#Try not to get killed by your Christmas tree | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

reidrum · 22 days ago

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under the mistletoe

note: happy first day of reidrumas! a nice little munch!spencer to keep you warm <3

summary: in which penelope uses a plant to get her friends together, or the time you find yourself under the mistletoe with spencer

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, munch!spencer, fingering, oral (f receiving), heavy kissing, idiots in love, friends to lovers, fem!reader, reader wears a dress and heels

wc: 2.8k

12 days of reidrumas

The annual BAU Christmas Party became an accord Penelope headed all on her own, and was a job she took very seriously. The amount of times the team had been called away on a case near or on a major holiday is too sad a number to count, so whenever there was certainty that there would be no case or bureau event, Penelope went all in.

That is, on David Rossi’s credit card, of course.

Light up sleighs and reindeers adorned the front lawn of Rossi’s mansion, of which was decorated with red ribbons and twinkle lights galore. The silhouette of the biggest Christmas tree you think you’d ever seen was illuminated in the window as you approached the front, rubbing clammy hands down the sides of your dress.

You don’t even know why you’re so nervous, just that you are. While it had been some time since you had joined the team and you have definitely had some fun nights out with them, the nerves never get easier to deal with when you know a certain genius will be in your presence.

It seemed everyone knew of your crush on Spencer except the man himself. The way your face heats up when you’re near him, the words tripping over each other as you try to speak, somehow are not dead giveaways to him. If he notices your nerves, he doesn’t mention it, and you don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

A call of your name from the bottom of the stairs grabs your attention, and you see none other than Spencer coming up the stairs to meet you. He straightens out his sweater and looks at all of you, “You look nice.”

Suddenly you forget what words are, “Um…I.. thanks! I just got this, and I thought the antlers would be cute too.” you gesture to the light up headband.

“They’re really cute.” he smiles and gestures you to walk in, and you’re both ambushed by Penelope immediately.

“You’re here! Oh, you look so cute with your little reindeer antlers,” she gushes, “And Spencer! Looking so dapper!” You both walk down the hallway with her, seemingly leading you to the kitchen when she abruptly stops halfway.

“You’re too cheery. What did you do?” you squint.

“Don’t hate me.”

Your eyebrows raise, “What did you do?”

“Why would we hate you?” Spencer says at the same time.

Penelope pauses, and with a hint of mischief in her voice, “Look up.”

Your eyes trail upwards to the arch of the door you’re both stood in, and there hanging with its leaves and red and white berries tied in ribbon, is of course, mistletoe.

“Penny.” you mumble under your breath. If she heard you she paid no mind, only beaming at you both with her Cheshire cat grin. You look over at poor Spencer, who’s sheepish smile and red cheeks are breaking through his stoic demeanor.

“Did you know mistletoe in nature is actually poisonous? It’s a parasitic plant that has to grow on other trees in order to survive. But it’s holiday tradition comes from Norse mythology when the son of Odin is killed and his mother is so upset her tears turn into the berries on the plant, as a symbol of her love for him.” Spencer rambles out of nervousness.

“That sounds nice Spence,” Penelope grabs both of your hands and positions you in front of each other in the doorway, “Okay great, I’m sure you know the rules of mistletoe. Now kiss.”

“Penelope.” you lightly chide. Her persistence is a match for no one, there’s no way of getting out.

“You have to, that’s the rule! If you don’t, Christmas will be ruined!” she sighs dramatically.

You blink at her a few times hoping she understands that she’s out of her mind and that it’s a little cruel to put you and Spencer in this situation. This is probably his worst nightmare. He has that thing with germs you remember and you both are merely friends so there’s no way he’d see you like that, yet alone want to kiss you because a plant said you had to.

Spencer clears his throat in front of you, and says with a soft voice, “Well, if it’s going to ruin Christmas…”

Huh. Maybe not as cruel as you think.

You turn your head to meet his eyes, “You’re okay with this?”

He nods sheepishly, “I—I mean I love holidays, and even though I’d never done this part of Christmas, I’d hate to break tradition….”

You look at him with disbelief, but Penelope’s smile could not be wider and she squeals, “Amazing! Okay, I’m ready.”

You both look at her knowingly, and she immediately puts her hands up. “Alright, fine! I can take a hint. But, I want details later, both of you.” she busies herself off in the kitchen.

Spencer turns his body to face you, hands tentatively reaching out to ghost the curve of your hips. His eyes look to you for permission, and with a slight nod he takes purchase, bringing you closer while resting his hands on your sides. You gingerly place your flat palms on his shoulders, and it’s then you realize just how close you both are. His breath fans softly against your face, and even in heels you find yourself rising a bit further to meet his lips.

Just mere milliseconds before your lips meet he whispers with the softest pitch you’ve ever heard, “You sure this is okay?”

You think you give him a nod and a word of approval, but it’s lost as soon as you press your lips onto his with no hesitancy. His hands pull you closer to him, leaning deeper into the kiss. The endorphins run loose before being corralled immediately as the kiss ends as quickly as it began.

He pulls back and he stares at your puffy lips, lips that are puffy because of him and it’s enough to drive him insane. He needs to find a way to have you like that again, to feel your lips against his again fearless of a watchful eye, to show you that he really doesn’t give a damn for tradition, but would do rituals and ceremonies on end if it meant getting to kiss you like that again.

You’re about to say something when your name is called from the living room, the other girls now noticing your arrival and waving you over to grab a drink. You look between them and Spencer, “I should go,” you say reluctantly, “Find me later?”.

He smiles softly, “I’ll find you later.”

You hesitate before moving, wondering if it’s even a good idea. But you realize you’re already this far deep, so what difference would it make? Your eyes dart between the girls and Spencer once more making sure they’re not looking, and rise to your toes again to kiss his cheek, “See you later, Spence.”

A blush rises to his cheek as he touches the spot with his fingers, watching you walk into the living room. You might be the death of him, he thinks.

—

The party’s gone on, games of white elephant are played and countless wine bottles are scattered around the place. He finds himself in an aimless conversation with Matt and Luke, he thinks they’re talking about some sport, but all Spencer can think about is you and your damn lips.

You’re addictive, he’s come to find. He’s had a taste of the forbidden fruit and now fully empathizes with Eve, thinking if something was as nectarious as you, he’d also have to go to great lengths to get it again.

He excuses himself from the conversation, not caring if they said anything, and goes off to find you. You’re sat on the loveseat with JJ that’s entirely too small for the two of you, but you certainly look comfy wedged into the seat. He circles around the back, resting a hand on your shoulder to let you know of his presence and bending down to whisper in your ear, “Is this a good time to find you?”

You startle a little at the voice, calming once you recognize it to be Spencer. You’re surprised he actually came and found you like he said he would, and by the look of his face it seemed like a determined mission.

“I’d say it is,” you smile up at him, his body looming over you behind the couch. He holds a hand out for you, “I’ll be back, J.” you tell her as you stand up. She looks between you and Spencer and a smug look rises to her face.

“Okay…be safe.” she winks. You groan.

Spencer leads you away from the bustle of the living room and further into the depths of Rossi’s mansion. You both walk side by side, talking aimlessly about anything and everything, grateful to have moments just walking with each other. You push open on a fancy door, revealing a vastly large room but with the same crown modeling as the rest of the place. A three piece couch set rests in the middle, and bookshelves filled with antiques line the walls.

You’re intrigued by the telescope pointed out the window, bending down to look through it. Spencer looks up from the book he’s holding on the other side of the room and watches you. You’re ethereal, the moonlight casting a soft glow on your figure making you look like an angel from above. You gaze through the lens to look at the stars, and he can’t help but wonder how lucky he is to have you in front of him and not in the sky with the rest of them.

“Can I confess something?”

You straighten your back and turn around, eyes widening, “Um, sure.”

“Nothing scary, I promise,” he reassures.

“That’s not concerning.”

He takes a deep breath, “I had an ulterior motive, when I came to find you.”

Your brows furrow nervously, “What do you mean?”

“No no, I meant it, it’s nothing bad,” he confesses, “I just… really wanted to kiss you again.”

Oh. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else?” he chuckles.

You stammer, “W—Well, I just wasn’t sure…”

He nods and slowly walks to you, “Would that be okay?”

You look up at him and see that he’s so close again. The waft of his cologne invades your senses. His hair is long again, you told him once he looked good with long hair and he hasn’t so much as looked at some scissors since then. The ends of his curls tickle your forehead when his head dips, lips mere nanometers away.

“Yeah.” you barely muster an audible whisper.

The corners of his lips twitch, “Yeah?” he says in the same pitch, leaning even closer.

“Please.”

His lips press to yours again for the second time this night, and he kisses you with a fervor you couldn’t comprehend. He brings one hand up to cradle the back of your head, padding the impact as he uses the other to back you against the wall. Your hands come up to tangle in his hair, lightly tugging on the roots that makes him fold even more into you.

Kisses travel down the side of your neck to the nape, and he spends time littering the area with lovebites. The soft gasps that leave your mouth only spur him on, but it’s not nearly enough for him.

“Sweetheart,” he pants between kisses, “Need to—fuck—need to taste you, please. Can I?

Your blown out eyes meet his, and it wasn’t even an option to say no when he was begging you so desperately, “Yeah, yes, please.”

His hand snakes through the slit on your dress, tracing the edges of your panties and grinning when he hears your breath hitch. He toys with the edge some more before dipping a finger below the band, never touching you where you really need him but getting awfully close.

“Spence..” you whine.

He groans, “Fuck, you sound so pretty saying my name and I haven’t even touched you yet.” He puts you out of your misery when he finally drags the pad of his index to the bundle of nerves at your center, tracing light circles that draw the prettiest moans he’s ever heard.

You grip his forearms for more stability, feeling your legs turn to jelly. Spencer sees your struggle and wraps an arm around your waist, “I got you, pretty girl it’s okay.” A few more minutes of teasing you and marking you relentlessly and he decides you’re okay enough for him to stand on your own, so he can sink to his knees in front of you.

He doesn’t break eye contact as he crouches down, making sure you’re okay every step of the way. His finger is still tracing a line from your clit to your entrance, the wet line seeping through your panties. He bunches up your dress and silently gestures to you to hold it, and steadies his hands on either side of your hips. He presses chaste kisses up your thighs, your breath getting heavier with each one closer to your center. The delirium hits an all time high when he presses a firm kiss to your core.

Skilled fingers hook your panties to the side, revealing you in all your glistening glory, “Look at you,” he marvels hoarsely, “that all for me?”

You nod fast, “Yes, yes Spence please.” you whine out, you’d sound like you were in pain if it were anyone else.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, don’t do that. I’m gonna take care of you, promise.” he coos, calming your pleas, “Come on, leg on my shoulder.”

The new angle opens you up beautifully for him and he can’t help himself when he leans in and swipes a tentative tongue through your folds, satisfied when he hears the sound of a guttural moan leave you.

You immediately slam your hand over mouth as he taunts, “Careful sweetheart, can’t be too loud or someone’s gonna walk in.”

You try to keep your moans and whimpers to a minimum as he continues eating you out like a man depraved, like all he was meant for on this earth was to be between your legs. He prods a finger around your entrance and slowly slips it in, you whimper and clamp your fingers into his hair tugging tightly.

Spencer groans into you at the feeling, and adds another finger swiftly moving them in and out. You’re getting close, he can feel it from the way you clench around his fingers, unable to stop himself from thinking about how you’d feel clenching around him.

“Ah—I’m….I’m close.” you whimper.

He speeds up ever so slightly, “Yeah? Okay angel, you can let go, it’s okay.”

Soon your climax washes over you, with you gripping his hair tightly and his fingers never faltering as he rides you through it. He slows down his pace as you come down before gently taking them out and giving you one last lick through your folds before standing up.

You yelp but it’s quickly muffled by him kissing you again. He feels you smile into the kiss and matches you before you both start giggling and pull away.

He can hear the smile in your voice when you rest your forehead on his shoulder, “That was…”

An arm wraps around you again to hold stable, “Good, I hope?”

You press a soft kiss at the base of his neck, “Really good. I guess we have to thank Penny now.”

“Actually…”

“What?”

“I may have been the one to tell her to put some mistletoe up.” He confesses sheepishly.

“You told her? S—So you could…like…” you ramble.

“So I would have a chance to kiss you, yes.”

You get real shy in front of him as if he wasn’t on his knees for you five minutes ago, “That’s really sweet…you could’ve told me.”

“I wanted to! But I thought you might not feel the same way because I notice how you are around me and I didn’t want to overwhelm you, but then Penelope told me you felt the same and I just figured one of us had to pull the bandaid off.”

You smile shyly, “I get nervous around you, because I really really like you.” you quietly admit.

He pulls you close into his chest, kissing your forehead softly, “Well that’s good then, because I really really like you too.”

Penelope is obviously over the moon when she finds out, giddy as can be knowing her two best friends are now together. What she doesn’t tell you, is how she sends the mistletoe to a preservation company to be pressed and framed. She’s just preparing to have the best gift ever to bring to your wedding.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #reidrumas

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lemonlover1110 · 11 days ago

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Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x f!Reader

Summary: Megumi receives a lot of gifts from Santa.

Warnings: Fluff

*Merry Christmas my loves, and happy holidays🫶 got a new game so don't expect a lot from me. also don't read too much into this, just enjoy the drabble!

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

Christmas morning, the most exciting morning of the year. Little Megumi is too excited to see what Santa has left for him under the Christmas tree. His birthday just passed, but that day isn’t as exciting as Christmas morning. One present is nothing compared to a mountain of gifts.

“Santa came!” Megumi barges into your bedroom, waking you and Toji first thing in the morning. Toji complains, mad that his slumber is interrupted for nothing. You, on the other hand, are as excited as Megumi. You can’t wait to see his reaction to the gifts that Santa brought for him.

You drag Toji out in your matching pajamas, while the man complains about being exhausted. He had to keep an eye on Megumi last night, he wanted to make sure that the child wasn’t trying to catch Santa Claus at the wrong moment.

“Can’t he wait a minute?” Toji complains, but neither of you listen to the old man. The exhaustion quickly goes away when he sees all the gifts under the tree– That’s all his money. But he won’t jump to conclusions yet… Maybe it’s just some cheap gifts, nothing to worry about.

You two take a seat on the couch as Megumi runs to get his gifts.

“What does that read, Megumi?” You ask him before Megumi tears the wrapping paper to shreds.

“To Megumi, from mom and dad.” Megumi reads, and Toji’s eyebrows perk up. Megumi opens the gift to find a jacket, nothing too fun for the little guy who tosses it to the side.

“Hey! Let me see that!” Toji yells, and Megumi pouts as he grabs the jacket and hands it back to his father. Toji snatches it out of the child’s hands, telling him, “You could be a little more grateful.”

“Thank you.” Megumi dryly responds, as Toji reads the brand of the jacket. Like hell the gift was from the two of you, Toji is just seeing this exists.

“Expensive brand.” Toji’s eyes narrow before looking at you. You kiss his cheek before resting your head on his shoulder, a trick that always works to help him calm down.

“He’ll wear it a lot.” You respond, and Toji sighs. He guesses you’re right. Toji just hopes that not everything under that tree is as expensive.

“Santa got me a Nintendo Switch!” Megumi exclaims not even a minute later, and Toji’s hand goes over his heart. Oh, this is it. This is what’ll kill him.

“Santa?” Toji responds, slowly turning his head to look at you. You’re smirking, guilty as charged. To add more salt to the wound, Megumi yells,

“And some games!”

Toji had nearly forgotten that he hated this holiday– By the time he’ll financially recover, Christmas will roll around again.

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pupkashi · 1 month ago

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satoru is the kind of boyfriend that you are constantly falling in with over and over again

he takes out a spider that you found in the hallway, promising he’ll let it into the backyard and won’t kill it. he’ll tease you relentlessly for running to the other side of the house while on the phone with him, begging him to come home to take care of the ‘grave danger’ you were in. satoru never once tells you how his heart flutters knowing your instinct is to cal him for help.

satoru is the kind of lover to pick flowers for you when you walk hand in hand, giggling as a spring breeze hits the two of you. he smiles, bending down and picking the daisy from the ground.

“look! i got you a flower” he grins, handing the small flower to you with a smile on his face.

“oh wow this just for me? you broke the bank with this one” he can’t help but laugh loudly, “I’m in deep credit card debt,” he replies, “think you can cover dinner for tonight?” you laugh, nodding your head- knowing he’d never let you pay for anything as long as he was around.

the kind of boyfriend to run late, but pick up flowers on the way to make it up to you, buying extravagant bouquets on a whim and making sure every vase in your home is filled with flowers at any given moment. there comes a point in the relationship where you have to sit him down and ask him softly to cut down the flower buying to once a week, as you’d run out of vases to put the flowers in.

satoru ends up buying you more vases, but realizes it’s gotten out of hand when you have no free surfaces in your home due to the overflowing amount of flora. he cuts it down to once a week after he found a bee in the house one day.

your lover brings back souvenirs from all the places he goes when on missions, trinkets that he knew you’d love spilling out of his pockets as he walks into your shared home.

“i think you’d love this little bunny figure so i got it!” he’s beaming at you, his face lights up even more when he sees how excited you are, gushing over the small figure and thanking him with a plethora of kisses.

satoru is the kind of boyfriend to tell you ‘told you so’ when you get cold because you didn’t bring a jacket, all while simultaneously taking his off and giving it to you. he tries his best to hide how much colder he is to try and make sure you stay warm, but his shivering six foot something body is hard to miss.

“satoru i think you’re colder than i was, please just take it back” you beg, shoving his jacket back into his hands, he just shakes his head, teeth slightly chattering as he lies to your face.

“im not even cold, you need to stay warm” he’s steadfast and stubborn on his stance, only taking his jacket back when you two enter a cafe and make it a point to say how hot you felt when you stepped inside.

satoru is the kind of boyfriend to hang mistletoes all over the house, giggling when he pulls you in by your waist and places a giddy kiss on your lips.

“man i love christmas” he sighs, pointing at the fourth mistletoe in the last hour as you two decorated for the holidays.

“seriously how many of these did you buy?” you laugh, pulling him closer to you and placing your lips on his. satoru smiles into the kiss, chasing after your lips even when you pull away and managing to steal one last kiss.

“mmm, alot” he whispers, snowy hair tickling your face as he presses a kiss to your cheek before continuing on with the tree lights.

satoru gojo is the kind of boyfriend to kiss you from 11:59 pm on New Year’s Eve to 12:01 am on New Year’s Day, just to say he made out with you into another year. he also does it just to make sure you can’t say you haven’t kiss him since last year.

“you’ve been kissing me since last year sweetheart just admit you’re crazy about me” he teases you, his cheeks and ears flush from the two cups of champagne he’s had.

“angel boy you have no idea” you giggle, taking in how beautiful he looks as the fireworks pop around the two of you, making his crystalline eyes shine a little brighter.

satoru gojo is the kind of boyfriend that makes you believe in soulmates, because there was no other way to describe what he was to you other than that.

satoru gojo was your soulmate, and you were his.

a/n: hi hi ! just wanted to write something short and sweet to get me back into the flow of writing <3 hopefully this help kill my writers block :3

masterlist

taglist (send an ask to be added!): @chilichopsticks @anime-for-the-sleepless @safaia-47 @nanamikentoseyebags @fushironi @nineooooo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @gojoshooter @beautiful-is-boring @sweetheart-satoru @luna0713hunter @torusmochi @kentocalls @sadmonke

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street-smarts00 · 16 days ago

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Santa Doesn't Know You Like I Do

Spencer Reid x Reader

Summary: Your first Christmas with Spencer and you get his name for secret Santa.

WC: 1.8k

Tags: Fluff, Secret Santa, friends to lovers, one use of Y/N I think A/N: Sorry I went MIA :( I got busy with school. I hope to push out many ideas while I’m on break tho. Here’s something cheesy and festive for the holiday season I hope you enjoy! (not beta read don't kill me)

Nothing was right. Nothing you found was the right present.

This was your first secret Santa with the BAU and you picked Spencer's name out of penelope’s mug. At first you thought it would be easy to buy a present for him because you knew him so well. In almost a year of being with the BAU you grew the closest with Spencer.

What you didn’t expect was your present ideas to not live up to your own expectations. Nothing you came up with could live up to your own standards. Of course your “slight” feelings for him definitely affected this, but you tried to tell yourself that wasn’t true.

You ran through dozens of ideas. Clothing, a new scarf, tickets for a play, special edition of a book he loved. But nothing felt like the right present.

You almost gave up in your search for the perfect present for him. The gift exchange was in less than a week and you still had nothing. Sitting at your desk in the bullpen you considered settling with one of your first ideas.

While getting up to refill your coffee mug you noticed Spencer’s attention was focused on his computer. He sat there deep in thought with his brows furrowed and lips in a fine line. When you walked by his desk you saw he was playing an online chess game.

“Working hard or hardly working?” you joked.

He popped out of his focus from your presence. “I finished my files a little early,” he responded bashfully.

“Are you at least winning?”

He smirked, “I’ve won four times. But that’s not even the fun part. The fun is doing different plays every time and seeing what the computer comes up with as the best response.”

That’s when it hit you. An idea for Spencer’s gift.

Finally something that felt like a good gift for him. At the end of the day you rushed out of work to go to the craft store and get your supplies. You worked on the gift everyday after work.

Soon the weekend rolled around and you found yourself at Rossi’s. His living room had the biggest Christmas tree you’d ever seen. Everyone’s gifts sat there for the evening. After dinner you all sat down to exchange gifts.

“I want to go first!” Garcia exclaimed. She jumped up from the couch and hurried to the tree to grab her gift for JJ.

JJ excitedly opened the gift bag to find a small black and grey purse with a colorful crochet keychain. The idea that Garcia also handmade part of her gift gave you a sense of relief.

“Oh this is so pretty. Thank you so much,” she beamed, admiring the bag and twirling the keychain. Garcia squealed in happiness before JJ offered a hug to her.

JJ then handed over her gift to Rossi, a bottle of scotch. He smiled and thanked her for the bottle saying how his collection needed a new addition.

He stood up and brought his hands together looking at the tree. “My turn.” He grabbed a thin box wrapped in silver sparkly wrapping paper and walked over to you.

“For you, my dear,” he handed you the box.

Your eyes widened and lips perked up at the gift. It may be a little silly but, part of you wished that you were Spencer’s secret santa. You reminded yourself that the possibility of you both picking each other's names was unlikely. The possibility of some things being the same between the two of you was … unlikely.

You ripped back the paper to reveal a large eyeshadow pallet. Upon opening it, you saw an array of beautiful shades you couldn’t wait to try out.

“Rossi, this is so sweet. I love it,” You thanked with a bright smile.

Now it was your turn. Everyone’s eyes only made the moment more stressful. You got up and grabbed the box with a nervous hand. What if he didn’t like it? What if he thought it was too cheesy or corny? What if he thought it was useless as he already owned two of them?

You tried to quiet your thoughts as you handed him the box, but they had no intention of leaving.

“Merry Christmas Spence,” you said softly.

When you turned and walked back to your seat you neglected to see the rising blush on his face.

Spencer glanced down at the white and red striped paper. He carefully peeled it off and opened the lid to reveal a chess set nestled in between red tissue paper. The board spaces were off-white and royal purple with corresponding chess pieces the same colors. When he picked up the wooden pieces and saw small leaves and flowers painted on them. The King and Queen specifically had crowns in a shimmering gold.

“Wow look at that,” Emily admired.

Upon further inspection he noticed the small human imperfections in the details. The way not one leaf or flower looked exactly the same. Or how the clear coating over the paint was slightly streaky in some spots.

“Did you paint this?” He asked.

You nodded your head and answered , “Yeah I did.”

A faint “awe” could be heard across the room from Garcia.

“Y/N,” Spencer started, his voice full of admiration. “This is … beautiful.”

The butterflies in your stomach were getting restless.

“Really?” you asked, not able to hide the smile spreading on your face.

“Yes! It’s Perfect,” his eyes sparkled at you. “I love it. Nobody’s ever given me something like this.” He beamed at you with a smile that made you love sick.

The realization that you both were not alone set in and Spencer cleared his throat before closing the box. The gift exchange continued as Spencer handed over a present to Morgan.

The rest of the night was filled with catching glances and far away looks between you and Spencer. He seemed to feel more relaxed in a way after receiving your gift. Not that he was acting any differently. He just seemed more open. With the group and with you.

You lived off that feeling the whole evening. The idea that you made him happy. You helped him see he was appreciated and loved.

Not that he had to know you loved him.

He didn’t know that. Right?

As the hands on the clock passed you announced your departure and said your goodbyes. You stepped outside and felt a chill against your skin.

You held tight onto your keys as you walked to your car. The snow had just started to fall. Occasional little flurries fell down from the sky.

“Wait!” Someone yelled from behind.

You turned to find Spencer trying his best to run but not slip on the icy parts of the driveway. When he got closer you noticed his cheeks and the tip of his nose were pink. Probably from the cold weather you thought.

“I wanted to formally say thank you for the chess set,” he explained.

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a smile. You stuffed your hands in your pockets away from the cold. “I’m glad you like it. I was worried you’d find it cheesy.”

He looked confused. “Why would I find it cheesy?”

You shrugged, “because I hand painted it.”

“But that’s what makes it perfect,” he reassured. His voice is sincere and soft. “It’s personal and shows you care.”

His eyes widened. “Oh um-“

He suddenly remembered why he rushed outside and scrambled for something in his jacket pocket. It was a small cube shaped box wrapped in paper covered in snowflakes. Quite fitting for the weather.

“I know I technically wasn’t your secret Santa but I still wanted to get you something.”

You took the gift from him with a slack jaw. “Spence-“

“This isn’t because you were my secret Santa. I still wanted to get you a gift regardless,” he reassured.

“I- Thank you,” you started unwrapping the gift.

“It’s not homemade like yours but I hope you still like it.”

”It doesn’t have to be homemade for me to-“ the wind was stolen out of your lungs.

The gift was a small gold and white music box you immediately recognized. You opened the lid to reveal a ballerina in a pink tutu spinning as Sleeping Beauty Waltz played. Your heart ached as you admired the tiny dancer.

”Is this the music box from that antique shop in Seattle?”

While on a case in Seattle, you and Spencer went to an antique shop to ask the owner about evidence found at the crime scene that was purchased there. You fell in love with a beautiful music box in one of the aisles.

“It is. I saw how you looked at it in the store and in the car you said it reminded you of when you used to do ballet. So before we left Seattle I went back to the store to get it for you. I thought it would make a great Christmas present.”

“But, that was three months ago.”

He sheepishly smiled and his cheeks only got more red. “Yeah, I had to keep it a secret for a while.”

Your heart rate started to pick up as the butterflies returned. “I can't believe you went back and bought this for me,” you muttered in disbelief.

“Of course I would. You mean a lot to me and I knew this was something that would make you happy.”

You admired the music box before carefully placing it in your purse. “Thank you so much. I love it.”

His smile grew and reached his eyes. His eyes looked beautiful in this lighting. The Christmas lights from the house made them look practically golden. Even in the freezing cold you could melt from his eyes.

He shifted his weight and licked his lips. He seemed wrapped around the words in his head. “I also wanted to ask if maybe you’d want to go see The Nutcracker with me.”

Your heart damn near stopped.

“It’s playing at the theater downtown. I was thinking if we don’t get a case then we could go see the show on Friday. Maybe, if you want to, that is,” he rambled in nervousness.

“I’d love to,” you beamed.

His face brightened at your eagerness, but his nerves were still present. “But not as friends. As a date?”

You chuckled, “Yes Spencer, I would love to go on a date with you. I think the nutcracker is a perfect first date.”

“Great,” he said with relief. “And maybe afterwards we might have time for a game of chess with my new board.”

God he was cute.

“That sounds great.”

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid headcanon #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fic

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trashytracktales · 12 days ago

Note

ong yes!! lando gotta loveeeee doggy and taking her against a wall!! But imagine her on top for the first time and not knowing how to ride him and him teaching him and telling her what to do! im asking this to santa !!

kill me now!!

Oh, Christmas treat | LN ⁴

�� INSPIRED by anon ──── Why ask Santa when I'm literally right here... enjoy 💋

⤿ We're yapping about this ask.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

𐙚 summary ──── It's a quiet winter night, and Lando notices that his girlfriend seems a bit distracted. After some playful coaxing, she admits a secret desire to try something new. With his gentle guidance, they explore new paths together, each step bringing them closer.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, established relationship, fluff & smut, descriptive language, light teasing, themes of vulnerability, unprotected sex, reader's first time on top, bit of swearing.

𐙚 word count ──── 2.5k

𐙚 date ──── Dec. 24, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── I know this wasn’t a request per se, but I wanted to share this one-shot with you since it was already mostly ready to go. I’ve been dealing with some health issues recently and couldn't get myself to get anything done, so thank you for your patience. The rest of the requests are still on their (admittedly slow) way, but I promise they’re coming 🤞🏻 Wishing a very Merry Christmas Eve to everyone who celebrates, and who knows, I might have another little treat up my sleeve 👀

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

THE DAY HAD been nothing out of the ordinary, but that was exactly what made it special.

