#on new years eve specifically I mean | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mingi-s-dimples · 1 month ago

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Cost of Entry - sangi *300 followers special*

andddd here it is! thank you so, so much for 300 followers! it means everything to me! I love every single one of you 🤍

pairing: mafia leaders!sangi × fem!reader

genre: 18+, mafia au, filth

summary: you just wanted a break from everything.. and you decide to sneak in the VIP section. One of the best choices in your life.. despite the dangers lurking in.

wc: 9.4k (half plot/half smut)

warnings: mafia au, possessive and controlled!san, drunk and teasy!mingi, bratty f!reader, drunken confession (mingi), teasing, mentions of alcohol, alcohol ingestion (mingi), drunk sex (mingi was wasted), lots of cum, multiple orgasms, san eats her out, mingi is loud, san is a calm controlled storm until he isn't and mingi is ravished all over, enemies to lovers slightly more like forbidden encounter, double penetration, 3some, a singular degradation *slut*, choking, head pushing, oral (f and mingi receiving), manhandling, bulge kink (the one where reader gets turned on by seeing.. mingi’s bulge), size kink, some making out, some praise, unprotected (wrap up irl!), completely consensual, for sure forgot something, might edit later.

Author's Note: I feel like I improved so much since I first started writing... and it’s been a while since then 🥹 I don't care about the following whatsoever, but seeing all of you like, reblog, and appreciate my work is so fulfilling for me. School and life in general have been shit these past couple of months, starting with October, and I'm so grateful for everyone that waited for the kinktober fics 😭 I know it took me ages to write them but, hey! we're done, and I hope all my readers have had time to read everything ^^ watch out for three requests and one New Year's Eve Special (it's gonna be steamy 🤗)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and doesn't represent the reality of the members in any way.

The club was alive with an almost oppressive energy, and the air was thick with heat, sweat, and the faint sting of alcohol, mingling into something intoxicating. People moved like shadows across the dance floor, their faces blurred under flashing lights and clouds of smoke. The space was designed to disorient, to make you forget time and place.

You hadn’t planned to end up here.

Your life had been spiraling lately—work stress, personal struggles, and the kind of exhaustion that made everything feel heavier. Tonight, you’d needed a change, an escape from the suffocating routine of your life. But as you wove your way through the crowd, sober and increasingly overwhelmed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you didn’t quite fit.

And then you saw it—the VIP section.

It was set apart from the rest of the club, a raised platform encircled by a sleek black rope. The lighting was softer there, casting an ambient glow over the space. Plush leather couches and polished tables hinted at luxury, while the guests seated within exuded something else entirely—an aura of power. It wasn’t the kind of wealth that came from successful businesses or old money; this was something sharper, more dangerous.

You didn’t know the specifics, but you’d heard whispers. The people who occupied those seats weren’t just rich; they were the kind of people you wouldn't usually meet. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t get too close.

But tonight, curiosity—or maybe desperation—got the better of you.

You watched the bouncers for a moment, waiting until one of them turned to speak to someone at the entrance. Then, with your heart hammering in your chest, you ducked under the rope. It was a calculated risk, but as you stepped into the VIP section, the change in atmosphere was immediate. The music was still present, but muted, as though the space itself demanded quiet. The people here weren’t shouting over the bass like the crowd below; their conversations were low and deliberate.

You hesitated, your steps faltering as your eyes scanned the room.

That’s when you saw them.

Two men occupied the largest couch, a bottle of expensive whiskey on the table between them. They were seated with a kind of confidence that drew attention without effort, the kind of presence that made everyone else fade into the background.

The man on the left, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, exuded control. His dark hair was slicked back, and his sharp jawline caught the light as he leaned back in his seat. His gaze was steady and piercing, scanning the room like he was cataloging every threat, every movement. Something about him was almost surgical in its precision, his presence commanding without needing to speak.

The other man was a striking contrast. His posture was looser, his energy more chaotic. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a hint of tattoos beneath. He held his drink lazily, swirling the liquid as he leaned forward to say something to his companion. Where the first man was sharp and quiet, this one was wild, his energy buzzing beneath the surface like a storm waiting to break.

They were magnetic.

You didn’t know who they were, not exactly, but you didn’t need to. The air around them crackled with something electric, and your instincts screamed at you to turn back. These were not men you messed with. But before you could make your escape, their attention shifted.

The man in the suit noticed you first. His gaze snapped to you, sharp as a blade, and you froze under the weight of it. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was cold, calculated.

“Someone’s feeling brave,” he murmured, his voice smooth and quiet but carrying an edge that made your pulse race.

His companion followed his gaze, his expression twisting into something halfway between amusement and curiosity. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as his dark eyes raked over you. “Well, well,” he drawled, his voice rough and teasing. “What’s this? Lost your way, sweetheart?”

You swallowed hard, your voice catching in your throat before you managed to find words. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just... I needed a break.”

The suited man tilted his head, his smirk deepening. “A break,” he echoed, as though the word was unfamiliar to him.

“From what?” his companion pressed, his tone almost playful.

“I—” You hesitated, feeling their eyes on you, dissecting you. “From everything.”

The man in the suit leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his knuckles as he studied you. “Interesting choice of refuge,” he remarked, his voice soft but cutting.

His companion chuckled, low and rough, as he grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the table and poured a generous amount into an empty glass. “You know what they say: When in Rome.” He slid the glass toward you, his smirk widening. “Drink. You’ll need it.”

You stared at the glass, your mind racing.

“She doesn’t drink,” the suited man observed, his gaze never leaving you.

You met his eyes, your voice steadier than you felt. “How do you know that?”

His smirk deepened. “You’re still standing upright, and your shoes are in one piece.”

San's words lingered in the air, his sharp gaze still locked onto yours. There was a weight to his presence that made it hard to look away, as if he was silently daring you to say something—anything—that might amuse him. Mingi, on the other hand, was all energy and movement, the chaos to San’s calm. He leaned back with a smirk, his glass dangling loosely between his fingers as he looked at you like you were the night’s entertainment.

“Cat got your tongue?” Mingi teased, his deep voice carrying just enough bite to make your cheeks flush.

You squared your shoulders, willing yourself not to let their intensity overwhelm you. “I didn’t realize needing a break required permission,” you said, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

Mingi’s grin widened, and he let out a low chuckle. “Feisty. I like her.”

San didn’t smile, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes. “You should choose your words carefully,” he said, his tone calm but cold. “You’re in a space where even the smallest mistake can have... consequences.”

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. “Noted.”

Mingi set his glass down with a deliberate clink, then rose from his seat. He was tall—taller than you’d realized—and every step he took toward you felt like a test. When he reached your side, he sat down on the couch, the leather creaking softly under his weight. His broad shoulders and long legs made the space feel impossibly small, his proximity overwhelming.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Mingi asked, his voice low as he leaned closer. He didn’t wait for an answer, instead reaching for the bottle of whiskey and pouring himself another drink.

Your pulse quickened as his thigh brushed against yours, the heat of his body seeping into you. He didn’t touch you outright, but the way his arm draped over the back of the couch—his fingers just inches from your shoulder—made it clear he was testing boundaries.

San’s gaze flicked to Mingi, his expression unreadable. “You’ve had enough.”

Mingi snorted, swirling the whiskey in his glass before downing it in one gulp. “I’ll decide when I’ve had enough.” He set the glass down with more force this time.

“Mingi.” San’s voice was sharper now, carrying an authority that made the air feel heavier. “Enough.”

Mingi ignored him, his attention fully on you now. His hand brushed your shoulder, his touch deliberate as he leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re awfully quiet for someone bold enough to crash our table,” he murmured, his tone dark and teasing.

You shivered under his gaze, unsure whether it was fear or something else entirely.

“Mingi,” San said again, his voice colder this time. “Stop. You’re scaring her.”

But before Mingi could respond, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay.”

San’s sharp gaze snapped to you, his expression unreadable. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, your cheeks warming as you whispered, “Yes.”

Mingi’s grin returned, this time more feral. He turned back to San, gesturing at you with a lazy wave of his hand. “See? She’s fine.” Then he leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with mischief and menace as he added, “Not like she had much of a choice anyway. She’s in our territory now, and what’s in our territory...” He let the words hang in the air for a moment before finishing with a smirk, “...is ours to play with.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, the weight of their meaning pressing down on you.

San’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing at Mingi. “That’s enough.”

Mingi only laughed, the sound low and dangerous, as he sat back and grabbed the bottle of whiskey again. “Relax, San. You’re always so uptight. She’s not running.”

You glanced between them, your heart racing as the tension crackled like a live wire.

Mingi’s body was a furnace beside you, radiating heat as he poured himself yet another glass of whiskey. His movements were slower now, less precise, but his grin was as sharp as ever. You could tell he was far gone—the slight slur to his words, the way his fingers occasionally fumbled for the glass—but it didn’t seem to bother him.

San, on the other hand, was the picture of control. He sipped his drink slowly, his sharp eyes flicking between you and Mingi like a predator assessing the situation.

“You’re really not going to join in?” Mingi teased, leaning back against the couch and spreading his legs a little wider. His arm stretched out behind you, his fingertips brushing your shoulder as he spoke. “You’re missing out, San. She’s... something else.”

San arched a brow, his lips quirking in a faint smirk. “Unlike you, I know how to pace myself.”

Mingi chuckled, the sound rough and low as he turned his attention back to you. “Pacing is fucking overrated.” His hand drifted lower, his fingers trailing down your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

The club around you seemed to fade into the background, the music a dull thrum as Mingi’s touch became more deliberate. His fingers brushed against your waist, testing, teasing. You froze for a moment, your breath catching in your throat. And then you saw it—a noticeable bulge forming in his pants, pressing against the fabric.

Your cheeks burned, and you tried to look away, but your eyes kept flicking back to it. Mingi caught the direction of your gaze and grinned, leaning closer so his breath tickled your ear. “See something you like?”

Your hand trembled as it moved, almost of its own accord, resting lightly on his thigh. His grin faltered for a split second, surprise flickering in his eyes before it was replaced with something darker, hungrier.

San let out a low chuckle, drawing your attention back to him. “Brave,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “But you shouldn’t be here. You’ve got no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

You frowned, your heart pounding as you tried to steady your breathing. “And why is that?”

San leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as his dark eyes bore into yours. “Because we’re not the kind of men you walk away from,” he said, his tone cold and deliberate. “We’re mafia leaders, sweetheart. Every choice you make with us has consequences.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, but before you could fully process them, Mingi let out a bark of laughter. “Mafia leaders, consequences... You’re scaring her, San.” He turned to you, his hand sliding a little higher on your waist as he smirked. “Don’t listen to him. You’re already here. Might as well enjoy yourself.”

San’s gaze flicked to Mingi, his expression unreadable. “You’re not exactly helping your case, Mingi.”

Mingi ignored him, his focus entirely on you. His eyes roamed over your body, lingering shamelessly on the curve of your waist, the swell of your breasts. “You know,” he said, his voice rough and slurred, “you’re driving me insane. The way you walked in here like you owned the place... That bold little attitude of yours. And don’t even get me started on this body.” His hand squeezed your waist gently, his fingers pressing into your skin. “Your waist, your thighs, those perfect—”

“Mingi,” San interrupted, his voice sharp, though there was an edge of amusement in his tone.

“What?” Mingi shot back, his grin widening as he leaned closer to you, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m just being honest. She deserves to know how fucking gorgeous she is.”

You felt your heart racing, the heat of Mingi’s words and touch sending a confusing mix of adrenaline and desire coursing through you. Your gaze darted to San, whose smirk deepened as he leaned back, watching the scene unfold like it was some sort of game.

“She doesn’t belong here,” San said after a moment, his tone soft but firm. “And if she has any sense, she’ll leave before it’s too late.”

Mingi let out another laugh, shaking his head. “Too late for what? She’s already in our territory.” His hand moved again, brushing lightly against your hip as his grin turned wicked. “And as I said.. what’s in our territory... is ours.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, his rough, drunken demeanor making the statement feel both dangerous and thrilling. San’s expression shifted slightly, his smirk fading as he studied your reaction.

“Well?” San asked, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “Do you want to stay?”

Your hand tightened slightly on Mingi’s thigh, your body betraying you even as your mind screamed at you to be careful. You nodded, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

Mingi’s grin widened, and he let out a low growl of approval. “Smart girl,” he murmured, his hand sliding to rest on your lower back. “I knew you’d be fun.”

San chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

San’s glass clinked softly as he set it down on the table, the whiskey within barely touched. His movements were deliberate, calculated, as he rose from his seat. The room seemed to shift around him, his presence commanding enough to silence even Mingi’s drunken teasing.

He stopped directly in front of you, looming but not overbearing, his sharp gaze pinning you in place. For a moment, he simply stared, his expression unreadable, the corners of his lips twitching as though he were debating whether to smirk or scowl.

Then, without warning, he reached for the whiskey bottle, filling his glass to the brim. He tilted his head back and downed the entire thing in one smooth motion, his throat working as the liquid disappeared. When he lowered the glass, his dark eyes met yours, burning with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

San leaned down, his face inches from yours. His hand brushed the back of the couch, caging you in without touching you. His voice was low, a near-whisper that somehow drowned out the pounding bass of the club.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear. “Sneaking in here, testing us. But let me make one thing clear.” He paused, his lips barely brushing your skin as he spoke again, each word slow and deliberate. “You’ll regret it if you mistake this for mercy. I am not the man who lets you walk away unscathed.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, his tone dripping with something dark and forbidden. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, caught in the gravity of his presence. And then, just as suddenly as he leaned in, he straightened, his face an unreadable mask once more.

“Enough,” San said, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. His gaze flicked to Mingi, who was still leaning against you, his hand idly tracing circles on your hip. “Stop.”

Mingi scowled, his drunken grin faltering for the first time. “What’s your problem, San? She’s fine.”

San’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he turned away, pulling his phone from his pocket. “She’s coming with us.”

Before you could fully process his words, San pressed the phone to his ear, speaking in clipped tones. “Bring the car around. Now.”

The command was brief but absolute, and you didn’t doubt that whoever was on the other end of the call would obey without question. San hung up and turned back to the two of you, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary.

“Get up,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Mingi groaned but obeyed, standing and stretching lazily before offering you a hand. You hesitated for a second, glancing at San, who watched you. Finally, you took Mingi’s hand, and he helped you to your feet, his grip lingering just a little too long.

The three of you made your way through the VIP section, San leading the way with his usual precision and control. The club seemed to part around him, the crowd instinctively moving aside as he passed. Mingi stayed close to your side, his hand brushing yours occasionally, whether by accident or design, you weren’t sure.

When you reached the exit, a sleek black car was already waiting at the curb. The chauffeur stepped out to open the door, bowing his head slightly as San climbed in first.

Mingi gestured for you to follow, his grin returning as he leaned down to whisper, “After you, princess.”

You slid into the car, the cool leather seats a sharp contrast to the heat of the club. San was already seated, his gaze fixed out the window, his profile sharp in the dim light. Mingi climbed in after you, the door closing with a soft thud as the car pulled away from the curb.

The tension in the car was palpable, the silence thick enough to cut with a knife. Mingi shifted beside you, his knee brushing against yours as he leaned back, his arm draping casually over the seat behind you.

San’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, catching your reflection for a brief moment before he looked away again. “This isn’t a game,” he said, his voice low but firm. “You’re in over your head.”

Mingi laughed, the sound rough and carefree. “Don’t scare her off, San. She’s more fun than half the people we deal with.”

San didn’t respond, his focus returning to the city lights streaming past the window. You glanced between them, your heart racing as you tried to make sense of the situation.

“Relax,” Mingi murmured, his hand resting lightly on your thigh. His touch was warm, almost soothing, but the glint in his eyes was anything but. “We’re just getting started.”

The car continued its smooth journey, the cityscape blurring as you wondered what exactly you had just stepped into.

In the dim, confined space of the car, you shifted slightly, catching San’s reflection in the tinted window. He sat stiffly, his gaze fixed outside, the sharp angles of his jaw tightening every few moments. You could tell he was irritated—whether it was at you, Mingi, or the entire situation, you weren’t sure.

But something about his restrained demeanor, the tension radiating off him in waves, made you bold. Maybe it was the lingering adrenaline from sneaking into their space, or maybe it was the effect of Mingi’s earlier touch still tingling on your skin. Either way, you couldn’t resist.

“So, San,” you began, your voice light and teasing as you crossed your legs, the movement subtle but deliberate. “Always this uptight, or is it just when women crash your little mafia clubhouse?”

Mingi barked out a laugh, his arm still stretched lazily over the back of the seat. “She’s got a mouth on her, huh? I like it.”

San turned his head slightly, his dark eyes meeting yours in the reflection. “Careful,” he warned, his voice quiet but dangerous.

You leaned forward just a bit, your smirk growing. “Or what? You’ll lecture me again? Maybe I should take notes. You seem like the type who likes to be... in control.”

The corner of Mingi’s mouth twitched as he tried to stifle another laugh, clearly enjoying the show. San, however, didn’t react immediately, his silence only fueling your determination.

“I mean,” you continued, feigning innocence as you leaned back against the seat, “you’re all about consequences, right? But it makes me wonder...” You let your gaze trail over him, slow and deliberate. “What would it take to get you to lose that cool composure of yours?”

San’s jaw ticked, his grip tightening briefly on the edge of his seat. The way he inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring just slightly, told you you’d struck a nerve. Good.

The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of an imposing apartment building, its sleek façade gleaming under the city lights. San stepped out first, his movements stiff and controlled, as though he were holding himself together by sheer will. You followed, with Mingi stumbling slightly as he climbed out after you, muttering something about the uneven curb.

Inside the lobby, the tension didn’t ease. The three of you moved toward the elevator, Mingi swaying slightly as he leaned against the wall while San pressed the call button. The soft ding of the elevator’s arrival broke the silence, and the doors slid open.

The ride up was quiet at first. San pressed the button for the 25th floor, the soft hum of the elevator filling the small space. Mingi leaned against the corner, his head tipped back against the wall, but his drunken grin hadn’t faded.

You stood between them, your heart pounding as you stole a glance at San. His posture was rigid, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Then the doors closed, and something in San snapped.

In one swift motion, he turned toward you, his hand reaching up to grip your jaw—not harshly, but firmly enough to make you gasp. He tilted your head up, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a fire that burned through every ounce of control he’d been holding onto.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he growled, his voice low and rough, the sound sending shivers down your spine.

His free hand ghosted over your throat, his fingers barely brushing your skin as he leaned in, his lips so close you could feel the heat of his breath.

“You wanted to piss me off?” he continued, his tone both dangerous and unbearably sensual. “Congratulations. You did.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, his grip tightening slightly as he added, “But let me make one thing clear—you don’t play games with me unless you’re ready for the consequences.”

Your breath hitched, your mind spinning as his words sank in. Before you could respond, his lips crashed into yours, fierce and demanding, as though he was determined to claim every ounce of control you’d tried to take from him.

His kiss was a contradiction—hot and cold, restrained and wild. His hand remained on your throat, his fingers flexing just enough to remind you of the power he held without crossing a line.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. “You drive me fucking insane,” he murmured, his voice raw. “That mouth of yours, the way you look at me like you’re daring me to lose control... You have no idea what you’ve started.”

Behind you, Mingi let out a low whistle, breaking the moment. “Damn, San. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

San straightened, his gaze never leaving yours as he ignored Mingi’s comment. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply before stepping back, his composure slipping back into place like a mask.

The elevator dinged, signaling your arrival at the 25th floor. San gestured for you to step out first, his expression unreadable once more.

“Let’s go,” he said, his tone clipped but softer than before.

You stepped out of the elevator, your heart still racing as you followed them down the hallway. Whatever you’d walked into tonight, you knew one thing for certain—you weren’t walking away unscathed.

San’s demeanor changed the moment the door to the penthouse swung open. The space was vast and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city below. Sleek black leather furniture contrasted with the warm tones of wood paneling, and a massive crystal chandelier hung above the open living area, its light casting intricate patterns on the marble floor.

But none of it mattered—because as soon as the door clicked shut, San turned to you with a look that could melt steel.

“Bedroom. Now.”

You barely had time to react before his hand wrapped around your wrist, firm but not painful, as he pulled you through the space. You caught glimpses of the penthouse as he led you—an open kitchen with gleaming stainless-steel appliances, a curved staircase leading to a second level, and finally, a door at the end of a hallway.

San pushed it open, revealing a massive bedroom. The centerpiece was a king-sized bed with a dark gray headboard, framed by sleek black nightstands. The room was minimalist but luxurious, the kind of place that radiated power and control.

Before you could take it all in, San was on you. His hands gripped your waist, spinning you around and backing you toward the bed. The edge of the mattress hit the backs of your knees, and he didn’t give you time to steady yourself before his hands moved to your shoulders, pushing you down with controlled force.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” he said, his voice a low growl as he loomed over you. His dark eyes burned with a mix of anger and something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name. “Waltzing into my world, running that mouth of yours. Do you even understand what kind of fire you’re playing with?”

You met his gaze, refusing to back down even as your pulse raced. “Maybe I like the fire,” you shot back, your voice sharper than you expected. “Maybe I want to see just how far I can push you.”

San’s jaw clenched, his hands gripping the edge of the bed on either side of you. “You think this is a game?” he said, his voice cold and biting. “You think you can just walk into my territory, challenge me, and get away with it?”

Your lips curved into a smirk, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. “What if I do?”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. Then, Mingi’s voice broke through, lazy and amused.

“Now this,” Mingi drawled, leaning against the doorframe with his usual casual confidence, “is entertaining.”

You turned your head to look at him, and your breath caught. Mingi had stripped off his shirt, revealing a body that was all hard muscle and tattoos. His skin glistened slightly, the faint sheen catching the light as he crossed his arms over his chest.

His gaze dropped to the bulge straining against his pants, and he let out a low chuckle, his hand brushing over it lazily. “San,” he said, his voice laced with mockery, “you’re hogging all the fun.”

San didn’t look at him, his focus remaining solely on you. “She’s the one who wanted to test me,” he said, his tone dark. “And I’m going to make sure she understands exactly what that means.”

Mingi smirked, pushing off the doorframe as he sauntered into the room. “Be my guest,” he said, his fingers teasing at the waistband of his pants. “But don’t take too long. I’m not exactly a patient man.”

San finally looked at him, his expression hard. “Stay out of this,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

Mingi raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Whatever you say, boss.” But his eyes drifted back to you, his gaze heavy and full of unspoken promise.

Your breath hitched as San’s gaze returned to you, his hand brushing against your jaw in a touch that was both possessive and almost tender.

“You wanted this,” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t forget that.”

San’s hands gripped the edge of the bed with enough force to leave marks in the sheets, his eyes never leaving yours as if trying to read your every thought. The way his gaze darkened, the slightest shift in his posture, told you everything—you had pushed him to the edge, and now there was no turning back.

You could feel the heat radiating between the three of you, Mingi leaning against the doorframe with a wicked grin that only fueled the fire. He sauntered toward the bed, his presence almost magnetic. His gaze roamed over you, his eyes lingering on your every curve, drinking you in. His fingers twitched, as if testing the waters, before his hand settled on your arm, warm and possessive.

San watched every move Mingi made, his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak. He was too far gone—his control slipping, his desire too raw and evident in the air. He was trying to contain it, but the force of it all was starting to unravel him.

Without warning, Mingi’s hands moved to your shoulders, his fingers brushing over your skin in slow, deliberate strokes. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “You look so fucking good,” he murmured, his voice thick with lust and amusement.

You shivered, your body reacting involuntarily to the heated touch. You tried to suppress the tremble in your voice as you met Mingi’s teasing gaze. “Is that what you want, Mingi? To watch me squirm?”

Mingi chuckled softly, low and deep, his fingers lightly tracing the neckline of your shirt. “You don’t know how much I enjoy watching you try to fight it,” he said, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes darkened further. “You’ve got a fire in you, and I can’t wait to see how far it burns.”

San’s jaw tightened, a flicker of possessiveness flashing in his eyes, but he stayed silent, watching. He wasn’t backing down—he was waiting for something, for you to push him further, maybe.

You wanted to respond, to fire back, but your thoughts scattered as Mingi's hands shifted lower, finding the hem of your shirt. His fingers tugged at the fabric, pulling it up slowly, deliberately. The cool air of the room hit your skin as your shirt was discarded to the side.

Before you could process the situation, San moved, his body shifting with an almost predatory grace. His eyes never left you as he reached for the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with a sense of urgency that surprised you. He was just as affected, just as hungry.

“You’re mine,” San growled, his voice rough, filled with something primal. He pushed you back against the bed with just enough force to make you gasp, the heat of his body pressing against yours as he loomed over you. “And I won’t let anyone forget that.”

Mingi’s voice cut through the air again, but this time there was no teasing in it, only admiration as his gaze dropped to your chest. “You didn’t tell me about these,” he murmured, his eyes flashing with something like appreciation. “Damn, you’re perfect.”

San’s eyes flicked to Mingi then, a hard, sharp glance that had the younger man holding his tongue for a second. He knew the territory; San had already marked his claim in the club, and it was clear now who had the upper hand.

“I said stop talking about her body like that,” San snapped, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

Mingi raised his hands in mock surrender, a playful glint still in his eyes, “Alright, alright, I get it. You’ve got her.”

San’s grip on your wrist tightened, his fingers moving with the same deliberate intensity he’d shown earlier. His gaze never left you, he stood over you, fully exposed, his muscles tense and rippling as he leaned down to capture your lips in a kiss. It wasn’t soft; it wasn’t tender. It was rough, commanding, a mark of ownership.

He pulled back for a split second, his breath hot against your cheek as he muttered, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

In that moment, you knew exactly what he meant—everything about you drove him wild. And now, there was no way out. The tension had broken, the line had been crossed. The storm had begun, and you were caught in its eye.

“Don’t you dare play games with me,” San murmured, his voice low and dangerously quiet, a thread of restraint running through it. “You’re in my world now.” His grip on your wrists tightened just enough to remind you of who was in control, his other hand moving to undo your pants with the same cold precision.

You held your breath as the fabric slid down your legs, leaving you exposed beneath the harshness of his touch. But even then, you didn’t look away. You felt the pulse of electricity between you—his power, his control, and your own challenge to it.

Mingi, still lingering by, watched with a smirk that never faltered. His hand brushed over his chest as he approached, his gaze flicking from you to San, then back to you with a teasing glint in his eye.

“You’re really not going to let me have any fun, are you?” Mingi said, his voice playful but carrying an underlying heat.

San’s response was a sharp glance that silenced Mingi for a moment. But then, with a barely-there nod, he signaled for Mingi to move closer. Mingi’s smirk grew as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a teasing whisper. “Don’t think we’re done here. You wanted to get under his skin, didn’t you? Now you’ll see what happens when you do.”

His words hung in the air as he pulled back, allowing San to take the lead once again. You barely had time to process before San’s lips were on your thighs, his touch firm and deliberate as he kissed and trailed his lips up your skin. His breath was hot against your flesh, and you could feel the intensity of his presence, his hunger for control, in every movement.

“You want me to stop?” San’s voice was low, almost a growl, as his lips hovered just above your skin.

It wasn’t a question you could answer easily, not with the fire coursing through your veins. Your body betrayed you, trembling with anticipation, your pulse racing with every subtle touch, every whispered command. You fought to hold onto your composure, but it was slipping, bit by bit.

Mingi, watching all of this unfold, let out a low chuckle, clearly amused by the sight of you trying to stay in control while San worked his power over you. “She’s got a fire,” Mingi muttered to himself, leaning casually against the wall.

San, hearing his words, shot a glance at Mingi, his jaw tight. “She’s in my hands now,” he said, his tone laced with something possessive. “And she’ll learn what it means to be tested.”

San’s gaze never wavered, his focus entirely on you. The air between you seemed to thicken, charged with tension as his fingers traced the line of your jaw, tilting your face so you couldn’t look anywhere but at him. His voice dropped to a low rumble, the weight of his authority palpable. “Eyes on me. You don’t get to shy away now.”

Mingi moved closer, his presence as heavy as San’s, though tinged with a teasing energy that made your heart race. He settled beside you, his hand brushing against your shoulder, a touch both gentle and possessive. “You’re holding back,” Mingi murmured, his voice like a soft hum against your skin. “Why don’t you show us what you’re really capable of?”

San smirked at Mingi’s words, his expression dark with satisfaction. “She will,” he replied confidently, his hands steady as they skimmed over your thighs, his grip tightening just enough to draw your attention fully back to him. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Mingi, not to be outdone, shed his remaining clothing as well, his smirk never faltering as he took his place beside you.

San chuckled, his hands returning to your hips, pulling you closer with a firm but careful tug. “She’ll take everything we give her. Won’t you?” His words were a challenge, laced with something possessive, his tone daring you to deny him.

Your breath hitched, and San leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Don’t fight it. Let me see how much you can handle.” His fingers dug into your sides slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that he was in control.

Mingi’s hand trailed down your arm, his touch light but deliberate, sending a shiver through you. “I think she’s ready.”

San smirked, leaning back just enough to lock eyes with you. “Not yet,” he replied, his voice low and commanding. “She’s not done proving herself to me.”

The cool sheets beneath you were a stark contrast to the heat radiating from your skin as San positioned himself between your legs, his movements deliberate and brimming with purpose. His sharp eyes drank in every inch of you, a reverent smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice rough yet warm, carrying a weight of appreciation that sent a shiver through your entire body. “How can someone be this breathtaking?”

His words, so unexpectedly tender, made your breath hitch.

On your right, Mingi knelt with a smirk that was anything but soft. His dark eyes roamed over you, his expression hungry, though laced with mischief. “Breathtaking, huh?” he drawled, one hand resting on your side, his thumb brushing over your ribs. “That’s one way to put it. But I’d call her... delicious.”

His teasing tone made your cheeks burn, but before you could respond, San’s voice cut through, steady and commanding. “Careful, Mingi,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a faint edge in his tone. “This isn’t about you.”

Mingi raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Relax, San. I’m just admiring your masterpiece.”

San turned his attention back to you, his expression softening as he cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin gently. “Ignore him,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble meant just for you. “Right now, you gotta focus on me."

The weight of his words settled in your chest, grounding you. But then, San’s lips curved into a wicked smile, and his hands tightened on your thighs, spreading them a little wider. “Actually,” he murmured, his tone taking on a darker edge, “I have an idea.”

You blinked up at him, your body already reacting to the shift in his demeanor. “An idea?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

San’s smirk grew, his hands trailing down your thighs with deliberate slowness. “I’ll show you just how much I want you,” he said, his voice smooth yet laced with intent. “And Mingi here can... keep himself occupied.”

Mingi raised a brow, his grin turning sharper. “Occupied, huh?” he echoed, his gaze flicking between you and San. Then his attention locked onto you, his smirk softening just slightly. “You wouldn’t mind helping me out, would you?”

The intensity in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you barely had time to process his words before San leaned down, his breath warm against your thigh. “It’s not really a question,” San murmured, his voice dripping with authority. “You’ll do exactly what I say, won’t you?”

His confidence left no room for hesitation, and your body answered before your mind could catch up, your breath hitching as you nodded. San chuckled, the sound low and rich as he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. “Good girl, or may I say.. good slut? That's more like it." he whispered, the degrading praise sending a thrill through you

San’s hands tightened on your thighs, grounding you as he lowered himself further, his presence overwhelming and commanding all at once. “Keep your focus,” he ordered, his voice low but firm, even as his lips trailed closer to your cunt. “You don’t stop until I tell you to. Understood?”

The weight of his command left you breathless, and all you could do was nod.

The headboard was cool against your back, grounding you amidst the heat that filled the room.

“You’ll watch me, won’t you?” San murmured, his voice low and commanding. “Every little reaction you give belongs to me.”

Before you could respond, a hand brushed against your jaw, turning your attention upward. Mingi, his towering frame casting a shadow over you, stood by the side of the bed, his gaze locked onto yours with a hunger that was impossible to ignore. His smirk was a challenge, daring you to take control even as he exuded a quiet authority of his own.

“Don’t get distracted,” Mingi murmured, his voice smooth yet firm as he guided his cock closer, his confidence unwavering. He took your hand, his touch deliberate as he placed it at the base of it. “You’re going to be good for us, aren’t you?”

Your fingers hesitated for the briefest moment before wrapping around him, the weight of his command making your heart race. Slowly, you moved your hand along his cock, your palm brushing over every vein, feeling his breath hitch slightly as you teased him.

San chuckled darkly from between your thighs, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he watched. “Look at you,” he muttered, his voice laced with pride. “Already falling into place like you were made for this.”

Mingi’s hand tightened on yours as he guided you further, his deep voice a steady presence above the storm San was creating. “That’s it,” he murmured, his tone equal parts encouragement and demand. “Just like that. Don’t hold back now.”

The tension in the room thickened as the sounds of your shallow breaths and soft whimpers intertwined with the low rumble of their voices. San’s grip on your thighs tightened as he leaned in. His lips finally reached the place you needed him most.

The first stroke of his tongue was unrelenting, both tender and possessive as though he wanted to draw every ounce of reaction from you. Your back arched against the headboard, a trembling whine escaping your lips, but it was quickly muffled by Mingi's cock.

