#then there probably would be in the longer fic

[sceletaflores]

SINK IN ME WITH YOUR DOG TEETH!

ೃ⁀➷ pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 7.0k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, feral nasty unhinged logan yes god, logan only slightly losing his humanity but like it’s a lot less sad than it sounds, maybe some toxic relationship dynamics but who cares it’s porn, predator/prey dynamics, p in v, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, HEAVY scent kink (like don’t make me say it…but beware of some very subtle armpit stuff), pain kink, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, blood, so much come and come talk, creampie, squirting, this is just gross, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat's note: hi…hi y’all…so here’s the winner of the poll and i need everyone to just hear me out for a second! walk with me! this is probably the most unhinged thing i’ve ever written, like omg those tags. this upsetting depravity was inspired by this post by @stupidfuckingwindow and this post by @monimccoythings which both altered the chemical balances of my brain so fiercely i blacked out for a while and when i came to this was in front of me. merry christmas and happy holidays! take this not at all christmas themed fic as my present to you my precious angels. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you notice a strange shift in logan...

There’s something off with Logan.

The changes were subtle, but you’ve been with him long enough now to pick up on them. And while he's always had a raw, untamed edge to him, a sort of wildness simmering just beneath the surface, this feels different.

It started with the way he would go quiet for longer than usual, like his mind was too far away for you to reach—lost to somewhere distant.

Logan has always been quiet, but this was a different kind of silence. Conversations that used to flow with ease now hang in the air, unfinished. All of his responses reduced to nothing but low grunts and clipped words.

And he was more territorial over you, so much more.

His hand has started to linger at the small of your back or the curve of your waist for a lot longer when you’re in public, his strong grip firm enough to remind you—and anyone nearby—that you’re his.

He would fume at even the slightest hint of someone else's interest in you, a low warning growl escaping his throat to anyone who spared you a second glance.

It wasn’t just the physical closeness, though. It was also in the way Logan has started to watch you—his sharp gaze a never ending constant. An all imposing, heavily looming shadow.

There were even times late at night when you thought he was asleep, that you’d find him staring at you in the dark.

Not the usual, protective gaze he’d have when he thought you were vulnerable, but something deeper, more intense. His breathing would be slow, measured, but there was this energy, this tension that hummed between the two of you.

The nights he did manage to sleep, he’d hold you close to him, his grip iron-tight, his face buried in your hair. If you tried to shift away, even for a second, he’d stir, his arms pulling you back with a quiet, possessive growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

There were bite marks on your neck when you'd wake up, small enough to pass off as nothing—at least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself, but each one felt like a brand. They were deeper, more deliberate.

Then there was the scent—his scent.

You swear it’s gotten stronger, more potent. It clings to you like a second skin, lingering in your clothes, your sheets, even your hair. An intoxicating blend of leather and pine and musk that makes your head spin.

Each time you left the house without him, he’d pin you to the mattress and rub himself all over you before begrudgingly let you walk out the door. His hands or his face running along the delicate skin of your neck, of your stomach, of your wrists.

Everywhere.

He was claiming you in ways—new ways—that left you both exhilarated and confused.

There were other things too, smaller but no less odd things that were starting to add up.

More and more of your clothes have slowly started to go missing over the past few weeks. Each morning when you open any of your dresser drawers, it seems like there are less and less filling them.

Shirts, shorts, socks, bras, panties. All things you’ve found shoved under his side of the mattress or tucked under his pillow. The most memorable hiding place was the front pocket of his leather jacket, your favorite pair of panties haphazardly stuffed inside.

You haven’t said anything about it yet, unsure if you should be concerned or amused.

It isn’t like he’s truly hurting anyone.

He’s just acting…strange.

A part of you can’t help but be drawn to it—the new intensity, the new rawness. There was something undeniably magnetic about the way he clings to you, like you're his anchor in a world constantly shifting beneath his feet.

You’ve seen Logan at his worst—bloody, broken, and lost. But this? It’s never been like this before.

Whatever it is, it has its claws in him deep, and by extension, you.

You just got home from a run, barely walking through the door and kicking your shoes off when a call of your name rings out from the bedroom.

Logan’s tone stops you in your tracks—low and rough, like gravel crunching underfoot.

Your reaction is nearly instant, breath hitching in your chest, heart skipping a beat as a warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature outside starts to pulse through you steadily.

It’s like you’ve become reprogrammed to respond to him this way, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up as his deep, familiar voice rolls over the sweaty expanse of your skin.

You drop your bag at your feet and slowly make your way to the bedroom, a bead of sweat trailing down your temple as you push the door open.

All the curtains are closed, the only light in the room a yellow glow that shines from your bedside lamp. 

Logan is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms, but there’s nothing casual about his posture.

His gaze is locked on you, dark and intense, tracking every step you take, like a lion stalking a gazelle as it drinks from a watering hole.

“Didn’t tell me where you were going.” His eyes gleam as the lamp’s rays reflect off of them, his pupils dilated so he can see you better in the darkness that shrouds your room.

You swallow hard, trying to be as nonchalant as you can as your feet carry you to your dresser. “I went for a run,” you reply, your voice a little too steady, a little too casual.

You tug open the top drawer, rifling around for a clean shirt with a little more focus than necessary to distract yourself from the way his eyes burn a hole into your back.

“You didn’t tell me,” Logan repeats, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know I don’t like it when I don’t know where my girl is.”

There’s a sharp edge to his words, but it’s not anger—it’s something far more primal.

The energy in the room crackles like a storm about to break, and you feel it in your bones, in the way your skin prickles under his gaze.

"I was only gone for an hour," you say, your voice measured, careful. "You were still asleep when I left, I didn’t want to wake you." 

You chance a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him steals the air from your lungs.

Logan hasn’t moved an inch from his perch on the edge of the bed, but the sheer force of his presence keeps you rooted in place, heart hammering in your chest.

“Hmm, that’s real sweet, baby,” he drawls, sitting up straighter now, leaning forward.

The motion makes him seem larger somehow, shoulders broad and imposing in the dim light. His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, and the way his gaze rakes over you feels like a physical touch, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Your fingers still in the drawer, fabric slipping from your grasp as your pulse pounds in your ears. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, caught in the snare of his sharp, predatory focus.

You turn slowly, arms falling to hang limply at your sides. "I wasn't gone long."

Logan tilts his head, a low, amused sound rumbling in his chest as he rises to his feet with a fluid, deliberate ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Didn’t feel that way to me, darlin’.” His voice is a deep, gravelly purr. It sends a shiver down your spine. “Felt like forever.”

His eyes never leave yours as he crosses the room, the green completely swallowed by the dark black of his pupils as they seep into the color like oil spilling out over the surface of a lake.

You’ve never seen him like this before, so hungry.

"Logan," you say slowly, back pressed tightly against your dresser. "You're really starting to freak me out." 

Logan hums idly, head cocked to the side as he watches you. "I can hear your heartbeat." 

His tone is calmer now, but there’s still a dangerous edge to it, like a knife pressed just lightly enough against the skin not to break it.

Your pulse races, heat simmering in your stomach despite the slight edge of fear clawing its way through your chest.

He stops in front of you, so close that his scent invades your senses strong enough to make your knees feel like they’re about to buckle beneath you.

“There’s nothin’ to be scared of baby,” he mutters quietly, thick arms coming up to cage you against the dresser. 

Your hold on the wood tightens, your knuckles turning white with the strength of your grip.

It’s almost chemical, the way you can feel your body start to give in to him. The thought fills you with as much arousal as it does unease, a heady combination that churns in your stomach.

You muster up enough will to breathlessly nod in agreement, a quiet submission.

Logan’s lips quirk into the faintest smirk, his heavy gaze dipping to the curve of your neck, lingering on the rapid flutter of your pulse. “That’s my good girl.”

Any words you might say get caught in your throat as you stare up at Logan, wide eyed and steadily leaking wetness into the gusset of your panties. 

His nostrils flare, and a knowing sound rumbles from somewhere dark and low in his chest as his eyes flutter shut on a deep inhale.

Your thighs clench together instinctively, the overwhelming need to be filled wracking through your body like thunder.

When Logan opens his eyes again, there’s no trace of anything but pure animal need. The muscles in his jaw working furiously under his skin in time with the strain of his forearms still caging you in place.

“Yeah…” he trails off slowly, tone both condescending and soothing all at once. “I know you’re not all that scared, honey.”

He leans in, tearing a small whimper from your throat at the way his beard scrapes against your cheek as he crowds you.

His breath fans over the shell of your ear, hot and enticing as they brush against your skin when he speaks again. “I can smell how fuckin’ wet you are.”

Logan’s words send a sharp jolt through you, a broken moan falling from your parted lips as your cheeks heat up so fiercely it’s as if you’ve been slapped.

Your body moves without thinking, pressing up into his hard, unyielding frame like you can’t help it—and maybe you can’t.

“L–Logan…” Your voice trembles, a weak thing that dissolves in your throat as he noses along the skin of your neck.

His hands come down to rest on your waist, palms rough and possessive and warm and a perfect fit where they lay over your curves, anchoring you in place.

“Shhh.” His lips trail down your jaw, leaving wet kisses in their wake. “You don’t gotta say a thing, princess. I know what you need.”

Logan’s hands slip lower, cupping the backs of your thighs with ease before hoisting you onto the dresser like you weigh nothing. The sharp edge of the wood digs into your legs, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about the discomfort.

Your hands go to his shoulders without much of a second thought, nails digging into corded muscle as you try to keep your balance. 

Logan’s hands stay on your thighs, his grip strong enough for you to feel the power behind them without hurting you.

He noses along your sweaty skin like a hot-tempered hound, desperately inhaling greedy lungfuls of your scent wherever he can get it.

Behind your ear, in the crook of your neck, along your collarbone, the exposed swell of your breasts, dangerously close to your underarm.

He groans against your shoulder, a full body shiver jolting his frame. “Smell so fuckin’ good darlin’, drives me goddamn crazy.”

You can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a response. His mouth finally finds yours, claiming you with a ferocity that steals your breath.

Logan's tongue slides against yours, a messy, desperate kiss that has you moaning into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.

It’s filthy, fueled by nothing but raw need and desperation. Spit drips from your chin to trail down the length of your throat until it gathers in the valley of your breasts. Whether it’s his or yours, it doesn’t matter.

It’s a perfect mix of the both of you, lewd and messy in the way it claims your skin.

Logan breaks the kiss with a low moan, his chest heaving the same as yours as you both inhale harsh lungfuls of air.

His lips are red and raw, swollen in a way that your own must mirror. A string of saliva keeps you connected, drooping thinner and thinner in the space between you until it breaks under the weight of gravity.

Logan doesn’t give you long to catch your breath. His lips trail down your jaw and latch onto the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth scraping against skin before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. 

Your head falls back against the wall as his mouth moves lower, dragging the strap of your sports bra down with his teeth.

The way he’s acting—like a man crazed, like he needs you more than he needs air—has you dizzy with need. But there's a part of you that’s still trying to hold onto some semblance of control, to hold onto something familiar in the chaos.

It’s only then that you realize this may be a bad idea. 

Whatever this is, is clearly an accumulation of all the things you’ve noticed over the last couple of weeks.

Maybe indulging Logan will only make things worse, like giving in to him when he’s in such a state could be the tipping point to a much deeper and all consuming issue buried somewhere inside of him.

It can’t possibly be healthy for him to act like this, and it can’t be healthy for you to bask in it as much as you are.

“W–wait.” Your thighs slip shut, hands coming up to push at Logan’s shoulders weakly.

There’s no real force behind your ministrations and you keep your neck bared to him all the while, but he stops anyway, rearing back with a displeased noise. 

His face hovers inches from yours, and for a moment, you swear he looks almost pained—his brows furrowing, jaw tightening as though reigning himself in is a Herculean effort.

His hands remain on your thighs, trembling slightly as he keeps himself rooted in place, clearly fighting every instinct roaring through him to just take what he wants.

“You don’t want me to stop, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, a stark contrast to the restraint in his expression. His thumbs stroke idly against your skin, his touch soothing even as his words drip with pure, feral confidence. “I can smell the way your pussy’s achin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re shakin’ for me.”

You are—your whole body feels like it’s on the verge of unraveling under his touch, your resolve crumbling faster than you’d like to admit.

Everything you were going to say gets clogged in your brain on the way out, leaving you silent as you hold his gaze.

You don’t even have the capability to feel embarrassed at the way you blanch, lost in the way his scent attacks your senses, in the rough drag of his palms over your bare thighs, in the way your lips still tingle from his kiss.

Logan sighs, long and all suffering as his hands come to rest on both of your shut knees. The impatient raise of his brow paired with the dissatisfied curl of his lips is enough to shake you to the core.

“Now, you gonna show it to me?” His fingers drum along your knee, his patience thinning. “Or am I gonna have to make you.”

And it may sound like one, but you know it’s not a question. 

It’s a choice.

Your mind races, hands clenching and unclenching on Logan’s shoulders as you weigh your options. His own hands squeeze your knees, just hard enough to let you feel it in your bones.

You spread your legs.

Logan doesn’t waste a second, dropping to his knees in front of you with a satisfied rumble and a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hands grip your thighs, pushing them even wider. Wide enough to make you feel exposed, vulnerable in the best way. 

Your head dips, chin falling to your chest as you watch the way Logan takes up the space between your legs. Your shorts are soaked, fabric so drenched that it’s melded to the shape of your cunt, your puffy folds on display for his greedy eyes.

“Fuck,” Logan breathes, his voice cracking like a whip in the quiet room. His hands find your waistband, and the dull sound of fabric ripping rings out.

The sturdy cotton tears like tissue paper in his hands, the scraps of your shorts falling carelessly to the floor, leaving you in nothing but the light blue panties you slipped on before your run. 

The way he gazes at the space between your thighs is feral, unrestrained, like he’s a man starving for his next meal—and you’re it.

“Look at that…” Logan mutters, almost to himself as he runs his knuckle along the wet cotton of your panties. His touch is featherlight, barely any pressure at all, but it’s enough.

Your breath hitches, a sharp intake of air at the teasing touch, and your hips instinctively cant forward, silently begging for more. 

Logan's eyes flick up to yours, a dark smirk curling his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and how much you're already falling apart.

“Eager fuckin’ thing,” he drawls, voice rough with arousal. He leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your soaked panties, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “You want me to give your pussy some kisses, baby?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words never make it out. Logan’s lips press against the damp fabric, placing a kiss right over where your covered clit throbs with need.

Your head falls back to rest on the wall behind you, a shocked moan bursting from your lips.

“Logan.” His name is pulled from your mouth like a plea, but he doesn’t let up, the sharp edge of his teeth scraping over the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden beneath the soaked barrier of your underwear.

“Hmm?” He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. “Thought you wanted me to stop?”

The taunt is maddening, the rasp of his voice and the teasing flicks of his tongue combining to unravel you piece by piece. 

You shake your head furiously, thighs trembling where they rest on his broad shoulders. “N-no—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Logan chuckles darkly, his hands sliding up your thighs to hook his fingers into the thin waistband of your panties. 

“That’s more like it,” he taunts. With a single, sharp tug, the ruined fabric joins the scraps of your shorts on the floor.

Logan groans at the sight of your bare cunt, slick with your juices and flushed with arousal. His mouth waters, his tongue running along the sharp points of his canines in anticipation.

You’re already so ready for him.

“You smell so fuckin’ good,” he growls, leaning in to drag his nose along the slick seam of your folds. The deep inhale he takes is obscene, sending a ripple of anticipation through your entire body. “Know that you taste even better.”

Logan licks a broad stripe through your folds, groaning like the taste of you is enough to satisfy him completely. His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you spread and utterly at his mercy as he begins to work in earnest.

He alternates between laving the tip of his tongue over your clit and dipping down to fuck into you, his beard scraping along the skin of your thighs in a way that’s almost too much. Your head falls back, hitting the wall with a soft thud as your vision blurs.

“God, Logan.” You squirm on the vanity, but he holds you steady, growling low and deep into your core like your moaning only spurs him on.

“That’s it,” he mutters between licks, his words unmistakably smug. “Make those pretty little sounds for me, baby.”

Logan circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, alternating between firm, deliberate strokes and light, teasing flicks that leave you gasping for air.

You cry out, fingers tangling in his thick, unruly hair as he repeats the motions, your thighs starting to tremble on either side of his head.

Every time your hips buck against him, he growls, the vibrations of it sinking into your skin and amplifying the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Stay still,” he orders, his voice muffled against your dripping core but no less commanding. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place with an unrelenting grip. “You’re not in charge, sweetheart.”

You whimper, your whole body trembling as you fight the urge to grind against his face. But it’s impossible to stay still when he’s licking into you like a man possessed, his mouth working you over with an intensity that has your vision going hazy.

“I know, you're just so damn needy, aren’t you, baby?” He drawls , pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your arousal. “You love this, hmm? Lettin’ me take care of you?”

You can only nod, words failing you as his fingers replace his mouth, sliding through your spit soaked cunt.

“You’re so goddamn pretty down here.” Logan mutters, almost to himself, spreading your puffy, abused folds obscenely wide. 

He teases your entrance, fingertips dipping into your warm heat only to retract a second later. You whine, high and embarrassing as your hips twitch with want.

Logan watches your face closely, his expression equal parts smug and adoring as he finally sinks one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your head lolling back he adds a second finger, stretching you in a way that has your toes curling. He pumps them slowly at first, each deliberate thrust sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body.

“Takin’ me so well,” Logan murmurs, his thumb brushes over your clit, drawing tight circles that make your thighs tremble. “So tight and wet for me. You’re makin’ me crazy, darlin’.”

Your moans grow louder, unrestrained, as he picks up the pace, his fingers plunging into you with a rhythm that has your skin burning hotter and hotter.

Logan’s mouth returns to you with renewed fervor, tongue and lips working in perfect tandem as he drags you closer to the edge. 

He shakes his head back and forth like an animal, his nose rubbing up against your clit deliciously as buries his tongue as deep in your cunt as it’ll go. The coarse hair of his beard scratches the sensitive skin of your inner thighs red and raw.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of his mouth on you. 

“Logan—” Your voice cracks, your head falling back against the wall as the spring of pleasure inside you winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. “I’m—fuck—I’m so close—”

“Good,” he growls, pumping his fingers in time with the flicks of his tongue. “I can feel you squeezin’ me. I want you to come for me, baby. Wanna taste every fuckin’ drop.”

You’re powerless to resist.

You cry out, thighs clamping shut on either side of his head as you come on his tongue. Your body shakes so violently you knock a few things off the vanity, the distant sound of glass shattering hardly registers. 

Logan growls, low and dragged from the back of his throat in such a way that makes it reverberate in the space between your legs. His own arms come up, grip strong and encouraging as he forces your legs around his head even tighter than before.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, licking and sucking and pumping his fingers to drag you through the aftershocks like a man obsessed. 

When you finally come back to yourself, panting and trembling, Logan’s holding your shaking thighs apart, his mouth still pressed to you in soft, languid strokes.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, voice rough and gravelly as he presses a final kiss to your oversensitive clit. 

Logan’s hands slide up to your hips, gripping tight as he rises to his feet, towering over you with that same dark, predatory gleam in his eyes. 

His lips are even redder than before, swollen and slick with your juices. His beard is damp and shining in the low light, and the smug, satisfied smirk on his face sends another pulse of heat through your already spent body.

“Good girl,” he purrs, not even bothering to wipe his mouth before leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and possession. 

You can taste yourself on his tongue, the salt and musk mingling with the raw hunger. It’s filthy and intoxicating, and it leaves you gasping for air when he finally pulls away.

But Logan’s far from finished.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting you off the dresser with ease. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you to the bed and tosses you on it with little preamble.

Your back hits the mattress hard enough to have you bouncing on it once, twice, three times before Logan is crawling up to blanket your body with his. 

The heavy weight of his metal laced bones sink you into the soft plushness, keeping you stuck beneath him with nowhere to go.

Which you know is exactly where he wants you.

He slots his hips between yours, dragging the straining jut of his cock along your sensitive cunt. You can feel the warmth of him even through the thick material of his sweats, a scalding plane of heat that makes your cunt ache with need. 

You can feel the damp patch where his clothed tip nudges against your clit, and you know from that alone he’s already soaked through the cotton with pre-come. His cock leaking like a faucet in the harsh confines of his bottoms while he ate you out.

“Feel that?” Logan asks, voice hoarse as he buries his head in your neck. “That’s all ‘cause of you, baby. Got me drippin’ like I busted a damn pipe.”

The sharp intake of air you suck in at his words does nearly nothing to help your breathlessness, your desperation bleeding through as your frantic hands push at the waistband of his bottoms. “Off. Off.”

Logan huffs a rough laugh against your neck, his warm breath skating across your skin as his lips ghost over your pulse. “So fuckin’ bossy.”

He doesn’t move to help you, not right away, savoring the way your hands fumble and tug, your frustration bubbling over in breathy little gasps.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he teases, the rough timbre of his voice a stark contrast to the gentleness of his lips pressing along your jaw. “Look at you, so damn needy. Can’t even wait for me to get my cock out.”

You only tug harder, patience nonexistent as your fingers curl into the waistband. “Please, Logan. Don’t tease.”

“Alright, alright.” Logan finally gives in, sitting back just enough to push them over his hips, freeing his cock.

It springs free, slapping against his stomach heavy and slick with pre-come, the ruddy tip glistening in the low light.

The sight alone has you clenching around nothing, a devastatingly desperate noise falls from your lips as the ache between your thighs builds to an almost unbearable throb.

He makes quick work of ripping his shirt over his head, carelessly tossing it behind him before he’s back on you.

This time, when he bullies his hips in between yours, there's nothing separating you.

You feel every inch of his cock as it grinds along the seam of your cunt. The velvety skin is almost scalding as it drags against your own, the drool of pre-come only adding more to your own wetness.

Logan presses you into the mattress harder, rutting against your cunt almost desperately as he noses along your damp, overheated skin.

His mouth is everywhere. Sucking marks where the junction of your neck meets your shoulder, lapping up the sweat that pools in the valley of your breasts, licking a filthy stripe across the side of your face that has your cheeks burning.

He buries his nose in the sweaty skin of your underarm, whining and panting like a surly dog all over again. Each breath is hot and wet against you, and it only seems to make him hungrier, greedier. His cock blurts even more pre-come onto your skin with every inhale he takes.

It should gross you out. 

It should be utterly mortifying, but the sight of Logan like this only leaves you thrumming with want. 

His desperation, the raw, unfiltered way he takes you in—like he can’t get close enough, can’t have enough of you—has your pulse racing and your mind spinning out of control. 

You feel his nose press harder against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over you as he groans, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates right through you. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice gravelly and broken. “You smell so goddamn good. Can’t help it. Can’t fuckin’—” His hips jerk, the weight of his cock sliding slickly against your cunt, bumping up against your clit in a way that makes you shiver. 

“Logan,” you whimper, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing the friction, the relief, the unbearable stretch you know only he can give you. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I need you—need you so bad.”

He smirks, his lips curling against your skin as he nips at the curve of your jaw. “Need me, huh?” he murmurs, his tone dark and teasing. “Need my cock inside you, stretchin’ you open? Tell me, baby. Tell me how bad you need it.”

“So bad.” Your hips tilt up instinctively, desperate for him to push inside. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, the blunt pressure sending a jolt of electricity through your body. “Need you so bad it hurts. Please—please don’t make me wait.”

Logan growls, a feral sound. “Such a good girl when you beg for me.” he snarls, big hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise so he can flip you on your front, gently manhandling you until you're on all fours. “Gonna fill you up, princess.”

His hands knead the soft flesh of your ass as he lines himself up behind you. The weight of his cock presses against your entrance, slick and ready, and for a moment, he just stays there, teasing.

Your arms shake beneath you, elbows locked as you force yourself to stay still, patient.

The head of his cock nudges against you, spreading your slickness, and your body trembles in anticipation. He sinks himself into you in one deep, unrelenting thrust.

The stretch is instant, the burn delicious as he pushes inside, inch by inch, filling you in one fluid, devastating stroke. A choked gasp spills from your lips as he bottoms out, his cock seated so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck.” Logan stills, his cock pulsing inside you as he lets you adjust, but the restraint is fleeting. 

His hands glide up your back, palms rough and grounding as they map every curve, every quiver of your body. He starts grinding his hips in slow circles, pressing every inch of his cock along your velvety walls. 

Your head drops between your arms, brows pinched together as you take in greedy lungfuls of air. You’ll never get used to this, the way Logan fills you so perfectly, no matter how many times it’s been.

“Come on, baby.” Logan leans down to press a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, his lips fever hot. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you could hardly wait. Now’s your chance, fuck me.”

It takes a few long seconds for his words to cunt through the molasses clouding your mind, the small thrust of his hips hinting at what he wants you to do.

You let out a pitiful whimper, hands digging into your bed’s puffy comforter as you start rocking your hips. 

You start slow, letting yourself build up a nice, steady rhythm as Logan purrs words of encouragement from behind you. His hands never leave your hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles over your skin as you start to pick up the pace.

“That’s it,” he encourages darkly, giving the rippling muscle of your ass a sharp swat. “Find the fuckin’ spot, baby. Write your name on this cock, tell everyone who it belongs to.”

You cry out at the sting of his palm, bouncing yourself on his length impossibly faster. Your arms burn under the strain of your movements, but you can’t stop chasing the high of pleasure that shoots up your spine.

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, a lewd slap slap slap as you fuck yourself on Logan’s cock like he’s a replacement for the cheap suction cup dildo collecting dust in a box hidden away in your closet—like he’s nothing but a expertly shaped lump of silicon molded solely for your pleasure.

You can feel yourself getting close to the edge, and in nearly no time at all. The telltale coil buried deep in your belly winding tighter and tighter as you work yourself on Logan’s cock hard enough that the cheap frame of your bed thumps against the wall.

It might be embarrassing if you weren’t so far gone already, so fuck drunk that the too loud moans falling from your lips hardly phase you.

It's like there's nothing but the feel of Logan inside you, bumping against that spot inside you that has stars shining behind your closed eyes. 

“Close already?” Logan taunts from behind you, voice just the tiniest but breathless, but the way his cock pulses and jerks where it’s sheathed in your cunt lets you know he’s right there with you. “I know you are, honey. I can feel how she’s squeezin’ me, so damn tight.”

His hands dig into your hips, not even waiting for a response as he starts thrusting in time with your bounces. He pounds into you, hips snapping against your ass hard enough to sting.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come too baby,” he bites out, the rhythm of his hips getting sloppier. “Gonna come so fuckin’ hard, fill you up so good. Shit–”

Logan pulls out enough that only the thick tip of his cock stays sheathed in the warmth of your cunt, his body falling to hunch over yours as he pumps his come into you with a feral growl.

You whine at the feeling of his release filling you, painting your insides with spurt after spurt of thick come. It’s so much, it’s always so much. A rush of warmth that floods your insides each time without fail.

And just like that, the feeling alone has you coming.

Your back arches as your cunt gushes over the tip of his cock, drenching his thighs and the rest of his shaft in your essence. You think you may scream, but it’s hard to tell over the white noise rushing through your ears.

Your arms finally buckle under you as Logan helps you ride out the last few tremors of your orgasm with a few slow rocks of his hips, and your spent body collapses onto the mattress.

Logan’s low noises of pleasure barely register as your chest heaves almost violently, your lungs desperately trying to get as much air as they possibly can.

But you barely have time to catch your breath before Logan plants his knees back firmly on the mattress and starts thrusting, again. 

“Logan!” Your hands scramble for purchase on the mussed sheets of your bed, the overstimulation making your legs kick out frantically.

“You thought we were done?” Logan asks, his tone equal parts amused and mocking. “You popped twice already, baby. S’only fair that you let me catch up.”

With no warning, he takes you in his arms, pulling his cock out just long enough to flip you on your back. He throws your legs over his shoulders before plunging back inside your fucked open cunt with a filthy squelch. 

He feels even bigger like this, yet your body swallows his cock like it’s nothing. The spongy warmth of your walls melding to the shape of him like it’s what you were made for. 