Lando had woken up late, groggy but grinning satisfied when he caught her padding around the kitchen in fuzzy socks and an oversized sweater, humming along to Christmas songs. She loves the holiday season, because she likes it when he's home, and Lando doesn't have to be anywhere but their own apartment. That's exactly why she can't get upset when he streams with Max for hours in the night, and ends up sleeping in the next day. The simple fact that he's there is enough.

Maybe she conditioned herself to accept that, but then she sees his sleepy face and thinks she'd accept worse in order to share her mornings with him.

It's Christmas Eve, so they’d decided to bake cookies, mostly because she insisted it was a winter tradition, and Lando, ever the competitive spirit, took it as a challenge to see whose decorations would turn out better. As expected, chaos followed. By the time the cookies were ready, the kitchen looked like it had been through a snowstorm of flour and sugar. Lando had a streak of frosting on his cheek, and she had somehow ended up with sprinkles in her hair. In reality, they spent more time laughing and teasing each other than actually baking, but that was always the way it went with them.

Now, their cookies sit patiently on the counter, forgotten as the two of them relax on the couch in the living room. The Christmas tree lights glow warmly in the corner, and a cheesy holiday movie plays on the TV. They’re snuggled under a thick blanket, her legs curled up and tucked into his side. Lando’s arm drapes around her shoulders, his fingers playing lazily with her hair. It’s peaceful and comforting, but somewhere in the quiet, she feels a sudden pull in her chest.

In all the time they've been together, she never took the lead — not willingly, at least — feeling more than happy to surrender. She's been thinking about it for a long time, but she's never had the courage to do it. She doesn't feel intimidated or inhibited by her boyfriend, but rather by how it could all go wrong for both of them if she, somehow, ends up doing something she’s not supposed to.

Suddenly, her arms tighten around him, her nose nuzzling into his shirt. There’s a weight in her heart, not sadness exactly, but something tender, something raw. It makes her extra clingy, but she doesn’t say anything. She just holds him closer, hoping he won’t notice.

But Lando always notices.

His fingers pause in her hair, and his brows furrow slightly as he glances down at her. “You good, baby?” he asks, his voice soft and curious.

She hums nonchalantly, her face still buried in his chest.

“You sure?” Lando insists, his tone teasing but gentle.

The girl freezes for a moment, debating whether to brush it off, but before she can decide, he tilts her chin up with his fingers, making her look at him.

“Come on, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, hm?” he asks, his eyes scanning hers.

Her cheeks heat under his gaze, and she sighs. “I don’t know. You just… feel extra nice to hold tonight,” she says quietly.

Lando blinks, then his grin widens, teasing again. “Didn’t know I had levels of cuddliness.”

“Oh, shut up,” she mumbles, hiding her face against his chest again.

His smile softens, and he wraps his arms around her fully, pulling her tighter against him. “Hey, you don’t wanna talk to me?”

She shakes her head and, at that, Lando stops pushing, knowing that whatever it is, she’ll come to him. Eventually. When she’s ready.

A few hours later, their movie marathon ends in a comfortable silence, the glow of the TV instantly muted by the credits rolling on the screen. Lando stretches, groaning softly as he shifts from the couch.

She gathers the blanket, folding it neatly before turning to him with a small smile.

“Bedtime?” she asks, her voice soft, almost reluctant to leave the warmth of the evening behind.

“Bedtime,” he agrees, though he watches her carefully as she heads toward the bedroom.

She moves through her usual routine, brushing her teeth and slipping into one of his hoodies, paired with sleep shorts. As she pulls back the covers and sits on the edge of the bed, he hears it again — the same quiet sigh that makes his chest tighten.

Lando leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, frowning in her direction. “Alright, that’s the second time tonight,” he says, his tone light but edged with curiosity. “Should I worry?”

“What?” she replies quickly, too quickly, as she gets ready to tuck herself under the duvet. “No, baby. It’s nothing.”

“Right,” says Lando, stepping closer, his lips curving into a mischievous grin. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll have to get it out of you another way.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Lando…”

Before she can finish, he lunges, playfully grabbing her waist and threatening to tickle her sides. She squeals, trying to wiggle away, but his grip on her is firm.

“Last chance, I'm serious,” he warns, his laughter bubbling up as she giggles uncontrollably.

“Okay, fine, stop it!” she pleads, breathless, her face flushed.

Lando stops, pulling back just enough to sit on the edge of the bed. Then, with a gentle tug, he pulls her onto his lap. His arms wrap loosely around her waist, and he tilts his head, watching her with a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Now,” he says, happy that he managed to break her wall, “What’s going on?”

She hesitates, her cheeks turning pink as she avoids his gaze. Instead, her fingers find his curls at the back of his head, twisting them gently as she takes a deep breath. “You know, it’s not even a big deal. I’ve been thinking about something, but I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”

“Mhm,” he nods, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to her lips. It’s deep, slow, almost as if he’s trying to reassure her without words. When he pulls back, their foreheads touch, and he whispers, “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

She knows. Still, that doesn’t make it any easier. The heat rushes in her cheeks as she finally meets his eyes. “Look, I like when you’re on top. I mean, I really like it,” she says, stumbling slightly over her words. “But I was thinking, maybe, I’d like to, you know...”

Her voice trails off, and she looks away again, clearly embarrassed.

Lando blinks, letting her words sink in. His mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out as a flush creeps up his neck. Then, a grin spreads across his face, equal parts flustered and excited.

“Yeah?” he asks, his voice soft, his hands tightening slightly on her waist. “You want to ride me, baby?”

She nods quickly, still twisting his curls nervously. “But I’ve never done it before, and I’m not sure I’d be good at it. It's just that—”

He exhales a chuckle, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “Slow down,” he murmurs against her skin, his tone so tender that it makes her stomach flip. “You don’t have to worry about being good at it, baby. If you wat to try it, I can guide you, and we’ll see what works for us as we go.”

Her cheeks flush as she processes his reassurance, the tender way he’s looking at her making her feel bold and seen. And listened to.

She smiles, shifting on his lap, searching for some friction, and the slight brush of her core against his growing hardness has her letting out a soft gasp. Lando notices immediately, but he doesn’t say anything yet. Instead, he lets her take the lead at her own pace, on her own terms.

She shifts again, this time deliberately pressing herself against him, and the soft sound she makes has Lando’s self-control slipping. “I suppose we can try now?” he murmurs, his voice thick with heat.

She doesn’t reply — at least not with words. Instead, she grabs his hoodie, pulling it over her head in one swift motion, leaving her in nothing but her shorts. Lando’s breath catches as he takes her in, his hands immediately coming up to palm her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples. He's seen her naked so many times before, but somehow, every time she gets rid of her clothes she uncovers something new.

“So beautiful,” he mutters, leaning in to press open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. She tilts her head back, giving him more access, and the heat between them builds until she pushes him gently onto the mattress.

Lando goes willingly, a grin tugging at his lips as she leans over him to kiss him again. His hands move to her hips, holding her firmly as she presses herself against him, grinding slowly. He groans into her mouth, his hands sliding lower to grip her ass, then he spreads her slightly, pushing her down against his growing length, making both of them gasp at the feeling.

Her hands trail down his chest, and she tugs at his shirt. “Off,” she breathes, and he obeys, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. For a moment, she just looks at him, her hands tracing the defined lines of his chest.

The tension between them builds rapidly, their breaths mingling as they press closer. It doesn’t take long before she’s tugging at the waistband of her shorts, her nerves creeping back in as she pushes them down. Lando sits up slightly, watching her with darkened eyes, and when she glances at him nervously, he reaches out to stroke her thigh gently.

“You’re perfect,” he says softly, his voice full of sincerity.

Her nerves ease at his words, and when he pushes his joggers down, freeing himself, her anticipation drowns out her doubts.

He sits up fully, pulling her closer until she’s straddling him again. “Alright, love,” he murmurs, his hands steadying her hips. “Go slow, yeah? Just sit on me first. Take your time.”

She nods, biting her lip as she lines herself up with him. Slowly, she sinks down, feeling the stretch as he fills her inch by sweet inch. Her breath hitches, and Lando groans, his hands gripping her hips tighter.

“Oh, fuck,” he rasps. “You always feel so good.”

She pauses once he’s fully inside, her hands braced on his chest as she adjusts to the feeling of being so full of him. Sensing her nervousness, Lando rubs soothing circles on her hips, letting her take her time.

When she finally starts to move, lifting herself up slightly before sinking back down, a soft, shaky moan escapes her lips. Lando watches her with a mix of awe and hunger, his hands guiding her gently.

“Just like that, baby,” he encourages her, “Easy. You’re doing so well.”

Slowly but surely, she manages to build a rhythm, her movements tentative at first. But as the pleasure starts invading her senses, she becomes bolder. She opens up more, craving all of him at once. Her hands slide back to grip his thighs for support as she leans back slightly, the new angle sending sparks of pleasure through her body.

The taste of power it's rather interesting in this position, and she can’t afford to be shy anymore. Not when his cock feels so good inside her, and not when she decides how to take him.

“Fuck, Lando,” she breathes, her head tilting back.

She begins to move more rapidly on top of him, her hips following a predetermined path that she wasn't even aware of before. Lando watches her in amazement, feeling every pulse of pleasure every time she comes back for more, her walls hugging his cock so tightly that it leaves him breathless.

He groans, his hands sliding up to her waist to steady her. “That’s it, baby. Keep going. God, you’re going to make me cum so fast like this.”

The sight of her riding him, her body moving with such confidence now, nearly breaks him. Somehow, he resists the urge to thrust up into her, letting her stay in control, but his grip tightens as his restraint begins to fray.

He hears a silent cry, getting ready for every scenario in his mind, while his eyes study her frame by frame.

She whimpers, her movements becoming more erratic as the pleasure overwhelms her. “Lan,” she gasps, her voice shaky. “I can’t go—too much.”

He sits up slightly, pulling her towards him and pressing his forehead to hers. “Of course you can, baby,” he says softly, his voice steady despite the fire coursing through him. “I’m here. Just a little more, yeah? You’re doing so good.”

She feels his cock twitching inside her as she shakes her head weakly, “Lando, please…” her hands desperately clutch his shoulders, and that's when he understands what she needs from him.

Lando's hands land on her waist again, gripping at her firmly, and he starts to guide her harder on his cock while thrusting up into her simultaneously, meeting her halfway. The sudden change in rhythm makes her cry out, her nails digging into his skin.

“Yes,” she moans, her head dropping onto his shoulder as he drives her higher. “It’s so good, fuck. I’m—”

“That’s it,” he growls, his voice tinged with exhaustion. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

So she does, her body trembling as the pleasure crests and crashes over her. He follows seconds later, his movements growing erratic before he stills inside her, holding her tightly against him as they both ride out their highs, breathing each other’s air. They stay tangled together, bodies still pressed close as the intensity of their orgasms fades away.

Lando brushes a strand of her hair away from her damp forehead, his lips curling into a soft smile. “You okay there?” he asks, his voice a gentle rasp.

She nods against him, her body still warm and buzzing. “Mhm, ‘m okay,” she murmurs, tilting her head up to meet his gaze.

He grins, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “You did so well, baby. Made me proud.”

She lets out a breathless laugh, her head dropping back onto his shoulder. “Cheers,” she trails off, playfully groaning. “But that was so much work. My fucking thighs are on fire.”

Lando laughs, the sound deep and rich. “Oh, you poor thing,” he teases, stroking her back soothingly.

She swats at his chest, unable to hold back her grin. “I’m serious! It’s a full-body workout being on top.”

He hums thoughtfully, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on her skin. “So what you’re saying is…” he starts, tilting his head with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “I get to be in charge again next time?”

She pulls back to look at him, her cheeks flushing, but there’s a playful sparkle in her eyes. “You won't hear me complaining,” she quips, biting her lip to suppress her laughter.

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

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twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat · 1 year ago

Text

COME REST YOUR BONES NEXT TO ME ; SATORU GOJO, SUGURU GETO

synopsis; satoru shares the first snowfall of the year with the two people he loves most.

word count; 4.6k

contents; satoru gojo/reader/suguru geto (poly relationship!!), gn!reader, you're all whipped, reader referred to as spouse, fluff fluff fluff!!, sickeningly domestic, just comfy vibes all around, mostly from satoru’s pov, suguru has a favorite (its you) (but also not really he just likes bullying toru <3), satoru gojo may or may not have unresolved mommy issues

a/n; happy satosugu holidays to those who celebrate <33 geto died today isnt that crazy. dont u think its fucked up how love figuratively and literally killed him. anyway! help urself to two very whipped husbands <33

”holy shit!”

the raspy tilt of satoru’s voice echoes throughout the bedroom, stirring you from your comfortable slumber. a soft groan spills from suguru’s lips, deep and husky, as he pulls you closer into his embrace — smoothing a warm palm down the back of your head. trying to soothe you back to sleep, muttering under his breath.

”satoru, it’s too early for this...”

”it’s snowing!” said man continues, unperturbed. unmistakably giddy. he’s standing by the window, hands pressed flush against the cold glass; entirely entranced by the sight in front of his cerulean eyes.

your eyelids begin to flutter. a tiny tug of your subconscious, a pang of something excited flowing through your veins, an alert to your sleepy brain.

(snowing.)

with groggy movements, you wriggle out of suguru’s grasp — a displeased grumble leaves his throat, almost a whine — allowing you to scramble out of bed. ”really?” you chirp, rubbing the sleep from beneath your eyes. a raspy, meek little voice spilling into the air.

satoru grins, watching you move closer, watching as a tiny gasp pushes past your lips. watching as your droopy eyes widen — brightening, glittering, starlight and snowflakes painted on the interior of your iris. a breathtaking sight, he thinks.

maybe even more breathtaking than the winter wonderland reflected in it; beyond the pure opaque frosting of the window’s glass, out into your backyard, buried beneath a thick layer of snow. soft and fluffy, covering the city, suguru’s long-frozen tulip garden, the bare branches of your apricot tree. every roof in sight. all of it dyed a pure white, glittering in the light of a morning sun yet to fully rise, tiny snowflakes descending down to earth.

it’s beautiful.

satoru loves winter. he always has, he thinks. it comes to him as a memory — blurred at the edges, gleaming even still, the first time he saw those snowflakes up close. someone held him in their arms, he recalls. a warmth long faded.

all he can properly remember is that sight. one that knocked the breath from out his tiny lungs, all glitter and something almost other-worldly, something frightening in its majesty. like it broke through a rift in the stratosphere.

the first snow of the year.

and he’s loved it ever since; the soft crunch of snow beneath his feet, an air heavy with the scent of cinnamon and candied apples, bouts of laughter to be heard from faraway apartments. red and green glimmers of artificial light, sweet frosting on the christmas cake he would always gobble up alone in his room. the cold wind, nipping at his bare fingers — a reminder of his capacity for ache.

there are lots of things to love. lots of memories to cherish. and every single year, he gets the chance to make more.

like this; the light in your eyes, the smile on your face, the excitement in how hurriedly you turn to meet his giddy gaze. a nostalgic kind of joy simmering in the space between you.

and before either of you know it, satoru’s pulling you towards the hallway, intent on dragging you outside to see it all up close. almost tripping over his agumon plush, lying unassumingly on the floor, kicked off the bed once again.

(probably by satoru himself, though he’ll always insist it was suguru’s doing. overcome by his jealousy, surely, unable to stand the sight of his cute husband cuddling up to a plushie instead of him. satoru understands, he does — he feels the same when he sees you hug that 3’0 cat plushie of yours.

and, sure, maybe once or twice he’s been lucid enough to register the subconscious kick of his leg and agumon’s subsequent fall to the floor — but he’ll still blame suguru in the morning. if only to see the way said man rolls his eyes, clicks his tongue, maybe flicks his forehead if he’s really lucky.)

high on the spirit of christmas, spurred on by childlike elation and sleep-deprivation, you stumble towards the door. satoru pulls one of his jackets over your shoulders, delighting in the way your hands don’t fully reach through the sleeves. wrapping you up in a cozy scarf when suguru shouts at you both to dress warmly, barely awake and already tired of your antics.

and the moment you step through the door, satoru is engulfed by it. that mystical, mystical feeling.

a little lonely, a little too satisfying to pass up. a cold breeze that nips at his fingertips, snowflakes that brush against his cheeks and stick to his white lashes. a warm hand in his, as you cling to his side, shuddering — but smiling, as you look up at the sky, putting a hand out just to feel the snowflakes melt against the skin of your palm.

he feels you let go of him, but doesn’t mention it. a little too mesmerized to tug you back. dipping his toes into the bittersweet nostalgia of it all, staring at the flurry of white all around you, the skeletal branches of your apricot tree. suguru’s poor tulips. humming a jolly tune, subconsciously. a little delighted.

— until something cold and wet hits the exposed skin of his neck.

satoru twitches, a chilling shudder trickling down his spine. the snowball just thrown at him begins to melt, droplets sticking to his nape, and he turns to you with a raise of his brow. a devilish grin on his lips, when he hears your muffled laughter, sees the crinkle of your eyes.

(you’re cute, he thinks. but you need to be humbled.)

”oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” he drawls, eyes gleaming with amusement. taking a step forward, reaching down to gather some snow in his palm. a wide grin on his glossy lips. ”fine by me.”

he's fast, but you act quickly, running towards the apricot tree with laughter in your throat. feeling the pitter patter of your heartbeat resound in your ears, as the snowball misses its mark by just a hair — and you waste no time in making your own.

it’s a hard-fought duel. snowfall blocking your vision, nerves beginning to numb, red cheeks and runny noses as you chase each other with giddy breaths. unfortunately for you, satoru’s arms are unfairly long, fingers unfairly nimble, and his stamina never even seems to falter.

so before long, your energy begins to dwindle. chest heaving, hands too cold to form a proper snowball, while your husband seems like he hasn’t even broken a sweat. they just keep on coming, snowball after snowball colliding with the fabric of your jacket, and when one of them hits your collarbone you squeal — falling backwards, right into a fresh pile of snow.

satoru moves forward, a triumphant smirk on his handsome face. you’re out of breath, and your hands are red, and he’s fairly certain you’re gonna catch a cold. suguru’s going to scold him, but right now all he can think of is you. the frown you’re wearing, the little huff that slips from your lips.

”ready to admit defeat, sweetheart?” he practically purrs, standing above you with his hands on his hips. smug. and you grin right back.

”never.”

a hum. something glimmers in his eyes, a devious little glint, and you come to regret your decision when satoru gathers a heap of snow with his overgrown arms; only to drop it all on top of you. too tired to fight back, all you can do is shield your face, silently accepting your fate.

a shiver wracks through your body, and satoru almost feels bad. just a tiny bit. but then you finally relent, murmuring bitterly under your breath. ”fine, fine…” a soft pout forms on your lips. ”you win.”

and satoru smiles. crouching down to meet you at eye level, on his knees in front of you. there’s a teasing mirth in his eyes, when he reaches out to cup the fat of your cheek. ”that’s all i wanted to hear, sweet pea,” he drawls, trying not to giggle when you exaggeratedly roll your eyes.

his voice curls down an octave when he continues, leaning forward to brush his nose against yours. hot breath against your chilled skin. ”now, for my prize…”

his lips meet yours, sweet and chaste — a little cheeky. you scoff into the kiss, but satoru’s smile only grows. honeyed, a little bit adoring. his tongue flits out to lick at your cold bottom lip.

he lingers, for a bit. like he’s trying to savour the way you taste, faded strawberry chapstick sticking to his lips, smudged against your own. and you sigh, softly, melting a little, comforted by the fleeting warmth that blossoms on your face.

when he's finally satisfied, having dragged his prize out to its completion, satoru helps you up. brushing snowflakes off your jacket, cradling your ice-cold hands in his. they’re not faring much better, but a worried tug of his heartstrings compels him to warm you up. bringing them to his lips, hot breath fanning over your skin, tender little kisses against the knots of your knuckles.

you can’t help but blush, and a raspy chuckle flows from out his lips.

hazy morning sunshine licks at the branches of the apricot tree behind you, illuminating the contours of your face, the shine of his eyes. a blue smudge on a canvas painted white and gray. the air smells of pine cones and something smokey, crisp. it courses through his burning lungs when he inhales, exhales, a breath of vapour that scatters up into the sky.

satoru loves winter. always has. but now, he’s certain he loves it even more.

because now, he has two people to share it with. two people to drag out into the snow, two people whose hands he can tenderly warm up, two people who’ll laugh and sigh at his antics and still indulge him. two people to pelt with snowballs.

what more could a man want?

”hey, idiots!”

the voice that echoes throughout the air is exasperated, a little teasing. yet fond. suguru’s got his hair tied into a messy half done bun, black turtleneck sweater enunciating his broad chest and the curve of his waist. there’s a fatigue in his eyes, the creases of his face, but a lazy smile is playing at his lips.

”i’m making breakfast,” he shouts, voice deep and smokey and soft even still. ”come in and warm up before you catch a cold.”

”is that any way to speak to your husband and spouse?” satoru chimes back, a melodic lilt to his sugarsweet voice. something satisfied. pleased.

suguru shoots him an unimpressed look, but his eyes soften. melting a little, at the words that spill from satoru’s lips, as if they were always meant to be there.

(husband. spouse. suguru wills himself not to smile.)

with matching grins on your faces, the two of you stumble back towards the door. snow crunching beneath your feet, a happy noise pushing past your lips when you collide with the warmth of your husband’s chest.

”look, suguru. isn’t it pretty?” you chirp, smiling brightly. an expression he mirrors — brushing some snow from the top of your head, warm palms caressing your cold skin, setting a mental reminder to scold satoru later. sparing a brief glance at the snowy veil over reality.

then he exhales. a fond hum. ”it is.”

satoru joins you both by the door, stretching out his lanky limbs. tousled hair, wet strands sticking to his skin, reddened cheeks and a signature pout. ”suguru, my hands are cold,” he whines. ”warm ’em up for me?”

a click of his tongue. ”should’ve put some gloves on, satoru.”

a hum buzzes in your throat, and you put your hands out. itchy, a little dry. a sad frown tugs at your lips when you speak. ”my hands are also cold.”

and, like clockwork, suguru’s eyes soften. a coo tiptoeing on his tongue, engulfing your hands in his larger ones. ”aw, c’mere, my love…” his breath fans over your frozen fingertips. ”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

satoru gasps, a hand on his chest, and you stifle a giggle. he’s acting, you both know, being a little drama queen. he knows you’re just exaggerating suguru’s double standard as a bit, that your husband would probably set himself on fire to warm either of you up.

despite that, his voice comes out thoroughly offended. ”oh, i see how it is,” he huffs, walking past the both of you. pouting deeply. ”you hate me. you hate me, and you want me to die. i understand.”

”satoru,” you coo. he hmphs, but stills, waiting for you to wrap your arms around him. and you do — a little too eager to appease your giant baby of a husband.

”we’re just joking around,” you assure him, holding back a humorous chuckle. squeezing his waist with palpable fondness. ”love you sooo much. you know that.”

satoru stays silent. but he cranes his neck, to meet suguru’s gaze, standing just behind him. narrowing his cobalt eyes — a meaningful look.

suguru sighs.

”yes, yes. we love you oh so much.” he takes a step forward, ruffling the white head of hair by the door. a lazy smile on his lips. ”now behave and go change out of your pyjamas. they’re soaked.”

his voice is teasing. exasperated, more than a little condescending. but it’s suguru, so satoru accepts it — following you both into the warmth of your home. the scent of cinnamon and vanilla hangs heavy in the air, a hint of espresso and firewood, lulling him into a sweet state of tranquility. rich with comfort, safety.

he changes out of his wet clothes, pulling a black hoodie over his head before waltzing into the kitchen. and you do the same, emerging from your bedroom in one of suguru’s cozy sweaters, knitted and smelling of bergamot.

when suguru notices, his gaze shifts into something fond. palpable. a look satoru always finds in the scope of those warm eyes, amber and cedar bleeding into something sweet, only ever directed at the two of you. a look said man assumes goes unnoticed. he’s not as slick as he thinks.

the kitchen simmers with hazy sunlight and gentle movements, something sleepy and kind. satoru is a little bit enamored with it; from bowls of cat food by the corner, to camellias by the windowsill, cookie jars and dried lemon slices, the fading scent of baked goods and wishlists stuck to the fridge.

(yours and satoru’s are filled with scribbles, new ideas popping up daily, while suguru’s is almost entirely blank; mostly necessities, one or two things he’d like for himself.

and then, of course, the same thing he writes at the top of his wishlist every year; some peace and quiet.)

suguru shuffles around the kitchen, long strands of black hair cascading down his back, swaying with his movements. he sends you both an affectionate glance when you step in, already in the process of making satoru his cup of hot chocolate — topped with marshmallows and whipped cream, colorful sprinkles in the shape of tiny stars, a touch of cinnamon. satoru licks his lips.

when it's finished, the cup is promptly handed to him, paired with a tender kiss to his forehead. and suguru starts the meticulous brewing of your coffee, steady hands, finely chosen coffee beans, the low purring of the espresso machine. soothing.

that’s when you attach yourself to his back. wrapping your arms around his waist, a sleepy yawn muffled into the fabric of his turtleneck. he places a big palm on your hand, thumb smoothing over your knuckle, and you nuzzle into him silently. suguru smiles.

”still sleepy, baby?” he questions, a coo on the tip of his tongue. his voice is soft, palpably so, buzzing with warmth and safety and something that makes you want to stay cuddled up to him forever.

satoru senses an opportunity to insert himself into the conversation, and forces out a yawn of his own. stretching his limbs like a big cat, blinking drowsily, eyelashes fluttering. hoping it’ll come off as endearing. ”mhm.”

but suguru shoots him an unimpressed look. ”not you,” he tuts, patting your arm, ”this baby. i wasn’t asking you.”

a pout. ”why are you so mean to me?” he whines, shooting you a doe-eyed look. bottom lip jutting out slightly, a feigned glassiness to his eyes. ”sweetie, tell your husband to stop being so mean to me.”

you smile. indulgent, as always. ”don't be so mean to him, suguru. you know he’s sensitive.”

a sigh. deep, tinged with exhaustion. satoru shares an amused look with you — stifling a shared chuckle at suguru’s exasperation.

and suddenly, he feels something warm flutter in his ribcage. a sunkissed butterfly, wings brushing against his ribs, coaxing his lips into curling up. unmistakable fondness, almost too much to bear. the need to reach out and touch you creeps up on him, a hunger he can’t deny, but he holds back; you look comfy like that, curled up against suguru’s spine. so he only inches closer, without a word.

his husband casts him a glance, but satoru stays silent. lips pursed, waiting for something. patient.

and suguru relents. he reaches a hand out, to tuck a stray strand of white hair behind his ear — an excuse to touch him. a silent apology.

(i'm sorry, you big baby.)

satoru grins.

you shift from foot to foot, leaning over to see what suguru is doing, pressing buttons and taking two ceramic cups out from a wall cabinet. your eyes zero in on a particular shelf, narrowing in suspicion, before flitting over to meet your husband’s gaze.

”satoru, did you use up all my peppermint sweeteners again?”

he stiffens. just a tad, before swallowing a gulp — followed by a silly chuckle, sheepish and performative, eager to wiggle his way out of your cold gaze. ”… which sweeteners do you mean, honey?”

”don’t pull the ’honey’ card.”

”and don’t play dumb, either.”

a pout crosses his lips. betrayed. ”suguru, who’s side are you even on?”

said man gives him a look. that one look, characteristically suguru, the same one he always sends satoru’s way. one so thoroughly unimpressed it makes him feel like the world’s biggest clown.

and satoru plays along. your dutiful, beloved clown, his posture wilting like a sad flower. suguru exhales through his nose.

”don’t steal their sweeteners.” he smooths a thumb over your knuckle, absentminded, meeting the cold metal of the ring on your finger. smiling a little at the sensation. ”buy your own.”

satoru huffs, drawn out and childish. crossing his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter. ”ah, i see how it is. leaving your sweet husband to buy his own sweeteners?” he clicks his tongue. ”chivalry is dead.”

you bite back a little chuckle — satoru recognizes the cute noise you make when you do — and suguru rolls his eyes. fondly, always. ”remind me next time i go to the store and i’ll consider it.”

”hmph.”

suguru is smiling. it’s small, but genuine, worth a thousand words. and you are, too, the vague crinkle of your eyes giving you away. even as you bury your face in the curve of suguru’s back.

and ah, satoru thinks. there it is again.

that sickeningly sweet sense of deja vu; the sensation of a certain something flourishing deep inside his chest. warming him up, trickling through his frost-bitten veins. that one little itch he never manages to satisfy, that never goes away, something that took root inside his heart years ago — watered by the sweet looks on your faces.

this everyday slice of heaven, right in front of him, that he’s been greedily partaking in ever since he moved in with you. since he married you.

(married.)

sometimes he still can’t believe it.

