#asking fir a bite

[eights-world]

FRIED POTATO BALLS TOPPED WITH GARLIC SAUCE

HOLY SHIT????? THEY LOOK SOOO GOOD ONGGG WHAATT!!!!!!!!!

[syofrelief]

parasite

johnny is a bit overattached

When you started doing....whatever this was, you would slip out in the morning before he woke, sometimes with a note or a cup of coffee as a greeting. Left on his bedside table for him to see, groggy and drooling.

Well, that didn't work for him. Johnny would curl on top of you at night, and no matter how many pushups you did could train you for moving that. He acted like it was an accident, but you noticed how his eyes would clear when he saw you, his heart would slow, and he'd smile.

You'd kiss him on the cheek and only then would he let you pull on your trousers and sneak out.

Throughout the day, he needed check ins. Waves, brushes on the shoulder, quick pecks or a soft squeeze when he had a second. He'd nudge his way through your office door, shyly asking to sit by you while you did paperwork.

A parasite, you compared him affectionately. His nose scrunched, but the resemblance was there.

You decided to tease him one day. A Tuesday, a rare one with nothing big. A 'smear' is what Soap and the gang called them, for some reason. His favorite. A day where he could sleep in, which meant you slept in. Lounging around, you tucked to his chest as the TV blabbed.

Eyes cracking open, you slowly wriggled your way from under his warm weight. Slowly. He twitched at every move, whining slightly when you finally broke free. Ceding a bit, you smoothed his brow with a few kisses, stroking over his sleeping back. Soap settled again, snoring loudly. You stifled a grin, tugging on a coat and disappearing down the hall. Not even a note.

Johnny was distraught when he woke. The one day he had in months and your side of the bed was cold. He curled into your pillow, sulking at the empty hook where your tags should have been. You must have had an early meeting. He huffed, tossing and turning before grumpily shoving on his running clothes.

You dodged him at every opportunity. Gaz had agreed to team up, sending you a discreet text when your little parasite was on the move.

Track. Hour tops.

You smirked, deciding to stroll down to the armory. The magazines probably needed organizing.

Johnny texted you the minute he finished.

wya, birdie? need tae say good mornin :)

You almost cracked, hearing his pleading through the screen. It was a little cruel, running in circles around him when he just wanted a little kiss. You giggled.

busy, be out all day sorry baby!!!!

Humming, you resumed your collection of menial tasks. It was nice, actually. The quiet.

Johnny was having a wildly different time. He felt like he was going insane. He'd never spent this much time not being by your side, let alone not seeing you. He hadn't seen you since you tucked into bed with him the night prior. It felt like a critical part of his body had been surgically removed without his consent.

He moped around the gym, noticeably bereft of his typical roughousing. In his sulking, he missed the eyebrow waggle Gaz sent over his head, to which Ghost rolled his eyes.

Smelling a whiff of your perfume was the end of it. He was like a bloodhound, trailing through the halls with a bloodthirsty glint in his eye. Recruits flattened themselves against the walls, terrified of the hardness of his jaw. Soap? Pissed? Like that? Jesus, got his knickers in a twist.

You made until noon before he snagged you. Clotheslined you, right across the tummy coming out of the kitchen. Squealing, you fumbled for steady footing as he manhandled you into a hug, growling kisses onto your face.

"Firs' you sneak out in the mornin,'" he huffed, nosing under your jaw. His hand came up to tug at your shirt. "Then ye done disappear for the whole day, like ah'm s'posed to jes' let ye weasel out of- quit, lassie, need it," he broke off in a plead, petting the softness of your hips. You stopped fighting him, accepting your fate as his chew toy.

"Awh, poor Johnny," you teased, playfully biting his cheek. Soap flicked your ear.

"You're takin' the piss, dove."

"A wee bit, maybe."

At your giggle he gasped, stepping away. "Ah'v about lost me mind lookin fer ye and yer teasin'? Kick a man while he's down, aye-"

You tackled him in a hug, nuzzling into his bear arms. Soap paused his lamenting, cooing over your content sigh. You were starting to go a little crazy too, admittedly.

Later, as he snored gently in your lap, you reconsidered your previous classification. A parasite implied there was no benefit to having him latch onto you. But the warm peace floating over you said otherwise.

A pest, you settled for. A very persistent, adorable pest.

[lazyjellyfish300]

12 𝑫𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 ~ 𝑫𝒂𝒚 𝑻𝒘𝒐

Synopsis: It's the classic Hallmark tale: what happens when you, a business woman from the city, arrives at the family owned O'Hara Christmas Tree farm your greedy boss wants to demolish, and finds much more than you bargained for that fateful night you get snowed in?

CW: x FEM!READER, SMUT(unprotected p in v ,oral (f receiving), creampie, breast play, touch of mirror kink) enemies to lovers ish, DUBCON?(You're both a bit drunk), alcohol, touch of angst, mention of pregnancy

Words: 4.4k

A/N: a little late, mb but I hope it's worth it!😩 I'm on vacation rn but I'm dedicated to making this happen even if I'm a lil behind lolol

Dividers: @/saradika-graphics

12 Days of Smutmas Masterlist 🎄🎁

You certainly weren't in Kansas anymore. Or so the saying went. This time you found yourself somewhere in the Catskills outside of Nueva York. Your high heels crunched on the gravel as you stepped out of your Uber, taking in the grand Christmas tree farm in front of you. 

"O'Hara Ranch" was welded in iron lettering on a black sign above the entrance. You whistled as you took in the expansive acres of balsam fir trees, dusted in a thin layer of snow straight out of a painting. 

It was no wonder your boss was so dead set on this place. You became keenly aware of the biting chill of the countryside as you huddled your arms closer around you, your pink blazer doing little to keep you warm as you started to quake in your Jimmy Choos with your laptop case and singular carry-on in tow.

---- 

Miguel grunted, scratching his lower back as his large, sturdy boots squeaked a little on his kitchen floor, eyes almost as dark as the warm beverage in his mug, looking out in silent disapproval at the black Escalade that pulled up, dropping off what he was certain was another employee from that pesky developer.

Some poor soul who had to be the shot messenger for a CEO who never strayed out of the wealthy privileged fairytale land they lived in, thinking that multiple commas would be enough to get him to sign his life away. 

When would they ever learn? He thought. He puts down his mug on the counter then strides over to the door, placing one of his hats on his head before he goes outside to greet this new imposter. 

---

You shuddered as you reached inside your pocket, taking out the flimsy scrap of paper that contained the phone number for the ranch and dialing it again, hoping to reach this Miguel, or whoever it was you were supposed to meet. 

"C'mon..." 

You shouldn't be surprised if he didn't pick up again. It was no secret that you were the bad guy in this situation straight out of a Hallmark film. 

Corporate business lady visiting a Christmas Tree farm that's been in the same family for decades, beloved by all the locals, who forced them to sign over their American dream to a greedy land developer and demolish it to the ground for a lavish mountain resort, and 2 weeks before Christmas no less. 

Just as the call goes to voicemail, a four wheeler's engine interrupts your train of thought. Just like out of a movie, you take notice of the very tall, dark haired, very handsome rider who sat astride it.

His long sleeved grey shirt did nothing but accentuate his rippling arm muscles, layered underneath a Carhartt vest, complete with a baseball cap and salt and pepper five o clock shadow on his sharp, steely jaw. His lips were plump and relaxed into a subtle frown, complete with thick brows and dark wavy hair that complimented the pair of rich brown eyes he possessed that compared to the slice of Earth he owned. 

"Miss...?" He asks your name with an equally deep beautiful voice to match in slightly bored formality. You could tell it was painful for him to be polite to you like this, if you were the corporate imposter like he thought you were.  

"Yes, hi! You're...M-Miguel, right?" 

His expression remains unmoved. "That would be me." 

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Gorgeous property by the way! Really, it's much much better in person than the pictures-" 

"Right." He replies stiffly. "There's really no need to be so gracious.  I figure you're here for one thing and one thing only." 

"Uh-" you reply, a little thrown off by what he means. 

"And the answer is no. I understand you've got a job to do, but I've told your boss over and over again: no. Five years ago, it was a no. Last month, also no. Come back in a week, my answer will still be no. Thank you." 

He revs the engine, getting ready to speed away. 

"Wait! I really do need you to sign this! From the mayor?" You waved a pink colored document which caught his attention for once. 

Miguel turned off the engine, hopping off the four wheeler and strode towards you. He shoots you a superstitious glance before his eyes flicker to the paper, slowly becoming more enraged as he scanned along the fine print:

 Notice of Eminent Domain. 

That bastard. There was a reason Miguel didn't vote for this prick. The new mayor was part of this recent wave of money hungry idealists in power who wanted to turn the humble town he grew up in into another rich touristy playground. 

Usually, these folks couldn't wait to sign the dotted line, get their check, and be on their merry way, but this Miguel was taking his time reading every last stipulation in the document. You notice the snow is coming down harder and harder, your teeth chattering wildly as you did your very best to stay calm as the relentless cold tested your endurance. Finally, Miguel hands you back the paper with a sigh, 

"Still not signin'. Sorry for wasting your time." 

"Miguel." You felt your patience snapped in half by now. Between traveling all morning, your boss's incessant emails, and the cold ass weather, you had just about had it up to here. 

"I'm sorry. But any complaints you have will just have to be taken up with the big man later. I came with a job to do and I have every intention of doing it." 

"That so?" Miguel straightens up, flexing his height over you. 

You were emboldened by this point through all the bullshit you had endured. "It is very much so. I'm not leaving this damn farm without a signature, and that's final." 

"Hm." Miguel nodded his chin, as though he was calling your bluff before he swiftly turned around, walking back towards the awaiting four wheeler. 

"Oh no you don't!" You huffed as your icecubes for feet magically thawed off of pure adrenaline and spite as you began to sprint. 

"What the-" Miguel looks at you quizzically then his brow furrows when he sees you darting towards his four wheeler. "The hell you think you're doing??" 

You ignore him and climb on, Miguel snickering a little bit at the prim and proper lady from the city now straddling his seat, slightly disheveled with a wild look in your eye from dealing with corporate messes all day. 

"Get down." Miguel says sternly, coming up to stand next to you. 

"No." You answer simply, smoothing your blazer. 

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be." Miguel's tone becomes more warning now. "Get off my property, woman." 

"Sign my document, then." You fold your arms. 

"You're a brat, y'know that?" Miguel folds his arms too, incredulous at your undying persistence, more like annoyance. "So childish." 

"Name calling? And you say I'm the childish one." You turn your nose up at him.

"I'm not the crazy lady jumping on a stranger's four wheeler that she doesn't even know how to drive." Miguel grumbles. 

"You'd be surprised." You glare. 

Both of you just sit there in silence, the snowfall has  escalated to just short of a blizzard by now. You're trying but failing to conceal just how damn cold you are as you shiver and shudder. Miguel's mind brews with some ideas before he speaks. 

"Alright." Miguel sighs "I'll sign your damn document. But I need to show you the place first. Just so you can get an idea of just how sick and twisted you people truly are: tearing down a place like this that's been in the family for generations." 

"What?" You blink, not expecting this change of events. "But I mean- but..." You glance at your wrist watch. "It's almost 4 pm. I was supposed to be on the road a half hour ago." 

"Not in this storm you're not." Miguel tsks his teeth. "They always close the canyon when it snows. You won't be able to go anywhere until the morning. But hey, if you wanna call an Uber and wait four hours for him just to be turned around at the bridge, then be my guest." 

"You-" You shuddered and groaned, exasperated at the fact that Miguel appeared to have the upper hand this time. You were stuck playing by his rules. 

"Fine." You resign, throwing your hands up. 

Miguel smirks at this surrender in you, getting on the four wheeler behind you. He's aware the space between your bodies is now very thin, his chest just barely grazing your back as he leans forward, placing his hands on both handlebars. 

You try not to make it obvious that you can't breathe and realize you might be in way over your head being stuck overnight with a man four times handsome as he was stubborn as Miguel drives you rapidly towards his ranch. 

---- 

"Home sweet home." Miguel hums halfheartedly as you enter the elaborate living area of Miguel's mountain home. Several brown and white cowhide rugs were spread over the polished wooden floors, a large pair of antlers hung over a luxury stone hearth, with an inviting leather couch in front of it. 

A short time later, you're absentmindedly staring at some photographs on the wall when Miguel's voice startles you. 

"Had enough snooping?" 

"I wasn't snooping!." You whirl around, pretending to avert your gaze. "I was admiring the antlers." 

Miguel scoffs. "You're a terrible liar, you know." 

"Who is that?" You ask, voice a little more gentle. You kind of wish you never asked when Miguel's eyes soften with the slightest tinge of melancholy. 

"My daughter." He answers then clears his throat. "She passed some years ago." 

"Oh..." You look at him then back at the photograph of the cheery bright eyed girl in it. "I'm so sorry." 

"Thanks." Miguel answers shortly, crossing over to the bar on the far side of the room. 

"I can see why you don't want to leave." You admit, crossing your arms and running your palms up your arms as the glow from the fireplace worked quickly to rid you of any lingering chill from outside. "For what it's worth..." 

Miguel scoffed again. "You don't need to play the sympathy card to win points with me." 

"I- No Miguel! Of course not!" You look at him in horror. "Really, you think I take pride in doing these things to folks like you? You think I'm some souless corporate ghoul that drinks blood of the innocent?" 

"Yes." Miguel stays deadpanned, with the faintest glimmer of amusement. 

"Oh shut up." You blow air through your lips and stride over to where he's standing by his bar. "What do you have to drink around here anyways?" 

Miguel smiles, the bourbon in his glass had made him feel a little more comfortable by now. He glanced outside, eyes slightly widened in surprise at the complete blizzard that was unfolding outside the frosty window. 

"You might wanna go for something a bit stronger than that." Miguel nods in the direction of the window. 

Your fingers move away from the canned margaritas in the mini fridge. You realize bourbon is also the answer tonight when you lay eyes on the absolute winter wonderland outside. 

You had never seen so much snow in your life, as a seemingly infinite stream of snowflakes littered the staggering blankets of pure white that would be nearly waist deep should you venture back out. 

Even though the night was completely black, the shimmery powder stood out, illuminating the December night among the silent and formidable evergreens. 

"Damn..." You whispered. 

"Damn is right." Miguel polishes off his bourbon. "Another round for me too, when you get a chance." He slides his glass towards you across the polished wood. 

"Please?" You quirk a brow at him. 

Miguel chuckles, the sound deep and a little breathy. The feeling it left you...quite unexpected. "Yes, please."

You hum and fill his glass a quarter of the way after you pour your own into one of the small shot glasses you spied below the countertop, throwing the liquid fire back in one ragged gulp. 

Miguel laughs at the face you make and little cough you let out as your eyes water. "Miss Corporate can't handle a little country bourbon?" 

"Miss Corporate can handle herself just fine." You give him a small harrumph. "Miss Corporate wishes to remind Mr. Country Man that she is still here strictly on business and she has no problem decking him in the face should he continue to mouth off." 

"Hmmm business, eh?" 

"Mhmm." 

"Oh, I think we're way past that." Miguel smirks as he leans forward a little closer towards you. "You're having a drink with your evictee. Can't imagine that's not frowned upon." 

"I've had drinks with clients before." You huff, hastily grabbing the bottle and pouring another shot as if to prove a point. This one went down with less resistance, albeit still just as fiery as the one before. 

"Cálmate."(Calm down) Miguel goes to grab the bottle from you just as you're about to pour a third when the sudden move causes the bourbon to splash a little, ending up on your thousand dollar blazer. 

"You... idiot." You roll your eyes as Miguel snorts. 

"Hey, hey, I'm sorry." Miguel steps towards you, trying to help. 

"Nope, you've done quite enough." You huff, trying to disguise the warmth the alcohol was quickly dispelling all over your body. 

"I insist." 

"Miguel, fuck off!" 

"Come here, dammit..." 

And you're not sure exactly what happened, but in that moment his body was pressed up against yours and your faces were mere inches from one another.

This was dangerous now. You knew it, and he knew it, but for Miguel, he was at risk of losing everything anyway. Who could blame him if he wasn't going to make the most of this...convenient situation that presented itself to him. It didn't help that you were quite easy on the eyes as well. 

He pauses as if holding his breath, those deep, deep eyes completely swallowing you up where you stood, the faint sting of the bourbon you can detect on his lips that he wet ever so slightly. 

"M-Miguel, I really shouldn't, I-" 

And you can't remember exactly what drove your lips to meet in that heady first kiss, or how his touch moved from your face, to your neck, whether you were the one who guided him, or his hands wandered on their own accord to the sensitive swells of your breasts, but here you were, up against this tall, rugged farmer you thought you hated only 20 minutes ago, breathing and panting into his mouth and kissing him like your life depended on it, completely contradicting everything you ever said. 

He began to rock his hips against you, hands now on either side of your head, caging you against the wall. You could tell he loved being bigger than you, finally something he had to humble all the sass you loved to throw at him earlier. A not-so-secret attraction you had for him all this time you feebly tried to disguise with disdain. 

Miguel felt it too, and God, right now he couldn't get enough of all the little whines and sounds you were making. How desperate you got just from a little deep conversation and bourbon. This night was swiftly traveling in a more heated direction, and if he wasn't mistaken by the subtle rolls of your body against his aching bulge in his jeans and the hunger laced in your fingers as they tangled in his hair, you had no intention of stopping. 

"Not so feisty now, are you?" He groaned as he started leaving heated kisses along both delicate junctures of your neck. "Sure you're not gonna change your mind  and go back to stealing my farm, hermosa?" He teased. 

"Oh, fuck off..." You grumbled and then bit your lip, back arching involuntarily when you felt him just barely tug your delicate nipple with his teeth. "Aaah Aahhh, Miguel..." You threw your head back.

Miguel smirks and takes that as permission to lay you back completely on his bar, gently tugging the waistband of your business slacks while he switched between both tits and lapped them with the pointy tip of his tongue, until both buds of your nipples were bumpy and hard from all the attention. "You can still stop at any time..." 

"N-No more asking..." You managed to sputter out as you felt his fingers begin to wiggle against your clothed heat that was steadily soaking from the inside. "Just- fffuck, Miguel, so good...just fuck me..." 

"Mmmm..." Miguel groaned in satisfaction and yanked off your pants, followed by your panties without another word. 

Pure ecstacy rolled off the tip of his tongue and dripped between your warm folds as he began to slurp your pussy up like hot cocoa. Miguel strategically left your high heels on, smirking as he glanced over at the mirror on the wall, seeing the pretty businesswoman half naked and back arched so beautifully, moaning as he ate you out on his bar. 

Despite never knowing your body before, his tongue just seemed to find and hit all the right spots, even the ones you were too impatient to look for when you laid in bed all alone. He sucked, and he spit, rolling your clit so perfectly between his lips and leaving no inch of your pretty pussy unbathed by his tongue. 

He alternated between tongue fucking you where his thick nose squished against your clit, hands slinking up the soft flesh of your hips, encouraging you to grind on his face. When he paused and brought his face up to look at you, you swore he was never more handsome than when his face was shiny with your slick, dripping with the evidence that he could make you wetter than any man you'd ever been with.

And other times, he loved to just stare into your eyes with that same, beautifully mesmerizing gaze that was almost too intense to where you'd have to turn away, only for him to whisper, "ah, ah, mirame..." (Look at me) , while his thumb slowly rubbed over your swollen clit, and his middle and ring finger noisily and wetly massaged your squishy walls. 

"Miguel, baby, so good..." You moaned and you sighed, face twisting into a smile as you bit your lip. It felt so shameless to indulge right now. Your career hit the road the second you decided to kiss him but right now you weren't complaining. Logic took a permanent vacation leaving you with nothing but raw, carnal need. All that mattered right now was spreading your legs for this man, being his whore, riding his face and taking his cock every which way he'd have you tonight. 

Your eyes watered as you felt that familiar feeling swelling in your belly, thighs shaking more unsteadily than before. Your back slightly arched from where you laid on his bar but the pleasure Miguel kept injecting into you with his sinfully delicious tongue kept you right there.

"M-Miguel...I'm gonna cum." 

Miguel went even harder, nuzzling his nose even further into your dripping heat, savoring the dribbling honey running between your thighs and dripping into his mouth. He added his fingers again, fingers normally rough and taut and calloused from all that work he did on the farm became soft, intentional, sensual, and deliberate as he coaxed your pussy closer and closer to releasing all over for him.

Your thighs began to quiver around his head, clamping down, however Miguel would gladly suffocate every time for the cause.

"R-right there, Miguel..." 

"Right here, baby?" He groans, swirling his finger in circles over that tried and true spot on your clit, another gush of your juices wetting his fingers before the flood, and Miguel leans over to clean it up with his tongue. 

Every touch now feels amplified in electricity, bordering on overstimulation as his tongue glosses over your soaked folds, something changing in your brain chemistry as he licked up every bit of your arousal as though it were frosting from a bowl. 

"Still with me?" Miguel whispered, leaning in and making out with you as he scooped you into his arms, leading you over to the couch, the entire room painted in an alluring orange glow from the fire next to the warm yellow lights from the tall Christmas tree. 

You groaned as you tasted yourself on his soft, messy lips, the ember of desire burning hotter than ever in both of you. "Y-yeah..." 

Miguel smiles as he sets you down next to him, reaching over and pulling a fleece blanket over your shoulders. His thumb gently brushed the corner of your mouth as he took you in. The most sobering moment between you all evening. One where the alcohol had some time to sink in and both of you were riding out the end of your high together. A new kind of closeness beginning to set itself alight between you as you wordlessly began stripping off the rest of your clothes and you reached for his. 

"Can I?" You asked and a low groan rumbled from his chest. 

"Please." 

You weren't sure, but somehow despite his sass, his generosity and sole focus on making you cum with no assumption on his part that you would be obligated to do the same for him made you even more determined as you peeled back layer after layer, until he sat there in all of his naked glory in front of you. 

He was absolutely beautiful. The salt and pepper pattern from his stubble on his jaw was repeated in his happy trail, leading to a nice, thick, bush around the base of his thick, veiny, cock (More fun for you when you'd be riding him into next week later on).

The tip was just barely a hint of red as it bloomed with precum.  His legs and arms were hairy as well, stomach soft with just the right amount of pudge but everywhere else was solid pure muscle that could only be found on a man who worked hard in the elements, dark hair tousled a bit that fell in his eyes from your passionate fingers earlier. 

The throbbing ache pounded, the glistening sheen between your thighs was all the lube you needed as he pulled you into his lap. Miguel's eyes remained completely locked on you, softening a bit as he felt himself start to push inside you. 

He had suspected sometime around while you were moaning his name and he was lapping up your arousal like an oasis that this whole encounter was deeper than a hookup, and now, he realizes he's sunk: hook line and sinker as your pussy just grips and squeezes him. He sighs as his hands find residence on your hips, taking pleasure in kneading the soft fat. 

"Take your time...." He whispered as he noticed you struggling a bit under his sheer size, his girth slowly spreading you more open. Somehow though, the stretch felt more rewarding, more sinful as you became fuller and fuller of him as you just allowed yourself to relax. 

Miguel's cock bottomed out inside of you, an experimental twitch of his cock reminded you on all fronts that you were stuffed to the brim. He adored this, he loved being so close to you like this, loved the satisfaction that the woman who supposedly hated his guts at first was now completely putty in his hands as you wrapped effortlessly around him. 

"So damn warm..." Miguel purred as he began bouncing you in a slow rhythm. "Ah, ah, mas despacio, por favor(more slow please)..." He teased, grip tightening as he slowed your hips. "I wanna enjoy you like this for a while." He grunted and groaned, loving the way you just responded with more dripping slick around his base as he leaned in to suck on your tits while keeping himself buried inside. "If I'd known you felt this good I would've dragged you out of that fucking snow a lot earlier." He murmured before his lips puckered over your nipple. 

"Please, Mig..." You rolled your eyes but returned a chuckle with a sigh, gently rolling your hips while his cock remained warm and snug inside you. "I'll admit when you pulled up on that four wheeler, it was kind of hard not think about you bending me over the seat.." 

"Yeahh?" Miguel groaned as he churned his hips, drawing his cock in and out of your sea of wetness. "Shouldn't have told me that, now I might need to make that happen..."

As he spoke, his pace increased faster and faster. 

"Aaahh, Miguel...Miguel!" Your threshold was being tested on how much you could take, but nearly fell apart altogether when he added his thumb back to your clit while continuing to fuck up into you ruthlessly. 

"Come on baby, with me...let go."  

And your highs came in waves, yours first followed by his like a bursting dam. His cum overwhelmed your tight hole, causing it to dribble down the sides in filthy display but you loved it, shoving yourself back down on his cock with naughty enthusiasm. Miguel smirked at you, eyes still slightly dazed from euphoria. 

"Good to see you're not wasting any, baby." 

And before you knew it he picked you up, yelping slightly then giggling when you took the initiative of squeezing your thighs tighter around his waist, cock still softening slowly inside your silky pussy, but beginning to pulse back to life as you and Miguel began making out passionately while he took careful steps with you cradled in his arms to his bedroom. 

Perhaps by now you didn't have a job anymore, the future of Miguel's farm was still uncertain, surely you'd be the talk of the entire town come a few months later when your tummy would be swelling with the evidence of every steamy thing that took place tonight inside this snowed in ranch. But, for now, you had much harder, longer, thicker things on your mind as round two became three, then four, with a surprise fifth in the middle of the night and a sixth in the morning. 

When all is said and done, you could always just blame it on the snow. 

[woahjo]

the first time the high lord katsuki touches you, he drags his fingers lightly over your clothes. his palms slide against your shoulders, your waist, your hips, and your thighs. he's careful to not overstep, moving slowly over your body as if any sudden movement would shatter the illusion.

he'd asked you to come look at something on his desk. a book or some other thing, and you'd obliged because you appreciate the things he shares with you. but you had stood so close to him, so close that katsuki could smell you, that he could lean forward a little and put his face in your hair.

