#marshmallow fluff to warm the soul 🥰

[angronsjewelbeetle]

Oh? What's this? A drabble?

Tagging @ms--lobotomy and @whorety-k <3

Saccharine

"You make me feel as though I'm seeing the world in colour for the first time," Ferrus says softly, warm firelight making his arms glitter, golden-bronze instead of silver. He gazes at the fire for a long moment, mirror-like eyes nearly glowing; he sighs deeply, relaxing into the chair, your body moves with his, sliding a little further into his lap by the rising of his knees. He wraps his arm around you, metal warm against you as he drapes it around your waist, the other resting on your thigh, a comforting weight as he strokes your leg.

Ferrus dips his head, pressing a gentle kiss to your brow, a fond smile on his lips making his cheeks dimple. "I am so lucky to have found you," he murmurs, and then, even quieter, like a raw secret, "I love you," he whispers into the top of your head, lips brushing barely enough for you to feel it. "Rest, my Quartz," he says as you lean into his chest, his hearts thudding comfortingly under your ear, torso warm against your cheek, "I'll be here when you wake,"

[dee-writes-anime]

Cute fluffy Dabi story alert!! Your gonna love it 🥰

Dabi with a female chubby civilian girlfriend who he’s all lovey-dovey for, but one day he told her about he’s a villain? (After he ran into Mr. Compress and Toga on his way home) but she laughed and told him that she knew all along and that she loves him. And then Dabi introduced her as his fiancé to the league, she also explained that her quirk is a healing based but the healing part comes from the food she makes (like Julieta from Encanto)

Just Good Enough For You

FEATURING Touya 'Dabi' Todoroki x Reader

SUMMARY No matter who you are, you are just good enough for me.

CONTENT WARNINGS fluff, LOV crack, Dabi (ifykykyk), mentions of villiany and murder and stuff :)

AUTHORS NOTE stopppp cause this was the cutest, most wholesome request everrrr!!! Thank you so much for sharing this lovely thought with me, I really hope you enjoy how I brought it to life! <3 P.S. I promise the Toge fic is coming, college is eating me alive RAHH

Dabi had never been the type to hesitate. He’d burned bridges, enemies, and even his own emotions without so much as a second thought. But tonight, standing just outside your shared apartment, his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets, he was hesitating.

He wasn’t sure how you’d take it.

A villain. A murderer. That’s who he was. And yet, somehow, you’d always looked at him like he was so much more. Like you saw past the charred skin and the cold eyes, straight into whatever piece of humanity he had left. And it scared the hell out of him.

He could still hear Mr. Compress’s voice ringing in his ears from earlier that day.

“So, when are you going to tell your girlfriend who you really are? She’s bound to figure it out sooner or later.”

Toga had chimed in too, her high-pitched giggles grating on his nerves. “Oh, I bet she’d love to see your flames up close! You should show her! I mean, doesn’t she already wonder where you go when you disappear for days?”

He’d brushed them off, made some snide comment about minding their own business, but the truth was, they’d struck a nerve. Deep down, Dabi knew it was only a matter of time before you found out, and he hated the thought of you hating him when that moment came.

With a sigh, he finally pushed open the door and stepped inside, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. The smell of something savory cooking wafted through the air, and despite his anxiety, he couldn’t help but smile faintly. You always seemed to know when he needed comfort. Food had a way of soothing him in ways words couldn’t, and you, with your quirk and your gentle soul, were the only person he’d ever trusted to get close enough to touch his heart.

“Hey, lover,” your voice called from the kitchen, light and warm, like always. “You’re home late. Hungry?”

He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he walked toward the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe as he watched you move around the stove. You were wearing that oversized sweater he loved, the one that made you look extra cozy and cute. He’d teased you about it once, calling you a “walking marshmallow,” but secretly, he adored how soft and chubby you looked in it.

“Babe?” you called out again, glancing over your shoulder. “Everything okay?”

His silence must’ve tipped you off because the smile you wore faltered slightly. Turning off the burner, you wiped your hands on a towel before crossing the room to him. The concern in your eyes only made the lump in his throat worse.

“Touya… what’s wrong?” you asked softly, your hands reaching out to grasp his scarred fingers.

He flinched slightly at the use of his real name. You always reserved that for the moments when you wanted to break down his walls. And damn it, if you weren’t good at it.

“I need to tell you something,” he finally muttered, his voice rougher than usual. His hand squeezed yours tighter, as though preparing himself for the worst. “Something you probably won’t like.”

The worry on your face deepened, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you stepped closer, your thumb brushing over his scarred knuckles in that soothing way you always did when he was tense. “Whatever it is, just tell me. You know I’m here for you.”

He swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise uncomfortably in his chest. Why was this so damn hard?

“I’m not who you think I am,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. His eyes dropped to the floor, unwilling to meet your gaze. “I mean, you know my real name, but you don’t know what I’ve done… who I’ve become.”

Your brows furrowed in confusion, and you tilted your head slightly, waiting for him to explain. He’d never been one for long-winded speeches, so he forced himself to just rip off the band-aid.

“I’m Dabi,” he said in a low voice. “The villain. You’ve seen me on the news, you know the stuff I’ve done. I’ve killed people. Burned them alive.” His jaw clenched, his entire body stiff with guilt and fear. “And if you’re smart, you’ll walk away. Right now.”

The silence that followed was deafening. He expected you to recoil in horror, to pull your hand away from his like his very touch would burn you. Maybe you’d cry, or worse—maybe you’d just look at him with that quiet disappointment that always cut deeper than any insult.

But you did none of those things.

Instead, you blinked, a slow smile spreading across your face like you’d just heard the punchline of a joke. “Touya, seriously? Is that what you’ve been so worked up about?”

He frowned, clearly thrown off by your reaction. “What?”

“Babe,” you said with a soft laugh, stepping even closer to him, “I already knew.”

Now it was his turn to blink in confusion. “You… knew?”

“Of course I knew.” You grinned, tapping his chest lightly. “I’m not stupid, you know. It wasn’t exactly hard to figure out. You smell like smoke, you disappear for days, and your scars… I put two and two together pretty quickly.”

His mouth opened, then closed, as he processed your words. “You… knew?” he repeated, dumbfounded.

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Yes, I knew, and I didn’t care. I still don’t care.” You cupped his face gently, your fingers brushing the rough, scarred skin that covered his jaw. “I fell in love with you, Touya. The man who comes home tired but still lets me cuddle him, the man who watches stupid shows with me even though he pretends he hates them, the man who makes me feel safe no matter what.”

Dabi was silent, his throat tight as your words washed over him. He had prepared himself for anger, rejection—hell, maybe even fear—but he hadn’t prepared himself for this. For you.

“How can you love someone like me?” he rasped, his voice cracking. “I’m a monster.”

You shook your head, your eyes softening. “No, you’re not. You’re just… hurt. And yeah, you’ve done bad things, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you.” Your lips curled into a small smile. “Besides, I’ve seen how you look at me. You’re not as cold as you think.”

He let out a shaky breath, leaning into your touch. For the first time in years, he felt something warm spread through his chest, something that wasn’t the familiar burn of rage or vengeance. It was something else. Something softer.