”it’ll be done in a minute,” suguru hums, and satoru blinks. broken out of his syrupy stupor. ”you two go wait by the kotatsu, okay? must be cold, poor babies.”

and, as always, his voice is a little teasing. a tiny bit condescending, if you really strain your ears, in typical suguru fashion. but it’s laced with a touch of sweetness; one that would be too much for either of you to stomach, if it were to drip out of his lips with nothing to water it down. so satoru accepts it. welcomes it, even.

and you follow his suggestion. making your way towards the living room, satoru trailing behind you, continuously enamored by every little thing he sees. every little piece of the home you’ve built for yourselves.

your living room is cozy. several potted plants seated here and there, a thick quilt to cover the kotatsu, a bowl of satsumas on top of it. a sleepy cat on your couch, golden sunshine ruffling her fur. a santa hat lies beside her, and satoru snags it without much thought. pulling it over his head.

his gaze shifts to the christmas tree over in the corner, eyes filling with a childlike kind of wonder. it’s decorated to completion, weighed down by colourful ornaments and lights, a star at the very top. suguru cut it himself, bringing the biggest and prettiest one he could find back home.

(satoru had gone with him. partially to help carry it back, mostly to get a glimpse of suguru's biceps flexing with the swing of the axe. he’s a simple man.)

and beneath it, presents are already beginning to pile up. carefully wrapped, in bows and silken paper, growing more each day. shattering suguru’s hopes of maybe having a more lowkey christmas this year — but satoru couldn’t be more relieved. this is the only time of year you let him get away with pampering you both to his heart’s content.

a smile blooms on his lips. he plops down on the floor, crossing his legs, right as suguru walks in with a coffee pot in hand. their gazes overlapping.

and something mischievous begins to brew within the blue of his eyes, something that makes suguru narrow his own. satoru pats his thigh, twice, a coo on the tip of his tongue. santa hat sitting pointedly on top of his head, fluffing up his hair.

”c’mere, suguru! sit on santa’s lap.”

”— you’re disgusting.”

the words are playful, but a pout still slips into the curve of satoru’s lips, and he huffs out a displeased little breath. his husband pretends not to hear it, so satoru turns to you — sitting so prettily to his right, already anticipating his next move. puppy dog eyes on full display, he gives you a soft tilt of his head, snowy tufts of hair falling over his eyes.

and you sigh, in what he knows is resignation. his faux pout turning into a satisfied grin.

you curl up in satoru’s lap without much of a fuss, letting him circle his arms around you. an indulgent smile rests on your lips, but he knows you love this; his broad chest against your back, the heat of the kotatsu warming your feet. breathing in the fading scent of your shampoo, he leaves a peck on the sensitive spot right behind your ear, and you try not to shudder.

then satoru smiles. squeezing you, lightly, sweetly, eyes rich with honeyed affection. voice dripping with playful endearment. ”there we go,” he coos. ”what does my angel want for christmas, hm?”

”i want you to stop stealing my peppermint sweeteners,” comes your answer. instantaneous.

silence fills the room. a moment passes. outside your frosted windows, a bird takes flight from the branches of your apricot tree. and satoru clicks his tongue.

”… santa can only do so much, baby.”

two deep scoffs fill the air, heavy and bemused. one from you, one from suguru. satoru only giggles.

”just kidding!” he chirps, planting a kiss on the top of your head. ”don’t you worry. santa’ll give you all the peppermint sweeteners you could ever want.”

you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. craning your head to meet his gaze. ”and he won’t end up using them all himself?”

”of course not! blasphemy.”

a moment passes.

”… maybe one or two. as a treat.”

a string of protests slips from your lips, and satoru tries not to burst into a fit of giggles. suguru just watches, silently, smiling lightly as he pours hot coffee into two ceramic cups. steam wafting up to the ceiling, a cat jumping down from the couch to curl up in his lap. he places one in front of you, not taking a single sip of his own until he hears you hum blissfully at the taste — pink lips against white ceramic. a bitter taste on his tongue, sweetened by your approval.

then he starts peeling three satsumas, absentmindedly, and satoru swallows down the love-ridden honey choking up the back of his throat. pretending the domesticity of such a simple action doesn’t melt his heart down to the marrow.

he turns his attention towards the window. frost sticking to the glass like spider-woven webs, soon to be melted by the glow of the mellow winter sunrays. flitting in through the curtains, cascading over the room, splattering across the floorboards. framing the hue of your hair, the smile on suguru’s lips.

and a memory comes to him. sudden, hazy, faded at the edges. ghosting his subconscious.

he remembers the frost, the biting wind, the frightening majesty of the snow that fell that day. breaking into his world through a rift in the stratosphere. he remembers the contrasting warmth of the person who held him, who cradled him close; the soft lull of a woman’s voice.

for a moment, satoru thinks he can almost, almost see it before him. hear those gentle words, see her tired smile. why was she always so tired?

(look, satoru. isn’t it pretty?)

— he can’t recall how it sounded. if it was melodic and soft, or raspy and broken, happy or sad. but he does recall that it made him feel safe. safe enough to find comfort in a sight so other-worldly, so very foreign.

it should’ve been frightening, but it wasn’t. the first snowfall satoru ever saw knocked the breath from out his lungs, stole his heart with cold hands, left him with a suffocating nostalgia. but the memory is precious.

and now, he feels that sense of other-worldliness in this; a kotatsu for three, a warm house, peeled satsumas and promises of a christmas cake soon to be baked. one lovely spouse in his lap, the other gazing at him with that fond look he always assumes goes unnoticed. a cocoon of safety — a ghost he doesn’t need to chase anymore.

warmth. enough warmth to make up for the snow and frost outside your home, all the experiences he missed out on as a child. warmth, warmth, warmth. funny, how that happens to be satoru’s favorite thing about winter.

he looks at the two of you, hoping you won’t pay any mind to his silence. for once, he hopes you’ll stay wrapped up in your awful, awful coffee, so bitter that just looking at it makes his throat feel dry. just so he can get away with admiring you for a little longer. from the contours of suguru’s face, to the skin of your collarbone, to the rings on your fingers. ones he put there himself.

and ah, satoru thinks, there it is again. again and again, as always, forever. that warm, warm feeling flourishing in the depths of his chest.

he hopes it never goes away.

#genuinely fucked up that suguru geto isnt in my kitchen rn </3 #i just think sugu is such a caretaker. makes u breakfast and peels ur satsumas w/o u even asking. bc it makes him happy :’3 hes so Mother #i think he lowkey gets just a little bit uncomfortable when u or gojo try to do the same for him… he likes doting on u #but obv he deserves to be pampered too!! just gotta ease him into it #and i think gojo has a hole in his heart where love should be. bc he wasnt given enough as a child #im not sure what to think when it comes to his parents (since we know literally nothing abt them) but...#the idea of him finding some comfort in the memory of his mom…. maybe not realizing that he misses her…..… i think its very sad. and good.#listened to ricky montgomery while writing this i think it mightve healed me #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x reader #geto suguru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo x reader #geto x reader #geto x reader x gojo #gojo fluff #geto fluff #satosugu x reader #satosugu x you #satosugu x y/n #jjk fluff #jjk x reader #……… thats… a lot of tags.

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calmcoldevening · 3 months ago

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Santa Art the clown x reader headcanons

Tw: blood, murdering, some smut, no minors

Note: I just watched the Terrifier 3 and I'm impressed. Can't not to write about this guy

• I hope you've been a good girl all year, because this Santa loves it when you're good. Be sure, he will give you any gift you wish.

• But if you've been a bad girl, that's good too. He loves every side of you, it makes his pants tight. Especially if you flirt with him.

• It will be cool if you like his new costume. Of course Art still has his good old black and white makeup on but the costume is red now. You don't mind, do you?

• Just sit on his lap while he's in the suit and whisper in his ear the most dirty desires you have. God, sugar, he's crazy about you. His buddy will instantly get rock hard and provide you with an unforgettable Christmas.

• On Christmas morning, he will meet you tied up under the tree with some beautiful ribbon. Or your ex's guts. If you're lucky.

• During Christmas, he will be incredibly romantic and will give you a lot of gifts. Sure he stole them, but when did you care?

• Whenever possible, he will try to pull you onto his lap so as not to leave the image.

• He will be glad if you make chocolate cookies and milk for him. He liked this treat too much in homes with children who were waiting for the real Santa.

• In this costume, Art will fuck you like never before. He loves his sweet girl so much. And after all these murders, he feels even hotter, so intimacy will be accompanied by the presence of someone else's blood on his red suit. It may be unpleasant and disgusting, but you're already used to it.

• As long as he wears the Santa costume, he feels warm and cozy. Therefore, he becomes even more clingy, Art literally always wants your hugs or just to keep you close.

• The thought of you looking at him while he's making his new sophisticated weapon makes him so damn hot and hard. But he's still so focused on what he's doing that he can't get distracted. But after that, Art will really give you time.

• He's a damn possessive guy, so now people can often spot you in the arms of a weird Santa. Art just doesn't want anyone staring at you with dirty thoughts. It's better to let these rude people look at him, as long as only he can touch and love you.

• He would love to wrap you in wrapping paper and leave you under the tree as a “gift” to see how long it would take you to get rid of the wrapping paper. He would probably laugh if he saw you in agony. Especially if you were wearing some nice but bloody clothes. Art would have found it damn hot.

• Teach this guy to drink and he will often spend evenings with you in the company of wine or something similar. Of course, this is not his style, but the heat from alcohol in his veins vaguely reminds him of adrenaline and the pleasure of killing. Especially if alcohol makes you more relaxed and playful.

• Art won't let you spend Christmas with anyone else. So just decorate the house and, for example, cook a festive dinner. Art will return and you will spend this magical "family" night together.

#slashers x reader #slashers fandom #slashers x you #slasher x reader #slashers #art the clown x you #art the clown x reader #art the clown #terrifier #terrifier 3 #santa art the clown #santa art the clown x reader #santa art the clown x you

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logaenhowlett · 13 days ago

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I THINK THEY CALL THIS LOVE - L.H.

Summary: A flat tire, a blinding snowstorm, and a mix-up leads you to Logan's cabin. Things happen after another, and before you know it, Christmas means being snowed in with a complete stranger.

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: 6.0k of pure fluff, Mutual pining (even Logan isn’t immune to cupid’s arrow), Sickeningly sweet slow burn, Major ‘just kiss already’ energy, How the Grinch Stole Christmas reference (pretend it exists in the 80s)

A/N: Can this happen to me please? And yes, it's inspired by The Holiday. Title creds to Elliot James Reay. Enjoy and happy holidays everyone, may your dreams be blessed with this beautiful man!

MASTERLIST

Nestled amidst snow-kissed pine trees, our cozy cabin offers a serene escape. Simply a perfect winter retreat overlooking breathtaking valleys and stunning mountain ranges, where you can unwind or explore our charming town just a short drive away.

Light cascades over his features, the glow harsh and bright as he squints at your phone, reading the brief description. Gusts of wind whip past as you wait expectantly, shifting your weight from one foot to another to keep warm.

"You got the wrong place," he says, peering out from behind the partially opened door.

Mouth agape, cold breaths misting in the chilly night air, you stare at him in disbelief. "This is the address they gave me," you reply desperately. It's a pointless attempt, you're not sure why you even bother trying. Clearly, you've ended up in the wrong place and arguing with this stranger won't change that.

"Well, they made a mistake, alright?" Brows creasing in mild annoyance, he leans forward, "S'my house. I live here.” The words hang in the air, heavy and final, punctuated by the squelch of your boots slightly sinking into the snow.

With a defeated sigh, you shuffle away from his front porch, the biting wind nipping at your exposed skin. Gloved fingers stiff from the cold, you fumble with the near-frozen handle of your car, the metallic hinges protesting as you wrench it open with a grunt. The thought of finding someplace to at least spend the night fills you with dread. Surely, scrambling at the last minute is bound to leave very few and certainly overpriced options.

Glancing back, you trace his figure silhouetted against the amber glow radiating from behind. "You wouldn't happen to know if there's a motel around, would you?" you ask, blinking tiredly against the glare.

"Closest one's 'bout an hour away." His expression remains unreadable, though, a flicker of something - perhaps sympathy - crosses his face. Just as you're sliding into the driver's seat, his voice cuts across the distance. "Hey - wait," he calls out, emerging from his house.

The collar of his flannel flaps from the breeze, and glimpses of the dark curls on his chest peek through the unbuttoned top. You wonder how the hell he's not shivering as he trudges through the snow, hands merely shoved deep into his pockets. He stops near your window, breath fogging up the glass as he looks at you hesitantly. "S'not safe to drive right now," he murmurs, weighing his next words, "Look, why don't you stay here tonight and figure somethin' out tomorrow?"

His offer takes you by surprise. The memory of his earlier dismissiveness stings, making the shift more jarring. Incoherent murmurs tumble from your throat, eyes widening at the thought of spending the night at this stranger's house. A ridiculously attractive stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. Sensing your unease, he sighs softly. "I get it, you don't know me. But, you're not gonna find anythin' this late anyway," he shrugs, taking a small step backwards, "S'up to you, just sayin'."

The rhythmic tapping of your fingers against the steering wheel echoes within the car. Doubt creeps into your mind as you study him, and eventually, the faint, encouraging smile he returns draws a shaky exhale. With a slight nod, you kill the engine.

Logan - as you learn shortly after - is a rather simple man. The interior of his cabin is minimal, almost sterile in nature and devoid of any personal touches. Yet, the warmth of the fireplace bathes the space in a cozy, inviting light. Scattered beer bottles and a couple of well-worn paperbacks lay on the coffee table, along with a radio humming a smooth jazz tune. A vague scent of pine lingers in the air, mingling with the smokiness of the aged wooden beams crisscrossing the ceiling. Shockingly, there isn't a single festive ornament in sight unlike the heavily decorated neighbourhoods you drove through to get here. And honestly, the longer you spend in his company, the more questions arise.

"Quiet night in, huh?" you note, trailing after him.

"Usually how it goes," he replies with a huff, the muscles of his back straining against his flannel as he wheels your suitcase towards the single door at the end of the hallway.

"Oh. I can sleep on the couch, you don’t need to–"

Despite your protests, Logan gestures inside, stepping back for you to enter. "Take the bed, I'll be out there." And there's absolutely no room for a debate; the set of his jaw and the determined glint in his eyes make that painstakingly clear. Still, he can't contain his amusement as you open your mouth again. "Don't fight me on this, alright?" he adds, fixing you with a pointed gaze.

You hold eye contact for a few seconds, the intensity slowly melting your resistance. Reluctantly, you nod and he flicks a switch, a soothing glow casts over the room. The bed, with its crisp white sheets and a pleasantly startling number of pillows, seems so comfy you almost sigh in relief. "If you need anythin', just ask," he continues, hand hovering over the knob.

The door creaks behind him as you call out his name. Pausing his motion, he turns around, eyeing you with patient curiosity. Now, in proper lighting, you spot the flecks of green in his eyes, the perfectly tousled waves of his hair, and the incredibly soft beard you suddenly want to stroke. "Thank you," you rasp, your voice inexplicably thick with surprise.

Logan nods once with a tight-lipped smile. "My pleasure," he whispers, bidding you good night. A beat of silence passes, then the muffled sound of his footsteps receding down the hallway. Grumbling in confusion, you slide under the covers, the blanket enveloping you in a much-needed embrace.

Today was a bad day.

A truly awful, no-good, very bad day. Last night, when you'd impulsively booked this getaway, the possibility of handling flat tires and battling harsh weather only to end up at the wrong place, all because of some mix-up never crossed your mind. It seemed like the perfect escape, a chance to relax and enjoy the Christmas cheer, a well-deserved break from the months of stress and the endless workdays. Unfortunately, luck - the heartless bastard - had other plans. Logan, however, managed to salvage your spirits, at least a little, with his unexpected goodwill.

So maybe, today was a slightly less bad day.

The smoke alarm is moments from a full-blown wail. Logan curses under his breath, beads of sweat trickling down his temple. He'd only wanted to make a simple stack of pancakes, yet the kitchen remains a travesty and the once-promising batter now a charred mess on the griddle.

It's all unchartered territory, having someone over, much less a complete stranger. Save for the rare visit from his lumberjack buddies, which involves more beer than conversation, or the neighbourly kindness of Diane, the elderly woman who regularly presses homemade meals into his hands in exchange for mending broken fences or leaky pipes, he's never had any real company. And so, he doesn't exactly know what compelled him to wake up earlier than usual and rummage through the sparsely stocked shelves to whip up something decent.

Tossing a quick, and almost furtive glance down the hallway, the steady cadence of your breathing filters through the bedroom walls. Logan shakes his head, resignation twisting his lips. Unimpressed with his terrible attempt, he scrapes the burnt food into the trash.

A restless energy thrums beneath his skin, his mind consumed by a nervous current since he'd made the impulsive offer last night. Moving through the cabin like a man possessed, he rearranges the perfectly stacked firewood, dusts the already pristine surfaces, and even opens the refrigerator for the fourth time only to stare blankly at its contents, having gained nothing but a momentary distraction. He's sure the carpet is dented from the sheer number of times he's paced the same worn track, each turn drawing him closer to the bedroom, then away again.

The quietness is deafening for a couple of hours until the soft thumping of your footsteps quirks his ears. Logan stops fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers, then straightens his posture to lean against the kitchen counter.

The fading smell of something wrinkles your nose. "I didn't sleep through a forest fire or anything, right?" you mumble, rubbing your eyes tiredly with the back of your hand.

His eyes involuntarily flick towards the stove, and for a fleeting moment, a sheepish smile touches his lips. "Don't worry 'bout it," he says a little too quickly, "Sleep well?" The steam from his coffee curls upwards as he takes a slow sip.

"I did, and thank you for letting me stay. You didn't have to do that." He nods in response, trying to downplay the gesture.

A charged silence stretches between you, crackling with unspoken thoughts and lingering awkwardness. There's a brief and almost hesitant exchange of glances before you speak at the same time.

"I should get going then–"

"There's a diner nearby–"

Stopping abruptly, a slightly embarrassed chuckle escapes your lips, mirroring the faint grin that tugs at the corners of his mouth. The shared laughter dissipates some of the tension and the atmosphere becomes almost comfortable. Only a second passes before Logan tries again, the words tumbling out a little faster than he intends. "There's a diner nearby if you're hungry."

He doesn't know why he just said that - the thought hadn't been consciously formed at all. Though he feels this strange pull, this unexpected urge to prolong the conversation, a subtle plea for you to stay. He eyes you with barely concealed anticipation, awaiting your reaction with bated breath.

"Okay, I have to ask. What's with the severe lack of Christmas decor?"

Logan watches you swirl the last of your milkshake, the metal spoon clinking against the glass. The diner's fluorescent lights, while unforgiving to most, seem to soften as they trace the delicate curve of your jawline, highlighting the pale flush of your cheeks courtesy of the winter air. Leaning back against the worn leather of the booth, a small smile spreads across his face as he considers your question. His gaze sweeps over the room, noting the strings of twinkling lights haphazardly draped around the tables, the paper snowflakes dangling from the ceiling and a rather lopsided Christmas tree tucked next to the jukebox.

"S'not really my thing," he admits, a faint shrug lifting his broad shoulders.

"Not even a little?" you tease, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement, his smile widening just a fraction. "Never had a reason," he says with an almost offhand casualness. But the flicker of curiosity, or perhaps even the touch of concern, in your expression doesn't escape him. Logan catches the way your lips press together for a moment, a subtle sign of contemplation as you piece together the sparse details you'd gathered about him. Clearing his throat, he shifts slightly in his seat. "Why'd you pick this town?" he tries, changing the subject.

"It was the cheapest option. Or at least, in comparison."

He chuckles as you groan, "So this was all a spontaneous decision."

"Hey, it's my turn to ask!" you interject, raising a hand in mock protest.

"Wasn't a question," he retorts playfully.

Nearly two hours slip by with this back-and-forth, lighthearted volley of exchanges. The diner empties out slowly, the hectic energy subsiding into a quieter hum as the two of you settle into a pleasant rhythm, taking turns to ask questions. Most of them are silly, designed to elicit a laugh or a quick anecdote - but the tone shifts here and there, venturing into deeper waters. The laughter doesn't disappear entirely, but it's interspersed with moments of thoughtful silence and understanding.

"So, what do you actually do? You know, besides running this bed and breakfast thing?"

Shaking his head, Logan rolls his eyes at your joke. "Work down at the lumberyard just like the next guy 'round here," he says with a vague gesture. "And what do you actually do?" His voice mimicking the same teasing tone you'd used.

The slight downturn of your smile takes him aback. "Journalist." It comes out strained, almost clipped. "I cover a bit of everything - well, whatever my boss throws at me anyway." The last part is delivered with a small, forced chuckle and he can't help but notice the change in your demeanour, the way your shoulders stiffen or how your jaw tightens. And despite not being the cause of it, regret fills him immediately, a sharp pang of guilt that settles in his stomach.

"Sounds... rough."

"Exactly why I needed a break."

Logan understands, with a surprising clarity, that pity is the last thing you want. And so, he steers away from anything of that sort, discarding the sympathetic expression that involuntarily surfaces. "Too bad your plans went to shit, huh?" he offers bluntly, his eyes, however, soften in the slightest.

Something akin to gratefulness shines in your smile, "Tell me about it."

The diffused light of the morning sun seeps through the frosted panes of the bedroom window. You stir awake, still incredibly tired as the remnants of a restless night hover like a persistent fog. Logan's bed had generously provided warm company for hours as you scoured for new accommodations in the area. Of course, with the holiday season, the internet had proven a frustrating dead end, most places booked solid during this time of year. Sleeping in your car was starting to feel like the only option until you stumbled upon a listing for a small lodge on the outskirts of town that had become vacant due to a last-minute cancellation.

The relief had been immense, a great wave washing over you as you secured the reservation. But now, as you slowly surface from sleep, the memory of that frantic search lingers, a dull ache pressing behind your eyes. Stretching out your stiff limbs, you squint at the alarm clock on the bedside table, wincing slightly at the early hour. And despite exhaustion weighing you down, a sense of purpose pushes you out of bed.

The wheels of your suitcase rumble against the wooden floorboards as you emerge from the hallway. Logan stands by the large window, his back a dark silhouette against the stark white landscape beyond. His gaze locks onto yours instantly, a look of sympathy - tinged with wry amusement - softens his features. "Hate to break it to you, but–" he begins, gesturing outside with a tilt of his head.

"Wha– oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me!"

A thick layer of fresh snow blankets the ground. The pine trees, a deep green last night, now laden with a heavy dusting, branches drooping under the weight. The scene is undeniably perfect, picturesque even. But the beauty is utterly lost on you in that moment. Everything is covered with a pristine white expanse that stretches as far as the eye can see. And there's simply no way in hell you can step out without sinking knee-deep, much less move your car even an inch.

"Happened overnight," his voice calm against your rising irritation. "Weather guy said it'll last a few days." Logan senses your distress, the dejected slump of your posture drawing genuine concern. "Listen, don't worry 'bout stayin' here. I don't mind at all, okay?" His reassurance eases your worries by a fraction, the sincerity and sheer honesty in his tone dispelling any hesitation creeping in. "'m serious," he adds gently.

"Thank you... so much, Logan. Really," you manage, the words catching in your throat.

And you are. Deeply, and truly grateful. Your carefully laid plans once again derailed by something beyond your control. Yet, it could have been so much worse. Thanks to Logan's unwavering support, his willingness to welcome a stranger, you're not completely shelterless while the snowstorm continues. The idyllic Christmas getaway you envisioned withers into a distant mirage. But in this moment, surrounded by the warmth of his presence, this feels more than enough.

Hours pass as you drift into a well-deserved nap on the couch, the hushed murmur of the wind outside lulling you into a peaceful slumber. The quiet doesn't last. A sudden bang echoes through the cabin, jolting you awake. "The fuck–" you murmur, disoriented as you stand up. Frowning at the interruption, you pad towards the noise, and eventually, stop dead in your tracks. "Holy shit."

Snow dusts his hair and shoulders, clinging to the rough fabric of his denim jacket. Logan, cheeks flushed red from the cold, wrestles a decent-sized fir tree through the back door. And judging by his grunts, it's evidently too wide for the opening. "Good, you're up. Hold the door, would ya?" he grumbles, muscles flexing against its considerable weight as he inches it further and further inside.

Shock momentarily freezes you in place, but his request snaps you out of your stupor. Rushing forward, you push the door with all your strength, the hinges groaning as you force it open at an awkward angle. With a final, mighty heave and a muttered curse, he manages to carry it fully indoors.

"What... is this?" you ask bewildered. A flurry of snowflakes and pine needles spread onto the floor, the crisp scent of nature filling the space. It's a wild and untamed thing, the sight of it so random and yet, somewhat festive.

"S'clearly a tree."

He doesn't cower from your glare. "Yes, I know it's a tree. What's it doing in your living room?"

Logan pauses briefly, and you can’t quite decipher if the deepening flush on his cheeks is solely from the lingering chill or something else entirely. He avoids your direct gaze for a second. "Figured since you're stuck here, might as well decorate a little." A studied nonchalance masks his attitude as if lugging a six-foot tree into his cabin during a raging blizzard is the most normal thing in the world.

Stunned doesn't even begin to capture the whirlwind of emotions churning within. Logan had already opened his home to you, and now, he's gone to the trouble of dragging this laughably enormous tree inside, all in an effort to cheer you up. Something spreads through your chest in an almost overwhelming capacity and the air suddenly feels intimate. And expressing the full extent of your appreciation feels too vulnerable, so you deflect instead. "Thought it wasn't really your thing."

"Yeah well, 'm runnin' a bed and breakfast as you said. Gotta keep my only guest happy, right?" His smile nearly melts you. The effect immediate and surprisingly potent. One that speaks of pure kindness and his quiet, unassuming warmth. One that makes the absurdity of a giant tree propped in the middle of his living room not only reasonable, but somehow perfectly right.

"I'll make sure to leave a four-star rating."

"Four?"

"I know you burnt something yesterday."

The evening comes quickly and time flies, surprisingly so, as you and Logan get to decorating. The lack of traditional ornaments proves to be only a minor obstacle because with a little creativity, colourful ribbons from old packages become tinsel, pinecones transform into rustic baubles, and even a string of spare light bulbs is carefully wrapped around the branches.

A natural rhythm falls into place as you work. You talk about random things: childhood memories, neighbours, and his startling lack of Christmas movie knowledge - a revelation that elicits a gasp of mock horror. There are moments when you stand close, brushing fingertips as you reach for the same thing. A shared look lasts a fraction too long, a breath catches in quiet air before one of you shyly steps aside. And strangely, despite the unusual circumstances that brought you together, despite the fact that you're practically strangers, it feels easy.

Fuck.

The shovel bites into the heavy snow with a satisfying crunch, lifting a thick slab that Logan heaves to the side of Diane's driveway. Earlier, her voice, tinged with desperation, had come through the answering machine, asking if he could possibly clear the mess in exchange for a warm dinner. He'd readily agreed, a gesture so typical in weather like this. But, in the course of the call, he'd let slip that he wasn't alone. And Diane, ever the hospitable and nosy soul, immediately insisted that you join in too.

He keeps a steady and even pace, breath puffing out in small white clouds in the fresh afternoon air. The muscles in his arms and back strain beneath his jacket as he clears a path through the deep drifts. You stand nearby - supposedly helping - bundled in your warmest clothes.

He's about to tease you for your lack of contribution, the words practically forming on his lips, when something cold and wet hits the back of his neck. Whirling around sharply with a surprised expression, he finds you grinning. The evidence is clear: melting remains of a snowball cling to your gloved hands, while a few snowflakes adorn your hair, creating a delicate halo of white around your face. With a few quick swipes, the snow is brushed away, his gaze not straying from yours.

"Now that was a mistake, darlin'."

Before he can retaliate, you turn and bolt. It's a comical attempt at an escape, a sort of waddling run rather than a sprint. Within seconds, he gains distance and tackles you gently, sending you both tumbling into a soft pile of snow. Laughter bubbles up and then fades, leaving Logan staring down at you. Inches apart, noses almost touching. A strange energy hangs in the air, pulling him imperceptibly closer.

"You kids'll catch a cold playing in that!"

He huffs a laugh, the sound a little breathless, a little unsteady, before pushing himself up. "Don't worry Diane, 'm takin' real good care of her," he yells back, extending a hand towards you.

"I'm sure you are," she mutters to herself knowingly. "C'mon in, dinner's ready!"

The kitchen table groans under the weight of the food: a glistening roast chicken sits proudly in the center, surrounded by steaming bowls of creamy mashed potatoes, green beans and thick slices of homemade bread. Diane bustles around the table, refilling your plates, urging you to try the gravy, her face beaming with satisfaction.

She shifts her attention to you, asking about your life, your hobbies, your family. Logan catches himself staring more than once, a faint blush rising as he diverts his gaze to the food. But the pull is undeniable; his eyes keep returning, hooked as if by an invisible thread.

Dinner passes in a warm haze of hearty conversation and fond memories. "Is this your son?" you ask, carrying the dishes to the sink. A framed photograph rests on the bookshelf near the doorway. Light falls onto the glass, reflecting a gentle glow on the smiling faces within.

"Yes, my Charlie. Real sweetheart that boy, calls every week to check in. He works down in the city, busy as can be. I haven't seen him in... it must be nearly two years now." The lines around her eyes crinkle slightly as she dusts the picture. "But Logan's been a blessing, I tell you. Always there for me."

"Don't go spreadin' that 'round. Can't have people thinkin' I give out special treatment," he retorts playfully, leaning against the counter.

