#let's play the 'will it show up in the tags game?'

[ghouljams]

Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?

Rating: E (MDNI) Words: ~11k Tags: Ghost x f!Reader, Dirtbag!Ghost, strangers -> ???, groping, non-con kissing, coerced consent, oral (F!Receiving), fingering, squirting, piv sex, kidnapping? Summary: A stranger online promises he'll make your parents' Christmas hell, and you're eager to take him up on the offer. You may have bitten off more than you can chew.

<Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?

[casual encounters]

“I am a 35 year old former SAS operator with no A levels, tattoos, and a motorcycle. I can play anywhere from 30 to 40 depending on if I shave. I’m a line cook and I work late nights at my mate’s bar. If you’d like to have me pretend to be in a long term serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game.

I can do these things, at your request:

Openly hit on female guests while you act like you don’t notice

Start instigative discussions about religion and/or politics

Propose to you in front of everyone

Talk at length about my time in the army including what it felt like to kill a man(good or bad your choice)

Pretend to be really drunk as the evening goes on(don’t drink much these days, but I know the drill)

Start an actual, physical fight with a family member, either inside or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see.

Only pay I want is the free meal and the entertainment.”

-do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers

*

RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?” 

To:SASRiley@xxxxxx.xx

From:URHere@xxxxxx.xx

Is this offer still open?

*

RE: RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

To: URHere@xxxxxx.xx

From: SASRiley@xxxxxx.xx

Depends how far you want me to travel.

-S

*

RE: RE: RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

To: SASRiley@xxxxxx.xx

From: URHere@xxxxxx.xx

Any chance you’re in the XXXXX area? I’ll buy you lunch and we can talk details.

*

RE: RE: RE: RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

To: URHere@xxxxxx.xx

From: SASRiley@xxxxxxx.xx

Close enough for a free meal. I’m in XXXX

-S

*

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

To: SASRiley@xxxxxx.xx

From: URHere@xxxxxx.xx

Let’s meet at Gallery Eats. Also can you send me an ID or something so I know what you look like?

*

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

[attachment] [attachment]

Know you birds get jumpy, send it out to your little friends. 

Tuesday 15:30

See you there 

-S

*

He’s already at the shop when you get there, scrolling through his phone with his legs spread wide under the little wooden table, a full-face motorcycle helmet taking up more than half of the tiny tabletop.

You hadn’t realized how big the guy would be. Even sitting down he’s massive. You’d bet money he’s over six foot, and he easily eclipses the little cafe chair he’s settled in. His craigslist ad wasn’t lying when it said “tattoos.” The guy’s arms are covered in swirling black ink, and you follow the line of it up to the dark collar of his shirt where it peaks out to creep up his neck. He’s perfect. Your folks will hate him.

Dark eyes meet yours and a smirk creeps over his face, it tugs at a thin scar bisecting his lips.

He stands, and you bee-line for him.

“Thank god you look like your picture.” You huff, settling your bag on the chair across from him.

“That any way ta greet your man?” He grunts, holding a hand out. “Simon.”

You take his hand with a smile, and feel thick fingers wrap around your own. You glance down at the dark seal on the back of his hand, the carefully inked numbers already fading with age spelling out “141.” 

“So,” He smiles, leaning so far back in his seat that the chair tips, “How mad are we talkin’?”

*

It turns out Simon’s motorcycle isn’t his only mode of transportation. You roll up to your parents house in a half-wrapped muscle car that Simon claims he’s been “working on” and you can almost smell the distaste radiating off of your folks when they peak through the front window. Simon makes a big show of ignoring you while you try to get the oddly shaped Christmas gifts out of the trunk, lighting a cigarette and checking his phone while you struggle. Finally your parents decide to wander out onto their front step, and your father stalks over to take the bulkier gifts from you while Simon eyes him.

You grin at him, already pleased with his grumbling and glaring at Simon. Simon, for his part, offers a, “Sure it ain’t too heavy old man?” That makes a vein on your father’s temple throb angrily. He ambles after you and your father, and makes a show of giving your mom a once over.

“Sweetheart!” Your mother grimace-smiles at you, “Who is this?”

“This is Simon,” You sigh, leaning against Simon with a dopey smile, “My boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend.” Your mother grits her teeth, “You didn’t say you were bringing a guest.”

“Oh I know, but you can pull up a chair, right?” You gasp, “We’re not messing up your table are we?”

Your mother’s eye twitches. You know her well enough to know she’s already thinking about people bumping elbows at an overcrowded table. You can almost hear your little cousins complain about the lack of space. You also know she’ll never admit her annoyance in front of a guest.

“Of course not.” She smiles tightly, “The more the merrier.” She turns to Simon. “It’s nice to meet you Simon.”

Simon finally takes his cue, tossing his ashy cigarette onto the stone walkway with a flick of his fingers. He exhales nearly into your mother’s face before seemingly remembering last minute that, that’s rude.

“Nice to meet you,” His eyes flick down to your mother’s chest, “Can see where the bird gets ‘er tits from.”

You could scream with laughter the way your mother’s lips tighten into a thin line and her brows twitch down ever so slightly, the picture of barely contained shock and disgust. You can feel your father fuming on the other side of you.

“Why don’t we put presents down?” You chirp, trying to play at oblivious while Simon leers at your mother. She does her best to subtly cross her arms and tug the neck of her sweater closed. “Simon, do you have a hand to help dad?”

“Course, sweet’eart.” He hums, leaning to kiss your temple. A sweet gesture if he didn’t grab a handful of your ass at the same time, angled precisely so you’re sure your dad can see. “Christ you got a fat ass,” He mumbles, his voice low and graveled as he squeezes you again. You feel your cheeks heat in spite of yourself. It’s all pretend, all things you’ve talked about, but that doesn’t stop your body from reacting. His big hand lingers, fingers dragging over your ass as he pushes past your parents into the house. Uninvited.

You ignore your mother’s pointed look under the pretense of juggling presents, pushing into the house after your fake boyfriend.

Simon unceremoniously snatches the gifts from your father as soon as he’s in the house, haphazardly tossing the boxes under the tree while you carefully place your own presents, seemingly ignorant of your boyfriend’s lack of care.

“So how was the drive?” Your dad asks, trying to find something to talk about.

“Bloody awful,” Simon butts in before you can answer, he jerks his head in your direction, “‘ad to listen to the bird’s music the ‘ole time.”

“I thought you liked my music,” You pout.

“When tha fuck ‘ave I ever said that?” He snaps at you. You stifle the flinch and watch Simon’s brows draw down ever so slightly.

When you’d gone through all the details for this he’d told you to try and temper your flinching, assured you that you didn’t need to be scared of him, that if you were dating he’d never lay a hand on you. That didn’t stop his quick, harsh, response from startling you. At least the small crease in his brow made you think he didn’t enjoy the reaction.

“When we first met.” You smile, playing it off. 

“And you believed that?” Simon huffs, “Can’t believe I’m the first one to grab ya off the street with ‘ow gullible ya are.”

You blink at him, and turn to hastily cover for him to your dad.

“A consensual grabbing.” You assure him.

“Think I’m still deaf in my right ear from ‘ow loud ya screamed.” Simon grumbles, digging a finger into his ear as if to demonstrate his hearing loss. You feel your cheeks heat reflexively. Even fictional it’s embarrassing to imagine that you might have met a long term serious boyfriend in a kidnapping attempt.

Nevermind that the idea of someone like Simon grabbing you off the street is a major plot point in some of your favorite videos. You try to keep your mind out of the gutter, a difficult task with Simon’s fingers grazing your ass.

“It was a prank.” You continue covering.

“Bet actually.” Simon corrects in an attempt to make things worse. “Seein’ ‘oo could take the prettiest bird ‘ome.” He nudges your dad as if he’s bringing him in on the joke, “Should’ve seen ‘ow much this one struggled, should’ve known she’d be an ‘andful.”

“Your friends sound-” Your dad swallows whatever distaste boils behind his tongue in an effort to keep the peace, “interesting.”

“Served together.” Simon sniffs.

“Oh!” Your father seems to brighten at this new information.

“Lost a lot of good men, but kept all the worst, eh bird?” Simon tosses a smile your way. The playful grin lights up his face, tugs at his scars in a way that’s far too charming. 

“Where did you serve?” Your father asks, too eager for war talk.

“Went where I was needed.” Simon grunts. It’s an end to the conversation. You can see your father trying to think of where to go from there, if he should push for a different answer or ask about if Simon enjoyed his time in the service. He settles on exactly what you’re sure Simon was hoping for.

“So what do you do now?”

You almost brace yourself for his answer, and you’re glad for the added tension in your shoulders because it stops you from barking out a laugh.

“Beside fuckin’ the bird?” He doesn’t get another word out before your father growls out a loud.

“Alright-” that your mother cuts off with her well timed, if sudden entrance.

“Your aunt is on her way,” She informs you, “She’s excited to meet your boyfriend.”

“You got a lot of people comin’ ta this thing?” Simon asks, as if you hadn’t given him a full guest list.

“Just a few,” Your mother smiles, “my sister lives nearby so she’ll be bringing her boys.”

“Would’ve been nice ta know there were brats comin’ ta this thing,” Simon gives you a look and you pout.

“I told you this was a family thing.” You remind him.

“Didn’t know ya had so much family,” He sniffs, “Brother isn’t comin’ ta this too is ‘e?”

You have to stop yourself from grinning at the family landmine Simon so perfectly walked into.

“Henry doesn’t come to family functions anymore,” Your mother tells him curtly.

“Heard ‘e got tired of havin’ you scare off ‘is girls,” Simon grins, “thought you’d be a bigger bitch.” You choke. You mother’s gaze whips to you and you carefully go about adjusting the presents under the tree just so you don’t have to look at her. 

“Well I don’t know where you heard that,” The high note in your mother’s voice betrays her, the faux-calmness barely covering the boiling anger that’s starting to show, “but it’s not true.”

“Are you callin’ me a liar,” Simon’s voice takes an icy note in response and you glance over your shoulder to watch him roll his shoulders back. You can see the way his musculature moves even under his jumper. The threat is palpable, and also completely inappropriate for the situation.

He’s good at this.

It’s your father’s turn to diffuse the situation.

“You a footie fan?” He asks, because he’s ass at calming your mother (or anyone else) down. You can practically feel Simon’s attention shift, like the air in the room has to adjust to the pressure he exerts.

