#it is DELIGHTFUL to hear over and over again

[lovelytsunoda]

domesticated | oscar piastri

summary: yn comes back from a business trip to find her boyfriend doing the laundry. naturally, it’s this smidge of domesticity that makes her want to jump his bones

pairing: oscar piastri x girlfriend!reader

warnings: 18+, sex in a laundry room (and up against a laundry machine), men that pull their weight around the household are sexy as fuck!

the house was quiet when she came home. almost too quiet.

she left her tumi suitcase by the door, taking off her shoes and blazer before making her way through the foyer.

"oscar?" she called. "babe, i'm back. my flight landed early!"

she and oscar hadn't been living together for long, maybe six months at the absolute maximum. her five-day business trip to the other side of the country had been the longest that the young lovers had spent apart since they had moved in together.

the living room was empty, despite the flat screen tv playing a cricket match to the empty space. there was a mug of tea on the end table, half full and still warm.

"osc?" she called again, drumming her fingers against the wall. where could her boyfriend possibly be?

she could hear vibrations coming from deeper inside the house, a loud rattling, more like. she followed the noise to the laundry room, where she found oscar sitting on the tiled floor, surrounded by piles of laundry, the washing machine rattling away behind him. he had his headphones in, head bopping to whatever it was that he found helped him focus.

she knocked loudly on the door, heart jumping when he looked up at her with nothing but pure love in his eyes.

"hey, baby!" he said excitedly, stumbling over a pile of t-shirts on the ground. "you're back!"

he kissed her softly, hands coming to rest at her waist. "how was the conference?"

"a waste of time." she hummed, pulling him in closer. "what i really want to talk about is your laundry skills."

"oh yeah?" oscar grinned, nodding towards the piles on the floor. "i live here too, i should pull my weight. my race suits are dry clean only, but everything else can go in the machine. i've developed a system."

she raised an eyebrow, but couldn't deny how sexy it was that oscar wasn't afraid of a little bit of housework. "you have, have you?"

"yeah, do you want me to explain it?"

"actually, i would much rather you fuck me against the washing machine."

and who was oscar to disagree?

that's how she found herself pushed up against a running laundry machine, naked from the waist down. her legs were wrapped tightly around oscar's lower half, his sweatpants lying forgotten ono the floor and he kissed up her neck, teasing her entrance with the tip of his throbbing cock.

"christ, babe. you're this wet already?"

"missed you." she hummed, kissing him gently. "that's all."

"well, we can't have that, can we?"

he slid inside with one swift movement, filling her to the brim. he muttered a curse, face buried in her neck as he got settled. all he could feel was her: her warmth, the smoothness of her thighs as she drew him closer, the softness of the skin on her neck, the beating of her heart.

she was everything he could have ever wanted and more.

"fuck me, oscar. please."

keeping in time with the rhythmic churning of the washing machine behind her, oscar's thrusts started out slow but firm, testing the waters. her gentle moans and whimpers were music to his ears, and he bit back a few grunts of his own as he slipped in and out of her warm and welcoming pussy.

"oh, yes. right there, baby. fuck, you fill me so well." she moaned, head thrown back as she rolled her hips in time with oscar's movements.

"that's right, darling. keep taking my cock like a fucking champ."

"faster, oscar." she whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders. "faster."

he kissed her hurriedly, delivering a few more teasing and languid thrusts of his cock before pulling out and slamming back inside. the scream of pleasure she let out was positively delightful, followed by desperate pleas of 'more' and 'kiss me'.

which, of course, oscar was all too happy to oblige.

her body was curled around his, her aching nipples pressing against her lacy bra and showing through the flimsy white dress shirt she was wearing. oscar was transfixed by the sight as her breasts bounced with the effort of his thrusts, pushing her against the machine with each feral pound.

"yes, baby." he grunted. "just let me take care of you." one hand gently tugged at her hair, the other braced on the countertop. the sounds of his balls hitting her skin was almost as loud as the noise the washing machine was making,

"fuck, oscar, i'm so close! wanna come on your thick cock." she pleaded, marking the skin underneath the collar of his white shirt. a shirt that was now completely soaked through with sweat.

"yeah? are you that pent up, baby? you were only gone for five days. you know i'm coming with you next time, right? i mean, my hand can only do so much. it doesn't cuddle with me, or kiss me softly, or smell like fresh vanilla-"

"oscar!" she squealed as he thrusted hard enough to send her body shotting upwards towards the bottom of the hanging cabinet. her fingers scrabbled for purchase, limply clinging to the door handle.

"right, okay." oscar grunted. "i've got you, sweet girl. come on, give it to me. give it to me, angel."

she came with a cry, her body curling around his. this was always the part where she felt the most emotional, and the most vulnerable. oscar pulled her close, running his hands up and down his arms while he tried to gently thrust through it.

“atta girl. you’re so good, baby. I love you so much.”

“you didn’t finish.” she whispered softly, licking her lips.

oscar grinned. “baby, I’ve got gas left in the tank like you wouldn’t believe. what do you say we go to the bedroom and you let me show you just how much I missed you?”

[orangeblossomsintheair]

LANDO NORRIS

lando fingering you. thats it. thats the post. im almost always open for lando, carlos, and logan requests ;>

lando knows how needy you get after a few days apart, knows the small little tantrums you have when he isn't there to lick between your thighs before bedtime, or your snappish attitude when you don't wake up with his cock nestled inside you.

he finds it all too cute, admittedly, to know he's spoiled your pretty little pussy so much that you can't cum without him.

“eager, aren’t you?” a quiet laugh spills out of his lips as you crawl into his lap, your back against his chest.

his arm finds its place around your waist, fingers already teasing the hem of your panties. “was only gone for a weekend, baby.”

“felt longer,” you mumble, nuzzling into his neck like a cat in heat. “missed you so much.”

“missed me?” his mouth brushes your ear, delighting in your soft gasp as his fingers hook into the lace, ripping the delicate fabric apart without so much as a second thought. “or missed this?”

lando is gentle when he trails his fingers through the shining mess painting the inside of your thighs, eyes fluttering close as he makes contact with the slick that feels like it’s spilling out of you.

the groan that’s pulled from him is sheer instinct— fuck, you’re so wet.

he drags a finger through the mess between your puffy folds to try and distract himself from the molten heat that simmers low in his belly.

it’s a futile effort when he can barely even look away from your pretty cunt, mind going wild over getting his mouth on you again.

lando’s hips shift, the thought of your taste on his tongue making his cock throb, straining in his shorts. you are not good for him.

“ngh..” you jolt when he finally sinks a finger into your cunt, pretty eyes widening and lips parting in shock at the stretch. his other hand busies itself with your chest, pawing at the plush swell of your breasts.

“l-lan..” he can’t help but giggle at your slurred call of his name, eyes lidded as he lazily pumps his finger in and out.

he knows what you need, can read the hitch of your breath and the ground of your hips against his hand. lando knows you still feel too empty, knows one finger is hardly enough to satiate his pretty girl.

“what do you need?” he asks anyway just to hear the pitch of your cry, too shy despite the fact that your legs are already parted and resting over his thighs, cute cunt already dripping down his wrist.

he places a sharp slap to your clit when you fail to answer, reveling in the way your back arches and how you squirm in place. “answer me.”

"need more..." your voice trembles as you speak, eyes closing as if it can shield you from the shame of begging for your pussy to be stuffed.

"aw? my pretty princess needs more? not enough for you, baby?" he teases, lips brushing your ear, and you can feel the smile behind every syllable.

you don’t answer, can’t, really, but it doesn’t matter, lando doesn't expect you to.

he grabs your knees, pulling them over his, spreading your legs wide and you let out a desperate sound, part whine, part sob when he reaches down to absentmindedly pinch your clit.

he pulls his finger out and replaces it with two before you can even blink or gasp. you choke on air at the thickness that spears you, incomparable to your own.

lando thinks you’re so pretty like this, head thrown back with a wail, grinding against his knuckles. he has to stifle another giggle at the too-tight cling of your pussy, at the way your walls clamp down on him.

he fucks you like that, the length and breadth of his fingers dipping in and out. you scramble to clutch at his arms, trying to ground yourself as he decides to increase his pace. he pistons inside you, looking over your shoulder to get a glimpse of the wetness he can feel leaking out of you.

“you're so loud..” lando laughs, the lilt of it teasing. “so wet, baby.”

[corneredcopia]

Incoming spoilers!!! I just wanted to ramble a bit about that stone scene:

I think the scene besides the final speech that broke me the most was definitely when Stone called Ivo to warn him about Gerald. (Keep in mind I’m paraphrasing some parts here bc I didn’t have their entire dialogue memorized and it’s 2am so I apologize if some of this is just incoherent lol)

Desperately pleading with Ivo to think twice about Gerald was a tricky play because I think Stone knew Ivo most likely wouldn’t listen to him and stubbornly ignore his warning. And yet…he still poured his heart out to him in the most heartbreaking way.

There were no “please, I need you’s,” and there were no attempts to get Ivo on his side by boosting his ego in that moment.

Stone had crawled through the mud, out of a giant mech submerged in the water nonetheless, just to say a few choice words to Ivo, “I’m not there to protect you,” and “I almost lost you once I can’t lose you again.” (Again, I’m paraphrasing)

Both of these lines have been eating at me for the past few hours because it’s so surreal to be able to see how much Stone cares for Ivo unfiltered. We hear him use ‘I’ instead of ‘you,’ not telling off the doctor but making his own needs clear in an attempt to get Ivo to realize what he can’t on his own.

If it wasn’t obvious to Robotnik from Stone’s delighted reaction to his return in Sonic 2 and the months they’ve lived together, Stone is making it obvious now. (Where Rob will realize later on) His loyalty is a bond beyond professionalism and sycophancy to the point where Rob’s safety is more important to Stone than anything else in the world. Even dissatisfying him.

Yes, he craves affection from Ivo and clearly knows how much Gerald means to him, though I think Stone would much rather have Ivo hate— absolutely despise the agent’s existence—than to ever know the doctor was in pain again.

And leading up to the ending, when Robotnik finally snapped out of it and had a few seconds to think over the entire past decade of Stone’s service to him, is where I believe Lee’s words fit.

“I think Robotnik needs Stone more than Stone needs Robotnik.”

In his “final” moments Robotnik’s increasing need for Stone was so apparent it melted down his own selfish core, and I believe that this was the driving factor to push him to save the planet.

So if Robotnik is now gone, Stone served his purpose for the man up until the very end. Sure he’ll live out Rob’s legacy as the doctor bestowed upon him, but he would do so as a changed man. A changed, lonely, man.

Their relationship ended up saving the world, yet, the world couldn’t end up saving their relationship.

[goldenjaytime]

It’s heeeere

Check out Red, a new song I wrote about Shiny duo’s Wild Life feud. The fantastic art (seriously, this whole thing would be nothing without the art) was done by @boxofoxberry and it’s been an absolute delight seeing it come together! So excited to share it with y'all!

Lyrics under the cut!

Last night I dreamed, Dreamed of a world much like our own A world besieged, A world on fire, a world aglow And as I watched, I saw two figures, rise from the ashes Astounded, I watched as they rounded on each other I watched as one turned on the other, To save another, I watched as she died I watched the fire fade from her eyes And when I woke, I woke and saw you through the dark A world reborn, A world where we are worlds apart

Over the mountains, Over the rivers Riding beside you, Follow the whispers Over the midnights, Over the moon Are you still listening? Are they still watc hing you?

Oh when we were together, we were ride and die We were stormy weather, We were dynamite We were stuff of legends Back when we were friends But you said we can’t talk until your blood bleeds red

Do you still hate me? Will you forgive me? Do you still need me? Do you still want me? Please say you want me Say the game will never end, The score can be reset, Your heart’s still in your chest, Pull another from the deck

Ain’t no bleeding, Ain’t no fighting, Ain’t no crying, Ain’t no dying Say, until this whole thing ends, please ust say we were friends

Over the hunger, Over the pain, Riding beside you, Like nothing’s changed. Over the bridges, Over the trees, Are they still following? Can you hear me?

Oh when we were together, we were ride and die We were stormy weather, We were dynamite We were stuff of legends But stories have to end And we were reunited ’til your blood bled red

We climbed the highest mountains, Then fell the greatest height A world that turned to chaos, And rolled unlucky dice We were stuff of legends, and we will be again But you were only human, and your blood bleeds red

[peppermintquartz]

When he hears that Tommy has to work on Christmas Eve, Buck tries not to pout about it at first, and then decides, heck it, if I can't sulk about my boyfriend not being able to spend Christmas Eve with me, when can I sulk? So he weaponizes his big blue eyes and unleashes the full force of his pout, sticking out the lower lip and - by dint of some emotional effort - brings some tears to his eyes.

"Oh no, you don't do that to me now," Tommy says, raising a finger and tilting his head in that special way he does to ward off Buck at his most manipulative. He's about 40-60 when it comes to the win-loss ratio on that technique.

Buck sighs and wrinkles his nose. "I was planning on a nice dinner here at home. Tree. Nog. Roast beast."

Reaching out, Tommy ruffles Buck's curls and smiles. "At least we can decorate the tree together before then."

"They better be paying you extra for taking the shift for Christmas Eve night."

