#Novelty holiday ornaments | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jiminrings · 1 year ago

Text

fail-safe

pairing: yoongi x reader

wordcount: 8k

glimpse: growing up, your brother's best friend always berated you for not having a passion in life outside of loving him from afar. when yoongi leaves everything he's ever known for everything he's ever wanted, trying to move on from him becomes your biggest aspiration.

alternatively, yoongi left when you needed him the most, and comes back home at a time when you love him the least.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

[ a Lot of angst, eventual fluff, brother's best friend AND single dad au, So Much Yearning, unrequited love (initial), jealousy, self-deprecation, a lot of talk abt passion in an empty n hurtful way that most impassioned youngest children feel (it's a specific feeling idk!!!), eventual redemption in the next parts ]

notes: finally got to writing a new series!!! i'm beyond excited for this + this whole new concept and flow i haven't touched on before <3 i hope u love fail-safe as much as i do :-)

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! | series masterlist

Yoongi buys atleast one scratch ticket a week.

The accessibility of buying one is top-notch considering that all he has to do is cross the street, shoot one look to the cashier, and he can either already go hunch in the corner of the road or in the comfort of his room. The moment his coin takes its first dig and he realizes that he’s won yet again, he’s satisfied enough not to buy another ticket.

He doesn’t want to risk losing the win he’s just gained, the odds of him throwing out money besting his chances in adding to his earnings. He thinks everyone’s a little greedy one way or another, but it’s the righteous part of him that thinks he’s different.

You do think that he is for all the right reasons, your vision only tunneling for him alone. He’s this fixed older figure in your life and you can’t figure out how to shrug him off — he’s this generous leech that sucks all of the rationality from your mind but returns it to you twofold, whether in the form of him saying something unintentionally endearing that it makes your chest hurt, or through him having to lightly smack the back of your head.

Yoongi’s your older brother’s best friend and there’s a novelty tag that comes with him, one that can’t be topped by any material possession to your name. He’s there for you, not in the exact way you want him to be, but nonetheless there. He’s special and unattainable at the same time, the finiteness of his love barely extending to you.

He’s there when you want him to burn the latest songs onto a CD you’ve spent all your allowance in, and he’s there when you get annoyed that he sneaked some of his own recommendations in there. You’re there when you later admit that his suggestions aren’t half-bad, and you also happen to be there when he grins at the praise.

He’s there when Namjoon won’t cough up the last slice of his cutlet, not because he’ll actually give you his, but because he’ll help your brother guard his plate. You’d only have to mope for a solid of three seconds before the two of them give up both of their last slices, and you’re there when Yoongi insists for you to try the sauce in the spirit of going out of your routine.

You don’t need Yoongi every single time but in the event that you do, he hangs back. He contemplates and hesitates and doesn’t give in to every single whim that you have, but he’ll be there. He lingers like the last holiday ornament you don’t want to remove until it’s February, his presence being oddly similar to your favorite festivities.

Yoongi’s the equivalent of a holiday you look forward to with each passing month and day; he comes around to and for you in instances, but never even in your most sincere wishes.

“I buy one scratch ticket a week — three if I’m really feeling lucky. When my palms itch, that’s when I know that I really need to buy them.”

He’s calm and collected even when you’re scrunching your nose up at him in combined worry and disbelief, humming mindlessly as you collect your thoughts. He randomly told you about his lottery routine and you’re still trying to wrap your head around how he blows his money off just easily. Yoongi has the mind to put scrap cardboard under you because sitting on the hot concrete with your uniform on can’t possible be a good idea, but you try to play off your fluster into stubbornness.

He’s just playing with his two ever-present coins (lucky charms as he calls them)— one that’s shiny and minted in the present year, the other being the oldest coin he’s ever had that happens to be older than he is — while you mutter about.

“I don’t know, Yoongs. That might be a gambling problem,” you squint, your side comment being heard clearly as day. “Might be the symptoms for hand, foot, and mouth disease too.”

“What— I do not have a gambling problem! My skin’s perfectly fine too, thanks,” he defends, the light shove he gives you doing nothing to tone down your teasing.

“That’s what people with gambling problems say.”

“Give me that-…” he mutters, trying to wrestle you for the sundae he bought you using the money he won from his scratch ticket just awhile ago. You don’t give in easily, even if your laughs that come straight from your chest suggest otherwise. “You don’t get it. It’s just this nice, fun little thing I can look forward to every week. I always buy the cheapest version anyway so when I lose, it’s not a big deal.”

You relent (like you always do when it comes to Yoongi) in understanding, waving him off after regaining your breath. “Nah. I get it. We all have to do things so we wouldn’t lose our shit,” you trail, racking your head to find the right words.“Yours is buying scratch tickets, and mine is-…”

“Yours is what?” Yoongi raises an eyebrow, lips quirked in eagerness to know where you’re going with this. He can’t pinpoint a single thing he can attach to you and neither can you, your actual interests merely reflecting those of the people whom you love.

You love cross-stitching because your mom loves doing it, the tolerance you have for accidentally being pricked by the needle growing over time.

You enjoy playing badminton because Namjoon’s obsessed with the sport, no matter how ratty your rackets and shuttlecocks have become, and no matter how much he pushes you to ring the doorbell to your neighbor’s when he’s sent it flying to their backyard.

You’re probably an imposter yet you don’t feel like it. You don’t feel bad that your life most probably and will only revolve around your mom and Namjoon (maybe even Yoongi); you don’t feel dissatisfied that your life’s mundane.

You go where your love goes.

“Mine is watching you buy scratch tickets,” you shrug easily as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, making him laugh heartily. You’ve probably done something right because he hauls you up to your feet immediately.

“Get up. I’m buying you your first ticket,” he nudges you, grabbing you by the arm in excitement.

“But I’m not even legal!” you half-heartedly argue, internally excited that you’re finally getting to try your hand at the lottery because you’ve spent a few hundred minutes of your life tuned to the channel to pass the time, awaiting the results for something you haven’t even betted for.

“Right. Like I haven’t seen you trying to squeeze out a drop of beer from our empty cans whenever Namjoon and I drink.”

“Rude,” you roll your eyes playfully, gathering your things from the ground.

“It’s okay. I’ll give you your first sip of beer too if you want,” Yoongi offers sincerely; easily as if you’ve just asked him about the weather.

He’s here to buy you your first scratch ticket, and he’s still here to offer giving you your first sip of liquor in the future.

Your family friend for a cashier vehemently ignores the fact that you’re still underage to participate in the lottery, and instead only chuckles to herself in amusement. She’s an aunt that knows when to step in and not to, and she knows you won’t be harmed by a mere bet. In fact, she knows you won’t be harmed by anything with Yoongi in tow.

“I already used up all my change,” your frown in realization, holding the ticket in your hands in despair despite having scoured your wallet repeatedly.

“Rub it against the pavement. That’s what I do,” Yoongi lies fluidly, a scoff being caught in his throat when you actually attempt to do it. “I was only kidding, Y/N. Jeez,” he groans, pulling out his wallet. “Ugh. Here. You can have one of my lucky coins.”

It’s the old one, tarnished beyond relief that you can barely recognize what it’s actual value is supposed to be.

“Ew. I’m giving it back. It looks prehistoric,” you narrow your eyes, knowing that you don’t even have to put your fingers nears your nose to know that it’s already left a faint stench on them.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, a habit he can’t tell he’s formed himself or got from you. “If you use your brain for one second, you’d realize that it’s actually worth more because it’s older. Collectors would go crazy for that in the future.”

“That sounds like a hoarding problem.”

He’s just had about enough of your whining so he attempts to trade in the old coin for his lucky new one, but you stop him at the last minute with a meek smile.

“Kidding. Thank you. I’ll keep it safe, Yoongi. I promise,” you rush out before he changes his mind, scratching your ticket in silence.

He waits for you because you’re scratching so politely and neatly, a stark opposite to his experienced skill of scratching the paint off in ten strokes or less.

Your face is too close to the ticket that Yoongi can’t tell what’s happening, making him part your hair like a curtain to peek.

“Did you win?”

“Nope.”

“Let me throw that out for you.”

“No!” you squeak, keeping the ticket close to your chest. It’s a bummer that your first time is a loss, but it didn’t mean that you wanted to forget the sentiment behind it. “I-I mean no, I’ll keep it. It’s memorable now that I think about it.”

“Alright,” he shrugs carelessly, a smile breaking out in retaliation. “Hoarder.”

“Gambler,” you spit, tucking the ticket into your pencil case. “Next week again?”

Yoongi agrees, wrapping his head around the fact that he doesn’t have to be alone in his little routine every Friday.

“Sure.”

( ♡ )

You don’t mind getting hand-me-downs.

As a matter of fact, you love receiving them. The wear and tear of the things that came before you is only proof that it’s been loved enough to be passed on to you.

You adore your mother’s dainty vintage watch that she wore throughout college, the hardware and sentiment behind it being pretty enough that you don’t mind constantly getting the battery replaced. You like Namjoon’s shirts that he’s outgrown, even through the numerous phases he’s had wherein only denim and tie-dye filled his closet.

You don’t mind the history behind the numerous things you have in your home, unbothered that you’re probably the only house in the block with the oldest possible rice cooker. The chips in the staircase aren’t covered up with marker ink and neither are the loose stitches in the couch quilt snipped off. It’s home to your mother and Namjoon — if it’s good enough for them, then it’s already the best for you.

Even on top of everything, you don’t mind your family almost always getting you shirts and shoes that have an allowance in them. Your mom would go to Seoul and pick out the exact pair of sneakers you wanted that are atleast three sizes bigger than your actual feet, and you’d barely bat an eye.

You don’t mind the coziness of things that are brought to you, because even if they weren’t offered, you’d seek them yourself.

So when Yoongi mentioned that he’s decluttering his room and needed someone (read: you) to vacuum it up for him, you jump at the chance. You take a grocery bag with you, wear the nearest pair of slippers within your vicinity, and book it to his house as soon as he finished talking.

“Go crazy, kid. Almost everything in that pile is garbage so you can take anything.”

“I feel like I should be more offended than how I feel right now,” you hum, furrowing your eyebrows at the pile in front of you. It’s a mound of Yoongi, or atleast everything he’s ever wanted up until he decided to do a general cleaning of his bedroom.

Yoongi chuckles, going through his pile of clean laundry for him to fold on the side while you scavenge for his things. “It’s either I have you take them or I get ripped off at the thrift store, then I see somebody’s uncle wearing my shirt as an added insult.”

You huff, rummaging through his heap of belongings while conveniently trying to ignore that you may look like somebody’s uncle the moment you wear his clothes. Everything is him; every distressed cap, every unfinished embroidered shirt, and every item of old significance with his initials branded on it.

The thick gray hoodie you’ve been eyeing (along with its owner) for the better part of the last few years surfaces into your field of vision, your gasp audible enough to make him jolt because he thought you’d gotten hurt.

“No way, this too? But this is your favorite,” you half-complain and half-rejoice, turning the hoodie inside-out eagerly in the fear that there’s a catch to it belonging in the pile.

“Eh. I know it looked good on me but I don’t think it’s my favorite. Besides, I’ve bulked up! Wanna feel?” Yoongi grins, his segue eerily similar to your brother’s at every given chance. A neighbor from down the block recently opened a small-time gym, and the both of them have not been able to shut their mouths about it since. From their gossiping alone, Yoongi and Namjoon have generated enough advertising already.

“You and Namjoon really have to stop asking random people to feel your biceps.”

There’s random knick-knacks throughout the clump in the middle of his bed, some being too good and actually useful that you snag them. Yoongi lets you do what you want anyways (most of the time), not having to turn his head to berate you on what you’re only allowed to grab from his stuff.

You’re not greedy — you already have his hoodie and that should be enough on its own. But there’s that handkerchief with his initials embroidered on it, then that Rubik’s cube he swore his relative got for him from New York, and even the little butterfly knife he got from a souvenir shop when his family when to the beach.

There were those and there is this, looking up at you in all of its glory.

“Yoongi.”

“What now?” he sighs at your dramatic gasp, looking up from his folded laundry to see what you were going on about. It takes a second for him to fully realize why exactly were you so pumped.

“Are you serious? Your helmet?” you squeal, already hugging the shiny red mass close to you. “Does this mean you’re passing your motorcycle to me?!”

“Are you crazy? Fuck no,” Yoongi rolls his eyes, snatching his helmet back from you. He doesn’t miss the bratty frown that fills up your entire face; he’s not exactly the biggest fan whenever you were upset or angry; maybe even both. “Obviously I forgot I even put my helmet there when I made that pile.”

You whine, stomping your feet in exasperation. You would dramatically plop down on his bed if only it wasn’t full of his shit. “Come on! You told me you were teaching me as soon as you finish teaching Joon.”

“Teaching you how to ride my scooter is not the same as giving you it. Why would I just hand you what I bought with my hard-earned money?” Yoongi scrunches his nose, tone sharper than what he intended.

“But you still haven’t taught me,” you murmur to placate yourself and dissuade yourself from the delusion that Yoongi would even exert such an effort for you because of course — why would he do that for you?

You have an inkling that you’re being irrational for all the wrong reasons, perhaps even projecting your need to be looked after… by him.

Yoongi notices your mood that turned sour quickly, the silence between you becoming loaded. He didn’t mean to be that blunt. “I don’t think you’re even old enough to have your driving permit,” he adds in consolation, voice considerably softer.

