#if this comes up in another ask i will cover it though

[monamipencil]

when strawberries bloom (teaser)

“When the strawberries bloom, I'll be by your side.”

premise. mingyu is content with his life in the capitol as a victor, although he's haunted by the images of the nightmare he lived ten years ago. but all that comes to an abrupt stop, when he discovers that you—his greatest demise had been alive all this time.

content. hunger games! au, victor! mingyu, f! reader, pseudo major character death, hints of trauma, mingyu is a blink away from alcohol poisoning, capitol shenanigans, mentions of og hunger games characters, this is set in the period of second rebellion, slow burn, jealousy, both of them are in denial, fight scenes, friends to lovers (?) to strangers to enemies (it's one sided) to ???, angst, fluff, crack, smut. heavy fruit metaphor, yearning, pining, happy ending.

warnings. will be added in the fic post.

word count. tba.

release date. around december end.

author’s note. this is a part of the ‘catching fire’ collab hosted by @vitaminkyeom. i'm very excited to write this and share with you guys. though i'm barely done with fic, i thought i'd put out as a teaser to fuel me to finish it. and pls feel free to come to my inbox and scream abt this fic <33 send an ask to be added to the taglist !

Mingyu controls a deep sigh as yet another woman presses herself against him in the name of dancing. He fakes his gaze, pretending to be enamoured. The strong perfume she’d used makes his head throb, and irritate his nostrils. 

The woman whispers sultrily, “I can’t believe I got you all to myself tonight.”

She flutters her eyelashes at him, her hands playing with the tie of his masquerade mask. It only covers the lower half of his face—a skillfully sculpted skull mask, lined with golden chains. He avoids looking at her, eyes darting all over the room to find something to fixate on. 

His lack of attention doesn’t seem to faze the woman as she only steps in closer. He bites his tongue and focuses on the details of the mansion. Gold painting lines the ivory walls that are basked in the dim lights of the party now. Grand, maroon curtains hangs by the arched windows, slightly swaying as the wind flows in. 

Awe turns into confusion which is replaced by disappointment when his eyes land on a glowing liquor fountain. But if he’s really honest, he’s a bit intrigued and his tongue feels dry, aching for the bitter taste of alcohol on it. 

Another shift of his eyes lands on a familiar lady, adorned in a black gown and dancing with an old man. He recognizes you as the lady from the balcony though your face is now obscured with a masquerade mask. Relief floods through his system, if he had to catch another glance at your face, his heart would stop beating once and for all. 

But as Mingyu had discovered long ago, things never really go the way he wishes them to. You turn your head, catching his gaze. Heat floods his cheeks and all the oxygen trickles out his lungs. He sucks in a sharp breath as you maintain eye contact. He doesn’t realise that he had stopped dancing till the woman whines. The sound prickles his skin, sending a shot of annoyance through him. 

All the voices around Mingyu drown out, turning into a mere buzz. A vine wraps around his heart, its thorns puncturing the gentle muscle. He watches as you shift your attention. Your beautiful lips curving into a smile, reacting to whatever the man had said. Your body leaning towards the old gamemaker, drawing attention to your cleavage. Rage courses through his veins along with another feeling. Jealousy. 

The feeling is foreign to him and he can’t even deduce why he’s jealous. Or, he knows why he’s jealous but even that mere idea seems incredulous. Still envy coils in his gut, rattling its tail at him and mocking him. Your eyes land on him again, and his heart skips a beat. 

Just then, the song switches, carrying a seductive note. Soon, the woman is whisked away and not even a second later, you end up in his arms. His hands skate down your silk gown to the small of your back and he pulls you flush against him. The proximity makes your breath hitch and you place your arm on his shoulders, swaying to the notes. Your breaths mingle together, body heat diffusing into one.

Maybe it’s the alcohol in his system or maybe you look too much like her, but he doesn’t find it in himself to care. With a sudden craving of intimacy, he holds you tight against him and the other intertwines with your left hand as you both sway to the flowing music. 

Any rational thought is chucked out his mind. The more he looks into your eyes, the more you look like her. In contrast to his prior wish, he wants your mask gone now. It obscures most of your face, cutting off near your right cheekbone to expose your right eye. 

He brushes stray hair aside. His soft, manicured nail beds caress the exposed skin off your face. You tighten your hold on him, doe eyes staring up at him with something he can’t pinpoint. His heartbeat quickens, a strange nostalgia permeates the air. Mingyu swears that this has happened before, a sense of deja vu fills his veins. 

Before he could comprehend his own actions, he undoes your mask. The sultry note tunes out into nothingness and the world seems to have stopped spinning. The mask hits the ground with a clank that gets muffled in the shock of the revelation. 

And there stands Kim Mingyu with his long lost lover and best friend who’s supposedly dead. 

You mirror his expression, horror staining your face as you shuffle to retrieve your mask. All while he stands still, going over the millions of possibilities. Why and how are you alive? Or is this a sick joke that someone is trying to play on him? 

You try to slip away from him, but he catches your hand, stopping you in your tracks. His grip tightens when you try to pull your hand away. His fingers brush over a bump on your skin, drawing attention to it. His eyes land on a scar that runs from the palm of your left hand to your wrist. 

Just then, you free yourself from his grip and escape into the bustling crowd of the party, leaving him alone. Though the mansion is filled with hundreds of citizens, an impermeable bubble seems to surround him—as if no one had witnessed what had occurred. It makes Mingyu question whether you’re real or if he made you up, like a mad man. 

send an ask to be added to the taglist !

[coldfanbou]

Kinkcember Day 20: Massage

Today, you get to give your boss a nice massage. I hope you enjoy it, she will.

Length 1.9K

Solar X Mreader

You come home, sighing after another day of work; as soon as you’re through the door, you head to your bed and collapse. Your body aches; you’ve spent the day running around trying to support your boss, Solar. You drift off to sleep. There were a million things you wanted to do, but sleep took over, and you awakened the following day. You shower and get dressed before heading off to work. When you get to your desk, you see a note from Solar; you groan, imagining what she could possibly want at this time. You pick the note up and read it, “Hey, I’ve seen you working pretty hard these past few weeks. As thanks for all your work I’m sending you to a resort. Enjoy your paid time off. The stuff for your trip is in the top left drawer.” You crack a smile, happy that it wasn’t more work. You open the drawer, and much like she said, it’s there, along with all the other information you need. You notice the flight is tomorrow. You work hard and finish the day before packing at home. In the early morning of the next day, you're on a flight, and by one p.m., you’re at the resort. 

It’s not until you’re making your way to your room that you notice that you haven’t seen a man there at all. Every worker and guest you saw was a woman; they were beautiful women. Stepping into your room, you find a note in the middle of your bed. You lay down and grab it, “Out by the pool is a special reward for you.” The message had lipstick on it; you begin to consider why Solar would do that when you realize this trip might just be work. You sigh and change into a pair of swim trunks before heading to the pool, where you spot her. Solar was lounging by the pool, wearing a tight blue bikini. Despite wearing a wide-brim straw hat and sunglasses, you could immediately tell it was Solar. She seems to be aware of your presence, too, as she lifts her head and turns toward you. She waves you over. You sigh before walking over to your boss. 

She smiles at you, “Hey there, welcome to my resort. What do you think?” You stay silent and stare at Solar; she could be insufferable sometimes.  

You look her over quickly as you speak, “Was it really necessary to make me think this was a vacation?” You ask, noting the way her bikini clung to her, hugging her modest chest and the high waist bottoms, making her beautiful legs look longer. 

“Don’t sound so disappointed. You’re here with me.” That wasn’t something that excited you, even if Solar was wearing a bikini. You just knew she would want you to take care of things while you were here. Seeing her in a bikini was a change of pace, though. The only time you had seen more skin from her was when you walked in on her changing; while it was something that you couldn’t get out of your head, it was also something that didn’t make up for the work she had you do. Solar smiles and takes off her straw hat, placing it on the lounge chair beside her. She adjusts her hair, making an effort to show off the sides of her tits. 

Solar pulls on your arm, having you come closer to her. “Oh wow, you’ve gotten so strong. You could use these hands for something nice, and I know just the thing.” Solar holds onto your arm, reaching to the small table beside her and grabbing a bottle of oil. “You wouldn’t mind helping me with this, would you?” You already know she’s just asking to sound polite. She wouldn’t let you refuse. 

She places the bottle in your hand and turns onto her stomach. You glance at her full ass, getting hard as you see the piece of flesh shake as she adjusts herself. You try to focus on the task at hand and cover your hands in the oil, pouring some on her back as well. “Oh wait, let me get this off.” Solar blurts out just as you’re about to begin. She unhooks her bikini top and places her hands back at her side. You see her breasts bulge outward as she lays flat. You begin at the top, massaging the oil into her skin; your rough grip and the pressure you apply make Solar squeak out soft moans.

Listening to her moan keeps your cock hard; your boss was moaning because of you. You move down Solar's back, kneading it and making her moans continue. Your cock twitched each time she moaned, and the longer you stared at her body, the more you wanted her. Solar glances at you, noticing the hungry look in your eyes. “Why don’t you get my legs too?” You stop, looking at her legs before nodding. Starting at the bottom, you slowly make your way up her calves and to her thighs; you listen to Solar hum in approval as she feels your hands squeeze her thighs. “Oh, that feels so good. Keep going.” Solar moves her legs apart slightly, her breathing getting heavy as she gives you another order. “Make sure to get every part.” You take a deep breath as you move to her inner thigh, your fingers rubbing against her clothed slit. Solar moans, refusing to hide her voice as she feels your hand rub against her. You move up, kneading her ass and making her moan as you massage her. Solar’s flesh jiggles once you let go, settling slowly. You’re getting harder, beginning to imagine fucking your boss.

Solar continues to glance at you before finally deciding to make another move. She takes off her sunglasses and moves onto her side, denying you a look at her breast by using her arm to cover herself. Solar stares at your hard-on and smirks, “Is that for me? Are you going to give me another kind of massage?” She says in a teasing voice. As you try to explain away your bulge, Solar moves onto her back. “Get my back, will you?” She moves her hand away from your chest, revealing her small tits to you. You watch as your boss moves her hands to her bikini bottom, taking them off and throwing them away. She wasn’t bothered being naked in front of you at all. “Well? Get started.” You pour the tanning oil onto Solar’s stomach, kneading it into her skin, moving from the center outward. She coos as she feels your hands move upward to ward her breasts. You try to avoid them, but she grabs your hands and moves them up. “Don’t be afraid; I need you to help me.” You knead her breast, listening to her moans yet again. You’re at full mast as you're touching your boss’s breasts. Solar can feel herself getting wet, enjoying your touch. Once you’re done, you begin to move down her body, covering the front of her powerful thighs.

The young woman reaches for your hands again, “I think you’re forgetting a spot.” She says, moving your hands to her inner thigh, right by her cunt. YOu nod and begin to massage Solar’s legs again, glancing at her perfectly shaven cunt. Your hand grazed her slit, making her coo, “Oh, that’s it. Right there.” You rub your hands against her slit, making Solar moan. You wanted to fuck her; it was the only thought in your head as you she moaned your name.

Solar smiles and reaches for your shorts as your hand runs across her slit; she moans your name louder as she feels you push a finger into her slit. Returning the favor as quickly as she can, Solar pulls your shorts down and runs her hand along your hard cock. You both moan, attracting the attention of the other guests. “Don’t think about them; this is normal here.” Solar tells you as she rubs her palm against the tip of your cock. She grinds against your hand, wanting you to go deeper, and her moans get louder. You mouse your other hand to grope her breasts, kneading them. Solar arches her back, reveling in the pleasure. 

She could feel the precum staining her hand and stopped stroking your cock to taste it; she hummed happily, licking her lips before pulling you in closer and swallowing your cock. The pleasure becomes too much for you to focus on fingering Solar, and you pull your fingers out, grabbing her head instead and pushing her against your pelvis. Your boss takes you easily, your cock ramming the back of her throat as she bobs her head. Her tongue runs from side to side as she bobs her head. Solar was not going to let you go; she moved her hands to your thighs, grabbing them as she sucked your cock. Your cock began to throb because of her, you were reaching your climax, and she didn’t care. Just as you were about to warn her, you cum, filling her mouth with your semen. She gags as her mouth fills up but quickly recovers, taking every drop from you. Solar pulls away slowly, opening her mouth with a smile as she shows you your cum. She swallows your cum, showing you a now empty mouth before dragging you onto the lounge chair.

Solar straddles you, grinding herself against your cock. “Mmm, fuck.” She groans. Solar places her hands on your chest, rubbing it as she feels your cock throb against her slit. “Let’s get down to business.” Solar raises herself, grabbing your cock and pressing it against her entrance. She coos, lowering herself onto your cock. “Oh, that’s it.” She moans, continuing to lower herself onto your cock. You grab Solar’s waist and drag her down, completely engrossed by the pleasure you’re getting from her tight cunt. You lean in and kiss her neck, leaving marks on her as she begins bouncing on your cock. Solar holds you against her as she moves along your shaft. You squeeze her ass, kneading the soft flesh and making Solar’s moans grow even louder. You lift and drop Solar onto your cock, reveling in the feeling of her cunt tightening around your cock. “Oh, fuck,” Solar groans, feeling your cock impale her. 

Your grip tightens, and Solar’s moans grow louder as she feels your nails dig into her flesh. You begin slamming your boss down on your cock, her pink walls clamping down around your cock as you begin to reach your climax. Solar holds you tightly, whining as she feels herself about to cum. “Solar, I’m cumming,” You groan as your cock begins to throb inside her. 

“Cum inside me! Do it!” You slam Solar down onto your cock, filling your boss with your cum. Something you never even thought about. Solar’s nails scratch your back as her body shudders from the pleasure; her climax hits her hard, making her run out of breath. “Oh shit,” she groans, feeling her pussy become full. “I think I’m going to need some more from you,” she smirks. “Let’s go back to your room.” You hold onto Solar’s ass as you lift her, carrying her to your room, every step causing your cock to move inside the young woman. Solar groans, holding onto you with a smile as you pass guests along your way to your room.

[revelboo]

I love how instantly protective Rumble is in Alcohol Eyes. He’s very open about what he wants especially compared to the other Decepticons. He knows he likes this human and he’s willing to show the other people around too :)

He’s pretty much in love- or thinks he is. 18+ 🌶️

Alcohol Eyes Pt 6

Rumble x Reader

• Laughing instead of crying, because he’s so serious about it. And of course, he’s a bit off. Actually believes he’s an alien robot because he’s wearing a costume. You’ve always been able to pick them. So it’s no real surprise, just a disappointment. Smile wavering as your eyes dip down. Snag on that bit of his anatomy that’s still happy to see you despite what you’d just done. And, oh. Yeah, that’s not part of the costume. That’s real.

• “Damn, you are an alien.” Uncertain, he watches you flop on your back with an arm across your eyes. Still not screaming, though. “Holiest of shits, I fucked an alien.” Crawling up your body and bracing himself so his face is inches from yours, your hand bumps his jaw when you move your arm to look at him. Aware of his spike pulsing against your belly, as he waits for you to freak out, reject him. Wanting you to want him still.

• “To be fair, we both did,” he says, voice so solemn about it you start cracking up again. Half tempted to drag him down and go another round, since sanity is already out the window. And because that thick spike is rubbing against you as he shifts over you, leaving a wet smear. Gently pushing against his shoulder until he reluctantly shifts to lay sideways beside you, you sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Pleasantly sore and desperately needing coffee to make any sense of this madness. “Don’t go,” he murmurs, moving to hook an arm around you and drag himself closer. Feel his mouth on your hip and you shiver as you look down at him.

• “I’m not running away,” you say, soft hand touching his helm as he mouths your warm skin. “But I need to do human things. Do you, um eat? Food?” Rumbling softly as he allows you to slip out of bed, he shadows you as you bend to retrieve a sheer covering off the floor and he moves up behind you, hands on your hips. “Guess the whole alien thing explains the stamina,” you moan, a hand landing on your dresser as he finds and enters you again, keeping you bent forward as he ruts against you.

• Can’t stop himself, just wants to lose himself in the scent and feel of you. Because if this is all he’s allowed, he’s going to enjoy it to the fullest. Wonders if he can just keep you, ask for his own quarters and just take you. Keep you in his berth. As tempting as the idea is, he’s not sure that you wouldn’t come to hate him for it. Part of what he enjoys so much about you is how impulsive you are. How wild. Trapping you might kill that spirit. But he could sneak out and return here, couldn’t he? Spend his nights in your bed. Groaning as his hips snap against you, listening to those scandalous, illicit sounds you make as you take his spike, he never wants this to end.

• You’re not going to be able to walk if he keeps this up, already sore in the best way possible, thighs trembling. Not only meeting your need, but exceeding it. In the back of your mind, there’s concerns, because this sci-fi stuff? You probably need to be asking some questions instead of pushing back to meet his thrusts on a breathy moan. Head dropping as your fingers claw at the dresser top when his thrusts become rougher, wilder, you hear the knock on the front door and swear explosively. Feel him shift against you, grinding against you and tipping you over the edge. Coming apart as his hips snap against you with wet sounds before he’s joining you. And whoever it is at the door is banging on it now. “Want me to kill them?” He growls in your ear, hips rocking shallowly against you. Feeling his excess sliding down the inside of your thigh.

• Laughing, you reach back and push against him until he lets you go and you find your coverup again and slip it on. Seeing his lips thin in disapproval. Hearing him growl that he’ll answer the door. Tempting you to point out that he’s just swinging free right now, but hell, if it’s a census worker or a solicitor at this time of morning, they deserve an eyeful of angry, alien junk. Moving into the kitchen, you get coffee going and play with the hem of your sheer coverup. A present from the last guy, it really doesn’t do anything to actually cover anything. When you hear the door close without any screaming, you turn toward the hall and freeze. Oh, yeah. There’d been two of them, hadn’t there. Your alien bestie and his alien twin. Who’s staring openly at you and your everything not at all hidden by sheer lace. Oops.

Previous

[cherrixpie]

HOW NOT TO DATE A SLYTHERIN

part three of five

↬ being harry potter's sister wouldn't make dating theodore nott any easier - which was why you tried to hide it. only, theo was starting to get reckless with your secret.

↬ sfw; angst + hurt/comfort; wc: 3.0k; cw: none; secret relationship trope, potter!reader, griffindor! reader

thank you for all the supportive comments! wait for part four for the big showdown...

The streets of Hogsmeade were blanketed in a soft layer of snow, the air filled with the mingling scents of spiced cider and chocolate wafting from the shops. You tugged your scarf tighter against the biting wind, walking beside Harry while Ron and Hermoine trailed just behind, arguing about the practicality of enchanted earmuffs. The (way too) early christmas decorations hung from every storefront, casting warm, golden light onto the snow-covered cobblestones, and the faint sounds of caroling witches and wizards drifted down from somewhere near the Three Broomsticks.

“Can we stop at Honeydukes before we head back?” Ron asked, cutting off a string of heated reasons for her argument by Hermoine who glared at him darkly. “Honestly, Ron, that is your biggest concern? Buying chocolate frogs?”

Sharing a glance, both you and Harry rolled your eyes at their bickering. You chose to defend Ron, partly because if he hadn't proposed the trip to Honeydukes, you’d have. “It’s a valid concern. Not everyone can survive on determination and revision schedules, Hermione.”

The only response you received was a long sigh, audible even over the whistling wind. When a particularly strong squall almost knocked him against a house front, Harry cursed, glowering at the restless sky. “If the weather stays the same ‘til tomorrow's game, we’ll be knocked off our brooms before we can make Malfoy lose.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes at him. “Don't you mean, before we can win? Honestly, Harry, I think you’re approaching this very unproductively.” Ruffling a hand through his unruly hair, you smiled at his grim huff. “On the other hand, if petty hostility makes you fly better-”

“You’ve done this a lot lately,” Ron cut you off, earning another pissed look by Hermoine. “Defending them snakes.”

You had? Not that you had noticed, but yes, you may have subconsciously been a little defensive when your friends had badmouthed the Slytherins, seeing as you were dating one of the most sensitive and thoughtful people you knew, who happened to also be a Slytherin. “I am merely advocating for proportionality,” you mumbled, but your voice was picked up by a gust of wind, carried to the wrong ears.

You heard them before you saw them- a drawled out voice from behind, having the four of you turn on your heels. “Advocating for proportionality, are you, Potter? How very noble. I’m sure the world is thrilled to hear another Potter lecture.” A large group of Slytherins had been approaching from behind, unnoticed by all of you. Though shielded by green-bronze scarfs, you could make out the faces of your Slytherin classmates, as well as some sixth years. Flickering over the group, your eyes found Theo's and they locked in silent understanding. If you weren't mistaken, he gave you a little wink, but that might just as well have been a product of your imagination.

