#Ugly Sweater Prompt

[melancholicumbrella]

Wanpanmas Day 5: Ugly Sweater

He is very happy with their matching sweaters

[kagomesama]

Day 5 of Wanpanmas: Ugly sweater

Garoh: " Naughty boy? Too cute!

Metal: Shut up!!!"

[hot-glenn-holidays-2023]

HAPPY HOT GLENN HOLIDAYS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!

time sure does fly when you're having fun, huh?

i hope you're all ready to get dressed up in your Ugly Sweaters and Costumes for the occasion because it's the final day of hot glenn holidays! and if you're following along for this last set of prompts, you've got a choice between that or decorating for this day with some Trees and Ornaments! maybe both! maybe neither! it'll be a blast no matter how you choose to celebrate.

as this week comes to an end, remember that the hot glenn holidays spirit stays alive in our hearts for as long as we let it! it's been such a great joy to see y'all come together for this. the energy coming from the community is absolutely wonderful, and we've been having so much fun seeing how everyone has been celebrating with us. we'll be accepting works as part of the official event for a whole week after this too in case you're worried about things like being on time, but all that really matters is that we all keep having fun celebrating our sexy hot mess of a rock and roll christmas demon bard. so leave those hellish holiday decorations up for as long as you see fit baby, and remember to tag your pieces with #hot glenn holidays 2023 to make sure we see it!

keep rocking on!!!

[slytherhys]

12 Days of Christmas - ACOTAR Edition

In the spirit of the Holidays, I will be writing & posting short stories about the ACOTAR characters for the next 12 days. Please note that some will be shorter than others and that this is simply meant to be a fun time for everyone that loves these characters as much as I do!

PS. I'm open to requests.

AO3

6th day of christmas - ugly christmas sweater

this oneshot is dedicated to Candice. Thank you for helping me whenever I'm writing about Nessian. love you frenchie

Proof of Love (Nessian AU)

If there was one thing Cassian knew about his girlfriend, it was that she loved receiving gifts. Books, clothes, a pretty flower he picked up from the street on his way home… Nothing could quite compare to the smile that took over Nesta’s lips whenever he surprised her with a new present.

Which didn’t really explain why she was now sitting on their couch, her book long discarded, staring at his latest gift with a blank face. Cassian felt his grin falter, eyeing the sweater in her hands.

“What is this.” She asked, eyes never straying away from the garment in front of her.

Yeah, Cassian was mildly suspicious she hadn’t like it all that much.

“An ugly Christmas sweater.” He said nonetheless, eyeing the red sweater. He had thought it was hilarious when he had first seen it: the upside-down bat and his cheeky grin, the little Christmas hat that was adorned with a real, tiny bell that jingled whenever Nesta moved.

He ignored the way the frown on Nesta’s face seemed to deepen whenever it rang.

“I can see that.” Her eyes flickered to him once before returning to the sweater, as if still not quite believing what was in front of her. Whether that was a good or a bad sign, Cassian wasn’t entirely sure. “Why?”

Now it was his turn to frown. “What do you mean why? So you wear it.”

“Where exactly would I wear this?”

“Feyre and Rhysand’s party.” Cassian said, since it seemed pretty obvious to him. “The invitation specifically indicated Ugly Christmas Sweater as the preferred attire.”

“My preferred attire is my normal clothes.” She raised an eyebrow at his wounded expression. “I’m not wearing this, Cassian.” She said, folding the sweater and reaching for the shopping bag once again. As if it was decided.

“And why not?”

She gave him a blank stare. “It’s hideous.”

“That’s the whole point of it.” At least he thought it was. When Feyre had explained him the concept, it had seemed a bit confusing. Could a sweater be too ugly to be an ugly Christmas sweater? Maybe he should’ve checked with Feyre before buying them-

Nesta went still. “Cassian.” She looked up at him, a flush in her cheeks. “Why is there two of them?”

Oh, right. Cassian grinned, taking the bag from her hands, and pulling out another sweater. His sweater. “So we could match.” He said, draping the sweater in front of his torso.

“Why would we want to match.”

He shrugged. “Because it’s Christmas.”

Nesta shook her head. “Doesn’t seem like a good enough reason.”

He stepped closer to her, making her tip her head back so she could meet his eyes. “Because it’s fun?”

She glared at him, crossing her arms in defiance. “To whom?”

He hummed, leaning down as he gently pulled her up to her feet. Nesta seemed unfazed, but Cassian knew better. The dilated pupils, the flushed neck, her heaving chest. He smirked, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “Because you love me?” He murmured, smiling.

Nesta cleared her throat, pushing him away and walking to the other side of the couch. “Even love has its limits.”

Cassian stopped, turning with a grin on his face. He raised his eyebrows, watching her as she tried to keep her distance. “Is this yours?”

Nesta eyed the sweaters. He could almost see how much she wanted to say yes. How much she stubbornly wanted to stomp her foot, refusing to wear what was truly a hideous sweater to a party, of all things.

But she didn’t – not even when, hours later, Rhysand opened his front door and eyed them with humour in his eyes. At his growing smirk, Nesta stood a little straighter.

“Don’t you dare say anything.” She growled, walking past him without a glance back.

And no matter how hard he tried, Cassian couldn’t suppress the sheepish grin that took over his features as he watched her stomp through the foyer, jingling with her every step. Mother’s tits, he loved that woman.

He was suddenly extremely glad Feyre had explained to him what, exactly, an ugly Christmas sweater was. He was especially glad she had accepted his suggestion to make them the party’s dress code. 

He found his brother studying him, a smile on his face as he let him inside the house. “I’m guessing she doesn’t know this was all your great idea?” He said, looking down at his own sweater. It was dark blue with silver-threaded stars and big, bold letters saying, If lost, take to wife. Feyre most definitely wore its counterpart.

“That woman is wearing a stupid fucking sweater for me, brother.” Cassian grinned. “It was absolutely worth it.”

If there was one thing Cassian knew about his girlfriend, it was that she loved receiving gifts. Books, clothes, a pretty flower he picked up from the street on his way home… Nothing could quite compare to the smile that took over Nesta’s lips whenever he surprised her with a new present.

Which didn’t really explain why she was now sitting on their couch, her book long discarded, staring at his latest gift with a blank face. Cassian felt his grin falter, eyeing the sweater in her hands.

“What is this.” She asked, eyes never straying away from the garment in front of her.

Yeah, Cassian was mildly suspicious she hadn’t like it all that much.