“God, you’re too good for me,” he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.

You grinned, tugging him closer until your foreheads were almost touching. “I'm just good enough for you, lover, and lucky for you, I’m sticking around either way.”

His lips twitched into a small, rare smile. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, burying his face in your hair. “You’re insane,” he whispered, his breath hot against your neck. “Completely insane.”

“And you’re stuck with me now,” you teased, your voice muffled by his chest.

For a long moment, you stood like that—holding each other in the quiet comfort of the small apartment. Dabi’s heart was still racing, but it wasn’t from fear anymore. It was from something else. Something that made him want to protect you even more fiercely than before.

“You know what?” he murmured after a long silence. “I think it’s time you meet the rest of the family.”

A few days had passed since Dabi’s revelation, and despite the whirlwind of emotions that had followed, things between you and him hadn’t really changed. You still made his favorite meals, still teased him when he sulked around the apartment, and he still pretended to hate your random affection while secretly basking in it. But there was something else now—a quiet understanding that ran deeper than it had before. You knew who he was, what he had done, and you loved him anyway. And he, in his own rough-edged way, was learning how to accept that love.

Still, there was one thing he hadn’t prepared for yet—introducing you to the League of Villains.

The thought had been gnawing at him ever since that night. You had joked about being stuck with him, and in a way, you were. But to be truly part of his world, you had to meet the people he spent his days (and often his nights) with—the people who lived in the same shadows he did.

So, that evening, as you finished plating dinner, Dabi casually dropped the bomb.

“By the way,” he said, leaning against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed, “you’re coming with me tomorrow.”

You glanced up from the dish you were preparing, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? Where are we going?”

“To meet the League.”

There was a moment of silence as you processed his words, and then you blinked, a slow smile spreading across your face. “The League? You mean, your League? The League of Villains?”

“Yeah, them,” he muttered, clearly not as thrilled about the prospect. His fingers drummed on the countertop, betraying his anxiety despite his nonchalant tone. “They’ve been pestering me about you for a while, so I figure it’s time they meet you.”

Your smile widened as you set the dish down, turning to face him fully. “You want to introduce me to your friends? Does this mean I’m officially your girlfriend or something?” you teased, though there was a hint of genuine excitement in your voice.

Dabi scoffed, rolling his eyes. “You’ve always been my girlfriend. This just makes it… official, I guess.” He scratched the back of his neck, his usual confidence wavering slightly. “But don’t get too excited. They’re not exactly what you’d call ‘nice.’”

You chuckled, stepping closer and wrapping your arms around his waist. “I think I can handle it,” you said softly, resting your chin on his chest as you looked up at him. “Besides, if they’re important to you, then I want to meet them.”

Dabi’s gaze softened, his hands instinctively finding their way to your hips. For a moment, he simply looked at you, his heart doing that annoying thing where it felt too big for his chest. “You’re too good for this world, you know that?”

You shrugged playfully, leaning up to kiss his jaw. “I’m just good enough for you.”

The next evening, Dabi led you through the dimly lit streets of the city, the familiar scent of smoke and charred wood lingering in the air around him. He didn’t say much as you walked, though his hand never left yours, his fingers intertwined with yours in a grip that was both possessive and protective.

As you neared the League’s hideout, an abandoned bar tucked away in a forgotten part of the city, he paused, turning to face you with a serious expression. “Last chance to back out,” he said, his voice low. “Once you meet them, there’s no going back. They’re… different.”

You squeezed his hand, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’m not scared, Touya. I want to do this.”

He nodded, his jaw tightening as he led you inside.

The bar was just as you expected—dark, dingy, and reeking of old alcohol and stale cigarettes. The wooden floor creaked under your feet as you followed Dabi through the narrow hallway that led to a back room. The faint sound of voices echoed from behind a door at the end of the hall, and Dabi paused once more, his hand gripping the doorknob.

“They’re gonna say some weird stuff,” he warned, his voice barely a whisper. “Don’t take it personally.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Weird how?”

“You’ll see.”

With that, he pushed open the door, and the first thing that hit you was the distinct atmosphere of chaos. The room was a cluttered mess of mismatched furniture, papers, and random objects strewn about haphazardly. Several figures were gathered around a large table in the center, and as the door creaked open, all eyes turned toward you.

Toga was the first to react, her eyes lighting up with unrestrained glee. “Oh my god, Dabi! You brought her!” she squealed, bouncing to her feet and rushing toward you with the energy of a hyperactive child. “She’s so cute! I can’t believe you didn’t tell us she was this cute!”

You barely had time to react before she threw her arms around you in a surprisingly tight hug. “I’m Toga!” she chirped, pulling back to examine you with wide, curious eyes. “I’ve been dying to meet you! Dabi talks about you all the time!”

“He does?” you asked, glancing at Dabi with a teasing smirk.

He scowled, crossing his arms. “Don’t listen to her.”

Before you could say anything else, a tall man in a mask stepped forward, his posture refined, yet his eyes glimmered with amusement. “Ah, so this is the famous girlfriend,” Mr. Compress said smoothly, giving you a polite bow. “I must admit, I was beginning to wonder if you were a myth.”

Dabi rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, she’s real. Get over it.”

Shigaraki, who had been sitting at the head of the table with his usual scowl, barely glanced up from the game console he was playing with. “Great. Another normie.” His voice was dismissive, though you could sense the underlying curiosity behind his disinterested exterior. “Hope you’re not too soft.”

“Trust me,” Dabi muttered, shooting Shigaraki a look, “she can handle herself.”

“Yeah,” you added, smiling sweetly. “I’m not as soft as I look.”

Toga clapped her hands excitedly, bouncing up and down beside you. “Oh, I like her! Can we keep her?”

“Relax, Toga,” Dabi grumbled, his hand finding its way to the small of your back as he subtly pulled you closer to his side. “She’s not a pet.”

Twice, who had been unusually quiet until now, suddenly burst into laughter. “A pet? That’s hilarious! But wait, no, I think she could be a pet! Or maybe a partner! Or maybe—”

“Twice, stop rambling,” Compress interjected with a chuckle. “You’re going to overwhelm the poor girl.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the chaotic scene unfolding around you. It was clear that Dabi’s ‘family’ was as strange and dysfunctional as he had warned, but there was also something oddly endearing about them. Despite their rough exteriors, they welcomed you with open arms—or at least, most of them did.

As the banter continued, you caught Shigaraki glancing at you from the corner of his eye, his fingers twitching slightly as if he was itching to say something. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

“So, what’s your deal?” he asked bluntly, his voice as rough as the skin peeling from his lips. “You got a quirk or something?”

Dabi stiffened slightly beside you, but you remained calm, meeting Shigaraki’s gaze evenly. “Yeah, I do,” you said, your voice steady. “I can heal people.”

Toga’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait, really? You can heal? That’s so cool! Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“It’s not as simple as it sounds,” you explained. “The healing comes from the food I make. It only works if someone eats something I’ve prepared.”

There was a brief moment of silence as everyone processed your words. Then, Twice broke the tension with a loud, exaggerated gasp. “She can cook?! Oh, we’re definitely keeping her!”

