#Merry christmas y'all

[bielbunny]

Happy Holidays and all that.

Binging on the holiday season does things to your frame, you know? - 🌑

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

nearly, nearly, nearly: dovquez [t]

@dovquezdecember + near

“Dovi!” Marc says clumsily, flashes him a grin—sun-bright, shameless.

Andrea is thinking. He was nearly a champion this season. Nearly, nearly, nearly. But it wasn’t so close at the end, -37 points, and the entire ocean between Marc making a miraculous save and him screaming on the gravel trap.

His fingers spasm around his empty glass, just once. Andrea is acutely aware of the camera glares, of way, way, way too many people around. Too soon to get another one, and the one after that. The frizz of alcohol is heavy in his stomach, leaden.

Marc makes a noise—impossible to make sense of. Andrea blinks, remembers he should answer him any time now. His tongue is stuck on the roof of his mouth, but it isn’t Marc’s fault that everything had to go right today and nothing did.

He drops whatever he was planning on saying. Marc brandishes his own champagne flute, takes Andrea’s empty one for himself. It’s full—lukewarm prosecco, sure, but it’s full.

Andrea—against his own will, let it be said—laughs.

Marc’s eyes go round, shiny. His hand comes down to cling to the sleeve of his suit, where it falls half an inch too long. And he sways towards him, chest brushing against the side of his arm. Andrea cups the small of his back, raises his eyebrows.

“The drinks aren’t good enough for you to be drunk already.” He prods—harmlessly, his voice pitched low.

He could be drunk on everything else, though. His podium, his sixth championship in—God—eight years, Honda delirious over their golden boy.

Marc bats his lashes coyly, pretends to think. “It was a good dinner, don’t be mean.”

It was, is the thing. He stopped counting after the fourth course, the tenth FIM/Dorna exec with a polished smile that congratulated him on a clean, sportsmanlike dispute—probably having the time of their times that it didn’t end in death threats and a sports court.

Andrea snorts. “Drinks are still shit.”

For all that Marc says don’t be mean, the corners of his lips are trying to quirk up again. Just as cruel.

And when he catches Andrea looking, Marc ducks his head away. Tries to hide it.

He’s so—he’s a sharp, shameless little thing. Hurts to cradle him close, cuts his palms to gory ribbons. Andrea clings, anyway. The party has dulled to a trickle of I wish it was me that barely registers. He fancies he can spot the place where Marc kissed the tower on his mouth, his teeth—like Raphael’s blessing.

His stomach rolls with champagne, too little food he wasn’t feeling up for. Sizzles.

“It was a good season, too.” Marc speaks abruptly but quietly. The cut of his jaw turned bullish, stubborn.

He can feel the tension pressed on his side. It’s not even like gearing up for a risky overtake—Marc throws himself into those with wild joy, again and again and again. This is measured, strained. Marc’s spine grows rigid where he’s touching.

Andrea hums. “Are you going to say you’re sorry?”

Marc’s expression slackens, softens with confusion. “What?”

“You look like you might.”

“For winning?” Andrea nods, stares at him expectantly—wills his face to stay flat and unamused and is only mostly sure he succeeds. Marc purses his mouth, lets him catch a hint of teeth and the downturned curve of his lips. “No way.”

And listen—

Andrea shakes his head. He feels that gold-tinted lightness filling the insides of his chest. Maybe he’s drunk, four glasses catching up like outbreaking himself into a highside, but it’s easier now than it was a couple minutes ago, when the champagne tasted stolen, tasted like trackside dust and a mocking round of applause in his garage.

“You are horrible.”

He watches it happen in real time, how Marc pulls a face, how his eyes flutter to look at him and then away.

People call him brutish, impulsive—it’s not true. Just because he was born without a sense of self-preservation doesn’t mean he doesn’t think. Marc is a shrewd thing. Calculating. He wonders what he was trying to find with that look.