“An ugly Christmas sweater.” He said nonetheless, eyeing the red sweater. He had thought it was hilarious when he had first seen it: the upside-down bat and his cheeky grin, the little Christmas hat that was adorned with a real, tiny bell that jingled whenever Nesta moved.

He ignored the way the frown on Nesta’s face seemed to deepen whenever it rang.

“I can see that.” Her eyes flickered to him once before returning to the sweater, as if still not quite believing what was in front of her. Whether that was a good or a bad sign, Cassian wasn’t entirely sure. “Why?”

Now it was his turn to frown. “What do you mean why? So you wear it.”

“Where exactly would I wear this?”

“Feyre and Rhysand’s party.” Cassian said, since it seemed pretty obvious to him. “The invitation specifically indicated Ugly Christmas Sweater as the preferred attire.”

“My preferred attire is my normal clothes.” She raised an eyebrow at his wounded expression. “I’m not wearing this, Cassian.” She said, folding the sweater and reaching for the shopping bag once again. As if it was decided.

“And why not?”

She gave him a blank stare. “It’s hideous.”

“That’s the whole point of it.” At least he thought it was. When Feyre had explained him the concept, it had seemed a bit confusing. Could a sweater be too ugly to be an ugly Christmas sweater? Maybe he should’ve checked with Feyre before buying them-

Nesta went still. “Cassian.” She looked up at him, a flush in her cheeks. “Why is there two of them?”

Oh, right. Cassian grinned, taking the bag from her hands, and pulling out another sweater. His sweater. “So we could match.” He said, draping the sweater in front of his torso.

“Why would we want to match.”

He shrugged. “Because it’s Christmas.”

Nesta shook her head. “Doesn’t seem like a good enough reason.”

He stepped closer to her, making her tip her head back so she could meet his eyes. “Because it’s fun?”

She glared at him, crossing her arms in defiance. “To whom?”

He hummed, leaning down as he gently pulled her up to her feet. Nesta seemed unfazed, but Cassian knew better. The dilated pupils, the flushed neck, her heaving chest. He smirked, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “Because you love me?” He murmured, smiling.

Nesta cleared her throat, pushing him away and walking to the other side of the couch. “Even love has its limits.”

Cassian stopped, turning with a grin on his face. He raised his eyebrows, watching her as she tried to keep her distance. “Is this yours?”

Nesta eyed the sweaters. He could almost see how much she wanted to say yes. How much she stubbornly wanted to stomp her foot, refusing to wear what was truly a hideous sweater to a party, of all things.

But she didn’t – not even when, hours later, Rhysand opened his front door and eyed them with humour in his eyes. At his growing smirk, Nesta stood a little straighter.

“Don’t you dare say anything.” She growled, walking past him without a glance back.

And no matter how hard he tried, Cassian couldn’t suppress the sheepish grin that took over his features as he watched her stomp through the foyer, jingling with her every step. Mother’s tits, he loved that woman.

He was suddenly extremely glad Feyre had explained to him what, exactly, an ugly Christmas sweater was. He was especially glad she had accepted his suggestion to make them the party’s dress code. 

He found his brother studying him, a smile on his face as he let him inside the house. “I’m guessing she doesn’t know this was all your great idea?” He said, looking down at his own sweater. It was dark blue with silver-threaded stars and big, bold letters saying, If lost, take to wife. Feyre most definitely wore its counterpart.

“That woman is wearing a stupid fucking sweater for me, brother.” Cassian grinned. “Whatever comes my way was absolutely worth it.”

[blushweddinggowns]

#12, ugly Christmas sweaters, please.

Eddie, unsurprisingly, was not a huge fan of Christmas. He didn’t really hate it per say, at least not anymore. Sure, from ages one to twelve they were pretty hellish, but ever since he came to live with Wayne, Christmas was kinda nice.

They were broke as fuck, so it’s not like Eddie ever had much under the tree, but Wayne would always scrounge up enough to get him a few things. He’d also make the best chocolate chip pancakes ever, their own version of Christmas dinner, which was secretly Eddie’s favorite part.

Twelve years of bad holidays and nine of good equated to Eddie being relatively neutral about the whole thing. His ambivalence on the holiday had never been much of an issue. 

Until now.

Because Eddie decided to fall for a man who had a Christmas-obsessive best friend. A Christmas-obsessed best friend that had his boyfriend wrapped around her finger.

Technically, Steve had warned him about this. But he didn’t expect her antics to start in November. Because apparently, the planning for a holiday ugly sweater party with homemade ugly sweaters was extensive. At first, Eddie was certain it was an idea she randomly had while high as a kite, but no, it was a Buckley family tradition. And this year, Robin decided that their little group of weirdos were officially part of the family.

And that sentiment was too adorable for even Eddie to make fun of. But that didn’t mean he had to like it. Because the making of twelve ugly sweaters included the enlistment of Steve’s help, and the enlistment of Steve's help meant that Eddie wasn't allowed to completely hog his weekends anymore.

The guy was learning how to knit for this fucking thing, and that took time. Hell, even when he got to see him, Steve brought the knitting needles with him, and Eddie had to fight with freaking yarn to get his attention. And it was a losing battle. Steve always shut down any complaining, with some variation of the speech, "Babe, I got her kidnapped by Russians and almost eaten by demons. All in less than two years. The least I can do for her is knit a damn sweater."

Not to mention how he was so weirdly secretive about the whole thing. Anytime Eddie tried to get a look at what he was doing he was rebuffed, and Steve had had the audacity to kick him out of his own living room more than once.

But the day before the party finally arrived, and it marked the end of Steve's obsessive knitting tear. Eddie thought he'd be relieved the whole thing was over, but he'd been fidgety and anxious all night.

Eddie was just on the edge of teasing him over being such a nervous wreck over sweaters when Steve stood from the couch, nervously announcing that he had something for him.

He dug behind a couch cushion, pulling out a cheap little green gift bag with bright red tissue paper. He dropped it into Eddie's lap with a nervous smile, "Open it."

Eddie felt the bag up with a smile, immediately guessing what it was.

“I thought the Buckley tradition was to open them in a group?” Eddie asked, tearing away at the tissue paper, "Did you get Robin's permission for a holiday transgression?"

Steve shrugged, chewing his nails while he watched Eddie pull it out, “Well, she helped me make it so she's vaguely aware. But…I want you to see it now. Uh, without an audience.”

