#trying to find something positive in christmas

[spanktony]

chapter two. | WHERE DO YOU SLEEP? — YU JIMIN.

𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀 — y/n, a rising music producer, has built her dream career while keeping her personal life under wraps. karina, aespa’s leader, is preparing for a huge comeback with a mini album produced and written by the one and only y/n.

karina knows this is the opportunity of a lifetime, and she has to nail it. the only problem is, she may be a bit distracted by her producer.

something about their connection feels different—like maybe it's worth the risk of prying eyes. but how much will they give up to chase after what they want?

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 — small tension w a tad bit of angst.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 — 1.7k

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲— this is the last filler chap before things start heating up lol. if this does well quickly i'll drop the next chap immediately

taglist (open) — @sunshinez4 @gtfoiydlyj @yuyuy90

series masterlist. main masterlist. prev. next.

what? what was that noise?

it takes a second for you to register the sound, the left side of your cheek pressed against the soft white pillow on your bed as your eyes lazily blink open.

the buzzing continues.

you sigh, reaching a hand out from under the blanket, and pat the nightstand in search of the culprit. your fingers brush against the device, and you pull it towards you, holding it over your face and squinting.

the bright light momentarily blinds you, but when you open your eyes fully, you hit the green accept button and bring the phone to your ear, muttering a groggy hello.

"y/n," your manager's voice came through, far too cheerful for 1:07 a.m. "wake up! i got some big news!"

"obviously i'm up." you groan, rolling over onto your stomach and closing your eyes. sassiness wasn't really something you could control before your morning coffee. "what's the news?"

"karina wants you to help write and produce her solo," your manager blurts out, his excitement practically vibrating through the line. "she personally asked for you."

your eyes snap open. whatever sleep fog still remained vanishes in an instant. "wait, what?" you ask, sitting up so quickly the blanket falls off your shoulders.

"you heard me. sm called. she wasn't happy with the last version of her single and asked for your help. she loves working with you, y/n."

your heart races. karina. asking for you. specifically.

"but—but—" you sputter, still not quite believing his words. "no buts," your manager interrupts, clearly on a roll. "sm is flying you out first thing this morning."

you blink, your brain still playing catch-up. "wait, this morning? like, in a few hours?"

it was around 5 am when your plane finally took off, your headphones over your ears, and eyes covered by a frog sleeping mask that your mom got you for christmas.

the flight was long; it didn't help that you kept twisting and turning in your seat, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in. only fully submitting to the exhaustion once your head fell against your manager's shoulder, who was fast asleep and didn't mind.

the plane touches down with a soft jolt, and you push yourself upright, immediately regretting it. the frog mask from your mom's christmas gift sits comically on top of your head, and a long yawn escapes your lips as you stretch your stiff muscles.

your manager, ever the morning person, doesn't seem to notice your exhaustion as he watches security gather your things and move toward the exit. "you ready?"

you nod, rubbing your eyes. the realization of being back in korea hasn't fully hit you yet, and the reason you're back again isn't for personal enjoyment this time but for business.

with...karina.

you hadn't seen her in weeks (because you were in la), hadn't even spoken to her since that one fateful day when she gave you her number after pulling slightly on your arm. so much time had passed since then, and now, suddenly, the dark-haired girl was the topic of all your thoughts.

your manager and the security guards walk a little ahead, talking amongst themselves as they lead the way toward the exit of the airport. then there's a shutter, a faint shutter sound. then another.

you glance up to see a few people hovering near the arrivals area, some pointing in your direction. the whispers turn into excited squeals as you walk by; phones start popping up like whack-a-moles, flashes of professional cameras going off.

and you instinctively cover your face with the frog-shaped sleep mask, which causes a couple of laughs to erupt from the growing crowd. but you quickly pull it back when you realize you can't see out of it.

you hear your manager talking with the security team, and suddenly there's an arm wrapped around your shoulders, leading you outside, the warm sunlight hitting your skin. you're ushered into a waiting car, and your manager sits next to you, giving you a reassuring smile before explaining the next steps of your busy schedule for the day.

"wait, what? lunch?" you ask, a bit incredulous, a bit shocked. your manager chuckles and nods, "they want to treat you to lunch as a thank you for your hard work."

huh.

you sink back into the plush seat, twisting your lips. "and, um, all the girls are gonna be there?"

"yep," he replies. "everyone, including their manager. so make sure to rest when you get to your hotel room, okay?"

your heartbeat picks up speed.

"okay."

you really love your hats.

karina thinks to herself, watching you from the corner of her eye as you sit across the table from her, laughing about something aeri said. instead, this time you're wearing a red balenciaga hat with your brown hood pulled up over it.

you seem so comfortable, laughing and chatting with the others. they each had mentioned having fun that day in the recording studio and how you're one of the easiest people they've ever worked with, along with the most patient and caring.

the way you interact with her members is just the sweetest thing; karina's heart clenches, a soft smile playing on her lips as she watches you. your eyes widen, then you quickly nod your head, agreeing with yizhuo on how mogu mogu is one of the best drinks you've ever tasted.

the truth is, karina did request that you help her with her solo. it seems bad; it really does. her asking you to take down her number was a bold move, only to never receive a text from you, then asking you to come all the way to seoul for her own benefit.

she did it, though.

it wasn't just so she could see you; she truly did want your help. although she was happy to see you again.

the days after the first meeting, karina would replay your conversation in her head.

"ah, i didn't think of that. let's do it again!"

"for sure!"

karina doesn't even understand why the interaction stuck with her; it wasn't anything special, just a quick moment. yet, it stayed. karina was never one to act like a lovesick fool, and she prided herself on her professionalism. she had always been able to keep her personal and work life separate, and she knew the importance of keeping her relationship status private.

she knows how that turns out; she's experienced it firsthand before.

but something about you made her throw all caution out the window. she wanted to know more. wanted to spend more time with you.

"unnie? are you feeling alright?" minjeong asks, a tiny smile cracking through her concern. karina blinks, realizing she had been lost in thought.

"i'm fine," she replies with a forced smile, taking a sip of her water.

"i saw fortune cookies near the register. anyone else want one?" you suddenly ask, a wide smile on your lips as you stand from your seat. karina's eyes linger a second too long.

you earn a few yeses from the group before making your way to the counter, and karina gets up to follow you, excusing herself.

you glance over your shoulder as karina steps beside you. swallowing a lump in your throat, you turn back to the counter, your hands digging in the bowl of fortune cookies, trying to ignore the discomfort of karina's sudden presence beside you.

"how have you been?" karina asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"fine," you reply curtly, not looking at her. "busy." she pauses, and you can feel her studying you.

"you seem upset with me." you let out a small, humorless laugh, finally turning to meet her gaze.

"upset? no, i'm not upset. i just want to get this over with."

her brows furrow, her lips parting in confusion.

was she really trying to act like she had no idea why you were acting this way?

"get what over with?"

you stare at her. is she serious?

when it's clear that karina's waiting for an answer, you let out a frustrated sigh, stepping a little closer to her.

"this whole thing," you say, gesturing vaguely. "helping you with your solo. i don't even know why you asked me when you haven't bothered to talk to me since the day you gave me your number."

karina's expression shifts, her lips parting slightly as if to respond, but she doesn't. instead, she just stares at you, processing your words. "i didn't talk to you because you didn't text me," she says finally, her voice a little louder than before.

"what are you talking about? i did text you," you counter, swapping the handful of fortune cookies to your other hand before pulling out your phone. "i sent you a message right after you gave me your number. and then another. you never replied."

you open your messages, scrolling to the thread and showing her the unsent texts, demonstrating that you did, in fact, reach out to her. karina takes your phone, her brows furrowed as she inspects the screen.

her lips press into a thin line before she lets out a quiet laugh. "y/n," she says, holding the phone up. "you put a 3 instead of a 4 in my number."

"what?" you reply, confused. your mouth opens again, then closes. "no way," you mutter, snatching the phone back to confirm.

sure enough, there it is. the tiny typo that had caused months of silence. "oh my god."

karina bites her lip, her eyes shining with amusement. "i thought you ghosted me," she says, a giggle escaping her lips; she immediately brings her hand up to hide her huge smile, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

you groan, running a hand over the material of your hoodie. "i thought you were ignoring me!" you exclaim. you can't help the small laugh that slips past your lips.

you feel stupid, embarrassed. "i—this is so stupid. i feel so stupid."

"hey," she says gently, her smile softening. "it's not your fault. just... a miscommunication."

you exhale sharply, shaking your head. "yeah, but still. all this time, i thought—" you stop yourself, a sigh escaping your lips.

karina studies you, her gaze searching, curious.

"whatever. at least now i know."

karina tilts her head slightly, her eyes searching yours. "so... can we start over?" her question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you just stare at her.

then, slowly, you nod. "yeah. i guess we can."

she smiles, a genuine one that makes your heart flutter. "good."

series masterlist. main masterlist. prev. next.

[celticcrossanon]

I find it ridiculous that Camilla is trying to force her non-royal family onto the public. She knows they are not royal and that William is the heir to the throne, not her cocaine-snorting son Tom. She also knows once Charles is no longer king, her family will not be in a prominent position anymore at court. So why do you think Camilla is wasting her time pissing people off by trying to have her kids/grandkids be "royals" at official events when they're clearly not? Your thoughts, Celta? :)

Hi Nonny,

The only answer I have at the moment is ego. 'Look, I won, and my kids are equal to/superior to your royal sons', projected at Princess Diana and her supporters. If so, it is a very sad state of affairs, but I can't see any other good reason for it.

AFAIK most aristocrats look down on the royals as having 'lesser' blood (those Hanoverian beginnings), so being seen as 'royal' or 'royal-adjacent' isn't going to do her brood any good in the eyes of aristocrats. Maybe to give them something to use for commercial success? Goodness knows her son needs it.

As long as they stay in the background, like the Middletons, I don't think that anyone would mind if the Parker-Bowles brood spent time with their mother/grandmother at Easter, Christmas, summer holidays etc. It is when they are pushed forward and set up as equal to the heir and his family, above all the other blood royals, that people get annoyed (and rightfully so).

[chaoticdelinqueerwithglitter]

Look at my sons, proud is no the word I'm looking for!

(but I love them 💜)

(Rinzu holding hand and Ran doesn't want to know anything about)

(yes, I'm a kangaroo and they are my babies 🙈)

[plutotheplum]

Winter's Kiss

sylus x fem!reader

summary: luke and kieran rope you into spending christmas at the n109 zone (and kissing their boss).

cw: fluff, soft!sylus, kissing under the mistletoe, luke and kieran being idiots, found family

wc: 2.7k

a/n: merry christmas eve/christmas my lovelies!! some fluff for the holiday season! here's to hoping sylus turns up under our christmas trees :)

also on ao3!

Somehow, you’d ended up in the N109 Zone for Christmas.

It wasn’t like the barrage of texts from Luke and Kieran had weighed upon your decision, the rapid influx of messages from the twins demanding your presence for Christmas. That coupled with the image of Sylus alone on Christmas night hadn’t made your stomach churn and heart ache at all.

The year had been a tumultuous one. Wanderers, disturbing visions and wanted criminals had you on edge these past few months, so perhaps unwinding with said, now somewhat mellow, wanted criminals was warranted in some way. 

You heft the presents under your arms, moving your fingers to stabilize the wrapped goods when you feel one of them begin to slip. Shopping hadn’t been too difficult, although choosing a gift for Sylus had proved to be somewhat of a challenge. You weren’t sure whether to get him something heartfelt or to gift him a refurbished gun with new prototyped features that were advertised to the Hunter Association. 

The glittering streams of tinsel drags you out of your thoughts, a smile pulling at your lips as you imagine Luke, Kieran and Sylus decorating. You hear panicked, hushed whispers when you turn the corner, a laugh spilling out of you when you see the sight before you.

Luke perched atop Kieran’s shoulders, Kieran grumbling irritatedly when Luke flails and misses the tip of the Christmas tree, the golden star falling off only for Kieran to shift and have Luke catch it.

“It’s not that hard, you idiot,” Kieran grunts, his knees bending in an attempt to readjust to Luke’s weight.

“Then you try!” Luke protests.

“I thought you two were meant to be in tune,” you muse, stepping closer, over the strewn wrapping paper and bending down to add your presents to the growing collection under the Christmas tree. 

“We are,” they both say in unison, their eyes landing on you.

“You made it!” Luke says happily, squirming, “Boss will be glad.”

“ Really glad,” Keiran adds, his annoyance forgotten momentarily. “We’re glad too.”

You smile at them, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s nice to see you guys too. Maybe you should try holding the star at the tip, Luke?”

“That’s what I told him!” Kieran says, letting out an aggrieved sigh. 

Luke huffs indignantly, adjusting his position yet again as Keiran steps closer to the tree, giving Luke some more leverage. It’s another failed attempt and Kieran is rolling his eyes, dumping Luke onto his feet unceremoniously. 

“You do me now.”

“What about her?” Luke asks, pointing at you.

“You could ask Mephisto,” you offer, pointing at the mechanical crow that was currently preening his feathers. “What do you say, buddy?”

Mephisto gives an indignant squawk, his little head turning away arrogantly, tending to his feathers with care.

“Nevermind,” you sigh, before looking towards the twins. “Kieran is taller than me, though.”

“Just get on,” Luke whines as he bends his knees, waiting for you to climb up onto his shoulders.

You open your mouth to protest, but there’s a warm hand curling over your hip, pulling you back gently, flush against a firm chest. “Let’s not badger our guest, hm?”

Deep and velvety, you have no doubts as to who this voice belongs to. Your head tilts back to find Sylus smirking down at you, his expression amused.

“Glad you could join us, sweetie. The N109 Zone isn’t usually so… festive.”

“Yeah, well, apparently you were missing me, so I figured I’d drop in,” you tease, a sly smile spreading across your face.

Luke and Kieran snicker until Sylus’ stern expression silences them, his hand squeezing at your hip in warning.

“I never said that.”

“Must’ve been the wind,” you murmur.

“Right,” Sylus deadpans.

You squeak when the red mist wraps around you, lifting you off of the ground, the golden star being thrust into your hand by the same swirling mist. The trio of men beneath you seem amused as the tendrils sweep you higher, closer to the top of the tree, giving you enough height to place the star right where it needs to be.

Sylus’ Evol dissipates as it sets you down onto your feet, the mist sweeping across playfully and making your dress flutter. 

“That’s one way to do it,” Kieran remarks, slinging his arm over Luke’s shoulders before they shoot each other knowing glances and disappear from the living room.

“You came,” Sylus says once the twins have left, his arms crossing over his chest.

“I did,” you reply, peering up at him, your hands clasping behind your back, “too bad you never sent me a personal invitation.” Sylus smiles, and you can’t help but think he looks softer in this light, the ruthless leader of Onychinus replaced by a man who seems less intense and more accommodating than usual.

“I figured Luke and Kieran would’ve gotten through to you,” he muses, his head tilting as he lets his gaze dip over you.

You do the same, taking in his sweater and trousers, trying to quell the inconvenient yet undeniable pull of attraction you feel towards him. 

