#blended Christmas one shot

[ellemj]

Half-Tongue Rule: 12 Days of Smut #1

Bucky Barnes x Reader One-Shot

Summary: A little Asgardian liquor and a whole lot of tension leads to a teeny tiny bit of smut between you and a certain jealous super soldier.

Warnings: profanity, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, teasing, public teasing, jealous!Bucky, slight DUBCON if you consider it so, alcohol consumption, MINORS DNI, 18+!!!

Feel free to comment and let me know if this requires any other warnings.

Word Count: 9k (I'm very sorry)

A/N: Thank you to @littlemiss-yeehaw for both catching my mistakes in writing and helping with warnings. She's the reason I don't give in to my daily urge to delete my whole blog lmao. Also, I apologize for this being an hour later than planned. It has been a day. This is just a lil baby smut but I think each day of this event will get filthier and filthier as I get closer to my favorite storylines.

         You hate parties. You hate the amount of alcohol that people seem to need to consume just to enjoy each other’s company. You hate the way you feel obligated to stay for a certain length of time just to appease the host. You especially hate the way parties make it hard to even hear your own thoughts. Or maybe you just hate Tony Stark’s parties, specifically. His parties are classy, yet overly loud and hard to break away from when you’re ready to leave. However, you still accepted the Christmas party invitation that Pepper so kindly emailed you three weeks ago. It would’ve been too difficult to come up with a fake excuse for missing it when half of you live in the same building.

         So, that’s what led you here, taking the elevator up to the top floor of Stark Tower, standing with your back pressed against the cold metal wall as you listen to the chatter of the various SHIELD employees who piled into the elevator with you. The only familiar faces on the ride up are Sharon and Wanda. The three of you arrived together, but you know as soon as the elevator lets you out into the party, they’ll both disappear into the crowd to be social butterflies. Your dress is so thin that the cool temperature of the elevator wall sends a chill down your spine, making you regret having left your winter coat downstairs like everyone else.

         The sound of music playing through the speakers just a little way higher in the elevator shaft reaches your ears and you take a deep breath. You remind yourself that parties are supposed to be fun and that you put all of this effort into looking hot as fuck, you need to find a way to enjoy the night. You tell yourself to be free and have a little fun, not to hide away in a corner refusing to have even one drink, and not to rush out of here before it’s been at least an hour.

         When the elevator slows to a halt and starts filing out to join the lively, festive gathering ahead, your legs refuse to carry you forward. The lower half of your body hasn’t quite gotten the whole be free and have a little fun memo yet. Wanda shoots you a disapproving look paired with a small frown and shakes her head before reaching out and wrapping an arm around your waist. She pulls you along with her and suddenly, you’re immersed in Christmas music and Christmas cheer.

         “Don’t be a buzzkill. Have a few drinks for once and loosen up, you’re can be the life of the party when you’re a little drunk.” Wanda commands, ushering you a few steps further away from the elevator. You’re about to remind her that she’s only ever seen you drunk once, and that it’s been over a year since then, but as soon as her eyes land on Vision across the room, she’s gone. You find yourself standing alone in your little burgundy dress. You take a moment to let your eyes roam over the crowd, noticing how almost everyone is in black or navy. You see a couple of women in forest green dresses, and even one in a dress that’s as white as snow, but no one else is wearing the same color as you. Damn. That’ll make it a little harder to blend in in the corner.

         You let out a soft sigh before pushing your loosely curled hair back over your shoulder and turning to the left to head to the small bar. One drink. You can have one drink and pretend like you’re enjoying this before you make your great escape. Though the expansive room is quite crowded with people, the bar itself isn’t so bad. The bartender is quick to pass you your glass of whiskey neat as he shoots you a kind smile. You’re only one sip in when you notice the bartender’s eyes look past you, over your shoulder, at someone else. You await the inevitable approach of whoever it is that’s behind you as you savor the slight burn of the whiskey trickling down your throat.

         “You showed.” Sam’s voice rings out from behind you. He steps up to the bar and rests his elbows on it, standing a little to your left. You turn to face him and find him grinning from ear to ear. His infectious smile has always made you feel a little more at ease, and so you find yourself relaxing the tiniest bit in his presence. You lift the glass to your lips and take a second sip. Sam studies you while he waits for a beer, taking in your deep burgundy dress and your quiet demeanor. He knows parties aren’t your thing, but he also knows you can be more fun than just about anyone he’s ever met when you have a little bit of alcohol coursing through your veins. It’s not that you need to drink to be a fun person, but you keep yourself so reined in, so on task most of the time, that you forget to live. When you drink, you let yourself relax a little and your guard goes down just enough for you to have a good time without overthinking it. “Whiskey neat?” Sam asks, eyeing your drink of choice. You nod your head and drag your fingertip around the rim of your glass, glancing down at the amber-colored liquid.

         “I wanted to look mysterious and brooding. Holding a glass of whiskey makes a girl look mysterious and brooding, right?” You ask jokingly, giving Sam a small smile. He chuckles and stands up straight as the bartender presses a bottle of beer into his hand. He turns to fully face you now but his gaze continues to span across the room until it lands on a certain super soldier. Bucky stands tall beside one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, dressed in a well-fitted pair of black dress pants with an even better-fitted black button up adorning his torso. You take in the unusual sight of his vibranium arm on display. You’ve never seen him with his sleeves rolled up like this before. He looks a bit like a successful CEO of some company that earns him a few million dollars a year, especially with those gold accents in the crevices of his arm. You can’t seem to tear your gaze away from the man who you’ve been strategically avoiding at all costs.

         “If you want to look mysterious and brooding, you should talk to the cyborg over there. He has that look down pat.” Sam says with a laugh. He won’t say it to either of you out loud, but Sam thinks you and Bucky are so similar that you could’ve been cut from the same cloth. He knows people say that opposites attract, but he has to wonder if that’s always the case. To anyone else, it would seem like you and Bucky hate each other, even though you work together so seamlessly in the field. Sam has witnessed an odd sort of vibe between the two of you multiple times before, something that walks a very thin line between hatred and sexual tension. Neither of you have ever given Sam enough solid evidence that it’s anything besides a mutual dislike, but he can tell. He may not know just how right he is about the two of you, but he knows something is there.

As if Bucky could feel your eyes on him, he turns his head ever-so-slightly and meets your gaze. His blue eyes are always so piercing, seeing right through you and making you feel on edge for absolutely no reason. The moment he looked at you was the moment you should’ve put your drink down and switched to water for the rest of the evening. But when Thor arrived a few moments later, bearing the gift of Asgardian liquor, you decided to drink your demons away for one night.

---

         “What’s going on over there?” Sam’s question catches the attention of the small crowd of Avengers that are gathered around one end of the bar, as he points across the bar where you and Thor seem to be engaged in a more-than-friendly conversation. Sharon smiles deviously and Bucky’s jaw clenches, already hating where this is going.

         “Thor’s trying to close the deal with her. He gave her a little Asgardian liquor, and I think it’s going to pay off for him.” She explains, lifting her colorful drink to her lips and taking a long sip. Bucky watches you closely for a moment, picking up on the fact that you’re definitely past tipsy. Thor is seated on a barstool and you stand in front of him, laughing at something he’s just said as he smiles down at you. Bucky’s jaw clenches again when he sees you playfully rest a hand on Thor’s knee. Bucky would like to think that your hand is there for balance, but he knows that’s not what this is. Not at all. He scoffs and finishes off his own glass of whiskey.

         “It’s not going to pay off for him.” Bucky mumbles, trying to ignore the unfamiliar feeling that’s rising up in his chest. Jealousy. You wouldn’t go for a guy who’s shamelessly flirting with you after liquoring you up, just to get you into bed. You thrive off of banter, off of arguing with someone to the point of wanting to shut them up with your body. Bucky isn’t positive, but he’s fairly sure that he knows this about you. He picks up on the way you come alive when the two of you end up in a heated argument after a mission goes awry, he picks up on the way your frustration in the field brings about a different kind of tension between the two of you on the trips back to the compound. You aren’t the type to fall head over heels for a few compliments and a pretty face, even if the guy is a god. Thor would be too easy for you. And if Bucky has learned anything about you after butting heads with you for the past two months, it’s that you like a challenge more than anything.

         “It looks like it is.” Sam claims, pointing a finger in your direction now. Bucky looks again and sees Thor leaning in close to you, whispering something in your ear that makes your cheeks a little more pink. He catches himself squeezing his whiskey glass so hard that it might’ve shattered if he hadn’t released it onto the bar. Thor rises from the barstool, towering over you by at least a foot, shoots you a suggestive look, and then walks past you. Everyone watches as he heads straight for the elevator, making a quick exit from the party, everyone except Bucky. He’s focused on you as you turn your whole body to see Thor walk away. It’s clear that he’s daring you to follow him out, to run off somewhere for a late-night rendezvous, anyone can see that. Sam and Sharon have seemingly lost interest in the situation at hand and they quickly dive into their own conversation. Bucky continues watching you closely, his eyes narrowed and zoned in on you, as you finish off your drink and set your glass down on the bar. When you finally look back up, you look straight at him. As soon as your eyes meet his, he notices the way every muscle in your body tenses. Fuck it.

         His walk is confident, nearly cocky, and you can tell he’s seething. You watch him so carefully as he makes his way through the crowded room, noticing how everyone parts as soon as they see him coming. He’s clearly sporting a bit of a mood and no one here would dare be on the receiving end of that. As Bucky approaches you, his eyes bore into yours, with no trace of a smile or kind greeting to be found behind his blue eyes. You swallow hard, getting ready for one of his signature scoffs or briefly worded insults.