It was every Christmas color jammed into one ugly sweater. Red, green, white, and blue, all in horizontal stripes. It was impressively bad and Eddie was more than ready to start laughing at it.

But then he turned it around.

The bright red words were knitted in sloppily, but they were clear enough to make Eddie's jaw drop.

I Love You Eddie Munson

Eddie stared at it, mind coming to a complete halt. They...hadn't said that to each other yet. Eddie had thought it sure, probably a million times by now, but he had been too chicken shit to say it out loud himself, always worried about scaring Steve away.

But here it was, staring him in the face.

Steve was gnawing on his lower lip as watched him stare at it, getting more and more anxious by the second, “I-I thought it would be…endearing? But you don’t have to say anything back! It was a stupid- idea.”

"This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” Eddie interrupted, embarrassingly close to tears, “I have never wanted to hate something more.”

He clutched it to his chest, looking up at Steve with a wet laugh, “I love it. I love you, you fucking dork.”

Steve grinned back at him, obviously relieved.

"It took me like a month to make. You better like it!" He laughed, pulling Eddie into a hug, "And I promise, you only have to wear it once."

Eddie shook his head against Steve's shoulder, still holding onto his new favorite piece of clothing for dear life.

That little shake was the only warning Steve was going to get, because if he thought that Eddie was going to only wear it for Christmas parties, then he had another thing coming.

The I love you sweater became a winter wardrobe regular for years to come, clashing colors be damned. Eddie ignored all offers Steve made to make one that wasn't hideous and never missed a chance to explain what it meant to anyone who asked.

But despite how much Eddie loved it, Robin was the real winner of the gift. Because Eddie never complained about her kidnapping Steve during the holidays again.

[scary-senpai]

blades and banter

Fandom: One-Punch Man

Genre: Humor, drabble, fluff

Summary: Iaian has an idea. Kamikaze has a better one.

For Wanpanmas 2023.

Prompt: Ugly sweater

“It’s impossible to swing a sword in this, let alone spar…" Kamikaze tugged at his crimson-colored pullover, embellished with ribbons and bells and a grinning llama. "And Silverfang really does this? Every Christmas?" "Every Christmas," Iaian nodded. His own jumper resembled a bedizened Christmas tree, sporting sequins and a lone star atop the hood. Kamikaze scoffed. “So they show up in hideous outfits and what? Make fools of themselves?” "They have dinner," his disciple said quietly. "Oh. That's what this is about." Silence from Iaian. From Kamikaze, a sly smile and a preposition: "Because that's not exactly a bad idea…"

[[it's a drabble, so--that's it! that's the story! here's a link to the ao3 version if you're inclined to read there--you can see my other stuff/other works in the series]]

[dream-beyond-the-fantasy]

Prompt-oween Day 8

@occreatorexchange

Prompt: "Can we do ugly sweaters for Halloween too or is that just Christmas?"

Fandom: The Karate Kid/Cobra Kai

Characters: Jimmy, Jenny, OCs Jesse Parker, Alyssa Morgan-Parker

Rating: G

Word Count: 520

Summary: Jesse chooses alternate spooky season apparel after deciding he's too old for costumes and trick-or-treating.

Jimmy and his wife were on the planning committee for the annual neighborhood Halloween party.  They are throwing out ideas to each other that they may present to the committee.

“Hey, Mom?  Dad?”

Jimmy and Jenny look up to see Jesse in the family room.  Jenny smiles at their middle son.

“What is it, sweetheart?” she asks.

Jesse perches on the end of the sectional.  “I’m too old for trick-or-treating,” he states.

Jenny frowns.  She knows how much the boys love the holiday.  They always have and the twins still do.  Jenny wonders if someone said something to Jesse to make him think this.  “Honey, we don’t really have age restrictions here.”

Jesse sighs.  “I know, but trick-or-treating is for little kids.  I’m not one anymore.  I mean, I still love Halloween, but I think I’ve grown out of that part.”

“Okay,” Jimmy replies.  “How do you want to celebrate Halloween?”

“Keep in mind, you can still buy and wear a costume, either at the neighborhood party, Knott’s Spooky Farm, Disney, or at school,” Jenny assures her son.

“Well, as long as the costume is compliant with the LAUSD’s rules,” Jimmy grumbles.

“Maybe,” Jesse says uncertainly.  “Speaking of the neighborhood Halloween party, I’ve been thinking… Can we do ugly sweaters for Halloween too, or is that just Christmas?”

Jimmy pretends to be offended.  “Are you calling my Christmas sweaters ugly?”

“No,” Jesse shakes his head.  But the way he drags out the last syllable is unconvincing.  “Well, not all of them,” he amends.

Jenny laughs.  “You know what, Jesse, I think you have a great idea there.  There are some funny, tacky Halloween sweaters out there, just like at Christmas.  And if people don’t want to dress up or spend money on costumes, they can still show their spooky season spirit.”

***

The neighborhood party was set for the Saturday before Halloween.  Jimmy insists that before they head out, they take a family picture.

“Do we have to?” Alyssa whines.  “I can’t believe you’ve got me wearing this,” she gestures to the pastel lavender, pink, and green sweater with black witch hats, ghosts, moons, cats, and gravestones printed on it along with the black, wide-brimmed witch hat.  “It’s bad enough that I’m going out in public like this.  Don’t torture me further with photographic proof of my humiliation.”

Jimmy pats her back.  “Sorry, sweetheart, but you’ll just have to get over it.”

“I think you look nice,” Jesse smiles sweetly at his sister.  His red hair clashes with the garish orange jack-o’lantern sweater.

She glares at them both.

“Okay, that’s enough, you two.  Let’s just take a quick picture and we can head out,” Jenny cuts in.  She has her red curls pinned up like Winifred Sanderson, which pairs nicely with her officially licensed sweater depicting the Hocus Pocus witch.

Jayden is the first to pose, happy with his orange and black pumpkin patch sweater.  The twins stand in the back, wearing zombie face makeup and Beetlejuice and skeleton sweaters, respectively.  Jimmy uses a selfie stick to ensure that he, Jenn, and all five kids are in frame.

“Alyssa, smile.”

“No.”

[shortfictionweeklychallenge]

Short Fiction Weekly Challenge

Time for a new prompt from the Short Fiction Weekly Challenge, tumblr edition. Let it spark your imagination. Any character, any fandom, any original world. Reblogs welcome!

Post your story to your blog and send the link to Short Fiction Weekly Challenge! We’ll send the link out to all our followers to enjoy.