“Well, they did,” you sigh, managing to drag your gaze back up to meet his, “although I can’t say I appreciated how many texts they sent.”

“The twins tend to get excited,” Sylus replies, reaching out towards you, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

It’s hard to not notice how Sylus’ touch lingers for a moment, his expression looking a little absent-minded as though remembering something from the past. Your brows furrow, unable to decide between asking him or letting his touch linger further. His hand drops away after a few moments before he clears his throat. 

“I made dinner,” he announces.

You laugh, eyes lighting up at the thought of Sylus in the kitchen. You don’t quite believe him though, not when Sylus had enough money to hire at least a dozen personal chefs.

“You’re not serious,” you say, head tilting in amusement.

“I am,” Sylus smirks, his hand landing on your lower back as he guides you forward, towards the hallway, “Luke and Kieran pitched in.”

“Now I feel special,” you muse.

“I suppose you are,” Sylus replies, his expression sobering, “to all of us.”

You’re taken aback by the sincerity in his words, heart giving way to a flutter that you attempt to squash down by pinching yourself, not that it helps. This sense of belonging isn’t what you’d planned on, warmth blooming in your chest as you stare up at Sylus and remember the twins. It’s nice, really, to be valued like this. You can’t help but think you could get used to it. 

Laughter echoes through the hallway as you and Sylus move through it. You startle when Kieran shouts, his voice urgent. 

“Don’t move!”

“Oh, look at that ,” Luke sighs dramatically, feigning innocence as he peers upwards, directing his gaze above you and Sylus.

Bewilderment flashes across your face until you hear Sylus let out a low laugh. You tip your head back, eyes narrowing when you spy the sprig of mistletoe hanging right above where you’re standing. Mephisto adds in something that sounds like a suspiciously happy squawk, and you stare at the crow, realising you’ve been betrayed. 

“Funny,” you say drily, shaking your head. 

Kieran sighs just like Luke, as though he can’t quite believe the situation. The cunning expression in their eyes gives them away. 

Devious, little brats.

“Well, you can’t move now,” Luke says, sounding positively aggrieved. 

“I suppose you’ll just have to kiss, isn’t that right?” Kieran says, looking towards Luke. Luke nods, a self-satisfied smile settling on his face. “Those are the rules.”

“What rules?” you shoot back, glaring at the pair of twins, “there are no rules. I could quite literally just walk away.”

“Christmas tradition !” Luke and Kieran both argue, their faces looking a little crestfallen when they hear the tone of your voice, “you have to kiss!”

You can feel your heart twinge at the earnest tone present in their voices, your eyes flickering up to meet Sylus’. Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem to have any protests, his gaze boring down into yours expectantly. 

“You seriously have nothing to say?” you grouse, head tilting.

“It’s just a kiss, sweetie,” he replies, his arm wrapping around your waist to bring you closer to him. “What’s the matter, hm? Afraid you’ll fall for me?”

“The thought is laughable,” you retort, trying to ignore the soothing squeeze of his hand against your side; the unrelenting warmth that was currently seeping into you and melting your hardened resolve.

“I suppose we’ll find out,” Sylus murmurs, his fingers gripping your chin to tilt your head. “We have time.”

“Move a little to the right!” Kieran calls out, waving his hand.

“What for?” you ask exasperatedly, feeling Sylus step closer, moving you with him.

“For- for the aesthetic !” Luke huffs out.

The twins look a little impatient as you stare at them, your brows furrowing further when you see Kieran whisper something to Luke.

Sylus doesn’t let you dwell longer on the twins’ antics, his calloused hand cupping your cheek to turn you towards him. 

“Merry Christmas, sweetie.”

Your eyes flutter shut as his lips slot over yours, your hand curling around his wrist. Sylus kisses you like he means it, lips soft yet insistent, his thumb smoothing over your cheek. You forget where you are momentarily, knees feeling weak as you fist his sweater pulling him closer, rising up on the tips of your toes to meet his kiss better.

Sylus tilts his head, deepening the kiss. Your stubborn resolve weakens pitifully and you can only think about how perfect this moment is, how good Sylus’ lips feel, how warm his embrace is-

There’s a blinding array of flashes, white sparking out from under your closed eyelids until your eyes snap open, head turning to the side to find both Luke and Kieran with cameras in hand.

“Oh, shit,” Luke begins.

“I thought the flash was off,” Kieran mutters, frowning.

You grit your teeth, taking one step towards them, your eyes narrowing. “Give that to me.”

Luke and Kieran hug their cameras to their chest protectively.

“Christmas memories,” Luke laughs nervously when he sees the determination in your eyes. “Wouldn’t- wouldn’t want to lose those.”

Kieran nods in agreement.

“Boss!” They cry out when the cameras get swept out of their hands by Sylus’ Evol, one of them landing in your hands.

You click through the images, heat blossoming in your stomach when you see how intimate the kiss looks, Sylus’ body pressed firmly against yours, his hand on your cheek. It’s romantic, your somewhat eager response, Sylus’ tight hold, all captured closely through the lens.

“‘s nice,” Sylus murmurs, his chest pressing up against your back as he peers down at the little camera screen.

“ No ,” you shake your head vehemently, “it’s not nice.”

“We look good,” he whispers, his voice dropping lower, lips brushing over the shell of your ear.

You try to ignore the way his hands feel on your hips, his body pressing a little closer into yours. It’s hard not to agree with him the longer you stare at the images though, you do look good, and Luke’s interjection about Christmas memories has you feeling a little forgiving. 

“Fine, keep them,” you sigh, handing the camera back to Luke whilst Sylus does the same to Kieran, “but don’t share them, please.”

Luke and Kieran nod enthusiastically and you snag onto Kieran’s arm before he can leave, your voice dropping to a low whisper.

“Send them to me,” you whisper, “and not a word to anyone.”

Kieran smiles deviously and you roll your eyes, reaching up to ruffle his hair. 

“You’re such a jerk, Kieran.”

“C’mon,” he whines, “you love us.”

You smile up at him, your arm hooking with his. “Maybe just a little.”

He snorts and you let out a laugh, following after Luke and Sylus who had left earlier, talking about something else. Dinner goes smoothly enough and you refuse to tell Luke and Kieran what their presents are, despite their whining.

You feed Mephisto little bites of your food, your finger petting his little feathery head gently every now and then. He preens at the attention, letting out an odd sounding chirp every now and then when you tap his little beak and offer him some more food.

Sylus is seated beside you and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to stop stealing glances at the side of his face. The longer you stare, the more you can feel yourself falling deeper, a pressing crisis unfolding in your mind. 

Fuck . You think you might like him.

Deep rooted feelings of yearning never lead to any good, and yet, you were too impatient not to act on them.You wait patiently, fingers playing with themselves in your lap, for the perfect opportunity. 

It presents itself when Luke and Kieran break out into an insignificant quarrel, their eyes moving elsewhere. Sylus is already looking towards you and you’re leaning forward, cupping the back of his head to bring him closer, lips meeting his in a slow, sweet kiss. 

“What was that for?” Sylus murmurs when you break away, his eyes roving over the flush settling on your cheeks.

“No reason,” you reply nonchalantly, leaning back in your chair.

Sylus scoffs out a laugh, behaving seemingly unaffected. There’s a light flush dusted across his cheeks however, his tongue darting out to taste the remnants of you on his lips.

“This is for no reason too,” he says, grabbing your chin and pulling you closer.

You sigh contentedly when he kisses you, arms wrapping around his neck, your lips working against his a little feverishly as though you can’t get enough.

A cacophony of protests breaks out from the twins when they see you and Sylus kissing at the table.

“Gross! Get a room!”

You roll your eyes, breaking away from Sylus to peer over at them. 

“You were the ones that made us kiss,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Yeah, we didn’t mean all the time,” Luke corrects.

“Deal with it,” Sylus interrupts, brushing a kiss to your cheek.

You hum happily, Sylus’ hand warm as it encases yours under the table. Luke pouts and Kieran mirrors him, both of them slumping back in their chairs.

You and Sylus get a little more privacy when you step outside, snow dusting across both of you, covering the shrubbery and trees. Mephisto swoops through the air, his mechanical wings flapping as he lands on a tree branch above. The icy chill of the wintery air isn’t so bad, not when Sylus is stepping up behind you, his chin resting on your shoulder as he holds you close to him.

“It was bound to happen,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek again as you stare up at the night sky, glittering with stars.

“You seem awfully sure of yourself,” you reply, squeezing his forearms.

“Let’s just say… I had an inkling. I know you, sweetie.”

“I don’t understand what you mean sometimes,” you sigh, peering up at him, head resting on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” he whispers, dropping a kiss to your temple.

You sway gently in his arms, pressing yourself closer, eyes slipping shut. You’d kill for more moments of peace like this.

It never seems to last for long.

The beginnings of torn wrapping paper begin to fill your ears and you peek through the glass window to find the twins tearing at their presents.

“Oh, these are sick !” Luke announces, beginning to twirl around the pair of knives you had gotten him.

“They have to wait!” you protest, reaching for the door, “Sylus, they have to wait!”

“Let them,” Sylus murmurs, dragging you back into his arms, his chest rumbling with laughter.

You can’t help but let out an exasperated noise, smiling up at him. Sylus lowers his head and you nudge your nose against his gently, pressing a tender kiss to his lips.

“What?” he asks quietly when you trace the curve of his cheek, your fingers splaying across his skin.

You kiss him again, revelling in the softness of his eyes when you pull apart. There's a strange warmth in your chest, an unknown pull in the back of your mind as though something familiar were evading you.

You feel like you know him too.

“Merry Christmas, Sylus.”

[elliee3e]

‘primal needs’

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅ logan howlett x f! reader

thinking about logan in heat/with ruts x reader who’s ovulating … ohhh my god !!

content warnings ;

piv, size difference, heat/ruts, dubious consent but it’s very slight okay mentions of breeding kink but not really ?? it’s just cumming inside but it’s implied guys

author’s note ;

guys, i’m going through a slight writer’s block urgh . but it’s christmas & so i came up with this little idea !! merry christmas to everyone & hopefully i can also get something out before or shortly after new years <33 MWAH!

the air between you two is thick and heavy as logan’s cock stretches you to the hilt like nothing else.

the sloppy mess and smell of pure, primal driven need also clings to the air — as well as the lewd, squelching sounds of him pounding into you: pulling delicious moans from both your bodies.

even after going like this for more times than you can count, both you and logan are anything but tired. and the reason for that?

logan’s in heat. all you could feel all week was him pressing up against you, whether from behind or in front, anywhere, anytime — just trying to get some friction. and as much as it pained you to shove him away each and every time, you didn’t want to risk anything in public.

however when he gets you to himself in his room, you two are all over eachother like rabid animals. he’s biting at your neck, big hands pulling at your clothes and nearly tearing them apart; not that you cared — all you wanted was to get dicked down, as your sex drive had spiked all week too.

and logan could tell. his already heightened senses only peaked when he was in heat: causing him to sniff you out from far away even, the sweet scent of your pussy dripping for him was enough to drive him to find you no matter where you were. and when he did, best believe he’ll drag you somewhere just to toy with your pussy.

“ah, look at her. always a sloppy mess for me, ain’ she?” he’d tease, lips hovering right over your neck as his hand had started to make it’s descent to slip into your panties, fingers already dragging lazy circles over your clit.

it was always a messy combination.

even in the mornings, when logan would wake up first, he’d notice you still asleep and slot his knee between your thighs and up your little short nightdress — nudging you awake by rubbing his knee against your clit through your already damp panties. by the time you’d wake up, you’d feel his warm cock already pressing against your folds, wake up to the sight of him on top of you, his arms pressed on either side of your pillow. “this okay, doll? m’ sorry, i couldn’t wait..” he’d grunt, voice still rough and tired, but you nodded in silent agreement — needing this just as much as him and feeling as he then sunk his cock into your wet, eager walls no problem — a groan leaving both him and you.

when you would wake up first, it was a little different, as you’d find yourself spreading your thighs to get onto his with a little whine. you rocked your hips against his thigh needily, awaking the man easily. he’d wake up to feel your heat rubbing up against his thigh.

“mm.. well look at my pretty princess, grindin’ like a lil puppy all over me—..” his tired voice would finally speak up as he registered the situation in his mind, his cock already starting to strain against his boxers. it made you whine for more, as his big hand shamelessly pulled your hand onto him to palm his cock — the beginning of a morning you two knew would last all afternoon.

and when i mean anytime, anywhere, i mean it. the man’s practically a dog, a dog in heat if you may. he’s absolutely rabid when in heat and will look for any excuse to get you someplace private just to get some release.

sometimes, you feel like you can barely keep up, with the way he’s manhandling you and shifting your position so he can get the best friction on his cock — for example, you could be on your back and this man, with his godforsaken huge hands, will shamelessly turn you onto your stomach and hold your head down against the pillow, slipping into your sweet pussy from behind to slam his cock against that spot he knows has you seeing stars, from the way your words turn into jumbled whines and moans.

and from that, he could also easily turn you back over into a mating press. his favorite. he’d most likely be like that for a while, until he empties his cum into you and has you doing the same all over his cock, before sitting back and starting to pull you onto his lap to ride him for another orgasm, a repeat of all week all over again.

[brunchable]

Under The Mistletoe | B. B.

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x F! Reader Themes: Fake relationship, forced proximity, enemies-to-lovers(ish), rom-com Summary: When your meddling family won’t stop asking about you love life, you roped your arch-nemesis Bucky into pretending to be your boyfriend for Christmas dinner at your parents house. It was pay back for the massive favor he owes you, so he had no choice but to agree. A/N : This oneshot is part of my 4K Follower christmas themed celebration. I hope you enjoy this first one! Thank you so much for reading my stories! Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The smell of pine and cinnamon wafts through the air as you adjust the cuffs of your sweater, glaring at the man currently making himself at home in your parents’ living room. James Buchanan Barnes—your nemesis, your tormentor, the human equivalent of a lump of coal—lounges on the couch like he’s been a part of your family for years. Your mom already adores him.

“James, more eggnog?” she chirps, holding out a festive mug.

“Of course,” Bucky replies with a smile so charming, you almost believe it’s real. Almost.

You, on the other hand, are clinging to your sanity by the thinnest strand of tinsel. He’s only here because he owes you. Big time. And because your family won’t stop asking when you’ll finally settle down and find someone “worth bringing home for Christmas.”

When you roped Bucky into this charade, you expected the bare minimum. A few fake smiles. Maybe holding your hand once or twice. What you did not expect was him waltzing in here, winning over your family, and actually knowing things about you.

“Y/N hates marshmallows in her hot chocolate,” Bucky says smoothly, stopping your dad mid-scoop. “She’s all about the whipped cream.”

You freeze in the doorway, clutching a tray of cookies like a lifeline. How does he know that? You never even told him that. Your dad raises an eyebrow at you, impressed, while you try to recover from the shock.

“Right,” you stammer, narrowing your eyes at Bucky. “Because you’re so attentive.”

He smirks, the twinkle in his eye more annoying than any Christmas light you’ve ever seen. “It’s a gift.”