"Yeah, they do. It'll be a nice contribution to our honeymoon fund." Tommy smiles at Buck, whose stomach does a happy little flip. Technically, neither of them have popped the question, but they already know the answer is yes, and so they have already set up a whole system to allocate their money. They'll be ring shopping next week, to take advantage of Christmas sales, and just the thought of it makes Buck warm all over.

Even so, he can be melodramatic for his own entertainment. Flopping back in his chair, he cups his right cheek, adopts a pensive stare out the window, and sighs extravagantly. "I do wonder what could possibly be so important as to warrant my handsome, charming, incredible and sexy firefighter pilot boyfriend to abandon me on the most festive night of the year?"

"You know. The usual."

Wait. Tommy sounds shifty. He's usually very honest, so him trying to hide something is... off. Buck sits up straight. "Tommy...?"

"I'm serious. The usual." Tommy's ears are flushed dark pink. He's a horrendous liar.

Buck narrows his eyes, and then raises an eyebrow.

"Look, I can't tell you. I genuinely cannot. But, uh, it's a cool thing, an international thing, and it's really one of the best things I've ever done and love doing as a pilot."

"Wow," Buck murmurs. "You don't usually talk like that about your job."

"It's just a job. Most of the time. Sometimes I have to fly into hurricanes."

"No hurricanes this year," says Buck with a resolute nod. "Santa would not like flying through one. You'd have to provide Santa with air support."

"He's done it before though. The reindeer know what to do better than us," Tommy mutters absently, and then he freezes.

Buck freezes also. He stares at his boyfriend. "Tommy?"

"Hmm?" Tommy pretends he isn't terrified.

"Are you flying with... Santa... on Christmas Eve?"

"What? Hahahah of course not, ahahaha. No." But the rictus on Tommy's face tells a different story, as do the few beads of sweat that have just materialized.

Buck's jaw drops. He whispers, "You are flying with Santa!" His eyes go wide with delighted revelation. "Santa's real?"

"Shhh! No one outside of the escort party is supposed to know. And, not flying with, just providing air support to cover for him so he doesn't show on the scanners. And don't tell anyone!"

Buck mimes zipping his mouth and locking it and throwing away the key. Then he 'unzips' his lips. "I can't bear it," he declares. "You are way too cool and I need to have sex with you right now."

"What?" Tommy snorts, and then shakes his head in disbelief. "Evan, you're not being serious."

"Like a lightning strike." Buck stands, fluttering his lashes and pouting again.

Tommy doesn't fight it this time.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Hogwarts AU [pt. 1]

The first time Tim sees him, he is seven, standing by his Father's side, and bored out of his mind.

The 'party' is numbingly dull, full of adults, sparkling flutes of champagne, tiny sandwiches, and fake twinkling laughter. Tim doesn't understand how his parents find any of it interesting; in his opinion, nothing about just talking to people for hours and hours straight sounds as exciting as they make it look.

He wishes he could just go home already. Not that his time in the Drake estate gets any more exciting than bothering house elves or spending his day in the library, but it's still better than this.

Or, Tim thought so until he heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering on the floor.

He turns around, and there are yelps and screams of surprise and angry swearing. It takes Tim a few seconds to realize what's going on - a few people are holding their hands to their faces, like trying to hide them, and he gets a glimpse of an elephant trunk peeking through the palms of one old lady.

And then, there's a sound of loud, delighted laughter ringing through the room, and the sound of footsteps, and-

"DANIEL!" Tim hears Mr. Masters, the host of the event, yell at the top of his lungs.

A moment later, Tim sees a boy zooming past him, elbowing the adults on his way to push through the crowd and still cackling like a madman. Tim doesn't get a good look at him, what with the boy running so fast he almost trips, but he does notice the messy black hair and the large, knitted blue sweater that looks too big on the boy's body.

"Daniel Jackson Fenton, come back this instant!" Mr. Masters calls again, his thunderous steps louder than all the yelling around them.

The boy doesn't even deign him with a look over his shoulder. Instead, he darts towards the nearest window, opens it with what seems to be practiced ease, and climbs on the windowsill. Only then does he look back to the chaos he created in the room full of respectable guests, and grins.

Tim blinks. He's never seen anyone smile like this, all teeth and mischief, and cheeky excitement.

"What, too old to catch me, Vlad?" He sticks his tongue at Mr. Masters, and just for a moment, Tim is scared the man is going to lunge at him. Yet, right as Mr. Masters gets close enough, the boy pushes off and jumps out the window, his laughter echoing through the night.

Mr. Masters looks like he is about to follow - and Tim is, for once, curious to see if he would - but stops himself short, only leaning out the window.

"Don't bother coming back, you little badger, you are grounded!" The man yells. The only response he gets is another fit of distant cackling from the gardens.

"That is sure a way to entertain the crowd," Father says quietly, and the tall, dark-skinned woman he's been talking to before the whole mess happened snorts a short laugh.

Tim looks back to the few people who are still sporting elephant trunks for their noses.

It's the first time he thinks a party full of adults in stuffy robes can be more fun than he expected.

—☆—☆—☆—

Some visuals for v i b e s

The room where the scene took place:

Tim's drawing after he was back home from the party (house elves helped):

[Picrew]

—☆—☆—☆—

I have the vaguest possible idea of where I'm going, but this is definitely going to be a multichapter thing.

A few notes I've got pinned down so far:

Drakes are a mostly pureblood family, not filthy rich and straight up focused on the whole purity thing, but keeping their reputation clean and nice, and their income stable. Both Jack and Janet have attended Hogwarts, and they were both Ravenclaws while they were at it. Janet might have some relation to Blacks, but it's so distant that she doesn't bother keeping it in mind.

Vladimir Masters is, technically, a pureblood wizard, but his family has been in England for only two or so generations. His grandma (who is still very much alive) came from Russia after falling madly in love with Vlad's grandpa (who is now deceased and, as the rumor goes, his wife had a hand in it). He also attended Hogwarts and has been a Ravenclaw in the same year as Madeline Fenton nee Walker. Hence, Daniel Fenton is his godson and, unofficially, as of right now, heir to Masters family.

[piastrisun]

warming up to love.

pairings: franco colapinto + fem reader.

summary: beneath the falling snow, the warmth of a shared moment transforms a casual connection into something unforgettable.

genre: fluff.⠀word count: 3.6k.⠀ warning: none.

notes: i love writing long stuff about franco cause we know he’s a very talkative guy and would pull a before sunrise any day. this kinda made me wanna fall in love.

“oh, the weather outside is frightful / but the fire is so delightful / and since we've no place to go / let it snow.”

the christmas party hums with a mellow energy as the night winds down. it’s a familiar scene—mutual friends scattered across the house, the remnants of shared laughter echoing softly. you hadn’t planned to come this year; after all, these gatherings had long been a minefield of awkward encounters and unspoken wounds. your ex, the one who shattered your heart last christmas, always seemed to be at these parties, and the thought of facing him again was enough to make you steer clear.

but tonight is different. encouraged by a friend who insisted it would be ‘good for you,’ you found yourself here, hovering on the edges, nursing a glass of mulled wine by the fireplace. franco is here, too—franco, who has always been little more than a polite nod or a quick ‘hi.’ the two of you aren’t close, not even friends, really. yet as the evening stretches on, you find his presence more noticeable than usual, his laughter drawing glances from across the room.

most of the guests have either slipped away to spare rooms or are scattered in half-asleep clusters, the laughter and music now a faint echo in the house. you sit near the fireplace, nursing a mug of mulled wine, its spicy warmth a small comfort against the chill outside. the flickering flames cast golden light over the room, and you sink into the soft cushions of the couch, grateful for the moment of solitude.

until franco joins you.

you hear him before you see him, the faint sound of his footsteps against the hardwood floor. all evening, he’s been the centre of attention—his jokes landing perfectly, his energy magnetic, his laughter infectious. but now, as he lowers himself onto the couch beside you, he’s different. his movements are slower, deliberate, as though he’s shedding the playful bravado for something more genuine. he leans back, draping one arm casually over the backrest, close enough for you to feel his presence without it pressing on you.

“you’ve been sitting here for a while,” he says, his voice quieter than you expect, his accent rolling over the words with a natural charm. “thinking deep holiday thoughts?”

you glance at him, arching a brow, already on guard. “oh, you know, debating whether santa’s elves have a decent union.”

a grin spreads across his face, quick and easy. “they don’t,” he replies, leaning slightly toward you, his dark eyes sparkling in the firelight. “you can see it in their eyes—overworked, underpaid, stuck making toys for kids who’ll forget about them in five minutes.”

the corners of your mouth lift before you can stop yourself, the response catching you off guard. “exactly,” you say, meeting his gaze for a beat longer than you intended. “and don’t even get me started on rudolph. classic case of workplace exploitation.”

his laugh is rich, low, and unrestrained, and for a moment, it drowns out the crackle of the fire. “you’re good,” he says, his grin lingering. “sharp. i like that.”

you shrug, trying to deflect the sudden focus on you. “it’s just common sense. someone has to advocate for the underappreciated holiday workforce.”

his grin widens, but there’s a shift in his expression—something more curious, more intent. “so, do you always deflect with humour,” he asks, tilting his head slightly, “or is it just my lucky night?”

your lips part slightly, caught off guard by the unexpected turn in the conversation. “and do you always psychoanalyse women at christmas parties?” you shoot back, the edge in your tone softened by the playful smile tugging at your lips.

“only the ones who seem like they have really good stories to tell,” he replies smoothly, his voice dipping lower.

you roll your eyes, though you feel the laugh bubbling up despite yourself. “you’re persistent, i’ll give you that.”

“i’m argentinian,” he says with a light shrug, as though that explains everything. “it’s genetic.”

the absurdity of the statement makes you laugh, this time unrestrained and genuine. you shift in your seat, tucking your legs beneath you as you hold your mug close, needing the warmth against your palms. he adjusts as well, leaning forward now, resting his elbows on his knees. his gaze is steady, direct, and disarmingly sincere.

“you’re good at this, you know,” he says, his tone softer now, almost conversational.

“at what?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“deflecting,” he says simply, his eyes searching yours. “you tell a joke, flash a smile, and everyone forgets to ask the real questions.”

you shift uncomfortably, your grip tightening around the mug. “maybe i just don’t like questions,” you say, the words coming out more defensive than you intended.

“or maybe you don’t like answers,” he counters, his voice steady but without judgment.

the weight of his words settles over you, and you find yourself looking away, your gaze fixed on the fire. the orange glow feels safer than the intensity in his eyes.

“you’ve been hurt before,” he says, breaking the silence.

“haven’t we all?” you reply quickly, your tone sharper now, a reflex to protect yourself.

“sure,” he agrees, his voice calm, unbothered by your resistance. “but not everyone builds walls like you do.”

your shoulders tense, and you draw back slightly, the heat of the fire no longer comforting. “you don’t know me well enough to say that,” you reply, your voice quieter now, but firm.

“not yet,” he says, the gentleness in his tone catching you off guard. “but i’d like to.”

the vulnerability in his voice chips away at your defences, and for a moment, you exhale, leaning back into the couch. you’re silent, but the tension in your posture eases.

“it’s not that simple,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “people think you can just… open up and everything will be fine. but when you’ve given your heart to someone who didn’t want it, it’s hard to trust anyone with it again.”

his dark eyes don’t waver, his gaze steady but soft, and he nods slowly. “i get that,” he says. “but maybe the trick isn’t trusting someone else first. maybe it’s trusting yourself—that you’ll survive it if things don’t go the way you hope.”

✩

the flickering firelight dances across his face, softening his features, and his expression is open, patient, unhurried.

“you’re different than i thought you’d be,” he says after a long pause, his voice dropping lower.

“what did you think i’d be like?” you ask, curious despite yourself.

“i don’t know,” he says, his lips curving into a faint smile. “polished, untouchable, the kind of person who always has the upper hand.”

“and now?” you press, leaning in slightly, the space between you shrinking.

“still intimidating,” he admits, his smile widening just enough to make your heart skip. “but in a good way.”

for the first time, you let the moment linger, the tension between you shifting into something unspoken but undeniable.

the fire casts a warm glow over the room, its crackling filling the quiet pauses between words. you laugh, shaking your head, the sound light but genuine. a comfortable silence stretches between you and franco, and in that quiet, you feel it—a subtle but undeniable pull. it’s unspoken, yet it lingers, drawing you closer to him in a way that feels both surprising and inevitable.

“you’re not what i expected, either,” you say, your tone casual, though the words carry weight.

franco leans forward slightly, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “oh? what did you expect?”

your lips curl into a teasing smile. “someone who tries too hard to be funny. but you’re just… effortlessly annoying.”

his laughter bursts out, rich and warm, and he clutches his chest dramatically. “effortlessly annoying? that might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

you shake your head, your smile widening despite yourself. you can feel your guard slipping, piece by piece, the edges softening with every laugh, every shared glance.

✩

as the night drifts on, the conversation flows like an easy current, touching on favourite movies, childhood christmas memories, and absurd holiday traditions. you trade stories that are ridiculous and endearing, the kind that make your sides ache from laughter. each word exchanged deepens the connection between you, weaving a thread of familiarity where there was none before.

he leans back, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “you know, this has to be the best christmas conversation i’ve ever had. no offence to santa and the elves.”

you raise your brow, feigning seriousness. “i’ll take it as a compliment. i don’t usually do this, you know.”

he tilts his head, curiosity dancing in his expression. “what? talk to effortlessly annoying guys?”