You snicker lowly, still looking at your feet with your arms crossed. “But I’m old enough to backpack whenever you need me to carry shit that can’t fit in your carrier.”

He immediately groans at your comeback, his furrowed eyebrows mirroring yours. “You’re so stubborn.”

“You’re a hypocrite,” you retort, knowing for a fact he’s known how to drive even before he was eligible for permits and licenses and whatnot.

Yoongi takes one, two seconds to himself to regain his composure, clearing his head in the process. You’re still not looking at him and you’re pouting and you don’t even notice the latter, making him crack a small smile.

“I will teach you next week.”

“Oh my-…”

He cuts you off, raising his hand in emphasis. “Provided that you listen to everything I say and wear full gear at all times. You clearly don’t have a job yet-…”

“Ouch.”

“And I don’t have the extra money to buy full gear for myself, so what you’ll do is bundle up with your padded coat and the thickest jeans you have,” Yoongi enunciates every word, eyes keenly on you. They’re too wide and alert, you actually feel like listening to him.

“You go on rides wearing your pajamas.”

“Just say ‘thank you, Yoongi’.”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” you trail off, head tilting in confusion.

You’ve had a million conversations like this with Yoongi before but of different fonts; worn, familiar, and warm.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” he mouths, nodding at you to do the same. He won’t stop until you utter them back to him, and you know you won’t go home either without giving him your gratitude as you always do.

“Thank you, Yoongi,” you relent, the grin that breaks through your lips being infectious enough that he laughs lowly to himself.

He exhales all the worries he has and could possibly ever have seeing you ride the motorcycle (or for you yearning to do everything that he does), grasping at whatever sanity he has left from looking after you.

“You can have the helmet.”

( ♡ )

Yoongi knows the ins and outs of your home.

He’s been at your house too much to the point that your mom already gave him a spare key and nobody batted an eye about it. He has his own designated slippers at the entryway too, something you would only use in a hurry if you needed to sign off on a package.

Yoongi, for some reason unfathomable (not really; you can tell exactly why because your mom is an extremely warm and inviting person), also has the power of dibs on the food in your fridge. He’d put strips of masking tape with his name on food that’s neither brought in nor made for him in the first place.

It should be off-putting — the way that for too many yet too little reason, Yoongi has become a prominent figure in your life even if you didn’t ask him to. You should be peeved that you have to set up four plates more often that you set up only three; you should be annoyed at some point that when you wake up at random times through the night, you’re not totally alone to begin with.

You shouldbe angry at Yoongi to a degree because he’s in your life and you don’t get to have a say on how he stays in it. The only problem is that you’re not, and probably never will.

“Can’t sleep?” you mutter as you look up from your strikingly clear paper, seeing Yoongi strut across the floor with a casualness that only real occupants of the house should supposedly possess. He has his brows furrowed at you as if he didn’t expect to see you in your living room, scratching his head in wonder.

“Why are you up?”

“Stressed,” you sigh, giving up altogether in attempting to make yourself look busy. Yoongi drives by your fridge to get himself a can of beer, finally seating himself beside you on the floor.

“Stressed about what? I’m sure it’s not about studying,” he snorts, unsurprised at your paper and the clear lack of motivation behind it. You only roll your eyes at him and he has half a mind to not remind you to not do it so much, the frown in your face reminding him that you really were frustrated.

It is you to throw the occasional tantrum, but he remembers that it was only when you were young; when Namjoon would whisper gibberish to his ear and purposely not whisper to yours just so he could tease you, or when nobody would believe that you taught yourself how to ride a bike with no training wheels. You didn’t know how to do the latter at all, but what had made you throw a tantrum was that nobody believed you.

You notice Yoongi’s digs, of course. You notice each one of his more than unsubtle nods to your intelligence and whatnot, the shots at your intellect not flying over your head like he expected them to. You admit that you’ve never been that scholastic; you weren’t born a genius and you don’t try exactly hard either.

Yoongi’s only joking but you can’t help but to think that he’s pertaining to something deeper, his constant digs at your lack of a passion making you sluggish.

“We have to write this essay,” you answer simply, your tone straightforward and unwilling for banter but Yoongi bites anyway.

“But essays are the easiest,” he trails, looking at you the whole time as he takes a sip of his beer.

You exhale heavily because no matter what, he just can’t seem to get it. Yoongi knows where you’re coming from but he doesn’t know where you’re headed. As a matter of fact, you don’t know where you’re headed either. “We have to write an essay about where we see ourselves ten years from now.”

“But that’s still easy.”

“If it’s so easy, then go write it for me,” you snicker, leaning back with a huff. He constantly undermines you and although you own up to your striking mundaneness from time to time, it didn’t mean that you liked being looked down on. Yoongi’s too used to you being yourself, he gets taken aback when you grow sick of your own.

He gathers all his willpower, far from being sleepy unlike you who would’ve been lulled to sleep if only you weren’t dead-set on arguing with him. “You know what? I actually will,” he claps, handing you his beer. “Go hold this for me.”

Yoongi grips your pen for dear life like you hold his beer, his hand warm as he works from sheer determination alone (he’s not competing with anyone except for whatever expectation you have for him and your paper), while yours was cold just holding his drink.

You’ve been so quiet that he actually gets curious, turning his head to check to see if you’ve dozed off when actually, it’s just you eyeing the can.

“No one’s watching,” Yoongi breaks you out of your thoughts, carelessly shrugging. He cares and he’s far too concerned for you, but he figures that nothing would hurt you so long as he can grasp you. “It’s okay. You can have your first sip.”

You blink owlishly at him and when he jokes about taking it back, you take your first swig of beer in a panic. Yoongi only shakes his head in amusement, pausing his writing just to see the look on your face.

“One more?” he asks right after he sees you wince, the unbearable sweetness yet bitter, stinging aftertaste of the beer making you shudder.

You have the urge to wash off the taste with ice cold water (you’ll even drink from the tap because you’re so desperate), but you resist it just so you wouldn’t look like a weakling in front of him. You wave him off with a bitterness, upset that beer doesn’t taste like what you’ve always imagined it to be. “Just write my essay for me,” you mull over the taste in your tongue, in deep thought while you stare at Yoongi’s back ahead of you. “Do all beers taste that way?”

“Eh. Most of them do. You develop a taste for it later on,” he answers, taking the can back from you before drinking it himself. He looks too dedicated in writing your essay, only goading the curiosity in you to peek over his shoulder.

He knows you, both in heart and memory, because he shields your own paper from you when he sees your shadow hovering above him.

“Yoongi?”

“Hm.”

“I told you why I’m up. Why are you up?”

He’s silent entirely, the only indication that he heard your question being his hand pausing abruptly. Yoongi doesn’t answer, and you don’t ask again. “Don’t worry about it.”

You take his answer to heart, dozing off on the couch before you know it. You don’t remember a blanket being placed on you, nor can you remember preparing your backpack for school the next day.

Your paper’s neatly tucked into your portfolio bearing handwriting that’s clearly not yours, but with a sentiment that’s similar nonetheless. You read through everything quickly before even stepping towards your teacher, the tips of your fingers just as cold as Yoongi’s beer last night.

You’ve committed the paper into your memory, even until the last part with an excerpt you can’t forget despite having passed the paper already. You don’t know what to feel because it’s Yoongi who’s speaking for you, detailing that ten years from now, you will still be your mother’s daughter and your brother’s sister.

He wrote your essay either for you or in behalf of you, and you can’t tell which one is better.

Yoongi, who knows the ins and outs of your home and the peaks and troughs of your heart, writes in clear handwriting — Ten years from now, I will still be Yoongi’s rock.

( ♡ )

Surprisingly, Yoongi hasn’t been around that much lately.

Even Namjoon (who you consider as his Siamese twin) is clueless to why his friend hasn’t been hanging out with him lately to do either everything or nothing, confused because they’re enrolled to the same classes all the way to the same part-time jobs, yet Yoongi’s been mostly unavailable.

When Yoongi is, however, he doesn’t speak at all about his previous absences. He comes as if he’s never disappeared a few times before that, his evasion to talk about his presence being apparent even if you’ve asked him directly.

You’re getting used to his new routine of hanging out with you only when the both of you are free, no longer moving mountains for both of your schedules to line up. He’s more present this month than he was at the last, the criteria for it being how many times you bump into him in your own home.

Despite all odds and evens though, Yoongi can’t get used to your silence. He knows you hold grudges longer than your brother, and the last time that he checked, he knows you’ve already let go of your annoyance for him suddenly being unavailable without any explanation.

It��s late, only the two of you are awake in the living room, there’s ten scratch tickets on the table for you to share, and he’s even gotten you your own glass to which he’ll put a controlled amount (a grand total of two long sips) of his own beer in. You’re not stressing about an essay this time, but the unconscious pout on your face is still the same.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

The frown on your face only goes deeper at being found out, the scratch of your lucky coin being the only clear thing that Yoongi hears.

“My best friends want to have this slumber party,” you sigh, more upset about what you’ve just uttered than you are happy about the cash prize you’ve just won.

Yoongi takes what you say at face-value, groaning at his third straight loss for the night. “That’s great. Wear cute pajamas, snap a couple of polaroids, don’t be the first to fall asleep and last to wake up, and just keep a pocket knife with you when you’re going out by yourself.”

The awe (and slight concern) over what he said should roll in any time now.

You should be comforted at Yoongi’s words because they’re supposed to ease the swirl of your stomach, even if what he just said is a repackaged version of what your family said before. You should let go of your worries because Yoongi, of all people, says that it’s supposed to be great.

Instead, you feel neither of what you think Yoongi wants you to.

“Was it something I said?” he mumbles after some time, turning his nose up at you as he tries to retrace his words. “I have an extra pocket knife you can borrow if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“We’re gonna be talking about boys, Yoongi,” you screw your eyes shut, sighing into the palms of your hands with a heaviness. “We’re gonna talk about crushes and experiences and all that.”

He shudders at that, his reaction mirroring Namjoon’s when you tried opening up to him. You get your brother’s reaction to a degree, of course, because you feel as if you’d be disgusted too if the roles were reversed. You want to talk about it with your mom too, but at the end of the day, she’s your parent and you just can’t talk about anything and everything with her.

Yoongi’s your next plausible option.

“Do you want some ice cream right now? You know what, I’ll buy you-…” Yoongi tries to evade the topic altogether, his attempt of escaping feeble as you drag him down by his hoodie.

“I haven’t had my first kiss yet.”

“Heh.”

Yoongi shrugs at that, regaining his words when you deadpan at him. “So? What about it?”

You starfish on the floor at that out of frustration, the whine you’ve been bottling up coming out in the open because as usual, Yoongi doesn’t get it. “I-I’m probably the only one in my grade who hasn’t kissed someone yet! I can’t just lie carelessly because obviously, they’ll ask around.”

“So?” Yoongi chuckles, his breeze towards your state shocking you. “What’s it to them if you haven’t had your first kiss?”

“You don’t get it,” you grit through your teeth, crossing your arms so hard that it feels hard to inhale.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” he sing-songs, drinking the last of his beer. When you’re not looking though, he plans to either drink or chuck the remainder of your share because he doesn’t want you to develop a taste for it.

The anger you have for Yoongi bubbles up once again, the itch in your throat unbearable. You’re presented with the age gap between you once more, along with the raging emptiness in you that Yoongi’s reached so far and you’ve reached so little.

“You don’t get it because you’ve had all of these experiences when you were younger than my age right now,” you snap, although you don’t look at him when you do. If you do look at him though, you’ll only be reminded of how a face like his could have everything in this world — even a first kiss you’ve never had.

“Yeah, and so?” he knits his brows, growing defensive. You weren’t lying at all, but he still feels a little offended at the dig. He’s not not proud of it, but with the way you say it, it’s like you want him to burn in shame,

“Stop saying so,” you angrily mumble in frustration, a little breathless because you still don’t ease up on crossing your arms.

Yoongi straightens his posture, staring you down with his jaw set. He’s stern as he is, nostrils flaring in irritation. “No, Y/N. I’m genuinely asking — so what? What’s it to you if I had my first kiss at a younger age? What about it if everyone else in your grade has kissed someone and you haven’t? It’s not the end of the world.”

“I-I don’t know! It’s just unfair!” you let up, yielding to both the facts that Yoongi’s right with it not being the end of the world, and that you’re still entitled to feeling upset.

��Instead of spending time obsessing over your first kiss, maybe I don’t know, try being productive? You’re heading to college soon and you haven’t even thought of a career,” Yoongi goes off on you, making you roll your eyes automatically. There he goes again with the great big push of trying to push you into your supposed passions in life. “Someone else’s luck doesn’t mean it’s already your misfortune.”

“But it is.”

You say it so definitively, you almost convince him. You have your principles and so does Yoongi, but not everyone else. You have your principles yet you don’t have the luck. You’re not getting anywhere in life just like Yoongi or anyone else who was remotely born into wealth, no matter how quiet or obvious.

You can’t pursue something that interests you in the slightest without thinking what would come out of it. You can’t think of a degree and a course you’ll stick with, enough to do for the rest of your life because the only other option is to fail completely if you don’t. You have no plan and no passion and you don’t know if you’ll ever amount to anything to anyone at all.

By all means, you don’t agree with Yoongi this time. Someone else’s luck is your misfortune, in the same way that his first kiss doesn’t mean that it’s yours.

The sidetrack to your argument is a closed case already, judging by your downcast gaze. “I just have to put myself out there, that’s all. My first kiss doesn’t even have to mean anything. I just want to have it,” you admit, shoulders relaxing.