× × × ×

The cozy living room, aglow with soft Christmas lights, feels oppressively warm. Not because of the crackling fire or the wool socks your mom forced everyone to wear, but because Bucky’s presence next to you is positively suffocating. His thigh, firm and annoyingly warm, is pressed against yours, and every time he shifts, your nerves jolt like a live wire.

“You’re twitching again,” Bucky murmurs under his breath, leaning closer so his lips almost brush your ear. “Relax. If you keep acting like this, your mom’s going to think I broke your heart or something.”

“Maybe I should tell her you’re insufferable, so she kicks you out,” you snap, voice low enough not to disturb the room. Your family is fully engrossed in Elf, but you swear Bucky’s gaze burns hotter than the fire.

“Go ahead,” he whispers back, his breath warm against your skin. “I’m her favorite now, you know.”

You resist the urge to stab him with the candy cane you’ve been holding for the last ten minutes. Instead, you muster your sweetest fake smile and clap your hands. “Well, Mom, it’s getting late, and I think Bucky has a long drive ahead of him—”

Your mom, standing with a tray of cookies like some sort of Christmas matriarch, freezes mid-step. 

“What?” she exclaims, her eyes wide and full of betrayal. “You’re not staying, Bucky? But I prepared Y/N’s room for the two of you!”

The room goes dead silent.

Bucky’s head swivels toward you so fast, you hear a faint crack. 

“She didn’t tell me about that,” he says, his voice strangled with barely concealed panic. He offers you a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t know we’d be, uh, bunking together.”

You grit your teeth, your face burning hotter than the fireplace. “That’s because I didn’t know,” you hiss, shooting a glare at your mom that could melt Frosty the Snowman.

“How could you make your boyfriend drive all the way out here just to send him back into the snow?” your mom demands, hands on her hips like a Christmas tyrant. “Absolutely not. He’s staying. Come on, Bucky, I’ll show you two to your room.”

“Our room?” you squeak, but your mom is already bustling out of the room, and Bucky, to your utter horror, is rising from the couch to follow her.

He pauses just long enough to lean down and mutter, “This just got a whole lot more interesting, sweetheart.” The grin he flashes is wolfish, and you resist the urge to throttle him with your flannel sleeve.

The room is straight out of a Hallmark Christmas special. The fireplace is lit, the bed is perfectly made with a festive quilt and decorative pillows, and the faint smell of pine fills the air. There’s even mistletoe hanging in the corner, mocking you.

Bucky steps in, glancing around, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and terror. 

“Wow,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Cozy.”

Your mom claps her hands together, beaming. “I knew you two would love it. Oh, and don’t worry, honey, I put the extra pillows in the closet in case you need them.” She winks at you, winks, before spinning on her heel and leaving you to your doom.

The moment the door clicks shut, you whirl on Bucky. “Don’t say a word.”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk tugging at his lips betrays him. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, doll,” he drawls, wandering over to the bed and plopping down on it like he owns the place. He stretches out, arms behind his head, and sighs dramatically. “Comfy. We’re gonna have a great night.”

You stare at him, horrified. “You’re sleeping on the floor.”

He raises an eyebrow, patting the quilt beside him. “I don’t think your mom would approve.”

You throw a decorative pillow at his face, which he catches with infuriating ease. “This is all your fault.”

“My fault? You’re the one who dragged me here.”

“You owed me!”

“And I’m paying you back,” he says with a grin, tossing the pillow back at you. “With interest, apparently.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

Bucky leans forward, his grin softening just a touch. “Relax, Y/N. It’s just one night. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

Somehow, that promise doesn’t reassure you in the slightest. You glare at him one last time before grabbing a blanket from the closet and stomping to the couch by the fireplace.

“Where are you going?” he calls after you.

“To sleep.”

“Suit yourself.” 

You don’t have to look to know he’s smirking again. You grab another pillow and resist the urge to launch it at his stupidly handsome face.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

× × × ×

The fire had long since died, leaving the room shrouded in a cold that no amount of decorative holiday cheer could banish. You’d been curled up on the couch under a threadbare blanket that smelled faintly of cinnamon and humiliation for hours, but now you were shivering so hard you were worried your teeth might chatter loud enough to wake the whole house.

You shot a death glare at Bucky, sprawled out on the bed like a smug prince in his flannel pajamas, the quilt pulled up to his chin. The nerve of him actually letting you sleep on the couch while he hogged the bed like he didn’t owe you his very existence—or at least this ridiculous favor.

Finally, when your toes felt like icicles and you were seriously debating setting your pride on fire just to warm up, you caved. You untangled yourself from the blanket, muttering curses under your breath, and tiptoed toward the bed.

It would have been stealthy. It would have been smooth. Except your foot made direct, agonizing contact with the solid oak footboard.

Pain exploded through your toe, and you bit back a screech so feral you probably looked like a Christmas banshee. Instead, you crumpled to the floor, clutching your foot and mouthing a stream of silent profanities that would make Santa's naughty list blush.

“Mother F—!” you hissed at yourself, wincing as you hobbled the rest of the way to the bed. You crawled onto the empty side like some kind of injured burglar, trying to be as silent as possible. Your toe throbbed in time with your heartbeat, but you focused on one thing: the warm cocoon of blankets just inches away.

Finally, you slid under the covers, sighing as the heat from the quilt enveloped you. Bliss. Sweet, sweet bliss. Maybe Bucky wouldn’t even notice—

“Could’ve just asked, you know.”

You nearly launched yourself out of the bed in shock, your heart leaping into your throat. “What the—!” you whisper-screeched, clutching the quilt to your chest.

Bucky’s voice, low and laced with amusement, drifted through the darkness. “I was awake the whole time.”

“You—!” Words failed you as your face burned with embarrassment. “Then why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I was curious how far you’d go before giving up.” You could hear the grin in his voice.

“You’re the worst.”

“Debatable. I didn’t laugh when you stubbed your toe.”

“You heard that?!”

“Sweetheart, I think the neighbours heard that.” His shoulders shook with silent laughter as you stared at him, outraged.

“I hate you,” you snapped, yanking the quilt tighter around you and turning your back on him.

But before you could stew in your annoyance, you felt a hand reach over and pull part of the blanket from you, wrapping it snugly around your side. You froze as his voice softened, amusement fading.

“Relax. I don’t bite. Unless you’re still mad about the couch.”

“I am.”

“Noted.” He shifted, and his voice dropped lower, warmer. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

You turned over, your curiosity finally getting the better of you. Facing Bucky’s silhouette in the faint moonlight streaming through the window, you squinted at him. 

“Why aren’t you asleep?”

He exhaled softly, like he’d been waiting for you to ask. Without a word, he reached over and flicked on the small lamp on his side of the bed, filling the room with a soft golden glow. The shadows on his face softened, and he turned to face you fully, propping his head up on his hand.

“I’m not used to a soft, warm, comfortable bed,” he said simply, his voice low and quiet.

That wasn’t the answer you expected. “Why not?” you asked, furrowing your brow.

Bucky’s gaze flickered to the blanket between you before settling back on your face. “I usually sleep on the floor.”

Your jaw dropped. “The floor? Why?”

He shrugged like it was no big deal, like it didn’t hurt to admit. “I have a bed,” he said casually, “but… being uncomfortable has kind of become my normal.”

Your heart sank at his admission. The way he said it—so matter-of-factly, like he didn’t even consider it strange—made something in your chest tighten. You swallowed hard, trying to shove down the wave of sympathy threatening to show on your face.

“Oh,” you said, clearing your throat, but it came out too soft, too affected. You forced yourself to straighten up, busying your hands by tucking the quilt tighter around you. “Well, uh… this bed uncomfortably soft, so, lucky you?”

You wanted to kick yourself for how awkward that sounded. But he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he just chuckled, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. 

“Yeah, lucky me.”

The room fell into silence, save for the soft crackle of the dying embers in the fireplace. You tried to avoid his gaze, but something in the room caught your eye, and you froze.

Dangling right above the headboard, in plain sight, was a sprig of mistletoe. The ribbon holding it swayed slightly, mocking you with its festive cheer.

Your brain scrambled. How had you missed that earlier? Why on earth was it there? Did mom hang it on purpose? Of course she did! That woman was a menace.

You could feel Bucky’s gaze lingering on you, and your heart thumped louder with each passing second. You knew it was only a matter of time before he noticed the stupid sprig of mistletoe dangling above the headboard, so you needed to distract him.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, his brow quirking up in suspicion as he started to turn his head.

“Nothing!” you yelped, throwing the quilt over your face in a panic. “Nothing! Absolutely nothing. Goodnight!”

For a second, there was silence. Then, the soft creak of the bed as Bucky shifted, his voice low and amused. “Wait a second…”

You could practically hear the smirk spreading across his face as realization dawned.

“Oh, would you look at that.”

Your stomach flipped as you slowly peeked out from under the quilt. Sure enough, Bucky was staring right at the mistletoe, his lips curving into the most maddeningly smug grin you’d ever seen.

“Mistletoe,” he said, his tone practically dripping with glee. “Right above our heads. What are the odds, huh?”

“Coincidence,” you mumbled, pulling the blanket back over your face.

He chuckled, his voice warm and teasing. “You know what they say about mistletoe, don’t you?”

“Don’t,” you groaned, your voice muffled by the quilt.

“Oh, but I think I have to,” he replied, and you could hear the grin in his voice. “It’s tradition, after all.”

You peeked out again, glaring at him. “It’s not tradition if we just pretend it doesn’t exist.”

He tilted his head, mock-pondering. “Hmm. Ignoring it feels a little… Grinch-like, don’t you think? And you wouldn’t want to ruin Christmas, would you?”

“I swear to God, Bucky—”

Before you could finish, he leaned in, his face closer than you expected, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “What? Afraid you might enjoy it?”

You scoffed, your heart racing. “As if.”

You could practically feel your heart trying to escape your chest as Bucky inched closer, the infuriating smirk still plastered on his face. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was something else there too—something warmer, more intent.

“Oh, so it wouldn’t bother you at all?” he teased, his smirk widening. “Not even a little kiss?”

“Not in a million years,” you shot back, though the tremor in your voice betrayed you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his grin softening, “you’re shaking. Maybe it would bother you.”

“Bucky—”

But you never got to finish. And just then, he leaned forward and kissed your lips. Warm, masculine lips were pressed to yours. It wasn’t rushed or teasing—it was warm, gentle, and infuriatingly confident. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like he wasn’t the least bit surprised by how perfectly your lips fit together.

Your initial plan was to push him away—firmly, dramatically, maybe even with a good shove to his ridiculously broad chest—but your brain short-circuited the moment his hand cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek. Instead, you melted into him, your traitorous body leaning closer without permission.

It was supposed to be a simple, obligatory mistletoe kiss. But the way he kissed you made the world tilt, his lips moving with a deliberate tenderness that made your stomach somersault. He felt you quiver beneath his touch, but he wanted to comfort you—his tongue delved your mouth slowly and you parted your lips willingly and welcomed him. This was enough encouragement for Bucky; he sucked your tongue sensually, and you nibbled his lower lip.

Every kiss he gave felt like a slow unravelling and intense, as if he was savouring the act as much as the reaction it drew from you. Bucky’s fingers traced along your jaw, tilting your face toward him with a tender authority that left no room for hesitation. His thumb brushed over your cheek in a soothing rhythm, contrasting with the heat and urgency of his lips. When he pulled back, his eyes locked with yours—dark with desire, soft with something unspoken—before he leaned in again, claiming your mouth once more.

You let him in, your lips parting as his tongue slipped past, tangling with yours again in an unhurried, sensuous dance that sent shivers down your spine. He tilted his head, exploring every curve of your mouth, his kisses leaving a heated trail that set your skin ablaze. Your lips found their way to his jawline, pressing soft kisses along his stubble, the faint roughness amplifying the sensitivity of your own. When you returned to his lips, the hunger in his kiss mirrored your own as you teased his tongue with yours, your movements bold and enticing.

The shift in your energy didn’t go unnoticed. You felt him tense, his restraint hanging by a thread as he deepened the kiss, his body pressing into yours. His hands gripped your waist, anchoring you in place as his kisses became hungrier, pulling quiet moans and ragged breaths from you. The sound of your pleasure seemed to fuel him, his control slipping further as he pressed closer, his arousal hard and insistent against your thigh, a tangible reminder of the tension thrumming between you. Every kiss, every touch, felt like a declaration, his desire spilling over and igniting something equally fierce in you.

When he pulled back it almost felt like he had to force himself to but he stayed close, his forehead almost brushing yours. His eyes searched your face, his smirk gone, replaced by something quieter, something more serious.

“Well,” he said softly, his voice lower than you’d ever heard it, “guess the mistletoe’s not so bad after all.”

You blinked, your breath hitching. “Have I told you I hate you?”

“And yet, here we are,” he teased, though his smirk was softer now, his thumb still brushing your cheek like he hadn’t realized he was still holding you.

You pushed his hand away—gently, because you were not going to think about how good it felt—and flopped back against the pillows, groaning into the quilt. 

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course not,” he said with a chuckle, settling back onto his side of the bed. “Just a harmless little kiss. Totally meaningless.”

You peeked out from under the quilt to glare at him, but the way he was looking at you—soft, amused, and maybe a little too smug—made your pulse spike all over again.

“Goodnight, Barnes,” you muttered, burrowing back into the covers, determined to ignore the way your lips still tingled.

“Goodnight, doll,” he replied, his voice warm with amusement—and something else you didn’t want to think about.