         “Bucky—” You start, ready to diffuse whatever argument your sometimes-field partner is about to begin with you. He doesn’t even slow down as he nearly barrels into you, his vibranium hand wrapping around your wrist, forcing you away from the bar. He turns you around roughly and pushes you in front of him, straight through a corner door that he’s throwing open with his right hand. Suddenly, you’re immersed in even dimmer lights as he closes the door behind him, effectively shutting the two of you off from the rest of the party. His grip on your wrist loosens and you can smell the soft tinge of the same whiskey you’ve been drinking tonight on his lips. The music is muffled in here and it helps you get ahold of your thoughts before you turn to face the little shit that dragged you in here against your will. When you turn around, Bucky stands still in front of the door, his vibranium hand uncharacteristically unobscured by any sort of glove. It gleams in the low light and distracts you for a brief second, before you look up at him.

         “What the hell, Bucky?” Your voice is raspy from the burn of the whiskey and Asgardian liquor. It feels a bit like you swallowed rocks, but the buzz it all gave you is worth it. As annoyed as you should be with Bucky right now for manhandling you like he’s anything but your occasional partner in the field, you can’t help but think about how fucking hot he looks tonight. His dark pants show off just how muscular his legs are, specifically his thighs. They also show off just how well-endowed he is in a different department, but you try hard not to think about that. Bucky catches you looking him up and down, unfortunately, as you’re not the slyest when you’ve been drinking liquor that works against even a super soldier’s metabolism.

         “Eyes up here, sweetheart.” His tone is patronizing, but his words send an all-too-familiar heat rushing between your legs. You instinctively listen to him, shifting your eyes up to meet his. His command felt almost lustful to you but his gaze is harsh. Maybe you just felt like it was lustful because you wanted it to be. You do tend to get a little horny when you’ve been drinking, and with the Asgardian buzz, everything starts to seem a little porny. You swallow, closing your mouth and waiting for the man to say anything else. He takes his time choosing his words, as he lets his eyes rake over your body just like your eyes raked over his a moment ago. He didn’t get a good enough look at your dress when you were all the way across the bar, but now he’s decided that he fucking hates it.

         “Bucky?” You prompt, tilting your head to the side, trying to get him to look in your eyes again. When he finally does, his gaze remains cold and harsh.

         “You showed up at a party just to get drunk and go home with Thor?” He questions, his tone both accusing and condescending. You scoff, taking a step backward and crossing your arms over your chest. This small action lifts your breasts and you notice Bucky’s eyes briefly lower to steal a glance. God. He wishes he’d found a darker closet to force you into.

         “Fuck you for that.” You spit back at him, narrowing your eyes and shooting daggers in his direction. He laughs lowly and watches as you wobble a bit on your heels, the buzz from the liquor developing into more of a state of drunkenness as your body struggles to metabolize it.

         “You would fuck me. You’d fuck anyone after drinking what he gave you.” Bucky tosses out the insult with ease, a cocky smirk painted on his face. You run your hands through your hair, wondering when the room started tilting to one side.

         “I wouldn’t fuck you, but anyone else maybe. What are we doing in here, James?” You ask, looking around the small, empty supply closet that you seem to be in. You take one step back and lean against the wall behind you for a little support. Bucky chuckles at the sight of you, making such an effort to fight off his insults and maintain your balance at the same time. He’s never really been around you when you’ve been drinking, and he finds it unbelievably amusing.

         “Are you lying to yourself or just to me?” His voice is lower now, a little quieter and a lot more charged with something. You want to say it’s charged with lust, but again, the porny haze might just be from your own point of view. However, Bucky is feeling that porny haze in the air as well. Hell, Bucky’s the one creating it. You push his question to the back of your mind, focusing on what you want to know. If he would just hurry up and tell you why he forced you into a damn supply closet, you could walk out of here and head downstairs to find Thor and start having some real fun.

         “Let’s try this one last time, what are we doing in here?” You repeat, pushing yourself away from the wall and stepping closer to him? You’re only a foot apart from each other now, and you can see him much better from this distance in the low lighting.

         “I’m keeping you from making a stupid decision.”

         “No, you’re kind of cockblocking, if you even know what that is.” You retort, rolling your eyes and turning to the left as you reach for the door handle. Bucky quickly reaches out with his flesh hand, wrapping his fingers around your wrist and forcing your arm away from the door. He doesn’t let go of your wrist this time.

         “You’re not sleeping with him.” He says firmly. You look down at where he’s gripping your wrist before looking back up at him, narrowing your eyes once more.

         “Why the hell do you think you get a vote?”

         “I’m not voting, I’m vetoing it. You’re drunk.”

         “I don’t need you to protect me, Barnes. Contrary to popular belief, I can take care of my damn self.” You snatch your hand away from him, thinking he’ll release his grip when you do, but he only tightens it and uses the leverage to pull you against him. Your chest crashes against his and you can feel his breath fan across your face. He smells like whiskey and light cologne, and his body heat emanates through his thin button-up shirt. A few less-than-holy thoughts speed through your mind. For a second, you worry he might be able to read your partially drunken thoughts with his intense stare. Bucky’s jaw clenches and he fights the urge to shove you against the wall and fuck you right here.

         “Then go home and take care of yourself instead of letting that jackass do it for you.”

         Did Bucky really just tell you to go home and get yourself off? You’re ninety-percent sure that that’s what he just alluded to. Okay, eighty-five percent sure since you’re not quite all there due to the obscene amount of alcohol you’ve consumed over the past hour. You feel a wave of heat spreading through your entire body, lighting your skin on fire. The point where Bucky’s hand is clasped around your wrist is especially on fire. You inhale a shaky breath, calming yourself down and trying to command your body to cooperate with you and cool down. Bucky smirks as he watches your attempt to gather yourself.

         “I got all dressed up and drunk for sex, Barnes. I’m not letting my effort go to waste.” Bucky’s eyes are saying so many things at once, but you can’t figure out a damn word of it in your current state. All you can think about is him pressing you up against the wall right now. Maybe he’d be a little pliant since he’s also downed a good amount of whiskey tonight, and since he clearly suddenly thinks that he has a say in your sex life. You feel your drunken confidence, your alter ego, coming out to play. You smile now, pressing your lips together and softening your gaze as you drink in the sight of his steely gaze and unreadable expression. “If I can’t have sex with Thor, are you going to tell me who I can have sex with tonight?” Your words take him by surprise and he recoils, dropping your wrist and stepping back. You feel powerful now, making him step away with only your words.

                  “You really should just go home, sleep it off.” He says, trying once again to steer you in a safe direction. It’s not so much that he’s trying to steer you in a safe direction, but more that he’s trying to keep himself from having a reason to pick a fight with Thor. He doesn’t want his hands on you. He’s not letting it happen.

         “I am so fucking tired of you always trying to protect me. What happened to the introverted ass who lived across the hall and skulked around the tower? He was way more bearable.”

         “You like me way more now.” He states, narrowing his eyes at you. You shake your head quickly.

         “You’re still an ass, but now you’re all confident and you know you’re hot and it’s unbearable.” You feel the regret as soon as the words leave your lips. You didn’t mean to say the part about him being hot. 

“You think I’m hot?” He asks. He’s intrigued now, that cocky smirk once again gracing his face. You shrug your shoulders, reaching for the door again. He lets you grab the handle this time but he places a strong, firm hand against the door, at the height of your face, stopping you from opening it. He steps in close, his chest nearly brushing against your right arm and side as he leans down to your ear. “Answer the question.” A chill races down your spine, forcing you to close your eyes and draw in a deep, calming breath. Why is he being so damn authoritative all of a sudden?

         “I’m drunk.”

         “Which just means that you have no filter. So, answer the question.” He keeps his hand firmly planted against the door and you know he won’t let you out of here until he gets his answer.

         “Yes.” You answer as nonchalantly as possible, turning your head to him. You’re a mere inch apart now, his lips hovering so teasingly in front of yours and his eyes staring into your soul.

         “You’re not leaving with him.” He states. His tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip and narrowly missing yours. You can’t stop yourself from looking at his lips, especially his bottom lip that’s now moistened right in front of you.

         “You can’t tell me what to do.” You slur your words, pushing your hands against his chest and forcing him back a couple of small steps. You march yourself out of the closet now, leaving him behind, but your mind still seems to be stuck on the image of his lips. You should’ve just kissed him. Who could have blamed you if you did kiss him? Asgardian liquor gives everything such a sexual energy for some reason.

         Bucky can’t stop himself from keeping a watchful eye on you for the rest of the party. After you got away from him, you headed off to dance and drink even more with Sharon. As long as you don’t sneak off to wherever Thor went, he really doesn’t give a shit what you do. Or maybe he does. He isn’t quite sure why he suddenly gives a shit. Why were you so set on having sex with someone tonight? And why did it seem like you didn’t even care who it was going to be? That doesn’t seem like you at all, having a meaningless one-night stand with whoever happens to be up for one.

         Bucky’s mind keeps mulling over the fact that you practically called him hot. Well, you said yes when he asked if you thought he was hot.  Maybe you’re more bold and honest when you’re drunk. Or maybe you’re just a liar when you’re drunk. Either way, Bucky can’t get it out of his head.

         “Yo, cyborg, you in there?” Sam waves his arm in the air, drawing Bucky’s attention out of his thoughts and back to the present conversation.

         “What?”

         “Which one of us is going to offer the girls a ride home? They’re both way too drunk to drive.” Sam asks. Bucky scoffs. Like you’ll accept a ride from either one of them with how independent you try to be and how especially stubborn you’re already being tonight. Sam distracted Bucky just for a moment, so he didn’t notice you and Sharon heading over to join the group in the sitting area of the lavish room.

         As they round the side of the couch, Sharon takes the only space on the couch between Sam and Clint, leaving you to stand beside the couch, steadying yourself on the arm of it.

         “We were just talking about you two.” Sam says to you both with a grin, glancing at Sharon first and then up at you. Bucky notices you trying a little too hard to remain in a steady and upright position, but he knows if he stands up and offers you his chair, you’ll absolutely refuse to take it.

         “Are you going back to the tower tonight, Y/n?” Clint wonders aloud, focusing his eyes on you. Bucky can tell that Clint also notices your unusual difficulty with balance, but he doesn’t seem very concerned. Clint’s seen her drunk before, so he’s actually used to this side of you. You laugh and shake your head, your curls softer and looser than when Bucky first saw you a little while ago.