“Don’t,” Yoongi groans, the opposite of you as his whole body tenses.

He thinks that you don’t get him at all.

“What do you meandon’t?”

Your argument’s long-over (atleast you thought it was) but Yoongi’s getting more agitated by the minute, the disbelief on his face throwing you off. “Don’t do things just because you feel like you have to! Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“I don’t want to be left behind, Yoongi! That’s all I’m trying to get at,” you raise your hands in surrender, shrugging thoughtlessly — it makes him want yell into a paper bag in exasperation. “I don’t want to be picked last. I don’t want to not be wanted.”

Yoongi exhales, screwing his eyes shut. It stays silent like that for a little while; him calming himself down, and you scratching your tickets. The calm doesn’t stay for long because you open your mouth carelessly, again.

“Can you be my first kiss?”

“Are you insane?”

“Ugh.”

You go back to your fourth scratch ticket, pouting in disappointment. You’re unfazed about the win that’s probably the largest sum you’ve had ever since you started doing the lottery.

You’re upset and you’re sick in the stomach but you stay silent like you never asked Yoongi to be your first kiss; it’s like you haven’t indirectly admitted to him that you love him enough, more than so, to want him to be your first.

You’re about to scratch the final ticket when Yoongi juts his hand out, fingers barely brushing yours to stop you.

“On second thought, don’t scratch that. Just keep it.”

“Because you want to turn me into a hoarder too?” you snicker, heeding his suggestion regardless.

“Because I’m not going to be right about everything,” Yoongi mumbles, looking at you with a solemnness you can’t decipher.

You try until the solemnness turns into pity.

“Still don’t want to be my first kiss?”

Yoongi softly laughs to your face, smiling as he lets you down — whether easily or harshly, you can’t tell.

“You already know what I’m going to say.”

( ♡ )

You’d like to think that you’re not kept in the dark about most things.

You already know that although your mom hasn’t had any relationships since your dad left, she still has plenty of suitors. Some of them are the reason why you have random food deliveries in the middle of the dinner that she’s already cooked, some have sucked up to her by getting you and Namjoon gifts.

You know about Namjoon’s growing love for football, even with the lessons he takes in secret because he didn’t want to trouble your mom for the money. It’s why he does his part-time job and why you’re looking for one anyways. You don’t want nor need much, so you almost always give him the remainder of your allowance by the end of each week.

Yoongi, on the other hand, you don’t know much about. You know that he’s an only child with a doting mom who works overseas and a rich but emotionally unavailable dad at home, and that’s about it. His home life is synonymous with yours, considering that your four walls have become an extension of his.

Maybe you’ve become too lenient on him — either that, or he’s become too disrespectful. It’s at times like these where your house is not his home, sickeningly so that you don’t want it to be yours either.

Yoongi is a sight to behold as he makes out with a half-naked girl on your bed, in your room. Your room has never been the neatest but with everything going on, it feels that it’s become the dirtiest that it’s ever been. Your house slippers are on the floor even if you always leave them by the entryway, and your sheets are a mess despite being one of the only things you try to keep folded in the room.

You’re angry, too much to the point that the words get caught in your throat. They catch onto bile and venom and everything at once, the strain in your voice heard when you yell.

“What the fuck?!”

Yoongi and the girl, whom you figure out to be Hyewon that he’s shared his first kiss with, jolt in unison. Hyewon’s scared shitless while Yoongi’s annoyed to death, the grunt he lets out pricking your ears further. “Sorry, sorry. She’s my best friend’s sister. She’s so annoying,” he drags you out of your room before he even gives you the entitlement to storm out of there in a fit of rage, seeing red the longer that he seems upset at you.

“What the fuck was that, Yoongi?” you grit through your teeth, the moment of you seeing red turn into white because you’re so frustrated that you could actually cry. Your chest’s heavy, not only out of rage, but out of everything that’s built up in the course of years.

“Can you keep it down?” Yoongi seethes, pursing his lips. “What, would you rather see us do it in the living room?”

“In the — what? Who do you think you are? This isn’t even your house, why are you bringing these girls here?” you point an accusing finger at him yet he doesn’t back away, his annoyance for you only growing tenfold.

He’s in the wrong no matter which way you look at it yet he doesn’t realize it, the epiphany that Yoongi genuinely thinks he’s in the right for doing this to you making your skin burn in fire.

“This is literally the first time I’ve ever done this! I can’t bring her back to my place, my dad has guests over!”

“So your smartest idea is to fuck someone in my bed?”

“Oh, you’re welcome. It’s the most action your four walls have ever seen,” he spits sarcastically, eyes narrowing at you. It takes little effort for him to dig up what you came to him for in worry and it terrifies you. The facet of Yoongi who had sternly told you that it was okay to be left behind if it means getting what you deserve, resembling nothing like him at the moment.

“I can’t believe you!” you whisper as you tremble, the tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. “I told you that in confidence.”

“In confidence? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that you’re not exactly a catch, Y/N.”

You clench your jaw so hard that it hurts, you ball your fists so tightly that it stings.

You leave your home without saying another word.

Namjoon’s panicked.

He came home a little later than usual because he had maximized the life out of his soccer lessons, only getting the signal to leave when the lights were turned off. He was only slightly worried at the first place because he was supposed to cook dinner for the both of you, but he placated himself by realizing that you’re not the baby that he still thinks you are — you could cook dinner for yourself if you were hungry already.

He thinks nothing of it. In fact, he just makes a quick stop at the convenience store so the both of you could indulge in a liter of ice cream without your mom urging to leave some for another night. You could think of a recipe from scratch (and it almost always works out at the end), so Namjoon walked in fully thinking he’ll get to sniff whatever concoction you have.

Except, he walks into a completely dark house, and that’s when he panics.

He can’t find your slippers by the entryway and you’re not in your room either. You’re not at the other convenience store hunched over taking your chances on scratch tickets, and you’re not out on the street either going people-watching.

The panic rises in him the more that Namjoon grasps this is the first time that this has ever happened and he doesn’t know why. He’s always made an effort to be absorbed into both your personal and academic affairs, and as far as he knows, you’re neither in a sleepover nor on a field trip somewhere.

Namjoon thinks it’s his fault someway somehow, and the guilt can’t fully dissipate from him until he sees you.

“Hey, Yoongi,” he breathlessly gasps the moment his friend answers, the latter being surprised because he thought it was you who was calling him after what happened awhile ago.

It’s his fault and he’s realized that hours too late, and the selfish part of him thinks that it’s you calling at ten in the evening begging for forgiveness.

“What’s up, man? It’s late,” he wonders out loud, thinking for a second if they were too much of the Siamese twins that you tease them to be because he can’t think of a rational reason why Namjoon would call him at this time of night.

Namjoon raggedly exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m just wondering if you’ve seen Y/N by any chance?”

Yoongi’s heart drops so loudly that Namjoon thought for second that his friend had hung up on him, his urgency being shared the moment that he asked.

“What? Y/N isn’t home?” Yoongi asks in disbelief, immediately being filled with anxiety and disbelief. Just awhile ago, the two of you were arguing outside of your room. He did hear you leave, but he had fully expected for you to be back hours ago. He’s wracked with guilt all over, the drop in his chest amplified by the pit in his stomach.

“She’s not. Practice ran late and I-I know she’s responsible so I didn’t hurry home,” Namjoon recalls, being more and more frazzled by the second. “She left her phone here, and mom isn’t here either because she’s visiting my grandparents, a-and I don’t want to call her because I know she’ll be worried, a-and-…”

Yoongi interrupts him, the tremble in his fingers only enabling him to dig his nails into his palm deeper. “I’m coming over. Let’s look for her together.”

It barely takes a minute for the both of them to come together, not even exchanging any pleasantries with each other before Yoongi steps on the gas.

Namjoon’s filled with guilt, the type that only a sibling could carry as a burden. He thinks he was too selfish — too accustomed to pulling your own weight that it must have given you the impression that you had no other choice but to. Whatever it was that made you leave out of the blue, Namjoon thinks he could’ve done more. He should’ve came home and made you dinner as promised, for starters. He’s guilty over the fact that he’s the only close familial male figure in your life and he let this happen, as he makes Yoongi put his headlights on high-beam, scanning for anyone that looks remotely like you.

Yoongi, on the other hand, is filled with a guilt he can’t even begin to explain. It corrodes him from the inside-out in realization that he’s to blame for your sudden disappearance, the fact that Namjoon comes to him first to help find you not helping at all. If only your brother knew what he had done to you, he’s positive that he’ll be on the receiving end of a punch — what gets him more is that Yoongi wouldn’t blame him at all.

They see you in the bus stop two cities away, dressed in the same clothes you ran out with.

Namjoon’s relieved beyond compare while Yoongi’s fuming, his hands tucked inside his jacket to prevent himself from squeezing you into an embrace; neither of you deserve it.

There’s an underlying anger within Namjoon, one that lies behind the back of his throat as he checks you over for any injuries. The two of you walk ahead to Yoongi’s car while he himself trails behind, his heart significantly calmer than it was the past hour, yet nowhere near normal.

“Wanna tell me what you did?” your brother hums, trying to exhale the worry that’s embedded into him with each squeeze he gives around your shoulders.

“Went to the convenience store, bumped into my friends, then we took this impromptu roadtrip to go to the night market, then we all had our first actual shot of liquor and not just beer, my friend who owns the car turned out to be a lightweight, and now everyone just has to commute home,” you narrate in recollection, squeezing Namjoon back to try and ground him.

“Okay,” he answers simply, nodding. “Wanna tell me what happened before you did all those things?”

The breathless chuckle that leaves you is empty, void of any amusement at all. You smile nonetheless, unable to placate both yourself and Namjoon. “Nope.”

You arrive in silence to Yoongi’s car, the words unsaid between the three of you generating more tension than your brief disappearance itself.

Yoongi opens the front door for you, but you settle for sitting in the backseat.

#HOW R WE FEELING TARGET AUDIENCE!!! :O #yoongi imagine #yoongi oneshot #yoongi oneshots #yoongi series #yoongi angst #yoongi angst imagine #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi au #min yoongi imagine #min yoongi scenario #yoongi fanfic #yoongi x you #bts yoongi imagine #bts yoongi x reader

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onlyhereforthestories · 2 months ago

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Gift Guessing Games (Ingrid Engen x Reader)

Day 11. I really love Ingrid but shes so sweet I feel the cute ones like this are best suited for writing for her. So enjoy!

“Alright, let’s do this,” Ingrid declared, tugging her bobble hat snugly over her ears as she adjusted her scarf. The two of you stood at the entrance of the bustling shopping centre, a cold breeze whipping at your bodies that was the only positive about going inside. She turned to you, her expression a mix of determination and something a little more fun. “I need your help, but there’s a catch. Well not really a catch but you’ll get what I mean in a second.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious already. “Oh? What’s the catch? Is this some impossible mission?”

She smirked, leaning in slightly. “It’s for my secret Santa gift… but I’m not telling you who I got. You’ll have to guess.”

You laughed, shoving your hands into your coat pockets. “So, I’m helping you shop but I’m being left completely in the dark? That’s okay but you can’t blame me if we end up with something ridiculous.”

Ingrid grinned and grabbed your hand, tugging you inside where the warmth of the mall wrapped around you like a cozy blanket. Twinkling fairy lights adorned every storefront, garlands hung over doorways, and a giant Christmas tree stood proudly in the centre, its ornaments shimmering under the glow of the many little bulbs lighting up the tree. Holiday music drifted through the air, creating a welcome distraction from the many people who looked like they were panicking or just not liking the sheer amount of people around them.

“Alright, first question,” you said, as the two of you strolled into the first shop. “Are they someone who’s hard to shop for? Like do we actually have an impossible task anyway, even without me being in the dark.”

Ingrid shrugged, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. This was going to be a long shopping trip. “Depends on who’s shopping. I have faith in us.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not giving me much here, but okay. Let’s start with something practical but fun. A mug, maybe? Like one of these…” You grabbed a novelty mug from the shelf, reading it aloud. “‘Captain in Charge… of Coffee Breaks.’ It’s perfect if your person drinks coffee. Or if they are, I don’t know, a team captain?” Your guess was the subtlest you could come up with and you were pretty proud of yourself.

Ingrid snorted, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Not bad. But keep guessing.”

You watched her carefully, trying to catch any flicker of a reaction, but she gave nothing away. So not Alexia, one down god knows how many more to go. “Damn it okay,” you said, placing the mug back. “Next question. Are they a more serious person or are they a big goof?”

“Both,” Ingrid said immediately, moving toward a shelf of scented candles and giving one an experimental sniff. “They can be super focused, but they also have a good sense of humour.”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully as you followed her, a gesture that had Ingrid snickering under her breath at you. “Serious but funny. Hmm. What about someone who’s always playing music? Do they love gadgets?” You wandered over to a display of retro-style record players. “This is cute. It’s small, quirky, and perfect for someone who likes to mess around with genres and artists.”

Ingrid chuckled, giving the tiny record player a once-over. “That’s actually a good idea. I really like that as a gift, but nope. That won’t work for my Secret Santa.”

“Okay, now you’re just enjoying this,” you said, narrowing your eyes at her. You had a feeling she had a present in mind already but just wanted to make you come up with things and guesses for her teammates.

She grinned, unapologetic. “Maybe. Keep going.”