"tell me if you don't like it," he'd mumbled, his voice tense and gravelly. there was a bite to it, a nervous one that he'd struggled to conceal.

then, he'd moved his hands to touch your hips. lightly at first, then with a bit more urgency. you had not turned around to face him, instead content to let him touch you this way. almost like worship.

his hands now roam gingerly over your clothing, catching momentarily on the heavy fabric before letting it fall again. he spends a lot of time simply feeling your shape, greedy hands that tremble with his desire to take you. katsuki touches you because you let him, because you want him to.

katsuki doesn't fuck you today, but he does other things. he lets his hand slip to your inner thigh and you part your legs with a small step to the side. neither of you speaks a word and the room is so silent save for your breathing that you could hear a pin drop. kirishima is outside of the door, but he won't enter unless he's called. the silence and secret of this wraps you both in a film you can't seem to break free from.

slowly, he pulls your dress up to run his fingers along the inside of your thigh, raising goosebumps along your skin and causing you to shutter and lean back against him. he sighs a little, leaning forward so that his breath hits the shell of your ear. then, he places a small kiss on your exposed part of your shoulder where it meets your neck.

then, his fingers dip to cup your cunt, pressing lightly until he finds the spot that makes you gasp and lean forward, bracing yourself with both hands on the table. his thick finger rubs circles into your slit, pulling aside your underwear to collect your wetness on his fingers before pressing it again to that sensitive bud.

you sigh, letting your head fall forward and katsuki steps closer to you, close enough that you can feel his hardness against your ass. he groans when he realizes the extent of your wetness, no doubt thinking about how long you've been like this, how long he's let you go unsatisfied and neglected.

katsuki doesn't make an effort to enter you, nor does he move his fingers from your clit. he just rubs circles into it, finding a pattern that makes you tremble and sticking with it. you sigh softly as he touches you, your skirt hiked up over his wrist and legs spread ever so slightly to give him room to pleasure you. choked moans and whines threaten to escape your lips and you can feel katsuki's face and breath beside your head, his eyes fixed on you as he watches your expression twist into one of mounting pleasure.

his hand comes up to brace your hip when you get close, pulling your body against him so that his hard cock is flush against you. it's a possessive movement and the roughest he's ever been with you, harshly jostling your body against his as if to have you close when you reach your peak.

you're leaning forward, fingers digging into the fine wood of his desk, as he repeatedly rubs at your clit, occasionally dipping to your entrance to collect your slick. you'd love for him to put them in you, to curl his thick fingers inside of your body until you cum, but this seems to be all he allows himself to do, as if he's holding himself back from ultimate pleasure.

what he does do for you is certainly enough, though. soon, he's crowding your body, his figure hunched over yours as you twitch and writhe against him. he keeps his fingers firmly rubbing at your clit, soft circles that grow more intentional with each twitch of your hips against him. then, you tense up and sigh deeply, then tension in your body fleeing as you cum hard against his hand and rut your hips into his fingers.

katsuki watches and groans softly as you finish, still moving his fingers and breathing heavily in your ear until you collapse forward against the desk with overstimulation. your legs tremble and squeeze his hand between your thighs and your breath comes heavily and quickly. he breathes like this too, as if he's just exerted some great physical force, and you can still feel his cock twitching against you in his pants as the fingers on his free hand dig harshly into your hips.

katsuki doesn't move his hand until you've stopped your twitching, content to leg you squeeze it between two plush thighs. then, he removes it, briefly holding your skirt up and peering around you to see the supple flesh of your leg, before letting it drop. you exhale a breath you hadn't realized you were holding and katsuki lingers behind you for a moment before letting his head fall forward to rest against your shoulder.

neither of you says anything about the reality of what you've just done. it's a great crime. one that is not easily undone should anyone find out about it. the two of you sit in silence as it settles over you.

[charliemwrites]

Mafia!au part 5!

A bit of fluff, a bit of drama, a bit of Soap!

Content: Attempted Gaslighting, Violence

“Gooood morning, sir!” you sing as you sweep into Mr. Price’s office. “And happy birthday!”

His head shoots up from whatever he was brooding over, brows arched high in genuine shock. Surprise is a good look on him.

“How the bloody hell did you know it’s my birthday?” he demands, sitting back in his chair.

You beam, sauntering right up to his desk. His eyes flick to the round white box balanced on top of your tablet. Nothing big, a little something you baked at home after a couple dissatisfying trials.

“It’s my job to know,” you reply easily.

He blinks– a habit you flatter yourself thinking he might have picked up from you. “What else do you know about me?”

You tilt your head at him, a smug curve to your lips.

“Just the basics. Your full name and birthday,” you demure. Hold up your free hand and start rattling off on your fingers. “Height, allergies, tea preference, pastry preference, blood type, drink of choice…”

You set the box in front of him and resettle your tablet in the crook of your arm. He stares at you for a beat, expression bleached from surprise to outright shock. You spin your stylus around your fingers.

“Which is why I made you a marble cake with whiskey instead of rum.”

His eyes lock onto the unassuming white box. It’s not a big cake by any means, about six inches in diameter and only one layer. Just a small something for Price to have for himself. God knows the rest of the boys (and Farah) get enough treats from you as it is.

“You made this?” he asks, leaning a bit forward.

“Yessir,” you declare, “and I’m pretty good at it too. Perks of stress baking.”

He runs a hand down his face, as if his beard got ruffled. “Christ, you need a raise.”

“Yes. Anyway – I’ll get you a plate after I’m done,” you say, swatting at his curious hand. He huffs but sits back to give you his full attention. You smile in reward and begin reciting his schedule for the day.

He listens, only interrupting when he needs clarification on little details. You try not to be too endeared by the way his eyes occasionally flick to the covered cake. When you finish, you twitch your nose at him knowingly.

“I’ll get you a plate before I get started on that expense summary,” you say, turning on your heel.

You hum in surprise when a large, calloused hand catches your wrist. It’s not the hand of a businessman, you think, but a man used to work. A man who does the hard things for himself. Before meeting John Price, you would have scoffed at the thought of a rich man knowing labor. Price though… well, he’s been proving to be a welcome exception since the very start.

“Thank you for this, love,” he says, voice hitting that tone and pitch that makes your insides squirm. He caresses his thumb over the tender skin before releasing you. “Really.”

You can already feel the blush climbing up the back of your neck, over your ears, creeping onto your cheeks. Can’t ever catch a break with him.

“Well, don’t thank me ‘til you’ve tried it,” you try to deflect.

“Weren’t you the one saying you’re decent at baking.”

“Yeah, well… maybe I poisoned you or something – for that time you closed my skirt in the door.”

He sputters a bit. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from giggling at the indignance on his face. Such a handsome, almost regal man. You love to rile him up.

“I apologized. Profusely.”

And offered to buy you a new skirt entirely. The way you’d shrieked that that was not an appropriate response made Soap choke with laughter as people stared.

“Yeah, well, I hold a grudge,” you reply, shrugging.

It’s true, but not about things like that. Graves and his assistant? Oh, that’s practically a blood feud at this point. A silly little accident where your boss left a crease in your fourth favorite skirt? That’s not even something to forgive him for, but you sure as hell will never forget. Especially when he still seems mildly sheepish about it.

“You wouldn’t be the first,” he grumbles. You’re not sure if he’s talking about grudges or poisoning, but the dramatics finally make you laugh.

“But I could be the last,” you call over your shoulder as you flounce out.

Not for long though, returning with a disposable fork from the breakroom. There’s something amusing to only you about a man in a thousand-pound suit using cheap plastic.

“Come to see me keel over for yourself, then?” he asks.

“Well, I can’t have you getting cake crumbs on the expense reports,” you reason.

He’s already got the lid open. No icing on the cake – you’re shit at decorating, so you chose a recipe without icing. The flavor of the whiskey and sugar should be plenty. To make up for it, you folded a tiny placard and wrote “Happy Birthday, Boss!” in your best loopy cursive.

He takes the fork, fingers brushing yours in the process. You remind yourself not to snatch your hand away like a scandalized Victorian lady. Christ, you really need to get it together.

“Tell me how you like it,” you say, making to leave again.

“Come try it yourself,” he protests.

You pause, give him an amused look. “I didn’t actually poison it, sir. You’ve not done anything that heinous. Yet.”

He snorts, carefully digging out a respectable bite from the edge. “If you see fit to toss a little rat poison in, then I’ll likely having it coming.”

You hum. “Arsenic is more my style. Classic.”

In the corner of the room, Simon makes a little noise you’ve come to recognize as repressed laughter. You shoot him a quick, amused look, before shifting your attention back as Price gestures with the fork.

“Regardless, you should get a little taste of the fruits of your labor,” he offers.

The fruits of your labor, you think with a bit of regret, will be his enjoyment of your baking. You’re not sure when his admiration became your favorite part of the day, but you’re spoiled for positive feedback from your otherwise stern boss.

“You first,” you insist, “it’s your birthday after all.”

He keeps unnerving eye contact as he brings the bite to his mouth, tongue flicking out to catch any spare crumbs. He hums, eyes closing a for a second in enjoyment, before opening and fixating on you again.

“That’s bloody brilliant, love.”

He scoops up another piece, brings it right to your mouth. You hurry to put a hand beneath in case it falls; don’t even think before parting your lips. Sugar and whiskey, chocolate and vanilla, burst across your tongue.

“Oh!” you hum, hiding your mouth while you chew. “That is pretty good.”

It only occurs to you as he takes another bite for himself, a twinkle in his eye, that you just ate after him. Used the same fork like it was nothing, like that’s an acceptable thing to do as his assistant. You’re not squeamish by any means, no. It’s just… it’s gotta be crossing some sort of professional line. You can’t imagine any of your previous bosses ever sharing with you like this.

“Let me tell you, if you did poison it,” he muses, “I wouldn’t mind it being the last thing I ate.”

You roll your eyes, swat lightly at his arm again. “I told you; it’s not poisoned.”

“I know, you just took a bite,” he answers smugly.

You click your tongue at him, playing at exasperated. “I’m going to work now.”

“Ta, love.”

--

“Oi, li’l miss?”

You glance up at Soap curiously.

(Recognize, in the back of your mind, that it’s a nickname that’s not only spread – thanks, Simon – but that you’re responding to as quickly as your own name now. You should probably feel some type of way about that. Probably righteously annoyed or something. You don’t.)

Soap is standing at your desk, shifting from foot to foot. Uneasy. But the expression on his usually friendly face isn’t nervous. It’s… something else. Something you don’t know how to decipher but makes you sit up a bit straighter, alert.

“What’s up, buttercup?” you ask, voice light.

“There’s some bloke down in the lobby, says he’s got a date with you?” he explains, frowning deeper than you’ve ever seen.

It gets deeper – and angrier – when he sees the blood drain from your face. You push your chair away from your desk to hide the tremble that’s trying to infest your hands.

Absolutely not. This is your place of work, dammit. Where you’re calm and collected, the person anyone can turn to for solutions. You’ve worked so hard to craft this sleek vessel of professional grace and you’re not about to have it sullied like this.

“He does not have a date with me,” you state, keeping your voice flat and tight. “Would you come down with me, please?”

“’Course,” he replies instantly.

You stop by Price’s office, knock twice, then poke your head in when he calls for entry.

“I’ve just got to pop out for a mo’,” you explain, “I’ll be right back!”

He nods and you duck out again before he can notice anything amiss. For a rich bastard, he’s too observant of others. (Especially you.)

“What’s he here fer, then?” Soap asks in the elevator.

You let out an annoyed puff of air. “A reality check, I assume.”

He side-eyes you but doesn’t ask any further before the doors open.

Sure enough, standing in the lobby, is the last man you want to see. Your ex, Brandon.

“There you are, bunny. You’ve been keeping me waiting for—”

“One, do not call me that. It’s inappropriate,” you interrupt, crisp and sharp. “Two, I haven’t been keeping you waiting, because there’s nothing to wait for. Three, get out.”

He rolls his eyes, that smarmy curve to his lips never leaving. You don’t think he’s even noticed Soap just behind you yet.

“Look, I know you’re still in a mood about everything,” he says, “but that’s why I’m taking you out. To smooth things over. Clear the air, and all that.”

“You’re not taking me out,” you repeat. “Get out.”

He crosses his arms, tilting his head in that condescending way you’ve always despised. It sets your teeth on edge, makes you burn with anger.

“This isn’t your building,” he goads, “you can’t kick me out.”

“Might as well be hers, mate,” Soap interjects, “she could kick out the goddamn queen.”

Brandon’s focus shifts to him. You feel a curl of vindictive satisfaction when his expression curdles a bit. Soap may not be a particularly tall man, but he can be intimidating. Built thick and strong, doesn’t bother to conceal his physique at all with his sleeves rolled up his forearms. And you’re not oblivious to his looks either. Soap is a handsome man. A walking ego bruise for a man like your ex.

“Fine,” he huffs, “then come outside so we can talk like adults.”

You click your tongue, fold your hands behind your back to conceal the way your fingers clench into fists. “We did talk like adults. You just failed to listen like one.”

And ohhhh, the petty satisfaction that bubbles through you at the way his teeth click in shock, a flush of embarrassed anger curtaining his face.

“Now, I’ll ask one more time and then my coworker is going to toss you out himself.” Soap chooses that moment to crack his knuckles. “Leave this building. You’re not welcome.”

You drop your arms and turn on your heel, ready to get back to work and compartmentalize this until you’ve got a fuck-off sized glass of wine in front of you.

“Hey, we’re not—”

Even if you did see what happened, you don’t think you could have followed. It happens so fast. One second, Soap’s eyes are on you. Burning with questions and fury on your behalf, checking that you’re okay. The next, he’s darted past you. There’s a scuffle, fancy shoes squeaking on polished floors, a thick, wet pop. Then Brandon is shouting in pain.

You jump, twist to see what the commotion is. Soap’s got a white-knuckled grip on Brandon’s extended wrist – though now it’s bent at an awful angle, you realize he must have been reaching for you. Your skin crawls.

“Away ‘n bile yer heid,” Soap growls, shoving Brandon back roughly.

He doesn’t fall on his ass but it’s a near thing. With the eyes of reception, a few employees, and you on him, he spits a curse at Soap and retreats. You stare after for a moment, lips parted in shock.

“All set, miss?” Soap asks, adjusting his sleeves.

“Um, yeah,” you say. Blink and pull yourself together. “I mean, yes. Let’s head back up before the boss misses us.”

He places a hand on the small of your back on the short walk back. It feels grounding rather than proprietary; you’re grateful for it. He lasts until the doors close before turning to you.

“The hell was that about, lass?”

You sigh, smooth your skirt down for lack of anything else to do. “That was my ex. He wants to… reconcile, I suppose. And he’s quite keen on getting his way.”

Soap mutters a few choice words under his breath. Scottish slang, you suspect. You’ll have to get him to teach you sometime.

“Anyway, thank you for your help,” you continue, eyes on the elevator doors. “I can’t believe he showed up here. I’m so embarrassed.”

“You’ve nothin’ to be embarrassed about, hen,” he protests. “He’s the creeper here.”

You sigh. “I know, I just… you don’t think less of me, do you? That I didn’t… take care of him myself.”

Soap’s expression softens. He draws you into a quick one-armed hug. “You did take care of ‘im, far as I’m concerned. I was just there to enforce. No need to mess up yer pretty nails, aye?”

You smile, small but genuine. “Thanks, again.”

“Anytime, li’l miss.”

The elevator chimes as it reaches the top floor. You turn to Soap just before the doors open.

“Oh, and please don’t tell the boss.”

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

[fir-fireweed]

Fir I'm gonna spam you with RO reaction asks bc they're so fun and we have a new RO to ask about now! Feel free to ignore as always ofc!

How would the ROs react to having a spicy dream about MC? (Or, alternatively, to finding out MC had one about them?)

Lol, they are pretty fun; however, they take a lot of brain power for me. I have a ton in my inbox. I’ll spread them out so they last till the next chapter 😉

This is if the ROs had the dream.

—

Calliope will have quite the grin on her face when she sees you next. She can’t help biting her lip, talking uncontrollably (like more than usual), and sidling up to MC. She won’t tell you about it, that’s her special secret, but she’ll be really obvious in the way she’s checking you out the next day.

Corinne would feel guilty, like she somehow disrespected you by having that dream without your consent. She’d throw herself into her work the next day and keep extra busy. She may even apologize to you if she can’t get it out of her head (though she wouldn’t mind having another).

Vicente WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!?!

Bayram can’t wait to tell you about it. ALL about it. Every detail. Would a picture help? He can only draw stick figures but he’ll do his best.

Tellus won’t be able to make eye contact the next day. He’d run away from you and be a stammering, incoherent mess if you tried to hold a conversation.

[nozhdyved]

hella good - t.d.

contains: nsfw. 4.7k words, workplace rivalry, ballet teacher!fem!reader x jazzfunk teacher!tashi, intoxication (alcohol), reader is sort of stuck up and tashi puts her in her place, f!receiving oral, fingering, pussy slapping, not rlly degradation but tashi talks down to reader a lot, the smalllllest bit of impact play

notes: i've had this fic in my drafts for AAAAAGES i just got so scared of writing the smut. umm plz give me tips if this isnt good I rlly wanna learn hwo to write it... shoutout ty ( @forgetmenotnympho ) for helping me w transitions GAWD BLESS!!!!!! ya this dynamic was super fun to write so i hope u enjoyyyy :) btw the instrumental song when tash and reader and sessioning is agora hills instrumental Oh ts heat

taglist: @girliism, @imperishablereverie, @faiztheap, @musingsofheaven, @yardofbrunettes, @forgetmenotnympho, @sweetheartfaist, @sweetestfaiszts, @hangels . click here to be added !

listen while you read

The soft lilting melody of a piano version of some random pop song played on the speakers, and you watch in satisfaction as all your students plié in sync, and with ease. You’ve trained them well, you know that, and it fills you with pride to watch their every movement, graceful and put together. The music ceases and you nod, dismissing them for a short water break. You’re leaning against the barre, scrolling through songs to play for across-the-floor when you hear it.

Loud music, blaring, shooting into your ears and electrifying your soul. It’s angry and thrashy, and for some reason, it just makes you mad. Pisses you off to no end. You set your phone down and mutter some vague combination for your students to do as you leave the studio, heading down the hallway to the bigger studio.

It’s empty, save for one person, dancing in the center of the room. Her baggy t-shirt slips off one shoulder, revealing golden brown skin, and her curls were flying wildly in the air, as if attacking someone. She dances with a jagged edge, like wielding a weapon, her body angular as she kicks and drags her feet around. There’s worn holes at the heels of her half-soles, threadbare from usage. She’s moving flowy like water one second and sharp like the edge of a blade the next. It’s mesmerizing. It’s horrible. It’s beautiful.

You’re so engrossed in watching her movements that you nearly forget what you were here to do in the first place. Plastering a scowl across your face as you knock your knuckles against the doorframe, you wait for her to take notice. She pauses in her movements, a slight frown on her face as she crosses the room to pause the music. You’re dressed in your leotard and tights, hair pulled back in a tight bun, soft cardigan covering your shoulders. You don’t seem exactly well-equipped to be one of her students. “Can I help you?” she asks, leaning her hip against the sound system.

You bite your lip and look over her. She’s breathing hard from exertion, her skin glowy with a sheen of sweat. She tugs the shoulder of her shirt back up, adjusting the waistband of her basketball shorts. “Your music is too loud,” you say coolly.

She raises her eyebrows, laughing a bit. “Is it?” she counters, checking her phone. “What, you don’t fuck with No Doubt?”

You purse your lips and shake your head stiffly, looking out into the lobby. “Language. There’s kids here,” you chastise gently, though it’s obvious that you’re frustrated. You’ve never been good with secrets.

She leans closer, a smug grin on her lips. “There aren’t. I’ve checked the schedule. It’s just the senior Ballet class, and then my senior class.” She cocks her head, looking you up and down. You feel exposed under her scrutinizing gaze, face flushing. “You’re the Ballet teacher, huh? I’m Tashi. I’m new. Jazz Funk.”

You resist the urge to scoff. Jazz Funk. Barely even a style, not even recognized in the majority of the competitions that your studio went to. You just saw it as an excuse to shake ass onstage without getting in trouble. You were a firm believer in the foundations of dance– Ballet, Jazz, Tap, the like, not all this new fusion stuff. “Jazz Funk,” you repeat, voice dripping with condescension. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Tashi, and since you’re new, I won’t put this on file. But please don’t have your music cut into my class time.”

Tashi’s smile drops a bit. Just barely, at the corners, but you notice, and it fills you with pride. “You’re kidding, right?” she laughs, stepping closer to you. She’s taller than you, and when she towers over you, her curls get in your face. She smells good. “My music being loud doesn’t cut into your class time. Just close the door.”

You press your lips into a thin line, eyes narrowing. “Let’s compromise,” you offer, wanting to get back to your class. “Turn it down. And I’ll close the door. Win-win.” You wait for her response, trying to ignore the heady scent of her floral perfume and the way it invades your senses, invoking an odd feeling in your stomach. 

She rolls her eyes, and the feeling in your stomach just turns to annoyance. “Fine,” she relents, storming back over to the speaker and dialing the volume down, making a big show of it. “You happy?”

You can’t help but sneer, your lip pulling back as you watch her make a dramatic production of just turning down the volume. “Ecstatic,” you grit out, shutting the door behind you as you head back to your class. 

You re-enter your studio, trying to regain the sense of calm that had dissipated when Tashi’s music had started playing, watching as your students do waltzes across the floor. Perfect and pristine, not a toe out of line. Just like you expected, and what you craved. Outside, Tashi’s music begins playing again. Loud and blaring. You grit your jaw and close the door.

Your class has ended, and you watch as your students all file off to change for Tashi’s class. Some skip changing altogether, just pulling on a pair of baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt over their leotard, while others wait in line for the changing room. You hear the same song playing from the studio and watch from the doorway as she begins teaching.

Your students have taken their hair out from stiff buns, and you watch as they laugh and whip their hair around, showing a completely different side than you usually see in your ballet class. It’s odd to see them, going from uptight to relaxed in a matter of seconds, just in a switch of teachers. They hoot and holler as Tashi shows the combination she’s teaching, whistling when she freestyles, and you watch warily. You can’t help the sting of dejection when you see the absolute glee on your student’s faces as they learn from her, the studio filled with laughter and chatter. Nothing like the calm silence of your class. You just huff and turn away, settling behind the front desk and beginning your work on social media. It was just a different genre. That’s all.

Her class gets out after an hour, and you’re giving your students a small smile as a goodbye as they file out of the studio, leaving just you and Tashi. You’re finishing up your work behind the front desk when she emerges from the changing rooms, changed out of her sweaty t-shirt and shorts and in a more comfortable looking outfit of wide-legged sweatpants and a pale green tank top. She’s not wearing a bra, and you can tell by the way her nipples poke out from the thin fabric of her tank top. You focus your gaze back onto your laptop, face flushed.

“Hey.” She’s parked right in front of you, leaning over the counter. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail, swooping just along the nape of her neck. “Listen, I think we started off on the wrong foot,” Tashi says quietly, her warm brown eyes connecting with yours. “And I don’t wanna start a new job like this.”

You nod warily in agreement, watching her every move like a hawk hunting prey. “Are you proposing a solution?”

She snorts, shaking her head, and you frown. “Sorry, sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I swear. I’ve just… never met anyone who talks like you.” She brushes a strand of hair out of her face, a confident smile spreading across her lips. “Let’s just reset, huh? Blank slate.”

You’re nodding so much you feel like a bobblehead, a little too entranced by the way her lashes flutter at you and how the smell of her sweat mixes with the scent of her perfume. “Blank slate,” you agree. You close your laptop and stand up, sliding the device into your tote bag as you begin turning off the lights. “Welcome to the studio, Tashi.”

She grins at you, and you can see the gleam of her teeth through the darkness. She looks almost too smug. “It’s good to be here.” With her last words, she leaves, but not before brushing up against your arm gently, leaving the door swinging in her wake.

It’s been two months since she started working there, alongside you, and somehow, she’s only gotten on your nerves even more. Her music is always blasting obnoxiously loud, making your ballet dancers distracted with the prospect of what she’s teaching next. It’s always some sort of sensual pop, Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Despite the animosity, you always found yourself staying back after your class had finished, finding excuses for staying late just to watch her dance. The way her back arches tantalizingly as she slides across the wooden floor, or how her shorts ride low on her hips as she kicks her leg up high, performing a seamless developpé. Hmph. Your developpé is better.

Finally, her music pauses, and you sigh, preparing to flick off the light switch when a new song starts playing. Something a bit slower, still with sharp snares and a synth beat, but it’s different than her usual stuff. You peek in through the door to check on her, watching her improv with amazing musicality. It’s Turn Off The Light by Nelly Furtado– still in the same realm as her other pieces, but there’s something darker and more sincere in the way she moves, not just shaking ass.

You’re hypnotized watching her, jaw dropping as her ballet technique begins to show. A perfect pique turn into a back attitude, that leads her into a forward roll. She’s not just dancing to the music, she’s creating it. And you’re not sure what turns you on more, her shirt riding up to reveal her black lace bra, or the eighteen perfect fouettés she executes. You count them all.

Tashi catches your eyes as she keeps dancing, but instead of freezing up and stopping, she only seems to push herself harder, small pants escaping her lips as she exerts herself to her full potential, leaping higher than you could ever imagine. Jesus, her calves… the way she moves across the floor with such confidence and grace, and utter sexual magnetism. You need to close your jaw. 

The music fades, she’s laying on her back, chest heaving as she gulps down deep breaths. You’re watching the rise and fall of her body, the way her dark eyes land on you, watching, unblinking. You feel like a perv for snooping in on such a clearly intimate moment, and you turn away, ready to close–

“Stay.” Her voice is sharp and demanding, and you turn back around. Tashi’s beckoning for you to enter the studio, an eyebrow raised. “C’mon. Let’s session.”