This week’s SFWC prompt:

Week of August 30, 2024

Ugly: Ugliness, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder and the culture they belong to. Regardless of specifics, we often assign ugly appearances to villains, solely for the reason that they’re villains. Suppose the hero or main character was ugly instead? Could something happen to make them ugly? What is considered ugly in your setting, and how does this affect your character? What about things like ugly personality traits: jealousy, narcissism, general meanness? If all your character’s enemies are ugly, and none of their companions are, consider switching them up.

Feel free to continue submitting stories for any prompt.  A masterpiece missed the deadline?  Don’t let it gather electronic dust.  Submit it anyway and Short Fiction Weekly Challenge will publish it.  

This week’s featured previous prompts are: 

Ugly Sweater: ‘Tis the season for Ugly Christmas Sweaters. Ugly covers a lot of ground: over the top, clashing colors, light-up or musical, or just plain hideous. Is there a holiday or event in your character’s world associated with famously ugly clothing? Maybe it’s a different article: hats, shoes, corsages that have grown all out of proportion, dresses, or full suits. How did the tradition start? Has it always been the same, or have styles changed such that the traditional attire is regarded as ugly? Or silly? Or both? Do characters wear it because they genuinely like it, or is near everyone being ironic? Where does your character fall on that spectrum? Do they participate at all?  

Bitter Rivals: Who’s your character’s rival? Rival for what? Anything! A prize, a title, someone’s affections, recognition and renown. They don’t have to hate each other, but they often do. They don’t have to be enemies, but often are. They are in competition, and only one can claim the reward. Your character might view another as a rival why the other barely notices them. Or vice-versa!

Got an idea for a prompt?  Submit it here.

[darewolfdq]

^feedsack pants by @the_night_moves on instagram

Keyboard Puffer by Liminal (2023)^

snow suits-

Emergency exit, like if you agree.

[aakeysmash]

prompt here; reader going on and on about how they never find someone and bakugou is just looking at them ready to snap

hehehe love this prompt tbh 🌸

"Katsukiii," you whine, throwing yourself on your best friend, who was previously chilling on his couch. He grunts, merely acknowledging you, before pushing your head away from his chest and keeping on scrolling through his phone. You've been best friends since kindergarten, and even if you're both adults now, when you're bored you just go to each other's house to do nothing together. You find comfort in knowing you can keep on being silent together, with no type of pressure whatsoever, and no need to find topics to dwell on either. Just pure, unfiltered and plain tranquility... well, kinda. After a few moments of silence, you start poking his cheek to gain his attention.

"Keep doing that and you'll find yourself missing a finger, fucker," he tells you, side-eyeing you. You immediately see his eyes glimmering. "Look," he says, turning his phone to make you watch a tiktok about a monkey slapping a baby. He chuckles, but when he sees you're confused he mumbles something along the lines of "you're always so fucking boring," then smacks your hand away from his cheek and keeps on scrolling while frowning.

"Find me a boyfriend," you suddenly tell him.

He snaps his head toward you. He must have heard you wrong. "The fuck you said?"

You huff, getting up and pacing around the room. "I mean, you know me, right?" you ask him, looking at him expectantly.

"Damn right I do, you've been pestering me for more than two decades," he answers, rolling his eyes. He gets up too, going toward his fridge to take out a water bottle.

"Then find me a man, since you know what I like," you say, following him.

He chokes on the water he is gulping down and you have to pat his back to make him stop coughing. "Why the fuck are you searching for a man?" he raspily says, glaring at you, hands on his knees and trying to catch his breath.

"Why wouldn't I search for a man?" you ask, tilting your head a little, still massaging his back. He just stares at you for a moment, but when your expression doesn't change he just lifts a finger and points at you from head to toe.

"Are you saying I'm ugly?!" you exclaim, giving him a hard slap on the back. He coughs again, caught off guard, shaking his head.

"I need love too, you know? The few men I've been seeing in the last, I don't know, three years, were all boring as heck," you complain, going back to the couch and sprawling yourself on it. "I just wish I had a big, strong man by my side, you know? Matter of fact, keep that in mind when you search for it, okay?" you continue, face smushed on the couch pillow, looking at his still crouching figure. Then you turn your body around and stare at the ceiling. "I want someone serious who I can build my future with. I'm tired of people who only want to fuck."

"Okay dumbass, but why are you fucking searching for a man?" he asks you, ignoring the sad tilt to your voice, getting closer. He crosses his arms and looks at your face, still standing up near the couch. From this view, he looks gigantic; his bulging biceps are almost bursting out his sweater, and you feel hotter the more you look up.

"Katsuki, do you want me to punch you in the face? I'm not that ugly," you say rudely, recalling what he just said and trying to focus on the words escaping your mouth.

"I did not fucking say that, yn" the blonde barks back, the vein in his temple pulsing. You just huff, annoyed, and close your eyes.

Everything is still for a while; then you feel movement beside you before feeling one of his calloused hands on your forehead. He barely touches you, but you feel his presence. You feel he's here, next to you, warm hand on your face, thumb barely tracing little circles on it, and it calms you down. He's always had this effect on you: you remember him driving all the way to your campus while you were still in college just to curse you out for stressing too much on exams, and it always worked back then too. You lean into his touch, sighing.

"I meant to say you don't have to search for a man, men should be searching for you. And generally speaking, you wouldn't have to search for a man if you just opened your eyes a little, dumbass," he says, softer than you ever heard him being. You turn your face a bit and do as he just said, finding yourself a palm of distance from his own face.

You keep on staring at each other for what feels like hours, his hand still tracing your features and gently massaging your scalp. You don't think you've ever seen him so relaxed. You both get closer to each other, losing yourself in the moment, when-

"You mean to tell me I have a stalker?"

He pushes your face on the couch, hard, before screaming at you to get immediately out of his house. You are thrown into a fit of giggles, and before he can get up you bring him down on you.

"I guess you’re big and strong enough for me," you say, smiling.

[possumtion]

Bones knits but they’re all ugly sweaters (Jim and Spock loves them anyway)

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Jim keeps ripping his sweaters

(Prompt fill for the @mcspirkevents bingo card: “Knitter McCoy”)

[rebelcliche-archived]

@racointeur​ asked:  🛍   ─  go christmas shopping together    :    from robin!   🍎 ｡:*• ─ IT’S CHRISTMAS TIME !      ›     ( a symbol meme for muses who want to do something special and fun together this christmas / holiday season. ) | selectively accepting!

          it  was…DIFFERENT,  shopping  for  gifts  with  robin.  nancy  enjoyed  the  girls  company—happy  to  have  a  real  FRIEND  again—and  she  liked  spending  time  with  her,  but  as  the  two  sifted  through  a  rack  of  mens’  shirts,  nancy  was  reminded  of  the  LAST  time  she  went  shopping  with  steve  in  mind.  she’d  spent  HOURS  trying  to  pick  out  the  PERFECT  shirt  for  her  date  with  steve…with  BARB.