“That's rich,” Harry snarled back, ignoring your tugging at his robes to keep going. “Coming from you, Malfoy, who loves to hear himself talk so much he gets himself friends as silent listeners that applaud everything he says!”

Sensing an approaching conflict, you quickly counted the heads of the Slytherin group- you were looking at a four to ten ratio.

Red shot up into Malfoy’s cheeks and you caught a movement of his hand, sliding towards his wand. “Better be careful talking like that, Potter, didn't your parents ever reach you not to pick fights when you’re outmatched? Oh, wait,” he laughed gloatingly and you buried your hands in your brother’s robe in a preventive manner. “Guess they didn't have the chance before they were blown to bits!”

But your warning glare didn't only fix Harry, you had caught a dangerous look in Theo’s eyes as well. As if he had felt his eyes on you, he returned your gaze and his expression softened slightly. You breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted.

“LISTEN HERE, YOU TWAT!” Ron bellowed from next to you, shaking his clenched fists. Both you and Hermoine shot forward to hold him back, but you made the fatal mistake of letting go of your livid brother, who barged at Malfoy, not even bothering to pull out his wand. His fist collided with his face the moment Ron followed hot on his heels, tackling a surprised Zabini.

“Merlin,” Hermoine muttered and pulled out her wand. Neither of you got to join in the brawl, though, because a very exasperated Theo had strode forward, separated Blaise and Ron and jinxed both Drace and Harry in one move, making both of them jump back and stumble. Some of his friends groaned at him, deprived of the easy victory, but his infamous death glare brought upon them silence in an instant.

Before they could cause any more trouble, you ushered Ron and Harry back on their feet with Hermoine's help, hastily steering them away from the group.

“Hey, Potter!”

Both you and Harry turned around, but the Slytherin sixth year that had spoken was looking at you. “Spare us the moral superiority in the future. You’re as self-absorbed as your little Gryffindor gang. The way you talk, it’s no wonder you don’t have many friends outside Gryffindor. Who could stand you?”

Ouch.

The hurt must have been visible in your features for a second, because his friends howled and patted his shoulder in appreciation. Harry tensed under your grip, but you tightened it and pulled him along as you walked away, Hermoine and Ron hot on your heels.

The whistles and cackles of the group followed you all the way to Honeydukes. Neither of you spoke, Harry seemed to be fuming and you didn't dare say anything to set him off.

“Are you even listening to me?”

You weren't, and you looked at Hermoine apologetically. Instead of listening to whatever your friend had to say, your gaze had gotten lost somewhere at the Slytherin table. Particularly fixed on the dark haired boy in between Riddle and Malfoy, with the face of a brooding storm. Even from the far end of the great hall, you knew the expression as not simply his moodiness but simmering anger, meticulously controlled.

“I’m sorry,” you said sincerely and fixed your attention on Hermoine. “What were you saying?”

Sighing, Hermoine flipped open the evening edition of the daily prophet. Some snowflakes were still caught up in her hair, relics of your visit to Hogsmeade. “You’re awfully distracted. Is it because of what that idiot Langley said?”

“Who?” you asked, even though you knew exactly who she meant. His comment had hurt you, but it was nothing you wouldn't get over. No, what held your attention in a vice-like grip that felt oh so gentle was your dear secret boyfriend who, at this exact moment, rose from his seat at the Slytherin table, undoubtedly going for a smoke to the astronomy tower.

Hermoine passed your question over, opting to pretend to read the newspaper as you could feel her careful eyes on you. “He’s in the hospital wing, you know? Langley, I mean.”

“Did he choke on his spite?” You asked absentmindedly, swirling your fork through your soup as your eyes followed Theo leaving the Great Hall. The elegance of his long strides, his upright posture, the bounce of his dark curls. It was probably as good a time as ever to realize that you were utterly and irreversibly in love with that man.

“He got hexed, nobody knows by whom. But they contemplated sending him to St. Mungos, seems like he was hexed within an inch of his life,” Hermoine explained and a realization dawned on you. An image flashed before your waking eye- Theo's expression when you had shoved Harry away. You did believe him capable of hexing Langley into St. Mungos. But you also believed him capable of a high level of intelligence that was missing from this situation.

“Was he?” you asked in a neutral voice and Hermoine nodded, no longer pretending to be interested in the newspaper. “Rumor has it that Nott hexed him, but no eye witnesses have confirmed it to the teachers. Too scared of him and his friends, probably.”

You gave up on your fruitless attempts to transport the soup to your mouth. Abruptly, you stood up and shouldered your bag with a little more force than necessary. “I think I’m going to head to the astronomy tower, I still need to finish some star charts for Professor Sinistra.”

The heavy wooden door of the astronomy tower slammed open when you marched through forcefully, the sound echoing through the chilly, starlit space. Theo didn't flinch as you slammed your bag onto the ground. He was, of course, already there, leaning against the stone wall, cigarette perched between his fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dark. It illuminated his face that was calm, almost indifferent. But the sharp line of his jaw gave him away. He’d been waiting for this.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” you snapped, marching toward him with a heaving chest, partly from your run up the stairs, partly of fury. “What were you thinking, hexing Langley in broad daylight, in front of half the school if you can believe the rumors? Are you trying to get us caught?”

Theo exhaled slowly, smoke curling around his face like a shield. “You’re welcome, by the way,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly composed. “That guy deserved worse for what he said to you.”

You’d be lying if his dangerous dark eyes and the gravely tone of his voice didn't do something for you, paired with the fact that he had sent someone to the Hospital wing for you. But that wasn't the point right now. “You were reckless, Theo. What will your friends think? That you just snapped on a whim and decided to hospitalize the guy you hung out with?”

“They’ll trust that I have my reasons,” Theo said smoothly, making not attempts to step closer to your heaving form or meet your eye.

“And what if they believe that reason is me?” you challenged him. When he looked up, your eyes locked and the intensity of his gaze knocked the breath right out of your lungs.

“Then they do,” he simply said, making you gasp in protest. With a flick of his wrist, golden embers rained from his cigarette. “It would not be the end of the world. You wouldn't care, would you?” His gaze grew sharper and you felt utterly disarmed. “You only care that your brother and your Griffindor friends don't find out you’re dating a Slytherin.”

“I know where you’re going with this,” you pressed through pursed lips. “And it's not fair. If you were ready to admit to everyone you’re seeing the Chosen One’s sister, you’d already have.”

The force with which Theo stepped forward caught you off guard. Stopping in front of you, he leaned down and a cloud of smoke pulled you in. “I’ll do it,” he whispered to you, watching your reaction closely. “I’ll go right now and shout it from the fucking rooftops.” Crooking his head, he took a step back. “But you wouldn't want that, would you?”

You didn't answer, because you knew he was right. It was you who was trying to keep this relationship quiet, but it wasn't like you didn't have your reasons. One of them being how your friends would react, sure, but since Theo’s father was a death eater, the Order could see you as a liability as well.

Theo called your name and as if on command, you looked up at him. The cigarette lay glowing on the floor, he hadn't even bothered to smother the embers with his boot. “Are you ashamed of me?” There was a guarded vulnerability in his voice. So rare that you could do nothing but stare at him for a few seconds. Theo waited patiently, but he watched every little change of expression.

“I’m not,” you finally managed to say after you found your voice. You took a pleading step towards him, but he took one back as if on chance. “Are you sure?” he asked and a hint of bitterness laced his composed voice. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re fine with me being your dirty little secret.”

“You’re- you’re not-,” you stammered, your insides were squeezing painfully with the look he gave you. “Theo, you have to understand my situation here! I mean, you didn't even attempt to! You don’t understand what it’s like, Theo. I can’t just… parade this around. Harry, Ron, Hermione-they’d never let it go. And don’t get me started on the rest of Gryffindor!”

A humorless laugh escaped his throat. “You’re an idiot.” Flinching at his tone, you took a step back, but he stalked towards you predatorily. “Do you think you’re the only one who is under pressure here? Last time I checked, the people you answer to aren't ruthless murderers.”

He was right, you knew he was right. But there was a small, defiant part of you that just didn't want to accept it. “Just because you’re ready to tell them doesn't mean I am. They all see me as this perfect girl. I don’t get to make mistakes.”

This goddamn raised eyebrow that managed to stun anyone to silence appeared on his beautiful face. “And I’m the mistake, is that it? Great to know where I stand, Potter.”

“I didn't say that!” you protested, running your hands through your hair in frustration. Theo smiled bitterly. “You didn’t have to. You’d rather keep this quiet, pretend it’s not happening, because being with me doesn’t fit your perfect Gryffindor image.”

Anger started to bubble up in your chest once more and you clenched your fists, infuriated by his seemingly indifferent calm. “You think this is easy for me? Sneaking around, lying to my friends? If they found out about us, they’d never trust me again!” Your breath got caught in your throat as your voice grew quiet. “You don’t get it, Theo. I can’t afford to mess this up. People expect me to be perfect, and being with you… it’s not the safe choice. But it’s my choice, okay? Doesn’t that mean something?”

With an abrupt turn, Theo walked towards the railing and turned his back to you. A ruffle, a click, a soft golden glow and finally, a cloud of smoke rising from his figure as if he was burning from the inside. His voice was so hushed you had trouble understanding it, drawing closer but still keeping your distance. “You know, for someone so stubborn, you’re really bad at fighting with me.”

“That’s because I don’t want to fight with you.” you said imploringly, taking tentative steps toward him. Though he most certainly noticed even the most quiet of sounds, he didn't turn around. A long sigh left Theo’s lips and a large puff of smoke rose up to the stars. “Neither do I.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” you asked, fiddling with your fingers. “I know I’m not handling this the way you deserve.”

Finally, Theo turned around to you and you were taken aback by the sudden vulnerability in his expression. Theo’s features were often closed off, hard to read, unmovable. But now, his eyes were heavy with emotion- a mix of regret and sadness, though a light smile played along his lips. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m just asking for you to … trust me.”

You closed the distance between you and Theo exhaled the last puff of smoke into the chilly night air before he stepped on his cigarette. His arms reached for you and you almost threw yourself into them. You hated fighting. Once around you, his hold tightened and you felt your face pressed up against his warm chest. The tremble of an exhale left your lips as you closed your eyes and relaxed in his hold. “I do, Theo. I wouldn't be here if I didn't. I wouldn’t be doing this- any of this- if I didn’t think you were worth it.”

You only got a soft rumble of his chest in response. His smell surrounded you, clouded you, and you thought to yourself you might get addicted to cigarettes if he kept smelling like them. “This might be a bad time for stuff like that, but… I've never felt like this about anyone.”

When you lifted your head from his chest, you found him already looking at you. And you had to appreciate how he must have turned down every wall he had so carefully constructed around himself to look at you with such a raw expression. “Me neither,” he almost breathed, locking your fingers. He shook his head disapprovingly. “Tesoro, your hands are ice bricks.”

“Why don't you kiss them better, then?” you asked hopefully, relieved to see a smile appear on his face. Theo brought your locked hands up to his lips and pressed slow, gentle kisses to the back of your hand. The soft tingle that followed his touch warmed your whole body.

“We’re going to have to actually talk about this, you know.” he said and you nodded slightly.

“I know. Just… not tonight.”

tag list: @annaisabookworm @empath-bunny @k0z3me @slutfordpr @aespaslut @kiarst @the-oracle-at-delphinitely-not @fakem0net @sammyreid @tulipsc @yasmin-oviedo @lazycrazyme

[woso-dreamzzz]

Second Time's The Charm: Christmas

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: Christmas in the STTC Universe

"Alexia!" Mapi shrieks," Alexia! Stop ignoring me! Alexia!"

Alexia hums to herself, hunched over her phone as she scrolls through another website.

Mapi, however, forces her way through mountains and mountains of stacked boxes to get to the other side of the room.

The locker room is covered in boxes from top to bottom with some even crammed into areas that they really shouldn't be able to be forced into.

"Ale! Alexia!"

Alexia looks up in shock. "Oh! Mapi! When did you get here?"

"About ten minutes ago! Which you would know if you didn't have this place stocked up like the back room of a shoe shop!"

Alexia frowns. "What do you mean? There's only five boxes of shoes here."

"I wasn't being literal!" Mapi snaps before massaging her temples with her hands. "What is all this stuff?! And why is it here?!"

"They're presents," Alexia says it like Mapi's dumb," For Christmas."

"Obviously but why are they here?"

"Well, I couldn't leave them at home. Maya's in that exploring stage so she'd get curious and try to look through them. And Elena's learning to crawl and this stuff would just get in way."

"So you thought that you would put all the presents for your whole family in here? With us?"

"No," Alexia scoffs," Don't be silly, Mapi."

"This is only temporary then? Thank god because I-"

"This is only Maya's gifts. Elena's are in one of the meeting rooms and y/n's are hidden at Alba's...Mapi? Are you okay? Your face is turning an odd colour."

Mapi's dramatic walk off is hindered somewhat by smacking her nose straight into a pile of boxes and nearly falling back into another one but, eventually, she manages to storm out and straight upstairs to your office.

You're sitting in your desk chair, looking through player health files or something when the door is slammed open.

"Your wife is crazy!"

"And hello to you too, Mapi. Come on in!"

"Crazy!" Mapi repeats, pacing in short, aggravated circles," She's crazy! The locker room is covered! Covered! In Christmas presents for your daughter! You have to get her to stop!"

You don't have a time to reply because the door swings open again and Alexia bursts in.

"Amor!" She cries," I found the cutest little booties for Elena! Look! Look!"

"No..." Mapi says softly," No...This-This can't be happening..."

"They're so cute!" You tell Alexia with equal enthusiasm," She'll love them so much! Order them! Order them!"

Alexia types in the delivery address and her card details and orders it happily before looking up.

"Where did Mapi go?"

It's a question that neither of you really dwell on that much as you show Alexia your own present ideas.

Wrapping the presents the night before isn't an easy task and you get the feeling that you and Alexia might have gone just a bit overboard. It's only a fleeting thought as you and Alexia wrap the boxes and tie them off with bows, writing sweet messages to your daughters on them even though neither of them can read just yet.

"We're all sleeping together tonight, right?" Alexia asks as she finishes off her last present, placing it in Elena's sizable pile.

"Us and the girls, definitely," You agree," I'm not sure if you'll get all the dogs and Mr Stinky in bed with us."

Mr Stinky looks up from his spot on the special pillow that's reserved just for him on the sofa. The tumours on his body have gotten much bigger now and he's getting weaker and weaker by the day.

He's got one more scan to come back to see if anything can be done but this could be his very last Christmas.

"Mr Stinky won't mind," Alexia assures you," He loves cuddling in our bed."

"And Lady?"

"Lady loves cuddling too!"

"And Sinky and his sisters?"

Alexia purses her lips. The puppies are still a bit wild and excitable at times, none of them ever content to just stay in one place even though the bed is more than big enough for everyone to fit into it.

"We'll leave the bedroom door open," Alexia says sagely, nodding her head like she's just cracked the secrets of the universe," So they can come in if they want."

"Alright," You say, standing up and stretching your back," I'm going to bring Mr Stinky up and then grab Elena. You'll let the dogs out one last time and get Maya?"

Alexia nods, drawing you back for a moment by your waist to press a kiss to your lips.

"I will, amor."

"Good," You say," And hurry up."

Alexia nods along with a smile, already heading to open the back door for the dogs.

Your footsteps approaching again makes Alexia turn and you speak directly in her ear.

"And I've got a very special present for you tomorrow when the girls have gone to sleep."

"Oh?"

You giggle right in her ear, low and sultry. "You're going to have a lot of fun unwrapping me for Christmas."

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Nightmare ships  

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

“Most terrifying ship I ever seen?”

Mordray repeated the question as he took a thoughtful bite of his xala and pondered the question.

“I’d have to say a Hive Node ship.”

Lithinio scoffed. “When the seven hells have you ever seen a Node ship?”

“I watched a documentary on it just last rotation.” Mordray countered rather defensively. “And having watched it I have to say I’m glad I never saw one in person since they eat entire ships whole.”

Ninten sighed and rubbed the ridges of his face. “Let me change the question then to “What is the most terrifying ship you have ever seen IN PERSON.””

Mordary took another bite as he took in the updated question while Lithinio stepped in with their own answer.

“I once saw a Dru Hunter Class while part of a convoy escort mission.” He took a sip of his drink and ran his hands through the air as if tracing the vessel.

“From bow to stern it was covered in spikes and upon each spike was a corpse. It was like a ship of the dead come to collect its toll of the living.”

“I heard the stories about those.” Ninten nodded. “Doesn’t matter if you were a victim, an enemy, or just some bad luck bastard in the wrong place at the wrong time; they’d spike you just the same. Where’d you see it?”

“The Dinar Campaign,” Lithinio replied, “they couldn’t beat our warriors on the ground so they’d send out small raiding space parties to hammer the transports and supply ships before ever reaching their worlds.”

“Lost a lot of good lads that war.”

The trio of crewmen turned to see the speaker at the table opposite them had turned around. They wore the uniform of an engineer but had several markings of honorary navy marine, honorary gunner, and even one for honorary helmsman. This could be none other than the legendary Midar Nus, the most famous crewman on the ship.

“Apologies for intruding,” Midar said sheepishly, “I was overhearing your conversation and it drew up some memories.”

‘You are more than welcome to join us sir.” Ninten said as his two comrades nodded and made room at their table for Midar to join. He smiled and took the offer, changing tables and nestling himself down in the now free space.

“No need for that protocol with me lad,” Midar spoke with a wintery grin as he eyed Ninten, “especially since you technically outrank me.”

“Experience counts for more than bars, sir.” Ninten replied without thinking.

Midar was taken aback by the boldness and for a moment Ninten thought he had overstepped himself. Instead, Midar let out a deep booming laugh and patted him on the back as Lithinio and Mordray let out a sigh of relief.

“We could have used a dozen more of you during that scuffle with the Dru; would have saved a lot of my friends.”

Ninten took the compliment and tried to redirect the conversation before he said something to ruin his now good standing with a living legend.

“What about you then? What’s the scariest ship you’ve ever seen?”

The trio listened in half expecting him to say something heroic like “I’ve never seen a ship worth being afraid of” or “I once thought I saw one, but it was really my mate’s in-law”. Instead, the old sailor replied without even pausing to think.

“The ones who piloted them don’t have a name for it officially; only a name they had given to them by a creature of their dark past.”

“Whose they?” Mordray asked as Lithinio smacked him for interrupting the answer.

“Humans crewed the things, though it’s been a thankful many years since I last encountered one of those damnable vessels.”

He leaned in close and slowly cast a frightful gaze across the three of his listeners.

“They called them “Frankenstein” ships.”

None of the three said a thing, partly because none of the three had any idea what that word meant. Midar saw this and further explained.

“There’s a story amongst humans about a human named “Dr. Victor Frankenstein”, and they were so focused on circumventing death itself that they began performing horrific experiments on the living and the dead.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ninten asked “How can you perform horrific experiments if the subject is dead?”

Midar shrugged. “Story goes the mad doctor took the chopped up pieces of several dead humans, sewed them together, and then brought the creature to life.��� 

“Putting aside the continued depraved and discouraging nature of humanity,” Lithinio chimed in, “what does this have to do with their ship design?”

“Because,” Midar continued, “like their mad doctor humans have an infuriating habit carving up the parts from other ships and adding those parts to their own.”

He leaned back into his chair as he recounted his first experience. “The first time I found myself up against one of those ships was in the Delta Cluster. We just fought of a border incursion and were tasked with protecting the wreckage while we sifted for survivors.”

“We just finish a patrol when we got a strange energy signature return near the edge of the wreckage. So we went to investigate it and there we found a human ship the size of a frigate slowly drifting through the debris field using a variety of arms to grab bits and pieces of ships.”

“The captain ordered a scan of the ship and the returns were a confusing mishmash of technological parts.”

“A Thorian engine block, a Juriet power core, a Nexium stabilizer…” he said listing out a surprisingly long list of ship parts from different species.

“None of those parts are designed to work with other tech.” Mordray commented. He would know as he was part of the engineering crew and well trained in ship maintenance. “The Juriet power core alone would generate far too much power for a ship that size; dangerously so much that using it could trigger a system overload.”

Midar nodded at the crewman’s insight. “Indeed, were it not for the majority of that power also going towards a Feren Gel class shield system. We found that out when we tried to disable their engines and our volley bounced off the thing like oil on water.”

Lithinio let out a whistle in awe while Midar continued.