A laugh escapes you, incredulous and doubtful. “You’re joking,” you snort, shaking your head. “You want me to session with you?” It’s impossible to even picture– you doing tendus and graceful jetés while she twerks around you. Nothing good could possibly come out of that.

Tashi rolls her eyes and leans back against her elbows, her toned stomach showing as her shirt rides up her torso. “I wanna session with you,” she repeats, her voice completely calm. “I think it’d be fun. And that we could make something good.”

You shake your head adamantly, a frown firmly glued to your face. “There’s no sessions in ballet. Everything’s planned,” you defend, just about ready to turn around.

“Come on.” She pushes up onto her feet, wiping sweat from her brow and grabbing her phone to play a song. An instrumental version of a Doja Cat song comes on, and your frown deepens. “We can make it ballet. Just… come dance with me.” Tashi begins swaying her hips gently, gracefully jetéing side to side as her arms float from first to fifth. You hate how perfect she is– at just about everything, it seems.

You drop your bag to the ground and slide off your shoes, your bare skin tacky on the wood floor. The music seems to carry you, and despite how much you try to resist, your leg seems to lift on its own, leaning you back as your arms raise above your head. Not in fifth. Not even in modern fifth. They’re just floating, moving with their own mind, and it feels good to let go. You turn and lower down into your middle splits, ignoring the hoot it draws from Tashi. It feels good to just close your eyes and go where your body takes you. It’s… new, interesting, but it didn’t feel bad.

It’s almost therapeutic in a sense. Ballet is your love, your entire passion, but it’s also a constant spotlight. To be able to move so freely, uncaring of Tashi watching or what your body is doing just puts your mind at ease. You watch as Tashi takes the baton and picks up where you leave off, the song picking up in pace and having more snares that you aren’t used to in ballet. It’s entrancing to watch her move so seamlessly, like the music is controlling her body. There’s a sudden pause in the song, where she freezes still, and then the beat starts again and she rolls onto the floor so abruptly, you swore her head was going to crack open. A gasp escapes your lips as she smoothly transitions the roll into an arch up, one leg poised delicately in the air that she catches behind her head. It’s fucking amazing, and you swear your panties are wet at the sight.

Tashi’s looking at you expectantly, and you realize it’s your turn– but how can you follow up something like that? It’s like comparing a cheese stick to a charcuterie board. She steps closer, the music still playing in the background. “Come on. Your turn,” she says, her voice quiet and gentle. Too sweet for your ears, you’re frozen in place, still in awe at the moves she had pulled out. If this was her improv, how beautiful was her choreography?

“Dude. Hey, c’mon.” Tashi’s right in front of you now, and you’re so awestruck you can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t think. It’s just her and her dancing, the smell of her perfume wafting over you, surrounding you. She’s everything. The two of you lock eyes, and before you can even process it, she’s stepping closer and closer, and her perfectly lined lips are pressed firm against yours. Tashi’s arms encircle your waist as she swoops you to the ground, kissing you hungrily. And you kiss back.

It’s clashing teeth and tongue, quiet pants and grunts being exchanged as the scent of her sweat and perfume seems to cover you in a haze. She’s on top of you, cupping your face in both hands and pressing her chest to yours, a soft moan escaping her lips as you hesitantly squeeze her breasts. You’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

You moan when she starts to kiss down your neck, conflicting feelings racing through your chest. “Mmh- Tashi- wait, wait wait wait-” You relax when she pulls off of you, trying to ignore the hurt on her face. “Sorry- I’m just- wow, um-” You push away from her, standing up on shaky legs. “I have to go.”

Tashi’s brows are furrowed in confusion and anger– and maybe a little hurt. “Do you?” she asks quietly, the music still playing lowly in the background. “Or are you scared?”

You shake your head, walking past her still sitting on the floor and you grab your bag, pausing at the doorway. “Goodnight, Tashi,” you say quietly, hurrying out of the studio. You hear her yell “pussy!” behind you, but you’re out the door once her frustration turns to tears.

You call in a substitute for the next few days, too scared to see Tashi and feel the brunt of her anger– or maybe you’re more scared of how much you hurt her. On your days off, you play some music and stand in front of a mirror, watching how your body moves of its own accord. Hips to the left, arms shooting up. There’s no form, but you’re still graceful and delicate. You can imagine Tashi’s hands around your waist, guiding your next movements with slick precision. You drop your arms back down to your side and sigh heavily, walking away.

Ballet was always the one thing you never strayed from. You’ve always loved the strict formality and uniform of the style, how everything goes where it’s supposed to be and there’s little tolerance of those who step out of line. Even now, smushed between people in a crowded club, your movements still find a way to be light and airy as the bumping bass of club music assaults your ears. You hate how good it feels to just let go and enjoy the sensations of your body moving on its own.

“Hey. Hey!” you yell at your friend, who’s currently grinding on some random guy. “I’m gonna get a drink,” you yell over the music, walking away before seeing if she even heard you. You approach the bar and order two vodka shots, nodding gratefully when they’re set in front of you in record time.

You’re about to toss one back when you see her. Her hair swishing around her waist and a skintight red dress, clinging to every curve and sharp edge of her body. A thin leather belt hangs loosely on her hips, the gold buckle glinting under the strobing lights. Glitter flashes along her cheekbones and her eyes are rimmed a smoky black, lips lined with crimson red. Her movements are reminiscent of the night that you two shared together, eyes closed in ecstasy as she dances freely. You wonder what it must feel like to live like that.

She catches your gaze when she opens her eyes, and if she’s shocked, it doesn’t show. You beckon to her with your shot glasses, a silent plea in your actions. Get over here. She breaks away from the crowd and heads your way, eyes narrowed when she takes the shot you offer her.

“Hey,” you begin, practically inaudible from the loud music of the club, “you look good.”

Tashi raises an eyebrow, a smug smile on her lips. “I know,” she murmurs into your ear, clinking your shot glasses together. The two of you throw them back at the same time, and your stomach turns when you see the lipstick mark left on her glass.

“I’m sorry,” you force out, watching as her expression grows tight. “About, um. You know.” You sigh heavily, unsure of how to word your thoughts. “I think I’m intimidated by you.”

Her brows shoot up, and she laughs, loud and brash. The thump of basses turns to slick hi-hats and cymbals as a familiar song plays– Hella Good by No Doubt, the song Tashi was playing when you two first met. “Shut the fuck up,” she crows, shaking her head. “Shut up.”

“No, no, I’m- I mean, I’m serious,” you hurry to continue, not minding the word vomit now. “You’re just- your dancing is amazing, and you’re so beautiful, my students all like your classes better and I’d kill to dance as freely as you,” you ramble, not noticing how she seems to inch closer and closer to you. “Your technique and your talent– I’m jealous, Tashi, I’m so fucking jealous, and-”

Her lips are on yours before you can even process it, and this time you don’t hesitate to kiss back. She tastes like peach lip gloss and bitter vodka, her lipstick smearing across your own lips. Tashi’s hands tangle into your hair to tug you closer, and you shamelessly palm at her ass through the thin fabric of her dress. It’s dirty and frantic, and again, you’re reminded of her dancing.

Tashi pulls away and is immediately pulling you away to the bathrooms, not caring as you trip over your heels. The bathroom is empty when you walk in, and she unbuckles her belt, tying one end to the door handle and the other around the sink faucet. She turns around to face you, lipstick smudged and eyes dark with lust. She advances toward you and practically sweeps you off your feet with a kiss, pinning you against the graffiti covered wall. It’s filthy– the setting you’re in and what you’re doing, but the feeling of Tashi firmly against you seems to have you in a trance, pliant and willing. Your hand moves up to slide the straps of her dress down her shoulders, trying to touch every exposed inch of soft skin. She does the same to you, pausing when there’s no bra strap appearing underneath the silky fabric of your dress.

“Really? No bra to go clubbing?” She kisses up and down your neck, sucking and biting harshly as she grips your hips, arousal already slicking up your thighs. “Jesus fuck, it’s like you’re begging for me to ruin you.” As much as you despise it, a shiver goes up your spine at her sultry words.

“You’re one to talk,” you grit out as your hands travel down her torso, feeling out every smooth dip. “You never wear a fuckin’ bra to work. It’s insane– God, like you were taunting me,” you growl as you squeeze her hips, rough and mean.

Tashi nips at your earlobe, grinning wickedly at the keening whimper it draws from you. “I was,” she whispers lowly, slipping the dress down your hips and letting it pool at your ankles. Your panties are already soaked through, the scent of arousal and floral perfume filling the space. She taps a manicured finger against the damp patch of cotton, cooing at the way your hips stutter and jump. “I saw you watching me.”

You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips as she pushes your panties aside, smacking your soaked heat gently with her palm. “Fucking wet, baby,” she mumbles, fruitlessly tugging the strap of her dress back on her shoulder as she kneels on the grimy floor, inhaling your slick scent. “You want me?” she asks, pulling your panties down your hips and letting them land on top of your crumpled dress.

You’re nodding before you even realize it, the loud guitar and bass booming from outside your private sanctuary. “I want it,” you gasp, already feeling weak in the knees at her hands on your thighs, spreading your legs apart further. “I want you, Tashi.”

That’s enough for her to begin kissing up your inner thigh, leaving lipstick marks along your smooth skin before she dives into your wet heat, her tongue circling your clit like she’s done this to you a thousand times. Her hands come up to press against your hips to force you from grinding into her mouth, and she laps at your pussy like a dog desperate for water.

“You taste,” she’s panting, wiping at her mouth before looking up at you with lustful eyes, “so fuckin’ good, baby. Like sugar.” She’s nosing in without a second thought, her own thighs clenching together with every moan she draws out from your chest. It’s something sacred, the way she revels in your body and absolutely worships it, taking in all your miniscule reactions. The strap of her dress slips back down and seems to crumple around her, yet not distracting her from her task, making you a whimpering, soaking mess.

Her breasts are exposed to the harsh glare of the lighting as the dress slides down her chest fluidly, not deterring her from taking you apart, bit by bit. “F-Fuck!” you grip her hair tightly as you buck your hips into her face. She’s tonguefucking you expertly, poking and prodding at every soft inch of you and moaning at the honeyed taste. One hand releases your hip to pinch gently at your clit, laughing at the way you mewl and try to break free. “Tashi, Tashi, please–”

“You can take it,” is all she says, cruel and dominating as she flicks it gently, causing your knees to almost buckle, legs trembling as you hold yourself up. She pulls away for a moment, licking her lips to make sure she gets every last drop of your sweet arousal. She lets go of you fully to stand back up, towering over you in her heels. “Good girl,” she murmurs, kissing you hard. You taste yourself on her lips, sweet and somewhat bitter, and it makes you moan and squeeze your sticky thighs together from just how depraved you’re being.

“I’ve been to so many studios,” Tashi whispers in your ear, one hand trailing down your bare chest and pausing under your navel, making you groan in frustration. “Met so many teachers,” she continues, her touch feather-light as she reaches your pussy, cupping it gently and letting slick soak into her palm. She lifts the hand up and licks her palm, looking down at you the whole time. Her hard nipples press right into your shoulder, and the way she’s looking at you is addictive.

“Hip-hop, contemporary, jazz… Even fucked around with a tap teacher once,” she murmurs, pinching at your nipples gently and laughing when you squeal, before returning her attention to your sensitive clit. “But I’ve never corrupted a pretty little ballerina like you before,” she keeps whispering, licking at your neck as she easily slides two fingers in, already pumping in and out. You’re shaking, spasming, and you can’t believe how good it feels.

“They all thought they were too good for me,” Tashi murmurs, watching with rapt fascination as she curls her fingers inside you, hitting that spongy spot inside you that makes you cave. “Wonder what that makes you, huh?” she laughs at your dumbfounded expression, thrusting faster and rubbing your clit with her thumb.

You’re already on edge from when she was eating you out earlier, and you’re begging to just let go and break free from your confines. “I’m gonna cum,” you pant out, nails digging into Tashi’s neck. You’re reprimanded with a sharp slap to your thigh, before Tashi’s fingers return to scissoring inside you.

“Ask nicely,” she croons, and you just want to strangle her for being so fucking mean. Her hands are skillfully breaking you down and turning you into a slobbering mess, slick running down Tashi’s wrist as you throw your head back.

“Please, fah-fuuuuhck, I need t’cum, Tashi, Tash, lemme cum-!” you whimper as your hips buck frantically into her fingers, moaning as your it drags deliciously over her palm.

“Mmm, go ‘head,” she murmurs, leaning to suck at your tits and swirl her tongue around your nipple. Your orgasm is loud and sharp, crashing over you like a rocking cymbal as you clench around her fingers. Your arousal drips onto the floor and your chest heaves as you catch your breath, makeup all smudged and thighs trembling.

Tashi’s watching you with a syrupy satisfaction on her face, pulling her fingers out of you with one final pat to your overstimulated pussy, laughing gleefully at the way you twitch. She lifts her fingers to her lips and licks up the mess you made, raising an eyebrow at you. “Get dressed,” she orders, already adjusting the straps of her dress to fit snugly around her shoulders.

Slowly, you bend down and pull your panties back up, shivering when the cold, wet fabric meets heated skin. “Don’t you want me to… you know-?” you ask hesitantly, pulling your dress up and ignoring how sensitive your nipples feel under the silky fabric.

She laughs and unties her belt from the door handle, grinning at you and fixing your hair. “Obviously. But we’re doing that at my place. I think I deserve better than this, don’t you think?” The condescension is obvious as she fixes her lipstick in the mirror, and a new surge of heat rises in your stomach at the way she talks down to you. It feels good to give someone else the reins for a bit, to let Tashi control you.

“...Yeah,” you agree, watching as she brushes her hair over her shoulder. “You’re right.”

And you really mean it.

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒊𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒈𝒐 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌⋆❆˚｡₊⊹❅⋆

The streets shimmered beneath your boots, wet with melted snow and aglow with golden lights strung across the market like a canopy of stars. The scent of cinnamon, pine, and roasted chestnuts clung to the air, thick and inviting. It was the kind of cold that nipped at your cheeks but didn’t bite too hard just enough to make the warmth of Simon’s hand in yours feel a little sweater.

He walked beside you, quiet as always, but… relaxed. Not Ghost. Just Simon. His balaclava was tugged down around his neck for once, exposing the curve of a content smile.

“You warm enough?” he asked, glancing down at you. His accent curled around the words like smoke.

You wiggled your gloved fingers in his as you gave him a big smile. “uh-huh"

He huffed a laugh, low and amused.

Stalls lined the cobbled street, each one glowing with fairy lights and crowned with garlands. Soaps, wooden toys, handmade scarves, and frosted pastries beckoned from every direction. You stopped at one that sold candles, their soft scents curling through the crisp night air amber, fir, and something smoky that reminded you of his cologne.

Simon picked one up and handed it to you. “This one smells like your flat after I’ve been over.”

You smirked. “You mean like takeout and trouble?”

“Exactly,” he said, and leaned in just enough to nudge your shoulder with his. The warmth of it lingered.

You wandered through the rest of the market , slow, comfortable, not in a hurry to be anywhere. A local band played under a tented pavilion, and you caught Simon tapping his fingers against yours to the beat, subtle but there. You watched him as he watched the lights, the people, the little bits of life that rarely made it into his world.

“Glad we did this,” he said after a while, voice quieter now.

“Me too.”

And when he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pair of knitted mittens navy blue with little skulls stitched into the cuffs you stared at them for a beat, speechless.

“Figured they’d suit you,” he said, shrugging like it was nothing.

You took them with a grin. “You went mitten shopping for me?”

“I didn’t say that,” he muttered, already walking ahead. “I just nabbed them a few shops back.”

But you saw it: the flush at the tops of his ears. The quiet pride in his step. The way he held your hand just a bit tighter.

You eventually found a small seating area tucked between two vendor stalls, where a few wooden benches circled a low firepit. The flames cracked and popped gently, throwing flickers of orange light onto Simon’s face as he sat down beside you, two steaming cups of hot chocolate in hand.

“I’m impressed,” you said, taking one. “You didn’t spill any. it must be all that elite military training.”

He gave you a deadpan stare over the rim of his cup. “Balance. Precision. Beverage discipline.”

You laughed and leaned into him, shoulder pressed to his, as the wind picked up and carried the scent of firewood and sugar through the air. A group of kids ran by in winter hats too big for their heads, leaving a trail of laughter behind them.

Simon watched them for a while, silent again, not distant just thoughtful.

“You’re quiet,” you said gently.

He took a long sip before answering. “Not used to this.”

You tilted your head. “Markets? Firepits? or....?”

He didn’t respond right away. But eventually, he nodded toward the flames. “This. All of it. Feels like a different life. A good one. But not mine.”

Your heart tugged at the edge of that honesty. It was rare, hearing him say things like that out loud. Rare, too, to be allowed into those parts of him that didn’t wear a mask.

"Maybe it’s not about whose life it is," you said, your voice gentle. "Maybe it’s just about this moment we get to share. Just tonight, just us."

Simon looked at you, and something in his expression shifted. The hard lines softened. His eyes, dark and thoughtful, held a kind of reverence like he was memorizing the way your cheeks were rosy from the cold, or how the firelight made you glow.

“You always say stuff like that?” he murmured. “Or am I special?”

You smiled, rolling your eyes. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached out, pulled one of your newly gifted mittens into his hand, and held it like it was something delicate. Like you were something he didn’t want to break.

“I think,” he said, almost a whisper, “I’m lucky.”

The silence after wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable. A mutual understanding that fell into the cold night air like a second snow.

You sat there until your cups were empty and your hands were warm for reasons that had little to do with the fire. Somewhere nearby, someone started singing a gentle carol in a voice so soft it felt like snowfall.

Simon leaned back and exhaled slowly, looking up at the stars.

“Next time,” he said, “we come earlier. So we’ve got more time.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder sighing happily. “Deal.”

The walk back through downtown was quieter now. The market was winding down, vendors packing up, twinkling lights dimming to a softer glow. Snow began to fall light, drifting, just enough to dust the cobblestones in silver.

Simon had his hand in yours again, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles through the thick knit of your new mittens. Every so often, he glanced at you. And every time, it felt like he was about to say something but then thought better of it.

Until you reached the quiet stretch just a few blocks from your place.

“Y’know,” he said, voice low, “You’ve been shivering since we left that fire.”

You smirked. “Maybe just a little. The wind’s biting.”

“Well,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling up into the faintest smirk, “maybe it's time I take you home. Warm you up properly.”

You stopped walking. Looked up at him with a knowing look in your eyes. “And how do you plan on doing that?”

His smirk grew. 

“With my ‘elite military’ training of course I'm very prepared for situations like this“  

You leaned in close with a barely contained grin. “Well if you say so.”

His eyes darkened just a flicker and he gently tugged your hand, leading the rest of the way with purpose now. You could feel the shift in him: restrained, steady, but there was heat there. The kind that built slow and deliberate, waiting to be invited in.

By the time you reached your door, your pulse was loud in your ears, and his nearness was a kind of gravity you couldn’t ignore. You unlocked it with shaking hands that was definitely not from the cold.

Once inside, you peeled off layers. Coats. Scarves. Boots kicked carelessly aside. The air was warmer, but it wasn’t enough not with the way he was watching you, leaning against the door as it clicked shut behind him.

“You look like you’re planning something.” you teased, stepping out of your boots. 

“I am,” he said, already closing the space between you. 

He reached for your face with both hands warm, calloused, careful and kissed you like it had been on his mind all night. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just… sure.

When you broke apart, breathless and pressed against the wall, he rested his forehead against yours and murmured:

“There. A little better?”

You laughed softly. “Getting there.”

his mouth found yours again deeper this time, more insistent. His hands slid down, slow but firm, tracing the line of your waist. The wall at your back was cool, but his body made up for it, pressing into you enough to make your breath catch. You arched into him, fingers curling in the thick fabric of his sweater, feeling the solid heat of him beneath. Simon exhaled against your lips, a low sound that you felt in your chest more than heard in your ears. The kind of sound that made promises.

You tugged at his sweater, fingers fumbling in your haste. He laughed softly against your mouth, that deep, rough sound that made your stomach tighten.

“Easy,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to help shrug it off. “We’ve got time.”

based on how your body was already thrumming, the heat in your core building with every touch you weren’t so sure. 

He traced the hem of your sweater with a featherlight touch, then slipped his fingers beneath just a brush at first, enough to raise goosebumps along your ribs. Then higher. His hands were firm, reverent, as he pulled it over your head and tossed it aside. Your skit following soon after.

“You're still cold,” he said quietly, eyes dipping to drink in the site of your. 

You didn't get a chance to respond before his mouth found the curve of your shoulder, his teeth grazing over your flesh making you shiver. You clutched at his shirt, trying to pull him closer, needing more friction, more pressure, more him.

He seemed to sense it, always one step ahead of you. With a practiced ease, he lifted you up and carried you the short distance to the couch, where he settled you into the cushions. He pulled his shirt over his head before his weight followed, pressing you down in all the right places, his delicious warmth enveloping you, his mouth never far from your skin.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him growl softly against your skin. The sound vibrated through you, awakening something deep and needy. He kissed down your throat, unhurried and thorough, like he was savoring every inch. You arched into him instinctively, offering more.

“How about now?” he murmured against your pulse, nipping there before soothing the bite with his tongue.

You barely managed a breathy, “not anymore.”

⋆꙳❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅°⋆❆.ೃ࿔:･*❆ ₊⋆ ⋆꙳❅°⋆❆.ೃ

also yes is did cut this short im literally so scared to write/post a smut seen lol 🥲

[its-crowning]

Too Late Roommate, pt. 1

having a roommate that—at first—you think is just gaining weight. watching their belly press up against their shirt, their appetite getting almost aggressive. watching them try and fail to fit into their clothes, watching them get more and more out of breath from doing things they used to do with ease. you think they’re just gaining weight…until you catch them standing with the bathroom door open, shirt lifted up, inspecting a very round swell in the mirror. you stop in your tracks. it’s an unmistakable bulge. there’s even the beginnings of a vertical line, running right down the middle. that’s…

you can’t help it. you speak before you think it through. “are you…pregnant?”

they don’t look at you. they poke their belly, and then cup it. there’s a bit of fear in their expression. “i’m too busy right now, but i’ll terminate soon. i can’t have a baby.”

one look at their ripe belly tells you they’re far beyond the time for that.

it’s two entire months later that they waddle out of their room and ask you, wide-eyed, if you can take them to the clinic. one hand is on their back, and the other cups their protruding belly. something tells you they just felt it kick—like a good, serious kick, not flutters they can call indigestion—for the first time, just had the reality hit them.

unfortunately for them, it’s long been too late.

you take them to the clinic anyway. you don’t know why you do any of the things you do—you act stupid around them, now. it’s like you’re sharing their denial, but all because you’re intrigued. how long can they drag this out? how long before they pop?

you darkly hope it happens in your apartment.

you touch yourself, in secret, to the idea. you touch yourself to the glimpses you steal of them struggling to bend over and pick something up. of how they jump whenever the thing moves a little inside them when you’re both watching TV, and then try to play it off. of the soft crying at night you can hear through the wall.

they shock you by coming right back out of the abortion clinic and getting back in the passenger seat, head hung low.

their belly is still very pregnant, poorly hidden by their parka. their face is streaked with tears.

“so…”

“they wouldn’t let me.”

“okay.”

the rest of the drive home is in silence. the weight in the air—the shared knowledge you both have that this baby is real, and going to be born soon—hangs heavily, just like their belly lately.

you go back into the apartment, and your roommate is already out of breath. they huff and puff and sit down on the couch with a big “hooo…” kind of noise, groaning at their pregnancy. you just start making the two—or three of you, rather—some sandwiches in silence.

“i’m sorry,” their quavering voice breaks the tension at last. you eye them, but don’t speak. they can’t meet your eyes. “i know…i know this…it’s gotten out of control. but i didn’t think it was…”

“how far along did you think you were?” you ask, with a patronizing bite that slips out of your mouth before you can stop it. they wince a little, and look warily at their prominent bump. it gets really big when they sit like this, sitting high and jutting out. imposing. impending.

they’re terrified. “i don’t…l…”

“how far along are you?”

“I didn’t find out. they wanted to…give it…an ultrasound, but…i can’t…”

“do you have a plan? who’s the father?”

they don’t answer. you can tell they’re about to cry.

you should leave them alone. you hand them their sandwich, taking a bite out of your own. they take it tentatively, but then lurch a little bit. another big kick, surely. they seem to have lost their appetite, and try setting it down on the coffee table.

they struggle to reach. to sit upright at all. you have to help them.

this action seems to finally break them. they start softly weeping.

you sit down beside them on the couch, abandoning your sandwich as well.

“once it comes, you can give it up for adoption—“ you start to say.

“I didn’t know you could get pregnant on the first time,” they sob, holding their belly. “I don’t know anything. My parents…they’re going to…”

they haven’t shared much with you about their home life, but you know it was incredibly strict. perhaps religious, but they haven’t clarified. they just cry, and look down at their swollen womb. for the first time, you notice that they’re wearing their jeans completely unbuttoned and unzipped. they haven’t bought maternity jeans.

“I can’t have a baby.”

something in you snaps.

“But you will,” you say, standing up. they look up at you, teary-eyed, but don’t say anything. “You’re going to get even bigger, and you’re going to push that thing out—probably here, in our bath tub. You fucked, and now you’re going to have a baby. Soon. Stop denying it.”

There’s a heavy silence between you, until your roommate heavily picks themself up. you try to help, but they push your hand away.

“Listen, I’m sorry, but you need to make a plan—“

They waddle away, unable to control their sniffling as they begin to cry again. they carry the heft of their belly with both hands as if the baby will fall out of them otherwise. And they disappear into their room.

—

You don’t see them much after that. It’s clear they’re avoiding you. You can’t say you don’t understand. You try to put your nerves aside—this is their problem. Their burden in their belly. You’re not the one who’s pregnant, you shouldn’t worry about it.

The crying at night continues.

But in the middle of the night, maybe two or three weeks after the clinic visit, you wake up with a start. you don’t think anything of it at first, until you hear it again. the sound that woke you up. it’s a bit muffled, but it’s a low moan. Like a cow.