“no,” you reply with a soft laugh. “sit here, opening up to someone i just met. it’s… different.”

the teasing fades from his face as he leans in slightly, his voice dropping to something quieter, more intent. “different good or different bad?”

you meet his gaze, your heart beating a little faster at the intensity in his eyes. “good,” you say softly. “definitely good.”

the fire crackles softly in the background, the rhythmic pops and hisses filling the spaces between breaths. your laughter, which had moments ago echoed brightly, now fades into something quieter, something deeper. the silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s laced with a gentle understanding that neither of you has to name. you feel it—a warmth spreading through you, unfamiliar yet comforting, like an old song you’ve almost forgotten but still know by heart. it’s a feeling you haven’t let yourself embrace in years.

franco shifts slightly beside you, leaning forward as if to close the distance without intruding. his voice cuts through the quiet, warm and deliberate. “for the record,” he says, his lips curving into a faint, teasing smile, “you’re pretty good at this too.”

you glance at him, your brow lifting in subtle curiosity. “at what?”

his eyes linger on yours, the firelight flickering in their depths. he doesn’t hesitate, his tone softer now, almost confessional. “making me want to stay up all night talking to you.”

the words land heavier than you expect, and for a moment, your heart stumbles, a traitorous skip in its rhythm. you’re certain he notices, but for once, you don’t try to hide it.

your grip loosens slightly on your glass of wine, and you exhale, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope. the vulnerability in his words disarms you, but it’s the sincerity in his gaze that keeps you still, like he’s waiting, patiently, to see if you’ll let him stay.

✩

you stand near the balcony door, the hum of the christmas party a soft murmur inside. outside, the chill air brushes your skin, the twinkling lights from the decorations contrasting with the warmth of the fire crackling in the corner. your glass of wine rests in your hand, swirling gently, the dark liquid catching the firelight. you find yourself momentarily lost in the way the flames dance, tracing their movement, letting the quiet settle over you.

franco is standing beside you, so close now that his knee almost brushes against yours, but neither of you says anything. it's the first time tonight that the two of you have actually been alone, outside the usual nods and polite greetings you’ve exchanged over the years.

after a beat, he breaks the silence, his voice low but steady, like he’s testing the air between you.

“you know,” he begins, glancing toward you but keeping his gaze just slightly above yours, “i used to think love was supposed to be this big, dramatic thing. like fireworks and grand gestures.”

you raise an eyebrow, the corners of your mouth curling into a smirk as you shift your weight, the wine glass still twirling in your hand. “let me guess—movies and cheesy romance novels ruined you?”

franco laughs, the sound soft but amused, and you can hear the humour in his voice when he responds. “hey, i’m a romantic. sue me.”

you chuckle, the ease of his words making you relax, but there’s something in his tone that lingers. the idea of love as a grand, sweeping event feels familiar, even if it's been a long time since you've believed in it. the pause between the two of you stretches a little longer, the silence pulling at the edges of your thoughts, and you finally turn to him, looking at him fully for the first time tonight.

“and now?” you ask quietly, your voice catching the reflection of the fire in his eyes. “what do you think it’s supposed to be?”

he looks at you, really looks at you this time, and there's something about the way he shifts, the way he leans slightly forward, that makes his words hit you harder than you expect. his eyes are steady, but his voice is softer now, more introspective.

“i think it’s quieter,” he says, his tone almost reverent, like he's sharing a truth he's only just realised. “more like… finding someone who makes you feel like you’re home, no matter where you are.”

the words settle heavily in the space between you. you blink, your breath momentarily stuck in your chest. there's something in his expression, something real and raw, and it pulls you in. you turn your body slightly towards him, the firelight flickering off his face, and you can feel the weight of his honesty pressing into your own guarded heart.

“that’s nice," you say, almost whispering, but a knot tightens in your throat. you shift your gaze, struggling to maintain the usual lightness, but it’s hard now. "but what if you’ve been hurt? what if 'home' feels more like a risk than a refuge?”

franco doesn’t hesitate. his elbows drop to his knees, the movement slow and deliberate. he leans in just slightly, his shoulders squared toward you, and the teasing edge that usually follows him is gone, replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable.

“then maybe you stop looking for a perfect home,” he responds, voice steady, each word measured. “maybe you find someone who’s willing to build it with you, one piece at a time. even if it’s messy.”

the simplicity of his answer leaves you breathless for a second. you swallow, feeling something shift within you, like a door cracking open just a little wider. his words hang in the air, and despite yourself, you can’t help but feel the weight of them settle into your chest. it’s a thought you’ve buried for a long time, and you feel a flicker of warmth in the cold air around you.

“you make it sound so simple,” you say, a soft laugh escaping you, though your voice is quieter now, more fragile.

his lips twitch into a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes right away. he glances at you, his gaze lingering before he answers. “it’s not. but i think the right person makes it worth the mess.”

you exhale, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly, though his words have left something unspoken between you. the weight of the conversation feels too heavy to hold onto for much longer, so you try to shift the mood. you take a deep breath and let the faintest hint of a smile curve your lips.

“okay, mr. romantic,” you tease, your voice a little lighter now. “what’s your other grand passion? what keeps you up at night?”

franco grins, the teasing spark returning to his eyes. “besides annoy people by fireplaces?”

you laugh, shaking your head at him, but there’s something different in the way you look at him now, something softer in your gaze. you catch the slight change in his expression, the way his eyes soften, even if only for a fraction of a second, as he watches you.

“i like cooking, actually,” he says, a genuine warmth to his voice. he leans back slightly, the tension leaving his shoulders as he talks. “there’s something about making a meal for someone—putting care into every detail, knowing it’s going to bring them joy.”

you raise an eyebrow, amusement creeping back into your features, but there’s a spark of curiosity now, too. “cooking, huh? sounds like an elaborate way to flirt.”

franco’s grin widens, and you notice the way his eyes twinkle with mischief. “absolutely. works every time.”

you lean back, finally allowing a full smile to spread across your face. it feels natural, comfortable, the awkward tension of the night slipping away with the shared laughter, but something lingers—a connection that wasn’t there before. the warmth of the fire and the quiet rhythm of your conversation are the only things that matter now.

you lean back, your body sinking slightly into the chair, the chill of the balcony air brushing against your skin. the soft hum of the christmas party drifts in from the room behind you, but here, the cold night air feels refreshing, clearing the noise in your head. your smile lingers, and you can’t help but feel a change in the air. the distance between you and franco now feels different—closer, more intimate.

“i like that,” you say, your voice calm but thoughtful. “the way you think about it, i mean. cooking for someone. it’s... intimate.”

franco shifts in his seat, leaning forward slightly, his gaze focused on you. “what about you?” he asks, his voice soft, genuinely curious. “what’s the thing that makes your heart beat a little faster?”

you hesitate for a moment, the chill in the air suddenly making you feel a little warmer under his gaze. his openness makes you feel safe enough to share, and without thinking, the words tumble out of you.

“i write,” you say, your voice quiet, almost wistful. “or i used to, before life got in the way. it’s like... the only time i’ve ever felt completely free.”

his expression softens, his gaze gentle as he watches you, and for a brief moment, the world around you seems to fade. he looks like he understands the weight of your words. "why’d you stop?” he asks, his voice low, quiet with concern.

you shrug, avoiding his gaze, not wanting to face the vulnerability in your own eyes. “fear, maybe,” you reply, the words hanging heavily between you. “that i wasn’t good enough. that it wasn’t practical.”

“fear’s a bad reason to stop doing something you love,”he responds, his tone firm but gentle, almost as though he’s speaking to himself as much as to you.

the silence lingers in the space between you, and the cool night air feels heavier, somehow more present. you feel the weight of his words settle in your chest, your breath catching slightly as you meet his gaze. the snow falls gently, glowing faintly in the moonlight. the world feels suspended, quiet, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in this stillness, and nothing else matters. there’s a sincerity in his eyes that pulls you in deeper, something you can’t quite explain.

“you should writing again,” he adds, his voice softer now, almost like a quiet plea. “you’re too passionate to keep it all locked inside.”

you swallow, the idea of writing again making something stir in your chest. but you don’t let it show, instead trying to keep the mood light. “and you should stop psychoanalysing strangers at christmas parties,” you tease, a small smile tugging at your lips.

he grins, a playful glint in his eyes, but there’s a shift. his gaze softens, and the playful atmosphere between you both changes. “maybe i’ll make it my new year’s resolution,” he says with a teasing tone, but there’s something deeper in his voice now. “right after ‘kiss beautiful smart women by fireplaces.’”

you laugh, a warm, genuine sound that seems to break the tension between you. but when your eyes meet again, the air is different. the laughter fades, replaced by a quiet understanding that neither of you can ignore. there’s a pull, something magnetic. his smile fades into something deeper, and you feel it too—a tension you haven’t felt in years.

“can i?” his voice is soft, his eyes searching yours, and you feel a warmth spreading through you that makes your heart race.

you nod, your throat tight, unable to say anything. but your silence speaks volumes, and it’s enough. he gives you every opportunity to pull away, but you don’t. you stay, rooted to the spot, as his lips hover just inches from yours, your heart pounding in your chest as he inches closer.

the kiss comes softly at first, tentative, almost as though he’s testing the waters, unsure of the fragility of the moment. but then, something shifts. the warmth between you builds, and the kiss deepens, both of you leaning into it, the connection effortless. it’s like you’ve both been waiting for this, and now that it’s here, it feels as though nothing else matters—just the two of you, wrapped in the glow of the lights and the quiet of the night. you both lean into it, your bodies moving as if they’ve known how to do this all along. it feels natural, easy, like the conversation you’ve had all night.

when you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, your cheeks flushed with warmth. franco’s smile is softer now, more intimate, and it makes your heart flutter.

“you’re a hard one to read, you know that?” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice, though his eyes are still searching yours.

you shake your head, the smile lingering on your lips. “and you’re impossible to ignore.”

the soft crackle of the fire still echoes from the living room, and the snow falls gently on your coat, glowing faintly in the moonlight. but here, on the balcony, it’s just the two of you. for the first time in a year, you feel something stir within you—a piece of yourself that you thought was lost. and in that moment, you allow yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you’ve found it again

©⠀piastrisun original work. please don’t translate, claim or repost any of my writing, 24’.

[faithshouseofchaos]

sergio x wife reader plus his kids. They all cuddling watching the old claymation cartoons (rudolph, frosty, the year without santa, here comes santa clause, etc. )

A Christmas movie marathon — checo Perez x wife reader

Word count — 713

Fluff

Tagged @diaryofarandomkid @purplephantomwolf @selfishpresley

Checo was stretched out on the couch, dressed in a cozy sweater and flannel pajama pants. His hair was slightly tousled, a testament to a long but rewarding day spent playing outside in the snow with the kids. Your youngest son, barely old enough to form full sentences, had already given in to sleep, his tiny body curled against Sergio’s chest as his hand softly rubbed his back in rhythmic circles.

You were tucked under his other arm, your head resting against his shoulder. Your middle child Sofìa was pressed to his side, her blanket pulled up to her chin as her wide eyes followed Rudolph’s red nose flickering on the TV screen. In your lap, your oldest Luca clutched his stuffed Rudolph toy, his face alight with the wonder that only came during the holidays.

“Why does Rudolph’s nose shine like that?” Sofìa whispered, breaking the comfortable silence in the room. Her voice was soft but full of curiosity.

Checo smiled, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over the soft fabric of your sweater. “Because he’s special,” he said, his voice low but warm. “Sometimes, the things that make us different are the things that make us great.”

You glanced up at him, your heart swelling at the way he always seemed to know just what to say. Moments like this—seeing him not as the fast-paced, always-traveling racing driver but as the patient and loving father and husband—were the ones you cherished most.

As the familiar ending credits of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer began to roll, your youngest stirred slightly in his sleep, letting out a tiny sigh before settling back into Sergio’s chest. He adjusted his hold on him, his movements so gentle that it was clear this wasn’t the first time he’d had to master the art of not waking a sleeping child.

“Can we watch another one?” your oldest asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper as he hugged the stuffed Rudolph closer.

“Please?” your middle child added, her wide eyes darting between you and Sergio.

You laughed softly, reaching over to tuck the blanket around their shoulders. “Alright, but just one more. Then it’s straight to bed.”

“Frosty the Snowman!” your middle child declared, her energy momentarily revived at the thought of seeing the cheerful snowman again.

Sergio grinned, carefully shifting your youngest to lay across his lap before grabbing the remote to queue up the next movie. The opening notes of “Frosty the Snowman” filled the room, and both kids let out squeals of delight.

“I love this part,” Luca whispered as Frosty sprang to life, his jovial “Happy Birthday!” ringing out on the screen.

As the story unfolded, you found yourself marveling at the scene around you. Checo’s free hand was laced with yours, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand absentmindedly. The kids’ laughter rang out in perfect harmony with Frosty’s antics, and the soft crackle of the fireplace completed the idyllic picture.