“After that the thing began to slowly turn to make a run out of system so we drove in hard ready to grab it with our tractor beams. We were just about to make it when a panel at the rear of the ship opened up and a turret protruded out of it.”

“One shot.” Midar remarked as he held up a single taloned finger. “It took one shot at us and shattered our shield, blew out our engines, and triggered a cascading system overload that left us dead in space as they plowed out of system and made a jump.”

Ninten grumbled as he pondered Midar’s words. “Must’ve been a Telkar railgun. It’d run the entire length of a frigate ship, but it’d pack enough of a punch to deal that kinda damage; but the recoil alone would’ve split a ship that size in half.”

“Which we later found out was counter acted by a Wu’l gravity displacement field. They jacked it to max just as the railgun would fire and the counter action would cancel out the recoil.”

“I’m still confused why these things are so scary to you?” Mordray asked with a hint of a mocking tone. “They sound like garbage barges held together with scraps.”

Midar took on an offended expression and straightened up. “They’re terrifying because you never know what you are going up against. Frigate size packing battleship class weaponry, a patrol craft that can launch mini black holes, a cruiser that interwove nanomachine and organic materials that could repair any damage; every and anything was on the table!”

The ships seemed beyond reason and logic but the enthusiasm with which he spoke there was some truth to each description.

Ninten took a sip from his drink and nodded in appreciation. “Only fitting for the species that defies existence to have ships that actively defy the laws of technology.”  

[district4loading]

Can u rate twice member bj technique 1-10.

Minors DNI

Nayeon - 10/10

She has big hands and she likes to use both when she sucks you off. There's this thing she does where she twists her hands on your shaft and sucks the head between her soft, plump lips. It makes you so weak that you have to concentrate on holding back. She doesn't want you to hold anything back though, her goal isn't teasing or edging, it's making you cum as fast as possible. When you're done, she licks it off her fingers while laughing because it's like a fun game to her.

Jeongyeon - 9/10

Jeongyeon is one of the few women you know who can actually fit your entire cock in her mouth without choking or gagging. You've got no clue how she does it, but you can never wonder about that when you're with her. You're too focused on the way her throat hugs you, the way it squeezes when she swallows and how messy the two of you tend to get together. She lets you release down her throat because in her mind, anywhere that's not inside of her would be a waste.

Momo - 8/10

Momo's got the big beautiful eyes that serve as a great visual while you watch her tongue work your cock in ways that have you rolling your eyes. She's adamant on edging you, which you both hate and love at the same time. She does it because she likes to see you squirm, have you whimpering and begging her to just let you cum. Sometimes if you're unlucky, she'll ruin you.

Sana - 10/10 (not biased)

Yk I have to give my girl a 10. It's the way she looks at you when she has your cock in her mouth. Her big, inviting eyes tell you everything you need to know. That she wants you to hold her head still and slide your cock as deep as it can go down her throat. But when she has the control, she uses her tongue in only the best ways possible and she'll even deviate to your balls to stuff them in her mouth while she strokes you. She tells you that she wants you to cum where ever you'd like because she's too shy to tell you that she really wants it on her lips.

Jihyo - 9/10

Jihyo will sometimes let you use her tits if you've been a good boy. She presses them together on your shaft and licks the tip occasionally. The warmth of her breasts always gets you so close and ready to explode so quickly, especially when she uses her spit to make it slippery. When you cum, it's no surprise that it gets all over her tits she calls you a "good boy" then collects it on her fingers and licks it off.

Mina - 10/10

Mina might actually be the devil. It's the way she'll bring a fleshlight with her when she comes over to your place. She'll sit you down and blindfold you so you can't see anything and if she's feeling extra adventurous, she'll handcuff you too. Much like Momo, Mina was all about control and she loved to control your orgasms.

There was something different about her though, she'd use her mouth to get you there and she'd let your cum absolutely cover your chest. But she won't give you a break after, in fact she'll take the toy and jerk your sensitive cock off with it. Post orgasm torture was your thing just as much as it was hers, you just wouldn't admit it. The way it always had you squirming and begging her to stop. She'd tell you "I know you've got more for me" and she'll keep going until she pulls another load out of you.

Dahyun - 7/10

Dahyun's sweeter, more innocent. All she really wants to do is please you. She'll ask you what you want her to do and she'll constantly worry if she's doing it right or not. You assure her all the way through because the way her beautiful eyes look up at you and the way her mouth feels so perfectly slick is nothing short of amazing. She tells you to warn her right when you're about to, because she's afraid of it getting in her eye. When you cum, she lets it gather on the fingers she has wrapped around your shaft and she makes you go get something to help her clean it up.

Chaeyoung - 6/10

Chaeyoung likes to tease a bit as well and she wants you to tell her everything you need her to do to you. She likes tasting your pre-cum, so she teases as much as she can to get you leaking. Toying around with your shaft, spitting on it, licking the head ever so lightly. It always takes a while for her to get you to the edge but once you do, the orgasm always has your toes curling.

Tzuyu - 7/10

Although she can't fit your entire cock in her mouth, she makes up for it by having incredibly soft hands that squeeze your shaft perfectly while she takes as much as she can. Like Momo, she's got a pair of big beautiful eyes that get you so lost you forget how to think. When the time comes she'll always prefer it if you paint her face because she likes it when you call her pretty after.

-

Apologies to anon for taking so long with this one

[mysteria157]

Merry Christmas from my little corner at the @pixelcafe-network. Thank you so much for hosting this gift exchange! I had so much fun writing this for my elf @grimmweepers. Your Christmas list gave me the opportunity to write Sukuna for the first time. I wanted to lean as much into your likes as much as possible so that it feels like it's you in this story.

I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: True Form!Sukuna x Reader (Ryu)

Rating/CW: slight dark romance, fluff, implied sexual content, dark themes (references to violence, blood, destruction, and a hint of cannibalism because it's Sukuna). MDNI!

WC: ~8.5K

Summary: Sukuna gives in to mortal festivities, for the promise of a worthy gift, unaware that some traditions leave marks deeper than ancient power.

Divider: @cyberbeat @arminsumi @firefly-graphics

The winter night drapes itself across the ancient estate, stars scattered above like diamonds on black velvet. Fresh snow has transformed this formidable domain into something almost magical—though no amount of pristine white can truly soften the centuries of power that seems to pulse through every shadow of the grounds.

You used to take these walks alone, finding solace in the environment that gave way to the shifting change of the seasons. But now, on this chilly and almost silent night, your solitary footprints are accompanied by another. Deeper, more commanding treads belong to Sukuna, whose very presence seems to make the stars above burn brighter, as if they, too, acknowledge the power that moves beneath them, feeding off the cursed energy he emits with every breath.

Your exhale forms a frosty white cloud before vanishing into the night air. It’s cold, far too cold for a walk, but you’re out here to clear your thoughts, to quell the overwhelming urge to ask Sukuna a question that you don’t want to imagine the answer to.

The thought first emerged when fall gave way to winter, the autumn leaves replaced by the starkness of bare branches now hidden beneath blankets of snow. The thought of markets late at night adorned in yellow lights, of hot cocoa and gifts wrapped in red ribbon.

The words, having coiled behind your teeth for days like a spring, finally slink past your lips. “I was thinking…what if we celebrated Christmas together?”

“Christmas.” The word leaves his mouth not as a question, but as if it’s not worth inflection.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting your rolling anxiety. He’s never been one for new things. This is his domain, after all—his home, his formidable walls that he has erected and ruled with an iron fist. The mere thought of anyone—let alone a mortal—suggesting something outside his design is almost laughable.

You pause in your footsteps, tracing his looming shadow in the snow before you look up at him. He’s tall, looming with a height that comes not from this realm, his silhouette dwarfing everything around him. While you are covered in furs and wool and warmth, he stands in a simple black Haori, barely covering his skin and open to show his chest.

The dark markings of his tattoos glow like black embers in the moonlight, each one a testament to the ancient power that pulses beneath his skin. Two pairs of muscular arms fold across his chest, large and thrumming with strength. An archaic strength that can level cities and destroy with little effort, yet those same fearsome arms cradle you with unexpected gentleness in the depths of night.

The fact that you understand this side of Sukuna, gives you the strength to press on.

“It’ll be our first Christmas together,” you press.

“A mortal festivity,” he claps back, naturally sharp but with little heat.

“I’m a mortal,” you counter, meeting his gaze head-on, refusing to back down from the menacing glare you can see right through. “And from what I remember, I am your Queen.”

Quadruple crimson eyes narrow from your truthful declaration, their glow cutting through the frost-laden air like embers in the snow. The two on the right gleam brighter against the rough texture of his half-petrified cheek, like jagged stone contrasting with smooth flesh on the other side. “You mistake indulgence for approval.”

You shrug, nonplussed, sniffing the chilly air up your runny nose. “Then indulge me. Mortals, like myself, put up Christmas trees, decorate their homes, bake treats, and watch movies.”

He hums, taking a step toward you. As he draws closer, the air shifts. While you have no cursed energy, you’ve come to know his intimately. It presses against your skin like an unseen force, electric and stifling, its movements mirroring the emotions he tries to smother. You’ve learned to read it like your favorite book, though it’s a story only you seem privy to, and you don’t intend to let him know.

“Indulge me?” you try again.

He remains unconvinced, his characteristic indifference plucking at your cold skin as you look up at him unflinching. It’s not like he denies you often. Sukuna, for as powerful as he is, gives to your many asks with a wave of his hand as if your happiness is unwarranted, even if his gaze flickers to you minutely for praise at haven catered to you.

Your confidence has only grown steadily, but that anxiety that curls around an ask still tastes sour. So you pull out another mental note card, a line you practiced in the mirror for days for this very moment.

“Gift-giving is also another tradition,” you sigh in faux nonchalance, pursing your dry lips as you try to ignore the flicker of curiosity you see on his face. The subtle tick of his jaw, the way one of his eyes tightens just so, the feel of his cursed energy pausing in its movements as if to hear you more clearly. “I know you’d never turn down any sort of offering. Especially from your Queen.”

Only seconds of anxious silence pass before that deep hum permeates the air, a gentle give. “You use that title often, Ryu.” You shrug again, biting the flesh of your cheek to suppress the victorious smile you can feel in your muscles. “Why must I wait for a specific day of the year to receive a gift? I can simply take what I want with little effort.”

His hubris knows no bounds. Neither does your perseverance.

“You put up with a few days of Christmas cheer, and I’ll make sure you get the best gift ever. Something wonderful and fitting for the King of Curses,” you promise, hoping to bring him home with your sales pitch. “But no griping.”

Sukuna scoffs, indignation heavy in the sound as he puffs white smoke into the air. “I do not gripe.” The look you throw him is unimpressed; one brow arched in a silent challenge that grants you a narrowed-eyed glare of concession in return. “Why do you assume you will get what you want?”

He reaches for you as he complains, and despite his sharp tone, you lean into the weight of his touch. You’ve come to know the language of his hands, each gesture a revelation of the complex nature he embodies. Like now, as he adjusts the furs draped around your shoulders—precious things hunted and skinned himself. His movements are deliberate, with hands impossibly gentle despite their proven capacity for destruction.

“Because you see me,” you whisper, the words soft but heavy with meaning. They carry the weight of something unspoken, a recognition of the four-letter word he is not yet ready to voice—your understanding of his care beneath his praise, his protection weaved into his possession.

A sales pitch now seems trivial, disrespectful even, in light of how the tone has shifted around you. Shame prickles at your skin, but it fades just as quickly, overwhelmed by the truth of your words. You do see him, even when he's being stubborn.

Sukuna’s answering hum to your question—to the anxious worry that started this conversation—reverberates through the air, an unspoken approval that settles in the space between you both.

Days later, the skies bloom with gentle hues of cotton candy—pale blue and pastel pink, slowly darkening as the sun peeks on the horizon. The dawn of winter greets you with its chilly embrace, its breath sharp and unrelenting, its touch frostbitten. You’re bleary-eyed as you shuffle over broken branches and moss-covered paths in the East forest.

The weight of your determination keeps you moving, even as your body protests, regretting your tenacity because why would Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, buy a tree when he can simply ‘get one from the backyard.’

“I like that one,” you offer, shakily pointing with a heavily gloved finger at a modest six-footer, its snow-laden branches slumping under the weight.

“If I’m to entertain a mortal festivity, it will not be done poorly.”

You’re far too cold to point out his first gripe of the day. His voice carries that familiar edge, but beneath it rests a note that only you can hear—the same careful attention he uses when observing the movements of his enemies, now turned to the expansive forest to the east of his estate.

You close your mouth around an exhale, your cheeks puffing like a fish in your own rendition of a pout as you follow him. The forest stretches silent and vast around you, a living extension of how far his power goes. Sukuna stops abruptly, still as stone as he surveys the trees with a menacing gaze. The dominance he exudes seems to make the air itself hold its breath. You’re simply a spectator—watching an apex predator stalk its prey—it would be a marvelous sight if you weren’t shaking like a leaf.

“This one,” he declares at last, voice carrying the familiarity of pride and authority as he looks up at a magnificent pine.

It’s uncharacteristically different in every way; a shadow brown trunk as thick as his waist, strong branches that house deep green needles, forming their own canopy over the other and covered in the white blanket of snow. Its towering height practically pierces the sky, a physical representation of how the being in front of you sees himself—ambivalent and all-seeing.

With a flick of two fingers, Sukuna’s Cleave technique slices cleanly through the thick trunk. The looming pine shivers, snow plopping from its arms in white globs before it slowly falls to the ground with a muffled thud. The wind that picks up from the disturbance tousles his pink hair, strands whipping against his marked face. One of Sukuna’s muscular arms grabs his prize and effortlessly hoists it onto his shoulder.

You can’t help but admire the broad expanse of his back. The curve and dip of muscle against black markings that shift with each movement, the skin warm to the touch despite how cold he makes himself seem.

The sight of him makes you think of his Christmas gift—your secret project—the fabric carefully chosen to embrace that strength with something just as enduring. You wonder if he will notice the details, the painstaking intricacy you’ve chosen just for him.

His gift is soon forgotten when his gaze falls on you, an unmistakable glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Carmine pools that invite you to step closer and gaze beneath its liquid, to see small slivers of vulnerability presented in the form of the pine on his shoulders. He’s waiting, expecting not praise for his strength, but praise for what he has provided. An offering.

You smile gently, genuinely, and without quivering despite the temperature. “I love it,” you compliment, watching as your words card over his offering like a caress that only fans the flames of his pride. His belly mouth curves into a smirk, chuffed in agreement with its host, white teeth glistening and ghostly breath puffing in steaming plumes.

He walks to you, thunderous steps shaking the forest floor but doing little to shake you, tucking and readjusting your furs once more before ushering you back to the estate, his unspoken need for you to get warm carving a smile onto your face.

In Sukuna’s vast estate, where shadows roam, and servants move with silent reverence, there is no room for joviality and merriment. He rules unflinchingly, with a face usually etched in disinterest and a heart that beats only in the throes of violence and battle. But since you’ve set foot in his domain that he keeps dark and teeming with fear, things have changed.

Now, the halls carry the scent of your vast perfume collection, a blend of smoky oud and earthy florals that linger in the air long after you pass. The servants, once bound by fear, now offer gentle smiles to the mortal who goes against the rules of this cursed realm.

Now, the shadows walk with you, satisfying your thirst for the paranormal as they follow you like a silent watchdog, a testament to the orders of their master—a being with four arms, four eyes, and a grudging acceptance of your presence.

Now, the mortal who carved her way into Sukuna’s domain with hardly a blink, the mortal who can see beneath his veneer of bleach-white bone and hardened blood…

Now… that mortal has decided to bring Christmas to these ancient halls.

Darkness now flickers with light. Pine garland decorates the windowsills in the expansive front room of Sukuna’s estate, its sharp scent striking through the air with every brush of your fingertips along its needles. The front room, what was once empty and meant only as a tunnel to another destination, is now lively from your touch.

A tall fireplace, its mantle wrapped in garlands of cypress and silk ribbons the color of deep red wine that reminds you of his eyes, casts a warm glow over goblet-red curtains that frame looming windows and fur-lined chairs that you curl into when you read your many books.

Sukuna has molded his domain to fit your silent requests. Your Christmas spirit that Sukuna continues to entertain if only for the promise of his reward, breathes life. His spoils—the cleaved pine—stands proudly by the fireplace, its branches wrapped in shining white lights and delicate ornaments.

Uraume was diligent, while unwilling to entertain anything pertaining to mortals, their loyalty outshines their disinterest when it comes to their Queen. Said loyalty shines in the snow that rests on each emerald branch, crystalline shimmers colored amber and orange from the roaring flames of the fireplace. Their technique ensures it will never melt, an ethereal touch of winter preserved.

You can’t help the warm smile that graces your features as you admire the transformed space. But it’s the scents wafting from the kitchen that draw you from your admiration. Cinnamon and nutmeg dance with something darker, a metallic tang that speaks to how well you’ve learned to blend your world with his.

Uraume, for as menacing as a curse user they are, has the cooking skills worthy of Michelin praise. The kitchen is their sacred domain but is now a battlefield of flour and spices, mortal and ancient alike. The heat from multiple ovens warms your bare toes, and copper pots and pans clank and steam with soluble renditions of a Christmas feast.

Sukuna’s dutiful servant moves about the kitchen with practiced ease, refusing help from the other cursed spirit-like servants in your presence no matter how many times you’ve insisted that you don’t mind.

“The consistency is correct,” Uraume observes, subtle praise in their soft tone as they nod toward the ruby liquid you’ve folded into dough. “Sukuna-sama will find it acceptable.”

You hide your smile at their careful choice of words. Months of coexistence have taught you to read the subtle ways in which Uraume expresses care—their meticulous attention to your recipes when cooking for you, your happiness from delicious meals enough to mask their fondness they will never admit to.

“We’re going to make gingerbread houses,” you exclaim an hour later to an indifferent Sukuna. His presence in the kitchen is rare, and you’ve had to ignore the peep of garbled eyes from cursed spirits who poke through the kitchen doors in disbelief before scuttling away in fear of being caught.

The counter is littered with cooled cutouts of gingerbread house walls, arches, and windows. White icing in pastry bags that will serve as glue and gumdrops to be adorned as paneling is the perfect setup for this small occasion between you both.

Despite Sukuna’s menacing demeanor, he is astute. It’s why he’s achieved the status he has now, why he’s feared among the world, both mortal plane and astral. So he wastes no time piecing together his own creation, his eyebrows creased in concentration fitting of a warrior planning a siege.

As Uraume flutters around you both, you recount the tale of Hansel and Gretel, Sukuna’s crimson eyes gleaming with interest at the more gruesome parts of the brothers Grimm.

“So this witch,” he muses, two hands delicately pipping white icing for a jagged wall, his other two hands covered in flour. “She devoured children who wandered into her domain.” His eyes twinkle with approval, his belly mouth curving into a devious smirk. “An acceptable response to trespassers.”

“She built the house to lure him in,” you add, swallowing a chuckle as you feel his cursed energy wiggle around you in interest. “That’s why it was made out of sweets.”

“Why did these children not become a proper meal?”

“They outsmarted her,” you explain, watching in muted supplication as his face drops from satisfaction to disapproval. “Pushed her into her own oven.”

His belly mouth scoffs, frowning as his thick tongue tastes the spiced air. “Mortals.”

As your special cookies perfume the air with metallic sweetness, you admire Sukuna as he works. He utilizes all four hands to guide his gingerbread creation to completion, clicking his teeth when a wall crumbles in his palms and humming in delight when the icing holds steady. Your gingerbread house lays half-created as you watch him, observing in silence until his masterpiece sits before you.

It’s a fortress—walls as imposing as a cathedral’s, windows designed to daze would-be escapees. The path to the door winds hypnotically, sugar-crystal steps that seem to pulse with cursed energy, leading young feet exactly where he wants them. The final touch? Miniature figurines made of pretzel sticks and marshmallows that are arranged at the front door like an offering.

“The witch’s failure was in her execution, not her concept,” he declares. Where normal gingerbread houses invite warmth, his promises something darker—a blend of Christmas tradition and Sukuna’s deadlier inclinations. “No child would think to check for a secondary barrier here.” He speaks as if defending a dissertation, pointing to the candy canes that could easily become weapons instead of the holiday cheer they should represent.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your chest, soft and genuine, as you admire his evil architecture. Four eyes find you immediately, piercing in their gaze as if defensive, yet still holding something akin to wanting your approval. Your hand finds his marked cheek, fingers tracing the tattoos that mirror all over his body. He leans into your touch with imperial indifference, wary of Uraume’s presence in the kitchen but not indignant enough to deny your warmth.