Dread spears through you. It’s time.

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Fire and Frost

17/12: Tinsel and Talking Dirty - modern!Aemond Targaryen Word Count: 1.7k~ | Warnings: pussy slapping, dirty talk, hair pulling

12 Days of Smuff Masterlist

The faint hum of the central heating filled the apartment, its warmth fighting back the biting chill of the December evening. The scent of cinnamon lingered faintly, a remnant of the candle she had lit earlier. Aemond leaned back against the sofa, watching her with a bemused expression.

“I don’t celebrate Christmas.”

She could roll her eyes, again, but she doubted it would make a difference. Mr. I-don’t-celebrate-Christmas sat cross-armed, observing as she unwrapped a tangle of decorations, their bright colors gleaming under the soft, golden glow of the apartment’s floor lamp. A tiny artificial tree perched on the side table, not her usual five foot, real fir, but it would have to do.

She paused and gave him a pointed look. “Don’t be a Scrooge, help me decorate.”

“What in the Seven Hells is a ‘Scrooge’?”

The exasperation bubbled up again, and this time she did roll her eyes. “Seriously? Have you never had Christmas before?”

A faint shadow flickered over his face, so brief she nearly missed it. The idea left her both curious and sad, but before she could push the thought further, she shook it off and pulled out another box of decorations.

If he'd never had a proper Christmas before, she'd give a good one.

Soon, she was dragging him off the sofa, his exhaled huff carrying the faintest tinge of amusement. Together, they worked their way around the apartment. She hummed softly as she placed ceramic Christmas trees and wreaths on shelves and countertops, her enthusiasm battling with his stoic nature. Aemond followed, his movements reluctant but oddly endearing. She couldn’t help but smile as their shared space became cozier with every ornament.

The sharp metallic shimmer of tinsel caught her eye as she moved to the mantle. She turned, mid-smirk, just in time to see Aemond wrestling with a particularly unruly length of it. 

“What the fuck is this stuff?” he muttered, holding it up as if it might bite him.

She snorted, “Aemond, you sound like an alien.”

“It’s awful. And it looks like shit—”

“Okay, okay,” she interrupted, laughing, “Are we still going out later?”

Aemond blinked, momentarily thrown by the shift in topic. “To the cocktail bar? The one you saw with Aegon…and whoever he was with?”

“Yes!” She beamed, “that one. I thought it looked festive.”

“I’m ready whenever you are. I’ll go out like this.”

She gave him a skeptical glance but didn’t argue. Slipping into the bedroom, she began to get ready. She rummaged through her wardrobe, pulling out her black leather boots and the outfit she had been saving. The faint hum of a holiday tune played in her head as she freshened up at the vanity. A bag of sparkly hair tinsel caught her eye, an odd souvenir from Aegon’s drunk ex in a bar bathroom.

She hesitated, then shrugged. Why not?

When she emerged, her boots clicking softly against the wooden floor, she called out, “Nearly ready, Aem!” She dabbed a little of her favorite perfume on her wrists. Floral and spicy.

From the corner of her eye, she saw him turn on the sofa, about to reply, but the words stalled as his gaze swept over her. She looked down at herself, smoothing her skirt before glancing up. “What?” she asked, her cheeks warming. “Too much?”

His lips parted slightly, his one good eye fixed on her hair. “No, it’s…it’s in your hair.”

“What is?” She blinked, confused.

“That…tinsel stuff.”

She reached up, fingers brushing against the glimmering strands. “Oh! No, it’s hair tinsel. It gives your hair an extra sparkle. Don’t you like it?”

For a moment, he didn’t reply, his expression unreadable. Then a slow, lazy grin spread across his face as he stepped closer. “No,” he murmured, his fingers reaching out to gently catch a sparkling strand, “it looks…nice.”

“Just nice?” she teased softly, her lips parting as his hand formed a fist in her hair.

For some reason it felt as if they wouldn’t even make it out the door tonight.

He tugged gently, enough to send a shiver down her spine and have her knees shake. She knew that look. The Christmas lights danced off her hair now, but the warmth she felt, she couldn’t say was from them alone. It started against her pulse point, thrumming through her blood, to settle in her stomach, fluttering with anticipation.

A bemused grin swept across his face, mismatched eyes looked back with amusement, his other hand dropping to her side, palming her backside and bringing her body flush with his.

“I've decided,” he starts, his breath ghosting across her cheek, “I don't like your outfit.”

She felt his lips drift across her jawline, to press open-mouthed kisses down her neck, over her pulse point, knowing exactly where all her weak spots lived.

“That so,” she whispered back, voice thick with need.

“Mmhm,” he murmured, using his grip in her hair to tilt her neck, eager for more skin. He could smell the floral notes of her perfume pressed against her flesh, and the more he tasted, the more he wanted.

“I think you're trying to distract me,” she mused.

“Am I?” he replied, his tone laced with faux innocence as he nipped at her skin, down to her collarbone, grinding himself against her to gain the slightest bit of friction. Her fingers curled into his shirt, to keep herself firmly on her feet.

“Aemond, we're going to be late.”

He smirked against her skin, a puff of air against her neck was all she needed to feel to know he felt that he'd won a game she wasn't aware they were playing.

“For what? Overpriced cocktails and obnoxious strangers?”

Her lips parted to retort, but his hand slid down her back, tracing a slow, deliberate path that left her unable to form a coherent thought.

He chuckled, the sound dark and rough, and the hand at her waist slipped lower, cupping her ass and pulling her firmly against him. She could feel the hard line of his arousal pressing against her, and heat bloomed in her core, spreading through her like wildfire.

“Now why would you think I'd waste my night out there…when I could stay in and watch you fall apart on my cock instead.”

Her breath hitched. “Aemond—”

“You like that idea, don’t you?” he interrupted, his tone smug and filthy. His hands gripped her hips now, guiding her against him in a slow grind that left no room for denial. “You’d rather let me spread you out right here, wouldn’t you? Make you beg for it, make you scream my name until you can’t think of anything else.”

The room felt hotter, the air heavier. She tried to steady herself, but his words were relentless, each one unraveling her resolve bit by bit.

“I’ll fuck you right here,” he continued, his hand sliding up her thigh, fingers brushing the hem of her skirt. “Against the wall, on the floor, over the back of the sofa, you can choose. But by the end of the night, you’ll be a mess. My mess.”

She pulled back to look at him, her cheeks flushed with need. There was no time for thoughts, she needed him, and clearly judging by his erection pressed against her stomach, he needed her too.

“Sofa,” she whispered.

He hummed, brushing his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips. “Fine,” he drawled, taking a step back and leading her toward the sofa. 

His eye raked over her as he leaned back, one arm draped casually over the back, the other patting his thigh. “On top,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

She hesitated for a moment, the weight of his gaze searing into her.

“Don’t make me wait,” he snapped. “If you’re so desperate to be fucked, then you’re going to do the work, love. Show me how much you want it.”

Her cheeks burned as she straddled him slowly, the soft leather cool beneath her knees as she settled over his lap.

“That’s better,” he muttered, his hands gripping her hips with bruising force. “So good for me.”

She whimpered at his words, her thighs tightening around him as his fingers slid beneath the hem of her skirt, tracing the bare skin of her thighs.

“You think you deserve to ride me?” he sneered, his good eye narrowing as his hand slipped between them, finding the slick heat waiting for him. He groaned softly, his voice darkening. “Fuck, you’re already soaked. Such a desperate little slut.”

He punctuated the name with a soft, wet smack, her breath hitched in part pleasure and pain, but eased as his fingers brushed her clit, the teasing touch sending jolts of pleasure through her.

“Beg,” he commanded, his fingers circling lazily. “If you want to fuck yourself on my cock, you’re going to have to beg for it.”

Her pride wavered, teetering on the edge of defiance, but the ache in her core was too overwhelming. “Please,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

He chuckled darkly, his fingers pulling away entirely, leaving her whining in frustration. “That’s pathetic, even for you,” he smirked, “go on then, baby.”

She reached down, her trembling fingers undoing his belt and pulling his cock free. He was hard, thick, and the sight of him made her mouth go dry. She lined herself up, sinking down slowly, her walls stretching to accommodate him as her head fell back with a gasp.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his hands gripping her waist as he watched her. “That’s it. Take it all. Every inch. Don’t stop until you’ve got me buried inside that greedy little cunt.”

Her thighs trembled as she sank down fully, her body flush against his. She began to rock her hips, her movements tentative at first, but his sharp grip and the filthy words spilling from his lips spurred her on.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he taunted, his hand coming down hard on her ass with a sharp smack that made her cry out. “Come on, fucking work for it. If you want to come, you’re going to have to earn it.”

Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through her, the rough fabric of his jeans rubbing against her sensitive skin.

“Look at you,” he growled, his eyes locked on her. “So fucking needy, using me like a toy. Bet you don't even care about getting me off.”

And Gods, why would she when it felt this good?

General Taglist: @1lluminaticonfirmed @aemondsfavouritebastard @all-for-aemond @bellstwd @blackswxnn

@blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @cl-0-vr @eddieslut69

@emmaisafictionwhore @eponaartemisa @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @nixiefics

@primonizzutto @qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @sheshellsseashells

[shu-porang-porang]

Cat In Heat

You got him a little surprise!

(sequel: Bunny In Heat)

Pairs: Lee Minho (Lee Know) / fem!reader

Rating: Very Explicit!

Theme: Smut, 18+ NO MINORS.

Warnings: oral, fingering, butt plug, spanking, unprotected sex (do not try at home!), (I think that's enough! let's keep some elements of surprise!)

Word count: 2.8 k

You received a text from Minho: “Hey baby, I’m gonna hit the gym and grab a bite with Jisung next.”

He arrived at 4 a.m. so you didn’t expect him to go to the gym first thing when he woke up, but apparently that’s what he’s gonna do. He was away for only 3 days but you missed him so much it was gnawing at your every fiber. Last night you only noticed his arrival when the mattress dipped next to you and then he spooned you. You tried to fight your sleep weary eyes and wake up to greet him properly but his warmth and the comfort of his presence lulled you back to sleep seconds later. When you woke up this morning, leaving the bed was the hardest thing, you just wanted to stay tangled up with his limbs but you had to leave for work. You slowly slipped out the bed, trying to not wake him up in the process, then placed the softest kiss on his temple, you couldn’t wait to get back and feast on his lips later.

You can’t wait for this work day to be over. Your mind is somewhere else entirely, you’re thinking of the little gift you prepared for him. Two days ago was Valentines Day and he was away. Since it was your first valentine together, you were bummed that you couldn’t spend it with him, but you knew what you got yourself into when you started dating a very busy idol, so you put up a front and did your best to assure him it didn’t matter and you weren’t upset. There’s no point in making a fuss about it anyway, it’s not like they would cancel their plans because you wanted to be with your boyfriend. He said he’d make it up to you later and you decided you can plan a belated valentine when he’s back. Little did he know, you’ve been preparing something for him for weeks. You just can’t decide on the right time to give it to him.

You’re done for the day and there’s nothing else for you to do at work, you ask your boss if you could leave earlier and he says yes. So, you rush to your shared apartment. You have some time before he’s home so you decide to unpack his suitcase. As you’re going through his stuff, you find a box of chocolate, you can’t read the Japanese written all over it, but there’s no doubt it’s chocolate. He always brings you some souvenir so without giving it much thought, you open the box and try one. Well, it’s nothing special, just descent chocolate. Not every souvenir has to be something unique, right? You place it on the drawer and go back to your task at hand.

As time passes by, you start to feel impatient and on edge. It’s like when you have lots of caffein and you get jittery, except that it’s more of a warm feeling, it settles deep in your stomach. It’s not exactly uncomfortable but you’re not sure what’s causing it so you decide to distract yourself by checking the little surprise you got for Minho. You take out the stuff you hid in the back of your bottom drawer and sprawl them out on the bed. It’s an outfit you’ve put together. White and pink lingerie, stockings, garters, a chocker, and few other accessories, but the most exciting parts of the ensemble are the fluffy cat ears and tail. You pick up the tail, feel the weight of the plug attached to it. It was the last item you got and you haven’t come around to try it yet. Suddenly you worry you won’t be able to wear it. What if you can’t get used to it and have to take it off? You don’t know when you’re gonna give him his gift, but you decide to try it now that you’re alone and see if you can handle it.

You take your pants and panties off, hold the tail in your hand, not sure how to go about it. You poke the tip of the shiny plug to your hole but you stop as you can’t get it in even the slightest. Idiot! You need to prepare with lube first! Your hands fidget through the drawer with excitement in search for the lube you bought. You picked a very specific flavor, caramel, hoping it would taste similar to pudding! Too bad they didn’t have a pudding flavor! You lather a finger up and try again. It’s really uncomfortable but you wanna do it for him and you will do it. It’s a weird feeling, having a finger up your butt, and you think there’s no way it’s gonna get loose enough for the plug to fit in but you don’t give up. The warm feeling in your stomach from earlier encourages you to keep going. You move that finger around till you feel less resistance, then you take it out to lube up two fingers this time. You don’t wanna get too loose or the plug will fall out? Is that even a thing? You don’t know, so you decide to give the plug a try. You carefully pour lube on the plug, you don’t wanna ruin the fur, then you push it in and it fits perfectly! You clench and unclench your sphincter a few times, testing how it feels, then you stand up and check yourself in the mirror.

Watching the tail dangling from between your butt cheeks turns you on instantly. You immediately rid yourself of the rest of your clothes to put all the parts of the ensemble on. You pose in front of the mirror. You spend some time putting on a light cute makeup while enjoying a second piece of chocolate, then take another look at your entire outfit. Wow! You look so fuckable!! If only Minho got home sooner. You take a photo of your thigh hugged tightly by the stockings and the garter and send it to him along with: “Are you really gonna hang out with that stupid Ji while I’m waiting for you like this?” 

A few seconds later you receive a text from him: “On my way, be there in 10 minutes”

He finally gets home. He’s heart been racing since he laid eyes on that photo and he’s been sporting a semi-hard cock all along. Good thing his oversized hoodie covered it up. He opens the door to the apartment to find you stretched out on the couch, practically humping a cushion.

“Holy fuck! What’s gotten into you today?” He says as he approaches you in disbelief. His eyes scanning your outfit and becoming wide in shock as he notices the tail poking from under the mini skirt covering your ass.

“I’m just being hot for my boyfriend, is that wrong?” You say, stretching like a cat and raising your ass in the air. The skirt rides up and he sees that the tail isn’t a strap on or attached to the skirt.

He kneels next to the couch, running a hand up your thigh till it reaches where the tail inserts your body. He gives the plug an experimental push that draws a whimper from you.

“Kitty’s in heat, huh? What a naughty lil kitty. I’ll take care of you, pussy cat.” His hand comes in contact with your drenching pussy as he says the last word. You mewl in need. Your skin is on fire and his touch feels too good to be true. You can’t think straight, all you know is that you need him next to you, on you, in you, you just want him to take you right then and there.

He picks you up effortlessly and carries you to the bedroom, plops you on the bed and causes the plug to go a bit deeper, drawing a hiss from you. You sit up and get on your knees, reaching for his hand to drag him to bed.

“Easy baby, what’s the rush?” He says as his free hand is unbuttoning his shirt. Despite your needy erratic movements, he’s so calm, mostly just enjoying the view of your eagerness.

As soon as he gets on the bed, you reach to unbuckle his belt. He watches you in silence, the way your dainty fingers struggle with the belt and his waistband. You pull his pants and boxers down and he eases out of them. His cock springs free and you don’t hesitate to attach your lips to it. Usually it’s not how things go, you haven’t even kissed him once since he arrived, but your head is filled with carnal desires and you don’t need foreplay to get in the mood.

He leans back on his elbows as your head bobs up and down on his member, bringing it to life fast. You lick a fat stripe from the base to the top, your tongue teases the head with playful licks, his low grunts are melody to your ears. Precum pearls on the tip and you collect it all with your tongue. You wrap your lips around the tip again and give it a few sucks. He sits back up to stop you.

“I won’t last long if you keep that up.” he lifts your chin up, and fixes your cat ear headpiece “Aigoo! What a dirty little kitty.” He coos at you with his eyes fixed on your lips, all swollen and red, so kissable. You get the cue and move closer, clashing your lips. Kissing him after days feels like you’ve been deprived of oxygen and you can finally breathe. You straddle him, your fingers in his soft locks, his hands around your shoulders, your chests heave against one another. You push him on his back as you deepen the kiss, you hungrily suck on his tongue and pull his lips between your teeth. You only stop when your lungs are burning. You hide your face in his neck as you’re gasping for air, your core finding a rhyme to ride his thigh. You moan out his name at the new found friction. You’re not wearing any panties; you thought it wouldn’t be practical with a plug up your butt. Your slick coats his muscular thigh.

“Is kitty having a good time?”

“…mmh” you can’t form words, your brain already signed off and he hasn’t even touched you yet. You suck a spot under his ear while his hand reaches down to squeeze your butt cheek under the skirt.

“Then do me a favor and sit that pretty pussy down on my face.”

You don’t hesitate to follow his order. His tongue skillfully laps at your wet core, his nose nudges your clit. You try not to move but you have no control over your body anymore. Your hips move on their own, riding his face, so he gives your ass a slap as a warning. A loud squeak escapes your lips. You do your best to behave but how can you when now he’s sucking on your clit, while hooking a finger inside you and toying with the plug at the same time. He stops all stimulations at once when he realizes your close.

“…Min…… please”

“Naughty kitties don’t get to come so easily. Now get on fours”

You comply, what else would you do? You’d jump off a cliff if he told you so. You wiggle your ass to his face as he’s closely observing where the plug disappears inside you. Your outfit’s still intact but it’s not gonna last long. He pulls the plug out without warning and replaces it with his tongue. Instantly you hear his satisfied groan, he’s probably enjoying your choice of lubricant. You push back on his face, needing more friction. He brings a hand to rub around your clit while his teeth graze your rim. Your arousal drips shamelessly on the sheets, it’s like a leaky faucet, that’s how good he’s having you now. You never even imagined having your asshole eaten would feel good, something’s really gotten into you. He stops his ministrations just as you’re starting to feel the orgasm build up for the second time. He steps back to admire the view before shoving the plug back in and give you new instructions.

“Close your thighs and press them tight for me princess.”

You look back and see him aligning his oozing cock.

“Just… fuck me… already”

“Too soon…” he forcefully shoves his cock in the small gap between your thighs “…ughhh….for that”

After a few thrusts, he’s fully covered in your juices so he picks up the pace as it slides easier. His member rubs on your clit with every thrust but it’s nowhere near enough to get you off. He gives you a slap that makes you press your thighs harder, so he gives you another, and another, and another. You press your head to the pillow to muffle your yelps. You think you might be reaching a climax this time but no. He takes the plug out and flips you around. This time you don’t just complain with words, but tears are running down your face. You’re a mess.

“Oh little kitty, why the tears? Was I too harsh with my sweet angel?” he says as he towers over you and leans to kiss your tears away.

“No…. just….wanna cum”

“You will baby. You will”

He kisses your face some more and moves down to your neck and chest. He yanks your frilly chocker with his teeth and throws it on the bed, so he can properly kiss and mark your neck. Then he unhooks the lacy matching bra and discards it somewhere else in the room. His hands come in contact with your soft breasts, his thumbs rub your nipples simultaneously and your lips part in a whimper.

“My gorgeous lil kitty” he admires as he continues to knead your breasts and then dips to take one pebbled nipple between his teeth. His tongue twirls around it and he closes his lips on it to suck. His hand travels south to slip between your folds and find your entrance. He has two fingers inside you, with his thumb pressing down on your clit. You buck your hips up to his touch. He lets go of your nipple and comes back up to kiss your lips with his fingers still inside you. You’re so lost in the hot sloppy kiss that before you know it, his dick takes the place of his fingers in you. Fucking finally!

You bite his shoulder as he bottoms out in one go and the stretch overwhelms you. He moans in your ear from your delicious tightness.

“Please….Move baby” you plead and he obeys. Caging you between his hands on either side of your head, he takes his sweet time with slow thrusts. He pushes your thighs to your chest and throws your legs over his shoulders. With this new angle he reaches deep inside, hitting your cervix with every single thrust. It doesn’t take you long to feel the knot in your stomach again for the… you don’t even know how many times he got you there and left you unfulfilled. You tightly hold onto him as his thrusts get faster.

“ugh… gonna…. c..cum…”

“Cum for me… angel” he kisses your parted lips, muffling your moans, as your orgasm finally washes over you. He reaches a hand down to pinch your clit, your entire body jolts with each pinch as you’re riding out your orgasm. It’s the best orgasm you’ve ever had, well, you’d say that about every orgasm with him, but this one really hits different. Your fluttering walls around him milk him dry and a string of curses leaves his lips as he joins you. He rides his climax, still thrusting into you until your mixed cum forms a ring around his base.

He pulls out and falls on top of you, you don’t mind the weight, you’re too tired to care anyway and he feels like a heavy blanket, you don’t even care about your sticky bodies or sheets. You think you could die happy at this moment but he gets up to clean you before you drift off to sleep. He takes a good look at your fucked out state “Gosh! Baby you’re so hot. I love you so much”. You smile with your eyes closed “love you too”. You’re almost entering dreamland when he startles you:

“Fuck! Baby you ate these chocolates?” He found the open box of chocolates you left on the drawer.

“..mhmm”

“Did you know these were aphrodisiacs?”

“WHAT?” suddenly you’re fully awake, your eyes darting towards his direction.

“I wanted to try them together.” He says with an evident pout on his face.

“There’s still plenty left bunny boy.”

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

What a Lovely Mess

Pairing: Billy Washington x f!reader Warnings: Dirty talk, allusions to smut. Word count: ~1k

Summary: Billy's girlfriend encourages him to explore a more confident side of himself while decorating the Christmas tree.

Author's note: Day six of Smuffmas - tinsel and talking dirty. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“Let’s get a real tree this year!”

They were words she regretted ever uttering. Getting it strapped to the roof of Billy’s beaten up, old Vauxhall Cavalier and then driving it back had been the easy bit. But then they’d arrived home, and maneuvering the tree up the stairwell of the block of flats had proven rather more difficult.

Why don’t we live on the fucking ground floor, why doesn’t this poxy building have a lift – all were thoughts that passed angrily through her mind as her and Billy struggled to pivot the large Chrisrmas tree between the pair of them around the corners of each floor. The height difference between them made it no easier – he towered over her by at least a foot, meaning they weren’t able to carry the cumbersome load level. Billy had stumbled back at one point, sending pine needles scattering over the stairs as the branches had brushed against the wall.

“Jesus, Billy!” she snapped, struggling to right the giant fir as they’d continued upwards.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he huffed back, his brow furrowed and sweaty with exertion.

“Just be careful, okay?” she said moodily, as they’d begun their ascent of the final flight of stairs.

“Do you think I’m going out of my way not to be?” Billy snarked. “Tell you what, let’s just assume that going forward I’m always being careful, unless explicitly told otherwise.”

Moody prick.

She scowled, falling silent as they leaned the tree against the wall so that Billy could fish the keys from his pocket and open the door. The warmth of the central heating that enveloped her as soon as they were inside soured her mood further – she was already clammy from their ordeal on the stairs and was now being smothered by further heat that made her coat stick to her skin with perspiration. She was desperate to peel it off, but they still had to get the tree situated in the living room.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Billy groaned, seeing what it looked like, once they had it positioned in the corner.

It was too tall for the flat – the top of it bent against the ceiling at a right angle.

“Didn’t you measure it?” she asked exasperatedly, struggling out of her coat and letting it drop onto the sofa.

“Did you see me get out a tape measure at the tree yard?” he sniped, brushing the sweat dampened strands of sandy coloured hair from his forehead in an agitated gesture. “I thought all Christmas trees were just house sized.”

She sighed, biting back the urge to tell him what a stupid thing that was to say. “We’ll just have to chop a bit off.”

“Yeah, I think you’re probably right,” he admitted, staring up at it, “if we lop that bit at the top off, it should be fine.”

“You can’t do that!” she protested, “that will ruin the shape of the tree, and then where we will put the star? Take a bit off the trunk at the bottom.”

“I haven’t got anything that could cut through that,” he told her, turning his attention from the tree to her.

“Well, what were you gonna use to cut the top?”

“You know…scissors,” he said, making a snipping motion in the air with his forefingers.

The suggestion and the gesture had caused an involuntary burst of laughter to erupt from her, the sound immediately dissipating the tension that had built between them from the effort of getting the tree into the flat in the first place. He grinned, blue eyes sparkling as he looked at her.

“You know what, let’s leave it as it is,” she said with a smile, “it looks shit, but I don’t think it’d be our tree if it didn’t.

“Merry shitmas then, babe!” he said with a dopey smile. “Drink?”

A few moments later, the two of them sat on the floor of the living room – her with her legs crossed, Billy with his stretched out in front of him – as they pawed through a battered cardboard box of old Christmas decorations. Threadbare tinsel that had seen better days, chipped baubles and string lights that all seemed to have bulbs missing made up the selection of items that they would use to decorate the monstrosity that crowded their living room.

“I’m sorry for getting stroppy with you earlier,” she said softly, before taking a sip of red wine and savouring the subtle burn at the back of her throat.

“Yeah, me too,” he replied, as his thumbs rubbed idly at the condensation on his bottle of Stella. His eyes lifted to meet hers, taking on a playful look as he continued, “you’ll have to watch yourself though, or you’ll end up on the naughty list.”

“Oh yeah?” she giggled. “You gonna spank me?”

Billy’s cheeks flushed pink and he lowered his gaze, taking a sudden keen interest in the label on his beer bottle, but she wasn’t going to let him retreat so easily.

“Oi,” she chided, setting her wine glass and moving to straddle his lap. She draped a length of purple tinsel around the back of his neck, tugging him closer. “Don’t go shy on me.”

“I’m not,” he said, putting his beer bottle down on the carpet and bringing his hands to rest upon her hips, “I just feel stupid talking like that.”