When the credits rolled and Sofia immediately piped up with, “Can we do one more? The Year Without a Santa Claus this time?” you exchanged a glance with Checo.

“One more,” he relented, chuckling softly at the enthusiastic cheers that followed. “But after that, we’re all heading to bed. Even me.”

As the kids settled back into their spots, checo leaned closer to you, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I think this is my favorite part of the holidays,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You smiled, squeezing his hand as the Heat Miser and Snow Miser burst onto the screen, their catchy song drawing laughter from the kids. “Mine too,” you whispered, your heart full to the brim with love for this little family of yours.

[ninjatrashpanda]

Jingle All The Way (To The Damn ER)

Written for @bucktommywinterfest

Prompt: Holiday themed calls; Mistletoe Kiss

Rated: G

Tags: established relationship, fluff, holiday shenanigans

Read on AO3 here.

“Well, that’s…” Eddie said the moment the team had arrived and climbed out of the engine.

“Unfortunate,” Hen finished, her eyes fixed on the roof of the house they’d just pulled up to. Buck couldn’t exactly blame her. Up there, surrounded by absurd amounts of fake snow (and some of the most garish Christmas decorations Buck had ever seen), was a rather burly man in a Santa costume, his lower half stuck in a chimney, screaming and shouting out curse after curse. (Some seemingly not even in English, Buck noted. They sounded vaguely German to him, and for a moment he wondered if that made him racist.)

“That’s gotta be a new one,” Chim muttered, squinting up at the struggling Santa. “I mean, we’ve seen plenty of Santas in sticky situations, but this? This takes the fruitcake.”

How did things like these even happen? How did someone look at a chimney and say ‘Oh, yes, I’ll slide down there, no biggie!’ It was absolutely asinine, so completely unhinged and idiotic that Buck’s brain hardly was able to comprehend the thought process it must’ve taken this guy to end up where he did.

Then again, Buck probably really shouldn’t judge people for making harebrained decisions.

“Do you think he realizes that he probably would’ve busted his ankles if he’d actually slid down there?” Eddie asked, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face. The team’s radios crackled with a faint background hum, the absurdity of the scene almost enough to make them forget they were here on an actual call.

Buck tilted his head, stepping forward, his eyes narrowed. The more he looked at the scene, the more unreal it seemed. He decided to reconsider his earlier thought. He was allowed to judge, cause even he wasn’t lacking foresight this hard. “Is it just me, or does that chimney look way too small for him to have even considered crawling through it in the first place?”

“It’s not just you,” Bobby, who now rounded the engine to join the team, said, reaching for his radio. “Dispatch, Engine 118 is on scene. We have one victim, male, age seems to be mid to late forties. Victim appears to be stuck. And dressed as Santa.”

There was a pause before Dispatch answered, the crackle of static barely covering what Buck could’ve sworn was a snort of laughter. “Copy that, 118,” came Josh’s slightly strained response. Buck noticed Bobby side-eyeing his radio, but he couldn’t bring himself to blame Josh. He’d be laughing too if he wasn’t on this call professionally. “Please confirm: is the scene secure, and do you need additional resources?”

“I don’t know, maybe a team of reindeer to pull him out?” Chim called up toward the house, earning him a glare from Hen, who was probably already assessing what kind of injuries this guy could’ve suffered from…well, this.

“Scene’s secure,” Bobby said, ignoring Chim’s antics, and exchanging another couple of words with Josh. Then, he turned to the crew. “Buck, Eddie, grab the ladder and all the lube we have. Hen, Chim, get ready to check this guy out as soon as they get him down here.”

Buck shook his head as he jogged over to the rig to get the lube, their victim’s voice calling out every swear under the sun. “You know, for a guy playing Santa, he’s not exactly spreading holiday cheer up there.”

From the roof, Santa’s voice rang out, muffled but clearly annoyed. “I can hear you, you know!”

“Good!” Chim called back, a slightly catty edge to his voice. “Then you’ll be delighted to know we’re here to rescue your jolly behind!”

Eddie followed Buck to grab the ladder while Hen remained firmly planted, hands on her hips, staring up at Santa like he was her children’s math homework she was trying to help them with. “How did you not realize this is a terrible idea before you got halfway in?”

“I bet you he lost a dare,” Chim said, a wide grin spreading across his face. “There’s no way this guy just looked at that chimney and thought, ‘Yeah, I can make it.’”

Raising an eyebrow, Hen turned toward Chim and let out a small huff, “I’m sorry, but should you of all people make fun of that? Should I remind you of why we call you ‘Chimney?’”

Chim’s grin faltered for just a second, and Hen’s smirk grew triumphant. “Low blow, Hen,” he retorted, though his tone was light. “But, for the record, I didn’t willingly wedge myself in anything. I was an innocent victim of faulty construction.”

“Sure, Chim,” Hen said, her tone making it clear she didn’t believe him. She turned her attention back to the roof, where Santa continued to struggle, his efforts achieving nothing but a faint creaking noise from the chimney that made everyone on the ground cringe.

“Why am I not surprised?” Buck muttered, setting up the ladder and turning to Eddie. “Come on. Let’s get Santa out of there before he Tim Allens himself.”

Eddie planted his hands on the ladder to keep it steady as Buck began to climb. “Think he’ll go on the naughty list for this?”

“Not if we save him before Hen smacks some sense into him,” Buck called down, his voice lighthearted as he worked his way up toward the roof.

From below, Hen sighed and shook her head, her exasperation at Santa finally getting to her. “One of these days, I’m going to get through a shift without an incident that makes me question humanity.”

“Today is not that day,” Eddie replied, barely stifling his grin.

“Yeah, well,” Hen said, watching Buck hoist himself onto the roof, “let’s just hope Santa’s dignity is the only thing that got bruised tonight.”

As Buck reached the chimney, he peered down at the man’s awkwardly wedged body. This was worse than he had expected. Like he’d thought, the man’s stomach was plugging up the chimney entirely, but he hadn’t predicted the small cracks that were forming all around the top of the shaft, some of which already ran up to halfway down the sides. “Okay, big guy, hang tight. We’re gonna get you out of here, but try not to move too much.”

“Believe me,” Santa grumbled, a deadpan expression on his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, that much is obvious,” Buck said under his breath, before reaching for his radio. “Uh, Cap? Send Eddie up here with the tools. This is a two-man job at least and the lube’s not gonna cut it.”

Chim’s voice chimed in immediately. “Santa’s had one too many cookies, huh?”

“Not helping, Chim,” Buck shot back, shaking his head as he turned his attention back to the task at hand.

This was going to be a long shift.

🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄

“So this is not what we usually get called in for.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow at the, frankly, ridiculous scene in front of him. Somehow, a guy on skis had managed to not only crash into the giant Christmas tree that had been set up right by the main lodge, the guy had somehow managed to get himself completely tangled up in the lights, which still blinked in all colors of the rainbow.

In all his life as a soldier, a firefighter and now a rescue pilot, Tommy had never seen something this idiotic before.

“How did this even happen?” he asked the manager of the resort, a woman who appeared to be in her late thirties, who wore a sharp, dark grey pantsuit. To her credit, she seemed just as exasperated as he felt.

“I wish I knew,” the manager replied, pressing two fingers to her temple as if she were fighting off a migraine. “All I got was a frantic call from one of the lodge staff saying there was ’a skier emergency’ and that I should ‘bring someone who knows how to untangle knots.’” She gestured toward the blinking, flailing mess of a man. “I didn’t expect this.”

Tommy let out a long sigh and turned back to the scene. The skier, who was now groaning softly, looked like a particularly unfortunate ornament hung by an overzealous child. The man’s goggles were askew, his skis were pointing in entirely different directions, and his jacket, a garish neon green, made him look like an elf who’d lost a fight with Santa’s workshop.

“Is he…conscious?” Tommy asked, squinting.

“Yep, sure is,” García, one of the paramedics of the 217 he’d flown up here said. She straightened up and pulled her gloves on tighter. “Hey, Kinard, can you get me a backboard? I feel like we’re gonna need to tie this guy down even if he somehow managed not to break his spine.”

“On it,” Tommy replied with a sigh, and headed back to his chopper. He still wasn’t sure just how this could’ve possibly happened. He had a sinking suspicion that alcohol had played a part, but he kept that to himself, instead silently grabbing the backboard from the back of the helicopter.

He trudged back through the snow, (If the way the artificial stuff felt under his boots was anything to go on, he would absolutely despise real snow.) a soft hum under his breath. The resort’s cheery Christmas music (now an unfortunate backdrop to this circus) had invaded his brain and wouldn’t leave it for probably the rest of his shift (or a week later. Or a month. Or a goddamn year).

As Tommy handed the backboard over to García, he crouched down to get a better look at the skier. “Alright, buddy, you with us?” he asked, his voice sharp but not unkind.

The man groaned again and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “The tree came out of nowhere.”

Tommy blinked. “The tree came out of nowhere?” He exchanged a look with García, who rolled her eyes and smirked, biting her lip.

“I swear it did,” the skier slurred, his head lolling slightly to the side. “One minute, skiing. Next minute, tree.”

Tommy sighed, a sound that felt like it came straight from his soul. “Yeah, I’m sure the tree leapt right out to grab you. Happens all the time.” He shot a glance at the manager, who snorted softly but quickly disguised it as a cough. She was clearly trying to keep her professional veneer intact, but her expression betrayed her amusement.

García got to work, carefully cutting away a few strands of the blinking lights that had wound tightly around the man’s torso. “This guy’s tangled worse than my Abuela’s Christmas lights,” she muttered.

“Don’t disrespect your Abuela,” Tommy quipped. “At least she didn’t knock over the tree.”

The skier let out a low groan. “I’m never drinking eggnog again…”

Ah, there it was. Tommy resisted the urge to say, called it, and focused on the task at hand. “Look, pal, we’re gonna get you out of here, but I need you to stay still. Can you do that?”

The skier didn’t respond directly, but he gave a lazy thumbs-up that didn’t inspire much confidence.

“Great,” García muttered. “Kinard, help me stabilize him before we move him.”

Tommy stepped in to assist, holding the backboard steady as García and the other paramedic carefully maneuvered the man’s limbs. The lights resisted, clinging stubbornly to the skier as if they were part of some cosmic punishment for his sins against Christmas decor. It took some creative maneuvering and a few choice curses from García before the last of the lights finally snapped free.

Once the skier was secured to the backboard, Tommy stood up and dusted the snow off his pants. “Alright, let’s load him up. We’ll fly him down to the hospital for a once-over.”

The manager stepped closer, looking at the still-blinking lights strewn across the snow like abandoned tinsel. “What about…all this?” She gestured vaguely at the scene of destruction.

Tommy shrugged. “I’d say leave it. It’ll make for a great story. ‘The Tree Incident of 2024.’ You could make it an annual thing, build some buzz.”

The manager shot him a flat look. “I think we’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.” He turned back toward the helicopter, falling in line behind the paramedics carrying the backboard. “Let’s get Bode Miller here some help before he decides to start singing carols.”

As they walked, the skier managed to lift his head just enough to croak out one final, utterly sincere question: “But…did I win?”

Tommy couldn’t stop himself. He grinned. “Oh, buddy. You definitely won.”

🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄🎅🏻🎄

“Dispatch, this is engine 118,” Bobby spoke into his radio, snapping the rest of the crew into Business Mode. “We’re pulling up on scene.”

The truck came to a halt outside a large community center, which seemed almost normal and boring. Except for the plumes of smoke coming out of one of the windows. Buck groaned and rolled his eyes. He hoped this wasn’t an actual fire, or at least that the window had already been opened by the time it started, because he didn’t know how he’d react if he found out someone in there had opened a window on a fire.

“Copy that, 118,” the dispatcher’s voice (Maddie this time) came through their radios as they all rushed to grab their gear. “Community Christmas Baking Event, one of the ovens caught fire. The 217 is on scene, Captain Chen is IC, he’ll give you more details.”

Buck’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the 217, but he quickly shrugged it off. Sure, running into his boyfriend on the job would be nice, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Besides, Tommy was on helicopter duty today anyway. He was way up in the sky, riding his bird through the clouds and saving lives by bringing victims to the hospital far faster than an ambo ever could.

It brought a sigh to Buck’s lips as he jogged after Eddie and into the building at Captain Chen’s command, the same love struck one he always seemed to sigh when he thought about Tommy and his effortless coolness, and big heart, and dashing good looks. (And especially the cleft. God, did he love that cleft!) Less than a year ago, he hadn’t even known he was into men, and now here he was, happily, knowingly in love with the very same one who had blasted his closet door open with all the force of the hurricane they’d flown into when they had met.

The smell of burnt sugar and smoke hit Buck like a fist to the face as soon as he and Eddie entered the community center, every thought of Tommy instantly pushed to the back of his mind as he went into rescue mode. Eddie was already barking orders to one of the event organizers, a frazzled woman in a holiday sweater that had seen better days, while Buck took in the scene.

The lobby was a chaos of flour-dusted people, from crying children to panicked adults to people from the 217 trying to evacuate everyone, and a steady stream of smoke curling out of the kitchen at the far end of the hall. Buck followed Eddie through the hall, their boots clomping against the polished floor as they approached the kitchen door, quickly checking every frazzled bystander for injuries before urging them to leave the building already.