But he’s probably a little drunk himself too, or Andrea wouldn’t have caught that minute flinch in his expression. Marc is too opaque for acting mistakes these days.

It is the thing about Marc. Andrea doesn’t know if he’s bracing for a slap or it never coming despite how much he wants it to.

“I don’t think you mean that,” he says—petulantly, imperiously.

Very, very deliberately.

Andrea smiles, squeezes his back. “I do, I do!”

“No, you don’t.”

He does. But Marc is horrible like a tricky corner, or a bull charging in a bullfight. Predictable only in how it scares you shitless no matter how many times you try it. Horrible in that clammy fear you’re going to be swept along. Fucking fantastic when you conquer it—if you do.

It’s there anyway, of course, red-hot, that frustration—the shame in the gravel, in the garage. But Andrea tries to get angry only about things he can control.

Marc winning isn’t personal, is it.

He takes a breath, lets that awkward silence wash over him, over them, releasing that aimless frustration knot by knot. Marc fidgets against him, rehearsing taking a small step to the side, away from him. Andrea considers for a moment, half of one—doesn’t let go of his grip on him, on the fabric of the back of Marc’s suit.

There are cameras, still. Too many people. It’s none of their business—

This is, Andrea reasons, nothing worth hiding.

“It was a good season,” he says, gently—either an agreement or a concession.

Marc relaxes a fraction, does his best to tuck himself against him no matter that he’s a couple of centimeters taller. Finally, finally, he looks at Andrea straight on, with his usual hungry shamelessness, eyes huge and liquid on his face.

“You looked like you were having fun.”

“Here and there,” Andrea shrugs, isn’t even a bit surprised when he feels Marc’s fingers slip under his shirt to hold the jut of his wrist. “I had this pest bothering me.”

He is surprised at how hot those tiny points of pressure feel. His pulse drums against the thin skin of his wrist.

Marc bristles, indignant. “You ambushed me this whole year!”

Here and there, when he could, when he managed to make it work. In Austria, Japan. Andrea made himself steady as a metronome, harmless until he wasn��t—he wasn’t going to outcrazy Marc anyway, might as well try something unorthodox.

“You weren’t very angry about that from what I remember,” Andrea replies mildly. Mock-dry.

Marc nudges him with his shoulder, tries to scowl but melts into a loud, honking chuckle. It’s evidently, incredibly disarming. “Fuck off, I was! You always knew what I was going to try next. I thought you were going to drive me crazy.”

“Not even you can win them all.”

Marc grins—shiv-quick, self-satisfied. He looks like he’s winning this one, whatever this one is. “I can try.”

Andrea is thinking—it isn’t self-pity this time. Feels about just as dangerous. Marc’s touch is insistent, makes him fidgety all the way to the bone. He isn’t even the slightest bit innocent himself either—hand splayed on Marc’s back, the tip of his little finger reaching suspiciously lower than it was a moment ago.

He swallows. Marc tracks the jerky move of his throat, stares at him through his lashes. It is as shameless as it is—unfortunately—effective.

“Aren’t you going to ask if I enjoyed myself?” There’re nails biting into his forearm lightly. A smirk—broad, pink-lipped.

Cocky little bastard, isn’t he?

“You still are.”

Marc preens, forgets—for a slip of a second—to keep his cards close to his chest. Everything about him becomes bright enough to blind, to cast spots in his vision like he’s staring into the sun. He is horribly easy to like, to forgive.

Even through the stab of the annoyance, the tangle of thorns wrapped around his throat that Andrea has to name envy. Even when he wants to shake Marc by the shoulders—don’t you know? Don’t you see what you are? It never sticks. Marc is that dangerous in close proximity.

Looks eager to prove that he is, too. He shifts his head from one side to the other, gauges the crowd. There’s this focused frown on his forehead. Andrea knows him well enough to brace himself. Realizes—too late—that there’s no bracing for an inspired Marc.

“Do you want me to suck you off?” He pauses, bludgeons on when Andrea doesn’t immediately reply. “I want to.”