“Why?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed with me, Billy,” she urged, “talk dirty to me. I want you to, I like it.”

His face twisted with incredulity, his brow furrowing as he scoffed. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Well,” she began, her voice turning sultry, “you could tell me what you want to do to me, or what you want me to do to you, how I make you feel. There aren’t rules, just say what comes naturally.”

“You go first then,” he insisted, giving her hips a gentle squeeze.

She nodded, biting her lip as she considered what to say. “You make me so wet,” she purred, grinding slightly in his lap to emphasise her point.

Billy’s lips parted, a heavy exhale escaping him. His eyes drifted downwards in momentary hesitation, before lifting back to her face. “I wanna taste it,” he whispered.

“Yeah? You wanna make me feel good with your mouth?” she asked, continuing the lazy roll of her hips against his, using her grip on the tinsel around his neck as leverage. Her core throbbed at the feeling of his growing hardness rubbing against her through the fabric of his jogging bottoms.

“Mmm, yeah,” he breathed, growing more confident, gripping her firmly as he guided her movements. “Wanna tear those knickers off you and have you sit on my face, make you come.”

“Fucking hell, Billy,” she almost moaned, the filthiness of his words taking her by surprise, causing the aching desire within her to grow stronger. “Love how your tongue feels on my clit, you always make me come so hard.”

He groaned, his face pressing into the crook of her neck as he raised a hand to palm roughly at her breast through her t-shirt, making her gasp.

“Tell me what you want me to do to you,” she urged, pulling back slightly, forcing him to look at her once more.

“I…I want you to ride me,” he stuttered breathlessly as his hand snaked from her breast back to her hip, urging her movements against his clothed erection.

“You want to be inside of me?” she smiled coyly, stroking her fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” he said, halting his movements.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, cocking her head.

“I’m done dirty talking,” he told her, sliding the tinsel from around his neck and dropping it onto the carpet.

“You are?”

“Yeah,” he replied, sliding his hands to her rear and giving it a firm squeeze. “Bed. Now.”

Read on AO3

More Billy Washington fics

[roosterforme]

How Old Are You? | Bob Floyd x OC

Summary: Bob only gets one birthday every four years. When his wife, Molly, realizes it's almost Leap Day, she throws him a party any nine year old would love. And it's the perfect celebration for a thirty-six year old, too.

Warnings: Fluff, adult language, implied smut, 18+

Length: 2500 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Female OC!Molly (this story accompanies The Curveball)

Check my masterlist for more! Thank you to @mak-32 for the beautiful banner!

Bob was half asleep in bed, post orgasm, when the weird conversation started. "So technically you're about to turn nine? Even though you'll be thirty-six? Is that right?"

He cracked his eyes open again as he watched his wife stretch her arms above her head, her nipple piercings glinting in the soft candlelight that had their bedroom aglow. She was nibbling on her lip, and he could practically see her mind working.

"Yeah," he answered cautiously. "Why do you have that expression on your face, Mo? Like you're plotting something scary?"

"I've never plotted something scary a day in my life!" she told him before leaning down and gently biting his bicep. "I was merely considering what I should get you for your special day."

"I don't need anything," he replied quickly, remembering the naked cowboy statue wearing glasses that she gifted to him last year.

"Well," she said, drawing out the single syllable. "That's where I think you're wrong, Bobby."

"Molly, I don't even want anything." Then he had an idea that he hoped would throw her off. "How about you get some pretty new barbells or rings and let me play with them?"

She rolled her eyes. "That would be a gift for me."

He shrugged as she draped herself across him. "Kind of for both of us when you really think about it."

Her soft lips found his jaw as she whispered, "But it's not every day you turn nine, Coach Cute Glasses. You deserve an extra special treat."

He shook his head in exasperation and said, "I'll really be thirty six though."

"Not according to the calendar." She kissed him sweetly before climbing over him to get out of the bed. "I'll go check on Charlie and Flora one last time before we go to sleep." Bob watched her slip his discarded undershirt on and smooth it down over her gorgeous body, perhaps a little more filled out now that they had two kids.

He reached for her hand and said, "Mo, we really need to sell the condo and get a bigger place. They can't share that tiny room forever."

Even though she told him all the time that she loved the condo and didn't want to leave it, she was finally starting to come around. "I think I'm ready to admit that you might be right about that, Uncle Bob."

"Really?" he asked, jolting up in bed.

She nodded and hummed. "Yes. Besides, your birthday party would be a lot easier to plan if we had more space to accommodate all the guests."

Bob groaned and flopped back down again, and Molly removed his glasses for him. "I don't need a birthday party," he insisted. "I just want a nice, quiet evening with you and the kids. Maybe your sister, Ev and Bradley, too, but that's it."

"We'll see," she replied before leaving the bedroom with a wicked smirk on her face.

----------------------------

"Can you get to my sister's house by noon on your birthday? For your party?" Molly asked as she watched Bob feed a mashed up banana to their one year old daughter. 

"I thought we ended that discussion with us both accepting the fact that I do not need a birthday party."

"Yeah... it's too late for that," she replied easily as she and Charlie both ate their own dinners. Molly's favorite hobby was keeping her husband on his toes. She figured his life would be sad and boring without her in it, and since he chose to be with her, he must have a deep-seated love for nonsense. She always made sure to bring it out for him, especially for his birthday. 

He gave her a stern look. "It's just a small party, right?"

"Sure, Bobby."

"I don't believe you."

"Oh come on," she whined. "This is your first real birthday since we met!"

She knew he would crack. He gave her what she wanted the vast majority of the time anyway, but when she whined for something harmless, it was always hers. 

"Fine."

And with that single word, Molly executed the most epic ninth birthday anyone could ever have. She called the vendors. She ordered the piñata. She invited the guests. She procured a balloon arch. And on Bob's birthday, her own sister and brother-in-law were looking at her with shocked expressions from their back deck when she started setting things up at eight in the morning. 

"I thought this was going to be a small party?" Bradley asked as he watched her assemble the red and yellow balloon arch. 

Molly just laughed. "That's just what I told Bob. I lied. The pony should be arriving soon."

"Pony?" gasped her sister. "I'm sorry, I must have misheard. Did you say a pony is arriving?"

"Yes," Molly said, speaking a little louder now to make her point. "How the hell are we supposed to have a cowboy birthday party without pony rides?"

Then Everett came tearing out onto the back deck, still in his pajamas, shouting, "Someone is bringing a horse around from the driveway!"

"See?" Molly asked as the pony and handler appeared in the backyard. "Ev is excited. He has good taste."

"He's ten!" Bradley snapped as he went running across the yard. "Is this thing going to tear up the grass that I spent months watering so it looked this nice?" But as soon as he saw how excited Everett was to pet the cute animal, Molly knew her brother-in-law would be on her side. It was just her sister glaring at her now.

"Whatever you mess up out here, you need to clean up. That includes the horse poop!"

"It's just a pony," Molly assured her, although the animal was a lot bigger than she expected. And yes, it was actually pooping. "It's fine. It'll be fine."

She was hoping it would be fine.

--------------------------

When Bob buckled Charlie and Flora back into their car seats in his truck at Myers park, he checked the time. It was almost noon. "Oh god," he groaned as he opened the driver's door. He had no idea what to expect, but the text from Bradley about how he was going to need help filling in the hoof prints in their yard next week had him on edge.

"Birthday party!" Charlie cheered from the backseat as Bob pulled out onto the main road. Molly had been talking about it so much, their son kept saying it over and over.

"That's right," Bob told him calmly. "But I'm pretty sure Mommy went bananas over the entire thing."

"Nana!" Flora crooned before she burst into tears. He should have known better than to mention her favorite food right in front of her like that. So he drove to his sister-in-law and brother-in-law's house with one delighted child and one who was crying hysterically. When he pulled down their block, there was absolutely nowhere to park, and there was a horse trailer parked right in front of the house. 

"Oh, no. No no no. Molly, no," he whispered. When he got closer, he saw the massive banner hanging on the porch that said Happy Birthday, Cowboy Bob. He had to squeeze his truck into the driveway behind the familiar blue Bronco while he gaped at the sight before him.

"Horse!" Charlie screeched. He wasn't wrong. There was some sort of pony walking around the backyard with Everett perched on top of the saddle wearing a cowboy hat. "I want the horse!"

"Okay," Bob told him as he shook his head and climbed out of the truck. He walked around to the back of the house with one child in each arm, and thankfully when Flora saw the pony, she stopped crying, perhaps out of fear. 

"Bob!" Molly shouted over the classic country music that was playing as she popped out of the enormous rodeo themed bounce house and ran to him. Literally everyone he'd ever seen in his life seemed to be here, and they were all wearing cowboy hats. Everyone from work was here. Like everyone. Cyclone was wearing a cowboy hat and drinking a beer. Bob thought he saw the doctor that Molly worked with who delivered both of their children. His parents and both of his sisters were here. His niece Piper was taking a turn riding the pony. There were indeed hoof prints in the yard.

Then Molly was somehow in his arms along with both kids, and she was kissing his neck as she said, "Happy birthday," in a voice that would have been a lot more appropriate for their bedroom. 

"Mo," he said, shaking his head. "There's a pony. It's making Bradley look constipated." 

She just rolled her eyes in response. "He'll get over it as soon as I offer to watch Everett for a few days over spring break so he and my sister can go away and do nasty stuff to each other."

Bob just smiled down at her and said, "You told me this would be a small affair."

"I guess I lied. Oops. Come say hi to Phoenix." She dragged him up onto the deck where Natasha took both kids from him with a kiss to his cheek, and then Molly was yanking his shirt over his head.

"What are you doing?" he asked, standing there in his undershirt with his glasses askew. But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, she was pulling another shirt over his head. It said Birthday Cowboy, and there was a number 9 that looked like it was shaped out of rope.

And that's when everyone started hugging him and running around to get him drinks and chat with him. Mickey was wearing cowboy boots and a cow print vest. Maverick was teaching the kids how to line dance. Bradley's scowl had started to ease up since Everett seemed to be having the time of his life. 

"Happy birthday, Uncle Bob," Everett said when he walked over. He hugged Bob and added, "Your birthday party is my favorite birthday party ever, and I can't believe it's in my yard!"

"Thanks, Ev," he replied with a laugh as he watched Molly and Flora dancing with Javy. "It is pretty cool."

"Happy birthday, Bob," his sister-in-law said, handing him a card. "You can open it later. We got you opening day tickets for the Padres. Also, I'm so sorry that my sister is so chaotic, but you should have known what you were getting into when you started dating her."

Bob accepted another kiss on his cheek. "She really can't be stopped once she gets going." 

"It's a waste of time to even try. Might as well sit back and enjoy the show."

He did, and the looser he got, the more fun he started to have. He pet the pony while Piper rode around on it. He smashed open a cowboy piñata with one of Everett's baseball bats. He jumped in the bounce house with Charlie and Everett, and Bradley even joined them.

"I'll help you fix your yard next week," Bob promised as Everett did a backflip. 

Bradley just laughed and said, "It's hard to be mad about it when Molly just wants everyone to have the time of their life. You're very lucky. Also, I don't know how you deal with her on a daily basis."

Bob laughed, too. "Sometimes I just take it one hour at a time."

"Get ready for cake!" Molly shouted, and it took five people to carry out the biggest sheet cake he'd ever seen in his life. It was cow print and decorated with boots and spurs, and said Happy 9th Birthday, Cowboy Bob!

After he blew out the nine candles he reached for Molly. "Thank you," he whispered, kissing her softly. "I didn't know I needed a ninth birthday party, but I guess I really did."

"You're only a kid once, Bobby," she replied, smiling against his lips.

"You do know I'm actually thirty-six, right?" he asked, pulling her snug against him as her sister started to cut up the cake. 

"Not according to the calendar," she responded, patting him gently on the cheek. "Your mom and I had a lovely conversation about how terrible you look for your age."

He tried not to smile, but it was useless. "I'm actually having the best day, Mo."

"I knew it all along."

---------------------------

Both kids were sound asleep as soon as Molly tucked them into bed. Charlie went on a sugar high and then crashed, and Flora was played with and held by seemingly everyone at the party. They would probably sleep for a solid twelve hours. Which was good, because Molly wanted to give her husband the rest of his birthday presents. 

She found him in their bedroom where he was opening up the cards he got with a soft smile on his face. "You have so many friends," she told him, and he turned to look at her. "Everyone loves Bob Floyd."

He actually blushed which made her want to rip all of his clothing to shreds and have her way with him. He shook his head slightly and said, "Everyone loves the amazing Molly Floyd and her beautiful imagination."

"Bobby," she moaned softly, taking the card from his hand and wrapping her arms around him. "Tell me more about how amazing I am."

He laughed and whispered, "You threw me the equivalent of a kids' ninth birthday party, just because you could. My dad participated in the pie eating contest. My mom learned how to line dance. Bradley almost popped a vein in his forehead. It was wonderful."

She sighed in contentment. "In four more years when you turn ten, we'll be in a bigger house, and we can host your party there. But we'll have to wait and see if you're still into cowboys or if your interests change, Kiddo. Now will you please open your present from me? And put on your cowboy hat? I've always wanted to suck a real cowboy's cock."

Bob grinned. "Molly, you suck my cock when I'm wearing my cowboy hat all the time."

"But you've never had assless chaps before."

Bob let out a strangled sound, and when he opened the box that was wrapped in cowboy paper, there were in fact assless chaps inside. "Please, please, please put them on," Molly moaned. "God, I feel like it's my birthday."

As soon as she started whining, he always gave her what she wanted. It was impossible not to. Five minutes later, Bob was standing in the middle of the bedroom wearing the chaps, his birthday shirt, and his old cowboy hat. Molly was panting and biting her knuckle, already obviously raring to go down on him, which just made him harder.

But she took a step toward him and then stopped, a devilish smirk on his face. "Now wait. I'm having a bit of a moral dilemma with you in that shirt. How old are you again?"

"I'm thirty-six," he replied blandly. 

"You sure about that, Cowboy Bob?"

"Molly! I'm thirty-six!"

"Okay, okay. Just checking," she said, reaching for the bottom of his shirt. "But let's just remove this anyway."

------------------------

I had a blast revisiting these two! I'm so deeply in love with Molly. I hope you enjoyed Bob's birthday celebration. Thanks for reading! And thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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[sharkwidow]

I Will Always Care for You | Natasha Romanoff x teen reader!

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑Summary: Natasha tries to get you to eat, while caring for you with all her being.

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑๋Setting: trailer in norway. post-civil war.

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑Content warning: Eating disorder, Anorexia, maternal care and support, mentions of the Red Room.

๋ ࣭ ⭑๋ ࣭ ⭑Word count: 850

The trailer was silent, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. The sunset filtered through the windows, casting a warm light that contrasted with the cold shadow still weighing on you. Sitting on the couch, hugging your knees, you felt a disconnect between your body and what Natasha was asking of you: to eat. Fear loomed over you, the kind you had known all too well, the kind you had learned in the cold and brutal darkness of the Red Room.

You didn’t care what Natasha said; your hands kept gripping your knees, your stomach twisting with each thought trying to convince you that you couldn’t. No, you couldn’t eat.

But then you heard Natasha’s soft footsteps approaching from the kitchen. You knew what she had before you even saw it: her ability to cook something delicious and nutritious that always seemed to comfort you, even if you weren’t willing to admit it. This time, she brought a bowl of hot soup. It wasn’t just any soup; it was her special chicken noodle soup recipe, the one that always seemed to comfort you when you felt like the world was falling apart.

She sat next to you, the tray on her lap. There were no words at first. Natasha knew you couldn’t say anything without feeling embarrassed, and she had no intention of pressing you with questions. Her gaze rested gently on you, not with reproach, but with that patience she alone knew how to offer. She knew what you had been through in the Red Room, what that experience had done to you. She knew it wasn’t easy.

“I know,” Natasha whispered, her voice low but firm. “I know it’s hard. You don’t have to explain it to me. But this, this is not the Red Room, do you understand?”

The cold of the memory washed over you like a wave. The Red Room. Where they trained you to be something more, something less human, something that didn’t feel hunger or pain. For you, eating had stopped being a need, it became a form of control. Something you could master, something you could reject. But all of that was part of what they made you, of what they wanted you to be.

Natasha placed the bowl of soup in front of you, unhurried, but with a firmness that only an adoptive mother could understand. “It’s just food,” she said softly, her tone warm, without judgment. “It’s not what they made you do. It’s just food, and I’m here with you.”

You stared at the soup with empty eyes. The image of the Red Room was still burned in your mind: the cold walls, the whispers of the trainers, the orders that never stopped. The feeling that your body wasn’t yours, that every movement, every action, was under someone else’s control. You had learned not to feel hunger there, because hunger only made you weaker, more vulnerable. You had learned to reject it, to ignore it, to erase it.

“Eating won’t control you,” Natasha continued, as if reading your thoughts. “Eating is just taking care of yourself. It’s your choice.”

It was hard to believe her. But in that moment, looking at her, you knew she was sincere. That she wanted the best for you, that she did it because she saw you, not as an experiment, but as someone valuable, someone who deserved to be cared for.

“I want you to listen to me,” she said calmly. “I know your body is screaming at you not to do it, that the fear feels bigger than the hunger. But fear doesn’t have to win. I’m here, and you’re not alone.”

Her fingers took a spoon and, with unrelenting softness, brought it to your lips. “Just one bite,” she whispered, her voice as soft as a mother comforting her child. “Just one.”

The fear coursed through you again, but something in Natasha’s tone, something in her presence, made you relax just enough to let the first bite touch your lips. It was slow, hesitant, but you took it. The taste was comforting, warm, like an embrace wrapping around your body, and for the first time in a long time, you felt something like peace.

“You did well,” Natasha said, smiling faintly. “Now, another one.”

“I... can’t,” you whispered, struggling against the words you didn’t want to say. “I don’t want to lose control.”

Natasha said nothing. Instead, she lifted the spoon and brought it to you once more. “Eating is not losing control. Eating is being okay. It’s taking care of yourself, your body, your mind.”

Your eyes filled with tears, not because you were sad, but because for the first time in a long while, you felt someone was fighting for you. You weren’t alone. And even though the fear still lingered, Natasha was willing to help you face it, step by step, bite by bite.

“I love you,” Natasha said, when you finally swallowed the second bite, as if it were nothing more than a simple truth. “I love you, and I will take care of you always.”

[unfairlyfallen]

Some of you were asking for a puzzle Statement, but that really isn't a Statement-worthy experience. This, however, might be.

(CW: Insects, dead insects, rancid vibes)

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I have a crippling fear of praying mantis...

That isn't to say that I 'dislike' them, I can actually appreciate a lot about the praying mantis, in the way of a general respect for nature and their objective cool factor. 

In theory, as an artist, I should be delighted by the sight of such a graceful and well executed design. 

As a casual bug enjoyer (understandably excluding ants and earwigs,) a delicate and inoffensive insect like this one shouldn't phase me at all. 

It certainly didn't used to. 

When I was nine years old, my family and I were in the process of settling into our first real house. It was small, and the epitome of ‘bare bones,’ but between my father's expertise in carpentry and the affordable price, the place was well worth the investment. 

I believe it was within the first year of living in this house that the inciting event occurred.

-It must have been, because I vividly remember my family using the four wheel trailer, which we had spent much of my early life in, as temporary storage. 

We kept the majority of our non essential items packed away in there, but easily accessible, for while the main house was being renovated. That helped to reduce clutter that could potentially get in my father's way. 

This information about layout and function is relevant because, on the night of the event, I had left the main house to go retrieve a scrap of fabric from one of the storage totes in the trailer. 

Although I've never been a huge fan of walking outside at night, our distance from any large city almost always allowed for clear skies with the moon and stars cutting easily through the heavy rural darkness. 

On this specific night, I wasn't too worried about the dark, or what might be stalking me from within it. I was single mindedly focused on finding the material I needed for my most recent project, and was attempting to recall where within the trailer it might have been placed.

I found the piece quickly. 

I remember thinking in the moment how ‘fortunate it was that the top hadn't even been on the storage container,’ rendering the bright fabrics easily identifiable, even from the doorway. 

I snatched up the scrap I needed without a second glance, or, truthfully, without even a ‘thorough’ first glance.

An oversight that could have prevented every stomach churning moment that followed. 

As I got to the front door of the main house, I reached out for the handle with the same hand I carried my fabric in, and squeezed…

Something bit me, hard.

Assuming it was a spider and beginning to panic, instinct took over and I violently struck my hand against my leg.

What fell to the floor of the now open entryway WAS NOT a spider…

In fact, it wasn't even a ‘whole’ praying mantis. Just the long, twitching body of one. 

Horrified and shaking, I barely had the wherewithal to register the fact that there had once been a head, a head which was clearly no longer connected to its spindly, open neck,

-before I felt another sharp pinch to the meat of my palm.

I turned my hand to see the mantis’ head still firmly attached by its mandibles, which were buried in my skin as deep as it could manage. 

It wasn't just attached though,

the head was MOVING, in that horrifying false-life that some insects cling to even after being taken apart. I watched as its eyes shifted their focus senselessly, and its vile little alien mouth continued to open and shut, biting me, defending itself against a threat, even once there was no life left to protect. 

I screamed, and tears began to spill, but I have always prided myself on my ability to do what is rational in times of extreme fear and stress. So while my brain shut down in disgust and terror, my trembling body moved to gently pry the “living” head from my hand.

I got what felt like a decent grip on it with two fingers, and in the first millisecond of my attempt at extraction, the mandibles loosened noticeably. My hold slipped a little on the surface of its smooth, waxy face, and my fingers tightened just a fraction to maintain my grasp. 

I would have only needed one more careful tug to pluck it free-

And just then the eyes ‘popped.’

The fluid filled orbs caved in with a small *crunch*, and spewed their clear liquid across both of my hands.

Only after that, did the thing finally stop moving. 

The mandibles released, and the praying mantis was dead. 

The only way I can think to explain how THOROUGHLY traumatized I was by all of this, is to inform you that my father held me in his lap while my body convulsed and vibrated in silent horror, for nearly ten minutes. 

My father is not a kind or caring man, he had never even ‘comforted’ me before this event took place. 

That was the first and last time I have ever seen him look truly “sorry" for me.

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Statement ends.

[kingofbodyrolls]

Doughn’t Go Baking My Heart (m) | ksj

*this is a re-upload since I deleted my old account 🫣

this Christmas season, you’re back in the kitchen, whisk in hand and determination in your heart, entering the annual holiday baking competition once again. The goal? Finally beat your long-time rival, the infuriatingly talented Kim Seokjin. But as the ovens warm and the ingredients come together, you realize it might not be just the doughs rising this year… Will the holiday spirit bring you closer, or will the heat of competition drive you further apart? 😜

→ Pairing: seokjin x reader (female) → AUs: baking!au, competition!au, christmas!au, holiday!au → Trope: enemies to lovers → Genres: fluff / smut / romcom / comedy → Rating: mature/explicit/R18  (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 16.4k → Warnings + triggers: an insane amount of stupid and bad jokes with sexual undertones (like it borders on cringey), tension and a lot of it, sexual frustration, pettiness (briefly), jealousy (briefly), baking jokes turned sexual (I’m sorry, not sorry), unprotected sex in the form of oral (female and male receiving), missionary and very vanilla sex, kissing, tender but also a tiny bit rough (not really, lol), big dick Seokjin, nipple play, nipple sucking, breast play, creampie, multiple orgasms, mention of aftercare (but not described), other sexual encounters that aren’t described in detail. → Author’s note: hiiiii!! Hello! Long time no see! I was in a Christmasy mood (written in the end of October lol), and I’ve written this cute and tension filled Christmas love story for my dear friend @allie-in-the-moon 💜 Thank you so much for always reading, commenting and loving my work so much; it means the world to me!!! 😭 So I hope that this story shows my deep gratitude for you—I hope you, and everyone else enjoys it ✨ Please don’t be afraid to let me know what you think with a comment, reblog and even an ask. I’d love to hear your thoughts, even if it’s just you spamming the keyboard or lots of emojis. There’s a lot of bad jokes and puns in this and you get bonus points if you know what song inspired this pun of a title! 😂 (also, I did not proofread this, I know there’s some mistakes, but I’m too lazy to fix them lol). → Read on AO3? [link] 

With your duffel bag slung over your shoulder, you tread the frosted path from the bus stop to the towering silhouette of the grand castle—the heart of the annual Great Christmas Bake-Off. The castle looms before you, its turrets crowned with glistening snow, twinkling lights casting a soft glow in the winter twilight. For three years now, you’ve returned to this place, yet this time, the air feels different, charged with a deeper longing. You clench your hands inside your pockets, the icy wind biting through the fabric of your jacket, as if the cold itself is testing your resolve. If only this could be the year—if only you could finally claim victory, or at least break into the top three.

But as your thoughts drift toward victory, a familiar dread settles in your chest. Kim Seokjin. Your long-time rival, the thorn in your side, always there to ruin your focus with his relentless, groan-worthy jokes. Of course, he’ll be attending again, as smug as ever. A sigh escapes your lips. Can you endure four more weeks of his puns? The mere thought grates at your nerves like a dull knife. Still, you take solace in the fact that there are other contestants—ten, to be exact. Perhaps you can avoid him altogether this year, lose yourself in the company of kinder souls. The thought lifts your spirits, and before you know it, you’re humming a soft tune to the melody of a Christmas song that drifts on the edge of memory—its name lost to the blur of countless holiday seasons, but its warmth still familiar.

Footsteps crunch behind you, but you pay them no mind, your gaze fixed on the castle doors. You can only hope that this time, luck will favor you with a decent room—not like the first year, where you were stuck in a damp, windowless chamber that smelled of mold. This year, everything must be better. Especially now that the world will be watching, with the competition broadcast live on national television. You can’t help but smile, a flicker of excitement mixing with your breath in the cold air, as the castle draws closer.

This time, you tell yourself, things will be different.