         “No way, I’m staying with Sharon tonight.” You answer. You looks down at her feet for a brief second and Bucky can tell it’s because your heels are hurting your feet, but you’re not the kind of girl to take your shoes off and walk around barefoot in public.

         “Come on, you can’t both be on your own this drunk.” Clint argues, looking to Bucky and Sam for support. Sam catches his drift and takes on a slightly more serious expression before looking up at you. You shake your head once again, rolling your eyes before turning your head and narrowing them at Bucky.

         “I wouldn’t even be going home with Sharon if Sergeant Barnes over here hadn’t made me miss my chance with someone.” You say coldly, your eyes once again shooting daggers at Bucky. Sam and Clint turn their attention to Bucky now, and Sharon lets out a hearty laugh.

         “Yeah, I heard you vetoed her potential one-night stand.” Sharon’s voice is full of amusement.

         “I did you a favor.” Bucky scoffs, returning your hard stare with one of his own. You saunter over to him now, maintaining your balance well enough to seat your pretty little ass on the arm of the chair he’s in. You cross your legs at the knee, causing your already short dress to ride even further up your thighs. Bucky’s vibranium hand that rests on the arm of the chair is only inches behind your ass. He forces himself to look past you, at Sam, who is clearly very entertained by this whole situation.

         “Sam, is cockblocking ever a favor?” You ask, seeking validation for your little tantrum over Bucky stopping you from leaving with Thor. Sam shakes his head, looking up at you with a joking frown.

         “Never. Friends don’t stop friends from getting theirs.” Sam answers, shooting Bucky another look. He’s implying to Bucky that you and him must not simply be friends if he stopped you from sleeping with Thor tonight. You clap your hands together once before pushing yourself off of his chair and taking two steps toward the couch, you turn yourself effortlessly and take a seat on Sam’s right knee, which doesn’t even seem to faze him. Bucky watches as Sam places a hand on your back to keep you steadied there. His jaw clenches and his vibranium hand coils into a fist.

         “See, Bucky, you’ll have to make it up to me.” Your tone can only be described as flirty and suggestive, but only Sam and Bucky seem to pick up on it. Sam raises an eyebrow at the seething super soldier, awaiting his response. He cocks his head to the side, thinking of a way to play this smart.

         “Next time Fury pits us against each other in training…” Bucky starts, leaning forward in the chair and resting his elbows on his knees before continuing. “I’ll let you win.”

         “No thanks, I kicked your ass last time. I don’t need you to let me win.” You narrow your eyes at him once again, before turning to Sam, Sharon, and Clint. “Sam remembers that, right Sam?” Sam nods vigorously, a smile creeping across his face as the memory plays through his head.

         “I would’ve loved to have seen it.” Sharon pipes up, leaning against Sam’s shoulder now. Damn, he’s looking like he’s such a ladies’ man tonight. Bucky considers taking a picture for him so the memory lasts. Wanda and Vision join the group, Wanda perching herself on the armrest next to Clint’s side of the couch and Vision standing beside her, keeping a hand on her back. “Oh, I have the best idea.” Sharon suddenly sounds like a child, and she’s clearly about to say something ridiculously stupid. “We should play truth or dare.”

---

                  “If we’re doing this, we’re doing this the fair way.” Sam asserts. Clint quickly took his leave before the game was agreed upon, claiming that it was already way past his bedtime and he had to check in with his wife and kids over the phone before they all fall asleep. Wanda and Vision filled his vacant spot on the couch.

You feel the effects of the alcohol that you consumed earlier slowly making its way through your system and losing its potency as it’s metabolized. You still feel a good bit of drunkenness from the Asgardian liquor, and you really wonder how long that will take to clear your system. “We alternate between truth and dare, spinning the bottle to pick who takes the turn.” Sam places an empty beer bottle on the coffee table before us all, his hand briefly leaving your back when he leans forward to do so. As he rests back against the couch again, his hand finds its way to your middle back again. Sitting on his knee like this is starting to make it feel like your ass is falling asleep, and if your ass is falling asleep then your legs won’t be far behind.

         “Truth.” Sharon calls out for the first turn, reaching out to spin the bottle and get the game going. You stand up from Sam’s knee and switch to sitting on the floor on your knees. Your dress is sitting dangerously high on your thighs now. You glance around the circle at everyone. Sam, Sharon, Wanda, Vision, and Torres, who joined when Clint left, all keep their eyes trained on the spinning bottle. Bucky, however, is looking right at you. He probably wishes you would’ve gone home and taken care of yourself like he told you to earlier. What a jackass. The bottle slows to a stop, the lip of it pointing at Wanda. “Wanda!” Sharon yells out, excited by her first victim. “Does Vision have a dick?” The question sends the group into an uproar, but Wanda only laughs.

         “Yes.” She answers, keeping it short and simple.

         “Are follow-up questions allowed?” Sharon quickly asks, turning to look at Sam.

         “Only if the bottle lands on that person again and it’s a turn for truth.” He clarifies. Sharon scoffs, rolling her eyes.

         “That’s no fun at all.” She complains. You watch as Wanda leans into Vision’s ear and whispers something, something that makes him smile and nuzzle against her cheek ever so slightly. God, they’re sickeningly adorable. Wanda breaks away from him for a moment to spin the bottle, calling out dare as it begins to spin. Of course, it lands on you.

         “Wanda, we’re friends.” You remind her. You doubt she would make you do anything too crazy, knowing her, but if she’s been drinking and isn’t her normal self tonight, she might be a little adventurous. Mischief gleams behind her eyes and you know you’re in trouble. This game is starting to feel a bit sobering.

         “I dare you to sit on Bucky’s lap for the rest of the game.”

         “Wanda!” You yell out, an annoyed tone to your voice and a glare painted across your face. “That has to be against the rules. What if he doesn’t want to participate?” You try to talk your way out of it, looking to Sam now since he seems to be in charge of the rules here. He thinks for a second, looking at you and then up at Bucky. Bucky’s expression is stoic, as unreadable as ever as he stares back at Sam.

         “I’ll allow it.” Sam decides, smirking at Bucky. You groan, pushing yourself up from the floor but refusing to make eye contact with Bucky. You move a few steps toward him and sit on his knee, just like you sat on Sam’s earlier.

         “Oh, no. That’s not his lap.” Wanda points out, waving her hand at you, gesturing for you to move in closer to his body.

         “Fuck you, Wanda.” You say evenly, before fully sitting on Bucky’s lap as he straightens up in the chair a bit. You’re basically sitting right on his crotch, and slightly to his left so his vibranium arm is sitting on the armrest behind your back. You feel him take a deep breath and his exhale fans across your right arm. You avoid turning to look at him. The more you think about it, you’re still really annoyed that he felt like he could tell you not to sleep with someone tonight. You’re even more annoyed with yourself for listening. You should have just kept your original plan and left with Thor. You offer Wanda one last glare, making her laugh and lean closer into Vision. She mouths the words get over it before drawing a heart in the air with her fingers, her way of apologizing to you and saying it isn’t that serious. You know it’s not that serious but you also know what she’s doing. She thinks if you’d just hook up with him once, Bucky and you would get rid of whatever tension is between you and you could be regular partners in the field, as casual and unproblematic as when you work with Clint or Sam. But this isn’t some movie where the two main characters fuck their feelings away and stay friends in the end, hell, there aren’t even any feelings to fuck away here. You’re still barely even friends. You just work together.

         You lean forward in Bucky’s lap, away from his body, and spin the bottle, calling out truth before leaning back again. You lean a little too far back, your balance still not perfect due to the alcohol coursing through your veins. The exposed skin of your back in your low-cut dress brushes against his left chest and vibranium arm and his cold metal hand quickly slips behind you, resting on the skin of your back and steadying you. He clearly doesn’t want you sitting any closer than you have to for this dare. Once you’re steady, you expect him to put his hand back on the armrest of the chair, but he doesn’t. He keeps it firmly planted on your back, his vibranium fingers reflecting your body heat and warming up ever-so-slightly. You find the touch comforting and you feel yourself relaxing a little bit. This definitely beats sitting on the floor.

         “Sharon!” Sam hollers, tapping her knee that’s closest to him on the couch and then clapping his hands excitedly. “This is going to be good. What do you want to know about her, Y/n?” The bottle points straight at her, and she seems more than ready for whatever you might ask. You think for a moment, with everyone’s attention focused on you, expecting you to come up with something good.

         “Was Steve a good kisser?” Bucky lets out a quiet, low chuckle at your question. You can tell he’s trying to seem like he’s not overly enjoying this game, but you know he’s getting at least a little kick out of it. His hand is still on your back and you don’t think he plans to move it anytime soon. You focus on it a little too much, noticing the way his pinky finger rests lightly just an inch above your ass.

         “Yeah, he knew what he was doing, that’s for sure. You never would’ve known he hadn’t had any real practice in the last few decades.” She admits. She’s not even trying to hide her smile as the memory of Steve comes to the forefront of her mind. “You know how sometimes guys either do too much with their tongue, or not enough?” You and Wanda both nod, while the four men in the group look on at you, obviously intrigued by the topic. “He did exactly enough.”

         “Wow, who taught him the half-tongue rule?” Wanda questions jokingly.

         “The half-tongue rule?” Torres sounds genuinely curious. He can be so adorable sometimes, so clueless for someone so unbelievably smart.

         “For a good makeout session, you should never put more than half of your tongue in the other person’s mouth.” Sharon explains. Torres nods as she explains, as if he’s absorbing the information and storing it for later use. “Okay, this one is going to be good.” Sharon announces, her eyes darting around the group for her next victim as she sends the bottle into a rotation. You get distracted for a moment when Bucky’s vibranium thumb rubs a small circle against your lower back, so softly that you question if it’s even happening.