The room fell quiet again, save for the faint crackle of the dying fire. But as you lay there, trying and failing to stop replaying the kiss in your head, you realized one thing: mistletoe was officially the most dangerous Christmas decoration of all time.

tags: @lomlbuckybarnes @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mostlymarvelgirl

@missvelvetsstuff @unaxv @carnal-vogue @bmyva1entine @wheredidiputmyfish

@thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @wanda-widow @filmologetica @awaywithtime @Thealyrs

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @winchestert101 @strawberrybisou @unaxv @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fynnwolff @veronicapaula

[dream-with-a-fever]

ron weasley did not

come to privet drive to rescue harry from his abusive home after he hadn’t been replying to any of his letters and he was worried

almost back out of following the spiders bc they’re his biggest fear, but upon seeing hermione’s empty seat at dinner, find the courage to go

defend hermione from any and everyone who called her a mudblood

constantly worry about hermione’s workload (especially in 3rd year) and notice that whenever she disappeared

offer to teach hermione his entire family tree so that she could pretend to be pure blood to keep her safe from death eaters

defend harry to everyone (percy, seamus, half the school) when everyone thought he was lying about voldemort’s return

stand up on his broken leg in front of harry and say that “if you want to kill harry, you’ll have to kill us first!” to what they believed to be a raving lunatic mass murderer

gift dobby his newest weasley jumper and the new socks he got given for christmas

stand up against snape when he was bullying hermione (and got a detention as a result)

beg the deatheaters who were torturing hermione to “leave her alone!! take [him], have [him] instead!”

always check up on his friends when he notices something is up, even if it’s in subtle ways

immediately befriend harry on the train in ps and teach him about the wizarding world

write to charlie immediately so he could help hagrid out of trouble (re the dragon, norbert)

encourage neville to stand up to people, and praise him when he actually does it

help harry put on his pajamas after he broke his arm during quidditch

have to be physically restrained from attacking malfoy after he said he wished hermione had died in cos

worry about harry’s preoccupation with the mirror of erised and how it was affecting him

remind hermione to eat her meals and get a good night’s sleep when she’s studying 24/7 for their owl exams

display acute levels of emotional intelligence in the way he interacts with harry and hermione, essentially being the glue that keeps them all together

get splinched almost in half, lose blood and suffer agonising pain but seem more worried about the cattermoles and whether or not they were okay

realise his mistakes & own up to them, acknowledging his role in certain falling outs (especially in deathly hallows)

be genuinely hilarious and fun, and lighten the load in everyone else’s’ lives with the humour he brings to

write to his mother in ps asking her to give harry presents too because he doesn’t think he’ll received any

go to the department of mysteries to help harry without a second a thought

go on the run with harry to hunt for horcruxes without a second thought

run to hermione’s aid when malfoy hits her with a nasty hex outside snape’s classroom and take her to the hospital wing

help hermione with buckbeak’s appeal, spending hours upon hours reading up on the case

extend the first olive branch after fighting with hermione because of scabber’s “death” and apologising, after which she then apologises too

demand to re-try out for the position of keeper on the quidditch team because he wanted to earn it himself with no favouritism or help

choose to stay on the quidditch team despite the bullying from the slytherin team and his nerves about his flying ability

stand up to malfoy at every opportunity, when he was insulting him, but more importantly, insulting his family & his friends

save harry’s life in dh by pulling him out of the lake, and then kill the horcrux

remember the houseelves during the battle of hogwarts and worry about their safety

continue to admire and adore his older twin brothers despite the fact that they were sometimes cruel to him

become almost annoyingly protective of his little sister (ESPECIALLY after the diary situation)

single-handedly out smart and escape five armed and deadly snatchers

try his best to overcome his insecurities and feelings of being overlooked, in order to support the people around him

sacrifice himself without a second thought during the chess game in ps because he knew harry’s survival was more important than his

for y’all to speak on him the way you do. calling him cruel, evil, selfish etc??? open your fucking eyes

[4unnyr0se]

Hear me out…asking Kenma and Akaashi to eat it from the back..

❥ eat it from the back | kenma kozume & keiji akaashi

warnings: timeskip! kenma and akaashi, fem! reader, eating pussy from the back (obvs), kenma is a tease and akaashi is a gentleman, fingering, spanking (kind of), mentions of hickeys, bokuto mentioned

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 2.1k

a/n: okay i literally hate this with every fiber of my being but i hope u like it nonnie xx

Kenma Kozume

“Hey babe?” you poked your head into your bedroom shared by your boyfriend, the neon red and white lights reflecting off his hazelnut waves. The atmosphere was cozy and quaint, accompanied by the faintest sound of video game characters making attack noises at each other. “I-I have a question if you aren’t busy.” your manicured nails anxiously rubbed against the doorframe, a worrying feeling coursing through your pulsating veins. 

Kenma turned around, placing his cat-ear headphones around his neck. You had gotten them as a joke last Christmas, but he grew attached to them quickly. Your boyfriend was akin to that of a cat, after all. “Yeah, what’s up? Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice laced with a mild concern. You were usually so open with him, never afraid to speak your mind. Why did you seem anxious? Were you hurt?

“O-oh, everything is fine. It’s just…I wanted to try something different, if that’s okay.” you smiled in a feeble attempt to assure him, closing the door behind you. Kenma raised an eyebrow and exited his expensive gaming chair, electing to sit on the king-sized bed on the other side of the room. He patted the blanketed spot next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder once you were snuggled deep into his side. “What did you wanna try, hm? It’s okay, I won’t judge you.”

You blushed and bit down on your lip, not daring to look into Kenma’s gorgeous golden eyes. Since you started dating, your boyfriend has always accommodated your needs, ensuring you feel safe and secure. Surely he would not refuse you now? “Uh, my friend sent me a video on Twitter and…and it was of a girl getting head from behind. I-if you know what I mean.”

A smirk decorated Kenma’s lips as he pulled you impossibly closer to his chest, the thick fabric of his company hoodie softly grazing your blushing cheek. “Oh, was that it? That’s nothing, baby. You know I can’t say no to your pretty face when you ask for something so simple.” he purred, grasping your chin with his hand. He pulled you out of his hoodie to look into his eyes, molten with a newfound desire and longing. The padding of his thumb pulled on your bottom lip, admiring how pretty you looked when you were so desperate for him. “Can you take those pants off and get on all fours for me, pretty girl?”

You nodded quickly, practically ripping off your pants along with your panties, tossing them in some random corner of the room to be forgotten about. You smushed your flushing face against the silky sheets of the massive bed, your back arching so perfectly for him. All on display, all for Kenma. He growled at the sight, kneading the flesh of your ass between his long fingers. “Fucking perfect.” he groaned, playfully cracking his hand against your skin. “Shit, you’re fucking dripping for me. Do you want this that badly, baby?”

“Yes!” you whimpered, your hands finding purchase in the sheets as Kenma bent down, his fingers trailing your dripping folds. “Please, fuck, please just, just do it!” 

“Okay, pretty girl, whatever you want,” he whispered, placing a teasing kiss on your inner thigh before his mouth landed on your soaked core. His hot tongue slid up and down your folds, mewl after pathetic mewl escaping your lips and being drowned out by the sheets. His hands gripped onto your thighs to secure your position, leaving tiny, fingerprint-sized bruises. His tongue drew playful circles around your sopping entrance, pushing the tip of his muscle in occasionally so he could relish in your surprised squeal.

Kenma indulged himself in you, but that was no shock at all. He was a very greedy lover, and you adored that about him. You tasted like the nectar of the gods on his skilled tongue, his name falling from your plump lips in a broken prayer as your stomach sank further into the mattress, slowly coming undone by his expert oral ministrations. “Shit, you’re fucking shaking. You must’ve wanted this, huh, baby?

His lewd words sent vibrations throughout your body, causing your clit to so painfully throb. “P-please,” you begged, reaching behind you to desperately grasp for his hand. “Need you, please.” Your hand found purchase on his wrist, impatiently dragging it to hover above your soaked clit. 

He choked back a moan as his fingers began to swirl around your clit, pinching the sensitive bud just to get a beautiful yelp to fall from your lips. The way it was throbbing, the way you were so beautifully dripping all over his chin and mouth; you were close. He could feel it. Kenma could tell when you were about to reach orgasm by the way your walls squeezed his cock, but this time it was different. Your body was shaking and trembling, so you were in for quite a ride. 

“Gonna fucking cum, baby? That’s okay, cum on my face. You can do it, can’t you? Be a good fucking girl and drown me, don’t make me ask again.” he demanded, rhythmically plunging his tongue in and out of your entrance. His tongue accidentally-on-purpose hit the most sensitive spot inside your core, causing you to topple over the edge and into complete and utter bliss. You release coated half of his lower face, making the mess Kenma never tired of seeing. Fuck, you looked so perfect like this. Bent over and all spent for him, profanities escaping your mouth as you rode your high so gracefully. 

Reluctantly, Kenma pulled himself away from your drenched lower half, wiping your release from his lips. As you turned around to face him, he smacked your ass. “Sorry baby,” he corrected, standing up to slide off his sweatpants and boxers. His cock leaked with precum, prodding at your entrance. “Did you really think we were done? That’s so cute.”

Keiji Akaashi

Akaashi has been your most trusted friend ever since high school. You were Fukurodani’s manager and went to the same university as him, often spending time with each other for whatever reason you two wanted, be it studying or simply crying over your shitty boyfriend cheating on you. He was always there for you, and you were always there for him. You knew everything about each other, everything, including your deepest, most dark desires.

It began when you discovered (by pure accident) that you had apartments in the same building, one floor apart. It was a shock at first, albeit a hilarious one. Akaashi joked about how you could never get rid of him, like how you and Bokuto were attached at his hip in high school. Eventually, like in college, you spent every free moment with each other. He could be editing a manga panel on his laptop, and you gingerly made him tea, patting his head. His green eyes would always trail to the hem of your top, the hint of exposed cleavage driving him secretly wild. Or how you would wear your sleep shorts constantly because you worked from home, the sight of your exposed thighs making him instantly hard in his slacks. 

One day, the tension between the two of you snapped. Akaashi had you against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist and his hands squeezing your waist. His lips molded so perfectly against your own, groaning into your mouth as your teeth teasingly bit onto his bottom lip. That night was filled with passion and longing, a longing that started to brew since the day you decided to become a Fukurodani manager. Since then, your neck has never been free from his hickeys or marks, and Akaashi’s wrists always have one of your bracelets dangling from the bone.

You never kept anything from each other; why would you? You had known each other for so long that you and he were practically in sync—what he did, you did, etc. So when your friend sent you a Twitter link to a video of a girl trembling as she got eaten out from behind, you just had to show him.

“Keiji, look at this.” you tapped him on the shoulder, momentarily distracting him from editing a manga panel. “My friend sent me this. It’s pretty hot, right?” The video was muted, but the woman’s pleasure was so undeniable. Three fingers pumped in and out of her sobbing pussy while her partner secured her position with his large hands, his tongue ravishing her. 

“Yeah, it is really hot,” Akaashi looked at you with a flicker of desire in his eyes, kissing your fingers gently. “Would you like to try that, sweetheart?” He rose from his chair, slightly towering above you. He was so gentle at times you had forgotten that he used to play volleyball. Akaashi was pretty damn tall. You nodded and leaned to kiss him, resting your arms on his broad shoulders. He smiled into the kiss, breaking it for only a moment so he could drag you into the living room. Shrugging off his cardigan and removing his glasses, he gestured to the leather couch. “Can you get into the position like the girl in the video, sweetheart? Face down, ass up, come on.”

You happily obliged, stripping yourself of your shorts and panties instantly. You proudly displayed yourself for him, wiggling your ass playfully with a teasing grin plastered across your beautiful face. “Like this Keiji, yeah? Like when we do doggy style.”

“Exactly like when we do doggystyle, sweetheart.” Akaashi groaned, massaging your ass tenderly. You were already dripping for him, fuck. Were you thinking about this for longer than he thought? “You always look so fucking pretty for me.” his long and calloused fingers prodded at your throbbing entrance, eliciting an impatient moan from your lips. “Don’t tease, baby! Wan’ you so bad, c’mon!”

He pushed his index and middle finger inside your sobbing core, curling them inside instantly. Your walls squeezed about him perfectly, your manicured nails clawing at the pillow supporting your head. “T-tongue! Wan’ your tongue, Keiji! Please…” you whimpered, turning your head to look at him with a flustered and needy expression. 

“I know, pretty girl,” he cooed, quickening his ministrations in your fluttering cunt. “Just doing what the guy in the video did, right? You’ll get my tongue soon enough,” he assured you, squeezing the backs of your thighs lovingly. That put you at ease for a moment until his skilled tongue licked a fat stripe up your glistening folds, earning the most delightful squeal from your throat. 

“Fuck.” Akaashi slowly dragged his tongue up and down your wanton heat, groaning as your slick covered his tongue and mouth. You always tasted divine, like something not of this world. Your thighs already began to shake like the girl in the video, his fingers gently pistoning in and out of you being the perfect finishing touch. “So fucking pretty like this,” he whispered against you, fingers pulling out of your heat to rub against the clit. “I’ve never seen you this needy. Have you always wanted to try this? Hm?” 

You frantically nodded and pressed yourself against his face, wanting more of his wet muscle against your core. “J-just make me cum, dammit! You never tease me like this.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” Akaashi buried himself in your cunt once more, tracing delicate circles on your most sensitive part. At the same time, his index finger rubbed your clit too well, the slick from inside your pussy adding a new kind of lubrication. Akaashi chuckled in satisfaction as he felt your orgasm approach, his tongue prodding at your entrance. He plunged the wet muscle inside, slurping noises filling the room of your otherwise silent living area. The tip expertly dipped in and out, running along each of your folds to avoid neglecting either.  “Want you to cum on my tongue, sweetheart,” he demanded, rubbing on your clit at a sickeningly fast pace. “Can you do that for me now? Wanna cum on my tongue?”

Like you were something he had programmed, you became unraveled all over his tongue, your slick release covering his mouth. “S-shit! Keiji, fuck! Oh my fucking god, don’t stop! Holy shit, fuck, fuck!” 

Akaashi smiled as he pulled away from your heat, giving your inner thighs gentle kisses. “You did so well, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you.” He grabbed your hips and flipped you around, pressing his lips against yours in a tender embrace. His tongue flicked against your lips, spreading some of your release. “You taste amazing, can you see?” 

You nodded and collapsed onto his chest, rubbing your head against the wool fabric of his sweater. “Gonna take a nap on you, is that okay?”

Akaashi chuckled to himself and kissed the top of your sweaty head, rubbing his hands down your back. “Of course, baby, get as much rest as you need. You did so well for me.”

have a request? my asks are open <3

[whatifitis]

♡ When We Are Together - LN 4 ♡

Summary: Lando is a cutie and drama queen but you love him all the same. His balls as well.

WC: 1151

CW: fluff, use of words 'ball' and 'dick' and mentions of sex but nothing happens, lando being a diva

“It’s snowing!” is all you hear before you’re watching your boyfriend sprint out the door with no winter clothing on. He was outside in an instant, already gathering snow in his hands before dropping it and turning to you. “It’s too cold” - he said, scrunching his nose and running back inside to put on some warm clothing and definitely a pair of gloves. 

You watched Lando rush around the house, trying to find his coat and gloves. You stood and watched his antics in amusement, when he suddenly stood still and stared back at you. 

“You muppet, put some clothes on and join me in the snow. Christmas is starting!” he is already going around and grabbing your coat and putting it on you, making sure you’ll be warm in the snow. Once the both of you are dressed, he’s grabbing your hand and pulling you out the door with him. The both of you are already laughing as your cheeks and nose turn red from the joy you feel, along with the cold. Boots crunching the snow beneath your feet. 

Lan only lets go of your hand when he’s crouching on the ground and making a snowball. Once he’s made a semi-circular shape, he’s standing up straight and looking you dead in the eyes. 

“No. Don’t you fucking dare, Lan.” you point at the ball and try to stifle a laugh. 

He’s already on the verge of laughing, positioning his arm, ready to throw the snow at you. He’s giggling as soon as you slowly back away from him. When you see his arm slightly shift, you’ve already turned your back on him to try and outrun the ball. 

The ball ends up landing a few inches from you, into the ground. You turn back to see a very giggly Lando trying to catch his breath. 

“You little twat. If that’s how you wanna play then fine. But you asked for this, Norris.” you say as you create a perfectly round ball of snow between your hands. 

“No, no, no, no. Wait, you just last named me. I’m not ready.” he practically squeals as you start to run towards him. Luckily for you, unlucky for him, your hand-eye coordination was popping off today. 