The coarse hair of his happy trail drags across your clit each time he thrusts, adding to the blistering feeling where the knife's edge of too much too much too much meets not nearly enough.

His come stuffed in your trembling cunt only makes it all the more filthy, his cock plunging inside you and coming back out slick and wet on every thrust. 

Your lips fall open on a broken moan, eyes screwing shut as you work your cunt around him, feeling the way his release gets fucked deeper and deeper inside you.

Logan notices, of course he does.

A dark chuckle rumbles against your own as he leans down enough to whisper into your slack mouth. “You like havin’ someone come in your pussy, baby?”

You moan into his mouth unabashedly, loudly. Both of your eyes burning as tears threaten to fall down the flushed skin of your cheeks, your throat going dry and scratchy in the best way possible. 

“Shit–” Your hands claw at the rippling muscles of his back desperately, nails digging into his skin hard enough that you feel the unmistakable slickness of his blood coating the tips of your fingers.

The pain spurs him on, his head tips down on a low groan and his eyes squeezing together for a split second before he’s spewing filth again.

“You want some more?” Logan asks, tone going dark like he already knows the answer as his hips speed up impossible faster. “You want me to come again?”

You don’t respond, you can’t respond. You can barely make a coherent thought. 

All you can manage are whiny moans that fall from your slack lips, broken little uh uh uh’s that get punched out with each new thrust. Your nails rake down his back mercilessly, leaving behind deep red welts that heal as you go.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He turns his head to nip at the skin over the delicate bone of your ankle where it bounces near his head, sharp teeth digging in enough to have you whining pitifully. “You love havin’ a messy fuckin’ pussy, don’t you? Love being stuffed so full of my come you can’t even hold it all, huh?”

His words hit you like a physical blow, lighting up your body from the inside out. Your thighs shake where they’re wrapped around his hips, ankles locking over his lower back so he couldn’t pull out if he wanted to.

His come mixes with your juices to coat his cock, completely drenched all slick and shiny in the dull light of your bedroom. It drips down almost leisurely compared to the near feral snap of his hips, trailing all the way down his length to his heavy balls. 

“Yes.” He groans, reverent. “Give it to me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my cock again, feels so fuckin’ good. Can’t ever get enough—”

You’ve never heard him like this, so high of pleasure that his speech slurs and his words all meld together into one filthy stream of ramblings that has you sinking your nails even deeper into his back and coming on his cock with a loud wail.

Your cunt convulses around him, shaking with the force of your release, milking him. 

“Fuck, princess.” Logan pitches forward, his sweaty torso covering yours as he keeps fucking into your shaking body, desperately chasing his own release.

Finally, with a muted roar of your name, he sinks his teeth into the tender skin of your neck and comes for you.

You cry out at the sharp sting of his teeth bearing down hard enough to draw blood, your vision whiting out with the pleasure of being claimed in every way imaginable.

Logan’s hips only stop when he’s drained of every last drop, his body shaking where it lays over yours. He laps at the broken skin of your neck, a soft gesture that isn’t quite an apology for making you bleed—because you know that he isn’t sorry whatsoever—but it’s nice nonetheless.

Your arms come up to circle around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion hits you all at once. You get lost in the steady rhythm of Logan catching his breath, in the way his heart pounds against his ribcage where his chest is pressed to your own, in the way his fingers twitch and flex on your hips.

The last thing you hear as you drift off, his come starting to leak down your thighs in thick streams of white, is a hushed whisper of “I got you, baby. I’m right here, I’m always right here.”

It puts you at ease, all the worry you felt over the last few weeks slipping from your mind like grains of sand through your fingers.

Maybe, this new side of Logan isn’t so bad after all.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[evelinessa]

I decided to answer all of these! If you're interested in any of my answers, you can see them below! 🥰

1. How many fics have you worked on since January?

Five works published in total. Three were oneshots, two were ongoing fics that I posted chapters for. Five published chapters in total for those aforementioned works (1 chapter for a fic I started posting for last year; 4 chapters posted for a fic I started posting for this year). One work with a finished, abridged version written, but unpublished (for a zine). I will likely finish the extended version and post to AO3 sometime next year.

As far as for the number of WIPs… I haven't kept track. I've started and worked on so many WIPs this year. At least dozens, I'd say. Aside from a few, I haven't necessarily made much progress on them, but I still worked on them, even if it was just spending a few minutes to plan or jot down more ideas.

2. What’s something new that you tried in a fic this year?

Working on and starting to publish a longfic (In Another Life), if that counts. Though when I committed to starting to post it, the plan hadn't grown to longfic scope yet, so that was kinda accidental. Planning that fic (which I'm still doing), requires very extensive plotting beyond what I've done for anything else. I even invested in a plotting software just to make it a bit more manageable.

Another new thing I tried was in A Show of (Im)perfection, where I worked hard to make sure the scene transitions from when I go into a flashback and back to the present feel as seamless as possible, making the jump less jarring. This is usually from the character looking at or doing something in the past/present that continues or is followed up by something similar in the next scene (past or present).

One more possible new thing is that I spent more time in a dream/nightmare segment (A Demon's Justice chapter 4, WIP) and played around with the illogical nature of that/some symbolism. While I have written glimpses/short parts of dreams/nightmares before, it was the first time I did something longer and more continuous.

3. What piece of media inspired you the most? (This can be the fandom you wrote the most for, the one that spawned the most ideas, the one you thought about the most, etc.)

I pretty much exclusively write for Ace Attorney, so that.

4. How many fandoms did you write for this year?

One: Ace Attorney.

5. What ships captured your heart?

It's always Mitsunaru/Narumitsu. My OTP out of any media. I'll always love them and want to create stories with them.

6. What characters captured your heart?

By extension of mainly writing my OTP, it would be the characters of the ship: Phoenix Wright and Miles Edgeworth. Phoenix got to be the POV character of most of what I wrote this year, though Miles still had a turn. Miles is my absolute favorite character, so he captured my heart even if I wrote his POV less this year. I also got to write another fic from Trucy's POV, so she got to have some of the spotlight as well.

7. Did you write for any new fandoms or ships this year?

Nope. Technically, I did start planning a WIP for a ship I haven't written before as part of a group project, but I haven't started actually writing it.

8. What fic meant the most to you to write?

It's still a WIP and not published yet, but probably The Last Day of Summer. It's a slice of life kidfic (featuring the Signal Samurai Trio) that is part one of a Narumitsu series centering around a park by the courthouse.

I love slice of life and I love fluffy kidfic. I get pretty self-indulgent and usually have a lot of fun writing it. The reason this WIP means so much to me though, is because it's something that has been in the works since around May 2021. It's also one of two story ideas I had about a year before I even started writing (both originated as comic ideas). I had already adapted the first of the two into a fic (Keeping Up Appearances) a long time ago, but this one I'm still working on. It has expanded and changed a lot since it was first conceptualized as a comic, and even when it was first outlined as a story.

9. What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

The Last Day of Summer (still a WIP), for the same reasons stated in the previous question.

10. What fic was the most satisfying to finish writing?

I don't have many options, but probably (Just) A Haircut. It originally started as a fill for a prompt on Discord back in late 2022. I was motivated to expand and finish it for Narumitsu Week. I think it's satisfying to finally finish something that was started so long ago.

The fic I wrote for that previously mentioned zine was also originally inspired by a Discord conversation around the same time in 2022 (and also was greatly expanded during the writing process). I think that one is less satisfying for me since I still have to write the extended version at some point. So even though there is a finished version, it isn't truly finished for me.

11. What fic was the most difficult to write?

Possibly In Another Life, since the scope and how ambitious it is has been giving me trouble with plotting everything (and still not nearly done with the planning), even if the writing itself hasn't been particularly difficult (aside from the description-heavy scenes). Or it's the fic I wrote for that zine, as writing smut is incredibly difficult and stressful for me (plus it takes me forever to write).

12. What fic was the easiest to write?

Probably Where We Lay. I think I went from first thinking of the idea to being completely finished in a little over a week, all while forcing through the worst writer's block I've had. Unless something is only a few hundred words, I'm never able to write a fic (from first coming up with the idea to completion) in that short of a time frame, even in better circumstances than I was in.

13. What were your shortest and longest fics posted this year?

Shortest: Where We Lay at 2k.

Longest: In Another Life at 20.5k and 4/24 (but will likely have more chapters in the end) chapters posted.

14. What were your go-to writing songs?

I usually don't listen to anything while writing. I've sometimes listened to the AA orchestra CDs or the piano/some other remix ones, but I haven't done that in a long time. I think I've listened to a few songs with lyrics (especially on one of my fic playlists), but haven't done it enough to specify any go-to writing songs.

15. What was the hardest fic to title?

I don't have many options to choose from, but the one that took me the longest/was the most difficult was probably A Show of (Im)perfection. Where We Lay took me a bit too, but I don't think it took as long/was as difficult as A Show of (Im)perfection.

16. What's your favorite title of the year?

My favorite is probably A Demon's Justice, but since I technically didn't title that one this year, I'll go with In Another Life instead. I mean, I technically didn't title that one this year either (had a much smaller version of this fic planned & titled since at least 2023), but it at least was posted this year.

17. Share your favorite opening line

Not sure if it counts since the first chapter was published last year, but the opening line for A Demon's Justice:

The trial’s climax fast approached, and the scales of justice were tilted in his favor—as expected.

I feel like that one is the most gripping compared to the first lines of my other published fics this year, or known first lines to WIPs I worked on this year.

18. Share your favorite ending line

It's A Demon's Justice again. While it's not the last line of the entire fic, it's the final line of the most recently published chapter (chapter 3) which was posted earlier this year:

And so, he found solace in one simple truth: Miles was exactly where he deserved to be.

19. Share your favorite piece of dialogue

I love dialogue! Not sure how short it should be to consider it a piece, but I've been quite fond of this exchange (from In Another Life chapter 2) ever since I wrote it. Here's the whole scene (it isn't too long):

20. Share your funniest line

Honestly, I don't really consider my stuff funny (humor isn't one of my strong points), but I do occasionally write lines/situations and banter that I find a bit humorous, or at least entertaining. It's also usually not a single line, since most of the humorous stuff I write happens in banter.

Several of Miles and Larry's interactions in my no DL-6, college AU WIP fic (where the Signal Samurai trio play Never Have I Ever together and get drunk) fit in that category. But YMMV on whether you find any humor in it or not. I would class it as more entertaining/amusing rather than funny, really.

I included several notable moments in this fic so far, especially since some build off each other (there are gaps between each screenshot with omitted text). This was just how Miles and Larry wanted to interact with each other in this fic. Miles and Larry kept wanting to argue (lightheartedly) and it was all unplanned. I had to keep reining the dialogue/direction of the fic back on track, because they would get into it with each other every so often and sidetrack the plot lol. One of the moments where I feel the characters are more in control than I am😂.

21. What's something that surprised you while you were working on a fic? Did it change the story?

Something for this year? I guess the biggest would be deciding to add a subplot/an additional POV (Miles') to In Another Life. It's the main reason I'm still heavily involved in planning that fic before I write more. The entire fic was originally planned without having access to Miles' POV in mind (including everything written and published so far).

It changes the story quite a lot, but at the same time, not too much. It's important for me to keep (or only minorly change) all my original planned plot points, especially the major ones and the planned ending/direction of the story. I want to stay true to my original vision as much as possible, while still taking advantage of what I can do with an additional subplot and POV.

I can explore characters and relationships that otherwise wouldn't be touched on much or at all (elevating at least one character from cameo to supporting character status). It also gives me more plot moments to work with and help spread out the relationship moments and bulk up the timeline. It also gave me more ideas for relationship moments, which definitely helps as I'm still trying to think of more romance and bonding moments to write.

The negative is it does impact some plot points and I have to think about how to still have them work well. I've also thought of so much for that subplot, that it feels less like a C plot and closer to an A plot, so I might have to think of stuff to add to bulk up my actual A plot.

22. What writing programs did you use? Did you write by hand?

Scrivener mostly, as it's my main writing program. I've also used Google Docs a little, particularly when I was editing down and finishing what I wrote for that zine fic. I always do my final editing in Word, since the grammar/spellcheck is not as good in Google Docs and pretty much nonexistent in Scrivener. Also, I write into a private Discord server at times when I get some ideas I want to write down, as it's quicker and easier than opening Scrivener (I move it there later) and I can do it on the go. I've written a bit into Dropbox's text editor, as that is the workaround to access my Scrivener files on my Android phone. While I've written by hand before, I don't recall writing any fic by hand this year.

23. If you had to choose one, what was THE most satisfying writing moment of your year?

This is such a hard question, because I don't feel like there is something that really sticks out to me, especially not something that I haven't mentioned in the answer to another question.

This might not be what the question is asking, exactly, but there is one writing-related thing that sticks out to me.

Without going into details, someone had reached out to me to tell me that something I'd written had resonated with them and reading the story had given them some comfort during a difficult time. I was—and still am—touched that something I wrote was able to help someone and provide some measure of relief, even if temporary. I wish them well.

24. Did you do anything special to celebrate finishing a fic?

Not really. Mostly just relax and do something not related to writing for a bit. Sometimes I hold off on a treat or doing something else I want to do when I'm trying to finish something (mostly when I'm up against a deadline). If that's the case, then I can allow myself to enjoy it once I'm finished. Mainly, I just allow myself to enjoy the sense of accomplishment of finishing a story, as well as the dopamine hit from getting to share it and having other people read it/share their thoughts.

25. How did you recharge between fics?

Nothing specific, just relaxing/doing something unrelated to writing that I enjoy. Spending that time completely guilt free and without thinking about how I should be writing instead. This is especially the case if I finished writing something for a deadline (likely very close to the deadline), since I procrastinate a lot.

26. Did you create fanworks other than fic?

Yes! I completed one drawing (of Ema Skye), but it isn't posted anywhere (aside from in a couple Discord servers). That was after not really drawing anything for years. I want to do more, but I've gotten wrapped up into my writing and other things instead.

27. How many events did you take part in? (bangs, exchanges, ship weeks, zines, prompt memes, they all count!)

One fic for the Narumitsu Big Bang 2024 (my first bang event), one fic for the Narumitsu ship week, one fic as part of a gift event for a friend's birthday, and two fics for zines. I also tried to take part in the Supernatural Mitsunaru Exchange & Fest 2024, but had to drop out, unfortunately.

28. If this were an awards show, who would you thank?

Anyone who read my works this year, anyone who left a kudos and especially a comment. Anyone who told me (whether on AO3, Discord, or on social media) that they liked something I've written. It's always encouraging to know that stories I've created have been enjoyed by others.

29. What's left on your to-do list for 2024?

Unless I surprise myself by coming up with and writing a very short fic idea, or making a lot of progress on one of my short WIPs, I don't plan, or expect, to have anything else finished or published this year.

I'd like to write at least a little more and make some progress on my WIPs, but I've been taking a bit of a break these last few weeks, so there's a chance I might not write anything else before the year ends.

30. What would you like to write next year?

Not sure about anything specific, but I'd generally like to work more on my existing WIPs. I'd love to finish and post the remaining chapters of A Demon's Justice. I'd also love to finally finish and post the first part of The Park by the Courthouse series, The Last Day of Summer, considering how I've been chipping away at it for years, and it's one of the first story ideas I had (before I even started writing fanfic).

A slightly revised version of last year's questions! Two ways to play: Reblog and have your followers send you numbers, or answer the whole list!

How many fics have you worked on since January?

What’s something new that you tried in a fic this year?

What piece of media inspired you the most? (This can be the fandom you wrote the most for, the one that spawned the most ideas, the one you thought about the most, etc.)

How many fandoms did you write for this year?

What ships captured your heart?

What characters captured your heart?

Did you write for any new fandoms or ships this year?

What fic meant the most to you to write?

What fic made you feel the happiest to work on?

What fic was the most satisfying to finish writing?

What fic was the most difficult to write?

What fic was the easiest to write?

What were your shortest and longest fics posted this year?

What were your go-to writing songs?

What was the hardest fic to title?

What's your favorite title of the year?

Share your favorite opening line

Share your favorite ending line

Share your favorite piece of dialogue

Share your funniest line

What's something that surprised you while you were working on a fic? Did it change the story?

What writing programs did you use? Did you write by hand?

If you had to choose one, what was THE most satisfying writing moment of your year?

Did you do anything special to celebrate finishing a fic?

How did you recharge between fics?

Did you create fanworks other than fic?

How many events did you take part in? (bangs, exchanges, ship weeks, zines, prompt memes, they all count!)

If this were an awards show, who would you thank?

What's left on your to-do list for 2024?

What would you like to write next year?

[b00tyliciousbabe]

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙

oddballs and eggnog

goofybf! x THICC male reader

summary: love me a nerdy man that’s got a lil spice to him. plus a lil xmas lore!

notes: HI BEAUTIFULS! merry xmas to those who celebrate. it’s been a while fr, my bad dawgs uni work has been ploughing my ass so violently im reconsidering if a degree is even for me. but as a masochistic bottom, i had to channel my energy elsewhere; thus, this fic is just me showing the variety of my tastes as the true indecisive femboy that i am. show me a cute guy and i will plan my whole life with him. i need to get a grip.

originally, i canonically wrote this character with ginger hair (y’all know i fold for redheads), but the more i kept writing, the clearer it became to me that dark brown hair/black aligned with my OWN understanding of him. it’s all fiction anyways so feel free to adapt body types as you see fit. enjoy my lovelies 🎀

album rec: flo - access all areas. these girlies have my heart. been following them since about 2022 and they are genuinely my fave artists, cannot wait for flo world domination.

you guys had mutual acquaintances for a couple years, but it wasn’t until the two of you got to university that your friendship really blossomed. the engineering student didn’t have the best luck when it came to relationships; in fact, people would only toy with his emotions when they wanted something from him, so he learnt to put up a wall of cynicism.

these barriers he had fortified for his own protection made him quite a reserved guy. never cruel or nasty. just quiet. sure, he wasn’t a complete loner, he had a few VERY close bros who he’d let in, but it was clear that in this silence, he was safe.

he’s super handsy, whether that means pulling you on his lap, be it at parties or when he’s gaming, or placing his hands in your back pocket when y’all walk to class, he just wants to hold you. probably got something to do with the fact that he needs to make sure you’re real and not the angel he believes you to be. you love your needy bf and his craving for physical touch.

this is kinda juxtaposed by how flustered he gets by your words. the minute you whisper in his ear, he could cum in his jeans on the spot. he gets so red when you compliment him which makes him squeeze you tighter.

he wasn’t a virgin before meeting you, he’d had a few hookups but nothing sexual with someone he genuinely cared about. as a result, it made sense why he was very nervous when it came to your first time together.

to relax him, you decided to give him a blowjob to ease the tension and allow him to cum quick in the first round so he’d last longer during anal. sat back on the edge of his bed, he wore a vest and baggy joggers, awaiting your fingers to unleash his raging boner. you knelt down and flashed a comforting smile to him, which he failed to mirror perfectly.

‘we don’t have to do this if you’re not ready to. I’d never force you to do anything you didn’t want to do.’ you said concerned, stroking his abs, clear to you that he was stressing.

‘nah baby, i want this so bad. it’s just gotta be really special because you’re really special to me.’ he said gripping your chin.

‘i love you, y/n. like a lot.’

‘i know that you weirdo, i love you too, you mean so much to me.’

‘now, lemme show you how much.’ you said coyly, to which he was more than happy to oblige.

when i tell you, your man eats so well that his cum is literally like milk. the typa white, thick, pearly cum that you would swallow every drop of, because it truly is just disrespectful not to. the first time he came was a surprise for the two of you. he didn’t realise how much he loved seeing his cum all over your face, decorating your juicy, wet lips. the head you gave him was so good, he napped for 2 hours straight after you drained him. but that deffo changed him for the better.

his hobbies include boxing and gaming. he’s such a nerd he makes his own demo projects, playing with his classmates. you always chastise him for not making his hobby a lucrative endeavour - your boy’s got a talent and he doesn’t seem to know it. equally, he loves his legos and comics just as much as he enjoys coding, making you the prettiest bouquet of lego flowers for your first date. after spending some time walking, he took you back to his place and y’all spent the entire night binging his favourite marvel and dc films.

one time it was his birthday and you thought it be a good idea to make a short graphic novel of the journey of your relationship - ending steamily with you pregnant.

‘baby, i love this so much! who knew how sexy you’d look with a baby bump?’ ‘anything can happen in the multiverse’ you laugh, as he kissed your jaw.

‘I’m gonna fuck you so good tonight.’

as we have established, he’s far from experienced. he holds your hand through missionary always because it makes him feel safe. makes so many jokes during it as a way to deflect. lowkey loves being choked. you took the lead most of the time before, using him as a pole and ride the shit out of him.

but, that night he ploughed you with a sense of purpose, so deep and mercilessly that your insides were moulded into an incubator for any hypothetical foetus he would soon impregnate you with. after, he laid curled up next to you, caressing the belly that he had now filled with

‘i hate biology sometimes,’ he says breathlessly. ’you’d look so good with our lil baby growing inside your belly.’

your boyfriend is the goofiest mf ever; playing practical jokes on all his friends and fulfilling his role as your comedian. definitely one of your favourite characteristics of his.

his sleeper build is INSANE. he might appear tall and lanky, but he is far from it. bench pressing more than 100 kilos with one arm - the brudda is basically superman. he’s what you’d get if clark kent had ginger hair, and was a huge weirdo.

though he cannot dance to save his life. he used to be very awkward and shy, but the minute them clothes are off and you two are in the sheets? stroke game is giving pornstar baby girl lemme tell you! ever since your first time, it’s like you awaken the sexual drive in him that’s been missing all his life. this, paired for his complete adoration for you makes him a lethal weapon in bed - quite literally, your man casually packs an 8 inch pussy destroyer with veins that massage and pummel your gummy walls so well.

after this moment he became the BIGGEST TEASE. slapping his dick all over your face. as you chase his dick like a good puppy, he giggles at how desperate you are. ‘sweet Jesus you feel good’. ‘holy shit’. ‘don’t act like you don’t love it.’ painting hickeys all over your neck . he loves when ppl ask you because of how flustered you get, makes him want to mark you more. he’s no longer shy to the world and he thanks you everyday for that. living to call you princess - in both a mocking and endearing tone, he loved toying with your nipples because you’re his lil doll. in cowgirl he will play with them whilst jerking you off to get you to cum all over his abs. and! he LOVES eating ass - like almost obsessively, as if he’s high of your pussy.

he smells so good. so good. you always act like a bitch in heat whenever he steps out of the shower with a towel skimpily wrapped around his adonis belt.

your bf loves playing with his cum and using his dick as a paintbrush to decorate your belly, butt, and face. ‘my masterpiece’ + ‘my muse’ he professes. somehow managing to entrance you to always stroke his dick during makeout sessions. he brings his hands to play with your hair, knowing that his dick is in extremely good hands with you - literally. always pulling you off of his dick because he is really sensitive and ur mouth is a fucking weapon, but will show you that he’s the boss and could leave you bedridden for a couple days after a good fuck.

things he would say drunk off of eggnog:

‘i would die a happy man beneath those beautiful cheeks of yours’

‘put ur hole on my North Pole.’

‘ay, you Don’t get to call me handsome unless you’re gonna HANDsome of those fat cheeks of yours to my lap.’

‘come on, I’ve been a good boy, Santa says gimme some of that pussy you know I love so much.’

‘that ass of yours, come here lemme unwrap it.’

this man has you written into his destiny. he always dreamed of raising a son and dressing him up in the flyest outfits and with you, that desire became reality. you too truly are a match made in heaven.

⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙

taglist:

@ghostking4m

@gayaristocrat

@lysanderplume

@acoustickitten

[ssloveslogan]

❆ christmas treat ❆

warnings: MDNI, reader x logan, i feel like i should mention there’s a bit of father/daughter cuteness with logan and rogue (i can’t help myself i miss them), porn with tiniest amount of plot, p in v, panties stay on, unprotected sex

- christmas themed fic obvs! merry christmas guys hope you all got what u wanted under the tree (tearing up because hugh jackman wasn’t there BUT i did get a cutout, calendar and shirt of him😝)

the x-men mansion was buzzing with holiday cheer, a welcoming warmth against the outside bitterness. today is christmas, and the atmosphere was filled with laughter, music and the smell of baked goods wafted through the halls. later tonight, everyone would do their secret santa exchange and you, like everybody else, had been eagerly waiting for the moment when you could finally stop waiting and could open your gift.

but, the one thing you were even more excited about, was the look on logan’s face when he sees what you had gotten him. somehow, you had drawn out your boyfriend’s name from the hat this year and, god, was it hard to find something for him. your struggle to find something for him was quickly overcome with a brilliantly personal idea.

so, here you are, on your bed, placing logan’s favourite blue lacey panties of yours and a polaroid picture in a small rectangular box wrapped in festive paper and tied with a shiny blue ribbon. the polaroid picture in question was a filthy picture of you from a couple days before, spread out with your cunt on full display, post-orgasm, cheeks flushed and arousal soaking your pussy. you just couldn’t help yourself, what else were you meant to do when you were horny as fuck and logan was on a mission?

your train of thought was soon disturbed by the opening of your door and in came logan. you were quick to hide the gift under the bed and you gave him a smile, in attempt to make it look like you weren’t just wrapping his secret santa gift up.

“what’s got you all smiley?” logan chuckled and raised an eyebrow when seeing your grin wide on your face.

“oh, nothing, don’t worry about it lo,” you giggled, biting your lip to stop you from giving yourself away. “soo, did you get your person their secret santa gift?” you asked, wondering if he even bothered this year.

“yeah, i did. i got rogue this year so i figured i’d get her something. got her some makeup and chocolate” he spoke grumpily as if he was buying her stuff against his own free will.

“that’s really sweet of you, lo! surprised u even did it this year” you tease him and he rolls his eyes in mock annoyance.

“yeah, yeah, whatever.” he huffs out but you notice him trying to hold back his smile. “anyways, who’d you get? or are you still not gonna tell me?” he question with a hopeful look in his eyes.

“that defeats the whole purpose of secret santa y’know that, baby? you will find out soon, you desperate man” you smirk and play nudge his stomach as he scoffs and tries to act annoyed but his walls tumble down at the noise of your laughter and his heart warms.

“we should get going now, right lo? can’t have you waiting to find out who’s name i pulled out any longer” you giggle and logan groans.

you begin to get up and put your shoes on as you realise you probably should be going downstairs to gather up for the gift exchange, seeing as you are already late. you grab your gift and hide it in a bag and then you wait for logan to put on his leather jacket and take his gift too. once you’re both ready, you give him a quick peck on the lips and intertwine both yours and logan’s hands together. you smirked to yourself, knowing of what’s to come.

the both of you swiftly make your way to to the christmas tree where all the adults and some of the older kids were gathered around. christmas lights twinkled around the room, stockings - with everyone’s name sown on it- were hung by the grand fireplace and chatter filled the space up with a cozy ambience.

“i’ll be back” you say to logan, letting go of him and walking off towards the tree to place your gift for him under it, before he could grumble about being alone. oh how you can’t wait for the gift exchange, your patience is going down by the second.

your eyes wander around the room before they land on storm and jean and you smile, making your way towards them.

“look who finally decided to join us!” storm teases while embracing you in a friendly hug.

“i’m surprised logan even came for it this year, normally the guy just stays outside while smoking his beloved cigars” jean snickers and makes all three of you fall into a fit of giggles. “hey, who’d you get for the secret santa?” jean questions while sipping on her drink.

you smirk at them and a little giggle comes out “i got logan” you say, biting your lip to stop your laughter from erupting even more.