The castle stands as a relic of a bygone era, its weathered stones whispering tales of the past, likely from the 1800s or older—though you’re not quite sure. Normally, this place serves as a museum, preserving its history, but every December, it transforms into something magical. As the first of the month dawns, the grand structure becomes home to the Great Christmas Bake-Off, and its ancient walls are filled with the warmth of ovens and the thrill of competition. Surrounding the castle is a scene straight out of a holiday dream: towering evergreens, their branches heavy with snow, stretch towards the sky; a silver stream winds through the rolling hills, and the fields spread wide, blanketed in pristine white. It’s a vision of Christmas perfection, and you can’t help but love it, the landscape glowing with the enchantment of winter.

At last, you make your way up the gravel-strewn path, each step crunching beneath your boots, until you reach the enormous wooden doors of the castle. They are old and heavy, carved with intricate designs, and it takes all your strength to push them open. Inside, a familiar warmth greets you. The space is draped in festive splendor—rich red and gold hues, a plush crimson carpet underfoot, and ancient paintings adorning the white walls, their gilded frames thick with history. You step up to the reception desk, where a handsome blond man stands, his name tag reading ‘Park’. His eyes, a warm hazelnut brown, twinkle with mischief as he catches your smile. “Hi, I’m here for my room key. I’m part of the competition,” you say, offering him a smile that becomes even brighter when you sense the shadow looming behind you. You know exactly who it is without turning around. Determined not to give him any attention, you focus on Park, your smile sweetening as you push aside thoughts of the man behind you.

Park’s lips curl into a grin as he hands you a key. For a brief second, your fingers brush his, and the warmth of his touch is a small comfort against the cold that lingers in your hands. “I’ve given you the best room,” he says with a playful glint in his eyes, “the perfect room for someone as lovely as you.”

Your cheeks flush despite yourself, and you chuckle softly. Oh, he’s sweet, and trouble, you think. But you feel a surge of relief—finally, you won’t be stuck in the dreaded moldy room. Behind you, a familiar scoff cuts through the air, and you roll your eyes. You don’t need to look to know who it is, and you breeze past him, a skip in your step as you make your way to your room.

Finding it easily, you unlock the door and step inside. It’s small, yes, but far more comfortable than your first year here. A single bed sits in the center of the room, draped in dark green linens that match the heavy curtains cascading down from the tall window. The pillows, a deep crimson, add a touch of festive warmth to the space. Exhausted, you drop your duffel bag to the floor and fall onto the bed with a contented sigh, your eyes slipping shut. Tomorrow, the competition begins, and you know you’ll need every ounce of rest you can get.

When you wake, your muscles ache from the journey, and your face feels puffy from sleep. Groaning softly, you gather your things and shuffle down the hallway toward the showers, your fluffy slippers barely making a sound against the cold stone floor. The warm spray of the shower jolts you awake, and by the time you’re dressed, with fresh makeup and a clear mind, you feel ready for the day ahead. With a steady heart and your baking utensils in hand, you descend the grand staircase toward the great hall, where the scent of cinnamon and sugar will soon fill the air. The competition calls, and this time, you’re determined to make your mark.

The main hall is vast, its high ceilings echoing with the murmur of anticipation. Twelve baking stations stand neatly in two rows, six on each side, gleaming under the soft glow of hidden lights. The air hums with energy as cameras are discreetly tucked in the corners, their lenses poised to capture every moment, while the judges’ table—grand and imposing—commands attention at the front. A producer, dressed in black with a headset and microphone, guides you to your station, and you carefully set your supplies on the smooth surface. The shelves beneath the counter provide just enough space to stow away your ingredients and tools, your hands moving methodically as you prepare for what’s to come.

But then, your heart sinks as you catch sight of him—Kim Seokjin. To your horror, the producers direct him to the station right next to yours. You feel a knot tighten in your stomach as he flashes you that signature smile, all too sweet and saccharine, with the familiar mischief sparkling in his crinkling brown eyes. “Fancy seeing you here,” he quips, as he ties his apron around his slender waist, his movements annoyingly graceful. “Back to get your ass kicked again?” His chuckle is low, smug, a sound that makes your blood boil beneath your skin. You clench your jaw, forcing yourself to inhale slowly. Calm. You need to stay calm to bake well, you remind yourself, even as the heat of irritation rises within you. “Yeah,” you grunt back, your voice low with restrained anger. “I plan on wiping the floor with your face.” Why, of all people, do you two have the front row benches?

Around you, the hall grows busier. Cameramen move quietly through the room, adjusting angles, capturing every nervous glance and confident grin. The judges have arrived—Yun Christina, a legend in the baking world, with her sharp eyes and warm smile, and Kim Taehyung, whose playful charm hides a discerning palate. At the side stands the commentator, Jeon Jungkook. His tall frame is hard to ignore, built like an athlete with a face so soft it seems to contradict the sleeve of tattoos he wears with pride. There’s something effortlessly captivating about him, and his smile draws as much attention as his ink.

“We’re live in 10 minutes!” a producer announces, and the familiar flutter of anxiety churns in your stomach. No matter how many times you’ve done this competition, the nerves never quite fade—especially with the weight of live television hanging over you. The thought of making a mistake, of becoming a viral meme or the subject of a Reddit thread, haunts the edges of your mind. Seokjin knows this pressure all too well—he’s practically an online legend. His Instagram is filled with stunning images of his creations, each post a curated masterpiece, and he even has a subreddit dedicated to his handsome face and corny jokes. ‘Don’t get Jinxed,’ they call it. You’ve definitely never visited the site, but the stories of his fandom are everywhere, impossible to ignore.

The judges step forward, their presence commanding immediate attention. Christina beams at the group, her hands clasped in excitement, while Taehyung grins with a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “Welcome, everyone,” he begins, his deep voice resonating through the hall. “Today, we’ll start off easy. Your challenge is to create regular buns, but with the sweet taste of Christmas in them.” His smile broadens, and he pauses dramatically. “You’ll have one and a half hours to present Christina and me with six perfect buns. Let the magic of Christmas guide you.”

Christina claps her hands together, her joy infectious. “We can’t wait to taste what you create! Ready. Set,” she says, her voice lifting the room, and then— “Bake!”

The word slices through the air, and the competition springs to life. Your heart pounds as your hands move instinctively, the ingredients becoming your allies in this battle of skill and precision. Seokjin hums beside you, the sound grating against your nerves, but you push him from your mind. There’s no time for distractions—not today. Today, you’re here to prove yourself, to create something more than just buns. You’re here to craft a masterpiece, with the essence of Christmas baked into every bite.

In a flurry of motion, you gather everything you might need at your station—the gleaming kitchen machine ready to knead the dough, bowls stacked high, the flour, sugar, and baking powder measured with care. Your mind races as you dash to the refrigerators at the back, the cool air biting your cheeks as you grab fresh yeast. Spices linger nearby, their rich aromas filling the air, and you make a swift decision—cinnamon and apples. The sweet warmth of cinnamon paired with the crisp, tart apples is a classic, a comforting blend that whispers of holiday mornings by the fire. With practiced hands, you quickly dissolve the yeast in lukewarm water, watching the delicate bubbles rise before adding it to the flour and oil. The kitchen machine hums to life, its rhythmic kneading a soothing counterpoint to the buzz of the room. Time is your greatest adversary—dough needs to rest before it can rise into perfection, and every second counts. While the machine works, you gather crisp apples, their skins glistening under the lights, and grate them roughly, the scent of fresh fruit mingling with the warm spices around you.

As you’re focused on the task at hand, Jungkook appears beside you, his presence radiating calm curiosity. “What are you making?” he asks, his voice smooth, as the camera zooms in on your hands, catching every careful movement. You glance up, giving him a soft smile, though your mind is racing. “Apple cinnamon buns,” you reply, juggling ingredients with a steady hand. His smile broadens. “A classic combo,” he says approvingly before moving to Seokjin’s station.

Your heart sinks as you hear Seokjin’s voice, his tone confident and infuriatingly charming. “I’m making pumpkin buns with cinnamon sugar on top,” he announces, and you can almost hear the smug grin in his words as he adds that he’ll be shaping them like pumpkins. Like pumpkins are even a Christmas thing? You roll your eyes, irritation bubbling as the camera lingers on him far longer than it did on you. It’s not that you’re jealous—not exactly—but it’s hard not to notice how much more attention he gets, how the spotlight seems to favor him, casting everyone else into the shadows.

Returning to your dough, you add the shredded apples to the mix, the machine whirring gently as it blends them in. When the dough is ready, you pull it from the machine, feeling the weight of it in your hands. There’s something grounding about working the dough with your fingers, shaping it, molding it—your hands know the rhythm of this dance well. You sprinkle flour across the table, working the dough slowly, savoring the texture, your hands moving in steady, practiced motions.

“Careful with that dough,” Seokjin pipes up from beside you, a playful glint in his eye. “I wouldn’t want you to get too kneady.” His pun hangs in the air, and you cringe, resisting the urge to groan as the cameraman swoops in, once again capturing his every move.

“That was so bad,” you mutter under your breath, rolling your eyes as you divide the dough into six even portions. Each piece is dusted with flour, your hands working quickly, forming the dough into perfect rounds. A glance over at Seokjin reveals that he’s somehow ahead of you—some of his buns already resting, a smirk playing on his lips as if he knows exactly how much this irks you.

He chuckles, his voice low as he works his dough with casual ease. “You should watch yourself,” he teases, “or you’ll end up spread out like this dough.”

You stifle a groan, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, you grab a baking tray, your movements quick and efficient as you line it with parchment paper. Carefully, you place your apple cinnamon buns down, spacing them out before covering them with a cloth, allowing the yeast to work its magic as they rise and puff up. Your eyes dart back to Seokjin’s station, and you can’t help but notice how far ahead he still is—his bench already wiped clean, his buns resting, as if he’s been playing this game for far too long.

But you remind yourself—it’s not about speed. It’s about the buns. And yours will be nothing short of perfect.

You glance at Seokjin again, feeling the weight of his presence beside you, and rush to clean your bench with hurried hands. His voice cuts through the noise, playful and sharp, “You keep staring at me like that, and I might think you’ve forgotten what we’re actually baking here,” he says, his laugh spilling out in waves—full-bodied and obnoxious, like a windshield wiper squeaking through a storm. God, how you hate it. That laugh grates on your nerves, scraping at the last of your patience.

With your bench spotless, there’s nothing left to do but wait. You cross your arms, eyes wandering, trying to ignore the anticipation that hums in the air. Jungkook is moving through the room, his voice soft but firm as he interviews the other contestants. You tune out Seokjin’s interview, determined not to let him rattle you, focusing instead on calming your breath. When it’s your turn, you speak with a quiet passion about your love for baking—how each year you come back, driven by the dream to win, just once, to finally claim the prize that has always been just out of reach.

The minutes trickle by, and after what feels like forever, you lift the cloth to reveal your buns, risen and perfect, their golden promise waiting to be fulfilled. Seokjin pulls the cloth off his buns at the same time, his voice dripping with mischief as he grins your way. “You really know how to get a rise out of me... or is that just the yeast talking?” His laughter fills the room again, and this time, it spreads like wildfire. You hear the other contestants chuckling behind you, and your stomach tightens with frustration. So lame. The joke was painfully lame, and yet they laugh as if he’s a comedy genius. You push forward, determined not to let him get under your skin. Brushing your buns with a delicate layer of egg wash, you sprinkle chunky sugar over the tops, watching it glisten in the light. The oven waits, hot and ready, and with practiced ease, you slide your tray inside. For a moment, you linger there, sitting in front of the oven like a camper before a flickering fire, watching as the buns slowly turn golden. You know this process well, the way the dough will puff and brown in exactly eleven minutes, and you double-check the timer, feeling a quiet confidence bloom in your chest.

When the timer beeps, you pull the buns from the oven, their perfect golden sheen filling you with a rush of pride. They look beautiful, warm and inviting, just as you’d imagined. To your right, Seokjin is already plating his buns with a flourish, his hands moving with an ease that makes you grit your teeth. You rush to do the same, arranging your apple and cinnamon creations with care, each one a testament to your skill.

The competition timer rings, and the tension in the room snaps like a wire pulled too tight. One by one, the contestants are called to present their work. When Seokjin’s turn comes, you can barely contain the roll of your eyes as the judges swoon over his pumpkin-shaped buns, praising his technique, his creativity. He stands there, soaking in their compliments with a smile so smug you can almost feel it radiating across the room. He eats it all up, every word, while you silently seethe, waiting for your moment.

And then, it’s your turn. You walk to the front, presenting your apple cinnamon buns with steady hands, the weight of the moment pressing down on your shoulders. Christina and Taehyung inspect your work, and you hold your breath, but to your relief, their expressions soften into smiles. Compliments flow your way—no critique, no hesitation. They love the warmth, the balance of flavors. Satisfaction warms your chest, but you keep it inside, holding your victory close, knowing there’s still a long road ahead.

At the end of the round, a contestant is eliminated—a guy named Kwon, whose face you barely remember. Only eleven remain now. Ten more to beat.

The cameras finally stop rolling, the tension in the room easing as everyone begins to disperse. You head toward your room, eager to review your baking books, one of them authored by none other than Kim Taehyung himself. But just as you’re about to retreat into the quiet of your thoughts, you feel a hand on your arm. You turn, and there’s Seokjin, his smile sharper than before, his eyes glinting with something like challenge.

“Good luck tomorrow,” he says, his voice smooth as silk, but with an edge that sets your teeth on edge. “Just remember, there’s only room for one winner here. But...” he pauses, his tone growing sweeter than honey, “I might let you take a bite of my victory… if you ask nicely.”

You clench your fists, resisting the urge to respond with the fire burning behind your eyes. Instead, you offer him a tight-lipped smile, letting your silence speak for you. You won’t let him win—not this time. Tomorrow, the real competition begins.

A good night’s sleep can cure almost anything—but not, it seems, the stubborn ache in your back. The new room may be a small upgrade from the first year, but the bed springs creak like old bones, refusing to offer even a whisper of comfort. You sigh, stretching your stiff limbs, trying to shake off the lingering fatigue. 

Yesterday’s competition left a flurry of emotions behind, but instead of retreating to your room, you spent time mingling with the other contestants, laughing, chatting, doing your best to dodge the dark-haired Seokjin whose presence you’ve come to despise. There are so many fresh faces this year, and a few familiar ones from the past—some that carry the weight of past victories. You’ve even found yourself thinking, more than once, that there should be a rule: once you win first place, you shouldn’t be allowed to enter again. Let someone else have a shot. Let you have a shot. It’s a wish that flickered through your conversations with the other women, murmured over cups of tea and shared frustrations. But rules are rules, and here you are—still in the shadow of Kim Seokjin. 

But not for long.

With newfound determination swelling in your chest, you stride down the grand staircase, each step echoing your resolve. The camera crew is already in place, their lenses trained and waiting for the drama to unfold. Not today. Today you won’t be sent home. You can feel it in your bones. You glide to your station, pointedly ignoring Seokjin’s casual wave and sugary smile—he won’t distract you, not this time. You can feel his eyes on you, but you keep your focus sharp. Today, you’re here for one thing, and it’s not his attention.

The judges enter with a quiet authority that pulls everyone’s gaze. Taehyung, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief, claps his hands together and greets the room in that deep, melodic voice of his. “Good morning, everyone! Today’s challenge is another easy one, yeah. We’re keeping it simple—cookies.”

Cheers ripple through the room from contestants behind you, their excitement palpable. But you know better. Cookies aren’t just cookies. There’s an art to simplicity, and you can’t afford to underestimate it. As Taehyung speaks, Christina steps forward, her voice soft but full of warmth. “You’ll be making two varieties of cookies. Six of each, so twelve in total. The flavors are up to you, but they need to complement each other,” she says with a gentle smile, her eyes scanning the room, lingering on the possibilities. 

Off to the side, you catch a glimpse of Jungkook—tall, tattooed, and sharp-eyed—ready to start the competition with his usual flair. Before he even has a chance to utter the word “bake,” your mind is already alive with ideas. Chocolate, orange zest, cinnamon, almonds—flavors begin to swirl together in your thoughts like sugar in a mixing bowl. Your hands itch to begin, your mind races, and your heart pounds with the thrill of creation.

This is your moment. You’ll make it count.

Before your mind has fully settled on a plan, your hands are already in motion—grabbing bowls, spoons, and flour the moment Jungkook’s voice announces the start. The familiar rhythm takes over, and you quickly turn the oven’s dial, ensuring it will be heated just in time for your dough’s transformation. Under the bench, you find a block of chocolate, its dark richness calling to you. With swift, practiced motions, you chop it into large, satisfying chunks, the knife’s steady rhythm keeping pace with your heartbeat. Chocolate chip cookies—simple, but timeless. Your grandmother’s recipe is legendary, the kind that lingers in memory, and you know it will speak for itself on the judges’ tongues.

Adding chopped almonds for texture, you blend the sticky dough, your hands moving as though by instinct. Soon, the dough is portioned out in neat mounds on parchment, each one promising gooey perfection. Into the oven they go, disappearing behind the hot glass, and already your mind is leaping ahead to the next batch. Orange zest, you decide—a bright, citrusy contrast to the chocolate, something both bold and nostalgic.

As you stir the second dough, the spoon moving lazily through the thickening batter, you catch sight of Jungkook and two cameramen gliding over to Jin’s station. You roll your eyes, already anticipating the onslaught of Reddit posts, memes, and fangirls swooning over whatever nonsense Jin is about to spout. No doubt, he’s ready to charm the cameras.

“So, Seokjin, what kind of cookies are you making? Just from the batter, they look really delicious,” Jungkook says, trying to sneak a taste from Jin’s mixing bowl like a kid caught in a cookie jar.

“I’m making candy cane cookies with vanilla, and a batch of chocolate peppermint crunch,” Seokjin replies smoothly, his voice practically dripping with the satisfaction of knowing all eyes are on him.

“Amazing! Can’t wait to taste,” Jungkook beams, while Seokjin slides his tray into the oven with a showman’s flourish. A burst of steam escapes as he shuts the door, and he turns to the cameras with that signature smirk of his. “Is it hot in here, or is it just the oven? Or maybe…” He pauses, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Maybe it’s just you?” 

You scoff, even though your gaze lingers on the scene longer than it should. That was painfully predictable, but no doubt, the fangirls will swoon. You shake your head, refusing to admit you’ve ever spent a moment browsing through Jin’s subreddit—no, not you.

Jungkook, ever the charmer, saunters over to your station just as you pull the first tray of cookies from the oven. The golden-brown chocolate chip beauties rest on the tray, and the smell of warm, melted chocolate fills the air. His eyes widen in anticipation, practically salivating. He reaches for one, but you gently swat his hand away, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips. “Careful,” you warn, “they’re hot—and there’s only six.”

Jungkook pouts, his lips forming a playful smile. “They look incredible,” he admits, his gaze still fixed on the cookies as though they were treasures freshly unearthed.

Before you can respond, Seokjin’s voice cuts through the moment from your right. “Looks like your cookies aren’t the only thing heating up in here,” he quips, his deep laugh filling the room—rich, unrestrained, and annoyingly confident.

You grit your teeth, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, unsure whether it’s from the oven’s warmth or Seokjin’s infuriating presence. His words swirl around in your mind, making your blood simmer, but you refuse to look his way. Not today. You won’t let him distract you. Not now.

Christina and Taehyung appear beside your bench like a pair of deities, their presence as magnetic as it is intimidating. Up close, Taehyung’s beauty is striking—flawless skin, eyes that seem to hold secrets, and a calm that makes your pulse race. You can feel beads of sweat gathering at your temples, heat rising not just from the oven, but from the thrill of standing before this legend. “What kind of texture are you aiming for in your cookies?” he asks, his voice rich and velvety as he watches you deftly portion the orange zest dough before sliding it into the oven.

You swallow, trying to steady your voice. “I’m going for crisp on the outside, soft and sweet in the center,” you say, cheeks warming under his intense gaze. Damn it. Get it together. You silently pray the blush on your face isn’t betraying you on national TV, even with the camera zoomed in on your every move.

A sudden, familiar laugh breaks your concentration—Seokjin. You glance over, and there he is, obnoxiously close, standing at your bench as though he owns the space. His broad shoulder nudges yours, his smirk devilish. And of course, he can’t resist. With a wink at the camera, he adds, “That’s just how I like my women.”

You blink, momentarily stunned by his audacity. Is he really doing this right now? In front of the judges, in front of Taehyung? He’s hijacking your moment, stealing the spotlight you’ve worked so hard for—and making a joke at your expense. Your blood simmers.

“Go away, you jerk,” you mutter, shoving him back towards his own station, but the damage is done. You catch Taehyung and Christina exchanging glances—subtle, but there. You let out a sigh, feeling your frustration simmer just beneath the surface. Tackling Seokjin to the floor and giving him a piece of your mind sounds so tempting, but no. You rein yourself in, forcing a smile instead.

Seokjin, ever the provocateur, throws a wink at the camera and grins. “Impressed, Y/N. Not everyone can handle this much heat. Guess I’ll have to turn it up,” he says, his voice light but layered with something more. And as if to punctuate his words, you watch him out of the corner of your eye—he’s actually turning the heat on his oven higher. What on earth is he playing at? The hall feels warmer, sweat prickling your skin as the competition wears on. Is he talking about the ovens? The tension between you? Or the way he’s managed to catch up to you despite the chaos?

The cookies are nearly done, and you wipe your brow, wishing you’d made both batches at once instead of one after the other. Jin’s smugness only deepens when you realize he’s managed to bake both varieties simultaneously, and now, somehow, he’s neck-and-neck with you. Damn him.

With the final timer ringing out, you pull your cookies from the oven—golden, perfect. You carefully plate them, arranging them with precision. The judges make their way through the line of bakers, and soon it’s your turn. Walking up to the front, your heart pounds, but the praise that follows is worth every ounce of effort. Even if they’re ‘simple’ as Christina put it, the execution is flawless. You let out a quiet breath of relief, but before you can celebrate, Jungkook swoops in and steals a cookie right from Taehyung’s hand. The whole room erupts in laughter, and for a moment, the tension breaks.

Seokjin, of course, gets his perfect feedback too. Not that you’re surprised. The two of you are safe for another day, though as the announcement rings out, your heart sinks a little—Eun, one of the kind women you chatted with yesterday, is the one sent home. As she leaves, the weight of the competition presses down on you. Eight more people stand between you and victory, and among them, the one person you refuse to lose to—Seokjin.

The next two days blur together, a whirlwind of meringues and bread dough, flour dusting every surface like snow, batter splattered across your bench. Somehow, by grace or sheer luck, you’ve managed to hold your place in the competition. Now it’s the second week, day five, and the pressure is palpable—only seven of you remain, each step closer to the edge, and everyone is fighting harder, knowing the next misstep could mean elimination.

As you descend the grand staircase, the tension in the air feels heavier than before. You’re the last to arrive, the others already poised at their stations, judges watching with eagle-eyed precision. When you reach your bench, something catches your eye—a sprig of mistletoe hangs conspicuously in the center aisle, like a trap waiting to spring. You make a mental note to steer clear of that festive lure, no time for distractions, no matter how innocent.

Christina’s voice rings out, warm and inviting. “Today, you’ll be baking pies! Crisp edges, soft centers, and a filling that sings of the season.” Her smile is comforting, but Taehyung’s nod is all business, his eyes gleaming with expectation. “The filling is your choice, sweet or savory, but it must be in line with the spirit of Christmas,” he adds, his deep voice resonating in the hall like the toll of a bell.

You nod, the vision of your pie already clear in your mind—a memory-laden apple-pear lattice pie, passed down from your grandmother. The tart bite of apples softened by the sweetness of ripe pears, all tucked beneath a delicate lattice crust dusted with sugar. Nostalgia and tradition baked into every bite. You know this pie by heart—it’s your connection to the holidays, the warmth of home wrapped in pastry.

As soon as Jungkook announces the start, your hands move with purpose. You reach for the flour, the butter, the cold water—crafting the crust that will hold your memories together. Focused, you’re already mixing the dough when Jungkook’s voice cuts through the air. “Notice anything new?” he chuckles, pointing to the mistletoe overhead, “A little extra something to trip you up—or maybe bring you some luck!”

You roll your eyes, brushing off his playful tease. You didn’t come here for kisses or games. Your eyes flick to Seokjin, who’s snickering under his breath, ever the one to play along. But you push the sound of his laughter away, focus sharpening like a knife’s edge. He won’t trip you up this time—not with jokes, not with smiles. Your hands work swiftly, shaping the dough into something beautiful, knowing that every moment counts in this relentless competition.

No matter what mischief brews beneath the mistletoe, your eyes are on the prize.

As Jungkook drifts behind you, interviewing the contestants in low, animated tones, you’re relieved for the momentary quiet, allowing you to pour your full attention into the pie crust. This is where it all begins—the delicate balance between flour, butter, and water must be perfect. The crust is the foundation, the soul of the pie. You flick on the oven, feeling the heat radiate in waves, and start toward the supply table to grab a mold. But before you make it halfway down the aisle, you slam right into a solid wall of warmth. Seokjin.

“Sorry,” you mutter, trying to collect your scattered thoughts. You sidestep to go around him, but Seokjin clears his throat, and you feel the annoyance bubble up inside you. You glance up at him, your lips tight. “What?” The word slips out sharper than you intended, but your patience is wearing thin.

He doesn’t respond at first, just raises a finger to point above your heads. You follow his gaze—mistletoe. Of course. The sight drains the color from your face. The mistletoe hangs above you like a mischievous sprite, and your heart drops into your stomach. No. Not with Seokjin.

“I’m not kissing you,” you hiss, crossing your arms defensively, feeling a wave of heat rise in your cheeks. The growing number of cameramen hovering around doesn’t help. You can practically feel their lenses zooming in, capturing every moment of your horror.

Seokjin’s smirk grows, and he shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s tradition,” he says, his tone infuriatingly playful. “Don’t you believe in tradition?” His eyebrow quirks, daring you.