“City.” Simon huffs. You dad grins, and you know exactly what he’s going to say. Playful ribbing that somehow always ends in a screaming match.

“Manchester boy, eh? Ya find it hard losin’ to Liverpool all the time or do ya get used to it?” Your father jokes. The question hangs dead in the air. Simon hasn’t moved a muscle, so still it scares even you, and you know it’s just an act.

“You like chewin’ your food?” Simon asks, his voice so deathly calm that you grab his arm with  a laugh and pull at him.

“He’s just kidding Simon,” You placate, trying to pull your --wow this guy’s bicep is huge-- fake boyfriend away, “Right dad?”

“Oh come on,” You father tosses your way with a shake of his head, “I can handle a Manc-” He snorts and turns to Simon “-at least better than their players handle the ball.”

Simon flexes under your hands, and you physically can’t restrain him from shaking you off to stalk over to your dad. 

“Simon please,” You plead, you don’t even have to act, the way he grabs your father by the shirt collar you all but leap to wrap your arms around his waist and try to pull him back, “not again!”

“Again!” Your mother yelps as your father holds his hands up, eyes wide with fear.

“It was a joke,” Your father assures Simon.

“Fuckin’ better be.” Simon relents, releasing his hold on your father and turning those dark eyes to you.

“Look’t you grabbin’ me,” He grabs you before you can let him go, your muscles still vibrating with adrenaline. He holds your face with the same hand that had held your father, squeezes your cheeks with his fingers.“Real cute, thinkin’ you could ‘old me back.” Your stomach flips. “Taught you better’n that didn’ I? You want somethin’ you gotta ask, yeah?”

“I don’-” You try to shake yourself back to your senses and Simon squeezes you a little tighter, “Please let go.” Embarrassment settles hot in your stomach at the spark of… something in Simon’s eyes.

“There’s my girl,” He smiles, “Now give us a kiss love.”

You feel your stomach drop out, and you’re sure it shows on your face. Simon raises a brow. Your tongue feels too big in your dry mouth. You swallow and glance at your parents.

“I thought you said no PDA,” You try. This wasn’t in the brief.

“Just on the cheek then,” His smile is absolutely devilish, you wonder where he learned it, “Wouldn’t want ta embarrass you in front of your folks.” Your mother scoffs. Simon turns to glare at her and you rush a quick peck on his cheek just to get it over with.

His stubble is sharp where it pokes against your lips, but his skin is surprisingly soft. You almost hesitate pulling away. Your skin already feels hot with the humiliation of kissing a veritable stranger whose only goal is to antagonize your parents for the evening, so you don’t waste time with the action.

You’re saved by your aunt opening the front door with a loud, excited:

“Happy Christmas!”

Before she freezes in the doorway. Your cousins rush in, seemingly unaware of the tension and you take the opportunity to pull out of Simon’s grip.

“Is this a bad time?” Your aunt asks as tactfully as she can given the energy in the house.

“It’s a great time,” Simon answers for the crowd with a smile. Your mother throws an alarmed look your way and does her best to plaster on something less emotional for her sister.

“I thought you were gonna help with the presents,” Your uncle calls from behind your aunt, who immediately turns to help him get the boxes in. You see her vaguely gesture at the house through the crack between the door and the frame and wonder just what she’s trying to convey. 

This holiday is already off to a terrible start. Which is great. But you can’t shake the feeling that it’s going… worse than you’d initially thought it would.

“When are we eating?” One of your cousins asks, you turn to see the teen, Jack, staring at you. You suppose you’re the only adult that ever really gives any of them the time of day, makes sense he’d ask you.

“Uh,” you blink, trying to come up with a decent answer for him, “probably soon.”

“I wanna open presents,” One of the little ones whines.

“You gotta wait,” Jack tells him. 

“Ok!” Your aunt announces as she comes back inside, now holding gifts, “Looks like you’ve already started the party!”

“Haven’t even started drinking yet,” Simon assures her. Your uncle joins the fray, shuffling past you to set his gifts under the tree as well.

“You drink.” Your mother clarifies with a smile, she’s hiding the horror well.

“I’m the life of the party love,” He tosses your mom a wink and turns to look around. You assume for the liquor.

“What do you drink?” Your uncle asks, good natured as usual. That’ll change.

“Bourbon.” Simon hums, “But I’ll take a beer if that’s all ya got.”

“Sure there’s somethin’ around here somewhere.” Your uncle meanders over to your parent’s short liquor cabinet and starts rifling through the bottles. Your mother shoots you a look that practically begs you to stop him.

“Do you need something mom?” You ask, oblivious.

“It’s just a little early to start drinking, don't you think?” She asks, a leading question. You know what she’s trying to do.

“You sayin’ I can’t get a drink?” Simon asks.

“Let the man have a drink,” You uncle cajoles, “It’s a holiday!”

Your mother’s lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t comment on the glass your uncle pours for Simon, but she does retreat to the kitchen with your aunt in toe. You’re almost tempted to follow them and see what they’re saying. Maybe you could throw some fuel on the fire. Simon throws an arm around your shoulders before you can move, holding you against his side to keep you in place. You glance up at him, he doesn’t look at you. 

You tug your phone from your pocket for something to do, trying to look busy and uninterested in the chaos Simon is sowing, when it’s all you can think about. He manages a normal conversation with your little cousins, going through introductions like a regular person, even commenting on the shirt Jack is wearing. You glance at it and just know that was a fight with his mother. Looks like it’s based off some horror movie, blood dripping off a knife held aloft by a masked figure. Not very Christmas-y.

You can almost hear the argument that must have taken place when he’d put it on.

Simon must be smart enough to figure that out because he’s really hyping up the teen over the shirt. Talking about the movie and complaining about how his mom sounds like a bitch. Your cousin blinks at the swear before you see a grin split his face.

“Fuck yeah, is aunty letting us swear now?” Jack asks, too excited to contain it.

“The fuck is she the queen of England?” Simon laughs, turning to you, “Your mum’s not lettin’ ‘em swear?” You shrug.

“She says it isn’t ‘proper’.” Jack rolls his eyes.

“Fuck proper.” Simon snorts. He shoots you a look as he sips his drink. You’re sure Jack will be cussing the rest of the evening with Simon to back him up. Your mom’s gonna love that.

Your aunt comes out of the kitchen and grabs her husband to whisper in his ear. Your uncle glances at Simon and makes a confused face. One of the younger ones runs up to them and loudly asks:

“What’s fuck mean?” 

Simon averts his gaze and you feel his shoulders shake with restrained laughter. You have to hold it in yourself, the glare your aunt sends Simon’s way is too funny. The kid was bound to hear it from his brother eventually. Really, Simon is saving the teen from being grounded with that one.

Your mom comes sweeping into the living room just in time to save Simon from getting an earful. Your aunt’s glare transfers to her before she can fix her face. Your mother’s lips pucker, an unpleasant understanding that something is happening crossing her eyes. She ignores it, much like every other unpleasant thing you’ve witnessed with her, in favor of normalcy.

“Dinner is ready!” She announces.

“That was fast,” You blink, usually she spends more time milling about and waiting for people to finish a few cocktails.

“Well,” She smiles at Simon, “I thought I’d speed things up so nobody misses any other christmases.”

“Got nowhere to be.” He informs her.

“Oh I’m sure you’re mother would-”

“Mum’s dead.” Simon sniffs.

“Then your fath-”

“If the bastard was still alive I’d kill ‘im myself.” Simon smiles at her over the rim of his glass before knocking back the rest of the bourbon and pouring himself another two fingers, “You got me all night if I want.”

Your mothers lips pucker again, the slightest hint of distaste in her expression before she manages a smile.

“We’re glad to have you.” She offers. You expect she’ll still try to force you out early. “Dinner?”

“Bloody starvin’.” Simon grunts, pushing past her towards the kitchen.

Your uncle is already serving himself from the various pans laden with food. Your father isn’t far behind him, eyeing the roast like a man starved.

You grab one of the Christmas patterned plates and hold it out to Simon, letting him queue behind your father. He glances around and you watch his eyes land on your cousins hovering nearby.

“Adults serve first,” You whisper to Simon when he steps back from the line for food to let the kids cut in front. It’s a quiet motion that presses him into you, he glances back like he might give you an apology before he makes eye contact with your aunt and loops his arm around you instead. 

“What?” He asks loudly, “Your mum tryin’ ta starve the poor buggers or somethin’?” You blink at him. He raises a brow. “No heart under those tits, eh?”

Your aunt gasps and he gives her a once over. You keep your eyes on your little cousins as they happily load up their plates with turkey and mashed potatoes. One of the older boys smothers his whole plate in gravy and honestly, you can’t blame him.

“Can’t be jealous, ya clearly got the better ass.” Simon tells your aunt as you scooch around him to get your own plate. He catches you around the middle and pulls you back, curling over you. He tips your head back with a hand on your throat, thick fingers squeezing just enough to dimple the skin.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks. You barely hear him over the roll of butterflies in your stomach. Your cheeks blaze with heat, and you clench your thighs together tight at the way he glowers down at you.

“I’m gonna make you a plate,” You tell him, he pinches your cheek and lets you free.

“Good girl,” He tells you, “Got ‘er well trained don’t I?” He jokes to your aunt, who you can feel radiating anger behind you.

You don’t really know what he likes, but Simon is a big guy so you get him a bit of everything, loading up his plate like you do this every day. It’s probably too much food, but part of you sort of likes the idea that he’s eating what you “made” for him. You hand him the full plate and he smiles, you turn back to grab your own food --you must still be nervous from having his hand at your throat-- and he smacks your ass. You bite back the yelp that threatens to break free. The sharp sting of pain spreads through you like wildfire, blossoming over your skin even through your skirt.

You quickly pile food onto your plate, hoping your aunt takes your speedy exit as one of embarrassment and not one of- well a different sort of embarrassment.

You manage to squeeze into the seat next to Simon, feeling his thick thigh press against yours like a warm anchor. Your mother gives him a dirty look as he reaches to fool with one of the candles in the middle of the table. You’re sure she heard his loud announcement that she doesn’t care about her nephews. His other hand settles on your leg under the table and you stiffen. Thick callused fingers grip your thigh, squeezing the soft flesh with something you desperately want to call reassurance. He knows no one can see that, right?

You watch the rest of your family fill the table, your little cousins already picking at their food, stuffing salad leaves into their mouths and pretending not to lick the gravy off their fingers. You wait for everyone to take their seats before you pick up your fork and your aunt shoots you a look.