         “White Wolf…” Sharon tsks. A look that you can only describe as evil takes over her features and she grins as she stares Bucky down. You didn’t notice that the bottle landed on him at first. He continues rubbing those small circles with his thumb and you’re really wondering what the hell he’s doing, but you don’t want to draw attention to it. “I dare you to demonstrate the half-tongue rule with your partner there.” Sharon points right at me. You swallow hard and shake your head, but you can feel Bucky’s lack of any reaction behind you. He doesn’t so much as take a deep breath or shift in his seat at the threat of the dare.

         “Wait, what are the stakes if they don’t?” Vision asks, looking around the group for an answer.

         “You have to answer three truths in a row, hard ones.” Sharon decides, looking to Sam for approval and he nods quickly. You see him shoot Bucky a look, you can’t tell what it is but it’s insinuating something. He knows Bucky would refuse to answer three hard questions about himself, so it’s way less likely that he’ll refuse a dare.

         “And what if the person the dare involves refuses to participate?” Wanda asks, smiling at you with fake sweetness. You see what she’s doing and you’re mentally kicking her for it. She wants to know what punishment you’ll face if you refuse to let Bucky complete this dare with you.

         “Same thing, I guess.” Sam answers quickly. You don’t have a problem with answering truths, but with the direction Sharon and Wanda have been taking this game, it might be a dangerous thing to get yourself into. Who knows what they would ask at this point?

         “So? Are you guys going to demonstrate the half-tongue rule or can we ask you both three questions?” Sharon prompts, her eyes flitting between you both. You finally turn and look at Bucky, but as your ass moves against his lap slightly, he presses his vibranium hand flat against your lower back, attempting to still you. He looks up at you, his eyes searching yours to see what your answer will be.

         “Come on, we’ve all seen you kiss on undercover ops before, it’s just like that.” Wanda chimes in, trying to get the group what they want. You tune her out, waiting for Bucky to speak up and say he won’t do it, that this is childish and silly and you’re all adults. You know you’re in trouble when he cocks his head to the right and his lips curl into that smirk that you’ve grown so used to seeing on him.

         “Why aren’t you backing down from this?” You ask quietly so only he can hear you. Everyone is staring at you, anticipating either a kiss or a white flag of surrender.

         “Why aren’t you?” He licks his bottom lip and for the second time tonight, you think about how much you want that lip pressed between your own. Fuck Thor for giving you that drink.

         You honestly couldn’t say who started it. You couldn’t say how long it lasted. But when you leaned into him and his left hand found it’s place on your hip while his right snaked up to your hair and pulled your face against his, you were lost in the moment. His lips moved against yours like it was a dance, something spontaneous and straight out of a movie, your heads tilting in opposite directions to give each other exactly enough leverage and access. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, waiting for you to part your lips and grant access. You hesitated, just for a second, but he noticed it and tugged on your hair, making you open your mouth just slightly, just enough for him to slip his tongue in and caress your own. Fuck, he tasted so good, like whiskey and lust and everything you wore this dress for tonight. Your entire body feels like it’s sparking with electricity everywhere that he’s touching you, where your ass is against his lap, where his hand is on your hip, where his hand is tangled in your hair. You sit now, still in the position you just kissed in, but with only your foreheads pressed together, your mouths inhaling and exhaling within an inch each other. He's probably breathing heavy from the effort and lack of air but you’re breathing heavy from the fucking horny tailspin he’s just sent your body into. It’s taking everything in you not to ask him for more.

         “Holy shit, that was porn.” Torres says, sounding both impressed and surprised.

         “How do two people who barely get along kiss each other like that?” Sam demands to know, and you can feel his stare boring into the back of your head.

         “You remember what we all do for a living, right Sam?” You ask, pulling away from Bucky’s embrace and turning back around to face the rest of the group. You get more comfortable now, leaning against Bucky as he stretches his arms out on both of the armrests and sinks into the chair a bit. You’re both more at ease now, as if the kiss melted away some of the tension. The group raves over the kiss, and what they think was chemistry, rather than simply two experienced operatives who happen to be good kissers being forced into a situation together. Bucky, ready for the moment to be over with, grabs your left hip with his vibranium hand to hold you steady as he leans forward and spins the bottle. The shift in position reveals something, or more makes you feel something. His hard cock pressing against your right thigh. You turn your head to look down at him as he’s leaning back in the chair again and he makes eye contact with you, his smirk from earlier gone and his expression once again one of indifference. God, he’s really fucking good at acting like nothing fazes him.

         “Sam, tell us about your last date.” Bucky says, his eyes still locked on yours. He must’ve seen the bottle spin to a stop in his peripheral vision. As Sam reluctantly begins to tell his tale, capturing everyone’s attention but yours and Bucky’s, you turn to the group once more and lean against Bucky again.

         “Something in your pocket?” You question jokingly under your breath, still feeling his boner present underneath you.

         “Stop talking.” He responds just as quietly, his tone sending a chill through your body. Why is it so fucking hot when he talks to you like that? It should infuriate you, the way he warns you and acts so demanding and in charge. Instead, all you can think about is him talking to you like that in bed. You swear, after tonight, you’ll never touch Asgardian liquor again.

         The game continued on for another half an hour before the party began dwindling down until only about twenty or so guests were left. You still sit comfortably on Bucky’s lap, his dick as hard as it was when you kissed earlier, and yourself no less inebriated than you were then.

         You shift on his lap, a little worried that you might be putting his left leg to sleep. Suddenly, you feel his hands on both of your hips, gripping you tightly and stilling you instantly. The room is still fairly dark and noisy with the music and drunken conversations that are being held all around, so you doubt anyone will notice his sudden shift in position.

         “Don’t move.” He groans lowly in your ear, leaning forward so his chest presses firmly against your back. You stiffen against him, your eyes closing for a second as his voice and touch once again send your senses into overdrive. The game ended five minutes ago, so you should really get off of his lap now. Your phone, which currently sits on the coffee table in front of you vibrates and as Bucky sits back in the chair again, you let out the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You know he heard your phone vibrate, so hopefully he doesn’t mind you leaning forward to grab it.

Sharon: Are you staying with me tonight or going back to the tower?

         “You’re staying in the tower.” Bucky says, clearly reading the message over your shoulder. You push yourself out of his lap now, turning around to face him as he adjusts his suit pants and sits up a little straighter to hide the situation going on in his pants.

         “That’s the second time tonight that you’ve tried to make decisions for me.” You point out, staring down at him. Really, who does he think he is? He’s always seemed overly confident to you, but trying to tell you who you can’t sleep with and now where you’re spending your night? He’s crossing lines left and right. You watch him carefully from a short distance as his gaze follows Sam and Sharon, who are saying goodbye to a few friends near the elevator. Sam offered to drive Sharon home, since she definitely can’t be trusted to get herself there safely.

         “You listened to me the first time.” Bucky says confidently, shifting his gaze back to you now, but keeping a serious expression on his face rather than the playful, cocky one that you know so well on him.

         “Did I? Because I remember you telling me to go home and take care of myself, and I haven’t done that.” You glance down at your phone to text Sharon back while you wait for whatever smart ass reply Bucky is going to spew out next. You’re just about to text her and say that you’d love to have a sleepover when you hear Bucky’s low, sure-of-himself laugh. You look at him once more, your thumbs hovering over your phone screen. The way he looks in that chair, with that fucking smirk slowly taking over his features, makes you rethink what you were about to say to Sharon.

         “Yet.”

---

         Everything smells like him. And why wouldn’t it? You’re in his room, lying on his bed, with him standing just a few feet from the foot of the bed, his eyes roaming over every inch of your body. You still have your dress on but you feel naked in front of him like this.

         “Are you getting shy on me now?” Bucky taunts, mischief gleaming behind his eyes as he takes in your timid expression and flushed cheeks. Sam chose to drive Sharon all the way back to her apartment across town, while Bucky quickly stepped up to give you a ride back to the tower. Somehow, along the way, the truth or dare game continued until you ended up accepting a dare to do exactly what Bucky said, to go home and take care of yourself. However, the dare came with a new stipulation: you had to take care of yourself while he watched.

         “Yeah, I’m shy.” You respond sarcastically, pushing yourself off of his bed and trekking across the room to stand immediately in front of him. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he hopes the stance hides the racing of his heart from you. The stance most definitely doesn’t hide the raging boner straining against the front of his dress pants though. There probably isn’t a pair of pants in the world that could hide something so prominent. You stand close to Bucky, breathing in his intoxicating scent for a moment before closing your eyes and letting a serene smile cross your lips.

         Bucky stands frozen when you begin slipping the straps of your dress down your shoulders. The muscle along the side of his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together when you reach back and easily unzip your dress. And when you finally let the small piece of burgundy fabric fall the the floor? Hell, he’s done for.

         You open your eyes once you’re fully exposed to him, peering up at him with the most innocent look you can muster.

         “Fuck this.” Bucky grumbles, losing every ounce of self-control he was harnessing as his hands grasp the sides of your face and he kisses you with so much desperation that you feel something awaken inside you. He uses the same move from earlier, tugging on the hair at the nape of your neck to get you to part your lips enough for him to taste your mouth. Fuck, you taste like his favorite whiskey. Your body moves on auto-pilot as Bucky walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. With a less-than-gentle shove, Bucky sends you falling onto his bed. His hungry eyes travel all over your skin, over the perfect peaks of your breasts, the smooth skin along your abdomen that leads him straight down to what he needs most right now. Your cunt.

         The way he’s looking at you can only be described in one way: animalistic. You’re sure he’s going to be back on top of you within seconds, but no, this fucking man sinks to his knees on the floor at the foot of the bed. He effortlessly lifts your legs over his shoulders, and then leans into you, kissing your clit so softly that you whimper.  With all of the tension between the two of you tonight, you wouldn’t have expected him to be so gentle.

         “You taste so fucking good.” Bucky groans against your folds, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses all the way down until he reaches your entrance. That’s when he stops being so gentle. That’s when he steals a glance at you, taking in the way your chest heaves with arousal and the way your hands are already gripping his bedsheets. That’s when he can’t stop himself from plunging two thick fingers into you and curling them, letting his fingertips drag against the walls of your pussy.