“girls! come on, we’re opening the secret santa gifts!” scott shouts out before you guys could say anything else about the topic at hand, and you three step towards the christmas tree and huddle together.

you sit on the couch alongside your girl friends, surrounded by the glow of the massive christmas tree. the sound of laughter and the occasional tearing of wrapping paper filled the air as people opened their gifts one by one. you turn around and notice logan, leaning against a wall, nursing a bottle of beer. his gaze was already on you and you smile, winking at him.

it’s rogue’s turn to open her gift and she absolutely loves it. even though logan doesn’t give up his identity as the mystery giver of said gift, you notice him smiling to himself - proud of what he had gotten her.

soon enough, everyone had opened their gifts - you had gotten a gorgeous silver necklace from kitty with a heart pendant in the middle. well, everyone but one final person, logan howlett.

“alright, logan, you’re up!” rogue beams, signalling for him to come over and open it with everyone. he grumbles yet he still makes his way over, curiosity getting the better of him. he leans over to grab the perfectly wrapped gift with his name written on it and stands back, closer to the wall, while gently untying the delicate ribbon.

your legs bounce in newfound nervousness, what if people saw? you clearly didn’t think it through very well but you pray to yourself that he doesn’t take it out of the box. you watch his every move, waiting for him to finally peek inside the box, the one-sided tension growing in your body.

logan slowly takes the lid off of the box and he tenses, stopping himself, making sure not to take the contents of the gift out for everyone to see. his pupils dilate at the polaroid of you, tongue sticking out, eyes rolled to the back of your pretty head and your swollen pussy all on show with your glistening juices dripping down your cunt. underneath the polaroid he saw the perfect blue panties he’s had to repurchase you dozens of times from the amount of times he’s ripped them off of you.

“s-shit..” he murmurs to himself, feeling the tent in his jeans grow. the room was trying to figure out what was even inside the box and why he seemed so off. you, on the other hand, smirked to yourself as you felt a sense of victory at the reaction you got out of him.

logan quickly closed the box and glanced up at you with darkened eyes, his face radiating off want and desire and you simply smirked at him, winking, as you felt yourself dampening on the spot from his intense gaze, ignoring the way he made your tummy flip.

“sooo, what’d you get?” rogue said to cut the uncomfortable tension everyone else sensed in the room.

“nothing” logan’s voice dropped an octave as his eyes remained on you the whole time. you shuffled, feeling vulnerable under his gaze.

everyone knew they weren’t getting an answer from logan, so they dropped it at that, continuing their conversations and acting as if nothing had even happened. you also tried to pretend like it was just a normal christmas day, but you saw logan, his gift still in his hand, and he was striding towards you.

your heart rate fluttered when he briefly stopped infront of you - breathing heavily, knuckles white from the grip on the gift and his nostrils flaring in need.

“o-oh! hey, baby! wha-” your stuttered out sentence was swiftly cut off by logan picking you up by the waist with one arm and throwing you over his shoulder.

“logan! logan, put me down!” you shout, bashing your fragile hands on his stone hard back.

you continued with your pleads and apologies in attempt to get him to put you down, but the rush of arousal hit you hard, the possessive act sent floods of heat through your veins. your own body betrayed you as you feel yourself dampen even more and your nipples were slowly hardening.

logan pays no mind to your lousy attempts and he makes his way to your shared room, slamming then locking the door behind him. he tosses you and the gift onto the bed, following you down with his own weight. he leans in close, his face hovering just inches from yours, his hot breath fanning over your lips. you can see the raw desire in his eyes, the way his pupils are blown wide with lust. you can see his hunger for you written all over his face. without warning, his crashes his lips against yours in a searing, passionate kiss. it’s not gentle or sweet; it’s a kiss born out of desperation, need and untamed thirst. you pull away breathless, and begin to speak.

“lo? you okay baby?” you tease, a playful glint in your eyes but all confidence is lost when you see his face not even twitching to smile. you rake your hands through his hair and he leans into your neck to bite into the supple skin, making you gasp and tilt your head back to give him more access. his tongue laps to gently suck over the mark to soothe the sting as he continues to litter your neck with kisses and purple bruises.

“l-logan..” you whine, exhaling sharply as you feel tears pooling in your eyes from the overwhelming sensations on your neck. after what feels like forever, logan pulls away to admire his work and he reaches for the gift box, opening it to pull out the familiar lacy blue panties he adores.

“need to fuck you with these on you” he rasps, slowly stripping you of your clothes until you’re bare for him, exposed and defenceless.

“christ, you’re just soaking for me darlin’, arent you? filthy fuckin’ girl, you get off on me carrying you around, baby? you like knowing i can pick you up whenever i want?” he smirks, seeing your cheeks flush pink while you nod weakly at him.

“don’t worry doll, i’ll help you out.” he grunts, tapping your hip signalling for you to lift them as he makes you wear nothing but the panties.

“perfect, you look perfect like this, baby. you wanted this, hm? wanted my attention with the gift? you got it now, i’ve got you.” logan says while quickly unfastening his belt and getting rid of his jeans and boxers. his tip was leaking with beads of pre-cum, his tip swollen and red, and he gently pulls your panties to the side and places himself in his spot between your thighs.

“p-please lo, want you to fuck me” you whine, your neediness displaying as he teases you by rubbing himself on your weeping folds.

he wanted to watch you squirm just for a little while longer, but his little self restraint disappeared when hearing your sweet voice begging for him. he lines himself up at your pulsing hole and before you could say anything more about needing him, he plunges deep into you, knocking the air out of your lungs as you both let out a deep moan. he begins to move slowly, pulling out before slamming back in, pounding into you mercilessly.

“love this pussy, always so fuckin’ tight for me” he growled, his breath hot against your ear as he continued thrusting into your wet heat, vigorously.

his words only fueled the fire burning inside of you and your walls clench around him tightly. “harder, please logan, i want you to fuck me harder” you begged, voice strained with pleasure.

“you want it harder, baby?” he smirks darkly before slamming into you with renewed intensity. “like this, baby?” he asks as his hands make their way to your hips, pushing you down even deeper onto him.

“j-just like that lo, so fucking good b-baby.” you moan loudly, tears prickling at your eyes from the profound pleasure-pain.

the bed creaks with every thrust while the bed frame hits the wall, creating a rhythmic thump-thump-thump. “making such a mess on my cock. ‘m gonna fucking ruin this pussy, doll” he groans, while reaching down to rub tight circles on your clit.

as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside you, you can feel every ridge and vein of his thick member stretching your inner walls. you clench around him, the knot in your belly tightening, making him groan and shudder above you.

“i’m gonna come lo, so close” you whimper out as he continues to drill into you, his cock dragging deliciously against your sweet spot with each stroke as he drives you closer to the edge.

“i know, baby, that’s it. be a good girl for me and come on my cock, doll” logan grunts into your ear as you scrape your nails down his back, leaving marks which are quickly healed again. you throw your head back and arch into him as you convulse and spasm around his length, your orgasm crashing over you, making him groan in pleasure while you moan into his shoulder and dig your nails deeper into his back.

he works you through your orgasm as his thrusts become desperate, his own release stirring inside of him. with one final and brutal thrust, logan buries himself deep inside of you and he holds still. his cock throbs and pulses as he releases his hot seed into you.

“s-shit, so good for me..” logan grunts, his face contorting with pleasure and his chest heaving erratically. he pulls out with a wince as he lays next to you on his back. you move to lean onto his chest, the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat soothing you. logan’s arm tightens around you as he leans in to kiss your head while gently stroking your hair.

“i guess you liked your gift then?” you giggle and look up at him with your fucked out smile, already knowing his very obvious answer.

logan chuckles and glances down at you, admiring your post-orgasm beauty. “loved it, baby. might have to somehow make you get me again next year.” he grins while tracing patterns on your arm.

you giggle and move upwards, your noses brushing against each other, lips barely an inch apart. “merry christmas, logan” you whisper, leaning your forehead to press against his.

“merry christmas, darling” he whispers back, smiling softly at you before closing the distance between you both to share a soft and sweet kiss.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

❆ i rushed this so badly and didn’t proofread it so i’m sorry if some bits don’t make sense and wrongly punctuated guys!! but also i’ve been so busy this past week i literally am surviving off of what feels like zero sleep at all. hope u did enjoy this tho we all need some christmas logan content.

[martybaker]

There was only one couch

Tfw you cannot find the jayvik fic you crave so you write it yourself 🙃

I also gotta preface this with - Does it even make sense that they would have microwaves in Piltover? Do they have electricity? My quick search didn’t yield any decisive results so if you know pls lmk. Also, I don’t really know if Jayce is making any sense talking about them but in my defense, he is sleep deprived (and I am dumb and didn’t put any real research into this, sorryy)

—————————

They’ve been stuck at this problem for hours, any potential paths they managed to come up with immediately shattering after but a couple pokes of logic aimed to test the solidity of their foundations. Like bubbles popped by a child’s finger. Like heated corn kernels. Like dreams of making a difference-

Viktor’s too tired to think in metaphors.

He drops the pencil and swivels in his chair, facing Jayce who’s already draped across their shabby sofa, long legs sticking out from one end, head inclined on the armrest on the side closer to Viktor.

“What if we…err, try to like, microwave it, but I don’t mean like an actual microwave,” he waves his hands in the air as he talks, as if that would help illustrate his train of thought, “but like a device, a - an oven, that could create vibrations and …uhhh, direct the particles? Fuck, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”

Viktor chuckles. He doesn’t know why he does, it’s not even particularly funny, the exhaustion must have erased any common sense of his that was left. Yet it’s…comforting to see that same exhaustion mirrored in Jayce. The same dark circles, the same bone deep tiredness weighing him down, the same look of frustration after they’ve been hitting dead ends and running in circles. It’s a shared exhaustion, just like the hard work is shared. Probably should have called it a night hours ago. They both direly need the rest.

“Ovens and microwaves? That would be your hunger speaking, I’m afraid,” Viktor says, reaching for his cane, grinding his teeth to gather the energy to push himself up onto his feet.

“Nah, m’not hungry,” Jayce mumbles. “We had those sandwiches for lunch. Or was it dinner? What time is it even?”

“Too late by all accounts,” Viktor says, taking the few steps towards the couch. He looks at Jayce, who seems glued to the couch and likely is planning to spend the night there. Viktor looks towards the door, but hesitates. The idea of the track across campus to his lodgings really doesn’t sound appealing.

It’s not even that far, the university tried to accommodate Viktor’s needs as best as they could and gave him a room on the ground floor, plus the building is the closest housing to the Engineering department’s laboratories. And yet, today it feels miles away. Damn his leg, damn all the stairs, and damn his hubris for yet again pushing his body beyond its limits, knowing fully well it will backfire ten folds and render him even more useless in the morning.

Jayce notices his hesitation, damn his partner’s bright mind too. He can read Viktor too well, he guesses the reason for his histation despite Viktor’s lack of complaining.

“Oh, do you wanna sleep here? I’ll head home, no problem,” he suggests way too readily, already hoisting himself up onto his elbows.

Viktor tsks and pushes against Jayce’s chest, pushing him back down into the couch.

“Stay,” he hisses. Jayce lives off campus, it would take him much longer to get home. Viktor’s not about to kick him out. And he doesn’t care for compassion either.

Jayce knows this, yet the man cannot help but be kind and caring, and though it irritates Viktor when it's aimed at him, it is also a quality of Jayce’s that he admires. He’s kind to everyone. Meets everyone halfway. Though at times they push too far, and Jayce lets them. Too kind for his own good.

Viktor shakes his head, trying to clean it, the stacked up piles of thoughts seem to have all spilled inside his brain and are rattling around. Rest. He needs to rest.

He looks at Jayce, who is still lying down on the couch, hands raised as if in surrender, big doe eyes staring at Viktor. Was Viktor too cross with him just now? He’s unable to determine. He pats Jayce’s knee in an attempt to smooth over his own prickly temperament.

“I just…I need to take a moment. Before I head out,” he tries. He hopes Jayce won’t insist. He is too tired to come up with reasonable arguments. He doesn’t wanna fight.

But Jayce doesn’t fight, he nods, then he bites his lip and opens his arms.

Hmm.

Viktor considers.

The couch is clearly too small for one grown man, let alone two.

Still it would be more comfortable than the chair.

And Viktor’s not averse to touch. Despite perhaps coming off as such. To everyone, except for Jayce.

It is true that he doesn’t like to be touched by strangers, especially unexpectedly. But he is human and just like for anyone else, there are moments when he would welcome touch. Moments when he finds it comforting. And Jayce is a very tactile person. He didn’t hold back from putting a hand on Viktor’s shoulder the very first day they met, and he hasn’t stopped since. There was a moment near the beginning of their partnership when someone pointed out Viktor’s (alleged) aversion to touch and Jayce panicked, apologizing profusely for making him uncomfortable, and it took days for Viktor to convince him he really didn’t mind. Because that was the truth, Viktor didn’t mind. Not when it was Jayce.

Of course cuddling on the couch was an entirely different matter.

They’ve never done that before, however, Viktor wasn’t a stranger to the comfort of a warm body next to his either.

From cuddling with his parents for warmth as a kid in one too small bed, to seeking the pleasures of a lover to relieve stress, the warmth of a body next to his was undoubtedly beneficial.

And he and Jayce are friends. It wouldn’t be a big deal.

And so Viktor slowly drops his cane to the floor and lowers one of his knees to the couch, trying to figure out how to arrange himself next to Jayce.

Jayce tries to help but it takes some maneuvering, what with Viktor’s leg and their sleep deprived brains, there are a couple of winces and pointy elbows and just way too many limbs, an “Oof” from Jayce when he earns a knee to his stomach, but eventually Viktor finds himself situated with his back against the back of the couch, his head on Jayce’s chest, right leg on top.

It’s…it’s warm.

It’s nice.

It’s not a big deal.

“Okay?” Jayce checks.

Viktor hums. He can hear Jayce’s heartbeat, feel his breath on his forehead. Smell the musk, the odor of an unshowered body, but he has no right to complain, they both haven’t showered for however many hours or days they’ve been locked in here.

Jayce’s heartbeat and breathing slows, but Viktor cannot slow his racing thoughts. He can feel every point of contact where their bodies are touching. He can feel Jayce’s muscular chest moving under his hand. Jayce’s right hand briefly pets Viktor’s hair before it settles on top of his shoulders. Viktor fights against the urge to burrow closer, to inhale Jayce’s smell, to tug his hand back into Viktor’s hair.

Stupid sleep deprived brain. Viktor could have figured such close proximity to a warm body would reduce him to animal instincts. He can only be glad he’s way too sleepy for his nether parts to react as well.

Jayce feels his restlessness. How could he not, pressed so close.

“Viktor,” he whispers, warm breath tickling Viktor’s forehead and despite himself Viktor exhales and melts against that strong chest even more. “You can rest, V, I’ll wake you in a couple of minutes and walk you home.”

My ass you will, Viktor thinks, we’re both gonna fall asleep here, your right side will be completely numb and my back will be killing me tomorrow. He’ll barely be able to stand. But he’s too tired and too comfortable to say any of that now. It’s a Tomorrow Viktor’s problem anyways. This Viktor burrow’s closer against Jayce’s chest, letting all his worries and all the problems fade, falling into the sweet embrace of sleep.

[wikiangela]

Hi, a bit late but joining in on the @alliwantforchristmasislou project 🫶

I decided to donate to a polish organisation called the stonewall group (which is why the pic is in polish lol)

chose this one just because im the most familiar with this one, and they do amazing work in support of lgbt+ people and fighting for our rights in this... not so queer-friendly country 🫶

now, ive been in the 911 fandom for almost 4 years now (gonna be 4 in i think February), and i only started after the episode Buck actually bc it was allll over my dash. i binged the whole show in a week, before the next episode is even aired, I loved it SO much.

as most of y'all know, I initially shipped buddie - it was the big ship, ofc i did, i wrote so much fic for them and i had so much fun and met so many moots i still love seeing on my dash 🫶❤️ but it might've been obvious (or not, idk) i was kinda getting bored and losing enjoyment, more and more of my fics and snippets were focusing on other characters with buck or eddie, i wasnt really as into it anymore - but i still loved it and wanted to enjoy it (which ironically was killed dead later on by the buddie fandom itself lmao)

and then came bucktommy and everything changed. initially i tried not to give in but within a few days i had two fics and more ideas lol they completely took over my thoughts. ive never been this inspired to write, to create, I even learned how to make gifs for them (with lots of help from amazing talented friends 🫶🤣) during fall and winter I always get so depressed and sad and having very dark and depressing thoughts (last year my buck driving fic was a result of that lol), and its so hard to find motivation to do anything, even write. but this year, even tho I had a lil crisis moment, i wrote through it and im as inspired as always - i havent stopped writing since april. they're literally the most inspiring ship ever - and fun fact, usually i prefer writing about fanon ships, so this was a huge change and surprise

I always related to buck a lot, and especially once we got his bisexuality canon - checking out and appreciating hot people of the same sex and not realizing what it means is too real lol - and Tommy is so compelling and theres so much potential for so many stories there, I wish the show would do something interesting with him 😭 despite being so confident and cool, he feels like he's holding back some sad, maybe (probably) traumatic backstory that could be so good and interesting - and lou is such a good actor and itd be amazing to see more from him in this role

they wrote tommy as the perfect love interest for buck, and it was amazing to see it on screen, it was such a breath of fresh air to see this kind of queer representation on a network show, it was so gentle and adorable, and they initially handled it with so much care, and id love to see where they'd go from there 😭 the break up broke my heart not only because it happened, but because it felt ooc and abrupt and not at all like that's where the story was going. wish they'd fix it and give us tommy back 😭🙏

and lastly but most importantly - thanks to bucktommy, i met so many amazing friends ❤️😭 even when I was writing fics and interacting with mutuals on here, i was never really talking to a lot of mutuals, not for longer than a few messages, and now i got this wonderful community that i feel so comfortable in, everyone is so nice and friendly, and I love y'all so much, this is the best fandom experience ive ever had ❤️

thank you all, ive been having so much fun since april, i love y'all. here's to more bucktommy in 2025 ❤️

[niallerspayno]

English Love Affair (frat boy Harry x reader) - Fic Request

Masterlist

Inspired by the song English Love Affair by 5SOS

Request for @purplekimijks: What began as a one-time fling quickly evolves into something more as you and Harry find yourselves seeking each other out for frequent, secretive hook-ups. As Ashton’s sister and a songwriter for 5SOS, the situation grows more complicated by the day. Will you and Harry continue with these fleeting encounters, or will you take the risk and make it something real?

Tags: frat boy Harry x reader, Ashton x sister!reader, smut with plot

Author's note: I unfortunately never really got into 5SOS, which is weird because I saw them open for 1D in 2013 and I'm Australian - just incase I get any details wrong about them

...

The tour bus hums beneath your feet, the steady vibration lulling you into a sense of rhythm as you absentmindedly scribble lyrics in your notebook. Life on the road with 5 Seconds of Summer isn’t always glamorous, but it’s the kind of chaos you’ve grown used to—probably a genetic thing, considering your brother Ashton thrives in it.

Being the band’s unofficial fifth member and go-to songwriter is a role you love. You’re good at it, too—helping the boys find the words to match their stories, giving them the push they need when inspiration runs dry. It’s fulfilling, creative, and keeps you close to your brother.

But if you’re being honest, it’s not just the music that keeps you here.

It’s him.

Harry Styles.

You don’t know when it started—maybe the first time you met backstage at some award show, his charm disarming and his dimples practically illegal. Or maybe it’s been brewing longer, a quiet fascination that finally burst into a full-blown crush when One Direction invited 5SOS to join their tour.

Now you see him almost every day. In rehearsals. At afterparties. Lounging around during those rare, stolen moments of downtime. And every time, you’re drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Not that you’d ever admit it.

It’s dangerous territory, crushing on someone like Harry. Ashton would lose his mind if he found out, and you can’t even imagine the chaos if the rest of 5SOS or One Direction caught wind. For now, you’re content to steal glances, laugh at his terrible jokes, and feel the thrill of his attention when his green eyes linger just a second too long.

“Daydreaming again?” Michael’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you glance up to find him smirking at you from across the lounge.

“Just working,” you say quickly, holding up your notebook as proof.

“Sure,” Michael teases, waggling his eyebrows. “Working on a song or working on Harry Styles in your head?”

Your face burns, and you throw a pillow at him. “Shut up.”

He laughs, dodging easily, and Ashton walks in, his expression suspicious. “What’s going on in here?”

“Nothing!” you and Michael say at the same time, a little too quickly.

Ashton narrows his eyes, but thankfully, he lets it slide. “Whatever. We’ve got soundcheck in fifteen. Let’s go.”

You gather your things, your pulse racing as you follow the boys out. In the corridor, you almost run into Harry himself, who flashes you that devastating grin and holds the door open for you.

“Thanks,” you murmur, your heart doing that stupid fluttery thing it always does around him.

“Anytime,” he says, his voice low and smooth. His gaze lingers, just for a second, and it’s enough to make your thoughts spiral.

Yeah, this tour is going to be complicated.

…

The music thumps through the walls of the club, loud enough to make your chest vibrate. Ashton and the rest of the boys are deep into their second round of drinks, Michael and Luke shouting over each other about who can chug a beer faster. You should probably intervene before they make fools of themselves, but the atmosphere is charged, and you’re not in the mood to play referee.

Instead, you slip outside, the cool night air a welcome relief against your flushed skin. The alley is dimly lit, the sounds of the party muted as you lean against the wall and take a deep breath.

“You, too, huh?”

The familiar voice makes your stomach flip. You turn your head to see Harry stepping out of the club, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black blazer. His hair is a little messy, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to give a teasing glimpse of the tattoos on his chest.

“Needed some air,” you say casually, though your pulse quickens when he walks closer.

“Same.” He leans against the wall beside you, close enough that his cologne—warm and woody—lingers in the space between you. “It gets a bit… much in there.”

You nod, unsure what to say. This is the closest you’ve been to him all night, and the awareness of his presence is almost overwhelming.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The sounds of the city fill the silence: distant cars, muffled laughter from inside the club, the soft buzz of a streetlamp overhead.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Harry says finally, his voice low.

“Just tired,” you lie, forcing a small smile.

He looks at you, really looks at you, and you feel like he’s peeling back layers you didn’t even know were there. “You’re not much of a party person, are you?”

“Not really.” You glance at him, trying to keep your tone light. “But it’s a necessary evil when you’re on tour with two bands of extroverts.”

Harry chuckles, the sound soft and warm. “Fair enough. But you do it well. I’ve noticed you’re good at blending in when you need to.”

His words catch you off guard, and you turn to face him fully. “You’ve noticed?”

He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes your breath hitch. “I notice a lot of things about you.”

The air between you shifts, charged with something unspoken. His gaze drops to your lips for a split second, and you’re sure he’s about to say something else, but he doesn’t.

Instead, you find yourself closing the gap.

It’s not planned, not even a conscious decision—just a moment of pure impulse. His lips meet yours softly at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. But when he pulls you closer, his hand brushing your waist, the kiss deepens.

The world fades away, the sounds of the city and the party melting into nothing as the two of you press closer. There’s a heat, a hunger, that neither of you bothers to hide.

When you finally pull back, breathless, Harry’s green eyes lock onto yours, and there’s a playful curve to his lips.

“Well,” he says, his voice low and teasing. “That was unexpected.”

You laugh softly, the sound nervous but giddy. “Yeah. It… it was.”

But neither of you moves to step away. Instead, he leans in again, his breath brushing your ear.

“Think you can keep a secret?”

Your pulse races at Harry’s question, his breath warm against your skin. You should say something—anything—but all you can do is nod, your body leaning instinctively toward his.

“Good,” he murmurs, his lips brushing just below your ear. “Because I’ve been thinking about this for a while now.”

His confession sends a shiver down your spine. The thrill of his words, combined with the tension that’s been simmering between you for weeks, pushes you over the edge.

“Harry,” you manage to whisper, but it’s less of a protest and more of an invitation.

He takes the hint, his hands finding your waist as he presses you back against the wall. His mouth captures yours again, this time hungrier, deeper, as if he’s been holding himself back and can’t any longer. Your hands slide up to his shoulders, gripping the soft fabric of his blazer as his body pins you in place.

The alley is quiet, the world shrinking until it’s just the two of you. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, then lower, skimming the sensitive spot just below your ear. You bite back a gasp, the sound catching in your throat, and he chuckles softly.

“You’re so quiet,” he teases, his voice a mix of amusement and desire. “I was starting to think I’d have to work harder.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him back to you.

He grins against your lips but doesn’t argue, his hands sliding down your waist to your hips. The pressure of his touch is firm, grounding, and you feel yourself melting against him.

“Let’s go,” he says suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you.

“Go where?” you ask, your voice breathless.

“Anywhere but here.” He nods toward the club. “Unless you want to risk your brother walking out and catching us.”

The mention of Ashton jolts you back to reality for a split second. This is a bad idea—a terrible idea, really—but the way Harry’s looking at you makes it impossible to care.

“Fine,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “Lead the way.”

He takes your hand, his fingers lacing with yours as he pulls you toward the back entrance of the club. The thrill of sneaking off together sends a rush of adrenaline through you, and by the time you make it to his hotel room, you’re both laughing softly, your nerves tangled with excitement.

The door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, you just stand there, looking at each other. The room is dim, the city lights filtering in through the window casting shadows on his face.

“You sure about this?” Harry asks, his voice low but serious.

You step closer, your hands sliding up his chest. “Are you?”

Instead of answering, he kisses you again, and this time there’s no hesitation. His hands are everywhere—your back, your waist, your thighs—pulling you closer, as if he can’t get enough. You stumble toward the bed, his jacket slipping off his shoulders and landing on the floor.

The backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you let yourself fall back onto the soft mattress, pulling Harry with you. His weight presses down against you, solid and warm, grounding you in this moment that feels both thrilling and inevitable.

His lips move against yours, hungry and sure, leaving you breathless as his hands slide under your top, his fingertips grazing the bare skin of your waist. The heat of his touch sparks a fire that spreads through your entire body, your senses heightened by the closeness of him—his warmth, his scent, the soft rasp of his stubble against your cheek.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, his voice lower this time, tinged with impatience and raw need. His green eyes are darker now, locked onto yours, the question more of a formality than anything else.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you pull him down to you, crashing your lips into his, fingers tangling in his hair as you take what you’ve both been craving all night. It’s messy, hot, and desperate, and you feel his groan reverberate against your mouth as he presses his body firmly against yours, pinning you to the mattress.

The shift is immediate. His hands are on you, rougher now, gripping your waist and sliding down to your thighs with a possessive strength that sends a jolt of arousal through you. He’s not gentle, and you don’t want him to be. You arch into him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he grinds his hips into yours, his hardness pressing against you through the thin barrier of clothing still between you.

“God, you feel so good,” he growls, his voice ragged as his lips trail down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to leave marks. You gasp, your body responding instinctively as heat pools low in your stomach.

“Harry,” you gasp, his name falling from your lips like a plea, and it only spurs him on. He yanks your shirt over your head in one swift motion, his hands immediately returning to your bare skin. His palms are hot, his touch firm as they slide over your curves, fingers digging in just enough to leave a sting that’s more pleasure than pain.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he mutters, his voice rough and breathless as he pulls back just enough to take you in, his gaze hungry and intense.

You don’t give him a chance to say more. Your hands move to the hem of his shirt, tugging it off him in a rush before your fingers are on his belt, working it open with shaking hands. He smirks, the sight of your urgency clearly fueling his own, but he doesn’t stop you, his eyes darkening as you shove his jeans down his hips.

He’s on you again, his body pressing into yours with a weight that feels overwhelming in the best way. His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider as he settles between them, his lips crashing against yours with a bruising intensity.

Your head tilts back against the pillows as he moves lower, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your chest before his lips trail lower, biting and sucking his way down. Your moan fills the room as he pulls your underwear down with a sharp tug, tossing it aside before his hands are on you again, exploring, teasing, claiming.

When he finally moves back up, his lips find yours again, rough and insistent, and you feel him against you, hard and ready. Your breath hitches as he presses forward, his hand gripping your hip tightly to hold you in place as he pushes into you with one slow, deliberate thrust.

The stretch is overwhelming, and you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders as your body adjusts to him. He stills for a moment, his chest heaving against yours as he curses under his breath, his control clearly hanging by a thread.