“A domain worth of the King of Curses,” you praise, watching how his belly mouth curves into the wide grin that his master does not offer. It’s more than enough to know he’s satisfied.

“And why is yours unfinished?” Sukuna asks, crossing his arms in mock reproach despite the splattering of flour on his skin and Haori. “Surely, my Queen will make something of equal likeness.”

The oven behind you dings before you can reply, and Uraume retrieves your treat, the aroma rich and spiced. You slide the steaming plate between you, the burgundy cookies still piping hot and ready for him.

“I had other priorities,” you supply, blowing on your fingers before you offer a cookie to his belly mouth. It opens wide, tongue lolling to the side like a panting dog and already watering before you place the cookie on his taste buds. He chomps loudly, sharp teeth devouring the concoction of ginger, blood, and aged spices from Uraume’s private garden—a perfect blend of your world and his. His cursed energy warms, wrapping around your waist in approval as Sukuna throws cookies into his own mouth now.

“Is this my gift?” is all he asks, satisfied but ever impatient as he and his stomach finish the plate. You don’t resist the eye roll. “It’s a very acceptable gift. However, I wouldn’t have entertained Christmas if you only wanted to cook.”

“It’s not your gift Sukuna.” You wave him off, snatching the now empty plate before his belly mouth’s tongue can lick at the blood crumbs, another heaping plate taking its place that Uraume leaves. “And don’t try to guess. You won’t get very far.”

“Hm.” He leans back slightly, one of his hands reaching to dust flour from his forearm. You roll your eyes again, choosing instead to finish your gingerbread house while he sulks. “Then it must be something more…significant. Ancient scrolls, perhaps? Found deep within forgotten temples, imbued with curses?” His voice drips with mock curiosity as if daring you to reveal even the slightest clue.

You snort, pausing mid-pipe to give him a flat look. “First of all, ancient scrolls? Really, Sukuna?” His belly mouth grumbles at being ignored, lips covered in a red dusting of cookie smacking for more. “Second of all, what would I be doing roaming around a temple? This isn’t the Heian era, despite how much you like to talk about it.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing slightly, more intrigued than annoyed by your commentary. “So I am wrong?”

“Completely,” you answer, biting back another laugh as you return to your task of piping green icing along a gingerbread wall to resemble bushels of grass. “Do you think your gift revolves around curses and destruction?”

“Why wouldn’t it?” he counters smoothly, his tone smug and his gaze unwavering.

You roll your eyes for what feels like the nth time in only so many minutes, feeling the warmth of his cursed energy curling around your waist again, tugging at you like a child pulling his mother’s sleeve for attention. “Just eat your cookies and stop guessing, Sukuna. You’re nowhere close.”

His belly mouth snickers as Sukuna throws another cookie into it, but his narrowed gaze lingers on you as if memorizing every shift in your expression, every subtle movement of your hands, waiting for you to slip. You have a feeling that even though Christmas is only days away, his curiosity will make it seem like an eternity.

As he often says, Sukuna indulges for you quite often. Trivial mortal instruments meant to stave off your boredom. He tells himself it’s for his own peace, to keep you from pestering him in the throne room, even though he still searches for you and longs for your presence in his lap.

One of those mortal instruments? A television. He knows what they are but has never been bothered to pay attention—an invention he dismissed as frivolous and mind-numbing. The flickering screen is often a source of laughter and comfort on one of your sleepless nights, and though he swore to never sit beside you while it played, here he is. On Christmas Eve. Reclined casually on the expansive sofa in your chambers, a disdainful sneer aimed at the annoying mortal known as ‘Buddy the Elf’, judgment radiating from his very being.

“Ryu, you cannot possibly enjoy this,” he huffs, one hand picking at nonexistent lint on his linen pants, another draped over the back of the couch, and one more cradling your soft form against him.

“Elf is a Christmas tradition!” You insist, handing a heaping hand of buttery popcorn to his belly mouth who accepts with a please grumble. Unlike Sukuna, who prefers a more…carnivorous diet, his belly mouth will eat almost anything it is fed. You chuckle softly, laying your head on his naked chest as you both watch Buddy decorate the department store into a winter wonderland. "I love it."

“He trespasses into their domain and then defiles it. Disgusting.”

“I thought you agreed not to grumble.”

“I never agreed.”

You hide your smile in the warmth of Sukuna’s side, breathing in the familiar aroma of burnt incense that clings to his skin, grounding and intoxicating. The movie plays on, you enjoying, while Sukuna analyzes each scene with the precision he’d use to raze a village. He won’t admit what he’s been reduced to—a powerful being indulging in idiotic entertainment to please the mortal lady of his estate. All for a gift that he cannot guess.

You trace idle patterns on his marked arm. Each touch makes his cursed energy flutter beneath your fingertips, electric kisses on your skin that he pretends not to notice. These are the moments you love most—when the fearsome King of Curses allows himself to simply…exist beside you, his pride softened by the peace you often bring.

“A weapon,” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through Buddy and Jovie’s shower singing.

You blink, craning your neck to look up at him. “What?”

He gestures expectantly to the room around him. “You’ve found a weapon worthy of my domain.”

You should have known the moment he stopped complaining about the movie that his attention had drifted. The fact that this is what he is thinking about makes warmth bloom in your chest. “Are you guessing?”

“I do not guess,” he insists, glowering at the television to avoid looking at you, his curiosity-tinged cursed energy betraying him. “I deduce.”

A weapon would be fitting for someone like him—his strength, his dominance, his endless hunger for power. But it’s a far cry from what he will get. You throw more popcorn into your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at just how wrong he truly is.

He’s silent only for a moment before he adds. “Why must I wait until tomorrow, when you can simply tell me now?” His logic is, as usual, rooted in authority and impatience. You chew another handful of popcorn deliberately, ignoring him as you keep your eyes glued to the screen.

Not even five minutes pass before one of his large hands brushes against the nape of your neck. His fingers card through your hair, tugging the strands—not enough to hurt, but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

You know what he’s doing. His touch feels like a predator sneakily luring in prey. You know this game—this is Sukuna feigning boredom because he’s curious, using seduction to coax you when you’re being stubborn. It’s as effective as it is dangerous. But this time, you’re prepared.

“If you’re going to ignore the movie,” you trail off, your voice a mix of seductive challenge and amusement. You twist in his lap to straddle his waist, sliding your hands up his chest, tracing your fingers around his nipples in slow, deliberate circles. He does not react, at least not on his face. But you can feel the imperceptible jut of his hips, feel his cursed energy hum up your calves, and wrap around your body like a warm fog.

“I know of something else we can do.” You’re suggestive, voice dropping to the pits of your stomach as your lips brush along the sharp edge of his jaw. The shift in power is immediate, and exactly what you want. His hands tighten on your waist, head tilting slightly, giving you better access to lavish him with praise.

“Is that so?” His voice is pitched low, heady already. “Anything is better than this drivel.”

You roll your eyes as you fall back on the sofa, your body arching under his touch as he pulls you closer. Your hand slides lower, tracing the edge of his haori where it hangs loose against his skin.

“You’re impatient as usual,” you whisper, nipping lightly at his neck. “But you’ll wait this time. Won’t you?”

His eyes narrow as if in protest. But he doesn’t answer—not with words, at least. Instead, his hands roam your body, each touch firm and possessive. You grin against his skin, knowing you’ve managed to distract him…at least for now.

“A temple,” his voice rumbles through the darkness, shaking you from the deep edges of sleep. His massive form curves around you possessively, his warmth seeping into your skin. Both of you lie tangled in the aftermath of your earlier indulgences—the sofa, the wall, and, finally, the silk sheets of his bed. All bearing witness to his insatiable need for you.

“Mmm?” you mumble, still trying to pull yourself awake.

“Built in my honor,” he elaborates without repeating himself, shaking you again with a harshness that makes you yelp and throw a glare over your shoulder. He smirks to himself as if he’s finally solved the mystery. “That is my gift.”

You groan, burying your face in your pillow, but secretly relishing in the way he can’t seem to let this go. Rolling over halfway, you peek up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. The moonlight creates a shimmering backdrop, outlining his form with silver, blood-red eyes gleaming with determination. For someone who claims to have no interest in mortal traditions, he’s relentless about this one.

“You woke me up to guess….again,” you grumble, glaring at him through a half-open eye.

“I do not guess,” he starts, ready to repeat the same phrase from hours ago. “I simply—”

“Deduce, yes, I got that the first time.” You cut him off and surge up to give him a kiss, feeling his surprise for only seconds before he melts into your affection. “Go to sleep.”

“A secret text,” he murmurs against your lips, undeterred even as his arms pull you closer. “Written in blood.”

You grimace before answering with your lips on his again, your leg curling around a thick waist, ready to use the ammo from your arsenal just like a few hours ago. “Do I need to distract you again?” you ask, lifting an eyebrow.

The midnight air watches with bated breath as Sukuna rolls on top of you, his towering frame rousing the tingle between your legs.

“I know your method of distraction,” he whispers against the skin of your neck. His belly mouth kisses the skin of your inner thigh, licking its lips at the promise of what you might offer if you’re willing. “Considering you are no novice, one might think that you keep secrets from your King often.”

Your affronted laugh dissolves into a sigh as both stomach and Sukuna adorn your skin with wet kisses—one along the vein of your pelvis while the other works at the skin behind your ear. “O-one might think,” you manage, gasping as his mouth finds the pulse in your neck, “that my King is simply impatient for Christmas morning.”

“It is already past midnight,” he growls at the feel of your touch drifting lower, his cocks already throbbing and oozing precum. “Merry Christmas.”

“A proper Christmas morning!” you correct with a chortle, smacking his chest playfully. He hums noncommittally, the sound vibrating through you both, possessive and yet tender in a way that only you are privy to. “A few more hours. Let me wake up properly.”

With those final words, you promptly roll over, denying him any more sensual touch that could ignite the early morning. Sukuna, used to your defiance, simply grumbles at your withdrawal, choosing instead to press searing kisses along the naked skin of your back. They ignite the embers in your belly but are not persistent enough to tempt you further.

“A domain expansion,” he insists, inhaling the perfume at the dip of your spine, lips brushing the soft skin there.

“I can’t even do that.” Your voice is heavy, the dredges of sleep finally pulling at your consciousness.

“More blood cookies.”

You remain silent, using his solemn guesses as music to lull you back to sleep.

Sukuna can feel your presence even deep in sleep, his cursed energy wound tightly around you like a second skin, always attuned to your warmth, your breath, the way you shift beneath the covers. So when that connection shivers—when his energy touches only empty space—his crimson eyes snap open. Your side of the bed is still warm, a ghost of you lingering on his silk sheets.

He can still feel you in the estate, so he rises slowly, surveying his chamber. He takes in the transformation--the pine and silk ribbons that are around the mantle now present in his chambers, and the smell of cider and blood cookies that still wafts in the air around him. Resting along one wall is a beautiful vanity carved from marble with obsidian-lined mirrors and velvet surfaces adorned with your plethora of fragrances. The table near his window is littered with books, a speaker—another mortal instrument—rests quietly, no classical music that you enjoy playing.

His room—once untouchable, dark, and sacred—is now infused with you. It should feel like a violation, his personal sanctum defiled with the touch of a mortal. And yet.

His body is no longer cold in the halls because you thrive in warmth. His servants may bow in fear to him, but they smile at you. Shadows, once tools of terror, are now a source of protection and amusement, a manic gleam of fascination with the otherwordly preventing you from being fearful.

His emotions are still a mystery, but slowly unfurling like petals that have been sleeping for many winters. Anything besides strength and power, besides determination and tenacity are weak—should be weak. But you feel these emotions plenty, and to Ryomen Sukuna, you are far from weak.

The soft yellow lights from the pine tree spill against the floor, welcoming his bare feet as he enters the large living room that has come to life because of you and for you. He won’t admit it out loud, the pride that surges through his chest like a rushing wave when he looks at the tree. A pagan symbol meant to honor a god that is not himself, willingly brought into his domain by his own hand, a rare sight in his forest that only his eye could catch. He cleaved it. He carried it upon his shoulders. He cupped the approval in your eyes like water in a shallow pool in a drying desert, sacred and coveted.

His efforts have become yours, decorated in tinsel and ornaments, in obnoxiously bright lights and snow that will never melt. And you sit next to it, your silhouette glowing against the roaring fireplace, your gaze looking up at what he’s allowed you to have. You noticed his presence long ago, but you remain transfixed with the tree, a soft smile gracing your features as he draws closer.

“It is far too early,” he rumbles, his voice gentle but heavy in the silent Christmas air. “Come back to bed.”

You huff in reply, not bothering to offer words even as he sinks down next to you. His arms crossed over his chest, his legs folding in to sit with grace on the fur-covered floor. This close, he can smell another fragrance that you collect, a smoky Oud that coats your skin like a second skin.

It’s one of his favorites, yet another thing he will not admit, but you know. You know from the way he buries his face in your neck at night, his chambers shrouded in darkness beside the slanting of moonlight on his sheets, his cursed energy caressing your skin in appreciation.

“It’s a great tree, you know,” you sigh, wistfully. You hope to keep the tree up and lit long after Christmas passes. It’s a wonderful sight, a depiction of a past life before you became aware of the unknown, of curses and spirits, sorcery and realms besides Heaven and Hell. To see it now, in the domain of a powerful king, shining brightly as if the one who cut it down did not have four arms and eyes. “It’s strong…resilient.”

“Of course it is. Who do you take me for?” he snaps, tone not holding any heat as his sharp gaze looks at you from head to toe. He leans imperceptibly into you when you laugh, a sound that shakes from your robe-covered chest and into the warm air, the shadows catching it as if they are fireflies in the night.

You finally pull your gaze from the tree, looking to Sukuna and he refuses to let you hear the hitch in his breath. He refuses to tighten his jaw or let you hear the click of bone as he fights the urge to openly bask in your gaze. “I have something for you.”

You grab a box beneath the tree, the only object that decorates the skirt. You’re climbing into his large lap before he can protest, willingly invading his space without fear of the consequences. For others, a swift death. For you, a subconscious shift in his form, one of his arms falling behind you and hitching along your hip to steady you on his thigh.

“I hope you like it,” you muse, shrugging with indifference to shield your anticipation. “I know "human sentiments" are not your specialty.”

The hands not holding your back trace along the red ribbon, silky soft and tied neatly by you. But before you can push the box more insistently into his hold, his hands slide under yours, firmly stilling your movements.

One of his hands reaches behind his back, his form shifting closer before he presents you with his own box. It’s smaller than yours, crafted in dark, polished wood, the flames from the fireplace glimmering along the surface.

“How can I let you meddle and not have anything to counter it with?” It’s all Sukuna offers, tone low and edged with something warmer than usual. He places the box in your hands, his gaze heavy on your face as though waiting for a reaction. Truly, the thought of him getting you something had not crossed your mind. Sukuna seemed more than willing to put up with your holiday antics if only to get something in return. So the weight of the box in your hands, cool against your palm, feels substantial.

Your fingers tremble as you lift the lid, the dark wood creaking softly. Nestled inside a bed of rich blue velvet, is something that steals the breath from your lungs. It gleams against the firelight as you pick it up, its crystal surface refracting shards of gold and crimson that dance across your body. The shape is elegant yet otherworldly, the surface etched with markings that you’ve come to see throughout his estate. A stopper made of black Onyx crowns it, carved into a teardrop that you pinch and pull to open.

The scent curls into the air, smoothing beneath your nostrils in a delicate yet commanding embrace. It’s sharp at first, with notes of what you recognize as juniper and lemon, fresh and crisp like the frost that curls on the windows in your chamber. You’re an expert in fragrance, so it doesn’t take you long to detect the undercurrent of bergamot and pepper, adding an edge that’s reminiscent of Sukuna’s power—lurking beneath the surface.

It seems as if the notes are never-ending. Pine needles and incense weave into a rich, earthy warmth, like the forest you both walked through to cut down the decorated pine that rests behind you. Amber and balsam provide a sweetness that lingers with its base notes and a touch of vanilla. Finally, the richness of cinnamon adds a spicy conclusion, as if kissing your skin before it fades into the morning air.

“You didn’t,” you begin, mouth suddenly dry, your eyes quite the opposite. “You made this…?”

“Do you think anyone else could, Ryu?” he counters, his tone holding a rare softness that you wish you were more levelheaded to preserve forever. A hand not resting on your back drifts along your shoulder blades, caressing in a mixture of observance and reverence. “It is yours.”

Like everything else in this domain.

That is what he wants to add. Is what curls at the tip of his tongue. But he uses your fluttering eyelashes to distract that urge that throbs in his chest. Uses the sight of you resting the perfume carefully back in its velvet encasing before closing the wooden box as if it might break.

“It’s beautiful,” you finally whisper, uncaring of how shaky you sound. The gift is uniquely Sukuna, deeply reflecting his essence but still having you in mind. “Thank you.”

He offers that characteristic hum, rumbling through your body and clenching around your heart with a force he’s not yet ready to acknowledge. His belly mouth curves into a smug grin, but his eyes are still on you as if searching for something.

“Another example of my indulgence that you mistake for generosity.”

The way his cursed energy hums around you, warm and protective, tells you otherwise. And it only serves to make you laugh, finally wiping the tears from your cheeks and gently setting the wooden box on the fur rug beneath you both.

“Uh huh,” you tease, snickering at his frown you can see right through. You finally pick up your box, the surface warmed by the fire, now resting in his hands. The teasing air around you both falls to the wayside, hushed anticipation taking its place.

He’s spent days pestering you about what he would get, and now, with you on his lap and his massive hands cradling the box with unexpected gentleness, his curiosity morphs into something else. A prize he’s excited to have and now afraid to open. Not in fear—Sukuna has no room for fear—but in anticipation.

It takes everything in you not to snatch the box and open it yourself, but eventually, he does, and the purse of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes fall before you like a book as old as time finally opening.

The silk is as dark as the shadows that roam these halls, shimmering like oil in water as it slides along Sukuna’s thick fingers. To anyone else, the material would simply be silk. But to Sukuna, he can feel the cursed energy that pulses along it, no doubt stitched together with a cursed thread strong enough to embrace him and yet still soft to the touch.

You had no way to conjure or control cursed energy to weave into the fabric, so you had to turn to Uraume for help. Their frosty hands had guided yours, harnessing the cursed energy necessary for you as you wove the threads, ensuring the haori could hold the weight of Sukuna’s power while remaining as delicate as the intentions behind it.

The silk mirrors the intricate markings on his skin, its edges dyed in gradients of shadow and blood.

“It’s a Haori,” you finally speak, soft and given space so he can observe his gift without hurry. “It’s all you really wear, so I thought crafting something of my own would be….nice.”

Words gather on his tongue, and then scatter like leaves in a storm, too feeble to express the weight of what he feels. He knows that a simple hum of approval won’t be enough—not this time. Not for you. But as he readies himself to speak, opening his mouth just so, his breath catches when he looks inside one of the sleeves.

The inner lining is adorned with ancient symbols sewn in patterns only he would recognize, the same ones you’ve felt him trace in the air around you when he thinks you’re sleeping, offering protection for when he cannot be near you. They shimmer faintly, their glow deepening in the shadowed folds of silk and fading when touched by light—a testament to the darkness he commands and the solace he finds within it.

“Ryu—”

“At least put it on,” you interrupt, voice slightly shaky and betraying your exposed nerves. You hold the garment delicately, taking it from him and helping each arm through the sleeves. The silk moves like smoke around his massive form, designed to accommodate while maintaining the elegant lines that befit a being of his stature. Your eyes are on his skin, focused on the hem of his lapels as you trace over it and rest your hand on his chest.

“There,” you whisper, smiling but not looking up at him. His heart is steady beneath your palm, not fluttering like a bird in a cage, and you’re not sure whether to be upset that your gift doesn’t make his heart race. “It looks good on you.”

It fits him perfectly and thrums with a warmth that echoes the temperature blooming in his chest. That three-letter phrase—that elusive word that’s made his lip curl in disgust since the beginning of time, now pounds in his ears from the garment that sits on his skin.

It’s not just a garment—it’s an acknowledgment of who he is in his truest form, a declaration that you see his beauty in both his power and his evolution. The way it drapes over his marked skin, how it seems to pulse with its own life in response to his cursed energy—these details speak to your understanding of him, how you’ve learned to…love both the demon and the subtle changes your presence has wrought in him.

“You see me,” he finally speaks, uncharacteristically hushed. You see him—demon and protector, destroyer and creator, ancient force and the being who has learned to nestle mortal joy in hands only meant for destruction.

They’ve always been directed at you. Not from him. He’s never said them before. He’s never really known how, and part of him has always been envious of how the words can fall so effortlessly from your lips.