         “Bucky!” You cry out, your back arching off the bed and thighs shaking over his shoulders.

         “You could’ve taken care of yourself.” He reminds you, setting a relentless pace with his hand. He fucks those two fingers in and out, in and out, in and out. Every move he makes ignites your nerve endings more and more, until your nervous system is nearing a damn firework show. “You could’ve laid here and gotten yourself off for me.”

         The moans and curses falling from your lips are nothing short of sinful, and every sound sends another rush of blood straight to Bucky’s already-hard cock.

         “You’re so fucking stubborn. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted to end up in my bed tonight.” His voice is dripping with lust and you can almost hear the smirk that’s surely painted across his face as you come undone at his hands.

         “Bucky…” You can’t say a damn thing except for his name. Even as he finger fucks you straight through your orgasm, and starts slowing down his movements, you can’t form a single word in your mind.

         “Look at you.” Bucky coos, sliding his fingers out of your pussy one last time. You’re lying there so still with your eyes still scrunched closed. You completely miss the way Bucky closes his own eyes as his sucks the taste of you off of his fingers. He knows he should’ve held you to the dare and made you get yourself off. He never should’ve tasted you. He never should’ve felt how tight and wet your pussy is for him.

Now that he knows how sweet you taste, how nicely your pussy would fit around his cock, how fucking perfect you sound when you’re cumming for him, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to let you leave his room. 

TAG LIST:

@gyokujyn @mrsjoequinn @thealloveru2 @sunnyhummingbee @jenniferpendragon @siciliano13

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #mcu #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #marvel #the winter soldier #winter soldier #12 days of smut

[morallyinept]

NOBODY WANTS TO BE ALONE ON CHRISTMAS - A Javier Peña Christmas One Shot

Summary: You discover your boss Javi will be spending the night alone, working on the cartel case on Christmas Eve, so you extend a kind offer for him to join you for some Christmas dinner.

Pairing: Javier Pena x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 6.1k

Scoville Smut Rating: 🌶️🌶️🌶️ "You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/triggers - Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks)/oral M receiving/fingering.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

If this story isn't for you, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: There's some sexy Javi Spanish, not a lot, so I've not provided translations. Feliz Navidad!

12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Enjoy & Happy Holidays! 🎄🖤

The yellowing fluorescent lights overhead cast a slightly harsh glow on the worn-out carpet that covers the office floor.

The colour, once a muted gray, bears the marks of countless footsteps and the occasional coffee spill.

The desks, a mishmash of transient styles, are strewn with stacks of files, half-empty coffee mugs, and a scattering of outdated office supplies, like typewriter ribbons and correctional fluid.

The air carries the distinct scent of freshly brewed Colombian coffee, a constant companion in the war rooms of the DEA office. Agents huddle around a communal pot, exchanging quick greetings and nods as they fuel up for the next round of investigations.

The walls are plastered with maps and charts tracking drug routes and cartel activities. Bulletin boards are covered with Polaroid pictures of suspects, illustrating the intricate web of criminal connections in Cali.

The faint hum of dial-up internet connections emanate from the few computers scattered around the office. The whirr of dot matrix printers echo intermittently, producing reports that will become integral parts of the ongoing investigations.

The agents, clad in power suits and shoulder-padded blazers work with a sense of determination etched on their faces. The sounds of phones ringing and typewriters clacking provide a constant background symphony, underscoring the urgency of their mission.

The office's ambiance is further accentuated by the occasional chatter in both English and Spanish, a linguistic blend reflective of the team's diverse composition.

Agents move purposefully between desks, exchanging information in hushed tones. The dated computer terminals emit a soft hum as agents navigate through databases filled with information on known traffickers and cartel activities. 

In the midst of this utilitarian environment stands a small potted Christmas tree, perched on the edge of the desk of Javier Peña.

Placed there as a tiresome joke, created by the junior agents during a rare lighthearted moment he suspects, adding a touch of personal flair to the otherwise stern atmosphere.

He’s pushed it off his desk twice now and it keeps reappearing, a constant reminder of his own inward dismay for this time of year.

You glance at him over the top of your screen, hard not to on the regular, seeing as your desk is placed directly opposite his, your back to the window. Not a strategic decision but one you're thankful for when his dark cocoa bean eyes meet yours. 

As Javier focuses on decoding messages or delving into the intricacies of ongoing investigations at his computer, that he types really slow on, tapping laboriously on the keys, his eyes will inevitably wander to the window.

There, amidst the rain-streaked glass and the rhythmic dance of palm leaves, he’ll always find you diligently working at your desk. Your concentration, juxtaposed against the vibrant outdoor scenery, often draws his attention. 

In those fleeting moments, as your eyes lock across the narrow expanse of the office, the intensity of your work seems to momentarily fade away, replaced by an unspoken connection that hints at something beyond the professional facade.

It isn't just the shared pursuit of justice that binds you to Javier; it’s the exchange of glances, the uncharted territory of emotions that simmer beneath the surface.

At least on your part anyway.

Harbouring an attraction to your boss isn’t a wise move. A move that you’ve sat on relentlessly, trying to squash it into the soft foam of your office chair ever since you were transferred from the archives to real administration work in a real investigations office.

Javier is indifferent to you, looks upon with you a less-than-impressed, resting bitch face, but you’ve soon learned it’s the way his features have been moulded after years of chasing down hardened criminals in the dangerous territories this country harbours.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile.

But he always holds your gaze, far longer than you suspect he should. Just lingering looks that neither of you spiral into a verbal acknowledgement.

You bring him coffee with his reports on occasion, always making one for him when you get one for yourself; another unspoken routine you’ve found yourselves waltzing in. You know he needs at least three cups in the morning to function before the computer is even switched on. 

You feel the gravitational pull of these unspoken moments. As you diligently work on your assignments, your eyes instinctively drift towards Javier's desk; a magnetised shift as you meet his eyes lancing back at you and you allow yourself to believe it could be a look of want, of some coveted desire he has for you as you squeeze your thighs together during the heated exchanges. 

But of course, that’s wishful thinking.

You know that your crush is a pointless endeavour with no viable outcome. Javier Peña’s reputation precedes him. You’ve heard whispers from the team about the hookers in downtown Bogotá, even if they leave a heavy weight of disappointment and longing in your stomach.

Plus, there is that mantra of not shitting where you eat.

As the agents prepare for the holidays, Christmas Eve being where you find yourself, tapping away on your keyboard at a productive speed of seventy WPM, compared to Javier’s eight WPM - you know, you’ve counted - the potted Christmas tree standing lackadaisical on his desk serves not only as a festive ornament, but also as a reminder that even in the heart of a demanding and dangerous mission, camaraderie and the spirit of the season can find a place, however small, in the DEA office in Colombia.

Plans are exchanged and shared as your colleagues speak of them later on when they’ll clock off. 

"I'm taking the kids to see the Christmas lights downtown. They've been pestering me about it for weeks." One says.

Another chimes in, "I'm heading to my parents' house for a big family gathering. It's chaotic, but I love it."

As the discussions continue like billowy rain clouds drifting around, Javier remains at his desk, seemingly engrossed in his work and you notice his obvious disengagement from the holiday chatter ebbing around him.

One of them dares to direct a comment towards him. “Plans, boss?”

Javier shakes his head and you’re certain you can hear a grunt. “Work. Something you clearly don’t understand the concept of, Ramirez.” 

It’s enough to bring the team to an awkward hush as they settle back behind their screens murmuring to themselves indistinctly. 

And the thought gnaws at you throughout the remainder of the day. The thought of Javier spending Christmas eve in the office alone, powering through, as the light from outside dims and he works by eventual lamplight on his desk.

You’ve seen it before, coming in the following morning to see him blinking tiredly into the stacks of paperwork that often drown him on his desk out of your view completely. 

He’s known for practically living in the office like a hermit when he’s not out in the tacvest taking on the cartel's head first, or seeking solace in some hooker's cleavage, if you’re to believe those rumours that buzz around like flies over a festering pile of shit.

And that gnawing thought starts to bite harder in the late afternoon.

Hard enough for you to try and soothe the shredded skin around your nails having bitten at them for most of the day, as you find yourself hovering over his desk a little longer after gathering completed files for you to alphabetise. 

He doesn’t look up at you, even though your shadow is still in his peripherals. The scent of him this close is intoxicating. Tobacco and a faint note of whiskey from the bottle you know he keeps in his drawer.

A swilling musk of sweat; the climate at this time of year is tropical and it ruminates inside the ill fitting jacket of his beige suit. A slight glean of it runs tracks down his throat and you lick your lips, trying not to focus on it too much as he swallows.  

“Señor Peña-”

“Javi.” He corrects bluntly. 

“-I couldn’t help but overhear you don’t have any plans for Christmas.” You begin, tactfully, keeping your voice low.

Javi finally glances up, a stoic expression on his face, "I'll be working. The case needs my attention."

“Surely it can wait for one evening?” You sway. “I’m sure the cartels will be celebrating and making merry. You should have a break, sir. It’s Christmas.”

“Just another day,” he swallows grittily.

The atmosphere in the office seems to thicken with a sudden tension. Javier, known for his abrupt stoicism, can't hide the defensive edge in his voice.

You sigh and gather the files in your arms. “You’re welcome at my place, if you want. A bit of dinner?”

"Christmas dinner? Mierda.” He scoffs. “You trying to play the good samaritan or something?" Javier says, his tone edging with a hint of spite.

His eyes, usually stern, carry an unusual flicker of irritation as they darken. “Did I miss the memo that we're suddenly one big, happy family in this office?”

You clock your colleagues, now silent and peering over their screens at the spectacle.

Javier, leaning back in his chair, retorts, "save the Hallmark moments. I'm perfectly capable of spending Christmas alone. I don't need company, especially not from someone who doesn't know when to mind their own business."