"Oh, I think everyone can see who you're sweet on."

Logan shifts slightly, his smile faltering at the comment. A redness creeps up his neck, betraying his composure as he steals a glance at your stunned expression. Clearing his throat a little rougher than normal, he turns abruptly to the front door. "Gonna get some firewood."

A gust of wind, sharp and sudden as a physical blow, smacks against him the moment he steps outside. He gathers a few logs, the rough bark scraping against his fingers, but his mind remains stubbornly elsewhere. As he retraces his steps to the front porch, the gentle lilt of Diane's voice filters through the walls: "Could you get the door, honey?"

The door swings inwards, and his breath hitches immediately. Suspended just inches above, dangling from a slender crimson ribbon, hangs a sprig of mistletoe, its pale berries gleaming. Your gaze follows his, an embarrassed chuckle slipping out. From somewhere behind, Diane hums, a sound that resonates with blatant intention. The weight of the firewood in his arms increases tenfold as he meets your eyes. He can’t quite decipher the expression in them – amusement, a hint of nervousness, and something else he can’t quite place. "You don't... have to–" he mumbles.

Then, your attention dips down to his lips, a fleeting glance that sends a jolt of electricity through his body, momentarily stilling his heartbeat. He feels frozen, every muscle taut, the firewood heavy and forgotten. But at the very last second, you turn your head and press a kiss to his cheek instead.

The cherry of his cigar burns a steady ember. He leans against the rough-hewn logs of his cabin wall, the wood pressing into his back. The ghost of your lips on his cheek persists, a phantom touch that caresses his skin long after you’ve moved away. Logan draws deeply on the cigar, the smoke winding upwards in wisps, obscuring the stars above. He's only known you for a few days. So how could this feeling, this unsettling, foreign tinge of exhilaration, possibly exist?

"Hey."

The single word, soft yet distinct in the quiet night, floats like a whispered secret. Darkness traces the lines of your face, casting delicate shadows that accentuate your features. "Hey."

"Aren't you cold?"

"Run pretty warm," he replies, smoke escaping his mouth as he takes another drag. "Sorry ‘bout Diane. She can get a little–"

"No. That's alright." With a slight, almost languid wave of your hand, you brush aside his apology. "She's quite fond of you," you whisper, accompanied by a subtle upturn of your lips.

Logan huffs lightly as the silence returns. The moonlight, filtered through the branches overhead, creates dappled patterns of light and shadow across the ground. “So,” he begins, his gaze locking onto yours, “this... everythin' you hoped for?”

"No." Your response is immediate. A small, genuine smile blossoms on your face at his reaction, sending a wave of unexpected warmth surging through his chest - a warmth that has nothing to do with the slowly burning cigar held loosely between his fingers. "It's better."

He fights hard to school his expression, to maintain a neutral facade, not wanting to reveal how much your simple happiness affects him. A furrow appears between your brows, and your lips part slightly as if you’re about to speak, then hesitate. "What're you thinkin'?" he asks gently.

"Work. I don't wanna go back," you confess. The heavy sigh that follows speaks volumes. "It's just... not what I thought it would be. It's not what I want anymore." The dejection in your voice is palpable, a sadness that makes him ache to reach out and offer comfort.

Logan sees the weariness etched on your face, the way your gaze drifts towards the dark silhouette of the distant mountains as if seeking solace in the vast landscape. "Then what's keepin' you there?" he wonders aloud, an instinctive pull bringing him a step closer.

You pause almost abruptly, the flow of conversation halting as if it hit an invisible wall. The soft vulnerability that had been present just moments before vanishes, replaced by a guardedness that makes him instantly regret his question. "I should get some rest."

“Wait–”

“Good night, Logan,” you mumble, the door clicking shut behind you.

Hi, Mr. Grinch!

Cindy Lou?! What are you doing up there?

I came to see you. No one should be alone on Christmas.

The scene plays along as you and Logan sit beside each other on the couch. He’d suggested the movie, feigning a sudden interest in Christmas classics. But you knew the real reason. The insistent buzz of work emails had been plaguing your phone all day, and he’d seen the way your eyes kept flicking down to the screen, the shadow of worry that clouded your features. This was his quiet way of offering respite - a gentle distraction.

The light from the television flashes across his profile, illuminating the strong line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. He seems completely absorbed by the movie, but a stillness in his posture tells you he’s not as engrossed as he pretends to be.

A wave of drowsiness washes over you, your eyelids fluttering closed and then snapping open again in a futile attempt to stay awake. But the warmth of the fire, the muted hum of the movie, and Logan's comforting presence prove too much to resist. Your head lolls to the side, almost of its own accord, finding a soft landing against his shoulder.

The sharp clatter of pots and pans colliding rouses you from sleep. Then, a savory blend of garlic, herbs, and something undeniably rich and tomatoey, wafts through the air. As you round the corner to investigate, your jaw drops.

There, stands Logan, putting the final touches on a scene that looks straight out of a romcom. A small, round table has been pulled away from the wall and positioned near the window. Candlelight dances on the polished wood surface, reflecting in the delicate glassware he’d clearly unearthed from some hidden corner of the cabin. Two steaming bowls of pasta sit on either side.

His head lifts as you appear, some kind of hopeful affection shimmering in his eyes much like the flames themselves. He quickly steps back from the table, as if caught in the act of some grand romantic gesture. The glow from your makeshift yet charmingly decorated Christmas tree in the living room spills into the kitchen. It’s all so carefully arranged, so thoughtfully put together, that it takes your breath away.

"What's all this?"

"Nothin' special... just thought it'd be nice. Christmas Eve n' all."

"I'm... impressed," you stammer nervously, but the sentiment feels inadequate on your tongue.

Logan ducks his head rather shyly - a small almost boyish action that flushes his rugged features. He then moves with a newfound purpose, reaching for the back of the chair closest to you and pulling it out in a smooth motion. And in that moment, there’s no world where you’d say no. The thought doesn’t even cross your mind.

The meal had been delicious, but it was the shared conversation, the easy laughter that truly filled you. "Maybe I'll have to bump you up to five stars."

"Hm, that so?"

"I said maybe."

He chuckles, holding your gaze for a beat longer before rising suddenly. Static bursts into the room as he fiddles with the radio, a brief, crackling intrusion before giving way to fragmented voices and snippets of music. He continues turning the dial until a slow melody emerges. Spinning around, Logan extends a hand towards you, his palm facing upwards in a clear invitation. "C'mon, trust me," he whispers.

Hesitantly, you grasp his fingers - his touch gentle and firm. As you draw closer, the scent of woodsmoke and his cologne crowd your lungs. The movement feels surprisingly natural as if you’ve danced a hundred times before.

"This is... the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

At your words, Logan’s hand tightens on your waist. The subtle change in his posture, the slight tilt of his head, the way his focus lies solely on you, steal any semblance of logic in your mind, replacing it with a dizzying rush of anticipation.

"Yeah? You deserve it," he murmurs back, his voice low and husky. "I like seein' you happy."

You make me happy. The words tremble on the tip of your tongue, daring to break free. The distance between your lips is almost nonexistent, a hair’s breadth separating you from the building tension. Time seems to slow, each second stretching into an eternity as you both lean in, the promise of a kiss hanging heavy in the air. You can almost taste him, a sweet ache swelling in your chest.

But the jarring tone of an emergency broadcast shatters the moment. “The severe snowstorm warning previously in effect for this region has now been lifted. A true Christmas miracle! Tomorrow will bring clear skies and–”

As you walk side-by-side along a beaten-down path through the mountains, the crisp breeze nipping at your cheeks, he steals glances at you, drinking in the sight of your joy. The moon paints the world in silver, mirroring the pure happiness that had been shining in your eyes. Logan had spent the day showing you around town: the local bakery, the family-owned bookstore. You’d even braved the icy air for a short walk along the frozen lake, nearly slipping until his quick reflexes caught you just in time.

He stops as the path opens up onto a breathtaking vista. The town below sprawls out like a miniature constellation, each house a tiny spark of light against the dark canvas of the valley. Strings of colourful lights crisscross the streets, weaving a tapestry of festive cheer. Logan watches you, a quiet satisfaction settling in his chest. He can see the awe etched on your face as you absorb all the details.

"What'd you think?"

"It's... beautiful," you exhale.

"Thought you'd like it." He shifts closer, subtle yet deliberate as his chest brushes lightly against your shoulder. A wildfire courses through his veins, temptation burning away his doubts. He’d wanted to kiss you - countless times. The impulse had been a constant undercurrent for days, a silent hum beneath the surface of every conversation, every shared look. Leaning in, breath warm against your ear, he whispers your name. "Tell me 'm not crazy. Tell me you don't want this and I'll stop."

"Cause darlin', 'm runnin' out of reasons why I shouldn't," he murmurs.

And then, you turn. The sweetness of your lips becomes almost intoxicating and unlike anything he ever imagined. Logan's hand trails up your side, mapping the curve of your waist. With a soft sigh, he dips his head further, deepening the kiss. All the pent-up tension comes crashing down as you pull away. It's a rush, a torrent that sweeps through him, rendering him breathless and nearly disoriented.

His thumb caresses your cheek, a silent plea that echoes the longing in his tone. "Don't... don't leave."

"Logan... I can't." His heart sinks. It’s not a dramatic plummet, but a slow, agonizing descent. Regret stings your eyes as his hand falls away.

"Why not? You're not happy workin' that job. Stay here, you'll find somethin'," he tries desperately.

"Stop. Please," you whisper, choked with emotion. "Let's just go back."

Heartache keeps Logan tossing and turning all night. Sleep had offered no escape, only a relentless replay of yesterday's conversation. His eyes burn, gritty and heavy as he pushes himself up on his elbows. But a strange unease stirs in his gut. He can't sense your presence. The air feels empty, lacking your familiar warmth and energy.

Panic flares in his mind. Did he push you away? Did you leave in the middle of the night? A cold dread grips his heart. He throws the blanket off, feet hitting the cold wooden floor with a thud.

Nausea rolls over him. A hollow ache in the pit of his stomach inches through his entire body. His hands tremble as he rakes them through his hair, breath catching in his throat. He’s about to give in to the rising despair, the crushing weight of believing you’re gone when a faint scent drifts in through the slightly open window. Relief knocks him hard, so intense his knees almost buckle.

"Fuck, I thought–" he starts, heading towards you.

"I quit."

Logan freezes, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?"

"I quit my job." The corners of your mouth curve into a smile, and his heart leaps at the sight. "Running out of reasons why I shouldn't," you chuckle softly, fingers lacing together at the nape of his neck, the touch sending a shiver down his spine. "But next year, we're getting real decorations," you add playfully, and he grins.

"I'll buy some today, sweetheart."

921 notes · View notes

sanguineterrain · 11 days ago

Text

holiday spirit | jason todd

Summary: Stuck at a shitty office party for your shitty job on Christmas Eve Eve, you’re at your wit’s end. The last thing you expect is to play vigilante for a night with the Red Hood.

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings/tags: panic attacks, reader has anxiety, creepy coworkers, office party shenanigans, canon-typical violence, jason being both a menace and a sweetheart, attempts at humor, fake relationship, silliness!

the divider

You’re grateful for a reason to escape. Someone announces that the lights on the obnoxious eleven-foot Christmas tree are burned out and you’re already on the elevator, volunteering to find spare lights.

You hate these office parties. They’re just a way to play politics, show off fiancés, and reaffirm cliques. You wanted to skip it all together. But Mr. Emerson, your boss, had insisted that attending tonight’s party was mandatory.

Alma had told you about a hundred times to skip tonight, but Alma’s worked here since the Reagan administration and has too much pull to be fired. You, conversely, have been here eight months, and if you get fired, your next job is going to be as a henchman for a B-list Gotham villain.

Being painfully ordinary and anxious is a toxic mix. Your doctor still thinks all your worrying is because of your menstrual cycle. He doesn’t believe in work-related stress.

So anyway. You’re just trying to get through tonight. And find some tree lights that work.

You unlock the spare office where all the holiday junk is stored and turn on the light.

The motherfucking Red Hood looks at you, one leg dangling outside of the window and one leg inside the office. He unclicks his harness.

"Oh my God,” you say, hand frozen on the light switch.

Red Hood pulls his leg in from the window and steps into the office. He puts the harness in a duffel bag and roughly zips it, then tosses it unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Oh my God.”

He glances at you, helmet eyes glowing. "No God here, just me.”

"Oh my God," you say again, near hysterics. "Oh my God, Red Hood."

"Always nice to meet a fan," he says irritably, brushing snow off of his jacket, flashing his holsters. Oh, fuck. That's a lot of guns.

"What, um—" You close your eyes, lick your lips, try to find your sanity. "To what do I—why—are you gonna kill me?”

"The fuck? You think I'd sneak into an office and kill someone in cold blood? What kinda operation you think I'm running?"

Your mouth opens and closes in horror. "Wh–I... I don't—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, Mr. Hood."

"Please, Mr. Hood was my father."

He laughs. You taste bile in your throat.

Hood sobers. "Damn. Tough crowd. Look, sorry to freak you out, but I got shit to do. If you'll just point me to Hershel Emerson's office, I'll be on my merry way."

"That's m-my boss. Are you gonna kill him?" You can’t handle murder tonight. You’ll have a breakdown for sure.

"Literally, what did I just say?" Hood throws his hands up. "Not one minute ago. I'm not killing anyone!"

"Yet?" you ask weakly, mind inundated with too many mob movies to watch your manners. You know what the Red Hood is all about. Everyone does.

"No. I'm not killing Emerson. But he is a bad dude, so I gotta take care of business. Actually, I should kill him. He deserves it."

You squeak in horror. He raises a hand.

"But I'm not!" he says gruffly. "Respectfully, get a grip. You live in Gotham."

You swallow. "What're you gonna do to my boss if not kill him?"

Hood shrugs. "Eh, maybe scare him a bit. Mostly get intel to take him down. He's currently sitting on five million dollars of stolen life savings from clients."

You blink. "What?"

"Yup. What I really wanna know is which of his employees are in on it. He didn't do this alone."

Hood takes out a small roll-up pouch of what looks like lockpicking tools. You release your sweaty death grip on the doorknob, causing it to squeak. Hood doesn't look up.

five million dollars is ringing in your head. That happened here. Where you work. Your boss is even scummier than you thought.

“Is that a lockpicking kit?” you ask.

“Yup. Good eye.”

"This seems... illegal.”

"Well, I won't lie to you, most of what I do is. You won't be implicated though.”

He looks at you. You flinch. Even with the lights on, the Red Hood is scary as shit.

"Yeah..." he says, shaking his head. "You wouldn’t do well in prison. I can tell."

Your chest hurts. "I don't think anyone does well in prison," you say, eyebrows scrunching. "Have... you been to prison?"

"Only to break out a friend. You ask a lot of questions."

"Sorry. Um, Mr. Red Hood—"

"Ah-ah. Call me Red. Or Hood. No Mister-ing."

"Okay.” You lick your lips, hoping he doesn't go back on his temporary no-kill policy. “Hood, do you think you could come later? After the Christmas party?”

He tilts his head at you. You keep talking.

“Not that I don't admire what you're doing! Because I think taking down my boss for stealing money is great, eat the rich and all that, but, um, I came up here to get lights to replace the ones that burned out downstairs because that's a normal thing that happens and now you're here, at my job, and I'm freaking out. Oh God, oh my God—”

You grab the wall for stability, feeling like you've been rocking on a boat for hours. Sweat beads on your forehead. This time, you really do feel like you’ll throw up. Throwing up in front of the Red Hood would be humiliating.

“Look, I got shit to do, okay? I'm sorry you're freaking out but your boss is gonna cash out in a few days and then I lose him and that five million. It's now or never."

You should've just stayed home and baked cookies. Fuck being social! This is what happens when you're social: you meet morally gray vigilantes who force you to be complicit with their crimes.

Your cheeks feel wet. Are you crying? Maybe it’s sweat.

Hood points to the hallway. "Is there a camera outside?"

"Y-yeah.” Your voice is weak. “I think I’m having a heart attack. Can you call security on your way out?"

“Does your left arm hurt?”

“No, but—”

“Are your limbs stiffening?”

“No, but—”

“You’re not having a heart attack. Your speech is fine.”

Hood takes out a few more things from the duffel, then kicks it under a desk with his foot. You wheeze and grab onto the doorknob again.

It’s quiet for a second. Then—

“Shit. You're having a panic attack,” Hood says.

"Mm, probably," you say, hunched over like an armadillo. Fuck your stupid doctor.

There's silence as you wheeze quietly. Then something small hits your head. You flinch and squeal.

"You don't need to throw things at me!" you say, beyond defeated, near tears.

"No, I wasn't—sorry. It's a Warhead. I have one when I'm feeling… not my best. They're s’posed to help occupy your other senses so the panic disappears."

You stare at the candy, confused and suspicious at once. "Is it spiked?"

"Again, what sorta operation do you think I'm running? It's not drugs. Look." Hood unwraps a Warhead and sticks it in his mouth underneath his helmet. You hear him suck on it. "Eesh, that's sour. Okay? No drugs."

So you take the candy from the floor, unwrap it, and pop it into your mouth. The sour taste immediately overwhelms you. It's like your brain resets. You pant through the sour.

"Ough," you say, face scrunching from the taste.

"Yeah, right? Life changing hack."

You suck on the candy desperately and close your eyes, trying to find your breath.

“It’s okay,” Hood says, stilted and awkward. “Just, uh, focus on your breathing. Exhale longer than you inhale. Breathe through your nose.”

It takes another few minutes, but the feeling passes. Your chest lightens. It’s the quickest you’ve ever recovered from a panic attack.

“I was just kidding about the prison thing,” Hood says. “You’re not gonna go to jail ‘cause of this, I promise.”

Yeah, but what if you lose your job?

You spit the Warhead into a trash can and smack your tongue a bit. “Are you sure you can’t come back tomorrow night?”

“No can do,” Hood says. “Your boss will be gone by then.”

“It's just that I'm really bad with keeping secrets and according to Google, that's how ulcers form and I really can't afford any sick days off, so—"

You yelp as the door suddenly swings open, hitting your shoulder. You spin around.

"Hey," Bill says, squinting at you. "Where have you been?”

"No!" you yell, and turn off the light.

Bill stares at you, illuminated by the hallway light. “Uh…”

You clear your throat. "Ahem. I'm fine. It's just taking me a moment to sift through all these decorations. Please return to the party.”

You hate Bill. He’s a sleaze and doesn’t do any work. More than once, he’s trapped you by the water cooler in a conversation about his “smokin’” imaginary lawyer girlfriend.

“If you wanted me to come help you, you could've just said so," he says, reaching for the light, way too close. You don’t like his tone either.

"No!" you yell, blocking the light switch with your hands.

"What the hell? Why not?"

"Because—"

There's a creak from the back. You wince.

Bill immediately whips his head toward the sound. "Is someone here? Hello?"

He reaches for the light. Again, you block him, swatting his hands away.

"Would you stop—is someone here?"

"My boyfriend!" you blurt.

Bill stops, looking at you. "Your boyfriend? You've never mentioned a boyfriend."

"Well, I have one and he's here."

"Okay. Why can't I turn on the light and see him?"

"Because he's... um..."

You spot the red Santa suit out of the corner of your eye.

Oh, this is a terrible idea.

"He's changing! He's our Santa for the party. Surprise!" You make weak jazz hands.

Bill looks into the dark where you're pretty sure Hood is hiding. You hope, anyway. Otherwise Bill is going to tell everyone that you're making up boyfriends. "Really?"

"Yeah, really," comes Hood's unmodulated, deadpan reply, and you jump. "Don't turn on the light. I'm naked."

"Oh..." Bill looks queasy for a moment. "Uh—" He looks at you and suddenly grins. "Oh, I get it. You two were having fun before going to the party, huh? Didn't know you were such a wildcat."

"That’s disgusting,” you say. “I would never do that in the office.”

Bill wiggles his eyebrows. "Me-ow. Does the Santa thing turn you on?"

"I'm right here, Bill, and naked or not, I'll kick your ass," Hood says.

Bill pales and quickly backs out of the room. "Right. Sorry. Uh, carry on."

He closes the door. You push your back against it and exhale, heart racing.

"Bill is a shithead," Hood says.

“How… do you know his name?”

“Employee background check,” Hood says mildly.

"Oh… yeah, he's been written up a bunch of times for inappropriate behavior, but he's close with Emerson, so he never gets fired."

"Want me to kill him for you? Free of charge."

"What? No! Hood—"

"Oh, relax. I was kidding."

"Uh-huh." You turn on the light. Hood has his helmet on, and his voice is modulated again. "What're we gonna do?"

"Well, I'm gonna go make sure Hershel doesn’t fuck off to Bermuda. The lights you wanted are here, by the way."

Hood tosses you a box of multi-colored tree lights. Then he walks toward you. You plaster yourself across the door.

"Wait! You can't leave. I said that my boyfriend is going to be Santa. Bill will tell everyone. They’ll expect you.”

"I appreciate your quick thinking, but that's a hard pass,” Hood says.

"You can't leave now! Bill's gonna tell everyone I'm a liar and they'll think I was up to something worse in here, like snorting coke."

"I mean this gently: I think you should look into anti-anxiety meds. My brother swears by Xanax.”

“My doctor won’t prescribe it to me,” you say glumly. “He thinks my anxiety is made up.”

“Huh. Want me to kill him? I know a better doctor.”

"Well…” You hesitate, then shake your head. “No! No. Hood, please. They’re all gonna expect a Santa. And when I don’t show up with Santa, they’ll remember that I didn’t participate in White Elephant or any of that other office nonsense that I don’t want to waste my money on. I need this job!”

“They’re not gonna fire you for not doing White Elephant,” Hood says.

“You don’t know them! It’s a popularity contest.”

But Hood is indeed disinterested in the fact that you'll be the office pariah. Probably because he’s never worked in an office.

Instead, he ushers you aside without a struggle. Then he turns the doorknob.

"Wait! Wait, listen. If you dress as Santa, you'll have access to the party and offices. You won't have to sneak around. And people get really drunk at these. They'll talk. You can figure out who's helping Emerson steal money."

His hand pauses. He looks at you. You look back, wringing your hands.

"You're pretty crafty," he says.

"...Thanks?”

Hood releases the doorknob. "Alright, fine. I'll do the Santa shtick.”

“You will?”

He tilts his head. “Should I not?”

“No! No, you should. It’ll be a good disguise.”

He hums. “Sure. But we're in this together now, got it? You blow my cover and we both go down."

"Y-yeah, got it."

Hood heaves a gusty sigh. "Next time, I'm sending Roy in to do this shit."

"Who's Roy?"

"Ah." He holds up a finger. "Too many questions."

He makes a beeline for the Santa costume and then looks at you expectantly.

"Yo. Boyfriend or not, you're not watching me change. Guard the door, Mrs. Claus."

"Oh, right. Sorry."

You turn off the light and go into the hall, shutting the door behind you. It's empty, luckily. You rap your fingers on the box of lights, leg jiggling.

This is insane. You should just tell Hood you can't do this and let him figure out his own plan.

But then... this would make it easier to find Emerson's crime partner. And you're really sick of Bill being a jerk. You don’t want to be called a liar, or get iced out for the rest of your time here because you didn’t bring Santa. Maybe having Hood be your Santa-boyfriend would make people leave you alone. Which is a crazy reason to stick to this plan, but still. You're trying to find the bright side.

And all those people that Emerson stole from... surely, you have a responsibility to help get their money back and bring him to justice, don't you?

The door swings open. You turn around.

“You wear a mask under your helmet?”

“As a precaution.” He sounds defensive. “Lots of people in my profession do it.”

You doubt that. “Don’t you think it’ll be weird if Santa has a mask on?”

He hesitates, evidently debating between protecting his identity and arousing suspicion.

“Fine.” He carefully peels off the mask and tucks it into his pocket. The surrounding skin is slightly pink from irritation. His nose and cheeks are dotted with freckles.

And wow. The Red Hood has beautiful eyes. So vibrant and clear, like seafoam. And young! How old is he, anyway? He doesn’t look much older than you, if at all.

His eyes are framed by thick, dark lashes, and it makes sense, Hood being a brunet.

“What?” he snaps, glaring.

“Nice eyes,” you blurt.

His brows furrow. You remember the guns.

“Um, anyway. Should we go?” you squeak out, backing away.

Hood huffs through the beard. It flutters. "We need to have some ground rules."

"Okay."

"First, you should know that I will shoot if there's a physical threat at this party. Two, you're gonna call me Todd at the party. Three, if you try to tell anyone that I'm Red Hood or that I'm taking down Emerson, I will make your life hell. And if you're his partner, you'd better tell me now or I'm gonna be a lot less jolly."

"I'm not!" you say. "I would never do that. And I won't tell anyone you're Red Hood."

"Good. Let's go. Keep your ears open for hints about Emerson's partner."

He takes off in long strides. You hurry to keep up. The Santa costume doesn't slow him down.

"So how did you find out that Emerson's stealing?" you ask.

"Got a tip. You really didn't know he was stealing?"

“I don’t have access to the finances. I work in user interface. Website design.”

"Yeah? That's pretty cool. I got a brother who's into that stuff," Hood says.

"The same one who takes Xanax?”

“Would you believe it?”

You try to picture Red Hood with a regular family. With a brother or a sister or a father. It's hard to imagine.

“How come you don’t take anti-anxiety medication?” you ask.

“I have Pit Madness Syndrome, and it has a weird chemical reaction with that stuff.”

“Oh.” Subject change. Quickly! "Do you celebrate Christmas?"

"Not really. I'm not a believer or celebrator of much. You can see what my plans are two days before Christmas."

"Your family doesn't celebrate?"

Hood just grunts, eyes suddenly stormy. You take the hint and stop talking.

The room where the party is isn't particularly special. It's big enough to fit about a hundred people. For all the money the company makes, you'd thought that they could afford to splurge a little and rent an actual hall. Now you know what the profits have been going toward. But the decorations are decently lavish.

"Oh, wait." Hood leans in to speak in your ear. Lightning shoots down your spine. "I don't know your name."

You give it. He repeats it, and you shiver, like your boyfriend just said your name.

"'Kay. Stay in this room. We don't know how much Emerson or his partner knows, but assume they’re willing to do anything to get away with the money."

You nod. “Got it.”

“Hey, it’s Santa!” Bill shouts from across the room. “He made it!”

You smile tightly. “As promised.”

A few people wave. Others cheer.

“These people really like Christmas, huh?” Hood asks.

“You have no idea,” you say, hyperaware of his hand brushing your back.

“Don’t think I got your name, man,” Bill says as he approaches. He sticks a hand out. “Bill.”

“Todd,” Hood says, taking his hand and shaking. Bill winces at the handshake. You hide a smile.

“Ah, Todd. Right.” Bill looks at you, trying to subtly soothe his hand. “You’ve never mentioned him.”

You shrug. “Never came up.”

“I’m pretty private,” Hood says, putting an arm around your shoulders. “But we’re very much in love. Ain’t that right, baby?”

“Th-that’s right… honey,” you say, face going hot.

“So what do you do for work?” Bill asks. “My girlfriend’s a lawyer.”

You roll your eyes. Hood snorts.

“There’s no way you’re dating anyone. You look like you got dressed in the dark, Billy.”

You cough your laugh into your arm. Bill’s eye twitches.

“Enjoy the party,” he says icily. He glares at you, then stomps away.

“That was amazing, but I think Bill might retaliate,” you say.

“Don’t worry ‘bout him,” Hood says. “I’ll take care of it.”

You look at him with big eyes. “Hood—”

“Not like that. Just… it’ll be handled. Okay?”

You nod. Maybe it’s insane, but you trust him. “Okay. Want some punch?”

Hood hums. “No alcohol. Thanks.”

You go to the punch bowl, a little relieved to escape Hood’s piercing ocean-eyed stare. He’s intense. Whoever dates him for real is in for a ride.

Then again, you can’t imagine Hood meeting someone for coffee or dinner. You giggle at the image of him showing up with his guns and helmet.

“Hey, IT.” A woman in a white sweater you’ve seen maybe once waves at you. “Cool idea, bringing a Santa.”

“Yeah, Emerson’s too cheap to,” the man next to her says. They laugh.

You smile. “Glad you like it.”

You serve yourself two cups of the alcohol-free punch. Then you turn.

Your smile falls. Across the room is Hood and Tanya Donaldson, resident shit-stirrer. She’s trying to cozy up to him. You sigh and walk over, bracing yourself.

“Hey, baby,” Hood says, practically dragging you into his side. He takes a cup of punch. “Just met Tanya.”

You can guess exactly how he feels about that.

"Oh, is he your boyfriend?" Tanya asks, eyeing Hood like he's a slab of steak. “I had no idea!”

"Uh-huh," you say. "This is Todd."

She wiggles her fingers, grinning. “So how often do you go to the gym, Todd?” She rests a hand on Hood's arm. "I didn't know Santa was so big and broad."

Your gaze drifts to where you're pretty sure Hood has a gun strapped to his ankle, and the temptation does appear, you won't deny.

But you need this job and it's going to be really hard to explain why Santa's armed and dangerous, so you just grit your teeth. Tanya's the worst for this kind of behavior and she doesn't respect you, so bringing your hunky boyfriend is like dangling a bunch of carrots in her face.