“Yes ma’am,” you said with an exaggerated sigh. “Do they like organizing things? Like are they the type to have their entire life planned out in a colour-coded spreadsheet?”

Ingrid laughed, shaking her head. “I think everyone on the team could use a little more organization, but that’s not a hint.”

You spotted a leather-bound planner with gold accents on a nearby display and held it up. “This is classy. Even if they’re not the organized type, it could be aspirational. Maybe push them to be a little more proactive in their organizational skills.”

Ingrid tilted her head, considering it. “You’re really good at this. But still no.”

You groaned, dramatically throwing your head back. “Ingrid! You’re killing me. At least tell me if they’re someone you’re close to.” You grabbed her hand as you strolled around the next shop.

Her smile softened, and she gave a little shrug, squeezing your hand slightly in the process. “I mean we’re all close. But yeah, this person’s special.”

You caught the flicker of affection in her voice and grinned. “Special, huh? So, we’re talking someone who looks up to you, maybe? Someone who thinks you’re the coolest person on the planet?” you made sure she could hear the teasing tone of your voice, she had given you a bit too big of a clue and you now knew who it was.

Ingrid gave you a sideways glance, her smile turning sheepish. “I’m not saying anything.”

You clapped your hands together. “It’s Jana, isn’t it? Oh, I’ve got this. Jewellery. Something simple but meaningful. Like… oh!” You pointed toward a display case filled with delicate silver bracelets, each engraved with a small charm bearing an inspirational word. “‘Fearless.’ That’s perfect. She’s fearless on the pitch, right? And it’s something she can wear every day.”

Ingrid’s silence was telling. She reached for the bracelet, her fingers brushing over the charm as a soft smile spread across her face. “Okay, okay. You win. It’s Jana. And this… babe this is perfect.”

You beamed, pleased with yourself. “I knew it. But for the record, I was onto you from the start.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her expression made your heart swell. “Sure you were.” She wrapped her hands around your neck and pulled you a little closer as she spoke. “And I’m sure you played along with my game just for me huh?”

You nodded your head enthusiastically before standing on your toes to press a gentle kiss to the woman’s lips. Letting your hand run into her back pocket where you pulled out her purse. “Time to pay!” Ingrid was quick to grab her purse back before you could even get out of her arms.

As the two of you headed to the checkout, Ingrid glanced over at you, her voice quieter now. “Thanks for helping me with this. I wanted it to be something meaningful, you know? Something that shows her how proud I am of her.”

You bumped her shoulder lightly. “You didn’t need my help for that. It’s obvious how much you care about her. This gift is just the cherry on top.”

With the gift brought, you and Ingrid headed for the outside. Ingrid pulled her scarf tihght around her neck again before she gripped your hand in hers. You made it all of 5 paces into the cool air before you broke the peaceful silence that had settled between you.

“Now,” you said with a grin, “let’s talk wrapping paper. Because you’re not just slapping this in a bag and calling it a day. We’re going all out.”

Ingrid laughed, the sound echoing warmly in the quiet street. “Bows and ribbons?”

“Obviously,” you replied. “It’s not Christmas without glitter.”

She squeezed your hand, her smile wide and full of gratitude. “Deal. But you’re in charge of the glitter.”

#woso x reader #woso imagines #woso imagine #ingrid engen imagine #ingrid engen x reader

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kingkaizen · 1 month ago

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𝓭𝓪𝓭!𝓰𝓸𝓳𝓸 𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓼

∘ desc: moments with your shared daughter *christmas edition*

∘ ft: gojo

∘ includes: christmas traditions (also other winter related activities for anyone who does not celebrate christmas). happy holidays <3

Decorating

You’re inside the warm, cozy living room with your daughter, who’s carefully hanging ornaments on the lower branches of the Christmas tree. You can’t help but smile at her tiny, concentrated face as she proudly shows you her latest placement, slightly crooked but utterly perfect.

“Where’s Daddy?” she suddenly asks, glancing around as if Gojo might jump out from behind the tree.

You pause, realizing you haven’t heard his usual playful remarks in a while. “Good question, sweetie.”

Stepping outside, you’re greeted by a sight that’s equal parts alarming and hilarious. There he is—your husband—half hanging off the roof, a string of Christmas lights tangled around his torso as if he spun around in them. He’s muttering to himself, trying to clip the lights in place while haphazardly balancing on the edge.

“Satoru!” you yell, rushing forward. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He turns at the sound of your voice, flashing that signature smug grin, as if dangling from a rooftop is the most normal thing ever. “I’m making our house the brightest on the block! What do you think?”

“I think you’re going to break your neck!” you shout back, torn between exasperation and laughter.

Your daughter runs outside to see what’s going on and gasps. “Daddy, are you flying like Santa?”

Gojo puffs out his chest, clearly inspired by her awe. “Exactly, sweetheart! Daddy’s doing Santa prep work. But don’t tell anyone—it’s top secret.”

Just as he says this, the clip he was trying to secure snaps free, sending him sliding down the roof. You shriek, but he somehow lands on his feet in the snow with all the grace of a cat, arms flung out dramatically.

“I meant to do that!” he declares proudly, though his hair is covered with snow and his shirt is half untucked.

Your daughter shrieks with laughter, while you sigh, rubbing your temples. “Satoru, next time just use a ladder, or maybe for some help.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he teases, winking at you.

We have Santa at Home

The mall was bustling with holiday cheer, kids lined up around every corner to meet Santa Claus. You thought it’d be a great idea to bring your daughter for a quick picture and get some last minute shopping done, but, of course, your husband had other plans.

“Why waste time in a boring line for some fake Santa when you’ve got the real deal right here?” Gojo says with a smug grin, pointing at himself.

You raise an eyebrow. “The real deal? Last I checked, Santa doesn’t have snow-white hair and no beard, honey.”

“Details, details,” he waves you off. “Just wait. She’s going to love this.”

Later that evening, you’re finishing up some wrapping when you hear a loud “Ho ho ho!” coming from the living room. You walk in to see Gojo fully decked out in a Santa suit—complete with a pillow stuffed under the jacket to make him completely look the part. Your daughter’s eyes grow wide as she gasps.

“Santa?!” she squeals, running over to him.

Gojo crouches down, his voice deeper and exaggerated, “Well, hello there, little one! What’s your name?”

“Hana”, she replies with a giggle, inching closer to her dressed up father.

“What a pretty name for an adorable little one like you! Have you been a good girl this year?”

She nods so enthusiastically it’s a miracle her head doesn’t fly off. “The best girl!”

The evening turns into an impromptu Christmas celebration. Gojo stays in character as he hands her a small “early gift” and lets her climb onto his lap for pictures. But as the hours tick on, the novelty starts to wear off—for him, at least.

“Okay, kiddo,” he says, tugging at the itchy beard. “Santa’s got to go back to the North Pole now.”

“Nooo!” she wails, grabbing his red coat. “Santa, stay,” she exclaims, jutting her lip out in a silent beg.

Gojo glances at you helplessly as your daughter’s big, watery eyes work their magic. You cross your arms, smirking. “You wanted to be the real deal, remember?”

He sighs dramatically, flopping back onto the couch. “Fine, Santa will stay a little longer. But only because I love cookies—uh, I mean, I love you.”

Your daughter giggles and climbs onto his lap again, happily chattering about what she wants for Christmas. You can’t help but laugh as Gojo leans back, already over it but trapped by his own antics.

Later, when she finally falls asleep, he collapses next to you, yanking off the Santa hat. “Next year, we’re going to the mall.”

“Sure, Santa,” you tease, planting a kiss on his cheek.

Baking

The smell of sugar and vanilla wafted through the kitchen as you and your daughter stood side by side at the counter, carefully cutting out festive shapes from the cookie dough.

“Are these enough for Santa, Mommy?” she asked, holding up a slightly misshapen star.

“More than enough, cutie. But maybe make one extra—just in case Santa gets really hungry,” you reply with a knowing smile.

She giggles, carefully placing her creation onto the baking sheet. By the time the cookies are in the oven, she’s bouncing with excitement, chattering about how Santa will love her “masterpieces.” After they’re done, she insists on arranging them perfectly on a plate, complete with a glass of milk and a tiny carrot for the reindeer.

Hours later, the house is silent, your daughter fast asleep upstairs, when you creep downstairs for a midnight check. The soft glow of the Christmas tree lights the room, and there’s Satoru, already at the plate, milk in hand and a cookie halfway to his mouth.

“What are you doing?” you whisper, arms crossed.

He freezes, looking like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar. “Santa’s on a break,” he says with a grin, waving the cookie at you.

Rolling your eyes, you join him, plucking a cookie from the plate. “If Santa eats too many, our daughter might notice.”

“She’s too busy being the cutest thing in the world to count cookies,” he says, taking a big bite. Then, with a teasing grin, he adds, “Besides, I’m doing her a favor. This one was burnt on the bottom.”

You laugh quietly and lean against him, enjoying the peaceful moment as the two of you share cookies by the light of the tree.

“Think she’ll notice the bite marks?” you ask, glancing at the carrot on the plate.

Gojo smirks. “Nah, but I’ll gnaw on it if it helps sell the story.”

“Please don’t,” you say, laughing harder, but you know he probably will.

The two of you finish your stolen snack, leaving just enough for your daughter to try for herself.

Opening Presents

The first rays of morning sunlight peek through the curtains as you hear the sound of little feet padding down the hallway. Moments later, your daughter bursts into the room, her face lit up with excitement.

“It’s Christmas! Mommy, Daddy, wake up! Santa came!” she exclaims, practically vibrating with energy.

You groggily sit up, laughing as she grabs Satoru’s arm and tries to tug him out of bed. “C’mon, Daddy! You have to see!”

Satoru, ever the dramatic one, groans like he’s being dragged from the depths of sleep. “Santa came? Are you sure? Maybe we should check if he left any presents for me,” he teases, scooping her up in one swift motion.

You all head to the living room together, where the Christmas tree sparkles with lights, and a mountain of presents sits waiting. Your daughter gasps, clapping her hands. “He came! He really came!”

The morning is a blur of laughter, torn wrapping paper, and wide-eyed amazement as she opens each gift. Every reaction is pure joy—her squeal of delight when she unwraps the toy she’s been dreaming of, the way her little hands hug a stuffed animal like it’s the most precious treasure in the world.

Satoru, always one to ham it up, acts just as surprised as she does. “Wow, Santa must’ve known you’ve been such a good girl this year!” he says, ruffling her hair.

When she opens a gift that’s clearly from you and him—a cute kids makeup set—you can’t help but laugh as she insists on doing everyone’s makeup immediately. Gojo groans, claiming he looks ridiculous, but he complies when she bats her big, sparkling eyes at him.

At one point, she finds a small, poorly wrapped package with “To Daddy, Love Hana” scrawled in crayon. She beams as he opens it, revealing a handmade bracelet strung with colorful plastic beads.

“Wow, this is the best gift I’ve ever gotten,” he says, slipping it on his wrist like it’s pure gold.

As the morning winds down, you all collapse on the couch in a pile of wrapping paper and contented smiles. Your daughter is happily playing with her toys on the floor, and Satoru leans over, kissing your cheek.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs.

“Merry Christmas,” you reply, your heart full as you watch your little family bask in the magic of the day.

Snow day

You wake up to the world outside transformed into a winter wonderland, a thick blanket of snow covering everything. Your daughter is already at the window, pressing her tiny hands against the glass.

“Mommy! Daddy! Look! It snowed so much!” she squeals, spinning around with excitement.

Satoru peeks out from under the covers, pretending to groan. “It’s so early… Are you sure we have snow?”

Your daughter runs over and starts tugging on his arm. “Yes, Daddy! Hurry up! We have to go play!”

A little while later, you’re all bundled up in coats, scarves, and mittens, stepping into the crisp, cold air. Satoru immediately scoops up a handful of snow and throws it in the air like confetti. The first task of the day is building a snowman. Your daughter diligently rolls the snow into uneven spheres while Satoru adds his signature touch: sunglasses, a scarf tied like it belongs on a runway, and a lopsided carrot nose.

“Behold! The coolest snowman in town,” he declares, striking a dramatic pose next to it.

“Daddy, you’re so silly,” your daughter giggles, clapping her hands.

After the snowman is complete, the chaos begins. Satoru sneakily forms a snowball and tosses it at you, hitting your shoulder. “Snowball fight!” he yells, already running for cover behind the snowman.

“Oh, you’re so getting it now,” you laugh, scooping up snow as your daughter gleefully joins in.

The backyard becomes a battlefield of flying snowballs and shrieks of laughter. Your daughter targets Satoru relentlessly, who dramatically flops into the snow every time he’s hit. “Ahh, I’ve been defeated! Not the face!” he cries, pretending to surrender.

But, of course, he never stays down for long, launching surprise attacks and tackling you both into soft piles of snow.

Eventually, you’re all exhausted, your cheeks flushed and your hands freezing. Satoru picks up your daughter and spins her around before carrying her inside, declaring, “Victory is mine!”

Back in the warmth of the house, you all gather around the kitchen table with steaming mugs of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows. Your daughter leans her head against you, still beaming.

“That was the best snow day ever,” she says sleepily.

Satoru grins, ruffling her hair. “Of course it was. Your dad makes everything epic.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling, knowing this day will be one of those precious memories you’ll all treasure.

#jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x reader fluff #gojo x reader #gojo fluff #gojo x reader fluff #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader fluff #gojo satoru fluff

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icrypop · 1 month ago

Text

Christmas with Them

Characters: Angel Dust, Alastor, Husk, Vox, Lucifer, Vaggie, Charlie

GENDER NEUTRAL READER!!

1 of a few Christmas Posts!!! Enjoyyyy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Angel Dust

- Angel drags you to the most extravagant and chaotic stores in Hell, loudly commenting on tacky ornaments and inappropriate holiday decorations. He insists on buying matching ugly Christmas sweaters for both of you.

- You both turn your living space into a glitter explosion while hanging up decorations. Angel ends up covered in tinsel and insists it’s his “holiday look.”

- A hilariously sarcastic commentary on every cheesy Christmas movie you watch together, especially rom-coms. Angel constantly points out how he’d do things differently.

- Angel’s presents are often over-the-top and flashy, like a sequined stocking filled with novelty items. He loves seeing your reaction, especially if it makes you laugh.

- Angel improvises a "snowball fight" using pillow stuffing or anything he can throw. It quickly devolves into a chaotic but hilarious mess.

- Angel sets up playful (and slightly inappropriate) pranks around the house, like booby-trapped mistletoe that sprays glitter.

- He drags you into a karaoke night, belting out raunchy versions of Christmas classics while pulling you up for duets.

- Angel crafts stockings for both of you, but his is covered in rhinestones and feathers, while yours has a playful inside joke about your relationship.

===============================

You woke up to the sound of loud music blasting through the apartment. Groaning, you rolled over and saw Angel Dust, already in a ridiculous Santa-themed outfit, complete with glittery red heels.

“Rise and shine, sugar! Santa Dust is here to bring some Christmas chaos!” he yelled, shaking a bag full of wrapped presents.

The living room was a mess of wrapping paper, candy canes, and tinsel. Angel had clearly been up for hours, “redecorating” the place. He plopped down beside you, handing you a sloppily wrapped gift.

“I know it ain’t perfect,” he said with a wink, “but it’s fabulous, just like me.”

Inside was a sequined jacket in your favorite color. Before you could thank him, he yanked you into a hug, covering you in glitter. “Merry Christmas, babe! Now, let’s eat cookies for breakfast and watch the worst holiday movies we can find!”

---

Alastor

- Alastor prepares an elaborate Christmas dinner with dishes from various cultures. He insists on you trying everything, recounting stories about the origins of the recipes with his usual sinister grin.

- He takes you to Hell’s version of Christmas caroling, which involves twisted and haunting renditions of holiday classics. He sings with eerie enthusiasm, making the experience both fun and chilling.

- Alastor dims the lights, turns on some vintage Christmas jazz, and offers his hand to you for an impromptu dance in front of a crackling fire.

- His presents are always wrapped perfectly, but they often come with a cryptic backstory that leaves you curious (or slightly unsettled).

- Alastor gathers you by the fire to tell twisted holiday tales, his voice both chilling and captivating as he adds his sinister flair.

- He surprises you with a hand-carved ornament or a vintage keepsake, proudly stating it’s made “with a personal touch.”

- He takes you on a stroll through Hell’s version of a winter wonderland, narrating the history of the sights with a mischievous grin.

- Alastor sets up his vintage record player to play Christmas tunes, occasionally breaking into an impromptu performance to serenade you.

===============================

You awoke to the sound of soft jazz playing from Alastor’s Victrola. The warm scent of fresh pastries and spiced coffee wafted through the air. When you stepped into the living room, Alastor was adjusting a garland on the fireplace, wearing a festive sweater that somehow still looked sinister.

“Ah, my dear, you’re just in time! Breakfast is ready, and the festivities are about to commence,” he said with his ever-present grin.

He guided you to a beautifully set table, complete with an array of homemade treats. “I’ve prepared something special for you,” he said, handing you a small, intricately wrapped box.

Inside was a vintage locket with a picture of the two of you. “A token of my appreciation for the… interesting times we’ve shared,” he said, chuckling.

The rest of the morning was spent in a mix of eerie Christmas carols and surprisingly heartfelt moments, making it a day to remember.

---

Husk

- Husk isn’t big on holidays but agrees to spend Christmas with you, as long as there’s booze involved. He keeps things simple and cozy.

- He teaches you a card game (or makes up his own rules) while sipping spiked eggnog. The banter is half the fun.

- Though he grumbles about the holidays, you catch him smiling when he sees you happy. He secretly gets you a thoughtful gift but denies it’s a big deal.

- Husk shares stories about his life over a quiet Christmas night, his guard lowered just enough for you to see his softer side.

- Husk insists on a lazy day spent napping with you in a pile of blankets, saying it’s the best way to "celebrate."

- He begrudgingly takes you on a tour of his favorite bars, which turns into an unexpectedly fun holiday adventure.

- You play drinking games where the rules involve mocking cheesy holiday tropes in movies or commercials.

- Late at night, Husk shares an old Christmas memory that’s surprisingly heartwarming, making the moment unexpectedly tender.

===============================

When you woke up, Husk was already in the kitchen, grumbling to himself as he poured coffee into two mismatched mugs. He turned and noticed you, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Morning. Figured I’d get the caffeine going,” he said, setting a mug down in front of you.

The apartment was quiet except for the faint sound of Christmas music playing on an old radio. Husk had set up a small tree the night before, its lights blinking lazily.

“I, uh, got you something,” he muttered, pulling a neatly wrapped box from under the tree. Inside was a simple but thoughtful gift—a book you’d mentioned wanting.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” he grumbled, though his tail flicked nervously. You smiled and hugged him, making him groan. “Alright, alright, enough with the mushy stuff. Let’s eat.”

---

Vox

- Vox uses his powers to create a high-tech Christmas experience, complete with holographic decorations and a futuristic Christmas tree.

- He ropes you into doing a Christmas livestream or video podcast, where you both show off holiday outfits or open gifts in front of an audience.

- Vox takes you to a VIP Christmas bash where only the most elite of Hell are invited. He enjoys showing you off as his partner.

- Vox designs a one-of-a-kind gadget or accessory for you, showcasing both his creativity and affection.

-Vox creates a dazzling Christmas-themed digital fireworks display just for you, projecting it across the skyline.

- He insists you try on various high-tech holiday outfits, enjoying the playful banter as he models a few himself.

- Vox programs a personalized playlist of Christmas music, mixing your favorite songs with his edgy style.

- You spend hours gaming together, battling in festive-themed games or playing co-op while snacking on holiday treats.

===============================

Christmas morning with Vox was nothing short of futuristic. You woke up to a fully automated greeting, complete with holographic mistletoe hovering above the bed.

“Good morning, darling,” Vox’s voice chimed from his speakers. He walked in moments later, carrying a tray with your favorite breakfast and a smirk on his face.

“You’ll love this,” he said, activating a projection of a virtual Christmas tree. Beneath it were digital renderings of gifts, each one opening to reveal a real-life counterpart.

Your favorite? A sleek, custom-designed gadget with your name engraved on it. “Only the best for my favorite person,” Vox said, leaning in for a quick kiss.

The rest of the morning was spent exploring your gifts, laughing over his high-tech holiday antics, and enjoying the most luxurious Christmas breakfast imaginable.

---

Lucifer

- Christmas with Lucifer is a grand and formal affair. He hosts a luxurious dinner party with the who’s who of Hell, and you’re the center of his attention.

- After the party, he whisks you away to a quiet spot to enjoy the holiday privately, often with fine wine and a view of Hell’s unique “snow.”

- Lucifer gives you an antique or a priceless artifact with sentimental value, paired with a heartfelt (and slightly poetic) explanation.

- He leads you in a slow waltz under Hell’s night sky, showing a rare glimpse of his romantic side.

- Lucifer oversees the lighting of an enormous, magical Christmas tree in Hell, inviting you to stand beside him as his special guest.

- He plays a grand piano, performing hauntingly beautiful renditions of holiday classics for you.

- Lucifer prepares an intimate, candlelit Christmas dinner for just the two of you, complete with fine wine and elegant music.

- He takes you for a walk through Hell’s royal gardens, magically transformed into a winter wonderland for the occasion.

===============================

You woke to the faint sound of classical music and the scent of freshly baked pastries. Lucifer, dressed impeccably as always, stood by the grand fireplace, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, my love,” he greeted, his voice smooth as silk. “I trust you slept well?”

He led you to the dining room, where a lavish breakfast spread awaited. Every detail was perfect, from the polished silverware to the pristine holiday decor.

After breakfast, he presented you with an ornate gift box. Inside was a rare piece of jewelry, something timeless and elegant, just like him. “A symbol of my affection,” he said softly, brushing a kiss to your hand.

The rest of the morning was spent in quiet luxury, with Lucifer ensuring every moment felt special and unforgettable.

---

Vaggie

- Vaggie prefers a quiet, personal celebration with homemade decorations and baked goods. She insists on keeping it meaningful and genuine.

- You both wrap gifts together, with her focusing on neatness and you possibly sneaking in something silly, which makes her laugh.

- Vaggie enjoys sitting by the fire with you, sipping hot cocoa and discussing your dreams or plans for the future.

- She’s very thoughtful in her gift choices, ensuring each present reflects your interests and needs.

- Vaggie and you spend the evening baking cookies and cakes, with her getting competitive about making everything perfect.

- She creates a scrapbook filled with memories of your time together, presenting it to you with a heartfelt note.

- You both sit under Hell’s unique starry sky, wrapped in blankets, quietly enjoying each other’s company.

- Vaggie sets up a simple but cute photoshoot for the two of you, using props and backdrops to capture the holiday spirit.

===============================

Christmas morning with Vaggie was simple and heartfelt. You woke up to the smell of hot chocolate and the sight of her carefully hanging the last ornament on the tree.

“Good morning,” she said with a soft smile, handing you a steaming mug. “Merry Christmas.”

The two of you sat by the tree, exchanging gifts and teasing each other over your wrapping skills. Her gift was practical yet thoughtful—a handmade scarf in your favorite color.

“I wanted to make something personal,” she said, a faint blush on her cheeks.

The morning ended with you snuggled together under a blanket, watching the lights twinkle on the tree as soft music played in the background.

---

Charlie

- Charlie loves every aspect of Christmas, from decorating to caroling. She’s bubbly and eager to involve you in all her holiday activities.

- She takes you to volunteer or give back in some way, wanting to spread joy to others. Her optimism is infectious.

- Charlie introduces you to quirky family traditions, like singing carols with her parents or making unique tree ornaments.

- Her presents are handmade or extremely personal, always reminding you how much she cherishes you.

- Charlie insists on decorating the tree together, turning it into a fun and chaotic event with lots of laughter.

- She loves creating colorful and creative holiday cookies, and you end up in a playful frosting fight.

- Charlie organizes a festive parade, making you the honorary guest and ensuring you have the most fun.

- She convinces you to write silly letters to “Santa” (even in Hell), just to see what you’d wish for, laughing over your responses.

===============================

You woke up to Charlie bouncing on the bed, her excitement infectious. “It’s Christmas! Come on, get up!” she exclaimed, pulling you out of bed.

The living room was a whirlwind of holiday cheer, with stockings overflowing and presents stacked high. Charlie handed you a brightly wrapped gift, grinning ear to ear.

“It’s not much, but I thought you’d like it,” she said. Inside was a handmade scrapbook filled with pictures and mementos from your time together.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you hugged her tightly. “Hey, don’t cry! It’s Christmas!” she said, laughing as she wiped your tears.

The rest of the morning was filled with laughter, music, and way too many cookies, making it the perfect start to the holiday.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#my fic #x reader #hazbin hotel angel dust #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin lucifer #hazbin vox #hazbin husk #hazbin vaggie #hazbin charlie #christmas #hazbin hotel hcs #merry christmas

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sleepingdeath-light · 1 year ago

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relationship hcs ; vincent phantomhive

requested by ; mod / self indulgent

fandom(s) ; black butler

fandom masterlist(s) ; hub | specific

character(s) ; vincent phantomhive

outline ; “dating headcanons for vincent”

warning(s) ; none, just fluff!

despite what his infamy and role as the queen’s guard dog would have you believe, vincent is an incredibly loving and attentive spouse — giving you all of his attention and affection when he’s with you and sending you frequent letters when he’s away (be that for business with funtom or for his more unsavoury duties under the queen)

he’s extremely affectionate by victorian aristocrat standards — never shying away from public displays of affection like: kissing your knuckles and fingertips, pecking your cheeks and lips, or wrapping an arm around your waist — and in private he was even more physical with you (often kissing and tickling you until you’re laughing so hard you’re crying and begging for him to stop between wheezes)

he spoils you rotten and makes sure that you’re never left wanting for anything so long as he can help it — clothes, shoes, accessories, food cravings, ornaments, books, etc. — the moment you mention wanting something he’s going to do everything he can to ensure that you have it in your possession as soon as possible

he dotes on you whenever you’re feeling even the slightest bit unwell, rearranging his whole schedule just to ensure that he can take care of you — or, rather, so that he can coo over you and supervise his staff (and, at times, dietrich) whilst they prepare your food and medication on his behalf

whenever he’s been away for a while due to some obligation or another he always makes a point to return with affection and gifts — making up for his absence physically and with many a thoughtful bouquet and arrangement of your favourite sweet things

when it comes to pet names he’s something of a traditionalist and tends to stick with ‘darling’, ‘dear’, and ‘my love’ — and likewise prefers to be called the same (but he won’t turn up his nose at the occasional ‘sweetheart’ if you’re so inclined)

if he’s ever called especially far-afield and pleasant — such as the north country, or abroad to somewhere in mainland europe — then he does his best to take you with him and the two of you have a lovely time as a couple (almost treating the entire affair as a holiday) between his investigations and assignments, and you have entire shelves full of souvenirs purchased on excursions like this (some novelty, others practical, all just sat there and occasionally picked up and looked over with vague amusement, affection and nostalgia)

he talks about you so often that he sometimes doesn’t even realise that he’s doing it, mentioning you or something you’ve done in basically every conversation he has — it drives dietrich mad but the other aristocrats of evil find it endearing and actively encourage him to keep on talking (undertaker especially finds his devotion to you touching)

he rarely ever gets jealous, but when he does he becomes incredibly short and passive aggressive — threatening them with his reputation and relationship to the criminal underground under a thin facade of politeness as he tightly grips your waist and keeps you flush against him (he’s not subtle and will be making it clear that you’re taken the moment you get home — especially if you initiated the offensive encounter in order to tease him)

#sleepingdeath #gender neutral reader #fluff #fluff hcs #black butler fluff #kuroshitsuji fluff #vincent phantomhive fluff #vincent phantomhive x reader #kuroshitsuji x reader #black butler x reader

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shieldofiron · 2 months ago

Note

So… I desperately need to hear your thoughts on what Christmas traditions Harringrove would do/create to make it through this Monday ❤️

I also had SUCH a shitty Monday oh my Godddd YES ok let's do this:

• First of all, Steve makes them put up the tree WAY early. He likes to start celebrating November 1 and it just intensifies from there.