“Food that heals,” Compress mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “That’s quite an unusual quirk.”

Shigaraki, however, didn’t seem as impressed. “Great. A chef,” he muttered, turning his attention back to his game. “As long as you’re not a liability.”

You felt Dabi tense beside you, his jaw clenching, but before he could snap at Shigaraki, you placed a hand on his arm, giving him a gentle squeeze. “I’m not a liability,” you said firmly, looking directly at Shigaraki. “I’m here for Dabi, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Shigaraki didn’t respond, but there was a subtle shift in the air, a silent acknowledgment that you had passed some unspoken test. Dabi’s hand tightened around your waist, pulling you closer as if to silently thank you for standing your ground.

As the evening went on, the tension eased, and you found yourself surprisingly comfortable in the midst of the League’s chaos. Toga was glued to your side, bombarding you with questions about your quirk and your relationship with Dabi. Twice kept bouncing between joking and making bizarre plans for your future involvement with the League, while Compress continued to make polite conversation, ever the gentleman.

Shigaraki, for the most part, remained focused on his game, though you caught him watching you occasionally, as if trying to figure out where you fit into their world.

And Dabi—well, he was quiet, but there was a certain calmness to him that you hadn’t seen before. He stayed close, his arm resting around your waist or his hand brushing against yours, as if grounding himself in your presence.

By the time you left the hideout, the moon high in the sky, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself. You had survived your first meeting with the League of Villains, and despite their quirks—both literal and figurative—you could see why Dabi had chosen them as his found family.

As you walked home hand in hand with Dabi, the cool night air wrapping around you like a comforting blanket, he finally broke the silence.

“So… what do you think?”

You glanced up at him, your lips curling into a soft smile. “I think they’re… different,” you said with a chuckle. “But they’re important to you, so they’re important to me.”

Dabi’s expression softened, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “You really are too good for this world.”

You shook your head, leaning into him as you continued walking. “No, I’m just good enough for you.”

For the first time in a long time, Dabi smiled—really smiled.

And in that moment, you knew that no matter what the future held, as long as you had each other, you could face anything.

[summerrainwinterbreeze]

A Boyfriend for Christmas

Pairings⇝ Hueningkai x fem!reader

Genres⇝ Fluff, Crack, Smut

Warnings⇝ vaginal penetration, mild edging, drunken encounter, oral sex (both ways), profanity, fingering, sex with a stranger, I was angry while writing the sex scene, kai has a big dick.

Synopsis⇝ This Christmas season kicks off with a wishing well. Shall we see where it takes us?

Word count⇝ 7.7k

Credits⇝ @its-madi for being the editor of the year!! mwah! thank you🥰

A/N⇝ This is the first entry to the christmas series I'm working on. ('m sorry. 'm always sorry when I write a kai fic cuz I play with it a lot) hoping to get at least one more in before the end of the month, though two would be great. what I'm trying to say is that this series will most likely wrap up sometime in January😄

In your humble opinion: Christmas is severely overrated. And standing before the massive, glass sliding doors of the area��s nearest shopping mall, “Groovers,” you are once again reminded of your reasons for believing so.

There’s so much red and green and silver and gold, twirling blinking shadows across heaps of bleak, sodden snow. You look up to find the colors twisted, turned, molding to form the silhouette of reindeers with wreaths of holly berry and white-crusted evergreens strung about their necks. And their red, glistening noses flickering every other moment.

Sludge and sleet squelch beneath your heavy boots; wrapped like a marshmallow, you take a careful step forward, then one back.

Against the warm cups between your firmly clasped palms, you drum your fingers, a puff of white forming before you as a heavy sigh of disdain captures your lips.

It’s a gut-wrenching, feet-dragging, soul-hauling struggle to pull yourself from the street’s damp chill and into the blazing warmth rolling in waves about the building’s interior. You regret it the instant a child screams distantly, “...and a panda bear! Oh! And Santa! There was a pretty dress over down the aisle and I and she and…” lost is the nasal whine to the blaring buzz of Christmas carols.

You debate leaving right then and there. Damn Hannah — your closest friend and worst nightmare — and her stupid choices. Damn it all!

Ding “Attention all customers, Santa’s Station is closing in the next half hour. Santa’s Station is closing in the next half hour.”

Whatever they call her: an elf, a store assistant, clerk. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. Already busy with placing your coffee-filled drinks on the nearest countertop, pulling layer after layer of heavy cloth off of your body.

When the energy-draining task is done, you remain solely in an off-white turtleneck, paired with thick dark pants. A grumble has you turning to scrape your boots on the rugged surface of a dirt-baked “Welcome Mat.”

Finding Hannah is much harder than you anticipated it would be this morning when she called you. “I’m at the Christmas Wishing Well!” she had smiled into the phone, voice of brisk peppermint and dangling snowflakes, kissed by sweet, sweet crackling hearths. “You can’t miss it!”

Hannah seemed to have forgotten that you have zero sense of direction. And, in the face of a six-storey maze of a mall, every department filled by the same bitter cheer, strung in the same decorations? You were positively ho-ho-hopeless.

A mental spark has your fingers fishing into your pockets, catching and pulling on your phone’s smooth surface. It’s not long after you punch her contact that Hannah picks up. “Y/N? Are you here?”

You douse her hearth in sleet. “I’m at the front entrance. Find me.”

It takes a minute for her to respond, voice droning something about “Season’s Greetings!” to some customer, busying herself in a new conversation.

It is when you debate screaming that she returns to you. “Sorry, it’s really busy around here —” Once again, she gets cut off. “Yes, sir… Oh, it’s over there. I wish you the best as well!”

“Worthless,” you think. As soon as February rolls around, people will forget what kindness is.

“Y/N?” she calls for your attention, “why not ask one of the elves to help you up?” You feel the smile in her voice, her eyes shining like stars of the night. Those cheeky stars glinting with mischief.

You deadpan. “I’d cut off their goddamn pointed ears.”

A soft snicker filters down the line. Hannah says, “Take the escalator to the second floor. I’m in the very last department.”

Your response comes as a soft grunt, and before Hannah can tease, you press on the glowing end-call button.

In reality, nearing Hannah’s station didn’t take five minutes. Since you were so w-ho-ho-wholly thrown to the luscious, looming lilt of the Christmas spirit, however, five minutes equated to five hours.

They have always fascinated you — Hannah’s eyes, a blazing, frosted azure, shimmering as they shift to you. Her smile is impish, a hand waving about the air carelessly. “Over here!” she indicates.

There’s no room for debate when the fiery red-head rushes to you, taking a cup from your clammy fingers, replacing it with her bruising hold.

“Welcome to my Christmas Wishing Well!” her ritual begins. “Just toss in a coin, make a wish, and let the happy holiday fairies grant your desires!”

You say, “Are you gonna use the cash to get lunch?”

Hannah, for a moment, looks disappointed. “The cash goes toward buying presents for the needy.” Her scold melts to concern. “It’s already eight, Y/N. Have you eaten?”

She’s always been the one to remind you of the basic things: to eat, to sleep, to drink.