“Cap, this is Diaz, we’ve got thick smoke but no visible flames yet,” Eddie reported over his shoulder. “Kitchen is at the end of the main hallway. Looks like the sprinkler system hasn’t gone off.”

“At least the fire’s contained, then,” Bobby’s voice crackled through the radio. “Chen said two of his men are already in the kitchen, Hayes and Kinard. Assist them however they need.”

Buck’s brain came to a screeching halt. Kinard? Did Bobby just say Kinard?! His heart thudded in his chest, and he nearly tripped over his own feet, catching himself just before Eddie noticed his sudden shift in demeanor. Kinard. Bobby had said Kinard. Tommy’s here. The realization brought a wide grin to Buck’s face at the thought of seeing his boyfriend in action, all big, and tough, and competent. He didn’t have time to process it, though, as he and Eddie reached the kitchen door, where the thick haze of smoke was quickly becoming stifling.

Eddie pushed it open, and they were greeted by chaos. Two firefighters from the 217 were already inside, one, Hayes according to his turnout jacket, directing a fire extinguisher toward an oven that was the apparent source of the problem, while the other worked to move large trays of baked goods away from the immediate area. The oven in question was blackened, with flames licking at its edges, a few stray flames dotted around the floor.

“Buckley! Diaz!” Hayes called out, practically bombarding the oven with foam. “We could use another set of hands on this.”

“On it,” Eddie shouted briskly, moving toward him. Buck’s eyes, however, had already met the other firefighters, and for a moment, it was as if everything around them didn’t even exist.

There he was, helmet on, jacket slightly singed, cleft chin invisible under the oxygen mask, but just knowing it was there and waiting for him to come kiss it made Buck weak in the knees. Tommy’s eyes widened in surprise, but he recovered quickly. “Evan,” he called, and Buck couldn’t put his finger on why, but his voice sounded…hot. Hotter. Or something. He wasn’t sure what it was, just that he really wanted to tear the turnouts off of Tommy, fire and smoke be damned. “What are the odds?”

Buck managed a lopsided grin (that he knew Tommy would’ve loved if he only could have seen it!), his heart pounding a mile a minute. Tommy, all professional, and sooty and goddammit, Buck could almost smell the musk radiating off of him from over here. “Right?” he somehow brought out with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “It seems so unlikely!”

Tommy gave a quick shake of his head, exasperation evident in the way his eyes crinkled even under the helmet, but there was an unmistakable fondness too. “Focus up, Buckley,” he said, and if Buck wasn’t mistaken, there was a hint of a smirk tugging at the edges of his voice. “There’s still an oven fire to handle, and I’m pretty sure Captain Nash won’t appreciate me distracting his star firefighter.”

“Oh, I’m the star now?” Buck shot back, already moving to sort out the flames on the ground while Eddie and Hayes double-timed the burning oven. He could feel the warmth of Tommy’s presence nearby, but there was a job to do here, so he couldn’t even bask in it.

“Always have been,” Tommy replied, the words so casual Buck nearly choked on the laugh that bubbled out of him, all while Tommy had already turned his attention back to the task at hand with all the casualness the situation allowed. It was like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on Buck’s overactive heart, and that only made him more feral inside.

“Hey!” Eddie barked, snapping Buck back into focus. “Quit flirting and help us!”

Right. Fire. Job. Professionalism.

Finished with the smaller fires, Buck moved to assist Hayes and Eddie with the oven, which turned out to be a much bigger problem than they had anticipated. Together, they aimed for the stubborn flames that were trying to escape the oven, working in tandem to snuff them out. The smoke was thick and cloying, stinging Buck’s eyes even through his mask, but the blaze was already starting to die down. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Tommy check the rest of the appliances for damage and ensure no other hotspots could reignite, causing another swell of pure affection and, frankly, borderline horniness to rush through Buck’s body.

The team worked efficiently, their movements seamless and practiced. Within minutes, the immediate danger was contained, the oven reduced to a smoldering mess. Eddie called it in to Bobby while Hayes and Tommy began assessing the kitchen’s ventilation system to clear the remaining smoke.

Buck busied himself by checking out (and mourning) the remaining trays of half-burnt cookies and pies, but his mind kept wandering to Tommy. It was surreal seeing him here, grounded instead of flying high above the chaos. Buck had always admired the cool confidence Tommy exuded in the air, but now he was seeing it up close, in action on the ground.

Once the kitchen was declared safe, the teams began packing up their gear. The smoke was thinning, though the acrid smell of burnt sugar lingered in the air. Buck caught Tommy leaning against the wall, his helmet tucked under one arm, looking as composed as ever despite the soot smudged across his cheek.

“So,” Buck said, sidling up to him, “what’s it like working with your feet on the ground for a change?”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, that smirk reappearing. “Not bad. Less turbulence, more smoke. And I get to run into you.”

Buck chuckled, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks despite himself. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“Yeah, I had to fill in for Callahan. Broke his arm on a call this morning,” Tommy said casually. “Guess I was meant to be here.” He tilted his head, his gaze softening. “You okay? You look a little... out of it.”

“I’m fine,” Buck said quickly, though his heart still hadn’t entirely settled. “It’s just that you don’t meet an absolutely irresistible beast while out on a call.”

Tommy’s smirk grew. “Ah, so I made you look like a lovesick puppy. Figures. I have that effect on people.”

Eddie’s voice cut through their moment. “Buck! We’re wrapping up. Let’s go.”

Buck flinched at the sudden intrusion of his and Tommy’s bubble, and he quickly shot his partner a venomous look, (not that Eddie seemed to care much, judging by the exasperated expression) before turning back to Tommy.

“Duty calls,” he said with a shrug, but he hesitated before stepping away. “I’ll see you later?”

Tommy gave him a small, private smile, the kind that made Buck’s heart flutter in a way that still felt new and thrilling. And then, without a warning, he placed his fingers under Buck’s jaw, his thumb brushing over his chin, before pulling him in.

Their lips met in a soft, tender kiss, one that sent a shockwave of warmth through Buck’s body. Almost instinctively, Buck grabbed Tommy’s hips to pull him closer, any space being between them making him feel like he was suffocating. He craved the heat of Tommy’s body, the firmness of his chest, even the smell of smoke and burned gingerbread in his hair.

Despite Buck’s excruciating hunger, he didn’t try to deepen the kiss beyond the chaste, soft peck it was. He wanted to, of course, the craving to rip Tommy’s turnouts off never having gone away, but he knew none of that was something they could do right now. Even just this was highly unprofessional and probably shouldn’t ever have happened, though Buck couldn’t possibly care less about it. His hot boyfriend was hot, and he had initiated smooch time, and Buck was only a man.

Tommy pulled back after a moment, his smirk softening into something tender, and Buck’s breath caught in his throat as his eyes found Tommy’s watching him with that familiar sparkle of pure, unadulterated love.

“Uh, what was that?” Buck chuckled. He tried to fight it, but he couldn’t help the smile that started to creep onto his face. “That wasn’t very…I don’t think Captain Chen and Captain Nash would approve of…”

“I think they would,” Tommy cut him off with a shrug. “You know, just this once. We were legally obligated to, after all.”

At Buck’s quizzical look, he simply pointed upward. Buck followed the gesture, tilting his head back to look up. And his heart nearly stopped. Hanging above them, just barely visible amidst the smoke and the still-swirling chaos of the kitchen, was a small sprig of mistletoe. It was a little toasty, but most of it, including the shiny, bright red bow tied around it, had miraculously survived.

He blinked at it, then back at Tommy, who was now grinning fully, his teeth flashing white despite the soot smudged on his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Buck muttered, feeling his cheeks heat up even more. “Mistletoe? In the middle of a kitchen?”

Tommy shrugged, his expression infuriatingly nonchalant. “Rules are rules, babe.”

Buck let out a half-laugh, half-scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.” Tommy repliplied, wiggling his eyebrow. And really, Buck couldn’t argue with that logic, but before he could respond, Eddie’s voice echoed sharply through the kitchen doorway.

“Buck! Seriously, let’s go!”

Buck groaned, giving Tommy one last lingering look. “Duty calls. Again. I’ll see you later?”

“Of course,” Tommy said, his voice warm, his smirk softening into something gentler. “Go save the world, babe.”

Buck pulled Tommy into one more short hug and planted a quick peck to his lips before turning around and jogging over to the door, always aware of the fond expression Tommy watched him with. As he followed Eddie back out the building and to the truck, he couldn’t keep the grin off his face, even as Eddie shot him a knowing look.

“Don’t,” Buck said preemptively, waving his hand around. “Not. A. Word.”

Eddie smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”

But he didn’t need to. Buck knew what his own face looked like right now, the power Tommy had over him no secret to him. It wasn’t like he cared much, either. He’d been the happiest he had ever been this past year, and if this continued, well.

He wasn’t going to complain.

[deus-sema]

This meta by @conundrumoftime is worth a read or several reads. It made me re-evaluate Sauron and Galadriel's entire dynamic throughout the Third Age.

Up until now, I had been thinking of their push and pull equation from a perspective of Galadriel being on the defensive and holding Sauron back from seeing her after shutting the door for good.

But what I overlooked was that he was practically defenseless against her. He could never shut the door even if he wanted to. Even if her intrusions drove him to madness.

Not being able to see Galadriel forever would have hurt no doubt; not being able to put up any barriers against her would have been akin to salt on the already festering wound.

She could come in and leave any time she pleases to and he couldn't do the same to her. It was not even that his ties with her were completely severed but rather she held the strings in her hand. The more he saw of her and the more severe addiction would have become and it would have been mightily frustrating because he could only savour her company in little doses whenever she willed it and would have been left craving for more. Instead of leaving his side, she stayed and became a thorn that could never be dislodged. No wonder, his obsession to breach the walls she had put up, to see her and her thoughts intensified with each moment. No wonder he needed the One more than ever. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that Sauron's attitude whenever Galadriel was concerned in the Third Age would be somewhat similar to Gollum's feelings whenever the One Ring was in picture.

It just makes their relationship more twisted and attractive. For millennia, the two of them were engaged in a game which hurt them both and,yet, proved to be delightful.

Perhaps when Galadriel finally rejects the One and realises that it's on a path to be destroyed, she is taken over by melancholy not only at the impending farewell that will have to be said to Middle Earth but also because the 'game' which she had been engaged in every day, every moment and got habituated to will stop forever. There will be no more trysts in the mind palace. No more will she hear his voice. No more can she reach out to him whenever she wants to.

Whenever I used to imagine the final scene of TRoP, I thought it would end with the door being shut. But picture this. Sauron has been defeated by the Last Alliance and weakened. He is trying to recuperate. During this moment, he gets an unexpected visitor. Someone whom he thought he would never see again. Whether she derides him or pities him is left to imagination. But she promises him it is not the last they have seen of each other.

[merrylou-mas]

Several Sentence Sunday

tagged by the delightfulest @laundryandtaxesworld and @perfectlysunny02. I'm currently sitting in the airport, waiting for my flight to go see my parents for Christmas, and I've got two hours, so I'm working on chapter 5 of take my whole life too. It will probably be out later tonight or tomorrow, but here's snippet anyway.

cw: implied use of a homophobic slur.

Tommy has turned into stone beside him, so Buck feeds his arm through Tommy and snags his hand, squeezing his fingers gently. Tommy shoots him a fleeting glance, a small smile on his lips before his gaze turns back to his father, that smile long gone. “I don’t know why you’re surprised that I’m here, Mother,” Anthony says, standing between them, hands folded over his chest in a way that makes Buck think he’s attempting to be intimidating, but it’s so exaggerated that Buck can’t take it seriously. Not the same with Tommy though, who’s sitting still next to him. Buck squeezes his fingers again. Tommy doesn’t respond. “You’ve decided to give that money to my fa-” “Don’t you dare,” Irene snaps and Buck freezes too because was he really just about to call Tommy a- But Irene continues, “You use that word against my grandson, Anthony and I won’t even entertain the idea of having you in my home, let alone hearing what you have to say. Do you understand me?” Tommy exhales a long, shaky breath and Buck leans further into him.

tagging some other delightful people: @loucifersbitch, @desert--moonchild, @mmso-notlikethat, @hyperfocusthusly @cjlouwho

[runningfrom2am]

requiem // part seven

summary: according to coriolanus snow, his best friend had the most beautiful voice in all of panem. she had been training her whole life constantly to get where she was; being up for a residency at the most elite opera house in all of panem. singing was her passion. her true love; and when that got stripped from her in a second, his world became a whole lot quieter. he loathed every minute of it.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 1.4k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: opera singer!mentor!reader (blink and you'll miss it), she's kind of a prodigy!! p cool imo, mute!reader, bestfriend!coryo, friends to lovers trope ooo, mentions of graphic violence early on (particularly the prologue) but after that it's pretty safe, depictions of ptsd/trauma, mental illness and minor suicidal ideation but at least she's not entirely alone, descriptions of minor medical treatments and use of medication.

a/n: omg hi i am not dead i swear i was just in school which,,, was pretty close to death but here i am

also, reminder to follow @runningfrom2am-library and turn on my notifications there to join my taglist for this series!!