• Every year they pick out a new ornament and write the year on it. Usually they try to find the silliest novelty one. Their favorite is a surfing snoopy with a joint they found in Venice Beach. They try to choose non-fragile ones because almost every year Billy makes a super-turbo-stregnth Eggnog which inevitably causes Steve to trip over their cat and topple the tree.

• He also makes an apple cider moonshine that could take the paint off their new car (lovingly maintained 1992 dodge viper.)

• Their other car is a pickup that they use to pick out their tree every year. Billy's dad always made him haul out a shitty plastic tree and put it up essentially alone so he loves the real pine smell.

• Every year Steve spends days thinking of and finding the perfect gift for Billy. Every year he ends up being the one crying because Billy somehow found or made something so thoughtful and perfect that Steve can't handle it.

• Max and Billy often used to spend Christmas day together because Neil would take Susan out for "alone time." So they carry on their tradition of painting each other's nails, only now they do it with Lucas and Steve. The rule is it doesn't have to be good, it just has to be badass. Lucas has the steadiest hand.

• Their traditional Christmas meal is Chinese food, because Steve hosts a lot of family for Hanukkah and by the time Christmas rolls around all he wants is to order egg rolls (and he's right!) Their Christmakkah is epic, even if all the family visits sometimes make Billy chain smoke. The Harrington's love Billy, and often try to get them to visit Hawkins for the holidays, but the Christmas in Los Feliz is just too beautiful.

#happy harringrove holidays #billy hargrove #harringrove #steve harrington #lumax #billy x steve #steve x billy #asks #hc

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scariusaquarius · 2 months ago

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tinsel kisses.

CHRISTMAS ADVENT BONANZA 2K24 DAY 12: Evergreen Decor, Izuku Midoriya

Izuku Midoriya x Fem! Reader Summary: You enlist Midoriya to help you with decorating your christmas tree when a sudden mishap causes shenanigans to ensue

A/n: I love Midoriya so much! I think it would be so fun to decorate a tree with him heheh

Genre: Friendship, Fluff, Humor Rated: Everyone Warning: Fluff, Swearing

Author: ScariusAquarius

"Ouch! That really hurt, Midoriya!"

"Oh no, I am so sorry! Are you okay? Do you need an ice pack? I'm so, so, so sorry!"

It was about 7pm at night in Musutafu, the city lit up in wonderful multicolors and glittering with snow as it came down heavily from the sky. You were decorating your home for Christmas, the holiday steadily approaching, and it had come time to decorate your tree.

Since you had been decorating your house and yard all day, you had decided to enlist the help of one of your closest friends to get the tree done.

Midoriya had been more than enthusiastic and had arrived to your house as soon as he could. The second he walked in, he was in awe by how much of a Winter Wonderland your apartment had become. Christmas lights, novelty items strewn around, and there was a mean-looking elf on the shelf that was staring right at him the second he opened the door.

'Always watching,' the sign attached said. Midoriya wasn't sure if he liked the elf that much.

You were in the kitchen when he had arrived, at the stove while the smell of chocolate filled the air. There were two mugs on the counter, a Gingerbread Man and a Gingerbread House, and they were filled with steaming chocolate.

Whipped cream adorned each of the rims and red, green, and white sprinkles with a candy cane hanging off of each side. There was also a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the counter, and Midoriya had been in heaven.

While waiting for the hot chocolate to cool down just enough so it wouldn't burn your tongues, you and Midoriya had gotten started on decorating the tree. Everything had been smooth, Midoriya reaching high and bending low while you gave directions on where to put the basic ornaments.

Then, it was the lights, the garland, the candy canes, and then it was time for the tinsel, and that's where things began to take a turn.

You had asked Midoriya to be the one to throw the tinsel around since One for All gave Midoriya the ability to float, and everything had gone well until Midoriya accidentally dropped the box of tinsel on you.

With a sore head and tinsel all over you, Midoriya was fussing about, checking your head and running to the kitchen to get an icepack. You weren't actually in pain, just a slight bump on the top of your skull, and when you glanced at yourself in the 'JOLLY' mirror that was beside the fireplace, you began to giggle.

"What is it?"

You leaned forward, taking Midoriya's hand when he offered it to you, and you stood up.

"I didn't think I needed a makeover that bad, Midoriya."

You blew some tinsel out of your face, and Midoriya became sheepish, rubbing the back of his head as he averted his gaze from you.

"No, it's not like that, I swear. You're beautiful all the time! I just...my hand slipped and...and I didn't grab the box in time before it fell on you. I really am sorry."

Your cheeks were hot, and a smile climbed over your face as you pointed out.

"I'm beautiful all the time?"

Midoriya looked horrified, face going completely red, and he exclaimed in embarrassment.

"No! I..I mean, yes! Yes, uh...all the time! I...Oh, please, help me."

He covered his face, and you laughed, gently taking his hands away from his face as Midoriya shyly looked at you. Taking some of the tinsel off of your head, you shook it all over him before saying with a cute smile.

"You're beautiful all the time to me too, Midoriya."

"R-Really?"

He looked awestruck, a part of him wondering if this was real and truly happening, and his heart began to race when you got closer to him, sliding your hands over his shoulders and around his neck and, oh, gods, you were so close to him.

His hands shakily rested against your hips, and euphoria burst through his whole body the second that your lips met his own. Midoriya was frozen for a moment from the ecstasy before his body molded against yours. Noses bumping slightly, you pulled away from him with a goofy little smile that had his whole body vibrating.

"Always, Midoriya. Wanna give me a lift to put the star on the tree and...maybe stay over to watch some Western Christmas movies with me?"

Midoriya giggled breathlessly, nodding with enthusiasm as he became slightly emotional, rubbing your noses together.

"I would love that so much!"

Grabbing the star for the tree, Midoriya lifted you within his arms bridal style, the two of you giggling as you both fumbled slightly, and Midoriya jumped up with a 'up we go!' and you effortlessly put the star on top of the tree.

Landing on the ground, Midoriya let you down, and you plugged the tree in and stood back, wrapping an arm around his waist and resting your head against his shoulder.

Midoriya couldn't keep the smile off of his face as he held you close, just admiring the tree with you, and your voice brought him so much joy and comfort as you whispered gently and held him tight.

"Merry Christmas, Midoriya."

"Merry Christmas, (Y/n)."

END DAY 12

#izuku midoriya x reader #midoriya izuku x reader #deku x reader #izuku midoriya #midoriya izuku #deku #midoriya #izuku #bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #advent bonanza 2k24

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sslitherslither · 1 month ago

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-Have Yourself a Fiery Little Sinsmas

Summary:

Hell’s still a relatively new concept for a sinner like you, but when Sinsmas rolls around, it’s nothing like the Christmases you knew topside. In Wrath, “happy Sinsmas” comes with a punch to the face, a kiss under the mistletoe, and just the right amount of fiery destruction to make it a holiday to remember.

Pairing: Striker x GN!Reader

Word Count: 6k+

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61644778

'Fa-la-la, the sin is calling, Fa-la-la, the sinners brawling, Raise your fists and join the fray, Angry hearts on Sinsmas Day!'~

Striker gripped the brim of his hat as if the very action would save his ears from this...he dared not call it music. But his partner in crime, his bo, however, seemed to disagree.

You threw your head back, beaming with enjoyment at his expense. Striker quirked a brow, "Yer actually enjoying this?"

You would've been lying if you'd said yes, or no, really. It was somewhere in between. You didn't prefer the music, but there was an odd novelty to it, like nostalgia from a memory never made or long since forgotten. Maybe in this case you'd hit the nail on the head for both instances, it was familiar but foreign all at once.

Perhaps that was the fate of all Sinners once they'd been down here too long. The wonders and terrors of Hell became the new normal, a life long lived in the world of man dulled to the mundane, while that of the Underworld burned through the soul.

"I wouldn't say 'enjoyment,'" a grin broke across your face. "Maybe more like nostalgic. I dunno why, but something about it feels weirdly familiar."

You tipped your head back and grinned, eyes cast upwards toward the many ornaments hanging above. "You know, now that I think about it..." Your gaze fell downwards to meet the narrowed expression of the imp next to you. "This... Sinsmas stuff sorta reminds me of Christmas."

"Christmas? Is that what they call this kinda crap topside?" Striker snorted. He released a humorless chuckle and threw his hand out, motioning to all the tacky glitter and garland around. "S'funny, 'cause to me it looks and sounds like someone died and vomited all over this place."

You laughed hard, the pleasant sound bubbling up over the screech of the jukebox. Striker, the jaded asshole that he was, smirked just so when hearing the mirth he was able to rip from that pretty little mouth.

You put a hand over it in a poor attempt to quell your laughter. It was entertaining to see Striker so riled up over something as mundane as holiday music and trappings and his irritation was entertaining in all the ways he most definitely didn't intend. But the action didn't fool either of you; both of you knew his behavior and distasteful comments were the product of his own frustrations more than anything. It had always been so with the two of you.

Striker grumbled, "Far as I know, and it ain't much when it comes to topside holidays, 'Christmas' seems kinda similar. Not that I know a'ton but Sinsmas looks like someone rolled down Santa Claus' chimney and shoved a big wad of dynamite up his ass."

The words would've been amusing if you hadn't pictured it in graphic detail; thankfully, a new tune on the jukebox broke that thought before it could get any worse.

"Down here, it's about embracin' your sin. Every ring's got its own way of doin' it." Striker pushed back from the table, right hand tapping against the surface while he crossed his ankle over his knee. His back straightened ever so as he allowed himself to lean against the booth's padded backrest.

"Lust’s probably throwin’ an orgy big enough to collapse a town, Gluttony’s eatin’ their weight in Hellfruit pies, and Wrath? Wrath knows what it’s about." There was almost a sparkle to his eyes at that last line; the deadly gleam you adored in your assassin.

“Let me guess,” you said, smirking. “Blowing stuff up?”

“Close,” he said with a toothy grin, the glow of the light glinting off his golden tooth. “Wrath’s about good ol’-fashioned violence. Friendly, of course. Families sparrin’, neighbors brawlin’, whole towns tearin’ themselves apart just for fun.”

You raised a brow. “That’s your idea of friendly?”

“Damn right it is,” he said, tipping his hat. “Ain’t nothin’ like throwin’ a punch at someone you care about to say ‘happy Sinsmas.’”

The picture Striker painted was becoming clear, hellfire and ash, the scent of gunpowder and burning flesh; all the things you knew in this new life with him, but with a spritz of holiday flare and what was likely an array of terrifying looking knitted sweaters.

Your response came after a few seconds. "Not gonna lie, I can see the appeal. I wouldn’t mind tearing off someone's leg, hell, even yours, if it meant I could get rid of this shitty music."

Striker feigned offense, bringing his hand over his heart and leaning into the plush seat. "Ah, but bo," he said, flashing that toothy grin, "that's precisely why we ain't staying around to hear more."

Striker took one, and only one, moment to savor your bewildered expression before slowly rising up from the table. He whipped a couple bills onto the surface, and with all the flare of a performer, Striker snatched you from your seat with his clawed one and tugged you up and away from the booth.

“C’mon, sugar,” he said, gleaming in the Hellfire glow. “Time to show ya how Wrath really celebrates Sinsmas.”

Your smile couldn't be kept at bay any more than the red that crept across your cheeks as you two exited the bar.

Striker glanced back. You knew in that second all was as it should be when his mischievous smile appeared, this would end either in a good show or a riot.

With a sharp whistle that cut through the night air, Striker swung you up onto Bombproof’s saddle in one fluid motion, climbing up and leaning in with that wicked gleam in his eye as he hissed against your ear, "We're gonna make this one to remember."

His lashing tail curled around your leg; he clung tight to the reins in one hand, the other curling around your waist as the three of you tore out into the night. You held tight as Bombproof surged forward, the fiery night swallowing you whole. This was madness, wild, reckless madness, and yet, with Striker grinning down at you, it felt like exactly where you were meant to be.