“I’m not a child; I can handle myself.” Hannah looks as though she would intervene but instead shakes her soft, doe-like features back to a pleasant — albeit sad — smile.

Running a quick assessment over her little setup — little undermines the effort put into it all. Twin trees decorated extravagantly from top to bottom sit parallel to one another across the redwood platform she constructed. A single, plush seat lays at its center. And before it, a crafted well built of bricks of cardboard, glitter, and paper. Within you count hundreds of shining coins of glitter, copper, silver… — you find it hard not to gape.

Hannah looks to you with eyes of hope. “Thoughts?”

“How much do I have to give?”

Light dances over those frozen, blue lakes. “As much as you’d like.”

Once again fishing through your pockets, you pull out your pouch — a small thing it is: a flat, black circle with a smaller silver ring attached at its side. You hook your finger through, emptying a few gold coins into your palm, already bending over to drop them into the makeshift wishing well.

Hannah stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “You’re supposed to make a wish,” she says, fire hair melting frosted eyes, the warmth sinking into your skin. You shake it off.

“I’m too old for making stupid wishes. Leave them for children.” Earlier in your connection, you would have feared the rasp and bite reigning your voice would throw Hannah off — push her away, even — but you’ve learnt time and time again that Hannah was not and could not be easily shaken. The woman was determined to a fault, especially in matters that pertained to you.

The woman in question says, “Always the grumpy Mc Grinchy pants. C’mon sour puss, make a wish.”

You pull woolen sleeves over your knuckles — sweater paws — and play absently with your fingers. “There is nothing that I want.”

Hannah furrows her brows, then they shoot apart. “Remember Lindsey?”

Ah, Lindsey. You were surprised to find that she wasn’t here right now — Hannah’s significant other, who she was always connected hip to hip, lip to lip. You’d admit that the pair are cute together, despite the constant sweet talk and tender embraces at the most inappropriate of times. Maybe, just maybe, you admired their connection. Lindsey and yourself were close, sure. You and Hannah, even closer, but maybe the sugary intimacy they share is something you were a tad bit envious of.

“What about her?”

“You could wish for something like that. Lord knows how long it’s been since you’ve had a bit of … fun.”

“Then tell me, Ed Sheeran, what are you suggesting?”

“I’m just saying,” she pauses. “That it’s about time that you, y’know, got out more.”

“I’m out now.”

A drawn-out sigh of frustration is pulled past Hannah’s lips, your adamancy wearing her thin. “Stop that. Enough playing dumb.”

You part your lips to protest, stopping only when she continues. “It’s been years, Y/N. Relationships don’t have to be serious, not all the time. There’s nothing wrong with a Christmas fling.”

“I didn’t ask for a lecture. And I’m not looking for love.”

“I’m just saying that if you stopped holding yourself back, you’d be better off. Think of all the fun you could have. No feelings attached.” Looking you over, pausing at your stone expression, she deducts, “Not that you’d have a problem with that.”

There is no bite to your eye roll, no venom in your scoff. “Would you leave me be if I did it?”

Love is what fuels her slow nod, eyes wide in astonishment, chest puffed, rising and falling delicately. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Feigning a dip to fix your belt, you cover an accidental smile — small but present. It alone would drive Hannah to a frenzy of mocks and teases which you were not in the mood for.

You lift yourself carefully, staring down into the little well of fate.

This is ridiculous. Christmas is only a week away, the possibility of meeting someone new is already a small one. How could anyone hope to even get to know someone within the time frame? And to think that they’d be simple-minded enough to trust them? To let that person into their home? No, no, that would —

“Y/N,” Hannah calls. “Just drop the coin.”

You size up the pool of gold. What if –

“Drop it,” she repeats. Perhaps your face of steel is enough to dupe Hannah. Perhaps she simply chooses to ignore it.

You listen anyway. And as the coin winks at you with its glaring golden glow, your stomach roils.

***

“And as temperatures reach their lowest in decades, citizens are reminded to bundle up and settle down for this white, white Christmas.” The face swimming upon a sea of neon blue is that of a woman.

Jamie — as her news associates call her — tucks a strand of her long, bronze tresses behind a jewelled ear, the dangling pearls dragging along her pale neck. Her lips twitch as she says, “Passing to you, John.”

John isn’t nearly as attractive. An old man of about a half-century who coughs before every sentence. “Yes, Jamie,” he says. “Tonight’s blizzard took even experts by surprise, and now as they struggle to gain some semblance of control over this matter, we are all advised to — ”

You outstretch a hand, fingers fumbling for the half-empty decanter sitting on your coffee table, pulling it, along with a glass from the crystal-cut set, into your lap.

You pour yourself a knuckle-full, swirling blue light into its amber glow, sighing blearily at the flickering television screen.

Truly, there was no reason to drink — nothing aside from the ticking scramble of worries scurrying about your mind, troubling your every waking moment. But control over the number of times that you lifted the glass to your lips was a sort of composure you had lost three glasses ago.

“Jamie!” you yell at the familiar face upon the screen. “You’re back on,” you hum, inebriated, smiling and swaying to her static crackling voice.

“Once again, we remind citizens to lock their doors and — ”

You cut her off with a fiendish laugh and slur. “Doors? Who would be at the door? It’s — ” you pause, squinting down at the glowing green numbers flashing on the square, black-thingy that’s too far away to read, but the floor is getting closer, and it looks really —

“Fuck!” you yelp, cold tiles connecting with your bared arm, hairs already raising like the fur of a bloodhound.

You blink rapidly, blood rushing to your churning stomach, head hot and shapes increasingly difficult to decipher.

There’s a knock at the door, and you pause before detonating the prior silence with fits of uproarious laughter.

“Get it, Jamie?” you ask the now dark screen. “Cause, y’know, just a minute ago, you said to lock the doors, and now there’s someone there!” You slap your thigh, hissing through your teeth as another wave of giggles recoils, preparing to unleash its riotous bouts upon your shaking husk of a frame.

When the thunderous knocks fail to cease, you do. “There’s someone at my door.” If anyone were to sight the ungoverned grin rending the creases of your lips, they would think you mad. Again, you say, “There’s someone at my door!”

It is the work of some cursed, jolly wind that gets you to the front door. And it wraps your fingers around the frosty metal handle, slowly cracking it open.

“I’m not into carolers, so if you’re gonna yap all night long about all that snowman shit, then you can leave.” Pointing into the brisk night, your arm droops, body going slack against your doorframe.

In a rushed murmur of rage, you continue, “So you should just take your tall, big, fluffy … oh,” you pause, grappling for the stranger’s head, you yank on their hair. “Your hair is like Jamie’s.” You give a drunken smile. “Only prettier; a lot prettier and darker and ooouuu!” Combing your fingers across its scalp, you sweep the soft velvety strands away from the stranger’s forehead. A sharp tug has it — him — yelping, a husky, rich sound.

At last, you look at it — him. And then look at him some more … and more. So much … person.