“Jesus, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice strained. But the pause doesn’t last long. He pulls back and thrusts again, harder this time, and the sharp cry that escapes your lips only seems to fuel him.

The rhythm he sets is relentless, his hips snapping against yours in a way that leaves you breathless. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, tangling in your hair, pinning your wrists above your head as he takes you apart piece by piece.

“Look at me,” he demands, his voice rough, and you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. The intensity there steals what little air you had left, and you feel the raw hunger in the way he looks at you, like he can’t get enough.

The room is filled with the sounds of heavy breathing, skin against skin, and the soft creak of the mattress beneath you. Every thrust pushes you closer to the edge, your body trembling beneath him as you surrender completely to the heat and intensity of him.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his lips brushing against your ear as he drives into you harder, his grip on your hips almost bruising. And in this moment, you don’t care about anything else—just the way he feels, the way he makes you feel, and the fire that’s consuming you both.

The tension in your body builds with every thrust, every roll of his hips, each movement pushing you further toward the edge. Your nails dig into his skin as your body tightens, every inch of you alive with the electric buzz of him, the heat between you. You can feel him, deep inside you, moving relentlessly, his breath ragged and harsh against your neck.

"Harry..." you gasp, your voice breaking as your body starts to tremble, your chest heaving with the effort to hold on. You’re so close, so close that everything else fades away, leaving only the overwhelming sensation of him and the burning need for release.

"Fuck, I know," he grunts, his fingers gripping your hips harder, his pace quickening, his breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps. His eyes are locked on yours, his face a mixture of concentration and raw desire. "Come on, baby. Let go."

And then, just like that, it snaps. Your body gives way, a wave of pleasure crashing over you, your breath catching as you cry out his name. The world tilts as you lose yourself in him, the intensity of your release leaving you breathless, your body shaking as it waves through you.

Harry’s movements become more erratic, his control slipping as he follows you, his own release tearing through him with a low growl. You feel him pulse inside you, each throbbing wave of his climax pushing you even further into the haze of pleasure, your body still trembling under the weight of it.

He collapses onto you, his chest heaving against yours, both of you slick with sweat, breathless from the overwhelming rush of it all. You lie there for a moment, both of you tangled in the aftermath, the room heavy with the echoes of your connection.

The silence between you is thick, the only sound the frantic beating of your hearts. His hand brushes against your cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin there as he raises his head to look at you. There's something almost apologetic in his expression, but also a glint of something deeper—satisfaction, maybe, or desire, or something you can't quite place.

"That was..." he starts, but he doesn’t finish. Instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment, before pulling away slightly to look at you again. "We don't tell anyone about this, right?"

You nod, your fingers lightly tracing the contours of his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble under your touch. "Yeah. No one," you agree, your voice still a little breathless, but with a steady resolve.

His lips curl into a small, almost mischievous grin. "But we can definitely do it again, yeah?" he asks, his voice lowering, as though testing the waters.

You can’t help but smile at the suggestion, your fingers running through his hair as you look up at him, the heat of the moment still lingering. "Definitely," you reply, your voice steady, the hint of a laugh in your tone.

He leans down to kiss you again, soft and slow this time, a promise of more, as both of you settle back into the bed, the world outside forgotten. The night stretches ahead, and in the quiet aftermath, there’s only the unspoken agreement between you—what happened stays between the two of you. But it’s not over. Not by a long shot.

...

You wake up to the soft light of dawn streaming through the window, the quiet hum of the city just beyond the walls of the hotel room. You’re tangled in the sheets, your body still warm from the night before, but there’s an underlying tension creeping in with the awareness of what happened. You blink a few times, the events from last night flooding your mind in vivid flashes—his touch, the way he kissed you, the way your bodies moved together, and the marks he left on you.

You feel his breath on the back of your neck before you even realize Harry’s awake. He’s lying next to you, his arm draped over your waist, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, looking impossibly calm for someone who shared such an intense experience with you.

Your eyes widen when you catch sight of the dark purple marks scattered across your neck, a line of them creeping down toward your collarbone. Your breath catches in your throat as you shift slightly, trying not to wake him. Then your fingers trail down to your hips, where you feel the telltale pressure of his hand—the faint outline of bruises, each one a reminder of the night’s wild intensity.

Panic starts to creep in. You have to hide these. You have to figure out how to sneak back to your room without anyone seeing. You don’t even know why it’s bothering you this much; it’s not like you and Harry made any promises, not like anyone would find out. Still, the idea of the band—especially Ashton—finding out makes your stomach churn.

Carefully, you slip out of the bed, trying to make as little noise as possible, but Harry stirs slightly. You freeze, heart hammering in your chest, but he simply groans softly and rolls onto his back, one hand draped casually over his eyes, completely unfazed. His deep voice, laced with sleep, cuts through the silence.

“Morning,” he says, his tone as nonchalant as ever, like he hasn’t just turned your world upside down.

You bite your lip, trying to keep your composure as you stand near the bed, searching for something—anything—to cover the marks. Your mind races, fingers fumbling as you search for a shirt or anything that will help hide the evidence.

“Everything okay?” he asks, his voice low but teasing, not even glancing your way as he stretches. He’s acting so casually about it, like nothing out of the ordinary happened, like he doesn’t see the way you’re scrambling to cover up.

“Yeah,” you mutter, forcing a laugh, though it’s thin and awkward. You grab your shirt from the floor, pulling it over your head in a hurry. “Just, uh... need to go back to my room. Don’t want anyone to notice.”

Harry finally opens his eyes, his lips curling into a small, apologetic smile as he watches you. He sits up, running a hand through his messy hair. “I’m sorry about that,” he says, nodding toward your neck and hips, where the marks are still evident. “I didn’t mean to leave them... though, you do look pretty fucking beautiful with them.”

You glance at him, surprised by his tone—genuinely regretful but also teasing, in that way only Harry can pull off. You try not to smile, but it’s impossible not to. The apology, even if wrapped in his usual charm, makes something warm stir in your chest.

“Doesn’t matter,” you shrug, trying to brush it off, even though you’re clearly bothered. You finish pulling on your jeans, quickly tugging the fabric over the marks on your hips. “I’ll figure it out.”

Harry slides closer, his hand reaching out to gently tug your chin so you’re looking directly at him. His expression softens, and he leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that’s much gentler than anything from last night—sincere, almost apologetic.

“Next time, I’ll be more careful,” he whispers against your lips, his breath warm against your skin. His thumb traces the side of your neck where the marks are, making you shiver. “But I’m not sorry for last night. That was perfect.”

You lean into him, kissing him back for a moment longer before pulling away. "You really have to stop marking me," you tease lightly, but you can’t help but grin. "People are going to ask questions."

He grins back, his lips curving into that devil-may-care smirk. “If anyone asks, we’ll just say we were... being friendly,” he says, his tone playful but laced with that same intensity from the night before.

You laugh softly, but there's a tightness in your chest that you can’t quite shake. As much as you want to be carefree like him, you know the reality of sneaking back to your room is a little more complicated.

“I’ve got to go,” you say, standing up quickly, suddenly feeling the weight of the situation. “Before anyone notices.”

Harry nods, his smirk never fading, his eyes still gleaming with that mixture of mischief and satisfaction. “Don’t worry, babe. I won’t tell anyone.”

You pause, glancing back at him as you reach for the door. “I’ll see you later.”

He leans back on the bed, his hands behind his head, looking completely unfazed by the chaos of the night you both shared. “You know where to find me,” he says, his voice casual, but there’s that familiar undercurrent of promise.

You slip out of the room, your heart pounding, your mind racing. The door clicks shut behind you, and for a moment, you just stand there, breathing in the cool hallway air. It feels like everything just changed, and you’re not entirely sure how to process it. But as you make your way back to your room, you can’t shake the feeling that this won’t be the last time Harry’s hands leave marks on your skin.

...

You walk into the breakfast area, trying to shake off the lingering tension from last night. Harry’s already sitting with a coffee, looking casual as ever. You meet his gaze, but the smile he gives you is knowing, making your pulse race for a second before you force yourself to act normal.

The rest of the band is chatting, and you take a seat, trying to ignore the burn of the marks on your neck and hips. Ashton’s eyes keep flicking to you, the silence between you palpable. You can feel the weight of his stare.

Liam, ever the conversationalist, breaks the tension with an innocent enough question. “Hey, what’s up with you two?” he asks, glancing between you and Harry.

Harry shrugs, cool as ever. “Nothing, mate. Just breakfast.”

You nod quickly, sipping your coffee, trying to seem casual. But Ashton’s quiet. He’s not buying it. His eyes flick to your side, where you shift uncomfortably. “You okay?” he asks, his voice sharp, before glancing at Harry with suspicion.

“I’m fine,” you snap a little too quickly, and Harry intervenes just in time, his voice smooth and easy. “We’re all just adjusting to the time change, right?”

Ashton hesitates but then shrugs it off. The conversation moves on, but you feel like something’s off.

Then Niall spots the marks on your side. “Hey, what’s that?” he asks, pointing. “New ink or something?”

Before you can answer, Louis leans in with a grin. “Bite marks? Who’d you go home with?”

You force a laugh, brushing it off. “Just some random guy from the club. It didn’t mean anything.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “A random guy at the club? Didn’t expect that from you.”

You shrug. “Sometimes you just need to blow off steam.”

Louis teases more, but Ashton’s quiet, his jaw tight as he observes. “Sure,” he mutters, his tone colder. “Nothing.”

You feel the shift in the air, Ashton’s unspoken frustration hanging between you, but you stay silent. Harry gives you a small nod, his eyes locking with yours for just a second before turning back to his coffee.

The rest of the conversation continues, but you can’t shake the feeling that everyone knows—or at least senses—something happened. And you’re left trying to keep it together, even though the heat from last night still burns beneath your skin.

...

A few days have passed since breakfast, and things have shifted, though no one’s mentioned last night’s heat. The band is busy with rehearsals and interviews, and the air between you and Harry feels charged, like electricity just waiting to snap.

That night, after the show, you slip away from the usual after-party chaos. You need to clear your head, to get some space from the noise and the people, but the moment you step outside, your gaze lands on him. Harry’s leaning against the back of the venue, hands shoved in his pockets, watching the stars like he’s waiting for something—someone.

You’re not sure what pulls you to him, but you find your feet moving before you can stop them. When he sees you, that smirk appears, the one that you know so well, and his eyes light up.

“Thought I’d find you out here,” he says, his voice smooth but with a hint of playfulness.

You stop in front of him, the cool night air biting at your skin. "Couldn't sleep," you reply, your heart already picking up pace as he steps closer.

"Couldn’t sleep, huh?" He steps forward, his hand brushing against yours. The simple touch sends a wave of heat through you, making it impossible to ignore the tension between you two. “I think I might be able to help with that.”

The words hang in the air, thick with meaning, and without thinking, you close the distance between you. His lips find yours almost instantly, pulling you into him. The kiss is hungry this time, no teasing, just raw need.

His hands are on your body, pushing you against the cold brick of the building, his lips trailing along your jawline, down your neck. Every movement is deliberate, urgent. You gasp when his teeth graze your skin, a rush of heat flooding your veins. You can feel him hard against your stomach, and it makes you dizzy.

“Right here?” you ask breathlessly, your hands running over the muscles of his back, the tension in his body matching your own.

He looks at you, his green eyes dark and intense, a spark of mischief dancing in them. “Why not?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. “It’s just us.”

You don’t hesitate. With a quick move, your hands are tugging at the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion. His skin is warm under your fingers, and your breath catches when his lips find yours again, harder this time.

You can’t keep up with the speed of it, the way he’s pushing you toward a part of the alley where the shadows swallow you whole. His hands move over your body, finding the zip of your jacket and pulling it down. Every touch, every movement sends you spiraling. There’s no waiting this time, no slow build-up. It's frantic, raw, like you’re both trying to chase the same thing.

You help him out of his jeans, the fabric sliding off his legs just as you pull your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. The cool air hits your bare skin, but Harry's warmth, the heat of his body, is enough to make you forget the chill.

With a sudden, fluid motion, he lifts you up, pressing you against the wall as your legs wrap around his waist. His lips are back on yours, and you can feel the intensity building again, the desperation of it. You feel his cock against you, and a shiver runs through you at the feel of him, so close, so desperate.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders as his hands find their way to your hips, guiding you toward him. The way his fingers dig into your skin makes your heart race even faster.

The way he enters you, quick and relentless, takes your breath away. The world narrows down to the sensation of him filling you, the rhythm of his thrusts, the pressure in all the right places. You meet him with equal urgency, the rhythm between you sharp and frantic.

It doesn’t take long for the heat to build, for the world to go blurry and insubstantial. You’re caught in the force of it, lost in the way his body moves against yours, in the sound of his breath, his low groans as he pushes deeper.

It’s raw, fast, just what you both need to feel alive. The noise around you fades into nothing. All that exists is him—his touch, his body, the overwhelming heat that’s too much and not enough at the same time.

And when you reach the edge, when everything seems to come apart at once, you feel him release into you, his grip tightening as he lets out a low, guttural sound that makes you dizzy. It crashes over you like a wave, pulling you under, and you cling to him, riding the wave of pleasure until it finally fades.

You both stand there for a moment, catching your breath, leaning against each other for support. He places a gentle kiss on your forehead, still breathing heavily. “You good?” he asks, his voice soft but rough from the intensity of it all.

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips as you look up at him, feeling the aftermath of everything. You didn’t know it would feel this good—this easy, this undeniable. But it does.

“I’m good,” you reply, your hands still on his chest, feeling his heartbeat match your own.

He smirks again, leaning down to kiss you one more time, his lips soft now, slower, almost tender. "This isn't over," he murmurs against your lips. "We’re not done yet."

You pull back slightly, looking at him with a knowing smirk of your own. "I think we both know that."

...

A few days later again, and the night is loud, the music and chatter from the party blending with the thrumming bass of your own pulse. You're moving through the crowd, adrenaline pulsing, and you know exactly where you're heading. You don’t need to find him—Harry’s always in the same spot, tucked away from the chaos, waiting for the perfect moment.

You don’t waste time looking for him. As soon as you find him, you step into his space without hesitation. He’s leaning against the wall near the back of the venue, his eyes immediately finding you as you approach. The air between you thickens, a knowing tension hanging heavy in the seconds before you speak.

He smirks, his lips curling, but his eyes are dark with something more dangerous. “You alright?” His voice is low, deliberate, the edge of it making your pulse quicken.

You don’t answer with words. You reach up, your fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, and pull him into a hard, bruising kiss. The kind that burns, urgent and hot. No hesitation. No sweet words. You’ve had enough of waiting, of being passive.

Harry’s hands find your waist, but you don’t give him the chance to pull you closer. Instead, you shove him back, pinning him against the wall with your body. His breath hitches, and for a moment, you feel his control slipping.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “Not this time,” you murmur, your voice rough with desire. “I’m in charge tonight.”

Harry’s lips part, a flicker of something dark passing through his gaze. He’s caught off guard for a second, but the challenge only fuels him. He smirks, but it’s different now—almost predatory. “You sure about that?”

Without answering, you grab his wrist and tug him toward the back hall. There’s a small storage cupboard just around the corner, hidden from the rest of the crew. You reach it quickly, slipping inside with Harry close behind you, your back pressing against the cool metal door.

The moment the door closes behind you, it’s like the world shrinks to just the two of you. There’s no one around to stop it, no one to see what happens next. And that’s exactly what you want.

You waste no time, pushing him up against the shelves, the sound of metal scraping against the wall echoing in the small space. Your hands are on him instantly, pulling at his jeans, your mouth on his neck, the heat between you rising fast. There’s no teasing, no soft caress—just the immediate pressure of wanting him, needing him, right here, right now.

Harry’s hands come to your hips, fingers digging in as he tries to guide you, but you won’t let him. You’re not here for him to control. You kiss him again, harder this time, your hands undoing his belt, unzipping his jeans with quick, practiced movements. When you pull him free, his breath catches in his throat, and you feel him twitch under your touch.

“You think you can just take over?” Harry’s voice is low, rough, and it makes your pulse race even faster.

“You’re about to find out,” you respond, your voice steady despite the heat building inside you. You drop to your knees in front of him, not wasting a second before you take him in your mouth. It’s quick, sharp, the way you want it. His groan fills the small space, and you feel the way his fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you closer.

You know he’s holding back, fighting against the rush of pleasure, but you won’t give him the chance to regain control. You move faster, harder, your mouth working him while your hands hold his hips still, forcing him to take everything you give him.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, his voice strained, low. His grip on your hair tightens, his chest heaving as he struggles to stay in control. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

You look up at him, meeting his darkened gaze, and you can see the struggle in his eyes. It’s almost like he wants to push you away, take the lead again, but he can’t. Not now. You’re too far in control. You pull away for a moment, and his eyes flicker to yours with frustration.

But before he can say anything, you grab his wrist and pull him into the corner of the cupboard. The cramped space forces you both closer, heat between your bodies rising by the second. You push him back against the shelves, your hands sliding over his chest before you drop to your knees again, taking him in your hand, guiding him where you need him most.

This time, there’s no slowing down. You lower yourself onto him in one quick motion, feeling the stretch of him fill you completely. The angle is different, sharper, and the way he groans under you sends a thrill of power through you. You move against him, setting the pace, your body riding him with the urgency of a fire you can’t put out.

His hands grip your hips, but you don’t let him take over. You fuck him harder, faster, feeling the pull of your body tightening with each movement. The sound of your skin slapping together fills the small space, your breath coming in quick bursts, matching the frantic rhythm between you.

“You feel so fucking good,” Harry mutters, his voice low and raspy as his hands grip your waist, pulling you even closer. He’s close, you can feel it. But you don’t stop. You drive yourself harder onto him, taking him deeper with each thrust.

The heat builds, pressure coiling tighter and tighter until, with one final, sharp push, you both come undone. The force of it takes you by surprise, your body trembling as you collapse against him.

You’re both breathless, sweaty, and still reeling from the intensity. Harry holds you close for a moment, his hands running up and down your back, trying to steady both of you. You pull back slightly, looking up at him with a smirk.

“You didn’t think I could take control, did you?” you tease, your voice husky with satisfaction.

Harry chuckles, his lips brushing your forehead as he presses a soft kiss there. “You fucking blew me away, love,” he mutters, his voice filled with admiration and something else—something you can’t quite place.

You smile against his chest, the rush of power fading as you both come back down. You’re not done, not by a long shot. But for now, you both stay there in the cramped storage cupboard, tangled in each other’s arms, letting the aftermath wash over you.

For now, it's just you and him.

...

The next day, you walk into your hotel room, exhausted from the day's events, only to find Harry waiting for you. The door clicks shut behind you, and before you can say anything, he’s there, stepping toward you with that same confident smirk on his lips. His eyes are dark, and his stance says it all—he’s taking control again.

You try to keep your cool, but your pulse is already quickening. You hadn’t expected him to follow you, hadn’t thought he would be here, but now that he is, there’s no denying what’s about to happen.

“Still thinking about last night?” he asks, voice low and teasing, as he reaches you in two strides.

You can barely find the words. All you can do is stare back at him, your body reacting before your brain can catch up. “I thought we agreed—”

“We did,” he cuts you off, his hand brushing lightly against your arm, sending a shiver through you. “But I think it's my turn again.”

His mouth is on yours before you can protest. It’s a demanding kiss, his lips parting yours with purpose. His hands quickly make their way to your body, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the heat of him, the hard press of his chest against yours. There’s no room for hesitation, no time to think. He knows what he wants, and he's making sure you know it, too.

“Take your clothes off,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to let you breathe, but his eyes never leave yours.

Your body moves almost involuntarily, your shirt falling to the floor as he watches, his gaze intense. There’s something about the way he looks at you now that sends a rush of heat to your core. You can feel your body responding before you even realize it, your breath catching in your throat as he moves closer.

With one swift motion, he pushes you back toward the bed, never breaking eye contact, his hands on your waist, guiding you down. You’re almost powerless against his grip, the way his hands are everywhere, touching, exploring, pulling you closer.

"Stay still," Harry growls as he hovers over you, his lips trailing down your neck. His touch is rough, deliberate, his hands gripping you like he owns you. You try to fight it, try to hold on to some sense of control, but it’s impossible.

His mouth moves to your neck, biting down hard enough to make you gasp, leaving marks, branding you in a way that only he can. "You’re mine, remember that," he mutters against your skin, before trailing his lips lower, down your chest.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, his fingers are at your waist, slipping under your waistband. You tense at the suddenness of it, but there’s no stopping him. He doesn’t give you a chance to breathe before he's moving, quickly and efficiently, pulling you closer, his mouth returning to your skin.

“Missed this,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding over your hips, his touch like fire.

He flips you onto your stomach before you can even react. His hands grip your hips, pulling them up, positioning you exactly the way he wants you. You brace yourself, knowing what’s coming. It’s not gentle. He’s not gentle. His hand smacks against your ass, hard enough to sting, and you gasp.

“Don’t move,” he growls, his voice rough as he enters you in one swift motion. The force of it makes you cry out, the suddenness taking your breath away.

He doesn’t wait. His thrusts are relentless, harsh, driving into you with a power that has your body shaking. There’s nothing soft about it. Nothing tender. It’s all control, all power, and you can’t help but give into it, letting him take you in a way that only he can. The bed creaks beneath you, his hand still gripping your hip with a bruising force, and the sound of his skin meeting yours fills the room.

He’s rough, pushing you to the edge, your body moving with his, the tension building in your stomach. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his pace quickening. The marks on your neck throb with every movement, the bites and bruises adding to the intensity. You can feel him everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his body against yours.

It’s not long before you feel the tension snap, your body clenching around him as you cry out, your release crashing over you. Harry doesn’t stop. He keeps going, chasing his own release, his grip tightening as he finishes with a low groan, his body shuddering against yours.

He stays inside you for a moment, his hands resting on your hips, before he pulls out slowly. You collapse onto the bed, breathless, the marks on your neck and hips still stinging with the reminder of what just happened. He doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans down, pressing a kiss to the marks he left, his lips lingering on your skin.

"Next time, don’t try to fight me," he murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll make sure you remember who’s in charge.”

You can’t help but shiver at the thought, your body still tingling from the aftermath. Harry pulls away, his expression smug as always, but there’s something in his eyes that tells you this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

...

The night air is thick with the promise of something to come, the city lights flickering below as the storm clouds gather above. You’ve been feeling the electricity between you and Harry all evening, the kind of tension that only seems to grow the longer you spend together. Tonight, something is different—there’s an undeniable pull that neither of you can ignore.

You’re in Harry’s hotel room, lounging on the couch, the hum of the city barely reaching your ears through the thick glass windows. Outside, the wind picks up, and you catch the first few drops of rain against the glass. You glance over at Harry, and your heart races at the sight of the mischievous grin that’s spreading across his face.

“You know,” he starts, voice low and tempting, “I’ve got a better idea than staying in here.”

Before you can ask, he’s already pulling you to your feet, his hand gripping yours with a firm urgency. The way his eyes glint with intent sends a thrill running through you, your pulse quickening. Without a word, he leads you to the door, and your stomach flips with the knowledge of what’s about to happen.

As you step into the hallway, the sound of rain grows louder, and Harry’s grip tightens around your wrist, guiding you toward a hidden staircase. “You’ll see,” he murmurs, a devilish smile tugging at his lips.

The air is charged with something unspoken, and as you ascend the stairs, you can feel the growing anticipation, your heart thumping in your chest. The storm outside is starting to pick up, a low rumble of thunder echoing in the distance. As you reach the rooftop door, Harry opens it, and the full force of the rain hits you—cold and sharp, the droplets crashing down as you step onto the wet rooftop.

The view is breathtaking, the city sprawled out beneath you, the sky above heavy with rain. You can hear the sound of water pounding against the pavement, but it doesn’t drown out the rush of your heartbeat as Harry turns to face you. His lips are on yours before you can even think, hot and insistent despite the cold rain soaking through your clothes.

“You’re crazy,” you murmur between kisses, your hands gripping his shirt as the rain drenches you both.

“You have no idea,” Harry replies, his breath hot against your ear. He pulls back for a moment, looking down at you with that smirk of his. “Let’s take this somewhere... a little more private.”

Without waiting for a response, he grabs your hand and leads you toward the far side of the roof, where a small, secluded corner offers some shelter from the storm. The wind howls around you, but the heat between you both only intensifies. Harry’s fingers work their way down your body, pulling you closer, your breath coming faster.

He presses you against the wall, his lips finding yours once more in a kiss that’s rough, desperate. His hands slide under your clothes, the cold rain making his touch even more electric against your heated skin. There’s no teasing this time—he’s all urgency, a desperate need that matches the pounding rain around you.

“Harry,” you gasp, your hands pushing his shirt off, “we shouldn’t be—”

But you’re cut off by his mouth trailing down your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as his hands push you further against the wall. His words are muffled against your skin. “We don’t need to care about that now, do we?”

The adrenaline is coursing through your veins as you feel his hands tugging at your clothes, eager, impatient. The rain pelts down harder, drenching both of you, but it only makes everything feel more intense—more real. You’re soaked, and yet there’s nothing about the cold that can stop the heat building between you two.

He drags you up against him, his lips moving with feverish need, kissing you in the rain like it’s the only thing that matters. You can barely keep up as he lifts you, pressing you against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he pushes you further into the corner.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” Harry mutters, his voice rough and low as he grinds against you. His hands roam, exploring, pulling you closer as if he can’t get enough. You respond with equal hunger, the rain streaming down your face, the world falling away as you lose yourself in him.

His lips trail down to your neck, biting into your skin, leaving a mark that’s sure to last. The cold rain and the heat between you are at odds, yet they make everything feel more electrifying. You can’t stop your own moans, your fingers tangled in his wet hair as you pull him closer.

“Harry,” you whisper, your voice breaking as he moves faster, more urgently, each thrust more demanding than the last.

With each breathless moment, you know this won’t be the last time you end up like this—caught between the madness of the storm and the chaos of everything you two are. You’re both drenched, but it doesn’t matter. The rain may fall, but it’s the fire between you that keeps you both burning, relentless, until the world outside seems to disappear.

...

A few weeks have passed since that first hookup with Harry, and the tension between the two of you has only grown. The encounters have become more frequent, more intense. Sometimes it feels like there’s no hiding what’s between you, even though you’re doing your best to keep it under wraps. Harry’s smirks have become a constant, and the moments when he looks at you with that knowing glint in his eyes have started to make your stomach flip every time.

The bands—5SOS and One Direction—have started picking up on it, though no one’s come right out and said anything yet. There’s an unspoken feeling in the air, a shift in the dynamic, but everyone’s too polite—or too unaware—to confront it directly. The only one who seems to have picked up on something more than the others is Ashton. He’s been quieter, his eyes lingering on you with that concerned look you’ve come to recognise. He’s your brother, and you know him well enough to know that he senses something, but hasn’t quite put his finger on it.

You’re sitting backstage, your guitar resting on your knee, the hum of voices and instruments in the background. You’ve been working on a new song—one that’s personal, raw, and a little too close to the truth for comfort. The lyrics have poured out of you, each word more revealing than the last. It’s about what’s been happening with Harry, about the passion, the uncertainty, and the way he makes you feel all at once. You’ve titled it “English Love Affair,” a playful nod to the chaos of your tangled situation.

It’s time to show the guys. The atmosphere is a bit lighter today, everyone milling around in a relaxed mood after a long rehearsal. You grab your guitar, your fingers hovering over the strings as you make your way to where 5SOS and One Direction are gathered. Ashton notices you first, giving you a small smile, though his eyes still hold that familiar concern. The others are scattered around the room, laughing, teasing, but there’s a flicker of interest when they see the guitar in your hands.

“Got something to share, love?” Louis calls out from across the room, his voice loud and playful.

“Yeah, she’s been working on something,” Niall adds, eyeing you curiously.

You take a deep breath, nerves fluttering in your stomach. You’d been writing for months, but this one—this one feels different. The song is about Harry. About all the emotions, the heat, the connection, and the chaos of what you two have been doing. You’re not sure if you’re ready to show them yet, but if anyone’s going to understand, it’s them. You know how to separate your personal feelings from your music, but with this song, it’s a little harder to mask it all.