Your expression holds a mix of hurt and determination. "This isn't about charity, Señor Peña-” 

“Javi.” He corrects again with gritted teeth. 

“-We're a team, aren't we?"

Maintaining his composure, he brushes off the suggestion.

"Team or not, I don't need or want your pity, cariño. I've got work to do. And so do you." He stares up at you with a silent fury venting from his dark eyes.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek.

“It’s not pity.” You correct, stepping away; cheeks burning up with some humiliation brewing.

He watches you leave towards the file room, and tosses a glare at the others who immediately begin tapping and working again.

Growling inwardly, he shoves the potted Christmas tree off his desk again and hears it topple to the floor. 

The empty office seems to echo with the ghosts of the day's activities, the remnants of conversations and shared jovial laughter hanging in the air to taunt him long after you’re all gone.

Javi is sitting alone, the harsh glow of his desk lamp casting shadows across his caramel skin and making his eyeballs ache.

His long fingers trace the edge of the whiskey glass, each sip a bitter reminder of the solitude he’s chosen. The rain outside, a constant drizzle against the windowpane, mirrors the melancholy that settles within his chest. 

His thoughts drift towards you, your invitation lingering like an unanswered question in the quiet room.

The disappointment and hurt swelling in the moisture of your eyes as he fired venom and hostility at your attempt at festive kindness. He knows it wasn't pity you offered, not really.

It’s in the coffee you always have made for him in the mornings that's just the right amount of rich and sweet, despite being from a cheap packet.

Your good nature, although grating at times, is what he secretly finds admirable about you - you care.

It's the care in your work, the attention to detail. The care in your questioning of your colleagues’ weekends and how you listen, hanging on their every word with bright curious eyes.

As he sips the whiskey, the amber liquid burns with a bitterness that seems to match the regret pooling in his chest. The files on his desk, once symbols of purpose, now feel like burdens, heavy with the weight of his own inane stubbornness.

He can't shake the feeling that he's missed out on something important here, a chance for a connection that has slipped through his fingers.

The loneliness presses in on him, and for the first time, Javi questions the walls he has built around himself. The whiskey, usually a numbing agent, now accentuates the ache of regret. He finds himself replaying the words he’d spoken to you, realising the rooted cruelty of his own defences. 

The night unfolds slowly, the hands of the clock ticking away the minutes as Javi works through unrelenting paperwork.

In the quiet solitude, his thoughts mutate into a tempest of introspection. Your words batter his skull, your face.

He glances up at your desk and you’re not there, looking back at him and feeling his chest and loins alike filling with a tightness that aches.

The rhythmic tap of raindrops against the window becomes a thundering metronome. Filling his mind with flashes of your naked body pressed against his, the sound of your pleads and gasps filling him up as he fills you with himself.

Growls at the ache hardening between his legs, growling at his own stupidity, feeling a lifeline he's let slip away. 

He glances around the empty office, the shadows dancing along the walls like phantoms of missed chances, beacons of potential connection.

His silhouette and yours, fucking in every position known to him, and Javi growls.

The weight of his own words linger in the air, each one a sharp reminder of the distance he’s purposefully placed between himself and his colleagues, and he’s not sure why.

He bends and picks it up and sees there's a label stabbed into the back of it, one he never noticed before. 

The whiskey, now a bitter residue in his glass, mirrors the lingering taste of remorse and as he gets up to attend to a task, he trips on something.

The potted tree that he tossed so carelessly off of his desk.

Unfurling it, he realises it's a gift and not a practical joke played by his colleagues who have nothing better to do than mock his authority and professionalism behind his back. 

Feliz Navidad, Señor Peña x 

Placing the tree back on his desk, he lingers on the guilt.

The hum of the lonely printer and the distant patter of rain becomes a backdrop to his internal dialogue. What if, he wonders, he has misunderstood your invitation? What if it isn't about pity, but a genuine desire for his companionship?

The barriers he’s erected around himself feel suddenly fragile; the stoicism that has defined him now seems like a self-imposed prison.

Has he really been so blind of your affections towards him?

In that moment, a decision crystallises in Javi's mind. He can't spend Christmas alone in the sterile glow of the fluorescent lamplight, drowning in whiskey and the silence of his regrets. 

His fingers drum on the desk, a silent debate waging within him. As he grabs his creased jacket from hours of sitting on it, the decision solidifies with every step.

The office, with its empty corridors and the ghosts of his own stubbornness, seem to release him with a reluctant sigh. He can’t stay here tonight.

Not when he knows now that you want him.

“Javi… I mean, Señor Peña.”

You stand on the other side of the door. The intrepid concern for a late night knocker in a city like this, melts away into something else as you peer at him on the other side. 

“Buenas noches, cariño.”

He’s wet, soaked through almost. His hair sticking to his forehead like an oil slick, and droplets caught in the prominent pencil moustache that you’ve always wondered if it would be soft or coarse against your skin. 

“Javi, please.” He softens. 

“What are you doing here? I wasn't expecting you to...” You’re a little stunned actually. The gall and unpredictability of this man never ceases to amaze. 

He holds out a bottle that he plucks from a brown bag, tequila.

“Call it a peace offering, or a Christmas gift. Either way, I'm sorry for snapping.” Javi says, and you can feel the sincerity and regret radiate from him, burning hotter than the sun.  

“It’s okay.” You say, with a blooming smile at the corners of your lips. 

He questions it. Relief? Are you as genuinely pleased to see him as you appear? And it stunts him, your instant forgiveness.  

He nods slowly. “If it’s alright with you, querida, I’d like to take you up on your offer if it still stands?"  

He extends the olive branch and you’re only too quick and eager to receive it. 

“Sure. Come on in, Javi.” You smile with pertinent relief.

You fix him a plate, reheating leftovers, as he perches on the edge of your lumpy sofa, feeling that it could swallow him down into its gullet at any moment if he truly relaxes.

It’s a rental, probably more than you can afford, bland with peeling paint and a musty aroma that lingers under the scent of your floral perfume that pollutes his head daily at work. 

He shuffles out of his wet jacket, large wet patches dye the beige of his pants darker at the thighs and knees. He takes in the frailty of your apartment. The emptiness of it.

How nothing here reflects the sparkling personality he knows you have.

The air carries a faint scent of scented candles, the flickering flames casting a soft ambiance as his eyes find them gloaming on the coffee table in clusters. The muted colours of the furniture and the strategically placed potted plants create a serene atmosphere, a stark departure from the chaos of the office.

The harsh absence of the expected holiday decorations strike him. There are no garlands draped along the walls, no twinkling lights casting a festive glow. A vast, empty space threatens the room where a Christmas tree should stand.

Instead, the void exudes a calm simplicity that feels like a deliberate choice rather than an oversight on your part.

Noticing his surprise, you offer a small smile. "Not what you were expecting, huh?” 

Javi, still processing the unexpected interior, manages a nod. The realisation that your invitation wasn't an attempt to impress, but a genuine extension of your simple world, settles within him. 

The apartment, with its quiet and dated elegance, feels like a reflection of your character - strong, resilient, and unassuming.

"I didn't expect this," he admits, gesturing around the room. "I thought there would be... I don't know, more Christmas shit."

You hum with a smile as you pass him a plate. 

Javi tentatively asks, "so, why did you invite me here, if it wasn’t pity?"

Your eyes hold a glint of sincerity. "Because I sensed you needed it. Christmas alone in the office isn't how anyone should spend the holidays. You work too much."

He takes the plate gratefully. Then he watches as you slice into limes with a blunt knife and toss the segments into a chipped bowl. 

Javi, caught off guard by the sincerity in your words, feels a pang of gratitude. The walls he had so meticulously built around himself were showing cracks, and your presence seems to widen those fractures, as you seat yourself beside him on the sofa bringing glasses and salt for the tequila.

You lean back, studying him as he replaces his picked at plate for the bottle, twisting off the cap.

“So, you really are a good samaritan?”

"No, I just don’t think we realise what we need until someone offers it, I guess.” You shrug.

“Is that so?” He asks, pouring out shots into the glasses. 

“It's okay to accept help, Javi."

“Do you think I need rescuing?”

“You don’t want to know what I think.” You say. 

“Humour me.” He tempts as he hands you a glass. You pick up the salt shaker sprinkling some on the base of your thumb.

“Well, you’re an asshole.”

Javi chokes immediately on his tequila, spluttering it over the rim of the glass as you grin.

Then he nods, wiping at his long since loosened tie. “I am.”

“And you’re grumpy and you’re mean.”

“Never proclaimed to be Christ.” He smirks.

“Is it true what they say about you?” You question, carefully.

“What do they say about me?” Javi asks with raised eyebrows.

“That you… you know, spend a lot of time in Bogotá with the uh…”

“Hookers. You can say it.” He scoffs.

“Yeah.” You say swallowing back the tequila hard. 

“Sometimes a man has his vices.” He simply says, pouring out another. He catches your face, bitter from the lime you suck. Or maybe something else.

“What about you, no boyfriend?” He asks.

You shake your head. “No.” He watches as you frown and try to mask it.

“Thank you… for the tree.” He says after a few minutes of awkward silence have descended upon you both. “I didn’t realise it was from you.”

“It’s nothing.” you shrug. 

“We both know that’s not true.”

You smile, looking away. “Doesn’t matter.”

He turns your face back to him with a simple finger and thumb on your chin gently, dropping it when your eyes meet his again. You watch his eyes watch as you gnaw on your lip.

“Do you really think I’m an asshole?” He questions.

“Why do you care what I think, Javi?”

“Because I’d hate for you to think that about me.”

“Sometimes…" You admit. "But I just mostly think... that you’re sexy.”

His eyebrows raise. “Por que?”

“I mean-” You fluster. Shit. “Too much tequila,” you say quickly, feeling the heat abruptly flood into your face.

“You think I’m sexy, cariño?”

You reach for more tequila, but his hand, gently curling around your wrist, stops you. 

“No.” You say, and he knows you're bluffing.

It’s out there now, that spoken want and desire growing limbs and becoming a solid form before you. 