The colossal man shrinks beneath the cold, cheeks red and frostbitten. “You’re big,” you say, voice certain, ignoring his pale lips as they separate, dry and chapped. You run a finger over them and upwards, straying at the sharp jut of a nose. “That’s nice.” Again, you find his hair. Someone poured hot chocolate over it. There’s no other way. “So brown and fluffy and softy soft,” you giggle, tugging a strand, laying it flat against his snow-white neck, sloppily beaming at his shiver. “You’re pretty,” you sigh. “And handsome … And cute.” The stranger-man shuffles from foot to foot, bulky jacket swaying, boots crunching.

It hits you at that moment as a slosh of unprocessed alcohol and gastric juice. “You’re the boyfriend, right!?”

Your hand cups his cheeks. He’s weary but unmoving as he asks, “The what?” Ah,our boyfriend has such a glorious voice. The angels must be singing. “The boyfriend. The mall boyfriend. My boyfriend. Remember? I wished for you, and now you’re here!” you clarify proudly. This should be obvious. Was the cold getting to him? “Come inside, mall boyfriend.”

You snicker, amused by your accidental creativity. “Come inside, heh, heh. Would you like to come inside of my … house?” Mall boyfriend hesitates, cheeks no longer blushing rogue but bursting crimson. “You’re drunk.” He speaks more to himself.

“I’m perfectly sober.” As if to prove the falsity, you straighten, falling seconds later into the heat of his chest. “You’re so strong, Mall boyfriend,” you mutter into his warmth, chin worming to the slight dip of his sternum. Mall boyfriend smells like gingerbread.

“How much have you been drinking?” Mall boyfriend grabs your shoulders — assertive, but not harmful. Rushed but not pushy. Heh heh, doctor Seuss — “Inside,” he says. “I’ll get you something to sober you up.” He glances behind you, to the warm golden glow of your apartment lights. “And call me Kai.”

“Kai,” you sing. “Kai.”

Kai is slow to enter, peering about the basic — practically empty — living space interior. “Not into snowmen or carolers? Not even decorations?” He tries to joke, shrugging off the heavy fleece winter jacket. “This is the part where —- if you were … well, in your right state of mind — you ask me what I’m doing here? Call the police?”

Kai’s posture is similar to a keeper taming a wild beast, one that would pounce and bite at any moment. He rocks between his heel and toes, eyes darting to the shut door every other moment, hands eternally raised to his torso with downturned palms.

You cock your head. He flinches.

“I’m sorry, miss, but what may I call you?”

“Y/N,” you say.

Kai seems pleased with that. “At least you remember your name.” His shoulders slowly slacken. “Good. That’s good.” A hand meeting his nape, his lips curl at the edges, the right side dragged up his cheek in a pretty side smile. “Have you eaten, Y/N?”

Ah, food …

You feel like a child beneath his expectant stare, tugging sweater paws with lost fingers, slowly slogging through your sludged brain.

“That’s a no, then,” he concludes. And it’s amazing how easily he slips behind your countertop and into the role of the chef, completely comfortable in a kitchen so foreign to him. “We’ll need to get some water into you. It’ll flush out all the alcohol.” At your cringe, he pushes. “Unless, of course, you want a couple shots of pickle juice.” Silence meets his offer, and with a gummy smile, he chirps, “That’s what I thought.”

A heartbeat passes before Kai fumbles awkwardly. “Thank you for letting me in. Any longer, and I would have frozen completely. It was a crazy risk; coming here but being in the same room as a drunken who's going to forget my entire existence tomorrow morning is a lot better than taking my chances out on the streets.”

Does Kai breathe?

“Snowstorms these days are getting more unpredictable, huh? It wasn’t that bad when I left the airport, but it hit my driver and me about halfway to my sister’s house. He dropped me off on the streets and told me that no cash would move his vehicle further. And that’s how I ended up walking through the snow for an hour. Funny, Huh?

He laughs. You don’t.

Instead, you ask, “You have a sister?”

“Two, actually.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, we were all going to meet up for Christmas. I’ve been busy, so this is — was — supposed to be a short vacation celebration. For all of us. As you can see, though,” he waves unceremoniously at his surroundings. “Things didn’t exactly go as planned.”

A heartbeat passes before he asks, “Egg and bacon sandwich sounds good?”

You’re clueless to the facial expression that you make, but he reacts to it all funny and cute with a little nose scrunch and shy smile. “It’s the only thing I know how to cook,” he says.

Kai’s shuffling through the cabinets and fridge before you can stop him, a smooth current of heat from the cooktop fanning your forearms. It’s nice. You rest them closer.

“Drink this.” He pushes a glass of water to your seamed lips, pressing stubbornly when you pout.

“Don’t wanna,” you say, arms crossed.

He flusters at the stubborn response, pausing for a moment to consider, red rising rapidly to colour his neck, the tips of his ears. “Please.” It comes as more of a question than a demand. Kai’s voice cracks on the last syllable, eyes refusing to meet your own. “Don’t fuss,” he begs, and the sheer hopelessness encircling his tone is what gets you to unfasten the tightness holding your lips.

The first swallow washes away the sandalwood stuffing your throat and Kai smiles at the soft sigh you give but opts to cut a slice of butter into the already heated frying pan. It sizzles upon contact, coating your tongue with its creamed savoury scent. He brings a spoon down on the shell of an egg next, splitting fractured caramel encasings, gooey whites and yolk spilling into the pan with a mob of raging pops and crackles. He repeats this with another.

“Hey, Kai?”

“Yes?”

“Why are whites called whites when they’re clear?”

“Look,” Kai motions to the pan between you, more specifically, to the egg inside, yellow yolk bobbing in a sea of dipping, clear — can they be called whites when they’re clear? Clear thingygies sounds more appropriate — thingygies, the rim of which, steadily being invaded by an army of white, occasionally giving a lazy spit and bubble, propelling itself closer.

You slap a hand around Kai’s bicep. “Oh! That makes sense!”

At your touch, Kai jerks, tongue grappling shock-scattered words. “The what? Oh, no.” He sighs deeply, pulling your now empty glass from your loose fingers, placing it beneath the silver faucet before flipping the tap. “You need more water.”

You stick out your tongue. Kai returns the favour, a quiet gasp escaping as water flows over the cup’s lip, trickling over his fingers.

“Kai,” you whisper again. The pale-skinned boy hums, gentle in the way that he passes you the drink. “You’re my boyfriend, right?”

He gulps, suddenly finding the task at hand to be of greater interest. Muttering a quick curse, he clumsily scavenges the draws dug into the island sides, pulling the knobs with a bit more force than necessary. “The eggs are burning,” he says between each swish and slam.

“But,” your voice lowers. “They said at the mall that if I make a wish, it’ll come true, and I wished for you, and here you are. So you’re the boyfriend,” you repeat. “The mall boyfriend.”

Kai swallows thickly, enough that you trace the bob of his Adam’s apple, his lungs as they rise and fall. No sound leaves his throat, but a light exhale.

In your pursuit, you’re persistent. “Do you have a mall girlfriend, Kai?”

He finds the tongue to manage a brief response. “Drink more water.”

“I’ve had enough water.” As though for emphasis, a tear of it drips down the corner of your lip, kisses your chin.

He busies himself with your sandwich, stuffing slightly charred eggs onto a pale expanse of fluffy bread, a slice of cheese placed neatly on top of it next. With minimal consciousness, Kai slaps a few slices of bacon into the previously used pan, the edges already spewing foamed oil, adopting a brown pigment.