He held your jaw gently, tilting your face so that his tip brushed against your parted lips. “Show me how good you can be.”

You took a shaky breath before wrapping your lips around it, your fingers curling at the base for balance as you began to move your head. The heat radiating from him was overwhelming, his low groans blending with your muffled whines as San’s movements became more precise.

San’s hands slid up your thighs, grounding you, anchoring you against the overwhelming sensations. “So responsive,” he muttered, his tone dripping with satisfaction. He pressed his mouth more firmly against you, his tongue working in slow, deliberate patterns that sent waves of electricity coursing through you.

Your cries reverberated around Mingi, the vibrations making his jaw tense as his hand moved to cradle the back of your head. “That’s it,” he groaned, his deep voice resonating through you. “You sound so pretty like that.”

San chuckled darkly against you, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine. “She’s perfect, isn’t she?” he mused, his voice muffled but no less commanding. “Taking everything we give her so beautifully.”

You couldn’t focus on anything but the push and pull between the two of them, the way Mingi’s deep groans matched the rhythm of San’s relentless attention. Every touch, every sound built the tension inside you higher, drawing you closer to the edge with a heady mix of roughness and sensual control.

San pulled back slightly, his lips glistening and his dark eyes sharp as they met yours. He let out a low, mocking chuckle that sent shivers down your spine. His grip on your thighs never faltered, his thumbs pressing into your skin just enough to keep you firmly grounded in the moment.

“Here’s the deal,” San murmured, his voice a low, tantalizing growl. “You don’t get to come until he does. Show me how good you are at taking care of him, and maybe I’ll give you what you’re begging for.”

Your wide, needy eyes met his, your body trembling from the intensity of his gaze and the deliberate tease of his hands on your skin. San leaned closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he added, “Make him fall apart first, and I’ll give you exactly what you need.”

Mingi groaned softly at San’s words, his hand cupping your cheek to guide your attention back to him. “You heard him,” he said, his tone rough but lined with a teasing edge. “Show me how good you can be.”

Your resolve firmed despite the heat coursing through you, and you took Mingi deeper, the sound of your efforts mixing with his low, guttural groans. Your hand stroked him in time with your movements, your tongue trailing against him in a way that had his breath hitching. His free hand gripped the edge of the headboard, his control faltering with every deliberate flick of your tongue.

San watched with dark satisfaction, his hand sliding along your thigh as a silent reminder of his presence. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice smooth but edged with hunger. “You can do better than that. Make him feel it.”

You pushed yourself further, letting your lips tighten and your tongue tease, drawing a shuddering gasp from Mingi. His head tipped back, his grip on the headboard tightening as his breaths grew uneven. The sharp inhale he took before he came was punctuated by a low, satisfied groan, his body trembling as he filled your mouth with his cum.

San’s pleased hum was the only warning you got before he shifted you slightly, his hands moving to adjust your hips as he leaned in closer. “Good girl,” he murmured, his tone dripping with approval. “Now, let me give you what you’ve been waiting for.”

The first touch of his mouth was unrelenting, and your cry of relief was immediate. San worked with precision, his movements rough enough to leave you trembling but careful enough to draw every ounce of tension from your body. His hands held you in place, his grip firm as he pushed you closer to the edge.

Your hands gripped the sheets tightly as the waves of your orgasm finally crashed over you, your body arching against the headboard. You cried out, San’s name spilling from your lips as he carried you through every trembling moment, his hold never faltering.

As you came down from the high, San’s lips brushed against your thigh, his voice low and satisfied. “That’s how I want to hear you,” he said, his tone possessive but lined with pride. “Falling apart for me.”

Mingi’s deep voice rumbled from behind San, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. “If San gets to have ideas, then I have one too,” he said, his tone smooth but carrying an undercurrent of mischief. He leaned back against the headboard, his broad frame radiating confidence as he continued, “What if we both take care of her?”

San froze for a moment, his sharp eyes narrowing as he considered Mingi’s bold proposition. But before he could respond, you felt the weight of Mingi’s gaze on you—curious, warm, and daring. It wasn’t until he noticed the flicker of excitement in your eyes, a spark you couldn’t hide, that his lips curved into a knowing grin.

San caught that spark too. He tilted his head, his initial hesitation melting into something darker, more intentional. “Interesting,” he muttered, his fingers still trailing along your thigh. “You’re into that, aren’t you?”

Your breath caught, the tension in the room thickening as Mingi made his move. Without waiting for further confirmation, he reached out, his strong hands finding your waist as he effortlessly guided you onto his lap. The shift was seamless, his strength evident as he settled you above him, his arms caging you in with a gentle but commanding grip.

Mingi’s voice was a low murmur as he tipped your chin up to meet his gaze. “Don’t be shy now,” he said, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “We’re just getting started.”

San moved behind you, his presence grounding you as his hands found your hips, steadying you against Mingi’s chest. The duality of their touches was overwhelming—Mingi’s hold firm and encompassing, San’s deliberate and teasing.

“You’re going to be good for both of us,” San said, his breath warm against your ear. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, a slow, deliberate movement that sent chills through you. “Let him see how much you want this.”

Mingi chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you as he shifted beneath you. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice a tantalizing promise. “We’ll take care of you.”

Their combined attention was intoxicating. Mingi’s hands spanned your waist, holding you close as San’s fingertips teased along your sides. Their coordination was seamless, their shared focus on you leaving no room for doubt.

Mingi tilted your chin down toward him, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “You’re ours tonight,” he murmured, his tone heavy with intent. His grip tightened slightly, his strength a silent reassurance as he added, “Let us show you how good it can be.”

Behind you, San’s hands slid along your body, his touch purposeful as he leaned in to press a lingering kiss against your neck. His lips curved into a smirk as he felt you shiver beneath him.

“Trust us,” San murmured, his voice a velvet promise, “and let go.”

Mingi’s grip on your waist tightened, his strength palpable as he held you effortlessly above him. His dark gaze locked onto yours, the intensity in his expression making your breath hitch. With a slow, deliberate movement, he guided you down, your body trembling as he buried himself in you, his hips rolling upward with an undeniable authority.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a low, tantalizing growl. His hands splayed wide on your hips, holding you firmly in place as he set the rhythm, his dominance radiating in every calculated move. “Take all of me. You’re not going anywhere.”

Behind you, San’s restraint was hanging by a thread. His fingers dug into your shoulders, the pressure almost bruising as he steadied you between them. The sound of your breathless whimpers seemed to snap something inside him, his control shattering as he thrust forward without warning. His movements were rough, almost desperate, his hips slamming into you with unrelenting force.

“You feel too good,” San growled, his voice a low rasp that sent shivers down your spine. His grip on your shoulders tightened, pulling you back against him as he drove deeper, each thrust more powerful than the last. “I can’t stop. Don’t even think about asking me to.”

Mingi chuckled darkly beneath you, his hands sliding up your sides to keep you upright as your body trembled. “He’s lost it,” he said, his tone dripping with amusement and pride. His thumbs pressed into your waist, his hold steadying you as he tilted his head back to watch the way your body responded to their relentless pace. “But you can take it, can’t you? You’re ours. We’ll make sure you do.”

Your legs threatened to give out entirely, the overwhelming intensity of their combined focus leaving you barely able to hold yourself up. Mingi’s grip on your waist grew even firmer, his strength keeping you steady as he thrust upward with a controlled power that left you gasping.

San, on the other hand, was a storm. His lips found your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before he bit down gently, marking you with a possessive edge that left no doubt about his intentions. “You’re mine,” he growled against your ear, his voice rough and unyielding. “Ours. Don’t forget it.”

The room was filled with the sound of ragged breaths, low groans, and the slap of skin as San and Mingi worked in perfect, chaotic tandem. Mingi’s hands slid up to cup your face, tilting your chin down so your eyes met his. “Look at me,” he commanded softly, his voice a dangerous mix of gentleness and authority. “Don’t you dare look away.”

Behind you, San growled in frustration, his pace growing even faster as he leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back. His hands moved to your waist, gripping tightly as he took over the rhythm, each thrust forcing a breathless cry from your lips.

“You’re perfect,” San muttered, his voice strained and full of raw hunger. “Made for us. Look at how you’re falling apart. Can’t even stand, can you?”

Mingi’s laughter rumbled beneath you, his arms wrapping around your trembling form to keep you steady as San continued his relentless assault. “She’s ours now,” Mingi said, his tone possessive and dripping with satisfaction. “Completely and utterly ours.”

They moved as one, their shared goal clear: to claim every part of you, to leave no inch of you untouched by their relentless intensity. Your body trembled in their grasp, every ounce of your strength surrendered to their combined power.

“Give in to us,” San growled, his breath hot against your ear as his movements grew even more forceful. “Let us ruin you.”

And you did—completely, utterly, and without hesitation. But they didn't falter. they didn't stop.

San, his chest rising and falling with each measured breath, leaned down toward you with a simmering heat in his gaze. Without a word, his hand reached out to harshly wrap around your neck, his fingers pressing in just enough to pull you closer to him. His grip was firm, as he slowly lifted you, bringing you flush against his chest.

San’s voice was a low murmur, soft but commanding, his lips grazing your ear. "Don’t forget who’s in control."

You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, and the way he held you, just barely choking you with his gentle pressure, made your body shiver.

Mingi, still inches deep inside, watched the scene unfold with a sly grin, his hands staying steady at your waist, making sure you felt both of their presence, unyielding but tender. He moved gently beneath you, adding to the slow, simmering rhythm of the moment.

Both men fucked you relentlessly through your orgasm until they were satisfied enough.. and that meant right when they filled both your holes up with their cum, mingling with your juices. A string of curses escaped Mingi’s lips as San lifted you up and softly placed you on the bed, your legs trembling and threatening to give out at any moment. You were dizzy, overstimulation hovering over as San leaned in, softly enough to give you a forehead kiss.

“How about a warm bath?" San asked softly, his fingers brushing your hair away from your face as he looked down at you with concern. His voice had softened, but the possessiveness remained in his tone, making you feel like you were still entirely his.

Mingi, ever the playful one, leaned back with a teasing grin. "If you’re getting the bath ready, don’t forget about me. I wouldn’t mind a round two in there," he said, his tone lighthearted, making you smile despite the tension that still lingered in the air.

San chuckled, brushing his lips against your forehead before offering you a hand. "Let’s get you in the bath first. You deserve a moment to relax." His touch was gentle now, his usual intensity replaced with a soothing calm.

The two of them guided you to the warm water, their care wrapping around you like a soft blanket, the playful teasing from. You.. for sure, didn't falter from their grip unscathed.

NETWORKS:

@blossomnet

@illusionnet

PERMANENT TAGLIST:

@mingleshine @musiclovingfairy @crazylittlebisexual @sanhwalvr @artistic-rendition @hongjoongtime117 @cypher-03 @peachy-bell26 @atiny1 @my-atiny-kookie-rkive @atzlordz

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babydollslibrary · 8 days ago

Text

QUESTION…? — QUINN HUGHES

quinn hughes x fem!reader

published: February 4th, 2023

summary: in which Quinn and sunshiny good girl, y/n, have harbored feelings for each other for a while. but when they finally hookup, Quinn leaves in the middle of the night and let’s y/n believe maybe it was just a one night fling.

specific lyrics: “good girl, sad boy.” and “did you ever have someone kiss you in a crowded room and every single one of your friends was making fun of you but fifteen seconds later they were clapping too? then what did you do? did you leave her house in the middle of the night?”

warnings: kinda steamy but no NSFW. profanity.

not my gif

contrary to popular belief, i’m not oblivious to the irony of Quinn Hughes and i being best friends. the optimistic, always happy, constantly smiling hopeless romantic being best friends with the pessimistic, always looks miserable, rarely smiling hockey player? yeah, it’s baffled our other friends for years.

but when asked, i can’t really explain it. Quinn and i just click. we know what makes the other happy, or sad, or angry. it’s easy for us to be around each other. and we’re understanding of each other. i don’t push him to talk, and he’s one of the rare few who will just sit and listen to me ramble without asking me to shut up. as like all best friends we’re really close. we like to think we have no secrets. that we tell each other everything.

but, i have one.

i’m in love with my best friend.

i never meant for it to happen. when we became friends, i was actually glad to finally meet a guy that just wanted to be friends. no underlying motives, no moves being pulled. just friends. but eventually my feelings changed. it wasn’t all at once, like i read about in my romance novels. no. the changes were gradual. it started slowly, with me seeking him out more than my other friends. then it turned into getting butterflies in my stomach when we touched, no matter if we were holding hands, linked arms, or if i was just sitting close enough to him on the couch that our thighs touched. at first i chalked it up to him just being my best friend, but then the dreams started happening. dreams where he and i were dating. and eventually sleeping dreams turned into daydreams. and then i finally realized my true feelings. i’m in love with my best friend.

i’ve spent the better half of our four year friendship hiding my feelings from him, too scared that confessing might ruin our friendship. he’s never given me any reason to assume that he feels the same way, so i keep my feelings locked in a box in the back of my mind, only let free when i’m alone and daydreaming about what life would be like if we were more than friends.

i’ve since then gone on several dates with numerous guys, trying to find someone who makes me feel the way Quinn does, but it’s been a moot effort. every guy has been missing the spark that i feel between Quinn and i. and i always end up back to the beginning, spending my nights hanging out with my best friend and just hoping i’m strong enough not to spill my secret.

which brings us to now, where i’m mentally screaming over how good Quinn looks in his white button down shirt and black dress pants. it’s new year’s eve, and most of the Canucks team, their partners, and a few friends are lounged around Elias’s house. with five minutes until the new year, i’m sat on the couch clutching a glass of champagne, my sixth of the night, and animatedly chatting with Quinn, who looks like he would rather be anywhere else. but i’ve learned by now that that’s just his resting facial expression.

“alcohol makes you chatty, doesn’t it y/n?” Elias laughs from his spot in the chair a few feet away from us. i stop talking, letting out a weak chuckle. it’s not like i’m unused to comments like that, i’m often told that i talk a lot, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting a little.

“it does. but i like it. i like listening to her talk.” Quinn defends. my heart flutters in my chest at his words. a blush coating my cheeks. “now back to what you were saying, y/n.”

i blink a few times, just staring at my best friend in front of me before i begin to speak.

“oh. i was just saying that i think my parents want me to visit soon. but i was done speaking.” i shrug.

“no, you weren’t.” Quinn’s brows furrow and he wears a scowl. “you were still talking.”

“well, i was about done anyways. but i can keep talking.” Quinn’s lips quirk in a half smile and he nods for me to continue. “well, i do think the concept of new years is pretty weird. and some of the traditions that people have are weird as well. like-”

i’m cut off by the simultaneous chants of the people surrounding us. counting down from ten. i smile and my face lights up. i love this part of the holiday.

“SEVEN! SIX! FIVE!” i sigh as i watch couples pair off, ready to kiss their other half a happy new year, a longing look in my eye. i feel Quinn shift beside me, his thigh pressing closer into mine. but my eyes are locked on my friends all smiling at their significant others, so happy and in love. i want that.

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!” i’m snapped out of my thoughts by a hand grasping my chin. my face is turned and i’m able to catch a quick glimpse of Quinn’s eyes before my lips are covered by his. his hands move to cup my face, his lips moving over mine. it takes me a second of hesitation to realize what’s happening and my heart speeds up. i snap out of my trance in time to move my lips, locking us into a slow and passionate kiss.

“GO HUGGY! FINALLY!” i hear someone yell and everyone laughs, cracking jokes about how long it took for us to kiss. Quinn pulls back to lock eyes with me, his chest rising and falling with quick breaths. he gives me a small smile before leaning in and capturing my lips with his once more. our friends start clapping and i smile into the kiss, making him pull away once again. this time he pulls away completely, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close to him.

what did that mean? does he like me the way that i like him? or was it just a midnight kiss between friends? is this gonna change anything, or are we just going to move past this like it didn’t happen? does he realize how much this means to me? my head is swarmed with questions that i may never know the answers to.

i stay glued to his hip for the rest of the night, my head still reeling from the kiss. not long after midnight, everyone starts to head home, and i follow Quinn out to his car so he can give me a ride. he opens the passenger seat for me, helping me in before shutting it and jogging around the front of the car, slipping into the drivers seat. the drive is unusually quiet, my usual chattiness drifted away after our kiss. instead i’m stuck inside my own mind, still wondering what it meant. when he pulls up and parks in a spot outside my apartment complex, he turns to look at me, and i manage a smile.

“you okay?” he asks. “you’ve been quiet.”

“yeah, i’m fine. just figured i’d give you a reprieve.” i joke. his expression tells me he didn’t appreciate my attempt.

“don’t do that.” he says.

“do what?”

“don’t let what Elias said get into your head. i love that you never stop talking. i like seeing you happy.”

okay he needs to stop talking before i do something monumentally stupid. like kiss him again.

“don’t worry, Quinny. i’m not gonna go silent on you. i was just joking.” i smile. “who else can i talk about all my star wars theories with, without them calling me a nerd?”

he laughs and unbuckles his seatbelt.

“you wanna come in and drink some wine while i tell you about how i think Palpatine is actually Anakin’s father?” i ask, and he nods.

“what else would i do?” he jokes sarcastically.

we get out of the car and Quinn leads the way up to my apartment, having been here hundreds of times in the past four years. i unlock my door and call out to my cat that i’m home. within seconds she comes around the corner, and Quinn scoops her up in his arms, cradling her like a baby. i listen to him coo at her as i grab a bottle of wine off my kitchen counter and pour two glasses.

within a few minutes, Quinn and i are sat on my bed, drinking our wine as i lay my feet in his lap and talk to him about my theory. Quinn listens intently, as if he hasn’t already heard it a million times, and absentmindedly lays his hand on my ankle, sending a spark up my leg.

“anyways, enough about that.” i finish. “how’s your mom? i heard you on the phone with her earlier. I miss Ellen.”

he smiles, a rare genuine grin at the mention of his family.

“she’s good.” he nods. “she misses you too. keeps telling me to bring you to the lake house this summer.”

“we’ll if that’s your way of offering, then i accept.” i tell him before joking- “i miss my favorite Hughes brother.”

“there’s no way that Luke is your favorite. i call bullshit.”

“you call bullshit every time i say it, but i still remain adamant. he’s the sweetest.” i tease. “he told me last summer that if i ever decide that i like younger guys, he’ll take me out. maybe i’ll finally take him up on that offer.”

Quinn raises an eyebrow, tickling the inside of my ankles as he speaks.

“oh please. he wouldn’t know how to handle you.”

i bark out a laugh and nudge his thigh with my foot.

“and just what is that supposed to mean?” i ask.

“it means that whatever man you finally decide is good enough for you, needs to appreciate you. he needs to love how much you like to speak, and your hopeless romantic side. he needs to appreciate that you always look on the bright side of things, and find a silver lining in everything. he needs to remember that you’re a sunrise person, preferring the beginning of a new day rather than the end, so you prefer your dates as brunch or picnics or going to a museum rather than dinner or a movie. and Luke is not that guy.”

my heart melts at his words. the fact that he knows these things about me and believes that i deserve to find someone who won’t make me compromise those parts of myself.

and there i go, doing something monumentally stupid, because before i can take a second to think before i react, i lean over and press my mouth to his. his lips lock with mine, moving slowly. i open my mouth, letting his tongue roam freely over mine. Quinn grasps my hips, pulling me in closer so that i’m straddled over his lap, and i roll my hips, lightly grinding down onto him, making him let out a groan.

he tastes like red wine and mint, an odd combination, but not a bad one. his hands slip under my top, skimming my bare skin as he settles them at my waist and pulls me closer. my chest is flush against his now, every breath i take making my nipples brush against his chest, sending pleasure driven shivers down my body, straight to my core.

“please.” i whisper against his lips.

“please what, y/n?” his voice is raspy, laced with lust and seduction.

“please Quinn. please fuck me.” i whimper as he pulls me down to roll over his quickly hardening length.

“whatever you want, baby.”

my eyes squint against the light coming in from my bedroom windows as i finally come to. it takes me a couple seconds to remember why i’m naked. and when the memories of the night before flash in my mind, i smile, rolling over in my bed to face Quinn. but his spot is empty. i reach over to feel cold sheets. he’s been gone awhile.

when did he leave? why did he leave?

tears prick at the back of my eyes, but i blink them away. he could just be in the kitchen. rising from my bed, i throw on an oversized t-shirt and some underwear as i glance around my room. his clothes are gone, the only ones left scattered on my floor being my own, sending another sinking feeling in my gut.

i leave my room, walking to my kitchen only for it to be empty. i check my bathroom, my living room, and my guest room, only for all of them to come up empty as well.

he left.

i finally let my tears fall, collapsing on my couch. i thought maybe he liked me, but was last night just an easy fuck for him? did he not want me in the way that i want him? in a relationship sense?

it’s been four days since Quinn and i slept together, and we haven’t spoken or seen each other in those days. it’s not unusual for us to not talk or see each other for a few days, but after our night together, i wasn’t expecting the complete silence. i told myself i would confront him the next time i see him, but the thought makes me anxious.

with the Canucks having two nights off in a row, a lot of them are going out to a bar, and as a close friend of the team, i was invited. Andrei didn’t tell me who all is coming though, so as i walk into the bar right now, i worry over the possibility of being confronted with Quinn.

my eyes roam the bar, searching for my friends, and when i finally spot them, i feel both relieved and anxious. i don’t see Quinn. i make my way over to them, giving hugs and fist bumps as i say my hello’s.

“i’m gonna go order a drink.” i let them know, but as i turn around, i see Quinn, who seems to be returning from the restroom. we lock eyes and he veers course, coming to a stop in front of me.

“hey.” he greets me, pulling me into a quick hug. my arms stay glued to my sides.

“hey.” i say weakly. before i can lose my confidence i speak again. “can we talk?”

Quinn nods and tips his head over towards an empty booth across the room. i lead the way over to it, taking a seat on one side while he takes the seat across from me.

“what’s up?” he asks, and i take a second to study his expressionless face. does he really not know what this is about?

“can i ask you a question?” i ask.

“yeah, of course.” he replies. he lifts the hat off his head and sweeps a hand through his hair before replacing the hat. i swallow the lump in my throat and take a deep breath.

“why did you leave?” i manage to get out.

“what?”

“that night. why did you leave? i woke up the next morning and you were gone.” i explain. he opens his mouth but i continue speaking. “i just need to know. did it mean nothing to you? because that night meant everything to me. and i was under the impression that it may have meant something to you, but then you left without even saying goodbye and it made me feel…cheap. so i just want you to be honest with me Quinn, did it? mean anything to you?”

Quinn’s nostrils flare and he winces, as if my words were hard for him to hear.

“of course. it meant so much to me, y/n. but it all happened so fast and right after i said those nice things. so, i laid awake overthinking. and i got it into my head that maybe you were just overwhelmed with what i had said and acted on impulse. that maybe it was just one night for you. and i could take that, so i left. i thought maybe that’s what you wanted me to do.” his voice is soft, barely audible over the commotion of the bar, and his words only make me more upset.

“so you didn’t think to talk to me? you just left?” my words are sharp, my tone incredulous. “if you would’ve talked to me then you would’ve known that i really like you, Quinn. i’ve been in love with you for two years. i wanted that night to happen. it wasn’t just a night for me. was the decision impulsive? maybe. but i thought about that happening between us for years. i wanted it. i want you. not just for one night, but forever.”

his hand snakes across the table, clasping my own.

“i want you too. forever. god, y/n, i’ve been in love with you since i met you. but i knew how much you’d been through with past relationships and i didn’t want to push you. and then when i thought enough time had passed, i didn’t want to ruin our friendship, so i took you in any way i could have you. if that was just as your best friend, then so be it. but i don’t want to be your best friend anymore, y/n/n.”

my head reels with his words, thinking back over them. wait what?

“what?” i whisper, my voice shaky.

“if you can forgive me for being an idiot and jumping to conclusions, i’d really like to be your boyfriend.”

my heart races, and i look into his eyes, seeing nothing but sincerity.

“i’d really like that. but you can’t leave me like that again, Quinn.”

“i don’t think i ever want to leave you again.” he tells me. he stands, taking my hand in his and pulling me up so hard that i crash into his chest. he wraps his arms around my waist, leaning down and letting his lips graze mine, smiling. “my mom is gonna freak when i tell her we’re finally dating.”

my head drops back in a laugh before i tease-

“oh no, how am i gonna break this to Luke?”

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #vancouver canucks

310 notes · View notes

writingsbychlo · 1 year ago

Text

WHITE XMAS | mattheo riddle

summary; mattheo comes to spend christmas with you and your family.

word count; 15,245

notes; I have never played chess in my life, chess girlies don't come for me. pic was made by @finalgirllx!

“So, Matty, what are your Christmas plans?” You murmur, head bopping lightly to the beat of the tacky Christmas CD that was playing over the Common Room speakers. “Will Tom be coming home for Christmas?”

“Are you kidding?” Mattheo muttered, cursing as he readjusted his grip on the dwindling charcoal in his fingers once again, peeking another glance over the edge of his tatty sketchpad to you. “Why would he?”

“Because it’s nice! It’s Christmas, it’s a time for family to come together.”

“Not mine.” He blew a curl from his eyes, pausing. Tilting his head, he narrowed his eyes as his gaze flickered between the page, and a very specific spot on your shoulder. “Tom has escaped, he doesn’t have to come home for the annual Riddle-family Christmas Horror Show.”

That brought a frown to your lips, and he tutted. “Keep smiling.”

“You’re not even drawing my face right now.” You snipped back, and the edges of his lips tipped up in a smirk, focusing as he dragged the tool in his hand over the paper, back and forth. Soft scraping filled the room, along with the general chatter of the few other students dotted throughout the room, background noise with their undecipherable muttering and the music. “You don’t like Christmas?”

“Why would I? Christmas magic never existed for me. The very day I first asked about Santa, Tom pulled me aside and told me he wasn’t real. Warned me not to ask about him.” With a sigh, he dropped the notepad to sit flat in his lap, resting the charcoal on the side table, and shrugging. When he wiped his forehead, he unknowingly left a smear of grey over his skin. “I was stupid, and four. I asked my father, and he laughed at me and told me not to be pathetic. Everything I got in this world was hard-earned, and came by his generosity, and his alone.”

“Matty…”

“Don’t pity me. Can’t love what I never had.” Despite his brave words, there was an underlying emptiness to his voice, the kind that formed over years of hurt finally losing its bite. The way scarred flesh didn’t hurt, but they never stitched up quite right.

You whisper, standing up and making your way over to him. He looked up at you now as you stood before him, hand raising to wipe the smudge away with your thumb. “It’s that bad?”

He only hummed. “I get to parade around, playing the ‘seen but not heard’ son as my father cashes in on a big business day. It’s such a great time to ‘make connections’. Normally I’d have Tom with me, and we’d spend the days counting down until my birthday, and his. On the 30th, we’d sneak out and get two cupcakes, right between. He’ll be back for New Year's, my father is making him, but I can’t begrudge him staying away for Christmas.”

“You make me so sad sometimes.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” He murmured, leaning up to pinch at your waist lightly, a spot he knew was ticklish. You jerked away from him with a gasp of a laugh, smacking his hand as you went. “Don’t worry. I’ll be at the Malfoy Christmas Eve Ball. I’ll see you all then, I can look forward to it.”

“No.”

“No?” He echoed, a smile forming on his face, and he tugged you in closer, arms wrapping around your thighs. “The fuck do you mean no?”

“I mean, that won’t do. Your Christmas plans make me want to commit a festive crime. Hit your dad with a sleigh, or something.” That brought real laughter from him, a loud burst, his eyes closing a little as he rested his forehead on your stomach, his shoulders shaking. “I have a big family Christmas. All my aunts and uncles and cousins and their kids. There’s going to be at least twenty of us.”

“Now you’re just rubbing it in.” He muttered, shaking his head, frowning up at you falsely.

“No, I’m inviting you, if you’d let me finish.”

His expression shifted then, from teasing and humour to vulnerability and disbelief. Pretty brown eyes shone with shock as he stared up at you. Cupping his jaw, you smoothed your thumb along his cheek. “You’re what?”

“Come with me for Christmas Day, Matty. I cannot, in good conscience, enjoy my day, knowing how you’re spending yours.”

“You really want that? Your family wouldn't mind?” Hope raised in his voice, not a hint of denial in sight, and he smiled shakily when you nodded.

“What are friends for, huh? I promise it’ll be okay. My parents are a ‘the more, the merrier’, type.” He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, thoughts spinning in his gaze, before he pulled you even closer. Pressing his face against your stomach, your hands slipped to his hair instead, running through the curls. It was the same way you did whenever you stumbled across him smoking after a nightmare, or sulking after a letter from home. “We have a floo. You can step right in. I promise, you’d be welcome. Please spend Christmas with me, Mattheo.”

“Okay.” He mumbled, breath hot against your navel through your shirt as he breathed the word against you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He finally turned his head again, resting his cheek there instead, looking away toward the fireplace, throat bobbing. With a final squeeze, he loosened his hold. “I’d really like that.”

“I’ll write down my address for you, and give you all the details.” Leaning down, you pressed a kiss to his messy hair, and he was smiling faintly as you pulled away. “It’ll be great, I promise.”

“I don’t doubt.” Finally, he let go of you fully, and took a bracing breath. Resetting himself, he schooled his features, picking up his sketchpad again and diverting his gaze to it. “Alright, go sit back down. Try and remember your pose, I want to finish this before dinner.”

Rubbing at your eyes tiredly, you were never awake this early, even the children were still snoozing, only one or two other members of your family had woken. Your father had always been an early bird, forcing your mother to be the same, and the two were tinkering in the kitchen, quietly chatting.

One of your grandmas had woken, made her way downstairs, and promptly fallen asleep in the rocking chair next to the fireplace after lighting it with a flick of her wrist. You were sure one of your uncles— maybe a cousin, too— had been wandering upstairs, but perhaps, they’d gone back to bed.

Suppressing a yawn, you jumped when the soft pop of the fireplace sounded, flames changing momentarily from amber and orange to a truly festive shade of green. Stumbling through it was Mattheo.

He didn’t look nearly as tired as you did. More so, he looked alert, in every sense of the word. His eyes were wide, one hand clenched into a tight fist around a bouquet of poor flowers, the other tugging nervously at his collar. He was wearing a red Christmas jumper, a set of tasteful white snowflakes sewn in a band across the chest. His usual black jeans, the best pair he had, seeing as they had no tears or frays, and white sneakers that had been polished to a shine. Possibly, never even worn outside.

“Matty.” You mumbled, and he stepped down from the warmth of the fireplace as the flames flickered back to normal, your grandma merely offering a soft snore beside you both. Mattheo flinched again, like one of Theo’s pranks when he jumped out from behind doorways to scare you all in the dark, and you raised a brow. “You’re up early. Therefore, you naturally called me and woke me up early too.”

“Sorry. I had… restless sleep. I was anxious.”

“Aw,” You smiled, reaching out to pinch his cheek. “You’re all excited like… oh. Well, like a kid on Christmas Day. Huh.” The joke washed over you in waves, still not quite awake enough to be aware of your own words, and he gave you a flat look. “Cute sweater.”

“I just bought it.”

“Why?” You smiled, and his lips twisted like you’d asked a stupid question. He followed you as you guided him from the lounge to the hall, shuffling behind you quickly. “Because you said you would be wearing one!”

“You didn’t have to buy a—” Your words shuttered as his lips smoothed back out, face neutral, but a flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes. Mattheo didn’t own a Christmas jumper. It made sense, he’d never had reason to, but it didn’t stop your heart from breaking a little. “Come on. Take off your shoes, and let’s go get something to drink. Maybe a really strong coffee, hm?”

He toed off his shoes, neatly stacking them onto the rack beside the various others, some left in a pile. It wasn’t like him, Mattheo left his things everywhere; the group was always picking up after him, but it was clear that he was doing the most to be on his very best behaviour.

Taking his free hand in both of your own, you squeezed it, bringing his attention to you. “Mattheo?”

He hummed, tugging at his collar as he stared beyond you to his reflection in the hallway mirror. Smoothing your hands over his shirt, you patted it down, his eyes dropping to you as you pushed his hand away.

“Mattheo. You’re worrying. You’re supposed to be here to have fun, not be the picture-perfect son like you would at home.” His lips pressed together, like he didn’t believe you, as he sighed through his nose. “You’re perfect just as you are, okay? You don’t need to worry. Everyone knows you’re coming, and they know who you are. I’ve been writing about you all in my letters home for years. Your name isn’t a surprise, and you’re welcome here. Okay?”

“You’re sure?”

“Mattheo Riddle, have I ever lied to you?” Your teasing finally brought a smile to his face. “Have I ever given you a reason not to believe me?”

“No.” He finally conceded.

“Then trust me, hm?”

He rolled his eyes, but his shoulders dropped. With one final glance at his reflection, he turned away, closing the page on those fears and ready to proceed with the day. After only a second of hesitation, he took your hand, squeezing for comfort as you guided him back through the house.