And it’s not like Todd is actually your boyfriend.

"Are you flirting with me in front of my girlfriend?" Hood asks, prying her hand off of his arm.

"Flirting?" She claps a hand over her mouth, the movement slightly delayed from all the wine. "No, oh my God! I was just saying—"

"That's really pathetic," Hood says. "Don't do that."

He walks away and you follow, leaving a wobbly Tanya on her own. You smile to yourself.

"Thank you for that," you say.

Hood gives you a thumbs up. "I can plant evidence on her and get her fired if you want."

"No, I don't want to feel damned for eternity. Thanks anyway."

"You have a lot of assholes at your job," Hood says. "But you're not one. I admire that.”

You sigh. "They're not all bad. Alma is cool. She keeps me from quitting.”

"And where is she?"

"At home. She's a sixty-two year old accountant who doesn't care about these parties. Her hip aches when it's cold."

"Mm. Maybe you should follow her lead," Hood says.

"But then who would help you with your spycraft, Hood?"

He allows himself a tiny laugh at that. You wonder how often he laughs. If ever.

“Well, suffering Tanya wasn’t in vain. She said this whole party cost twenty grand.”

“So?”

He gestures grandly. “Does this look like it cost twenty grand to put this together?”

It's true. The alcohol is the most expensive thing here. No food, except for some people that participated in the potluck, but you don't trust anybody's food here. The decorations are old. Not to mention the Red Hood as your Santa. Your boss might have spared a thousand for tonight. No more.

“So where did all that money go?” you ask.

Hood snaps his fingers. “Bingo.”

“That is so shitty. I got a chocolate-covered pretzel as my Christmas bonus,” you say.

“A bag of ‘em?” He shakes his head. “Pretty cheap.”

“Ha, no. No, I got one big pretzel. In a box. The box cost more than the pretzel, I think.”

His eyes widen. “Jesus. Even I give more than that to my guys.”

“Got any openings?” you ask, half-joking.

Hood snorts. “Don't think you'd like what we do. Why d’you stay?”

You shrug. “Nowhere else to go. I have to eat somehow.”

“Crappy boss, crappy coworkers, no Christmas bonus. Hell, I feel sorry for ya.”

The Red Hood feels sorry for you. Perhaps you've reached a new low.

He drinks the punch and coughs. “Ahem, wow. Did you make the punch?”

“No, some people mixed it here.”

“Oh, then I'll be honest. Tastes like a flavor that's not found in nature.” He throws his cup away. You trust him and set your still-full cup on a table.

“I won't even mention the potluck,” you say.

“Yeesh. Can't eat at everyone's house.”

“That's what I say!”

He winks at you. You look away, flustered.

The crazy thing is, you could get used to this. Well, not specifically Red Hood, but having a boyfriend to bring to these functions, who’ll warn you against gross punch and defend you against Tanya.

And Hood is surprisingly good at this. If you forget the past hour, you can almost pretend that this is just another office party that you happen to be spending with your new boyfriend.

"Hey, look! It's Santa! Dude, check me out with Santa!"

One of the finance guys who's very drunk—you want to say that his name is Matt—bounds up to you and Hood. Hood tenses, reaching for his hip (gun!) and you touch his elbow, reminding him to relax. He drops his arm.

Matt reeks of alcohol, the front of his shirt stained with bourbon. He laughs, forehead shiny with sweat.

"Santaaa, hey, Saint Nick, take a pic with me, man!"

Matt throws his arms around Hood. Hood does not like that and shoves him off accordingly. But Matt doesn't seem to notice and holds up his phone, camera facing front. Hood slaps the phone out of his hand.

"No pictures," he says.

You wince. The guy stares and blinks, taking three to five business days to process what just happened.

"What the fuck, man? That was my phone!"

"Sorry. I'm drunk." Hood sighs like he's physically in pain, then leans back and makes drinking motions with his fingers. "Fuckin' wasted! Did you try those rum shots? Lit, dude!"

The guy cheers up, forgetting all about the phone. "Oh, yeah, for sure! I'm gonna go get one right now! Thanks, Santa!"

"You do that!" Hood says cheerily.

As soon as the guy leaves, Hood returns to his resting scary face.

"Wow," you say.

"I know. I threw up in my mouth a little."

You laugh. Hood grins. Then it fades.

"Damn it. We're getting no closer to finding Emerson's partner. I should just interrogate Emerson until he tells me."

Interrogate makes you feel woozy. You're pretty sure you know what Hood's idea of an interrogation is.

"Wait! We just need to lure them out. If they think their money might be in jeopardy, they'll sneak out of the party to go check on it, right?" you ask.

"Potentially, yes. But how do we lure 'em?"

"There's an alert if someone withdraws more than ten thousand dollars from the company. But I don't have access to the accounts," you say.

Hood smiles slowly. "You don't need it. Remember I mentioned my computer whiz brother?"

"Yeah…” You grimace. “This sounds illegal again.”

"Hell yeah it is. He owes me a favor too. Lemme call him."

You two go off to the side while Hood dials.

"Yeah?" comes a voice on the other end. He doesn’t sound at all like Hood, more like a one percenter from the Diamond District. This is Hood’s brother?

"Aliases only. I need you to withdraw fifty grand from Emerson Corp,” Hood says.

"Why?”

“‘Cause you owe me a favor. Just do it.”

“Zombie breath.”

“Shortass,” Hood says, voice taking on a distinct older brother tone.

“You’re such an asshole,” the voice says. He yawns. “B’s wondering if you’re coming tomorrow.”

“I’d rather die again,” Hood says. “And you can tell him I said that.”

“The broody emo bullshit is getting old, dude,” the voice says.

You giggle. Hood looks at you sharply. You press your lips together, properly chastened. Sorry, you mouth.

"Who's that?" the voice asks.

"No one," Hood says. "Did you do it?"

"Chill out. I'm getting past their firewall. So who is that?”

“It’s the TV,” Hood says.

“No, it’s not. That was a lady's laugh, IRL. And you wouldn’t lie if it was someone we know…”

“Mind your damn—”

“I’m helping him with a case,” you blurt.

Hood throws his hand up, glaring at you. It’s silent on the other end of the phone for a solid ten seconds. Then…

“Holy shit,” Hood’s brother says. “You do have a girlfriend. Wait. Hold on. This is wild. You don’t even have a social security number.”

“I do not have a girlfriend!” Hood snaps, drawing the attention of some coworkers. You nudge him. He exhales through his nose.

“I don’t have a girlfriend, you little fucker,” he says, quieter. “She’s telling the truth.”

“Can I ask your girlfriend a question? Respectfully, what were you thinking? You can do so much b—”

“Text me when it’s done,” Hood growls and hangs up.

You look at each other for a moment.

“You didn't hear any of that,” Hood says. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good. Let's see who gets scared. He should do it right about…”

His phone beeps. You look around the room.

Soon, your culprit reveals himself. Matt!

Holy shit.

"He didn't want a picture," Hood says slowly. "He was frisking me! Motherfucker."

"But isn't he drunk?" you ask.

"No." Hood sighs in disgust. "How did I miss that? Br—someone I know does that all the time, spilling alcohol on himself so he smells like he's been drinking. God. Oldest trick in the book!"

"Do you think he knows you're the Red Hood?"

"No. But he might suspect something. Let's go.”

You follow Matt out of the party. He's walking fast. Yeah. Definitely your guy.

Down the hallway, Matt turns around and makes direct eye contact with you. You panic.

“Hood!” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “Follow my lead.”

Loudly, he laughs and puts an arm around your waist. “C’mon, baby, no one’ll know.”

And then you're being herded into a janitor’s closet.

You stumble in, confused and reeling from how easily Hood plays the affectionate boyfriend role. He follows you in, shuts the door, and pulls the chain dangling from the ceiling. The single light bulb turns on.

You take care to not knock over any cleaning supplies. You don't see the mop on the floor, however, and you trip backwards on the handle.

Hood's reaction time is impeccable. He jerks forward to catch you, tugging you back on your feet with his hands on your arms.

“Y’alright?” he asks.

“Uh-huh,” you say, mildly mortified. “Thanks.”

He lets go. You shift on your feet.

“How long are we gonna stay here?” you ask.

Hood checks his phone. “Well, he should've moved on by now. Let's—”

The doorknob jiggles. You look at Hood in fear. His expression is similar.

“Pretend!” you whisper, and that's all he needs to understand and move.

You're expecting your arms around Hood, maybe exaggeratedly feeling him up. You are not expecting Hood to hoist you up by the backs of your thighs and press you against the wall. You squeal, arms shooting out to hold onto his neck. Hood's beard ends up in your mouth and you spit it out.

The door swings open, revealing a very tipsy couple.

“Oops!” the woman says, grinning. “Sorry. Carry on.”

The guy gives a thumbs-up. “True love.”

You smile awkwardly. Something is pressing into your hip.

“True love,” Hood deadpans. “Rock on.”

As soon as the door closes, you're squirming.

“What is that?” you hiss.

“My gun! Oh my God, it's my gun,” Hood says, quickly setting you down. “It's not…”

He trails off and backs away. You stand there, processing what just happened.

“That wasn’t—”

“I didn’t—”

You both stop. Hood adjusts his beard.

“You're really strong,” you say, wringing your hands.

Hood nods. “Sorry about the, uh…”

“Yeah, let's just not talk about this.”

“Yup. Find Matt?”

“Absolutely.”

You open the door and peek out. The hallway is empty. Glory be.

“All clear,” you say, and Hood is on your heels as you sneak out.

“Any ideas on where he'd go?” Hood asks.

“Matt works in a cubicle like the rest of us. Emerson’s office is on the twelfth floor.”

“Fine. We'll hit Emerson's office first. More privacy, and maybe they'll both be there. Two birds.”

“Emerson's office is protected by a password lock. He changes it every night,” you say, scurrying to keep up with Hood.

“That's fine. I got a key right here,” he says, patting his holster.

“Wait! If the lock is tampered with, it sets off an alarm and security will come. You can't shoot it, Hood.”

He stops and sighs. “Why is everything so goddamn complicated? Alright, new plan. I'm gonna get my stuff from where we were and I'll break in the old-fashioned way.”

Fifteen Minutes Later.

“This seems really unsafe!” you say, watching Hood dangle outside a three story window on a wire. He's attached to a grappling hook but still. Still!

“Eh, I died once. Didn't stick. Hold the hook.”

“I am!” As if you'd do anything but. You don't want the Red Hood to become Red Goo.

Chilly December wind makes your eyes water and your nose cold. Still, you hold on.

“Almost there!” he says.

“Hey! What're you doing?”

You whirl around and close your eyes due to the flashlight shining at them. Even though the lights are on.

An elderly security guard glares at you. It's a good thing you're not an actual criminal… though after tonight, you're not so sure.

“Um.” You try to hold onto the hook while hiding it behind your back. “Bird watching?”

The guard turns off the flashlight and tucks it into his belt. He slowly walks to you.

“If you're doing something illegal, Miss, you're in big trouble.”

Well, this is fantastic. Of course it would be you that gets caught.

The guard is getting closer. Your grip is sweaty. He peers over your shoulder. You let go of the hook, praying to every spirit out there that Hood is as good as everyone says he is.

The guard looks around and scratches his head. You shrug, heart in your throat.

“See?” you say. “Bird watching.”

He frowns at you. “I've got my eye on you.”

“And I commend you for that.”

“Are you sassing me?”

Are you? You might be. You've been spending too much time with Hood.

Hood! You turn and look out the window. You don't see any red goo below, but it's also cold and foggy. Shit. You hurry to the elevators.

“Okay, happy holidays, bye!”

The elevator doors open. You press twelve and close the door before the guard can consider getting on with you and shooting you a hairy eyeball all the way down.

You hurry out and run down to Emerson's office. The door has been left ajar, which is good, right?

Bang!

You throw yourself against the wall. Shit. Maybe not.

Ugh, you told Hood no shooting! Son of a bitch.

“We're doing this tonight!” That's Emerson's voice. “I don't care if I have to shoot my way out.”

Shoot? Oh no.

You carefully peek through the crack. Hood is standing with his hands behind his head. His beard has blood in it. Emerson is in front of him, gun to his head.

Hood catches your eye. He gives you the tiniest head shake. You swallow.

You can't just leave him there.

Okay. Think. Emerson's back is to you. You can't see Matt, but you figure he's far enough away to not immediately shoot you. Hopefully.

Anyway, what's your other option? The feisty relic upstairs? You can't risk any civilians getting hurt.

Technically you're also a civilian but not tonight. Tonight you might as well be Batman.

You slowly pull the door open further. You sneak in, then hide behind the secretary's desk.

“Is it done?” Emerson snaps.

That's when you see Matt in the corner on a laptop.

“It takes time,” Matt says, obviously stressed too.

“Well, hurry up!” Emerson looks at Hood. “Then we'll dispose of Santa here.”

Hood shrugs. “You can certainly try. Many have. ‘M still here.”

“Lots of bravado for a man in a costume,” Emerson sneers. “What are you, police?”

Hood groans. “As fucking if! I'm not a cop.”

He hums. “Perhaps not. Otherwise this place would be crawling with them already. But you're alone.”

“How d'you know I'm alone?” Hood asks.

You're glad he's calm because you're feeling the beginnings of another panic attack. But you can't panic, not now. The adrenaline pulsing through you is the only thing keeping you from going catatonic.

You have no weapon, no plan. How the hell are you supposed to help Hood?

“You're bluffing,” Emerson says.

“He has a girlfriend,” Matt says. “Some IT girl. She might come looking for him.”

“Then we'll take care of her too.”

Matt looks uncomfortable but he doesn't say anything. Hood is still cool as a cucumber.

“She won't look for me. We had a fight. I forgot to buy the candy she likes.”

Candy? Why would—oh!

On the secretary's desk is a glass bowl filled with mini candy canes. You wrap your hands around it.

“She knows my favorite,” Hood says, locking eyes with you.

You throw the bowl with all your might. Emerson is too slow—Hood grabs the bowl one-handed and swings it, knocking the gun from Emerson's hand. The candy explodes into pieces. Hood swings again, this time into Emerson's head. The bowl cracks. Emerson crumples to the floor.

“Are you o—”

Bang! Bang! Bang!

In a blink, Hood wraps one arm around your waist and yanks you to the floor, covering your body. You curl into him on instinct.

“I got you, I got you,” he says, patting your shoulder. “You okay?”

You nod, words not coming right now. You squeeze his hand. Hood seems to understand and he scoots you both behind Emerson’s desk. Then he loads his gun and cocks it.

“Stay here,” he says, then fires six shots.

“Goddamnit!” Matt yells across the room. “This wasn't the plan! You're not supposed to be here!”

Hood laughs, which is absolutely terrifying. “Don't talk to me about ruined plans, buddy. I've been waiting all night for an excuse to shoot somebody. Please make my night.”

Matt fires four more shots.

“Fuck you, cop!”

“What the fuck? Fuck you more! I'm not a fucking cop!”

“Maybe it's the way you stand,” you say, teeth chattering from anxiety.

Hood squeezes your shoulder comfortingly. “I stand like a cop? Gross. I gotta work on that.”

“You're somebody!” Matt yells. “You're not just some guy, Todd, don't lie to me. You and that chick from IT are in cahoots.”

You huff. “He knows your name but not mine?”

“I’d take it as a compliment.”

Matt fires again. Hood tucks you behind him.

“He won’t kill anybody,” he says, with way too much confidence, in your opinion.

“Oh, is that why he's peacefully shooting at us?”

“He's scared, sure. But he can’t kill. Trust me, I know. Hey, Matt!”

“What?”

Hood stands up. Your eyes bug out of your head.

“Hood!” you hiss. “Hood!”

He ignores you, of course.

“You won’t hurt anyone,” Hood says. He starts walking toward Matt. “You're not a killer, Matt.”

And all this time you thought Hood was sort of sane. Nope.

“I will shoot you!” Matt warns.

“Aw. You wouldn't shoot Santy Claus, would you?”

Matt pulls the trigger. You gasp. It clicks. The magazine is empty.

Hood closes the distance between them and grabs the gun, then elbows Matt in the face. Matt sprawls onto the floor.

“Yeah, I don't risk my life on human emotion,” Hood says, loud enough so you can hear. “People can be so unpredictable. I will take a chance on a gun that only fires seven rounds, though. For a guy in finance, you're not very good with numbers, Matty.”

You sigh in relief, slumping against the desk. After tonight, you're retiring.

“Y'okay over there?” Hood asks.

“Yeah.”

It's quiet for a bit. Then Hood returns and offers you a hand to help you stand. You do so on shaky limbs.

He's got a cut on his eyebrow and a bruise on his cheek. You frown.

“I'm sorry I let go of the hook. I thought—”

“You let go of the hook?”

You stop. “Um. No?”

Hood squints at you. “Choosing to forgive you for that.”

“I knew you were inside the office!”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I'm not the only one taking risks,” you say. “Matt still fired at you.”

“Eh.” Hood shrugs. “He’s a crap shot. And I counted the rounds. I maintain my point. Factually, he could not shoot me.”

“You could've told me the gun was empty,” you say.

“I wanted you to think I was cool and brave.”

You laugh. “I already think that.”

Hood looks at you for a moment, like he’s trying to see right down into your soul. Intense. You cross your arms.

“So, um, ready to ditch this party?” you ask.

“With pleasure.”

“What about them?” you ask, pointing to Matt.

“I have backup arriving soon. Let's get your coat.”

You get your things while Hood changes back into his usual garb. He meets you at the back exit, the one that leads to an alleyway, Santa suit gone. The party's winding down and most are getting into their cars. You're grateful no one stops to ask where you disappeared to.

There's police outside, but they're not here for Emerson. It's Bill that's being questioned by Commissioner Gordon. You stop short at the sight.

“Hood… what did you do?”

“Hm? Oh! There might have been some discrepancies in Bill's finances and he might have committed fraud to pay off his gambling debts. All circumstantial, though.”

“Please don't tell me you framed my coworker because he's a jerk,” you say.

“No, but I'm not above that, for the record. I recognized Bill from when I was casing the Iceberg Lounge. That's where he racked up all that debt.”

You nod slowly. “That's how you knew his name.”

“Yup. He was a nobody, so I didn't bother with him. Had I known he was such a menace at work, well…”

You grin. “It's okay. I appreciate it now.”

Hood nods. The silence is awkward for a few seconds.

“So—”

“You don't have to keep working here,” he says. “You can leave if you wanna.”

“Hood…”

He puts up a hand. “Hear me out. I have a contact at Wayne Enterprises. I can get you an interview. Hell, I can get you the job.”

“And what would I owe you?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Think of it as a thank you for tonight. You didn't have to help me but you did.”

You open and close your mouth. “I don't… I don't know what to say.”

“Don't gotta say a thing,” Hood says quietly. “If anyone deserves a new year, it's you.”

“Oh.” Your throat feels tight suddenly. “Oh, Hood, that's really—that's nice of you.”

“It's been known to happen. Don't spread it around though.”

“But I don't want the job without interviewing!” you say. “I want to get it on my own.”

Hood nods. “Deal.”

You want to hug him but that seems like too much, even with all you’ve done tonight. So you take out a candy cane instead.

“I salvaged one from the bowl,” you say. “Merry Christmas, Hood.”

He takes it, tucking it into his pocket. “Merry Christmas. Need a ride?”

You shake your head. “I'm fine. See you around?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Stay safe, alright?”

“Oh, I will. Will you?”

He laughs. “No promises.”

Then you blink and he's gone. You shove your hands into your coat pockets.

In each pocket, there's a handful of Warheads. You smile.

#Jason Todd x reader #Jason Todd x you #Jason Todd fanfiction #Jason Todd imagine #Jason Todd x fem reader #red Hood x you #red Hood x reader #red Hood fanfiction #red Hood imagine #red Hood x yn #red Hood x fem reader

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multimilfs · 11 days ago

Text

Agnes O'Connor x Fem!Reader: Poking The Bear

Summary: Agnes has the misfortune of being called in to work a murder case on Christmas Eve. When she leaves you frustrated, you decide to do what you do best; poke the bear.

AO3

A/N: I said "is anyone going to humiliate this woman in this ultra-specific way?" and didn't wait for an answer. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals <3

Words: 8k

Included: Established relationship, Christmas, Porn with plot; g!p, teasing, somnophilia (implied), dacryphilia, phone sex, accidental orgasm, semi-public sex, humiliation, jealousy, blowjobs, dom/sub, sub space, throatfucking, unprotected sex, masturbation, light breeding kink, light degradation, praise, orgasm denial.

Tag List: @vii-v @absolute-memegarbage @crazycatladycaceta @hannah-0730 @shinysuitcloud @bubbly-moonwarrior @emilynissangtr @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @thelesbianapollokid4 @dmtrxie @notice-shy @vintagegoddess12 @rosie6reyes @softfruity @tragicsapphic34 @msharkness @setsuna1415 @kermidd5 @snickerdoodles-stuff @women-are-so-ethereal @imlike-so-gaydude @lotus-ignis @n0body-is-perfect @goblinscum420 @d-z20 @borntodieedition28 @autbot @ee-bah-sims @kathrynscontroversiallyyounggf @renravens @theothersideofthescreen @sp3c-tr0 @sapphicharknesss @coffeelover245 @madamslaytan @heady-pomegranate @ragnarockz @escapetodreamworld @multifandomfix @ghostsunderstoodmysoul @imtrashinflames @goforgreat @welmelsblog @igoturmoney @mol2311 @obnoxiouslycontemplating @bellatrix-black8 @deathly777 @emmasaviorqueen-blog @greatygreatgreat @chlizets @latedawnearlysunsets92

Through the peaceful, warm silence of the morning, an alarm clock blares.

Agnes growls under her breath as she does every morning, lumbering from the comfort of the bed and over to the windowsill where the alarm clock sits. A particularly rough blow shuts it up.

God, why did she let Vidal insist on this shift?

Her routine is simple enough she could do it with her eyes closed; and does, for most of it. It isn’t until she turns the shower to a cooler temperature that she feels anywhere close to awake. She needs coffee—bad.

Halfway through said cup of coffee and one of the donuts you picked up, she realizes she hasn’t kissed you good morning yet.

You grumble a bit when she turns you over, untucking your head from the blankets, but you don’t wake. You look heavenly, painted in the warm glow of the Christmas tree you insist on keeping plugged in all night. Agnes smiles.

Pressing her lips to your forehead, she murmurs, barely a whisper, “Be good, baby.”

A hand wraps around her wrist and she startles. Pulling back, your eyes haven’t opened.

“Agnes, come back to bed.” You say, voice gravely from sleep.

“Vidal will be on my case if I don’t show.”

“I can make your morning better than Vidal can.”

You stretch, curling back into the blankets, but hold her wrist just tight enough to indicate you’re still half awake. It’s good your eyes are closed; she doesn’t need you seeing all the kinds of fond you’re making her.

Agnes really shouldn’t get you started, but curiosity kills cats, not bears, “Oh yeah? How would you do that, baby?”

“You’d come back to bed and sleep until I say.”

“And then what?” She prods, trying not to laugh.

“Then we’ll have a really nice breakfast. Donuts for you.”

“What would you have?”

“You.” You answer, casual and so matter-of-fact, “I’ll even swallow, out of Christmas spirit or something.”

Agnes jolts at the change. Though true to form, she can feel the familiar coil of arousal between her legs. She really shouldn’t have gotten you started.

She’s half awake, she won’t remember this, Agnes tells herself as she tries to move from her kneeling position on the bed. Your grip on her wrist remains.

“Sleep. We’ll have fun when I get home.”

“It’s Christmas Eve.” You whine.

“I’ll be home before you know it, I swear.”

“Fine. ‘Love you.” You murmur.

You rescind your hand and turn over, pacified as you burrow back under the covers. Agnes shakes her head.

“Love you too.” She whispers.

With one last parting kiss to your forehead, she’s gone, with you none-the-wiser.

—

You wake up a mess.

There’s a half-remembered conversation with Agnes lingering in your mind, but it’s hazy enough to feel like a dream; an unsatisfying one, the persistent throbbing between your legs says. You offered to blow her, you remember that much—it’s all pretty blank after that.

No, there was something about having fun when she got home, too.

You can’t wait that long.

It isn’t until two of your fingers are knuckle-deep and you’re missing the fullness Agnes offers that the idea strikes you. You scramble blindly for the phone on your night-stand. The movements change the angle of your fingers and you whine, rolling your hips, even as the blind grabs for your phone grow more frustrated.

Once found, it is ripped viciously off the charger, and you open it, going through your messages for the quickest access to her number. You grin at the contrast between your long-winded messages and Agnes’ one word responses.

An infinitesimal movement of your hips reminds you of your intention.

The phone is brought to your ear and it rings… and rings… and rings…

…and rings…

“O’Connor.” Her gruff voice comes down the line.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You squeeze around your own fingers at the sound.

“Yes, Detective, I’d like to report a crime.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end.

“Go on.”

“Well, my wife woke me up this morning and got me turned on, and she didn’t even have the decency to fuck me before she left. What kind of woman does that, Detective?”

You can hear the curve of her grin, “A lousy one. That’s a pretty serious crime.”

Maybe it’s the low, lilting drawl of her voice down the line. Maybe it’s the way you can see how she’s sitting in your mind; shoulders back against the seat but hips forward, legs splayed with careless confidence, one hand toying with her belt. Maybe it’s the easy humor she slips into with you that she’s never had with anyone else.

Whatever it is, two sentences from her brings you closer to finishing than thirty minutes with your hand has.

You whimper, “Keep talking.”

Another pause. Then the faint rustle of fabric.

“What are you doing?”

Her tone is utterly serious. Unforgiving. And god if it isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.

“What do you think I’m doing?”

Finally showing your clit some attention, you moan shamelessly. It’s nice to feel full, but your fingers never quite reach the right spots, and you can’t get off on penetration alone—with Agnes or otherwise. It’s fun to work yourself up though; pushing to the heights you can reach there before really giving yourself the stimulation you want.

If she keeps talking, that—combined with the circling motions on your clit—will send you straight over the edge.

The anticipation builds over the line. For a moment, you pull the phone away to make sure she hasn’t hung up. She’s likely weighing the best thing to say to both turn you on and strike the fear of punishment into you.

Instead, her tone is almost pleading, “Don’t do this now.”

An image strikes you of making Agnes beg, of driving her to a point where the easy dominance falls away, and she’s reduced to chasing whatever kindness you give. It brings you so much pleasure it hurts. You need it. But how to get it?

“Is Agent Vidal in the room with you?” You ask.

The idea of Vidal witnessing what you’re doing to Agnes makes your toes curl.

“No.”

“I thought you were stuck with her today.”

“Leave Vidal out of this.” She demands, but it’s strangled.

She’s clawing for control over the situation, scrambling for a foothold. Normally, you’d give it to her. Normally.

“I don’t think I ask for much…” A lie. You make many requests in the sanctity of your bedroom, “all I wanted was for you to fix what you started.”

“Baby.”

You have to pull your fingers away from your clit, desperate to come but not ready yet.

“There are so many ways you could have done it, too. You could have woken me up with your head between my legs… or with you inside me. It could have been nice, right?”

Only the sound of her breathing comes down the line. Heavy, uneven, like when she’s holding herself over you, hips driving her deeper—

God, you’re so close.

You whisper, needing to know that she’s as affected as you, needing to hear her say it, “Are you hard, Agnes?”

“Yes.”

Even though you haven’t moved any part of your hand, the mental image nearly sends you tumbling over the edge.

“Will you come with me?”

“I…I can’t.”

You know. With the shades open, her office is basically an observation room; meaning if she were to do what you ask, there’s almost a guarantee she’d be caught. A sick part of you wants it. Wants to know that you have enough power over her to make her take the risk.

Gently, you begin to toy with your clit again. You can make her do what you ask. All you need is for her to say it—the confirmation that you’ve undone her so thoroughly that she can’t help but fist her cock under the desk where anyone could see.

“Please.” You beg.

You hear her inhale, the sound sharp in your ear. The words are on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes are no doubt shifting around the office, searching for the perfect way to hide what she’s about to do.

You’re standing on the precipice.

The harsh beeping of a disconnected call blares in your ear. Yanking it away, orgasm thoroughly ruined, you yell in frustration.

—

An officer pulls open the door before you can reach for it, nodding, “Ma’am.”

The precinct is busy for it being a holiday. Uniformed officers sit around desks, either on the phone or talking with others. You spy the Chief talking animatedly to a few toward the back.

They’ve really done up the place this year. Last year it’d been sad, grey. Now there are a few little trees spread around, some personal decorations here and there, a menorah on the front desk with candles waiting to be lit. It livens up the place.

In the back sits the partial vision of Agnes’ office. The blinds are somewhat closed, but she’s left the door open, allowing you enough of a glimpse to know she’s in there. You can imagine her without having to see; her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hunched over the desk, hand toying with strands of her hair as she frowns over evidence.

Gazes follow as you cut through the center of it all. You do your best to ignore the heat working its way up your neck. Once upon a time, a few of the other officers had tried to catch your attention. You’d entertained a few of them. But they were minnows, and you wanted the shark.