          ‘nance,  c’mon—he’s  gonna  be  happy  with  anything  you  wear.  you  know  that.’

          ‘no  i  don’t.  what  if  he  thinks  it  doesn’t  look  good ?’

          ‘seriously ?  he’s  not  gonna  think  that.  just  pick  something.  we’ve  been  here  for  hours.’

          ‘well,  maybe  if  you’d  spend  more  time  looking  and  less  time  talking,  we’d  have  found  something  by  now—’

          she  was  so  stupid.  so  young  and  naive  and  clueless.  she’d  taken  her  time  with  barb  for  granted  and  she  regretted  it  now.

          robin  wasn’t  barb  by  any  stretch  of  the  imagination,  but  robin  gave  nancy  HOPE  of  a  NORMAL  life  again.  robin  was  the  friend  nancy  so  desperately  needed.

          shaking  herself  from  her  thoughts,  nancy’s  gaze  shifted  over  to  the  rack  beside  her,  eyeing  some  mens’  sweaters.  shuffling  through  them,  she  finally  pulled  one  out.

          an  UGLY  christmas  sweater  with  rudolph’s  face  front  and  center,  red  puff-ball  protruding  off  the  fabric  for  his  red  nose.

          “ what  about  this  one ?  think  he’d  like  it ? ”

[thef1diary]

Merry Smutmas - Big Dic Ric Edition

Get ready to unwrap the naughtiest gift of the holiday season! This year, @emchante and I are teaming up to fill your December with festive filth, featuring Danny and only Danny. Specific dates and prompts are listed below:

Dec 1: Mistletoe

Dec 3: Ugly Sweater

Dec 5: Kitchen Sex

Dec 7: Body Heat

Dec 9: Sweet Temptation

Dec 11: Secret Santa

Dec 13: Lingerie

Dec 15: Lap Dance

Dec 17: Stockings

Dec 19: Aphrodisiacs

Dec 21: Naughty List

Dec 23: Strip Tease

🎄 BONUS CHRISTMAS FIC ON DEC 25 🎄

— enjoy the holiday filth and let either one of us know if you want to be on the taglist. All smutmas fics will be tagged with #em & di’s festive filth incase you want to block the tag

[ceilidho]

prompt: IKEA soap/reader fic. PART 3. (read 1, 2) tags: dubcon

-

The Christmas party presents a whole new challenge in trying to ward Johnny off.

It’s hard because at first you almost gravitate towards him, weirdly enchanted by his ugly sweater with red reindeer on the sleeves. It’s only when he finally spots you—and you shudder when you notice the way his eyes scan across the crowd of other employees, seeking you out—and he practically lights up that you snap back to reality.

He blazes a path towards you like a heat seeking missile, dodging around your other coworkers. You stand there awkwardly as he cuts across the room, wondering if maybe you should’ve just texted your manager some excuse about feeling sick and stayed home. Too late now though. 

Fortunately for you, the assistant manager intercepts before Johnny’s able to make it halfway across the room, stepping between the two of you like they don’t even realize they’ve interrupted anything. There’s a split second where you can see Johnny wrestle with the urge to push them aside, fury clear in his eyes. Maybe only to you. The assistant manager opens their mouth and talks like nothing’s amiss, like it isn’t clear that Johnny is only a handful of seconds away from causing serious harm.

Then it passes; recedes into the dark. Johnny’s blue eyes go pellucid again, unbothered by the real world. The smile that spreads across his face seems sincere; if you hadn’t been watching him that entire time, you might not have even thought that he’d harboured any violence inside of him. 

You saw it though. You saw it.

It makes sense in the context of his background. You’d never given the ex-military thing much thought, but every so often you can almost feel the ghost of its presence in the back of your mind. When his reflexes kick in or the gleam in his eyes grows dark. He doesn’t ever talk about his past life in specifics, only grand overtures meant to distract anyone listening, but what he does reveal sometimes makes your stomach clench. 

You swallow and turn back to the conversation with your other coworkers, steadfastly avoiding Johnny’s eyes peeking over the assistant manager’s head. 

The breakroom is decked out in cheap Christmas decorations, a fiber-optic tree set up in the corner, iridescent bristles shifting colours with every blink. Someone passes you a vaguely alcoholic drink and you sip at it nervously, reaching the bottom of your first cup faster than you anticipated. 

Your secret Santa gift is on a table just outside the breakroom in the hall, along with all the other gifts. Something about it draws your eyes several times throughout the evening. Maybe something you saw but didn’t register. It’s hard to keep focused on the conversation happening around you when your attention oscillates between Johnny and the gift table, but you respond hastily when someone prompts you to answer. 

It comes to light when someone clinks a spoon against their glass and directs everyone to gather in the middle of the room. Two of the warehouse guys awkwardly try to bring the table into the room without knocking any of the gifts onto the floor. There are a few casualties, but when they manage to twist it enough to get it through the door, someone pulls up a chair to stand on and read off all of the names to hand out the gifts. 

Several people coo when you’re revealed as the recipient of Johnny’s gift. There’s no reason for it to come as a shock, but your stomach clenches anyway.

He stands practically right up against you when you open it. You know the second you unwrap it that the delicate bottle of perfume in your hands must have been in the three figures. All you did was get someone a handmade mug from a local craft fair. He stares at you when you unwrap it, beaming when you give him a very controlled thank you because the alternative is screaming that this is way too expensive for you to keep. 

“Ye should put it on,” he tells you, breathing just a little heavier. “Really want ta smell it on ye.”

You don’t know what possesses you to give it a spritz on your wrist, letting him guide your hand to dab it against the base of your throat. It’s intimate enough that his eyes follow the movement of your throat when you swallow, mouth going dry. They drag up to your lips when they part, a hesitant thanks hanging off your tongue.

“Jesus Christ, get a room already,” someone near you murmurs, but it doesn’t take long for their attention to slip off you as the next gift recipient is announced. Not Johnny though. 

Your mouth snaps shut.