His fingers flexed around your own as you approached the kitchen, your mother laughing gently at some joke your father had told. Both of them turned to face you as you stepped in, tugging Mattheo behind you.

“Mama, Dad, my friend is here. This is Mattheo.”

Shaking his hand free from your own, he smoothed his palm over his jeans before shakily stepping forward and offering his hand. Your mother only smiled as your father shook it firmly. “Good to meet you, our daughter writes about you in her letters a lot.”

“Dad.”

“Oh, it’s true! More than almost anyone else.” Your mother cooed, your exasperated sigh doing nothing to dull their teasing as your mother only pinched his cheek instead of taking his offered hand. “Oh, you’re so tall! She never mentioned that.”

“Mama, stop teasing him!”

“I’m doing no such thing!” She scolded you, tutting as she peered over his shoulder. “It’s good to find a tall man. Like your father, they can reach the fresh stuff on the storage shelves that they don’t want you to get at when you go to the store.”

“Oh, is that all?” You muttered, crossing your arms as she went back to fussing over Mattheo. Your father rolled his eyes, sipping from his ‘World’s Best Daddy’ mug that you’d made when you were five. He saved it for every Christmas Day, like tradition.

“These are for you, Mrs—”

“Oh!” Your mother took the bouquet, admiring them, and not even seeming to notice the slightly crumpled stems that had been his substitute stress-ball. “They’re beautiful, look at them.”

She presented them to your father, who nodded approvingly, and Mattheo turned just long enough to glance over his shoulder. He was bewildered, and red-cheeked.

“Alright, have I sufficiently embarrassed you dear, or should I keep going? I haven’t even told you what a handsome young man he is yet—”

“Oh, I think you’ve done plenty.” Your droll tone made your parents snicker to one another, and she turned away to put the flowers in a vase. Reaching forward and grabbing a fistful of Mattheo’s jumper, you tugged him back to your side. “Is anyone else awake yet?”

“Only your grandma.”

You made a noise of agreement, grateful for the early rise if it meant being able to ease Mattheo into the crazy rush. Leaving his side for just a moment, you took two mugs from the cupboard, your early call also meaning you got the first pick, choosing the best ones and setting them out. Claimed, for the day.

Your mother arranged her gift, showing them off proudly before disappearing to the dining room to find a spot for them on the table. Your father followed, and only a moment later, Mattheo was sidling up close to your side as you worked.

“How’re you holding up so far?” You smirked, and he shook his head, a chuckle tumbling quietly from his lips.

“I think if all your family react like that to me, I have nothing to worry about.”

“Why wouldn't they?” You didn’t give him a chance to disagree, stirring the hot drinks before you and tapping the spoon on the rim. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Mattheo.”

“Some people would disagree.”

“Some people also like pickles.” Your nose scrunched up, and you sought out the pot beside the biscuits, popping the lid and sprinkling some marshmallows onto the steaming surface of each one. “Clearly, their decisions can’t be trusted.”

Turning to him and pushing a mug over the counter, he scoffed. Leaning down until your noses were almost brushing, he smirked. “I like pickles.”

“You’re gross. I’ve seen you drink from a random cup the morning after a party.” Taking your mug, you turned away from him, leaving him spluttering behind you as he grabbed his own and followed.

“First of all, that was one time. Secondly, I knew it was my drink! I’m the one who left it there!”

“Uh-huh.” He pinched at your hip in response falling back into step beside you, and allowing himself to be led into the snug. Smaller, cosier, with only one couch and two worn armchairs, it was one of your favourite rooms in the house. A wobbly bookshelf stood in the corner, and a chessboard sat out before you on the coffee table, a freshly reset game. The rest of the board games were stacked on a shelf. “Wanna’ talk about how the day will go? Put any last fears to rest.”

He glanced up, running his finger over the Queen on the board as he sat down, nodding, thankfully. “I’d like that.”

Settling onto a cushion on the floor instead, on the other side, you turned the board around. Picking up a pawn, you made your first move, and a spark went off in his eyes. “We’ll start with breakfast, when everyone wakes up. Mum loves making a big breakfast, she’s a breakfast foods kind of person. There’s a lot of stuff, a lot in the fridge. It’ll remind you of Hogwarts, but better.”

He smiled at that, picking up a pawn himself and shifting it across, playing the board as he waited to see what moves you’d make. Mattheo was surprisingly patient, and good at playing the long game. He never made a real move until there was more going on across the board.

“Then, we’ll open gifts. The kids will be desperate by then, so we’ll all cram into the sitting room. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to pinch a proper seat.” You shrugged, fingers brushing over your pieces, before plucking one up and making your next move. “After that, we do some baking. We’ll make things for dessert, as well as treats to have throughout the day. My mum has a big flow chart of all the cooking for the meal, most stuff we prepared over the last few days, but it all gets heated up and cooked after that.”

“Lot of kitchen work.”

“Oh, yes. Traditionally, all the ladies will do the cooking, and we leave all the washing up and cleaning for the men.” You gave him a wink, watching him play the board while grinning.

“Christmas Day chores, what a treat.”

“While food cooks, they’ll be… something. Maybe movies, I think one of my uncles put a quiz together, so maybe that. Something fun. Then we’ll eat.” You found yourself stuck already, watching as he already managed to be pinning you down across the checkerboard. You considered your play for a while, and he sipped at his hot chocolate, a pleased noise on his lips as he licked foam from his top lip. “Then…”

“Then?” He said, and finally, you decided what to do, shifting to knock down one of his pieces and snatch it up with a smirk. That smirk didn’t last long, not as you saw his expression. Like you’d fallen right into his trap. He moved quickly, striking like a viper as he swiped up without consideration, and you swore as he took a piece in return.

“Then… I don’t know. The rest of the day is mostly lazing around, letting the food settle, eating more food…”

“Can’t wait.” He whispered, and the moment you made your next play, he was grinning over the rim of his mug. He crossed the board, knocking down your Queen, and beaming as you scowled. “Checkmate.”

“Fuck you.”

“You lasted longer this time. That was, what, twelve moves? I’m impressed.”

“Bite me.” You scoffed, and he flashed his teeth, snapping them in a bite playfully, and you stuck out your tongue.

“Don’t be a sore loser.” Mattheo taunted.

“Didn’t you once punch MacLaggen after a Quidditch match because—”

“You be quiet or I’ll come over there and make you be quiet.” As his eyes shone with mirth, you flipped him off, gulping at your hot chocolate and letting the half-melted, gooey marshmallows sit on your tongue. “Much better.”

“I don’t like you.”

“Oh, now, don’t believe a word she says.” You jumped, turning to the doorway as your cousin poked her head through, and Mattheo stiffened instantly. “She told me she wished I fell off my broom last year, just because I won the little toy inside the last Christmas cracker.”

“Jess!” You beam, lighting up a little as she stepped into the room, her youngest following her inside. The girl who came behind her was only two, still dressed in her striped pyjamas, eyes half open and curls pressed from the side she’s slept on. “Mattheo, meet my least favourite cousin.”

“Now, now. That’s just rude.” She beamed, letting go of her daughter's hand as the youngest began to toddle over towards you on shaky little stomps, letting you scoop her up and place a big kiss on her cheek. As you fawned over her child, Jess reached out, shaking Mattheo’s hand as he sat nervously. “Nice to meet you, Mattheo. I’ve heard a lot about you. Better than the Italian one, that’s for sure.”

“You’ve met Theo?” His shock was evident. Jess scoffed while you just laughed and tickled your baby cousin’s stomach.

“Once, at family week. He happened to bump into us at Hogsmeade. Terrible flirt, isn’t he?”

“You were knocked up at the time, too.” You snickered, and she looked fondly at her daughter.

“Oh, that didn’t stop him.”

“Sounds like our Notty-boy,” Mattheo whispered, turning to look at you. When the girl on your knee looked up at him curiously, he wiggled his fingers, “Hello there.”

She only giggled, turning away to hide her face in your neck.

“You two coming out for breakfast?” Jess sighed, calling her daughter back to her side as you put her down, and she scooped the girl up onto her hip. She turned to Mattheo, mischief written onto her features, “There are some people who want to meet you.”

Standing up and brushing off dirt from the floor, he followed suit, your cousin leaving ahead of you both. Taking your mug in one hand, Mattheo ruffled his hair in the other, patting down the untamed stands.

“What are you— stop doing that.” Grabbing his arm, you didn’t fail to notice the light tremors from his nerves. “You’re squashing all your curls.”

“I should’ve styled my hair this morning. Your family will think I’m a mess.”

“It’s Christmas Day, and you woke me up before I could even wash my face. Trust me, you’re fine.” He only frowned, reaching his hand up towards his hair again, and you pulled it down. Running your hands down his arm, you clasped his hands, reassuringly. His fingers folded around your palm in return. “Ruining your pretty hair won’t make them like you any more, but it’ll make me like you less!”

“You think my curls are pretty?”

Heat flushed your cheeks as he stared at you, curious. He’d always been so pretty, and it never failed to astonish you how all your favourite parts of him were the parts he disliked the most. “Shut up.”

His lips twitched, but he refrained from replying, glancing at the door instead. In a bold move, he took a step toward it, evidently deciding he was ready, as he guided you both out of the room and toward the growing bustle of voices.

Only moments after you emerged, he was swept into the craziness; aunties and uncles and cousins descending on him, all asking a thousand questions a minute. They wanted to know about classes, and where his jumper was from, and if he preferred roast beef or roast turkey. He was taken from you, leaving you to hold both mugs and chuckle at the flustered look on his face.

By the time you’d refilled them both and returned to the pandemonium, he sagged with relief upon seeing you. Kids were already mithering about opening presents, raving madly about Santa, and he was able to slip away from the hustle and back to you.

“Before you chastise me for leaving you,” You pressed the mug into his hands the moment his jaw dropped, pre-empting his words, “I refilled your hot chocolate. I stood no chance, they’re animals, and you were the newest squeaky toy. Luckily, the young have saved you, by nagging about the presents.”

“I’ll let you out of it this time.” He shook his head, serious like he was really mad, even as he leaned in to kiss your temple. His mouth moved to your ear, “Your family are very friendly.”

“They were excited to meet you. You’re fresh meat. How are you at pub quizzes? Because they’ll be all over you.”

He chuckled, and before he could say anything else, your mother was making the call to start cooking breakfast. Just like that, the room seemed to clear of men, all of them slipping away at the word ‘cooking’, taking the kids with them. Only the grandparents were left in the living room, excused from all chores, naturally.

“You can go with the other men if you’d like.”

“I’d rather stay and cook with you… is that okay?” He glanced towards the kitchen, and smiled when you nodded.

“Course you can. Come on.” Leading him to the kitchen, your aunts and cousins were already bustling around, working wherever your mother assigned them to. Your mother snapped her fingers to you, pointing towards the griddle that was heating up, all the ingredients for fluffy pancakes laid out alongside.

Guiding Mattheo over to it after washing your hands, his cheeks went red as he stood before the bowl. “I, uh, maybe didn’t think this through. I don’t know how to cook.” He whispered, embarrassment tinging his voice as everyone around you both seemed to be getting on at speeds.

“That’s okay, why don’t you mix the batter while I add the ingredients, hm?”

That brought his sweet expression back, letting out the breath he was clinging to, and pulling the bowl towards himself. You added each ingredient, weighing them up and measuring them out as he stirred the bowl continuously, switching between arms as he tired. On and on you went, until you had enough butter to make pancakes for an army, and he was eating leftover chocolate chips from the bag while you greased the griddle pan.

He was watching eagerly as your cousin Ki grilled bacon, stacking up a pile that had his entire attention.

“Mattheo, dear, do you want a piece of bacon?” Your mother snapped him from his dazed watch, and his jaw dropped open, the tips of his ears going red.

You snickered, nudging him where he stood beside you, still clutching the bowlful of batter. With a shy nod, his mother picked up a piece handing it to him with a wink, and he beamed upon receiving it.

Tearing off a chunk with his teeth and chewing, he turned to face you, leaning down to whisper in your ear, “I think your mother likes me.”

“I told you she would.” You said, a happy sound leaving him at the confirmation. Once the tray was ready, you grabbed for a ladle, and he held the bowl securely, the two of you working to set off the first batch of pancakes to cook. He shuffled every step with you, and while they cooked, you began to work on the second batter batch. “You want to try this time? I can help you.”

“Alright.” He nodded, setting the bowl back on the scale like he’d seen you start with. Scanning his hands over the ingredients, he reached for the flour first, holding it up in question. Sieving it through until you told him to stop, he smiled to himself as he watched the dust fall perfectly. A sprinkle of sugar, and a dash of vanilla essence, and then he circled in the centre with a spoon to create a well.

“Alright, make sure you tap it lightly on the edge. You don’t want bits of shells in the food.”

He was so focused it was almost adorable, your heart skipping a beat as you watched him go, tapping the egg on the bowl so delicately your heart ached. “Like that?”

“Maybe a little harder.”

And then, he cracked it down with another force that the rim of the bowl went halfway through the egg, mangling the whites and the yolks, with splinters of shells going into the food. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“S’okay, we can just pick the shell out and try again. Don’t worry.”

Dipping your fingers into the flour to pick out the pieces of shell, you discarded the broken egg to the side, and he helped fish out all the pieces, meticulously checking there was none left. Handing him a new egg, he eyed his cautiously now.

“C’mere, let me show you.”

Guiding your hand down his arm to cup over his, you guided his hand down with the right amount of pressure, cracking the egg enough to slip your nails in and pull it apart. Taking his other hand too, you huddled in close, your hands over his by the bowl as the pair of you pressed to one another, pulling the egg apart and letting it fall into the well.

“Perfect, see. You’re a natural.”

He turned to look down at you, eyes scanning over your face, a silent moment you didn’t know how to read, before he was turning back to it. You helped him with the second one, and then he did the third and fourth alone, cheering with so much enthusiasm about it that several of your relatives celebrated with him.

He whisked the batter up, flipping the ones already cooking, and stacking them up on a plate before ladling out the batter he’d made. By the time they were finished, he was so eager to try the first thing he’d ever cooked that he almost burned his fingers as he snatched one up. Blowing on it hastily, he took a large bite, huffing some further breaths to cool it down.

“So good.” He groaned, taking another large bite. Following as you took the plate to the dining table, lots of food was already laid out, your grandparents beginning to pile up their plates, and parents dishing up for their kids.

“Sit down, get some of your pancakes while they’re still hot and there’s still some there.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, sinking into a seat and grabbing for a plate. You sat with him, and soon, the whole family was gathered around, filling plates and chatting happily as the sleepiness wore away and the festive excitement settled in.

Chatter went on around you both as Mattheo gave it his best go to eat his body weight in bacon and pancakes, only pausing when you reminded him that there was still plenty of food left to go over the course of the day. He was happy to sit and listen to the conversation going on around him, but when the attention turned to him, he stuttered over his words.

He was nervous to answer any questions that came to him, your hand sliding into his under the table and pulling it onto his lap. It took him several questions to realise that they weren’t bothered by his family name. In fact, nobody asked him about his father, or his mother. He had one question about Tom, but only with respect to him being a brother, not a Riddle.

When this realisation washed over him, the way he lit up was obvious. Nervous responses became animated ramblings, talking with excitement and purpose as he responded to every attempt anyone made to get to know him.

He admitted to your Uncle Jamie that, no, he’d never been fishing. Your father asked him about his grades at school, and your mother berated him, before asking Mattheo about his favourite classes instead. Your Auntie Sally told him all about how she had been sorted in Gryffindor while her brother Steven had been Slytherin. They had epic battles on the Quidditch pitch, no pulled punches, and wondered if that rivalry still lasted. Your Uncle Steven asked him what his hobbies were, and he shyly admitted how much he loved art, which led to your grandad waking back up from his dozing just in time to start telling the same old story about the two-month spell he’d spent as a police sketch artist in the fifties.

He seemed more than happy to talk, settling into the dynamic of the room, and you took your plate to the kitchen, tidying it away. With a kiss on his cheek, you let Mattheo know you were finally going to change.

By the time you stepped back into the room fifteen minutes later, the children were frantically tugging at their adult’s arms to go back through for gifts, the sugar rush starting to kick in. Mattheo was helping to gather dishes away, arms out as your Auntie Sally piled plates and bowls into his arms, his eyes wide as she spoke to him about something.

You followed them through to the kitchen, not failing to miss the occasional drop of your name in the conversation, clearing your throat dramatically and stealing the spotlight. Your Aunt only grinned over her shoulder conspiratorially, unstacking the dirty dishes from Mattheo’s arms into the soapy water of the sink. Mattheo, however, sagged with relief as you appeared. The moment his arms were clear, he was sweeping back over to you, taking a handful of your Christmas jumper and tugging you to his side.

You stumbled along after him out of the room. “The second you left the room, they were all over me. What are my intentions, what are my feelings, when will I ask you out—” His voice hit a shrill note, and you chuckled, unclenching his hand from the material of your sweater.

“I made it very clear to them before today that we weren’t dating. You don’t need to worry about that, they’re just messing with you.”

“I wasn’t— I wasn’t worried, so much as intimidated! They’re scary people.”

“Are you trying to imply I’m not scary?” You tease, taking the edge off of his nerves as he rolled his eyes, focusing on that instead of the conversation you’d just freed him from.

“Oh, I’ve seen you in action. You’re terrifying when you want to be.” He muttered, leaning down to rest his forehead on your own, voice dropping low. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way Draco screamed when you filled his bed with grass snakes.”

“Yes, well, perhaps that’ll teach him not to steal my skin products just because his own ran out.”

“Come on, you two. Presents time.” Sally emerged from the kitchen, clapping her hands and smirking, and you groaned. Taking Mattheo’s hand and guiding him through to the living room, you snatched up a seat on one of the sofas quickly, Mattheo squeezing in beside you.

Children were already tearing into their presents, ribbons and bows and paper were already scattered around the room in a messy storm. Your mother pottered through with a tray of mugs, your father following, and you smiled gratefully as she passed you a mug of herbal tea.

As the mayhem went on, Mattheo settled back into the sofa, tugging your wrist closer to himself and sniffling the contents of your mug before taking a sip. He was perfectly happy to sit back and watch gifts be opened, to gather wrapping paper from your presents onto his lap and scrunch them up into balls.

Until one of the toddlers, Elliot, pulled out a gift from under the tree and flipped the label over. He struggled over it for a while, sounding out the sounds he could see written down. “Math..ee. Matt-ee-oo.” He mouthed around the word as Mattheo stiffened beside you. “Matthew.”

His head snapped up, looking straight to Mattheo as his mother corrected him softly, lowering her camera from filming him and pointing. Elliot carried the gift over, placing it into Mattheo’s hands, before dashing back to the tree to search for more gifts of his own.

Mattheo smoothed his fingers over the paper and ribbon, flipping the tag over to be sure, as if he didn’t quite believe it. Your handwriting neatly scrawled his name on the paper, and his eyes flickered up to you. “You did this?”

“Mhm. Open it.”

You pulled up your legs, tucking them underneath yourself and watching excitedly as he ran he tugged at the bow. Undoing the ribbon, he curled it up carefully, setting it aside next to his leg and flipping it over. Running his fingers over the edges, on the left side, they bumped along, and a smile cracked on his face. He repeated the motion, feeling more firmly through the wrapping. “Is this was I think it is?”

“Open it and find out.” You poked him with your toes, and he pushed his fingers under the folds of the paper, opening the seals and tearing it away from what was inside. He stared at it once it was free, fingers dusting across the ornate cover, flipping it open to look through the blank pages, to admire the paper quality.

“You got me a new sketchbook?”

“Hm. Not just any sketchbook, though. It’s an enchanted one. It’ll never run out of blank pages.” His jaw dropped, turning back to look at it.

“I’ve never— I didn’t even know such a thing existed. Where did you get it?”

“An art store, at Diagon Alley. I was just going to get you a regular one, but then I found this.” You shrugged, and his eyes were glistening when he looked up again.

“I love it. Thank you.” He clutched it to his chest, never looking away, not hiding his emotions this time even as his nose scrunched up a little and he sniffed. The busy noise and action went on around you both, but as he stretched on hand out to squeeze yours, it was like the two of you were all alone. Emotion clogged in your throat, your chest ached for him, such a visceral reaction to such a small gift. Tipping your head toward the tree, you laughed lightly. “There’s a couple more over there for you.”

“What?” His voice was shaky, glancing at the Christmas tree as some of the others gathered around it now, the children done and satisfied as they began to pay with all their new toys amongst the mess.

“Go on, go and get involved.” When he hesitated, a smile breaking free on his face, you encouraged him again, and he took a seat beside your mother by the tree, one more look back at you before beginning to search for the ones with his name on in the pile.

You opened and smiled at the gifts you were handed, grateful for them all as your family passed presents around, but you were distracted.

Distracted, watching the joy on Mattheo’s face as he opened another present, looking up at you as he opened a new set of colourful quills and chalks, the blush on his face when he unwrapped an ornament with ‘Baby Boy’s First Christmas’ written on. He glared at you with red cheeks, but held it carefully, and searched for a spot to hang it on the tree at your mother’s insistence. Distracted as you pulled out your phone, taking covert pictures of Mattheo with one of the biggest smiles you’d ever seen him wear.

He found another, settling it on his lap, his attention diverted as Jess’ son Aiden tugged at Mattheo’s sleeve, shoving a toy racecar into his face. Mattheo was polite, asking all kinds of questions, letting the boy run the car up and down his arm, and over his face, even as the small tyres went in his eye. When he finally grew bored of tangling the model Ferrari in Mattheo’s hair, he pointed at the gift still sitting in his lap.

Mattheo lifted it, showing it to him as Aiden slumped down across Mattheo’s shoulders lay across his back and tugging at the ribbon. He helped to open it, and while Mattheo’s face lit up, Aiden’s scrunched up, turning to glare at you on his new friend’s behalf.

“Ew, Auntie (Y/N), why did you get him a colouring book? Colouring books suck.”

Your laughter was hidden by Mattheo’s even as Jess scolded her son, and he stood, bringing it back over to you as his amusement died down. It was no ordinary book, it was a stress therapy colouring book, and by the way he was already flicking through the drawings inside, you could tell he liked it.

Stacking it on top of the sketchpad with his new quills and chalks. He reached for your mug, taking it from your hands and putting it down on the table by the sofa before tugging you up. Your body flew into his with the force of it, his arms wrapping around you tightly, and his face buried in your neck.

“Thank you.”

“Just a couple of gifts.” You smile, rubbing his back gently as he sank further into your touch, leaning his weight onto you. Your friendship group had already exchanged presents before leaving for the holidays, you’d done a Secret Santa exchange, and you’d given Blaise a new phone case and a basket full of chocolates.

“It’s so much more than that, stop playing it casual.” He muttered, words vibrating along your skin. With one final squeeze, he pulled back, the two of you dropping down onto the sofa, and you kicked your legs out across his lap comfortably. He reached for his new sketchpad, cracking open one of the new quills, a green one, and adjusting you. He propped your legs up on his lap to lean his book on, his head falling to your shoulder as his side pressed to your torso, and that oh-so-serious look took over his face once again as he began to sketch.

Sketching the Christmas tree.

Weaving your hand into his hair, you found yourself slipping back into that place where only you and he existed for a while, scratching lightly at his scalp and sitting still as he drew.

He stayed like that for a long while.

Long enough for the sun to start properly rising across the sky, and the Church bells on the horizon to start ringing. The children had rushed off to start a new game, and the group had dispersed through the house to keep up with their own activities. He’d long since finished his drawing, and was now lying quietly on your shoulder, your hand still in his hair, his eyes closed as he rested, mumbling responses to the conversation the two of you were barely carrying.

“I hate to disturb you two,” Your mother said, in a tone that suggested she very clearly did not hate to do such a thing, a grin on her face as she poked her head around the doorway, “But we’re about to start the baking. Did either of you wish to join us?”

Mattheo lifted his head, looking at you eagerly, and your hand slipped down to his shoulder as you pushed him upright again. “Go, make cookies.”

He stood, stretching out stiffened limbs. “Will you come too?”

You hadn't planned on it, much preferring to sit back and maybe take a nap. But, Mattheo was excited, and you’d long since decided that today was all about him. You could spare one Christmas to make him happy in ways he’d never forget. “Of course I will.”

He took on a happy look, and the two of you made your way to the kitchen side by side. Your mum left the doorway from where she ‘was not watching’, walking ahead. “So, what are we making?” Matt asked as the three of you joined the other few who had volunteered in the kitchen.

“We have brownies over here, cookies on the island, and apple pie being made on the table over there. Take your pick, sweetie.”

“Uh… cookies?”

“Perfect. You’ll work with me.” She took his arm by the elbow, pulling him towards the island in the centre of the room. You took over at the brownie station, washing your hands before joining in.

He put all of that polite, well-trained behaviour to good use as he chatted up a storm with your female relatives. They all loved him, laughing at his jokes and listening intently to his stories as he worked, barely aware of the attention that was on him as he stirred the bowl. Meanwhile, you spent the majority of the time trying to fight off all the little hands trying to reach up and snatch chunks of chocolate from the chopping boards, and stealing the bowls to lick.

You did, at least, manage to snap a picture of Mattheo with his cookie cutter before he spotted you.

The children were clamouring for the dishes by the end. You were elbow-deep in soapy water and washing, a tray of hot brownies and out, cookies cooling, and more batches already in the oven as several pies sat out waiting for later. Mattheo was talking to one of your older Aunts, charming her with boyish tales of him and Theo and Draco, when she took the brownie batter bowl out of a sprinting Aiden’s hands from where he had grabbed it and run.

He wailed loudly as his plot was foiled and she tutted at him. “Thieves don’t get treats, Aiden. You should’ve asked nicely. Only the nice boys get to lick the spoon.”

He frowned, crossing his arms over his chest, and knowing better than to fight back. She then turned back to the conversation, and held it out to Mattheo. “Matt, dear, would you like it?”

“Me?” He was as astonished as Aiden, taking the bowl and the spoon slowly and bringing them close to himself. You’d told your family a little more than you let on to Matt. You’d told them just enough to know that he didn’t typically have a good Christmas, that one of your favourite times of the year was one of his worst, and you wanted to make that better for him today.

He picked up the spoon, licking the batter off happily, and crouching down with the bowl in his hands, holding it to Aiden. Swiping his finger through it, your nephew was pleased once again, and soon enough, Mattheo had a swarm of children hanging from him as he made the mistake of sharing something sugary.

When he finally emerged, notably sans bowl, he wandered over to you, dropping the spoon in the sink. His jaw dropped to speak to you, attention stolen by the tugging of a small hand on his sleeve. Mabel was peering up at him, holding his colour therapy book in her other hand, and lifting it up.

“Can I colour in’y’book w’you?” She mumbled quietly, and your heart burst in your chest as he slipped his hand down to take hers carefully.

“Of course.” He let himself be guided away, back to the living room with Mabel, and your head dropped, hiding the smile as you continued to wash up.

Jess leaned on the counter beside you, a cloth in her hands from where she’d helped with the rest of the cleanup, and you turned to look up at her.

“I like him. He’s sweet.”

“You should see the pranks he pulls at school, he’s a menace.” Your joke amused her, a low sound leaving her as she wiped at the counters around you both for excess flour.

“Yeah, but, I still think he’s a sweetheart. And he’s into you, that much is clear.”

“Don’t start with this,” You groan, drying off your hands as the last of the monumental amount of washing up was completed. “I told you, we’re friends.”

“Yeah, just friends.” She shrugged, “But just because that's all you are right now, doesn’t mean that’s all you’ll ever be, or all you want to be. I see the way you look at him. You like him.”

“He’s pretty. Every girl looks at him like that.”

“No,” She shook her head, and you couldn't bear to look at her as she read you like a book. Instead, you began prepping a new mug of hot chocolate. “You look a him like you think his soul is pretty, not just him.”

“Shut up.” Her poetic words made you blush, and she closed in on you, ready to make the final strike. “Don’t you dare—”

“You looove him. You got a big, fat crush on him.”

“I will push you off your broom myself.” Your scowl didn’t ward her away, she was only torn from smirking at you as your mother began to unload the next set of food to start being prepared for dinner. The turkey was already in, had been for hours, but she began to unstack pigs and blankets as trays of sausage meat stuffing onto the surface.

Swiping up the mug, you followed the rumbling of Mattheo’s deep voice through the house. Sat on the floor of the snug, Mabel was lying on her stomach by his side as she coloured as neatly as possible onto the first page of his colouring therapy books with her crayons. Aiden was under his arm, holding up the instruction manual of a new Lego set, as a half-built model sat in front of them.

Elliot was playing with some of Aiden’s toy cars, and eight-year-old Jessop was lying on the sofa, reading a book. Knocking two knuckles on the door, five heads all snapped up to look at you. Mattheo smiled as you stepped into the room, and Aiden grumbled at his distraction, going back to the Lego even as Mattheo pulled away.

You offered him the new cup of hot chocolate, and he smiled as he accepted it, taking a sip.

“You know the men are all gathered in the living room watching some movie about cars. They have a lot of beer, and an empty seat, if you want to join them.” You sang the words enticingly, hands on his hips as you swayed him to the beat of your melody.

“What will you be doing?” He stepped a little closer, free hand going to your waist, too.

“I’ll help my mum with the cooking.”

“Can’t I help you cook, instead?” His whisper brushed your cheek as he leaned into place a kiss there, and your heart stuttered in your chest, taking you a moment to recompose yourself as he pulled back with a smile.

“Of course you can… if that’s what you want, but you don’t have to. You’re here to have fun.”

“What makes you think I’m not having fun?” He mused, peering at you over the rim of the mug as he took a sip. “I’m having a ton of fun. Best Christmas ever, all thanks to you. I just want to be wherever you are today.”

“Well, then I guess we’ll be in the kitchen,” Your words are hardly audible as you say them, swallowing back the emotion in your throat as he held eye contact.

“I guess we will, sweetheart.”

You turn to walk away, Mattheo following behind you as you lead him back to the kitchen.

He was more than welcome once again, immersed straight into girl talk as your relatives grumbled and complained over their husbands. Mattheo put his suspiciously good rolling habits to use, wrapping sausages tightly in strips of bacon, and almost choking when your mother complimented his skills.

He tried to hug you with raw hands, chasing you around the kitchen until your mother scolded him playfully, calling him back and having him lift the meats from the oven to be re-basted.

He was chopping and peeling potatoes, nudging back and forth with his hip as you worked beside him, when your already-exhausted-looking Uncle Jeremy peered into the kitchen, Elliot dangling upside down from his shoulder.

“The film ended. We’re going to take the kids out for a walk and burn off some of this energy. Anyone want to join?”

He looked like he was desperately waiting for them to tire out so the drinking could start, Elliot climbing all over him like a playground frame and your mother shooed you both away. “You can go, c’mon. Go for a walk, let your grandparents and I have some time.”

The kitchen cleared out, shoes and coats and scarves were put on, and then you were all trudging out into the snow as your father shut the door, hands in his pockets as he followed you down the frozen garden path. Mattheo wore an old coat he’d borrowed from your father, zipped right up as he kept his chin tucked down inside it, hands buried in his pockets.

“Oh, don’t pout, Matty. You’ve had colder than this.”

“How did we end up out here? I was cosy inside five minutes ago.” He pressed his hands even tighter into the coat as you linked an arm through his, snuggling up to his side as you followed the others along toward the fields you’d roam across for a while.

“My mum does this every year. We always host, but she kicks everyone out so she can check on my grandparents, and take a break for herself. She’ll have a large glass of wine, sit down in front of the fire, and watch an episode of whatever her latest reality TV show is, before we all come back.” The grass crunched under your feet as you stepped out onto the frozen fields, glittering and icy as far as you could see. “It’ll help you work up an appetite for the meal, though.”

“Your mother nearly gave me a heart attack when she asked me where I learned to roll pigs in blankets like that for someone who’s ‘never cooked a day in his little life’.” He produced his hands to make air quotes around his words, and only tucked one back into his pocket. The other, he took yours with, lacing your fingers together, and rubbing his thumb over your own.

“I know. Your face was priceless. I actually got a picture of it.”

“If anyone ever sees that picture, I’ll hex you.”

“You mean it wasn’t okay for me to send it straight to the group chat? Oops.” He stuck out his tongue, but sighed, taking in the countryside around him as you walked through it.

“You grew up here?”

“Nice, isn’t it? You murmur, looking around and letting the nostalgia wash over you as your thumb wrestled with his absentmindedly. “There’s a river nearby. We used to go down there as kids, this big group of us who lived here. We’d have picnics, and wade in the water and play on the rope swing.”

“Sounds fun.” He sighed, and you squeezed his hand, no words to comfort him coming to mind. He’d had no such freedom in his childhood, you knew as much from the snippets he or Tom would accidentally drop before they could stop themselves. “Sometimes I would walk around the grounds of the estate, but we were only allowed out if it was dry so we wouldn't get dirty.”

Resting your chin on his shoulder, you hugged his arm, snuggling into him as much as you could while still ambling on behind your chatting family. “Oh, Matty…”

“Normally, I hate hearing that. The sad, pitying voices.” He murmured, before twisting to face you, the tips of your noses brushing. “But when it’s you, I kinda’ like it. You don’t feel condescending, you just feel caring.”