You wanted the unapproachable, stone-faced Detective O’Connor.

And you had been the one to catch Agnes, but her fellow officers couldn’t imagine their illustrious Detective not being the one to do the catching. If only they knew how you could have her eating from the palm of your hand.

A swift knock on the open door and you lean against it. She’s exactly as you imagined. Though there’s a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead and her fingers tap on the desk like she can’t sit still.

She doesn’t look up, barking, “I’m busy.”

“I’ll pass this off to one of the other officers then.”

Her head snaps up and you grin. Hanging from one of your fingers is a white takeout bag. The scent of orange chicken and rice permeates the air, but it isn’t what you’re hungry for.

Work forgotten, she looks you up and down, licking her lips. Her fingers twitch on the desk. You clear your throat and she snaps out of whatever daze she’s in. Clearing her own throat, she sits up, tugging on the bottom of her flannel shirt. Your smile widens.

“Close the door behind you.”

Stepping in, you kick it closed with a low, “Yes, Detective.”

“What are you doing here?”

“My job.” You cross to her desk, dropping the takeout bag on top. You’re perched on the edge closest to her. She looks up at you from her chair, lips pursed, tugging on her shirt again, “What kind of wife would I be if I let you go hungry?”

“None of the other guys get lunch delivered personally.”

“None of the other guys are married to me. Do I get a kiss for my troubles?”

Briefly, she looks out into the precinct—not that she can see much with the shades drawn—then back to your lips. Agnes shifts, licking her own, before nodding.

You lean forward and hold onto the chair by one arm, capturing her lips in a rough kiss. Your other hand palms the length you know pulsates between her legs. Upon contact she grunts into your mouth, hips bucking.

Her hand fumbles blindly for your wrist. Catching it in a firm grip, you can feel the tension in her frame as she decides whether to press you closer or shove you away.

Pulling back just enough to smile, “Poor baby. Have you been like this all day?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Detective?” You murmur.

Her breath hitches. Blue eyes so blown out they’re nearly black regard you, her chest rising and falling as she struggles for an even rhythm of breath. You test her grip and find its slackened. The palm of your hand caresses the entire outline of her through her jeans.

Agnes doesn’t push you away, but she doesn’t pull you closer, either. The hand on your wrist allows you enough movement to stroke slowly from base to tip. Every inch of her seems to jump at the whisper of your touch.

Looking into her eyes, you can see how she’s fighting for control. She just can’t find the path to it. Good. You want her like this—panting and desperate. It makes you clench around nothing.

“What have you been imagining all this time?”

She swallows. Clears her throat, “Vidal will be back soon.”

“I can be quick.”

“Anyone… could see.”

“We have a few options. Your favorite is off the table, though.”

The favorite in question being Agnes bending you over the desk and fucking you hard and fast. It’s efficient, allowing her drive in deep while having the benefit of spanking you as she chases her reward. Her cock twitches at the reminder.

She’s tense, taut with energy like she’s only a few strokes from finishing right here. The thought is hot and you want it, bad—but not all dreams can be reality.

“What do we have?” Agnes asks, finally.

“If I crawl under the desk no one would see what I’m doing.” You offer.

Your hand keeps moving. It’s more for yourself than anything; you like feeling her, hard and wanting, yet so restricted, jumping at the slightest bit of attention. A thumb swipes over where you know the head is and she chokes, hips stuttering from what had been a slow roll into your hand.

“Do it.” She demands.

The subtle authority returning to her voice sends a shiver down your spine. One more swipe of your thumb and she keens, before clamping her mouth shut.

You laugh. Waking up this morning, this is the last thing you expected for yourself from the day; but you can’t deny you’re enjoying every second.

“That’s my girl.” You praise.

Bracing to slide off the desk, there’s a knock on Agnes’ closed office door, and disaster strikes.

The knock startles you. You try to turn and look toward the door, but forget just how precarious your seating situation is on the edge of the desk. You lose your balance. You’re able to get your foot under you just enough to fall into Agnes’ lap, rather than onto the cold tile of the office.

Agnes lets out a cross between a harsh breath and a moan as you fall into her. Your back presses firmly to her front.

“Don’t—god, I’m gonna—”

Strong hands settle on your hips to shove you off, but it’s too late. Agnes grunts. Nails dig into your sides as she ruts helplessly against your backside, unloading spurts of cum with every press of her hips.

You freeze in shock.

Then out of habit your hands find hers. With one, you lace your fingers together. With the other you caress her wrist, brushing gently as you turn your head to meet her eyes, careful to keep every inch of your body where she needs you. Her hips tense, stuttering, whimpering as she fights the orgasm that’s ravaging her.

“It’s okay. Let it happen.” You encourage, brushing a finger against her inner wrist. A war is waging over her face as she’s caught between desire and shame. Desire must win out. Agnes movements pick up speed as she furiously grinds up against you, and you can’t help the praise that falls from your lips, “That’s it.”

Now that she’s given in, she can’t stop, the hands on your hips clenching as she presses closer, harder with every thrust, powerless to the desire she can’t stop shooting. A wounded noise leaves her throat. You empathize; you know well how getting what you want can quickly move into pained-pleasure, when your body just keeps giving and giving.

Agnes’ expression is pained, laced with helplessness to her pleasure. Her eyes don’t leave your own as she rides out the waves. You try to sit still, letting her take what she needs. She allows you to watch every twitch of her expression, hear every noise she lets slip—it’s an act of trust that overwhelms. Lifting a hand to her cheek, you wipe at the perspiration there.

Eventually, she relaxes into the seat, her hips stopping in their frantic search for friction. Her eyes slip closed and you watch her breathe.

You’re eternally grateful that whoever knocked didn’t barge in right after; there is no way you’d have been able to talk your way around what was happening. It’s a mercy that Agnes rarely shuts her office door—now that she has, everyone understands something important is going on.

Running a finger along her cheekbone, you whisper, “Are you okay?”

“What do you think?” She growls.

“Given the mess you just made, I’d say you’re on cloud nine.” You tease.

With a sudden show of strength, you’re shoved into a standing position. You turn to take in the weight of Agnes’ glare.

Agnes snarls, “Fuck you.”

“You could have… if you had a little self control.”

Your eyes fall to her lap for emphasis, the evidence of her desire stark against the front of her jeans. Her hands clench on the arm-rests. Blood has rushed to her face, painting her features in red hues that betray her forced calm.

The sight of her so humiliated is doing it for you; and you can see that she sees, regarding you with a loaded, wary look. It will take no shortage of negotiation, but you will be revisiting this again.

You open the take out bag and pluck out the napkins near the bottom. Carefully, you wipe them over the planes of her face, soaking up the sweat that had been clinging to her skin. Agnes doesn’t meet your eye.

“Agnes.” Waiting until she locks eyes with you, “It’s okay.”

She scoffs, “I came in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

“And it was hot.”

“You’re really something else, you know that?”

“Oh, I’m well aware. I also know that you love me for it.”

Agnes rolls her eyes.

“Unfortunately.”

“Careful, O’Connor, I can still give this lunch away to one of your coworkers.”

The bag is promptly snatched from your reach. You laugh.

Now that she’s standing, you breathe a sigh of relief; her flannel is long, perfectly hiding the evidence of your activities from the world. You just hope no one outside was looking in too closely.

Desire rears its head at the thought. You need to get out of here before you do something that’ll get you both caught.

You lean up and steal a kiss, “Enjoy your lunch, baby.”

When you open the door to leave, you come face-to-face with Agent Rio Vidal holding two cups of coffee in her hands. You startle and she raises her brows at seeing you.

“Agent Vidal.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here, sweetheart, or I would’ve bought an extra coffee.”

“That’s okay, I was just bringing Agnes something to eat.”

“Take mine.” The coffee cup is held between the two of you. You can see the faint mark of her lipstick on the lid as she leans in, “I don’t need the extra caffeine anyway.”

“Keep it, Vidal. She can have mine.”

You turn so you can take in both of them. Vidal is relaxed, posture brimming with a quiet confidence while Agnes is tense, staring at the two of you like she could throw something—and she would, if she didn’t think it’d encourage the former somehow.

Agnes has always been… odd around Vidal; moreso than the normal awkwardness between two exes. And Vidal has never been subtle with her interest in poking Agnes’ nerves.

Whatever it is, you’re going to use it and see where it takes you.

You accept the offered cup of coffee, making deliberate eye contact with Agnes as you take a long sip. A latte—thank god, Agnes’ black drip would’ve made you gag.

“Thanks for the coffee.” You murmur low. Then you throw your wife a smile, ignoring the promise of pain in her eyes, “See you at home, Agnes.”

—

Coming home you’re delighted to find a few last-minute packages on the porch. Carrying them in, one shifts heavily in your arms, and you know immediately what it is; one of the speakers in Agnes’ car crapped out on her a few months back, so the passenger-side only spits out static where there should be music—or the sports broadcasts, in your wife’s case; you bought her a new stereo system so she wouldn’t have to ‘make do’ anymore.

There’s also a few new shirts, a nice leather belt, and a watch she’d been eyeing but wasn’t willing to buy for herself. You wrap all of them with a smile on your face and slide them under the tree.

The busy work of it all eases the tension in your shoulders and some of the arousal between your legs. There’s a lingering peace in every corner of your home. It’s quiet, barring the music playing from the kitchen, casting a nostalgic glow over you where the lights seem just a little warmer.

You sit down on the couch and take it all in. Ornaments wobble on branches, glittering and winking at you as they twist. There’s a garland draped over the fireplace with dancing lights; you feel warmer inside when you remember how Agnes helped you set it up, shaking her head at your excitement.

With the bustle of the season, you’ve forgotten to take time like this to stop and let it sink in. So many spend Christmas alone, hungry, without a place to go. You don’t have to. You have a wife who will spend every second with you in the warmth of your home. Tears prick your eyes.

You fall asleep on the couch with that warm feeling in your chest.

—

The scent of garlic and butter tickles your nose. You snap awake.

Did you leave the stove on?

You shoot up from the couch and throw off the blanket you don’t remember grabbing. It falls to your feet, twisting in your ankles, and you do all you can not to fall face-first onto the floor. How long have you been asleep?

Wait. Did you even put anything on to cook?

Agnes’ flannel-clad back greets you when you round the corner. A sigh leaves you. One hand settles over your chest, willing your heartbeat to slow to a normal pattern. It all comes back to you; wrapping gifts, sitting down to enjoy the quiet, intending to get up and start dinner afterward.

You step into the kitchen and wrap your arms around her waist from behind, forehead resting between her shoulder blades. A hand lifts your own so she can press a kiss on the back.

“How was work?” You ask, voice muffled by her shirt.

“A waste of time.” She answers. Her form shifts, one shoulder tensing as she stirs what sits on the stove, “It could’ve waited until after Christmas.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault. Vidal’s a workaholic and fails to realize the rest of us aren’t.”

“You are most of the year.”

Agnes grunts noncommittally, “What trouble did you get into?”

“Wrapped a few gifts, took a nap. I’m surprised some of your guys weren’t beating down my door with how rowdy I was being.”

“Chief would’ve just sent me to handle you.”

“I’d like that… you, handling me…” You murmur, hand moving down her front with intent.

A strong, veined hand grabs your own. She forces it back to its former resting place. You keep your hand where it is directed. The haven you’ve found nuzzled against her back—surrounded by the scent of her cologne and the heat of her—is just as inviting as anything more salacious could be.

Something bubbles and pops on the stove. Agnes jolts, before relaxing. You drag yourself from your haven to look over her shoulder; a pan of sauce is stirred on one burner, boiling pasta churning away on another. Simple, but hearty.

You press a kiss to the skin you can reach, just behind her ear, “You’re getting better.”

Before, her dinner of choice would’ve been a canister of peanuts, maybe a microwave dinner.

“Don’t say anything until you’ve tasted it.”

“I’ll do what I want.” You answer.

“Don’t I know it.”

Jabbing her side with a finger until she cracks a grin, “Let me taste, so I can tell you how amazing it is.”

The wooden spoon is lifted from the sauce and over her shoulder to your mouth. You wrap your lips around it, immediately lulled further into bliss by the combination of onion, garlic, and tomato.

“Agnes, that is delicious.”

Her brows raise. With a flourish, she allows herself a taste.

“You love to stroke my ego.” She says in that self-deprecating tone you know well.

Your hand and mouth move before you think, “That’s not the only part of you I like to stroke.”

Whether by a lapse in understanding or simply because she lets you, your hand finds its mark before Agnes can stop it. The full width of your hand presses at the apex of her thighs. Your mouth drops open.

Agnes is painfully erect for the second time today with little work on your part.

She drops the spoon against the pan and removes your hand again, blunt nails biting into your skin in the way you like. You don’t react, still reeling from the information you’ve gleaned. Agnes libido isn’t what it once was—a reality of age—even if she’s like a well kept oldsmobile; capable of going the distance and then some once you get her properly started. But you’ve done very little in the way of actually getting her started since visiting the office.

“What on earth have you been up to today?” You ask, breathless.

“Don’t start.”

“I’d say you’re well past the starting point, given what I just felt.” A laugh escapes, then you pause, “You didn’t…”

Agnes curious gaze meets yours over her shoulder. Understanding dawns, along with indignation, “Of course not.”

“Needing a little extra help is normal.”

“This is all your doing.” She snaps, “Go sit down.”

“If it’s all my doing, you should let me fix it.” You coo.

In a sudden burst of movement, Agnes is out of your arms, sauce and pasta left behind on the stove. You blink. Did something happen at work? Have you hit a nerve?

She crosses the space to the kitchen table. The chair at the head of the table, facing the stove, is yanked from its resting place. You wince as it shrieks against the floor. But she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, turning the chair and meeting your eyes with a hard look, pointing.

“Sit.”

You move without thinking. There’s a subtle note of steel beneath the command that sends you into submission on instinct, like a pet might jump to obey their owner. The thought doesn’t chafe today; you want to be good, you want to obey.

Plopping down into the seat, hands settle on your shoulders. Agnes growls in your ear, “Stay.”

And you do.

As she finishes dinner, moving the pasta into the sauce with an unsure—but successful—flourish. As she nearly burns herself cutting the garlic bread fresh out of the oven. As she casts quick, dark glances your way every few minutes, as if having to make sure you’re where she left you.

You are the picture of poise and obedience, fighting every desperate urge for nearness to follow her command. But the longer she takes the harder it becomes. Hands settled on your thighs, your fingers scratch anxiously at the fabric of your pants, helpless and without any other way to expel this building energy.

“Agnes.” You whine.

“Quiet.”

It takes ages before she approaches you. She takes her sweet time putting dinner on plates, making it pretty in a way you know is just to drive you crazy; she doesn’t give two fucks about whether or not something looks nice as long as it tastes good.

Dinner is brought over to the table, but you tilt your head. Agnes only brought one plate.

“Up.” She commands, “You’re in my seat.”

You stand. Reaching for the chair next to hers, a hand on the back stops you from pulling it out. There’s the deep sound of porcelain meeting the wood of the table. As she leans around you, the scent of her cologne makes you dizzy.

Agnes snaps her fingers. You jolt, snapping back into your own mind. She points to the floor and your brows furrow. Then, it clicks, and your face grows warm.

You sink to your knees in front of Agnes’ chair as she sits in it.

“I can guess what a perp is going to do just by the way they sit in interrogation.” Agnes drawls, idly tapping her knee as her mind works, “But you… I can never guess how you’re going to act. Look at you now, all good and obedient for me, when you were acting like a whore in my office today.”

So caught up in the dizzying feeling of submission, you’ve been oblivious to the weight of your own desire. Agnes’ words change that in an instant. There’s a needy, pulsing beat between your legs, and you clench your thighs together in an attempt to help yourself. It doesn’t work.

“You started it.” You say, breathless.

You can’t breathe around your desire for her. Oxygen is a secondary need to the feel of her, whether she’s buried deep inside or grazing her fingers over your flesh; you want her and it hurts. But you keep your hands on the tops of your thighs.

Agnes chuckles. It’s a low, rolling thing. Agnes’ usual response to amusement is to grin, maybe even shake her head and scoff—laughter is a rare thing, aged and cultivated until it’s amber laced with smoke over your senses. You feel the heat of it. The intoxication it brings is warm, a weight settling comfortingly over the shoulders.

“I’m collecting on your offer from earlier.”

And with that, her thighs part, and you surge forward without being told. Her belt is unbuckled in one fell swoop. You moan, unable to help yourself, needy for the feel of her skin, to taste.

A testament to the overwhelm of your desire that the concept of toying with her again does not cross your mind. Your hand finds the desperate length of her cock, exposing it to the cool air.

It stands proud, tip flushed and leaking, veins stark against the fair skin. You pant. With single-focus, you lean forward.

An equally fair hand grips your jaw, forcing your eyes to Agnes’, “How many taps?”

You blink. You’re buried beneath desire, mind clawing its way to the surface.

“T-Three.”

Agnes nods and you’re free.

The first thing you do with your newfound freedom is flatten your tongue and lick a broad stripe up the length of her. The hand on your jaw goes slack in surprise, Agnes’ hips jumping. A groan echoes through the room.

You circle your tongue over the tip, drinking in her taste and the sounds falling from her lips. It’s heady, making the room fuzzy around the edges.

Submission brings with it a strange feeling of power. You’re doing as she bids, being good, but every sound and reaction coming from her is real; the truest manifestation of how well you’re doing to please her.

The world falls away. Your head feels floaty, strangely empty despite the manuevers you’re employing with your mouth. You don’t need words, you don’t need thoughts, you just need to offer Agnes whatever she wants.

Which you do by taking her cock in your mouth until she hits the back of your throat.

A thud sounds from her hand slamming on the tabletop, scrambling for something to grip as she chokes out, “Fuck!”

You do all you can to repress your gag reflex, forcing yourself to just relax everytime she hits the back of your throat. Agnes has her head thrown back, eyes closed, chest rising and falling as she pants, whimpering with every movement of your tongue and mouth.

Through it all, her hand remains on the side of your face, a careful guide. You can’t help the hand that sneaks under your skirt; Agnes is shaking with tension, begging to let go and chase her pleasure at your expense, but she’s holding herself back and guiding you through taking her in the way that would do the least harm.

You moan. Agnes’ cock twitches in your mouth and she matches your moan, a semblance of that control slipping with a particularly rough thrust. You gag, tears forming in your eyes.

The hand between your thighs shakes, fumbling for your clit while focusing on what really matters. You’re so wet there’s barely any friction.

You want Agnes to make you gag again. You want her to push into you and take what she wants until you’re crying.

Looking up, you try to will all of that thought and intent into your eyes, but Agnes’ are closed.

You whine.

Blue eyes regard you from beneath drooping lids. You will one thought into your mind and one thought only; use me.

Agnes swallows. The pad of a thumb runs under your eye, collecting some of the wetness there as if to say are you sure? In answer, you take as much of her as you can physically manage, eyes meeting her own the whole time.

Her restraint snaps.

Agnes’ hand travels to the back of your head, her hips moving faster and firmer than you can comprehend. She takes over completely; driving into you for what she needs, making you gag obscenely, without a thought in the world for if it is too much.

Not having to make choices allows you to focus on obtaining your own pleasure. With every tear she forces from your eyes, you swipe over the pulsating bud of your clit. You can feel your own orgasm building low in your gut.

“I’m going to cum.” Agnes groans.

Delight shoots through you. She’s going to cum and it’s because of you; because you were good and gave her everything she needs. It feels amazing.

Why, then, do you pull off and out of reach?

Agnes growls. You blink.

Words. There are words to go with the desire you feel. You close your eyes, searching for them, mentally scrambling at the edges until you can wrap your hands around them and their meaning.

“Can I…” You start, voice rough from the beating your throat has taken, “Can I ride you?”

Agnes makes quite the scene; splayed open on the dining room chair, hair a mess and eyes blown out, cock twitching and needy through the fly of the jeans she ruined only a few hours ago. You clench.

Agnes licks her lips, “Yeah, alright.”

You stand on shaking legs and Agnes holds up a hand, stopping you as she lifts her hips and fumbles in her back pocket. She obtains her wallet and rifles through until she locates a small foil wrapper.

It’s safer, you know. You’ve used one almost every other time for the duration of your marriage.

“Agnes.”

The woman in question pauses before opening the condom. Her brow pops up in an unspoken question.

The words are instinct, comprehensive thought still far away, “I want you to cum inside me.”

Outside, the world rages on. Westview residents race down the street, returning home from last minute errands, gifts in tow that they’ll have to sneak inside. The wind is kicking up and through the trees as snow grows closer with every second.

And then there is you and Agnes, tucked in the warmth of your home, caught in the weight of your words. Stopped in the face of the potential consequences.

Agnes throws the unopened condom on the kitchen table.

“Then come here.”

You stand with your legs on either side of her own, steadying yourself on her shoulders. One steady hand settles on your hip. The other pushes your panties aside and aligns her to your entrance as you lower into her lap.

You could take her in one motion with how wet you are. Yet, Agnes keeps your descent slow, careful. She watches your face with every inch you take—same as you watch hers.

Agnes’ chest is heaving, eyes dark and stormy, face pinched in concentration. She’s the most handsome person you’ve ever seen. You clench around her and her hands tighten on your waist.

“Sorry.” You murmur, out of habit.

Agnes raises a brow, but doesn’t respond, helping you down the last few inches. When you settle fully in her lap you let out the breath you’d been holding.

One hand sneaks under your skirt to trace shapes on the bare flesh of your hip.

“You pulled an interesting stunt with Vidal today.” Agnes says. The hand on your hip tightens, “I’m not so sure I should reward your behavior.”

“Then why let me…”

“Why deny myself just because you’re acting like a brat?”

There’s a small testing thrust of her hips. You clench. She groans, head falling back against the chair. You whimper. Trying to move your own hips, eager for what you’ve been denied, you find yourself held in place.

That’s not fair. All day she’s been teasing you, driving you to the edge of what you want—what you need, just to deny you.

“You started it.” You whine, trying to move your hips again, still finding yourself held stationary as she leisurely thrusts up, “You woke me up and got me all bothered, it’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, baby.”

“Please.” You whine, “It’s not my fault, please.”

Muscles in her arms tremble as she lifts you slightly before sinking you back down onto her. The fullness makes your toes curl but it isn’t enough.

“Calling me at work and getting me worked up wasn’t your fault?”

“…No.”

Agnes laughs, “If you’re going to lie, you could at least be convincing.”

You won’t win this fight by playing fair, not when Agnes is clearly uninterested in fairness.

“You… You feel so good. Can’t think properly.” You breathe, moaning a bit more than comes naturally, “I’m so full of you.”

The thrust of her is uneven. She stops moving you completely and you fight down a grin.

You press a hand between your bodies, applying pressure to your lower stomach as she continues to thrust, subtly picking up speed. Her pants are growing louder, a wheeze leaving her mouth when you press.

“That’s you.” You murmur, leaning forward and ghosting over her lips, tracing the bridge of her nose with the tip of your own. You press harder and enjoy the way she groans, “Nobody has ever been as deep inside me as you.”

“Fuck.” She snarls.

You’re pushed up again, suddenly empty, and whine, blinking at the change. But then her strong hands are on your hips and spinning you around.

Your front is pressed against the table, bent so your cheek rests on the top of it. The texture of her jeans is rough against the back of your thighs as she lines herself and fills you in one thrust.

“Oh, fuck!” You cry.

Agnes sets a brutal pace, chasing that which only you can offer. Every thrust has her cock brushing that perfect spot inside you and you lose control of whatever sounds you’re making.

“Is this what you wanted?” Agnes snarls in your ear, “For me to leave work and fuck you like some bitch in heat?”

“Yes!”

“You haven’t earned it.”

“No, Agnes, please!”

“Hold it.” She orders.

With every move she makes, you do all you can to ignore the pleasure, to pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s somewhat possible when it’s only her cock. But then she leans down and starts toying with your clit and you cry out, fighting not to roll your hips against them.

You want what you’ve been chasing all day, but you still want to be good. You’re her good girl, aren’t you? You have to keep being good even if it hurts.

So, you hold your orgasm at bay, while Agnes chases her own. Judging by the uneven rhythm of her hips it won’t take long.

“Please let me come, Agnes. Please.” You beg.

“Why should I?”

“I’ll give you anything—anything! Please, my love!”

“Anything, huh?”

The tone of her voice is low, dangerous. Layered with a rasp that nearly undoes you.

If she doesn’t let up, it doesn’t matter how good you are; you’re going to cum.

“Anything!”

Agnes phone is slammed down on the table right beside your head. It isn’t on, but you have the sinking feeling that you’ve just landed yourself into something far worse than expected.

Her thrusts stop, but she keeps a light, teasing pressure that grazes your clit just enough to keep you engaged without getting you off.

It is torture. And the silence building as you stare down the upturned cell phone is only making it worse.

“I’m going to make a call and turn on the speaker. Then, I’m going to fuck you. And you’re going to let whoever is on the phone hear you as I make you cum.”

The weight of it is like a lead weight of nerves in your stomach, “But—“

“If you want to act like a whore you’re going to be treated like one.” She snarls, then her tone grows softer, “Yes or no, angel?”

Whoever she calls and puts on the line, you’ll never be able to look in the eye again. But you’re so full and eager that you don’t truly care at this point.

Besides, it’s Christmas Eve, maybe everyone will be too busy to pick up.

“Yes.”

A harsh thrust that forces the air from your lungs, then her lips are next to your ear, breath hot, “That’s my girl.”

The echo of your own words from earlier make your toes curl. Her phone is snatched from the table and she continues to toy with your clit as she makes the call.

It rings… and rings… and rings…

Faintly, you hear the line connect, and you gasp.

You can’t make out who the voice belongs to, but you hear a faint, “Yeah?”

Agnes barks down the line, “Don’t say a word.”

The bang! as her phone hits the table again makes you jump, a small shriek leaving your lips. It wobbles. Faintly, you’re impressed she hasn’t broken the thing with how she abuses it.

A long finger slams down on the speaker button and as the phone tilts slightly, you read the name on the screen, and your eyes widen.

Vidal.

Before you can say a word, though, Agnes is back to work. Something in the action of being heard has made her more aggressive. You swear you can feel the bruises forming on your hips where she grabs, leveraging you for every single thrust.

You try to choke down your moans and whimpers, not wanting Agent Vidal to hear you like this, but Agnes won’t stand for it; one hand grabs your jaw and pries your mouth open.

She pushes in to the hilt and you let out a shrieking moan.

“You were so talkative before. Have you lost your nerve?”

“I—please—“

“Calling me this morning and getting me worked up, teasing me in the office, in the kitchen… and incapable of handling your punishment.”

“I’m sorry, Agnes. Please.”

“Please, what?”

“Use me. I want—I need you to fuck me until I can’t remember being without you—I need you to fuck me until you cum inside and make me yours forever—please!”

The knowledge that every word from your mouth is being heard by someone else is not forgotten, but you’ve been pushed beyond caring. Agnes is intent on making you beg for what you want and you want it bad.

Agnes’ fingers and cock alternate stimulating you. If her fingers are working, her hips aren’t—and vice versa. You’re frankly astonished she’s been able to last so long because you’re teetering on the edge of pleasure at the barest contact.

But her will has always been steel. And she wants to see you humiliated.

The hand on your clit slides to your lower stomach and presses, mimicking your own actions only minutes before, “When I knock you up, you’re going to feel it right here.”

Something inside you snaps. You wail.

Agnes’ hips are moving at a clip, every inch of her rubbing where you need, setting you alight from within. Her hand doesn’t move. The faster she goes, the deeper she drives, her hips begin to lose their rhythm.

Any words devolve into animalistic grunts as she ruts into you, mouth alternating between kissing and biting at your neck from behind.

You’re so fucking close. If she denies you now, you think you might die.

“Let me cum, Agnes, please—pretty please—I’ll be your good girl, please, I’ll be so good. Let me cum and fill me up, it’s all I want—“

Through gritted teeth, “Go on then.”

Something inside you snaps.

The command is exactly what you need. Your entire body clenches so tight you fear you may never relax again. You lose track of what noises leave your mouth, you think you may even lose consciousness for a few moments.

All you know when you come to is that your throat is raw and Agnes is driving into you, choking out in your ear, “Gonna cum—“

Her hips meet your own at full force and don’t pull back, remaining, pulsing forward as if she can’t get close enough. Every spasm of her cock paints your insides with her desire, marking you as hers. Agnes holds your hips as she presses in with every twitch, struggling to breathe.

Weakly, you reach a hand back to tangle in her hair. Your throat aches, “That’s it, baby. Fill me.”

A groan. Another rough twitch.

It reaches a point where the pressure ebbs. She remains, but she’s not twitching anymore, nor is she fighting to become one with you. There’s only the sound of your breathing in the room.

Agnes moves to straighten and pull out, but you whine, reaching back to grab whatever part of her you can reach.

“Stay.” You whisper.

She pauses.

A hand gently caresses along your spine, “You can’t stay like this, angel.”

“Just let me feel you a little longer.”

There’s a comfort in the fullness; in the knowledge that Agnes is the only woman who can provide this for you. That she even wants to.

It’s all a blur beyond that.