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist // pinterest board

Coryo was getting frustrated that it seemed you didn't want to tell him anything. Tell, write, confess through charades- whatever it would take. Whatever it was that you went to Dr. Gaul about, you were taking it to the grave.

He had to be fair, though, he was scared to ask directly.

When he went to your house that evening, you had just wanted to talk about his apprenticeship with her. You were so excited, and the fact that your reason for attending the citadel was still an unknown slipped easily to the back of his mind because you were smiling again.

'I'm so proud! :)' You had written on that notepad of yours moments after pulling away from a hug, nearly bouncing with excitement as you held the book up for him to read your thoughts.

You were smiling again, and he wasn't going to ruin that for the world- so he just trusted that if it was important you would tell him, because that's what you always did. You told each other nearly everything, important or not, and this was an odd exception but as the weeks went by he figured that it was just nothing at all, and you had forgotten the event altogether.

Your parents weren't home today, but your staff let Coryo in anyway, as they always did. You had told them years ago he could come and go as he pleased, so they were used to it. They rarely even notified you of his arrival anymore, it had well and truly become his second home.

The halls of the large estate were quiet until he reached the wing of your room. Opera music poured from behind your closed bedroom door, a song he had never heard before. But it was your voice he was hearing over the crackling of the track, no doubt in his mind.

His feet carry him faster down the hall, and he could just about hear his heart in his throat.

It was you. You were singing again.

Coryo opens the bedroom door, hesitantly, almost; equal parts delighted and shocked and scared he was dreaming. But there you were. Your back was to him, your form encased in tulle and embroidered silk around the bodice that's tied loosely, just enough to hold it on. In the mirror he could see your reflection, your eyes closed for the time being and lips moving with every word. But you weren't singing.

Your record player spins and cracks in the corner, volume cranked as high as it would go and he wonders if that was an intentional reflection of the power behind your voice in its natural form. To convince you that you were back in that moment, that you had never changed. Every year your parents get you a record of every performance and dress rehearsal you had done that year, assuming they were good enough to make the annual cut. This one, he recognizes is from last year. Watching you pretend to be the girl you once were, god, Coryo feels his cheeks burning- he shouldn't be seeing this, he's most definitely intruding, even though he would love to sink into this moment and just for a few minutes, be able to pretend with you until maybe it would just come true.

He takes a small step back, intending to close and then knock on the door to give you a chance to prepare for his entry, but you hear the slightest creak of the floor under his heel. You nearly jump two feet in the air where you're stood across the room, hands flying to your chest to hold onto your racing heart, feeling it kickstart from the sudden intrusion. You catch a glimpse of him in the mirror and spin around quickly, dress swinging around your legs as soft as a cloud while your lips form his name.

"Sorry." He chuckles, watching you bunch up the skirt and stomp over to your record player. The fact that your embarrassment was quickly manifesting as upset was something he couldn't help but find nothing short of adorable.

You turn off the record with a huff of silent frustration, your cheeks burning under his gaze. You've no doubt scratched the vinyl in your haste, but you can't be bothered to care at the moment. The next time you played it you'd only hear this moment anyways, so you knew this one would soon be joining the oldest ones at the back of your closet.

"So... how's it going?" Coryo asks, but the slight upturn at the corner of his lips is enough to make you feel that he's laughing at you.

You wave at him dismissively, brow still creased and that little pout still forming your expression as you stomp over to your walk in closet and close the door with a dramatic slam.

He laughs a little to himself, making his way over to your bed and sitting down on the plush sheets, placing his bag next to him and rifling through it to gather what he had brought for you.

He wasn't sure if you would like it, he was going out on a bit of a limb here- but the Plinth Prize was treating him so well he could afford to fumble a few impromptu gifts.

You emerge a minute or so later, still kicking your poofy dress off your feet and into the depths of the closet as you pull the drawstrings on your pyjamas tighter. They may have been Coryo's at some point, a relic from days past when you were allowed to have sleepovers, but by now it hardly mattered.

You fix Coryo with a glare over your shoulder as you shove the closet door closed and he makes quick work of asking how your "performance" went.

"I'm kidding! I'm sorry. Should have knocked." He laughs, shrugging as you pad over to the bed, slippered feet hardly making a sound. You throw yourself down next to him, dragging your hands down your cheeks before sitting up again and grabbing your notepad from the side table.

'If you tell anyone, you'll be the next one to lose your voice.'

"Ha, ha." Coryo mocks, rolling his eyes. "I'm hoping you'll forgive me when you see what I brought for you."

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to his bag as he pulls a couple thin books from it. Sheet music. He's honestly surprised you couldn't smell it as soon as it passed the threshold of your property within his bag.

You take the books from him eagerly, hardly sparing a glance to the cover of the first one before beginning to flick through it, eager to see its contents and imagine the sound. In your mind, your fingers are already trailing over the keys discovering a new pattern, a new melody to fill the painful silence of your world.

Until... it doesn't work. You're looking at the sheet music and the sound doesn't come, you can't picture it the way you normally can.

Your brow furrows as you flip back to the front page.

"It's for a guitar." Coriolanus explains, having picked up on your obvious distress right as you read the cover.

You give him a thoroughly confused look, the blue of his eyes offering you no explanation like it so often did.

"I thought maybe... it might be good for you to try something different. If you wanted." He adds, leaning back on his palms. "I mean, you're really good at piano, and singing, and the harp sometimes, right? So I just thought maybe trying a new instrument would give you something to do, a bit of a change of... musical scenery, if you will."

You tilt your head slightly as you look down at the pages again, considering his suggestion. All you can think of, selfishly, is Lucy Gray playing that guitar in her interview, and the way Coryo looked at her before she died in the Games. How her voice seemed to enchant him when she sang at the reaping, and how he had looked over at you expecting a pleasant reaction from you as well, expecting you to see some form of kinship in her.

You force a slightly tense smile onto your lips, nodding in agreement. "Thank you." You mouth to him, trying to seem cheery about it as you wrap an arm around his shoulders to give him a hopefully convincing side hug which he happily returns.

It didn't look that hard, after all, and you're sure you could play guitar better in a few weeks than Lucy Gray Baird ever could after a lifetime of practice. There's only one way to prove it.

no taglist this time around!! my fics usually get over a hundred requests to be added to the taglist so instead i made a library! follow me over on @runningfrom2am-library and turn on notifs to get updates when i post new parts!!

[dobadoo]

˗ˏˋ ꒰ BURN FOR ME ꒱ ˎˊ˗ arlecchino

You are a ballerina. In the age of advanced technologies that develop faster and more realistically every day, you are afraid of becoming just a shadow of these technologies..

✧ warnings — NSFW, hurt/Comfort, ballerina ! reader , gentle sex, romance, minors & non nb/wlw do not interact. ✧ a/n — I thought about the backstory of the fic for a long time, because I didn't want to write nsfw just like that lol, this is the first time I'm writing to a girl on my account, I mostly only wrote to boys..😅😅 (Arlecchino step on me)

You are standing on a small stage. You are wearing a white ballet skirt. A little fluffy, covered in detailed patterns, a little sparkling in the dark, gloomy little performance hall.

There are people sitting in the chairs, all dressed in the latest fashion, and somewhere above, a couple of important Fontaine officials are sitting, looking down on you like hawks at their next victim. And you dance, dance and dance like a white swan on the lake, your movements as precise as they are elegant.

And you are scared. Sweat runs down your back, making the fabric of your dress unpleasantly sticky and wet. It is stuffy, your head is spinning from the music, and if you look into the distance, it seems as if the whole space is shimmering.

.. And the music ends.. You hear applause.

You breathe heavily, trying to hide it. You stand up straighter, arching your back almost to the point of crunching, and bow. But when you straighten up, you understand that people are not looking at you. And opposite you, there, on the other side of the stage, is a robot. Without heavy clothes, without makeup that hides almost all the flaws of the face. Without ballet shoes shoes..

..Without a face that needs to be constantly controlled. Without eyes that can look into the abyss of feelings, if only you look into them in response..Without a heart.

The robot opposite you is singing a melody for your own performance. People surround this robot, looking at the miracle of mechanics with delight and childish spontaneous curiosity. They applaud, praise the creator of the robot and Fontaine's new policy regarding technological progress.

And you stand right in front of this crowd on a huge stage, in a belle skirt and ballet shoes. You see these people. Who applaud some robot, they listen to a mechanical repetition of how someone sang in the past. A repetition devoid of feelings and sincerity. A repetition set by some algorithm of numbers of a simple code - "one" - "zero" - "one" And so on - to infinity

And you Dance, stand. Dance, stand. And so on - to infinity.

You remember how a few years ago everything was different. Children loved to watch your performance, and people in the big theater did not take their eyes off you and looked at you with delight. You try not to look in the direction where the robot is standing and there are people who with trepidation and admiration surround this insensitive and heartless robot. When all the people left the hall, leaving you alone in this space..

You shudder.

You hear the only sound of applause very close, you turn your head to the side. A woman is looking at you and applauding, it seems, at you, and not at all at the robot. She is looking you straight in the eyes. Her smile is sincere. The woman's eyes are two strokes of scarlet, which are permanently burned into your retina.

She is tall, slightly taller than you. Slender, her waist is very thin. The woman is completely covered by some strange, but elegant clothes

of an alien style. Black-white-red. Three constants in her clothes.

You are silent. Over the past two years, you have forgotten how to perceive recognition. You bowed again, you smiled at her. You curtsied and the woman let out a chuckle.

The woman suddenly comes closer to you. There is something in her movements that you involuntarily take a small step back, still standing on your toes and in that damn ballet skirt, and it seems that you are still shorter than her.

The woman moves so close to you that you feel the air around you change with her breath. You feel the warmth, not of a machine, not of a monster.

Warmth. A little burning, unfamiliar, but inviting.

The warmth of a human body.

"Good performance. And a good mask on the face," the woman whispers in your ear, sending goosebumps through your body.

The woman barely noticeably runs the fingers of her right hand along your shoulder. You feel how sharp her nails are, but you don't feel pain, only unnatural warmth.

The woman's hand suddenly moves away, and you feel something cold in your hands.

The moment of warmth disappears as quickly as it appeared. The woman moves away from you and with the same smirk on her thin, even lips, goes somewhere, passing by the switched off robot where people were looking a couple of minutes ago. And you stand, looking after her as if amazed. Like the statues of the Archons, who are eternally motionless and which nothing can revive - not even the prayer of a desperate mortal.

You suddenly realize that you have barely breathed all this time and have heard nothing but a low, hoarse female whisper.

You blink, look around, but it is too late - the woman has already managed to leave the hall, haha, and you did not even hear the slamming door.

You automatically look at your palm and find several large mora coins.

You swallow as you gradually return to reality and begin to see and hear everything perfectly. You look at several mora coins in your hand. The mask on the face always needs mora so that it continues to be beautiful and perfect.

But the heart burning in the darkness - no.

Your routine is simple. Put on makeup, put on a ballet skirt, bandage your chest so that it does not stick out, and put on ballet shoes. Lace up the corset. Repeat the dance that you have rehearsed countless times before. Inhale - exhale. Count to ten, put a smile on your face - and go out on stage. Lately, you are rarely invited to participate in solo performances in the theater. You look like a robot among artists, although in fact you are an artist and there are only mechanical iron things around you.

You stand up, long accustomed to the blinding spotlights in the first seconds of the performance. A couple of young magicians performed in front of you, you met them before, nice guys, they helped you once… but you don’t really care about it.

And it’s your turn, you start dancing, spinning, doing pirouettes and complex movements. All this is a continuous performance, and all life is a theater, you all need to play your roles on time. But isn’t there passion and tragedy in the theater at the same time?

You close your eyes and remember that very warmth. So human and inhuman at the same time. You remember the hot breath and inspiration that washed over you the moment you saw that streak of scarlet in that strange woman's eyes. If the heart could burn with a living flame, all your clothes would have burned away long ago, charred, and you would be dancing naked on this stage. But haven't you been naked for a long time? Doesn't inspiration burn away a person's outer self and set fire to his inner self?

You know that this woman is in the audience; sitting among the few spectators who still enjoy a living human performance, despite all the technological progress in Fontaine.

You don't wonder about her reaction, you don't think about the smirk on her perfect marble face. You don't imagine her words that would send a pleasant, euphoric shiver down your body.

You stop your dance with a bow as the music fades. You've already torn your heart out of your chest, it's burning - so why prefaces and afterwords? You open your eyes, the spotlights, as usual, blind you a little. But they seem like shadows compared to what's burning inside you. You look ahead. Someone is applauding you, but you're looking at that woman whose eyes are piercing your entire body like needles.

She's clapping too, and on her face is the same smile-smirk.

The spotlights disappear. The red curtain closes. And you exhale, carrying within you, somewhere deep in your body, that very spark. And the fire that started from that spark and turned that same spark into nothing.

---

You gasp for air and grip the edge of the dressing room vanity table with your hands. Someone else's lips on your neck are like tongues of flame and cold, sharp peaks at the same time. Thin, dark fingers with long nails gently brush your hair back. A bouquet of blood flowers that this woman gave you is lying around somewhere in the dressing room after the show. The dim light from the lamps dances bizarrely across the woman's face, making her look like something unnatural, illusory.