You stare him down unabashedly. The boy within the man’s body squirms. “No,” he blurts, fingers gripping your little silicone spatula. He doesn’t know his own strength, and it becomes clear when he flips a slice with too much power, droplets of liquid fat landing on your naked arms.

Kai repeats, “I don’t have a … mall girlfriend.” A pause. The otherwise silent space sullied with sounds of crack, crack, crackling. “I don’t have any girlfriend.”

He turns off the stove, bacon shuffled to complete the messy dinner. He prepared it by himself. For you.

You smile. A fragile little thing. “Am I just … that terrible.” The liquid courage that once soared through your veins now is none but fragments of shattered ice.

“You’re a stranger.” It surprises you when he chokes a little on the words, shaking his head as though trying to restore some truth.

“Everyone starts off as a stranger to someone else. Even friends. The way that they are promoted from stranger to friend, lover, enemy is just that: a way, a path, a road. That road may be unusual, but it leads to something. At least, if it’s given the chance to.”

Kai places the sandwich on a plate, fiddling with its border before he hands it to you. You fit in two generous bites — neither of which would receive a 5-star-rating, but it’s the thought that flavours it. That turns ash to ground pepper, unevenly melted cheese to a uniformed, stringy stretch — before he speaks, “That’s true.”

Again, you ask, “Am I that terrible?”

Kai’s lips open and shut in answer and hesitation. Before he proceeds, you warn over a mouthful, crumbs falling from your moving lips. He follows each one, eyes filled with not disgust but a shy sort of worry.

I want you to eat and be well, they say. The affection in them takes you aback.

“Yes or no, Kai.”

Fringe curtains shut eyelids. “Please, tell me you’re not drunk.”

The tender concern of those warbled words is what muzzles the feral offence within you. And with careful calm, you say, “I’m not drunk.”

Kai loses a breath and says, “Then no. You’re not terrible. Alcohol or no.”

A large bite has your dinner — lunch — finished, and you scrub the crumbs off of your palms. You flash him a toothy grin, asking with a giggle, “Kai?”

There’s more certainty in his, “Yes?”

You push out of your seat, employing a nonchalant stroll as you make your way to the other side of the island, drifting your fingers across its silken-smooth surface. Kai does his best — not flinching or failing a step as you near.

Your fingers tangle in the thick, woollen sweater he’s dawned, sporadically stroking the length of a knot stitch. You peer up at him through lowered lashes, feeling through your palms the very hitch of his breath, the jerk of rushing air spilling through after you smooth it into settling.

“Touch me,” you say.

He freezes. And his hands slowly come to cup your own, pulling them gingerly away. “I think you should rest.”

You baulk at the suggestion, stuttering on your words as you speak them. “I’m fine.”

“I still think you should rest.” You ponder the benefits of throwing a tantrum but the pacifying soothe of Kai’s voice, the steady gaze he levels you as he says, “Let’s just sleep for tonight.” gets you to breathe quietly, and settle in his arms.

The next thing you know, he’s slinking over to the couch, returning with throw pillows he rearranges swaddling you, and his smile — his small sweet smile — looking over you as he bunches a comforter around you for the cold.

***

The touch of cold to your chapped lips sends you recoiling and the sole thing that holds your scream is a familiar frantic hushing. “Just me,” it chants. “Just me.”

Your eyes snap open to find Kai balancing in one hand, a glass of water and the other, a capful of what you hope is Advil.

Your head pounds its agreement, a heavy, pulsing ache pressing firmly at its sides. An egg — that’s what you feel like, a stupid egg being crushed between merciless palms.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” Kai rambles, stumbling and pulling back clumsily the hand he tries to scratch behind his neck. “I thought you were awake cause you were talking a minute ago and—”

“Stop,” Your voice, a little shaky but stern, halts him mid-rant. “I talked?”

“Yeah.” A gulp bobs his throat. “You were going on about wishing wells and news associates, and eggs and,” he hesitates, “blue balls, and stuff.”

You regret your groan the instant it leaves you, only intensifying the dull ache. Half-heartedly, you outstretch a palm. “Gimmie.” You don’t bother looking at him, already known to you is the small pout of concern at his lips. The moment he passes you the pills, you place them against your tongue, a few gulps of water washing the taste before it settles. “Thank you,” you sag into your seat.

Kai gives a responding nod. “I– Are you feeling better?”

You’re deep in the throws of the night’s flashbacks when his question hits, and groggily, you say, “I am. Thank you. Again. You were a big help last night.” With your eyes scanning the kitchen space, the living area, you speak between thoughts, “Where did you, uh, sleep, last night?”

“The couch,” is Kai’s strong reply.

Your voice is whisper-soft and coupled with a slow hum. “Last night,” you nearly back out of the statement, “We didn’t. You didn’t want to–”

“I didn’t want to take advantage of you.”

A smile clashes with your scoff. “Not alotta guys follow through on that one.” With palms coming to cup your chin, your eyes pull to his. “But the offer is still on the table. No offence taken if you refuse.”

“Sure you’re not gonna puke mid-way?” At Kai’s jest, you show your middle finger. “Alright, alright,” he says but you both see and feel the positive shift in his demeanour. How he seems to loosen and relax.

“It’s yes or no, Kai.”

You’re pleased that he doesn’t tighten. “Then yes,” he says. “I’m willing if you are.”

A step forward and Kai is in front of you, now leeched of the gall to make a move.

Shaky breath fans your lips as Kai quietly composes himself, hands falling stiffly to your waist, nose brushing against yours. “I want this,” his whispered reassurance, directed towards himself. And he leans in with all the confidence of a teenage boy.

The first press of his lips to yours is an awkward little thing �� no more than a velvety peck sliding against your softened lips, lingering with a pressure that mimics a butterfly’s meagre legs. And then, his star-filled eyes are darting about your face, lump, a blockage at his throat whenever he skates over your still-puckered lips.

You fail at stifling a chuckle. “We could do more than that if you’re okay with it,” you press, teething your lips to prevent another inappropriate chuckle lest you embarrass him further.

You decide to lean in this time, tilting your head to avoid any awkward bumps or collisions. “Relax,” you breathe, lips brushing against his, catching a glimpse of his lids as they flutter shut. A large sigh has his body going flaccid, hair shaking in a quick nod.

Kai gasps — a soft, shy sound of pleasure — the instant your lips seal with his and as you press further into him, hips settling against him, your hands locate his hair, digging to his roots and giving them a gentle tug as you do to his lips.

A breathy laugh has you meeting him again, with more intention than before. “Touch me,” you moan the words with hungry impatience.

Happy to please, he squeezes your sides — a trail of brazen, a rush of confidence, has his hands slipping over the base of your spine, grunting his arousal into your parted lips.

The ever-growing bulge pressing against your waist has you shuddering a breath of approval. “That’s it, keep going.”

Kai’s hands travel the curve of your ass, clutching and spreading you apart. Your whispered encouragement has him fondling with more enthusiasm, parting your thighs with his own. The rough material of his jeans grinding against the pulsing bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs pushes a groan past your lips, pulling away from Kai’s to drop your head to the crook of his neck.