“That’s because I do care.”

“I know.” He smiled, turning to face forward once again, and you rested your cheek on his shoulder instead, making it easier to walk along, huddled into his side.

You remained in silence for a while, letting him soak it all in, pausing occasionally to take a picture or two of him looking at things. Even when he walked away, to pick up fallen pinecones, or to look at initials carved into a tree, he still came back every time, to where you patiently waisted, his hand finding yours or tucking you back under his arm each time.

You were in the middle of taking several photos of him petting a walker’s dog when your father stopped, hands on his hips as he stared up at the greying sky overhead.

“It’s going to start snowing.”

Mattheo’s head snapped up, eyes wide as he let the dog go, running to catch its owner. “How can you tell?”

The excitement was clear in his voice, standing up and brushing his gloveless hands off on his jeans. You snorted, he’d really done it now. “Dad has a sixth sense about these things.”

“You see, my boy, those clouds up there are called nimbostratus clouds.” He pointed upwards, hands on his hips as Mattheo adopted a similar stance, copying him and staring up at the sky. “They’ve been settling in all day, and now the sky is full. Not to mention, it just dropped a degree or two a minute ago. Now, it’s not that perceptible when it’s already this cold, but I’m good with temperatures, you know. And it always drops a degree or two right before it precipitates.”

“And, how do you know it’s snow, not just rain? Or do those kinds of clouds only make snow?”

You laughed again, linking your arm through Mattheo’s, and he twisted his head to press a kiss to your temple. He stiffened a moment later, just as you did, and you wondered if he realised what he’d done at all until after. He didn’t take it back, though. Instead, he relaxed a second later, still listening to your dad talk about how he just knows, can feel it in his bones when the snow comes.

“So, how many different types of clouds are there?” Mattheo asked after listening to the whole explanation.

That was how you spent the entire walk back getting to hear about all the different types of cloud formations. To his credit, Mattheo seemed to be genuinely soaking up every word your father said. He had questions, and opinions, which span off into a new chat about the water cycle and glaciers.

It was only when you were ten minutes out from home that your father’s prophecy came true, and snow began to fall in heavy flakes from the sky. The children squealed excitedly, and Mattheo caught the flakes in the palms of his hands, watching each one melt against his skin with a small smile on his lips.

Finally, as everyone stepped back into the warmth to shake off the snow, and stomp mud off of their boots, it was like a stampede to get to the fireplace and warm up. Shaking out his hands and flexing his fingers, you took your time unwinding your scarf, hanging it up with your coat and peeling off your gloves.

His cheeks, nose and hands were pink, and he was rubbing at his arms to warm up now that he’d taken off his coat.

“My hands are cold.”

“I can tell.” You took them in your own, rubbing his frozen skin lightly. His fingers trembled a little in your hold, chilled to the bone, and you lifted your cupped hands together to your face. Softly parting your hands, you blew warm air between them onto his skin, your cheeks flaring with warmth at the gasp he made.

Rubbing again, you repeated the actions until the shaking of his hands stopped, and you finally chanced a look up at him. He was staring down at you, eyes practically glittering and lips parted. He seemed lost for words for a moment, toying with the thoughts in his mind before finally settling. “I like it when you fuss over me.”

He took his hands back, tucking them faster than you could stop him under the back of your jumper, cold fingers splaying across your back as he tugged you into his body. His face pressed into the crook of your neck, cold nose dragging along your skin. No matter how much you groaned and wriggled, his grip was tight, chilling you with him as he stole your body heat.

Eventually, you just gave in, sighing as you stroked his back, letting him snuggle in for warmth rather than fight for a space next to the fire. Amongst the woodsy smell of his cologne, and the gingery pine scent of the Christmas candles your mum burned every year, something else lingered in the air.

Berries, citrus fruit, and spices.

“I think mum made mulled wine.” Your words were right beside his ear, and at that, he raised his head, scrunching his nose sweetly a couple of times before sniffling the air. “Want some?”

“I’ve never had any. Is it good?”

“Seriously? Matt!” Grabbing behind yourself for one of his hands, you hurried him through the house. Just as you’d suspected the morning’s tanker of hot chocolate had been swapped out, and now, a steaming vat of mulled wine replaced it.

Grabbing two glass mugs, you set them out, pouring some from the little tap, and passing it to him by the handle. The cinnamon and orange smell so much stronger in the air now, and you moaned under your breath as you breathed in the steam.

He held the mug in his hands, not even seeming to feel the heat seeping through as he blew on the surface, several times, before taking a tentative sip. You waited for his reaction, practically on the edge of your seat, if you’d had one.

“It’s…”

“It’s..?” You burst, waiting for his reply, and he dragged it out just to tease you.

“It’s really good.” He eventually caved, taking another sip, and another, as you cheered. “Don’t ever tell my boy Theo I said that. He’d skin me alive. He hates the idea of mulled wine and refuses to touch it. It’s an insult to his Italian heritage, he says.”

“So is cream in carbonara, breadsticks, and chicken mince lasagne.” You scoffed, and he grinned at that.

He drank some more, the two of you sipping quietly on your glasses, before hearing the opening tunes of a movie on the TV. Refilling your glasses, you headed through. The room was only half full, some sat about chatting in the dining room, others upstairs, and some likely in the snug or their bedrooms. It left you plenty of space to lie out across one of the couches, stretching happily, and your toes didn’t even reach the other end.

The kids were all gathered around on the carpet, and Mattheo paced slowly behind you, with no attention on his movements but all his attention fixed on the animations taking place on the screen. He sat next to your legs nudging them up into the cushions before twisting and leaning back, settling himself against you with his head on your shoulder, back to your chest, as he continued to watch.

He didn’t see your flushed cheeks or your shy surprise, not as you hid your face behind him from the watchful eyes of the few members of your family that were in here, too. Reaching for one of the rolled-up blankets along the back of the couch, you shook it out, spreading it over his body for an extra layer of warmth. He made a happy sound, shuffling back further into you, and letting the hand not holding his cup fall to clasp your calf by his hip, stroking slowly.

Your arms crossed over his chest, giving up on what little pretence you had. This day would already be one of your favourite memories that you made, you might as well give into the full depth of what you wanted, and really make it the best it could be. Whether anything came from it or not, you’d still have this moment, cuddling with him on the sofa as he watched The Snowman for the first time.

Your fingers ran through his hair, tugging out wind-tangled knots loosely, and playing with the curls around your fingers. You were oh-so-fond of Mattheo’s natural hair, dipping down to bury your nose in the strands, and kiss to top of his head. He squeezed your leg again, tipping his head back enough to leave a kiss brushed on your chin, before quickly looking back to the screen, and finishing off his mulled wine.

Your cheek rested where your lips had once been, glancing around the room. Most of your relatives only gave you a small smile, while your mother winked at you, and your dad offered a thumbs up. You merely rolled your eyes, thankful for the dark of the room and that they couldn't see your blush.

By the end of the movie, Mattheo was turning to you, abject horror evident on his face, as everyone else seemed to get on like normal. “He melted?”

“He’ll be back next year, don’t worry.” You smile, and Mattheo shook his head, brows furrowed, a deep ridge between them that showed just how bothered he was by the ending.

“But he melted! How is that— I thought this was a child’s movie!”

“It is!”

“That’s like killing the dog in a Christmas movie.” He stuttered, trying to keep his voice low despite his growing concern. You left a kiss on his forehead in an attempt to hide your amusement from him.

“Then you’re gonna’ hate The Snowman and The Snowdog.”

“Say sike. You say sike right now, or I’m getting in that floo and going home.” He pointed in the direction of the fireplace, and your laughter broke out, spilling into uncontrollable giggles. He was not pleased with your laughing, even if he did wrap you up into his arms, smothering your face into his bicep and grunting unhappily. “You cruel, cruel woman. Finding joy in my misery.”

That only made you laugh more.

The day was going by too quickly for your liking, it felt like all you did was blink, and you found yourself instead sitting at the dining room table, Mattheo on one side, your Uncle James, Grandma Alice and Grandpa William teamed up with you as you tried to count through the Premier League teams before the other teams.

Someone else hit the buzzer first, and you cursed in a very unladylike manner that made your Grandpa chuckle.

Mattheo wasn’t much help with general knowledge, but he was enthusiastic. He tried as much as he could to participate in the rounds, and whenever he did happen to get something right, the look that took over his features was enough to light the night sky. He’d cheer, and kiss your cheek, and scribble the answers down on the big answers sheet you’d been assigned.

It went on and on, only ending when the timer went off for the turkey, and raucous shouting took over from every adult as the quiz was cut short. Mattheo was laughing, loud, his arm looped around your waist as he nestled you into his side, immersed in the noise and hubbub. One of your cousins was adding up the scores, and you already knew you hadn't won, but hearing all of the scores being read, you cringed at just how badly your team had done.

Mattheo laughed into your hair, the other arm hooking around your shoulders to pull you into him more fully.

“That was more insane than a Common Room party.” He grinned, spoken close to your ear, and you laughed.

“Why do you think I’m so good at handling you lot when you’re drunk and rowdy, hm?”

“I have never seen anyone corral drunk Italians like you.” He pulled back enough to peer down at you, and you smiled.

The moment was snapped away from you both by the clearing of the quiz sheets away. The pens and markers were being gathered by Aiden, while Mabel followed him around with a basket for him to drop them into. Once the seats were clear, the settings all started to come back, and you watched as the room was transformed once again from a disaster zone and back into an elegant eating space. Cutlery went down after the plates, napkins and glasses and a cracker at each space.

Mattheo was called away to help carry in bottles of wine, filling each glass around the table while the parents began to get the children settled in at their small table in the corner. Meals had already been prepared for them, a small chicken carved up between them all, a couple of roasties and just enough veggies that there would be no tears on Christmas Day.

Then, the adult table was filling up, you carried bowls of food back and forth; several different kinds of vegetables, potatoes, meats and gravies, sides and stuffings up and down until the table was full from one end to the other.

When you finally sat down and tucked your napkin down to cover your lap, Mattheo settled in beside you. He was checking out every bowl, the dish of roast potatoes you’d mentioned being most excited for seemed to have conveniently found itself placed right in front of you both, and he smirked into his wine as you mentioned as much.

Your father stood at the head of the table by the turkey, ready to carve, and the room fell quiet as all attention moved to him. Save for the ecstatic chatter of the children, that is. Your father held the meat-fork in one hand and the knife in the other, pausing just over the top of the turkey. Looking back up, he pulled back.

“Mattheo,” The man beside you still as he placed his glass down, and all attention fell to him. “Come and carve for us.”

Mattheo’s stumbled response was adorable, and he untucked his chair when your father repeated himself. He walked slowly toward the head of the table, taking the instruments from your father’s hands. He paused, splotches of read coming back to his face, but before he could admit to being lost, your dad was guiding him on where to poke and how to slice.

As soon as the first slice fell out and he lifted it off, clapping and cheering sounded around the room, and you made sure you were the loudest, his proud smile directed at you as he looked right at you. “First slice for you, sweetheart?”

You passed your plate along, all the way to get the meat from where he stood, before it was passed back to you.

He kept going, slicing again and again until his wrist hurt, and he put down the knife and fork carefully. Stepping back for your father to take over, he clapped Mattheo on the shoulder. “Good job, son.”

It was spoken mindlessly, casually, as your father got back to work carving the meats, but it meant the world to Mattheo. His jaw dropped, and for a second he was frozen. You were almost worried he’d bolt, before he was speeding back over to the chair and took his seat beside you once again. He didn’t mention it, but he did let out a shaky breath, and took a heavy gulp of wine as his hands shook.

Your hand landed on his thigh, stroking lightly as he reached for the bowl of potatoes. “You okay, honey?”

“Never been better.” His tone sounded flat but you believed his words, watching as he dished up some potatoes onto your plate and his, picking out the ones that looked the best to give to you. “I carved a turkey.”

“And did a mighty fine job of it too.”

“You think?”

“Mhm. I’m very impressed.” You served up carrots and parsnips and Mattheo did mashed potatoes, dishes swapping about across the table, up and down until everyone had what they wanted.

In a blur of good talk and food, you set into polishing off the plate before you, watching Mattheo try each and every item.

“What’s normally on your Christmas Dinner?”

“Uh… well, father goes hunting with his business partners in the week leading up to Christmas, and normally he makes me and Tom go too. He’ll choose the best pheasant from the day, and that’s served. Along with a turkey, gammon, beef, lamb, and some kind of vegetarian wellington or roast.”

You watched him slice off a piece of his turkey, eyes rolling a little as he hummed happily, combining it with a piece of stuffing.

“All the usual trimmings, too, to put on a show. But we weren’t allowed to eat them. Mother only let us have things that could be considered elegant.”

A snort left you, and he smirked. “What exactly is considered an elegant Christmas dinner food?”

“Things that can be eaten with a fork. Meat, roast potatoes,” He chopped smoothly down the centre of a crispy roast potato, stabbing it in one smooth move and putting it neatly into his mouth. “Stuffing and sprouts. That’s about it.”

“That’s awful! What about the pigs in blankets?”

“Roll around too much when you try to chop them.” He shrugged, and you scoffed.

“So do sprouts?”

“Ah, but sprouts are a classic Christmas dish, and mother is nothing, if not traditionally elegant.” He made a show of chopping into a pig in a blanket now, savouring it as he ate it. “First time I ever had a Yorkshire pudding was second year, Tom took me to a pub in Hogsmeade. Changed my life.”

“Matty…”

“Don’t feel too bad for me, sweets.” Turning to you, he dipped a little closer, a smirk on his lips as his voice dropped. “If I didn’t have my sad, pathetic life to tell you all about, I wouldn't have a sob story to use to get a pretty girl to fawn over me.”

“Oh, please,” You muttered, shaking your head to hide your blush as you turned back to your meal. “Now you’re just flirting.”

“I’ve been flirting this whole time, you just never want to see it.”

Your eyes rolled at his smirk, and you twisted away, tuning back into the conversation going on around the table.

Mattheo loved his dinner. He ate everything on his plate, and at your relatives’ encouragement, he had seconds. Christmas crackers were popped, jokes were read and the little toys were exchanged around the table until everyone had a useless trinket they were happy with.

He proudly wore a bright green paper crown on his head, and forced you to wear the orange one that popped out of your cracker too.

By the time he was nibbling his way through a third plate, his hand was on your thigh, squeezing as he sat slumped in his seat. Jeans unbuttoned under his sweater, he patted at his stomach, content and full. You dipped another roast potato in a pool of gravy on your plate, dragging it through slowly. Lifting it, you took a bite, and he tipped his head, lips parting for the next bite.

You offered it to him, and he pulled the bite from the fork, chewing with a hum as he listened to the storytelling of the previous Christmas’ that was now taking place.

Before the food took you out into a food coma, your mother forced clean-up to take place. Bin bags were stuffed full, gifts were tidied away to respective cars and bedrooms, and the washing up was done, the table was cleared. When everyone put their minds to it, it didn’t take long, and you found Mattheo stacking the lad of the leftover tubs into the fridge.

“We’re going to put some more movies on, and drink mulled wine ‘til we get tipsy. You staying for that?”

“Wild horses couldn't drag me away.” Mattheo smiled, turning to you as your arms wrapped around one of his, guiding him back to the living room before all the seats had been taken. You sat down first, and he quickly found a home leaning on your chest once again, your arms crossed over his chest, and one of his hands laced with your own.

The other rubbed up and down your forearm slowly, getting himself comfortable as he groaned, spreading out as much as he could. “Did you eat too much?” You teased, and he pinched your arm, shaking his head.

“I will never be defeated by food.” Despite his claims, he shifted once again, lowering into the couch cousins. Wine was handed out, the lights turned down, and Love, Actually began to play. Clearly, Grandma Judie had chosen the movie.

That statement came to haunt him halfway through, though, when your mother arrived with a cheeseboard, handing out small plates, and pressing one into his hands. He was ever so polite, he’d never turn it down, and as she passed the box of crackers around to him, he piled three neatly onto the side of the plate.

“Take more than that, dear. Come on.” She encouraged, and you hid your face against the top of his head to hide your laughter, as he added another three. Then came the cheese, and you swore you could feel Mattheo’s hesitation as he added slices and cubes of various cheeses to his plate, all under your parent’s watchful gaze to make sure he was taking enough.

As he settled back, you brushed a kiss to his temple, and he tipped his face up towards you a little more. A smile was on his lips, the plate untouched and balanced in his lap.

“You sure you’re not being defeated?”

“Me? Never.” He grinned, lifting a cracker with a slice of mature cheddar on up to you. “I made sure to get enough for us both, don’t you worry.”

You didn’t have a chance to argue, the moment your mouth was open, he was forcing the savoury snack into your mouth, a wicked glint in his eye as you chewed slowly. Over mulled wine and cheese nibbles, the movie finished and another one began, this time chosen by one of your cousins. It was more upbeat, not a classic like the last had been, and there had almost been a row over it.

Classic, or new. Mattheo had sat back and watched in astonished amusement as comments were thrown around the room in an argument for which was better. Eventually, a coin was flipped, and half the room had to grumble and accept it as the other half sat smugly.

The night was fully upon you by now, darkness had taken over as the evening ticked by. The curtains were drawn, candles were lit, and both your sets of grandparents had called it a day and gone up to bed already. The babies had long since fallen asleep too, setting a kind of quiet and peace over the house.

Mattheo had gone still in your arms a long time ago, dozing between sleep and awake, finally having conceded after his second cracker and left the plate alone on the coffee table. You were sure he’d never admit it, though.

You were comfy and happy. With the weight of him pressing down against you, and the blanket you’d thrown over your bodies covering you both and keeping you snug, you were sure that this was what you’d call perfect.

The smell of spices and apples filled the house, your excitement renewing toward the end of the second movie as the time ticked on. Most of the children had fallen asleep, bowls of ice cream left on the kitchen counter from their own desserts, and long since tucked into bed to sleep.

Your Aunt got up to check the oven, and moments later she called to let you all know that the treats from earlier in the day had finished cooking. “Mattheo.” You nudged, excitement racing through you, and the man in your arms stirred a little. He grunted, rolling over slightly and gripping one of your arms a little more firmly. “Matt!”

“Not right now, sweetheart. M’ sleeping.” He muttered, huffing a heavy breath out, and you chuckled.

“You’re gonna’ miss dessert, though.”

That got his attention, one eye cracking open, quickly followed by another, and he sniffed at the air. “Smells good.”

“Mhm, so get up, and we can go and get some.”

Your family had already begun filing through to the kitchen, a new excitement surrounding the food as chatter took back up, laughter and new energy taking over. By the time you finally managed to join them, all of the various tray-bakes and puddings had been dug into, and you snatched up a plate to begin serving some to yourself. Some apple pie at one corner, some brownie at another, a scoop of ice cream in the idle, and a stack of cookies at the edge.

Mattheo shuffled in a few moments later, sleepy and stretching, trying to hold in a yawn as he looked around. Upon finding you, he made his way over, slumping down to rest his head on your shoulder as you plucked two mismatched spoons from what was left in the cutlery drawer.

Handing him one, he sighed, breaking off a large chunk of brownie and some ice-cream, before finally raising his head and eating the spoonful. With a groan, he told you just how good he thought it was, and went back in for more before even finishing his mouthful.

The two of you shared the plate between quiet chatter, talking about his day, as Mattheo recounted for you almost every moment. His eyes were sparkling as he got a second helping of brownie for you both, forcing his spoon between your lips when teased him for his excitement, and wiping the edge of your mouth when you glared at him. He was so light, bursting with a kind of happiness you rarely ever saw in him.

So much tended to weigh Mattheo down, so much of the time. He was a person who was burdened with struggles and troubles, and while he was exceptionally good at making the most of it, and finding silver linings, sometimes, it would eat away at him after too long. Darkness would crawl in at the edges, in the form of exhaustion and temper and emotional outbursts, and you’d find him staving off a panic attack with a cigarette between his lips, leg unable to keep from bouncing as he stood atop the astronomy tower.

He didn’t look hopeless and world-weary now, though. Right now he looked happy. Full of the kind of happiness that lit a person up from the inside out. He looked like he was at peace, even as he stood huddled with you in the corner of your kitchen eating a shared piece of brownie, while your family around you began to trickle out as the night went on.

Soon enough, even one more bite of sugar was too much, and you were slumped lazily back onto the couch. Mattheo was lying half across you as the last of your aunts and uncles quietly carried their snoozing children to the fireplace of the cars, ready to floo or drive home. Each and every one of them had bid him a goodbye, telling him how nice it was to meet him as he returned the sentiments with red cheeks and a bashful smile.

“I suppose it’s my turn to go now.” He mumbled, your fingers running once through his hair, and your mother poked her head out of the kitchen where she’d been chatting with your aunties who were staying, over a cup of tea. At least, you thought they’d been chatting, clearly, she’d been eavesdropping.

“Oh, Mattheo-dear, you’re not staying over? We thought you would.”

“You did?” He sat upright a little more, eyes wide, and your mother only nodded to him. “I’d like that… as long as I wouldn't be a burden to you.”

“A burden? ‘Course not, dear. You’re a treat to have, and an extra set of hands on Boxing Day is always handy.” She hummed, clearly pleased with her meddling as she disappeared. Mattheo accio’d for a notebook and a pen, sending a lazily scribbled note addressed to his housekeeper through the floo, to inform them of where he was staying for the night.

As he stood by the fireplace, folding the note and waiting for the flames to change colour, you wrapped your arms around him. Pressing your face between his shoulders, he sagged back into you, relaxing into your touch.

Orange flickered to green, and he tossed the note in, watching it disappear to ash in the flames in a split-second, before the warm glow was back.

“Come on, Matty. Let’s go upstairs.” You whispered, and he slipped a hand down to take one of yours from his stomach, lacing your fingers together. Lifting your hand up, he issued the back of it, before turning, and letting you guide him away upstairs.

You guided him through the house, the floorboards squeaking quietly under your feet in certain spots. “You can stay with me.” You murmured quietly, and he only nodded.

Opening up the door to your bedroom, his eyes immediately started flicking from one corner to the other, taking in every detail. It was fairly sparse these days, most of your most important possessions came to Hogwarts with you, and everything else, you’d had a big clear out of. Your skincare bottles were all lined up along the dresser, your laptop on the nightstand, and a few half-burned candles littered around.

One thing you always had, was candles.

Gathering the bottles you’d left out, you slipped away to the bathroom to get ready for bed before exhaustion took over.

When you returned, Mattheo was looking through the drawers of your wardrobe. “Searching for something, or just looking for all my dirty secrets?” You tease, and he jumped a little, but smiled as he turned to you.

“Where are your spare blankets?”

“Given out to all my cousins and relatives who are staying over. Why?” You pulled out a lighter from your nightstand drawer, moving from one candle to another and beginning to light them. He scratched at the back of his neck, and you raised a brow. “Matt, you’ll sleep in the bed, not the floor. Are you insane? It’s freezing, and uncomfortable.”

“I— Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You could never,” You murmur, flicking the flame out once they were all done. Most of your drawers were half-empty, and it didn’t take long for you to search through and find an oversized sleep shirt for him. Unfortunately, it was pink. “You want something else to sleep in? I can lend you a shirt, but I don’t have any shorts that would… suit you.”

A flush rose to your cheeks and you actively fought any kind of mental images from passing through your mind. Particularly any that involved Mattheo, and a pair of booty shorts.

He accepted the pink tee with a grin, stripping his jumper off and over his head. Folding it neatly and leaving it on your dresser, his t-shirt followed, and he donned the hot-pink band shirt with a half-faded Taylor Swift setlist on the back.

“Enzo would love this shirt.” He muttered, frowning at you as he admired the huge print of her across the front. Undoing his belt, you quickly diverted your gaze, turning back to the bed and tossing throw-cushions out of the way. You heard the rustle of denim, the clink of his belt as he folded it, and then the squeaky steps on the floor as he crossed the room.

“Do you want to watch a movie before we sleep, or are you—” Arms curled your waist, his face pressed into your neck, and your words stuttered off as he tugged you back into himself firmly. “Matty?”

He shuddered against you, and you turned in his arms despite his tight hold, cupping his face and forcing his eyes up to your own.

“Mattheo?”

“Thank you. For today, thank you so much.” He leaned in, a kiss on your cheek so soft you could barely feel it. Then another, and another, firmer as he worked, muttering his thanks between kisses all over your face, mumbling his appreciation. His voice cracked as he kissed your forehead, and he sniffled as he moved down to your other cheek. “This was one of the best days of my life, thank you.”

“Matty honey,” You pulled back, enough to see his face as his water-lined eyes shone gold in the flicker of the flames around the room. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I wanted you here. I was so happy to have you here, this was perhaps the best Christmas I’ve ever had, too. Watching you be so happy, making you this happy, it made it so. I love seeing you smile.”

He hiccuped a sob, nodding a little as your thumb swept over your cheek. He attempted to choke back tears, and you shushed him quietly. “I didn’t— I didn’t get you any presents, I’m sorry—”

“Mattheo, stop. Please, look at me. See how happy I am right now.” His eyes scanned over your face, fighting the battle against the tears wanting to spill over. He was clinging to your waist, hands bunching at the sleep shirt you wore as he tugged you in a little closer. “Please smile. That’s what I want you to get me for Christmas. I got snow, I got my family, I got to see you. Now let me see you smile.”

He sniffled through a laugh, the lines of worry etched onto his face finally smoothing out. He smiled, watery and weak, but he smiled, letting out a heavy sigh.

“There he is, my pretty boy.” You pinched his cheek, his head tipping a little further into your hold, his eyes fluttering shut.

“I’m in love with you.” The worst bubbled from him in uh a rush they almost blurred together, but his body finally sagged, like he was losing the very tension that even kept him upright Swaying forward, his forehead fell to settle on yours, like he was collapsing. “I’m so, so fucking in love with you, and I just had to tell you that. After today, after everything, I couldn't keep it to myself anymore.”

His nose nuzzled against your own as the words he’d said settled over you. “Oh, Mattheo. After all that I just said, you don’t know how I feel about you?”

“‘Course I do. Why do you think I finally had the courage to say it?” Tipping his head up, he kissed the tip of your nose, arms sliding properly around your waist.

“I love you, Mattheo.” You murmured, shifting up enough for your lips to brush his own, and he smiled against your lips.

“You are the best thing in my life, sweetheart.” His confession was followed by his mouth closing over your own. A kiss that emptied every part of your mind, you could only focus on him. The slow movements of his lips, drowning in the feel of him pressed up to you, mouths making slow motions as you crossed that line between friends and more.

He pulled back for a breath, and you chased after him. Your mouths collided once again, needy and desperate this time, his hand slipping up to tangle in your hair as the other slid low down your back. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling yourself up to a better angle as your heart pounded against your ribs, a steady drum beat to match the rhythm of your lips.

This time, when your mouth slid from his own, he left kisses dotted along your jaw, panting onto your skin but unable to stop. Only when he had kissed down to your neck, face buried in your hair, did he pause Hugging you close, his chest rose and fell as he moulded you to his body, fingers massaging against your scalp as his hand still resided in your hair.

Eventually, the two of you shifted to the bed, tucking yourselves snugly under the covers, wrapped around one another as you balanced the laptop on your lap, pulling up a movie.

“What are we watching?” He whispered, between lazy kisses along your jaw, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger.

“I was thinking Arthur Christmas. I think you’d like it.”

“Huh,” He murmured, pulling back as you turned up the volume and set it between you both. “Kinda’ sounds like Father Christmas, doesn’t it?”

You laughed against your will, taking his face in your hands and pulling him in for another kiss. “Godamnit, you’re cute.”

Suffice to say, he loved that one, too.

As fate would have it, Mattheo Riddle has a soft spot for animated Christmas movies.

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle/reader #mattheo riddle/you #mattheo riddle x you #harry potter #slytherin boys #benjamin wadsworth x reader #benjamin wadsworth/reader

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 1 year ago

Note

AITA for telling my her ex I read her poetry?

I (F19) dated my ex (F18, Lacy) for about 9 months. I broke up with her because she had a lot of issues I just didn't know how to deal with and I also fell in love with my best friend (NB19, Alex, he/his pronouns), so I decided it was the best course of action. I broke up with Lacy on January of 2023 and started dating Alex in February.

Around this time, I found an Instagram account that posted poetry. There was nothing that could identify the author, but the poetry was really good so I started to follow them. With time, however, the poems started to look... familiar. Not the writing style, but some situations on them, for example: one of them said something like "your brother's night sky truck that took us to the stars" (my older brother has a dark blue truck he would lend me so I could take Lacy on dates) and another said "that old guitar you had that you never learned to play like you played me" (I have an old guitar I inherited from my father and I indeed never learned how to play it). These are only two examples, but I found many others that convinced me that account belonged to Lacy.

I know I should have left it alone the second I realized the account belonged to her, but it was so flattering to see she wrote all of that about me. I didn't tell anyone, not my friends or Alex, but I kept following the account and reading Lacy's poetry. I think my feelings for her started to rekindle after that, because no one ever wrote about me like that and, as months passed, she kept writing about me. She never got over me.

My relationship with Alex also started to have problems during this time. He got a job at an ice cream parlour and he started a D&D campain with his friends, which means we started to spend less and less time together. He didn't seem to be as interested in me as he was during our first months of relationship, and I feel like he's taking me for granted. Lately, more specifically since December, we started to fight a lot over small things too.

We went to a New Year's party one of our friends was hosting and Lacy was there too. That enough was reason for Alex to start complaining, since he has a lot of feelings of jealousy regarding her. We ended up having a fight because he thought I knew she'd be there, which I didn't, and he went to stay with our friends, avoiding me the whole night.

It was New Year's eve and I had just fought with my partner, who was monopolizing all of our friends and leaving me by myself, so I started to drink. I know that wasn't a good idea, but I was angry and frustrated and I thought that would help. It didn't, I just got super drunk.

Since my filter disappears when I'm drunk, I went after Lacy and told her her poetry was really good. At first she was confused, so I said I found her poetry account and her poems were amazing, and I was flattered she still thought about me like that, because I didn't think anyone else ever saw me in such a beautiful way.

After that, the panic in her eyes became clear. She started to cry, not full on sobbing but some tears rolled down her face and she didn't answer me, just left. Alex saw the interaction and came to ask me what happened. I ended up telling him about Lacy's poetry account, we fought again and I decided to go home. In that same night, I searched for the poetry account and it was deleted.

This whole situation didn't leave my head since it happened and I don't know what to think. Alex has also been avoiding me and I don't understand why everyone seems to be against me. Lacy blocked me everywhere and I'm beginning to think leaving her for Alex was a huge mistake. It was also never my intention to make Lacy feel like she had to delete her account.

AITA for telling her I knew about the poetry account?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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niteshade925 · 4 days ago

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Chinese New Year Eve's feast for......myself😂

Fish dish (yú/鱼), meaning "may there be a surplus every year" (年年有余；yú/余）

Napa cabbage dish (bái cài/白菜), meaning "lots of wealth" (bǎi cái/百财; as I understand it, bǎi/百 or "hundred" here means "many" and not a specific number)

Dish of mainly corn (yù mǐ/玉米; name literally translates to "jade rice"), meaning "may gold and jade fill the halls" (jīn yù mǎn táng/金玉满堂; this comes from corn's name "jade rice" and the golden color of corn)

And finally the best dumplings (jiǎo zi/饺子) I've made so far, meaning "coming of a new year" (jiāo zǐ/交子). Dumplings also look a little like yuanbao/元宝, or a gold/silver ingot currency used in imperial China, which came to symbolize wealth

As many people have probably noticed, a lot of Chinese traditional auspicious symbols and modern internet memes are homophones or puns. If anyone is still exploring red note/xiaohongshu atm, keep that in mind and you will start to understand a lot of the memes

#chinese cooking #food #cny 2025 #cny

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ppnuggie · 1 year ago

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　　　　　　MTMTE x gn reader

　　　　『　rodimus ,, ultra magnus ,, chromedome ,, rewind ,, megatron ,, whirl ,, tailgate ,, swerve ,, cyclonus ,, first aid ,, ratchet ,, drift ,, gender neutral reader 』

　　-> christmas on the lost light

　　— fluff ,, sfw ,, crack

　　— sorry i havent been uploading as much 😭💔 ive been busy with work and school ,, but im on christmas break so hopefully ill be able to get through the few requests i have sitting in my inbox rn and reopen requests :(( ima try to start uploading more now as much as i can ❤️ heres a little something for christmas though ! hope you all enjoy christmas this year <3

• it was natural for the bots aboard to be interested in human customs ,, having lived in a war most their life . death and violence were something they were quite used to experiencing ,, never really having the time to experience anything outside of the horrors of war itself .

• swerve was one of the few main bots that pestered you often about human holidays . cybertronians didn't celebrate much ,, unless they were a group of autobots who just gave some decepticons a what-for .

• then again ,, swerve usually asked many questions regarding things on earth and what humans do . sometimes you humored him ,, sometimes you told little lies ,, like if you clapped three times in a mall it would be a sign that a tiger was loose . it was quite fun to put silly nonsense in that processor of his at times .