You swallow and exhale again, pressing your back against the tabletop. You reach for the human warmth and put your arms around the woman's back, running your hands over her bare, thin, slender waist.

"What is your name?"

You ask hoarsely between deep, shuddering breaths. The woman grins. She runs her hot, long tongue down your neck, leaving a thin trail of saliva. She looks up at you with her eyes, a thin scarlet streak. Then she straightens up a little and whispers in your ear, "Arlecchino"

Her answers are always like that - short and laconic. Always appropriate, even though you've only heard her answers a few times in your life.

Arlecchino spreads your legs with her knee, then smoothly lifts you by the waist and makes you sit on the countertop, pressing your back against the vanity mirror. The woman's hot hands fall on your hips and stroke them through the layers of your dress. You swallow and reach for another wet kiss, smearing the lipstick on Arlecchino's lips, mixing your lipstick with hers. Her tongue touches yours, and you shiver, feeling how wet you are becoming. Her hot, slender hands slide under your dress and touch your naked skin.

You break the kiss and throw your head back in pleasure, you painfully hit the cold mirror behind you with the top of your head, and Arlecchino removes one of her hands on your hips, and pulls this hand to your head, to the back of your head, to protect you from the unpleasant, cold pain.

You moan softly when someone else's lips touch your neck again. A hot tongue slides along your skin down to your collarbones. Arlecchino removes her hand from your hip and begins to feverishly quickly pull down the top of your dress, exposing your chest. When her hot mouth and hot tongue touch one of your nipples, you arch your back, breathing heavily and moaning with pleasure. If Harlequin hadn't protected the back of your head with her hand, you would have definitely broken the mirror.

The woman looks up at you, although she bends over because of her height. Her eyes burn with desire and anticipation when she sucks your nipple into her mouth again with her lips and makes a loud smack. You shudder again. You gently squeeze the other's breast, and your hand rests on her thigh.

The woman suddenly touches your breast in a certain place and hoarsely says: "What I like, I do not give. And if from this my hands become even more charred, then I will only enjoy it."

You suddenly understand where exactly this woman's hand is on your naked chest. Her hand is near the place where your flaming heart beats greedily. A crooked smile creeps onto your lips as you tremble with desire. You whisper with heat in your voice, looking at the blood-red streaks in the eyes of the woman in front of you:

"Well, then burn. Burn for me. Arlecchino.."

She thin lips opposite stretch into a hungry smile. You are kissed again, the tongue penetrating deep into your mouth. You respond to the kiss, clinging with your hands to the shoulders of Arlecchino.

You never really cared about the politics of other regions of Teyvat, too busy with your own problems. So you had no idea that this strange name "Arlecchino" had its own meaning, but you had a feeling that she was somehow connected with the fatui..

You were just thinking about how interesting this name was.

You will definitely understand everything much later: who this woman in front of you is, what she does, why her hands are so black, as if they were really charred. But maybe it's even for the best. Why prefaces and afterwords when the spark has already become a flame?

@anantaru @hitomisuzuya @lavandulawrites @himasgod @neuvigroove @quimichi @rsventhesecondd @anemoswirlsmyheart @nil4everheartz @kujiba @genshingorlsrevengeance @shyentsfoundherink @lavandulawrites @ashyashylee

[kmomof4]

A Very Memorable First Date

Here is my second Winter/Holiday Bingo offering!! I'm crossing off 2 squares this time - Peppermint Mocha Latte and Christmas Carols/Music.

This fic was inspired by a Facebook post I saw back in July that told about Jay Leno going into the audience to hear about worst first date experiences. The lady who told this story won, as I'm sure you'll see why.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this second bingo offering and let me know what you think!!!

Thank you to @jrob64 for her beta services (also for reminding me to post... since I had forgotten 😳😬) and to @hollyethecurious for continuing the bingo shenanigans through the holidays!!

Without further ado... here we go!

Rating: T

Words: Almost 1800

Tags: Holiday Bingo Fic, Holiday Fluff

On ao3

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615

@donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings

@booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells  @djlbg

@lfh1226-linda @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic @anmylica

@laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling @caught-in-the-filter

@ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite @captainswan-kellie

@soniccat @beckettj @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jonesfandomfanatic

@elfiola @zaharadessert @ilovemesomekillianjones @mie779 @kymbersmith-90

@suwya @veryverynotgoodwrites @myfearless-love 

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

A Very Memorable First Date

Christmas Carols/Music and Peppermint Mocha Latte

Killian Jones slowly and carefully maneuvered his classic SS Chevelle along the narrow two lane road leading down the side of the mountain. He had  just enjoyed a day of skiing on a delightful blind date with one Miss Emma Swan. The date had been set up by their coworkers David and Mary Margaret Nolan after months of nagging the both of them, once Killian moved to town last summer to start teaching sixth grade at Mary Margaret’s elementary school.

They’d had a great day, and Killian was already thinking about what they could do for their next date, if she consented to go out with him again. Her smiles and laughter today, as well as the utter lack of awkwardness and easy conversation between them had him thinking that she’d be amenable to the prospect. When he dropped her off at her home in a couple of hours, he’d be sure to ask her before he left her company. 

But now, he glanced over and smiled as she exclaimed delightedly, turned up the volume on the radio, and began belting out Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer along with Gene Autry at the top of her lungs. Killian joined in and her wide grin whenever he added the little tags in between the lines just made his heart soar. It was all he could do to keep a lid on the happiness bubbling up inside him from the wonderful day they’d shared.

“Rudolph the red nosed reindeer, reindeer, had a very shiny nose,” they sang together. “And if you ever saw it, saw it, you would even say it glows, like a lightbulb. All of the other reindeer, reindeer, used to laugh and call him names, like Pinocchio. They never let poor Rudolph, Rudolph, join in any reindeer games, like football.” 

Emma looked over at Killian as they sang together, taking in his ridiculously handsome profile, and berating herself that it had taken her this long to consent to David and Mary Margaret setting them up. If she’d known what she was missing, she would have gone out with him before he’d even settled in properly to their moderately sized town near the Maine and New Hampshire state line. But, to be fair, Mary Margaret’s track record with trying to set her up had not earned her a gold star in Emma’s book. It wasn’t until her boss David, Mary Margaret’s husband, threw his support behind Killian Jones, that Emma decided to take a chance. 

And was she ever glad she did. He had completely blown her away. He proved himself a gentleman at every opportunity - opening the door for her, helping her onto and off the ski lift (all while keeping his hands where they belonged), pulling out her chair for her when they ate, and engaging her in scintillating conversation without dominating it. She’d never enjoyed a more perfect first date in her life and she sincerely hoped he asked her out again soon.

As they finished singing along to Rudolph, Emma became aware of a growing problem. 

She needed to go to the bathroom. 

The road they were on was treacherous, switchback after switchback, as they descended the mountain heading home, which was still a couple of hours away. And even the Maine state line with the Welcome Center and a bathroom wouldn’t be reached for about an hour. Emma swallowed hard. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to make it that long. She glared at the empty cup in the cupholder in front of the dash. She really shouldn’t have had that last peppermint mocha latte for dessert after dinner.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and Killian looked over at her.

“You alright there, Swan?” he asked.

Emma grimaced. “Ummm…” she hedged.

“What is it?”

“I might need you to stop soon,” she admitted, peering out into the night. “I need to use the restroom.”

“Oh,” he replied, mild astonishment coloring his voice. He pulled his phone from his pocket as he drove and handed it to her. “See if we’re near any town where we can stop.” He already had his map app open, so she zoomed out to see if there were any towns between them and the state line.

No such luck.

Killian grimaced this time. “I can try to speed up a little, but I don’t think it’ll make much difference getting us to the Maine welcome center. Do you think you can hold it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if you can’t, I’ll just pull over,” he promised her. White Christmas sung by Bing Crosby was coming on the radio now, so they both started singing along to try and distract Emma from her growing predicament. By the end of the song, she knew it was hopeless. 

“Nope,” she informed him. “Not going to make it. Pull over.”

Killian drove a little bit further - about halfway between the two switchbacks so he’d be seen by any cars coming up in front of him or down the mountain behind him - and carefully pulled over on the side of the road.

Emma opened her door and looked down. There was nothing for it. She had no choice - it was either wet her pants, ruining Killian’s leather seats and humiliating herself, or get out in the snow and hope she didn’t step off the road into a drift that would swallow her whole.

“Stay as close to the car as you can, Swan,” Killian said. “I’ll keep it running for you.”

Nodding, Emma stepped out onto the asphalt, and shut the door carefully behind her. In the silence of the woods, she didn’t want to trigger an avalanche. Shimmying her way toward the back of the car, she finally stopped and pulled her pants down, resting her naked backside against the metal of the car.

Her relief was instantaneous once she relaxed enough to do her business. When she was done, she tried to straighten her legs.

Uh oh, she thought.

She couldn’t move. 

She was frozen to the side of Killian’s car!

“Killian!” she whisper shouted, reaching behind herself to try and knock on the door. Her door opened suddenly and she heard Killian’s voice from inside.

“You alright there, Swan?” he called. “What’s taking so long?”

“Help!” she cried. “I’m freezing my butt off here! Literally!”

A moment later, Killian appeared at her side from around the back of the car. As soon as he saw the problem, his eyes widened comically.

“Don’t you dare laugh,” she warned him, though without any real heat as she couldn’t keep her own laughter contained. 

Killian pressed his lips into a thin line to try and keep his own laugh inside, but her own small giggle as she spoke made it impossible and he burst into laughter, prompting her to join him. Their mutual mirth broke the ice of the situation - pun definitely intended - but Killian still needed to figure out a way to free Emma. 

They needed something warm to pour on her bottom in order to unfreeze her from the metal. He carefully went around her to her door to see if there was anything left in her cup. His cup of coffee was long gone, but perhaps she still had a little bit left, though he couldn’t remember her taking a sip for quite a while. 

Yep, her cup was just as empty as his was, which meant there was only one way to free her. He crawled back out of the car, scratching at the spot behind his ear that always itched when he was nervous or embarrassed. 

“Well, Swan,” he began, “I have bad news, good news, and… somewhat good news. I think. I hope. It depends on your point of view, I think.”

Emma raised a questioning eyebrow at him. “As long as my butt is unfrozen, I don’t much care about good news, bad news, or anything in between. But whatever we do, it’s got to be quick. My legs are not going to hold me up much longer.”

Killian nodded decisively.

“Alright then,” he said. “The bad news is both of our cups are empty, so we can’t use our drinks to unfreeze you from the vehicle. The good news is that I can still get you off of there, but the other news is that…” Killian scratched behind his ear again, terribly embarrassed about saying this out loud.

“What, Jones?” Emma asked, her impatience bleeding through.

“I’m going to have to uh… ah… relieve myself, to uh…” He vaguely gestured with his hand, but Emma took his meaning. 

No wonder he was so uncomfortable.

Emma took a deep breath, and bit back the hysterical laugh that wanted to burst out of her.

“Whatever it takes, Jones. I won’t look at you if you won’t look at me.”

“As you wish, Swan.”

Emma could hear Killian’s zipper being pulled down as she turned her head away from him and tried to arrange her clothing so that he wouldn’t accidentally hit any of them. Suddenly, she felt a warm splash against her bottom and a moment later, she was free and nearly fell head first into the drift in front of her. Killian caught her by the shoulder before she did and made sure she was stable before letting her go and putting himself back to rights.

He handed her a bunch of napkins that he’d retrieved from inside to clean herself up with. 

“You can turn around now,” she said, once she’d wiped herself off and pulled her pants back up.

Killian looked at her, his face resembling a ripe tomato all the way to the top of his pointed little elf ears. He smirked at her.

“Some blind date, huh, Swan?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she agreed, with a chuckle. 

“Come on,” he said, opening her door for her. She settled into her seat as Killian shut the door behind her. Once behind the wheel again, he continued driving slowly and carefully down the side of the mountain.

Now singing along to Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, they were able to put the whole embarrassing ordeal behind them.

~*~*~

Ten Years Later

“Tell us a bedtime story, Papa!” Seven year old Liam and five year old Hope called as they flew down the stairs and climbed into their father’s lap.

“A true story!” Liam said as he settled down comfortably.

“Of course, my cygnets,” he agreed, putting his arms around them both. He leaned back in the recliner and stroked his chin in thought.  “Hmmm,” he mused for a moment. “Have I ever told you the story of mine and your mother’s first date?”

The End

~*~*~

See why that lady's story won? Thank you for reading and sharing!! I'd love to know what you think! Merry Christmas!!!

[growlingven]

Hey so this is something I put more effort than I expected into. It’s cozy, and a bit depressing. Knifeplay and gore tws, but no consequences. Praise to @butchwolfmom who helped flesh out my ideas.

The tension is what hurt the most. A distinct difference between her life at home and out. She leads her victim by the hand, walking up the step. Sneaking through the front door. Pointing out the stairs which creaked loudest. This aspect of her life that so few knew about. A source of joy, of true talent and utter satisfaction. Steps taken slowly, hands hot with sweat but not letting go, Blood rushing in her ears. Who could have known that breaking into one’s own house could be so exhilarating. This moment was not something she could share with anyone who really mattered to her, except for her love.