You moan, “Let me.” Another drag of Kai’s leg has you pushing away completely, trembling from the blizzard of arousal he churns deep within you. You repeat, “Let me. You’ve taken care of me enough for tonight, Kai.” You rub your palm against his cheek. “My turn.”

You push his back against the island — far away enough from the currently cooling cooktop — and his fingers roughly grip the edges. Pleasure leaks into his quaking voice as he says, “Go ahead.”

With your hand drifting down his neck, chest, and stomach, you gently lower yourself to your knees. “Mhm.” You smile. “You’re so hard.” Kai, to your enjoyment, shivers when your hand cups his aching bulge. “Tell me,” You grind your palm against him, heavy pets leaving his cheeks dusted in fine pink and swollen lips being gnawed vulgarly between his teeth, “Am I the cause of this?” Kai tries to speak, but all he manages is a deep whine.

“Naww, baby,” you mock, tracing the strained length through his jeans. “I haven’t even touched you yet.” You laugh at his curse, giving him a few more lazy strokes.

Kai whimpers, “Don’t be cruel. Please. No teasing.”

Stifling a chuckle at his knuckle-snapping grip is not an option, and teasingly you slur, “Yessir.”

Before he can speak — mutter miserably — you’re unbuckling Kai’s belt, tossing it aside. “Oh, did you hear that?” You twiddle the zipper; Kai’s focus is a laser beam. “Jingle bells. Jingle bells, Jingle bells, Jingle all the —”

Kai cuts in, “Sure you’re sober?”

You pull him out of his jeans. He shuts up. You sing, “On the something day of Christmas, a wishing well gave to me: Seven twitching inches, boyfriend flushed and panting, and fat, pretty, blushing pink tip.”

Kai doesn’t get the chance to groan, not before you place a tender kiss atop his tip, drawing a slow lick against his precum-soaked slit. “Sucks,” you pout, eyes wide and sulkily peering up at him, “Was hoping you’d taste like Christmas.”

Kai looks like he’s about to throw hands. That is, until your lips wrap completely around his tip, sucking his slick, bitter, pre-spend into your awaiting mouth. You slip off of him a moment later, letting your lips catch — lap up — every dribble he leaks for you. “Y’know, you’re cute when you’re trying not to moan.” You pump a fist from his base to his head. Kai is too slow to catch his groan, a thick, husky thing, roughly milking slick from your already-throbbing centre.

Shakily, you say, “Don’t tell me this is too much for you. After all,” you lightly glide your nails against the skin of his shaft, fixed on the task with purposeful indifference, “You’re the one that asked me to hurry up, aren’t you?”

Kai’s hips falter. He barely murmurs a broken, “F-fuck.” You pity him then. Careful to keep your nails away as you grip his sex, guiding his cockhead to your puckered lips. Smearing about his pre-cum just before slipping him into your mouth, your pace is agonizingly slow as you fit in about half of his length.

The motion was a kick to the lungs, it seems. Kai buckles forward, a loud yelp tearing through him, body hunched over yours. You pay no mind and enclose the rest of his quivering shaft — well, try to but barely manage to wrap your fingers around him fully — with delicate fingers.

“You’re cute like this.” You pop off his length for long enough to praise Kai’s vibrating body. “Who would’ve thought that the giant could so easily crumble.” You grip him sharply. He releases a cry.

With every pump, every pleasure-stained wail, you suck Kai in deeper, tongue teasing the vein bulging at his underside, bobbing playfully up and down his increasingly hardening length.

A muttered, “Dammit,” tells you that he’s close, and you jerk when Kai’s fingers fist your hair, pulling you away wholly, angling you to meet his lust-soaked gaze. “Please,” is all he has to say for you to nod. And before you can register, he sheaths himself into your mouth, sloppily guiding himself in and out at a bruising speed.

Tears prick at your waterline as you gag over his thick girth, mushroom of a tip pressing uncomfortably at the back of your throat with each forward thrust.

You’re certain that your arousal is dripping past your underwear as drool slickly soaks your lips, falling freely to drench Kai as he uses you.

“A-ah, shit!” Kai makes no attempt to smother his moans, hips stalling, cock twitching fiercely inside of you. A few more rabid strokes has him howling his release, shooting a load down the back of your throat, fist tightening at your hair when you struggle, spit and cum spilling over your lips and chin.

Collecting it all on your fingers, you suck for him to see, already disposing of your stuffy pyjama-bottoms, left only in a top that breezes just above your hips. Leaning back on your shoulders, you unabashedly part your legs, pressing the same digits against your slit-soaked panties, stretching a string of fluid.

Looking at Kai, you digest the rough hitch and release of his lungs, the way that each jagged inhale and exhale sways him.

You grind against your fingers with a low groan. “C’mon, Kai, fuck me.”

Kai’s ability to compose himself comes as a surprise to you. He says, “We need to get you ready first.”

You part your legs wider with a grimace as if to prove a point. “No need to prepare. I’m already fucking soaked.”

Kai’s cock jumps to stress his own point.

It’s with a great, soul-shattering sigh that you stand, tearing off your panties like a fit-throwing two-year-old and slumping your body against the island where Kai was previously situated. “Hurry the fuck up.”

The utter demand of your voice sends feet clumsily shuffling behind you. And to your chagrin, you’re coaxed into a guttural moan when one of Kai’s digits locate your clitoral hood, pulling it back to expose to his circling finger your reddened, needy clit.

You thrust yourself against his hand; long gone are any available shits, any fucks. “No teasing-ahh!” A taunting finger slithering along your drenched slit knocks the air out of your lungs.

“Shit, no, fuck, Kai!” Two digits slide along the inner side of your vulva, pressing shut your puffy labia, rubbing the two together, the slick slide sending tremor after tremor coursing through you.

You were close the minute he held your hair, the minute he forced your lips along his length, and there’s this deep, knowing dread — this excitement — encircling you. You’re not going to last long.

He appears infatuated with the motion for some time, completely lost to the slow, silky strokes. Kai collects oozing arousal on his fingertips, dragging them up to your clit, encircling your sensitive, beating bundle a few times before drawing back down. He repeats until you’re squirming — writhing in utter abandon.

“Fuck me,” you beg, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” Before you shred him to pieces, Kai eddies a long, slender finger around your fluttering entrance, dipping in ever so slightly, resurfacing seconds later and repeating the motion.

“It’s going to slip right in,” he moans. “You’re so wet.”

A sharp backwards jab of your hips buries his finger deep within your spasming walls, and your yelp fades into an abyssal groan of satisfaction. His finger isn’t enough to stretch you but the sheer ecstasy of a single-digit — the sheer heat that melts off your spine, like honey running along our insides, pushing past your softened, swollen folds, dousing your clit in heated slick — have your fingers biting into your palms, mouth hung open as whines breakthrough you in cries of primal bliss.

Kai flattens a palm against your hip, adjusting his finger for better control, taking up a slow pulsating in-and-out rhythm.

“Just put it in. Please. I can take it. Just fuck me.” Tears stream down your cheeks, droplets gathering on the warmed tiles you smack your cheek upon.