He hovers at your back for the rest of the gift handouts, so close that you can feel the heat radiating off him. You flinch at his bitten off groans whenever you so much as fidget, rubbing against him. Shaking him off seems like a hopeless task until someone asks if you have a lozenge, giving you an excuse to take them to your locker. 

You can feel him stalking you like a shark around the breakroom when you chat with some of your other coworkers, the smile on your face becoming forced. 

“Did’ya know Johnny actually—oh, sorry, burped—he actually paid me…to get your name?” your coworker giggles, absolutely sloshed. You’re tipsy too, but her words make you go a bit cold.

“Pardon?” you ask. The red cup crackles when your fingers tighten around it.

“He paid me. Fifty dollars. Jus’ to get your name for the…for the stupid Santa thing. The secret Santa.”

You can feel the way your mouth hangs open, just a bit. Her words echo in your head, the conversation long over. You let her prattle on, still stuck on the thought of Johnny paying someone off just for the opportunity to give you a gift. The longer you stand there and chat with your coworkers, the more difficult it gets to look normal. 

“Isn’t that something?” she prompts, nudging you with an elbow. Even the slightest touch hits you like a battering ram. 

“Yeah,” you parrot back, “it’s something.”

Perhaps you’re overdue for a conversation with Johnny about boundaries. More than overdue. The package has been signed, sealed, and delivered. It was overdue months ago, the day you started working at the same store as him. By now, you should’ve quit or transferred, hell you should’ve yelled at him that one time he stopped you in the garden section to apply his own personal Chapstick to your lips (you don’t think about how you’d bitten them raw from staring across the row of potted flowers as he stacked bag after bag of fertilizer onto a customer’s pallet before pushing it to their car, his sleeves rolled up and thick biceps on display the whole time). 

Can anyone blame you for being confused? It’s obvious what he’s offering. He does nothing to hide it. It’s also obvious that it would be, unequivocally, a terrible idea to take him up on it. 

Maybe you just need some fresh air. You make an excuse and peel off from the rest of the group, heading for the door. Someone lurches out of the shadows in the corner before you can make it out. 

“Look, bonnie—mistletoe,” Johnny teases, not letting you so much as glance up before snatching you by the hips and reeling you into him. 

The kiss he plants on you is filthy and wet. Open-mouthed too so he can slip you his tongue, licking over the roof of your mouth. Sucking your bottom lip when you can’t help the whimper that slips out and he breaks away for only a split second to whisper oh fuck under his breath. Your mind reels when he dives back in for another kiss. He’s as good of a kisser as you might have expected, messy but forceful, threading a hand into your hair to hold you in place. The way he roots you in place licks at something delicious inside of you, a secret, buried urge.

Johnny finally pulls away when he can no longer convincingly ignore the way you push on his shoulders and squirm in his arms. His lips are wet when he pulls back, a thin strand of saliva clinging between your lips. It breaks when he runs his tongue across the wetness. 

Someone whistles and Johnny grins from ear to ear, bashful under the joy brimming out of him. You stumble away the second his hands loosen on your hips, wiping a hand across your mouth.

“Good for you, John!” someone shouts through cupped hands and several of your coworkers cackle. 

This time you actually manage to make it out the door and down the hall to the employee restroom. You spend the next few minutes washing your hands until your fingertips go pruney under the warm water and you try to think of anything except the texture of Johnny’s lips. 

You touch your lips no less than three times. Each time, your fingers come back trembling. It’s what you’d long expected from Johnny, from someone that looks like him, like the physical embodiment of ‘for a good time, call…’ written in lipstick on the back of a gas station bathroom door. 

The last thing you want to do is give him an inch, throw him a bone—actually lead him on, as your coworker might say. Still, your finger trembles on your lip. You know he’d make it good. Even if he didn’t, looking like that, who could blame you? The thought makes you wince, conscience of objectifying him, but haven’t you been subject to worse by now? You’re due far more than some measly peck for how many times he’s slapped your ass, stolen your scrunchie (two so far), or said something nasty to you.

It’s not hard to track him down when he’s always hovering nearby, this time just off by the watercooler with your manager and a few other coworkers. The hand not holding a drink is buried deep in his pocket, the smile on his face strained by a mask of politeness; you can tell at a glance that he’s only playing at civility, that he’d rather be anywhere else but chatting with his boss and colleagues at the office party.

When he spots you approaching the group of them, his eyes widen, excitement bleeding back into them. It takes your breath away.

“Ah, there’s your other half, Johnny,” your manager says and you freeze. 

“Aye, so she is. She’s a good little kisser, did’ye see?” Johnny gushes, pulling you in by the waistband of your pants. You’re a bit too tipsy to protest when he slips his hand around your waist. 

It clicks into place. When he pulls you into his side, it feels like slotting into a space made just for you, unwelcome or not. You don’t even notice if your other coworkers laugh or not, fixated on his eyes. He can hardly pull them away from you. Every long shift waking up on the sofa in the breakroom with Johnny standing over you, eyes glinting like a predator’s in the woods, and every coworker’s joke about being Johnny’s girl feels like it’s been leading to this. You have to know what it’d be like. 

“Um…Johnny?” you start, tugging on his shirt gently.

“Yeah, hen? What’s it?”

“Can we…um…do you wanna go somewhere more private?”

His breathing stops, body frozen against yours. “Ye serious, kitty? You’re not joking?”

You shake your head. “Just…just one time? Maybe?”

The first sign of movement from him is a full body shudder that nearly makes you step back. The frazzled look in his eyes borders on manic, flitting around the room looking for the nearest exit. Johnny tosses the group some hasty, poorly worded goodbye (you think he even flubs your manager’s name) and tears away from them, you still glued to his side. Someone giggles as you leave. You can’t pay them any mind though, not with how frantically Johnny pulls you out of the breakroom and down the hall, his long strides nearly making you trip over your feet.

“Johnny—slow down—”

“Hen, I’ll carry ye over my shoulder to the closet, I swear.”

He nearly barrels you over with how forcefully he pushes you into the closet, hot mouth latched onto the side of your throat. You hear the sound of the lock clicking behind him. The closet is swathed in darkness, only the barest hint of light bleeding through from underneath the doorway. It’s hardly enough for you to see anything in front of you, but that almost doesn’t matter with how Johnny curls around you, his body caging you in against the shelving behind you. 