Damn Seokjin and his ridiculous smirk. You grit your teeth, a storm brewing in your chest. “Fine!” you snap, voice tight with frustration. With a huff, you step up onto your tiptoes, grab his annoyingly perfect face with flour-dusted hands, and plant a quick, perfunctory kiss on his lips. A fleeting touch—just enough to meet the demands of tradition, nothing more, nothing less. But the moment your lips brush against his, something stirs inside you, unbidden and unexpected. You pull away like you’ve been burned, cheeks blazing scarlet, heart racing as if you’d sprinted a mile. The cameras catch it all, zooming in on the moment—your moment with Seokjin, under the damn mistletoe. Your mother is probably watching this unfold, and you already dread the mountain of messages awaiting you back in your room. And Seokjin’s subreddit? You can only imagine the wildfire of jealousy that’ll sweep through it.

Mortified, you dart past him, heading for the pie mold like it’s the only lifeline left. Behind you, Seokjin chuckles, completely unaffected, while you feel like the floor might as well swallow you whole.

You slam the mold down on your bench, your body still buzzing with the embarrassment of it all. In a haze of frustration, you glance over at Seokjin’s bench. The idea forms before you even register what you’re doing. With a swift motion, you turn the dial on his oven a notch higher, a small, petty act of vengeance. Maybe that’ll teach him to stop messing with you.

“If you wanted me under the mistletoe, you didn’t have to bump into me, you know,” Seokjin’s voice floats over, teasing, unbothered. Before he gets back to his station, you’re already back to yours as if nothing happened.

Your fingers move automatically, rolling out the dough with steady precision despite the flutter of irritation still coursing through you. You lay the crust in the pie tin, pressing it gently into place, trying to focus on the task at hand. As you slide it into the oven for a quick pre-bake, your gaze drifts to Seokjin. He’s melting chocolate at his bench, completely at ease, while you’re still trying to get your heart to stop racing.

What the hell is he baking? You wonder, shaking your head. But whatever it is, it better not be good enough to outshine your pie.

Taehyung and Christina make their way around the room, their presence like an elegant breeze passing through the charged atmosphere. When they reach Seokjin’s station, Taehyung flashes his signature boxy smile, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “So, what are you baking today, Seokjin?” he asks, voice smooth as velvet.

Seokjin grins, the kind of smile that holds a touch of mischief. “I’m making a Mississippi Mud Pie,” he declares proudly, his tone thick with confidence, as if he’s already envisioning the applause.

“Interesting choice,” Taehyung remarks, his eyebrow raised ever so slightly. “I hope you manage to keep that pudding silky smooth.” His words hang in the air, a challenge wrapped in playful encouragement.

Seokjin nods with a flash of determination before turning back to his task, while you continue preparing the glaze for your apples and pears, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Of course he’s making something as bold and obnoxious as a Mississippi Mud Pie. Always grandiose, always showy. You stifle a smirk and push forward, focused on your own pie. 

With nimble fingers, you weave the lattice atop your tart, dusting it generously with chunky sugar crystals before sliding it into the oven. The warmth of baking apples and pears is already beginning to dance in the air, a comforting scent that feels like Christmas itself. You glance over just as Seokjin slides his pie into his oven, and the question tickles the back of your mind—did he even notice the temperature? 

“I thought Christmas was all about giving,” Seokjin’s voice floats over, snapping you from your thoughts. “How about giving me a break and stop staring like that?” There’s a teasing edge in his tone, and for a moment, you falter. Had you been staring? Damn it. You avert your eyes quickly, but the truth is, you’re curious to see what havoc that tampered oven might wreak on his precious pie.

Time slips by, and as you clean your station, a faint smell begins to curl through the air—something acrid, something burnt. You can’t help the small, wicked smile tugging at your lips. It’s coming from his bench.

Before you can enjoy the moment, Jungkook materializes in front of Seokjin, all wide-eyed and concerned. “Uh, Seokjin... I think your oven might be burning something.”

Seokjin waves him off with the casual arrogance of someone who never second-guesses his skills. “No, no, it’s fine,” he says confidently, but Jungkook pushes further.

“Just check it, mate.”

Finally, Seokjin opens the oven door, and a thick cloud of scorching hot air bursts forth, like an accusation made of smoke. His expression falters. “Shit!” he exclaims as he rushes to pull out the pie, his face darkening with frustration. It’s burnt—not ruined entirely, but the edges are crisped more than they should be. You bite back a laugh, wishing it had turned to charcoal.

His gaze snaps toward you, sharp and piercing, like he knows exactly who’s behind this little mishap. “Well, well,” he smirks, eyes glinting. “Looks like someone’s been naughty instead of nice, messing with my oven temperature just to throw me off.”

You blink innocently, batting your eyelashes as you offer him your best impression of sincerity. “I’m so sorry,” you say, voice dripping with faux sweetness. Both of you know the truth—it’s anything but an apology—but you can’t help but find this moment deliciously funny.

Seokjin chuckles, the sound rich and unbothered as he begins to assemble the other components of his pie. “Oh, I get it now. Sabotage me, burn my pie, and then you try to sweet-talk your way out of it?” His words are playful, but there’s an undercurrent of challenge beneath his voice.

You turn back to your own creation just in time to pull your pie from the oven, golden and perfect. The scent of apples and pears wafts toward you, warm and inviting, and you feel a surge of pride. Perfect. 

Seokjin isn’t done yet. “Nice try, though,” he says, not missing a beat. “Your little ‘sabotage’ just makes me want to beat you even more.” Then, with a glint in his eye and a smirk playing on his lips, he leans in slightly. “Maybe even taste what you’ve got cooking.”

Your breath catches for just a second, heart skipping a beat at the unexpected flirtation. Did he just say what you think he did? 

You quickly shake it off, focusing back on your flawless pie, hoping that his burnt crust might just seal his fate. But fate isn’t that kind, and as the day’s competition ends, Seokjin survives. Someone else, with a pie more disastrous than his, is sent home. You’re both safe for another day, and as you walk back to your bench, you can’t help but feel both triumphant and a little unnerved. 

This isn’t over.

It’s the third week, the seventh day, and you’re already halfway through the competition. You stand at your bench, hands clasped gently in front of you, fingertips brushing and fidgeting, a small effort to calm your jittering nerves. Why you’re nervous is beyond you—yet there it is, that flutter, pressing into your chest. 

Across the room, Taehyung, Christina, and Jungkook step up to the judges’ bench, their faces alight with matching mischievous grins. An ominous spark flickers in their eyes, and you feel a knot tighten in your stomach. Whatever’s coming won’t be easy. Jungkook claps his hands together, a low, resonant sound that carries across the hall, his eyes sweeping over each of you.

“Good morning, everyone!” he greets, his voice cheerful and commanding. “I hope you’ve all rested well, because today, you’ll be making—sourdough bread!”

The words hit you like a chill down your spine. Sourdough, of all things! Your breath catches in a gasp; you’ve made sourdough before, but never with a timer breathing down your neck. The very essence of sourdough is its patience, its slow, careful fermentation. 

Before the panic can take hold, Jungkook flashes a grin, his bunny teeth peeking out as he adds, “Luckily for you all, Taehyung has prepared a batch of sourdough starter so you can skip the fermentation process.”

Relief trickles through you, the tension easing in your shoulders. A starter made by the Kim Taehyung himself—a legendary boost if ever there was one.

“All you need to do is turn it into a flavorful bread of your own design,” Christina chimes in with her warm, encouraging smile.

Taehyung nods, his voice soft yet firm. “But don’t forget—this is a Christmas competition. Bring those holiday flavors to life.”

With the judges’ call to begin, you spring into action, finding the precious sourdough starter tucked neatly under your bench. As you run through flavor ideas, one combination settles in your mind—walnuts and cinnamon. Yes, you think, a spiced walnut bread sounds just right. Your hands move almost of their own accord, gathering ingredients: flour, eggs, oil, walnuts. You fire up the mixer, combining everything with precision, your gaze flickering momentarily to your right. Seokjin, just as focused, seems to be neck-and-neck with you. You quickly turn away, determined to keep your attention on your dough. Yet as you slide the mix out of the bowl and start kneading, a creeping dread begins to gnaw at you. The dough doesn’t feel right; instead of that soft, slightly sticky texture, it’s dense and tough, refusing to yield beneath your palms. 

Your heart skips a beat. Damn. Something’s off. You must have slipped up somewhere with the ratios. You press on, kneading harder, trying to bring life to this obstinate mass, hoping a little coaxing will do the trick. 

But then you hear a soft chuckle from beside you. Seokjin, watching with a gleam in his eye, can’t resist the jab. “I hope you’re better at making out than you are at making dough,” he quips, his tone light yet cutting. “Because, judging by that disaster, you’ll need something to make up for it.”

Your blood boils, cheeks flushed with irritation. He has no idea what kind of kiss he missed under that mistletoe, when he only got a peak. His smirk grows as he turns back to his own bread, perfectly unbothered, and you clench your teeth. If he thinks he’s seen the last of your kitchen skills, he’s in for a surprise.

Focus, you tell yourself, hands pressing into the dough with renewed intensity. If anything, his teasing will only push you to rise—just like this stubborn dough is about to.

You knead the dough with an intensity that borders on frustration, each push and twist a quiet vent for the anger bubbling beneath the surface. The dough yields under your hands as you work it harder, almost punching it into shape. Suddenly, Jungkook appears by your bench, his brows furrowed as he takes in your struggle.

“Trouble?” he asks softly, voice edged with concern. You’re too caught up, too irritated to even answer, so you only grunt in response, lifting the stubborn dough and shoving it back into the mixer. A splash of water might save it, you hope, and you watch the machine turn, willing it to obey.

Jungkook and the camera crew linger a moment longer, their lenses capturing every sigh and furrowed brow, then slowly drift down the line toward Seokjin. The camera’s absence leaves a little more space to breathe, but as you finally check the dough, your heart sinks. It’s too sticky now, clinging uncomfortably to your fingers, almost mocking your efforts. Damn it. 

With no time to start over, you grab the flour, dusting it like a lifeline as you fold and press, trying to bring it back from the brink. Gradually, with each turn of the dough, it begins to take on the consistency you need. Relief washes over you as you shape it, finally, into the pan and slip it into the oven. You bend and arch your back to set it carefully on the rack, breathing out a sigh, satisfied at last.  

“Damn, Y/N—if you’re trying to turn me on, you’re doing a better job than the oven right now.” Seokjin’s voice floats from your right, low and casual, but with a playful glint.

Your mouth drops open before you can stop it, caught off guard as his words settle over you. Did he really just make a sexual comment about my body—right here, on national TV? Anger mixes with embarrassment, but with the cameras still lurking, you only manage a scowl and a sharp roll of your eyes. He grins in response, clearly enjoying your reaction.

When the oven timer finally dings, you take a steadying breath and pull the bread from the heat. It’s risen beautifully, with a golden crust that promises all the flavor and fluff you’d hoped for. But the moment you start to slice into it, dread tugs at you. The knife cuts clean through with too much resistance—too easily. You pull the loaf apart, and your stomach drops. No airy holes, no soft webbing—just a dense, compact mass. 

Damn it all. 

Your heart sinks as you stare at the thick slice, the reality settling in.

Fuck.

You let the knife slip from your fingers, a dull clatter as it meets the tabletop, and you sink to the floor, unable to hold back the weight that’s been pressing on you all day. Tears blur your vision, slipping down your cheeks as silent sobs shake you, and you curse the cameras that have flocked to capture every moment of your breaking. You hate that they’re filming this—that you’ve sacrificed an entire December, each day on display, competing beside someone you’d rather avoid. 

Just then, a gentle hand rests on your back, tracing soft, steady circles that ease the storm a little. Surprised, you look up to see Seokjin crouched beside you, his face soft with a kindness you didn’t expect.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmurs, his gaze moving from your dismal bread to meet your tear-streaked face. “I’m sure it still tastes good. And remember—that’s what matters most.”

You blink up at him, catching his eyes for what feels like the first time. Have they always been this warm, this deep? Rich shades of caramel that seem to melt right through you, gentle but somehow grounding. Your chest tightens as something new stirs, fragile and unfamiliar, even as you brush the tears from your cheeks. He doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t tease, just holds you there in the quiet of his presence.

Your heart hitches, and you take a deep, unsteady breath. He’s right. Taste is what matters most, you tell yourself, though you know the truth—that texture, that mouthfeel, plays an equal role. But he seems so sure, and you let that comfort settle in for a moment before he gives you a last reassuring nod and returns to his station. You rise, still shaken, hoping someone else fumbled more than you did. In the end, it’s Leah who leaves, but that close call leaves a tremor in your chest that keeps you restless long after the day ends.

Sleep evades you that night, leaving you tossing beneath the weight of everything that happened. You can’t stop replaying that disaster on national TV, the sourdough fiasco, your tears on display. Dread tightens your stomach, the idea of what Instagram or Reddit might be saying about your meltdown twisting your mind in knots. You don’t want to know what people think, how foolish you looked. And then there’s Seokjin, adding to the confusion.

You’ve been avoiding him ever since that kiss under the mistletoe, as fleeting as it was. His lips were warm, soft as clouds, and that one moment had left you breathless. And yesterday, instead of pushing you with his usual banter, he was gentle, almost... tender. It’s left your heart skipping, the memory of his face, his touch, stirring something unnamed and unsettling.

Is he just being nice, or is there something more? Don’t be ridiculous, you tell yourself. Maybe this is just his tactic, trying to throw you off your game, to make you lose your focus so he can swoop in and claim victory. But as you lie there in the dark, his kindness replays over and over, leaving you uncertain. Something’s shifting inside you, something you can’t quite grasp yet—and whatever it is, you can’t afford to acknowledge it now. Not when you still have a competition to win. 

Exhausted but determined, you stand at your bench on this eighth day of the competition, avoiding even a glance in Seokjin’s direction. Just the thought of him, of how good he must look, sends your stomach into a whirl.

“Boy, have we got something special for you today!” Jungkook announces, his grin wide and electric. Taehyung chuckles, adding, “It’s team challenge day!”

Your heart sinks. You’ve dreaded this day since the start, hoping for the luck of a decent partner, as you had in past seasons. But as the names are read off, fate delivers the unexpected.

“You and Seokjin,” Christina calls, her voice carrying a mischievous note as your eyes meet Seokjin’s. There he stands, dark hair framing a face that’s far too perfect. He smiles, and your heartbeat quickens, rebelling against every ounce of sense you’re trying to hold on to.

“Do you want to know what you’ll be making today?” Christina beams.

The room’s voices echo in eager agreement—all except yours. You’re rooted to the spot, standing close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Seokjin’s shoulder, aware of every traitorous thump of your heart.

“You’ll be making gingerbread houses!” Taehyung laughs, a spark of holiday pride lighting up his face. “We can’t wait to see your creativity—and bring that warm, familiar taste of home to life.”

The start bell chimes, and you and Seokjin exchange a nod before quickly settling on your plan: simple but elegant. As he dives into mixing the dough, you turn your focus to the sugar glaze and icings, choosing Christmas colors—red, green, and white. You work side by side, silent but close, the unspoken tension filling every touch and glance. Whenever your shoulders brush, heat flares up your neck, and you can only hope the cameras don’t catch it.

Then, in a moment of calculated ease, he leans in close, his shoulder pressing against yours. “See, I don’t need mistletoe to get you right where I want you,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

You’re not sure if he’s talking about the gingerbread or something else entirely, but your cheeks flush, and the world narrows down to the steady beat of your pulse. Words escape you, leaving you flustered, almost dizzy, as you help him press the dough into shape, trying desperately to calm the storm he’s stirring within you.

He turns his head just enough to lean closer, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of your neck, sending an electric shiver down your spine. His voice, low and edged with something you can’t quite decipher, murmurs, “I can’t tell if this tension is from the competition… or just from you being this close.”

A hard swallow catches in your throat, and suddenly the room feels far too warm. Damn him for making you lose focus like this.

You manage to cut the dough into its final shapes, sliding them into the oven to bake. As they brown, you check on the icing, spooning through the white, glossy peaks to make sure it’s the right consistency.

“What do you think of this texture?” you ask, holding the spoon high as the icing drips, thick and slow.

His gaze lingers on you for a fraction too long. “Thick and creamy, just how we like it,” he replies, a smirk pulling at his lips. A wink flashes your way, and your face flushes hot. Thick and creamy. You banish the unbidden images forming in your mind, inwardly scolding yourself to get back on track.

When the cookies finish baking, you and Seokjin move in tandem, retrieving the trays and setting the cookies on racks to cool. Golden brown and perfectly crisp, they gleam in the warm light. “They look perfect,” you say, smiling, and Seokjin nods in agreement, arranging the pieces with careful precision.

With the cooling underway, he whips up a fresh batch of icing, the new bowl of white peaks tempting you. “Mind if I taste it?” you ask, reaching toward the bowl. “Just to make sure the sugar’s balanced?”

He raises an eyebrow, offering the spoon. “Go ahead,” he murmurs, tone laced with mischief. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you if you find yourself craving more.”

The suggestion hangs heavy in the air, and your pulse races, a current of anticipation tightening your chest. You take a taste, licking the spoon, but a little too quickly; icing slips over your lip and trails down your chin.

His eyes darken as he watches. “I must say,” he says softly, his smile curling with intrigue, “you look pretty with liquid dripping down your chin.”

Your cheeks burn, and something inside you clenches unexpectedly. The heat rising within you is almost too much to bear, and for a second, all you want to do is escape his gaze, escape this overwhelming feeling—run, hide, anything. But no, you won’t back down now. Not today.

Why the fuck are you getting turned on right now?

You shove your dirty thoughts aside, convincing yourself he couldn’t have meant anything suggestive. This is the competition, after all—focus. You set to icing the cookies, carefully piping along the edges as Seokjin holds each piece of the gingerbread house steady.

“You’ve got a real talent with that icing…” he murmurs, voice thick with suggestion. He raises an eyebrow, that mischievous glint in his eyes. “Want to see how good I am at licking it off?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and your voice escapes in a half-choked laugh, “No!” Yet you’re left wondering—did he really mean just the cookies? Your heart races, and by now, you must be as red as a ripe apple.

Seokjin leans in, his shoulder brushing yours, eyes glinting playfully. “Better let me handle this,” he whispers, “unless… you’d rather things get a bit messy.”

The closeness is dizzying, and a startled cough escapes you just as Jungkook wanders over, asking if you’re alright. You manage a nod, praying for the day to end so you can escape this charged atmosphere, your flustered nerves, and his honey-laced teasing.

You glance up to find Seokjin’s gaze locked on you, his eyes dark and glinting. “Keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs low, “and I might just let you have a taste of my frosting.”

A jolt shivers down your spine, heat pooling in your cheeks—and elsewhere, much to your horror. You exhale shakily, fingers trembling as you finish icing the final wall of the gingerbread house, praying for the cameras to cut so you can flee.

Finally, the house stands complete, a festive masterpiece that brings a surge of pride and relief. With a quiet thank-you to the heavens that you’ve made it through the day, you’re spared elimination. The moment filming ends, you bolt from the hall, the steady beat of your heart pounding like a drum in your ears.

Reaching your room, you swing the door open, craving solitude. But just as you go to close it, a hand stops the door, and a familiar foot wedges into the gap, preventing your escape. Seokjin appears in the doorway, his presence filling the room as he nudges the door open. You turn, surprised, meeting his gaze as he scans your face, concern softening his eyes.

“Are you alright?” he asks, voice low and gentle, and you catch a hint of genuine worry. 

“Y-yeah,” you manage, feeling your pulse skip. The door clicks shut behind him, sealing you both in this moment. He steps forward, his gaze drifting around your room, but you instinctively retreat until the edge of the bed presses against the backs of your legs. Caught between him and your own mounting desire, you feel strangely exhilarated, breaths uneven as anticipation rushes through you.

“You just seem…” His voice trails off as he draws nearer, his eyes tracing your features, “a bit… out of sorts.”

You swallow, trying to steady yourself, but his intuition sees right through you. “I’m… I—” You start to speak, but words falter. Say the truth, or shield it?

His eyes narrow slightly, his voice dipping into a whisper. “You’re a little… wet, aren’t you?” The question drips with suggestion, and heat floods your cheeks. Your breath catches, and he smiles knowingly—Seokjin has never been one to miss a tell. 

He’s so close now, his scent, warm and intoxicating, fills your senses. His lashes flutter as he leans in, and for a breathless second, your eyes lock. Without thought, driven by the longing pounding in your chest, you reach for his face, pulling him down to meet you in a kiss that’s anything but tentative. It’s intense, melting away whatever barriers you held, a wordless confession pressed from your lips to his. You lean into him, drawn, tethered by an undeniable need.

When you finally part, his dark eyes are fixed on you, filled with astonished heat. “Princess,” he murmurs, voice husky, “do you really want this?” He searches your face, looking for any hint of hesitation.

“I do,” you whisper, your voice raw with desire, “I don’t know why… but I need you, right now.” Your own need sounds urgent in the quiet of the room, and his gaze flickers, a grin tugging at his lips as he pulls you close once more. 

You pull him close, kissing him deeply, wanting nothing more than to feel him everywhere, his warmth mingling with yours. Your hands trace the lines of his body, and he lets out a soft, knowing chuckle. “Well, princess is in a rush,” he murmurs, a teasing smile playing on his lips. You can’t help but giggle—he’s always had that look, one that riles and draws you in. His beauty, so effortless, had once made him feel like a thorn in your side. His charms seemed unfair, his confidence so maddening. But now, in his arms, all of that melts away; there’s no room for anything but this want, this anticipation.

“Call me that again,” you say, breathless. “I like it.”

“Princess,” he breathes, voice low and laced with desire. Your hands glide lower, feeling him pressed against you, hard and wanting. You bite your lip as you savor his reaction, and he smirks, lifting a hand to brush your cheek, before leaning close to press a kiss on your forehead, soft and unexpectedly tender.

“Let me taste your cream,” he whispers, eyes dark with mischief and longing.

A laugh bubbles up from you. “Really, Seokjin? Is that your best line?”

He chuckles, his gaze unwavering. “I’m serious. I’ve wanted you since we set foot in this castle.”

The admission catches you off-guard, your heart skipping as you meet his gaze, feeling that familiar, disarming warmth. “Wait… Since the start of the competition?”

He shakes his head, voice dipping to a whisper. “No. Since the moment I first saw you.”

His eyes, rich with longing, hold you captive. Corny as it is, it’s so him, and there’s something so undeniably real in the way he looks at you that you’re left breathless. 

“You mean it?” you murmur, still stunned, but unable to resist his pull.

He answers only by lowering you back onto the bed, his touch gentle, yet urgent, and you sink into the softness beneath, wondering if somehow, in his presence, everything feels warmer, softer, more alive.

Seokjin gazes down at you, his eyes twinkling with that familiar, infuriating smirk. “Oh, I know you’ve felt this too. The way you look at me says it all.”

Your lips curl in defiance, though your pulse betrays you, hammering under his gaze. “I looked because I thought you were ridiculous—and infuriating,” you murmur, heart skipping as he leans closer, closing the last sliver of space. 

“Yet here we are, and still… you want me,” he breathes, his words brushing your lips just before they meet. His kiss is deep, a slow surrender, and you moan softly, hands curling over his broad shoulders as though anchoring him there. Your kiss is hungry, desperate, as though he might vanish, and when he pulls back, you laugh breathlessly, “Yes, alright, I want you—even if you’ve been an ass.”

He grins, all smug satisfaction. “I do have a good ass, and so do you might I add.” His gaze glints mischievously as he traces a line down your body, catching the edge of your pants and slipping them down your legs. “Let’s take a proper look, shall we?”

The fabric slides away, leaving you in a sliver of lace. He inhales sharply, admiring the delicate pink, and you can feel his gaze linger as he teases, “Pretty soaked for someone who’s supposedly annoyed with me.” His hand hovers, like he’s savoring the moment, his voice low. “What would I find, I wonder?” 

Breathless, you lift your hips, letting him pull the last barrier away. His smile softens as he takes you in. “Oh, princess,” he murmurs, voice thick with appreciation, “you’re glistening. Like a rare gem.”

Heat pools in your cheeks, heart pounding at his words. No one’s ever looked at you like this, and he senses your shy retreat, gently catching your arm before you can shield your face. “Don’t hide from me now,” he whispers, pressing a warm kiss to your wrist. “It’s just you being beautiful. Let me see you.”

Then he’s there, lips trailing down the sensitive skin of your thighs, leaving a fire in their wake. You feel your body hum in anticipation, every nerve aware, waiting.

“Don’t tease me,” you murmur, fingers threading into his soft hair, tugging gently. 

He looks up, a satisfied glint in his eye, the corner of his lips lifting. “Oh, but I’m going to. Because this moment, with you… I want to savor it.”

Slowly, he draws closer, his breath warm against your most sensitive skin, his gaze heavy with intention. The first ghost of his lips on your pussy sends a shiver through you, drawing out a helpless moan. Instinctively, you arch toward him, craving more, but his hands are there, steadying your hips, holding you in place with gentle strength.

Then, his mouth descends, and the first touch of his tongue on your clit sends you spiraling. He moves with a softness and rhythm that leaves you breathless, and when he begins to press his tongue in slow, unyielding circles, a molten heat spreads through you, curling your toes. Each movement feels like a practiced art, his mouth relentless as he savors you, tasting every bit of your arousal with unhurried devotion. The pressure builds inside you, your breaths quickening, pulse pounding.

Your fingers clench in his hair as you gasp, “God, I’m already so close… How are you this good?”

He says nothing, only hums in response, and the low vibration nearly sends you over the edge. He keeps working, drinking you in, savoring every quiver and moan that slips from your lips. You can feel yourself cresting, a torrent of sensation washing over you as you tighten your grip, and he knows—you’re almost there, and he’s right there with you, groaning in satisfaction as he tastes every pulse of pleasure.

The release is all-consuming, a rush that lifts you, dizzies you, blurs the edges of the world. You’re floating, flying, a haze of pure sensation that fades only when you’re utterly spent.