He let out a whoop as he spurred Bombproof along, his laugh blending with yours as you streaked through the countryside with the Devil's bells tolling behind you and the stench of the Wrath ring's sulfur in your lungs. The very air reeked of gunsmoke, like fireworks erupting along your nerves and flooding you with a strange euphoria that felt downright holy.

The road stretching across the Wrath Ring was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic clank of Bombproof’s hooves against scorched ground. The distant glow of Hellfire flickered on the horizon, like a crimson aurora that refused to die. You settled comfortably against Striker, his arm clutching your waist as the two of you made your way to who knows where. This was his spur of the moment idea after all.

You'd learned fairly quickly not to press him for more than he would willingly give, knowing that if he wanted you to know everything, he'd tell you without resistance or resentment. However, curiosity was never so easily dissuaded, and although he'd given you a few little tidbits here and there regarding his past, the finer details continued to elude you. But it seemed tonight he was in the mood to share.

“Y’know,” he began, voice carrying easily over the crackle of distant embers, “back when I ran with my old posse, we’d spend Sinsmas raisin’ all kinds of hell.” His tail flicked lazily behind him, a sure sign he was drifting into memory. “We’d meet up in some dusty town or on the outskirts of a ranch, didn’t matter where, an’ go at each other ‘til we were bloody, bruised, and laughin’ like idiots. T’was the best way to bond, really. Nothin’ says trust like a fist in your face followed by a good bottle o’ Snakebite whiskey.”

A smile flitted across your face as the scene was set, Striker, a lot younger, not nearly as grizzled and dangerous as he was now, surrounded by a band of kids just looking for a good time and someone's teeth to knock loose. It was oddly pleasant to envision, your mind providing a grainy, wild West-type ambiance like something off of an old radio drama.

He cleared his throat as he went on, "Families in the ring got a knack for holdin’ grudges, so we figure it’s best to just punch it out. That way you know who’s serious about lookin’ after you, an’ who’s only talkin’ big.”

There was another pause then, a moment of quiet except for Bombproof’s steady stride. You found yourself thinking of your own past, of cold December nights back on Earth, hot cocoa warming your hands, gaudy sweaters and candy canes, pine trees decked in ornaments and lights that blinked all through the long winter darkness. Compared to Wrath’s infernal backdrop, it felt like a half-remembered dream.

It made you sad, a little, but you tried not to dwell, choosing instead to lean back and nestle against Striker until all the earthly pain felt a little farther away. "I had a different experience growing up. For humans, Christmas can get a little...family-centric."

Remembering back to yours was a jumbled mishmash of colors, sounds, and scents that were fumbled about like the scattered pieces of a puzzle. It was hard to recollect and organize into an image of what was once a cherished time. Even harder when you tried to explain it to an Imp who's known nothing but turmoil and heartache most of his own life. And it wasn't comparable to your own. You two were two terribly different beasts of burden, one a Sinner, the other hellborn. And you didn't even want to bother going down that rabbit hole of issues and consequences.

"On Earth, it's celebrated differently around the world, but some stuff stays the same. It's about family, friends, sharing and celebrating, singing, sometimes snow. At least I think. It was pretty great last I checked."

Striker gave a low snort, somewhere between amusement and skepticism. “Heh, sounds soft to me. But if it worked for you, guess it can’t be all bad.”

He said it dismissively, but his tone wasn’t unkind. In fact, the faint shift of his tail, thumping gently against your leg, suggested he was more interested than he let on. You allowed yourself a small smile, recognizing that in his own way, he was listening. For a man of few outward affections, that was enough.

"So when can I expect your fist flying my way?" you asked jokingly, squeezing the tail around your leg and adding, "Maybe sometime after I kick yours if the opportunity arises."

There came that laugh you enjoyed so much. "Somethin' tells me, ya ain't got the stones fer that, darlin’." He patted Bombproof. "Nah, I got somethin' more your speed planned. A lil' surprise for the ya, to take the edge off."

"Surprises are your way of taking the edge off?" you laughed. "Are you trying to put me through the damn wall, Strikey?"

He cringed at the nickname. "Guess it depends on yer definition." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your hair before the both of you could continue. He pointed far off into the distance ahead and grinned. "Look alive. These poor bastards don’t even know they’re about to get a real Sinsmas show.”

The town's annual holiday fight was well on its way to starting without the two of you. What an honor.

Several various sized homes and buildings, of the barbwire, dust, and cow town aesthetic common to this region of Wrath crowded the stretch ahead. And in their midst sat one of those vaquero-styled bars, illuminated by lantern light and ruddy flames, and filled to the rafters with folks too entangled in their rowdy antics to notice your arrival. The streets carried various people two and fro, none to keen to look towards their towns newest cowpokes. Oh, only if they knew...

It would change shortly, you assumed, and judging by the twitch in Striker's tail and the hand clutching your hip, you gathered he was already brimming with excitement. He tipped the brim of his hat to you, mouth spreading into an impish grin.

"Guess we’re late to the party.” Striker called.

You raised an eyebrow, surveying the scene. “Late, huh? Or just in time to make it a lot worse?”

Striker’s grin widened. “Oh, sugar, you know me too well.”

The chaos started almost instantly, in perfect coordination as Striker whirled around and popped off several shots in quick succession. Windows shattered under the onslaught; screams erupted; folks raced in random directions while others sought the source of the commotion, namely the two of you.

Ornaments popped off from where the bullets made impact. Ribbons lit ablaze; a giant, festive rendition of Satan himself went up in a shower of fiery bits. You winced. Looks like this might be Wrath's only gray Sinsmas with all the ash that would surely rain. A chipped sign reading Satan's Little Helper flew straight up into the air.

All hell broke loose in the nearby bar as a hoard of people ran outside with the same tenacity of a group of rampaging hellbeasts, men, women, and a smattering of children whooping it up in their drunken stupor.

Striker reloaded with practiced ease, spinning his revolver before holstering it and surveying the destruction with a satisfied smirk. “Now that’s how you kick off a celebration,” he drawled, tipping his hat at you. “What d’ya say, sugar? Ready to help me take this town down in style?”

"Like I'd refuse?" you said, matching his crazy with your own, teeth nearly glinting with the same impish intent. "What's your poison?"

“My poison? I reckon it’s a little bit of everything.”

Striker laughed low in his throat, almost a purr, as his tail looped around your mid-section again, tight enough that you couldn’t move but soft enough that the sensation wasn't painful. It felt nice. Dominant in an adoring sort of way. He reached for the lasso coiled at his belt. With one fluid motion, he spun it through the air and caught a small loose board from a broken fence. The wood snapped free with a satisfying crack as he reeled it in and handed it to you.

The smile he gifted you was anything but subtle. "For ya, darlin'. Your first proper beatin'."

You stared back at him a moment before shaking your head, lips parting with your silent laughter as you took the board. It was weighty in your grip, it'd certainly leave one hell of a bruise, but somehow, you relished the thought.

He watched you test the board’s weight. “Don’t be shy now. Swing it like ya mean it. Ain't no time for half-measures.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“Now listen here,” he said, spinning his gun with a flourish, prepping to dismount. “You take the high ground and smash whatever’s in reach, decorations, windows, heads if ya feel inclined. I’ll stay low and handle the rest. Sound like a plan?”

Your grip tightened on the board as he slipped off in a graceful tumble. “I’ll leave nothing standing. Better hope you can keep up.”

"Show me whatcha got, gorgeous. I've gotta see you put your money where that sweet little mouth of yers is."

That was a promise.

Fired up and itching for violence, you urged the Hellsteed forward, readied your weapon, and charged ahead. It was not the most noble form of battle-not a battle at all but rather a riot. Not at all what you expected, but not a second later, you decided you didn't care.

There was something in the air, thick and sharp and electric. It crackled around you like a blanket and fueled the adrenaline surge that raced through your body, pumped through the muscles of your arms, your legs. You were wide-eyed and wild, and the rush of freedom, of true and utter liberty, felt euphoric.

What had Striker unleashed within you? Was it a darkness of some sort, maybe? It hardly mattered because the ecstasy that swept over you in this moment was palpable, making every nerve tingle. And you never wanted to give this up.

Destruction was your name, and Wrath was your king.

The night was a typhoon of glitter and grit, shards of glass and broken bulbs that flashed white, red, and purple; splashes of paint and flame; the clang and bang and splash of tinsel; and above it all, your cry, triumphant and a little hoarse.

This was, quite simply, the greatest thing you'd ever experienced. Somewhere in the background, the clipping tune of Sinsmas music could still be heard from the beat of an old jukebox.

You tore across the main drag with the frenzy of a bat out of Hell, shouting obscenities and delighting in each explosive blast that tore through the old town as Striker laid waste to what you hadn't.

You never knew you could feel so free, like a dam of pent-up rage and chaos finally set loose upon an undeserving public. Maybe in another life, another time, in any reality, your actions here would have been the devilish sins that kept you confined in a place like this.

Here, right now, it felt more holy. Like finally discovering yourself in the middle of Hell's anarchist festivities.

This was you. This was your time.

It was insane, manic, deranged, and a part of you could finally claim it as your own. Perhaps you'd feel bad later, but right now? Right now, there were no repercussions, no judgmental stares, and no demands that held you back. You were drunk on it, on all the hedonistic hell-raising your impish suitor had turned you into.

And boy, did it feel fantastic.

There was a single instant, less than a second, in which the dust and debris began to settle. You managed to steal a glimpse of Striker, panting, wild-eyed and exultant amidst the rubble. He turned toward you with an expression that was half manic, all approval, and everything in between. His body tensed, the muscles beneath his clothes coiling in anticipation, a cat prepared to spring. And just when the world slowed to a near-stop, you let yourself go-

To say Striker's pulse was racing would be the understatement of the century. Watching you ride like some valkyrie and sock the townsfolk upside the head as if they were little more than props? It felt like his heart was caught in a fiery grip. As the pandemonium took root and he saw your dark power start to grow, his lust surged tenfold-to a point where he couldn’t simply watch his partner get their kicks anymore.

No, this wasn’t some fling of a few months or a hot night of sinful indulgence.

You were a star in your own right, and the way you’d grown and shone brightly within such a short time sent thrills of raw heat through his system. Sure, you had your issues to work through, and perhaps a psycho or two's influence had paved part of this new path, but you’d gotten here through your own agency.

And boy, was he happy to have been along for the ride and the havoc it caused.

Seeing you go buck wild? He found it rather addicting.

And once again, he was back under the spell.

One minute, he was watching with a level of pride and pleasure that no other Imp could offer; the next minute, he was falling face-first into the chaos he had birthed in your wake, desperate to be in the fray. You weren’t the only one looking for a good old-fashioned show.

Gunshots rang out like the twinkling bells on the holiday trees he tore through like tissue paper. You couldn’t be caught so long as the world was tinted in a lovely crimson haze. Neither would you remain stationary much longer, not as soon as you heard those sweet bells chime across the streets and found Striker weaving through the mayhem.

A piece of the Sinsmas puzzle you’d needed was staring right at you with his dashing grin, racing for his satchel full of Hell's finest explosives.

To others, he was simply a wanted criminal, a thug, a vicious murderer, and the one to make anyone shake in their boots. To you? He was a goddamn treasure, someone worth his weight and beyond.

And with a way of ending the night that would keep you singing his praises for days, you wouldn’t refuse his company any chance you were given.

The world was a haze of rubble and heat, shattered ornaments and drunken jeers. A swirling, throbbing heartbeat seemed to pulse through the streets, emanating from the two of you, like you were the epicenter of Hell’s greatest quake. Even the sky seemed to quiver under the onslaught of your mutual ecstasy.

Although the townspeople would rebuild and continue their way of life (as, according to Striker, these little battles were par for the course), for a moment you shared something together that no one else in Hell would.

Striker gleamed. Flashing an insane sort of smile that rivaled anything you'd ever seen, he leaned forward, tail swishing as though physically drawn to you by invisible strings. You could feel his approval, his need, his unyielding lust surging through you and setting off your nerve endings with enough energy to power all of Wrath.

Your lungs burned from shouting, your muscles humming in sweet exhaustion. Yet none of that mattered as he closed the distance to your side and climbed back up in the saddle like he’d never left. Your eyes met, and in them was a message without words.

It was time to leave.

But not without a grand finale.

As if to emphasize this unspoken communication, he reached down into his back pocket and slowly drew out the most spectacular stick of dynamite you’d ever seen.

"Now I ain't one to showboat my stash, darlin'," he drawled, running a hand across it. The look on his face was purely lecherous as he added, "but sometimes... well, you deserve to see the kind of pleasure I carry on the job."

Without further explanation, he struck a match across a claw-like nail, grinning wickedly as he held it to the fuse and gave the ignition a swift puff of breath.

"Consider this... a taste."

You weren’t sure why your breath caught the way it did, why such a tiny wisp of fire was having such a drastic effect on you, but your heart seemed to tremble. Or perhaps you were imagining the feeling. Either way, in that moment, your focus was solely on Striker. His arm wound firmly around you as Bombproof carried the two of you a fair distance from the mayhem.

You watched as his tail began to lash excitedly, your gaze fixed intently on the slow-burning fuse of the lit bomb. For the first time since you’d embarked on your date tonight, a hush fell over the chaotic streets.

The citizens watched in anticipation as the flames closed in, their breath held and eyes wide. Everyone seemed to know instinctively that things were coming to a head-this was going to be the finale.