Eventually, you can’t stand being bent over on the table anymore, even if you never want to be without the feeling of Agnes inside you. The call with Vidal is disconnected at some point. You and your wife move slowly, hand in hand, up to your bedroom.

You gently shove her onto the bed while grabbing damp washcloths. Neither of you can stand a shower at this point.

The two of you take your time, being careful to mind the sore spots. You lean slightly into Agnes as you wipe some of the sweat from her flesh.

“You’re so good to me.” You murmur, kissing the underside of her jaw, “Thank you, my love.”

“Consider it an early Christmas gift, angel.”

You tamp down on the urge to say something sappy for her to scoff at. Instead, you guide her down and kiss her, soft and slow.

#agatha harkness x reader #agnes o'connor x reader #agatha harkness #agnes o'connor #agnes of westview #agatha all along #agatha all along x reader #agatha harkness fanfiction #agatha harkness imagine #agnes wandavision #wlw #wlw imagine #dec2024 #multimilfswritings

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fizzie-frog · 15 days ago

Text

SINSMAS!!!

part two here

The gag of Stolas really going through it when it comes to him being poor is funny. We already speculated that Stolas doesn't quite realize his privilege (and why his attitude to Blitz may come across as arrogant sometimes), but this was really a trip.

The big eyes:

Whatever tf this is:

Once again, Stolas having no clue how normal (not rich) society works, just casually skipping the whole queue.

But Blitz defending himmmm

"Stolas bird daughter" love the clarification:

Blitz really out here rough taking those mice for Stolas... Really trying to get him something familiar.

Stolitz trying clothes togetherrrr

I love how much of a Blitz gremlin is... He is really growing into it. The respective royals can't rest.

"We can afford nice things" (rich man noises)

M&M roughhousing

Tbh normal reaction from Stolas here

I really thought he said "Today we got Stolitz in the office" and I was disappointed to find out he didn't

"He just like me fr"

"I'M POOR NOW :(((" hysterical.

Yas queen

Yes, we can kill your asshole... Immediately, just bring it here

Crying secretary Stolas on the phone is the best thing.

Blitz really trying lol... He's so careful with him gtrgfkdv

The hell is that "frafrafrafrafra" laugh I can't everybody's so unhinged. Weirdly enough Blitz is the only put together person this whole episode for once.

Almost.

Found the happy pills, aaaaahhghfs.

"Here's an idea, you could shut the f up" my man's going through it.

He's losing it...

ALSO THAT'S A CHRISTMAS TREE IN A MAMMON HAT

Real footage of me working retail during the holidays:

And I exceeded my image limit so that's it for now...

#Helluva Boss #Sinsmas #Blitzo #Stolas #Millie #Moxxie #Loona #Sinsmas spoilers #Octavia #Andrealphus

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lila-lou · 28 days ago

Text

✨Littlest Winchester✨

Summary: You were always all about Christmas, but this year your excitement was through the roof—mixed with a hint of nervousness. You had big news to share with Dean, and the thought of it made your heart race with both joy and a touch of fear.

-Christmas Special-

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Warnings: bit of Angst, FLUFF

Word Count: 8706

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. ❤️

Dean groaned as you shoved him, shifting slightly before blinking awake. His arm instinctively reached back for you, but you were already halfway out of bed, practically buzzing with excitement.

“What the hell, Y/N”, he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “It’s too early for this”.

You turned around, your grin widening as you saw his messy hair and the way he tried to bury his face back into the pillow. “It’s Christmas, Dean! Come on, get up!”.

He cracked one eye open, clearly unimpressed, but there was a hint of amusement in his gaze. “You’re like a kid”, he muttered, but despite his grumbling, you knew he wasn’t really annoyed.

You laughed, pulling at his arm to try and drag him out of bed. “Exactly! And we’ve got a whole day ahead. Presents, food… everything”.

Dean groaned again, louder this time, and reached out his arm, trying to pull you back toward the bed. “C’mon, baby”, he muttered, his voice low and husky. “Just… five more minutes. It’s freezing out there, and this bed is perfect right now”.

You shook your head, laughing softly as he wrapped his arm around your waist, tugging you back onto the mattress. “Dean! We have the whole day! I don’t want to waste it”, you said, even as you felt his warmth surround you, making it harder to resist the temptation to stay.

He grinned lazily, clearly enjoying his victory as you reluctantly settled back beside him. “The day’s not going anywhere”, he murmured, his voice a little softer now. “Besides, Christmas can wait. Let’s just stay here… just a little longer”. His hand traced lazy circles on your back, and you could feel his breath against your neck as he nestled closer.

For a moment, you almost gave in. The way Dean held you, his warmth, the quietness of the room—it was all too comfortable. But then your excitement bubbled up again, and you gently nudged him. “Dean, come on”, you urged, trying to wiggle free from his grip.

Dean let out an exaggerated groan, burying his face deeper into the pillow as you tried to escape his grasp. “You’re killing me, Y/N”, he muttered, his arm tightening around you one last time before finally loosening his grip. “Fine, but I’m only doing this for the pie”.

You laughed, finally free as you sprang out of bed, your energy contagious. Dean rolled onto his back, stretching his arms over his head, watching you with a lazy smirk as you practically skipped around the room.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re excited”, he teased, his voice still thick with sleep. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through his messy hair as he sat up. “But if I don’t smell coffee in the next five minutes, you’re on your own”.

You shot him a playful glare before heading toward the door, the excitement bubbling up again.

Dean pulled on his sweatpants and a shirt, giving one last stretch before heading out of the room. He followed you quietly through the bunker, the coolness of the metal halls contrasting with the warmth of your festive decorations. You had spent weeks transforming the usually stark and utilitarian space into something that actually felt like Christmas—string lights hung from the walls, garlands draped over the railings, and a big tree sat proudly in the corner of the main room, covered in ornaments.

As Dean walked, he couldn’t help but smirk at how much effort you’d put into it. The bunker, usually so cold and impersonal, felt almost… homey. He’d never been one for Christmas decorations, but he had to admit, seeing the place like this wasn’t so bad.

When he finally reached the kitchen, you were already bustling around, pouring a mug of coffee and humming to yourself. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mixing with the faint scent of cinnamon from a candle you had insisted on lighting every morning.

Dean leaned against the doorframe, watching you for a moment. “You know, you’ve really outdone yourself with this whole Christmas thing”, he said, his tone half teasing, half genuine. “Didn’t think the bunker could look this… festive”.

You turned around, grinning as you handed him a mug. “Well, someone had to bring the holiday spirit. If it were up to you, we’d have nothing but a six-pack and maybe a couple of leftover slices of pizza to celebrate”.

Dean chuckled, taking the coffee gratefully. “Hey, nothing wrong with that. But I gotta admit, the tree’s kinda growing on me”.

That’s when Sam stumbled into the kitchen, still half asleep, his hair sticking up in all directions. He looked like he’d just rolled out of bed—because he had. He squinted at the lights. You could see him suppressing a yawn as he leaned against the counter, blinking at the sight of the two of you.

“Morning”, he muttered, rubbing his eyes and reaching for the coffee pot. “Knew I’d be dead if I slept in today”, he added with a smirk in your direction, his voice gravelly with sleep.

You grinned, lifting your mug in mock salute. “Damn right, Winchester. It’s Christmas, not time to laze around”.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he watched Sam pour himself some coffee.

Sam took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly as a mischievous grin crept onto his face. He leaned back against the counter, casually crossing his arms. “Speaking of lazing around, Dean, I didn’t think you’d even be up by now, considering you’ve got a whole new reason to stay in bed these days”, he teased, casting a glance your way.

Dean shot him a look, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really, Sammy? That’s what we’re doing now?”.

Sam smirked, clearly enjoying the chance to poke fun at his brother. “What? I’m just saying, Y/N’s got you wrapped around her finger. I never thought I’d see the day Dean Winchester gets out of bed early on Christmas morning without complaining. Miracles do happen”.

Dean rolled his eyes, but you could see the faintest hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, yeah. Keep talking, Sasquatch”.

Sam chuckled, clearly not done with the teasing. “I’m just saying, she’s got you doing things I never thought possible. I mean, you’re practically domesticated, Dean. Next thing we know, you’ll be cooking us a Christmas dinner and wearing an apron”.

Dean scoffed, leaning back against the counter with a smirk. “Yeah, right. Like I’d ever let you two anywhere near my cooking. And for the record, Y/N hasn’t ‘domesticated’ anything. I’m still the same badass I’ve always been”.

You raised an eyebrow at him playfully, crossing your arms. “Oh really? Because I distinctly remember someone helping me hang Christmas lights last week without complaining once”.

Dean pointed at you, his grin widening. “Hey, I did that under protest, and I still managed to look cool doing it”.

Sam burst out laughing. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘cool’ like untangling lights and getting glitter all over yourself”.

You grinned, stepping closer to Dean and leaning in to kiss him softly on the lips. “You’re still a badass”, you mumbled against his mouth, your hand resting on his chest.

Dean smirked, his eyes darkening playfully as he pulled you closer, his hand slipping to give your butt a squeeze. “Damn right I am”, he grumbled quietly, his lips brushing against your ear. “And tonight, I’m gonna show you just how much of a badass I really am”.

You blushed slightly, biting your lip, but before you could respond, Sam cleared his throat loudly, rolling his eyes as he grabbed a spatula from the counter. “Alright, lovebirds. Save it for later”. He gave Dean a pointed look and shook his head, but there was a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Dean just laughed, completely unbothered. “What? You’d understand if you weren’t such a giant prude”.

Sam chuckled and turned his attention back to the stove, where the eggs you’d been cooking were starting to sizzle. “Speaking of helping, you two might want to focus on breakfast before I have to scrape these off the pan”. He stirred the eggs, giving Dean a mock glare. “You’re not getting out of this one, man. You can help with breakfast if you’re not too busy being a badass”.

Dean grinned, giving you one more quick kiss, his lips lingering just long enough to make your heart flutter. "Alright, alright", he muttered with a chuckle.

You rolled your eyes playfully but couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips as you returned to the stove, taking over where Sam left off with the eggs. As you stirred them, you could feel Dean’s gaze still on you, that familiar warmth blooming in your chest. Sam was right—Dean might act tough and gruff most of the time, but with you, it was different. There was a softness he showed only around you, a vulnerability he never let anyone else see. And honestly, it felt good knowing you had him wrapped around your finger in a way no one else ever had.

Dean walked up behind you, resting his hand casually on the small of your back as he grabbed the coffee pot to refill his mug. "These eggs better be good, or you’re gonna have to explain to Sam why I’m stealing all the bacon later".

Sam snorted from the other side of the kitchen, glancing over with a smirk. "You’re such a drama queen, Dean. It’s breakfast, not a five-star restaurant".

"Hey, breakfast is important", Dean shot back, leaning against the counter with a mock-serious look. "And so is bacon. Especially on Christmas morning".

You laughed, shaking your head as you finished scrambling the eggs, the smell of food filling the bunker and blending with the warmth of the decorations around you. “Relax, Winchester. You’ll get your bacon”.

Dean raised his mug in a mock toast. “Now you’re talking my language”.

As Sam set the table, you couldn’t help but take a moment to appreciate the scene—two brothers you cared about, a peaceful morning for once, and a Christmas that actually felt like something worth celebrating. Despite everything life threw at you, moments like this made it all worthwhile.

Just as you set the plates of scrambled eggs and bacon on the table, a sudden whoosh of air filled the room, and before you could react, Jack appeared right in the middle of the kitchen, his usual bright smile lighting up his face.

“Good morning!”, Jack exclaimed, his excitement palpable. “Merry Christmas!”.

Dean nearly spilled his coffee, glancing up with a start. “Damn it, Jack! We’ve talked about the whole ‘teleporting without warning’ thing”.

Before Jack could respond, there was another rustle, and Cas stepped into the kitchen, as calm and collected as ever. “Dean”, he said in his familiar, gravelly tone, “we’re here for breakfast, not to startle you”.

You couldn’t help but chuckle as you watched Dean roll his eyes, clearly trying to keep his usual grumpy demeanor in place, though you could tell he was glad to see them. “Yeah, well, maybe next time use the front door like normal people”, Dean muttered, but his grin betrayed him as he waved them over.

Jack, seemingly oblivious to the grumbling, beamed at the sight of the Christmas decorations you had put up. “Wow, Y/N! The bunker looks amazing! It feels so… festive!”.

You smiled, wiping your hands on a dish towel. “Thanks, Jack. Took a bit of work, but it’s worth it”.

Cas, standing beside Jack, nodded his approval. “It’s a significant improvement. Very… homey”.

Dean snorted, muttering under his breath, “Great, now even Cas is getting sappy”. But there was no hiding the fondness in his voice.

Sam grinned at Jack and Cas, pulling out chairs for them. “Perfect timing, guys. Y/N just finished making breakfast. You’re just in time”.

Jack’s eyes lit up as he sat down eagerly, glancing at the spread of eggs, bacon, and toast. “I love breakfast!”.

Dean raised an eyebrow as he sat down across from him. “Jack, you love every meal”.

Jack shrugged with a sheepish smile. “That’s true. But breakfast is especially good”.

Cas sat beside Jack, his eyes scanning the table thoughtfully. “I don’t require food, but I appreciate the sentiment. I’ll join you”.

Dean caught your eye as you both sat down, his hand brushing against yours under the table. He didn’t say anything, but the warmth in his gaze said it all: this, right here, was what mattered.

As the breakfast continued, the table filled with the sound of clinking forks and Jack excitedly recounting some recent stories, Cas began to grow unusually quiet. You noticed him eyeing you from across the table, his piercing blue gaze lingering on you with that familiar intensity that usually meant he had picked up on something. His brows furrowed slightly, and you bit your lip, silently hoping he’d just tune into Jack’s enthusiastic chatter.

But then, Cas tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing as they dropped to your stomach. “Y/N”, he started, his voice cutting through the lighthearted atmosphere, “something feels… off”.

Your heart skipped a beat. You could feel Dean glance at you out of the corner of his eye, his fork pausing midway to his mouth. Cas’ eyes were still fixed on you, a mix of confusion and concern etched across his face, and you knew he was sensing something that you weren’t quite ready to discuss. Not yet.

Cas opened his mouth again, but before he could say anything more, you stood up abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor. “Cas, could you help me with something in the library?”, you asked quickly, trying to keep your voice steady, but the urgency in your tone was hard to miss.

Dean’s gaze shifted fully to you now, his brows furrowing slightly. “Baby, you barely ate”, he said softly, nodding towards your plate that still had most of the eggs untouched.

You forced a small smile, your heart racing. “I’ll be right back. I just need to check something with Cas. Won’t take long”.

Jack, still caught up in his own world, barely seemed to notice the tension as he continued his story to Sam. But Dean wasn’t fooled, his eyes searching yours for an explanation. You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze before nodding toward Cas, silently pleading with him to follow you without asking any more questions.

Cas stood slowly, his expression still unreadable but compliant, and followed you out of the kitchen. As soon as you were out of earshot, you let out a shaky breath, trying to gather your thoughts. The last thing you needed was Cas revealing something in front of everyone before you even had a chance to wrap your head around it yourself.

Cas watched you with that deep, unblinking intensity, his hands still tucked into the familiar folds of his trench coat. The silence between you felt heavy, the air thick with the tension of unspoken words. You could see the wheels turning in his mind, that angelic perception of his already picking up on things you hadn’t fully come to terms with yet.

And then it happened.

In the quiet stillness of the library, his gaze sharpened slightly. His head tilted once more, and his eyes flicked to your stomach. It was as though something invisible had clicked into place. The faintest sound of another heartbeat reached his celestial senses, soft yet distinct, tucked away beneath your own.

His eyes widened in realization, and he straightened up, his voice barely more than a whisper. “There’s… another heartbeat”.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as the reality of it hit you again. You hadn’t wanted to think about it, hadn’t even allowed yourself to fully embrace it yet. But now, with Cas staring at you like he’d just uncovered a truth written in the stars, it was impossible to avoid.

Cas stepped closer, his expression softening with a mixture of awe and understanding. “Y/N… you’re pregnant”.

There it was—out in the open. The secret you had been carrying alone, unsure of how to even approach it. The words hung in the air between you, thick and heavy, as if they had the power to change everything.

You nodded slowly, your eyes dropping to the floor as your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt. “I—I found out a while ago. I haven’t told Dean yet”.

Cas watched you closely, his blue eyes filled with understanding as you hesitated. The weight of your secret had been building up inside you, and now that it was out in the open—at least with Cas—it felt like you were one step closer to facing it. But there was still the looming task of telling Dean, and that, above all, made your heart race.

You took a deep breath, your voice barely above a whisper as you admitted, “I’m planning on telling him tonight”.

Cas nodded, his expression gentle and supportive. “That’s a good idea, Y/N. It’s important that he hears it from you, and in your own time”.

You bit your lip, feeling the nerves bubble up again. “I know. I’ve been trying to figure out the right moment, the right words… but I don’t think there’s ever going to be a perfect time, is there?”.

Cas shook his head slightly. “No, but Dean will understand. He’ll want to be there for you, for both of you”.

You sighed softly, running a hand through your hair. “It’s just… it’s a lot. And with everything we’ve been through—demons, angels, hunting—it’s hard to imagine something like this fitting into our lives”.

Cas took a step closer, his presence calming. “You’re stronger than you think, Y/N. You’ve been through so much together, and this will be another challenge, but one filled with love. Dean will rise to the occasion”.

You smiled weakly, grateful for Cas’ steady reassurance. “Thanks, Cas. I really needed to hear that”.

Cas nodded, a rare, soft smile tugging at his lips, a sight so uncommon that it momentarily eased the tension in your chest. It was reassuring, the way he could offer comfort without saying too much, just being present and understanding in his quiet, angelic way.

"You’re welcome, Y/N", he said softly, that smile lingering. "It’s going to be alright. You’re not alone in this".

You felt a surge of emotion at his words. Cas always had this way of making even the most overwhelming situations seem manageable, like everything was just part of a bigger plan. You were about to face one of the biggest moments of your life, but somehow, in this moment, with Cas standing there, it didn’t feel as impossible as it had before.

“I’m not sure how I’m going to bring it up", you admitted, a hint of nervousness creeping back into your voice. “Dean’s not exactly the best at handling surprises”.

Cas’ small smile grew slightly, an amused glint in his eyes. “True, but he has a way of adapting, especially when it comes to you”.

You chuckled softly, rubbing your hands together nervously. “Yeah, I guess you’re right”.

Cas’ expression grew more serious again as he added, “Dean cares for you deeply. That won’t change, no matter what you tell him tonight”.

You nodded, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Okay. Tonight”.

You gave him a small, grateful smile and then glanced back toward the kitchen. "We should get back before Dean gets suspicious”.

Cas simply followed your gaze, and with a subtle shift of his posture, you both started making your way back to the kitchen. As you stepped inside, the sound of Jack’s laughter filled the room, and the warmth of the holiday decorations felt a little more comforting now.

Dean immediately looked up from his seat, his green eyes locking onto yours. His brow furrowed slightly, but he smiled, his lips curling into that familiar smirk that always managed to make your heart skip a beat. “Everything good?”, he asked, his voice casual but laced with curiosity.

You smiled back at him, nodding as you returned to your seat next to him. “Yeah, everything’s good”, you said softly, your hand finding his under the table again, needing that connection for just a bit longer.

Dean glanced between you and Cas but didn’t press further. Instead, he squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gesture of quiet comfort.

The rest of the breakfast carried on with Jack and Sam exchanging stories, Cas chiming in now and then with his calm, straightforward insights. And while the atmosphere was light, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the conversation that was coming later.

As the day went on, the soft hum of holiday cheer filled the bunker. Jack sat cross-legged on the floor beside you, eagerly helping to wrap the last few presents, his excitement almost palpable as he concentrated on folding the wrapping paper with precision. “Do you think they’ll like them?”, he asked, glancing up at you with wide, hopeful eyes.

You smiled warmly, watching him try his best to mimic the way you wrapped the gifts. “They’ll love them, Jack”, you assured him. “It’s the thought that counts, and you’ve put a lot of thought into these”.

Jack beamed, his joy infectious. “I hope so. I want this Christmas to be perfect”.

As you carefully taped the final gift, your eyes drifted over to Cas, who sat in the corner of the room, staring down at the bright red and green Christmas sweater you’d made him wear earlier in the day. It had a knitted image of a reindeer on it, complete with a blinking red nose, and while the sweater fit him perfectly, Cas looked incredibly out of place.

He tugged slightly at the fabric near his neck, his expression unreadable as he muttered, “This garment feels… unusual”.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. “It’s supposed to feel a little weird. It’s a Christmas sweater, Cas. They’re meant to be festive, not comfortable”.

Cas raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “I fail to understand how wearing this contributes to the holiday spirit”.

Jack looked up from his wrapping and grinned. “It’s part of the tradition, Castiel. You wear silly clothes, eat too much food, and spend time with the people you care about. That’s the spirit of Christmas”.

Cas glanced at Jack, his confusion softening into contemplation. “I see”, he murmured, his eyes moving down to the blinking reindeer on his chest once more. “It is… rather distracting”.

You chuckled, moving to sit beside him for a moment. “You’re doing great, Cas. You’re embracing the whole Christmas thing, and that’s what counts”.

He nodded slowly, though his fingers continued to tug at the sweater, as if he were still trying to understand its purpose. “I suppose if it makes everyone happy, I can tolerate it for a little while longer”.

Jack beamed at Cas, clearly pleased that he was trying to join in. “It looks good on you, Cas. Really festive!”.

Cas gave a small nod of acknowledgment but looked a little like he’d rather be anywhere else than wearing that sweater. Still, it was a rare moment of levity in their otherwise intense lives, and you were glad to see him at least making an effort.

The day passed peacefully, the bunker filled with laughter and quiet conversation. Sam and Dean had gone out to get the final groceries for dinner, leaving you with some much-needed quiet time to prepare mentally for the conversation you were planning to have later.

Just as you began peeling potatoes for dinner, the sound of Jody’s familiar voice echoed through the bunker, followed by the laughter and chatter of her girls, Claire and Alex.

Cas, Jack, and Sam were quick to step outside to help unload the car. From the doorway, you could see Jack’s enthusiasm, practically bouncing on his heels as they brought in armfuls of presents from the back of Jody’s truck.

You smiled to yourself, grateful for the warmth that filled the bunker today. It wasn’t just the twinkling lights or the soft hum of Christmas music playing in the background; it was the people—this makeshift family that had come together, in all their strange, supernatural, and human ways.

Suddenly, you felt a presence behind you, strong and familiar. Before you could react, Dean’s hands slid around your waist, splaying across your belly as he pressed his body close to yours. His lips found the side of your neck, leaving soft kisses that sent shivers down your spine, making your breath hitch.

“Hey”, he whispered against your skin, his voice low and teasing. “You’ve been running around all day. Figured I’d steal a minute”.

You exhaled, momentarily forgetting about the potatoes as you leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth of his hands spread through you. His fingers brushed against your belly gently, and for a second, a rush of nerves tightened your chest. He didn’t know yet, and his hands were right there, resting over the secret you hadn’t yet shared.

Dean must have felt the shift in your body because he paused, his lips still on your neck but now still. “You okay, sweetheart?”.

You forced a smile, even though your heart raced beneath your chest. “Yeah, just… thinking about everything we have to get done”.

He chuckled, clearly not suspecting anything. “You’ve got this”, he said confidently, his hands giving your stomach a soft squeeze before he moved his lips to your ear. “And later tonight, we’ll make some time for just us. Sound good?”.

Your breath caught again, not from his words but from the weight of what you knew you had to tell him. You turned your head slightly, catching his gaze, trying to steady your nerves. “Yeah”, you whispered. “Later”.

Dean grinned, giving you one more lingering kiss on the neck before pulling back. "You need any help here?", he asked, nodding toward the potatoes you’d been peeling, but before you could answer, Jody stepped into the kitchen with her usual air of confident warmth, followed closely by Alex, both clearly ready to jump in and take over.

Jody smiled as she caught sight of Dean standing so close to you. “I think you’ve got enough on your plate, Dean”, she teased lightly, her eyes sparkling. “Why don’t you let the ladies handle dinner, and you can make yourself useful elsewhere?”.

Dean chuckled, holding up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. You know where to find me if you need the real help”.

Jody rolled her eyes playfully before turning toward you. “Looks like we’ve got things covered in here, Y/N. What do you say we get this show on the road?”.

You gave her a grateful smile as Alex moved to your side, eager to pitch in. "Sounds good to me".

Before Dean could make another comment, Jody pointed toward the door, a mischievous grin on her face. "Dean, why don’t you, Sam, Cas, and Claire set up the tables in the library for dinner? I want it to look nice. You boys can handle a little decorating, can’t you?".

Dean snorted. “Decorating? Uh, sure, we’ll handle it”.

Claire, who had just come in, overheard Jody’s instructions and immediately protested. "Decorating? Seriously, Jody?", she groaned, throwing her hands up dramatically. "You know I’m not exactly the Martha Stewart type".

Jody shot her a mock-serious look. "It’s Christmas, Claire. And you’re part of this family, which means you help".

Claire grumbled under her breath, but the small smile playing at her lips told you she wasn’t really upset.

Dean, hearing her complaints, threw an arm around Claire’s shoulders as they both walked out of the kitchen. “Come on, kid. We’ll make Cas do the heavy lifting. You and I can just supervise”.

Claire smirked, shaking her head but following along anyway, while you could hear Sam and Cas joining in, their voices fading as they headed toward the library.

With the boys and Claire out of the kitchen, the room settled into a comfortable hum as you, Jody, and Alex set to work on dinner. The smell of freshly peeled potatoes filled the air as you and Alex continued prepping, while Jody took command of the oven, expertly sliding in a tray of seasoned vegetables.

“So”, Jody said, glancing at you with a raised eyebrow as she wiped her hands on a towel. “How are you holding up? Got a lot on your mind, I bet”.

You hesitated for a moment, your hand pausing mid-peel, before you nodded. “Yeah… you could say that”.

Jody gave you one of her knowing looks, that calm, motherly intuition she always carried. “Anything you want to talk about?”.

You smiled softly, appreciating the offer, but shook your head. “Not right now. But… thanks, Jody”.

She nodded, not pressing, but you could tell she understood. "Whenever you're ready".

Alex, sensing the shift in conversation, changed the subject, her voice bright as she asked about dessert ideas. The easy banter and lighthearted chatter that followed made you feel a little more grounded, and soon, the rhythm of preparing the Christmas feast fell into place, calming your nerves.

As you worked alongside Jody and Alex, you could hear occasional bursts of laughter coming from the library, a sure sign that the boys—and Claire—were enjoying their task despite the initial complaints. You couldn’t help but smile, imagining the chaos they were creating while attempting to set up the dinner tables.

Tonight was still hanging over you, but for now, you allowed yourself to enjoy the moment. The warmth, the laughter, the love that filled the bunker—it was all the reassurance you needed. Whatever came next, you’d face it surrounded by the people who had become your family.

Two hours later, the whole group was gathered around the large table in the library, now decorated with Christmas lights and a mix of festive table settings. Laughter and conversation filled the room, creating a warm, comforting atmosphere that made the bunker feel more like a real home. The scent of roasted vegetables, savory meat, and freshly baked bread wafted through the air as everyone dug into the Christmas dinner you had all worked so hard to prepare.

You sat between Dean and Sam, your plate in front of you looking more full than it should, considering the slight wave of nausea that had settled over you. Despite your best efforts, eating wasn’t coming as easily as you’d hoped. It was frustrating, really—you felt like you were starving, but every bite seemed to turn heavy the moment it hit your stomach. Still, you kept a huge smile plastered across your face, determined to enjoy the moment.

As Jody regaled the group with stories from her last Christmas with Claire and Alex, everyone at the table was engaged, laughing and reacting to her animated storytelling. Claire rolled her eyes playfully at some of the more embarrassing details, but there was no denying the affection in her gaze as she listened to Jody.

“And then”, Jody continued, gesturing wildly with her fork, “Claire decided it would be a great idea to chop down her own Christmas tree—without telling me. She borrowed my axe and came back with this tiny, crooked thing. Looked like Charlie Brown’s tree on a bad day”.

Everyone erupted in laughter, Claire groaning dramatically as she covered her face with her hands. “It wasn’t that bad!”, she protested, but the grin on her face betrayed her.

Alex chimed in, laughing, “Oh, it was that bad. You’re lucky it didn’t fall over on us while we were decorating it”.

Dean chuckled beside you, shaking his head. “Sounds like Claire and I would’ve gotten along just fine as kids”.

“Of course you would”, Sam said, rolling his eyes. “Mischief attracts mischief”.

You laughed along with them, though you could feel your stomach turning slightly as you pushed some mashed potatoes around your plate. Dean, ever observant, glanced at you between bites, his eyes narrowing slightly in concern.

“Hey”, he said quietly, leaning in so only you could hear. “You okay? You’ve barely touched your food”.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you offered him a reassuring smile, though you could tell he wasn’t completely convinced. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… not as hungry as I thought I’d be”.

Dean studied you for a moment, his hand resting gently on your knee under the table. He didn’t press further, though, which you appreciated. Instead, he gave your leg a soft squeeze before turning back to the conversation, his worry still lingering just beneath the surface.