“I’d like to-” your aunt starts only to be cut off by your fake-boyfriend.

“I want ta make an announcement.” Simon tells the table loudly, the conversation goes dead, your mother’s eyes bore holes into you, begging for anything but an announcement. You think she might bend her fork with how tight she grips it watching Simon shove his chair back to drop to one knee. You clasp a hand over your mouth, doing your best to play the part of shocked girlfriend, despite having planned this. 

“Simon!” You squeal as he tugs a black ring box from his pocket.

“Lemme talk baby,” Simon hushes you and you shut your mouth quickly, “I know it’s only been a couple a months-” the look in your mother’s eyes could kill an elephant, “-but I’m mad fer ya, an’ I know birds like you get off market quick so if I wanna keep that ass to myself I bloody well better get ya tied down.” Your mother gasps.

“Shut ya gob, I’m tryin’ ta propose.” He snaps at her, and she leans back like she’s been struck. Simon turns back to you, and you feel a rush of heat drip between your legs at the look in his eyes. This guy should be on TV with how good an actor he is.

“Will you marry me?” He finally gets out and you nod.

“Of course I will!” You fling yourself against him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

His big hands find your waist and squeeze. You pull away to take the ring box and he nearly pulls you out of your chair, only to push you back into it as he kisses you.

Your eyes go wide and you struggle to keep your hands on him when all you want to do is lurch away. Not a good look on an excited and newly ringed up girlfriend.

But the way he kisses you makes your stomach churn. His lips cover yours and almost as quickly as you get used to the feeling his tongue is trying to force its way into your mouth. You rush to close your eyes only to feel his tongue, thankfully, retreat. And be replaced by his teeth, biting your lip hard enough to bruise, prying your lips apart to slip his tongue in and lick your teeth. 

Your head swims, your eyes rolling at the way his hands grope and squeeze you, tagging every soft scrap they can find while he attempts to devour you. He does something with his tongue, twists it against yours to tickle the roof of your mouth, and you make a noise without meaning to. It’s all you can do to remember to clumsily slide your lips against his. You’re not sure you make a pretty picture when he pulls away, his spit trailing off your slick, swollen, lips. You suppose this evening isn’t really about painting a pretty picture.

It makes you squirm to feel his big thumb swipe over your lower lip, dragging the poor thing down to see your teeth. 

A chill racks your body as his eyes follow the motion of his thumb.

Your father loudly clears his throat. Your mother looks mortified. Your little cousins are covering their eyes while the teen pointedly looks at his phone.

Simon rubs the ring on your finger, pressing the metal back and forth against your skin. When the fuck did he put that on you?

“I’d like to say Grace,” Your aunt tries to wrestle the evening back into familiar territory as Simon sets you back in your chair. 

Your family bows their heads and you smack your knee on the underside of the table as you jump, unprepared for how high Simon’s hand settles on your thigh. You don’t even hear whatever prayer your aunt is saying with the way the blood rushes in your ears at the wide splay of Simon’s fingers. So. Close. 

You settle your hand on his and try to push him back to safe ground.

Jesus this guy is strong. Pain in your-

“Everything okay over there?” Your uncle asks. You must have looked like you were struggling more than you thought you were. 

“Fine,” You tell him, even though things are decidedly not fine and Simon won’t move his hand, “Just fussing with the ring.”

“Oh yes,” Your aunt holds her hand out across the table, “let’s see it.”

You hesitate before taking your hand off Simon’s. He doesn’t move, seemingly settled with where he’s settled. You hold your hand out for her to grab, let her turn your hand this way and that. Simon had told you he’d grab a ring, so you haven’t actually seen it yet. It’s pretty. A nice pear cut diamond with a trinity of what looks like pearls on either side. You wonder where he got it, you’re just glad it looks less fake than costume jewelry usually does.

“How nice,” Your mother coos, it sounds even less sincere than her compliments usually do.

You’re thankful you don’t need to do much talking at dinner. Simon more than makes up for you. He talks at length about how “mint” your friends are --he’s never met them-- and how his mates are begging for a go with you. He explains to your teen cousin, at length, how his violent video games could be worse, after your aunt bemoans the fact he’s been playing war sims. He makes no move to censor himself, actually from the few conversations you’ve had with him, you think he’s swearing more than he usually does. He even manages to start an argument with your father about “taking the gloves off” during combat.

“Different once you’re in active combat,” He explains like he’s talking to your father, “You do what you have to, keepin’ your ‘ands clean isn’t exactly front of your mind.”

You glace across the table at Jack, the teen looks completely invested in whatever Simon is saying. You can almost hear the look your aunt has fixed you with, you’re sure you’ll get a call later about your fiance “encouraging him to get himself killed.” 

“Oh please,” Your father blusters, “if that were the case the royal service would be under investigation. We’d see it on the BBC: Special Air Service members torture civilians. What a load of horse-” Your mother coughs and your father shuts his mouth.

“Got plenty of men like me givin’ orders,” Simon digs into his pocket to pull his cigarettes, stopping with his teeth around the filter of one when your mother coughs loudly. He shoves them back into his pocket with a grumbled swear. “Like I told ya earlier, ‘s not the good men that come back.”

“You’re so cool,” Jack tells Simon with wide eyes. Your aunt smacks his arm with the back of her hand, reprimanding. Simon’s eyes narrow.

He watches your aunt the rest of dinner. The conversation drifts as plates are emptied. You attempt to stand to help clear the table, and Simon holds you in your chair. Your mother putters around the table with your aunt, you smile and thank them. You’re almost done. Then you can go home and wait for the flood of texts/calls from your mom.

You can just imagine the way she’ll try to convince you to break off your (fake)engagement. You’ll wait a few weeks before spinning up some story about Simon cheating on you. Your family will be so grateful Simon’s gone they won’t ask any questions.

“Does anyone want pudding or are we going straight to-”

“Presents!” Your youngest cousin cuts your mom off, rushing  to the tree as soon as his plate is cleared. Your aunt grabs him and brings him back to the table only for him to run over again. She manages to pull a gift from his little hands, and bring him screaming back to the table. You wince at the sharp sound, the fat tears rolling down the kid’s chubby cheeks, crying about opening presents. Your aunt reminds him shortly that there’s still dessert to get through. It barely makes a dent in the tears. The kid pulls at his mom’s grip, screaming and kicking. 

Simon’s hand on your thigh tippens its grip. 

You know, you know. It’s never fun sitting around with a kid throwing a tantrum, but you’re sure your aunt will handle it-

There’s a sharp crack as your aunt spanks the kid. Hard.

Simon shoots up from his seat.

Your little cousin’s tears turn to sniffles and a wobbly lip as his mom gives him a hissed warning. 

Your hands shake as Simon stalks around the table to grab your aunt’s hand.

“The one thing you’re not gonna fuckin’ do,” He tells her in a low warning tone, “is hit your fuckin’ kid in front of me.”

It’s so different from the anger he’d had with your father over football. You know that, that was acting, but this… It radiates off of Simon like a miasma, dark seething hatred, anger like you’ve never seen. Your aunt looks at him like she’s seen a ghost. Her eyes are wide and scared, her hand still holding your cousin’s arm squeezes tighter, like the child is her only lifeline. 

“Ow!” The kid whines, the sniffles starting again in full, “Mum that hurts.” 

Simon cocks his head, his own grip tightening.

“Let ‘im go,” Simon presses, his anger as cold as death, “Or I’ll break your arm.”

“Simon,” You don’t know what you’re hoping your voice will add to this, not even sure what you should do, all you know is that you brought Simon into this house which makes him your responsibility.

“He’s alright,” Your aunt tries to assure Simon, “aren’t you sweetie?”

“Mum!” Your cousin whines again. Your aunt lets go of his arm like it’s burned her.

“Now apologize.” Simon demands. Your aunt nods sharply and swallows.

“Mum’s sorry baby,” She directs the comment at your cousin but her eyes are fixed on Simon, watching him like a rabbit watches a wolf. “It was just a little spank.” You think the pleading justification makes it worse with the way Simon’s eye twitches. 

“I ever catch you hittin’ ‘im again-” Your aunt’s eyes dart to you, to the fake rock on your finger, “-and it won’t just be your arm I break.”

Your glance to your mother for- God you don’t even know, help? Maybe? She glares at you like this is your fault. Fair enough. Your uncle seems quicker on the uptake.

“Maybe we take Christmas to go,” He chimes in, “Grab the kid’s gifts, since they seem tired.”

Your mother grabs hold of this lifeline as quickly as she can wrap her head around it.

“Absolutely!” She hurries to the tree to start sorting out gifts, “Oh I didn’t realize they’d be so exhausted, we all know fits are just fits, right Simon?”

“I look like I’m throwin’ a fuckin’ fit?” Simon asks her, his voice still cold.

“You know I’m pretty tired too,” Your aunt agrees.

“I’m not.” Jack chimes in.

“Yes, you are.” His mom hisses.

“And it looks like snow,” Your uncle adds, “so we should go.”

You hardly get a word in before your cousins are rushed out the door, no hug or forced familiarity from your aunt as she and your uncle juggle presents and strapping kids into car seats.

Simon takes one of the armchairs in the living room amidst the chaos, dangling his glass with his fingers on the rim as he glowers at your aunt. Your attempt to help them gather presents is stopped by Simon pulling you down into his lap. You stiffen reflexively to try and leverage some of your weight off of him, and he pulls you to lean against his chest. 

Maybe it’s good you don’t say good-bye. You’re not sure anything you could say would sound sincere with the way you’re perched on your fake fiance. You’ll definitely be hearing about this later.

You’ve never seen anyone in your family leave that fast. Your mother must blame you for this social faux pas with the way she glares at you. She’s not even trying to hide it, seemingly having deemed Simon as unworthy of her usual polite routine. She stops just short of yelling at you in front of him. Must be too afraid of what he’ll do to her if he’s willing to break your aunt’s arm over her kid.

You’re not sure when you lost control of the evening, but you’re ready to go. Your aunt’s exit should be your exit too. You even open your mouth to tell your mother it’s been a lovely evening.

Simon beat you to it.

“Let’s open presents.” You’d almost call it an order with how edged his voice is.

“We don’t have any for you,” Your mother attempts, “it wouldn’t be fair to open them now.”

“Don’t need a present,” Simon assures her, “Bird’ll gimme somethin’ later.” Your mother’s eye twitches. Simon’s hand slides over your thigh, his thumb rubbing gently at the sensitive, clothed, skin. Your nerves must be on high alert to feel his touch so acutely. He gestures with his glass at the tree. “Go’an,” He orders again.