“Yeah,” you reply, strumming a few notes to test the sound, “it’s... a new one.”

Ashton steps forward, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall. His eyes are on you, searching, but there’s a quiet understanding there, even if he’s not sure what’s going on. You meet his gaze, offering a quick smile before looking down at your guitar.

The guys quiet down as you start to play, the melody flowing easily as you strum the chords. Your voice fills the space, the words slipping out with a raw honesty that makes your heart race:

“It started on a weekend in May I was looking for attention, needed intervention Felt somebody looking at me With a powder white complexion, feeling the connection

The way she looked was so ridiculous Every single step had me waiting for the next Before I knew it, it was serious Dragged me out the bar to the back seat of her car”

As you sing, the room grows quieter. The words, the rawness, the honesty—it’s clear this is something personal, something deeper than the usual pop tunes they’re used to hearing from you. You continue, each verse building with the tension that’s been hanging between you and Harry:

“When the lights go out, she's all I ever think about The picture burning in my brain, kissing in the rain I can't forget, my English love affair Today, I'm seven thousand miles away The movie playing in my head of a king size bed means I can't forget My English love affair My English love affair”

The last chord rings out, and the room is silent for a moment. You lower the guitar, waiting for their reaction, your heart thudding in your chest. Ashton is the first to speak, his voice quiet but steady.

“So, what’s this really about?” he asks, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of concern and something else—something you can’t quite read.

You don’t know how to answer. The song is about him, but it’s not. It’s about the complications, the passion, the messiness of what’s been happening between you two. It’s about more than just sex—it’s about feelings, connection, confusion. But you know the guys won’t get that. They’ll just hear the lyrics, the heat, and they’ll know. They’ll know exactly what you’ve been hiding.

You hesitate for a second, then shrug, trying to play it off. “It’s just a song. You know, inspiration. Whatever comes to mind.”

But Ashton doesn’t seem convinced. His gaze sharpens, and you can feel him trying to decipher what’s going on. The others, though, are still taking it in, the intensity of the lyrics lingering in the air.

“I mean, it sounds like something... more than just a song,” Luke says, his tone casual but with a knowing look in his eyes.

“Yeah, you’re not fooling anyone,” Michael adds with a smirk.

You try to laugh it off, but Ashton’s stare is unwavering. He’s not buying it. He knows something’s up, and though he’s not pressing you for answers, you can feel the weight of his silence.

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, forcing a smile. “Just some fun lyrics.”

But in the back of your mind, you know that everything is far from just “fun” anymore. The song says it all, even if you’re not ready to admit it.

...

It’s late, long after the song reveal. The buzz of everyone’s reactions still lingers in the air, but you’ve distanced yourself from the others, needing a moment alone to process it all. You’re sitting in the corner of your hotel room, the soft hum of the city filtering through the window. The lyrics you poured out have left you raw, the reality of what you’ve been doing with Harry settling heavily in your chest.

Writing the song made you realize something you hadn’t let yourself acknowledge before: you want more. This—whatever this thing is between you and Harry—isn’t enough. It’s thrilling, electric, and addictive, but it’s not real. And you can’t keep letting it consume you if it’s never going to be anything more.

The knock at your door startles you. You already know who it is before you even open it. Harry stands there, leaning casually against the doorframe, his signature smirk in place. But there’s something more in his eyes tonight—a flicker of something softer, almost vulnerable.

“You were brilliant today,” he says, his voice low. “The song... it’s incredible.”

“Thanks,” you reply, your voice quiet but steady. You step aside to let him in, but as you close the door behind him, you already know how this conversation will go.

Harry wastes no time. The moment you’re alone, he steps closer, his hands finding your waist as his lips brush against your neck. “You know,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, “I can’t stop thinking about that song. About you.”

You place your hands on his chest, stopping him gently but firmly. “Harry,” you say, your voice soft but resolute.

He pauses, pulling back slightly to look at you. His brows furrow, and you can see the confusion in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts. “I can’t do this anymore,” you say, your words steady but heavy with meaning.

His hands drop from your waist, and he steps back, his expression shifting to something you can’t quite read. “What do you mean?”

You meet his gaze, determined not to waver. “I mean this. Us. These... hook-ups, the sneaking around. It’s not enough for me, Harry. Writing that song—it made me realize I want more. I can’t keep doing this if it’s never going to be anything real.”

Harry’s jaw tightens, and for a moment, he looks like he might argue. But then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You know how complicated this is,” he says, his voice quieter now. “With the bands, the press... everything.”

“I know,” you reply, your tone softer but still firm. “But that doesn’t change what I want. I can’t keep being this... secret. If you don’t want more, then we need to stop.”

The room feels heavy, the weight of your words hanging between you. Harry looks at you, his green eyes searching yours as if trying to find the right thing to say. But he stays silent, his hesitation speaking louder than any words could.

You feel your chest tighten, but you force yourself to stay strong. “I care about you,” you continue, “but I can’t keep pretending this is enough for me. So unless you’re ready to make this real, we go our separate ways.”

Harry’s gaze drops to the floor, and you can see the conflict written all over his face. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“I mean it, Harry,” you say, your voice breaking slightly. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He looks back up at you, and for a moment, you think he might say something—anything—to fight for you. But instead, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible gesture.

“Alright,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart aches, but you know you’ve made the right choice. You step back, giving him the space to leave, and after a long, silent moment, he does. The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving you alone in the quiet room.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your emotions swirling as you try to process what just happened. It hurts, but deep down, you know you deserve more. You deserve someone who isn’t afraid to love you out loud, someone who will choose you without hesitation.

And if Harry isn’t ready to be that person, then it’s better this way.

...

The greenroom hums with pre-show energy—chatter, guitar tuning, the low buzz of excitement. You sit on the couch, your notebook resting on your lap, though the words you’re scribbling barely register. The tension in your chest is suffocating. Since giving Harry your ultimatum, he hasn’t acted on it, and it’s tearing you apart. Worse, the teasing from both bands has started to escalate as they slowly piece things together.

“So, Y/N,” Louis calls out, his grin mischievous, “who’s the muse behind your little ‘English Love Affair’ masterpiece?”

Your head snaps up, heat crawling up your neck. “It’s just a song,” you reply quickly, forcing a light tone.

“Sure,” Niall drawls, smirking. “Except it sounds like someone’s been dragging you up staircases and kissing you in the rain. Pretty specific, if you ask me.”

Michael leans back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “And the sudden obsession with scarves? You trying to start a trend or cover up some marks?”

Liam chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Definitely the latter,” he murmurs, though there’s a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“I knew something was up,” Luke adds, his teasing smirk widening. “You’re glowing, Y/N.”

“Alright, alright,” Calum cuts in, laughing. “Who’s the mystery guy? Come on, spill.”

The room falls quiet as everyone turns their attention to you. Your heart pounds, panic tightening your throat. Before you can stammer out a response, Ashton’s voice cuts through the noise.

“That’s enough,” he snaps, his tone sharp and unyielding.

All heads swivel to him, the easygoing atmosphere evaporating. He pushes off the wall where he’d been leaning, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His eyes dart between you and Harry, narrowing as the pieces click into place.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Ashton’s voice is low, but the anger simmering beneath it is unmistakable.

Your stomach twists as the room goes deathly silent. Harry, sitting on the armrest of a nearby chair, stiffens but doesn’t look away.

“Ashton—” you start, your voice trembling, but he holds up a hand to stop you.

“Don’t,” Ashton says, his gaze locked on Harry now. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

Harry rises to his feet, his expression calm but guarded. “Ashton, I—”

“You’ve been sneaking around with my sister,” Ashton interrupts, his voice rising. “Sleeping with her behind everyone’s back? Leaving marks all over her? And now you’re stringing her along like she’s some casual hookup?”

Harry’s jaw tightens. “It’s not like that,” he says firmly.

“Oh, really?” Ashton’s laugh is cold and bitter. “Because it sure as hell looks like you’re screwing her over—physically and emotionally—while you figure out whatever it is you want.”

“Ashton, stop!” you plead, stepping forward, but Zayn gently places a hand on your arm, holding you back.

“Let them talk it out,” Zayn says softly, though his dark eyes are watchful.

Harry steps closer to Ashton, his voice tight but steady. “I care about her,” he says. “More than you can imagine.”

“Then why are you hurting her?” Ashton demands, his face red with anger. “You’re leaving her bruised, confused, and heartbroken, Harry. That’s not love—that’s you being a selfish prick.”

“I know I’ve messed up,” Harry snaps back, his composure finally cracking. “I know I’ve handled this all wrong. But I’m not using her. I’d never do that to her.”

Ashton scoffs, his fists clenching at his sides. “You already are. If you cared about her, you’d stop treating her like some dirty little secret and give her the respect she deserves. She’s not just some girl you can screw around with—she’s my sister.”

Harry flinches at that, the weight of Ashton’s words visibly sinking in.

The tension is suffocating, the room silent except for the heavy breaths of the two men squaring off. Finally, Louis breaks the silence with an awkward cough. “Well… this is fun,” he mutters, earning a glare from both Ashton and Harry.

“Ashton,” Liam says gently, stepping forward. “Maybe give them a chance to work this out?”

“There’s nothing to work out,” Ashton retorts, his eyes narrowing. “Harry knows what he needs to do. Either step up or stay the hell away from her.”

“Ashton, I can handle this,” you say, your voice trembling but firm.

Ashton looks at you, his expression softening slightly, though the anger in his eyes doesn’t fade. “I hope so, Y/N,” he says quietly. “Because you deserve better than this.”

He turns and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The echo rings out in the silence, leaving everyone in a tense, uneasy stillness.

Harry turns to you, his face unreadable. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft.

You nod, though your chest feels tight. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer, his gaze dropping to the floor. Because the truth is, neither of you are okay.

...

The steady patter of rain against the hotel window is the only sound in the room as you sit on the edge of the bed, your legs crossed, your fingers lightly tapping the sheets. You’ve been staring at the door, thinking about everything that’s happened—the conversation with Ashton, the way he confronted you, and how much of your own behavior you’ve been running from.

When the knock comes, you know it’s him.

“Come in,” you call out softly, your heart thudding in your chest.

The door creaks open, and Harry steps inside, looking hesitant but determined. His hair’s damp from the rain, his jacket clinging to his shoulders. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just looks at you, eyes searching, waiting for permission.

He steps closer, his voice low when he speaks. “I’m sorry, Y/N. For everything. For the way I’ve been handling this... or not handling it.”

You don’t respond immediately, your mind racing with the weight of everything. You’ve been torn in so many directions lately, guilty for the way you’ve been playing this game with him, unsure if you were using him to fill a void, or if it was something deeper.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like you were nothing more than a distraction,” Harry continues, his voice thick with sincerity. “But I’ve been acting like I don’t care about you, and I do. I care about you more than I’ve let on.”

You take a slow breath, looking up at him. “I’ve been stringing you along too, haven’t I?” you say quietly, the guilt surfacing. “I let things go on like this—casual, no strings, knowing full well that I wanted more, but not giving you a chance to show it. I made it so easy for you to stay at arm’s length, but I don’t want that anymore.”

Harry’s face softens, and he steps closer, kneeling in front of you. His hands hover near yours before finally resting gently over them. “I’m glad you said that,” he admits, his voice thick with emotion. “Because the truth is, I’m scared too. Scared of what this means for us, for the band, for everything. But what I’m not scared of is you. I don’t want it to just be a fling anymore. I want this. I want you. For real. Not just when it’s convenient or when we’re sneaking around.”

Your heart flutters as you take his words in, your fingers curling slightly around his. You’ve heard him say things like this before, but now—this feels different. There’s no more running, no more hiding.

“I want that too,” you say softly, your voice steady, though a hint of uncertainty lingers. “But we both know this isn’t easy. I can’t keep doing this with you unless it’s real, Harry. No more games, no more keeping it quiet. If you’re in this, then I’m in it too. But I can’t keep pretending, not anymore. And if you can’t do that, then we’ll have to go our separate ways.”

Harry swallows, his gaze intense as he watches you. He’s not looking at you with the same playful glint as before. This time, it’s sincere, the weight of his words matching the look in his eyes.

“I’m in it,” he says quietly, nodding. “For real. I want you, Y/N. And I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work, to show you it’s real. I’m not backing down this time.”

You take a deep breath, your chest tightening with relief. There’s something so final about his words, something that makes you feel like you’re stepping into a new chapter.

“Okay,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “No more pretending. We do this, or we don’t. But I’m not looking back.”

He leans into your touch, pressing his lips to your palm gently. “I don’t want to look back either.”

The moment stretches between you, the weight of the words still lingering, but now there’s a sense of peace—a promise that this, whatever this is, will be real.

You lean in, closing the distance, your lips brushing over his in a kiss that’s softer than the ones before, but carries the weight of something much more substantial. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“We’ve got this,” he says quietly, a hint of a smile curving on his lips.

The quiet between you both is comfortable, filled with an unspoken understanding. For once, there’s no rush. No expectations. Just the two of you, finally on the same page. Harry stays close, his hands gently brushing against yours as he leans back against the bed, pulling you with him. You settle into his arms, your body fitting perfectly against his.

The only sounds in the room are the soft rustle of the sheets and the gentle rhythm of your breaths. Harry’s fingers trace small circles along your back, as if memorizing the feel of you in his arms, and you do the same, your hand resting over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“You okay?” he whispers, his voice low, a little hoarse from the emotion of the conversation, though it still holds that warmth you’ve always loved.

You nod, lifting your head slightly to look at him. “Yeah. I’m good. It feels like… everything makes sense now. Like I’m not pretending anymore. Like this is real.”

His lips curl into a soft smile as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m glad,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “I want you to know, Y/N, that this is real for me. All of it.”

The words linger between you both, but this time, they don’t feel heavy. They feel freeing. The quietness of the room feels like a safe cocoon, a place where nothing needs to be rushed, where there are no games, no pressure. Just the quiet rhythm of the two of you, finding comfort in each other’s presence.

You press your lips to his, gently, a soft kiss that’s slow and unhurried. It’s not about passion in this moment. It’s about connection. About feeling the weight of what’s changed between you both. The kiss deepens, but it doesn’t push for more—it’s tender, the kind of kiss that’s meant for taking your time, for savoring what’s just beginning to unfold.

Pulling back, you rest your head on his chest again, your eyes fluttering closed. His arm wraps around you, holding you close, and you feel the warmth of his body seep into yours, grounding you in this moment.

“Goodnight, love,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Goodnight,” you reply softly, your voice barely audible.

His fingers continue their gentle movements against your skin, and the steady beat of his heart becomes the rhythm that lulls you into sleep. The world outside the room feels miles away, and all that matters is the feeling of his arms around you, the peace of knowing that this—what you two have—is real.

You drift off to sleep, wrapped in the comfort of him, the quiet promises of the night hanging in the air. It’s the first time in a long time that you feel truly at peace, knowing that you’ve found something that isn’t fleeting, that isn’t just a momentary thrill. This is real. This is yours.

And as you fall asleep, the last thought in your mind is that you’re not just a fleeting part of Harry’s life anymore—you're something more. And for the first time, you believe it.

...

The next morning, the air feels lighter between you and Harry, a sense of calm settling over you both. The conversation from the night before has laid the foundation for something real, and while there’s still a part of you that’s nervous about what comes next, there’s no more uncertainty between you two. You know where you stand, and you know that this time, it’s different.

You’re sitting with Harry in the common area, trying to act like everything’s normal. You’re not hiding anymore, but the rest of the bands are still operating under the assumption that something’s been happening between you two for a while now. Their teasing comments have become more frequent, but there’s an undertone of curiosity that lingers.

Harry catches your eye across the room, his expression soft. He stands up, extending his hand toward you, and you know what’s coming. You take a breath, pushing aside any remaining nerves as you reach for his hand.

“Oi!” Louis calls out, noticing the two of you getting up. “Where are you two off to?”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you closer, his arm resting around your shoulders as he walks you toward the others. The whole room falls silent as you approach, the energy shifting instantly.

Ashton’s eyes narrow on you both, but there’s a look of relief in them now, even if he’s still on edge. Niall raises an eyebrow, still unsure of what’s going on. Luke and Michael are watching carefully, their expressions unreadable but attentive. Calum glances between you and Harry, a quiet smirk tugging at his lips as he folds his arms. You glance at the floor, feeling the weight of their eyes on you as Harry gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“We’ve got something to say,” Harry begins, his voice steady but there’s a slight tension in his jaw, as if he’s bracing for their reactions.

You take a deep breath, your nerves a little more palpable now that you’re in front of everyone. This feels like a big moment—like things are finally being put out in the open. You’ve kept this secret for too long, and now, there’s no turning back.

“We’re together,” you say softly, your voice clear but quiet. “For real this time. Not just... whatever it was before.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then the reactions come fast.

“Oh, thank god,” Niall says, a grin spreading across his face. “You two have been dancing around this for ages. About time you made it official.”

“I knew it,” Louis adds with a smirk. “You two were always making eyes at each other. It was only a matter of time.”

Harry laughs, his hand tightening around yours. “Yeah, well... we had to figure things out first. But now we’re here.”

Ashton crosses his arms, his expression a little more guarded. He’s trying not to smile, but you can tell there’s still a hint of protectiveness in his eyes. He looks at Harry, then at you. “I just want you to know, Harry,” he says, his voice low, “if you hurt her again, I won’t hesitate. You’ve got one chance to make it right.”

Harry nods immediately, without hesitation. “I know, man. I won’t hurt her. I care about her too much for that.”

The tension eases a bit, but Zayn and Liam exchange looks, their expressions still weighing the situation. Zayn’s lips curl into a small smile, but he remains quiet. Liam gives you a warm look, the faintest glimmer of approval in his eyes. It’s clear he’s not against this—it’s just new territory for everyone, and a lot has changed in the time since the last time they saw you and Harry together.

“So, we’re all good then?” Niall asks, a grin still on his face.

You nod, squeezing Harry’s hand tighter, your voice steady now. “Yeah. We’re good. We’re not hiding anymore.”

It feels like a weight has been lifted from your chest, like everything is finally falling into place. It’s not perfect—it’s never going to be—but it’s real. And for the first time in a long time, you’re not running from it.

Ashton looks at Harry one last time, then nods, a little less tense than before. “Alright. I trust you.”

Harry’s face softens, a grateful look crossing his features. “Thanks, Ash.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts, and suddenly, it feels like things are less complicated. Everyone’s starting to come to terms with it, the unspoken questions beginning to fade away. For the first time, there’s no judgment, no tension. It’s just you and Harry, and the rest of the band, finally adjusting to the new normal.

Luke looks at the two of you, a knowing smirk on his face. “Alright, alright. So when’s the wedding?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Not that fast, mate.”

Michael laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, but at least it’s not a secret anymore.”

Calum chuckles, nudging Luke. “Maybe they’ll invite us to the wedding. They’ve been keeping us on the edge of our seats for far too long.”

The banter continues, but there’s a sense of ease in the air now. No more secrets, no more uncertainty. And as Harry pulls you close again, his hand resting on your shoulder, you feel like this is just the beginning. This time, it’s real. And you’re ready for whatever comes next.

[1425fivefive]

On the kinky Tumblr fic wish list, I'd love you forever if you'll write anything with nortrell, specifically 16 or 27 (possibly paired with some 29, if you're open to combinations)

cockwarming (27) for nortrell, set right after 2021 sochi gp while max and lando are living together (from the kink prompt asks)

Lando’s moping around the flat, buried in an oversized sweatshirt, hood pulled up. He barely pays attention when Max speaks to him, just looks at Max with a flat expression and goes back to his phone, probably scrolling through comments about his drive, about how he’d fucked it by not switching to inters at the right time. How it shows he doesn’t have the mentality to fight with the big dogs.

Max sympathizes, he really does. But it’s also fucking infuriating watching Lando beat himself up over it, watching Lando lie on the sofa all day, forget to eat until Max tells him to, only shower if Max shuts him in the bathroom.

When Max walks into the living room on the third day to find Lando curled up on the couch, biting his cuticle and scrolling through Reddit threads about himself, Max can’t take it any longer.

Max walks over and snatches Lando’s phone out of his hands.

“Max,” Lando whines, glaring up at him. “Why’d you do that?”

Max just rolls his eyes and tosses the phone onto an armchair, out of Lando’s reach unless Lando gets off the sofa.

“You need to get out of your head,” Max says. “You’re making it worse.”

“M’not,” Lando grumbles, curling in on himself.

Max doesn’t dignify that with a response. He just takes a seat next to Lando on the sofa, spreading his thighs wide.

Lando’s breath hitches, eyes going wide. But he doesn’t move, stays burrowed up in the cushions, chin tucked into his hoodie.

“Come on,” Max says, nodding to the floor between his legs. “You know what to do.”

Lando lets out a little whimper but he shakes his head. “Don’t need it.”

Max wants to shake him. But he manages to keep his voice gentle as he says, “You do, Bob.”

Lando’s face flushes and he squirms a bit, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. Max’s mouth goes dry as he realizes Lando’s probably already hard, already leaking into the tiny little shorts he insists on wearing around the house.

“Come on,” Max repeats, soft but firm.

Lando whimpers again, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. Max thinks Lando will keep fighting him and Max tries to work out what to do next, how to convince Lando that he needs this. But in the end Lando pushes himself up, sliding off the couch and landing in a little heap on the floor.

“Good,” Max murmurs, voice slightly strained, dick firming up in his sweatpants.

Lando doesn’t say anything, just shuffles in between Max’s thighs, staring at Max’s crotch. Max can already see Lando’s brain slowing down, eyes going hazy and blank.

Max always tells himself he does this for Lando, that if Lando didn’t need it Max would stop in a heartbeat. 

But it’d be a lie to say Max has never gotten off to the thought of Lando on his knees, Max’s cock buried in his mouth, his arse. There’s one memory in particular that Max returns to nearly every time he gets himself off. Max had been playing Tarkov in his room and Lando had come in wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie, crawling into Max’s lap without saying a word. Lando had already opened himself up and Max had just tugged his sweatpants down past his dick, tried to bite back a moan at the feeling of Lando working himself on Max’s cock, letting out breathy little pants against Max’s neck. They’d stayed like that for over an hour, Max playing Tarkov while desperately trying to ignore how outrageously tight Lando felt around his cock, the tiny, helpless sounds Lando kept making against his neck.

It’s still the only time they’ve gotten off together, Lando grinding on Max’s dick, rubbing his cock on Max’s t-shirt, spilling all over it with a devastating little whimper. Max had fucked up once, twice and come with a moan, dropping the controller to grip Lando’s arse, hold him down as Max filled him up. They hadn’t used a condom and Max felt like he was floating outside of his body as Lando stood up on shaky legs, a trickle of Max’s come running down the smooth skin of his inner thigh. Max had sort of wanted to lick it off him, but Lando had taken off before he could, leaving Max with nothing but a soiled t-shirt.

Lando whimpers at Max’s feet, pulling Max back to the present, to the sight of Lando blinking up at him with wide, wet eyes.

Max nods down at his sweatpants. “Can you get them off or do you need me to help you?”

“Help me,” Lando whispers.

“God, you’re useless,” Max says, but he can hear the fondness in his voice as he shoves his sweatpants and boxers down freeing his cock.

Lando’s mouth drops open and Max slides a hand into Lando’s hair, dragging Lando forward. Lando lets himself be dragged, easy as anything.

“Come on,” Max murmurs, choking back a whine as Lando wraps his lips around Max’s cock. “There you go.”

Lando sinks down with a moan, jaw relaxing, eyes sliding half-shut.

Lando’s mouth is absurdly good, soft and warm and wet, and Max has to breathe through his nose to keep from coming immediately. Has to remind himself that’s not what this is about.

Max ends up putting footy on the telly, barely paying attention as Lando drools around his cock, letting out small, pleased noises. Max wonders if Lando knows he’s doing it. Reckons he probably doesn’t or he’d stop.

By halftime, Lando’s shifting a bit on the floor and he lets out a whimper that sounds more pained than pleased.

“Alright?” Max asks.

Lando garbles something around his cock, something that sounds vaguely like knees.

“Sorry,” Max says, chest aching at the thought of Lando being uncomfortable. He tips forward, dropping a pillow next to Lando, poking it into place with his foot.

Lando makes a relieved noise, face going slack, drool slipping from the corners of his mouth onto Max’s cock.

“Jesus,” Max murmurs, carding his hands through Lando’s hair. “You really needed it, didn’t you?”

Lando doesn’t say anything, but he lets out a long, high whine, looking up at Max with desperate eyes.

“That’s right,” Max breathes. “You need me.”

Lando makes a low, gut-punched noise and takes Max a little bit deeper.

[xxnashiraxx]

Pairing: Astarion/f!Durge ◇ Astarion/f!OC (Ofelia)

Word Count: 6,119

Tags/Warnings: Mature (slight spice), Soft Astarion, Fluff

Summary: It's December in Baldur’s Gate and the snow is falling on Act 3 of Ofelia's adventure. After falling ill to a cold that prevents her from spreading the joy of Christmas to her companions, they decide to band together and prepare it in secret as a surprise for her. As they look for decorations, gifts, and a tree, Astarion reflects on his time with her and contemplates whether or not his gift will convey the depth of his true feelings...

divider here!

AO3 | Song Reference: Let it Snow!

Hi everyone!!! My apologies for this trainwreck, I tried my best on little time, but I really wanted to write something sweet for these two, and I owe inspiration for this oneshot to @caffeinatedmunchkin ! Thank you again friend!!! I also tried as far as the elvish, so please bear with me 🙏🏼

Please enjoy- fluff was needed for the season, and I hope everyone has a lovely day if you celebrate!!! ❤️ You do not need to read the main fic to read this one- it's its own little standalone! 💕

“So, you expect us to believe that some jolly old man goes around to every child in your world and delivers gifts on this ‘Christmas Eve’?” Gale's tone, while incredulous, remains cheerful. “That does not seem feasible, given your planet's population.”

“Well, not every child celebrates Christmas, so not all seven billion. But yeah pretty much,” Ofelia’s eyes light with amusement as Gale begins another spiel into logic and probability, causing Astarion to roll his eyes and grumble into the chalice of blood Ofelia had filled for him not but a few minutes ago.

“It's just make-believe!” Ofelia spouts around giggles, her smile bright. “Not real! Something you tell kids so they behave, but the holiday is still the same- parents get their children gifts, blame it on Santa, make cookies and leave milk out for him for his journey, hang stockings on the mantle to see if they get coal if they’re bad or sweets and little toys if they’re good. It's all for fun- I myself most enjoy the snow and decorations.” She sounds wistful as their ragtag group listens. He watches her face twist slightly as if recalling a bad memory, and he pays attention to the warble in her voice when she next speaks.

“I haven't had a real Christmas since I was still young enough to believe… my parents did everything for me, those first nine years. It was always so magical… pazole, tamales, candy, gifts- I wished they wouldn't have, but they'd do everything, take extra shifts just so there was something under the tree for me… I miss them this time of year. Just a little bit extra.” No longer afraid of the warmth that blooms in his chest, he reaches for her and when his hand rests over her shoulder she turns to him and quickly wipes the moisture from the corner of her eye. Her cheeks crease with an appreciative smile and she squeezes his hand in thanks as the others look around.

“Would you want to celebrate it here?” Karlach asks, setting her cleaned plate off to the side on one of the many little tables littered around their common space in the Elfsong.

“You guys want to?” Ofelia asks with a soft huff, hefty emotion washing from her voice amid the sweet hope that spreads over her face.

“We may not have Santa, but why not? The spirit of gift giving and love isn’t foreign here,” Gale smiles, patting Ofelia’s opposite shoulder.

“Okay… yeah! We’ll have to find a tree, and ornaments, and gift wrapping of some kind- paper will do! Stockings to hang over the fire for each of us… day after tomorrow!” Her eyes brighten at each syllable, and for all the teasing he’d love to utter, he can’t find it in himself to poke when this is the happiest she’s looked since they’d arrived in Baldur’s Gate.