You were able to throw the ball and hit him, and it landed directly on his ass. You burst into laughter when he turned back to look at his own ass and then to you. You were laughing so hard, your knees nearly gave out. 

“Nah, mate. Did you hit my ass?! Was that on purpose? It was on purpose, wasn’t it. You pervert!” he can’t help but let out a laugh, unable to act serious. He watched you laugh and gosh were you beautiful. Red painted your cheeks and nose, a twinkle in your eyes glistened as you tried to calm your laughter. 

“That was an accident.” you try to get out between breaths of air, “I meant to aim for your back.”

“And that just makes it better doesn’t it.” he turns his back to you, making another snowball to terrorize you with, keeping his back to you he says, “Ya know, I was nice with that first snowball. I missed on purpose. It was essentially a warning shot.” 

Lando stands and turns to face you when he feels something cold and hard hit his crotch. You had never seen a man fall so fast. He had dropped the snowball and fallen to his knees, holding onto his crotch and struggling to breathe. You went into another laughing fit and fell to your knees this time, not being able to contain yourself. 

Lando’s groans of pain can barely be heard over your laughter. Tears were rolling down your face and you were laughing so much, you felt like you might pass out. 

Through wheezes of laughter you try to check on him, “Oh my god, love. Are you okay?” resting your hand on his back as he’s hunched over in pain. 

“Am I okay? Am. I. Okay? Are you really asking that?” he laughs as he launches up and playfully tackles you to the ground. He’s tickling you and not letting up, “Are you seriously asking if I’m okay after you hit my balls?!” he laughs. 

You can barely breathe so you beg him to stop for a minute, and he does. He moves off you and flops onto the ground beside you. The two of you try to catch your breaths so you just lay there together, watching as the sky turns to night. 

Lando lies next to you and you can feel as he hesitantly reaches for your hand with his pinky finger. Without a second thought, you grab his hand and hold on tight. Turning your head to look at him, you’re met with his eye crinkling smile, the same one you fell in love with all that time ago. 

“Guess what.” Lando says. 

“What?” 

“Snow angel!” he screams and he’s immediately flailing on the ground trying to make a snow angel, “Ah, fuck it’s cold. But I gotta commit. Fuck!”

You laugh at his antics and join him in making some snow angels. After a few seconds, Lando is standing and pulling you to stand with him before he’s bolting back inside the house. Once you’re both inside, he’s shutting the door and running to light the fireplace. 

The poor boy is shivering like a chihuahua that’s got no clothes on. You grab a blanket off the couch and wrap it around Lando and you join him in sitting on the floor, before the fireplace. 

“You know you hate the cold, why’d you go outside in the snow?” you ask. He was the biggest baby when it came to the cold so you’re surprised he lasted that long outside. 

“I was feeling romantical. I know you like to have those sorts of memories and I thought it’d be fun. While it was fun, I nearly lost my balls twice!” he exclaims, putting up two fingers so you could see just how traumatized he might’ve been, “First, it was so cold that I was afraid that my dick would just fall off. Second, you threw a snowball… AT MY DICK! It’s like you don’t want to sleep with me anymore. If that’s the case just say it.” he jokes. 

“Lan, that’s not wha-” you’re cut off by his theatrical fall to the ground as if he’s fainted. 

“ I can’t believe it. My own GIRLFRIEND doesn’t want to sleep with me anymore. Ugh, God what did I do to deserve this.” 

“Lan?” “Meh”

“Lan”

“Mh”

“Lan!” 

He sits up, “What?”

“I love you. And I still want to sleep with you. Dickless and all”

“Sick. Best girlfriend ever!” he says as he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into a tight hug where he covers your face in kisses, “You’re also fit as fuck.”

[casiia]

༉‧₊˚. — simon 'GHOST' riley; smile for the camera.

warnings .: x reader, smut, mdni 18+, very slight exhibition (i think?), v! penetration, choking, size kink, female reader, unedited.

.: masterlist.

simon has STACKS of polaroids of you for when he’s next deployed. you had bought the polaroid camera, all excited to pick up a new hobby; photography. he thought it was stupid, but doesn’t stop you and your aspiring career. you’re taking pictures of everything for the next few weeks. capturing every memory the two of you shared, and piles of pictures were scattered around each room in the house — random ones, blurred ones, blank ones that didn’t develop right.

when you suggest taking pictures for him one night, he doesn’t seem to catch the hint. why’d he have to waste his precious time and take pictures of you when you’re right here?

he still doesn’t understand. he huffs when you climb off of his lap and scurry into your shared bedroom, the soft mutters of the christmas movie you put on for background noise the only thing that catches his attention — and it annoys him. you come back, your shirt hiked up over your bra and the bulky coral-colored camera in hand. 

you sit back onto his lap, shoving the polaroid into his hand and guiding his finger onto the button. he accidentally clicks it, a flash blinding you momentarily and you laugh. 

“eager are we?”

he sucked on his teeth, his eyes rolling at your poor attempt to tease him. his free hand moves to your waist and dips his fingers below the hem of your shorts. you swat his hand away with a pout, mumbling something about patience but he’s too horny to hear – or care. 

simon lowers the camera as you begin to pull your shirt over your head, you whine and tell him to hold it right. but he snaps back and complains that it’s blocking his view. 

it’s your turn to roll your eyes, and you pout and tell him just to listen to you. he begrudgingly listens, muttering a retort under his breath that makes you smack his arm and shift off of his lap. but he’s quick to tug you back, saying he’s sorry and you’re just teasing him too much.

you shake your head, your finger hovering his, over the shutter button. you reach back with the other and undo your bra, letting it slip from your shoulder and into his lap. it’s then when you press down and simon takes a picture, your bare breast developing on the film as it slides out the exit slot. now he understands.

he watches with tight lips, waiting for the picture to develop and practically watching it turn into gold in front of his eyes. simon laughs in disbelief and looks at you, he wonders if this was your plan all along. play with it for a little before using it to make souvenirs for him, what a good girlfriend you were.

the hours blend and he has you bent and folded in every position he knows. it’s so embarrassing, and you find yourself covering your face or squeezing your thighs together, now trying to sheepishly hide from the lens.

but he tuts, reminding you that it was your idea. you can’t hide from him and if you try, he’ll keep you up all night — until he’s filled his album with enough pictures to relive any memory of you in bed.

he’s leaned back onto the sofa, one hand in your hair and one hand holding up the camera. he’s groaning loudly as you gag around his cock, your wide eyes fluttering up to meet his. he’s drooling at the sight, tears staining your blushed cheeks and dripping down your chin.

simon spreads his legs and angles the camera down to catch a glimpse of the way you have a hand wrapped around the base of his cock — too big for you to fit it all in your mouth. he snaps a picture, the flash making little dots cloud your vision.

you giggle, pulling your lips off of him to which he annoyingly grunts, trying to push back into your mouth.

“how many more of these are y’gonna take?”

you ask, pressing your cheek into the inside of his thigh. you’re not even looking at him anymore, so focused on his cock and the way your saliva makes his foreskin glisten.

he can’t resist, simon takes another picture and pulls the developing film from the dispenser, tossing it into the pile with the other pictures he’s taken. your face just looks so small aligned with his cock, the angle making him so much larger than he was.

“m’takin as many as i want. what am i gonna do when i miss you when i’m away and need to release some stress?”

simon tugs at your hair, nodding over to the cushions next to him. his hands immediately find your waist when you stand and he pushes you down into the couch. your hair sprawling over the pillows as you look up at him with wide eyes.

another giggle escapes you, your hand covers your mouth to suppress the laughter. it wasn’t that you were surprised about him being so needy, it’s the way he had a mountain of pictures lazily tossed into a pile. film wrappers crumpled lazily and strewn across the coffee table, the packages once holding refills for the film.

“what’s funny, bun?”

simon’s voice is hoarse, he’s spreading your legs and another picture is added to his collection. the way your cunt is glistening with the flash, your juices smeared on your inner thighs. he swears he’s going to cherish these forever, keep them around til’ they are all tattered and barely visible.

your breath is knocked from your lungs, and you can’t form words no matter how hard you try. he’s sliding his cock in between your folds, nudging your clit with his angry red tip. you whine, your hips bucking up to meet his, needing more friction to ease your arousal; and he takes another picture, how he wishes these images could capture sounds.

he’s pressing his fat, heavy cock against your stomach, a groan spilling from his lips when his tip is leaking just below your belly button. simon smears his precum against your skin, translucent globs dribbling from his slit.

“look at that, gonna be in your fuckin’ stomach.”

simon grins at the sight, but before he gives you the pleasure of filling you up, he’s leaning over you and pressing his lips to your neck. your fingernails dig into his shoulders, crescents forming under your touch, and a slew of apologies is mumbled under your shaky breath.

he hums into the crook of your neck, nipping harshly at your skin before dragging his rough tongue over the spot — soothing the bite. simon trails down to your breast, leaving a path of love bites and covering you in his mark.

while he has you distracted, he shifts his hips and pushes himself into you slowly sinking in inch by inch before he’s balls deep. he leans back and he groans at the sight, you are completely exposed for him with his bitemarks sloppily etched into your skin, a bulge forming in your belly. he slides his calloused hand up in between the valley of your breast and he wraps his hand around your neck, he squeezes lightly, and when you moan quietly as if flustered like it’s the first time he has you filled with his cock —  he snaps another picture. afraid that this moment will vanish.

that was the last of the film that he has. but god, it’s worth it. he promises he’ll buy you more in the morning, but he’s dropped the camera and holding you close. his throbbing cock plunging in and out of your squelching cunt, your juices painting his abdomen, shining his muscles under the dim light.

when he has to leave, he gathers EVERY SINGLE ONE and hides it in between the pages of an old magazine. no one would be caught dead snooping through his things, but it was a precaution he took because he didn’t want you exposed for all of his teammates to see. you were his, and he was never one of share.

AN: guys...i don't even have words tbh. just simon and like he WOULD take so many pics i'm just sooo :((( urgh. i hate him. if i missed any warnings lmk!

[the-boy-meets-evil]

where you belong | kmg

(where the holidays bring you back to the person and place you need to be.)

pairing: mingyu x fem!reader genre: exes to lovers (lite) | fluff & smut rating: explicit, minors DNI word count: ~1.2k warnings: kissing, smut, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex (don't do this, they're in love), that's really it

note: SURPRISE EM! 💕🫶🏻 this is for my baby @gyuswhore for the secret santa event hosted by @camandemstudios. i was so happy to get you and i hope you're surprised that it was me. this was a lot of fun!

tag list: @tinyelfperson, @dokyeomkyeom, @miriamxsworld, @hongrizon, @klecksstorys, @gyuminusone, @aaniag, @straykidswhoo789, @kimseokgen, @beomesbabe, @haolistic, @vanishingboots, @babybae-shisui, @harrythepottypus, @okiedokrie, @nuttywastelandmentality, @writingbarnes, @tomodachiii, @gyuhao365, @jjin-kun, @divinityyyy, @dibidibidismynameisleeknow, @tinkerbell460, @aidanjoon, @cookiearmy, @tusswrites, @kaepjjangiya

There’s something about the holidays that always has you reflecting on the last year. It’s kind of a way for you to figure out what works and what doesn’t before starting fresh in the new year. The past year has been a blur of keeping busy and projects for work. It feels incredibly fulfilling in so many ways. All things considered, it’s been a really good year for you. 

Yet, you can’t keep your mind off the start of the year when you and your boyfriend broke things off. It isn’t some sad story of heartbreak or someone doing something horrible. You both just realized, as you spent New Year’s Eve apart because of work, that maybe it was a sign to give yourselves a chance at something different. Both of you agreed that it made the most sense. Life was pulling you in different directions and it felt like the time to really push forward in your separate work lives. 

If it’s meant to be, it’ll always find a way. You genuinely believe that. So, when your ex walks into the tiny little coffee shop two days before Christmas, you take it as something of a sign. You shouldn’t even still be in the city and this isn’t a coffee shop you’ve ever been to before. But, your travel plans got delayed and you’ve been meaning to try this place for months. His eyes land on you from his position by the counter and he doesn’t seem surprised either. Your heart constricts a little at that shy smile and the way his shaggy hair bounces as he shakes his head. 

“I can’t believe my luck,” Mingyu says when he approaches. “I figured you’d be gone.” 

“I had something come up last minute. I was supposed to leave last night,” you say and he smiles. 

“I’m not sure I want to leave at all now,” he admits. “I’ve been thinking a lot about you.”

“Yeah, same,” you admit. 

“I just moved and I actually live around the corner. Do you want to catch up?” he asks.

“Let me just get my coat.” 

Catching up goes from filling each other in on the last year to Mingyu cooking the best meal you’ve had in ages to lounging on the couch and laughing over silly shows. It’s easy to fall back into such a sense of comfort with him. Every part of you still seems to know every part of him. Some things you would have to explain to anyone else just instantly make sense to him. But, it feels different too. It feels like the last year has allowed you both to realize what’s actually important. Maybe it taught you how to better prioritize your time. 

Something else is easy, too. You fall back into bed with him without a second thought. This is different now, too. Sex wasn’t ever an issue, but he wants you to show him exactly what you want now. Wants it to be perfect for you. The kind of thing that you can’t ever get over. You’re not really sure you ever got over him the first time and you want to tell him you don’t plan to let go of him this time.

“I’ll teach you whatever you want to know,” you tell him. 

“Teach me how to be good for you,” he answers, breathless. 

And you do. Mingyu is a giver, always has been. This is more than that, though. This Mingyu wants to map your reactions to every little thing he does. He wants to watch the way you squirm when his tongue flicks against your clit just right. Wants to memorize the way your thighs squeeze his head when he licks into you. Even if it’s always been good, it’s never been like this. It’s never felt like he’s worshipping your body in quite this way. 

With a moan, your back arches against this bed and your hands scramble to find purchase on something. Anything. You try to keep up a stream of instructions like you said you would, but Mingyu’s also a very fast learner. It doesn’t take him long until his mouth is moving in the perfect way between your legs. Only take one comment for him to add a finger. Doesn’t need to be told how to hit you just right with those fingers. You’re a writhing mess and you’re not even sure that you can think straight anymore. He’s got you seeing stars as you come hard on his tongue and his fingers. 

“I’m not sure you need me to teach you anything,” you say after catching your breath for a second. 

Mingyu’s got a bit of a smirk on his mouth, still glistening a little. “Maybe I just like hearing you talk me through things when you’re coming undone.”

“Oh, it’s like that?” you joke back. 

“We can see if you need to teach me anything else,” he says with that sparkle still in his eyes. 

“You’re not done with me?” you ask and try not to sound too hopeful.

“No,” he says and kisses you before you can respond in any way. 

It always seemed crazy to you to think that someone could kiss you stupid. Until Mingyu kisses you like that after nearly a year apart. Until you remember all the kisses for every different occasion. Now it just seems crazy to think there’s anyone out there for you other than him. He keeps kissing you as he settles his body between your legs, hovering his body just over yours so that he doesn’t put too much weight on you. Keeps kissing you as he uses a hand to line himself up at your entrance. Keeps kissing you as he slowly presses into you. The pace is slower than you want, filled with all the things you’re feeling. All the affection and reverence that he’s always shown you. 