She slips inside her room with prize in tow, pulling the door shut. The facade drops, spinning around to press her prey against the door. She prays that her parents just across the hall would stay asleep. Frantic kisses find their way to cheeks and lips, and down jaws. Nails dig into each other’s sides to pull themselves ever closer, burying themselves in their other. Hickeys are left trailing along revealed necks and chests after collars are stretched out of the way. muffled giggles and gasps in equal measure fill the air of the room, moans hidden within deep kisses. She thinks of her parents walking in on them. Of the confusion they would express, their denial or misunderstanding taking over. She pulls her precious thing away from the door and falls forwards onto her bed, ensuring her squirming toy is wrapped up in an embrace under her. How could they ever understand this.

Weak grinding and stolen nibbles, deep kisses and hands slipping up under clothing all work to enflame the momentum of desire. Quickly, rope is wound tight around her victim’s wrists and ankles Leaving it bound down upon her childhood bed. Memories of years past fill her mind. Her staring with a sense of shame and need at similar images of people tied spreadeagle across a bed. Even as her love flexes, the knots made by her well trained hands don’t slip or loosen despite the straining. Remembering, As a child, her not knowing what this was but wanting it nonetheless. And it gasps under her, “w-what are you going to do to me.” These were scenes and images from childhood made real. She trailed a finger up a leg, teasing across the waist, clawing along the neck of her toy, coming to rest upon the lips. Silence ordered, sealed with a kiss. These stories, still hidden in the darkness of her room where none but her should see.

And from under her bed she takes out her set of precious knives, an unmatchable gift which she would use on the very being who gave them to her. With tenderness she began unwrapping the cloth around them. Imagine if her parents saw her now, finally the surgeon they always dreamed of. She lays each one on the nightstand letting the moonlight shining through the window catch them, leaving each knife to shine like liquid silver. Her victim whimpers at the sight, of the tools which would soon be disassembling it. “Ahh ah,” she cools into its ear, “Darling be quiet. We can’t let them hear.” It whimpers again, quieter this time. They’d be horrified wouldn’t they. Seeing the blood and pain that delighted their child so. Unable to cover its mouth, bucking up at her as she straddled its hips, begging for her to finally begin.

She starts by picking a long serrated knife, the kind one would use for bread. She saws the blade down its chest to tear apart clothes, bearing its flesh before her. What did it mean, that she could think of, even dream of carving into this living flesh like marble. It quivers and pleas with its eyes for her, understanding that every noise it would make would only serve to drive her further. A second knife is chosen. One well used, sharpened again and again. Why wasn’t she disgusted by those choices. It struggles not to scream when the knife tip pierces its skin. She couldn’t look at the wound. It refuses to writhe as the blade is dragged along its chest. Leaving it ungagged is a choice, a single torturingly risky decision. And in the moment after the knife is removed, when its freedom is returned, it begs for more. It wants this done to it, wants to be held and hurt and bled. But why, her thoughts scream, would anyone sane want to do this to another, to the person they loved. It begs to have blood running down its body, to have its arms and thighs covered in wounds. It begs to bleed so perfectly for her tormentor. She wants to cut her love apart, needs to give in. Needs to…Needs to stop.

She drops the knife.

“I can’t darling, I…we can’t” she whispers, fumbling in the darkness for the blade, “We can’t have anyone else seeing. If your parents knew-”

“D-did you forget?” It gasped out between slow and delirious thoughts, “I moved out. You can go as far as you want with me.”

With shaking hands she finds the knife. Tears spill onto her sub’s chest, mixing with blood. “I..right. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

And so she cuts. Her hands shake, her eyes fill with tears. And still she cuts. Her victim, suffering at her hands, writhing and pleading, looks up at her. She can’t meet its gaze. She can’t look it in the eyes. Her hands are numb, wet. She can’t stop crying.

It asks if she’s okay.

She carves another small tear-stained heart into its shoulder and nods. She’s fine. The cuts are jagged. It doesn’t look like a heart.

It says stop.

She freezes. She went too far. She shouldn’t have wanted this. She hurt someone she cares about

“Please cut me free,” a voice whispers from under her.

She Does so.

“Are you okay,” the mass of blood and meat under her whispers again.

She can’t look up, she’s stuck staring down at her blood covered hands holding a knife. She says she’s sorry.

She’s so sorry.

Her love places a hand on her cheek, wiping a tear.

“Don’t touch me,” she whimpers, clambering off of it, pulling a mess of blankets with her, “you don’t deserve..this”

Its touch was so cold on her face. Was it dying. Did she do this to it. What would happen now.

“I need you,” the words cut through racing thoughts, and a hand reached towards her.

What choice did she have but to take it. To be dragged from the safety of nothing but herself and blankets and stand staring before the mess that she had made.

She enjoys looking down at that display of cuts, at the hearts and stars and swirls forced into every bit of skin. The way the blood pooled and flowed through furrows of gore. She enjoys this. She did this.

“W-where is the thread, I need you to help me”

She opens the bedside table, pulling out a needle, thread, cloth, antiseptic and bandages. She could fix this, she could undo everything that happened and everything would be okay, and this would never have happened.

So she began to clean, and stitch. Her love’s hand grips her by the hair, pulling and gasping in pain when tears fall onto its wounds.

It holds her, it thanks her, it pulls her close, it doesn’t let her pull away. Its chest is cleaned, red gore replaced with the sheen of clean antiseptic. And she is made to lay beside it, head buried in the crook of its neck, sobs wracking her form. Hands run through her hair. “That was perfect, my love,” it cooed, “You did good.”

They lay there, warming themselves, sweat and tears wicking away. Tears turned to shaking, to words of fear and praise. They pull the Scattered blankets up, the rest of the world forced out

[greenleaf4stuff]

It’s New Year’s Eve in Middle Earth and midnight approaches.

Who is grabbing whom for a smooch? How does it go down?

If you can give three pairings that’s great, no limit though 😉 repeats are fine too.

Hi and thank you so much @gauntletgirlie for sending me this lovely ask game! It is truly the time of giving (smooches) <3 Again, lots of fun to think up some kissing scenarios for this one! I'll put them behind the cut again, and as the prompt implies, there be kissing ahead! All of these are Adar-related btw :) (I wrote these down in like an hour) (also each ask game the answers are getting longer oops)

The pairings:

Adar/Celebrimbor/Elrond

Adar/Celebrimbor (established, modern!AU)

Adar/Elrond (canon!AU)

...

...

Adar/Celebrimbor/Elrond

Elrond glanced between the older elf and the uruk, a look of indecision on his face. "Um-"

There wasn't a way to kiss both of them at the same time, was there? Not without crushing their noses and possibly knocking their teeth against each other, at least. But who should he kiss? He couldn't deny either of them. He just couldn't!

They might both be different in character, temperament, appearance, but he liked them equally. He'd just told them as much recently, for Eru's sake! He couldn't choose one over the other now! Not for something important as this!

He heard counting in the background, a countdown not into the New Year but to his own doom, or so it felt.

In a panic, he did the only thing he thought he could do-

And grabbed the back of both their heads in each of his hands, and gently but insistently moved their faces together until they kissed (with a look of surprise on their faces, but even so-).

'There! Problem solved!' he thought, adrenaline briefly surging and then falling in relief. (He knew they wanted each other too. They'd discussed this. The only thing they hadn't discussed was that blasted New Year's kiss.)

"Oh no, wait- my bad-," he suddenly heard behind himself. It was Círdan. "I miscalculated it seems! It's actually still one minute to midnight. Well, that gives us the chance to count once more, doesn't it?"

Elrond felt himself blanch slightly as Adar and Celebrimbor turned towards him, eyebrows raised. "What was that?" Adar asked. It didn't sound accusing, but oddly curious. A bit amused.

"Erm-"

"I suppose he thought this was a clever solution. Have us kiss so he wouldn't have to choose one of us over the other," Celebrimbor deduced and Elrond silently cursed himself because his friend knew him too well to not have figured it out. Again.

"Oh, is that so?" Adar asked, and he sounded just as amused as Celebrimbor had. "Well too 'bad' that we get a second chance then."

Elrond blinked at them in surprise and question, and only realised what was going on when he felt two hands at the back of his head just as the countdown neared "3...2...1" again.

...it was, indeed, a mess of noses knocking together and teeth clicking and even a bit of spit getting smeared, between the three of them. Messy, uncoordinated, but somehow - it still worked out.

Elrond moaned in delight, smiled into the kiss, and let the other two pull him closer into an embrace.

Adar/Celebrimbor (established, modern!AU)

The party had nearly reached it's apex, which meant Adar was close to having reached his maximum amount of social interactions for the night and was beginning to eagerly await going home with his fiancé.

As it stood, he couldn't find Celebrimbor amidst the crowd of people as he scanned it, making him frown. Galadriel must have seen the way he wandered around searching for the smith, because she caught his eye and motioned towards the kitchen with her glass of champagne, a small smile on her face.

Adar followed her pointing, and indeed, he could hear puttering and the sound of dishes getting cleaned coming from there - in combination with some truly awful music from the radio. He exchanged a mildly exasperated glance with the blonde elf, before he thanked her with a nod and walked into the kitchen.

Celebrimbor stood at the sink, garishly golden rubber gloves on his hands - where did Gil-Galad even *find* those things!? - as he hummed along to some corny pop music while he scrubbed at a plate from their dinner earlier.

Adar shook his head, but his expression was one of fondness. He turned down the radio to announce himself and stepped up behind the elf, wrapping his arms around the other's waist, head coming to rest on his fiancé's shoulder in an easy display of intimacy.

"Why am I not surprised to find you here?" he murmured, and pressed a kiss to Celebrimbor's cheek. The smith smiled as turned over his shoulder to look at the uruk. "You know you don't have to clean those dishes now, do you?"

"Hm," Celebrimbor replied, and leant back into the embrace. "I needed a bit of time away from the noise I suppose. Thought nobody would begrudge me that if I did something useful."

"Clever," Adar admired him, and his smile turned soft. "Remarkably selfless, too."

"Well, I suppose you'd know about all that as well, wouldn't you?" They stared at each other lovingly. They were so enarmoed with one another, they almost missed it when loud, shouted counting began in the living room.

"10...9...8..."

They didn't have to ask. Aside from a moment of surprise, nothing much changed. They remained as they were.

"7...6...5.."

Their noses brushed, eyes half-lidded. Neither had seen the other look so soft before. "A good way to end the year, don't you think?" Celebrimbor murmured.

"4...3...2..."

"Couldn't imagine a better one," Adar answered, and smiled as a leant forward.

"1...0!"

They kissed. Celebrimbor still had his hands in the soapy water of the sink as they stood in the kitchen amidst dirty dishes and empty cups, god-awful music quietly playing in the background. The position of the embrace would give the smith a slightly sore neck later, but-

Neither of them cared for the moment. This, right here - was perfect.

Adar/Elrond (canon!AU)

New Year's was a surprisingly official and festive affair in Lindon, Adar had quickly learned. He and his children had rarely celebrated the turning of the year before, but their treaty with the elves was beginning to influence their traditions.

Unlike the elves with their harps and flutes and harmonious singing, their festive modes of dress and expertly prepared feasts, the uruk had taken a much more grounded approach to the festivities.

Adar could hear them belt out yet another battle song, and judging by the barrels that got rolled towards the improvised 'tavern', the drink was flowing freely as well. Everywhere he went, he saw celebrations of the peace, open fires that cooked delicious-smelling stews and roasted meat, groups of uruk gathered together.

He himself would let his children enjoy the time of levity - but he found himself too tired to join in. The noise, how they all wanted to draw him to their sides so he might join them in song and drink, it was - just too much. As much as he loved them.

He paused in surprise when he finally arrived at his own tent and found he had a visitor.

"What brings you here?" He asked, surprised to find Elrond at the entrance. He hoped the other knew the visit was not an unwelcome one - the two of them had danced around one another for weeks now. Adar had hoped to see the other again, but had expected the peredhel to spend this time with his family and friends in Lindon.

Elrond smiled and offered a greeting. "My friend. It is good to see you," he paused. Adar noticed the other was breathing heavily and had a flushed face, as if he'd hurried to get here. "I- there is something important I wished to do. I feared I might have been too late."

Adar immediately raised his eyebrows and focused on the herald in concern. "Is something the matter?"

The other waved him off, but gently so. "No, no- nothing that should alarm you. Just something that was important to me, is all-"

Adar wanted to ask another question, but the uruk in the wider vicinity around them erupted into loud counting - it seemed the turning of the year was almost complete.

The leader of the uruk startled slightly when he felt gentle, wind-chilled hands on his face, and turned towards the herald only to find the other looking at him with hopeful eyes.

With a start, he understood. "May I kiss you?" How brave this one was, to hurry over here and place all his hopes on a kiss.

"I'd like nothing more," the uruk breathed back, and framed Elrond's face with his own hands, mindful of the gauntlet, before he pulled the other closer.

Elrond was smiling into the kiss, Adar could tell. His face felt chilled too, and Adar thought that he would like nothing more than to take the herald inside and wrap him into warg furs before offering him a warm drink and some food.

But that could wait. For now, there was only the press of soft lips on his own, hands that held him gently as if he was precious, and something blooming in his own chest as the countdown ran down to midnight.