and the sensation still pales in comparison to the thrill of his fingers wrapped securely around your ankle, the line of his body pressed against your legs, and his low, deadly voice telling you how to move.

You go to sleep more frustrated than when you started, only to dream of him. He’s hovering over you, pressing you into the bed, his hot mouth on your neck and sucking on your tits and working his way down to eat you out and bring an orgasm crashing through you—and you wake up at 3 AM with your cunt throbbing between your legs.

One of the things you’ll miss most about this place when you inevitably have to move out due to your incurable roommate attraction is the in-unit washer and dryer. Perhaps in solidarity with your own resolve and self-control, the dryer abruptly breaks in the middle of the week.

“Do you want me to call the landlord, or will you?” you ask Frankie, but he immediately shakes his head.

“Let me take a look at it,” he says.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek.

Two hours and one trip to a hardware store later, he’s on his knees in front of the machine, working quietly save for an occasional soft grunt of exertion when he has to fit something into place.

There’s a bare strip of skin on display where his shirt has ridden up, and a black waistband peeking out from under his jeans. Your mind drifts, imagining away the denim and picturing how the tight boxer briefs would cup his ass and grip his muscular thighs, until your own thighs are clenching and you force yourself to go clean the kitchen instead.

“I’m moving out,” you call over your shoulder as you go.

“I promise I can fix it,” he says, like he thinks you’re just fed up with one broken appliance, not your own internal breakdown.

If only.

It’s 7 AM Friday and you’re fixing your coffee when Frankie ambles into the kitchen, bare-chested and barefoot and wearing nothing more than a pair of low-slung pajama bottoms. If you allowed yourself to look, you would see the soft curve of his modest belly and the sparse line of hair trailing down to disappear enticingly under his waistband. His voice is early morning-deep when he mumbles a good morning. His hand steadies casually on your wrist when he stands next to you to grab a mug from the cupboard just to your left, and you hope he can’t feel your pulse quicken under his touch. When his coffee is ready and he takes his first sip, he lets out a satisfied groan. You want to die.

“You must be doing this on purpose,” you say, dismayed.

He blinks at you over the rim of his coffee cup. “Doing what?”

You gesture helplessly, at his naked chest and effortlessly rumpled bedhead. “Just—being all—”

He glances down at himself, then back at you, raising an eyebrow. “Being all…?”

“Just—sexy, I guess,” you finally admit.

For a moment, he looks surprised. Then an amused smile spreads slowly over his face and he takes a step towards you, clever eyes taking in how your body straightens and your breath picks up.

“I didn’t realize it bothered you,” he says. “Didn’t you say you were going to move out, anyway?”

“I am,” you say. “I can’t stand you anymore.”

He takes another step closer.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “I could give you a reason to stay.”

You slump against the counter at your back, helplessly wanting him.

“Please,” you tell him.

He touches you carefully, one hand skimming your hip and the other on your arm. He cocks his head, looking skeptical.

“You really think I’m sexy?” he asks.

You nod miserably. “It’s torture.”

He laughs and you are desperately endeared by the way it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, and the hint of a dimple peeking out under his beard.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, and he leans in, and the touch of his lips to yours makes you feel like you’re floating, like your body might drift up to the sky if not for his sturdy frame anchoring you in place. Like your legs might give out, sending you sliding to the floor, except that he’s pressing close enough now that his body is touching yours, bending you back just enough to easily reach, and his hand has crept up from your arm to wrap around the back of your neck, holding you securely even as he finally pulls his mouth away, leaving you breathless and dazed.

You think you understand the overwrought prose of Deandra’s romances now.

“I can’t stand you either,” he says quietly. “You were torturing me the other night, with all the dirty talk from that book and then making me go to your room. Christ.”

“Sorry,” you say, not really meaning it. You’ve never felt this intoxicated this early in the morning. You’ve never looked into his eyes this close up. They’re a rich, deep brown that you feel halfway hypnotized by.

He glances away and must spot the microwave clock, because he pulls away with a look of regret. “I need to get ready for work.”

“Take a sick day,” you suggest.

He smiles ruefully and shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says. “But what would you do if I did?

You take a deep breath. Your eyes drop to his waist, and you touch your fingertips gingerly to the soft skin on display there. You lift your gaze to meet his own.

“I’d ask you to take me to bed,” you tell him.

He forces himself to leave. You watch his fingers clenching as he turns away, closing around the empty air as though he wishes it was you.

You go to your own room on unsteady legs and finish getting ready for work, thinking of Frankie’s mouth for your entire commute and almost missing your exit as a result. This time, opening Roderick and Isabella’s romance is a whole new kind of torture, and you end up claiming a headache by 3 o’clock to go home early, not caring if your boss can see through the lie.