“Mingyu, please, I need more,” you finally moan out. 

And it happens like that again. He lets you teach him just the pace that you want. He lets you set the rhythm alternating between slow, languid strokes and hard, fast snaps of his hips. Everything else around you disappears. All you see is the love in his eyes as he takes you in. Everything about this moment is perfect. The absolute best way that you can imagine to end the year. Almost as good as him pushing you to a second orgasm just before he follows right after you.

It seems too early to be awake if the light coming in through the cracks in Mingyu’s curtains is any indication, but the smell of coffee wafts tantalizingly into the bedroom. You’re incredibly thankful that you changed all of your holiday plans to stay with Mingyu. It clearly isn’t just the post-sex haze that has you wanting to stay. Your heart is full to bursting with warmth. He’s always been it for you and you’re thankful that you get to spend another holiday with him. 

So, you pull on a baggy shirt Mingyu has lying by the side of the bed and slide out of bed. You walk over to the window to see what’s making it seem a little brighter outside. Amazingly, snow falls gently in beautiful, swirling patterns. The whole world is quiet and you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. 

I hope you enjoyed it ❤️

[starmocha]

to: my true love [Sylus/Reader ★ 1680 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Sylus receives a special surprise in his study. A/N: The Sagittarius in me told me to do something impulsive again, and I lowkey already regret it lol So…a mini series of twelve days of Christmas/winter-themed standalone ficlets with all four LIs (3 mini stories for each; no Caleb, sorry, I want to wait until I’m more familiar with his character before I write him). This lowkey may be me trying to find joy in Christmas again lol ヾ(✿˶◡‿◡)ゞ Tag list: @miudle @alfredosaws @nezukoo-channn @voidsylus @rose-tinted-kalopsia 【 request to be added 】

You were going to kill Luke and Kieran, you decided decisively, as you stood outside Sylus’ study, your hand wrapped around the doorknob, trembling uncontrollably and filled with anxiety worse than any other instances in your life.

A bet was a bet.

And you lost.

Tremendously.

They must have cheated, you thought, positive that those no-good tricksters definitely rigged the card game. Of course, you knew you were also a complete dumbass for ever having faith that residents of the N109 Zone would ever play fair in anything.

You were still going to kill them.

Knock-knock.

Your fragile heart practically burst out of your chest when you heard the knocking. Immediately, your head whipped up, completely mortified to see Luke looming over you and cheerfully rapping against the door with the back of his hand while you were silently fuming just seconds ago. Even though he was wearing his mask, you were positive he was sporting the most nefarious smirk ever.

“Come in,” Sylus’ calm, deep voice called out.

You gasped, feeling a hand over yours. You looked to your other side just as Kieran ‘helped’ you opened the door, and before you knew it, both twins gleefully shoved you into Sylus’ study before slamming the door shut. You stumbled forward, barely catching your balance before you realized what had happened.

“Who is it—”

Sylus looked up and paused. His expression didn’t appear to change, staying neutral just as always, but perhaps someone with a keener eyesight would notice the gleam of intrigue in his scarlet eyes the moment he had laid his sight on you.

You kept your eyes lowered as you stood in Sylus’ study, dressed in a bright red sleeveless Christmas dress with white fur trimming that lined around the bottom of the skirt and over your bust. Around your middle was a thick black belt and atop your head was a matching Santa Claus hat, its end dangling over your downcast face. You stared down at the black knee-high boots you wore, feeling completely mortified. You could practically feel your soul leaving your body as you felt Sylus’ intense stare on you.

“J-Jinglegram,” you greeted meekly.

You flinched when you heard Sylus’ amused chuckles.

“I-I see,” he responded, a hint of bafflement heard in his tone, but overall, he seemed delighted.

You, on the other hand, wanted to die. Preferably instantly.

Sylus cleared his throat, his voice sounding extra cordial than normal. “So…what is a ‘jinglegram’?”

You whimpered pathetically, nearly glowering when you could have sworn you heard the bastard twins snickering outside the room. Clearing your throat, you started to sing very stiffy: “On…the first day of…Christmas…my true love gave to me…”

You peeked up and you felt your face had instantly turned crimson. Sylus was leaning against the armrest of his chair, his fist held over his mouth as if he was stifling his laughter, but his eyes betrayed his amusement. They were practically sparkling with delight.

“…a partridge in a pear tree…” you finished glumly.

He clapped, seemingly encouraging you to continue. You felt a horrendous knot in your stomach, but you soldiered on.

“On the second day of Christmas…my true love—”

You fumbled, catching Sylus’ eyes brightening even more as you sang this one particular verse.

“…gave to me, two turtle doves,” Sylus helped you with his unique singing voice.

“…And a partridge in a pear tree,” you both finished together in a cacophony of mismatched notes and melody.

You winced, unsure if it was because of how mortified you were, or of how the lack of harmony between the two of you could easily be used as a form of torture. Not caring to find out, you quickly whirled around, intending on bolting right out of Sylus’ study and seeking a hole you could throw yourself into and just die in peace.

But Sylus had other plans.

“Not so fast, Miss Hunter.”

Dark red and black misty tendrils coiled around your waist and lifted you into the air with ease. You squeaked in shock as you were carried across the room and before you knew it, you landed with an undignified “oof” in Sylus’ lap.

Your hat fell, covering your eyes, but before you could react, Sylus had already helped you readjusted it. You looked up timidly, seeing his face full of joy. The way he was laughing and smiling almost reminded you of the night he and you had set free that little white dove he had cared for.

“So cute,” he murmured, almost as if he was speaking to himself, and you blushed. His thumb glided over your shiny red-glossed plump lips, admiring the way they trembled, almost as if they were beckoning him to steal a kiss or two, but he restrained himself. He continued in his soft, steady tone, “What have I done to receive this charming…‘jinglegram’?”

“Um…nothing…” you mumbled, feeling the heat spreading from your cheeks to the rest of your body. You squirmed a little, but Sylus held you firmly in place, not allowing you to leave his lap for even an inch. You looked down, seeing how one of his hands was absently caressing your thigh. You continued miserably, “…I lost a bet.”

“A bet?”

“To Luke and Kieran.”

“Ah.” Everything seemed to click into place, and Sylus leaned forward, burying his face into your hair as he laughed. “Perhaps I should give those two a Christmas bonus…”

You frowned. Pulling away, you turned to look at him, your faces just mere inches apart. “Do criminal organizations do Christmas bonuses?”

Sylus shook his head. “Of course not, sweetie,” he answered, “But…I think this warrant some sort of…rewards for them.”

“Rewards? For humiliating me?” you demanded, irate.

You gasped as Sylus lifted your chin lightly and kissed you deeply, his earlier self-control forgotten. He chuckled when you unconsciously gave in, returning his kiss with equal passion. He parted, but he pecked another kiss to your cheek. “Are you humiliated? But you look absolutely adorable in this outfit.”

Your face felt hotter. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” you griped.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed in agreement, unashamed. “Now…isn’t…‘Mrs. Claus’ here missing a ‘Mr. Claus’?”

Your stomach lurched at the implications in his teasing words. You covered your face with both hands. “No…no…no…we are not doing this!”

You felt the hat on your head yanked off. You looked up and saw Sylus had donned the hat he had just swiped from you. Plastered across his stupidly handsome face was the most insufferable smirk ever. He was completely enthralled by this entire ludicrous situation. You were definitely going to kill Luke and Kieran.

“Now if I recall,” he began, his tone light and playful, “the song is far from over. We still have quite a few verses to get through, don’t we, sweetie?”

You gaped, not quite registering his words just now.

He…looked really good with this hat on his head. Very cute. Very, very cute.

Maybe with a matching bright red coat that would be fitted to his deliciously toned body, and a pair of pants that would highlight his juicy ass, he could pull off that look. Would...would Sylus be willing to have a bit of a stubble, you wondered, already imagining him with one, and his face nuzzling against you, feeling the prickly hair against your smooth, soft skin, and oh shit—

You were doing a horrendous job of hiding your feelings today, because Sylus immediately noticed your reaction, his teasing growing increasingly merciless.

“Now, sweetie, have you been a… ‘good girl’ this year?”

You flustered. “What are you—”

“Since you’re already sitting on my lap,” he said suggestively, “don’t you want to tell… ‘Santa’ what you want for this year?”

“You are such a prick.”

Sylus laughed. “Naughty, naughty,” he chided, giving your thigh a light smack and making you yelped in surprise.

“We are not doing this, Sylus!” you protested, face redder than your dress.

He shrugged and leaned back in his seat with a defeated sigh. “Very well,” he conceded, a hint of disappointment heard in his tone. He smiled at you half-heartedly before speaking, “You really are a good girl, aren’t you, Miss Hunter?”

You knew he had meant it genuinely this time, but you couldn’t help but felt something when he had called you a ‘good girl’. This was getting out of hand. Was this what those no-good twins wanted to happen? For you to be down bad for their boss. What on earth was their endgame—

Sylus was humming the earlier Christmas song again, the sound cutting your raving thoughts to a grinding halt. He smiled at you pleasantly, apparently unaware of your inner turmoil.

“On the third day of Christmas,” he ‘sang,’ his jovial tone hinting for you to join him. There was a noticeable pause, and Sylus gave you a gentle nod, silently encouraging you to pick up where he had left off.

You smiled helplessly, his genuine happiness spreading to you. “…my true love gave to me,” you continued.

“Three French hens / Two turtle doves,” you both sang together, half-laughing, before finishing strongly, “And a partridge in a pear tree!”

You slumped against him, giggling and forgetting your earlier embarrassment. Sylus’ arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer to his body, the familiar, comforting warmth calming you instantly. You gazed up at him, an idea forming in your head.

“Sylus?”

“Hmm?” He peered down at you, his eyes meeting yours, and his smile soft and sweet.

“We should give the twins a fruitcake,” you said, smiling wickedly, elaborating, “For their ‘Christmas reward’.”

“Two fruitcakes,” he corrected you with a knowing smirk, “One for each mischievous twin.”

You leaned up and kissed him, “Ah, my ‘true love’ is correct.”

He stifled a chuckle, his face buried in your hair again, as he husked, “Then are you my Christmas present for this year?”

“I’m yours for always.”

“How cute,” he whispered, tightening his hold on you, and you stayed like that, humming the rest of the song softly as you enjoyed each other’s presence.

[pomefioredove]

Don’t mind me sliding in so soon after you posted your Christmas event teehee

can I have a sugar cookie, #3, with frosting and sprinkles please?

order #3; sugar with frosting and sprinkles

HIII mutual hi!!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ with him

tropes: only one bed and hurt/comfort characters: vil additional info: romantic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu word count: 700

The days following the incident at S.T.Y.X. were long.

What was only two weeks between the return of the overblot victims and the repair of Ramshackle felt like years, stretched between the fingers of Vil Schoenheit like taffy, sticky and sickeningly sweet.

After all you had done for him, keeping you at Pomefiore while the broken ribs in your own inelegant dorm were mended felt more than right; it felt natural.

There was, of course, the problem with the rooms.

Something- dust, perhaps, or a certain perfume, or a pollen from one of the many flowers that filled Pomefiore's colorful interior- set off the worst sneezing fits in Grim, and even if you were not so worried, Vil could not have let him get his snot all over the furniture.

Resolved, ever so quietly, by the discovery that whatever mysterious allergen Grim reacted to was not present in Vil's bedroom, and so there you stayed.

In his room.

In his bed.

With him.

Under different circumstances, Vil would not have minded such a thing. He's not fussy, and the housewarden's bed is spacious enough for two, three, even four people to sleep comfortably, especially you, whom he would have space for even if he slept on a cot or in a hammock.

Under kinder circumstances, he would be most worried about your sleep-kicking and Grim's shedding.

That was not the problem.

The problem was that, since returning from S.T.Y.X., Vil had woken up from the same dream every night, teary-eyed and panicked, his eyes burning and breath stolen.

He was afraid the noise of his pounding heart would wake you.

The first night, he didn't sleep at all. He couldn't find it within himself to close his eyes, the fear of his nightmare and the thought of the look on your face if you saw him panicked and sobbing, kept him awake.

The next, he got a few hours.

And then none after that.

It was affecting his beauty and his confidence, then, this pervasive fear, this lack of sleep. And yet, he would not bring himself to talk to you. He would rather go tired than admit he was afraid.

On the fourth night, Vil wakes again, tears burning down his cheeks and pooling on the pillow beneath him, gathering in his perfect hair and crusting it with its salt. He can't breathe, and so he stumbles out of bed, completely inelegantly (though he's hardly thinking of that now), and to his vanity, gripping the sides of it and thoroughly, neurotically making sure the reflection in the mirror is still him.

His mouth is dry, lips chapped. He'll deal with that in a moment, he thinks. He needs to get ahold of himself.

In the dark of the room, with his blood pumping in his ears and his vision focused only on the mirror, on the reflection that he's not quite convinced is his, he doesn't hear you getting out of bed.

Vil is unaware you're even awake, until he feels your arms around his waist and your cheek against his back.

He stills. You can surely feel the wild beating of his heart, but you say nothing of it.

Finally, after Vil has regained the ability to breathe, after his heart has calmed, after the world becomes more than just him and the mirror and the beautiful person in it, you whisper.

"We don't have to talk about it,"

He says nothing.

"I just want you to be okay."

His mind is full of thoughts but none make it to his tongue. After a moment of breathing, of trying to breathe after hearing you say a thing like that, you pull him back to the bed, and let him lie on top of you, his arms around your waist and his head on your shoulder. It's an unfamiliar position for Vil Schoenheit, but a good one.

He breathes against your neck. You gently wipe his tears away with the pad of your thumb.

And he falls asleep, undisturbed by direbeast snores and nightmares alike. You keep him there, close to you, that night and the next.

Vil has no trouble sleeping after that.

[angelsworks]

Goldilocks and the Four Bears

Chapter 2

Poly!141 x reader

Summary: You wake to four strangers at the end of your bed.

Warnings: 18+, dark themes, mention of kidnap, mention of torture,

Note: Merry Christmas Everyone - I hope you all enjoy this chapter! 🎅🏻🎄

Masterlist -> Here

For the first time in a long time, you slept well. More than well actually, amazing.

Your body was supported at all points, neck raised slightly, head cushioned on a thick feather pillow. And the sheets were actual bedsheets. One matching set of dark grey linen sheets, adorning the king sized mattress.

A luxury compared to how you’ve slept in the last few months. You never could fall into a deep sleep. Knowing that at any point your captors would come back to your room, kicking you from your slumber and starting your torment once more. When you did try to sleep it was on the concrete floor. Curled in a ball, spread like a starfish, lying on your front. All positions that you’d tried and failed to have a restful night of sleep in.

It must have been the light that woke you, you think wistfully to yourself. A ghost of a smile graces your face at the sight. Light streaming in and hitting the bedspread. Particles of dust, dancing carelessly in the rays. Things were turning around.