He’s never said them before. And yet now, at this moment, it feels like if he doesn’t act, the opportunity will be lost forever, forced down into the pit of his belly for who knows how long.

You hold your breath when you feel one of his hands cradle your cheek, massive enough so that his fingers card through your dark hair.

“And I see you, Ryu.”

The words feel like a promise. Like they will probably be rare but will only hold more and more weight as time goes by. And that’s okay for you. To be in his presence. To open him up and show him that he is capable of something gentle enough to hold you. That’s your gift that you will never need to wait until the 25th of December for.

His belly mouth is unusually silent, but his cursed energy tightens around you like a caress. Warm and vibrating, a protective weight that will remain around you for as long as you breathe. It speaks volumes that his pride won’t quite let him voice.

You lift a hand to rest on his cheek, tracing along the smooth skin that gives way to the rough texture that wraps around his right side. His two eyes on this side are more narrowed, encapsulated in the hard surface around it but still oozing dominance that could make others cower and definitely not come closer like you do. You cup his jaw before finally meeting his gaze—soft meeting a harshness that will never affect you, love meeting the beginnings of the same that linger beneath crimson pools.

“I see you too, Ryomen.”

The sound of his name makes his chest tighten, the organ behind his sternum pounding irregularly for only a second before falling back in line. His given name is forbidden for any who wish to speak it in likeness—he will only tolerate the name ‘Ryomen’ if it is wrapped in fear, or if it falls from your lips.

The silence lingers for what feels like forever, his hands holding you on his lap while he lets you map his face. Your heart flutters, happiness pulsing through your veins with every beat, cataloging every aspect of this moment in your mind forever.

“There is one mortal tradition,” he finally muses, his voice carrying that particular note of mischief that always makes your breath catch, “that I find…acceptable.”

It’s the kind of tone that usually follows lips along your skin and hands between your thighs, reminiscent of a man who can only bask in vulnerability for moments before shifting to something heady and tinged with lust.

Before you can question his motives, one of his hands lifts to hover above you both. His cursed energy manifests between his fingers, dark and potent, morphing itself into something that makes you snort in delighted surprise. Dark tendrils grow slowly from the mass of energy between his fingers, twisted and mangled to form branches, its leaves pitch black with berries that gleam like drops of blood.

A twisted version of mistletoe, the only representation that would be acceptable to someone like Sukuna.

“Of course, you’d make it look menacing,” you tease, giggling softly as his other arms draw you closer to his chest. His belly mouth snickers from below you, ready to join his host in whatever is planned. One of your fingers traces the metal of his gauges, your eyes narrowing in playful indifference.

“Then I advise you to have one ready for next year.”

Your heart stops, lungs seizing in your chest as the words tunnel into one ear and out the other. Next year. The idea hangs in the air, fragile and precious—proof that even Ryomen Sukuna, with all his arrogance and dominance, is willing to entertain a future with you.

The mistletoe pulses above you, casting reddish shadows across your faces, and you don’t need to think any longer as you lean in to slide your lips along his. His hands widen the expanse of your back, your robe slipping off your shoulders to hang in the crevice of your elbows, the heat from the pulsing mistletoe spreading over your chest. The naked feel of you against his torso pleases him, and beneath the prideful smirk against your mouth, beneath the snicker from his belly, you taste that four-letter word in his mouth, siphoning as much of it as you can before you pull away and rest your forehead against his.

“Merry Christmas,” you whisper against his lips, your body warming even further despite the heat from the fireplace.

He offers that hum—that characteristic hum that means so much.

Acquiescence.

Agreement.

I see you.

The mistletoe falls to the floor, crunching beneath your weight as Sukuna lays you on the fur, hands tracing your waist, sliding along your spine, hiking your legs around him. He doesn’t speak, content to admire you beneath him—a mortal without cursed energy who loves perfume, the paranormal, and classical music. A mortal who hates spiders, but loves Gothic architecture, monsters, and the many books that line his walls.

A mortal who has crawled beneath his skin and nestled there, unwilling to leave. And he’s too ashamed to admit that he gave up trying to pry you from inside of him a long time ago.

You throw your arms around his neck, impatient and tired of his staring, carding your fingers through deceptively soft pink hair to pull him down so that you can once again honor this particular tradition—one that, like everything else between you, has been transformed into something uniquely yours.

Merry Christmas, @grimmweepers !!!!

[heich0e]

Best friends little brother Tobio? 👀 for the ask game

ask game: a christmas drabble from an established AU AU: bff's little brother!tobio

"i know, mom," you say for the tenth time in your short phone call.

"they're calling for thirty centimetres!" your mother exclaims in disbelief.

"it's just snow," you remark with a sigh. "and i already told you: i'm not going anywhere, anyway. i'm gonna be fine."

the snow has brought tokyo to an utter standstill. the kind of storm that only comes once every few years, grinding the usually unceasing activity of the city to a halt. outside the windows of your apartment, the roads are snow-covered and empty, the flakes still falling rapidly outside the frosted pane of glass.

"all right," your mother says warily from her end of the call. "i was just calling to be sure."

after another half a dozen assurances that you are not going to imminently meet a snowy demise, your mother lets you go. you toss your cellphone down onto your sofa once the call concludes, and follow behind it shortly after—landing amongst the fluffy throw cushions with a little oof!

your tv is muted from when you'd answered your phone half an hour prior, the christmas movie you'd been watching still playing silently across the screen. you watch it for a moment, and though the dialogue is lost to you, you can tell a romantic moment is unfolding. the male and female lead are out in the snow, eyes glistening and cheeks rosy, and before you know it they're joined in a passionate embrace.

you sigh.

christmas.

it's not the first time you've spent the holiday alone—nor likely to be the last, considering how your love life seems to be going. but somehow, the weight of your own solitude sits a little heavier in your chest this year. a little more unignorable.

on the coffee table at your side there sits a postcard. you pick it up from the table and hold it over your head as you survey it for the hundredth time.

you'd received it in the mail a few days prior: a glossy photo of cinque terre, oversaturated and probably taken years ago but still undeniably beautiful, printed across the front. on the back there was no message, just your address scrawled in charmingly boyish script.

tobio.

you'd chastised him about a thousand times on your brief visit to italy that he ought to travel more while he's working abroad. before your trip, he'd never even seen the trevi fountain—but you'd been sure dragged him along with you to right that during your stay. it seemed he'd taken your unrelenting criticism to heart, making a point to visit more tourist destinations in his limited time off.

and he always sends you a postcard when he does.

there's never a message included, or even his name, but you know without a doubt who the sender is.

usually you send him a text message to thank him for the card, and ask him what he thought about his visit. the conversations are usually brief—tobio's not much of a chatter, after all. but he has surprisingly insightful remarks to share about the places he's visited, and maybe a photo or two that he snapped while he was there. he's never in the pictures, but it makes you smile to imagine him amongst the scene regardless.

you haven't contacted him about this postcard yet.

you're not sure what the hold up is, really. the first day you'd been on your way to work, and planned to reply on your lunch break. the day had gotten away from you and before you knew it you were collapsing into your bed—the postcard was your last fleeting thought before sleep overtook you, and the image of tobio overlooking the sunny, picturesque coast of cinque terre.

you dreamt of him that night. of his sunsoaked apartment in italy. of cobblestone streets and boisterous restaurants and the warmth of his back as he carried you home when you drank too much wine at dinner.

and now it's been days, and you still can't quite bring yourself to contact him.

you should have gone home with miwa this weekend like she asked you to. should have made any plan that would have gotten you out of your apartment and this strange funk you find yourself in. but now the snow is falling, and the trains are cancelled, and you're alone on christmas looking at a postcard from italy.

a knock at your door tears you from your spiralling thoughts.

you have no idea who it might be. not at this time of night. not in this weather. but you're shuffling to your door quickly in the wake of the knock, pulling a hoodie on over your head as you go to cover up the little pyjama shorts and tank top you have on underneath.

there are many people you're not expecting to see on the other side of your door, but kageyama tobio—with rosy cheeks and snowflakes caught in his unfairly long eyelashes—is surely the least expected of all.

"tobio?" you say, breathless in your bewilderment. "what are you doing here?"

"i came home for christmas," he says, a bit quiet—almost shyly. "i'm sorry it's so late, my plane was delayed because of the snow."

with the entire city shut down, tobio must have had no other option than to turn up at your door like this. any flights or trains he may have hoped to take to miyagi would be cancelled. miwa's gone for the weekend. you must have been the only choice he had.

"come in, come in," you say, ushering him in the door, brushing snow from the front of his coat as he passes. "you must be freezing!"

tobio's cheeks are even pinker as he starts to warm up, ruffling his hair to get the snow from the strands as he sits at your kotatsu. "i'm sorry to turn up without any warning."

"stop apologizing to me, tobi," you say with a laugh, setting the steaming cup of tea you'd just prepared for him in front of him on the table top. "it's no problem for you to spend the night. the trains should be running again by the morning."

he takes a sip of his tea.

"have you told your family you made it here safe?"

"they don't know i'm here," tobio replies, a furrow of confusion on his brow.

"you didn't tell them you were coming home to see them?" you ask him incredulously. tobio doesn't strike you as the type of guy to plan surprises.

he looks away from you for a moment, his eyes catching on something at your side.

"you got it," he says, with something akin to relief in his tone.

you follow his gaze to the postcard at your side.

"i didn't hear from you, so i thought..."

the christmas movie on the other side of the room is still muted.

the snow is still falling outside.

you look back at tobio, and find his eyes on you again.

"i didn't come here to visit miyagi," he says quietly. "i came here to visit you."

[justsomerandomfanfic]

An Amazing First Kiss - Hobie Brown X GN Reader

Title: An Amazing First Kiss

Hobie Brown X GN Reader

Additional Characters: Reader's friend (Mentioned)

WC: 1,651

Warnings: Try at writing a Cockney accent, Reader's nervous, italics, Reader's nervous about first kiss, Hobie is the best boyfriend, hurt/comfort idk?, nicknames, teasing, banter, flirting, mini angst, very brief mentions of lying, and fluff

To cut right to the chase, you were dating the amazing, and super lovable, Hobie Brown. You met him when he was performing with his band at some pub with your friend, and you just couldn't look away from him. His charisma, how easily he seemed to draw people to him, his passion for music, and just the way he’d spot you in the crowd. It made you feel as if no one else existed in the world, except you and him.

His dark brown eyes - even though they were covered by his Spider-Punk mask - had found yours in the crowd. He, too, was unable to look away. The way you softly danced in spot, bouncing on the balls of your feet. Your friend's arm linked with yours, your friends jumping up and down with more enthusiasm, but you drew him in; entranced him. It wasn't long until the two of you started seeing each other, going out for dates and whatnot. And it wasn’t long until the both of you started dating, and he revealed his secret identity to you.

Everything was perfect, except that you were very nervous. You were worried that Hobie might want to kiss you soon. And it's not that you don't want to kiss him. You did… You really did. And you would, eventually. But, at the moment, you just weren't ready. But it seemed that Hobie was. Only last week, he tried ‘the lean in’. But you were quick to come up with some sort of excuse. But, it was coming to a point where you hated lying to him and not talking to him about it. You didn’t want him to think that he was doing something wrong or that you weren’t interested or attracted to him.

The first time he tried to lean in, you had been sitting on the couch together, in his loft, watching a movie. Well, you weren't really paying much attention to it, and neither was Hobie.

"'is movie's bit boring, innit?" He muttered, his arm resting over your shoulders, his fingers randomly drumming along your forearm to an irregular beat. 

"Not the best movie I've seen, no," You agreed, glancing at him, "But it's entertaining to a degree."

Looking down at you, he continued, "'is guy a bit of a git 'ough." Hobie randomly gestured towards the screen where the main character was fighting with his brother.

“I agree…” Looking up at him, your words began to trail off when you noticed how close your faces were to one another. Looking into his beautiful brown eyes, you felt your stomach flip flop. However, you began to inwardly panic as he began to lean in. Red, flashing lights blared inside your mind as you froze and jumped out of his arms and off the couch. Letting out an awkward chuckle, you gestured down at your watch. "I have to go... Uh... Feed my cat." You stumbled over your words, making your way to the front door. Opening the door, you turned to give him a nervous grin, "I'll see you tomorrow, love you!"

“Love you…” As the door shut, Hobie let out a deep sigh, falling back upon the couch. Raising his legs up, he propped his feet on the coffee table. Why did you leave like that? And when did you get a cat?

~~~

A couple of weeks later, you were back in Hobie's loft, baking cookies. You hummed along to the song that Hobie was playing on his guitar in the other room, your thoughts drifting elsewhere as you worked. You didn't know how much time passed, or when Hobie stopped practicing, but as his arms wrapped around your waist, you couldn't help but smile. 

"Wha’ are you makin' 'is time?" He asked, resting his chin on the top of your head as you pressed the heart-shaped cookie cutter into the dough.

"I think you know what I'm making, Hobie." You sputtered out a small laugh, "It's quite obvious." 

He let out a small chuckle, before asking, "Well, 'ow many are you makin’ 'en?" 

"About ten, I think? I won't know until I cut them all out." You patted his hand on your stomach briefly, “And you’re not eating them all like last time.”

Hobie hummed as he pulled away from you, his fingers brushing your waist as he did so, causing a shiver to run down your spine; heading to the stove, he grabbed the kettle, "You want some rosy?" He asked, setting the kettle on the burner, and turning it on. 

Glancing over at him, he was already looking at you, leaning against the counter beside the stove, arms crossed. His gaze was warm, and his grin was - as always - breathtaking. You returned his smile, "Sure, thanks. That would be nice. Do we still have Earl Grey?" You asked before going back to the cookies as Hobie went to fetch the milk and sugar, humming softly to himself.

“‘Ave no scooby-doo.” He answered, before searching around in the cupboards, pushing other boxes of tea around until he spotted the Earl Grey, grabbing the tea box.

Reaching over your shoulder, his chest pressed into your side, Hobie grabbed the sugar from the counter near you. Looking up at him, you were surprised to see him still looking at you. There was that look again, the one that made your insides just turn into mush. But, as if in slow motion, he began to lean in. Quickly, you turned to look back down at the cookies, his lips pressing a kiss into your warm cheek; the coolness of his lip ring sending goosebumps over your skin.

Hobie pulled back, titling his head at you, his eyebrows narrowing as you slid the cookies into the oven; pursing his lips. Hobie was beginning to really wonder now. You seemed reluctant to kiss him, which made Hobie wonder if he had done something wrong. Did he do something? Say something? Did you just not want to kiss him? Hobie snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of the screeching kettle.

Now, Hobie wasn't one to keep quiet about things bothering him. After pouring both him and you a cup of tea, he joined you on his couch. Setting both the cups on the coffee table, Hobie turned himself in his seat to face you, his arm resting on the back of the couch.

"Let's cut to 'e chase, yeah? 'Ave I done some'nin wrong?" He asked you, a slightly concerned expression crossing his features. 

Your shoulders slumped and a small, sad smile formed on your face as you looked down. "No. You haven't done anything wrong, H." You looked over at him, your sad smile turning into a frown upon meeting his eyes, "I... Uh, I don't think I'm ready to kiss yet." You knew Hobie wouldn’t break up with you because of this, but it was an irrational fear that your brain liked to tease you with.

Hobie, though, tilted his head, looking confused at this response. Noticing your frown, the unleashed tears in your eyes. Hobie moved closer to you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. You melted into his embrace, relaxing in his grasp as you let out a sigh of relief. He gave you a reassuring squeeze. "I 'ough' you just didn't want to kiss me, or some'nin' like 'at." 

You shook your head at his words, nuzzling your face into his chest, "No, I... I just don't think I'm ready to kiss anyone right now... I think sometime in the future I will be ready, I don't want you to think that I just won't kiss you ever."

At this, Hobie chuckled, lightly squeezing your shoulder. "Ya silly, luv." He teased, "You should know 'at it's fine. We ain't rushin' into anythin'. You’re stuck with me. I’m not gonna jus’ up and leave ‘cause you ain’t ready to kiss me."

Nodding your head, you gently pulled yourself out of his embrace, looking up at him. "Thank you, Hobie."

"Anytime, luv." He said, moving to lie down on the couch, opening his arms to you. You gladly climbed on top of him, laying your head on his chest; cuddling with Hobie always felt like home. His heartbeat was a steady rhythm under your ear, a comforting sound that made the world outside seem distant and unimportant. 

Leaning up on your arms, you looked down at him, "You're amazing, you know that, right?" Grinning, he reached up and ruffled your hair, causing you to scrunch up your nose. "Oi, don't mess up my beautiful locks," You laughed, jokingly swatting his hand away.

"An' I'm always amazin’. ‘Ough’ you knew ‘at ‘bout me already." He said with a wink, causing you to giggle. 

Staring down at him, you silently admired him. His dark complexion, chocolate brown eyes, high cheekbones, the piercings on his eyebrow and lip. Suddenly, you had an idea. "Hobie, honey, I’ve got an idea." You stated, grinning.

The tall boy sat up with you, a slight tilt of his head and an intrigued look on his face, "What's 'at?" Shifting on his lap, you leaned forward and took his face into your hands, his cheeks soft under your gentle touch. Giving him a small smile, you leaned forward. You shut your eyes before the tip of your nose bumped into his. Softly, you shook your head, giggling, your nose rubbing against his in an nose kiss. As you opened your eyes again, you saw Hobie staring back at you, his eyes half-lidded. A smirk played across his features, "Wow, luv." He whispered.

"Pretty amazing first kiss, eh?" You joked, your hands dropping from his cheeks, and reaching for his hands; interlacing your fingers with his.

"Oh, very amazin’ indeed." He said, bringing your hands to his lips, and kissing each knuckle. “Maybe even more amazin’ ‘an me.”

~~~

Main Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist

[admirationandromantics]

Painting Date

Another request, thank you for sending them!! I finally finished the prologue for the Chris story, so 1/12 parts done. Get ready.

Anyways, this is a little shorter than usual, because sometimes that just happens. This is an au where shit didn't go down, so enjoy <3

“Josh, get two glasses of water!” I shout to the kitchen, getting the last colours piped on the pallet. We were on Blackwood Mountain, a weekend getaway to relax and calm down, a way to disconnect from the bothers of the real world. The first day was painting. I brought a bunch of paint, a couple of canvases and some brushes. We sat up in front of the big windows of the lodge, looking out on the sublime mountain. We may not be master artists, but even they cannot do the landscape justice. Whatever it turned into, I would love it. Anyways, the most important thing was to destress, to merge into nothingness and build our relationship without interference. 

“Here we go” Josh exclaims, walking in with two cups, almost filled to the brim. I actually meant two cups each, but it’s too late to ask him about it now. He puts them on the table in front of us, kissing my head before sitting down beside me. 

“Damn, it’s beautiful outside” he says, eyes wide from the mesmerizing view. 

“Yeah, I know, we should come her more often” 

“We really should, shame about the snow though” 

I look out, seeing the white neat blanket covering trees and stone. It’s absolutely beautiful, whatever does he mean? The snow is untouched by both animals and humans, nature in its purest form. 

“It’s natural, untouched, what’s wrong?” 

“We could’ve at least made some snow angels, if you know what I mean” he answers teasingly. He’s turned to me, brow arched and a smirk plastered on his lips. I laugh at him, at his suggestive tone. How forward. 

“Get your head out of the clouds before the paint dries” 

“Doesn’t look dry to me” 

I comply, adding to the tension he’s building. My finger finds its way to the blue paint, taking a small amount before smearing it on his nose. His mouth opens in surprise, shocked by my challenge. I take it a step further, smiling as I tease him. 

“I guess you’re right, it isn’t dry” 

“You didn’t just do that” 

“I believe I did” 

He leans forward, and I do the same, meeting each other in the middle for a kiss. Lips collide, soft and hungry. His tongue licks my lower lip, begging for entrance. I let him, tongue roaming in my mouth as I deepen the kiss. My hand fares to his neck, pulling him closer. His wet nose graces over my skin, and I feel the paint stain my face. He’s adorable. 

He shifts, and I open my eyes to see his hand subtly coat itself in paint. He acts quick, hand shooting forward. Luckily, I notice, and pull back just in time. 

“Josh…” I try to calm him down, talking sense to get to an agreement. He stands up, walking towards me. I step back in response, mirroring the movement. 

“You so gonna get back” 

“No, Josh, it was just a little, that’s a lot” I explain, pointing down to his green-covered hand. He continues smiling, coming closer towards me. I take a leap, jumping over the sofa so we’re on opposite sides. He laughs at me, but keeps up his pace, walking around the furniture. I do the same, still being on opposite sides. 

“You think you’ll get away that easily?” 