• though when it came to christmas he would not leave you alone . whether you celebrated it or not ,, you still explained the custom in general to him . how old saint nicholas would mosey on down the chimney ,, eat the cookies and drink the milk left out for him ,, and leave presents under the tree lit well and adorned with ornaments .

• you even pulled up the santa tracker for swerve ,, showing him where santa would go and be ,, how on christmas eve he would be flying around with his reindeer and leave presents

• hearing all of this intrigued chromedome and rewind ,, as well as tailgate and whirl . cyclonus didn't understand the hype and belief of having an old random man leave gifts in your house and eat your food even if left out specifically him . tailgate was thrilled though ,, a funny little old man leaving him gifts seemed so heavenly to him . chromedome and rewind ,, however ,, had different opinions . rewind was interested in this human holiday ,, whilst chromedome shared the same opinion as cyclonus . how were you sure this 'santa' guy wasnt gonna rob you ? and when you were sleeping nonetheless .

• rodimus already knew of this tradition ,, as did ratchet and ultra magnus . rodimus was quite ecstatic at the idea of having a christmas party ,, watching christmas movies and sipping on energon . maybe he could even have you sit on his lap ,, all cozy in those soft blankets and sippin on your own mug of hot chocolate .

• ratchet couldnt care less ,, grumbling something about how 'you humans and your holidays and customs' . though he definitely didnt deny the offer of going to this christmas party ,, it was nice to spend some time that didn't involve life threatening situations for once .

• ultra magnus ,, on the other hand ,, was quite picky about how the christmas party should be set up . he even tried to ban home alone ,, saying he didnt want rodimus to get any ideas from the traps in the movie . the last thing he needed was to end up in one the next day . though ,, the many outweigh the few ,, and so home alone was allowed in the movie marathon .

• now when you told him about the grinch ,, he wasnt sure if you were mocking him by saying it was an actual movie or if he should be concerned for what this dr.seuss guy was drawing . i mean ,, have you seen how hairy the grinch is ? or how the whos in whoville are shaped ? pointy noses and all ,, it was quite new to magnus .

• megatron ,, who overheard everything ,, already knew he wasnt going to be wanted at the party . it made sense ,, his past and everything he's done to earth and its people . though when you asked him to come ,, that you personally wanted him there ,, he swore he felt his spark stop for a second . he only gave a nod ,, whilst ravage bickered to him that night in his habsuite .

• whirl ,, to say the least ,, was prepared to fight santa . he was watching the santa tracker ,, waiting for the jolly fellow to pop up so whirl could fly down and bring out the big guns ( that brainstorm recently made ,, not yet tested out or put through a test trial so lord knows what may go wrong) . magnus almost had to throw him in the brig if he couldnt contain his sudden rage and fury for the old man .

• first aid was somewhat interested ,, never having celebrated a holiday before . it would be nice ,, getting together and doing nothing but watching movies all day . he hadnt seen movies from earth that much either ,, besides a few fast n furious ones here and there . needless to say ,, he was somewhat concerned for humans need to trash cars . he cringed a little on the inside ,, watching those perfectly good cars blow up . it was like a horror movie but for cybertronians .

• during the movie marathon ,, whirl tried to sneak violent night and black christmas in ,, saying they were also christmas movies and that they should watch them . magnus ended up throwing them out ,, saying no one really felt like seeing dying people during this one time of peace .

• drift enjoyed the nightmare before christmas ,, the claymation alone was enough to captivate him . then the designs of the characters ,, the music and songs ,, even jack's childlike wonder for christmas matched his own (in a few ways) . during that movie you sat with him ,, sharing a few facts about the movie itself . how long it took to make and how hard it is to do claymation movies .

• during the polar express you stayed with rewind and chromedome ,, snuggling in between the two and sippin on your hot chocolate . rewind enjoyed watching the train on the ice whilst chromedome puffed about how he coulda easily done that himself and saved everyone . you only rolled your eyes ,, muttering out a sure as you fought back a smile .

• during a break in between the movies you noticed megatron ,, standing awkwardly in the corner with his own cube of fools energon in servo . you smiled at the bot ,, walking up to him and having a small conversation with him . you didnt honestly think he’d show up ,, but youre glad he did . he let you sit with him during one of the movies ,, bonding well with the giant bot .

• he was quite warm ,, heat coming from off his body as you huddled close to him . he tucked his servo around you ,, worried you may fall off . for a few moments during the movie you swore you saw him smile at some of the corniest parts ,, or chuckle softly at some of the dumbest jokes .

• you took turns ,, switching between bots during different movies . you would sit in their laps ,, explain little things you liked about the movie playing and share a few things of your own childhood during this time of the year .

• it was nice ,, to say the least . having time to the bots ,, doing things that reminded you of home . it wasnt the same ,, but it was the thought that counted . spending time with them peacefully was more than enough for you ,, and definitely more than you could ask for this christmas .

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bring-forth-his-sac · 2 months ago

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The Christmas Party - Chapter 1

Summary: Your first year at Alexandria High is going smoothly, until you accidentally offer to plan the staff Christmas party. To make matters worse? You're stuck planning it with the one person you made a terrible first impression on; Negan.

Tags: Modern AU, Teacher AU, Gossip, Swearing, Pet Names, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: ok this is partially based on how common Negan's surname is... I mean, Smith?! Really??? Also I have written this very fast and there are many more chapters to come. My plan is to have it complete by Christmas Eve so hopefully you stay tuned until then!!

You tend to avoid Negan Smith. From what you’ve heard, there isn’t a good reason to go near the man. Womanizer. Loudmouth. Curses like a sailor and a professional at ghosting.

But, the job of a teacher sometimes means dealing with people you don’t like. Whether that be talking to a parent who’s convinced their child is a saint or, like in this case, him .

You haven’t even made it to the Christmas break yet and you’re about to knock heads with another teacher. Great. You suppose this is a good thing considering you’ve managed to make it past Halloween unscathed.

Still, it’s not a good look to be confronting another teacher in your first year at a new job, especially when he has taught here for years. You sigh, hand automatically raising to block the surprisingly warm rays of the Winter sun as you scan the track and field.

Ew. Sports. Or more specifically, track. You've never understood appeal to any sports, whether to participate, watch or worse; teach.

With it being midday already, the field is quite busy, with more students mulling around than you anticipated. Some kids sit on the grass surrounding the running track, lacing up sneakers and complaining about upcoming tests.

On the far side of the track, a smaller group of students mess with the plastic javelins that are stuck in the ground, bouncing them back and forth to see how far they’ll bend. You know you should probably tell them to stop and that it’s some kind of safety hazard to be messing with them but this isn’t your class.

If it was in the classroom then of course you’d tell them to stop to save your own skin, but out here, you can pretend to have not noticed the incessant messing they’re doing.

On the actual track is where the bulk of students are, running at a good pace while getting yelled at by some middle aged man with a whistle. The joys of high school.

It takes a certain kind of person to be a teacher, you should know. But to teach gym ? Yeah, that’s some sociopathic shit.

You watch as who you assume is Coach Smith yells at one of the quieter kids to keep up. Well, he’s definitely living up to the loudmouth tag he’s been labelled with.

But that’s not all he has a reputation for. Negan happened to be some of the first gossip you got when you moved here. Well, you’d call it gossip. Others might say it was a cautionary tale or a straight out warning.

Word on the corridor is that he's basically tasked himself to sleep with every female teacher, adding more notches to his bedpost and undoubtedly collecting diseases as if they’re baseball cards.

“You…” the sudden voice catches you off guard, snapping you out of your thoughts as another teacher approaches “do not look like you belong here”.

Another one of the gym teachers, oh goodie.

Considering the size of the school, there were three in total; Coach Smith aka the town bike, the other coach who teaches basketball and another new teaching addition who deals with the tennis and badminton teams. Despite not knowing the new coach, you’d like to think there’s an unspoken alliance between you two since you’re both newbies this year.

Unfortunately, luck isn’t on your side today and it’s the one that teaches basketball that approaches you

You put your best generic smile on and shrug. “Yeah, I’m more at home in the classroom,” you agree “I’m the new teacher for Literacy studies”.

He shook his head in response “No fuckin’ kidding, English teacher, eh? They’ll slap a fancy title on anything nowadays”.

You give a small laugh in response, subtly glancing around to make sure none of the kids are in earshot. And you thought you had a potty mouth.

“And why’re you out here? Checking out what the coaches have to offer?” he comments with a hint of amusement, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he casually leans back against nothing but air, tilting his tall frame.

“Oh I just need a quick word with Coach Smith,” you gesture in the direction of the running teacher, ignoring the latter half of his question.

“About?”.

You try not to let his crass or nosiness annoy you. Pushing down your slight irritation, you keep your smile in place “Just a mix up with a student we both have… he stayed late at one of my classes because we had a test, then he was late for gym, got detention, you know the drill”.

‘Now please fuck off ,’ you so desperately want to add to the end of that sentence, but bit your tongue.

“And what?” the hint of a smirk begin to grace his face “You’re here to get the kid off the hook?”.

“Well, it was my class that kept him behind,” you reply, keeping your gaze on Coach Smith.

That’s all you were going to say but even with your eyes focused on the other coach, you could sense the man beside you practically sizing you up. A flutter of panic pangs at your heart and for a brief moment, you wonder if this other coach thinks you’re being incompetent, or that you’re somehow in the wrong.

“I mean, I did give Henry a note explaining why he was late but obviously that wasn’t enough for Coach Smith” you’re starting to ramble and the worst part is, you know it.

He hums in response, nodding as if he knows all too well “So he’s being a real jackass, huh?”.

“Uh-huh, jackass” you agree, before quietly mumbling “along with a few other things”.

You know it’s time to stop talking now. The last thing you want is to ramble on about things that are none of your business.

“Oh?” that piques his interest.

“Well, y’know… word travels fast and all that,” that rational part of your brain begs you to stay vague “small town gossip spreads like wildfire”.

“And I am just dying to know what that small town gossip is” he turns his face to you fully, giving you his undivided attention.

Being truthful, it’s intense. His gaze is welcoming and yet it’s as if he’s waiting for you to slip up, to say the wrong thing so he can swoop in to defend his colleague.

“Oh it’s nothing really,” you quickly backtrack, every fibre in your body screaming how it’s a bad idea to gossip about another teacher “just stupid hearsay”.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” the man coaxes “let me indulge a little”.

Shrugging, you look back at Coach Smith who’s still in the middle of a class and with no intention of stopping anytime soon.

Don’t do it. It’s not worth it… but can it really be considered gossip when it’s true?

“I’ve just been told it’s best to stay away” you answer honestly.

“ Me-ow !” he punctuates the word, a large grin on his face and undeniably revelling in the small nugget of information “is there a cat fight on the horizon? One of the other teacher’s already got her claws in him?”.

You laughs at that, mostly out of shock. “Not that I would know,” you reply “but by the sounds of it, he’s got enough claws in him as it is”.

A surprised look spreads across the coach’s face, eyebrows raised and mouth slacking open as he uses his thumb to point to Smith, mouthing “Him? Really?”.

You nod. This is going better than expected. A part of you presumed all gym teachers would be macho men with zero personality but this one’s actually charismatic. “Guess they really call him coach for a reason,” you jibe, watching as the man’s face shifts into confusion.

“And why’s that?”.

“Well from what I’ve heard, he’s definitely surpassed the status of player… though he’s probably riddled with… y’know” you raise your eyebrows, hoping the insinuation alone would be enough to get your point across.

He chuckles, glancing back at his colleague with a sigh “His poor wife”.

By now, it looks like Coach Smith is slowing to a halt, his students quickly following suit. About time. Though he’s not completely done yet, giving his class a rundown of the lesson and squirting water into his mouth from a water bottle he’s holding a little too high above his head.

“Yeah,” you sigh solemnly “I heard about that”.

This piece of information was also included in your warning. Apparently Coach Smith’s wife died a few years back. Cancer. And that’s what subsequently led to his quest to fuck anything that a) has a pulse and b) has a vag.

Damn, maybe you really are a gossip.

"It's pretty awful, though," you mutter without thinking, continuing to ramble "I mean, from what I've heard, her side of the bed wasn't even cold and he was already crawling into the beds of other women”.

The man watches you intently, his expression growing flat and unreadable. That’s the shift you feared—the ‘you’ve said too much’ look settling into place.

“But I-“ you’re about to continue, hoping to seem more genuine in your regards when the newest coach appears.

“Sir! Sir! Have you moved the javelins? I was supposed to use them for my ’Aerodynamics in Training’ lesson but they’re not in the storage room” he blurts out as if this is a national disaster.

The man puts up a hand to stop him “Fa–, Joey , can you not see I’m in the middle of something? And the fuck did I tell you about calling me sir all the damn time?”.

Joey, or well, Coach Joey, stumbles over his words before replying, his eyes darting between the two of them “Oh! Oh, I am so sorry sir– uh, Coach Smith,”.

You’re not too sure what Joey said after that, your brain pausing for a moment to process his words. That can’t be right. ��Not when Mr Jones, the economics teacher specifically pointed at the Ken doll that’s still giving the exhausted teenages a pep talk and said that that’s Coach Smith.

“Coach what?” you blurt, unsure whether you’ve just interrupted Joey or not. You’re surprised the words actually came out coherent, your throat growing tighter by the second.

“Smith” Joey replies without missing a beat. The other man stays quiet and frankly, you refuse to look his way, not wanting to see the look on his face.

“What?” your generic smile graces your face yet again, a defence mechanism to hopefully stop any genuine facial expressions from leaking out “But I thought… over there… that’s Coach Smith”.

Joey gives you a reassuring smile “It’s ok, it confused me too when I got here”.

That still doesn’t answer your question.

“He’s Coach Mark Smith,” Joey points passed the two of them and to the Ken doll “and then this is Coach Negan Smith”. He tries to put his hand on Negan’s upper arm but he quickly shrugs him off, gaze trying to catch yours.

You refuse to meet that gaze, the reality of your fuck up sinking in. While numerous responses whizz around your head, you fail to vocalise any, instead opting to stand there utterly dumbfounded.

Joey doesn’t notice and laughs to himself “It’s confusing, I know but it gets easier when you just associate Coach Smith with Mark and Coach Negan with… haha, well with Negan”.

Your mouth opens but you have no idea what to say or where to ever start. Not that it matters because you’re cut off by the alleged Coach (Negan) Smith.

“Or if that doesn’t suit, you can always tell us apart with him being the clean one and me being… What did you say again? Riddled?”.

Oh dear God no.

That makes your look at him, your eyes wide with sheer embarrassment. “What?” Joey speaks up.

The look in Negan’s eye isn’t one of offence or even annoyance. He’s more pleased that he’s caught you in such an elaborate snare, a glimmer of playfulness in his intense stare that tests you endlessly. Before you can even process what to do, your instincts kick in and you use your best teacher voice to say “Henry won’t be going to detention today. He was late and that’s on me, not him so leave him be”.

Turning on your heels, you quickly walk off and disappear back inside the school building. You don’t look back as you walk away, unwilling to look at the man you were just badmouthing to his face again.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Mondays are usually good days but considering your earlier mishap, you‘re beginning to doubt that. Thankfully, you have a few classes off so you can spend your time overthinking your recent mistake.

Propping your head up with your hands, you look around the classroom you can now call your own. It’s one of the older rooms in the school, a bit drafty but yours nonetheless.

With a quick knock at the door, the skeptical face of Ms. Peletier enters your peripheral vision. “Hi! Is it just you in here?,” she asks in a cheery voice, waltzing into the room.

You give a silent nod and she drops the act.

“I don’t know why I do this to myself. I mean, the kids… it’s like they’re getting more annoying” she huffs, pulling up a chair.

Ms. Peletier, the home ec teacher usually stops by on Mondays. She has a free period at the same time as you and likes to use it venting about how much she hates kids, but also enjoys teaching them and then realizes that maybe she actually likes her job.

It’s a love hate relationship.

But today you’re not as eager to listen. “Have I entered the Twilight Zone?” she does another quick glance, double checking there’s no lingering teacher or student outside “Where’s the bubbly ‘Hi Carol!’ that makes me want to rip my hair out?”.

Bringing her attention back to the statue that is you, an eyebrow quirks up “Are you… moping right now?”.

“It’s been a rough morning” you admit.

“How so?”.

“I bad mouthed another teacher,” you grimace as you explain “to the teacher”.

That doesn’t make sense to Carol, her head tilting to the side like a confused puppy “Huh?”.

You explain the situation briefly: a kid in your class stayed late because of a test but he had gym class afterwards. Despite you giving him a note explaining the delay, Negan gave him detention anyway.

Carol nods along, listening intently.

“And he told me his gym teacher was Coach Smith, so in my head I was like ‘fuck, ok, this is the infamous womanizer guy’ ”.

“No, you’re getting them mixed up that’s-” Carol stops when she sees the look you give her, vaguely beginning to understand where this story is going.

“Well I didn’t realise that and while I was waiting for Coach Smith as in Mark Smith, I was talking to Coach Smith the second, aka Coach Negan” you want to end the story there and save yourself from reliving the trauma.

“Ahhhh,” Carol leans back in her seat, drumming her fingers on the desk that separated them. She gives you a laid back smile “Did he ask you out? Is that where this is heading?”.

You suppress a sigh “No, I started talking about what I thought I knew about Coach Smith but it was actually information I had on Coach Negan Smith and I basically called him a man-whore to his face”.

Carol's face turns blank as she tries to yet again process this. “There’s no way I’m hearing this right” she concludes, though the small shine of amusement in her eyes lets you know that she is in fact computing what she’s hearing.

Deciding you may as well throw this grenade out there too, you add “Oh and I said he’s awful for screwing around right after his wife died”. Now that bomb almost makes the eyes bulge out of Carol’ head.

“You what?” she splutters, losing all composure.

“It wasn’t like anything bad, I didn't do it mockingly-”.

“ Mockingly ? Oh, you just don’t think, do you?” Whatever sense of amusement that was in Carol’s eyes is overtaken with panic.

“No! No, not mockingly, just like— casually, but obviously I wouldn’t have said it if I knew I was in front of a widower” you hurriedly clarifies “it’s not my fault it’s so confusing with all the Smith’s here!!”.

Carol sinks her head into her hands “Oh god”.

After a moment of silence, she collects herself “So you’re never going near the gym hall or track and field again, right?”.

“Never,” you swiftly confirm “not talking to either Smith after this too… actually I think this is a good excuse to avoid gyms in general”.

Carol smiles at that, leaving the wave of panic subside. “Oh! Actually,” she takes out her phone “I keep meaning to add you to the teacher group chat. It’s awful and mainly it’s Gregory complaining about one thing or another but I’ll add you anyways!”.

A few seconds later and your phone buzzes: “You have been added to: Alexandria High’s Teacher Midlife Crisis Support Line”.

“Oh… well, that’s a cheery name,” you tilt your head “that’s… good?”.

Carol gives a small laugh as she stands, slipping her phone back into her pocket “Well, we can’t all be as creative as you Ms Literacy Studies”. You laugh, rolling your eyes as she leaves and the bell rings. Maybe today won’t be that bad. You hope that the bad start to the day just means the day will end on a high.

But you’re wrong.

By the time your last class rolls around, everything is calm. You’ve told Henry he’s off the hook for detention, no one is acting up in your classes and there’s been no gym teachers around. Everything was calm.

“Alright guys,” you announce to the class, glancing at the clock “how’s about you start that grammar worksheet for the last ten minutes of class? If you get it done now then no homework for the night but if not, make sure it’s done by tomorrow”.

The class immediately starts, mumbling chatter and the sounds of rummaging pencil cases filling the room.

You look to the clock again, as if it’ll magically have moved at least five minutes. It hasn’t. But that’s ok, ten more minutes until freedom. You can do that.

“Knock knock” an unfamiliar voice enters, catching both you and your students off guard. A few heads look up to the door but none match the ‘oh fuck’ expression that is plastered across your face.

What makes it worse is that he knows it too, basking in your reaction. You try to hide your expression, quickly masking it but the smug look you’re met with tells you it’s too late for that.

“Coach Negan,” you greet, getting it right this time “what can I do for you?”.

“I’m sure there’s plenty you could do for me” he moves deeper into the room, taking no notice of the students and shooting you a promiscuous grin you ignore.

Making his way over to your desk, he takes his time peering around at the various trinkets that litter the surface: a mug that says “I’d rather be reading” filled with different pens, a colourful stapler, an empty bowl that was filled with sweets about a week ago, and a stress ball.

“No sweet treats going?” he asks teasingly “well besides the obvious”. Negan winks at you, making your face scrunch up with a mixture of confusion and repugnance.

“Is there a reason why you’re here, Coach?” this time you raise your voice a little more, hoping to remind him of the other ears in the room that are undoubtedly listening in.

Concluding that you won’t take the bait that easily, Negan gives you a firm nod “Just hear to let you know detention starts at four o’ five”.

Your eyes go to the students, most of which are focusing on their work. Of course there are some nosy ones that are hanging onto their every word, loving the idea of hearing some juicy teacher gossip. Oh god. The very reminder of gossip makes you want to shiver.

Lowering your voice to a whisper, you lean across the desk “I already told you, Henry won’t be attending detention today”.

You debate saying more but with Negan, simplicity seems to be key. The less you say then the less he has to pick apart or use against you in some taunting way.

“I know, I know,” he concedes “you got some big ol’ lady balls for practically demanding I let him off the hook… and for some of the other shit you said”.

Oh for fuck’s sake. Your eyes go wide but you manage to give him a glare as you scan the class, hoping no one heard him. Unfortunately, going off the number of smirks the kids are trying to hide by looking down at their worksheet, they heard.

You want to argue back, tell him off for using such language in front of the kids you’re in charge of for the next seven minutes but instead, you take a breath.

After all, you catch more flies with honey.

“And I would like to apologise for what I said,” you keep her voice low, just because Negan has no problem with the kids hearing his side of the conversation doesn’t mean they get to hear your response “what I said was completely inappropriate and insensitive, I’m really sorry and-“.

Looking at his watch, Negan acts as if you aren’t even speaking let alone issuing him an apology. “Oh shit, would you look at that, I’ve got to shoot but remember,” he loudly slaps his hands against the desk, poorly creating rhythm as he heads back to the door “you got detention at four o’ five”.

He goes to leave but you speak up again “Wait, what? Me?”.

“Yeah, you're on detention duty” he casually replies.

No, you’re not. That kind of thing gets rostered usually at the monthly staff meetings and considering this is your first year here, they’re yet to bestow such a vital job upon you.

“No I haven’t been scheduled for that-“ you’re seriously getting pissed with how much this guy interrupts you.

“Yes, you are, honey,” he says as if this is well known information “so don’t be late”.

And with that, Negan disappears, leaving you more confused than before. At least he didn’t seem that pissed at you for your previous comments. Still, you don't understand how you didn’t know beforehand that you’re on detention duty or why Negan of all people would willingly seek you out to remind you.

Before you can contemplate it too much, the bell goes and you reboot yourself back into teacher mode.

Once everyone has packed up and left, you let out a long huff, packing up your own belongings before heading to the designated classroom for detention. With the rush of bustling kids wanting to leave, you’re able to get there fast, weaving through the current and into the barren classroom.

Going over to the old cabinet that’s tucked away in the corner, you find the clipboard full of the names of the attendees. You skim it haphazardly, seeing if you recognise any of the names before plonking down at the desk at the top of the room. Although one of your student’s older sisters is supposed to show up, no one that you directly teach is listed, which gives you a strange sense of pride.

Pulling out your phone, your attention span forgets about the clipboard in no time. Just as you do, the phone buzzes in your hand, lighting up with a notification from Alexandria High’s Teacher Midlife Crisis Support Line.

Gregory: Friendly reminder, do not park your vehicles in other people’s spots.

Some students filter into the hall, avoiding eye contact despite the small smile you give each of them. Unsurprisingly, none of them are in a talking mood and take their seats, pulling out homework or some study material to occupy their hour with.

Paul J Monroe : good idea, stop parking in my spot

You move your hand up to cover the smirk tugging at your lips. Gregory, the vice principal, isn't known for his popularity. His entire personality is marked by his distinct sense of entitlement and self-perseveration. It’s baffling that he somehow ended up as vice principal when his leadership style is rooted in only helping himself.

Scrolling through the list of members on the group chat, you recognize a fair amount of names. Of course Carol and Mr Monroe, the counsellor, are in there. The likes of Ms Espinosa the geography and Spanish teacher is there too, as is Mr Abrams the music teacher, both Coach Smiths and surprisingly the Chaplin, Father Stokes, is there too. Unfortunately, most of the names you don’t know, having not done much socialising since getting here.

Sasha: there was a Christmas lights installation van parked across my spot and Rosita’s, will they be there again tomorrow?

Rosita: if it’s there tomorrow I’m slashing its tires

Rosita: that’s a joke

Gregory: I hired them, they’ll be here all week to make things more festive

While waiting to see how the others react to that, you look back at the clipboard, your gaze hardening as you look to the very top of the page. There, in black ink, is the date, followed by which school week this is and finally, the name of the teacher on duty.

And guess what, it sure as shit isn’t your name up there.

If it isn’t for the room full of kids, you would be swearing out loud, having to bite your tongue to stop the words from actually coming out.

That motherfucker. That sly, riddled and sleazy motherfucker. The name Coach N. Smith is at the top of the page with a horizontal line next to it for him to sign, proving that he did actually show up and do his damn job. Yanking your phone back up, you stew silently and watch the messages flow.

Rosita: ur shitting me

Sasha: why weren’t we told about this?!

Gregory: this can be discussed tomorrow

Sasha: discussed tomorrow while they’re parked in our spots AGAIN?

Aaron: Does anyone know where we’re going for the Christmas party? Is it still on for next Friday? Need to hire a babysitter haha :)

Rosita: Gregory?? Reply??

Scrolling to the top of the group chat, you tap to see its members, noticing how it says Gregory is now offline. Typical. Thankfully, Aaron’s message moves the conversation in a new direction and teachers begin to lightly debate whether they should go to the Kingdom for the staff Christmas Party or if they should venture further afield.

Amber: can we not go back to the Kingdom? Pretty sure I got food poisoning last year :S

Gregory: budget for Christmas party is very low this year, if anyone can plan it for next Friday then it can still go ahead.

Rosita: what about our parking spaces? Hello???????

Rosita is once again ignored by Gregory and the topic of the Christmas party stays. You know you shouldn’t be getting such entertainment from this but watching as the teachers try to assert their points, shooting down what the others have to stay while simultaneously trying to stay as polite as possible provides some great amusement.

And, it’s extremely passive aggressive. Oh, what joy.

One of your favourite moments is the science teacher Mr Porter’s response when Gregory struck down his idea of making the Christmas Party a weekend getaway to the closest city.

Eugene: For clarification, are you suggesting the staff members in this here group chat don’t have the sufficient financial funds to rent a hotel room for a night or two?

You want to let out a low ‘ooooo’ noise as if you’re watching a sports game. In all honesty, if you weren’t supervising detention, you probably would be making gleeful noises as you read each text. Gregory ignores Mr Porter’s accusation and instead proposes his own idea.

Gregory: Having it at the school is the best opton, everyone can get there and it’s big enough

You presume that’s a spelling mistake on his part. The next text comes from one of the Coach Smith’s, the one you haven’t badmouthed.

Mark: The gym hall can definitely fit everyone

When you see Mark’s name pop up along with the thumbs up emoji he adds to his text, you go into your options for him, deciding to set yourself a little reminder of who’s who.

Mark (Coach Smith): but I’ll be taking next week off for vacay

Sherry: who’s the new number that’s been added ?

“Miss?” You look up as a student approaches with a bored face “can I borrow a pen? Or even a pencil?”.

“Oh sure!” You perk up, dropping your phone on to your lap so the student can’t see. The last thing you need is to be the teacher who leaked the mere idea of a teacher group chat being real.

Hurriedly typing out your awkward introductory message of yourself to the group, you send it and focus on helping the student. Taking out your little pencil case, you begin rummaging around for a pen you wouldn’t mind a student ruining.

Mark (Coach Smith): so someone else will have to help Negan set up the gym if we decide to have the party there

Sherry: oh are you the new English teacher?? I haven’t had a chance to meet you yet! hi!

After selecting a black pen, you pause, eyeing the kid with suspicion. “Wait… you spent the whole day at school without a pen or pencil?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

You look down at your messages as the student stalls to answer, rocking back and forth on his heels. There’s a strange socially awkward panic that bubbles in you when you see the new message, knowing you can’t be rude and start texting again when dealing with a student.

But at the same time, the longer you stall in answering, the more you’re convinced you’re coming across as being rude to the group chat.

The kid just shrugs “Yeah.”

“How is that even possible?” you start to ask, but the words fade as your phone buzzes again.

With a silent sigh, you hand the pen over, offering it a quiet farewell. Picking up your phone a little too eagerly, you type out a fast response to Sherry’s question.

You: Yes!! :)

Ok, maybe you went a little overkill with the exclamation points and the smiley face but that’s where panic gets ya. Now that the rush is over, you swipe your finger up a little to look at the message you missed.

Gregory: anyone willing to help plan the Christmas party?

Oh fuck. Your stomach drops as you read the order of messages again. Mark saying he’ll be gone, offering up the gym for the staff Christmas party while knowing full well he’s gone the week leading up to it and won't even be attending.

Sherry asking if you’re the new English teacher.

Gregory, who would rather ask others to help rather than offer any help himself, wondering if someone else can help set up the party.

And then you, enthusiastically texting in a yes. Fuck. Please no. No, no, no. That message was in response to Sherry's message!

You put your phone on the table, screen facing down as you lean back in your chair. This can’t be happening. The last person you want to be around is Negan, never mind plan a goddamn Christmas party with him!

You take some deep breaths, hoping that your message won’t be misread. Surely, it won’t be, not to anyone who was actually paying attention to the different conversations happening.

It buzzes again, louder this time as it vibrates off the table. You don’t want to pick it up. You don’t want to see what it is and yet you still reach for it. Slowly flipping your phone to see the screen, there’s only one new message from the group chat.

It’s Gregory, calling you by your teacher name as he replies…

Gregory: great! I’ll leave it to you and Negan to sort out the finer details

———

Read Chapter 2 here!

gif made from scenepack provided by harleys.scenes on insta <3

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punkypiscesell-writes · 28 days ago

Text

when it comes without a warning - ch. 1

chapter 1 - previous chapter

Javier Peña x plus size f! reader

summary: You meet a stranger at a New Years Eve party, not knowing where that chance encounter might lead.

warnings (updated after each chapter): fake dating AU, strangers to lovers, romcom, 90’s vibes, angst, small town dynamics, slow burn, pining, insecurities, drinking, smoking, food related descriptions, family mentions, mention of pregnancy, cynicism about love. The picture in the header is just for the visual and isn't an indication of the reader's skin color. Not beta read. If you see any broken Spanish, please let me know!!

word count: 9.4k

notes: Here we go, chapter 1! I hope you enjoy it <3 I will be updating this story each month, the final chapter coming out in July. The next update will be on Valentine’s Day.

dividers by cafekitsune

When you were a child, you watched a movie every Saturday evening with your mom. They made you think your life would follow a specific path. Go to school, graduate, you’d find a boyfriend who you’d someday marry and have kids with.

You’d buy a house somewhere quiet with a big garden and a picket fence. The kids would grow up and you’d watch them become their own people while knowing you’d always have your first love with you. You’d look at pictures that would span years until those would turn into decades, with the same people in them getting greyer and wrinkles all over their faces. It would be perfect.

What you didn’t understand back then, was how life doesn’t usually go like in those picture perfect stories. Rarely it’s wrapped neatly with shiny paper and finished off with a flawless bow.

You watched your friends find their first loves while you became a wallflower. You didn’t know what to do in life while others were making decisions about their futures. One by one your old friends moved away to chase their dreams, forgetting the people and memories back home. With the need to get out of the town where you grew up in, like your friends had, you realized you could turn your hobby into a job.

Chasing a dream makes people optimistic and the possibility of having your own story unfold like in one of those movies you used to watch with your mom seemed possible again. You kept your eyes open, even dared to step out of your wallflower persona, full of hope and enthusiasm. When your story still kept you waiting, you understood how chasing love doesn’t always mean chasing romantic love.

In the glimmer of a big city, you found new friends. Abigail, Eileen and Mary were actually interested in talking with you and getting to know who you are outside of being just someone’s friend. They already knew each other having grown up in the same town, but you fit in with them like the last pea in a pod.

“What’s holding you back, you can move anywhere!” Mary drunkenly encouraged on the night of your graduation, while the humidity of Austin bathed you in sweat.

“Yeah, you can start a bakery anywhere!” Abigail offered you her glass to pour more tequila into. How she said it, like it was the simplest thing in the world, made you laugh, and you thought she was joking until you realized she wasn’t. She was far from it.

“And then what? Just rot in some dying town until the end of my days?”

The seed was already planted though. They had a point. You could start a bakery anywhere if you wanted to and you could find help with the business side of things, especially in the beginning.

When you sobered up and you were sitting on an uncomfortable bar stool leaning your elbows against the kitchen island in your small, hole in the wall kitchen. You started to plan it. The more you planned, the more convinced you were you could make it work.