The tension in Simon’s form slowly seeps out of him as your parents shuffle presents out from under the tree. His body, which had previously seemed poised to leap at the slightest provocation, relaxes back against the chair as your mother hands you a present. She smiles at you warmly, almost pitying, when you thank her. Simon’s hand doesn’t leave your thigh, possessive in a way that feels too close to reality. 

“Oh wait,” You tell your mother as she pulls one of the gifts you brought from the pile. You slip from Simon’s lap, and for some reason he lets you, bent at the waist to point to a different box. His hand slides over the swell of your ass with an appreciative hum and you have to stop the tremor in your voice as your blood rushes south. “That one first,” You smile, “otherwise this one won’t make sense.”

The normalcy of it is more welcome than you’d thought. Somehow your usual family Christmas doesn’t seem as tense or fraught with conversational landmines now that Simon’s intruded. If nothing else you suppose he’s given you that. It’s certainly easier talking to your parents when they keep casting nervous glances at Simon to make sure this is an appropriate line of conversation. 

Simon, for his part, does little except keep you in his lap as you tear into the paper wrapped boxes. Occasionally his hand moves from your thigh to squeeze your stomach, or your side, as if he’s checking that you’re still all there. It’s not exactly casual, and the heat that builds between your legs as he drags his callused fingers across your stomach makes you want to squirm back into his chest, just to try and escape the ticklish feeling.

You try to focus on the gifts, drumming up the appropriate amount of excitement to look grateful while all of your attention is on the spread of Simon’s fingers. His hand splays wide against you and you try to trace the outline of it, distract yourself from how big his hand is. 

But distracting yourself from the spread of his hand directs you towards the spread of his legs, to the firm muscle of his thick thighs, to the slight softness of his stomach when your back starts to hurt and you lean against him with less stiff of a spine. Your eyes drift to the window as your mother coos over the knitting supplies and class pass to her favorite craft store. It’s so dark out, the sun already disappeared behind the horizon and the streetlights are doing their best to shine even when the night dims them. You’re already tired.

Your phone buzzes and you check it with a glance.

It’s a weather alert.

You scramble off Simon’s lap only to be dragged back into it.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” He asks, his hands grip your sides, fingers just brushing the edge of your bra. You can’t deal with the way being pulled like this makes your head swim. Fuck, maybe he could just grab you off the street and- NO.

“Simon,” You push at his hands, “problem.” 

“No problem love,” He hums. Lips brush the shell of your ear and you stiffen as heat blooms over your cheeks, “‘Cept you gettin’ up oll the time.” “It’s snowing.” You insist, still pushing at his hands.

Your father looks at you with confusion and glances out the window. It’s hard to see when it’s so dark out. You’re suddenly hit with a grim understanding of why the street lamps seem so dim. Your dad walks to the front door and tugs it open only to be pushed by the gust of cold wind and snow that rushes into the house.

The wind is positively howling.

Your father muscles the door shut and your mother nervously clicks on the TV to check the weather. She doesn’t even help your dad brush all the snow off him, worrying her lip as her eyes fix to the screen. 

“Not gonna be able to drive home in that,” Your father grimaces. Your mother shoots him a look before skirting her eyes around you to watch Simon. You can almost feel his smile.

“You wouldn’t mind us stayin’ ‘ere would ya?”

You flip on the lights in your childhood bedroom. Simon looms behind you. Reasonably you understand why he insisted on staying, even why he insisted on sharing a room. As far as your parents know you’re happily engaged, and as far as you could tell there was a blizzard raging outside. Honestly you’ve never seen anything like it, and if you didn’t know any better you might have blamed Simon for it. 

You have never in your life been more aware of another person’s presence. 

“In you go love,” Simon tells you, pressing you forwards with a hand on the small of your back. You stumble into your room and turn in time to watch Simon close the door. He bends down to unlace his boots and you manage to kick off your shoes in the time it takes him to straighten again. Now that you’re alone you feel on edge. All the casual friendly airs that Simon had been putting on when you’d met him before have done nothing to prepare you for the weight of his full attention. You’re only too happy when he turns to survey the room.

“I can take the floor,” You inform him, already gathering the spare blankets and pillows your mom had set on your twin bed. 

“Sit down,” Simon orders, your ass hits the side of your mattress so fast you haven’t even registered the command before you’ve followed it, “You’re takin’ the bed.”

His tone leaves no room for argument. You suppose it could almost be called kind of him to give you the bed.

“Sorry,” You tell him quietly, mindful of your parents in the next room.

“What’re you actin’ sorry for,” He huffs, “Sweet bird like you doesn’t mind sharin’, does she? Besides,” He knocks your knees apart with a big booted foot, “I still gotta get paid.”

You stare up at him, confusion plain on your face. 

“I thought you just wanted the meal.”

“Meal’s not finished, is it?” He tells you, “Never got dessert.”

“Wha-”

“Take your fuckin’ pants off.” His tone is clipped, short, and deep. It sinks into your skin, prickling goosebumps everywhere he’d touched earlier. Which feels like it must have been, well, everywhere. 

You should say “no.” Literally nothing about this man has given you any indication that he’s someone you should want to get undressed for, and he’s spent the better part of the day tormenting your family. Granted you did ask him to do that, and honestly his efforts do land squarely in the “pros” category, but he’s a little too good at playing a dirt-bag. And this? This just seals the deal on that particular observation.

So you should say “no.”

But the way his big hands had grabbed you, the way his tongue had wound against yours, the way he looks down at you now, hungry, makes you desperately want to do whatever he asks you to. 

“My parents are in the next room,” You whisper, glancing back at the wall that separates the two rooms.

“Who gives a shit?” Simon snorts, “Don’t ‘appy couples celebrate their engagement?” Your eyes flick down to his trousers, the implications aren’t lost on you. He must catch you looking because his hand grabs your hair and tips your head back. “Trust me birdy, I’m tryin’ ta be nice, but if ya wanna choke on it…”

You race to get your trousers open, fingers shaking as you push them down. You don’t need to see his cock to make some leaps of logic that it’s just as big as the rest of him, and if he’s offering you the choice between his mouth on you, and your mouth on him-

Simon leans forward and unceremoniously shoves his hand into your panties, your trousers barely down your thighs. Your train of thought comes to a full halt as big fingers stroke through your folds.

“Atta girl,” He hums, “much ‘appier like this, aren’t ya?” He tugs his fingers free, spreads them in front of your face with a pitying pout at the way your slick glistens on his skin. “Least your cunt knows what’s good for it.”

He pushes your head back, tossing it towards the bed as he releases your hair. Your back hits the mattress and you have to work to keep from hitting your head on the wall. Simon’s fingers find the hem of your panties and drag them down your thighs, catching your trousers to discard the lot on the floor. 

You snap your legs shut against the chill of the room and he growls. 

“None of that now,” He advises, prying your legs apart. His fingers dig into the soft meat of your thighs, his gaze fixed on the wet mess between them. The way he stands over you makes him feel massive, makes the way he leans over you feel looming. 

His hands slide over your ticklish inner thighs and you have to stifle the giggle that threatens to spill from you. You doubt Simon would appreciate your laughter, might even think you’re laughing at him. Again your eyes dart to the hard length straining against his trousers as his thumbs spread your folds.

“Pretty,” He says it so plainly, casually, like he’s judging a toy. It blazes through you, lighting up your nerves and making you shiver. Any other protests you might have had die on your tongue as Simon drops to his knees. 

Seeing him between your legs makes your stomach clench, makes your cunt pulse with desire. One of his thumbs rubs up and down the seam of your cunt while the other keeps you half-spread. He presses his thumb firmly against your clit, the pressure makes your hips squirm, makes you ache for more stimulation. The pressure stops, and his thumb traces its way back to holding you open.

He spits.

You flinch when it hits your spread folds, body vibrating with embarrassed heat as it slides over you. Simon’s eyes follow it the whole way down, and his tongue drags it back up.

Simon’s tongue cards through your folds, warm and wet, and he groans low in his throat. It’s positively sinful the way he pulls his tongue slow and flat over you, like he’s trying to savor the taste. You snap your hand over your mouth, stifling the soft whimper that the attention brings to your lips. 

Simon’s eyes flick to your face and he makes a frustrated noise. You feel his teeth touch your skin just before he bites you. You yelp at the sharp pain, your hand shooting from your mouth to his head in an attempt to push him away. Simon tips his head back to bite at the meat of your palm, his teeth digging into the firm flesh before his tongue licks over it. There’s a sharpness to his teeth, chipped edges that scrape at your skin and ache before he soothes them. 

You don’t want him to bite you again.

You don’t think you do.

Do you?

His tongue rolls over your palm, wetting the dry skin with spit and slick. His mouth has a heady sheen to it that makes you want to drag your tongue over his lips, to clean up the light prickle of his beard with your own mouth.

“No sense lettin’ you breath if you’re not gonna scream for me,” Simon informs you. Your face has never felt hotter than when his teeth scrape down your palm to tease your pulse. You’re too enraptured by the way he moves to let spit drip off his tongue and onto your clit to really register what he said.

His tongue rubs against your clit, working the firm bud back and forth before letting his tongue roll over it. Each hot swipe sends a new shudder of heat and pleasure through your body. You whimper, your wet hand tangling its fingers in his short cropped hair just to feel him shake his head like a dog. 

It’s filthy the way he drags his lips over your folds, sucking and slurping at you like he’s trying to be loud. His stubble scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, prickly and sharp next to the warm wet mouth that sucks at your clit. His tongue keeps twisting over it, keeping it sensitive and tingling before he’s ducking down to fuck the slick muscle into your hole. Simon moves his tongue against the entrance to your cunt like he’s hoping to stretch out the hole with it, circling around the delicate outer edge before pressing inside, over and over until your brain feels like it’ll melt out of your ears. 

Then that wet heat is dragged up to your clit, circled and sucked, licked in broad strokes that wiggle against you just so he can hear the way your voice pitches up in pleasure.

He turns his head to wipe his mouth against your thigh, lips parting to lick a long stripe before he sinks his teeth into the meat of it and sucks. Your own lips close tight around the whimper the dull pain of it pulls from you. 