The dynamite flew into the branches of a rather grandiose, Sinsmas-themed fir tree that loomed proudly in the town center-just seconds before detonating. Brilliant sparks and embers, followed by an earsplitting boom, split the sky and cast it aflame. The night came alive for one dazzling, awe-stricken moment.

The wind left your chest as the fireworks blazed, casting a red shadow that loomed over the city and bathed the world in the same crimson color that stained your vision during the earlier festivities. It was perfect and so damn fitting, it was impossible to tear your eyes away.

Striker took the reins from your hands, his own tucked tightly around your waist, and spurred Bombproof to a gallop. The thundering ember hooves sounded louder than usual under the rumbling echoes of the explosion. Soon, the lights faded to pinpricks of glowing color in the far distance, and you were the last thing people saw as your new, hellish paradise raced past and swept you away in an inky wave, swallowing your exit into its darkness and obscurity.

The adrenaline from the night’s chaos gradually ebbed, leaving a pleasant hum in its wake. The cool night air, juxtaposed with the warmth of Striker’s embrace, created a cocoon of comfort as Bombproof’s pace slowed. Finally, you came to a halt miles out of town.

In front of you sat an old, abandoned saloon, its sign creaking low in the evening air. As you gazed at it, Striker gently cupped your chin, turning your eyes to meet his. A soft smile and glinting, hungry eyes greeted you.

“Can I tempt ya?”

His lips parted just slightly to reveal his forked, serpent’s tongue. The sight was always welcome, but when mixed with the emotion glowing just beneath the surface of his smolder, it was even more tantalizing.

And you hadn’t the resolve to resist it tonight.

Not that you’d even try.

“It’s almost hard to believe,” you started, pressing your forehead to his and basking in his closeness, “I was scared of you once. A pretty funny picture, I think.”

“Scared? Hm, it seems your tastes run in quite the opposite direction now. And lucky for you,” his fingers nudged your chin up, your lips scarcely a breath apart now, “they happen to align with mine.”

There was a moment of pause, a shared inhale before..

Finally, a kiss. Warm and soothing, sharpened by Striker’s teeth as they grazed your lips, promising you something deeper. Fully aware, fully prepared, and more eager than ever to allow it.

But not here. In a little while.

As though reading your mind, Striker broke away with an uncharacteristically soft grunt. “As much as I’d love to carry on, this fine weather ain’t good for the skin.” He nodded his head at the sky, the wind whistling as a sudden change began to seep in. “Rain’s comin’, and those clouds’re telling me I best get a roof over yer head, lest a stiff wind tear it from yer shoulders.”

And as if the weather were toying with Striker’s idea, there was a rumble of thunder. Before you knew it, the two of you made your way to the ramshackle entrance of the nearby establishment, finding a suitable place for Bombproof to call home for the night.

Once inside, it took only a moment for your eyes to adjust and observe the condition. Everything looked fairly dusted-over and a bit barren, but not bad enough for the place to have seen frequent foot traffic.

It was as quiet as the dead, save for the occasional creak of floorboards, rough from age, as you took care to maneuver your steps.

In all, the place looked more like an inn than a bar, with a stairway leading up to what you assumed were once bedrooms for passing guests. To one side was an immaculately dusty bar; on the far left, a fireplace sat long-dead and without a trace of soot or embers.

There was another exit off to the side of the room, perhaps a kitchen, a broom closet, or a cellar. Anything was possible. Still, there was a serene aura here, the promise of rest and shelter from the brewing storm.

“Eh, not the Ritz, but it’ll do for tonight,” Striker broke the silence, moving through the room and beelining for the bar. “Let’s see if the hooch here’s still passable.”

His tail flicked and rattled curiously behind the counter as he rummaged around. Meanwhile, you scanned the room, picturing what adjustments could be made to turn this from a dusty hellhole into something resembling a comfortable refuge.

There were some cons that came with seeing a wanted man, and sometimes that meant abandoning the luxuries of civilized society for something less impressive. But as far as you were concerned? This might as well have been a five-star resort compared to the nothing you’d had initially when dropping into Hell.

“Haha! Well, lookie here.” Striker reeled back with a few bottles of uncorked whiskey and rum. “Found us some aged spirits. Might even be vintage.”

“Aged or forgotten?” you quipped, arms full of anything that vaguely resembled a pillow or blanket as you made a nest near the fireplace.

“Some would argue a little of both.” Striker walked up and set the bottles on the mantel of the fireplace, giving you a look. “Gonna go check the perimeter and gather some kindlin’ for a fire. Won’t be gone long.”

You nodded. “I’ll see what I can do about making this place a bit more hospitable.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, giving an appreciative whip of his tail to your ass before sauntering toward the entrance.

“Mmm,” you hummed, shifting with a subtle heat creeping through your features from where he’d touched you. Then, you went back to fluffing your pile of cushioned treasures.

A little while later, with a few extra scavenged blankets, you stood back to appreciate your handiwork. Surrounded by a cozy, comfy little nook to snuggle into, the rest of the room seemed dull in comparison, though definitely a lot less dusty. Striker joined you shortly after, the crackle of dry twigs in hand and the scent of rainfall wafting in behind him. He looked satisfied, confident with his inspection.

“Nice job on cleanin’ this place up. This is probably the nicest shithole I’ve ever been in.” His tone was half jest, but the look in his eyes revealed pride at how quickly you had managed to adapt and fix a less-than-pleasing situation. It was admiration for a skill many wouldn’t consider valuable but was a necessity of life in Hell. Another reason for him to fall further down the rabbit hole of affection for you.

“Had to make sure you had a reason to come back,” you quipped playfully.

Quick work was made of the fire, and soon your temporary safe haven was bathed in the flickering light and comforting warmth that drove the chill from the old saloon. Silence hung in the air, not oppressive, but rather restful. You didn’t realize how exhausted the night had left you until the calming quiet descended, bringing with it a pleasant heaviness that sank into your bones. Your body relaxed into the pile of cushions beneath you as you felt Striker curl up beside you while the embers began to settle. Your eyes flicked over him, noting that he’d stripped free of his usual ensemble in favor of ripped white pants, a black sweater, and his bandana. No jacket tonight, not even a hat. Simply Striker.

The distinct pop of a cork being pulled free broke the silence. Striker passed you the bottle of whiskey with an amused grin.

“Cheers,” you offered before taking a swig. The burning liquid slid down your throat, leaving a familiar fiery sensation in its wake.

Minutes or maybe hours passed in a pleasant haze. One conversation drifted into another, shared ideas, dreams, memories, and experiences. Yet the memory of the earlier dance and the destruction that followed was a recurring theme. The magic of it hadn’t yet faded. You were still high on it, and Striker’s expression revealed he was just as captivated, reliving the intense pride and wild lust he’d felt seeing you so unapologetically free. Just as unhinged. His little hellcat.

One look led to a smile, which led to a laugh, a touch... and then, a kiss.

Oh, what a kiss!

You could get lost in these kisses of his, like the slide of a well-aimed bullet, his softness in a moment of sharp intensity and, after the night's earlier chase, a bone deep kind of ache that you relished.

His hands were quick to slide themselves in the contours of your body, warm and firm and exploring, always careful to discover the curves and edges of each valley and peak they met, marking your topography like a man possessed. It wouldn't be long until you were as well, fully prepared and receptive to whatever else he was in the mood to explore, paying a particular amount of attention to a sweet spot between the junction of your throat and shoulder. The more you responded to him, the harder his lips pressed.

"Wanna keep ridin', sugar? Show me how you swing."

He was breathless, voice gravelly and eager as he curled his tongue around your earlobe, feeling you quiver, gooseflesh rising. He chuckled and sent a fresh flood of warmth through you as you reached forward, grabbing the hem of his shirt, dragging him with you and sealing it all with a firm, promising tug. It was a very unsubtle motion, one that told him everything without words.

"Don't hold back."

His smile grew devilish at your command, his grip firm on your hips, and every ounce of your trust laid out bare before him. It was so, so easy to melt in the haze of passion, especially as he rolled the black sweater up and over his shoulders, discarding it, revealing a path of sinewy muscle and scars along his chest and abdomen. The gentle orange of the fireplace seemed to lick up along his body like the hot blood running through your veins and his yellow eyes flared as if lit by the sun. There was a voracious spark hidden behind them, an undercurrent that seemed to glow every time your hips ground into his own, eliciting a shudder to surge down his spine and you couldn't help but relish it, because knowing he reacted to your body the same way it did to his?

There wasn't a Hell you'd want to be in other than this.

Your world seemed to spin as he grabbed the backs of your knees, pushing upward as he pressed you to your backside. In an instant he was hovering above, a slender figure against the darkened ceiling of the saloon. Each movement was full of intention, precise and planned and sent a heady, excited pulse to throb through your veins and between your legs as his hips slid and thrust just a few tantalizing inches from yours. With practiced, clever hands, Striker caressed every inch of you and even through your clothing he'd managed to turn you into putty between those well-calloused claws of his. The taste of alcohol and ash had become an indescribable delicacy. Like the very flavor of passion made solid form. And how wonderfully he treated it. Treated you.

Your clothes joined his in an ever-growing pile near the fire's edge, and when finally you had nothing more to separate the both of you, Striker gave a purr of delight as you both fell, and tangled, and thrashed. Heat poured off him in waves, your lips sucking and tasting. Your name had never sounded more satisfying on his tongue as he plunged into you with some preparation. But even as the two of you tumbled back to that mountain of blankets and cushions and pillows, hands greedily roamed. Hungrily pawed and took everything each was willing to give and take, and you were both oh so willing tonight.

Mercifully, there were no barriers now, there'd been so much on display tonight, had already shown yourselves to one another without hesitation but now there were no games or hidden agendas or layers of dress or thick denim to tease. This was the night, and all its pleasures would come to bear in all its fullness.

You were lost to the throes of passion as you surrendered, to each other and the chaos, to that unbridled impulse. It was freeing. An intimate release you never realized you'd craved; and now that it was yours, all you could think about was the searing taste of his skin against yours, the noises he made between gritted fangs. Your bodies connected like a perfect machine, not one missed beat as the tempo began to pick up.

The beat he set was reaching its finality in the way his breath hitched, the way his tail spasmed between his legs and curled around yours. The desperation of a man in the throes of unbidden temptation. How the pressure built and pooled and throbbed with a steadily building rush. The pace was getting to a head and you both were too hungry to resist the bite of it. This delicious, wild and reckless song you'd been playing all along that no words or instruments could've captured better than your gasps, his growls and moans, your entwined limbs and soon there was an explosion of pleasure that rocked through you. Every nerve screamed in ecstasy and you reveled in it, calling his name as though it were the name of a god.

Beneath your fingers his back flexed and shuddered, his powerful body losing that focused edge as he buried himself as deeply in you as he could get. Stars popped behind your eyes as he gave a drawn-out growl of bliss, the heat of his seed hitting deep within. For a moment, there was no feeling at all.

Utter bliss. Pure, blinding rapture as he pounded relentlessly, chasing that high until the sensitivity was all but too powerful.

“Now that’s what I call Sinsmas cheer,” he breathed, moving off to the side to allow you to catch your breath before settling next to you in a firm embrace. It was his silent signal that he was finished. “Could use a repeat though. Or ten. I’ve got quite the stocking.”

“For now,” you responded between heaves, “we should save the cheer.”

“Smart, sugar,” he acknowledged, smiling warmly as he brushed a clawed hand down your face.

“With time?”

“I’ll see what else I can fill up,” he mumbled back, nipping playfully at your neck before tucking his arms around you, spooning into your body from the side as you faced the warm fireplace.

The sound of your sighing breaths matched his, his muscles winding down with yours. Now, together, lying on a cushion of fleece and warmth, the day was finally beginning to feel complete. Your hand ghosted across his as the sky outside continued to fall, the tell-tale signs of a deluge evident even from inside. The tinkling sound of raindrops against the windowsills lulled the two of you further into one another, hands intertwined and breathing synced.

“Sometimes I wish days like these lasted a little longer, you know? That way, the nights like this can last, too,” you mused.

“Heh, well, I wouldn’t get my hopes up on that, darlin’,” he replied in a husky drawl, the reverberations in his chest becoming more noticeable the closer your head drew to his sternum. “Sides, you’ve got plenty’a nights left to spare. We can start again at sunrise if you’d like.”

“Would you like that? Just you and me… watching the sunset together before tearing the night a new one and dancing until sunrise?”

“Hell yes.”

“Thought so. After all, we haven’t shown Hell who’s boss yet.”

“I ain’t heard such a tantalizin’ proposal since we met, doll.”

“So…?”

“Count me in, sweet thing,” he trailed off, lost to the melody of the raindrops. “Guess you’re stuck with me, sugar. Not that I’m givin’ you a choice.”

You shifted, drawing your face upward toward his and planting a quick peck on his lips. You whispered sweetly in response, “Won't here me complaining.”

As his arms embraced you tighter and sleep began to beckon you closer with each passing blink, your thoughts raced and excitement began to build. You’d finally done it. Found yourself in Hell. Got a man worth more to you than any paltry Heaven or mortal afterlife combined. And all thanks to the delectable devil sitting next to you, eyeing you with his own pride and love.

And next Sinsmas, it’d be your turn to return the favor and spread the sin with him.

#first post lets go #helluva boss #striker helluva boss #striker x reader #reader insert #x reader #gender neutral reader #christmas fanfic #fluff and some smut

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