“Please, please, fuck, I cannae believe it, fuck—” Johnny groans into your neck, a pathetic desperate sound that you’ve never heard from him before. He even keens a bit. “Oh Jesus, baby, I’ve been—dinnae if ye knew or not, but I’ve been fuckin’ obsessed with ye for ages, Christ.”

You let out a laugh in disbelief, embarrassed by how breathless it sounds. “I—oh—I f-figured.”

His hands drag up and down your back, tugging at the fabric of your shirt and practically ripping it out of where it’s been tucked into your pants. If you had buttons, you think you’d burst straight off, zip off the walls and roll under one of the shelves. Johnny’s eagerness bleeds through—months of barely concealed lust unravelling right in front of you, his hands practically shaking when they grope along your sides and under your breasts. His fingers dig almost painfully into your flesh until you whimper and he murmurs a broken apology into your neck.

“Wha’d’ye want, baby? I can—fuck, anything ye want, I promise—” Johnny begs, the sound almost pitiful. It makes your pussy ache.

“Your—your mouth—” 

The speed with which he drops to his knees almost makes you flinch. His kneecaps are only saved by the carpeted floor, present nowhere else in the employee section apart from the supply closets. His hands go to the zipper and button on your jeans, yanking viciously, almost snarling when they don’t immediately come undone. When you try to help him, he bares his teeth, more animalistic than you’ve ever seen him before.

“Do these fuckin’ pants even come off?” Johnny growls, giving another yank. You hear something rip and wince.

He manages to wrench your pants down until they pool around your ankles, only enough concentration left in him to pull one leg out and drape it over his shoulder. 

“Johnny—my underwear—holy shit—” you gasp when he mashes his face into the crotch of your panties, laving his tongue over the fabric. You can feel the heat of it through the gusset of your underwear, each desperate lick trying unsuccessfully to pull them to the side. 

“Fuck, s’ry, baby, I’ll take ‘em off,” he apologizes, voice muffled where his mouth is still pressed to your pussy. Reluctant to move even an inch away from you. 

It takes him a couple more seconds before he’s able to move away just long enough to pull your underwear down as well, struggling with getting it over the leg still draped over his shoulder and nearly losing his patience twice over. 

He takes to eating you out like something he’s done for years—naturally. Crudely. Eyes fluttering shut when he drags his tongue from your slit to your clit, unabashedly enjoying himself. His moans drag through you, making you nearly shake right out of your skin. His chin is already wet when you glance down. He spreads your inner lips with two fingers to open you fully to his gaze, lapping at your clit until he can hardly pull his mouth away from your cunt. 

Johnny drags one of your hands from his hair to cradle the side of his face, turning into your palm to take a deep inhale. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, eyes several degrees hotter when they meet yours through the curtain of his lashes.

“Fuckin’ smell like mine too,” he growls. You jolt at his words. He draws a finger into his mouth and gives it a suck, making you trill. 

“D-don’t get any ideas,” you gasp, other hand threading through his hair now, turnabout fair play. “S’just a—ah, ah—a one-time t-thing.”

“Aye, one time, one time,” he repeats. “Gonna make it so good f’r ye, baby.”

The two fingers spreading you open push against your entrance insistently. The initial stretch makes you tug at his hair, flushing when all that does is make him moan, mouth hung open sluttily. He looks even more strung out than you, eyes dark and heady. He’s also never looked more attractive.

Shelves jab into the small of your back, the ache growing the longer he keeps you like that with one leg slung over his shoulder, your knees almost buckling. Impossible to concentrate on the voice in your head screaming that this is a bad idea, not when he runs his tongue over your clit and sucks. Not when you’re forced to clamp a palm over your mouth to drown out your sounds. 

The press of a third finger into you makes you flinch and yank at his hair, harder this time. Hard enough for Johnny to back off, an apology muttered into your wetness. The two splitting you are more than enough, you think, a bit wildly. He shouldn’t be prepping you for anything more. There’s a furrow to his brows though, a bit of frustration wedged in there. Like putting up with your complaints annoys him just a bit.

“John—c’mon, please, not so loud,” you beg.

He pumps his fingers into you, eyes trained on the spot where they disappear. The look in his eyes borders on reverent. “Always mouthin’ off, huh? Even when I’m getting ye off? On my knees ‘n everything?”

“There are p-people outside,” you hiss, clamping your hand back down over your mouth when he curls his fingers and presses up into you. 

“Yeah?” The question sounds rhetorically, almost a challenge. The smile on his lips goes wicked sharp. “God, we wouldnae want ‘em ta hear, huh? What ye pulled me away from the party for?”

You don’t know why that’s what sets you off, but it does, eyes watering with the force of your orgasm. Back arched. Your head aches from where you knocked it back into the shelf behind you. Johnny groans when you clench around his fingers.

It’s a few seconds before you feel like you can speak again. The first thing you can utter is a hiss when Johnny laps at your slit again, far too sensitive for him to still be touching you.

“You can, ah…you can let me go now,” you pant. Coming back to your body takes an age, legs still trembling, held up by Johnny’s hands alone.

His fingers grip harder into your flesh. You stare down at him. 

“Oh, pretty baby,” Johnny coos, eyes black with desire, “we’re jus’ gettin’ started.”

[33max]

Winter Warmers ☃️

Winter Warmers is taking place in December and there will be daily prompts for you to write, draw, or create.

There are two different prompt lists for Winter Warmers - a spicy list ❤️‍🔥, and then a fluffy list🧣from @leatherandcherryblossoms! You can stick to one list, mix and match your daily prompts, or if you're feeling adventurous try and incorporate both prompts into one creation. It is totally up to you!

Tag #winterwarmers2024 so we can see your work!