He muscles your leg up against his shoulder, his arm moving to find a comfortable angle as he hooks his thumb in your fluttering cunt. You blink at the intrusion, the thick digit may as well be two of your own fingers the way he pulls at your entrance and stretches you open. That isn’t what steals your focus from his mouth though, what tugs at you is the way his other thick fingers rub over your ass, spreading your slick and attempting to soften the hole into something pliant.

He’s grabbed your hips to roll you onto your stomach before you can raise a protest to the searching fingers, big strong hands dragging your hips up so your knees settle on the edge of the bed as he stands. It forces your face into the quilts, muffling the noise of surprise that the motion shakes out of you. Again you find protests on your lips, you hadn’t even come, and again they’re snuffed by his fingers.

Two of them push into your cunt and you moan low in your throat at the burning stretch that they provide. Your hips rock back into them, your stomach fluttering with need as more heat courses through you. His fingers crook and he thrusts them down into your cunt, hitting some throbbing tightness that makes you cry out.

Simon makes a low cooing noise in the back of his throat and his fingers stroke against your walls. You turn your head to rest your cheek against the bed, your lips pouting and your lashes fluttering as he gives you just long enough to suck in a breath before his fingers are pressing against that soft aching spot again. Your eyes roll, your breath caught tight in your throat at the thrum of pleasure that tightens like burning heat in your aching cunt.

His fingers pump faster and faster into your cunt, and you cry out, your hips wiggling and your fingers gripping at the quilt. The wet squelching noise that comes from his fingers fucking into you makes an embarrassed heat rush over your skin, and you burry your face in the blankets just to gasp out your moans. Your mouth hangs open, drool dripping off your tongue as your breath stops in your throat. The tight heat between your legs feels like it’s winding its way all the way up through your diaphragm. Your muscles are tensed so tight you think you might snap, and you let out a low moan as your breath finally shakes free. You suck in air between sobs, each punch of his fingers into your cunt pushing a new noise free of your lips.

The wet noises just get wetter.

And then something inside you snaps. Your stomach clenches tight and your cunt follows, spasming around Simon’s fingers as they pump in and out of you. Stars dance across your vision and you bite the quilts to stop from screaming. Something trickles out of you and he rewards your orgasm with a throaty chuckle.

He pulls his fingers from you and rubs soaked fingers over your ass before he’s trying to push one inside.

“Been eyein’ this ass all night.” He hums.

The firm pressure hurts the harder he presses, and you whimper out a sniffled reproach to the feeling, a soft “hurts” that you’re sure will fall on deaf ears. Simon stops, pulls his finger back and slicks it in your cunt again, the feeling of his fingers twisting against your soft spot making your eyes roll. It hurts, an overworked burn that makes you whimper for an entirely different reason.

He pulls his thick fingers from your cunt and you feel the tip of one teasing your ass again. It’s barely a pressure when his finger tries your ass again, and he lets out a slow breath as you’re filled.

“Just sunk right in,” He tells you, pumping his finger in and out, the drag of heat has your lashes fluttering, your head spinning at the deep pressure that makes your cunt clench, “Isn’t that pretty.”

His thumb catches your cunt again, tugging at the slick hole. The click of his belt and rustle of fabric clues you in to what comes next.

That doesn’t mean you’re prepared for how big his cock feels nudging at your entrance. A chill runs over your skin, goosebumps raising to meet the air where your jumper has slid down your back. The blunt head of his cock presses against your hole, and you arch your back into the feeling, desperate to find the right angle for it to slip in. 

Simon doesn’t seem as eager. He pushes into you slowly, lets you feel the way you burn and stretch around him, lets you feel every centimeter of that big cock. You feel tight, even as wet as you are, you feel like you’re squeezing the life out of him. Your cunt is hot and tingling, and your clit throbs with the need to be touched. 

You feel his hips press against your ass, and he grinds into you. Another wave of goosebumps rushes over you at the deep ache he pushes into. You squeeze your eyes shut just to stop the way they keep trying to roll back in your head.

Simon pulls back, and you can almost feel the drag of his head against your walls. He grinds the tip against the soft spot near your entrance before punching his cock back into you. You make a choked noise before your throat seems to open and a flood of moans and pleas flows from you. Each push of his cock into you pitches your voice up and you moan in desperate panting sounds.

You ache. You’ve never felt so full. He hasn’t taken his finger from your ass, instead he presses it down to try and feel his own cock stretching out your walls. You shove a hand between your legs to try and stroke your clit only to feel the stretch of your skin around his fat cock. You’re so wet that your fingers slip over your folds, uncoordinated, and you can’t get a good angle. You open your mouth but can’t find the words to ask for what you need.

One of his thrusts pushes you up the bed and your hand moves immediately to push against the wall with a ‘thump.’ 

“Simon,” You whine, “Simon.”

His free hand pets up your spine, bunching your jumper up under your armpits to unhook your bra, before finding its way to your hair. He curls his fingers and finds a tight grip near your scalp. The bite of pain makes you want to push back into him. The deep pressure, the slight sting, from your ass makes your body stutter, your brain crashing into itself.

Oh God.

“Not a thought in that pretty little ‘ead is there?” He asks, the fingers gripping your hair tight pull your head back, you moan your pleasure for him as he gives a hard thrust into you, your bleary eyes opened just enough to focus on the white wall. “Course not,” Simon grunts, a huff of laughter edging his voice, “Wouldn't've responded to my ad if there was.” 

You reach back to claw at his thigh and find it still, painfully, clothed. A burst of humiliation shoots through you at the thought that Simon hasn’t even bothered to get undressed. 

“Stupid thing, really could’ve just grabbed ya off the street.” He mumbles, there’s a touch of fondness to his voice, a smile that doesn’t feel appropriate for the way he fucks into you. Like he’s trying to teach you a lesson.

The only thing you’re learning is that Simon’s cock hits something deep and needy inside of you. The finger in your ass starts to pull out and you scream. Simon groans as you tighten around him, your cunt desperate to keep his cock inside. You’re buzzing with your orgasm, settled right at the edge with nothing to push you over the edge. There’s too much stimulation. His cock pistoning into you and his finger starting to tug at your ass. You’re still sore from his fingers but you can’t stop yourself from clenching tight around him.

“Mad fer it,” Simon chuckles, “tell me what ya need bird.”

“Clit- clit,” You stutter out, still barely able to keep the words straight in your head. 

“Louder love,” He teases, “don’t think I heard ya.”

“Please,” You sob, your moans still tearing from your chest on each thrust, “touch my clit.”

He drops your head back down onto the bed, and you muffle your noise with the quilt clenched between your teeth. His finger pulls from your ass and you scream your pleasure into the bed. It’s so hot, your ass burning with something that isn’t entirely painful. It just makes your clit pulse harder. 

Simon’s fingers find their way between your legs and he pinches your clit between them. One roll of the tight bud between them has your legs shaking. The second has tears brimming at your lash line and your mouth hanging open as you flutter and drip on Simon’s cock. You tense and release around him, your orgasm crashing into you like a train. Waves of it rush through you, shaking your muscles loose until you’re laid like a doll against the bed. Your skin is burning and you ache,

And Simon keeps fucking you.

The smack of his hips against yours fills the room, his breath heavy and his fingers now tight on your waist. You push back into his thrusts and it makes stars dance across your vision. That deep aching part of you makes everything draw tight again. 

Simon’s thrusts grow quicker, rougher, his fingers grip you so tight it hurts. You scream for him again, his hard thrusts pushing you to the edge a third time. The blistering heat of his come hits your overworked cunt and you moan. 

“Too much,” You whine. Everything is sore when he pulls out. You don’t think you can move.

Your knees slip off the edge of the bed and you just lay there.

Simon rolls you back onto your back, and manhandles you into laying on the bed properly. 

You sit up just enough to tug your jumper off and toss your bra to the floor with the rest of your clothes. Simon ditches his shirt and you sleepily take in the cut musculature of his chest as he wanders to turn off the light.

You pass out before he ever gets his pants off.

*

Your parents have already gathered the presents from last night by the front door when you wander downstairs in the morning. Your father doesn’t look at you, but your mother positively glowers. You try not to think about how loud you’d been last night.

Simon’s had his hands on you since you woke up. His fingers splay wide on the small of your back, as your parents attempt to rush you out the door. 

You’re settled in Simon’s car, driving down the street when you finally let the laughter take over. You giggle and snort, pressing your fingers against your mouth to try and stem the flow of them. But really, what can you do? Despite being forced to spend the night putting a dent in your plans it’s worked out perfectly. Your parents won’t be asking about you getting a boyfriend any time soon.

If you’re lucky your mom will never ask you about your relationship status again, even when you “break up” with Simon.

You’re still giggling, glowing with happiness at a successfully executed plan, when you try to pull the ring off your finger.

Something sharp digs into your skin and you yelp in pain. 

“What the fuck?” You question, whimpering when you pull harder and it only sends the sharp bit further into your skin. You raise your hand to look at the ring, and find a sharp tooth just under the diamond, clearly a feature not a bug. Still you glance at Simon. “I think this ring is defective,” You tell him, “It keeps stabbing me.”

Simon hums, turning right down a street. 

“Then stop tryin’ ta take it off.” He advises. You twist the ring around your finger, trying to find  a way to work it off.

“I can’t get it off,” You grunt in annoyance.

“Not suppose ta,” Simon tells you plainly, taking another turn, “That’s how bein’ engaged works.”

Something squirms in your stomach.

“We’re not engaged.” You remind him.

“Wearing my ring,” He reminds you, like he’s explaining it to a child, “said ‘yes’ to my proposal-” A smile splits his face, predatory in a way that makes you press your legs together, “-probably still buzzin’ for my cock too. Sounds engaged to me.”

You balk, your mouth hung open as you gape at him. Is he insane?

Simon doesn’t even look at you, just reaches to the side and presses against the underside of your chin with gentle, firm fingers, closing your mouth. Then he leans past you to open the glove compartment and tug a crumple of papers out onto your lap.

“If ya get bored you can look over those.” He tells you, flicking on his signal to hop on the highway.

You glance down at the mess of papers settled on your thighs, a mass of text and fine print that your eyes can’t focus on because they’re so shaken by the two poised at the top:

“Marriage License.”

divider by @/saradika-graphics

[aventurineswife]

(For some reason I always imagine aven having twin boy and girl)

Can I request aven's baby twins playing with his boss form? Like they somehow saw it and begged their papa to play with his other form 😤😤

Through Their Eyes, a Hero

Summary: Aventurine takes a rare break from his gambles when his children burst into his study, full of energy and excitement. They show him a holographic image of his dramatic, superhero-like attire, and after some playful persuasion, he indulges them for a fun game of theatrics and mock battles. Aventurine finds solace in the joy of his children, allowing himself to embrace a rare vulnerability amidst the chaos of his life.