You roll on to your back. Stretching your neck from side to side and groaning. Your eyes find the ceiling, a plain white rectangle above you. You take a moment or two to enjoy the silence of the morning, letting yourself wake up.

It’s when you turn to your other side to gaze out the other window, that your peace is disturbed. The window itself is fine, the glass is intact, with a thin frosting of snow on each pane. But the figure that leans beside it is not something you wanted to see, in the previously empty cabin.

A mix of a gasp and shout of surprise leaves your sore throat as you jump in place. Your body becoming rigid and tense with stress at the sight of the intruder. Now sitting more upright, you see that the stranger not alone. He stands with three other men, each more imposing than the last.

While the one by the window did frighten you, his boyish dimples and lean figure have nothing on how the Goliath by the dresser makes you feel. He stands tall, taller than the rest. His face covered by a skull painted balaclava. His grey eyes give nothing away as they stare blankly at you on the bed.

Between the two opposites, are another two men. One stood next to the nicest looking of the four, crossing his arms and trying to keep his face stoic. His hair is styled into a Mohawk and the sight reminds you of bad guys from old movies. His blue eyes stand out against his brutish appearance. Softening the fear that his very being brings you.

The only one left is the man who sits on a chair found in the room. His legs naturally spread a little due to the size of his thighs. His arms are crossed over his chest, causing the muscles in his forearms to bulge under his long sleeve shirt.

His face is blank, hiding what his true thoughts are and most likely what he truly feels. His face is adorned with a healthy amount of facial hear. The feature ages him and makes him look rugged. Your eyes draw to the thick line of hair that he harbours above his pink lips.

They say nothing. They just stare. The action unnerving you. Making you feel like some sort of zoo animal.

The sight of the four muscular and good-looking men put you on edge of course. But there’s something else. Urges that you’d never thought of before. Feelings were never part of the mission. You were determined to keep it that way.

“You sleep alright love?” The man sitting asks you. Him deciding to speak first and the fact that he others look towards him leads you to believe that he is the leader of the men. Despite the authority that they all seem to hold.

His voice is low and quiet. The sounds rumbling together at the low volume. The words are clear enough though, that you can make them out a few feet away on the bed.

You don’t respond, you can’t. What is he wanting you to say? Yes thank you, it was the best sleep of my life.

So you strengthen your resolve and stay silent. Slowly shifting your position so you’re sitting up more instead of lying down. You calm your breathing and focus your mind. You let your eyes glance over the men in the room again.

“Enjoy sleeping in a strangers sheets?” Again his voice is quiet, soft even. But his eyes tell a different story. His eyes that are squeezed into a glare, glower at you. When you meet his eyes it’s too intense. You feel as if you’re on trial for your life. Come to think of it you are.

You stand no chance against these men. In any capacity. If they wanted to kill you, they could. If they wanted to hurt you, they could. If they wanted to take you, they could.

The last thought resonates with you deeply. That’s when the a prick of fear starts to grow in the back of your head. You realised how lucky you were that Miasma had no interest in hurting you in any sort of sexual way. Despite there being many opportunities too, the guards found more enjoyment in kicking you around then fucking you.

“Not going to answer love? Fine.” The man stands from his chair. He moves to stand at the bottom of your bed, hands stretching out over the bed frame. His presence getting that much more suffocating. When he stands close you find no refuge from his gaze. You can’t look to the other men as much, only him. Only his cold, piercing eyes that tell you telling this man anything but the truth is a death sentence.

“What are you doing in our house?” His tone is sharper, harder. The softness found in the low rumble of his previous words is lost.

Your mind races through the cover story you had before infiltrating Miasma. The details around it are so fuzzy. It feels like you’ve got the right story but there are undecided parts.

What were you here for?

Start simple. If you start simple you can fill in the details later. Give yourself a chance to think.

“I got lost in the woods.” Good start, it’s vague enough. Now change your tone.

“I’d been walking for so long and I,” your voice cracks for good measure and you feel your eyes starting to water. You use the emotions from the last few hours to fuel your tears. You were scared. You were afraid. These were all real feelings, you just had to try and channel them. “I was just so cold and so desperate. This was the first place I’d seen in miles.”

For a moment you see his eyes soften. In a flash they’re back on your again. Hard and cold and unrelenting.

“What we’re you doing in the woods, in the middle of winter?” He asks you. Behind his imposing figure you see the one with the Mohawk shift in his stance, trying to get a better look of you.

Your story doesn’t have to just convince the man I front of you. It has to convince the other three in the room. The thought registers as you run through your cover story as quickly as you can.

“I’m a zoologist. I was out here studying brown bears before they went into hibernation. Then these men-” you pause your story, desperate to have a few tears running down your cheek before telling them the rest. You need to sell this or all you’re done, all you’ve survived, would be worth nothing now.

“Go on love, finish your story.” The soft tone has returned, no doubt that it was due to the sight of your tears running and sniffling nose.

“These men came in trucks,” your eye contact won’t be enough you realise, so you free your hands from your side and use them to talk. “It didn���t seem right so I abandoned my stuff and hid. They came looking round and they, they had guns. I snuck away quietly but they found me. They took me back to some sort of military base. Last night was when I managed to escape.”

It wasn’t far from the truth. At least now you’d have a way to explain the myriad of injuries that had been inflicted on you.

The man hums audibly. You aren’t sure if you’ve done enough to convince him. His face doesn’t give anything away.

“Why do yer have their clothes if yer were a captive?” A voice from behind the man calls out, thick with a Scottish accent.

The clothes by the fire.

The captain watched your reaction for a moment. You hope he doesn’t think the flash of realisation that was on your face a moment ago, is evidence you’re lying.

He moves to the side slightly so that you can look the Scotsman in the eye as you answer him.

“They took my clothes. It was the first thing I grabbed when I escaped.” The four men say nothing for a moment. Eyes dead set on you, on your movements, your body language. Contemplating your words, your tone, your story and your tears.

It feels like hours until the leader speaks up again. Hours of waiting for them to pass judgement on you and your future.

“They hurt you?” He asks, tone quiet once more.

You hesitate, “A little…why?” Why does he care? Why would any of them care?

The man ignores your question, “Do you need a first aid kit?”

The question confuses you. Is this some kind of trick.

Part of you wants to say yes. Knowing you’ve got cuts and bruises a plenty that could use cleaning or stitching in some cases. But your hyper aware of where they’re placed. To get to the cuts on your back you’d have to raise or take off your shirt. Not exactly something your eager to do in the four men’s company.

Your shake your head, eyes now wide and mutter out a no.

It causes the men’s eyes to narrow.

“Don’t lie to him lass. Ye wouldn’t want to see what happens if ye do.” The Scotsman threatens.

You bite your lip, “I can handle it. It’s nothing serious.”

“Serious or not, we need to see what damage has been done.” You don’t miss the we in that sentence. Do they all really need to see how banged up you are?

You still shake your head at the premise. The idea causing a pit to form in your stomach.

“You stay put love, we’ll find a first aid kit and bring you a drink. Don’t move.” He fixes you with a final look before he leaves the room. The rest of the men trailing after him.

When the last of the men leaves the room, he shuts the door. The sight of the dark oak door brings air back into your lungs, it lets the haze that’s filled your mind clear.

You need to run, you need to get out of here.

You need to return to Gunner. You don’t need to be getting involved with these four strangers. Who just so happen to be extremely handsome and muscular.

You don’t trust them. Not one bit. How do you know they aren’t Miasma, here to find out what you know and finish the job?

As quietly as you can you leave the warmth of the linen sheets and step on to the plush carpet. Creeping towards the now shut door as you gently pry it open. You have little time to get out the cabin before it’s too late.

You cringe as the door scrapes against the carpet. The sound is practically deafening in the silence you’ve created in the master bedroom. You pause for a moment, convinced the men from downstairs have heard you.

When you don’t hear the thunder of steps up the stairs, you begin your mission to escape. Moving as silently as you can along the carpeted floor. Hoping to get out before they find the first aid kit.

“What are we doing price?” Ghost finds himself asking in a hushed voice as the entirety of the 141 congregate in the kitchen.

“Looking for a first Aid kit lieutenant.” Price answers and returns to searching the cupboards.

Simon wants to scream at his captain. He wants to complain to his team. He wants to know why they’re entertaining this girl. No matter how pretty she may be, she’s lying about something. Simon hasn’t got this far in his career without being an expert in body language.

Price busies himself with rifling through the cupboards. Thankful that Laswell keeps all safe houses fully stocked.

His hands brush past plates and cans and glasses before coming to the last cupboard. Finally his hands grasp the large green box, packed with medical supplies.

When his gaze moves from the first aid kid, he sees his men staring out him. Looking confused at the sight.

“I’ve got Laswell doing background on the insignia on the jacket. I want to see she’s lying. Looking at those so called injuries will do that.” Price tells the team as he checks the first aid box before taking it upstairs.

It seems the rest of the team h av e a permanent frown on their face.

“I just don’t think any of this is right.” Ghost mutters. “It all just feels wrong.”

“Aye, she looks so frail and small. How can a lass like that escape a group of armed men?” Soap questions.

“She’s either insanely lucky or has some sort of special training.” Gaz voices to the others.

The thought permeates within their heads. Are you some sort of secret agent? Able to escape from armed men at hidden facilities?

The sound of a creak breaks them from their thoughts.

[retrosabers]

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫.

FICMAS DAY 2: BAKING

steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when steve comes over to help you make christmas cookies, things end a lot sweeter than you expect.

contains: ooey gooey fluff, idiots in love, friends to lovers, steve being a flirty klutz, kissing, a tinge of angst if you squint

word count: 2k

a/n: welcome to another installment of “i’m incapable of writing something short and sweet 🧍‍♀️ this is what happens when i revisit writing for my favorite pretty boy

!! divider by @strangergraphics !!

FICMAS MASTERLIST

“steve?”

“yeah?”

“you’re supposed to be decorating the cookies, not eating them.”

steve’s tone is nothing short of soft and shy when he breathes out an “oh,” between bites of chocolate chip infused dough. when you recruited him to assist in baking cookies for the holiday potluck tomorrow, you didn’t expect it to end with half of them being consumed before they even got a chance to be decorated.

“sorry,” the brunette squeaks, wiping sugar-dusted fingers over the expanse of his very favorite pair of levi jeans.

it’s hard to stay mad at steve. not when he looks so cute, with a tinge of pink in his cheeks and his normally styled hair slightly askew. not when he so generously offered to help you out, and not when he was standing so close.

no, you can’t stay mad at steve harrington, because it’s impossible to stay mad at the person you’ve had a crush on for years.

momentarily distracted, your hands wrapped around the handles of a rolling pin halt in their ministrations, and steve worries that he’s screwed up big time.

but your frozen position isn’t from the slight wrench in your plans. it’s him and those stupid, pretty, big brown eyes, that always find a way to short circuit your brain. even more so when they’re pleading for forgiveness.

it takes another second to remember that you still have things that need to be done. that you promised robin and nancy you’d supply the gathering with your renowned baked goods. with a shake of your head, you’re back in business, waving steve off with a quick flick of the wrist.

“don’t worry about it,” you reassure him, despite the fact that your anxiety was kicking at the thought of having to prepare an extra batch. “just try not to eat the sugar cookies when they’re done, yeah?”

steve’s expression shifts from panic and embarrassment to something sweeter, sheepish almost. when he nods in reply, that rogue strand that always rests against his forehead bounces in a way that almost makes you roll the cookie dough off the counter completely.

this is just because you’re stressed. you tell yourself. you’re off your game today because you’re in a time crunch.

lucky for you, steve doesn’t notice the slight quiver in your motions, instead opting to shift the conversation in another direction.

“when did you even learn to bake like this anyways?”

you perk up a bit at that, a faint smile on your lips.

“every christmas eve when i was a kid,” you begin while simultaneously cutting out little gingerbread men using cookie cutters. “my mom and i used to make cookies for santa.”

there’s a nostalgic kind of warmth that blankets the room while you retell stories of your childhood to steve, who surprisingly keeps his hands off the treats and his attention completely focused on you. on how your nose wrinkles when you mention the year you accidentally added too much cinnamon, the gleam in your eyes that comes when you talk about making them by yourself for the first time.

it causes a slew of butterflies in steve’s stomach, a gallant whoosh that he’s been trying his damndest to ignore ever since he opened the door to your apartment and found you clad in a flour covered apron and with a red ribbon tied in your hair.

it's very hard to pay attention to anything when he’s confined to a cramped kitchen with the very adorable girl he’s had a crush on for as long as he can remember.

“obviously i figured out at some point that santa wasn’t real,” you joke, transferring the cutouts onto a baking tray. it snaps steve back to reality, away from the ooey-gooey ness in his heart that had nothing to do with the residual taste of melted chocolate chips. “but we still do it every year as a tradition.”

steve hopes he’s not smiling like an idiot, but it’s hard not to when you look so happy, so content. “it sounds nice.”

it's absent minded when he says it, and you know it. but that doesn't make the quiet muttering of “wish my folks were like that” under his breath sting any less. you had a general idea that steve’s parents weren’t the greatest, but it was never something he outright said, not to you anyways. this little glimmer of vulnerability he displays, whether intentional or not, only adds a spark in the torch you carry for him.

the oven timer beeping pulls him from mourning what he could’ve had. any falter in his smile is quickly reconstructed as he moves to grab the oven mitts on the counter. something that only makes your sympathy grow.

“i got it honey,” he murmurs while slipping past you, his hand brushing against the small of your back for a fleeting moment.

honey.

it sends an electric shock up your spine that makes you straighten out comically, unsure of any other way to react to his touch that doesn’t involve squealing like a schoolgirl. thankfully, your face is obscured from view while he very carefully pulls out the piping hot baking tray, your cheeks free to turn as crimson as they please.

honey, honey, honey. how he managed to make that word sound even more saccharine you’ll never know.

steve catches you in his peripheral, face redder than your hair ribbon. i’ve still got it, he mentally pats himself on the back. though his suaveness only lasts for a second when he remembers he’s got something scorching in his hand. the brunette drops the sugar cookies onto the counter rather ungracefully, huffing out a curse that makes you giggle.

you think you prefer when he's a little dorky over the pretty boy charm.

as much as steve wants to obey your request to not dive into the sugar cookies, he’s having a painfully hard time restraining himself. that heavenly smell of vanilla is overpowering all self control, an enticing and comforting aroma he’d never had the joy of experiencing until now.

the childlike wonder in steve’s eyes melts away any stress or frustration.

against your better judgement, you walk over to where he’s standing, resting your chin on the edge of his shoulder. if steve is surprised by the act, he doesn’t show it. this time though, the thrum of his heart is hard to miss, noticeable even through the layers of fabric separating you.

“you can have one,” you speak lowly into the cashmere material. “and you have to wait until they’ve cooled down. i’m not taking you to the emergency room because you burnt your tongue.”

steve chuckles at the memory from earlier in the year, when eddie’s impatience got the best of him and he burnt the roof of his mouth trying to get a taste of your baking. he remembers watching that interaction from afar, how you doted over the metalhead when he hurt himself, and it made a vile little twinge of jealousy move within him. though steve always tries to ignore that last part, simply focusing on your kindness. like he was right now.