You meet his gaze, dazed, and whisper, “Let me taste you too.” He smiles, standing to pull down his pants and underwear, and you sit up, eyes widening as he’s revealed, long and thick, every inch of him somehow as beautiful as the rest. You slide to your knees, your palms pressing into his hips as you look up at him, your lips parting. With one hand, you wrap around him, earning a sharp hiss as you bring your mouth to him. You start with the barest of kisses at his tip, savoring the salt and warmth of him, a hum of pleasure escaping your lips. His moan deepens, and you smile, swirling your tongue over him with languid strokes, focusing on every place that draws out his breaths and soft curses.

His eyes darken, his breathing growing ragged, and you feel the tension between you deepen, pulsing in rhythm with every touch. You want to make him feel everything he just gave you, and as you lose yourself in the rhythm, you know that the night is only beginning.

He’s breathless now, each exhale a shiver against your skin as you take him deeper, letting his pleasure guide your every move. His fingers rest in your hair, gentle but firm, grounding him as he struggles to hold back a moan. His voice is rough, ragged as he stutters, “Engh—princess…so good with that tongue.”

You glance up, catching his gaze, and hold it with a mischievous spark. In that moment, you give him a slow, deep pull that has his eyes fluttering shut, a strangled groan slipping free. Encouraged, your hand finds its way to his balls, caressing, and you revel in every new sound he makes—each one sending warmth surging through you, building your own need.

But just as he seems ready to let go, he stills your movements, framing your cheeks with both hands as he catches his breath. His thumb traces your skin, his eyes darkened with desire, and he breathes, “You’re incredible, princess, but…I need to be inside you.” 

He hesitates, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “I don’t have a condom—do you?”

You pull back, a glistening thread connecting you for a moment before you smile, whispering, “It’s okay. I’m on birth control, and I’m clean.” A small laugh escapes you as you add, “Besides, this wasn’t exactly on my itinerary for tonight.”

Relief softens his features, and he runs a hand through his hair, tousling it further as he laughs with you. “Same here. And I’m clean too.” Then, without another word, he gently lifts the hem of your shirt, tugging it up until it catches briefly in your hair, pulling you both into a shared, breathless laugh as it’s tossed to the floor.

For a moment, he just gazes at you, taking in every curve, every rise and fall of your breath. His hands slide behind you, unhooking your bra, and as it slips away, his gaze drinks you in. “You’re…beautiful,” he murmurs, voice soft with reverence, as though seeing you like this has stripped him of words.

You arch into him, and he cups you, his hands warm and reverent, kneading your skin with a tenderness that has your heart thudding. His fingers trace slow, teasing lines down to the soft, sensitive peaks, barely grazing them, sending delicious shivers racing through you. A moan slips past your lips, urging him on, and you feel his lips close over one, hot and soft, his tongue swirling in ways that leave you trembling. He alternates, his other hand grazing, then gently pinching, teasing out sparks of pleasure that arch through your body.

“Jin—oh god, it’s…” you gasp, but words fail as his mouth closes over your other peak, his hand tenderly attending to the first, each touch adding fuel to the fire raging between you.

He lifts his head, lips parting with a quiet sound as he whispers, “Good?”

“More than good,” you breathe, feeling yourself melt under his touch.

You teeter on the edge of bliss, so close it’s dizzying—but just as you reach for it, he pulls away. A fleeting pout crosses your face, only to be replaced by awe as he sheds his shirt, and god, he looks like a masterpiece. The warm glow of his skin, rich and golden, calls to you; the strong line of his shoulders tapering down to his narrow waist, and below that, his cock—full, hard, and yours to claim. The thought alone makes your pulse race. Every bit of him leaves you breathless, and suddenly, there’s nothing you want more than to feel all of him.

He leans over, guiding you down, covering you in gentle, feverish kisses that send giggles tumbling out between your sighs. His body presses against yours, skin to skin, his dick grazing against your thigh, and your pussy throbs in answer, sending shivers radiating out from your core.

“I want you, Jin,” you whisper, offering yourself to him, fully and freely.

“Oh, I want you too, princess,” he murmurs back, the words a caress against your collarbone as he trails his lips up to your cheek. Slowly, he guides himself to your entrance, positioning himself carefully. His voice softens, “Ready?”

You bite your lip and nod, heart pounding, as he begins to ease into you. You feel every inch as he stretches you, filling you so deeply that it borders on overwhelming. You hadn’t prepared yourself, a detail you remember only now, and for a moment, you squeeze your eyes shut. He pauses, his brow furrowing in concern.

“What’s wrong?” he asks gently, searching your face.

You chuckle, half-apologetic, “I forgot to prep. It’s…been a while, but keep going.” Despite his hesitation, you nod reassuringly, opening yourself to him fully. He holds your gaze for a heartbeat, and with a final glance for confirmation, he presses deeper, sliding into you with a controlled tenderness. The ache as he stretches you only heightens the pleasure, a sensation that grounds you in the here and now, and you find yourself craving even more, wanting him to lose himself with you.

“You’re so tight,” he rasps, still pressing in, his breathing labored.

A shaky laugh escapes you. “I did say it’s been a while. You’re so big—I think you’re almost splitting me in two.”

A chuckle slips from his lips as he strains to control himself, stilling inside you. “Oh? Now you’re joking?” he asks, amusement lighting his eyes.

“Maybe a little,” you whisper, breathless, “but it does feel incredible.” 

Finally, he’s fully seated within you, filling you completely. He takes a moment, his breathing uneven as he absorbs the sensation, and then he begins to move, a slow, intoxicating rhythm that has you clutching at his shoulders. Each glide ignites sparks that streak down your spine, stars already dancing before your eyes. Your toes curl, and that familiar knot tightens low in your stomach, winding tighter with every thrust, unraveling your senses until you’re completely, blissfully lost in him.

His whispered, “Fuck,” is thick with pleasure, a low groan as beads of sweat glisten on his forehead, catching the dim light. He hovers over you, breath warm against your skin, hands planted firmly on either side of your head, grounding you in his intensity. He moves slowly at first, each thrust deliberate, unhurried, yet powerful, the rhythm coaxing cries of pleasure from deep within you as his body presses into yours.

“Seokjin,” you pant, voice trembling, each syllable tangled with need.

“Princess,” he echoes, a rough murmur that makes your body pulse in response, clenching around him. He falters, groaning at the sensation, and his eyes darken as he slides his hand beneath your thigh, lifting it to rest over his shoulder. The change is immediate; he fills you even deeper, his movements reaching an intensity that makes every nerve sing. The new angle has you gasping, clinging to him as he strikes that perfect spot, driving you toward the edge with relentless precision.

“Right there!” you cry, vision spotting, as he picks up the pace, his breaths sharp and stuttering. Your whole body is alight, toes curling, heart pounding, the pleasure mounting too quickly to contain. He grins as he watches your desperation, his hand dipping between you to find your swollen clit, fingers circling and pressing, amplifying every sensation. You’re drenched, his fingers slipping over you easily, driving you higher as your breath hitches, your body shuddering, head thrown back as the climax crashes over you. His name escapes your lips, a cry filled with release, as you feel yourself clench tight around him.

You open your eyes to his face, gorgeous and utterly captivated, his gaze locked onto you, stunned and transfixed. “You…damn, that was beautiful,” he rasps, still circling your sensitive flesh as your body trembles in the aftermath. His own body tightens, breaths quickening, and he leans closer, groaning your name as he thrusts deep, finding his own release. A final shudder ripples through him, and he lets out a sound of your name you’ll remember, deep and raw, filling you with warmth.

As he pulls back, breath heavy, he reaches to sweep a damp hand through his hair. “That…that was amazing,” he murmurs, grinning, his face flushed and bright.

You can’t help but smile back, a quiet chuckle escaping, “I agree.”

“Let me get you cleaned up,” he whispers, tenderly withdrawing as he reaches for a cloth, gentle as his hands linger. You lie there, chest heaving, slowly returning from the edge, the two of you savoring the haze of satisfaction between you. You’d just shared something unforgettable with Seokjin, the man you once called an enemy—but now, that feels like another lifetime away.

Morning’s first light glows softly against the frost-covered castle walls as you step outside with a steaming cup of tea, hoping the chill might clear your mind. The steam from your cup swirls like a small, fleeting cloud in the crisp winter air, mingling with your breath as you stroll along the snow-dusted path. Massive evergreens stand cloaked in fresh powder, their branches heavy with snow, while the castle behind you sparkles with delicate strands of Christmas lights that flicker with a nostalgic warmth. The decor, the quiet beauty—it all fills the air with a festive, dreamy charm.

You wrap your hands tighter around the cup, its warmth spreading into your palms as your thoughts drift back to last night. Seokjin had come to your room, and the memories of the intensity between you still linger, bringing a flush to your cheeks. You can’t help the way your stomach flutters when you remember his touch, the way he melted through every wall you’d built around yourself. There’s no denying it anymore—you like him. Maybe you always have. Maybe all that tension you held against him was just your heart speaking the only way it knew how, because acknowledging these feelings felt too risky. But now it feels even messier. What are you supposed to do with this, with him, here, in the midst of a competition where every moment counts?

Lost in thought, you don’t even hear footsteps approaching until a familiar voice murmurs behind you, “Having regrets?”

You turn, surprised, and meet Seokjin’s steady gaze. He’s watching you intently, something unreadable in his expression, but the glint in his eyes makes your heart skip. Regrets? Not a chance. “No… Never,” you say honestly, the answer flowing out of you without a second thought. The surprise in his face softens, and he steps closer, his brow furrowing as he studies you.

“Then what’s on your mind?” he asks, voice low as if he’s afraid to break the quiet between you.

You hesitate, blowing gently on your tea as you gather your words. “I… like you. I like you a lot. But I don’t know what that means here, now, while we’re both still in this competition. I just don’t want to mess things up.”

Seokjin nods, a small, understanding smile spreading across his lips. “Well, I like you too,” he says simply, and his sincerity warms you even more than the tea in your hands. “We don’t have to make it complicated. Why don’t we just take things as they come? Let’s be in this moment, here together, and not let it get in the way of anything.”

You consider his words and feel a sense of ease settle over you. His simplicity, his kindness—they’re exactly what you need. “That sounds perfect,” you whisper, heart lightening.

He grins, reaching forward to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I’m glad,” he murmurs, and the moment feels as close to magical as the glittering snow around you.

For a while, you simply stand there together, absorbing the quiet. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft but determined. “I’d better go in and get ready for the semi-finals. Coming?”

You nod, catching one last look at the snowy landscape before following him, feeling strangely certain that whatever happens, this memory, this moment with him, is yours to keep.

Inside the grand, echoing hall, the atmosphere thrums with anticipation—third week and it’s the semi-finals, and only four contestants remain. It’s another sourdough challenge, and the thought knots your stomach; but this time, you feel armed with everything you’ve learned, determined to redeem yourself from the last round’s missteps. You’ve reviewed every ratio, every technique, certain you won’t make the same mistakes twice.

Across the room, Seokjin catches your eye, flashing a small wink your way that sends warmth rushing to your cheeks. You look down quickly, hoping the cameras miss your blush. You can already imagine the uproar if anyone notices the subtle shifts between you and Seokjin. His fans would be livid, and part of you shivers at the thought. But another part is thrilled—glowing, even—that his glance lingers on you alone.

Taehyung’s voice cuts through the quiet as he announces the start. You reach for your premade starter, blending it with flour, water, salt, and crushed walnuts. A familiar recipe—but this time, perfected. As the machine kneads, you steal a glance at Seokjin, working at his own station. He looks over and smirks, nodding to the dough in your hands. “If you keep kneading it like that,” he murmurs with a glint of amusement, “I might have to admit I’m a little jealous of it.”

Your cheeks flush deeper, and you stifle a laugh, hoping the cameraman didn’t catch the exchange. You’ll knead him later, if he’s lucky. The thought amuses you, and you bury your smile, adjusting your focus as you work the dough in your hands until it reaches that perfect, silken elasticity.

Moving through the contestants, Jungkook stops by Seokjin. “That’s a beautiful dough,” he says, nodding approvingly.

Seokjin grins, a mischievous spark in his eye. “Thanks. I know this is a baking competition, but you can stop flouring me with compliments every time.”

Jungkook’s laugh echoes through the hall, and the room feels warmer somehow, each exchange brimming with camaraderie and friendly rivalry. You cover your dough to let it rest, feeling a swell of satisfaction as the texture is just right. Wiping down your station, you shift your focus to the next challenge—cupcakes, of course, because the semi-finals wouldn’t be complete without multiple recipes in one day.

You dive into the batter, drawing on the festive mood with a blend of cinnamon and shredded carrot for a Christmas touch, and creamy frosting chilled in the fridge, each detail meticulously planned. Into the oven go the cupcake molds, filling the hall with a warm, spiced aroma, blending with the yeasty scent of sourdough proofing.

Across the bench, Seokjin is working with a similar quickness, his gaze drifting to you with a gentle intensity that you can’t help but return. As you work side by side, sharing the small glances that carry more meaning than words, you feel a strange harmony, both within yourself and with him. You’re in the competition—but in these moments, everything feels like a rhythm, an unspoken bond both fierce and gentle, pushing you toward something extraordinary.

In goes the frosting to chill, waiting patiently in its piping bag, and now it’s back to the sourdough. You uncover the dough, marveling at its perfect rise, feeling a surge of confidence and—well, maybe a touch of mischief. Glancing over at Seokjin, you call out, voice low and playful, “You know, the only thing that should be rising faster than this dough is the tension between us.”

He lets out a deep, warm laugh, a sound that wraps around you and settles deep in your stomach, stirring something close to admiration—maybe even more. “Touché, Y/N!” he grins, pulling the cloth from his own dough with a wink. “Though, this dough isn’t the only thing that’s rising around here…” His words hang in the air as your mouth falls open. You give him a quick look, half-worried he’s serious, but you don’t find him popping a boner and instead find him grinning, reveling in his joke. The mischievous glint in his eye is impossible to resist, and you can’t help but laugh, enjoying the banter you two have woven between the flour and dough.

Focused, you place your dough on a baking tray, score a precise line along the length with a sharp knife, dust it lightly with flour, and slide it into the oven alongside your baking cupcakes. You’re quick to pull them out once they’re golden and perfect, setting them on a rack to cool as time dwindles. The kitchen hums with activity, everyone moving at a near-frantic pace, yet somehow you feel steady with Seokjin beside you. You glance at the clock—just fifteen minutes remain. The bread has to finish, and the cupcakes still need their frosting. Seokjin catches your anxious glance and gives you a reassuring smile, dashing to the fridge for his frosting. His calm steadiness eases the pulse of worry in your chest, and you follow suit, gathering your frosting bag and applying smooth, swirled peaks to each cupcake, finishing them with a sprinkle of walnuts.

As you pull your sourdough from the oven, the loaf is everything you hoped for—golden, hearty, the cut expanding beautifully along its edge. With a sense of quiet pride, you plate everything just in time, arranging the warm, rustic loaf and delicately frosted cupcakes into a small but satisfying spread. Relief washes over you when the round ends without either you or Seokjin being eliminated—though the victory feels bittersweet as Kevin packs up his station.

Exhausted but exhilarated, you and Seokjin retreat to your room to unwind, sharing stories and laughter until words give way to the kind of silence only the two of you can understand. And as the evening stretches on, he leaves you breathless in new ways, your bond deepening with every heartbeat shared between laughter and tantalizing touch.

With each passing day since the competition began winding down, you and Seokjin have become tangled in each other’s warmth, his presence as comforting as the scent of baked bread. But today—today is the final. Just the two of you remain, locked in a dance of rivalry and something deeper, unspoken. It’s week four, and the pressure sits heavy in your chest. You’re here to win, driven as ever—but some part of you almost wants him to take the victory, too. How strange, this tug of ambition and affection, both pushing you forward and grounding you at once.

The vast hall feels somehow larger with only two stations now, each of you taking your place under the blinding lights. Cameras linger, catching every nervous inhale, every flicker of emotion, and you steel yourself as Christina addresses you, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Today is the finale, and we can’t wait to see what you’ll make. We’re asking you to prepare three distinct Christmas desserts.”

Your heart skips a beat. This isn’t just any bake—it’s a final act, a moment to define the entire journey. Taehyung steps forward with his trademark grin, “You’ll be baking the same desserts, so we can judge them side by side. They are: a chocolate raspberry roulade, a traditional Christmas pudding trifle, and finally, profiteroles.” 

Profiteroles. You feel a pang of dread—choux pastry, your nemesis. But there’s no time to overthink it. You exhale deeply, eyes darting to Seokjin, who meets your gaze with a soft, reassuring smile, and you offer one back, letting that silent exchange ground you. Whoever wins, it won’t be for lack of trying.

“Bake!” Taehyung shouts, clapping his hands, and the clock starts ticking. You dive in, gathering ingredients, organizing every move in your mind like a well-choreographed routine. Pudding layers, roulade filling—everything goes into the fridge and blast chiller to set, and you work swiftly, feeling beads of sweat prickling on your brow. Seokjin keeps pace beside you, and you can’t help but catch the gentle gleam of his focus. As you fumble with a pat of stubborn butter, Seokjin’s voice lilts beside you, “You think you’re so tough, but I bet you’d melt faster than butter in my kitchen.” His teasing catches you off guard, and you laugh, cheeks flushed, just as a cameraman swoops in to capture the moment.

Then, a murmur fills the hall—a door opens, and suddenly a chorus of voices drifts through. You pause, glancing up, and your heart stumbles as you see them: your mother, sister, nieces, and nephews, all holding balloons, flags and waving, their faces beaming. Behind them, an older couple you recognize from photos as Seokjin’s parents stand with pride lighting up their faces. More familiar faces follow—the eliminated contestants, cheering, their hands clapping, adding an electric energy to the air.

The crowd reminds you of what brought you here and what’s at stake, and it fills you with a quiet determination. It’s down to the two of you, and you intend to give it everything, heart and soul, even if it’s the final push in more ways than one.

“Welcome, everyone!” Jungkook calls out, his voice brimming with excitement. “We’ve prepared seating just over here, so you can sit, relax, and enjoy watching the grand finale.”

Your heart pounds as the realization settles in—you’d forgotten about this moment, the pressure of having every pair of eyes on you in the throes of your work. You’ve never reached the finale before, and the weight of the audience—family, friends, past contestants—is suddenly heavy, a slight quiver of doubt creeping into your hands. But before you can spiral, Seokjin darts over to your bench, leaning close enough for his warmth to steady you. “Take it easy,” he murmurs, his voice a balm to your nerves. “You’re doing great. But who would’ve thought baking with you could feel this... intense? Not that I’m complaining—I’ve always liked a challenge.” He throws you a wink before returning to his station, leaving you with a small, fluttering smile. Seokjin’s usual banter never fails to ground you, even if he’s technically still the competition, both of you eyeing that coveted trophy and the hundred-thousand-dollar prize. A part of you can’t help but think, though, that he’s won enough already—why should he get this one too?

Returning to your tasks, you finish mixing the batter and pour it onto a tray, sliding it into the oven just as the judges approach, their expressions curious and bright. “How’s it going, Y/N?” Taehyung asks, his familiar warmth and calm demeanor making you smile despite your nerves. “Pretty good,” you answer, focusing on the profiteroles. “I just need to pipe the choux and bake it, and then it’s on to assembly. Just hoping to finally beat Seokjin for once,” you add with a sheepish laugh. It’s no secret—he’s always been the one to catch, and your admiration, even begrudging, is genuine.

“Think I’m playing hard to get, do you?” Seokjin’s voice calls out from his station, his tone teasing, playful, earning a burst of laughter from the audience. “Princess, I’m just giving you a taste of what’s coming.” At the word ‘princess,’ your breath hitches, a warm flush creeping over your cheeks. You chance a look toward him, and his eyes meet yours, a mischievous glint dancing in them. Thankfully, no one else seems to catch the slip, and you focus back on your profiteroles, steadying your hands and your thoughts.

As you start piping the choux, you toss a look back his way. “Well, Seokjin, I’ll have you know I’ve got a secret ingredient in my roulade this time—I’m feeling pretty good about taking first place.” 

He chuckles, your exchange laced with that familiar, easy banter you’ve shared a thousand times, though now it simmers with something deeper, something unspoken. “Oh, a secret ingredient, huh? Cute,” he replies, amusement thick in his voice. “But I already know your weakness, princess…,” he pauses for effect, the words rich with mischief as he slides his profiteroles into the oven. “Me.” 

The words strike a chord you weren’t prepared for, and your hands still, feeling exposed as his eyes flicker with a knowing gleam. He’s right—damn it, he’s right. He is your weakness, more than you’re ready to admit.

“For someone who talks a big game, you sure seem distracted by me,” he laughs, returning to his work. The sound pulls you back to reality, and you move to your next step, hoping the blush has faded enough to go unnoticed. Glancing toward the crowd, you catch sight of your mom’s watchful eyes, and you can only pray that neither she nor the cameras caught the moment.

You slide the roulade from the oven, transferring it to cool on a fresh tray, each step a carefully orchestrated dance of urgency and precision. Raspberries glisten in their bowl, their color vivid against the creamy filling you grab from the fridge, and you can’t help but smile—chocolate and raspberry, a classic match. I hope it’s perfect, you think as you roll the delicate sponge, sealing it with care before tucking it away in the fridge.

The hours slip by in fragments, your family’s cheers a soft echo at the edges of your concentration. Nearly everything is done: the roulade chilled, the profiteroles cooling on the tray, the trifle assembly is next with a bit of hope and a dash of doubt. You’re so close. You portion the trifle into gleaming glasses, slipping them into the fridge, then temper the final swirl of chocolate for your profiteroles, adding a whisper of orange zest for flair. Each element comes together like pieces in a puzzle, one you hope will capture the hearts of the judges.

Finally, you and Seokjin finish almost in sync, both of your creations plated to perfection. The judges, standing at their table with anticipation, gesture for you to present your roulade first, then Seokjin’s. Side by side, your roulades look like echoes of each other—his, perhaps a bit more precise, but the judges praise the flavors of yours, and you breathe a little easier. When it comes time to present the trifles, nerves flutter in your chest. Pudding has always been your challenge, and it shows. Taehyung’s gentle apology about its grainy texture confirms what you feared, and you nod, feeling the sting despite the kindness in his voice. It’s not over yet, though. The final moment comes down to the profiteroles. Watching the judges savor each bite, their expressions inscrutable, feels like holding your breath underwater. Did you get the texture just right? Are the flavors enough? You can’t tell if they favor yours or Seokjin’s, but the judges step back to confer, and the wait stretches on. Seokjin catches your eye, and the slight squeeze of his hand around yours is like a wordless reminder: Whatever happens, you made it this far. The audience hushes as the judges return, smiles lighting their faces.

“Seokjin is the winner,” they announce, and the room erupts in cheers, the joy swelling around you even as your heart sinks. You give a soft smile, watching as his family rushes to his side, while yours gathers around you, their hugs and warmth softening the ache of coming so close.

Taehyung clears his throat, addressing the crowd. “Honestly, Y/N, it was such small details that set you apart—mostly the pudding texture and the choux consistency.” You nod, grateful for the explanation even as disappointment lingers, a reminder of how hard you tried to make this win your own.

As your mom wraps you in a warm embrace, she whispers, “It’s alright—second place is still something to be proud of,” her voice gentle but consoling. You can’t help the small eye roll, even as you know her heart’s in the right place.

Suddenly, there’s a familiar arm around your waist, steady and reassuring. Seokjin pulls you close, leaning his head onto your shoulder before pressing a tender kiss to your neck. “How are you feeling, princess?” he murmurs, voice low and meant just for you. 

But the entire room seems to freeze. Conversations fade, and a hush spreads as everyone looks on, your mom’s jaw slack in surprise, cameras hovering so close they might capture the racing pulse at your throat.

You let out a breath, half-laughing as you shrug. “Honestly… a bit deflated,” you admit, feeling his warmth steadying you, “but I’ll survive.” You lean into his embrace, letting it soften the lingering ache of the moment.

Then he turns you toward him, his gaze intent, before he kisses you—fully, deeply, with a confidence that leaves you breathless. A soft sigh escapes, and you can hear whispers ripple through the room, a wave of disbelief from everyone watching. They had no idea that this quiet affection had been growing in secret all this time.

Seokjin pulls back, his eyes shining as he holds your gaze. “It’s okay. You can beat me next year,” he teases, a hint of laughter in his voice.

You pout, rolling your eyes with playful sass. “Oh, I plan on beating your ass next year,” you reply, certain and unflinching.

He chuckles, leaning down to kiss you again. “I wouldn’t mind that,” he murmurs, his words a soft thrill against your lips. Then he pulls back, a sudden tenderness in his expression. “But… there’s something I want to ask you first.”

Curious, you tilt your head, waiting. “How would you feel about going on a date with me and spending Christmas together? Maybe somewhere special—a resort in the mountains, all-inclusive?” His words tumble out, eager, a little nervous.

“Trying to buy my love, are you?” you tease, grinning as you hear your sister muttering behind you, “Go! It’s all-inclusive!”

Seokjin stammers, his eyes widening in flustered surprise. “What? No, princess, I just—” 

You press your hands against his chest, silencing him with a soft smile. “I’m joking. Yes, I’d love to. To date you, officially. And spend Christmas with you. I like you. Might even love you a little,” you add, pinching your fingers close to show just a little, even though you know it’s more than that.

The smile that lights up his face is nothing short of radiant. His arms tighten around your waist, and he lifts you, spinning you in an impromptu waltz that has you laughing breathlessly as he plants a quick kiss on your forehead. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever,” he says, his voice low and thrilled against your ear, his warmth filling you from head to toe. You hum in agreement, already lost in the certainty of it.

Seokjin may have claimed the trophy, but with him by your side, you know you’ve won something even better. And as the room erupts in applause, you realize this Christmas will be the start of something unforgettable.

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→ Author’s endnote: what did you think??? Please let me know. This one was so fun to write and I laughed multiple times. I hope you had fun reading too 🥰

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