And gods, if it isn’t the happiest he’s been, as well. Since Cazador fell. They still have the brain and two of the Dead Three's chosen left, but curse it all to the hells. Right now perhaps they can indulge in some respite from it all. The calm before the storm.

They move through the rest of the day restocking their supplies, tracking down various needs, and chasing some loose ends. They discover more of Orin’s handiwork littered throughout the city, much to Ofelia’s chagrin, but decide to turn in early in the hopes of getting started on their decorating. Unfortunately, fate has other plans.

“I’m afraid healing magic really only works on injuries and the like- I’m sorry, Ofelia. I know how much this meant to you… perhaps we can have it later in the week?” Shadowheart strokes the human’s face softly, her pale hand meeting russet, clammy skin. Ofelia nods, eyes shifting to a corner of the room as the half-elf leaves and shoots Astarion a pitying frown. When the door shuts, he sinks down beside her and strokes the hair off her cheeks and forehead, fever hot against his cold undead hands.

“This sucks…” She mutters, cheeks ruddy with heat as her body fights against an infection they have no hope of combatting with anything but time and herbs. Already, Jaheira had mixed what little items she had into a concoction Ofelia had knocked back minutes ago, and though a bit of color has returned to her lips, she’s not exactly the picture of good health.

“I’m sorry, darling,” He murmurs, resting the back of his hand against her cheek. He knows she likes it when he does, and she typically runs hot, but this is something else entirely and it pulls at his unbeating heart.

“No, it’s okay… it’s been so long since I’ve tried to decorate, but I did try last year- look.” She strains to her right to grab the object that always manages to mystify him and she starts to scroll through the little frozen pictures on her device before holding some up to him. “I got this really stupid fake tiny tree and I put all those little things on it, got some tinsel and hung it up around the doors and windows.” He peers down at the small room she’d once called home- bright metallic garlands trimming the entryways with twinkling lights adorning the small tree that sits on a table in the center of it. His lips tick up at the corners as he sees her in the next photo, bright red painted lips and golden eyelids, some terribly gaudy red and green jumper covering her chest.

“Beautiful, and loud. As always,” She rolls her eyes at his attempt to poke fun, leaning down more fully onto his right elbow as she tucks herself closer to him.

“I wanted to get a big one this time… really show you guys what it looks like, though I’m not sure what the hell I’d do about the bulbs, or lights, or star on top…” She smiles up at him and he feels his chest twinge with guilt. Of course she’d gone and gotten herself sick somehow…

“There’s… always next year,” He says around the strange doubt in his mind. It’s nothing but disbelief- disbelief that she’s with him at all. That she keeps telling him she loves him. That she keeps promising they’ll defeat the brain and get rid of Orin and Gortash and be able to breathe once it’s all over… together. Sometimes the incredulity of it all still catches him off guard.

“You’re such a big softie, really,” He huffs a laugh, reaching down to pinch one of her cheeks before pressing a terse kiss to the crown of her head.

“And the mistletoe, gods, can’t forget the mistletoe!” She groans, pressing a hand over her eyes as she collapses into the pillows.

“Mistletoe?” He questions. She sighs, spreading her fingers enough so that one eye peeps up at him.

“It’s silly, but you hang it up over a doorway- it’s got these spiky green leaves and cute red berries on it- and if you pass under it with someone else you have to kiss. It’s just the rules,” He smiles, lost amid her explanation though enamored by the wonder in her voice as she speaks. “I've never been kissed under the mistletoe, you know…”

“Hmm, you haven't? Seems we'll have to change that in the future.” She giggles under the kiss he presses to her forehead, careful and full of promise. When he stands he strokes her cheek once more before adjusting the blankets.

“Get some rest, I’ll bring back some soup in a little while.” He whispers, taking her device from her to set back onto the nightstand. She pouts up at him, curiosity in her gaze, and he finishes tucking her in. “I’ll be back, promise,”

Once out in the main room, he finds the rest of his travelling companions speaking in hushed voices around the fireplace, Scratch pacing near Astarion’s feet. The dog quickly ducks in before Astarion gets the door shut, and he smirks knowing Ofelia will at least have some company before he returns to bed. Nearly every morning that mutt’s laying between them or with half his body draped over her legs. She doesn’t seem to mind, and he’s starting to grow accustomed to the beast as well, much to his disdain…

“Vampire- what are we doing about this Christmas?” Lae’zel demands as soon as he’s within a few feet of them. He simpers and sits on a lush ottoman, draping one leg over the other as he accepts a glass of wine from Gale.

“Gods, Lae’zel. We’ve only been travelling together for the last few months, I’d expect you’d have remembered my name by now.” His sly remark is met with the githyanki’s signature Tchk! before Shadowheart grins.

“Now, now, try to get along you two. Your mediator isn’t here,” The half-elf snickers, and Astarion sighs, waving a hand towards the others.

“So, what were you all murmuring about before I came out here? I’m assuming it has something to do with dear Lae’zel’s questioning?” He takes a sip of the wine- an expensive sort that flows easily down his throat- and casts his eyes amongst the others as he watches them exchange nods.

“We want to put it on anyway,” Gale explains, the dark liquor in his glass catching the light of the fire. “She spoke so fondly of it this morning, and to get sick now… it isn’t fair.” Astarion hums, pondering the silence that settles over them once Gale is finished.

He’d been of a similar mind as she’d shown him her pictures- it’d be no easy task to find a tree, especially with them being in the heart of the Gate. Then there was the tinsel he’d seen… they’d perhaps be able to find something like that in the city, the baubles…

“My, my, it’s odd being amongst you all once you actually experience an intelligent thought.” Their murmurs of disbelief and annoyance fuel the smirk that spreads over his lips as he waves a hand “I’ve been snooping through her photos and I’ve got some references we can likely use, though wrestling her away from the damn thing will be a feat in and of itself.” Astarion grumbles around another swig.

“Leave that to me,” Shadowheart assures, clapping her hands together once. “I’ll run her a bath in the morning and make sure she stays in it for a few hours. To ‘leech the toxins’ so to speak. It isn’t as if she’s well versed to our healing methods to know I’m making it up,” Astarion nods, pondering, as the others chime in.

“The tree… we won’t be able to sneak that into the city,” Wyll laments, forefinger stroking over the fine hairs on his face.

“If you were able to secure a sapling, I’m sure I’d be able to encourage it to grow quickly enough.” Halsin adds, earning a nod from the Blade.

“I’ll help with that as well,” Jaheira offers, smile on her softly lined face.

“What about the decorations?” Minthara asks, frowning.

“We’ll figure something out- I’m sure there are plenty of merchants with trinkets and baubles around- Sundries may also have something. We should ask Rolan and his siblings, as well. I seem to remember that Lia had some dolls and things made for the children once they got to the city.” Astarion nods at Gale’s words, contemplating.

“And do not forget gifts for her,” Astarion murmurs crossly, eyes flashing around the room. “At least have the common sense to wrap them first,”

“Course not,” Karlach grins a wide, toothy smile, the likes of which sets his teeth on edge. He'll never let on that it does somewhat please him, however. “We'll get gifts for Ofelia and each other!”

They scatter to their personal rooms or beds, plan worked out in the dim candlelight and hearth as if they’re a secret society. He crawls into bed with his lover, her’s and Scratch’s soft snores filling the room much to his amusement. He checks her temperature, sigh soft on his lips as he rests back against the pillows when he finds it unchanged.

As he lays in bed, his mind spins with the possibilities of all the gifts he could possibly get her- if it were up to him, he’d likely not get one at all. Perhaps steal something.

Images of her adorned with pretty scarlet jewels and glistening pearls flood his vision, though something about jewelry feels almost cold and distant- too obvious a choice. Or possibly even too meaningful, something he isn’t ready for…

No… despite her expect-nothing nature, he’d like to at least try to make this sentimental and meaningful. It could be their last celebration, after all, and gods does he care for her too much not to indulge this simple, saccharine wish. He’ll need to put in the effort- just as she puts in the effort to make him feel cared for each day. He wouldn’t be where he is now without her… without her kindness. It’s a blessing he tries not to take for granted, though he does slip up from time to time. He cannot make that mistake now.

He rises from the bed, trancing left for later, as he pulls some items out of his pack and retrieves a tool kit from the main stock supplies. He’s not sure if he’ll be any good at this, but he doesn’t trust someone else to do the job.

***

“I feel better this morning, I swear…” Ofelia grumbles as Astarion kisses her awake. For the umpteenth time, she thanks the gods that he can’t catch her cold. It’s nice to indulge in a tender kiss first thing, though she’s sure she looks positively awful. Pale skin, scarlet cheeks, sweaty and clammy. She huffs a laugh and pushes him away, making to sit up and use the restroom, but her vision tilts and she stays seated, clutching her head.

“You feel better, hmm?” He trills softly, last syllable enunciated with a haughty laugh. Smug bastard.

“I swear, if I didn’t know better I’d say you’re actually enjoying this.” He stands above her, back of his hand pressing against her forehead, and she lets out a soft moan at the relief. The heat behind her eyelids slowly recedes beneath his touch, and she clutches his hand to hold it still as he hums quietly.

“Well, you do push yourself far too much, darling. Though your pain is something I do not take pleasure in, under these circumstances at least,” She rolls her eyes at the smirk over his lips, longing curling low in her belly in spite of the state of her body.

“Yeah well, you and me both.” She sighs, kissing the back of his hand, and he stoops down to place one of his over her forehead.

“I have some errands to run with Gale of all people- Shadowheart volunteered to stay with you, said she would like to try some kind of healing bath? Silly in my opinion, but who am I to question a cleric’s healing skills?” She groans, lying back on the mattress to stare at the ceiling. She’d really wanted to see if she could convince them to let her go out and find decorations, at least put them up… but it’s not looking probable. That and she’d lied about feeling better to worm her way out of staying in today.

“Ughhhhh,” Her long drawn out groan pulls a light chuckle from the elf and she reaches up to pull him down, knee between her thighs on the spare bit of mattress available, hands at either side of her head. She wraps her arms around his torso and clings to him, trying to absorb as much of him as possible before he leaves for the day.

“I’ll be back later, just relax and enjoy your bath. Maybe there'll be a reward in it for you,” She sighs into his neck, pressing a hot kiss to his skin fueled by the promise of his words, and she smiles when his muscles stiffen. “Patience, dear,” He murmurs as he pulls away and she squeezes him one last time before letting go. There’s a knock at their door and Shadowheart appears, arms laden with towels and supplies. Ofelia smiles forlornly at her, her own far too empty in Astarion’s absence.

She doesn’t notice as she’s ushered into the washroom Astarion’s quick swipe of her phone off the nightstand, or his soft smile in her direction. She doesn’t see that smile widen into a pleased grin as his fingers snake around the gift in his pocket, clutching it with a light squeeze.

***

“Do you think she’ll like it in the morning?” Gale asks Astarion softly, the fruits of their labor casting the main room in a festive glow. Somehow, he’d been able to obtain a lighting spell scroll- something Rolan had insisted upon them not paying for once he’d heard it was for Ofelia’s benefit. Astarion had rolled his eyes- that tiefling wizard ever hopelessly infatuated despite Ofelia’s vehement denial- and they’d stopped for some books as Gale’s gift to her before Astarion had found something for the man as well. His eyes also caught on a crystal carved into the shape of a crescent moon for Shadowheart, and upon realizing his gaze was tracking items for his companions, promptly huffed in annoyance. He’d grabbed the item anyway.

“I think a twig in the corner with lights on it would send her into a fit, but this is much better.” Astarion sighs, thanking the help from the Midwinter celebrations going on around the city for the garlands of pine and the berries that now hang in the frame of every doorway. It’s not as gaudy or brightly colored as the decorations in her apartment from the photos he’d shown them all this morning, but it’ll do. Even he’s feeling a bit of wonder gazing at the lovely spruce the two druids in their group had spent nurturing, as well as cladding in brightly colored glass sphere’s Karlach procured from a friend she’d known before she’d been cast into Avernus.

Presents wrapped in paper of varying colors sit beneath the full branches, a blanket protecting them from the cold floor as Scratch paws restlessly at a long, stick shaped present wrapped in blue paper with his name penned gracefully across its front. Astarion smirks- she’ll get a kick out of that one.

“Great job, Fangs. I almost forget you don’t have a functioning heart sometimes.” Karlach’s teary voice scrapes against his nerves and he sneers, shrugging his shoulders.

“Don’t go spreading that around,” They poke fun at him some more, and thankfully he’s saved by Minthara’s short temper as she demands they all get to bed. It’s almost midnight and she’s not missing a stop from the old geezer- much to his amusement. He just barely manages to duck into his room before they dissolve into a debate about whether or not she’d paid attention to Ofelia’s story, shutting it with a soft click as he stalks over to the bed, shedding clothes on the way.

He hears even breathing- her airways finally starting to clear- and just as he slips beneath the sheets he nearly yelps.

“Hiding from me all day- what, I’m sick and you’re out there looking for a replacement after I wither away?” Her tone is playful and he smirks, admiring the color returning to her cheeks and the brightness of her eyes beneath the light of the full moon. Beneath him.

“Hmm, yes, I was shopping for a new lover today. Pity they all didn’t seem to match your prowess at being irritating. And none of them had these- seems I’m doomed to solitude.” His hands cup her breasts, separated from him by the thin layer of her cotton shirt, and she rolls her eyes and pouts.

“All you’d miss are my tits and my attitude. Rude,” A smile at the corner of her lips betrays her and he grins, fangy and wide, before claiming that smile with a kiss. “Missed you…” She hums, arms winding around his waist, and he matches the sound with sincerity, finding that his day while busy was severely lacking her presence. A travesty, indeed.

“Your fever’s gone,” He mumbles, enjoying the taste of her mouth and the way her hips slightly buck into his own, the hands still firmly anchored to her chest kneading softly. She sighs, baring her throat, and it’s all he can do to not sink his teeth in. Just a bit more recovery, and he’ll indulge in her blood again. He’s holding over with animals in the meantime.

“Mmm, whatever was in that bath made me feel a lot better. And whatever the hell concoction Jaheira made me drink earlier, too- tasted awful but I think it helped.” Her eyes find him and he brushes the hair from her face, slowly sinking onto his side and off of her.

“Good, perhaps we can get back on schedule tomorrow since you’ll be done lazing about.” She scowls and smacks his arm away before yanking the sheets up beneath her chin.

“And I was going to offer you my mouth- jerk.”

“I’ll still take it.”

“Haha. Goodnight.” He smirks and presses a kiss to her lips before lying back, eyes tracking over the beams on the ceiling as she snuggles up close and rests her head over his bicep.

“Goodnight, love.” He whispers, heart tethered to the small gift he intends to give her tomorrow, hope brimming at the fringes of his mind as he pictures her opening it.

***

“Astarion! It’s snowing look, look, wake up!” He does with a start as her hands shake his shoulders, startled out of the trance and back into the real world. For once, his reverie was clouded in visions of her and not nightmarish memories, and as he opens his eyes he yawns.

“It’s been snowing the last couple of days,” He murmurs, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he rises and lets her drag him to the window.

“Yeah, but this one’s stuck,” Her grin is nearly contagious and he fights back the compulsion to instead press his cold nose to the back of her neck as he pulls her into his arms, hands resting over her belly.

“It’s cold, white, a pain to deal with… I’m not sure what you’re so excited about.” He mouths lazily at her pulse point, delighted as her heart beat speeds up, and she laughs.

“You realize you’ve just described yourself, right?” His lips idle over her skin and with an annoyed sigh he bites enough to leave the impression of his teeth but not pierce, earning a satisfying gasp of surprise from her.

“Get dressed, I think you can leave quarantine for breakfast, today,” He knows the plan- pretends that the routine is back to normal. She slips from his arms and goes to her pile of clothing- gods, is she messy- and pulls out some comfortable pants and flashes him a look.

“Get out, I’m going to change.” She demands and he scoffs.

“I’ve seen you naked more times than I can remember, why can’t I stay?” He plays the part of mock dissatisfaction, though he’s silently pleased. It’ll give him an opportunity to check and make sure the dullards outside are ready.

“Just- out!” He huffs, pulling on a pair of pants before making for the door. His tadpole seeks Gale’s, and upon confirming that they’re aware it’s just Astarion exiting the room, he slips out and closes the door behind him.

“She almost ready?” Wyll whispers, tweaking some of the garlands over the mantle as Lae’zel places little rocks in each sock. She’d been far too amused at the prospect of coal for naughty behavior, and had been adamant that none of them deserved candy and would all get a piece each to keep them in perspective. He has to admit, it is a little amusing.

“Getting dressed- should be any moment-” Just as the word leaves his mouth, the door behind him opens and he steps to the side with his heart in his throat.

She’s completely silent, hair brushed into soft waves laying down her back, proper attire donning her body save for the slippers on her feet, and they all hold their breath as her gaze sweeps over the room.

“Hu-huh…?” She mumbles, breath catching, and he watches intently as moisture begins to bead in the corners of her eyes. They all exchange glances, frozen in anticipation, before her hands cover her mouth and she starts to sob. “You guys? Are you serious?”

“Merry Christmas!” Most of them chant- Astarion forgets, Minthara’s nose is buried in a fragrant chardonnay but she tilts the glass in acknowledgement- and they all rush her before he has a chance to dodge them. He’s swept up in Karlach’s large wingspan as she tucks them together and squeezes until white blotches dot his vision, yet the delight from Ofelia keeps him from complaining too loudly about it. Mostly.

She turns to him between embraces, eyes round and soft, and his chest goes tight as he offers her a smile reserved for no other but her. It’s sweet when she returns it- steals the breath he doesn’t need from his lungs, and when she goes to pull him in she clings to him and whispers little reverent ‘I love you’s into his ear as if he’d hung the moon itself. Pride and affection blooms within, and he presses kisses to the side of her head where the others can’t see, though he wouldn’t mind if they did. He’s long past the notion of hiding his feelings for her. From himself or otherwise.

They push her into the best seat- one the others usually fight over- and Karlach excitedly pulls gifts from the pile to start passing around. Astarion’s gift to her is tucked behind the tree and hidden- saving the best for last. Hopefully. No, he’s confident.

Ofelia laughs at the coal in the sock, munches on fudge from the bakery near the entrance to the upper city, enjoys the books Gale’s gifted her and the plush dog that Lia had sewn and stuffed. She remarks about the lights, face brighter than he’s ever seen it, and forces Minthara into a tight hug and kiss on her plum cheeks as Ofelia clutches the necklace adorned with a single ruby charm and spider etched into its stone. The drow protests and growls in annoyance, but it’s all really just for show. Once turned away, she smiles into her cup and quickly clears her throat afterward.

They all offer her small trinkets or treats, and he’s content to just sit and watch, but he’s swept up by the spirit of it all as he opens small packages with his name on it. A silver pocket watch from Shadowheart, a silken kerchief from Wyll, a new scabbard for his dagger in dark leather from Lae’zel. He’d not expected anything, even vehemently enunciated that this is for her, not him, but despite his claims it seems no one listened to him. What else is new?

“That’s it!” Karlach proclaims from beside the tree, tossing candy and pastries in her mouth by the fistful as the others sip on warm beverages or partake in alcohol around the heat of the fire. His eyes go to the frosted window, the entire city covered in a blanket of white. He decides, for the first time, that it looks much better this way.

“You didn’t get anything for Ofelia?” Gale asks, and Astarion’s hackles raise as he feels the ire rise and claim the atmosphere.

“I saved the best for last,” He stands with a flourish, calming the mood before his head ends up on a pike. “Besides, who went to all this trouble?”

“Don’t take all the credit!” Shadowheart snaps and he smiles as he turns his back to them, going behind the tree to pluck his gift from beneath an alcove in the wall. His eyes linger over shiny red paper- this, at least, he'd stolen. For a moment, he hesitates. His fingers wrap around it, her name glaring back, and he wonders if this will be good enough. He'd seen everyone's carefully thought out gifts, hells, had even managed to hit the nail on its head a few times for the others. But Ofelia? She's the one he needs to get right. Above all else, he can't fail.

He steels himself and turns, each step towards her smiling face making him question the object in his outstretched hand, and when she takes it he stands stiff and still- making no move to breathe or blink or talk. She gingerly unwraps it at the seams, her pulse racing in his ears as she continues to pry back the paper, and he watches her stop as a soft breath vacates her lungs.

“Star…” It feels as if a century passes before his eyes when she finally speaks, pulling the dagger from the paper to hold up and admire. The metal flashes, light glancing off the engraving near the hilt- one she speaks in hushed tones as if in prayer.

“Nin anor,” Her lips shape around the elegant script as if she's painting it in the air, and once it's hanging around them he knows it's right. Knows it's right in the way she looks at him, in the way the sun, through a break in the clouds, casts a golden glow around her. It breaks on her skin and sinks in, frames her like it did that day in the sand, that day he'd first tasted freedom. The first day he'd met her and had heard her heart quicken beneath the sharp edge of his blade- the blade she now cradles in her hands.

Purpose, like a compulsion, stole his mind the moment chisel met steel. Illuminated by candles, he'd carved in elvish the words he's said to her over and over, again and again. Against her lips as he makes love to her, into the crown of her head as he pulls her into an embrace. Softly, against her forearm as she returned to herself enough to let go of his neck and fight the urge…

“My sun…” He breathes back, and she's out of the chair faster than he can blink. With a laugh that's no more than a huff, he wraps his arms around her and squeezes back, smiles as she laughs and sniffles and sighs.

“I love you,” It's quiet against his ear, and a barely perceptible shiver trembles through his limbs in reply. He'd been worried for nothing, and that's cemented further when she pulls back and the grin on her face renders him speechless.

“A knife? You got her a knife?” Karlach asks, bewildered, and the tension in his limbs falls away when Ofelia looks at him and laughs. This time, he doesn't fight the impulse to join her and it's freeing and juvenile, but worth the joy it brings.

***

“It's the one he threatened me with when we first met,” Ofelia smiles as she finishes off her plate of roast meats, fresh greens and potatoes. She pushes it towards the center of the table, leaning back in the chair as she admires the way the fire looks as it dances in his crimson eyes. He's beautiful, and her heart slams into her ribs like it's trying to break free- that look he gives her never failing to stir an ache in her chest that feels like it consumes just as much as it grows.

“Hmmm… and how is that romantic?” Gale asks around the cookie in his mouth. Ofelia chuckles at his muffled words, about to speak when Minthara beats her to it.

“Is it not provocative to feel the sting of your lover's blade against your skin? The dance between pleasure and pain, the testament of your trust in them not to supply too much pressure lest they end your life?” Gale swallows thickly, stiffening when the drow places her hand on his arm. “If you do not understand, I will show you tonight, wizard.”

Their group laughs, partaking in drinks that almost remind Ofelia of home. Something that tastes like hot chocolate fills her belly as Astarion holds her close, swaying softly to the music that pours from Ofelia's speaker- an old favorite.

“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow,” She murmurs against his shoulder, echoing the melody as he squeezes her hips.

“You liked your gift?” His voice is quiet- almost shy. Her arms circle him tighter, letting him guide her through the room as their companions slowly start to filter off to bed. The entire day had been like a dream- a perfect, beautiful reprieve from pain or worry. Something rare and sweet- sorely missed in the years since and filling the empty hole in her heart with so much that it almost hurts to contain. Family. Love.

“I'll cherish it forever, Star,” She smiles, pulling away to stroke her fingers over his cheek. It's cool beneath them, and his smile is relaxed as it spreads over his face. She bumps the door frame to their room with a soft laugh and his gaze lifts up above her head, causing her to redirect hers and stop almost disbelievingly over green leaves and white berries.

“There weren't any red,” He hums softly, but her throat is dry and her ears are filled with cotton when she looks back at him. Moonlight turns his hair to silver and his skin to marble, and as she looks at him and watches him lean closer, she's not sure if she'll ever deserve the affection he now presses to her lips.

Hands tangle in her long hair, chest to chest, the taste of wine on his tongue- her stomach clenches in fear of the future, of losing it all, of making a mistake or failing to free them from the brain. All of it looms like a dark cloud, trying to swallow her whole, but then he's pushing them into the room, shutting their door and latching it. He's driving her back, legs folding until she's forced to collapse onto the mattress, heat pooling in her belly low and needy when he goes to push her sweater up over her head.

“I feel bad I didn't get anyone else a gift,” She whispers and he snorts, discarding his shirt onto the floor as he starts to untie the shirt barring him from further access.

“Anyone else? What did you get me?” She laughs when he stops, frozen at the sight beneath her clothes.

“I got these a few days ago… was going to at least do this since I couldn't get presents or decorate.” His irises narrow into thin lines between the enlarging of his pupils, gaze dragging down her form as he tugs her pants down and off. Ribbons and lace, scarlet and black, cradle her breasts and expose the underside of them while big red bows conceal her nipples. Her underwear leaves nothing to the imagination, either, and his lips part around a raw hum of appreciation when he discovers with his eyes the way the fabric conveniently vanishes beneath the waistband.

“Gods…” It's brittle and needy and she smiles wickedly when his clothes fall to the floor.

“Unwrap me?” She whispers.

“Yes,” He breathes.

She laughs as his fingers find give on the bows and he pulls them apart, mouth chasing his touch as he pushes her thighs back and sinks inside. She sobs his name as he sets a feverish pace, mind nothing but foggy desire and heady affection. Affection for him, for this, for them. She clings to him like her life depends on it, canting her hips in time with his, every sensation as intense and lovely like she's experiencing it for the first time.

She leans in and kisses his ear, revels in the shivers that shake through his body when she tightens her grip. They're teetering over the edge, now- drawing to a close. But even so, she knows it won't be the end. Not when she's right where she's supposed to be.

Like the phantoms of quivering tree limbs, the warmth of the sand beneath her body, the flash of a blade while rubies danced in her vision she feels him. Feels him in every pore, every beat of her heart as he meets her eyes and opens his mouth to speak. Soft and full of promises they never knew were made that day on the beach.

“Nin anor,”

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

deck the halls.

‣ pairing — ransom drysdale x f!reader

‣ contents — oneshot, coarse language, fluff, xmas/holidays, mutual disdain but it’s actually just mutual not-so-secret shameful pining

‣ synopsis — for the first time, you think that working for linda drysdale the night before christmas might not be such a bad thing after all.

‣ word count — 3.4k

‣ notes — tbh i’m not very happy with how this turned out but whatever, i’ve been stressing about this for way too long because it’s my first ransom fic, and i’m just done lol. shout out to @intrepidacious though for chatting with me about this fic all winter while i struggled, doing her best to motivate me and letting me vent my writing frustrations through the entire process. ilysm nika 💕

✩ read on ao3 ✩ janie’s masterlist ✩ library blog

Christmastime is here Happiness and cheer Fun for all that children call Their favourite time of yea—

You angrily jam the pad of your finger against the speaker’s power button, cutting off the quaint holiday music and plummeting Linda Drysdale’s normally busy real estate office into silence.

For someone who consistently prides themselves on being so sensible and logical, you sure can be stupid sometimes.

Because you drag a free office chair towards you, anchoring it against the wall as best as you can before climbing on top of it. You teeter precariously, cursing under your breath as you strain to loop a gaudy red and green garland over the push pins above the office doorway.

Linda, however, is even stupider, asking you to put up these god awful decorations before going home, not even providing you with so much as a step stool to do so—even though you obviously aren’t tall enough to reach on your own, even though she said you didn’t have to work overtime today (why, thank you Linda, considering it’s Christmas Eve and all), even though it was already 4:45 when she asked.

One phone call would be all it took to have OSHA crawling up her ass, but because you were only ever a badass in your own head, long after the conversation was over and there was no longer anything you could do about it, you just nodded meekly at your boss instead of telling her exactly where you thought she could shove her precious decorations.

Besides, she’d probably walk away with nothing more than a slap on her wrist anyway—if that.