“Well, you love me, you’ll let me off the hook in a couple of minutes” 

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really” I smile as I continue going round. He pulls a heavy chair on the other side, blocking the path I’ve been going three times already. Shit. He then starts running, making me yelp as I go the same route, trying to climb over the chair. 

I’m too slow, and he grabs hold of my waist with his clean hand as I squirm and shout. 

“I swear to God, Josh, I’m gonna kill you” 

His green hand comes closer, and I keep trying to get out of his grip. It doesn’t work. He’s caging me, arm strong as he holds me in place. 

“No, no, no!” 

His hand makes its way to my face, but I grab it with both my arms, holding him centimeters away. He’s strong, and I tilt my head upward as he makes contact with my throat, grabbing harshly. I choke a bit, air leaving as I try to kill a moan. His body is pressed up against my back, hand still around my waist to get me closer. He pushes more on my throat, causing my head to fall back on his shoulder, ear against his mouth. 

“Told you that you wouldn’t get away that easily” 

He kisses my ear, hand moving from my side up to my chest, groping. I let out a whine, feeling my heat pool as he continues touching me. Suddenly, he lets go, taking my hand with his clean one and dragging me back to the canvases. 

“What just happened?” I ask, confused by the sudden change in atmosphere. 

“Let's paint before it dries”

“Wait, you can’t do all that and just stop” 

“Yeah I can” 

“Asshole” 

He smirks, sitting down in front of the windows yet again. I do the same, taking a deep breath and feeling up my throat. The paint is dried, a green handmark showing exactly how he held me. 

“For once, it’s not red” he whispers, paintbrush already in hand as he starts painting. 

“Oh, just wait, I’m gonna get you back” 

“I’d love to see you try”

[mattsbows]

doberman!colby. . .teaches innocent!reader how to smoke ♡

your large doe eyes carefully glance back and forth between colby's plump, pink lips and the joint that's hanging loosely between his fingers. he makes smoking look so effortlessly easy, leaning back against the deck chair and shirtless, despite the cold.

colby takes another hit, holding it in for a few moments before exhaling towards the night sky. "bullet with butterfly wings" floats softly through the speaker that he's placed next to feet, filling the silence between you two.

"can i try?" you ask suddenly, voice soft.

"try what?" he asks, eyes red as he looks at you.

"the um...weed." you state, cheeks flushing.

"you wanna smoke, sweetheart?" colby chuckles.

"yes?"

"you make it sound like a question." your, well, you weren't quite sure what colby was to you yet, stated.

"yes," your voice comes out smaller than intended. "i want to smoke."

"you know how?" colby questioned as the song switched from the smashing pumpkins to some other rock song you didn't know.

you shook your head, silently embarassed about how innocent you were compared to colby. you'd never smoked in your life, opting to stay away from cigarettes, vapes, and joints. but there was something about watching colby smoke that made you want to experience the peace he seemed to be feeling at the moment.

"you take it, you suck in, hold it for a few seconds, blow out. got it?"

you nodded, taking the joint from him, hands shaking. "i think so."

"gonna get lip gloss on my fucking joint." he mumbled in reference to the pink lip oil currently slathered all over your lips, but there was no real malice to the statement.

you carefully brought the weed up to your lips and inhaled. as soon as it hit you, you could tell you hadn't done something right. your lungs filled with smoke quickly, leaving you in a coughing fit as you hastily passed it back to colby.

"shit, baby. that was too big of a hit. small inhales." colby explained.

you continued to cough for a few moments, colby watching you with a wary eye. "i'm good." you croaked after a few minutes.

even though your lungs were still wheezy, you couldn't help the blush that had crept onto your cheeks at colby calling you "baby". he still looked incredibly relaxed as he gazed at you, blue eyes fixated on your lips.

"you wanna try something?" he asked, voice hazy with the high.

"depends on what it is." you squeaked.

"sit in my lap, doll."

you tried to ignore the heat pooling between your legs as you stood from your chair and slowly straddled colby's lap. the soft flannel of his pajama pants felt good against your bare thighs that were hardly covered by your pink, velvet skirt.

colby took another hit from the joint, but this time, he held the smoke in his mouth, ring-clad hand coming to gently caress the side of your neck. before you know it, he's pulling you into a kiss, exhaling into your mouth.

smoke fills you once more, but this time it's better. sweeter. colby gives you a moment to exhale and catch your breath, before pulling you back into the kiss. as his tongue met your own, the sweet taste of cherry lollipops you'd consumed earlier in the evening, along with the weed is exchanged between you. you knew that colby knew his shit; he'd only buy the best strain, but in this moment, you felt yourself beginning to understand the peace he felt when he smoked.

"i like that." you smiled gently, breaking the kiss to give colby a lopsided grin.

"i like you."

a note from the author: i need him bad wtf. enjoy!!

❁ tags: @mattsdemi @purpledragon222 @slxtarchive @natashad0627 @quinnysnursery @tyummyz @colorthecosmos444 @pr3ttyf4wn @mattyblover07 @marrykisskilled

© mattsbows

[revelboo]

Your Soundwave and Starscream make my brain more happy than my antidepressants * - *

I like writing both of them and coming up with alternate takes for them

The idea for the first part popped into my head before bed and was still there in the morning, so I wrote it. But I keep thinking, what if Soundwave knew Shockwave before empurata, back when he was Senator Shockwave? Before they stripped the good parts away and left only the drive to preserve and protect Cybertron, before all the reasons he cared, every emotion but anger had been cut away along with his memories of why it was important to him. What if they were friends and that’s why Soundwave is so patient with his weird, unsettling behavior and anger issues?

Clumsy Heart Pt 2

IDW Shockwave x Reader, Soundwave x Reader

• “I can dispose of this one and find another if they’re unsatisfactory,” he offers when Soundwave is silent, visor dim as he just stares at the human. Displeased with you. Reaching for you, Soundwave’s hand catches his wrist when the human tenses as if considering jumping even though they must realize they won’t survive the fall. Head turning back to Soundwave in question, he waits. “I can find another.”

• “No. Leave it.” You’re only a human, nothing he should care about, but that dispassionate offer to dispose of you doesn’t sit right with him. Knows it’s the lingering grief, but the fear in your eyes, in your mind pulls at him. Makes his spark ache. Releasing Shockwave, he lays the back of his hand on the surface. “Come.” Those wide eyes go from him to Shockwave and back. You’d just heard Shockwave mention disposing you, of course you’re scared of both of them now. And yet, you twist your little hands together and approach him. Stopping just shy of his servos. Looking up at him with wet eyes.

• Dispose, like you’re a bit of trash to throw away. Because the universe isn’t done screwing with you. Apparently catching your ex was just the warm up to this horror. Trying to study them both without angering them, you can feel your heart pounding inside your chest hard enough you wander if you might have a stroke and not actually have to worry about what the giant, robotic monsters want with you. Because that might be the kinder way to go if all the horror movies you’ve watched are any indication. Dissection? Maybe you’re food? A plaything to torment until they break you?

• That anxiety and fear is nearly crippling as Soundwave crooks a servo. Needs you to calm down, because right now he can’t think. Little face grim like you think you’re marching to your own death, you climb into his hand and sit down, shoulders tense. And it’s worse. So much worse when you lay your little palms against him, your wild emotions crashing through his defenses, flooding into him. Shuddering with your fear, head bowing, he’s aware of the ragged, tonal sound of pain he makes. That he’s drowning in you, unable to stop it. “Stop.” Pleading because he can’t shut you out, your terror needling his spark, slicing into him.

• That word sounds like a plea. Like he’s in pain. Something’s wrong. Soundwave trembling faintly as his head dips toward the human. Doesn’t understand what’s happening, but it seems plausible that it’s because of you. Reaching, he uses his cannon to rake you out of Soundwave’s palm, hearing your yelp as you land on your back and slide on the surface of the desk, immediately curling into a ball. And again Soundwave stops him from removing you, grabbing his arm. “Why?” He asks. You’re clearly somehow a threat, so why restrain him? Why not let him permanently remove you?

• Arms covering your head, you draw your legs up against yourself and wait for the next blow. Wonder if you can make it to the edge of the surface you’re trapped on before you’re caught. If you can jump and land so you don’t break something. Needing to believe there’s a way out of this. That you can survive them.

• Venting raggedly as he watches you peek at him, he wonders that himself. You hadn’t been trying to hurt him, your fear just too visceral. A living thing, all jagged edges that can cut him. A hand still on Shockwave’s arm, he reaches out a single servo. Rumbles softly at you, making that low, tonal hum he uses on his cassettes to soothe. Spark aching as you shiver, curling tighter into a ball. Because you’re not a cassette, you don’t understand he isn’t going to hurt you. Ghosting that servo over you, he keeps humming to you. Coaxing you even as it hurts him, his grief and loss tangling with your fear in a confusion of misery. Unable to stop crooning at you through the agony.

Previous

[frannyzooey]

On The Green: 5

Ezra Prospect x f!reader

Rating: M — some prospecting violence

A/N: I cannot even tell you how much this chapter kicked my rear end — it would have never been finished without the love and care and hand holding of @the-scandalorian and @the-ginger-hedge-witch ❤️ Both extremely insightful in their own ways, I am eternally grateful to each of them ❤️ Enjoy!

Series Masterlist

—

All morning he’s been watching you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

The weight of his gaze on your back every time you turn around, logic argues it’s because he’s guiding you into something he knows you’re nervous about. But in the end, shame wins out. It tells you that he knows what you were doing last night while he was in the shower. You contemplate just asking him directly, if only to relieve the feeling, to get it out in the open.

Instead, you keep your mouth closed and decide to put your focus where it should be in the first place.

“Go over it again,” you ask him.

He nods underneath the dome of his helmet, carefully picking his way along a nearly invisible path.

“It’s a wreck. Been one for a while. I came across it a few cycles back, but once I saw that she was no longer functional, I cut my losses. Went through her innards, took what I could – which,” he looks back at you, “mind you, wasn’t much.”

He faces forward again, holding a branch to the side for you to pass. You step carefully over a thick root, accepting the hand that he holds out for help.

“She had been long abandoned even then, so I don’t think we’ll encounter any unsavory protectors today.”

You can tell from the state of the path that he must be telling the truth. The indentation made by long ago steps is covered by overgrowth, a trench you can only feel rather than see. The ground slopes underneath the creeping vines, the crooked line of it hidden by lush leaves. You follow his yellow suit like a beacon, the color a distinct contrast against all the green.

With each step, nerves unfurl in your stomach at the idea that he might be wrong. That there might be another person there, just as eager to keep what’s theirs as you are to take it. The feeling creeps through your veins like the thick vines that crawl over the soil, and keeping your eyes on the familiar yellow in front of you, you squash down the nervousness with every break of one under your boot.

“Slow now. She’s close.”

He holds a gloved hand out to the side, and you peek around the curve of his shoulder. Just beyond the trees, there’s a pod covered in overgrowth, a relic left behind. The windows are yellowed with age, mildew growing over their oval openings.

The hatch is closed, and the area is silent and still.

He takes careful, scouting steps and you follow close behind him.

“Weapon out, Birdie.”

Your thrower already in your grasp, you tighten your hold on it.

You focus on his breathing for a moment, slow and steady through the speaker in your helmet.

“You good?” His voice crackles over the comm link.

When you look up, he meets your gaze with a level one of his own. Patient, checking in.

At the hesitation you can feel in your expression, he reassures. “I promise you, any occupants are long gone.” Reaching out, he lifts the barrel of your thrower. “Still though, can’t be too careful.”

You nod, and he takes the lead, shielding you.

The hatch takes some strength to pry open, and though you should be more nervous about what – or who — you might find inside, you’re temporarily distracted by the sound coming through your commlink. Heavy exhales, low grunts. A low groan of exertion as he pulls, followed by a breathless sound of relief.

The crux of your thighs throbs, and as he disappears into the hatch, you scramble up behind him, right on his heels. There is a tense moment as he rounds the corner, but when he gives you the all clear, your shoulders drop their pressured weight. Relaxed, you both study the disarray in front of you.

Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust: the shards of broken monitor glass scattered on the floor, the torn seats with stuffing spilling out, the stripped panels from the wall. It’s easy to find the compartment you’re looking for: a gaping hole in the middle of the floor, wires spilling from its depths.

You curse silently. “Someone’s been in there.”

“They take everything?” he asks. Using the tip of his pistol, he nudges the lid off the top of a storage compartment and peers inside.

“I’m not sure.”

Setting your thrower and gloves to the side, you get down on all fours and reach into the open compartment. A tangle of wires obstructs your view and your fingers sift through them all, searching by touch alone.

Your arm disappears all the way up to the shoulder before you locate the sharp edge of the circuit board. Grasping it, you lift it free with a sharp tug. It takes forever to ease it out, but when you do, a grin breaks over your face.

Two converters. Worse for wear, but it’s something. Not near what you need, but it still feels like a victory nonetheless. Carefully detaching them from the board, you hold them out for his inspection, cradled in your palm.

“Look at you, my little channel rat.”

His levity sucks all of the remaining tension from the room.

You grimace. “What did you call me?”

“A channel rat. Your little scavenging fingers, digging through the depths of a ship for a treat.”

Dismissing his teasing smile, you shake your head. “Didn’t you tell me once that those things reeked of piss?”

He chuckles. “I did indeed.”

Going back to the hole in the floor, you study the wires left behind for possible scavenging. “If you call me that even one more time, I’ll shoot you in the back.”

His grin widens at your deadpan delivery.

“Deal.”

–

Back in the safety of your own pod, you pull in deep inhales of fresh air as soon as you lift your helmet off. There is a certain sort of pleasure to it, feeling the recycled air hit your cheeks. Inside the helmet, it’s humid and sticky, the blower pack in your suit not enough to combat the heat from your body. It’s built to keep you cool, but under the helmet, your hair sticks to your nape and your forehead with sweat. Under the helmet, your stale breath blows back into your face. Under the helmet, you feel like you can’t breathe sometimes - which is ironic, given the reason for it in the first place.

Ezra stands close, tossing his helmet down to fumble with the zipper of his suit.

That sound. You can hear it in your sleep. No different than the sound of your own zipper being tugged down, and yet, somehow, it is. You envision the entire scene with startling clarity every night: his bare fingers working the clasp, his suit falling away from his body, the sound underneath it all.

“You good?” He checks on you, and when you nod your head but don’t say anything, he bends his gaze to your level. The stark lighting of the pod makes his eyes look even darker, and his hand comes to rest on your shoulder. Right at the edge of your neckline, the heat of his palm brushes against your skin. “You sure?”

“Yea,” you reassure him, trying to ignore the weight behind your navel his touch brings. “It went good. Really good.”

“I think so,” he replies. “I’m impressed. Our first job as a duo, gone off without a hitch.”

He winks, squeezing your shoulder for a brief moment. When his hand slides away, you stop your body from chasing it.

“Here.” His voice pulls you from your reverie, a cleaning kit held outwards towards you. “You do this, and I’ll do dinner?”

Nodding, you take it from him.

Cross-legged on your cot, you enjoy the sounds of domesticity filling the pod: the gentle scrub of your steel cleaning brush, the clink of a metal pan on the stove, a spoon swirling along the bottom of the pan as Ezra stirs. His humming joins the din, and you glance up at him.

If there was something that you’d never have expected from your first confrontation with the man, a scene like this would be at the top of the list. When your attraction initially began, it used to eat you up inside thinking about how you didn’t know him. You felt immature and foolish thinking about how the feelings were rooted in loneliness, sprouting from a life lacking attention and flourishing in close proximity. However, as scenes like the one in front of you became more common, it was easier to accept it.

The want that you feel coats the space like the dust that lingers in the air outside; ever present, in every breath you take. You try to ignore it, a small pocket of embarrassment bubbling up every time you think about approaching him, though he seems like the type who would be into whatever arrangement you’d propose. Especially given how long he’s been alone. Not only that, but the way in which he carries himself suggests he’s ever fluid, open for whatever comes his way. Adaptable, a side effect of his lifestyle you’re sure.

You know better though.

His carefree conversation is practiced, a facade. One meant to disarm and distract. You’re fairly certain he’s past that stage with you, given not only the amount of time you’ve spent together, but also the way he looks at you. Unguarded, in the morning after he wakes or in the evening, right before he goes to bed. Distracted, letting himself slip into thought, his eyes hooded as his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip.

Sometimes though, sometimes you see him looking at you in the same way he looks at others: like they are something to study, his eyes keenly assessing.

That look always gives you pause. No matter how much you know he’d probably say yes, his motives are the question you’d really want answered.

Picturing the bare skin along his ribs that rippled in his stretch the other day when he emerged from the shower, you silently flex your hand, mentally fitting your fingers along the velvet skin. Safe in the secrecy of your own mind, you let your daydreams flourish – a bubble that pops when he approaches your cot.

“Not a feast, by any means,” he says, sitting down next to you. “But it’ll do.”

You accept the bowl gratefully, steam rising from its contents. He blows on his spoon, taking a bite. The motion makes his jaw work, and when he swallows, you watch through the fringe of your eyelashes.

“You did good today.”

His easy praise just slips off his tongue, and for someone who has spent so much time in the darkness, you keen under its light.

You smile over at him, and he returns it - but only for a fraction before it drops.

He looks away, down at his food. “The next one might be a touch harder.”

“How come?” you ask, your mouth full.

“Because it’s occupied.”

You stop chewing.

His eyes flick up to meet yours. “Unattended pods are a thing of rarity. Most are occupied, and their inhabitants can be…”

You raise your eyebrows when he doesn’t finish the sentence. “Can be…?”

“Protective of what’s theirs.”

His statement hangs in the air, his expression sober.

Swallowing hard, you sit with it for a minute. “Makes sense, I guess.”

“Look,” he sighs, studying you. “I feel I should go alone, little bird.”

Frowning, you let your bowl rest in your lap. “What? Why? It’s too dangerous.”

He huffs in amusement. “You wound me with your lack of faith in my skills. I assure you, I’ve been navigating such situations alone for far longer than you’ve even been alive.”

The reminder of his age compared to yours should make you feel more at ease about his capabilities, but instead the statement temporarily distracts you. You take in his calloused hands, the lines that edge around the corners of his eyes, the grey flecks in his beard.

“I’ve taught you a lot,” he continues, “But letting the idea marinate, I believe it’s safer to keep you here.”

His suggestion catches you off guard. Everything about your arrangement has been with the word “partnership” in mind: he’s taught you how to dig, how to shoot, how to be aware of your surroundings. For him to want you to stay behind versus alongside him must mean there is something more dangerous about the situation than he’s letting on.

Not liking the idea of being separated from him, you press. “Trust me, I don’t doubt your skills. I’ve seen you in action.”

He sits up straighter, a proud smile stretching his cheeks, and you roll your eyes, undeterred.

“You’re the mechanic, I’m the muscle,” you mimic in his voice. “Weren’t those your words? If there is anyone there, you’ll deal with them so I can get the converters.”

“I’m afraid they won’t part with them as easily as your statement suggests.”

“I never thought they would.” You hold his gaze, searching. “Why don’t you want me there?”

He hesitates, and you can see a war within the depths of his eyes. Eventually, he answers, his voice softer. “I don’t want to subject you to…an avoidable confrontation. Not if I don’t have to.”

A beat of significant silence fills the space between you. Your dinners forgotten, the space around you shrinks to the size of the cot that you share. The urge to toss your bowl onto the ground and pull him to you builds the longer you sit with his statement, but there is something else about his words that tugs at the back of your mind.

You picture him walking into the Green alone, disappearing from your sight. Weeks with him at your side has you rejecting the mental image. Your stomach churns, your hand reaching out to cover his.

“If you go, I go.”

A grimace flashes over his features, the scar along his cheek highlighted for a moment. “I thought you’d say that.”

Rationally, you know he’s just trying to protect you, but you let your hand fall back, hurt. Busying yourself with your bowl again, you can feel him looking at you.

“Hey now,” he says, soft, but stern. “It’s not a lack of faith in your skills, trust me. It’s just that mercs out here are ruthless, raw. Their sensibilities have been swallowed whole by this place, and I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

His voice lowers even more, his tone gentle. “You remember what I said? About girls being rare in this place?”

You look up, and his gaze is fixed on yours, earnest and serious.

“I meant it.”

Apprehension flickers in your chest, but you remain firm in holding your ground. He can’t go alone.

“You really want to come with?” he asks.

You nod instantly. “Yes.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up, a hint of pride flashing through his eyes.

“Okay then, partner. Let’s talk about a plan.”

–

Ezra shifts on his cot, forcing his pillow into submission under his head.

“If you go, I go.”