Tags: Aventurine and his twin kids, Fatherhood, Playful, Vulnerability, Family Moments, Humor, Tenderness, Heartwarming, Parenthood.

Warnings: Mild language (teasing), lighthearted humor.

Aventurine sighed deeply, reclining in the high-backed chair of his study. Warm light spilled over the cluttered table, highlighting scattered papers—contracts, market reports, and etc. Another day of high-stakes gambles, moving lives and fortunes like pieces on a game board. For now, the "Aventurine of Stratagems" had come out ahead, but his victories felt as fleeting as the silence that enveloped him.

Then came the sound—a cascade of giggles ringing down the hallway, light and infectious. Aventurine froze, his pen pausing mid-stroke. The patter of small feet grew louder until, with all the subtlety of a crashing chandelier, the door burst open.

“Papa!” cried two golden-haired whirlwinds, their energy charging into the room.

The first child darted toward him, eyes sparkling with mischief, while the other lagged behind, clutching an object Aventurine couldn’t immediately identify—a holographic image projector.

“Papa, look!” the first one chirped, scaling his lap like a conqueror before Aventurine could protest.

The second child held up the projector triumphantly, their grin nearly splitting their face. With a flick of small fingers, the device hummed to life, projecting an image above the desk. Aventurine’s (boss fight) attire shimmered into view—a dramatic ensemble of black, cyan, and gold, complete with a fur-lined coat and luminous accents. The children’s awed expressions mirrored their admiration.

“You look like a superhero!” the second exclaimed, their pupils wide with excitement.

Aventurine chuckled, his usual enigmatic smile softening into genuine affection. “A superhero, you say? I thought I was more of a villain.” he teased, ruffling the first child’s hair.

“No way!” the first retorted, tugging at his sleeve. “You’re way cooler than a villain. Papa, can you wear it? Pleeease?” They clasped their hands in a dramatic plea, their determination impossible to ignore.

Aventurine leaned back, his fingers brushing absently over the choker around his neck. He let out an exaggerated sigh. “You think the grand Aventurine dons such an outfit on a whim? Surely, you jest.”

“Yes!” they chorused in unison, their resolve unshaken.

The first crossed their arms, pouting for effect. The second joined in, their bottom lip quivering as if preparing for an epic tantrum. Aventurine stared at the two tiny tyrants, their golden hair and stubborn gazes reminding him of someone long gone. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk.

“Very well,” he relented, standing with a flourish. “But know this—once I assume the attire of power, there is no going back.”

The children cheered, bouncing on their heels as Aventurine strode toward a sleek wardrobe tucked against the far wall. His movements were deliberate, each step exuding the flair of a gambler about to deal the winning hand. He opened the wardrobe, and disappeared inside.

“Behold!” he declared, his voice a commanding timbre as he spread his arms. The tails of his coat flared behind him like wings. “The Aventurine of Stratagems, master of fate, fortune, and… playtime!”

The children erupted into cheers, clapping and squealing with delight.

“You’re a superhero, Papa!” the youngest exclaimed, their admiration radiating like sunlight.

Aventurine swept into a low bow, his hat dipping dramatically before he straightened with a sly grin. “Then I hope you’re prepared, my little challengers. No hero—or villain—lets their opponents win without a fight.”

Laughter filled the room as Aventurine engaged them in an impromptu game of theatrics, mock battles, and exaggerated tricks. His dramatic lunges and calculated “defeats” sent the children into fits of giggles. For a brief, stolen moment, the weight of his world lifted, replaced by the pure joy of fatherhood.

As their game wound down, Aventurine reclined once more, pulling his children into his arms. Their giggles softened into sleepy murmurs, and as he cradled them, he allowed himself a rare moment of vulnerability. Perhaps, in the fleeting happiness of these whirlwinds, he could find something he’d thought lost forever—a reason to keep gambling with life.

For them, Aventurine thought with a quiet smile. Always for them.

[mrsarnold]

prompt 25 w kk arnold and i’ll give you head

025. merry Christmas and a happy new year! . ۫ ꣑ৎ .

syn : christmas day with KK

pair : kk arnold x reader

warn : fluffy fluff

note : happy last dsy of advent 😞

The snow fell in soft flakes outside, blanketing the streets in a pristine white. Inside the cozy warmth of your shared apartment, the faint hum of holiday music played in the background as the scent of gingerbread cookies wafted through the air.

“Alright,” KK called from the living room, her voice filled with playful determination. “You ready to lose again?”

You stepped out of the kitchen, drying your hands on a towel. KK was standing in front of the mini basketball hoop she had hung over the door, spinning the foam ball on her finger like the star athlete she was. She wore an oversized Christmas sweater with a reindeer on it, paired with sweatpants that barely stayed on her hips.

“You’ve won every game so far,” you protested, crossing your arms. “How about you let me win this one?”

KK laughed, her smile lighting up the room. “Where’s the fun in that? Gotta keep you on your toes, babe.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling as she tossed the ball your way. “Fine. One more round. But if I win, you’re doing the dishes.”

“And if I win,” she countered, raising an eyebrow, “you make me hot chocolate. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The game was competitive, filled with laughter, playful banter, and plenty of dramatic “trash talk” on KK’s end. Despite your best efforts, she sank the winning shot effortlessly, throwing her hands up in triumph.

“Still undefeated!” she cheered, doing a little victory dance that had you doubling over in laughter.

“Alright, alright,” you conceded, shaking your head. “I’ll make your hot chocolate. But don’t think this is over!”

As you moved back to the kitchen, KK followed, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind. Her cheek pressed against yours as she whispered, “You’re a good sport, you know that?”

“Don’t push your luck, Arnold,” you teased, but your smile betrayed you.

Once the hot chocolate was ready, the two of you curled up on the couch, wrapped in a thick blanket. The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled softly, casting a warm glow over the room. KK took a sip of her drink and sighed contentedly.

“This is nice,” she said, glancing over at you. “Christmas with you.”

You leaned into her, your heart swelling. “It’s perfect.”

KK reached into her pocket, pulling out a small box wrapped in red and gold paper. “I got you something,” she said shyly, holding it out to you.

Your eyes widened as you carefully unwrapped it, revealing a simple yet stunning necklace with a small basketball charm.

“I know how much you support me,” she said, her voice soft. “I wanted you to have something that shows how much you mean to me. You’re my MVP, always.”

Tears pricked your eyes as you looked at her. “KK, this is… I love it. Thank you.”

She grinned, pulling you closer. “Merry Christmas, mama.”

“Merry Christmas,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss her.

The night was filled with warmth, laughter, and love—a holiday you’d both cherish forever.

tags : @kamii-2 -2 @thaatdigitaldiary @sierrale8ne @pboogerswbb @st4rrzynight @yannasuniverse @heart4caitlin @latenighttalkinqwp @sweetluna20 @janaelalfysblunt @cosmopretty

[derschwarzeengel]

I'm assuming that since you, seaweed-water, replied to a post that's tagged #anti sterek in a pro Sterek manner, you don't mind if other people chime in, right? 'Kay. Cool. (Otherwise, if you're tired of seeing anti Sterek posts on your dashboard, blacklist the tag in question using XKit and stop deliberately going into the tag to be pro-Sterek on tags deliberately tagged anti Sterek. That's just rude.)

there was a time, when the show was still airing, that *everyone* was on board for sterek, even the actors who played them. this post might enlighten you, if you're interested in reading it. if you want the tldr; jeff was setting them up in s3 to be end game by s5, but that fell out of favor when jeff realized the show would do just fine without the sterek fans (before season 4, the venn diagram of teen wolf fans and sterek shippers was basically one circle)

I watched Teen Wolf from the very beginning when the pilot episode aired back in 2011 and engaged in the fandom right when the first season was airing.

All of this is blatantly incorrect and rewriting Teen Wolf fandom history. The fandom didn't really start picking up steam until the hiatus between season 1 and season 2. Sterek didn't explode into popularity as a fanon ship until the second season. During season 1, the majority of Derek-centric ships were Scott/Derek, Jackson/Derek, and Derek/Original Female Character. The vast majority of Stiles-centric ships were Scott/Stiles, Stiles/Danny, Stiles/Lydia, and Stiles/Original Female Character. This is going off of FanFiction.Net data + my own recollections.

Was there Stiles/Derek fic written shortly after the pilot? Yeah, sure. But it didn't gain jauggernaut popularity as a ship until season 2, when the fandom gained a lot of new members through more people watching the show. (That being said, the first Stiles/Derek LiveJournal community was created two-and-a-half months after the show began airing.)

Second: Jeff Davis was absolutely not setting Sterek up to be endgame in any way whatsoever if you look at the actual show and not the out-of-universe polling and official fanwork contests. Throughout season 1, Stiles was obsessed with Lydia and getting her to see him as a potential boyfriend since he'd been crushing on her for years; Derek was completely fixated on Scott and only barely tolerated Stiles because a) Stiles is Scott's best friend; and b) Stiles kept inserting himself into werewolf business through his friendship with Scott. (Stiles also initially treated Scott being bitten as though this was some sort of cool video game he could live vicariously through his friend, even though it was inadvertently Stiles's fault that Scott was bitten by Peter in the first place, and he canonically dehumanized Scott during the latter's second full moon solely because Lydia [the girl Stiles had a major crush on but didn't give him the time of day] kissed Scott earlier that day.)

In season 2, Derek and Stiles's interactions are still antagonistic more often than not, with Stiles mistrusting Derek and Derek, again, focused more on getting Scott into his pack now that he's an Alpha while they (Scott & Stiles + Derek's pack) are forced to work together to solve the Kanima mystery. There is nothing romantic about the scene between them in the pool when Derek is paralyzed by Kanima venom & Stiles has to keep treading water a) to keep them both from drowning until the paralysis wears off; and b) to exploit the Kanima's fear of water through its master. (Both of them complain about it the whole time and hate that they're even in this position to begin with.)