“A bit to the left, Cindy Lou Who,” comes a voice, the low dulcet baritones that are the bane of your existence, like a persistent under-the-skin itch you can’t ever seem to scratch. You take a deep stabilizing breath upon hearing the nickname, a heat flaring in your cheeks that has nothing to do with the whiskey-spiked hot chocolates you’ve been secretly sipping all day.

You shoot him a withered glare over your shoulder. Ransom, the devil-spawn of your she-devil boss, is lounging lazily in your chair, leaning back with his arms casually linked over his abdomen as he observes your efforts to stay balanced and graceful.

Trust the smug little brat to show up tonight of all nights, when your patience is already wearing thin. No doubt he’s just here to piss you off before swanning over to the posh holiday party happening at his mother’s place tonight—one you’ve never been invited to despite all your years working for Linda, by the way—while you trudge home to a dark and empty studio apartment, with not even so much as a goldfish to welcome you back.

Ransom just smirks back at you through a mouthful of white chocolate chips and macadamia nuts, his hand already rummaging for another cookie from the package he’s stolen right out of the bottom drawer of your desk.

You release a huff of frustration.

There he sits, without a care in the world in his perfectly tailored wool coat and immaculately styled hair that somehow remains untouched by the howling winter wind outside, looking like he’s just stepped out of an issue of GQ.

He doesn’t deserve it, you lament, his coat already starting to pill at the undersides of the sleeves and his sweater probably just a tug at one loose strand away from unravelling completely.

Whoops. You almost fall off the chair for the fifth time since you started this ridiculous endeavour, trying to shake off the mental image of a very shirtless Ransom, tangled in a web of soft white yarn.

What? You can hate someone down to their grimy little bones and still think they’re hot.

Besides, the devil wouldn’t be the devil if he weren’t tempting, would he?

“A real piece of work… the both of you…” you mutter to yourself now, your colourful vocabulary back in full working order now that Linda is holed away in her office and well out of earshot. “She could cut me some slack, you know… Christmas, for crying out loud… and I haven’t eaten all day!”

The asshole nepo-baby just peers up at you past the phone he’s been holding up in front of his face, blinking lazily and not offering any kind of response or assistance—not that you’d expected him to.

“Right, I forgot who I was talking to,” you speak slowly and deliberately, like you’re explaining something rather complicated to a small child. “You see, us humans need to eat food regularly for sustenance.”

“Wow,” Ransom deadpans, his voice muffled through cookie crumbs.

“Yeah, it is terribly inconvenient,” you shrug exaggeratedly, “but not all of us can subsist on the shards of broken souls and children’s nightmares, can we?”

“Calling me the devil again?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re so original; how about you get a new thing?”

“Don’t you have some place to be?” You sneer, your grip tightening on the garland, the plastic biting into your palms as you twist a string of fairy lights around the rest of it. “Why the fuck are you even here?”

It’s a perfectly valid question. Linda is always threatening to cut her son off, but that hasn’t prevented him from skipping out on work as much as possible and galavanting around the city, maxing out her credit cards every chance he gets.

But you know she’ll never actually follow through; He shows himself here just often enough to keep her from seriously considering it, doing his small part to show off a carefully crafted picture for the masses—showing the scions of Boston’s wealthiest family in a united front.

And if there’s one thing Ransom likes more than he hates his family or earning an honest wage, it’s the weight of green lining the deep but frayed pockets of his expensive designer pants.

That shiny Drysdale veneer is all that matters, after all, and you know very well that Ransom’s only real job is to keep it nice and polished. But you’ve been working long enough at this soul-sucking place to notice the telltale signs, to see the cracks beneath the varnish.

The way you swear you see a flicker of something that looks a lot like dread whenever Linda calls his name.

The way his signature smirk twitches with just a hint of irritation whenever some angry coworker, once again passed over for a long overdue promotion in favour of giving Ransom a hefty allowance bonus, calls him a talentless, hopeless, literal son of a bitch.

The way he cracks those self-deprecating jokes about how the only real ambition he has in life is finding new ways to disappoint his relatives, and squander as much of the family fortune as he possibly can.

It’s no surprise, really, that Ransom’s turned out the way he has. You’ve heard the way they all talk about him sometimes, his family seemingly oblivious to your working-class existence.

Never mind the fact that whenever you happen to glance over at him, Ransom’s eyes are almost always on you—watching and assessing with that same inscrutable expression on his face.

Not that you pay close attention or anything.

Not that you care, either.

And never will you admit that it unnerves the hell out of you, almost like he’s trying to see through you—right down to the restless person who hides beneath a false bravado, a sarcastic sense of humour, and mountains of paperwork piled up high on your desk.

The feeling of being seen, so terrible and stirring at the same time.

And yet, you shiver, there’s something about it that rivets you. Something electric, like a live wire running just beneath your skin. It’s the feeling you get when he looks at you with those icy blue eyes, his expression going from scathing to almost inquisitive within seconds, when the two of you are trading jabs and insults like his mother isn’t the one who signs your paycheques.

If you are carbon, then he’s the igniting flame.

But you know better, don’t you? Ransom is trouble, plain and simple—the kind with zero direction in life, the kind with a new girl on his arm every week, leaving them to wake up in the mornings to cold bed sheets and memories of promises he’d never intended to keep.

You will die a fiery death before you come another notch on his bedpost. Not that you even care whether he thinks of you that way at all, because even the idea of doing that with Ransom is—

Shit. You shiver again.

You’re playing with fire by even thinking about him at all, even though you feel the incredibly annoying pull of his presence like a magnet, even though you know you need to stay as far away from him as possible, and even though you are very keenly aware that there’s something here.

It looms large yet goes unacknowledged whenever your eyes lock, when he’s looking at you like he wants to bury you and devour you at the same time, when you’re itching with the knowledge that you’re only keeping him at as much of a distance as you can physically stand.

Why else haven’t you told him yet, in no uncertain terms, to fuck right off?

Because there’s a part of you that can’t help but wonder what it would be like to let yourself burn—to feel the heat of that passion you can see in his eyes that he never seems to give into, to feel whatever warmth he might muster from beneath the complicated layers of that thing beating in his chest, to feel him next to you as that terrible something you won’t ever name finally erupts and consumes everything in its path.

Ugh. You absolutely loathe yourself for it, and it makes you want to bash your forehead repeatedly against the wall.

“Someone’s going on the naughty list,” Ransom snickers, the sound infuriatingly close now. You do your best not to startle at the new proximity; he’s put his phone away, unfolded himself from your chair with that unexpectedly languid grace, crossing the room to toss your now empty package of cookies into the trash. “And is that any way to speak to a valued coworker?”

“You? Valued? Coworker?”

“Oh, don’t be jealous, Cindy Lou,” he chides, leaning against the edge of an empty desk barely a step away, crossing his arms over his broad chest, then lowering his voice to whisper conspiratorially, “I hear it’s a sin.”

“Jealous?” You laugh humourlessly, snorting in a way that is decidedly very unladylike. “Of what? The fact that you’ve never worked a day in your life and have the soft white hands of a geisha?”

“Oh yeah? Been thinking about my hands a lot, have you?” He smirks again, and you bite back an exasperated moan—er, groan.

“Namely,” you say sarcastically, turning away from him and reaching up for a particularly high spot. “Breaking all the feeble little bones in your tiny rat-like claws, preferably with a nice sturdy lump of coal.”

“I’m not the one who’s gone on a rampage,” Ransom gestures to the office, now adorned with shiny little baubles, bundles of sparkly tinsel, and rolls of satin ribbon, “and vandalized the office.”

“Vandal—it looks festive, you heartless ghoul!” You whip around to glare at him again, momentarily forgetting your unstable position. But instead of rolling away from the wall and taking you with it, the chair beneath you stays firmly in place. Confused, you glance down to see Ransom’s outstretched feet casually braced against the legs.

Your head snaps up so quickly you think you might get whiplash, eyes narrowing accusatorially only to see him looking away, feigning nonchalance despite the fact that his ears are turning red.

Blood rushes to your cheeks, a traitorous warmth spreading through them. You curse mentally for the umpteenth time, feeling the corners of your perfidious mouth threatening to curve up into a smile.

The bar really is in hell, isn’t it?

“You…” you squeak, clearing your throat a few times to get your voice back to normal. “It’s five. You should go get your mother now.”

“Why, am I distracting you?” Ransom replies, tucking his hands into his pockets and still not making eye contact. “And don’t rush me. I’d rather eat glass than sit through another one of Linda’s fuckin’ Christmas parties.”

“Right, because of your repellant personality?” You quip only half-sarcastically.

“So I’m told,” he drawls, but strangely he sounds more pleased than offended by your observation. “But then again, you’re no picnic either, are you Cindy?”

“Excuse me?” You finally climb off the chair, the last of the garland securely in place. You ignore those stupid feelings stirring inside you at the sight of him retracting his legs a second too slow, and only when both your feet are firmly on the floor.

“You can’t tell me you work so hard because you like your job,” he chortles, his smirk twisting into something just a tiny bit meaner this time. “Aw, sweetheart, do you not have any friends?”

You snort so loud it almost hurts, trying not to focus on just how much you and Ransom have in common—a fact he also seems content to leave unaddressed. “Oh, like you do?”

The mental image of Ransom sitting in his mother’s living room, laughing and sharing wine with a bunch of people in front of a roaring fire like he isn’t a raging sociopath makes you shudder.

“Although, I guess I am curious,” you relent with an inquisitive tilt of your head, ignoring the weight of his heavy gaze on your back as you rummage through the last of the decorations.

“Hm, do tell,” you hear him chuckle.

“About Christmas, you bumbling idiot,” you retort, rolling your eyes. “Can’t picture you and Linda decorating a tree or opening presents together.”

“Okay, that’s not even funny,” he grumbles, his expression twisting into something sour.

“Never? Not even when you were a kid?” You ask before you can stop yourself. Dangerous territory. You know too much about his personal life as it is, and this would only humanize him and that’s the very last thing you want.

“Sometimes,” he admits after a few seconds of agonizing silence, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, your eyes meeting, as always, when you look up at him. “Only ever at Harlan’s.”

You stare, unsure what to do with the underlying hint of something in his voice that doesn’t really belong. Harlan is the only person in his family you actually like, who exudes warmth and care even towards a spoiled and ungrateful grandson, and it takes you a moment to realize that the thing in Ransom’s voice might be affection.

It’s alien and unnerving, to say the least, but you still feel a traitorous tug at your heart strings.

“I can’t picture you as a kid,” you say, somehow managing to keep your voice from trembling as you quickly change the subject. Sweet Christmases with his adoring grandpa shouldn’t be something you associate with this overgrown man-child. And even if it is, it doesn’t change the fact that Ransom is a giant, gaping asshole. “I just see you, but… smaller.”

“And I bet you were just a naive little princess,” he smirks when you glare at him, “doting parents, thoughtful presents, cookies for Santa—spoiled in your own way.”

“Oh, don’t get it twisted,” you shake your head, putting up a defensive hand, “we aren’t sharing. That’s not what this is.”

“But you know what they say, Cindy,” he says as he leans in closer, stopping just inches away, so close you can smell the lingering scent of cinnamon and nutmeg on his breath, mingling with the saccharine aroma of peppermint and artificial pine clinging to his sweater. “Sharing is caring.”

His eyes blaze in an unspoken challenge, but before you can do anything else, like maybe start thinking that the bad idea that’s been plaguing you ever since you met this infernal man isn’t such a bad idea after all, the sound of Linda’s voice cuts through the air, as sharp as the diamonds she wears on her fingers.

“What are you two doing?”

The spell is broken, and Ransom looks away with that same infuriating smile that makes you both want to punch and ki—

“Hello, Mother,” Ransom all but sneers.

You step away with considerable effort, wringing your hands in front of you. Linda narrows her eyes in thinly-veiled suspicion, but doesn’t say anything as she begins walking towards you.

Ransom steps in front of you, shoving his hands into his pockets and jingling his keys, “We’d better get going. Your chariot awaits.”

“Have a nice evening, Mrs. Drysdale,” you pipe up, watching nervously as her eyes sweep across the office and your carefully placed decorations with cool indifference. She nods slightly and you breathe a sigh of relief; that’s as close to a thank you as you’ll ever get.

“Ransom, be a dear and go start the car,” Linda says, urging him towards the door with a sweep of her hand. Her son hesitates for only a millisecond, not even looking back as he turns on his heels and leaves.

Only you notice that his hands are clenched at his sides.

“Merry Christmas, dear,” she smiles tightly as she hands you an envelope likely containing your holiday bonus, and you snap back to attention. You take it from her with a quiet thank you, but then her smile quickly turns into a stern frown. “But don’t make a habit of having food delivered here.”

“Food?” You repeat, your brows coming together in confusion. Linda puts on her fur coat, pointing a single gloved finger at the doors. There is a delivery person standing on the other side of the glass, lifting and pointing at a plastic bag heavy with takeout containers.

“Air the place out before you leave,” Linda says as she breezes past him, not even turning back while she lifts a hand in dismissal.

Confused, you follow in her tracks, staring after her as she makes a dissatisfied face at Ransom’s car pulled right up next to the curb. You see him roll his eyes, leaning over to unlock and push the door open for her. Linda doesn’t look too thrilled, but steps in anyway. They drive away, a hint of a smile on Ransom’s face even though it looks like Linda’s already started in on him with her usual longwinded lectures.

You tell the delivery boy you didn’t order anything, but he looks just as puzzled. He checks the receipt and says your name, the office address, which you confirm are correct. He then recites the order: scallion pancakes, rice noodle rolls, steamed crystal dumplings, and a small black sesame latte—your standing order from your favourite restaurant in Chinatown, reserved for nights when you were working late.

“It’s already paid for,” he says, “you might as well take it.”

You do, locking the doors once he leaves and set the bag down onto a nearby desk. Before you’ve even untied it and opened the containers to check their contents, the grin that’s been brewing all night finally breaks free.

Because there’s only a handful of people in the world who know you’re here at the moment, but only one who knows you haven’t eaten yet today, and who knows that despite having permission to leave for the night, you’ll probably settle in for another few hours of tedious paperwork.

Still, you finish every last crumb of your dinner feeling lighter than you have all week.

Maybe you’ll ask him next time, despite all the reasons you probably shouldn’t, whatever happened to sharing is caring?—even if it sounds like an invitation.

And maybe you feel cheeky enough to send him a quick email before logging off, cackling to yourself when he finally fires back a scathing reply a few hours later, likely still sitting in a room full of people just like his mother, trying not to be absolutely miserable.

From: “El Diablo” <rdrysdale@drysdaleproperties.com> To: Reception <reception@drysdaleproperties.com> Subject: RE: Merry Christmas Oh fuck off, I don’t know what you’re talking about. ——————— From: Reception <reception@drysdaleproperties.com> To: “El Diablo” <rdrysdale@drysdaleproperties.com> Subject: Merry Christmas …and thanks for dinner, Drysdale.

And if, when you’re finally home long after the midnight hour, you’re tucked into bed feeling full and warm with the temptation to raise your lips into a smile as you drift off to sleep?

Well.

That’s really nobody’s business but your own, is it? 

fin.

[colettebronte]

(Not Exactly) A Fairytale in New York

Taglist Form

Ao3 Link

Bridgerton Masterlist

Pairing: Modern!Anthony Bridgerton x Fem Reader

Summary: While on what is meant to be a brief layover in NYC at Christmas time there is an airport meet ugly, a snowstorm and some holiday fun to be had both around the city and in the bedroom

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: 18+ specifically for explicit anal sex. Minors DNI. I will put this up on Ao3 so please do not repost my work elsewhere

Author’s Note: my deepest apologies to The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl for the alteration of their song title to fit this fic. This was a fun one to write and I hope you enjoy it! Thank you to @fayes-fics for betaing 🫶❤️

You thank the barista as he hands you your iced coffee. Taking a fortifying sip, you turn and start to walk to your boarding gate. 

You stop walking to adjust the top of your cup. You’ve just pulled it off when someone plows into you, upending the entire contents onto your face, jacket and the floor. The person, a man, grunts and then tosses off a curt “Sorry,” before walking off.

Spluttering, you turn and call out to his quickly retreating back, “Hey pal! I hope all your coffee creamers today are sour and you miss your flight!” The absolute asshole with his perfectly sexy British accent and a no-doubt stupidly expensive suit just continues his brisk walking and tosses off a wave.

Wiping your face and wringing your hands, you throw out your empty cup and debate the merits of changing before boarding your flight home. You check your phone and see you don’t have the time so with a huff and smelling like a caramel macchiato, you make your way across the airport. It’s only as you move that you realize some of it must have splashed through your boots and onto your socks, making for a soggy trudge to the gate. Gross. Welcome to New York. Thankfully, it’s just a short, hour and a half plane ride and then you’ll be home for Christmas.  

Unfortunately, Snow Storm Agatha has other plans.

**********

Defeated, you sink into a hard plastic chair. Having first joined the line at the ticket counter, where you were given airport food vouchers and no word of when flights could be rebooked, you then collected your deplaned luggage from the baggage carousel. After that, you spent the better part of an hour calling any hotel in your price range to see if they had any rooms left to no avail. So all that was left was the least appealing option; spending the night and possibly longer at LaGuardia Airport. Great.

Someone takes a seat beside you, their expensive luggage bumping against yours. You turn and see it’s the same jerk who dumped your coffee all over you. You give him the stink-eye but he’s too busy absorbed in a conversation on his phone to even notice you. You take the moment to study him. It figures that he’d have an adorable furrow between his brows and a perfect jawline to go with his thick, tuggable hair and stupidly sexy accent.

You can tell from his side of the conversation that, of course, Mr. Tall, Dark and British is able to secure a place to stay. Lucky him. You hope his hotel room has bed bugs.

He ends his call and sniffs the air, no doubt catching a whiff of the iced caramel drying on your coat. He turns and notices you for the first time, his eyes going comically wide. He takes in your overall appearance and after a moment, a look of guilt comes over his handsome face. It would probably feel satisfying if your hair wasn’t sticky.

He looks down at his black leather-gloved hands and fidgets for a moment. Heaving a deep breath he starts, “You’re the one I . . .”

“Dumped eight dollars worth of Queens’ finest bean juice all over. Yes,” you finish for him.

He winces and then goes on an impressive ramble. “I am truly sorry. I was on the phone with one of my sisters and in a rush to make it to my plane, which is no excuse I realize. I ought to have done the gentlemanly thing and, at the very least, stopped to help you clean up. Of course, had I been paying attention, it should never have happened in the first place,” he pauses to take a deep breath before adding, “How can I make it up to you?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Unless you can magically conjure me a shower or, better yet, a room so I don’t have to spend the night sleeping on cheap plastic and eating bad airport food, not much.”

He looks thoughtful for a moment. “Well, I have just procured a suite for the night. You’re welcome to the second bedroom.”

You gape at him. “Look, Mr . . .”

“Bridgerton,” he interjects, before adding, “Anthony.” he flashes you a charming smile that, in any other circumstance, might just sway you.

“Mr. Bridgerton,” you sigh, “While I appreciate the offer, I am not going with you, a complete stranger, to stay in your hotel suite, no matter how swanky it may be. For all I know, you’re a secret serial killer or something.” You cross your arms, purposely elbowing him in the side.

He raises his arms in the air, placating, “Miss, I understand you completely. I know my offer is unconventional but I truly do wish to make things up to you. Is there nothing I can do to convince you I’m safe to be around, full coffee cups aside?”

You fight a smile. Dammit this man is too smooth. With a sigh, you tell him, “I can’t think of anything, short of stellar testimony about your general character from an unimpeachable source.”

You start to stand but he touches the sleeve of your coat. Looking thoughtful, he stands and pulls out his phone. Holding it up so you can see the screen, he punches in a number and after a moment, it rings and then a yawning, elegant, older woman with the kindest blue eyes you’ve ever seen answers.

“Anthony dearest, what are you doing calling at this hour, and from the plane no less?”

He has the good grace to look abashed. “My apologies, Mother. I’m still in the airport. A rather nasty snowstorm has grounded all the flights through tomorrow.”

The woman, his mother, looks concerned. “Do you need a room for the night? I can wake Marcus up and see if he has a room at one of his New York hotels available for you.”

Anthony shakes his head. “That’s not necessary, Dorset was able to get me a room at one of his,” he pauses to glance at you. “The truth is, Mother, I need you to provide a character reference for me, to convince someone I’m not an axe-wielding maniac and that it’s perfectly safe to stay in the spare bedroom of my suite.”

His mother raises her eyebrows. “Anthony, what did you do?”

He swallows thickly and looks at you. You laugh and lean into the phone to offer her a wave. She takes in your appearance and then narrows her eyes. 

Her voice is deadly calm as she again asks, “Anthony Edmund Bridgerton. What. Did. You. Do?”

You feel a sympathetic pang at the use of his full name as he hems and haws his way through an explanation. When he finishes she heaves a sigh and then addresses you.

“My Dear, my name is Violet Bridgerton and I assure you, while my eldest son may be a tiny bit of an idiot, he is mostly a gentleman. I promise you are perfectly safe in his presence and I have no doubt,” she pauses to cut her eyes to her son, “That he will not only pay for your dry cleaning, he will buy you a very nice dinner tonight and then also see you safely back to the airport when it’s time for your flight to depart. Isn’t that right, my dear son?”

Anthony nods but at his mother’s sharp look, he clears his throat and says, “That’s right Mother, I will.”

“Excellent.” She looks back at you. “Despite the circumstances, it is lovely to meet you, Miss?”

“Y/n,” you supply. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

Violet smiles warmly and then looks between you and her son, a gleam in her eye.“I wish you both a good evening.”

“Goodnight Mother,” Anthony says and then he ends the call. He puts the phone away and then looks at you and asks, “Well?”

Without hesitating, you pick up your purse and sling your carry-on bag over your shoulder. You thrust your luggage at him, the little wheels squeaking as they bump into his shiny black shoes. “Lead the way, Your Highness, I have a very expensive dinner to get to,” you say brightly.

Grabbing the handle of your luggage in addition to his own, he mutters, “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”

You tug your mittens on and adjust your carry-on, asking him, “Does the hotel offer lobster and filet mignon?”

**********

You arrive at Hotel Dorset and you bound out of the town car, leaving Anthony to manage the luggage. A tall man stands just inside the entrance, a curious look on his friendly face.

“Hello Miss,” he greets you warmly.

Before you can respond, Anthony walks up and takes the man’s hand, shaking it vigorously.

“Tom, I can’t thank you enough for putting us up for the night.”

The man, Tom, nods, although he’s still looking at you. “It’s my pleasure. The city doesn’t come to a complete standstill all that often due to snow, but I’m happy to be able to help.” His eyes cut back to Anthony. “You didn’t mention you were bringing a guest with you.”

You step closer, elbowing Anthony in the ribs as you say, “Oh, he owes me. He decided it would be fun to spill iced coffee all over me this afternoon, so as penance, he’s putting me up for the night and buying me a really expensive dinner.”

Anthony sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It was an accident.”

Tom laughs, offering you his arm. You take it as he leads you both to the elevators, a porter following with your luggage. Once inside, your eyes widen as Tom inserts a key and the button for the penthouse lights up. Tom smiles and says, “Our restaurant has a Michelin star. The chef’s speciality is steak with lobster and caviar”

You nod, fighting a laugh as you glance at Anthony. “That sounds delicious,” you say seriously. “Do you happen to have a two-hundred-year-old wine that pairs well with that?”

Tom looks at Anthony and then clearing his throat, nods and begins to expound on the restaurant’s highly curated vintage wine list, amusement shining in his eyes as he does so.

Anthony leans his head against the gold metal wall of the elevator and groans.

**********

The penthouse is massive and after giving your coat to the porter to be dry-cleaned, with the assurance it would be ready for you in the morning, you avail yourself of the shower in your personal, full-sized bathroom.

You assume Anthony has gone to do the same in his.

After a long, heavenly jaunt under the double rainfall showerheads, you tuck yourself into one of the hotel’s fluffy robes and go back into your room to change. You’re sorting through your luggage when there’s a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you call out and then Anthony enters, also dressed in a robe, his hair damp. It takes all your willpower to focus on his eyes and not on the single curl on his forehead.

Anthony smiles and says, “I made a dinner reservation for the eight pm sitting. If you’d prefer a different time, I can change it,” he tells you.

Sighing, you say, “That’s fine. But I have a problem.”

Anthony comes over to you, concern written on his handsome face. “What can I do?”

You sink down on the bed. “I flew in from an educator’s conference. I don’t exactly have something to wear for dinner at a Michelin star restaurant.”

Anthony stands. “That’s no problem at all. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll have some options brought up for you.”

You blink up at him. Stunned, you stutter out, “You can just . . . have dresses . . . brought up here . . . for me to try on?”

He nods and you can only stare at him and think about how you lead very different lives.

**********

Two hours later, you both emerge from the elevator, Anthony looking sharp in a bow tie and black dinner jacket and you in a flowy red dress, that you are positive costs more than three of your paychecks combined.

Tom personally escorts you to the restaurant and sees you to your table. Once seated, he has a bottle of wine brought over with his compliments and then leaves you and Anthony to your meal. After perusing the menu, you decide to take pity on Anthony’s wallet, despite your suspicion he can easily afford it and forgo the steak, lobster and even the caviar in favor of a burger and pomme frites instead. Surprisingly, Anthony orders the same. It turns out, the wine Tom chose pairs perfectly with your meal.

Over Michelin star burgers and fancy Belgian fries, you and Anthony get to know each other. He is as charming as you originally thought, but as you chat, you discover how utterly devoted he is to his family and the business they run together, leaving him little time for a personal life.

You’re sharing a truly excellent piece of cheesecake when a band starts to play jazzy versions of Christmas songs. You watch enviously as couples take to the floor, holding each other close. After watching for a while, Anthony stands and offers you his hand.

Exhaling a deep breath, you take it and then you’re making your way to join the other couples. You pick up the strains of “Last Christmas” as Anthony suddenly spins you out and pulls you back into his arms, his face mere inches from yours. You stare deep into his dark eyes and whisper, “Careful, Mr. Bridgerton, a girl could get ideas.”

He dips you and when he pulls you back up, his voice is rough as he asks, “You promise?”

Heat pools in your belly. But then you give yourself a mental shake. You’ve only just met this man. Flirting with strangers and then jumping into bed with them, no matter how fancy that bed may be, is not something you do.

Besides, surely the weather will clear up tomorrow and then you’ll part ways and never see each other again, so what would be the point?

**********

It’s nearly midnight by the time you return to the penthouse. Fingers entwined, you’re reluctant to part for the evening. You’re about to suggest a nightcap when both your phones ping. Anthony excuses himself as you check yours. First, you see a warning from the National Weather Service that the storm is projected to continue through the following evening. The next notification is from your airline saying all flights will remain cancelled until further notice. With a sigh, you text your sister to let her know the latest update. She immediately texts back, assuring you it’s fine and to let her know when you have a flight rebooked.

You change and are about to slip into bed when Anthony knocks on your door. You open it to find him looking unfairly handsome in red flannel pajamas, the shirt unbuttoned, exposing a thatch of hair on his chest that has you itching to run your finger through it. He stares at you, appreciation clear in his eyes.

Tearing your gaze away from his exposed skin, you ask him, “Did you need something?”

Anthony blinks and then nods, his eyes looking into yours. “It seems we’ll be here for at least another day. Tom said we’re welcome to stay as long as we need.”

You smile. “That’s very kind of him.”

Anthony smiles back and says, “Since we’re here for another day, I was wondering if you wanted to play tourist with me? I was meant to just be here while my plane refueled and haven’t had a chance to see the sights.”

You reach out and take one of his hands in yours. “I’d like that,” you tell him softly.  “I was only meant to have a forty-minute layover.”

Anthony squeezes your fingers. Just as quietly, he says, “It’s settled then. We'll have breakfast and then set out to see just what New York City has to offer.”

“It’s a date, Mr. Bridgerton,” you reply.

********

You spend the morning zig-zagging across the city, taking in the sights and sounds of New York City at Christmas time with the falling snow just adding to the ambiance of the season.