As the evening went on, you focused on the stories and laughter around you, feeling the love and joy that filled the room. Jack, seated between Cas and Sam, was practically glowing with excitement, his eyes wide as he listened intently to each person who spoke, soaking in the warmth of the holiday spirit like it was something magical.

Occasionally, you managed a few bites of food, but the queasiness never quite went away. Still, the happiness of the evening made it easier to push the discomfort aside. Jody’s stories continued, one after another, each more hilarious than the last, and soon the entire table was in fits of laughter.

“I swear”, Jody said, wiping a tear from her eye as she finished another tale, “Christmas with these girls is never boring. If it’s not Claire taking an axe to a tree, it’s Alex burning cookies in the oven”.

Alex gasped in mock offense. “That was one time, Jody!”.

Sam grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like a Winchester Christmas, alright”.

Dean chuckled, but his attention shifted to you again, his hand still resting gently on your leg. He shot you a quick glance, as if making sure you were really okay, but before he could say anything, Jody changed the subject, pulling him back into the conversation.

For now, you kept your smile in place, the weight of your secret heavy in your heart.

The mood in the library was warm and festive as everyone gathered around the Christmas tree, glowing with twinkling lights. The bunker’s cold, utilitarian vibe had completely transformed into something that resembled a cozy family living room. Armchairs and smaller couches were draped around the tree, but despite the available space, Dean pulled you into his lap, grinning as he wrapped an arm around your waist, claiming you as his own little piece of Christmas comfort.

“Gotta save space, right?”, Dean teased, giving you a playful squeeze. You settled into him, your nerves still fluttering as you kept the small, tightly wrapped frame in your hands. You felt the solid weight of the secret within, the truth you were about to share, but you kept it to yourself for now, waiting for the right moment.

On the floor in front of the tree, Jack sat cross-legged, his eyes bright with excitement as he carefully picked up gifts, handing them out with the eagerness of a kid on Christmas morning. Sam sat nearby, his legs stretched out in front of him as he watched the scene with a fond smile. Claire and Alex were already ripping into their presents, while Jody smiled from the armchair, enjoying the chaos that had taken over the normally quiet bunker.

Dean, of course, had his focus on you, even as he tore into the gifts Jack handed him. His laughter filled the room as he opened a box from Sam containing a brand-new set of tools. “Knew I could count on you for the practical stuff”, Dean joked, giving Sam a wink.

You smiled softly, watching Dean enjoy the moment, but your heart raced as the small frame in your hands grew heavier. You could feel the ultrasound picture inside, the words Littlest Winchester written across the frame. You had thought about this moment a hundred times, imagined how it would go, but now that you were here, sitting on Dean’s lap, surrounded by the people you loved, you felt a knot of anxiety tighten in your chest.

Jack continued handing out gifts, his excitement infectious as he passed a wrapped present to Cas, who opened it slowly, carefully peeling away the paper. Dean’s hands, however, rested lightly on your hips, and you could feel his attention shifting back to you between each gift. He was smiling, but there was something in his eyes, like he knew something was on your mind.

Dean leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You alright, sweetheart? You’ve been a little quiet”.

You nodded quickly, trying to keep the nervousness out of your voice. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… waiting for the right moment”.

Dean’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn’t press you further. Instead, he turned his attention back to the last few gifts Jack was handing out. But you could feel his curiosity piqued—he knew something was up, but he was giving you space.

Finally, all the presents were opened, and the room was filled with the sounds of laughter, wrapping paper scattered across the floor. Dean leaned back, his arm still securely around your waist as he admired the various gifts he had received. “This was a damn good Christmas”, he said, his voice content. “You outdid yourself this year”.

You smiled, your heart pounding in your chest as you held the small frame tighter in your hands. This was it. The right moment had arrived, and there was no turning back now.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you slowly shifted in Dean’s lap, turning to face him slightly. “Dean”, you started softly, your voice barely above a whisper, “I have one more gift for you”.

His eyes lit up with curiosity as he tilted his head. “Another one? You’re spoiling me, sweetheart”.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you. With trembling hands, you passed him the small, neatly wrapped frame. Dean looked down at it, his brow furrowing slightly as he took it from you, clearly sensing the significance behind it.

His fingers brushed against the wrapping paper as he tore it open, his usual playful smirk giving way to something more serious as he carefully peeled back the layers. When the frame finally emerged, his eyes immediately dropped to the image inside.

Dean froze.

His hand tightened around the frame, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes locked onto the ultrasound picture. The words Littlest Winchester written across the top of the frame seemed to echo in the air between you. For a moment, everything else in the room faded away—Jack’s chatter, Claire’s teasing, even the warm glow of the Christmas tree seemed to disappear as Dean stared at the image in front of him.

His voice, when it finally came, was rough, barely a whisper. “Is this…?”.

Dean’s world seemed to stop as he stared at the ultrasound picture, his breath hitching in his throat. His eyes wide with disbelief and something else—something deeper, rawer. Right now, in this moment, it was as if the rest of the room had faded away. It was just you and him.

You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, but you couldn’t meet his eyes. Your heart pounded in your chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation swirling inside of you. You bit your lip, your fingers trembling as you twisted them together anxiously in your lap. How would he react? This wasn’t planned. Hell, you’d been on the pill, doing everything right, and yet somehow this happened.

You had known that Dean always wanted kids, deep down. You had seen it in the way he looked at families whenever you passed them on the road, in the rare quiet moments when he let his guard down and talked about what could have been. But with his lifestyle—your lifestyle—it always seemed like an impossible dream. The topic had always been brushed off, a “what if” too dangerous to entertain.

Now, it wasn’t a “what if” anymore. It was real. It was happening. And you were terrified of how he might respond.

Tears welled in your eyes, your vision blurring as you nodded slowly, unable to find the strength to look at him. You stared down at your hands, twisting your fingers together as the silence stretched on, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on.

“I—I didn’t know… I was on the pill. I don’t know how this happened, but… it did”, you whispered, your voice trembling as the tears spilled over.

You wiped at your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. “I’m scared. I don’t know what this means for us, for everything. I just… I know it’s not what we planned, and I don’t know how you feel about it…”.

Your voice trailed off, overwhelmed by the enormity of what was happening. You didn’t dare look up at him, afraid of what you might see in his eyes—afraid that the dream you hadn’t let yourself believe in might come crashing down.

But then, after what felt like an eternity, you felt Dean’s hand move from the frame. His fingers found yours, gently prying your hands apart and wrapping them in his. His touch was warm, grounding you, and with that simple gesture, your heart clenched.

“Sweetheart”, Dean’s voice was low, thick with emotion as he finally spoke, and you could hear the slight tremble in it. He reached up, his hand cupping your cheek, gently wiping away a tear with his thumb. “Look at me”.

You hesitated, but the softness in his voice, the warmth in his touch, made you brave enough to lift your gaze to meet his. When you finally did, the sight of his eyes—wide, filled with awe and love, and glistening with unshed tears—took your breath away.

“You’re pregnant”, he whispered, like he was trying to wrap his mind around the reality of it. “We’re having a baby”.

The corners of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile but was still too overwhelmed to fully let it through. His eyes searched yours, trying to gauge everything you were feeling, trying to make sense of this new reality.

You nodded again, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, Dean. We’re having a baby”.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His hand still rested on your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against your skin, grounding you both in this new, terrifying, and beautiful reality.

And then, suddenly, Dean let out a shaky breath, his lips curving into the kind of smile you had rarely seen from him—one of pure, unfiltered joy. A small laugh escaped him, as if the weight of the world had just been lifted from his shoulders.

“We’re having a baby”, he repeated, this time with more conviction, his voice filled with wonder. “Holy crap”.

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly, holding you as if he never wanted to let go. You could feel the way his heart was racing, how overwhelmed and overjoyed he was, and it made the tears spill from your eyes all over again.

“I love you”, Dean murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. “God, I love you so much. I don’t care how it happened, I don’t care about the rest. This—this is the best damn Christmas gift I’ve ever gotten”.

You let out a sob of relief, burying your face into his chest as you held onto him, your fingers gripping his shirt as you let the emotions wash over you. All the fear, the anxiety, the uncertainty—it all melted away in his embrace.

Dean kissed the top of your head, holding you close as you both stayed like that for a long moment. Finally, you pulled back slightly, looking up at him, your face wet with tears, but your heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

“Are you… are you really okay with this?”, you asked softly, still needing to hear it, still needing that final reassurance.

Dean’s eyes softened as he leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. “More than okay”, he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. “I’ve never been more okay with anything in my life”.

Dean pulled you in even tighter, his lips meeting yours in a soft, tender kiss that carried all the emotion he couldn’t quite put into words. His hand cradled the back of your head as if to ground both of you in the moment, making you feel safe, loved, and cherished. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath shaky but filled with happiness.

Without even glancing away from you, Dean blindly handed the framed ultrasound to Sam, who had been watching the two of you closely. “Hey, Sammy, check this out”, Dean muttered, his voice still thick with awe and emotion.

Sam took the frame gingerly, his brow furrowing in confusion at first as he glanced down. But when he saw what was in his hands, his expression shifted, his eyes widening in shock as he realized what he was looking at. “Holy crap”, Sam whispered, his voice echoing Dean’s earlier reaction.

The room, which had grown quiet as everyone observed the moment between you and Dean, suddenly erupted in soft gasps and murmurs as Sam held up the frame for everyone to see.

Jody’s eyes lit up with a wide smile, and her hand flew to her mouth in surprise. Claire and Alex exchanged looks, their usual tough exteriors softening into grins. Jack, sitting cross-legged on the floor, beamed, his face lighting up with pure joy. Even Cas, who had been quietly observing from the corner, allowed a rare smile to spread across his face, understanding the gravity of the moment.

Dean’s hand never left yours, his eyes locked on you as if he still couldn’t believe what was happening. “We’re really doing this”, he whispered softly, his voice full of love and a hint of disbelief.

You nodded, unable to stop the tears from flowing again, though this time they were tears of relief, happiness, and excitement for the future. “Yeah, we are”.

Sam, still holding the frame, finally found his voice again. “Dude, this is… this is incredible”. he said, his voice cracking slightly as he looked between you and Dean, his eyes misting over with pride. “I’m gonna be an uncle”.

Jody stood from her seat, stepping forward with a huge smile. “You two are going to be amazing parents”, she said warmly, her eyes shining with happiness. “This kid is already so loved”.

Claire let out a dramatic sigh from across the room, but there was no mistaking the affection in her tone. “Great, another Winchester to look after”, she teased with a smirk. “Just what we needed”.

Alex nudged Claire, rolling her eyes but laughing along. “Like you wouldn’t be first in line to babysit”.

Dean’s hand slowly wandered over your stomach, resting there as if he was already bonding with the little life growing inside you. He kept you close, his thumb lightly brushing your belly in a gentle, unconscious motion, and it sent a warmth through your entire body.

Then he looked over at Claire with that classic Dean Winchester smirk, teasingly raising an eyebrow. “Oh, you better believe you’re first in line for babysitting, Claire. You and Alex. It’s a Winchester tradition—gotta get you trained up for the dirty work early”.

Claire rolled her eyes dramatically, but her smile gave her away. “Yeah, right. I can already see it now—Dean and Y/N sneak out for a ‘quick hunt’ and I’m stuck with diaper duty”.

Dean chuckled, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “That’s the spirit! You’ll be a pro in no time, kid”.

Alex laughed from beside her, nudging Claire again. “Face it, Claire, you’re going to be Auntie Claire before you know it”.

Claire’s expression softened slightly, her tough exterior cracking just a little. “Yeah, well… I’ll do it, but only for the kid. Not for you, Dean”, she teased, crossing her arms.

Dean grinned, squeezing you closer as he shot Claire a wink. “Fair enough”.

Jack, who had been quietly observing with wide eyes, piped up from his spot on the floor. “I can help, too! I’ll keep the baby entertained, maybe teach them some… cool tricks”.

The entire room burst into laughter at that, and Dean’s hand squeezed your belly a little more, pulling you back into his chest with a look of mock concern. “Whoa, whoa, Jack. No angelic tricks around the baby just yet. We’re gonna need to stick with the basics first—like peek-a-boo, not teleporting”.

Jack nodded seriously, though the excitement in his eyes didn’t dim. “Right. No teleporting. Got it”.

Sam, still holding the framed ultrasound, smiled warmly as he watched the whole exchange, his gaze eventually landing back on you and Dean. “This kid’s going to be surrounded by more love—and more chaos—than it´ll know what to do with”.

Dean’s eyes softened as he met Sam’s gaze, the weight of the moment settling in once again. “Yeah”, he agreed, his voice quieter, more serious now. “That’s what family’s for, right?”.

You could feel Dean’s arm tighten around you protectively, and you leaned into him, feeling the overwhelming love and joy radiating from him. For so long, the idea of having a family seemed like an impossible dream for both of you, something that had been pushed aside in the face of all the danger and uncertainty. But now, sitting here surrounded by the people you loved, the dream was real.

Dean glanced down at you, his hand still resting protectively over your stomach, his expression softening into something deeper. “We’re really doing this”, he repeated, more to himself than anyone else, his eyes shining with quiet wonder.

You nodded, your hand resting on top of his as you smiled through your tears. “Yeah, Dean. We are”.

And in that moment, surrounded by your family and the warm glow of Christmas lights, everything felt right—like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. The future, as uncertain as it always seemed, felt full of hope and love. And as Dean held you close, his hand never leaving your belly, you knew that no matter what came next, you’d face it together.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373

#jensen ackles #deanwinchester #dean and sam #dean and cas #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean winchester fic #dean x y/n #dean x pregnant reader #dean x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #spn #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction

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soov · 26 days ago

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HOW TO DRiNK。 lee heeseung

fem reader & frat heeseung ᗢ 8OO words ━━ fluff ꕀ college!au, estabilished relationship, repost ⌗ WARNiNGS pet names, kissing, drinking, cursing.

No alcohol or alcohol? No alcohol or alcohol?

“Honestly, miss, I think you should go full out with real whiskey. I’m sure your boyfriend will like it.” The bartender suggested kindly, wiping a rocks glass. “And if he doesn’t, it was worth the experience.”

You glanced up at the guy who you had been bothering the whole night with your drink struggles and nodded, “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Give me a glass then, please. Neat.”

“Right away!”

The sound of Heeseung’s laughter was filtered from all the other noises by your ears. You smiled at your boyfriend, who seemed terribly tipsy, talking to Sunghoon a few feet away from you.

Even though he had only drank a small glass of Bee’s Knees — following your long chat with the bartender to decide which cocktail you’d get him — Heeseung looked like he had been drinking the whole night. His alcohol tolerance was terrible.

He wasn’t used to drinking, because: one, he didn’t like the taste of alcohol, but he had only tried some cheap beer and wine when he and the boys were freshmen. Two, he had to take care of you at the parties, and he really enjoyed getting pampered by your drunk self, and returning the favor later.

But, out of the very blue, Heeseung decided to try it out at one of Jake’s frat parties, and you agreed to be his tutor, starting off easy with the sweet cocktail.

“Miss... Your whiskey.” The bartender called for the second time, chuckling when he noticed your nervous expression. “He’ll be fine. Just give him small sips first."

Sighing, you took the glass from him, lips pursed together. “I guess so,” you shrugged, shining a thankful smile. “Thank you for the help.”

With the whiskey in hand, you walked up to Heeseung, whose face lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of you.

“Baby, you’re back!” He celebrated, wrapping his arms around the back of your knees and resting his chin on your stomach. “Hi. You took too long.”

As much as he looked adorable, you couldn’t help but take note of his flushed, crimson cheeks and bleary eyes. He was tipsy when you left him, not fully drunk.

“Sorry. Was thinking ‘bout what I’d get you.” You mumbled, caressing his hair with your free hand while scanning for any other drinks he might’ve had. That was when your eyes fell on Sunghoon, who had a shit-eating smirk on his face and a bottle of Bacardi in his hold.

“I didn’t do a thing. He was the one who wanted it.” Sunghoon pointed to your clueless boyfriend, who was too busy squeezing your thighs to relax.

You scoffed, eyes narrowed at him. “I’ll kill you.”

Heeseung lightly tugged at your wrist for your attention, “Can you give me the drink now?" He requested softly, to which you nodded.

“Of course,” you passed him the cup, anxiously watching his wobbly hands pick it up, “but take small sips.”

He didn’t register your words, taking a large gulp and eliciting a gasp from you, who got the glass back. The liquid was bitter in his mouth, and as he swallowed it, he felt the pit of his stomach burn up. “Fuck...” Heeseung hissed, nose scrunched up.

“What are you even doing?” You scolded with no malice behind it, focusing on his disoriented reaction. With a huff, you smiled when he reached for the cup again, pawing at your clothes.

“I wanna have more. Didn’t taste it...” He complained, burying his face on your abdomen and pressing short kisses to it.

“It’s because you shouldn’t down it all. You’re supposed to let it melt in your mouth.” Cupping his jaw firmly, you brought the drink to his face, and better would it have been if you didn’t.

Heeseung’s plush lips wrapped around the rim of the glass, innocent doe eyes gazing unwaveringly up at you. The alcoholic liquid sat on his tongue, and despite the burn that still didn’t taste like anything, he waited before gulping it down. He pulled back and wiped his chin with the back of his hand, mouth parted.

It took everything in you to not kiss him that moment.

“That’s it. Tastes nice?” You asked, breathless, giving him the lightest pat on his swollen cheek.

It wasn’t what I expected, he wanted to say. Instead, he just shook his head yes.

“Are you proud of me?” A silly grin showed up on his face, desperate for your approval, his current expression absurdly different from the look he had given you a second prior. “I’m really good at taking alcohol, yeah?”

His words made you laugh, and you put the drink away to sit next to him. He took your hands in his as soon as you got closer. “Of course. It’s like you didn’t even get tipsy after having the lightest cocktail.”

Pouting at your playful jest, Heeseung gave you a quick peck on the nose, already giggling like a fool at his own action, “Mm... I’m still sober, though.”

You indulged him on his lie, “Sure you are.”

“It’s true!”

“Sure it is.”

𔓕　LETTERS FROM REi ━━ drunk hee will always be my fav

2024 © SOOV

#ㅤ𝓡.#enhypen x reader #enhypen fluff #enhypen drabbles #enhypen imagines #enhypen heeseung #enha fluff #enha x reader #enha drabbles #heeseung #heeseung x reader #heeseung fluff #heeseung x you #lee heeseung #lee heesung x reader #lee heeseung fluff

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space-cowgirllll · 4 months ago

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Right Where You Left Me

a/n: I was going to wait to post this but I had written a lot more than I thought the last time I touched this. A little lengthy bc I’m a yapper but here's part two of Tolerate It. I'M SORRYYYYY 🥹

The flurries Abby had seen as she walked into work this morning quickly turned into actual snowfall. Twelve hours later, everything around her is covered in a thick blanket of white snow. Traffic had been worse than usual, making her already shitty commute twice as long. A breath she hadn't realized she was holding leaves her when she finally pulls up to the curb in front of her home. She's safe. Forcing her frozen fingers to uncurl from the death grip she had on the steering wheel, she parks the car, cursing when she feels it slide just a little. She was due for a tropical vacation soon.

Despite her disdain for the snow, Abby can admit the quaint neighborhood looks beautiful. Thousands of multicolored lights adorn the houses and yards around her. Laughter from the kids having a snowball fight across the street fills the night air. Their giggles make Abby's heart feel a little lighter. A couple of her neighbors have their curtains drawn, displaying their immaculately decorated trees. It reminds her of those cheesy hallmark movies she secretly loves watching.

Abby cringes when she realizes her house is the only dark one on the street. In her mind she can see the purple Post-It still stuck to the fridge reminding her to pull the outdoor decor down from the attic and actually decorate. The red plastic tubs have been sitting at the top of the steps for weeks. She trips over them constantly, telling herself she'll get to them tomorrow, but it seems there were just never enough hours in the day. Eighty hour work weeks left little room for anything else- not that she had much going on. If she wasn't at the gym, or catching up on some much needed sleep, she was at the hospital.

Her head hits the steering wheel in defeat when she taps the screen on her phone and catches sight of the date. It's the twentieth of December.

"Too late to do anything about it now." She mumbles to herself. Her palms dig into her tired eyes. Today was truly the day from hell.

But the universe doesn't seem to be quite done with her just yet. Over the hum of her ac blowing she hears a familiar tune. Her head snaps to the radio in recognition. Her usual radio station has switched over to playing nothing but Christmas music for the night. It's your favorite song. Shit. Her shaky index finger blindly reaches for the button to kill the engine before throwing the door open, jacket forgotten in the passenger seat.

She shivers as she speed walks to her front door trying her hardest not to slip on the icy sidewalk. The straps of her work bags dig painfully into her right shoulder when she bends down to collect the multiple packages that had accumulated on her porch. After days of ignoring them, they were starting to block the doorway. But hey, at least this year she had gotten ahead on Christmas shopping.

These days it was all about the small wins. —

Abby drops the mattress she dragged out of the guest room in front of the fireplace with soft grunt. She hasn't done this in years, but she needs it today. This had been one of your favorite ways to unwind after a long week. Always there waiting for her with a big smile and her favorite snacks, a movie waiting to be played on the tv. In the later months of the year, around the holidays, Abby could always count on finding a pair of pajamas for her that matched yours laid out on your shared bed. She had always thought it was kind of silly when you had a perfectly good bed and tv upstairs. Now, she could only dream of coming home after a long day to a warm house and you bundled up in blankets waiting up for her.

It's quiet as she stares out the window watching snow fall. Her head is fuzzy from the wine and she knows she's going to regret it tomorrow. The movie she randomly picked half an hour ago is now muted. She can hear the distant buzzing of her personal phone from somewhere in the kitchen, but she can't be bothered. Calls from her family trying to confirm next weeks plans go ignored. Abby loves them, but the thought of being asked if she was ready to start dating again before trying to set her up with the friend of a friend for the fifth year in a row made her want to cancel her flight home. She can't stand the pity in their eyes every time they look at her.

Bleary eyes roam around the room, the sight of the unlit, half-decorated tree in the corner and the lone stocking missing its pair hanging off the mantle make her chest hurt in a way it hadn't in a while. It may not look like it, but she had tried. Most of the Christmas stuff actually made it out of the attic this year. Which is more than she can say for last year, and the years before that. She'd finally gotten the tree out and decorating had been going well, until she pulled out that ornament.

The little house you had custom made to look like a tiny replica of the first place the two of you were sharing as a married couple. Abby remembers how excited you'd been, staying up waiting for her to come home from a late night so you could open it together. The look in your eyes as you traced over the details, the names stamped on the back. You made her hold it as you hooked it onto the tree, wanting to do it together.

Her fingers trace over the pink floral pattern on the sheets. You'd picked these out, excited to host her parents over the thanksgiving holiday for the fist time. Abby didn't have the heart to change them out. Minus your personal things, she didn't have the heart to make any changes to your original decor. You'd made the house a home. Some nights she swears she can catch a whiff of your favorite candle, or the lavender spray you'd douse the pillows with before going to bed.

Abby gives up, shutting the tv off and settling into her pillow, ready for today to be over. She can't help but feel silly laying here in the dark by herself. Nights like this had been more fun with you around. Everything in her life had been more fun with you around.

You made Abby's life magical, she just hadn't realized it until it was too late. ---------------------------

Abby watches you push your food around your plate out of the corner of her eye. The scraping of the fork makes it hard to focus on the conversation happening in front of her. Would it kill you to at least try to look interested? Her hand lands on your upper thigh, squeezing lightly to get your attention. The two of you exchange subtle glares.

It isn't until her colleagues retreat back to their own table that she finally looks at you. You're swirling the ice in your drink around with a straw. Your gaze fixed on the window, staring out at the busy street. She had thought a nice dinner at your favorite restaurant would soften you up a little, but with how little you've spoken all night and your plate still full, she's starting to worry.

After an explosive fight the morning after she'd forgotten your wedding anniversary, you'd been distant. In all the years Abby had known you, she could count on one hand the amount of times you'd fought, and even then the two of you could never stay away for long. Communication was one of the things you prided yourself on the most, never wanting to go to bed angry at each other. But it's been three weeks and Abby realizes she's really fucked up.

"Alright, what's going on with you?"

"Oh, now you notice." You retort. Her eyebrows knit together, surprised at the thinly veiled anger in your voice.

"You're so dramatic." She huffs. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Your eyes shift to the side, teeth gnawing on your bottom lip. She can practically see the gears turning in your head. You're holding your tongue.

"Abigail, let's not do this right now." You beg. "Please."

"No. We're going to talk now." She speaks lowly, grateful for the little privacy the corner table provided. "Sitting in silence isn't going to make this go away. Stop being childish and tell me how to fix this."

You looked her in the eye, no longer seeing the person you fell in love with. Knowing that if you stayed you'd end up losing yourself in someone who couldn't love you the way you deserved anymore. There was no way you could have the family you wanted with someone who constantly prioritized their work, making you feel like you were the distraction.

Your lips part on a shaky exhale. You can't keep lying awake at night contemplating this. You have to do it now. From the corner of your eye you can see the couple at the table closest to you subtly lean towards you.

Abby leans back in her seat waiting for you to speak up. Her arms folded across her chest. The way her leg bounces up and down gently shakes the table. Something about the dejected look in your eyes makes her panic inside.

"I want a divorce."

---------

Department store wrapping stations were a small luxury Abby didn't mind spending the money on. She wasn't the best gift wrapper, often leaving rips or weird folds on anything that wasn't shaped like a box.

She stands in line with all the other last minute shoppers, people watching when her eyes fall on the last person she thought she'd ever see again. Abby swears she must be dreaming. Her knees nearly buckle when she sees you standing there slowly making your way through a rack of baby clothes. A little boy no younger than two perched on your hip, his leg trying to sit comfortably against the small swell of your stomach. He's a carbon copy of his mother. Abby sees you wherever her eyes land on his face.

Your hair is longer, framing your pretty face. There's a glow to you that she doesn't remember seeing in those last two years of your marriage. Your eyes are tired but bright, even from here Abby can see the way they sparkle when you stare at the little boy in your arms. Nothing like the cold way you'd looked at her that fateful night.

Her heartbeat pounds in her ears as she steps out of line, making her way to a more secluded section of the store. Hiding behind a tie display she watches you interact with your son. For a moment she pretends that you're still hers and that the last five years didn't happen. Pretends that she didn't fuck up the best thing that had ever happened to her. God, she feels like a delusional creep.

A tall woman walks up behind you, making a silly face at your toddler. You smile when he reaches out for her, trading the boy for the to-go cup she was holding out to you. Abby doesn't have to guess what you're drinking. She knew how much you hated coffee, preferring hot chocolate to keep you warm in the colder months. Her stomach bottoms out when you raise the cup to your lips.

A ring that isn't hers sits on your finger.

Abby didn't realize how big of a gut punch that would feel like. While you still spoke to her parents from time to time, they made sure not to relay any information to her. She knew you wouldn't stay single forever, but actually seeing you like this ripped apart whatever was left of her heart.

You'd gone silent on social media since the split. A new and private Instagram account was all she could find one night after she'd been drinking a little too much. She'd cried herself to sleep, wanting nothing more than to be a part of your world again.

She studies your wife, who's everything Abby isn't. Her long brown hair is pulled back in a loose bun, the pink knit beanie on her head matches the scarf currently wrapped around your neck. Dark eyes watch your face intently with a smile as you hold up a onesie to her. Abby looks down at her old college sweats and worn sneakers, nothing like the well put together outfit she's wearing. The woman even looks like she gets more than five hours of sleep each night for crying out loud.

She looks happy. Something Abby hasn't been for a long time.

And judging by the way you're looking at her, like she hangs the stars in the sky, Abby can see how happy you are. She bites the inside of her cheek, refusing to remember what it felt like to have you look at her that way. Tears prickle in her eyes as you make your way down to the front of the store, dramatically blowing kisses at the giggling toddler being carried just a few steps ahead of you. One of your hands rubbing softly at your bump.

Abby startles when you look back towards the men's section, eyes going straight to the tiny display she stood behind. Of course you spotted her. You lock eyes with her. There's a tiny smile on your face watching her come out of her shitty hiding spot. For a moment you two stand there just staring at each other. Abby's aware you probably look crazy to anyone watching but she can't bring herself to care.

Those are my sweats. You mouth. Abby releases a watery chuckle she doubts you hear. She looks down, finally noticing the nail polish stain just under her knee. It's purple. Your favorite color.

The sound of an alarm brings you both back to reality. You give her one last smile, waving as you walk out the doors and into the chilly December air. Her eyes follow you as you cross the street, until you get lost in a large crowd of people.

Watching you walk away this time feels like a final goodbye. You’d always have a place in your heart for Abby, no longer feeling any resentment towards her. She had been too young and selfish to love you the way you deserved. She can see you've found that. And while she's happy for you, she can't help the tears that spill out once she's in the safety of her car.

There's a bittersweet feeling in knowing that the world didn't stop spinning for you the way it did for her the day you walked out of her life.

#abby tlou #abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #abby the last of us #abby x you #abby anderson angst #abby anderson x female reader #abby tlou2

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