Third: the "Venn diagram of Teen Wolf fans and Sterek shippers being a circle" claim is, frankly, bullshit. Sterek shippers harassed and shut down anybody else in the fandom who dared ship Stiles or Derek with any other character, let alone their canon love interests (which were, hint, not each other). They sent death threats to Tyler Posey, who played titular Teen Wolf Scott McCall, all because he expressed dislike for the ship. Sterek shippers kept harassing the actors and writers and pushing for the ship to be canon, to the point that Tyler Hoechlin in 2014 flat-out refused to sign Sterek fanart at conventions, despite accepting the Sterek fanart book in 2013.

to answer your question, it's so popular because when this show aired, it was during a time when gay characters did not have a lot of screen time. bitches were THIRSTY for gay boys on screen, and the smallest spark is enough to set anything off. it stuck because, well... the chemistry is there. the actors have said repeatedly how much they enjoyed doing scenes together. i think that really came across in their performances on screen.

Except Teen Wolf HAD queer characters from the get-go: Danny Mahealani (who is Native Hawaiian, to boot), Ethan (from the Alpha Pack, who is canonically in a relationship with Danny during season 3). Jackson was revealed to be canonically bisexual, having been in a relationship with Lydia during the first two seasons and then later hooking up with Ethan in season 6b. Hell, one of the early Stiles ships was with Danny, and Stiles' other major ship is with Scott -- but Sterek shippers flat-out ignored this in favor of their white non-canon slash ship.

The actors themselves soured on the Sterek ship the longer the show went on (most of the cast flat-out treated it like a joke to begin with and never seriously acted like it was going to be canon), largely due to harassment from fans. Sterek fandom was pissed when Dylan O'Brien refused to return for the 2022 movie and still somehow managed to make a film centered around Scott, Derek, Derek's teenage son Eli, and Allison Argent (who returned from the dead) all about their fanon ship.

yes, derek is creepy... believe it or not, that is a part of it for a lot of sterek shippers. (!!just because we like to see it in fic or on screen, does not mean we condone it in real life!! same goes for age difference) yeah, derek's a fucking creep, he probably got fucked in the head when he was molested and then lost his entire family in a fire by his abuser's hand. i'd be highly suspicious if he wasn't a little weird by the time he and stiles met.

And again, the reason Derek and Stiles met in the first place is because of Scott being bitten and transformed into a werewolf. Derek immediately started stalking Scott, became a mentor to Scott, had no problems with getting up close in Scott's personal space (or Jackson's or Lydia's; this is not something Derek does exclusively with Stiles) multiple times, and eventually Scott and Derek learn how to trust each other and are on good terms from season 3a onward -- Derek is all in on supporting Scott once Scott becomes a True Alpha. That never happens between Stiles and Derek. When Derek shows up again in season 6b, he still treats dealing with Stiles more like an annoyance than anything else and flat-out says he returned to Beacon Hills for Scott McCall.

Get outside of the Sterek bubble when interacting with the Teen Wolf fandom, I beg you. The general fandom does not ship Sterek. From the Sterek fanworks I have seen, everyone is wildly out of character and I hate Sterek fandom's tendency to take Scott's--the Latino protagonist and titular werewolf--canon traits and personality + events that happen to Scott and give them to Stiles -- who is white as mayonnaise and would not at all be out of place as a potential UnSub in Jeff Davis's other show Criminal Minds, given how Stiles's go-to suggestion when investigating anything with Scott is kidnapping and/or murder.

Ship what you want, but don't act like the Sterek fandom doesn't have a very real history of racism, death threats, and harassment when dealing with the larger fandom/non-Sterek shippers and people who were involved with the show itself that got them to where they are now. The vocal minority does not speak for the overall fandom.

Here's some random Teen Wolf on my blog:

I HATE Sterek the ship. I despise it so much I filtered the tags. I don't think I have ever disliked a ship more. And I probably wouldn't hate it as much if It wasn't so damn popular.

I got into Teen Wolf around early 2023 so I was late to the party. I watched much of season one without really knowing how people ship Derek and Stiles so much. And guess what, I loved their scenes. They reminded me of almost like a big grumpy brother and the young very annoying brother. Or cousins like Stiles lied about. Then I learned about the AMOUNT of shipping there was (like 60,000 fics on AO3) and every scene after that was tainted for me. I'd see something funny with those two and I'd like it but I couldn't help but think, man, most of this fandom is probably using this scene to prove that a 23 year old man and a 16 YEAR OLD are in love.

How the holy f*ck did the ship between the 23 year old and the 16 year old even become so popular??? Especially seeing how they barely interact after season 3. Even in season 3 it's minimal.

Also, there is like no evidence that they like each other but people act like there is.... Like come on.

I laughed my head off after seeing this Derek x Stiles tiktok cause it was during the Void scene in Derek's house and it was like 'Derek is always protecting him'. And all Derek was doing was standing there staring. He didn't even seem that worried.

What I kinda got excited for was in season 4 and Derek got miniature, I was like okay I see, a sixteen year old Derek and a 17 year old Stiles, I can get behind this. Then Derek became old again in one episode so that was disappointing.

They don't have chemistry, Stiles is 16 when they meet, and they barely talk after season 3 or even 2. I can only think that the reason people ship them is because they are both attractive or something. I cannot see how Derek is attractive and Stiles is more cute to me but you know you do you I guess.

It's just, why is it everywhere? How is it so popular?

All the fanfictions have to wildly make them out of character to even work! Derek is also creepy, he just shows up at high schools and breaks into Scott's house. He should not be near Stiles for any romantic reasons.

[buttercupshands]

I started drawing this next day after I finished Act 6

13 or so days and it's finished!

Main things are traditional and Loop's body was edited digitally after

Unedited it looks like this

I've been torn on how to do Loop's body for the entirety of lining, also

A bit sad the main lines are visible only as a wip, most of this thing is literally just a ton of sharp lines

I think it's also my first day of drawing, Loop is just a sketch here (feat. my leg)

I even finished the beans before it so they were a moral support, because if you let me things like this take a year

[lunarharp]

forgot i had some old backlog or whatever..

[freakadr0id]

HEY SO ASHE JUST SHOWED US SOME MORE LMK SEASON 3 STORYBOARDS

Saw this on Twitter and look at this!!!

I WAS F***ING RIGHT!!! PIGSY IS GIVING TANG A LITTLE HEART!!! I DIDN'T MISREAD IT - IT WAS INTENTIONAL!!!

Also:

PIGSY WAS SUPPOSED TO WINK AT TANG WHEN HE CATCHES HIM?!?!?!

Come tf on just look at that! I can't with them. They're so gay in season 3 that it's amazing they were able to release it in China at all. lol

[firestorm09890]

FUCK what I said about the majority of significant changes to dialogue in Re:CoM being to adjust Axel's characterization, the most egregious change is actually this

(GBA CoM)

(Re:CoM)

if I had to guess, the reason for this change was because in GBA CoM, The Superior was a spooky, unknown being at the head of this Organization we had very little knowledge on, and for Vexen, the guy who runs his mouth constantly about how much better he is than the others, to be terrified of him, he must be some pretty scary dude. But then after kh2 we know him, it's Xemnas, he's very dramatic, he likes to talk to the moon, and the effect of your mind filling in the gaps about what "The Superior" must be like is gone. So it wasn't really necessary anymore, right?

(rest under cut because it's long)

Except... the way they changed it is so weird. In the GBA version, what's happening is pretty clear:

Marluxia tells Vexen that his project is a failure

Vexen demonstrates that he does not give a shit about Marluxia's opinion

he does care very much about The Superior's opinion, though, and Marluxia uses this to blackmail him into eliminating Sora- an action which is nonsensical, as the entire point of what they're doing needs Sora alive, making it clear to everyone in the room that he is deliberately sending Vexen to die

and then after that, when Vexen shows up to fight Sora, he goes "if you want to fight me for real you've gotta do it in the memories from the other side of your heart lol bye" and Sora goes "huh? other side?" and then it cuts to a scene on the top floor:

and then this gets more into subtext but here, Vexen has realized he's totally fucked and his only hope is to mess directly with Marluxia's plans (well, they were the Organization's plans, but it's pretty obvious by now Marluxia's abusing his power for his own purposes) by giving Sora more information than he should know. This does get the traitor gang worried enough to send Axel to go kill him (as opposed to just letting Sora take care of him, which was presumably the original plan)- he very specifically cuts Vexen off to keep him from saying too much (this is retained between the original and the remake)

Anyway, what happens in Re:CoM sort of follows the same order of events, but everything is changed slightly in a way that just makes things more confusing.

Marluxia tells Vexen his project is a failure and Vexen demonstrates that he doesn't give a shit about Marluxia's opinion, as before

Marluxia threatens Vexen with a weapon, rather than threatening to tell the Superior

this, notably, does not seem to faze Vexen very much. he continues to run his mouth while having the scythe pointed at him.

Xemnas is still leveraged- Marluxia points out it was the Superior who entrusted him with the castle

...even though reasonably Vexen would already be aware of this, and has still demonstrated that he has zero respect for Marluxia despite it

the lines about betraying the Organization being a capital crime are retained, probably because it's super relevant later, but then that line of thinking is abandoned in favor of Marluxia and Larxene just taunting Vexen instead

The part where Marluxia says "do it. you won't" could be seen as a sort of threat... if not for Axel's line: "You give a challenge like that to Vexen and he'll seriously want to eliminate Sora." It frames it all as though Vexen went to fight Sora out of some sort of pride.

And look, Vexen may have a temper and a superiority complex, but he's not stupid. They're obviously baiting him. Plus, what happened to him seeing himself as above the others and countering things he doesn't like with "well actually I'm higher ranked than you and also you're an idiot"? Is he that insecure in his fighting capabilities? I could deal with characterization changes doing him dirty if it didn't also make no sense in the context of the plot.

So now we have Vexen going to try to kill Sora, something that really makes no sense to do, out of pride. What was the purpose of sending Sora to Twilight Town? Also pride, over the fact that he managed to get that information? Giving the writing the benefit of the doubt, I could say that these nonsensical actions can be explained as evidence that Nobodies can have hearts and people with hearts do strange and rash things, but that just feels like a reach, which is bad because what they had in GBA CoM worked perfectly fine and made sense without any reaching for the "idk emotions make you do strange things" explanation.