“i still can’t believe munson managed to do that,” steve replies through his laughter.

the feeling of your own giggles vibrating against him is something he never thought would happen. in that moment, those butterflies in his stomach valiantly escape their cage, a flurry he’s not sure he wants to contain.

all he can hear in his head is robin’s voice screeching, “for the love of god dingus, you need to stop staring like an idiot and just make a move.”

when you suddenly pull away from him, he’s afraid that opportunity is gone. steve’s rather confused when he catches a glimpse of your face before you round the other side of the kitchen island. there’s a shyness in you that he’s not used to seeing. if he’s learned one thing in getting to know you better these past few months, it’s that you hardly ever got timid. only when you were uncomfortable, or scared, and he prays it’s not either of those things.

it’s not looking very good when you turn your body completely away from him.

“y’know,” you begin shyly, toying with the strings of your apron. “you’re more than welcome to come over again next year.”

oh.

steve’s lips part slightly, eyes widening in surprise. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you breathe out, nerves taking over while you busy yourself with the frosting. you’re not really doing much of anything, just mindless fiddling with the bag and adjusting the parchment paper on the cookie sheet. everything but looking at steve.

“just think you deserve to be a part of a christmas tradition,” you say so softly he almost doesn’t catch it. the wholehearted sincerity in your voice, despite its low volume, makes him feel dizzy.

as he stands there, dumbfounded and mulling over your words, he knows he can’t chicken out any longer. not when you were offering a place for him in your holiday traditions. something steve knew you held very near and dear to your heart.

“that is, of course,” you add hurriedly, turning around to make sure you haven’t made him feel pressured. “only if you want to.”

oh boy does he.

steve crosses the room in long, slow strides. partly to test the waters and partly to watch the way you get a little squirmy. your hands struggle to find something sensible to do, but everything is a jumbled mess and you eventually drop them at your sides by the time steve glides into your peripheral vision.

your eyes squeeze shut in preparation for his polite rejection. that he’s going to let you down easy, and leave you to finish all this by yourself.

but you should’ve known steve better than that.

a tender hand wraps around your wrist, the scent of his cologne enveloping your personal space, and the syrupy sweet murmur of that damned word finds your ears again. he was consuming all your senses, an act of reverse psychology that makes you open up instead of run away.

when his hand travels further south, experimentally brushing your fingers together, you can’t hide anymore. there’s nothing you could possibly do to ignore the jolt of electricity that travels through you from head to toe. as your eyes slowly peek open, you find steve leaning against the counter beside you, a boyish little grin on his face. barely a feet of space between your bodies, yet you were buzzing with anticipation.

“i want to,” he says matter of factly despite the airiness of his voice. “i really, really want to.”

a hint of nervousness dances across his features when he utters, “but only if you’ll let me.”

there’s a double entendre to his proclamation that’s undeniable. steve leans closer, enough that you can see just how long his lashes are, how those stupid pretty eyes have flecks of gold in them, how his cupid bow is so perfect, so kissable. enough that you can’t mistake the way his gaze keeps flicking down to your lips. an unspoken permission you happily grant with the slightest nod of the head.

kissing steve is exactly how you dreamed it would be. those perfectly plump lips were just as soft as you hoped, as skilled as the girls back in high school used to whisper about. there’s a confidence behind the way he kisses you, though it’s still incredibly languid and gentle. his hand migrates from your wrist up to your jaw, gently caressing and cradling it with a care no one else has ever shown you before.

you’re not sure how long you stand there for. it could’ve been minutes, or hours; either way you didnt care. the cookies were long forgotten in your mind, having found a new craving that could only be satiated so long as steve held you close and his lips remained on yours.

a laugh bubbles in your throat at the faint flavor of chocolate on your tongue. you discover a new fact about steve that you don’t plan on sharing with anyone else as long as he’ll have you.

he tastes sweeter than sugar.

thanks for reading! <3

!! if you would like to be tagged in the rest of the ficmas blurbs, please send me an inbox message or leave a comment !!

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Whiskey on the Tongue

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: You are the forbidden fruit Dean had always wanted to taste, and when you steal his whiskey the way you do, he is powerless to resist.

Words: 2.2k

A/N: This is my first ever Supernatural fic after having started watching the show just before Christmas. I know I'm late to the game but is it ever really too late to start loving a fandom? I've tried to make the reader generic in every way other than being cis-female, and Dean finding her hot.

It's been an absolute age since I wrote anything and probably longer since I posted anything here on Tumblr but I'm getting back into it now. Hopefully this finds its way to people in the Supernatural fandom who love a bit of Dean smut.

I hope you enjoy and, as always, I value your comments and feedback.

Warnings: Smut, explicit smut, alcohol consumption, mentions of people who have passed away, profanity as standard with pretty much everything I write.

*** Minors do not read or interact - 18+ content ***

Dean let his head fall back against the headboard, clenching his fists to try to distract himself from the deep ache in his left leg.  It had been falling asleep for well over an hour now, but he didn’t want to move and disturb you.

The door to his room in the bunker was closed.  Locked, in fact, though he did not remember doing it.  You didn’t comment or so much as move when Sam brayed on the door and tried the handle, calling out for Dean to return his book.  The very book that was in your hands right now.

“I need that book back, Dean.”  Sam grumbled.

“Not now, Sammy!”  Dean called back, hoping his little brother would just go away.

“I’m researching Nephilim to help Cas with the Kelly situation, Dean.  It’s important.”  Sam became more insistent.

“I said NOT NOW, SAM!”  Dean hollered with a kind of finality that even Sam wouldn’t argue with.

Outside the door, Sam huffed and stalked away.  Dean looked down to see you looking up at him from your position, lay on his bed.  Your head was resting on his left calf, his leg bent with his foot tucked under his right knee.  You had your knees up with your foot tapping along to his banging playlist, your jeans tight around your thighs and with your head tilted back he could see all the way down the deep V of your t-shirt.

He was going to hell.  Straight there.  Do not pass go.  Do not collect two hundred dollars.  And he probably deserved it.

He snapped his eyes up towards the ceiling but it was too late, he could feel himself stirring uncomfortably in his jeans.  If Bobby was alive he would have skinned him raw just for having you in his room.  Bobby was always protective of you, his niece.  You were only a couple of years younger than Sam but Bobby had made himself very clear that you were off limits.

“If you touch one single hair on her body, I’ll make you regret the day your balls dropped.  Do you hear me, boy?”

Bobby Singer.  That man did not mince his words.  And to this day, Dean had taken that threat as gospel.  Even now that Bobby was up there with the Angels, that son of a bitch would find a way to keep his word.

You shifted, causing a painful twang to shoot up his leg.  The reflexive grunt he failed to stifle made you look back up at him, giving him that glorious view again.

Dean decided he could die like this.  If having a dead leg was a legitimate threat to his life, he would go out happy with the view of your rack in that lacy black bra he could see within the V-shaped window of that too-tight t-shirt.

He raised his eyes, once again to heaven, asking Bobby to forgive him or give him strength or something because – god help him – he wanted to take you right then and there.

It wasn’t unusual for you to seek him out after a case when you didn’t want to be alone, but you didn’t want to talk.  You would just sit while he drank, reading or working on spells.  You said he quieted the noise in your head.  Hell, he wasn’t going to argue, you were a sight for sore eyes every time he came home.  You were wicked hot and sexy in a non-slutty way.  Not that slutty was bad.  Dean liked slutty.  But that wasn’t you, you were different.

A drink.  That’s what was missing.  Dean needed a damn drink, especially if you were going to torture him by laying on him all evening.

He reached over to his bedside unit, for the bottle he kept in there for special occasions.  A bottle of twenty-five-year-old Speyside single malt that he liberated from the British Men of Letters on his last interaction with Ketch.

The pour made you stir again but it wasn’t until he raised the cut crystal tumbler to his lips did you move.  Your hand came up and claimed the glass from underneath, twisting it as you sat up so as not to spill any.

“Where’s yours?”

The cheeky glint in your eye had him pursing his lips in mild annoyance.

“Don’t pout.”  You lifted the glass, turning it until the mark left by his lips touched yours and you sipped, looking him straight in the eye.

Dean’s jaw went slack.  The glisten of the whiskey on your lips and the satisfied hum you made when you swallowed – he swallowed unconsciously when you did – made his mouth go dry.  He had never seen you like this.

You moved to kneel on the bed and walked your way slowly closer, giving his leg a tap; an instruction to move it aside.  He did, causing pins and needles to infest his nerves like ants swarming on a log to escape a flood.

Knelt between his spread legs, you brought the glass to your lips again, sipping at the amber liquid.  You leaned in.

Dean watched you, breathing shallow, attention rapt.  You hadn’t so much as touched him, yet every nerve in his body felt like it was on fire in the best possible way.  The closer you got the shallower he breathed until he was almost holding his breath, looking down his nose at how close your lips were.  His eyelashes looked to flutter against his cheeks just as yours did when you brushed your whiskey dappled lips against his.

He refused to lick where you had been.  He couldn’t.  As soon as he tasted, he would pounce, and…

“Don’t.”  He croaked out when you moved to lay your lips on him once more.

You looked confused but at least you didn’t look hurt.  He couldn’t bear it if you looked hurt because of him.

“Bobby…”  Was all he could say through his constricting throat.

You smiled then, full of amusement, lips brushing against his, you whispered “he’ll understand.”

Dean tried not to respond to you but you coaxed his lips apart and teased your tongue to meet his, short circuiting his brain.  The taste of the scotch and the sweetness of your mouth made him groan.  He had fantasised about having you for years, but never did he think it would be you seducing him.

His hands on your hips guided you roughly to straddle him, the bulge in his jeans pushing up against you as you settled.  He took the glass from your hands and downed the contents, his eyes on yours as he dropped the glass carelessly on the bedside unit.

Your lips met his again but this time you devoured each other, tongues stroking together, moans stifled by each other’s mouths.  He trailed his hands up your body, dragging your t-shirt along with them.  Finally, he could see what he had been having glimpses of this whole evening.  Plush breasts cupped in scant lace that was completely impractical for a hunt, Dean realised, like you had meant to come here like this.  You had intended this from the beginning.

He tore at the lace, dragging it under your breasts to free them, shoulder straps slipped down.  Pawing at them like he had never touched a tittie before, all he wanted to do was suck and nip and nibble.

Your breathy sigh was divine, and the moan that followed was filthy.  You cupped the back of his head as he took your nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, pressing him further, asking for more.

While he worked on your breasts you undid his belt and fly, reaching into the front of his shorts to release him from the awkward angle at which he was trapped.  You stroked him, firm but slow, feeling him for the first time.  You had always wondered what he had going on down there that every woman he had ever been with would come back for more at the drop of a hat.  You weren’t disappointed.

Dean lifted his hips, you thought to allow you to push his jeans down but instead he flipped you, making you squeal.  Once under him, he ravished your breasts anew, pinching one nipple hard while licking and sucking the other.  Soon you were a mewling mess, hips writhing, begging for something he hadn’t given you yet.  Excited that he had taken control away from you, you watched him sit up and yank your jeans down, lifting your legs until they were bare.  Your knickers followed and he spread your legs without preamble, lowering himself between your thighs until his hair and eyes were all you could see above your mound.

“Jesus Christ of Nazareth!”

You groaned as he suckled against your sensitive spot.  Fuck, he was good with his tongue.  Everything about him was good except his image.  Bad boy Dean Winchester.  He was every woman’s wet dream.  He had been your wet dream since you were seventeen.  But now you were plenty old enough and finally getting what you wanted.

Bobby had told you to stay away from him when you were a kid.  Dean had a reputation as a ladies man even then, but he respected your uncle Bobby enough to keep his distance… until now.

Dean dipped two fingers inside, creating pressure in exactly the right spot.  You gasped and gripped his hair as your pleasure began to crest, tugging on it for dear life.  He looked up at you then, to see your eyes closed against the intensity of it, neck and face flushed red with your oncoming orgasm.  When it came, the pulsing of your core was his sign to slow down.  He left off his suckling and stroked you through the pleasure, watching you all the while.  You were a beautiful mess.

“That’s my girl.”  He praised you in that deep rough tone you adored, helping prolong your climax until you took his hand away yourself.  “Are you ready for me?”

You nodded, allowing him to lift your knees up and stroke the weeping tip of his cock over your swollen clit.

From the front pocket of the jeans he still wore, he pulled a foil packet with Trojan embossed on it.  He was swift with its application, aiming his tip just so.

When he slid home, your eyes rolled back and you reached to grip his forearms.  It was something Dean would never get tired of seeing but it felt that much different with you.  You were the forbidden thing he had always wanted but could never have.  Even now he didn’t know whether he would come to regret this.  God, he hoped not.

Balls deep in you, he leaned forward to kiss you, wrapping your legs around his hips.  His instinct was to fold you in half and pound the living shit out of you, but you were already overwhelmed and he wanted to make this soft for you.

“Tell me what you need.”  He spoke softly as he nuzzled your neck.

“Just you, like this.”  You sighed.  Who knew Dean Winchester was a considerate lover.

His slow, measured thrusts brought you closer to the edge, your core fluttering each time, he could feel it.  It surprised him how quickly is climax built at this pace, but the added connection you both shared seemed to turn him on.  He would never give up Busty Asian Babe porn but he could get used to this with you.

You didn’t close your eyes against the pleasure this time, you watched him come undone above you, gasping as his orgasm made his legs and arms shake, muscles clenched tight to keep his weight from collapsing on you.  When he swelled you dug your fingers into his hips to pull him deeper with each stroke, and when he spilled you also came, eyes fluttering shut finally.

Dean knelt up, slipping the rubber off as soon as he was clear of you and, tying a knot in the end, tossed it in the direction of the trash can.

“Shot.”  You said with a smile as the sticky bundle went straight in the can.

He quirked and eyebrow and give you a slightly smug lopsided smirk that said:  What can I say?  I don’t miss.

When you moved to sit, he stopped you.

“Here, lemme get that.”

“Thanks.”

He stripped his t-shirt off and used it to clean up the wetness between your legs.  Though none of it was his, it would still dribble when you moved.  Afterwards he tucked it under your ass and flopped down on the bed at your side, moving his arm behind your head so you could rest it on his chest.  You were both content.  Both had goofy grins on your faces.  Both disbelieving that you had finally gotten what you wanted.

A loud knock at the door started you.

“Are you done?”  Sam said.  “I need that book.”

“NO!”  You and Dean shouted back in unison, laughing afterwards.

“Bobby’s gonna kill you.”  Sam called back through the door.

“I KNOW!”  Dean yelled gruffly, pulling you closer.

There might be a time in the future where the ghost of Bobby Singer came to make him regret the day his balls dropped and, if it happened, Dean would be happy to see him again.  In the meantime, you and he could work on a whole bunch of reasons to make the cranky old bastard come down from up high for a visit.

Dean pulled the sheets over both of your heads, nibbling at your neck until you moaned his name.  Aside from the roar of Baby’s engine, he had found his new favourite sound.