Kai says, “My fingers are pretty skinny.” He dips another one in, and you groan at the fill, the drag of them against your melted walls, your own need latching onto them, sucking them deeper and deeper within your growing heat. “You fit two perfectly, but my cock is worth at least three.” Kai tries to insert a third finger, but despite your oozing slick, your throbbing core, he barely fits it in knuckle-deep before you groan at the stretch, the burn. “See? We need to stretch you out more if you even want to take the tip.”

The thought has you spiralling. You snarl, “Just do it. I know my fucking body.” You do. And you know very well that with Kai’s length and girth, his bulbous head, the base that was just a bit wider than the rest of him, you’d be lucky if you could fit at least 5 inches of him.

Kai extracts his finger, and immediately you release a growl of frustration. “We need a condom,” he says.

Still, you grumble, bringing your ever-reliable pal, Ms Index Finger, between your trembling legs. Rubbing tight circles against your rapidly palpating clit, the muscles at your abdomen constrict with an oncoming release. You force your lips against your arm as drool trickles past.

Your breath hitches, pace doubling, fingers an aching blur against you. “Yes,” you pant. “Yes, yes, yes, yess — No! Kai! What the hell!” you scream, slickened fingers in Kai’s grasp, body twitching with the sudden halt.

“As you said,” he quotes, “Let me.” Kai vanishes in a blur of brown and red and white.

You mutter, “Fucking candy-cane looking shit. I swear to- fuck!” Tongue. His tongue smothers your entrance to your clit in an unyielding, wet stroke. Settling there, laving at the button while you shove into him, pressure hauling from you, colourful curses and lewd sighs.

“Don’t stop. Please.” your hand finds your babbling mouth, clasping securely over it, another jerk of your hips sending you slumping pathetically.

Without warning, Kai’s tip crowds your entrance, pushing softly against the hold of your clamping sex. He grunts, “Ready?” You arch your back in response, pressing upon your tippy-toes to give him better access.

Kai’s cock burns like the heat of a thousand goddamn suns; it’s pure, unrelenting, common sense-shredding, carnal desire that holds your tongue, with it, a stream of complaints about the ache, the stretch.

You feel his thighs quivering against your own, his breath hot and laboured against your nape. You tease, “And you were worried about me?” You’re at a loss for breath, trembling like a leaf in a storm. “Only an inch in, and you’re shaking.”

A finger at your clit has you hissing an apology while Kai stutters his pleasure to your harshly-clenching heat.

You hold your tongue, fearing that he’ll unpreparedly slide deeper inside. Kai, however, doesn’t share that respect. He throatily whines, “You feel so good, I can’t. Stop clamping down on me like that ….”

You have the mind to yell at him, the other half wanting to yell with him.

“Move,” is your bark of approval, and Kai eagerly obeys. Each of his hands finds your hips without issue, and slowly pushing himself forward, Kai stiffens — in more than one way — effortfully spearing himself into you.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Of course, it hurts,” you grunt. And angling your hips farther, you ease the burn of him for a nanosecond, “But don’t stop.” It’s not even pleasurable. Just an unrelenting, uncomfortable stretch. Not even the soothing massage Kai delivers to your clit works to assist.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Kai pleads, chanting the words over and over, muttering them like a desperate mantra. And as you’re bared upon his cock, — if it can even fucking be called that — slowly rolling your hips into it, coaxing and controlling, mewling and breaking on each inch sinking inwards, you pray to any goddamn star atop a Christmas tree that you live through this.

“S-shit,” he squeaks, head falling to the dip between your trapezius, smearing warm, wet kisses down your spine. “It can’t go any further.” He gives a sharp thrust that knocks you forward, a cry at your lips when his tip brutally presses at your cervix.

“Back.” You reach back to slap his thigh, “Too much.”

Kai does so with many fumbled apologies. You heave distortedly and say, “Just g-give me a minute; need to adjust.”

He appears grateful for it and flaccidly lowers himself onto you, whispering praise as he massages the blooming bulge bursting your stomach. “I’m sorry,” he sighs again.

Kai’s only five inches deep, the stretch preventing his full length.

Measuring your inhales, timing your exhales, the pain slowly — very slowly — but surely ebbs, lifting to expose Kai’s subtle throb and your alleviating pulse. Kai measures his breaths with yours, you note, and a smile curls your lips as you finally say, “Go ahead, I’m ready.”

You feel the effort it takes Kai to keep his thrusts steady. A slow retreat. And it’s leaving you hopelessly empty as inch after inch after goddamn inch catches your walls, pulling outwards with a ginger sweetness, betrayed by his bruising grip at your hips.

“That’s it.” Your nails think themselves strong enough to dig dents, reaching above your head to the cool tiles, biting and biting as your teeth do to your lips which blaze bright vermillion, glossed and glowing like … what was the damned reindeer’s name?

Kai’s cockhead barely makes its way out of you, already plugging back in, spreading apart your clinging heat. “C-can you feel that? You wanna yap, but you’re tryna get impaled by this,” his cock twitches in response, “aren’t you?” Your reply is lost to a wail, trying but completely lost to every ridge rubbing against you, painful burn, now a pleasant stretch.

Kai doesn’t accept your lack of response, coiling around your hips to push brutally below your belly button. You scream, “Can’t! Can’t!” A snap of his hips has your breath recoiling, hitching at your throat. Similarly, this transpires at your heat, and all the edge Kai carried dissolves into a pitiful moan.

You’re both gone. So gone. Blizzard raging both outside your windows and at your core, churning and thrashing and brutally whipping your bodies into heaps of sorry snow against the single solid surface beneath you.

You bring your finger back to your clit but make a last-minute decision to slip it further, running them tenderly through the mix of skin and slick and heat where your bodies meet. Tracing over the soaked latex, you wrap your palm around Kai as he slowly but deeply penetrates you.

“Not gonna last long.” Kai is full of apologies and praise, smothering them as kisses and licks over your skin as his thrusts pick up speed.

You’re frantically fighting against your instincts to submit to his urgent strokes, slanting sideways to peel his other hand from your hip and bring it to your clit. Kai can take a message.

Kai rails you like a snowplough.

And truly a wonder — a Christmas miracle — is the way he controls his fingers, a blur of skin raining sharp pleasure-filled bolts of hail down on your worn figure.

You’re no more than a soggy puddle of melted sleet. And Kai splits you like a wishbone. He picks you up and throws you into the hearth of burning bliss, leaving you to splinter and crackle and burn. Pleasure consuming every splotch of skin, greedily coursing through your wrecked figure. Tearing you apart from the inside out, you’re stripped and sacrificed to each and every roaring flame, breaking you down into a barbaric holler of euphoric release.

Kai’s climax showers you in kerosene, and you swear that it destroys you further. You can’t comprehend the noises he makes — can’t even hear them over your own.

A final shuddering heave has you muttering your praise into a puddle of saliva, barely conscious as you guide Kai to a wet rag and basin to fill with warm water.

And it’s as the boy hurries along taut backside tutting from side to side, earlier persona lost in a purposeful frenzy to please, that you think: Maybe Christmas isn’t so bad after all.