Christ.

Christ on the bloody cross.

He doesn’t know why he expected Marc to be subtle or careful, but still.

Andrea sputters out a cough, laughs. He can hear the strain in his voice—the complete fucking disbelief. “What? Here?”

It is a yes by any other name. Marc shrugs, chuckles—he’s an insolent thing, fingers straying playfully over his arm, looking so very sure of himself. Of getting what he wants, always.

Smug.

“Why not?” He asks, eyebrows wagging. It is ridiculous. So is the rush of fondness in his chest. The fishhook tug of Marc’s tongue flashing over his teeth.

Andrea isn’t—usually, he amends—so reckless.

“You’re insane.”

Marc stares at him, shark-eyed, unblinking. It slices through him cleanly like a hot knife, like Marc on a left-hander circuit. “You keep saying that.”

And yet goes unsaid.

He breathes in, a little funny, constricted. His fingers spasm on Marc’s back, cling to the smooth downiness of his pressed shirt. Want jolts through him like touching a live wire—he isn’t thinking. It’s the easiest thing in the world to move his hand, eyes on the party that feels like his burial.

Marc chokes on a noise when Andrea untucks his clothes to reach the skin of his back, when his thumb digs into one of his Venus dimples.

“Alright,” he mutters, soft.

The room melts to nothing around him, a kaleidoscopic blur of color and people he doesn’t care about. Marc’s head is bent, tucked close to his own—an inch closer, and they’ll be inside each other’s skin, breathing the same air. Andrea can only think about the pinkness of his mouth—how near it is.

[magikkittenz]

So like, there are 9 reindeer in santa's sleigh and there's 9 mercs..

[sukarett0]

Then there's these mfs.......

They had one job........

[demon-sterrr-draws]

Emo Boys Kissing!

Death Note Secret Santa gift for @ziggyracoon

[southerngothicchic]

A Merry, Little Christmas Night

Merry Christmas, everyone! My gift to you is some Gator fluff 😘

Gator sits in his truck, holding a small velvet box. He stares at it for the longest time before tearing his eyes away from it to look over at your house. He sees the brightly lit Christmas tree through the window and the multicolor string lights that line the porch. It's a familiar sight that feels different tonight. The thought of seeing you makes him nervous, though he knows it shouldn't. He worries you'll reject him like so many have before. He doesn't think he would survive that, as you're the only person who really means anything to him.

He sighs before putting the box in his pocket and opening the door. Snow crunches under his boots as he walks up the slippery path towards the porch.

The sound of his heavy footsteps echoes off the old wood and in his ears as he briefly pauses at the front door. His hand hovers over the doorknob, his nerves almost getting the best of him before he goes inside.

He's immediately greeted with warmth not just from the baseboard heaters but from the overall mood in the house. He passes through the living room, fondly observing the decorations that have been there since Thanksgiving. His eyes are then drawn to the muted TV playing National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. He smiles, knowing it's your favorite Christmas movie. It's then that he notices the scent of cinnamon in the air.

He reaches the kitchen doorway and just watches as you take a tray of cookies from the oven. You seem to be in your own little world as you set the tray on the counter before adjusting the oven's temperature to bake the last of the dinner rolls to accompany the rest of your Christmas feast. Once you put them in, you turn away towards the sink and that's when he decides to finally make his move.

He stands behind you, slipping his arms around your waist and presses his lips to your ear.

"Hey gorgeous," he softly greets, startling you.

You hiss his name before turning to look at him.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me like that," you scold, turning to face him.

"I couldn't help myself, wanted to surprise ya," he defends, pulling you tightly against him.

"Its okay," you then smile. "I'm just glad you're home. I heard we're in for another snowstorm tonight and I hated the thought of you still out on the road."

"I can handle myself out there, honey, ya know that," he replies, confident.

"I know, but still-"

"Nope, don't wanna hear it," he dismisses, cradling your face. "Just wanna kiss ya, since I've gone all day without it."