Getting home early means you have plenty of time to shower and shave and moisturize with intent this time instead of your regular lazy girl morning routine. You’re soft and smooth and clean, in the kitchen making a snack of crackers and cheese to distract your anticipatory nerves, when Frankie comes home.

He gives you a small, familiar smile and sets a grocery bag on the counter between the two of you.

“You pick which comes first,” he says, nodding to the bag. He steals a cracker off your plate while you peer inside.

He’s brought you two pints of Ben & Jerry’s and one box of condoms.

“All the essentials,” you observe, and he grins. You pluck the condoms out of the bag and hand them to him meaningfully. His smile turns a little sly and he leans in and kisses you, too briefly for your liking, before pulling away again.

“I have to take a quick shower,” he says. “Wait for me?”

You let out a sigh, turning to put away the ice cream. “Don’t take too long,” you joke, gesturing to the pints. “I’ve got two other men waiting for me.”

“Ha, ha,” he says, already halfway down the hall.

Out of the shower, he comes to you with damp hair curling softly around his head, dressed simply in a navy t-shirt and dark grey sweatpants, and looking so good you think you might combust. After a moment of flirtation—your room or mine?—you finally find yourself in his bedroom. He leans in to kiss you and he takes his time this time, cupping your face in his large hand, teasing gently at your mouth, sliding his tongue along yours to deepen the kiss. When he pulls away to trace his lips down your jawline, you take a breath to steady yourself—and then squint in confusion. There’s a familiar scent in his hair.

“Is that—did you use my shampoo?”

He goes still for a moment, caught, and then laughs.

“Mine ran out,” he admits, a little sheepishly. He pulls in closer, nosing at your neck. “Yours is nicer, anyway. I always like how it smells on you.”

“We can share,” you say generously. “I’ve never been one of those roommates who labels all their shit.”

“Good,” he murmurs, mouth hot against your collarbone. “‘Cause I also ate your leftovers.”

You make a sound of exasperation and he tackles you to the bed, promising apologetically that he’ll make it up to you. And then proceeds to do so.

Very thoroughly.

You awaken to find a note on the pillow next to you, in Frankie’s familiar printed handwriting: Going to pick up Baby M. See you soon.

You give yourself a minute to luxuriate in his bed, enjoying the calm, satiated feeling in your body, and the warm scent of him in the sheets, and then you straighten up his bedding and scurry back to your own room to get dressed before he arrives home with his daughter. You’re just pulling your shirt over your head when you hear their voices in the living room, and you go out to greet them. He’s juggling a Starbucks tray in one hand along with his keys and her travel bag. She’s munching contentedly on a snack and doing her part by carrying her favorite stuffed seal plushie.

Over her head, he shoots you a warm, intimate smile. You feel a giddy thrill bubble up in your chest and you grin back at him.

“We made a coffee run,” he says, nodding to the drinks. “Someone wanted a cake pop.” The toddler tips her face up to offer a beatific, icing-smudged smile. Frankie sets her bag on the couch and leads the three of you into the kitchen.

“That one is yours,” he tells you, pointing to one of the cups. Then, to her, “You want some real breakfast, mija?”

You look at the label on the drink and your jaw drops in surprise. “How did you know London Fogs are my favorite?”

He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal, but you catch a self-satisfied smile on his face as he turns away. “I notice things.”

He keeps a platonic distance while his daughter is in the kitchen but when she leaves to go put her stuffed animal away in her room, he pulls closer, nudging your hand with his. “You alright?” he murmurs.

You rub your thumb across his knuckles. “I’m really, really good.”

“I convince you not to move out?” he asks. You pretend to think about it.

“Almost. I think you could tip the balance if you make me some eggs.”

He clicks his tongue in affirmation. “Got it.”

Later, when the three of you have settled at the breakfast table with piles of fluffy scrambled eggs and buttered toast, his face changes like he’s just remembered something.

“Hey, how did that book end up, with Roderick and what’s-her-name?” he asks you, taking a sip of his coffee. “You never mentioned it after Monday night.”

You haven’t actually made it to the end yet, but you already know the answer.

“They lived happily ever after,” you tell him. “It’s a staple of the genre. The couple always has a happy ending.”

“Huh,” he says. He gives you a small, private smile, and taps his foot against yours, out of sight under the table. “That’s good to hear.”

#pedrostoriesgift22 #pedrostories #my fic #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales #triple frontier fanfiction #pedro pascal #triple frontier #francisco morales

649 notes · View notes