“That’s not what you said.” Javi, taken slightly aback by the depth of your admission, meets your twinkly gaze with a mix of curiosity and simmering.

“I should go,” he says, edging closer to you.

You bite down on your lip again, your eyes falling to his lips, pink and shiny as he runs his tongue on the bottom one.

A subtle drumming fills the silence between you until you realise it’s your heart beating frantically in your chest. 

The air between Javi and you now crackles with a newfound tension, static that clings to your skin and makes all the hairs on your body stand tall. 

“Stay.” You whisper, turning your body in and knocking against his knees with yours.

His hand around your wrist travels onto your thigh, moving up to your hip.

“If I stay, I’m going to fuck you, cariño. All night.” He husks, as your face draws near.

You can smell the honeyed agave on his breath. Feel it warm your eyelashes. He's so close.

“Stay, Javi.” Your hands climb the lapels of his damp shirt, twisting.

“Is that what you want?” He questions, dangerously close now.

You can feel both his hands circling your hips, kneading and squeezing gently, but firm. His forehead touching yours, lips so close to take in your teeth.

“I don’t want to be alone on Christmas. And neither do you.” You confirm.

The sharp citrus of the lime stings against your lips as he presses his mouth to yours, swallowing your gasps.

You taste his tongue; a faint descry of smoke and distilled amber dances over your own. Javi’s large hands caress your back, pulling you closer, cradling you in his arms as your kiss becomes deeper, more desperate. 

You explore the uncharted territory of him; exhilarated and emboldened by his mutual want of you. Gasps pelt into your mouth as you finger through his hair feeling the silk of it, nails scrape down his spine over the damp material of his shirt.

His hands do all the talking too as he strokes them over your body, feeling the hilts and curves. He winds up your stomach and gropes gently at your breast, pushing upwards so it spills over your cami.

He glances at you, watching him as he flicks his tongue across your nipple, and sucks it into his mouth. He frees the other one and alternates between running his tongue and mouth across them.

“Eres tan hermosa.” Javi mists over your skin. And it pulls the breath from you to know that he thinks you're beautiful.

This man that you’ve coveted for so long, in the secret, sordid confines of your imagination and your sheets as you fuck yourself with your fingers to orgasm, is running his lips over your nipples and sucking them into his mouth as though he can’t get enough of you.

You can only choke out a gasp at how good it feels, how absurd it still is that he’s actually here. 

Javi tilts your head back, fingers wrapping gently around your jaw so he can kiss your throat. You feel the graze of his teeth as he pulls on the skin, marking you as your hands fumble with the buttons on his shirt.

Revealing caramel, tan skin, you trail kisses down his throat, tasting the sweat that lingers in with the indolence of his cologne, notes of spice barely hanging on as you wash them away with your tongue. His skin is warm, smooth as you kiss down his chest as he leans back into the sofa. 

You feel his fingers fighting with his belt under the tendrils of your hair. You take over, unzipping his pants and pulling them down his svelte waist as you glance up at him; your mouth dangerously close to his cock, freed and swollen.

You’re surprised at his size, hidden and tucked away in those tight pants on the daily and unsure how you’ve never noticed this enormity before. It’s not like you haven’t looked at his crotch when he stands from his desk, it's in your direct line of sight. 

You can smell it, smell that salted crystal of precum glistening at you as it bubbles on his head, soaking his pink engorged skin, and you brave yourself to lick it. To finally taste him.

He shudders, you know you want to take your time worshipping him, suckling gently around his swollen head as his hands coil inside your roots.

Savouring the taste for yourself, only ever being able to imagine what he would feel like inside your mouth. Alternating between sucks and licks, you tease the length of him, taking him deeper each time. 

“Fuck,” Javi hisses as he watches your lips suction around him. 

You let your lips slide up and down the thick girth of him, smooth and warm, listening as he hisses between his teeth, his fingers stroking at your face. 

You jerk him as you go, hand sliding up and down and pulling the wet tracks from your mouth down his hard cock, as he glides effortlessly into your fist.

You keep licking the head until you take him inside again, cheeks hollowed out as you suck harder. 

“So fucking good,” he grits at you, a visible strain in his throat. 

You relax your throat, opening wider, taking him in deeper and he audibly groans.

Your eyes flick to his and his pupils have bled into the chocolatey irises; a dark hungry stare tossed back at you that makes your clit pull tight in response. 

You hum in satisfaction around him, listening to him enjoying your mouth. 

He reaches forward, “ven aquí,” pulling you to him and twisting so you’re on the couch. 

He kisses over your skin as he reveals it, pulling off your clothes until you’re naked in his arms. 

His hands leave a desolate carnage of tingles as he traverses your body, fingers trailing delicately across your navel as he sucks on your lip, nipping gently between his teeth. You feel him, digits slipping further to the swollen, wet bud of your clit. 

You gasp into his mouth as he circles on it, slick movements as your inner thighs jerk and twitch. You clasp onto his shoulders, kissing him deeply as he runs his fingers through your folds, teasing your hole before he pushes two of them inside. 

“Javi,” you groan.

“That feel good, cariño?”

You nod. “So good.”

“So tight,” he groans as he slips his tongue in your mouth, the soft bristles of his moustache tickling deliciously against your lip. “Lay back for me.”

Withdrawing his fingers after a few teasing pumps, you lay back, Javi kneeling between your thighs and stroking himself. Spitting into his palm and coating himself with it as he watches your fingers rub quick, little circles around your clit.

His other hand strokes up your thigh and reaches for your breast; palming it and feeling your nipple pebble under the rough skin of his palm - rough and calloused from the constant handling of his Beretta as of late. 

He kneels up slightly, running the tip of his cock inside your folds, greasing himself up with your slick. Tapping gently against your clit and you gasp as he squelches around you. 

“So wet for me, are you always this wet?” He utters in praised disbelief. 

You smirk, nodding. “For you I am.”

“Fuck,” he smirks back.

“You don’t want to know what you do to me…” You whisper.

“I want to know,” he says with deep hypnotic eyes. “I want to know everything. Dime que hago por ti, querida.” 

Leaving forward over you, his hand splayed on the cushion above your head, Javi lines up, the thick head of him notching gently at your entrance.

"Tell me what you think about when you look at me over your desk," He urges.

Javi feels you flutter against him already, the desperation to suck him in as he bites down on his lip watching you. Watching your eyes flit from the centre of your legs, to his eyes.

“This," you breathe. "Want you, Javi,” you moan to him, trying to push yourself against him. 

You move as he slips in, letting go of his cock and laying over you as his hips shunt forward in a smooth thrust, filling you full of him. 

“Oh!” You gasp.

Your lips tear at his; your arms creeping around the back of his neck as he winds into you, grunting in your ear. 

“Oh my God, Javi…” 

The crest of his hips rattle against you, pushing you closer together as you wrap your legs around him, heels digging into his pert ass.

He moves with intention, every thrust well thought out to feel every inch of you, to make you feel every inch of him. 

“You feel so good, so wet around my cock…” He grunts into you.

You can hear it, hear every lewd, wet squelch as he thrusts in and out. Louder than your mutual breathing and gasps.

He pushes your left leg up against the sofa and leans forward, closer into you as his hips continue to piston in. 

His breath is heavier, ragged in the back of his throat as it scrapes across his tongue and out into your face. 

He kisses you like he’s in love with you; gentle clicks of his lips against yours. Sucking gently around your tongue as he puffs through his nose.

He runs his chin up the side of your face, nuzzling. The moustache feels soft and silken; finally answering all your probing questions about it.  

He hooks your legs against his shoulders and stays close to your face, his hips doing all the work now. Hitting that spot deep inside you as he fucks that bit harder, that bit more intense.

You can feel the flames licking at your skin, the heat suffocating the room. The tightness in your belly, the way your limbs begin to contort with the pressure. 

“Oh, oh,” you whine. You can feel it brewing, feeling it rushing through your veins. 

He presses his forehead to yours in an effort to ground you, pull you back to him, but it does the opposite, it makes you soar. Your gasps become throated grunts as it builds. 

“Let it out,” Javi coaxes. “Let go, cariño. You feel so good around me like this. That’s it, come for me.” 

He glances down, watching his cock disappear inside your swollen lips, and coming back out slick and shinier with each thrust. He pushes down on your thighs, your knees against your shoulders folding you up as he ploughs harder.

Each breath in the back of his throat punching out as though he’s running a marathon. 

“Oh my God, yes… Javi!”

“Come for me,” he pleads again, moaning around each syllable in a soft tincture that punctures your lungs.

He can feel it when you contract, that moment you flood around him. He watches as you writhe and shudder, your voice losing it’s alto as you sigh and pant, losing yourself blind to your orgasm. 

“Oh fuck… fuck yes!" He groans as he can feel you shaking on his cock.

“Hold on to me,” he says, pushing your hands to his neck where you wrap them around him.

He kneels, hooking his hands under your thighs to pull you upright onto him, and closer, and you feel him hit deeper as you cry out.

Javi slows his pace, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip for a second as he completely loses himself. Pussy drunk on you, buried so deep inside that he forgets where he is for a moment.

The sofa creaks in pain with his tempo, both his hands on your ass winding you back and forth over his cock.

The sweat shines at the bottom of your back; the room feels like a furnace, despite the rain outside cooling the night's air that seeps in from the open window. 

“You’re gonna make me fucking come so hard…” He’s growling now, you can hear it. Those husked grunts ribbing at the back of his throat, lips curled up over his teeth as he plunders deeper into your cunt. 

You move, flexing your hips back and forth as you fuck him slowly, and he groans coming back to you. His hands slip back down onto your hips as he moves you, faster, harder on his cock.

“Come inside me, Javi.”

“Oh fuck, mierda… Fuck!” It’s sweetly blasphemous as he comes, grunting and whimpering, his own body shaking and shuddering against yours. Sweat glueing you to one another. 

He groans out as he comes, filling you with his thick spend as your tongue knots in his mouth. 