It continues. After Vexen gives Sora the Twilight Town card in Re:CoM and Sora wonders about what the "other side" means, this is that version of the conversation the top floor members have:

...what? "If Sora disappears, that would mess up the Organization's plans"? what are you worried about? the only reason Sora would disappear is if Vexen killed him. there's no way they think Vexen being in Twilight Town would give him an advantage, right? they know he's a pathetic fighter. "Vexen has clearly committed a treasonous act against the Organization" HOW? HOW IS IT CLEAR? they don't express any worry about Sora learning too much, up until Axel says "I came to stop you from talking too much" when killing Vexen- and that being there makes it seem like they were worried about Sora learning to much, but if that's the case, why would they replace the perfectly serviceable lines in the above scene? it's just... baffling that they would want to lean into the narrative that Vexen going to kill Sora (which he'd been goaded into doing) is the problem here, because it just makes so little sense compared to what it was originally.

once again giving them the benefit of the doubt: Marluxia's real plan was to take over the Organization, and he saw an easy way to pick off one of the members, so he took it. the motive for stopping Vexen doesn't actually matter.

buuuuut it's the same as with Vexen earlier. Marluxia may be too self-absorbed and power-hungry to notice Axel is scheming against him, but he, too, is an intelligent man. he's plotted for a while, getting into Xemnas's good graces in order to be put in charge of the Castle. this is incredibly sloppy for him. I guess it could be said that getting so close to his goal would make him sloppy, but again, if they'd just left things the way they were in GBA CoM, I wouldn't even have to be saying this

in conclusion: GBA Chain of Memories' intra-Organization strife subplot is so tightly woven with calculated moves on all sides that Re:CoM changing certain things without taking into consideration the consequences makes certain parts of the plot fall flat and become far more confusing than in the original story

[clumsyclifford]

thanks for tagging me @4thbrighteststar

rules: shuffle your On Repeat and let people pick their favorite from the first five songs!

here goes fingers crossed y'all get normal songs

lemme tag @igarbagecannoteven @allsassnoclass @kaleidoscopeminds @burstingsunrise anddd @daydadahlias

(commentary on each song under the cut)

wish you were sober: i had a moment with this song several years after everyone else did

chemicals: had a moment with this ALBUM.

stuttering: god okay i don't know WHY this is still on my on repeat except for, i assume, that every time it plays when i listen to my on repeat it self-reinforces its position. i WAS listening to it, and them, a lot, back when i saw them live earlier this year, no shame, but its time is frankly up

kissinginacarcrash: surprised to find this on here! i'm studying for a telltale concert im going to with my friend. this is one of their better songs imo

bet on it: ...i was afraid this would happen. my sister and i jammed out to all three hsm soundtracks on a long drive earlier this week. there is nothing like belting out bet on it and scream in a car with your sister. so then i kept listening to those two songs. scream is also in fact on this playlist right now.

[gaydogmarriage]

ppl are always depicting cyno in fanon as a comic relief annoying idiot partner to tighnari that cannot read the room and is always making him angry and yeah he doesn't have the best social skills and doesn't understand other people that well, but he knows that. and he also knows tighnari well enough to know that if he truly was annoyed with his behavior to the point of getting angry, he would shut that shit down real quick. he's not the type of person to just sit there and take it if he's genuinely bothered, i think. cyno's just putting himself out there without letting himself be paralyzed by his own shortcomings or insecurities, and it's pretty clear tighnari doesn't want him to repress himself either.

if anything, i can see tighnari being the one with an annoying habit in private that he has 0 self awareness about because he's so used to being the one dealing with other people's bullshit that he may not realize when he's the culprit for once, and cyno is too much of an unbothered king to say anything about it, and too madly in love to stay annoyed for long lol

[aventurineswife]

No idk if you’re still taking holiday requests, but can I get some fuckin uuuuuuhhhh reader spending christmas with Aventurine and Kaveh? (together, because I do not separate my gay blonds)

“Christmas isn’t a season. It’s a feeling”

Summary: Aventurine, Kaveh, and you spend a peaceful Christmas evening together in a modest home, enjoying the warmth of the holiday season. While Kaveh works to make everything perfect, Aventurine—despite his usual aloofness—lets his guard down, enjoying the moment of connection. The three of you share simple joys, playful banter, and tender moments, forming a bond that transcends the chaos of your individual lives.

Tags: Kaveh x Reader x Aventurine, Winter Special, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Holiday Spirit, Soft!Aventurine, Caring!Kaveh, Slow Burn, Bonding, Gentle Romance.

The house was quiet, bathed in the warm, flickering glow of Christmas lights that dotted the small living room. Outside, the world was covered in a soft blanket of snow, but inside, the fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The air smelled of pine and cinnamon, and soft, holiday music played in the background, blending with the sound of the storm outside.

You were curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped around you, watching the fire. Your gaze flickered between the warmth of the flames and the two figures who shared the small home with you. Kaveh was carefully arranging small pine branches on the coffee table, creating a makeshift centerpiece for the evening. His hands moved with practiced precision, but the way he muttered to himself as he worked showed the care he put into everything, no matter how small. Every detail mattered to him—whether in his work or his life.

Aventurine, on the other hand, was lounging in an armchair, his legs crossed as he absently played with the cards in his hands. His usual air of confidence seemed a little softened tonight, the ever-present smirk on his lips replaced by something more thoughtful, more subdued. His eyes occasionally met yours, lingering just a little longer than usual before he returned to his game. It was rare to see Aventurine so quiet—he was usually wrapped in mystery, always orchestrating, always calculating—but tonight, with the snow outside and the peace of the holiday surrounding the three of you, even he seemed to let his guard down, if only for a moment.

"You know," Kaveh's voice cut through the silence, soft but clear, "I thought about making some eggnog, but I couldn’t decide if it should be with or without rum. What do you think?" He looked at you, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and sincerity. "I want tonight to be perfect for all of us."

You smiled at his earnestness, your heart swelling at his thoughtfulness. Kaveh was always like this—seeking beauty in everything, always trying to create the perfect atmosphere for those around him. The way he cared for both you and Aventurine was a reflection of his endless empathy, even when he carried the weight of his own struggles.

Aventurine's voice broke the brief silence as he looked up from his cards, eyes glimmering with amusement. "Knowing Kaveh, I think the rum would be a fitting touch. Though," he added with a sly grin, "I'm more interested in how you'll manage to make it taste good without overcompensating for the lack of… finesse." He raised an eyebrow, his eyes flickering between you and Kaveh.

Kaveh rolled his eyes, though there was a fond smile tugging at his lips. "It’s the thought that counts, Aventurine." He glanced at you again, his expression softening. "Maybe we can compromise. A little rum, just to make it feel more festive."

You chuckled softly, enjoying the easygoing banter between them. Despite their differences, there was a comfort in their presence—two very different men who somehow complemented each other perfectly, just as they complemented you. Kaveh's idealism balanced Aventurine's calculated risk-taking, and your gentle nature was the thread that bound them both together in ways none of you could truly explain. But tonight, it didn’t matter. Tonight was about simple moments, warmth, and connection.

"Alright," you said, your voice warm with affection. "Eggnog with rum it is." You reached for the blanket, adjusting it around you as you sat up and stretched, your eyes meeting Aventurine's as you spoke. "Do you want to help with the drink, Aventurine? Or should I let Kaveh work his magic?"

Aventurine smirked, his fingers lightly tapping on the cards, but his gaze softened as he leaned back in his chair. "I think I'll leave the magic to Kaveh. I'm not much of a 'holiday drink' enthusiast, you know. I'd rather be the observer than the participant." He gave you a teasing wink, as though he were already plotting something else, something you might never know.

Kaveh grinned at the playful exchange. "You and your theatrics," he teased. "Go ahead, make yourself useful and put the fire poker in the hearth."

Aventurine, always the one to tease back, gave a theatrical sigh. "Fine, fine. But don’t expect me to get too involved in the food prep. I’ll leave that to the true artist."

You stood and moved toward the kitchen, feeling the warmth of the fire on your back as you went. You could hear Kaveh following you, his footsteps light, and a moment later, he was beside you, already rummaging through the cabinets with a quiet hum of excitement. "Aventurine likes to act aloof," Kaveh whispered with a smile, "but deep down, I think he’s really enjoying tonight."

You nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. Despite Aventurine’s detachment, you knew that he was here, present, and something about the atmosphere tonight made him more… approachable. Maybe it was the holiday magic, or maybe it was the simple fact that, for once, all of you had nothing to worry about. No high-stakes gambles. No impossible debts. Just the present moment, shared between the three of you.

"Here, I’ll handle the drink," Kaveh said, his hands already measuring out the ingredients, his focus absolute. "Why don’t you get the glasses ready?"

You smiled, moving to set the table as he worked. The space felt alive with the hum of quiet conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the soft laughter that echoed in the small room. Tonight, there was no scheming, no grand plans—just a peaceful Christmas with two people who, in their own ways, loved you more than words could ever express.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself sitting between Kaveh and Aventurine on the couch, the three of you sharing stories, warmth, and the joy that only a quiet night of true companionship could bring. For once, you weren’t just playing your part in the world—they were your world, and for tonight, that was enough.

Kaveh's eyes sparkled as he glanced at you, his voice soft but full of genuine affection. "I’m glad we’re here. Together, like this."

Aventurine leaned back, his hand brushing against yours in a rare, unspoken gesture of connection. "For once, I’m content to let fate take its course." His smile was subtle, but the meaning behind it was clear. For the first time, he didn’t feel the need to control everything.

And so, under the twinkling lights and the quiet serenity of Christmas, the three of you simply existed—no masks, no games—just love, laughter, and the beauty of being together.

[jamieedlund]

How to worship a god.

Bonus:

when your master has a distaste for love and you said it like a disease

Happy Valentine to those who are in love; whether it's romantic, platonic or just self-love, I hope you eat good and sleep well!💗

Oh extra saucy secret bonus because I have a bunch of ideas but no energy to do them all:

When you love a man but the inner machinations of his mine are an enigma. I think this is the perfect show case of despite their love being kind of different from one another, they sincerely care about each other (but in a more comedic light). Who knows maybe I'll actually render it one day cause it's a cute idea (ಥ _ ಥ)

[todayisafridaynight]

i remmeber seeing a post that was like kazumaji is a gay ship for straight people and minedai is a gay ship for gay people LMFAOAOOAOAO lowkey true

this feels true but i cant put a finger on it .....

[agarafile]

only one solution for the life series community /j

[bmpmp3]

REALLY adore this artist’s 30 something photographer/ part-time lifestyle influencer Haley she is WONDERFUL and i couldn’t resist drawing a bit of her (feat. my farmer)

[ugartecoco]

a common occurrence developing rn is me mumbling 'you dont have to gif this you dont have to post this' under my breath over and over while watching a ruben press conference