The movies you watched while growing up rarely had people move into a small town with a population of only a few thousand when they could move into a big city and keep those big dreams alive.

You bought a small space for your bakery from a building that used to have a restaurant. Mrs. Sánchez has a flower shop next door, and she has always been supportive of you, even when for a while you were the “new girl” in town. The whispers around you and your business were excessive, but eventually the whispering turned into actual conversations with you, rather than about you.

You had your best friends being part of their family businesses. Your bakery started to bloom. You were in control of the strings in your hands and all the puzzle pieces were clearly laid out, all of them locking into place.

“We want you to clear your schedules next July,” Noah begins with his soft voice, his calmness the complete opposite to Abigail who is hanging from his arm.

“We’re getting married y’all!” Abigail yells and pulls her hand from her fiancé, flashing a big, shiny ring for the guests to see. Your face drops as an excited shock washes through the room of Noah’s family’s luxurious farmhouse that they’ve had since forever. The high ceilings echo the eruption of cheering and clapping with the sound of glasses tinkling together in toast. You raise yours and smile, your feet rooted against the floor.

Your best friends. You look at them fawning over the ring, the smiling couple surrounded by their closest friends.

“Finally, everyone knows!”

“Now we don’t have to hide it any longer!” Eileen and Mary laugh. Your smile doesn’t falter, it doesn’t even flinch. But it’s like a cold shower that runs down from the back of your neck to the bottom of your spine. Abigail’s eyes flash to you after the women have said the words out loud.

You used to be a part of that group of best friends. In the last couple of years they’ve turned into people you sometimes hang out with. The frequent dinners and game nights at each other’s places first turned into occasions that happened once a month, then into once every six months when schedules and life got in the way.

First it was Mary, who announced she had reconnected with her high school sweetheart. Then it was Eileen who found her boyfriend through Mary’s boyfriend. For a while it was just you and Abigail, the two of you against the world. You were bridesmaids to Mary, then to Eileen, then Mary got pregnant and Eileen right after her. You and Abigail held the fort as the only single women in your group.

And then suddenly it was only you. Their lives are different now, as is yours. You’re not in your early twenties anymore, naively finding your way in this world. Sometimes you wonder if you’ve chosen the right place for you, but you’ve also understood that you might not want the future with the house and a picket fence, a husband and kids and the pictures on a mantelpiece. Your best friends want that while you’ve chosen another path.

Then, before you can delve too deep into other existential questions, you remember a cake order that has to be filled next week or how you have to make one more batch of the new malted wheat sourdough bread because your customers are emptying your shelves before 8 am.

“So, what do you think?” Abigail catches up to you after you’ve congratulated the pair. She reaches her left hand towards you and wiggles her hand.

You hold her fingers and twist them gently. The rock sparkles in the champagne hued light of the farmhouse. “It’s beautiful,” you smile.

“Noah chose it himself, with the help from my mom. I can’t believe he managed to do all that and I had no idea!” Abigail sighs and pulls her hand back to marvel at the jewel around her ring finger.

You sip from your drink, the alcohol almost a welcomed friend in the full house. The atmosphere is electric from the unexpected news. The music is turned even louder than it already was. The New Year is only a few hours away and you don’t see the party dying down anytime soon.

A little quiet wouldn’t do you any harm, especially as someone keeps bumping against your back, and pushes you to give them more room.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something.” Abigail pulls you to the side, somehow managing to find a corner that isn’t occupied.

“I’d love to ask you a favor.” You’ve always been impressed by her ability to make her eyes so innocently big, pleading in a way that is caring and can make even the coldest person believe whatever she says is their own idea.

Abigail lifts her hands to your forearms and squeezes with a smile that reminds you of a child you saw at your shop yesterday after he had seen the experimental chocolate and peanut cupcakes you had made. After seeing his face, you might bring them back when you have an overstock of the ingredients, just to see that same kind of enthusiasm again.

“Remember that cake you baked for my 27th birthday?” Abigail asks. She doesn’t have to remind you. It was an elaborate white chocolate vanilla cake with raspberry compote filling. You topped it with handmade chocolate decorations that you created after work, the hours stretching closer to 20 spent in your bakery that day. Your back ached and you were stressed because you wanted the cake to be perfect. It was all worth it.

You nod. “I’d love it if you could make our wedding cake. We’ll of course pay, unless…” Abigail smiles with her lips tightly shut, the apples of her cheeks glowing.

“Unless you want me to give you a wedding cake as a wedding gift?” You fill in for her, the idea cracking your smile.

“Yes! Oh my God, it would be perfect! I’d be so incredibly lucky to have your creation at our wedding. It would be so special!” She grabs at you and pulls you into a tight hug that crackles against your tight shoulder where the muscle has been burning for the past week.

“I think we could make it work.” You swallow, defeated by your inability to say no to Abigail. One wedding cake. It’ll only be one wedding cake, among the other wedding cake orders that flow in during the busiest season of people tying the knot.

“I also have one other thing in mind.” You immediately prepare mentally for whatever she’s going to ask from you next.

“At my wedding, I’d love for you to bring a plus one.” Your mind goes blank.

“What?”

“The wedding is still six months away, so you have plenty of time. I just don’t want to see you alone there!” Abigail laughs and rubs at your arms. It has been a while since you wore anything else than your comfy clothes at home or your work uniform that consists of soft cotton T-shirts all in creamy white, tucked in your jeans and under an apron. Your friend running her hands up and down against the fabric on your arms, the blouse is suddenly coarse and too hot.

“I don’t have time for dating,” you remind her.

“You never have time for dating! I think that’s not true, you’re just afraid of finding someone and falling in love. That’s okay,” Abigail’s tone is encouraging, but her words sting. She’s not wrong. Of course you’re scared, you’ve never really dated anyone. The only dates you’ve been to were either pity dates set up by your high school friends or a few failed first meetings with guys who had been your customers at the bakery and who now only visit when they have to get something special for their girlfriends and wives.

“Fear not, you’re meeting someone tonight,” your friend’s eyes glimmer mischievously.

“What?” You hiss immediately.

“Noah has a friend who’s single. We think you’ll like him a lot.” Each of Abigail’s words is emphasized by a nod of her head or a poor attempt at a wink.

“We?”

“Eileen, me and Mary of course, silly,” she whacks at your arm playfully. Her cheeks blush while your stomach is heavy with dread.

“I really don’t think it’s a great idea. Also, I don’t need a date, it’s a wedding, it’ll be fun no matter if I have a date or not.”

“Bullsh–,” Abigail shushes herself and makes sure no one heard her. Her eyes soften to the level of pity. “It’s okay for you to find someone special, we all have. You’ll love it when someone takes care of you and pampers you and you won’t have to be alone anymore. You want to get married, you want a family! You’ve said it yourself, remember?” She laughs and tilts her head.

“Yeah!” You hope she doesn’t hear the doubt in your voice.

“We’re making sure you’re not going to end up alone.”

“What do you have in mind then?” Abigail turns immediately from you and leaves you standing next to the huge Christmas tree still fully decked and deeply green. You see her long, blonde hair swinging as she makes her way through the crowd. The curls at the ends are perfect. You smile at an older couple and wish them a happy New Near under your breath as they pass you by, a suspicious look in their eye while you try to keep track of Abigail.

You don’t have to wait for long. You see her first, then a tall man in a crisp white button down shirt behind her. He eyes you up and down immediately, his eyes blue and hard. You can’t read the look he’s giving you, but it’s not pleasant. He makes you nervous.

“Here’s John,” Abigail announces with a smile, and a hand that she waves down from his shoulder to midriff. You’re cornered between Abigail, John and the Christmas tree. The man nods his head and keeps his eyes locked on you while you notice the drink in his hand, a glass too gentle to be held in a death grip like his.

“Noah always calls him Johnny,” She proudly pats him on the shoulder and pushes John closer to you. The wall bumps against your back.

“He doesn’t,” John argues. His face twists in confusion, while his words are drowned by Abigail’s enthusiasm.

“Noah always tells good stories about John, how they’ve known for years, and how reliable he is. And you’re both into…” Abigail smiles, her eyes a little empty. She looks at you and massages John’s shoulder with her bejeweled hand. The engagement ring sparkles in the soft lighting of the family home. “You’re both into business! You’re entrepreneurs! I think you might have interesting conversations in the horizon,” Abigail chirps and finishes the last note with a smile that reveals her perfectly white teeth. Something catches her attention. Her eyes get larger, and her cheeks burn bright red. Noah stands close by with some of his friends, deep in conversation.

“Oh, excuse me, I have somewhere to be,” she points somewhere towards the crowd of people and disappears into it with a wave of her hand, in the opposite direction from Noah.

You stand awkwardly next to just as awkward John. He smells like aftershave from 30 years ago. It’s not completely unpleasant, only something you can imagine he got as a regifted present on Christmas. It’s warm, a little spicy, and a little too musty. He might like it, or then he wore it to keep unpleasant people away. You sip at your drink and try to take a step back without John noticing. The wall is in your way.

“We should sit down,” he tells you. You stare at his back when he leaves you standing alone, and only turns around to check if you’re following when he has found a couch end for you both to sit on.

He sits on the sofa with his legs spread wide. His face is smug, borderline conceited, when you make space for yourself next to him. How did Abigail, Mary and Eileen ever think you’d be into this guy? You try to relax, sip on your drink and smile at John. He smiles back. Maybe he’s not as bad as you’re making him out to be in your head. You don’t know him. Maybe your friends have a valid reason to believe you two could hit it off.

John pushes his leg against yours, seeking physical contact. You pull back from him immediately and lock your inner thighs together to keep yourself as small as you can. Your jeans aren’t tight but the way you’re sitting makes them dig into your skin.

“So…” John begins and drinks from his glass.

“So…” You repeat awkwardly, waiting for his next move.

“You want to hear how much money I make? I know women like to hear that. You don’t seem like an exception.” Your smile tightens, it’s a mask. The contents of your glass would be perfect on this guy, maybe he’s even begging for it.

“Like Abigail said, I’m an entrepreneur…” he talks in a monotone voice, reading off an invisible script. You don’t really even care if the mask on your face slips, not when John drones on and on about his savings, his investments and how he wants a stay-at-home wife to take care of the kids and home while he’s working.

“My business will become massive in the next ten years. Yes, I plan ten years in advance. I recommend it to everyone who…” you drown John’s voice into the different voices around you. He’s like the perfect candidate for people watching.

Abigail and Noah’s parents are standing in one corner of the room, with lighthearted looks on their faces. Noah’s brother is leaning against a wall, looking bored as ever as he snacks on something from the snack table. Mary and Eileen are swaying to the music, pointing out different people from the party goers.

Abigail is with a man who you don’t know. She has her hand on his bicep, then she lifts it to his shoulder. Up and down she moves it, while trying to step closer to him. The man in a dark blue button up, his hair combed to the back with a few fly aways sticking out on his temple, a well-groomed mustache moves over his top lip, knows when to take a step back and shake her hand off him without seeming rude. Is she drunk? Abigail straightens the man’s collar. Her hand lingers on it, her fingertips touch his neck before she pulls her hand back.

You’ve seen the man before. You’ve caught him staring at the pastries and bread in the bakery window a few times but he hasn’t come in.

“… You do for work?” The question is already fading. John’s tone is cool, almost as uninterested as you are. The distant look in his eyes isn’t helping to get you more invested in his monologue.

“I have my own business.” You answer, even to you in a too formal tone.

“Oh, what kind?” John leans forward, a spark of interest on his face.

“I have a bakery downtown.”

“Ah.” John scratches the back of his neck and shakes his head. “That’s a risky business endeavor. Have you thought about something else when this one bites the dust?”

You grind your teeth together behind the smile that you try to keep even remotely kind looking. You have to get out of here. You spot Abigail mingling with the guests, now with Mary and Eileen, who all turn towards you. Abigail draws a heart in the air with her index fingers and points to John. Miserably you turn back to him, who is still talking about different options for you.

“You could sell your business, cut your losses before they’re too overwhelming for you to handle.” Mary’s thumbs up don’t cover the murderous snarl you give them, your mouth twisted when you shake your head “no”. They’re back on the move, finding a quieter spot while laughing. You can hear it over the steady buzzing of conversations.

John has moved on from your imaginary bankruptcy to talking about his newest investments.

“Who handles them for you”

“Hmm?”

“Your investments, who handles them for you?”

“I haven’t really looked into it.” The bottom off your glass stares back at you, the rest of the alcohol now going down your throat.

“You should! Having a fickle business like yours isn’t going to keep you afloat for too long. Especially in a place like this. I could give you some recommendations on how to maximize your profits.” Your skin crawls. How satisfying it would be to yell at this man to shut the fuck up.

You don’t. You see the people around you, your customers. They have their usual orders, some have something else on a specific day, and some stick to the same baked goods day after day. You know them by name. You remember the stories they’ve told you, how something you made was shared with a loved one and new memories were made. John doesn’t seem like a person who would understand the value of memories since they’re not monetary.

Your friends clearly don’t have any idea what kind of a man you’d want to be with. To be fair, neither do you. But John? Setting you up with someone who is as interesting as the worn-out, uncared-for leather of his shoes, at least you can say who isn’t your type.

Sitting next to him, his knee still bumping against you, making your skin itch, even when you try to keep distance to him, listening to him ramble on about investing and profits, your friends would be bored out of their minds in your place as well. Maybe they haven’t spoken with John. Maybe they haven’t even met him before. Your fingers find your gold chain against your chest. Its dainty links run between your thumb and forefinger, the familiar trail soothing you.

“If you’re free tomorrow, I could give you some tips on finding–“

“Look, John,” you cut him off with the drop of your necklace back against your skin. “You’re… clearly knowledgeable about money, and someone might be very interested in hearing about all of this. But that’s not me.”

“What are you saying then?” He’s genuinely surprised.

“I don’t think we should explore anything further.” You let him down gently and give him an apologetic look.

“Okay,” he tilts his head with deep creases across his forehead. “I’m a bit surprised. There’s not many, if any, people paying any attention on you here. I’m a catch looking for someone to carry his children who will become the next president or congressman some day and you’re just a bakery keeper who clearly has let herself go. But whatever, I’ll respect your honesty.” He says it all with a smile on his face, the insult somehow meant to sound like a compliment. His brows rise and fall after every other word, like they’re part of the conversation too. You stare at him, your mind blank, your mouth with a life of its own.

“What a small man,” you say to him and stand up with a laugh. He says something more, but you don’t stay to listen. There’s nothing more you’d want in this moment than get away from this man and to refill your glass with the punch served here.

It splashes against the edges of your glass when you make your way to the balcony. You want to hide from the people inside the party. From John. He can think whatever he wants, you’re not fazed by his rudeness, by anyone’s rudeness for that matter. It doesn’t mean what he said didn’t hurt you.

The dusky balcony is the place to be, away from the golden lights, the music and people who apparently don’t even see you. An unreasonable fear rises from the back of your mind with an image of John chasing after you onto the balcony, telling you how great he is and how generous he is for even agreeing on a blind date with you. You’d need to understand how this night wouldn’t change his life, but it would still change yours.

There’s a lonely chair behind the corner, away from direct eyeline of the celebrations. There’s barely any light here, only a small lantern next to a flower arrangement on a small table next to the chair. You sit down and relax. The drink feels good, comforting, on your over stimulated nerves. Muffled music and people talking, laughing, puts a rift between you and whatever is happening inside.

There haven’t been many moments when you are truly alone and when you are, you usually invite it with open arms. What follows that alone time is usually a guest you rarely want to invite along. Being alone is almost easy, being lonely always chips away at your heart. At the belief that maybe there’s someone out there somewhere for you as well.

You’ve accomplished so much in the last few years. You can be proud of so many things you’ve made happen by yourself. At the same time, you have to admit that it has all happened because you’ve been ready to sacrifice something.

You go with the flow, but you’re looking in at your own life rather than living it. You’re waiting for something without knowing what that could be. Apathy follows the gentle buzz of the alcohol in your system. You breathe deep against the coolness of the night. At least your skin isn’t pouring sweat while wondering which turn you forgot to take at some point in life to find a missing, nameless puzzle piece.

A clink and a soft scratch of glass. You’re ready to tell John to leave you alone. Instead, your eyes meet the deepest of ambers, sitting on the other side of the little table next to you where the lantern and flowers have been arranged. Someone laughs inside in a way that reminds you of a breathless donkey.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, sorry,” he says while pushing his glass further from the edge of the table, his voice deep, soft like a cloud.

“I didn’t know someone was here.” You’re ready to stand up, find another hiding place and leave this man alone.

“I should’ve said something.” You nod at his words, unsure of what to do. Maybe he wants to be left alone…

“You know the couple?” He asks, cutting your plans to leave short.

“I’m friends with Abigail.” He smiles, acknowledges your words and presses his hand against his chest.

“I’m one of the groomsmen.” You smile a tentative smile back and hear the conversation between you two die down.

Even when you’re not talking, you find yourself glued to your seat. His presence is overwhelming. It draws you in, makes you nervous with curiosity. He’s looking out into the vast darkness facing the farmhouse, forcing the building to become a lighthouse in the quiet. Your left side, his side, is vibrating from his nearness. The little hairs on your arm stand up, reaching for him. There’s electricity in the air, zinging gently, a hum in your ear as you listen to it. Listen to him take a deep breath in and push it out with slow force.

He's the one Abigail spoke with earlier. The one with the mustache and dark blue button up. The one who you’ve seen stop in front of your bakery but never come in. The town gossip train would help you recognize who he is, but you’ve tuned that station off.

You hear about some things regardless, while some other things aren’t for your ears, you’ve decided. Maybe that decision would be different if you had grown up in a small town like this, your life filled with people knowing what is happening in other people’s lives.

“Do you mind?” His question is hushed. There’s a cigarette between his fingers, and a question in the quirk of his brow. You shake your head and watch him pull out a lighter. It flickers a golden glow against his face when he has the cigarette hanging between his lips. The embers light up and then go to rest when he takes a drag, the smoke in his lungs until he breathes it out slowly. The cloud hangs in the air and drifts towards you. You inhale the rich aroma mixed with burning sweetness.

“I’m quitting in the New Year,” he tilts his head towards you, his eyes like black embers fixated on you through his lashes, in the lowlight of the candle and whatever light streams from the window.

“And this is your last one?” Your voice tunes itself to the quiet smokiness of his tone without you trying.

“Last, or second to last, I haven’t decided yet.” He rolls the butt against his fingers and flicks it. The burning flecks distinguish in the air. There’s loud cheering inside, rattling against the calm atmosphere outside.

The man looks inside, his focus on the noise as well. “Why aren’t you with them?”

“Abigail had set me up with Noah’s godawful friend, I had to take a break. Apparently, I need a plus one for the wedding.”

“With who?” Another drag from the cigarette.

“John?” He nods at your answer, and blows out the smoke to the opposite direction from you.

“They’re not close, not really even friends,” the man muses and turns his eyes on you.

Like an electric shock, you have to turn away from him and stare out towards the dark. This man is intense, demanding in a gentle way, his attention on you and only you. He’s not filling a silence with useless noise, but with observing. You run your necklace between your fingers again, twist it around one and draw a line against your skin over and over.

“I think she just wanted me to find someone.” Wish that someone wasn’t a self-important dickhead.

“The wedding isn’t in months.”

“My friends know I need time to think, and to take it slow.” The man inhales from his cigarette again and raises his brows in what could only mean silent disbelief.

“What?”

“Just wondering why Abigail wanted to set you up with an asshole like John, everyone knows he’s a player.” His words pour on you like ice. The more you repeat the last part in your head, the more convinced you are it wasn’t a serious setup, but a foolish prank.

Maybe listening to the grapevine would’ve been a good thing at least once. You take a big sip of your drink and let it burn in your throat as you swallow it down slowly.

There’s more cheering and clapping coming from inside, pulling you to look in at the party as well. Abigail is standing in front of the guests, Mary and Eileen next to her. Abigail has a pouch in her hand, where Eileen is digging something from.

“And why aren’t you apart of that?” The man’s low voice rumbles slowly against your eardrums.

Mary and Eileen open something in their hands, small pieces of paper, and show them to the other guests. People, mostly women, erupt into gleeful joy. Bridesmaid and maid of honor. “I don’t know.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“Why aren’t you in there celebrating?” You turn the question to him with a determined smile tugging against your cheeks. You should’ve known you won’t be part of the wedding party, it shouldn’t be a surprise. It shouldn’t hurt. You cover it with the smile and hope it will ease the sting.

The man notices your attempt at directing the focus away from yourself. He takes one last drag and then stubs the cigarette against an ashtray on the floor. He blows the smoke from his lungs and manages to turn more towards you.

He spreads his legs in the rickety garden chair, but his point isn’t to establish dominance like John, but to slide down and relax in the too small chair in his snuggly fitting dark jeans.

“I had to take a break,” he repeats your answer back to you. From his mouth it’s vague, words that hold some other meaning that he’s debating sharing with you. “Abigail is busy playing matchmaker in there.” He tilts his head to lean his temple against his fingers, his elbow perfectly perched on the arm of the chair.

Him facing you, his chin lifted, the amber of his eyes flickering in the candlelight, draws heat to the surface of your skin. Your chest, the back of your neck, your cheeks. It’s annoying that this stranger can cause a reaction like it.

You want to defy it and push back. You face him as well, stare him right in the eyes. Lava splashes on you from your head to your toes. Your palms sweat and you swallow, still with a calm smile on your face. It has become your safety blanket that you can hide behind. No matter if it’s a true kindness or you’re killing someone with it, the smile is familiar to you now.

“She found someone for you as well?”

“She suggested it, but I turned her down.”

“And that’s why you had to take a break?”

“No, it was because of the other guests.” He looks away. A small victory you didn’t think you’d get. His answer stirs the win into confusion.

“Why?” A question you have no right to ask, out of your mouth before you even consider asking it.

He lifts his eyes back to you, the look in them warm but laced with a warning. It’s not your place to know. It’s a question too complicated in its simplicity, the answer even simpler, yet more complicated.

Two can play this game. Who hides better behind a mask? Who stays calm when someone tries to crawl under the other’s skin? He’s a master at it, catching you off guard, letting you think you had won him in the game he has perfected over the years.

You’re knocked off the number one spot and he figures it out immediately, when your smile cracks and you have to hide behind the excuse of taking a sip from your glass. There’s only a little left, one more mouthful and you’re done. You don’t want to see his victory, but you also don’t want to seem scared.

The look on his face isn’t victory. Instead, you’re met with a man who is deep in thought. His brows are lightly pulled together, defining the two small lines between them. His eyes are veiled, only a slight shine from the candle still reaching them. Yes, he won.

“Well, I think it’s my time to go.” He snaps out of his thoughts. The watch on his wrist flashes with the reflection of light hitting the glass face.

“It’s not even midnight yet.” He sounds almost alarmed.

You circle the drink in your glass a couple of times and see his glass on the table. You stand up, lean over the table and smile more to the empty glass than to him. “Happy New Year,” you say out loud and clink your glasses together. The sweet and sour taste is soothing and if you were alone, you probably would drink a few more to ring in the special evening.

“I’ll see you around,” you tell the man who follows your every move. He watches your hand as you place your glass next to his. He watches you wipe at the backside of your jeans to make sure there’s no dust on them from the chair. His eyes are burning against your back as you leave him sitting on the old, weathered chair.

Someone opens the door to the balcony and sticks their head out. Noah.

“Hey, have you seen Javi?” his voice is a little hoarse, joy on the corners of his eyes.

“Who?”

“Javier, dark shirt, jeans, brown hair…” the man’s presence appears on your back, lifting all the hairs of your skin again, heat coursing through you.

“I’m here,” his voice is like the stickiest and sweetest honey. It’s also much closer than you anticipated. You look over your shoulder. Javier is right behind you, his chest almost against your back. Noah’s face lights up, clearly pleased he found his friend.

“Is Abigail somewhere? I’m going to be heading out, I just want to congratulate her once more.” Javier stands still and manages to shake your voice only by being close to you.

“But it’s not even midnight yet, you should stay a bit longer,” Noah pleads, a relaxed slurring in his speech.

“I think I’m done for the night, just too tired to keep on partying. Thank you for inviting me and congratulations once more.” You hug Noah, genuinely happy for him. His tan skin glows with pure excitement.

“Can you believe her, leaving before midnight on New Year’s Eve.” Noah points his thumb at you, the jokey question directed at Javier.

“I know, almost like tonight doesn’t change anything.” His sarcasm makes you snort, and Noah fake a laugh.

“Abi is downstairs. Thanks for coming, and thank you for the gift,” he winks at you, the promised wedding cake now apparently confirmed.

Abigail entertains some older people, talking with them, sharing moments from how she met Noah and how he proposed. You barely get a word in and her answer to you leaving is: “Okay, I’ll call you.” before she’s back to talking with the people who have made her their center of attention.

Luckily Mrs. Sánchez is on her way out with her husband, taking you to town. You have one neighbor, living in the apartment on the other side of the corridor from you on top of the carpenter shop. You’ve met him plenty of times since you moved in six years ago, but you can’t for the life of you remember his name.

You’re already sleeping, groggy and confused when you hear your neighbor counting down from 10 with his guests, the cheering overwhelming even through your wall. Auld Lang Syne starts to play, and you lay in bed, staring at the blank surface of your ceiling. Not even the streetlights can light your apartment enough.

Maybe this year you’ll push yourself to enjoy your life rather than watch it pass you by. You make the resolution before you fall back asleep, barely remembering it the next morning.

Time ticks on even after midnight and the days after don’t create a limbo effect anymore when you go to work. It’s darkest when you wake up at 3.15 and head to the bakery thirty minutes later. The morning rises as you’re tipping proofed loafs from their baskets onto the floured wooden table for scoring. You’re trying a new leaf design, lashing the surface with a sharp blade that glides against the dough like butter.

When you’ve pushed the loaves into the oven you take the next trolley of bread from the walk-in fridge and under the zippered hoods you uncover what you made yesterday in preparation for today, buttery wheat loaves in their neat little rectangle pans. One trolley after the other you solve the walk-in fridge puzzle, pulling out hooded trolleys. Yellow hoods for sweet products, blue for savory.

“Morning!” Lili, your bakery assistant, greets as she walks in from the small locker room. Unlike you, who stayed up too late writing down ideas for Abigail and Noah’s wedding cake, her under eyes are bright and her voice clear after a well-rested night.

“Good morning,” you croak and clear your throat right after. Your shoulder complains as you fill in the vanilla tartlets, row after row of neat custardy pies waiting for a couple of slices of syrupy lemons Lili has prepared for them.

As the shop fills with the fresh loaves, rolls and biscuits, the last sweet things are baking in the ovens, filling the bakery and shop with a sugary, toasty smell. Butter, nuts, fruits, spices and chocolate, are like a dessert after the early morning savory baking.

You’re filling cream puffs when the doors open and the first customer walks in. You have the bakery door open but can’t see the shop from your sturdy work table. You can only listen to the sounds that indicate your work paying off.

The bell above the door tinkles constantly, people walking in and out with fresh goods in paper bags and bakery carton boxes, careful not to shake or mush anything that is even a little more fragile than the thick crusted breads.

Lili’s enthusiastic voice answers questions with a constant smile. “Yes, these have a hazelnut and chocolate filling.” “There is ginger and clove in the cookie dough.” “It’s the freshest today, but you can use the rest for bread pudding or French toast in the next few days.” “Sadly, that was our December limited edition cupcake, but we’re planning something for Easter.”

If she’s not answering questions, then she’s taking down orders and repeating every detail to get everything right. The free spots in your calendar for orders are filling out fast. You’re counting each one in your head after Lili repeats them, checking off the orders list you remember by heart. Someone asks for a wedding cake order for July, one already taken by Abigail and Noah.

“Mr. Peña is here,” Lili sticks her head into the bakery, pulling you from weighing ingredients for sticky cinnamon rolls. It’s eleven in the morning, you’re about thirty minutes early from your work schedule. The radio in the corner plays an older song softly, the words flowing from your mouth in a quiet hum. You wash your hands and check your face, wiping the remaining moisture from your temples as the ovens are finally cooling down. You take the small bakery box full of pistachio cream puffs from the fridge and take it to the register.

Seeing the shop full is always overwhelming, almost intimidating, especially when most look at you as they see you walking out of the bakery.

“Morning everyone,” you greet with easiness, the words wiping away your nerves. Mr. Peña is third in line, standing with someone who is looking at the small packets of chocolate confections that were leftover from your New Year’s specials.

You take one of the raisin and cashew loafs from the shelf and push it into a brown paper bag, and wheat knot rolls into another bag.

“Mr. Peña, what can I get for you?” Lili asks, her voice a little higher and squeakier than normal.

“Those ham and cheese muffins are looking fine today,” his voice rumbles. You smile to yourself as you pack a few lemon and poppyseed cookies into a box.

“¿Quieres algo dulce?” He asks his companion just as you turn with all the baked goods in your arms. You lay them on the table next to the register, Lili taping the muffin box closed and getting to work typing the prices as zero dollars.

“What’s this?” Mr. Peña asks under his brown, wide brimmed cowboy hat.

“You gave me the tip about Arnold’s shop, and he came to fix the oven right before New Year’s. It’s as good as new now. He also checked the other one, to see if it has the same problem with the wiring. This is the least I can give you as a thank you.” If you had ordered someone to come in from further, you would’ve paid a pretty penny for a simple fix that was done in fifteen minutes. You couldn’t be more grateful for Mr. Peña suggesting someone who he trusts.

“That was nothing, Sam is an old friend, he would miss his own funeral just to fix appliances,” he laughs and gives room for his companion to step next to him. Javier’s eyes bore into yours, a soft smile in them. He lays the little confection box on the table next to the breads and sweets.

“This is my son, Javier.” He pushes his aviator sunglasses into the neckline of his pink button up t-shirt.

“We met at Noah’s party a few days ago,” Javier says, making you nod along with his words.

“Oh! Well, then you need to know this little lady makes the best cream puffs in town,” Mr. Peña directs his attention to you. The smile lines get deep right by his eyes when the corners of his mouth turn up.

Javier hums in recognition, patiently watching you try to gather your thoughts. The two men look the same as they stand next to each other, the generation the only thing setting them apart. Javier seems to tower over his dad, his back straight and his shoulders wider with age pressing them forward for his dad.

“That’s a bit over exaggerated isn’t it, since there’s no other bakeries in town,” you turn the compliment into a joke, and your focus back to Javier’s dad to get yourself to calm down. Javier’s presence makes perspiration prickle at the small of your back.

“That’s why I said the best in town,” Mr. Peña jokes back.

“Exactly!” The shared laugh eases your discomfort. Why Javier makes you nervous, you haven’t decided yet.

“So, how much do I have to pay for these?”

“Nothing. Like I said, it’s the least I can do to thank you.”

“No, of course I pay, this is too much.”

“Mr. Peña, you helped me when you didn’t have to. These are on the house.” The people behind Javier and his dad are starting to get curious about what you’re giving away for free.

“Please, call me Chucho, I come here often enough for us to be in first name basis. And I already know your name, have known it longer than you’ve known there is a ‘Mister Peña’,” he tries to mimic your voice but only makes it sound like a mockery of you. He mumbles “sorry,” under his breath, all forgiven with a smile you give him back.

“What about these?” Lili asks with a quieter voice, the confections in her hand.

“I’ll pay for those,”

“And that’s Javier, you can call him by his first name as well.” His dad says pointedly. In a way he reminds you of your grandpa and how warmly he too always spoke even when to teach you about something more serious, like how to ask nicely, or when you needed help with your homework, and he checked where you had gone wrong.

“Chucho,” you nod your head towards him, “Javier,” you say his name and it tickles against your tongue. The other side of his mouth rises.

“Javier will pay for the candy, and I want a couple of those lemon things over there,” Chucho points in the display. The vanilla tartlets you worked on just a couple of hours earlier.

“Yo los pago, papá,” Javier mutters when you pick up a carton and fold it into a box, placing two tartlets into it. Lili is already ringing him up when you place the box next to her.

“Have you changed the products?” Chucho asks, looking at the display more carefully.

“There are a couple new things, like these blueberry swirl cupcakes and these hazelnut cookies.” You point them out for him and notice Javier checking out the items as well. “Don’t worry, I’m not taking out the favorites,” you nod towards the pistachio cream puffs that have become Chucho’s regular order. He winks at you, like a secret has been exchanged between you two. Lili packs all the goods into a paper bag and hands it over to Javier.

“Thank you,” Chucho tips his hat and drops money into the tip jar.

“Thank you,” Lili yells after checking how much he gave. You greet the next customers while leaving to go back to work, watching the pair as they walk out the door and to Chucho’s truck.

As the day goes on, the bell above the door tinkles less. The noises from people talking quiets down and Lili’s answers and order taking slows until there’s no more questions or orders to be made.

“Only a couple of cupcakes, cookies, and rolls left,” she informs as she joins you to help with dough mixing and making products for the next day. You work like a well-oiled machine that has been in use for a hundred years. You turn the radio a little louder and the both of you sing along to songs that you both know either from your childhoods or ones that have been playing nonstop since they came out in the last year.