"So dramatic," you tease, as he leans in.

"Damn, so mouthy already," he smirks. "I think I need to take ya to bed and give ya an attitude adjustment."

"Not until after we eat," you reply, unfazed. "I didn't spend all day slaving over all this food for nothing."

"Fine," he huffs, with playful annoyance.

He then finally kisses you and it's more intense than you expect. Your body melts into his as he kisses you deeply. Regaining yourself, you gently push him away with a sigh of his name.

"I just really missed ya, honey," he says, suddenly bashful.

You smile up at him. "I know, I missed you, too, handsome. Now, go get changed so we can eat."

He nods, begrudgingly releasing you from his embrace. He gives you one last peck on the lips before heading towards the back bedroom.

He's glad to change into warmer, more comfortable clothes, as he puts on a forest green sweatshirt with black sweatpants. He also takes the little velvet box from his camo pant pocket and holds it in his hand. He's decided he's going to ask you after dinner, with hopes that he won't ruin Christmas.

When he reenteres the kitchen, he sees the table all set and waiting for him. He has to quickly blink away tears as he doesn't want you to see him cry just yet.

"Well, what do you think?" You ask, posing like a display model next to the table.

"Its perfect," he answers, walking over to you. "Just like you."

He kisses you sweetly and feels you smiling into it.

During dinner, he thinks how this is a preview of how all your Christmas' are going to be from now on and that almost brings another tear to his eye. He loves how effortless it was adjusting to the domesticity he's craved all his life. How you seemed to adore him, even when you pretended you didn't. He's never loved you more and his anxiety quietly builds as you join him on the couch to watch his favorite Christmas movie, Die Hard.

You hand him a couple of oatmeal raisin cookies you had baked earlier that afternoon and he quickly devours them. Giggling, you ask if he liked them and he nods so cutely. You hurry back to the kitchen and bring the rest of them to him, in a plastic bowl. He proceeds to eat them over the course of the movie.

By the time the credits roll, you're curled into his side, almost asleep. He glances at you before gently nudging you awake. You then look up at him, so groggy and sweet, he thinks his heart could burst.

"Sorry, honey, I just have something really important I wanna talk to ya about," he explains, as you raise your head from his chest.

"Okay..." you reply, unsure of what could be so important he waited to tell you now.

"Wait, you don't have to work tomorrow, do you? I swear, the next time I see Roy I'm gonna-"

"No, it's not that. I'm off, don't worry" he quickly assures. "It doesn't have anything to do with work, it's about you and me."

Your brows furrow as you look at him intently.

"Am I going to like where this is heading?" You then ask.

"Yeah, well, I hope so," he answers before taking a deep breath. "Until I met you, I didn't know anything like this was possible for me. A lot of girls thought I was a joke, which wasn't helped by my dad always makin' fun of me, so I really didn't date much after high school. I just focused on becomin' a cop, which wasn't hard, since I was the best shot in the academy. As years went on though, it got pretty lonely and I was startin' to wonder if there was anyone out there for me. Then, one day you showed up and when I walked up to your window and looked inside, I got this feeling, like, it was fate."

"So, love at first sight on a traffic stop?" You ask with a smile and he nods.

"Yeah, guess it was, because after that I always wanted to be near ya," he smiles, in return, gently taking your hands.

"I guess I was pretty smitten when I first saw you, too," you admit, gazing into his eyes. "You were the cutest cop I'd ever seen."

"I could tell ya liked me right off," he grins, "and after our first date, when I kissed ya for the first time, I didn't want to stop."

You move closer to him, wrapping your legs around his waist.

"I didn't want you to, either," you reply, sultrily.

You slip your hands out of his and drape your arms around his neck.

"Like, right now," he begins, his eyes lowering to your lips. "If I were to kiss ya, I wouldn't be able to stop."

"Which is what I'm counting on," you smile, but he pulls away.