For lunch, you stop at the Winter Village in Bryant Park. You each choose your meals from different food trucks and then sit together in a heated bubble, watching shoppers scurry around the park doing their last-minute shopping at the vendor stalls. If Anthony sits a little closer at your side than necessary, you don’t comment on it.

After lunch, you walk to Rockefeller Plaza and cajole Anthony into ice skating with you.

“It’s so ridiculously touristy,” he protests as you lead him by the hand to the skate rental.

Laughing, you ask, “I’m sorry, Mr. Bridgerton, but who suggested we play tourist?”

“Me,” he mumbles and then adds, “I don’t know how to ice skate.”

You squeeze his hand in what you hope is a reassuring manner. Brightly, you say, “Don’t worry, it’s just like roller-skating only with a blade stuck to your feet instead of wheels.”

Anthony hands his credit card to the attendant and as you take your ice skates from them, Anthony asks you, “Is now a bad time to mention that I don’t know how to roller skate either?”

You stare at him for a moment and then wave his words off. “You’ll be fine. Probably.”

Anthony doesn’t look convinced, so you point to a child holding onto a blue plastic Skate Helper as they wind around the rink. “Maybe we can find one for you in adult size.”

Sadly, you cannot, so Anthony settles for clinging to the wall like a limpet while you fly around the rink, moving from one foot to the other with ease, your childhood skate lessons coming back to you, despite it being several years since you’ve been on the ice.

After a while, you take pity and go over to Anthony, coming to an elegant T-stop in front of him. Silently, you hold your hands out and after reluctantly releasing the wall, he wobbles towards you, grasping onto your shoulders as soon as he’s within reach. You adjust your body to counterbalance his shakiness and taking his hands with a reassuring smile, you slowly pull him around the rink.

You can see the exact moment he gets over his nerves and trusts you to keep you both upright as he looks around and takes in the sights around you. By the time you finish skating, dusk is starting to fall. You return your skates and Anthony buys you both hot cocoa. Tucked into his side, you walk up to the top of the plaza to get an unobstructed view of the famous Christmas tree. 

After staring at the tree for a while, you look up at Anthony to see him watching you and not the glowing sight before you. The obvious desire in his eyes brings a pleasant warmth to your core. Without thinking, you tug him down and draw him into an embrace. You stare into each other’s eyes for a moment and then his mouth is on yours, his tongue gently moving against the seam of your lips, as if asking permission to enter. With a sigh, you let him and then he is pressing you against the gray marble of the wall as he whines into your mouth.

Someone walks by and calls out, “Hey! Get a room!”

You pull apart, both of you breathing heavily. Anthony tucks a stray lock of your hair under your hat, a tender look in his eyes. You take one of his gloved hands in your mitten-covered one. Deciding not to mince words you tell him, “Take me back to our room so we can fuck.” 

His eyes darken, and he nods, tugging you in the direction of the hotel.

**********

The ride up in the elevator feels interminable but as it opens with a ding, Anthony pulls out the penthouse key and after a brief fumble, manages to get the door unlocked. As soon as he enters, you lean into him and undo the buttons of his coat, tugging his beanie off his head as he pulls off his gloves with his teeth. As he reaches out to undo your jacket, you take a moment to admire his snow-dampened hair and impossibly soft white sweater.

Once you’re both freed of your outerwear, you jump up into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist. Placing his arms around your back, he moans against your lips as he walks to his bedroom. 

With him holding you, you pull your sweater over your head and toss it behind you. Using one hand, Anthony deftly unhooks your bra. He bumps against the bed and then you hop down to paw at his sweater until he takes it off, throwing it over your head to join your discarded clothes on the floor.

Keeping your eyes firmly on him, you bend down to take off your boots, pants, socks and panties. Anthony does the same with his remaining clothes and underwear, his eyes not leaving yours either. After a moment though, he turns away to one of the nightstands and pulls out a condom. Biting back a smile, you raise an eyebrow and Anthony shrugs, saying, “I wasn’t expecting anything but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hopeful after our dance last night.”

You nod and then he rolls the condom on. You then descend on Anthony, pushing him gently back so he lands on the bed. You climb over his legs to straddle him and then he lets out the most beautiful moan as you grind down on his cock.

“Please . . . please ride me,” he stutters from under you. You tug him up into a bruising kiss by the hair and he starts to wrap his arms around your back but you grab his hands, lacing your fingers together, holding them over his head as you begin to slide back and forth on his lap.

You find an angle that feels good, pausing for a moment to enjoy the stretch and feel of him inside you. Anthony groans and then you move together, building a rhythm with ease. You do most of the work, drawing out both your pleasure by turns alternating going fast and then maddeningly slow. By the time you’re close, you’re both slick with sweat, Anthony’s breaths coming in little whining gasps.

“Please, I need... I need,” he begs.

You lean down to kiss his neck, your body feels taut and poised to tip over the edge with pleasure.  You lean in to whisper into his ear, “Shhh, I know. I’m ready for it too. Shall we come together?”

Anthony nods and then you’re thrusting in tandem, both working towards the same goal. White, hot, delicious pleasure overtakes your senses and hands still entwined, you throw your head back and scream. Barely a breath later, Anthony yells out your name and you have to fight to keep yourself balanced on his lap as he bucks against you in ecstasy.

**********

Later, after a shower and room service dinner, your head is resting against Anthony’s chest, tucked under the covers and you’re feeling pleasantly warm and boneless when both your phones ding on the nightstands beside you. You whine and reach out of your blanket cocoon to take your phone as Anthony does the same with his. Blinking, you stare in surprise to see that it’s a message from the airline with information on rebooking your flight for the next day. You glance over to see Anthony glaring down at his phone, no doubt having just received the same message from his airline.

He looks up from his phone to gaze at you, the annoyance instantly disappearing from his handsome face. Sighing, he gestures to his phone and says, “It seems Agatha has been downgraded and flights will resume tomorrow. We can both go home.”

You nod. Just a day earlier, face covered in coffee, going home was all you wanted. And now, well, now it’s different. Anthony tucks in close to you and plucks your phone out of your hand. He pulls you back onto his chest, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. 

Quietly, he asks you, “Will you let me handle the details of your flight home?”

You sigh, “You’ve done so much for me already, I can’t ask that of you.”

Anthony shushes you with a gentle kiss. When he pulls back his eyes are full of tenderness as he says, “I’m offering. Please let me do this. Think of it as a continuation of how gentlemanly my mother promised you I’d be.”

You lift your head to huff out a laugh. “Oh and was that gentlemanly behavior earlier tonight?”

Anthony flashes you a wry smile. “Absolutely. Ladies always come first.”

Shaking your head with a giggle, you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth and then lay your head back down, yawning as he reaches out and turns off the lamp.

**********

The air is crisp and clear as you exit the hotel hand in hand with Anthony. Once your luggage is loaded into the town car, he holds the door open for you and then slides in, directing the driver to Hangar Seven. Having only flown into La Guardia a few times, you’re not certain where that is but you trust Anthony to get you where you need to go.

Soon enough, you’re at the airport and your brow furrows as you drive past most of the terminals, including the one you know your airline is at. The car pulls into a small lot and then after tipping your driver, Anthony gets out and then comes around to your side to help you out of the car. Taking you by the hand, he leads you into a building. Before you can ask him about your luggage and how you’re meant to get through security, you’re walking into what you realize is an actual airplane hanger and then you can only stare at the private jet emblazoned with Anthony’s last name on the side.

You freeze in place and Anthony is jolted back by the hand. He tries to gently tug you forward but you remain fixed in place, looking back and forth between the jet and the man who apparently owns it.

Anthony stops trying to walk and tucks into your side.

Taking a deep breath you say, “Two days ago, you told me you were waiting for your plane to refuel, you actually meant your personal plane, not a passenger plane.”

Anthony leans down and says quietly, “Technically, it is a passenger plane. I just happen to be the only one on it.”

Releasing his hand you step back from him. “I knew you had money,” you start, “Which of course I don’t hold against you, but what exactly is your family business, Mr. Bridgerton?”

Anthony glances at the plane for a moment and then looks back to you. “The plain truth is, I’m not strictly Mr. Bridgerton. That title is for my younger brothers,” he winces as he continues, “I’m actually Lord Bridgerton.”

You gape at him and squeak, “Lord Bridgerton?”

Anthony nods and squeezes his hands together, looking nervous. “Please don’t say this changes things between us.”

You take a deep breath and stare at him for a moment. He is Anthony, the man who you thought was initially a jerk but turned out to be something else altogether: a gentleman, a man devoted to his family, the man who went above and beyond to apologize for his bad behavior and the man who after only a little hesitation, was willing to try something new at the skating rink. He’s also the man who gave you one of the best orgasms of your life. Even now, he’s staring at you with such hope in his eyes that it’s easy to come to a decision.

You reach up and tug him into a heated kiss. When you at last break apart, you tell him, “Lord Bridgerton, please take me home.”

**********

You’re up far too early Christmas morning at your sister’s house watching your nephew unwrap yet another Lego set when your phone buzzes. With a smile, you read the text.

AB: I don’t suppose you have any plans for New Year’s Eve

Y/n: Not yet. What did you have in mind Lord Bridgerton?

AB: If someone were to send a plane for you, would you consider ringing in the new year across the pond?

Y/n: If that plane includes a very handsome viscount, I’d consider it.

AB: Noted. I’ll see you in six days

AB: And I’ll bring the iced macchiato this time and you can dump it on me

Y/n: My Lord, you’re a little weird but I’m falling in love with you anyway

AB: . . . .

Y/n: I mean

AB: I’m falling in love with you too. Happy Christmas

Y/n: Merry Christmas. I’ll see you next week

taglist: @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @faye-tale @cosmiclove330 @abridgerton @fiction-is-life @kmc1989 @alexandrainlove @ietss @multi-fandom-lover7667 @turtle-cant-communicate @liliac-dreamer @hottytoddyhistory @laniec03 @queenofmean14 @jtheteenagewitch

[kiyoors]

bad dream

tsukishima kei x reader

comfort, both tsukki and reader are insecure/self conscious, takes place at the beginning of their relationship, a lot of reassuring, in my mind (and heart) tsukki is an art museum curator and so that is what he is in this fic, pushing my kei being bad at feelings yet totally whipped for reader agenda!!, let me carry him around in my pocket

named and written after ‘bad dream’ by wallows

tsukishima kei grinds his teeth in his sleep. you discovered this the first night you stayed over.

he has his back turned to you, sleeping on his side. lifting yourself on your elbow, you lightly curl your arm around him, moving him to rest on his back.

his jaw is tense where you gently hold your hand against his skin, brows tight together. you smooth out the worry with your thumb and softly whisper his fist name,

“kei?”

even in his subconscious, he still softens at the sound of your voice. this makes you smile, arming you the courage to gently shake him awake.

“were you having a bad dream?”

he groans awake, and a pang of regret rolls over your shoulders, he would have probably been fine if you hadn’t woken him up.

truthfully, tsukishima can’t really remember what he was dreaming about— he’s kind of still processing the fact that you’re in his bed, next to him, the excess length of his t-shirt bunched at your hips.

“you were grinding your teeth,” you explain, now sitting cross legged on his mattress.

kei grunts in acknowledgment; he didn’t know he did that.

he’s a little embarrassed that you’ve caught him like this, flawed and possibly annoying with such a sleeping habit.

“sorry,” he says, curtly, “you can wake me if I keep bothering you.”

“y-“

“I’ll get it checked out,” he finishes, not meaning to cut you off, but at the same time dreading what you could possibly say next.

no one had ever told him he did that in his sleep. then again, he’d never really let anyone share his bed for longer than what was necessary to be considered a polite hook-up before meeting you.

but, you’re not a hook-up. he’s been seeing you for two months now, and he’s hoping to make it much longer if you’ll let him.

he’s not so sure you will after this, though.

“it’s not a bother,” you assure him, looking at him with a softness opposite to the stiffness of his jaw, “was something bothering you? work?”

us?, you dread asking

because in the two months that you’ve been seeing him, he’s kept you at arms length.

he’s been wonderful— he takes you out to dinner, and offers you his arm when you’re walking down the street at night, he’s even bought you that brown leather purse you eyed while window shopping and snuck you into one of the museum exhibits before opening night because he knows you love impressionism and wanted you to be the first one to see his curated work.

but he’s curt and stiff at any one of your first touches, he’s not verbal or very expressive, and you’re worried you might have done something to upset him.

“s’nothing,” he says voice gruff, yet his touch is gentle when he places his palm on your hip, fingers tracing your skin.

kei let’s out a shaky breath trying to steady his heart, you’re still with him in bed, you want to stay, he tells himself

you want to stay with him

the thought makes him smile to himself as he pulls you down to lay with him, tucking you close to his chest.

“sorry i woke you up,” you mumble, hiding your face

he squeezes you tight, nuzzling his nose to the crook of your ear. he kisses your jaw.

“it was a bad dream,” he begins, “thank you for waking me up.”

just like that he soothes your anxieties. tsukishima kei is not exactly verbal with his feelings, and he may be stiff and awkward-limbed at your touch, but he’s warm and reassuring in the way he takes care of you, the way he pays attention to your nervous thoughts and the control he gives you over himself.

he keeps you close to his heart, always, the rest of his body is still getting better at catching up with the speed of it, though.

—

[hello-there]

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[swamp-jello]

Six Thoughts on Neve x Rook

These have been rushing around my brain like feral animals so:

If you save Minrathous/romance Neve, DA:V is the story of how Neve begins to process past trauma. When she enters the game, she is the cynical detective with a heart of gold. By the end of the game, she's squishier - willing to let others in even if it means heartache. She's a softy at her core and I think it's important to remember that soft ≠ weak.

By the end of the game, Neve still has a lot of trauma to process. I mean hell, I'm in my 30s and I'll probably be processing mine the rest of my life.

The pace of the game makes it impossible for Neve to shore up her defenses. Whether it's another team member showing her kindness, Rook getting under her skin, or the way things come to a head in Dock Town, Neve's coping mechanisms are completely overwhelmed. I think the dock kiss was a slip up - something that would never have happened if they weren't running around, fighting a desperate struggle. But the aforementioned soft side is literally clawing its way out. It saw the opening in Neve's defenses and leapt at the chance.

Neve is a workaholic but not in the normal sense. For reference, I'm a workaholic - I just worked 25 days straight (12 hours a day at least) because I love my job and the work I'm doing. But, at the end of the day, I still felt some regret. I lost so much time I could've spent doing other things. If Neve was doing all of this purely out of her own curiosity - which seems to be her defining character trait - I'd say she was a simple workaholic. But the dock scene tells a different story. Neve is convinced that her efforts don't matter. That nothing she does sticks. So she fights. Works even longer hours. All in the hopes that someday, something will stick and she'll feel worthy of people's gratitude. She doesn't regret the time lost because she doesn't think she deserves it.

As @scripts4dreamers post pointed out, Neve isn't magically healed of her desire to run by endgame. It will probably continue to come out, and they (Rook and Neve) will have to work through it together. It probably won't be as dramatic as my fic makes it out to be, but there will be a lot of emotional blocks that Rook will have to fight through if she wants to stay with Neve.

This is my PERSONAL opinion but: some friends and I have a running joke about people who appear to be tops but are actually bottoms. We call them ATABs (Assumed Top, Actual Bottom). In all honesty, Neve is probably a switch, but I like the idea that Neve puts on an act so people don't know how soft she is - or, how touch starved she is. That she loves being taken care of. And for my service-top Rook, that's quite a treat. ( ͡~ ͜ʖ ͡° )

[ok555ficideas]

Fragment of the next chapter of my amnesia Buddie fic "We made these memories for ourselves"

“Why did you tell him to leave?” Chris asked. 

His voice was small and almost inaudible. He looked way younger than he was and reminded Eddie so much of the little boy he used to be. 

“It’s better like this, Chris,” he replied, even though there was no strength behind his words. 

He had no idea what he was doing or what was actually better for them anymore. 

“Is it?” Chris’ head snapped up and his expression was full of hurt and anger. 

“I thought we agreed.” 

The boy looked away from him again and instead turned his gaze toward the window slightly to the left. It didn’t look like he was planning on saying anything more and he was clearly trying to hold back his tears. The last thing Eddie wanted was for Chirs to try and hide his emotions. He promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn’t let his son end up like him. 

“Chris,” his voice was gentle and he was hoping that it would reassure Chirs that he was allowed to be vulnerable, “if I had known that you missed Buck, I would have arranged for you to hang out with him sooner. You told me not to.” 

Eddie knew this wasn’t Chris’ fault. He had suspected that the boy wasn’t telling him the whole truth, but chose to ignore it because it made this easier for him. Chris not wanting to immediately hang out with Buck after coming back to LA was very weird and Eddie should have tried to get to the bottom of it sooner. 

“I was scared that you would send me back.” 

Whatever theories he had on the matter this wasn't even remotely close to it. 

“What?” his voice was louder than necessary and he wanted to kick himself as soon as he saw how startled Chris looked because of it. “I’m sorry,” he continued in a gentler tone, “what do you mean by that?” 

“You didn’t fight for me to come home. I wanted to almost immediately, because even though I was still mad at you, I missed you, but you just gave up so I thought it was easier for you to have me away.” 

Eddie wanted to scream. He wanted to bury his face in a pillow and scream his lungs out. Chris thought he didn’t want him to come home. From the moment Chirs left to the moment when Eddie finally had him back in his arms he was always on his mind. Whether in the back of it or at the very front depended on the moment, but he was always there. 

“And then you told me to come back,” Chris continued, “but I thought it was only because you lost Buck, so I was scared that if you got Buck back then you wouldn’t-” 

Eddie couldn’t take this anymore. He surged forward and enveloped Chris in a hug so tight, he was probably making it difficult for him to breathe. He couldn’t have Chris thinking like that for even a second longer. He pulled back, but only far enough to look Chris in the eyes.  

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled into Chris’ hair, “I should have fought for you. I convinced myself that I deserved having you away. I was punishing myself.” He pulled back, but only far enough to look Chris in the eyes. “I’m sorry that I ever made you believe that you being away was a good thing for me.” His hand landed on his son’s shoulder, his thumb right on his pulse point to keep himself grounded. “I love you, Chris. You’re my everything and I was going mad without you and if I knew you wanted me to I would have begged you to come back every day.” 

There were tears streaming down both of their faces. Chirs moved forward to bury his head in Eddie’s chest and sobbed uncontrollably. He was saying something, but Eddie couldn’t hear anything from how muffled it was. He opted for just running his hand through the boy’s curls and let him let it all out.  

“I love you too.” Eddie heard Chris say after calming down a little. “And I miss Buck so much.” 

“Oh, sweetheart. I do too,” Eddie replied in a tight voice. 

[sparks-and-smoke]

Hello!

What about an avengers reader and bucky fic where reader dosnt realize they are in an depressive episode but bucky or steve or both ( platonically or romantically) notices.

Haha I just surfaced from a major depressive episode so that's where the inspiration came from.

Also hi!

Hi <3 this one is a little longer because, well I guess I needed it too. Plus fluffy lovey Stucky is my bread and butter. 

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky barnes x reader, Stucky (but not really the focus)

Content/Warnings: mental health, depression, anxiety, self care

Author Note: as someone who also struggles with mental health I personally loved this ask. Thank you, and I hope your feeling better sweets. Take care. 

(Bonus note from my editor @voice-of-velhart)

Editor Note: Depression is not an easy thing to make your way out of, but I'm proud of ya'll for pushing through it and I'm glad your here. <3

The brain fog was the thing that set in first. It was hard to fall out of a routine living in the compound. Day in and Day out it was training and meal regimens. Sparring and paperwork. Someone was always around and yet you felt like you were drifting. Going through the motions with little to no reason to do so other than if you didn’t what else would fill your day. No one seemed to notice your lack of enthusiasm, or how your typically attentive nature had been slipping lately. Your reports were still on time and you weren’t pulling your punches in training so you were probably fine… right?

It was burn out or maybe you were feeling under the weather. At least that's what you told them if they asked. And while your friends and team loved you, they were busy people with the literal weight of the world on their shoulders. So who could blame them when they didn’t keep tabs, or at least you thought they didn’t keep tabs. 

Bucky sat in the library trying to find a fantasy book he hadn’t already read. Tony was a brilliant guy but he had horrible taste in written fiction. As he perused, he kept you in his peripheral vision. You stared down at your now cold cup of coffee looking lost even though you weren’t moving. He had noticed you are like this a lot the last few weeks. You shower less and less, your normally shiny maintained hair more often than not on the greasy and dull side of the spectrum. And he hadn’t seen you touch the piano or your switch in days. He was getting concerned. 

He taps Steve with his foot. “What?” 

The big guy had been deep in thought, sprawled out in a lounge chair with his nose in a tablet. “Have you noticed Angel is different lately?” 

Steve glanced up, taking a look at their girl as she swirled the coffee in her mug, totally disassociating. “Yeah, she said she was under the weather. I tried to get it out of her what was wrong but she’s being cagey.” his brows knit together in a mask of concern. “Sure is lingering a long time to be just a bug, don't cha think?”

Bucky nodded, “Yeah I do… what are we gonna do about it.” 

Steve sighed heavily and set down his tablet, giving the issue his full attention. He thinks back to those long cold winters in brooklyn. When the snow was deep and his bones would ache so bad he didn’t wanna get out of bed. There were always little things that would help him get out of those slumps. Bucky making him get up and shower was always a good start, followed by warm food and if they could find it, sunlight. 

“I think we're gonna start by helping our girl feel human again..” 

~~~~

Steve and Bucky formed a game plan. The two men are nothing if not efficient and tactical. Steve went down stairs to start food. Something starchy and savory. Comfort food. Meanwhile, Bucky started operation Angel Self Care. 

“Angel.” Bucky's voice was soft, wrapped in warm velvet. And you barely registered it before he was crouching down and smoothing back your hair from your face. Taking your untouched cup out of your hand. “How long have you been sitting here, beautiful?” 

You shook your head as if you could wave away the mist behind your eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. Lost track of time I guess.” Bucky just hums. Yeah, he knows that feeling. He also knew it never led anywhere good. 

“Lost in thought?” 

You looked up to meet his gaze, warmth and concern mixing in the set of his jaw and the draw of his brows. “Yeah I guess. I’m fine babe. Don’t worry about it I’m just..”

“Feeling under the weather. Yeah, I know. You’ve been saying that a lot lately. I’m starting to think it’s a cop out.”

It is and you know it but you don’t know what else to say. “I just. I don’t know what wrong with me lately. I just… I don’t wanna do anything. Like anything ya know? It’s like sometimes waking up alone is all I have in me for the day. Do you know how that feels.”

If anyone knew how you felt it was Bucky. Hell sometimes he still felt that way, decades of torture and actions out of his own control had left him with more then his own share of depressive tendencies that drag him deep down under the current of reality pretty regularly. There are days he goes completely nonverbal, only going through the motions on autopilot. The only people who can pull him out are Steve, and you. And therapy, lots of therapy. “Of course I do. You know I do. But Angel, you can’t live there. It’s ok to feel it, but you need to acknowledge it and try to crawl back out. It’s ok if you can’t do it alone baby.”

You feel a thick lump forming in your throat that you can’t quite swallow down. The urge to argue, to tell him your fine and he’s being overbearing was there. But more then that you knew he was right. Something was wrong, and you couldn’t climb out on your own. But you weren’t ready to say it. Not yet. 

“Come on honey, let’s get you cleaned up and get some food in your belly. That might help a little.” Bucky didn’t wait for you to protest, he slid one arm under your legs and the other around your back and headed up to Steve’s quarters. Not caring in the slightest if teammates or recruits saw. That was a problem for later Bucky. 

~~~~

The big six had full apartments in the upper levels of the compound. Which means he could squirrel you away to Steve’s private bath and get you in the shower. Vetiver and pine, a familiar comforting scent. Gently and quietly he started the shower to an acceptable temperature for you (hot enough to turn your skin the next shade of blush.) and stripped you down to help you in. 

There was nothing sexual about the way he did this. It was all just about loving you. Helping you, as  he guided you into the water and let it wash away your stress. He pulled you back against his chest. “There’s my girl. That feel better Angel?” 

You nod as the smell of Steve’s body wash fills the small space. “Do you mind if I wash you?” 

With your permission he sets about cleaning you up. Slow loving strokes over your body as he pulls you back to lean on his chest. “You know you can talk to us about anything right. Steve and I love you. You’ve been here for us. Let us do the same.” 

“I would tell you… if I knew why I felt this way.” You confess. “If I had some inkling of what I needed to get out to feel better but I don’t.” 

Your voice wavers and it breaks Bucky's heart just a little. He wants to fix it. But he knows he can’t. All he can do is be there for you. “Well, I’m glad you trust me enough to help you.” He tilts your head back. Starting to wash your hair. “We’ll just take it one step at a time till we find ground again. Ok?

~~~~ 

Downstairs Steve fretted over the stove. Sweet potato pierogi and with onions and butter. It was easy, simple even. But it always made him feel better as a kid and the few times he had made it you liked it. He looked up as he heard feet pad down into the kitchen. Hair still damp, but clean. In fresh sweats and Bucky's shirt. 

“Ahh, there you are. Do you feel better?”

“Yeah… a little.” You admit, sitting on a stool across the island. 

Steve rounds the counter to kiss your forehead. “You look better.” He inhaled her skin, the longer scent of his soap and Bucky's touch still there, along with that sweet undertone that was all you. “Smell better too.” He teased. 

You breath out your nose with a half hearted huff. “Thanks.” 

“Always angel. Here. I made you some food. You don’t have to eat it all but at least a few bites would ease my mind. And then maybe we can go up to the room and get you some sun hmm? Would you be ok with that.” Steve slid the colorful pasta across the counter to you with a warm smile. Trying to coax you to follow his lead. 

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You eat mostly in silence. Steve and Bucky don’t push you to talk as you fill your stomach. You know they're worried. But even just these small gestures are helping you feel like maybe there is an end to this malaise. You see Steve smile and kiss Bucky softly in thanks as they wait for you to tell them you're ready. 

They spend the rest of the day trying to get you some sun. Fresh air and movement. 

“We’re gonna do this a little everyday till you start feeling better. And if you need it or feel up to it we can look into talking to a therapist too.” Steve assures. His hand firmly laced through your own. “You are not alone in this. We all feel this way sometimes. But I’m proud of you for trying love.”

A flicker of hope flies in your chest at his words. You aren’t alone, this isn’t forever. And your men are gonna love you through it till you can do it on you own.

[ineffablecabbage]

I wish you’d write a fic where… Jadzia finds out about Bashir and Garak’s relationship

Jadzia likes to pride herself on knowing all the station's gossip. She also likes to pride herself on being up to date on being a good friend; she's had enough lifetimes to figure it out, after all.

So she's somewhat miffed to realize that something has slipped her notice, both in the station gossip sector, and as Julian's friend.

In fairness, it had been a busy week. (When wasn't it around here?)

And she's perfectly willing to give Julian the benefit of the doubt that he's also been having a very busy week when he brushes them off, quite rudely on the way to the morning meal.

But then Leeta says, "Oh, poor Dr. Bashir. He's really been in such a mood all week."

And then Kira rolls her eyes. "Going on a week trip with Garak will do that with you, but I wish he'd get over it. Whatever 'it' is."

Leeta grins. "Well, that is the running question at the bar."

Kira snorts derisvely. "If by question you mean illegal gamblilng operation."

Leeta shrugs. "I mean, Quark would like the question to remain up for debate for at least five more days. For maximum… suspense potential."

And then Jadzia realizes that she has missed an entire week's worth of gossip somehow.

A meal and some catchup later, she makes her way to the infirmary. She is able to observe Julian snapping at people and sulking in equal turns for far longer than she normally would have been able to, before she takes pity on him.

"So I'm figuring it was either really great sex, or a grisly murder," she says abruptly. She doesn't say, with Garak, both are probably likely.

She watches his face, and all of her lifetimes knows that admission of guilt. It's not the kind that comes with murder, so she leans back and waits patiently for the story to unfold.

It has been a busy week. But for now, at least, they have some time.