“Can you make the puff pastry, I’ll make inventory and clean up the front.” You massage your shoulder, the pain burning under your shoulder blade.

The day is warm, warmer than usual, people wearing shorter sleeved shirts as they pass the shop. The air is humid, yet still dust settles on surfaces. You write in your notebook all the products sold, keeping note of the ones that have leftovers, before packing them in discount packets to get them sold before closing.

The industrial dishwasher rumbles on the other side of the wall as you’re wiping down the display cases. The door opens and the bell jingles, followed by footsteps that stop at the door. You look over your shoulder, the pink shirt on Javier like an alarm for your system.

“Hi,” you straighten your back and finish cleaning the glass.

“I hope I’m not interrupting?” He takes his sunglasses off and hangs them off his shirt again.

“No, no, we’re still open. Did you forget something? Or maybe Mr. Peña wanted something more? I’m sorry we sold out everything you got, tomorrow I’ll be selling more again.” Javier breathes out a silent laugh listening to you ramble nervously, his eyes landing on the empty shelves.

“I’m sure he’d buy more if there was some left, and you can call him Chucho.” You bend your head down when his eyes meet yours. “That’s not why I’m here for.” He walks over to the register with you on the other side. He places his hand on the table, curiously taking in the empty shop.

“What can I get for you then?”

“Have you had any luck finding a date for the wedding?”

“Oh,” his question surprises you. “I haven’t even thought about that. I can guarantee it’s not going to be John. Why?” He nods, watching your lips as they move around the words. He presses his hand into a fist, opening his mouth once, then closing it, contemplating whatever he has on his mind.

“I was wondering…” He stops, his lashes dark against the tops of his cheeks as he has trouble looking at you in the eye. Until he does and forces you to swallow against the sandpaper in your mouth.

“Noah said something… And I remembered what you said about Abigail wanting you to have a date… Being single at a wedding can be…” The broken sentences raise your pulse. “What if we’d go to the wedding together?” Your pulse pauses for a second until it picks up like a storm.

“You make it sound like someone’s going to pair you up with someone more awful unless you do something about it first?” You’re surprised how even your voice sounds even though pins and needles run up and down your skin and your insides are in a turmoil.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come off that way.” Javier shakes his head fast, his eyes flashing to you in fear that you’d understand him wrong. “My old man has been eager to know if he needs to know a name before the wedding. It’s a hassle if I won’t deal with that in time.” He almost manages to calm the tempest. You join his chuckling, imagining Chucho pressing his son about finding a plus one for a wedding where his friends are already paired off.

“Look,” you begin, forcing yourself to calm down and think clearly. “It’s a nice offer, but I’m not looking for anything, I don’t have time for it. Abigail setting me up at the party was weird and I’m not concerned about finding a date. I honestly don’t care what people say or think. She just wants me to have someone and not end up alone when she’s busy having brunches and dinners with her married friends.” Javier’s eyes narrow the longer you speak, your last words like icing on a cake for someone who observes as closely as Javier does. You realize how you make yourself sound pathetic and Abigail like an asshole immediately after.

“I’m not looking for anything either, I was thinking it more as an arrangement of sorts.”

“An arrangement?”

“Yeah. I have a lot of groomsmen, ah…” he looks for the words, “whatever wedding things coming up and I know I’ll be put between a rock and a hard place unless I have a date. We could go together, avoid the awkward blind dates and we’d let people know we’re each other’s dates.” What he means with him being between two undesirable options confuses you, but the possibility of Abigail setting you up with someone like John again is high enough for you to get interested in Javier’s suggestion.

“So, you mean we’d fake dating each other?”

He’s unblinking for a moment, until he inhales and pushes the breath out with a “I guess so.”

“Sounds like you’ve read too many romance books.” The lighthearted joke makes him laugh. “Don’t you think it’d be awkward?”

“If we’re okay with it, no, I don’t think so. We could get to know the basics of each other and that would be it. You don’t have to spend your time with me any more than you have to.” He takes a piece of paper from his pocket and places it on the table. “Think about it.” He pushes the paper towards you. You take it, and it’s still warm. He has written his number on it neatly, Javier with a swoopy J on top.

A couple walks in. The bell startles you both. Javier steps back and takes his sunglasses from his shirt.

“Let me know, okay?” He raises his brows in question, and you answer with a nod. The couple beelines for the leftovers, talking in hushed tones, while the bell dings and Javier leaves without a second look back.

“I knew we should’ve come sooner,” the woman hisses and huffs.

“We’re open tomorrow, if you’re looking for something specific,” you try to get back into the moment, but end up following Javier push his sunglasses up his nose and jog across the street to his truck before a car crawls past.

Never would you have thought a piece of paper could be heavy but here you are, aware of its existence in your jeans pocket under your apron. The offer is appealing, you can’t deny that. The thought of having someone steady by your side, people not asking if you have a date, mainly Abigail, and not needing to think about the whole date thing, would be a weight off your shoulders. You could focus on the more pressing matters.

The couple buys the bread rolls, one more tick for you to write into your notebook. You finish preparing everything with Lili and when you turn the lights off a the end of the day, your brain is fried from thinking what to do with Javier’s suggestion.

The hot shower at home is heaven against your shoulder, loosening the tense muscle. It doesn’t wash away Javier’s suggestion though. You dry yourself, and you wouldn’t have to think about a plus one anymore. You warm up leftovers from yesterday, and you wonder how you could relax around Javier who has the ability to get your thoughts and blood roiling. You sit on the couch and get hurt once more thinking about John and if it was all a joke for Abigail to set you up with him.

You dig the pockets of your jeans and find the paper, still folded in half, his handwriting against your fingertips.

“Peña,” you hear Chucho answer. His joyful laughter after you say who’s calling makes you smile as well.

“Don’t say you’re giving us more bread and pastries. I’ll pay for them the next time.” There’s rustling on his end before you have a chance to answer, Javier’s voice muttering something to his dad.

“Hello,” his voice is softer, less deep as his father’s yet still deep enough for you to have it rattle your spine.

“Hi.”

“Sorry, I got a new number a couple of weeks ago and I’m not used to using it yet, gave you the house number by accident.” If you knew him any better, you’d say Javier is nervous.

“That’s okay. I wanted to call and ask if you’re really up for it, fake dating?” he chuckles quietly, almost like he wouldn’t want to make his dad question why you’re calling his son in the evening.

“I’d still call it just an arrangement, but yeah. That’s why I asked you.” You grind your teeth together, nervous about what you’re getting yourself into.

“Okay, let’s do it then.”

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runawaydr3amerao3 · 1 month ago

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Asking here in case you could help me find a Wincest Fic!! I’ve been following your recommendations for a while and figured you were probably familiar with the scene!

Relationship was: Sam/Dean

It featured Sam being mute, or at least unable to speak. I believe this would also be pre-canon as well! A scene that I remember vividly was Sam and Dean learning sign language. Dean, at one point, turned off the lights when he had an argument with Sam and it ended up causing a rift.

(UPDATE: FOUND!) Fic Search: SPN, Wincest (Dean/Sam), Mute Sam

(Update 2025-Jan-04: The wonderful @soulmates-for-real-tranquility found the fic! It is Facta non Verba by dimeliora. Thank you so much! Thank you also to everyone who saw this post and searched or reblogged, as well as those I asked in the @wincestbookclub discord. Teamwork makes the dream work. I love this fandom. 🫶💖)

Ohh, that rings a really loud bell, specifically the scene where Dean turns off the light so Sam can't communicate with him. But for the life of me, I cannot remember the fic!

I searched on AO3 with the tags Mute Sam Winchester and Muteness (filtering by Explicit and English, since that's what I read), then went through the spnstoryfinders' past Mute Boys searches, but couldn't find anything that seemed to match.

I even tried the same searches with deafness instead of muteness just in case, but again, no luck.

I mean, it's very possible I'm overlooking something (especially with my Explicit filter—maybe this fic was in a series, and the scene was in a part not rated E, so I'm missing it?), misremembering, or even that AO3 is doing that thing where it just leaves matching fics out of search results. 😒 But it could also be that the fic isn't tagged in a way that makes it searchable through tags.

So I'm really hoping someone out there in Tumblr land might be able to help us with this one? If anyone knows the fic we're looking for, please get in touch! We would be super grateful! 🙏

Also, thank you for reaching out, @teagreenlatte! 🥰 I hope you've found some fics to enjoy among what I've shared over on @imthedr3amer! I'm sorry I couldn't find your fic here, but I definitely found some stuff to read while I was looking for it (some old, some new, some re-reads), so thanks for that as well. They'll end up on the side blog eventually too!

Happy New Year's Eve! 🥳

#ask and ye shall be answered #fic search #wincest #fanfic #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #samdean #sam and dean #sam x dean #sam winchester #dean winchester #mute character #mute!sam #disabled character #spn fanfic #spn

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citrusses · 1 month ago

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@sweet-s0rr0w made the most beautiful post about drarry celebrating christmas in her fics, so I took a stab at it, too. Merry christmas and happy holidays all!

OORU drarry spend Christmas Eve with the Malfoys—formal, stuffy, suffocating. Lucius and Narcissa are not fans of Harry but Draco has made it clear that if they are not both welcome, neither will attend. It’s all very polite and painful. Everyone is trying; no one is certain it’s worth it. Christmas Day, however, is spent with Sirius and Remus, and it’s perfect and cozy and all four of them take turns get embarrassingly sentimental about it: about finding a family and being that for each other and getting a bit weepy into his champagne. Harry loves how Draco fits in so well with his godfathers now. Harry is thinking he should ask Draco to move in with him; he feels the uncertain flare of that old fear of rejection when he considers it, finds it terrifying, and resolves to press on in spite of it.

Gemini in Retrograde drarry are at Grimmauld, where Draco lives, with Scorpius home for the holidays. Scorpius still thinks it’s kind of gross that anyone would want to date his dad, but he’s also never had such a happy Christmas since before Narcissa died. They exchange presents on Christmas Eve; Draco and Scorprius shock each other by picking perfect presents for one another (it’s new, for them). Harry “helps” their house elf make dinner (marking the first time they’ve had an edible meal on Christmas in years). All three of them go to the Burrow for lunch on Christmas Day, the tradition that started the first year Harry and Draco were together. While Scorprius is still working up the courage to properly talk to Victoire, he has none of that shyness when it comes to pick-up Quidditch in the garden. Draco and Harry play, too—Draco flies all the time, now. Harry is still better than him.

Isle of Ogygia drarry are at the lighthouse, still — ostensibly they’re both working on getting Draco’s sentence reduced, but both of them are more than a bit nervous about leaving the island when the time comes. Their communication about this difficult subject needs work. However, Christmas in the lighthouse is beautiful—the place has been transformed into a real home, and the spellwork has been smoothed out, and the Christmas tree that Neville helped Harry safely transport there is thriving. It’s storming outside, but it’s warm inside, and they have more food than they could possibly ever eat, and they end up not opening presents until the evening because they spend the whole day shagging. They both think they’re being very funny and clever and ended up getting each other the exact same dry, unreadable encyclopedias for Christmas.

Löyly drarry spend every Christmas traveling somewhere new. They like to alternate between cold and warm destinations: cold places mean shopping at Christmas markets, hearty meals, and saunas if they can find them, and sex on rugs in front of blazing fireplaces; warm places mean dips in the ocean, and dinners and cold wine in the open-air, and Harry watching Draco's long, solid body turn pink in the sun in a way that makes him weak. Draco considers it his duty to become an expert in each country’s specific magical traditions; if there’s sex magic to be found, that’s all the better. Draco and Harry have been forbidden from returning to at least one country because of a public incident involving said sex magic. It was, they both think, worth it.

@jtimu @arminaa8 @xalandrix @thecouchsofa @greattemptation @garagepaperback @sorrybutblog @nv-md and I'm seconding everyone sweet tagged, too, if you want to share how your drarries spend the holidays. if you're reading this, consider yourself tagged, and tag me please!

#ooru #löyly #gemini in retrograde #isle of ogygia #citrus writes

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greensagephase · 1 year ago

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Nonviolent Communication - Part Seven

***Beautiful sketches for this chapter were made by two lovely artists and I'm ABSOLUTELY IN LOVE with them!! Please go and show them some love!! They captured Miguel so BEAUTIFULLY!! You can find them here and here. Thank you so much guys, I'm so in love with them and will always cherish them 🥹❤️ @sunsetdoodler @lauraolar14 ***

Miguel O'Hara x SpideyFemReader

Summary: It's Christmas Eve and Mr. and Mrs. Morales ask you to do something for them.

Word Count: 11,729 (I'm just gonna shut up about the word count at this point and just say I'm sorry.)

Warnings: Some readers may not recognize some food items mentioned but it's not too important for the plot, however, a brief description is included at the end if you're interested; mention of reader's family and their Christmas days (good memories); Miguel (I won't elaborate)

Music inspo while writing: (I'm obsessed with the ATSV album so much that Metro Boomin has been my #1 artist on Spotify for months lmao)

"Link Up" - Metro Boomin, Don Toliver, Wizkid, BEAM, Toian

"Self Love" - Metro Boomin, Coi Leray

"Hummingbird" - Metro Boomin, James Blake

"Calling" - Metro Boomin, Swae Lee, NAV, A Boogie Wit da Hoodie

"Nonviolent Communication" - Metro Boomin, James Blake, A$AP Rocky, 21 Savage (you already know)

Part Seven

You returned to your apartment after Miguel showed you his ofrenda. You didn’t sleep. The candy and coffee Miguel gave you kept you up and so you resumed your chores, but your mind was elsewhere. It was occupied. By Miguel, who smiled at you that night. You couldn’t and won’t forget the sight of it. It’s branded into your brain forever. Even when you eventually found yourself in bed under your warm sheets that night, you laid there and stared at the ceiling.

He smiled at you. It was small but it was a smile. He showed you his ofrenda and shared food with you. You tossed and turned that night thinking that maybe… it was safe to assume you’re friends with Miguel. You couldn’t help but wonder if he thought the same about you though. You eventually decided that either way, you’re happy he has shared those moments with you.

There was a shift between the two of you, of course. It was like a door opened. A door that Miguel himself unlocked and opened for you to walk through. And he had in a sense, as that night he wished, for the first time, that you would cross his boundary lines by asking questions and sharing your thoughts with him.

As the days go on, you continue to spend time with him on missions, before meetings, and of course, when you organize his lab. You notice Lyla starts to involve him more in conversations when you’re there. He surprisingly adds to the conversation sometimes. He still doesn’t want to intrude, especially when he knows Lyla loves talking to you. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t pay more attention now though.

You’re also surprised when the following week after Dia de los Muertos, Lyla offers you snacks, mentioning that Miguel keeps candy in a hidden cabinet. He adds that you’re welcome to grab any. You don’t fail to notice that the cabinet contains the candy from that night, specifically the ones you enjoyed the most. What you don’t know is that no one else was informed about this candy cabinet.

The holidays quickly arrive. You spend Thanksgiving Day at Peter’s universe with Mary Jane, Mayday, and the rest of your friend group. For the first time in three years, you celebrate and feel the holiday spirit. With each passing day, you feel lighter. That feeling of moving forward grows each day.

As the days go by, the beautiful colors of autumn begin to fade. The leaves part ways with the trees with the promise that new ones will sprout in the spring. The days and nights are colder. The city is covered in snow. Christmas trees are displayed behind condensed windows. Lively Christmas music fills your ears almost everywhere you go when you go out on errands.

As always, the month of December flies by and suddenly you find yourself on Miles’s rooftop surrounded by his neighbors, friends, and family. It’s Christmas Eve and the building is having its annual party, to which you were invited by the Morales family.

You met Miles’s parents a few months ago, almost immediately after joining the Spider Society. According to Miles, he revealed his secret to them shortly after saving his dad from dying. The Morales not only know about Miles’s Spider-Man identity but also about the multiverse now. Due to that, Miles was able to introduce his friends to his parents, so they know everyone in Miles’s friend group. Once you were adopted by the group, you were no exception. You were introduced right away, and Miles’s parents took a liking to you quickly, which is how you found yourself invited to this party and other events in the past, including simple family dinners.

You’ve been here for over two hours now and have spent much of that time socializing both with your friends and Miles’s neighbors, who all seem curious about you and the rest of the group. You smile as you think of the many times you’ve had to say that you’re Miles’s mentor from school each time someone asks who you are. Of course, attending the party meant that all of you had to come up with excuses to avoid raising suspicions. Gwen is Miles’s girlfriend, but she lives outside of the city. Pav is a friend from school and you’re a school mentor. At least you guys had it simple and didn’t have to be as creative as Noir, who has spent much of his time up in the water tower hiding for obvious reasons with Peter Porker.

You lean over the rooftop’s parapet on your own in a less crowded section, trying to take a little break from so much socializing. You stare out at Miles’s neighborhood, listening to the music the DJ, who you were also introduced to, plays. He’s been playing some Christmas music here and there, mixed with other upbeat songs for the party. You hear the chatter and laughter. Children run in groups, excited about opening gifts soon. The city is covered in snow, and you heard from one of Miles’s aunts that a white Christmas is expected. You snuggle into your coat as you feel a breeze, thinking.

You can’t help but think about Peter. In a few months it’ll be four years since his death. You sigh. Time has really flown by. As your eyes scan the city, landing on other rooftops with people celebrating, you think about the first holidays without him. There were no decorations put out. No food was cooked. No parties or dinners were held or attended. You woke up on Christmas Day like it was any other day as you had already ended your previous friendships. There was no Peter waking you up with a grin telling you breakfast was ready, using that as an excuse to get you to go to the living room so you could start opening his gifts.

On New Years, you slept through it as the rest of the city celebrated the arrival of another year. For you, it was just the beginning of the first full year without Peter.

With each year, you’ve slowly put some decorations here and there but until this year, you hadn’t put your Christmas tree up. You smile as you think of it now. You managed to do that this year. Yet another sign you’re moving in the right direction. And of course, being here now, that’s a sign of its own.

Even though you need a break from socializing, you look fondly over at your friends. The people that have turned into your little family. Yes, things have changed. Things are changing.

You have them, the Morales family, Jess… Miguel.

Your mind shifts to Miguel. You wonder what he’s doing now. What he did today. You saw him yesterday in passing as you were busy with missions that he wasn’t on. Then, there was an emergency at your universe just as there was an anomaly detected somewhere else, which he and other members handled. You meant to wish him happy holidays as he gave the Spider Society members today and tomorrow off but unfortunately you were unable to.

You feel your fingers graze your wrist, the one with your gizmo. You could send him a message, but you find the thought strange for some reason as you’ve never done that before. Maybe it would be weird, you think, but should you send Miguel a message and wish him a Merry Christmas regardless? You debate it as you look out into the city, your fingers grazing your wrist softly as you think of him.

“Y/N!”

You turn in surprise, feeling like you were caught doing something wrong. You drop your hand from your wrist and regain your composure as your eyes fall on Mr. and Mrs. Morales, who stand in front of you. They both look pleased to see you. You notice Mrs. Morales is holding two plates wrapped in aluminum foil while Captain Morales holds two cans of soda, but you don’t think much about it.

“Mrs. Morales, Captain Morales, hey,” you say with a smile, still feeling startled.

“Sorry if we scared you, mija,” Mrs. Morales says. That’s another thing. Even though the Morales aren’t that much older than you, Mrs. Morales uses the endearing “mija” and each time she uses it, you can’t help but feel comforted by this.

You smile and shake your head. “It’s okay. I was just – thinking.”

The couple nods, giving you a knowing look. “We know holidays can be difficult with loved ones gone,” Mrs. Morales says in a tender and understanding tone as they both know about Peter and your overall lack of family and friends in your universe.

You nod and keep your smile, knowing very well that you weren’t thinking of Peter just now but of Miguel. You feel a little guilty, but you were thinking about Peter earlier, so it counts, right?

“Yes… the last couple of years haven’t been easy but I’m in a different headspace now,” you say with a pause, meaning it. “Thank you for inviting me again, by the way. I know I’ve already said it, but it means a lot to me,” you tell them.

“No need to thank us again. You know you’re like family. We’re just glad you’re here tonight with all of them,” Captain Morales says, referring to your group of friends.

You smile brightly at the couple now. You tell them you’re thankful to be there and mean it. You had no other plans in your own universe, so that means you would’ve been home alone despite feeling the Christmas spirit this year. The Morales couple pulls you in for a hug after you tell them that and you can’t refuse it, as they’ve been nothing but kind to you over the last months.

“And don’t forget, you’re always welcome to come over for dinner. So, if you ever feel alone – just use your watch and come join us,” Mrs. Morales adds with a smile that brings you comfort. Again, they’re not that much older than you but their parental energy brings you a comfort you haven’t felt in a long time.

You give them a soft smile. “I know, thank you. I appreciate it, truly. It means so much to me,” you say with your tone full of sincerity, hoping that they understand how much it truly means to you.

“No need to thank us. As Jeff said, you’re part of the family now,” Mrs. Morales says, patting your shoulder in a motherly way. “We were also looking for you to ask for a favor.”

Captain Morales nods and you wonder what it could be. You wonder if it has to do with Miles.

“Yeah, of course! How may I help?” you ask, curiously.

Mrs. Morales lifts the plates and Captain Morales lifts the cans of soda. “Well… Miles and Gwen mentioned a little while ago that you and Miguel are close.”

“And we were wondering if you would mind taking him some food to his fancy tech universe,” Captain Morales adds as they both watch you with smiles, hoping you’ll say yes.

You stare at them with a smile as you process their words. Close. You and Miguel are close. And Miles and Gwen said that? Of course, Miguel and you have grown close, but it has been something behind closed doors. You can’t help but wonder how Miles and Gwen reached that conclusion. It’s not like you and Miguel are strolling into the cafeteria together to have lunch. All your interactions have been private so far, minus the meetings of course, but even then, those can’t be enough to show the closeness between you and Miguel. You briefly wonder if the rest of your friend group talk about it if Gwen and Miles found it important enough to mention. Or maybe it’s not that important, who knows with teenagers.

And on top of that, you can’t help but feel like Mrs. Morales emphasized the word “close.” It almost makes it sound like you’re close in a different way.

“Yeah, I guess you can say we’re kind of friends,” you say, trying to clear up any misconception they may have. You briefly look at your friends, who are still under the water tower all grouped together, wondering what they’ve seen or heard.

“Right. Friends! That’s great. You know Miguel could really use some friends because Miles says he’s still a little close off even after what happened, you know,” Captain Morales says a little too fast, giving his wife a look she returns. It’s a look you can’t decipher as they quickly mask it, but you know an entire conversation took place with that shared look.

“Well, you know that man is so closed off. Anyone who says they’re friends with him should be considered close. That’s what Miles and Gwen meant,” Mrs. Morales says with a smile, probably trying to reassure you about what they said. “But do you mind? We invited him but he didn’t show up and it’s Christmas Eve,” Mrs. Morales says with a look that you recognize. Miguel is most likely alone on Christmas Eve.

You nod softly, still smiling. “I’ll gladly take the food,” you reply.

Miles’s parents beam at you before they hand you the plates and soda cans.

“Thank you, mija!” Mrs. Morales says. “If you don’t mind… staying with him for a little while. At least while he eats,” she says quieter, and you nod.

“I was planning on it,” you answer, giving her a reassuring smile because you thought about it the moment they explained their request.

“I knew you would. And hey, if he wants more, just travel back with your fancy watch and get more. Oh, before I forget!” she says and turns around.

She heads to a table and from a large box pulls out two goody bags.

“Here. One for you and for him. Take them before the kids take them all,” she says, jokingly. You slip the soda cans into your coat’s pockets to receive the goody bags, which you also slip into your pockets. “Tell him the Morales family wishes him a Merry Christmas for us,” she says just as Captain Morales puts his arm around her, pulling her closer.

You nod and give them both a smile. “I’ll let him know. I’ll head out now, that way the food doesn’t get too cold,” you say as you can feel the food was freshly served out of their containers since the plates feel hot. “If they ask about me, let them know I’ll be back shortly, please,” you say, motioning to your friends.

“We’ll tell them! Thank you again. We’ll see you in a bit,” Captain Morales adds.

You tell them goodbye and thank them again for the invitation. You make your way down the fire escape stairs, careful not to slip on ice until you reach the ground. You walk for a bit, looking for a place to open your portal discreetly. As you look around, you have a sudden thought. Is Miguel at HQ? He gave today and tomorrow off but did he also take the day off? Or is he still there? You click on your gizmo.

“Lyla?” you say, in an empty alleyway.

It takes a few seconds before Lyla’s hologram appears above your gizmo.

“Y/N! Merry Christmas Eve.”

You smile at her. “Merry Christmas Eve, Lyla. Sorry to interrupt you but I was wondering. Is… Miguel at HQ?” you ask, and Lyla raises her eyebrows.

“No. He’s at his penthouse.”

Lyla’s answer makes you feel relieved. You had a picture in your mind of him in his lab alone. The vision alone made your heart ache.

“That’s good! Do you think you can ask him to meet me there? At HQ?” you ask.

Lyla frowns. “I don’t think so. He’s – busy,” she simply says.

“Oh. Well, the Morales family are sending him food and they asked me to take it to him,” you say, not knowing what to do now.

“Just go to his penthouse.”

You stare at Lyla in disbelief at her suggestion that you should go to his penthouse, feeling like that would be an intrusion on his personal space. You know he’s been to your apartment a few times, three to be exact, but you don’t mind. Miguel on the other hand, might not be too thrilled about you visiting his place.

“Can’t you just ask him to meet me there?” you ask softly.

“He’s busy. He can’t leave his penthouse. Look, I’ll just tell him, okay? I’m sure he’ll be fine with you showing up,” Lyla says, shrugging like this is no big deal.

You sigh. “I don’t think that’s - ” you start but get interrupted.

“I’m going to ask him right now. If I send you the coordinates to his penthouse, then you know you’re good to go, okay? Merry Christmas!” Lyla says, cheerfully throwing her arms in the air.

“Lyla!” you manage to say before her hologram disappears. You sigh again and stare at the buildings in front of you. Great.

Not even thirty seconds later, your gizmo shows a new notification. You bring your gizmo closer to your face.

Coordinates.

You stare at the buildings again. The food is going to grow cold if you continue to stand here but you can’t help but feel nervous suddenly. You sigh and try to shake it off. It’s fine. Lyla sent the coordinates, which means he’s okay with it. Right? Or did he feel pressured to let you show up? Your mind starts wandering. What if Lyla made it seem like you wanted to go straight to his penthouse and not meet up somewhere less personal, like HQ? Lyla may have done that, especially because she looked like she was in a rush, which makes you wonder why she was even in a rush. It’s Christmas Eve! You release a shaky breath and try to pull it together. It’s no big deal. You’ll apologize right away and explain that you wanted to meet in HQ instead. You nod, reassuring yourself and try to calm your nerves. You look around, making sure that there’s no one around. You click on your gizmo and follow the procedure to open a portal in a specific location within a dimension.

The portal opens, lighting up the alleyway. You take a deep breath before you enter it, leaving Miles’s universe behind and stepping into Nueva York. Or rather, into a living room.

For the first time, you’re the one that stares into an unknown living room. In the span of a few seconds, you take in the sight before you. Your vision is immediately met with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city and you notice the closest building to Miguel’s building is far away, granting him privacy. Your eyes take in the living room section of his penthouse, or at least what you can see now. It’s all very sleek and modern. Very Nueva York. In front of you there’s a square table with different remotes and tablets floating above it thanks to the portal, far more advanced than those in your universe. There’s also a grey couch facing you and a few feet from it, you spot stairs to its left, leading to the second floor of the penthouse. To your right, you feel heat coming from a fireplace.

For once, Miguel is the one watching a portal fade away in his penthouse. He hears the items fall back into place as he stares at your back.

“Y/N.”

You turn around slowly, feeling Miguel’s gaze. You find him a few feet behind you, behind another grey couch you were unaware was there until now. The kitchen and dining areas of his penthouse are behind him. Everything looks like you’d imagine on Earth-928 with an advanced society. You meet Miguel’s eyes as he stands there. In normal clothes.

Miguel is in normal clothes.

“Miguel, hey,” you finally say, feeling odd. You wonder if this is what Miguel felt when he showed up at your apartment on Peter’s birthday.

“Hey,” Miguel replies looking down at you before his eyes flicker to the plates in your hands.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” you say, giving him a smile. You can’t help but feel awkward.

“Merry Christmas Eve,” Miguel repeats softly, his eyes meeting yours again.

You stand there for a few seconds, staring at each other until you finally speak.

“I’m so sorry for bothering you. I asked Lyla if you could meet me at HQ and she said you were busy,” you explain, wanting to clear the air, still feeling shocked that Miguel is in normal clothes.

Miguel nods, pushing his hands into his pants’ pockets. You continue to hold his gaze as the image of him in normal clothes burns into your mind.

Miguel’s hair looks damp, as if he barely got out of the shower but it’s styled as always with curls framing some of his face. Instead of his suit, Miguel wears a dark grey, chunky cable knit sweater. The sleeves are pushed up his arms slightly, just enough that his wrists are visible. You notice he’s not wearing his gizmo, which is a strange sight on its own. To pair his dark grey sweater, Miguel wears black pants. You can’t help but think he looks so – cozy.

“She told me, but I couldn’t leave,” Miguel says, still watching you. He notices the way you’re trying very hard not to look at his clothes. He can’t blame you. In a few months, it’ll be a year since you joined the Spider Society and you’ve never seen him in anything else. “I was showering and I’m cooking,” he says quietly, and you nod.

“Oh. That’s nice,” you say, feeling happiness that Miguel is at home on Christmas Eve instead of at HQ working, on top of the fact that he’s in cozy clothes and cooking. You nod and then remember the whole reason you are here. You internally scold yourself for getting so distracted with being at his home and the sight of him in normal clothes. “Well, the reason I was trying to reach you was for this. The Morales family sent you food,” you say, lifting the plates higher. You can feel that the plates are still hot, thankfully.

Miguel looks a little surprised, but he nods. “Miles invited me to that, but I couldn’t go,” he admits, and you understand. You know that Peter and Mary Jane have been inviting him to their Friday dinners even before you were recruited into the Spider Society, but Miguel has never attended them.

“They noticed and wanted to send you some food. They wished you a Merry Christmas,” you say softly.

Miguel nods and he’s about to speak when a timer goes off behind him.

“Mierda, let me check the food. Just – follow me, please,” he says, motioning for you to follow him as he starts walking to the kitchen area of his penthouse.

You stand there for a few seconds before you start following him. You watch as Miguel goes around a long kitchen island, heading straight for a stove and for the first time you notice there’s pots and pans on it. The scent of food suddenly envelops you as Miguel quickly and efficiently checks one of the pots. He grabs the designated spoon for it and stirs its contents with his back to you.

You look around a little bit, thinking how his kitchen island is longer than your kitchen itself. You also notice it’s all very clean and organized, which you expected from Miguel.

Miguel turns off the burner before he puts the spoon away. He turns around to face you, finding you standing on the other side of his kitchen island, still holding the plates.

“Let me take that from you,” Miguel says walking around the island to retrieve the plates.

You hand them to him gently, sharing the feeling of your fingers brushing past each other’s. You offer him a smile as you take a step back.

“Oh,” you say remembering. “They also sent these,” you continue, pulling out the soda cans and one of the goody bags from your coat.

You set them on the island just as he sets the plates down, too. He looks at the cans and grabs one, looking at it.

“Thank you for bringing it to me. You didn’t have to,” he says as he places the can back on the counter.

You shrug. “Well, Mr. and Mrs. Morales asked me, and I couldn’t say no to them. Besides…” you start as he looks down at you. “I realized I didn’t wish you happy holidays yesterday.”

Miguel nods, staring down at you. “It was a busy day. It always happens right before Christmas,” he says with an amused tone but he, too, thought about that earlier. About how he hadn’t seen you much yesterday with the two of you being preoccupied with your own things. He also thought about sending you a message earlier, but he thought you might be busy and besides, neither of you have ever sent messages to each other. He thought you might have found it – odd. “But – yes. We didn’t get to wish each other happy holidays,” he says softly, thinking how both of you thought about it.

You give him a small smile as you hear his last statement. You shift in your coat, feeling a little hot suddenly in Miguel’s warm apartment. Your clothes were perfect for the party out on the rooftop but too hot to be inside. Miguel notices.

“Here, I can help you out of your coat. The party is on the rooftop, right?” he asks as he steps closer.

“Yes, it’s on the rooftop,” you reply as you slide out of your coat with his help. You watch as he drapes it, carefully, over one of the kitchen island chairs.

You fix your clothes slightly, feeling less hot now that you have one layer off. “That’s much better,” you comment, chuckling a bit. “I had to bundle up. It was freezing out there.”

Miguel stares at your outfit, noticing you’re in cozy and festive clothes but noting they are definitely too much to be inside. “I can imagine. The chilly breeze feels like it bites the skin,” he says looking out his windows. “It’s supposed to snow, too.”

“I have that forecast, too,” you reply, joining him in staring out the windows from afar. “Anyway, you should try the food. It’s amazing,” you say, remembering the food.