Your words echo in his mind, your face appearing alongside. Your presence pulls at him from across the short distance between your cots, and he shifts again, rolling to face the wall.

He doesn’t want you to come with tomorrow.

He knows what this place is capable of, the way it carves out the morals of men to leave them shells of desperation. He himself has fallen victim to it, and though he hasn’t often found regret in his actions, he already regrets agreeing to let you come. He’s been here long enough to know that a partner is crucial to survival, but you…you’re unprecedented. You’re a girl. You’re something no one has seen in a long time, and he worries (an emotion he’s not used to) about how they’ll react when they see you.

If it’s anything like the way he reacts to you, you’re both in trouble.

You stir behind him, and he listens. You shift again, and he stills his breath.

The idea that you might be restless with the want you sated last night blossoms in his mind, heat pooling behind his navel. His fingers lightly scratch the wiry hair underneath it, just over where he aches. His cock twitches in interest, and distracting himself from the thought of everything that could go wrong tomorrow, he immerses himself in the thought of you.

You, right behind him, feet away.

You, trying to be quiet, slick need gathering between your thighs.

You, slipping your hand underneath the band of your leggings.

A phantom stickiness smears across the tips of his fingers, and they twitch against his skin. He teases at the band of his thermals, pretending his hand is yours. He moves it slowly, imagining your hesitation - eager, yet shy.

He thickens fully at the thought.

Unpracticed at hiding his attraction towards someone, he’s testing the limits of his self restraint with every minute spent in your presence. Constantly reminding himself of how vulnerable you are, the idea that you’d go along with any sort of proposition out of intimidation makes him sick. But you wanting it? You making the first move?

His hand (your hand) creeps a little lower, brushing against the base of his cock. It’s stiff to the touch, and he closes his eyes – only to be assaulted with the idea of someone else grabbing your hand to force it underneath their pants. His erection wanes, a series of images flashing through his mind: you screaming for help, you being forcibly dragged out of his sight, someone else taking from you what you never offered.

He softens.

His attachment to you is something like he’s never experienced before. This urge to keep you hidden from the world to protect you, while also helping you flourish. The need that coats him from the inside out, yet is forced to stay on a leash. It feels like a fever dream sometimes, the time he spends in the pod with you. A liminal place, a trapped sort of existence akin to hell itself in the way he wants you, but also something akin to heaven.

A companionship he’s missed, a presence he ached for and now has. Like you dropped from the sky, meant just for him.

He hears you shift again, and he frowns.

He should roll over and ask you if everything’s okay, but he knows it’s not. You’re probably worried about tomorrow and you should be. You’re as ready as you’ll ever be — as ready as this place will allow you to become before you’re thrown into the heat of the fire.

He also shouldn’t because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop himself. If he rolls over, he’ll see you — see your shadowed form in the darkness, the dips and curves of your body. He pictures himself being drawn to it, crawling the distance between your cots. Settling close to you, feeling the heat of your skin. Murmured, dulcet tones of soothing. His hands smoothing away your nerves.

His mouth being drawn to yours in the dark intimacy of the night.

He wants to tuck your face into the crook of his neck and tell you it will be fine.

But he doesn’t know if it will be, and so he stays still, guilt eating at his restless bones.

—

The pod stands alone in the clearing, silent and imposing.

Boot prints have tamped down the soil surrounding it, the greenery eaten away. The tracks are fresh, and they lead in every direction.

“How many do you think there are?”

Hidden in the green together, you speak lowly even though no one is tuned into your frequency but Ezra.

“Hard to say. I’d judge two, maybe three.” He shifts, trying to get a better view. “The size of their vessel doesn’t say much for numbers. Can’t be more than that.”

“Do you think they’re in there?”

Noting no sign of life surrounding the pod, you try to peer in the windows from afar to spot any movement.

He sighs, a heavy and resigned thing through your connection. He turns his head, and you do the same, facing each other.

“Unfortunately, Birdie, we won’t know until we open the door.”

He checks the charge on his pistol, flicking his eyes to your weapon in a motion for you to do the same. “You ready?”

Nodding, you grip your thrower. “Ready.”

Standing from your hidden spot, he takes an automatic lead in front of you. His slinking steps are careful, his breathing steady and measured. The dust motes surrounding you make the whole thing seem like a suspended dream, like you’re moving in slow motion along with them. For every step he takes, you do the same until you’re moving as mirror images, creeping closer and closer.

Anticipation and adrenaline have your entire body on high alert, yet the green around you remains eerily calm. There is no movement and no sound other than the gentle rustle of the trees, and while that would normally be muted underneath the dome of your helmet, your straining ears pick it up. A bead of sweat glides down the back of your neck, your eyes focused on Ezra’s back as he reaches the pod.

His gloved hand strokes down the smooth metal of the hatch, searching for an opening. When he finds it, you can hear a terse smile in his exhale of relief.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “You gonna open up for me?”

He works the latch open with force, and you spot check the edges of the clearing. Your heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your chest, and in contrast, Ezra seems as calm as ever. You think about your own pod in the middle of a similar clearing, and how your role has reversed in your weeks here. Once the trapped person inside, now the intruder seeking what belongs to someone else.

The hatch opens, and you crawl in behind him.

It’s empty inside, though clearly in use. Two cots are pushed against the wall, blankets and pillows crumpled on top of them. Thermals litter the floor, metal dishes are stacked next to the small sink, and there is a station of cleaning tools left out, as if someone stopped mid-task.

“Speed is of the essence, little bird.”

His voice grounds you, your eyes immediately scanning the floor. It takes a minute to find the sealed compartment, but you catch the edge of it underneath one of the cots.

“Help me move this,” you ask him, picking your way over to the panel. While you’re careful with your steps, he stomps without care on anything in his way: discarded papers on the floor, a dirty shirt. He lifts the cot with a grunt, and you drop to your knees.

The panel springs open and sifting through the wires, you wish you stopped to take your helmet off. It’s hard to get close enough to the floor with the dome limiting how close you can get, and a small huff of frustration slips from your mouth as you stick your arm down, down, down, stretching it as much as you can.

Just when you’ve reached your limit, you feel the edge of the panel.

“Anything there?” He delivers the question calmly, though you can hear the slight tone of urgency that slips through.

“Got it,” you grit through your teeth, tugging it free.

The edges of it catch on the neat wiring that surrounds it, and impatiently, you tear through it all. Lifting it from the floor, your eyes widen.

“Ten. There are ten, Ez.”

You look up at him in awestruck wonder, and he returns a tight smile.

“Speedy now. Show me how you use those nimble fingers of yours.”

You click them off with practiced precision, trying to tamp down the elation that you feel at the added weight of each one in the pouch attached to your hip. When you have all ten, you toss the panel back into the nest of wires and slip the lid back into place. Standing to get out of his way, you watch as Ezra unceremoniously drops the cot back onto the floor.

He smiles at you, a genuine one this time. “You did so good, Birdie. So good.”

Relief floods your chest at his praise. Your stomach has been in knots all morning, worsening as you sat in the bush and waited, and though you know you’re not out of danger yet, you take a moment to let your victory wash over you. A sudden, fierce wish to be back in your own pod with him takes you by surprise, a burning need to throw your helmet off and have him do the same so you can kiss him. Your body subconsciously leans forward, drawn to the idea and to him and to the need to have his praise breathed directly into your mouth for you to swallow.

A similar look flashes across his own dark features, and there is a beat of weighted tension. It swirls in the space between you, filling it — and breaking, when he grabs your hand.

He gives it a squeeze, leading you back towards the hatch. “Come on. Before they get back.”

Following the back of his suit out of the pod, you notice the surroundings of the clearing seem brighter, less ominous. The dust that floats through the air no longer seems threatening and nightmarish, but more like a pleasant dream. You take in the details for the first time today, your eyes fixed where the tops of the trees brush the sky – disappearing when you’re ripped from behind with a sudden, forceful jerk backwards.

“Ezra!”

Your thrower gets tossed from your hand, and the air is pushed from your lungs as your back hits the ground with a thud. You kick wildly and try to scramble up, and a sharp kick from behind keeps you trapped in place, forcing you onto your front.

Coughing, you lift your head under the helmet, but the edges of the dome obstruct your view. Straining, you squirm underneath the heavy pressure of a boot on your back, fighting to see where Ezra is. You can see only his boots, toe to toe with a stranger’s.

The voice above you is grizzled and deep. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Looking for something we need,” Ezra drawls, and though you can’t see his face, you can picture it. The truthful admission comes out slow and confident. “We found it, so we’ll be on our way.”

You hear the charge of a thrower above you, and Ezra’s boots shift slightly. It’s a special sort of hell to hear him through the comm link without being able to see him.

“Go in there and see what the fuck they took,” orders the man pinning you to the ground.

You see his partner's boots walk out of your sight, and hear him climb the ramp to the pod.

“You stay right there,” he warns Ezra. “One move and I’ll shoot your partner here.”

Lifting your torso with a grunt, you shift just enough to get Ezra in your sights before the boot on your back forces you back down. Even though you’re prone and he’s being held at gunpoint—both at the mercy of a stranger—reassurance floods through you at just being able to see his face.

“That would be…regrettable.”

The shift in Ezra’s expression is cold and menacing, his fingers flexing slightly on the grip of his pistol.

“That so?” the man teases. His boot wiggles, shoving you deeper into the soil. “Feels kinda scrawny. Can’t imagine what use he is to you for someone so small.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ezra counters.

“Let’s see him.”

The words take you by surprise, just like the swift jerk of your shoulders. He flips you faster than you can react, his boots coming down to step on your arms and the tip of his thrower aims directly at your face – his eyes wide with surprise right above it.

“Is this – is this a girl?”

Your boot flies up to kick him in the back, and he grunts but doesn’t budge. You do it again, and he presses the muzzle of his thrower into your chest.

“Do it again and see what happens.” Antsy, he glances up in the direction of the pod and yells to his partner. “What the fuck is taking you so long?”

Taking advantage of his split second of distraction, you use every ounce of strength you have to bow your back off the ground just enough to catch him by surprise. His boots falter, taking the pressure off your arms and you quickly sit up, driving your elbows into his thighs. He growls in frustration, trying to keep his thrower on you while also bending to swipe for your leg, and you scramble backwards in the soil. Your boots slide on the damp earth, your gloved fingers digging into the ground for purchase and there is a sharp crack in the air as Ezra aims his pistol at the man and misses. You flinch, crawling backwards to get out of the man’s reach, and panic cuts through you when you hear the stomp of boots coming down the ramp.

“What the hell –”

Those are the only words the man gets out before you hear more cracking shots, and then he’s falling backwards, dead, onto the ground.

“You son of a bitch!” The man who had you pinned lunges for Ezra, his thrower tossed to the side, a knife in his hand instead.

Ezra abandons his own weapon, throwing himself at the stranger. You watch helplessly as two of them hit the ground, fighting for control of the knife. Crawling towards Ezra’s gun, you stretch your hand towards the weapon when you hear it.

“Just wait till I kill you,” the man warns between his teeth. “I’m gonna fuck that girl raw. Right here. Right next to your dead fucking –”

A grizzled choking sound cuts off the man’s words, and you whirl to face them just in time to see Ezra jerking the knife out of the man’s neck. Blood spurts across Ezra’s gloves, and he shoves the knife down again, and again. The force behind it is immense, Ezra’s face contorted in a look you’ve never seen before. His jabs are ruthless and quick, cutting and deep, and his arm speeds up, his face in a rage-filled trance, his eyes wild and cold all at the same time.

“Mine,” you hear him between heavy breaths, between each plunge. “She’s mine.”

Frozen, you watch in a morbid sort of fascination, but also in relief.

He doesn’t stop stabbing until the man is long dead.

—

The walk back to the pod is as quick as it can be, with Ezra’s weight leaning heavily on your side. All traces of joy and victory have long vanished, and the two of you say nothing to each other as you trudge along the hidden path.

His expression as he killed that man plays on repeat in your mind the whole way, along with his words.

“She’s mine.”

Though he’s trying to mask his pain, his grip on your hip tells you the truth, as does his labored breathing. You didn’t see it happen, but the man must have hit his mark at least once, judging from a telltale stain of dark red smeared across the front of Ezra’s suit. It seems to take forever to get back, and with every step, his wound gets worse and worse in your mind.

Finally back inside your pod, you strip and toss everything carelessly onto the ground.

“I need the med kit,” he groans, collapsing against the wall. His movements are jerky as he rips his helmet off, and then his gloves, using his teeth. “Fuck,” he sighs, his eyes pinched closed.

He’s pale, his sweat matted hair stuck to his forehead and you kneel in front of him with the kit, rifling through the contents.

“What do you need?”

His hand splays protectively over his lower stomach. “He got me through my suit, just here.” He shifts, a loud groan breaking free when he peels down the top of his suit. He rolls it to the waist, and gingerly pushing the fabric down, you see his thermals underneath, stained dark and saturated with blood.

He lifts it, and you wince.

“Looks worse than it is,” he breathes heavily, letting his head fall back against the wall.

“It looks pretty bad, Ez. Really bad.”

His stomach is matted and smeared with blood, and at the center of it all, a gash.

He holds his hand out for gauze, dabbing at the wound with a hiss. “See?” His stomach flinches, and he wipes it again before looking at you. “A stitch or two should do it.”

“You sure?” you ask, and he nods, letting his head fall to the side as he looks away.

“In you? Always.”

Your fingers tremble slightly when you flick open the med kit, and then rote memory takes over. You’ve done this – your father used to stumble home all the time with various gashes. Bar fights, brawls in alley ways. Prospectors are a rough crowd, and you’d stitched him up more than once. This is just like that, only better because you don’t have someone yelling at you to do it faster – but also worse, because you care about this person more. The thought leaps into your mind, and knowing you don’t have time to dwell on it, you shove it away.

Ezra flinches at the touch of your hand against his bare stomach, his muscles tensing under your fingers.

You pause, and he lets out a nervous laugh.

“Sorry. Cold hands.”

You give him an apologetic smile.

“Keep going.”

You take your time disinfecting the wound, making sure all traces of dirt are gone. Your hand sweeps across this skin more than once, trying not to think about all the ways you imagined touching his stomach for the first time. It’s soft under your fingertips, a slight round to his lean belly and though his neck is taut with tension, he remains still under your exploration. You want him to look at you: for reassurance, for acknowledgement of your hands on his skin – but he is resolute, keeping his eyes fixed on the wall.

Setting your rag down, you pick up the stapler.

“You ready?”

He nods.

Using one hand to pinch his flesh together, you brace the stapler against his skin, blood smearing on the metal. You punch the first one through, and he hisses, his hand gripping your wrist.

“Shit. Shit. Keep going.”

His breathing has turned into panting, his eyes clenched tight. You slide it along his skin an inch, and then punch another one.

The groan he lets out would be filthy, if not for the situation you’re in. It’s a strained, long thing — his head tipped back, veins highlighted along his neck and you toss the stapler to the side, pressing fresh gauze against the wound.

“All done. It’s done.”

He nods, a tired smile gracing his face. Leaning forward, he keeps one hand on his stomach and you watch nervously as he crawls onto his cot. He falls back onto his pillow, calmer now, but still pale.

“My thanks, Birdie.”

He slips into a stress-induced sleep, and you look at him for a moment before cleaning up.

At the sink, you notice his red hand print around your wrist. The blood had pooled between his fingers, the digits a slick slide over your small wrist and you brush your thumb over the marks he left behind. It looks violent, yet there is a part of you that likes it. Being branded with him, a part of him smeared into your skin.

You hesitate to wash it off.

—

He sleeps, and you keep watch.

You had worried for your father sometimes, but it was nothing like this. In the small amount of time that you’d come to know him, Ezra already meant more to you than your own father ever did.

In the dark, you finally let yourself dwell on the realization.

Your father had never truly been a father. He was more of a stranger, or a roommate at best. He dragged you down with him, keeping you close enough to use you when he needed. He was never invested in you, never cared what you thought or wanted. You never needed him for anything, but Ezra…Ezra you need. You need him to survive and get off this planet, but you also need him more than that. Deeper than that.

The respect and courtesy he treats you with is something that surprised you, given the way you met. In a short while though, you’ve come to realize it’s exactly what’s been missing from your life this whole time. His curiosity and interest is genuine, and his care for you — especially after the events of today — is obvious.

She’s mine.

Did he say that because it’s true? Or because he needs everyone else to believe it’s true?

His lashes flutter, a dream seemingly racing through his slumber and you watch the movement of his eyes under his lids. His fingers flex, and without thinking, you place your hand on top of his.

He stills, and so do you.

The minutes and hours slip by, the moon slowly making its way from one pod window to another and you keep your vigil all the while. He murmurs in his sleep, and you cradle the curve of his jaw. Even after he stops, you keep your hand in place.

Your thumb traces the line of the scar on his cheek - a hooked thing, violent. He never told you how he got it, and you long for him to wake up and regale you with the story. He’d make a meal out of it, you know he would.

When he doesn’t stir, you continue your exploration.

Delicate touches: a swipe over his silken eyelid, a trace down the line of his nose. The bristle of his moustache tickles the pad of your thumb, a direct contrast against the smooth patch of skin on his jawline where there is no hair.

He’s a killer, and you wonder how many have gotten as close as this.

She’s mine.

He’s right — you are. In a short while you have become his. The juxtaposition of the man you saw today versus the man in front of you now is jarring, as if he couldn’t be the same man at all. And maybe he’s not, for anyone else. But for you, he is.

You get both, and while you should have been scared by the way he savagely killed today, you instead find yourself proud. You find yourself drawn to it, admiration and assurance and a sense of protection swirling around in your mind.

He did that for you, something no one has ever done.

Emboldened by this knowledge and drawn to his profile in the dark, you rest on his firm chest, and your fingers splay outwards over his heart.

Leaning down, you press your lips lightly against his.

–

He’s been awake for a while.

He has wished for you like this so many times. Just like this, only he never imagined himself like this. Just his luck that his wish comes true, but at a cost.

You’re so close, your face hovering just above his. He can smell the sweetness of your breath, of your skin. The way you’re looking at him has been one he’s only ever seen in his dreams, and though his body aches with a hidden want that threatens to consume, he stays perfectly still, not wanting it to end.

He’s never been touched like this by anyone, and it takes everything he has to keep his eyes closed — until he feels you press your lips against his.

He responds instantly, his hand coming up to cup the crown of your head.

Your kiss is so soft — soft and delicate and vulnerable, just like you. Your mouth fits neatly against his own, and before he can truly savor it, it’s gone.

He opens his eyes and your shadowed form comes into focus, your proximity intoxicating. His dream come to life.

His hand slides down the back of your hair, settling on your neck. Holding you place, he can see the vulnerability that seeps out of your every pore, and he longs to soothe you. If he knew what he should soothe, he would.

He knows what he wants to soothe, but he waits.

“What are you doing, Birdie?” he whispers.

Your eyes flit between his, and you bite your lip, thinking. He watches as you war with yourself inside your head, and his touch drifts to cup your cheek. His thumb slides across the soft curve of it, and when his eyes dip to your mouth, he watches your expression change to something more assured.

Confident, resolute.

“This,” you whisper back, bending down for another kiss.

[taintandviolent]

Baby, it's cold outside ; Oz Cobb x Reader

summary: It's Christmas Eve in Gotham City, and it's bitterly cold, but you're warm up in Oz's penthouse. When he comes home from an event, you're waiting, wrapped up like a little present.

word count & w a r n i n g s: K | older man/younger woman, established relationship, making out, shameless smut, unprotected sex, foreplay in a Santa outfit, santa kink????, christmas themes, very inappropriate use of christmas puns/phrases/themes, fingering (female receiving), festive dirty talk, praise kink, very brief and light bondage, .

a/n: requested by a few anons! I hope it satisfies your festive whore needs for this man!!! not beta read and kinda rushed, but such is life. I wanted to get this out before Christmas Eve. Also speaking of Eve's.... Eve is... MIA I don't know, it's a plot hole, it didn't work out between them, yada yada, but she's not apart of this. all in the name of spice / reader's benefit! banners by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

Gotham had been hit by a massive blizzard, but you weren’t complaining. It was Christmas Eve, and the snow was welcomed. At least by you, who didn’t have to be out in it. Big, fluffy flakes drifted down from the clouds, and you had a perfect view of the snow-covered city from the large windows. With the music that you’d put on, it felt altogether very Christmas-y.

You were enjoying the snow by yourself for the time being. Oz had left late that afternoon in a Santa suit. Some favor he had to do – couldn’t get out of it. The way he bristled every time you brought it up told you not to ask for too much information.