"I can't yet, I still have more to say," he replies.

You nod and he continues, "I love you more than I ever thought I could love someone and I don't want to ever go back to how my life was before you, so..."

He leans back slightly and reaches into his pocket and retrieves the small box. Once you see it, your eyes widen and your arms drop from his shoulders.

"Will you marry me?" He asks while opening the box, revealing a modest diamond ring.

You actually gasp, already making him regret asking.

"I know it's not much, but I-" he adds before you lean forward and press your lips to his.

He doesn't move at first, unsure of what's happening.

"Yes," you breathe as you kiss his plush lips.

You repeat the word a few more times and his brain finally registers it. He then excitedly reciprocates your kiss. You both get so caught up in each other, temporarily forgetting what led to this impromptu makeout session.

"So," he pants, pressing his forehead to yours, "you really wanna marry me?"

"I do, is that so hard for you to believe?"

"Kinda, when you're like the girl of my dreams..." he answers

"Who knew you could be so sweet?" You ask with a laugh. "I think you need to make it official, though."

You pull away slightly and present your left hand. A lovesick smile spreads across his lips as he takes the ring from the box. He slips it onto your finger and is relieved when it fits perfectly.

"I love it," you say, holding up your hand. "And I love you."

"I love you, too," he begins, with a sly smile. "Now, wrap your legs around me again so I can finally take ya to bed."

You smile in return, moving closer and tightening your legs around him. He then lifts you with ease and carries you to the bedroom.

He then spends the rest of the night showing how much he loves you, until you both collapse in each other's arms, covered in hickies and sweat.

As he drifts off to sleep, a feeling of calm settles over him, for the first time. His fears of rejection seem so silly now when you're laying in his arms, so sweet and serene. He should've known all along that you'd never hurt him like that. He sighs contently before nuzzling his face into your neck.

After so many years of emptiness, he's finally found a place where he belongs and the love he's craved all his life.

[incorrect-baldurs-gate-3]

Astarion: well we had an a terrible run guys just absolutely godawful! The worst anyone's ever done it...

Astarion: I forgot where I was going with this.

[centuryberry]

Summary: With Sun Wukong himself as her host, the Lady Bone Demon sets her sights on the Celestial Realm. Meanwhile, you are left with the consequences of your attempts to avoid your future. Maybe your destiny is unavoidable. So, you decide to face it on your own terms.

(Note: My Ask Box will be closed until the 26th so please either wait until then to ask your questions or drop a comment in my fic or reply to this post if you have any questions!)

[dylanisdazed]

What has Santa gotten the boys this year?

Well now paperbagprince he doesn't come until Tuesday night, how the hell should I know?

🎅🏼🤭💚

[imjulia-andilikecats]

We all know the crown is THAT girl 💅

Art: kurai_geijutsu (instagram)

MERRY CHRISTMAS Y'ALL 😭😭🎄

[tea-the-not-understanding]

"Christmas. . ."

"CHRISTMAS. . ."

(Rapidly approaching jollyness)

- @asksearchlights-archive

"NO NOT AGAIN-"

[anotherocean]

genuinely two of my happiest days of 2024 ...

and I can even hear church bells outside

:)

[skippsmandolin]

pine point brainrot is real

[quill-pen]

What's something that most likely speaks to your general, overall IQ that doesn't really have anything to do with formal education?

I'll go first.

I believed in Santa Claus until I was 14.

Not like wishy-washy "ooh, maybe he's real, maybe he's not" kinda thing (at least up until that last year), no--I mean full-on believed he existed.

Flying reindeer, North Pole home, elves, Mrs. Claus--the whole deal.

I was faithfully writing and sending letters every December.

I mean, I was super quiet about it, so no one else knew, but nothing anyone said could convince me otherwise.

So, um, yeah I was a complete dumbfuck as a kid.

Honestly, I still am.😅

[glitchyscreencaps]

[travelers-ward]

Merry Christmas and Happy Starlight from a silly cat