Miguel turns to the plates. “I have no doubt. So… they chose you to bring the food?” he asks as he slowly takes the aluminum foil off one of the plates.

Your conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Morales flashes back to your mind. They asked you because they think you’re close to Miguel.

“Yes,” you answer simply, hoping he won’t ask why you and not someone else, since he must know that Miles invited the rest of the group, meaning another colleague could’ve brought him food.

Miguel nods as he inspects the food, looking pleased, which makes you smile. “I see,” he says, his eyes leaving the plate to meet yours. He gives you a look that makes you feel like he knows you were chosen to do this specifically out of everyone else before he returns his attention to the plate.

You freeze for a few seconds. Did your face reveal something? You clear your throat and rest your hands over a chair.

“It’s – a great party. Everyone is in a good mood,” you comment.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says softly as he looks down at the food. “I’m glad they’re enjoying their holidays.”

You nod, noticing the sincerity of his words. He looks up suddenly from the plate as an idea pops into his mind.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asks, and you nod.

“I ate a few hours ago,” you say, thankful that your stomach is not embarrassing you once again in front of him. He nods, looking somewhat disappointed. “But I’ll probably eat something else when I get back,” you add before you even realize it.

Miguel meets your eyes. “This food looks and smells amazing. Please give my thanks to the Morales family when you get back,” he says, pausing. “And – I was going to ask. If you don’t have to return right away, would you like to… join me for dinner? I made too much, and I don’t think I’ll finish it all on my own,” he says quickly.

Miguel looks down at you, feeling nervous about asking you but unable to stop himself from hoping you’ll say yes, even if it’s just for a little while.

You meet his eyes feeling a little surprised, though you hide it well before you nod.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” you say with a smile. You remember that Mr. and Mrs. Morales did ask you to stay with him while he ate. However, you don’t bring it up. It might lead him to believe that you’re only staying because they asked you and it would force you to admit that you were planning to regardless of their request.

Miguel’s brief disappointment fades and is replaced with a lighter expression.

“I made a few dishes, so you have options,” he says softly. “Let me show you.”

With that, Miguel motions for you to follow him to the stove. You do so, curious to know what he cooked. You have the brief thought that this will be the second time Miguel gives you homemade food. The two of you stand in front of his stove and before Miguel shows you the food, he pushes his sleeves higher up. It’s still a strange sight and you can’t stop your eyes from gazing at his skin, noticing the veins from years of physical activity and arm hair. You turn away as you feel heat on your face from proximity to the stove and how warm Miguel’s penthouse is. No other reason.

“In this pot, there’s pozole,” Miguel says, lifting the lid to show you. He tells you what it is before he moves on to the other dishes.

It turns out that Miguel did cook quite a bit of food. He mentions pozole, tamales of two kinds, and tinga. He also made atole blanco and ponche navideño, two hot drinks perfect for the Christmas season. “If I’m being honest, I was craving all of these foods,” Miguel says as if he knows you’re thinking about how much food he cooked. You chuckle.

“Everything smells amazing, so I don’t blame you for craving them all,” you reply as you bring the spoon with pozole to your mouth. The warmness of it spreads down your chest as the two of you sit on the kitchen island, side by side.

Neither of you notice how your bodies are facing each other as you eat.

Miguel takes a bite out of the food Mr. and Mrs. Morales sent him and you notice he looks like he’s enjoying it. You eat more of your pozole and think how well of a cook he is. You remember him mentioning his mom taught him to cook when he was a teenager back when he showed up at your apartment for the first time. Conchata definitely taught him well.

You finish eating your small serving of pozole as you want to try the other food he made. He notices and looks at you.

“Do you want more pozole? Or would you like to try the other food?” he asks softly, cleaning his mouth gently with a napkin.

You smile at him and nod. “I’d like to try the other food if you don’t mind,” you say, and he nods before he stands up.

“I can get it myself, don’t worry,” you say and start getting up, but he raises a hand, making you pause.

“You’re my guest. It’s only right,” he says with a determined look. “What would you like to try next?” Miguel asks as he walks to the stove. He grabs a clean plate and turns to face you, ready for you to tell him.

You sit back down slowly as he stares at you.

“May I please try the tinga?” you ask with a soft but embarrassed smile.

“Would you like it with tostadas or as a burrito?” he asks, motioning to the pack of tostadas and flour tortillas on the counter.

“I’ll have it however you prefer it,” you answer honestly.

“What if I make you one of each? That way you can try both,” Miguel suggests.

You nod. “Okay, that sounds… good. Thank you,” you reply, and he nods before he grabs both packs and starts working on your plate.

You look down at your gizmo as he preps your food. It’s almost ten now. You look up again. Miguel is busy warming up flour tortillas. You notice him flipping them with his bare hands, not minding the heat. You look around the penthouse. It really is a large place.

Miguel flips the tortillas and turns back to look at you. He notices you looking around and he can’t help but feel a little self-conscious in that moment. Fragments of your apartment flash in his mind. Yours is well decorated. It feels welcoming and warm. It’s lived in. It’s a home for you. His penthouse, on the other hand, seems the opposite of it. Even when he used to actively live in it, he didn’t focus a lot on decorating and because of that, Gabriel and his mom took the initiative to do something about it.

The fact that Gabriel and his mom helped decorate it was one reason why he hadn’t bothered to change it in the last years. Another reason it remained the same was that it didn’t matter to him as he hardly spent time here after everything that happened with Gabriella and her universe anyway.

Until recently, of course. Ever since Peter’s birthday celebration, ever since that night, Miguel made it a goal to sleep here at least once a week. So far, he has stuck with it. It’s now been several weeks, which he counts as progress. And now, as he sees you take in his home, he can’t help but think about it. However, when your eyes meet his again, he sees no judgment from you. If anything, he sees curiosity, which amuses him on the inside. You offer him a small smile.

“Everything is so sleek and modern,” you say as you take in the kitchen again.

Miguel turns around to check on the tortillas, and seeing that they are done, he puts them on a plate. “Is that… not to your liking?” he asks as he starts fixing the food.

“Oh, it’s not that. It’s great,” you say still looking around.

“But?”

You sigh softly and Miguel turns around, walking the short distance from the stove to the kitchen island.

“You can say it,” he says as he finishes fixing the plates.

“I guess, I like old architecture more,” you finally admit. “But this is really nice though,” you add, and Miguel lets out a low chuckle that makes you pause and wonder what a real laugh from him would sound like.

“I like old architecture, too,” he reveals as he finishes fixing your plate. He slides it over the counter to you gently. “It has more personality.”

“Thank you,” you say as you take the plate. “And really? I thought you’d be more of a fan for your architecture.”

Miguel nods and offers you toppings for the food before he takes his own plate and sits next to you again. As you eat, the two of you talk briefly about the architecture of different universes you’ve been to. Turns out Miguel appreciates architecture like that of your universe. You eventually fall into a comfortable silence.

The two of you sit on Miguel’s kitchen island eating quietly in peace on Christmas Eve. It’s strange how comfortable it feels but then again, this is the second time you’ve eaten together since Dia de los Muertos. Still, this moment is a big deal. It’s the first time either of you have celebrated this holiday in years but it feels right.

As Miguel eats next to you, he can’t help but think about it. He really asked you to stay for dinner. That’s a first but he couldn’t stop himself once he thought about it. And he isn’t going to lie – he’s enjoying your company. He’s enjoying sharing the food he grew up eating during the holidays with you. His mind briefly turns to his family again. To his mother and Gabriel and the last holidays he was able to spend with them.

As he thinks about his own past holidays, Miguel wonders what yours were like. He wonders about your childhood and your parents. He wonders about the holidays you spent with Peter. As he takes a drink from one of the soda cans sent to him, he looks over at you. The two of you have been eating in silence, enjoying each other’s company, or at least he hopes you are like he is. He begins to wonder if he’s kept you here unwillingly. He feels embarrassment, suddenly feeling like an idiot. Maybe you had other plans, and here he is, keeping you from them. Embarrassment runs through his body as he looks at you but then, you look up from your plate and you smile at him in a way that makes his worry and embarrassment melt away.

“This is officially the best food I’ve ever had,” you say as you finish eating. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you for the recipe.”

Miguel gives you a subtle smile, and despite how small it is, it still catches you by surprise, though you are better at hiding it now. “I can give it you, that’s no problem,” he says putting his drink down. “Or I can cook it for you if you prefer,” he adds, making him freeze internally. He hasn’t offered to cook for anyone in a while. Sure, he cooked that day at your apartment when you were unwell because of your period but this is different. Or it feels different for some reason Miguel can’t explain.

You nod and smile. “Either way, I’d appreciate it. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says softly before standing up.

Miguel begins putting away the dishes and even though you try helping him, he declines your help because he’s the “host.” So, you sit on your chair and watch as he cleans up, wishing he’d allow you to help but you know he’ll decline again. You finish your drink, the other soda can you brought, and watch as Miguel finishes up. Despite knowing that Miguel knows his way around a kitchen, you’re still somewhat in awe at how fast and efficient he is at cleaning up. You can’t help but think of Peter in that moment. He, too, knew his way around the kitchen and helped with the chores around the apartment, which was something you loved and appreciated about him as you often heard female colleagues complain about their partners not helping when you used to work. You’ve always appreciated it when a man knows how to do chores and helps instead of leaving the chores strictly to the woman, and so you can’t help but think about this as you watch Miguel.

You pull your sweater’s neck slightly, feeling a little hot. Miguel’s penthouse is warm and you’re still wearing two layers of clothes. As Miguel finishes up, you slide off the sweater you have, leaving you in a long-sleeved top. You fold it neatly and place it on the next chair from which your coat hangs. If you head back to the party, you’ll just suit up again but for now, you’ll try to cool off.

Miguel turns around then and looks at you, leaning back on the counter as he holds a towel. He dries his hands with it after washing them. He notices your sweater is gone and feels a little amused. You were definitely wearing too many layers to be inside in the warmth.

“I don’t know if you’re still up for it, but I have those two hot drinks,” he says, flinging the towel over his shoulder in a graceful way.

Of course, you notice it. It’s not every day that Miguel O’Hara wears normal clothes or that he looks this relaxed, leaning back on a kitchen counter and swinging a towel over his shoulder gracefully. It’s a sight for you and you alone.

“Well… Miles and Gwen mentioned a little while ago that you and Miguel are close.”

You hear Mrs. Morales’s comment in your head as you nod at Miguel. “I’m up for it,” you reply, and he nods. There’s a pleased look on his face before he turns around to open a cabinet to retrieve mugs.

And he is. Miguel is pleased that you’re open to trying out the hot drinks. That you’ll stay a little longer. As he pours the drinks, he thinks about what this means. Of course, he’s thought about how much he’s shared with you and how much you’ve shared with him. He’s thought about it… about how you’re the closest he has to a friend.

You are his friend.

He thought about it on Dia de los Muertos night when he came to his penthouse to sleep. Anyone could argue that Jess and Peter were friends but his friendship with them has always been different. It wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for work, or at least he feels like that. They’re work friends and he’s never shared as much as he’s shared with you. No matter how much the two of them tried, Miguel never felt comfortable enough to share his life.

And with you, there he was. Showing up at your apartment to show you his ofrenda. His memories poured out of him like they had been waiting for the right person to spill out for. It was easy to talk to you. It was different.

Miguel felt like he had a friend for once in many, many years that night. And he didn’t know that night, or even now, if you feel the same. He knows you have your group of friends, the ones that quickly adopted you into their group when you were recruited. The same ones he was keeping you away from right now, but he hopes that you see him as somewhat of a friend despite being your boss.

Miguel finishes preparing the drinks. He takes two mugs to you, one with atole blanco and the other with ponche navideño. He slides them gently over the counter to avoid spilling any before he turns around to retrieve his own mugs.He walks around the counter and takes a seat next to you as you thank him again, this time for the hot drinks.

Miguel nods at you as he picks up one of the mugs. “I hope you like it. The atole blanco might taste a little strange when you first try it, but I swear it grows on you,” he says reassuringly. He briefly thinks back to when he first tried it. He was about ten when his mom asked him to try it. The first sip made him pause but after the third drink, he loved it. Gabriel, on the other hand, took longer to try it. He was almost twelve when he finally gave in.

You take a drink from the atole blanco while Miguel’s eyes are on you. He can’t help himself from wanting to see your reaction and he’s glad when he sees you react well to it. You smile at him and nod.

“This is great! I see what you mean by strange, but I like it. It’s very… cozy and comforting,” you say as you drink more. “It’s like – it’s perfect for Christmas. I can’t explain it,” you say, and he nods.

“This was a must on Christmas growing up,” he says as he drinks some, too.

The two of you enjoy the hot drink in peace. As you place the cup down again, you’re thankful Mr. and Mrs. Morales gave you an excuse to talk to Miguel tonight despite having felt nervous when you first arrived. Miguel seems comfortable and doesn’t seem to mind that you’re here, though it should be obvious as he did invite you to stay for dinner. Miguel places his cup down and turns to you, his knee brushes past your leg slightly and he moves it discreetly away.

“What were – what were your Christmases like growing up?” he asks suddenly, quietly.

You turn your face to him, though your bodies are facing each other already. You feel a little surprised by his sudden question, but you don’t mind it. You meet his eyes before looking at the mugs before you, thinking.

“To keep it simple, they were amazing,” you say, returning your eyes to him. “I was an only child, but my parents always went all out. They loved the Christmas spirit, so our apartment was always decorated after Thanksgiving,” you say with a bright smile as you remember. Miguel notices the glint in your eyes as you talk. “We always put the Christmas tree together and they’d let me put the star at the top, even when I was a teenager and later an adult. They were always good,” you say, nodding softly as you think of your parents.

Miguel nods with a faint smile though you don’t notice it. He thinks of a younger you, a version he doesn’t know and will never know. He thinks about Peter, unable to stop himself from thinking about how he probably knew that version of you. He lifts his mug and takes a drink, trying to wash away these strange thoughts.

“Sounds like you had a great childhood,” he finally says, and you nod, making you feel a little sad as you remember Miguel telling you about his step and biological fathers. He didn’t say anything, but you felt that his childhood was not always great.

You bring your own cup to your lips and drink, wanting to change the conversation but Miguel doesn’t mind. He has put a lot of it behind him, at least those parts of his life.

“So, when you said they’d let you put the star on the tree as an adult, you mean it?” he asks, sounding a little amused.

You nod and give him a smile. “I was in university, and they still allowed me do it,” you say with a chuckle. “Peter would tease me about it, but it was fun for all of us.”

Miguel nods, thinking. You notice he has that look on his face. The one when he’s thinking about something.

“What is it?” you ask softly.

Miguel turns to you and shakes his head slightly. “Nothing. I was just thinking… Wondering, I guess.”

“About what? You can ask,” you say, your tone sincere since you don’t mind. He has already shared quite a lot about his past. It’s only fair he asks about yours.

Miguel sighs softly, continuing to hold your gaze. “When did you meet Peter?” he asks quietly, as if unsure of asking this question.

You smile, not minding the question at all. “When we were sixteen. He moved schools and we instantly became friends, which then turned into a relationship,” you say fondly before you pick up your mug and drink.

Miguel stares at you as you do this, still thinking. Since sixteen. It was Peter’s twenty-sixth birthday just weeks ago, which means you had known and dated each other for almost a decade by the time he passed away. He looks down at his nearly empty mug. Almost a decade of a relationship and you still try to live life to the fullest. Miguel grips the cup.

“How do you do it?” he asks quietly.

“Do what?” you ask in confusion.

“You knew Peter for so long. Dated him for so long. And you still… you try.”

You stare at Miguel, feeling a little startled by the sudden change of conversation but Miguel looks like he genuinely wants to know. You remember this was something you thought about in the early days. How people could move on. How they could carry day to day even after losing someone.

“Miguel…” you start and look down at your cups. “It isn’t easy. Especially in the beginning,” you add softly, knowing that for Miguel, it has been a little over a year since he lost his wife and Gabriella. For you, it’s almost four years since you lost Peter. You’re on different points of your mourning periods. You sigh softly. “It isn’t easy at all in the beginning,” you repeat as you think of your next words. “I wasn’t the woman you know now, or even the one you were introduced to months ago,” you say lightly, making Miguel turn to you, with curious eyes. “I don’t want to ruin the Christmas spirit, so I’ll try my best not to.”

Miguel shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I don’t want to – take away the lightness of today,” he says with a regrettable look on his face.

Why did he ask, he wonders. Everything was going so well.

“No, it’s okay. It helps. Talking about it helps,” you say, reassuring him. You stay silent for about a minute, trying to figure out how to approach this. “I lost sight of things for a month or two after Peter’s death,” you start.

You look away, feeling shame course through you as you remember those dark days. You don’t want to see the look on Miguel’s face when you reveal something you’ve never shared with anyone.

“I’m not proud of it… It brings me great shame to say this,” you say as you stare down at the cups. “There was a time after Peter’s death – a month after everything took place to be exact – that I,” you pause. “I looked for him. I tried hunting down the man that did it,” you say quietly.

“I had a regular job back then, so I went to work. I mourned and tried my best to accommodate to my new life but at night… I couldn’t stop thinking how I could’ve done better. How I could’ve saved him. I thought of the man who did it. How he took Peter from me. The love of my life, my last bit of family…” you trail off, though your tone is still light, and you feel proud of yourself for it, for you know months ago, this conversation would’ve had you in tears. “My thoughts were consumed by it. So, I went out to try to find him. I didn’t plan on doing something to him, I swear,” you say pausing, trying to emphasize this. “All I wanted was to know who he was. Bring him to justice.”

Miguel continues to look at you with a pained expression on his face now as he hears you talk. There is a faraway look on your face, as if you were back in that time but you turn back to him and he’s like an anchor, keeping you tethered to this moment.

“One night, when I thought I had a lead – I was on a rooftop, and I finally realized that Peter would’ve never wanted to see me like that. And that I was failing my promise to him,” you say, meeting Miguel’s eyes. “He made me promise to try to move on. To be open to another love. I tried after that. It was slow progress. The last few months since I joined the society have really helped me,” you say with a soft smile as you wrap your fingers around your mug softly.

“I don’t know if we’ll ever really move on, but it feels easier as the days go on,” you tell Miguel. “I guess, it also helped that I eventually found the man. Or rather, he found me. I forgave him,” you say with a quiet sigh and offer Miguel a smile. And as he stares at you, he realizes how much stronger you are than he thought. “He was my own version of Flint Marko, otherwise known as Sandman. He never meant to hurt Peter that day. He was just – trying to rob a bank to get money for his child’s surgery.”

You stare down at the cups and think of Marko. Last you heard from him, he was trying to do better, and his daughter, who was now older, recovered from her illness. You lift the cup to your lips and take a small drink before setting it down.

“I’m not the best example of how to do it,” you say, looking up. “But I try and sometimes, that’s all you can do. For them.”

Miguel continues to stare at you and even though you thought you might’ve found judgment in his eyes, you see none of the sort. Miguel stares at you with even more respect than before. He looks down at his hands for a few seconds before he looks up again.

“I think – Peter must be happy that you are trying to honor his promises,” he says softly, wishing he could say more. Wishing he could reach out to you physically the way his hands were begging him to.

You smile at him. “I think so, too. I think he’s happy with where I’m now. You know, the whole reason I joined the Spider Society was because of him. I declined the invitation from Jess initially until she asked me what he would’ve thought about everything. I know he would’ve loved the idea of it. He would’ve loved learning about the multiverse,” you say with a grin and then shake your head softly as you pick up the mug again. “He loved science, too.”

Miguel stares at you, surprised at hearing this. Jess never mentioned you rejecting her invitation. He looks up at the ceiling a little bit and in that moment, he finds himself internally thanking a man he never met.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” he says after a few seconds of silence. “I’m sorry if it made you…” Miguel trails off.

You turn to him again. “It’s okay. It didn’t. It helps,” you say, and your tone is still lighthearted. “I think I’m ready to try the other drink.”

Miguel continues to stare at you. “I think I am, too… This one is sweeter,” he says as he wraps his fingers around the mug. Miguel watches as you lift the mug to your mouth to try it and once again, there’s that pleased look on your face that makes him forget his worry from earlier about messing with your plans. You don’t seem to mind.

As the two of you sit there and enjoy the second hot drink, Miguel’s thoughts are on you. You’re so strong and not only in a physical way but in a way that Miguel feels he hasn’t been able to. You’re strong by trying to fulfill your promises. For forgiving the man that took Peter from you. For trying to move forward and trying at life. Miguel has never said it, but he respects you.

You’ve accepted his boundaries in a way so many others haven’t. You’ve offered him nothing but kindness. You’ve listened when he shares memories with you. You’re a hard worker and meticulous when it comes to your duties as Spider-Woman. You’re strong. So strong.

And his respect for you grows tenfold, if that’s even possible, considering how much he already respected you before tonight. Miguel thinks about this and the fact that you’re the first person that has been to his penthouse in years.

Friend.

Maybe you do consider him a friend, Miguel thinks to himself as he takes a drink, too.

“This is really good, too,” you say quietly as you drink more, and for some reason, it makes Miguel feel pleased.

“Glad you liked both,” he murmurs as he drinks more. He suddenly wonders what time it is. The two of you have been here for what feels like two hours now. He checks the time discreetly from a nearby clock.

It’s past eleven, which means it’s almost time for the annual AI Christmas holographic show. He stands up, making you turn to see him.

“It’s almost time for something my city does annually. I think you’ll like it,” he says and motions for you to follow him.

You see him take his mug and you do the same before you follow him to the windows that face his kitchen and dining areas directly, giving Miguel another sight of the city. He leans sideways on the windows and looks down, waiting for you to join him. You reach the windows and lean on them, too, mirroring his stance. You look down and see the Christmas decorations on the snow-covered ground despite being on the highest floor of this building. The decorations, which are holographic, make you realize for the first time that there’s no sight of a Christmas tree in Miguel’s penthouse. You don’t say anything about this, of course. You know with everything that’s happened, a Christmas tree is the last thing one can think about in times like these. You’re glad there’s at least a little bit of Christmas spirit in Miguel since he cooked and took the day off though.

Still watching the decorations, you think of something and wonder. You’ve noticed some of them from HQ when you walk by the windows throughout the month, but it’s been like a second thought with missions and what not. You wonder now if everyone has holographic Christmas trees or if physical trees are still a thing here. You look up at Miguel and he turns, as if feeling your gaze.

“What is it?” he asks softly before he takes a drink.

“Are physical Christmas trees a thing here?”

Miguel gives you a small smile, which still catches you by surprise. “Only the wealthy have physical trees. Everyone else has holographic decorations,” he explains, and you nod. You know Miguel is wealthy, so his lack of a tree is not because of money but because he didn’t want to put one up.

You look back outside, thinking. Miguel continues to stare at you, wanting to know what you’re thinking.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he asks, though for him it isn’t. He’s used to the technology and to this tradition, but he can imagine how it can be odd for you when you come from a universe where physical Christmas trees are the norm.

You bring the cup to your mouth, enjoying the sweetness of the hot drink. “I was just thinking how putting the Christmas tree together as a family is a big thing. Or well, it was for my family and I.”

Miguel nods, remembering what you said earlier about your family and the holidays. He leans more into the window, crossing one of his legs over the other.

“To make up for that, families sit down and design the ornaments together through their devices. Then, they upload their designs to the tree. There’s a program and everything,” he says thinking about the process. He has an artificial tree, which is stored at HQ, but he also has a holographic one from previous years when he was too busy to put a physical one with his family. “I’ll show you,” he suddenly says, putting his mug on the window stool before he heads to the living room section. As he looks for a tablet on his table, he can’t help but think about this. How he’s comfortable showing you things. How he wants to show you things. Like how the holographic tree program works or the annual AI Christmas holographic show which should start soon.

Friend.

He finds the tablet and starts it up, which only takes about a second to boot up. He walks back to you as he opens the program. He reaches you and stands closer to show you.

“First, you put the tree up,” he says as he shows you the screen. The two of you stand side by side, looking at the screen as he clicks on the tablet. He looks up and points. “It’ll appear right there.”

Sure enough, a large holographic Christmas tree, decorated in classic Christmas colors, appears a few feet away from the two of you, near Miguel’s dining table.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur as you notice the star at the top of the tree.

“Thank you,” Miguel says as he looks at it, too. He wasn’t expecting to put up a tree this year but here he is. He looks back down at the screen. “Then, you can design your own ornaments using this program,” Miguel continues and shows you. He pulls out a stylus from the tablet, surprising you. The tablet is so thin you wonder how it’s even possible but then remember it’s Nueva York.

You watch as Miguel uses the stylus to design an ornament. He inserts lines as part of the design and changes the color of the ornament to match the theme. It takes him a few seconds to finish before he writes his name on it neatly.

“And it’s done. Now you upload it like this,” he says and shows you. “The program decides where it should go but you can manually change it if you want,” he adds.

The two of you look up just as it appears on an empty spot on the tree. Miguel then offers you the tablet and stylus. You look up at him, confused.

“Try it,” he says, still waiting for you to take the tablet and stylus from his hands.

“Are you sure?” you ask, looking down at it.

He nods. “Give it a go.”

You set your mug next to his on the window stool and take the tablet and stylus from him, your fingers brushing past his bare ones once again. You ignore the sensation and focus on the screen with the new canvas to design yours. Your brows furrow as you think for a second about what you want it to look like. You start working on it, with Miguel watching intently. He notices how quickly you figure out how to use the program and watches as you design your ornament with ease.

As you work on it, you can’t help but notice a scent. Or rather his scent. You’ve caught a bit of it before of course but it has never been this strong to your nose. Not like this when he stands by your side, so close your arms are almost touching, with him dressed in normal clothes. You add small details to your ornament as his scent envelops you, distracting you slightly as the combination of his shower products and shaving cream blended with his natural scent surround you. You can’t suppress the thought that pops into your head at that moment, which is that his scent is delightful.

You clear your throat quietly as you add your name to the ornament. You stare at it for a few seconds.

“Hmm, I like the traditional stuff, but not going to lie, this was fun,” you say and smile at Miguel, still feeling distracted by his scent. “I can see kids enjoying this a lot.”

Miguel nods, his lips curling upward again as you give him the tablet back, completely unaware of your thoughts. “You may not like the architecture, but I think you would settle just fine in this universe,” he comments, as he looks at your ornament, thinking of how quickly you figured it out and the fact that yours turned out better than his. “Now… you just upload it,” he says softly before he does exactly like that. You stare at the tree, feeling a little surprised that he’s adding your ornament, but you shrug it off. The two of you watch as your ornament, which matches the tree’s theme, appears right next to his.

Miguel stares at it, the sight of your ornament appearing next to his makes him pause for a second. It’s the first time in years Miguel has put up a tree in his penthouse. It’s also the first time that a non-family person has added their ornament to his tree.

Miguel now clears his throat quietly. “Not bad at all,” he says and nods. “Oh, the show should start soon,” he says, trying to put his thoughts away about the tree and your ornament.

You nod. “Thank you. That was fun,” you add as you turn your attention back to the decorations outside. You briefly look down at your gizmo. It’s 11:33 P.M. now, meaning Christmas Day is less than thirty minutes away now. You’ve spent a lot more time here than you expected but you don’t mind. You wonder if people back in Miles’s universe have left the party or if they’re still hanging out.

“Glad you enjoyed that,” Miguel says softly, putting the tablet on a nearby surface. You notice he doesn’t put the tree away. It’s still there as he leans on the window sideways again, looking outside towards the decorations as well. He briefly thinks about Gabriella. He only had one Christmas with her. He remembers it vividly as he looks out, recalling Gabriella’s excitement on Christmas morning. He remembers thinking how perfect it was and how, if all his future Christmases could’ve been like that, he would’ve never asked for anything else. His wife wasn’t in the picture then, so it had just been Gabriella and him. Now that he thought of it, he and his wife didn’t have much time together. It was very brief. Miguel clears his throat. He doesn’t want to think of the past like that right now. He doesn’t want to think of how rushed everything was when it came to his relationship and marriage. Not tonight.

His thoughts are thankfully interrupted when he sees the sign that the show is starting. He turns to look at you to make sure you’re watching, and of course, you are. Your eyes are on the sky as you see the announcement before it starts, filled with curiosity and awe. Miguel turns his gaze back to the sky as the show starts. Holographic Christmas trees appear from thin air, all lit up in Christmas colors. Reindeer fly by the windows, galloping here and there. Twinkling lights decorate the background as holographic snowflakes descend before they begin to form into snowmen that start dancing.

You watch in awe, finding this fascinating. Miguel steals a glance to see your reaction. He sees the awe and fascination on your face, clearly enjoying this.

“This isn’t even the best part,” he says quietly as he knows there’s always more to it.

You smile as reindeer fly by the windows again. “This is so – I wish we had this in my universe,” you answer quietly. “The closest we have to this are projections.”

Miguel chuckles lowly. “Well… You’re welcome to come watch it again next year,” he answers as he crosses his arms across his chest.

Neither of you say anything else. Was that an invitation for you to join him again next year? You push your thoughts away and focus on the show just as a holographic Santa Claus and his sled appear out of nowhere, making you smile.

“Santa Claus,” you whisper as the sled approaches Miguel’s windows. The holographic Santa Claus waves as he passes by making you chuckle. The show continues with Santa Claus flying around as the reindeer align themselves to the sled, supposedly to get ready for the flight. At one point the show presents Santa’s workshop and tiny elves working on different toys and preparing the sled. It concludes with Santa flying by the windows again, this time with all his reindeer and magical sack of toys before they fly off, disappearing into the sky. A large holographic “Feliz Navidad” message and red poinsettias conclude the show.

You stare at the message, still in awe with a smile.

“That was amazing. You grew up with this?” you ask softly.

Miguel nods. “Gabriel and I always looked forward to it.”

You smile, once again thinking of a younger Miguel. “It must be amazing, to experience this as a child,” you answer, thinking of kids.

“The kids love it,” he replies as he also stares at the message, knowing it will stay up past midnight.

You nod and the two of you just stare out the window in silence for a few minutes. You watch as you see white, tiny spots in the sky. With each second, more and more appear.

“It’s starting to snow,” you murmur, making Miguel pay more attention and sure enough, it’s snowing.

“A white Christmas,” he whispers, as the snow picks up.

“A white Christmas,” you repeat.

The two of you stand ever so closely, leaning on the window sideways, your bodies facing each other as you watch the falling snow. And in that moment, everything feels alright with the world for you and Miguel, despite everything.

You look down at your gizmo. It’s past midnight now.

“Merry Christmas,” you say, quietly.

Miguel smiles softly as the two of you stare out the window. “Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

Thirty minutes later, Miguel stands in front of his holographic Christmas tree alone. You returned home a few minutes ago, looking and sounding tired after being out for so long. So, you both said goodnight to each other but not before Miguel asked if you’d want some food or if you’d prefer to join him again in a few hours for the recalentado.

You said yes to the latter.

Miguel continues to stare at the tree, or more specifically at the new ornaments, for a few minutes, thinking.

Friend.

He finally goes to sleep after storing the food away. He leaves the Christmas tree up, which you still find when you return hours later to eat dinner with him on Christmas Day.

__________________________

Translation for italicized words: Mierda - Shit Pozole - A kind of soup/stew made from hominy and meat (can be chicken or beef). Tamales - I think everyone knows these Tinga - Latin dish made out of meat (pork, chicken) in sauce with onions, chiles chipotle and tomatoes. Can be eaten on tostadas or as burritos (my experience) Atole Blanco - white atole, a Latin hot drink made out of corn meal Ponche Navideño - Mexican Christmas fruit punch Tostadas - toasted tortillas; usually used as a base for different culinary dishes Recalentado - word translates to "reheated"; this is the act of inviting your closest friends and family the day after you host a party to eat the reheated leftovers, it's supposed to be a smaller tight-knit situation and less formal because it's with close family/friends (do you see what this means for you, the reader? I'm not okay, right now)

May I just -

Miguel in a freaking chunky cable knit sweater. His damp hair. His bare skin. His scent (I KNOW HE SMELLS GOOD and you cannot change my mind). Him knowing that you were asked specifically to go drop him food. Him asking you to stay for dinner. Him serving the food. Him being a great cook. Him being a great host. His respect for you growing. Him wanting to comfort you physically (AHH.) Him showing you the annual Christmas show and how the holographic Christmas tree thing works and adding your ornament and staring at it because it appeared next to his and him leaving the tree up even tho he didn't plan on putting one up and him thanking Peter for influencing you to join the Spider Society even tho he never met him (CRYING, SCREAMING). Him inviting you for dinner again!!!!!!

So a lot of people said yes to the Christmas part but I was also selfish and wanted to write Miguel like this and get some Christmas comfort before the next part because... yeah. So, sorry to anyone who didn't want it. I needed this.

Also, I'm sorry for the late update. I meant to post Sunday but it was that time of the month and it kicked my butt. I hope you enjoy it, and if you've read this far, thank you for the support!! ❤️ I hope to be back Sunday with an update, tho I have a family event Saturday so idk if it'll be possible but I'll try.

I love Miguel so much and it's a problem but it's okay -Alondra

Tag list:

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