Day 1: ❤️‍🔥 Lingerie | 🧣 Coffee on a Cold Morning

Day 2: ❤️‍🔥 Coming Untouched | 🧣 Evening Fire

Day 3: ❤️‍🔥 Dildo | 🧣 Holding Hands

Day 4: ❤️‍🔥 Frottage | 🧣 Cuddling For Warmth

Day 5: ❤️‍🔥 Praise | 🧣 Tree Lighting/Fireworks

Day 6: ❤️‍🔥 Threesome | 🧣 Playing in The Snow

Day 7: ❤️‍🔥 Omegaverse | 🧣 Blanket Fort

Day 8: ❤️‍🔥 Humiliation | 🧣 Holiday Decorating/Baking

Day 9: ❤️‍🔥 Big Cock | 🧣 Work Holiday Party

Day 10: ❤️‍🔥 Sweat | 🧣 Holiday Travel

Day 11: ❤️‍🔥 Virginity | 🧣 Ugly Sweaters

Day 12: ❤️‍🔥 Daddy/Mommy | 🧣 Mistletoe Kisses

Day 13: ❤️‍🔥 Free Use | 🧣 Cold Hands/Feet

Day 14: ❤️‍�� Pillow Humping | 🧣 Holiday Shopping

Day 15: ❤️‍🔥 Roleplay | 🧣 Ice Skating

Day 16: ❤️‍🔥 Omorashi | 🧣 Secret Santa

Day 17: ❤️‍🔥 Public Sex | 🧣 Hot Cocoa

Day 18: ❤️‍🔥 Orgasm Denial | 🧣 Christmas Market

Day 19: ❤️‍🔥 Bondage | 🧣 Holiday Magic

Day 20: ❤️‍🔥 Thigh Riding | 🧣 Matching Pyjamas

Day 21: ❤️‍🔥 Squirting | 🧣 Winter Storm

Day 22: ❤️‍🔥 Gang Bang | 🧣 Presents

Day 23: ❤️‍🔥 Small Cock | 🧣 Singles Holiday Party

Day 24: ❤️‍🔥 Crying | 🧣 New Traditions

Day 25: ❤️‍🔥 Glory Hole | 🧣 Holiday Alone Time

Day 26: ❤️‍🔥 Cock Warming | 🧣 Snowed In

Day 27: ❤️‍🔥 Edging | 🧣 Wrapped Up Warm Walk

Day 28: ❤️‍🔥 Lactation | 🧣 Cozy Hobbies

Day 29: ❤️‍🔥 Somnophilia | 🧣 Seeing Family

Day 30: ❤️‍🔥 Spanking | 🧣 Lights

Day 31: ❤️‍🔥 Overstimulation | 🧣 NYE Countdown

[hwangism143]

love is embarrassing

synopsis: in which chan shows you that love is so much more than what you believe.

pairing: idol!chan x fem!reader

genre: fluff, established relationship

warnings: jealousy, mentions of eating and rain, suggestive if you squint, small injuries, death of a pet

word count: 852 words

now playing: love is embarrassing - olivia rodrigo

requested: by @15092000volcano (have your own requests? find the prompt list here)

a/n: berry is very much alive, i just had to kill her off for plot purposes (pls don't kill me). also, lmk what you think of this fic!

"my god, love's embarrassing as hell"

You always believed the endeavor of love to be pointless. You had read the classics and watched the movies, distrust seeping into your being. How could love be worth it? How could love be worth death and sacrifice; how could it be worth endless pain and optionally putting oneself through torture?

It wasn't like love was helping pay the bills. Romeo and Juliet wasn't a tragedy due to romance in your eyes, it was a tragedy brought forth by lack of common sense, as simple as that.

That was when a young, elementary school you had finally come up with a hypothesis that would stick around with you longer than you anticipated: love is embarrassing.

And yet, you can never prove a hypothesis without putting it through a test. When you finally did, you realized that love is a startling multitude of other things.

Love is temperamental, like your mood the day you walked out of the movie after yet another rom com your friend had dragged you to watch. It's temperance mimicked that of the weather, rain beating down against the windows of the café that you were stuck in, where a handsome stranger was your lone companion.

"Hi," he said sweetly, "I'm Chan. Need some company?"

Love was ugly, like your tears that flowed down your cheeks and dampened Chan's favorite black hoodie (which you never understood the differentiation behind, a majority of his articles being black). It was ugly like the sweaters Chan had brought your first Christmas together, the same ones you wore when he purposefully dangled a mistletoe over where the two of you stood.

"Where did you even find mistletoe?" you questioned with a laugh.

"I have my sources. Stick around with me long enough and I'll promise to tell you." His lips were soon on yours, sealing the deal.

Love was disgusting, your siblings pretending to gag whenever Chan ran to you and scooped you up from behind, causing an eruption of giggles to emerge from your mouth. It was almost as disgusting as the ramen you once made, giving both of you food poisoning that was no less then unfound agony.

"There is no one else I would rather be vomiting with," Chan declared boldly, as he held your hair while you heaved the contents of your stomach onto the toilet.

Love was green, the way Chan felt after he watched you hit it off with Jisung and Changbin when he invited you to the studio, nearly forgetting about him. It's green like the lettuce you picked when you both went to the grocery store right after, deciding to confront his despaired pout.

"You're jealous."

"Am not!"

"You are jealous, and may I add, you're a terrible liar."

But love was so many things coated in happiness too, right? It wasn't just the bad parts, skipped over in the dictionary and considered as profanity. It was words that made you feel like your were flying in an abyss of harmony.

Love was soft, the way Chan's apologies sounded after an argument, always apologizing first instead of chastising you for your headstrong personality. It smoothed out rough edges, the way you ran your hair through Chan's hair while he fell asleep on your shoulder.

"I love you more than you ever know," he would mumble sleepily into your neck.

Love is healing, the way Chan was when you held him as he grieved over the loss of his childhood pet but slowly picked up the pieces of himself. The small cuts and bruises that you would get from simply doing nothing and the gentle press of a band aid against your skin and Chan tended to you almost instantaneously.

"It's just a tiny cut Chan," you whined.

"Aw come on, let me pamper you," he replied.

Love is comforting, like Chan's sweaters that you wore when you stepped out of the house, his essence melting into yours. It's comfort wove into the silence that hung around you both, never awkward or unwelcoming.

"Is it weird that my favorite sound is you, even when you're quiet?" Chan asked curiously.

"Never," you told him with a laugh.

Love was passionate, the way Chan felt about music and you felt about him. The same passion translated into wandering hands and soft gasps, stolen kisses and rumpled sheets.

"Thank you for loving me," you confessed as his limbs were tangled with yours.

"Thank you for letting me love you," he replied as easily as possible.

Love to you, was an anomaly. But loving Chan and being loved by him showed you that it was the most vivid, chaotic and marvelous tapestry that one could witness in their lifetime. Love was ugly, love was beautiful. Love was disgusting, love was comforting.

Love was damning. Love was everything.

However, you knew one fact about your love that would never change, despite how multifaceted it could be. That one fact was as sure as Chan's encouraging smiles that he sent your way and as steady as his breathing when he laid beside you at night.

Your love would always belong to him.

main taglist (reply to be added):

@linoalwaysknows @moon0fthenight @hyulino @palindrome969

@squishybinnieee @lastgreatamericandynasty1