Christmas was really important to Oz – you assumed it was a favored holiday of his mother’s or something. Which was unsurprising. Everything, in some way, rooted back to his mother. You had come to terms with that, and accepted it. Played into it, even. 

He was insistent on a tree. A big one.

By the first of December, he had a massive one picked out for the living room, and a smaller (but still substantial) one for his mother’s room and had them delivered to the penthouse. You two decorated the big one that night, with cocktails and music. As with everything in his life, Oz was particular about decorating. After a few drinks, you could admit, your tree decorating skills were lacking. You’d lazily hang them in clusters, and Oz would fuss after you, rearranging it until it looked like it had fallen out of a magazine. 

But tonight, the tree was perfect. You crouched down in front of it, flicking a particularly ample bow atop a package. It wobbled and glittered, catching the twinkling lights above it. Most of the presents were yours – you knew this. Every time you turned around, it seemed there were another two tucked under the tree. 

“Doll?” 

Oz’s gruff voice comes from the hallway, echoing against the walls. Your head snaps up, and you straighten, pushing yourself off of your knees – you hadn’t heard him come in. You wrap the fluffy white robe tighter around your body, making sure that it isn’t revealing anything of your surprise. You’d been in the lingerie for a few hours, not knowing when he’d get home.

He rounds the corner, lumbering in with the signature gait that you’ve come to love. Though he’s ditched the hat and beard, he’s still in the classic red and white suit. It suits his stature and you screw your lips up in an amused smile, trying not to laugh at how miserable he looks. Like an excited child, you gallop over, pressing your hands against the plush suit. You trace circles in the fabric and look up at him with your doe eyes and pouting lips. 

“Ohohoh, Santa,” you coo, playfully. “You’re early.” 

Seeming embarrassed, Oz pulls your hand off his chest, holding it for a moment before bringing it to his lips. A small kiss is placed upon your knuckles before he finally speaks. “Ah, cut it out. Lemme’ get outta’ this fuckin’ thing and I’ll –” 

“Ozzy…” You back up, your hands falling to the tie of your robe. “You know, it’s customary to open a present on Christmas Eve.” 

He stops, mid-turn, and squints at you. He knows you well enough to know that mischievous glimmer in your eyes ain’t going away.

“So, open this one.” 

In a fluid motion, you untie the sash and shrug the robe off your shoulders. It falls to the floor, revealing your festive lingerie that you’d picked out weeks ago. You watch Oz’s eyes light up as he takes in the visual in front of him, starting at your feet, which are covered in a pair of red nylons, thigh highs. His gaze travels upwards, pausing to savor the look of the garters stretching over your lush thighs. Your bare stomach tenses at his gaze, before finally, he gets to the bra; a giant red bow that conceals the majority of your ample breasts. He can’t see it, but your nipples harden under the fabric, a reaction to the chill of the room and the heavy weight of his gaze. 

“Fuck…” He shifts, turning back around to face you fully. 

“But I dunno’.... Only good boys get their presents.” 

The words hit him like a ton of bricks. Oz swallows hard and licks his lips. He jerks his head to the side and lets out a breathy laugh, before holding his hands out.  

“Baby, who is dressed like fuckin’ Santa here? I think I’m the one that gets to decide who is naughty or nice, huh?” 

Your fingers toy with the edge of the bra’s bow, teasingly. “Hmm. Well, we all know that I’ve been a good girl this year.” 

“Yeah,” he says, limping over to you. His hands ghost over your nearly bare hips. “Yeah, you fuckin’ have.” 

You look down at his hands, then shoot your gaze back up to his brown eyes. Languidly, you grab his hand, bringing it to your lips to graze your teeth over the pads. Oz shifts his shoulder, trying to fend off the oncoming erection, no doubt. Something about pitching a tent in a Santa suit feels immoral, but you clearly ain’t on his side on this one. 

 “Don’t I get to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what I want? Huh?” 

You drop your hands, pulling his with them and tugging him towards the velvet sofa. It faces the windows and the tree, which is an incredibly picturesque and romantic background to fuck to, you think. You yank a little harder, though he’s standing stiff, watching you with hesitant eyes. 

“C’mon Ozzy….. C’mooooon.”

Finally, he concedes to your pulling and follows you to the couch, allowing you to guide him to the middle cushion. With a sharp shove, you push him backwards. He hits the couch with a grunt and looks up at you with those big cow eyes of his  – the ones that you can’t resist, no matter what you do. 

He licks his lips again. “What is this, huh?” 

You tap his nose and bend at the waist to stroke his plush-covered thighs. He’s being good; his red trousers aren’t straining yet. You frown playfully, making sure he sees your pitiful little pout. “Where’s your Christmas spirit, hmm?” 

Your hands continue their trailing up to his groin, and one hand palms his cock outside of his pants. Oz shifts his hips backwards at the sudden contact, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Movin’ your way down the list, sweetheart.” 

“Me?” You gasp. It’s a gentle, girlish sound and you feign shock. Your hand grips his cock a little tighter. “I’m the best girl in the world. I’d never be on the naughty list.” 

He chuckles low and looks down at himself. He feels the telltale heat rushing down between his legs, and it won’t be long before the fabric fights against his hardening length. “I dunno’...”

Your hand abandons its post and moves up to his wide stomach, where you quickly unbuckle the large black belt, sliding it through the loops. You throw it around his neck and pull him forward until his nose bumps into your cheek, and his lips meet yours. You kiss him long and hard, tasting him and whatever alcohol was leftover from the event. 

All at once, Oz lets out a deep groan, and reaches up to pull you into his lap. “C’mon, sweetheart. Sit on Santa’s lap, then.” 

You titter happily, and replace the belt with your arms. One knee at a time, you straddle him and lower yourself down. He doesn’t bother putting on a Santa-esque accent when he asks you what you want for Christmas this year, but does throw in a teasing ‘little girl’. 

You hum and raise your eyes to the tall ceilings, thinking. “Well let’s see… should I play Santa Baby for you? Been an awful good girl…” 

“Why don’t you tell me what you really want?” 

Your gaze falls heavy to his, and you smirk, leaning forward. You position your lips next to his ear and whisper a string of festively phrased, lewd desires that make his lips quirk up in a pleased smirk. 

“Stuff your stocking, huh?” he repeats. 

You nod and as if to punctuate your sentence, you grind your hips against his lap and take note of the stiffness that’s there now. A pleased smirk contorts your lips as you look below your bodies. Amidst all the red fabric, there’s a distinct outline, the fabric tenting as his cock swells from all of your teasing. 

You push yourself up on your knees. As you grip the sides of your panties, you lean forward to tug them over the curve of your ass. The position puts your bow-clad cleavage in Oz’s face and he snags the opportunity to kiss the tops of your breasts. “Mm-mm…” 

You pull them down your thighs, until they rest in the crook of your knees. Oz wastes no time in bringing one of his hands up to her. His fingers stroke her delicately, admiring every inch of her, watching as your hips buck and jerk when he nears the already slick slit. 

“This all for me?” 

“Baby, it’s always all for you. ‘Cause you’re always so good, aren’t you, Ozzy?”  

Between your legs, you feel his hips rise instinctively. He’s hard now, and the tip of his middle finger glides between your folds. You whimper and grip his broad shoulder tight, digging your perfectly manicured nails into the fabric. 

As an afterthought, you bring both hands down to his chest. Fluidly, you slip both hands underneath the jacket, and push it over his shoulders, revealing the white shirt underneath. He’s got his suspenders on, which you immediately tug on. You find them incredibly sexy, something that while he never understood, he appreciates. 

His finger plunges into your warm, wet cunt and sets there a moment, just feeling her.You clench around him, and he pulls out, replacing it with two. The girth of his two fingers is always so satisfying, filling you as he pumps in and out. 

His tongue juts out, mere centimeters from your center. He’s not close enough to taste her, but god he wants to. You can tell; the way he licks his lips repeatedly, his eyes locked on his fingers as they slip repeatedly from your slick cunt. She clenches around his thick digits while you moan above him, resting your cheek on the side of his head.

Finally, after a few more pumps, he withdraws his fingers and you immediately reel back, disappointed. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean. 

“Fuck,” he murmurs around them. 

The visual has you leaking and clenching around nothing. You long for the filled feeling again, and wiggle your hips to remind him. You reach behind your back, and unclip the bra, letting your tits fall free. “Ozzy, don’t stop…” 

Without another word, Oz lifts you up with both hands, and sets you down on the sofa next to him. Using the arm of the chair, he pushes himself up and turns to face you. Slipping your hands over the silky velvet, you flip over and push your ass up into the air. He makes a fist around your panties and tugs them down over your ankles. He flings them towards the tree, and you can’t help but let out a little chuckle when they catch on a branch, hanging there as one of the most lewd decorations you’ve ever seen. 

Oz pulls your attention back, taking a fistful of your exposed ass. “This pussy is the best fuckin’ present, sweetheart. There ain’t nothin’ I want more than this….” 

You let out a humiliating whine as he toys with her from behind, his fingers sweeping over your entrance. His thumb catches the side of her, and he pulls her apart, exposing the slick, glistening flesh. 

“Shit, baby… fuckin’ soakin’ wet.” 

He pulls the suspenders off his shoulders, and kicks the trousers down. It’s a bit of struggle to get his briefs down, but he finally does it, and grunts, shuffling closer to you and hoisting his good leg up onto the sofa behind you. 

Taking himself in one hand while still holding you open with the other, Oz slips his fat tip inside. It’s enough to make you whimper, desperately, but you know the moans will come as soon as he plunges himself inside. Though Oz loves every position, he particularly likes taking you from behind. He loves watching as he disappears into you, your dripping cunt swallowing him whole with every thrust. 

“Fuck me, Ozzy… fuck me, please, baby…” 

“Heh, don’t gotta’ ask me twice.” he replies, before pushing himself a little further in. His thick cock stretches you wide and you arch your back up, unable to contain the moans that tumble from your mouth. 

“That’s it… mhm…. Just like that - fuck!” 

Your hips meet him halfway, and Oz sinks himself all the way in, fucking into you hard with an immediate rhythm. Your stomach tightens with the waves of pleasure, your hands gripping the side of the sofa hard. 

“Oh my god, oh my g— You’re… you’re so fuckin’ good, Oz. You’re so fuckin’ good, oh my god. N-nobody’s better than you, baby…” 

Though Oz usually fucks you speechless, you’ve gotten in the habit of verbally praising him. If you don’t, he’ll ask for it anyway. It’s something that deeply arouses him, and makes him fuck you all the harder. Which he does. He groans and ruts his hips against your ass, filling the room with the slapping of your bodies as they collide. Silently, you’re glad for the music, which disguises some of the erotic sounds. 

“How’s that dick feel, huh? Tell me it’s good.”

You nod, your mouth dry from breathing so hard. “It’s so good. Big, thick cock feels s-so….” Your sentence is shattered by a string of high-pitched moans, but you quickly regain composure and finish it off. “...good!”

He continues humping your ass, driving himself as far in as he can. The head of his cock repeatedly hits the deepest part of your core, and your eyes roll back in your head. You only need a few more moments of his relentless bullying before your cunt flutters around him, glazing him in warm slick. The dizzying high of the orgasm wraps its hands around your head, forcing it to fall heavy onto the sofa.

The sensation sends Oz over the edge – and he’s genuinely surprised he’s lasted this long. He tenses, his hips lose their rhythm as he shudders over you, bucking and stammering words of pleasure. His release coats his cock as he pulls out of you. 

“God damn,” he pants.

You nod, smushing your face against the cushion. “Yeah. You really…” you swallow. “ Decked my halls.” 

Oz wants to tell you to knock it off, but all he can do is laugh. As he pulls himself from you, his gaze falls to an oblong present under the tree. It’s a necklace; diamonds, with a purple garnet and an amethyst dangling in the middle. Once he showers, he decides he’s gonna give it to you. 

“I’ll be back, doll. Don’t get dressed. I wanna see this present on ya’. Stay just like that.”

 So, you do. 

His cock was enough of a present, but you aren’t about to complain to a man like him. 

[bokettochild]

Christmas of Closure - Day 4

First joins the chain and has some Sky related Angst, because what's Christmas on Ketto's bog without some angst?!?!?!

Day 1 | Day 2 | Day 3 | Day 4 (you are here!)| Day 5 | Day 6

Full fic below the cut!

-

The week that follows being found and rescued by the strangers- the heroes, is somehow the most confusing one of his life, and that is counting the week he was arrested, tried, and thrown into prison for what he’d been told would be the rest of his life. 

 They are all rather odd lads, and as the days pass and they come to terms with a new member among them, that fact shines all the more clearly. He supposes that is a good sign though, a sign they are accepting him and perhaps even growing comfortable with him, but it is rather jarring all the same. After all, they have already learned to accept strangers of their kind into their group, while he, in contrast, has never even heard of another hero chosen by the heavens. If anything, he almost wishes they’d stayed wary of him longer, been slower to reach out, but he doesn’t fault them for their kindness, even if it does leave him still uneasy.  

 Some, blessedly, are slower, like himself.  

 Their names escape him, frequently, especially as it seems they use them less and various pet names or terms of address more frequently than what they’d introduced themselves as. Still, he is able to remember who is who even without the names, perhaps by assigning them identifiers of his own, although he never uses them before the boys. 

 Time, he remembers. Wild too, as it is both name and descriptor. The same with Warriors, although ‘captain’ seems to be the common form of address most employ with the man. The only other one he can correctly remember though is Hyrule, if only for the fact that it’s a nae he already knows although ‘Rule’ or ‘Rulie’ seem to be sounded more than that, as though he’s not the only one who finds it difficult to associate the name of his country with a person as well. 

 He thinks he can remember that the youngest was something like Wynn, which sounds at least a bit like a name and so passes for one to his mind. He’s rather certain that the one with gentle hands is something close to ‘Lore’, name being the only one starting in an ‘l’ and relating to stories of some kind. The dark one is a time of day, but neither ‘Midnight’ nor ‘Sunset’ sounds right. Lastly though is the one he sees the most of, and yet can’t for the life of him remember a name for. 

 The white-caped lad, whom he has poetically decided to call ‘Cape’ in his head, seems very keen on keeping close to him. He finds himself watched, often, and not with the passive, wandering gaze of the younger ones, or the curiosity of the elders, but instead just...watched. 

 It’s weird. 

 He’s exceedingly uncomfortable with it. 

 Still, conversation is attempted to be struck up with him, asked questions with eagerness and fervency, and Link, titled ‘First’ by his new fellows, isn’t sure what to do with the boy. 

 He feels not unlike a being hounded by a particularly eager puppy, and he’s not sure what he’s done to deserve it. 

 Hence, why he asks, one evening as they begin to make camp, himself and the youngest ones arranging matters while the elder heroes head off to scout thearea a final time, making a wide sweep to ensure nothing will creep up on them in the night. He’d go with them, but he’s still tragically short a sword, so it’s not like he[d actually be any good. 

 Cape is hesitant to stray, but once he’s gone, and once Link is certain the boy won’t hear him, he turns to the rest of the heroes who work at starting a fire and constructing something like a shelter against the large stones that crop up about them. It’ll be a cold night, so they’ll need the cover. 

 “May I ask,” and all eyes turn up to him, work pausing momentarily before the two that aren’t twins but look it, return deftly to their tasks, ears pricked his way to show they’re still listening. “Why does your caped companion follow me so much?” 

 Wynn(?) frowns, leaning back to look around Link and towards where the others had slipped off too. “You know, that’s a really good question, I don’t know.” 

 “He’s pretty friendly,” Hyrule sounds from where he’s shaking out bedrolls to lay out around what will be a fire once Lore(?) finishes making it. “It really startled me at first too, but I think he’s just trying to get to know you.” 

 Which sounds a feasible answer, only it’s quickly corrected by Lore. “You’re the hero who comes before him,” ringed hands strike flint-stones together as a frown creases the lad’s face and words are made sharp and staccato by sharper motions. “Usually, in this group, those who know their predecessor tend to be close with them.” Dark eyes lift, catching his own before darting off towards where the rest had gone, as though bidding him think of them. “Time is Twilight’s predecessor, Twilight is Wild’s.” 

 “And this makes them close?” 

 A shrug. “They feel responsible for the hero that takes their place, so, in a way, yes. Time acts like a worried mother cucco with Twilight sometimes, and Twilight does the same to the champion here.” 

 Wild offers a small smile. “He means well, but he gets pushy sometimes.”  

 Link nods slowly. “So, you believe that he desires something...similar, from myself?” 

 The youngsters all exchange glances, but eventually, it is the brightly colored one with stony eyes that answers him, and for the life of him Link can’t begin to recall the lad’s name. “Sky-” and yes, Cape is called Sky, that sounds correct “-was the first here before you joined us. Unlike the rest of us, he probably doesn’t have many stories about other heroes, but he seems to know about you.” 

 “You’re the one that forged his path,” Hyrule adds, stopping his work for the moment and offering a weak flash of a smile. “He probably looks up to you like we do to our predecessors, probably tried to follow in your steps when he was unsure of his own.” 

 Link blinks. “But my steps would have led to my death had not your party arrived when you did.” 

 Lore just shakes his head. “All the more reason; if he grew up on stories where you died, actually seeing you alive might feel like a gift from his goddess, like a hope he hadn’t dared to have before.” 

 Stopping his chopping of food, the wild one turns to stare at the young veteran. “How’d you come to that conclusion?” 

 Violet meet glittering blue. “Sky’s not the only one who’s predecessor kicked the bucket, champ. If I met the hero before me, alive and well, who knows, perhaps I’d have similar thoughts. 

 Wild squints at him. “Still, oddly specific.” 

 “Go back to chopping, champ. It’s just idle thought, don’t put so much stock in it.” 

 Idle thought or no, Link still thinks on it. The boys make a decent point, but the longer he’s been with them, the more he’s begun to understand something of their nature, of why they’re here. 

 The goddesses reincarnated his soul, and they’d done so in order that, though he’d fallen, another would always rise in his place to defeat evil. It’s a startling thing to have explained, or rather, said without thought within his hearing, and then explained after when he’d questioned it, but it’s worse when he actually looks at the results of that choice. 

 They’re all children still, even the eldest is still young to the seasoned knight’s eyes, and in hearing them all talk, many had been far younger when they’d begun. 

 But Cape-Sky, specifically, is the one that follows in his steps the closest, the one brought to being to take on the slack he’d left when he’d failed to kill Demise. The boy speaks of a red loftwing, a goddess sword, a companion who was the goddess herself, although likewise reincarnated, as he’s quick to clarify, a warning in tone if not words when anyone tries to say that this girl called Zelda whom he clearly loves is the same as the goddess Link knew himself. 

 All of it is too familiar, quite jarring, and the more the lad speaks of it, the worse the effects. 

 He knows Sky is trying to connect with him, by sharing these things, but all Link can hear in the words is that this lad was crafted to take on what he failed to do, was made quite specifically to bear the brunt of his failings, and for that, he finds himself wracked with guilt when he finds himself staring into the lad’s honest face. 

 He’s warm, very kind, caring and even gentle at times, though it’s clearly a choice he has made to be so and it feels such a direct contrast to the person Link is himself. 

 He does not resent the goddess for crafting a hero who could rise above her foes, but even he is liable to the feeling of inadequacy as he realizes it. Even as a man grown, one who ought to be above the juvenile self-doubt and insecurity more suited to those the age of his new companions, he still finds himself now staring back in turn to the lad who follows in his steps in more ways than one.  

 Sky is what Hylia wanted, what she needed. 

 Link is what she had available. 

 And while he remembers her kindness, her smile, her warmth, it does not escape him that when given the chance to craft her hero herself, Hylia had made Sky to be near a direct contrast to Link’s own nature. The lad is gentle, warm, friendly, trusting, easy-going but fierce when called upon to be. Sky is good with people, understanding of their plights and slow to judge them for their faults. Knight though he is, trained and tried though he’s said to be, the young man is not one to act according to protocol, but rather, at his own whims, his own instinct. 

 Try though the lad might to find a common ground where they might stand as first and follower, as the two hand-picked by a goddess, there is no even ground on which it is possible; there is nothing between them, as far as Link can see, that stes them as equals, or even similar. 

 There is nothing he can offer regardless. He cannot teach the one who’s already overcome what he’d been destroyed by, he cannot advise a lad already having struck out beyond his reach. 

 And so, while he has no wish to alienate his fellow chosen, his fellow knight, his fellow servant of the goddess, Link, called First, does not accept the offers to bridge the distance between them. 

 He has nothing to offer after all, so rather than disappoint the youngster, rather than shatter whatever image exists in his mind of what Link ought to be, he simply keeps his distance instead. 

 It's kinder, he tells himself.  

 It’s for Sky’s own good.