“Querida,” he moans, as you peck gently over his face, his arms unrelenting, refusing to let go of you. 

He lays back, taking you with him into the breach of the sofa. And you smile at his face regarding you back; big browns that are just mesmerised in some post-coital bliss by all those little nuances, up close and in his face. 

You become mesmerised too, by the way his tongue glides over his teeth, usually to show mirth or derision in the office, but here it commands desire. Want. 

How when he smiles, the left side of his top lip is the first to crook up into that beam that drags his cheeks up to reveal dimples either side of his face, marred usually by his moustache.

It takes you a moment to realise he’s smiling. Javier Peña is smiling for you, and it stuns you, tracing your fingers around the edges of it like a fine piece of art, the beauty of it etched forever in your memory.

“Que?” He asks, observing your awe.

“I’ve never seen you smile before.” You say, shaking your head. “You should do it more often.”

You think you spy a blush creep into the bronze sculpting of his cheeks. Small capillaries flooding with blood.

He slips out of you, but you feel his fingers reaching between your lips probing and slipping around gently in the silken feel of him starting to drip out of you.

He runs his nose across your face, nuzzling into you further. You feel him, sticky and softening under you, and you stroke through his hair, matted with sweat and smiling as he pecks at you still. 

He kisses you, tonguing around your mouth as you feel his fingers sliding inside you, pushing his come back in. His thumb delicately stroking on your clit, barely ghosting it as your shudder and clutch onto him. 

He softly strokes you to another orgasm as you pant inside his mouth.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring, how he’ll treat you in the office after this.

If this could become a regular thing where he brings flowers and tequila, and takes a spare key and keeps some of his things here, and has dinner with you and showers with you.  

You try to ponder on if it will make things tense or awkward. If he’ll regret it. If you’ll regret it. If he’ll see you as some easy conquest, another notch on his bedpost.

Or if this could become something more.

It doesn’t matter, because right now in this moment, as the clock rolls over into the early hours of Christmas morning in the torrential rain that sprays over Colombia, Javi kisses at your throat with a gentleness about him you couldn’t believe could have existed.

And it’s the best Christmas gift you ever could have wished for. 

“Feliz Navidad, Javi.” You whisper into the hairs of his moustache.  

“Feliz Navidad, cariño.” He whispers back. 

12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

#javier pena x reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #javier pena #javier pena narcos #pedro pascal characters #javi p #javi pena smut #javi pena fic #javier peña #javi peña #javier pena x f!reader #javier pena x you #narcos fic #christmas stories #jett's writing

[circeyoru]

Darkest Confession _ Part 2

[Human!Alastor x Serial Killer Enthusiast!Reader]

Part 1

Part 2 (here)

You’d say that it was a joke if you didn’t see those eyes and that smile. You’re not obsessed and addicted to serial killers without knowledge. No. You could only keep this self of you that hidden because you adapted some skills these serial killers use to blend in and be ‘normal’ like theyy haven’t killed, only you use it to hide your interest

You were attracted to serial killers, now there’s one that was holding you, presumably in his hunting and killing ground, confessing his love(?) to you and wanted to court you. Though the biggest question you had was, “Why did you confess?”

“My dear dear unusual soul, my feelings for you are like a raging ocean. What started as mere interest became fondness. Even now,” Alastor’s grin widened as his eyes narrowed to make way, “You have that spark in your eyes instead of fear. I love that about you. I love you.”

Was it Christmas or your birthday? Or was this April Fool’s? All in one? It was no sick joke. Alastor jokes and all, but this was a serious matter

This had to be your luck all put into one. Not only was he the serial killer that held your interest the longest, but you also cared for his civilian self. The previous killers that held your interest was over once the case was over or once you had figured them out from every perspective. Maybe it was because Alastor was the one killer that you connected as a person?

The tightened hold of your smaller hands brought you back to reality, your killer was waiting for your response. “My darling, your answer? May I court you? Will you be mine and in turn I yours?”

“Yes, you may.” Your voice came out firmer than your current rush of emotions. You hardly caught yourself when Alastor got up in the blink of an eye and twirled you around, dancing with you under the moonlight as he sang you a train of petnames and how he was glad there’d be no drastic measures taken to receive your interest

Changes were made, namely you had Alastor’s attention a lot more than the unspoken meet-ups you two shared. He’d be at your place, waiting for you by the door with a bouque of flowers and a poem to woo you, he’d back you home when you were done with work, all that romantic stuff. It had the jealous fans at a frenzy as they watched from somewhere or happened to see it

Though, you weren’t complaining

“Filthy thing, you better say away from Alastor! We’re destined for each other! You break of with him if you know what’s good for you! I’d kill you for him!” You merely keep your face neutral as you listened to the death threats, please, words are cheap and actions. Actions speak louder than words

“Darling! Sorry to kept you waiting!” Alastor burst through the front door with a smile, beaming happily like always, but more. You waved it off, saying you didn’t wait long. You had been sitting in the living room enjoying tea with a book on dissection, you recall Jack the Ripper had those skills. “Come, dear, I have something to show you.”

He’d lead you down a well hidden staircase to a soundproof basement, holding your hand like a gentleman so you wouldn’t trip from the darkness. He playfully covered your eyes, saying it was s surprise gift. You half joked if he was leading you to a room prepared to be your torture chamber to which he replied, “Oh heavens no! I wouldn’t even dream of it, dear. Your beauty is not to be locked up in this dingy place.”

When he finally removed his hand, he showed you with jazz hands at your gift

Alastor watched like a hawk. He debetted whether or not he should show something like this to you. But your case files you stored like precious family heirloom proved him otherwise. You weren’t afraid of blood and gore. He even once tested it when he brought you back into the forest, showing you how he hunted his favourite prey, deers. You were watching intensely as he cut the shot deer up, even whispering if that was how he did with his other prey

Your keen and observant eyes would catch onto details like no other. A skill even he couldn’t match to your degree and he considered and was praised for his preciseness. It was a skill you kept to yourself, you explained that’s why you’d return to previous crime scenes or where the bodies were found, because you’d find some clues that were missed

“Why didn’t you tip the authorities?” He remember asking when you added that you never phone the police even when finding something very very incrimadating. You answer saying you didn’t want to, you knew good and bad, right and wrong. It was right to tell the police, but it felt wrong for you to betray your interest, that being serial killers and their art. He fell for you all over again

However, he didn’t like that you gave so much of your time and energy to other serial killers. Sure now he had you, what if there was someone more interesting and you turn to that instead of him like you are doing now? He was lucky that he was the first serial killer you met during active moments. Hell, you were lucky you were never preyed upon

“There was one time where I tracked an active serial killer to his place. I was knocked out before I could investigate more. When I woke up, I was tied up and he wanted my eyes, wanted me to feel the pain and agony while I was tortured.” Oh how furious when he hear that but continued to listen. “As much as it’s a dream to be killed by a serial killer, I wasn’t feeling that ‘spark’ with that one and I escaped. After that, I phoned the authorities anonymously.”

“Why was he different? Won’t you feel like a betrayal?”

That look in your eyes when you remarked, it sent him a shiver while his smile widened at your words. “He wasn’t ‘the one’ and I didn’t like him. I look into every serial killer and he falls short. Can’t let him dirty my collection, so I had to put him out of his work.” When your eyes met him, there was interest and something more, “Have I told you your case is the most interesting and loving by far. There’s actually that ‘spark’ that I never felt before.”

That was it. He knew you were the one. The one for him. And him the one for you

Oh, how his blood boiled when some fan of his threatened for you to leave him. “This piece of flesh had the audacity to threaten the love of my life. My dear, my gift for you, is her life.”

You feel your face heat up as Alastor smiled brightly at you. As morbid as it was, you, a normal person off the streets, caught the attention of a serial killer that just so happened to hold your obsession and addiction for the longest time. Even having you to care and love him like a lover. Well, your family would be happy you have a lover, just not one they wanted you to have

Alastor hated physical touches unless he initiated it, but you were his exception to a lot of things. You ran up and hugged him, planting a kiss on his lips, a gesture he melted into and returned ten fold as the seconds passed

So this was love? A twisted and dark love

As Alastor got to work, you stood at a safe and suitable distance away to observe and note down everything. You wanted Alastor to be in his serial killer zone without outside interruptions. You wanted him to be in his element without a worry

This was the change you love and wouldn’t complain. You merely wish you met him sooner, so you didn’t have to waste your time and energy, as Alastor would phase it, on other unworthy serial killers

But all good things must come to an end. You were diagnosed with an incurable disease. Alastor used his fame and wealth to find you the best doctors and gave you the best treatment, yet you were getting no better with time. You didn’t have long to live and both of you can’t stand for that. The two of you were about to get married and everything would be all the more better!

“Love.” Alastor held your hand, the other held his signature weapon. “My Muse, are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” You smiled up at him innocently. It was a request before you were killed by something you’d regret and detest. No way were you dying from that. “Please, show me your first hunt.”

Out of nowhere, Alastor took out a hunting knife and jabbed it into the side of your stomach, it didn’t hit any major organs or blood vessels. You instantly fell back, immediately gripping onto your side to keep the blood loss at a minimum. You looked up to Alastor, the loving look changed

“My father was my first prey. I stabbed him like so.” Alastor explained, then he pointed his shotgun in your face, “And then I gave him hope that he can escape.”

You kicked the gun out of his hold and got up, running deeper into the forest. A gunfire rang behind you and pain came to your left shoulder. You hit into a tree when your right ankle was shot through. Stumbling into the ground as everything became blurry. When you came too, the barrel of the gun was once again in your face

“I caught up to him and I did to you now.” Alastor narrated. “And fired.”

“And that was our love story.” You sighed dreamily as you finished the last of your tea, putting it down on your saucer. “Married and happy~”

The members of the hotel all stared at you with horrided looks, save for Niffty as she seemed to be taking notes for her own bad boy catching.

“But he killed you!” Vaggie exclaimed.

“I asked him too! He rejected it so many times that I loss count! Well, not really, but you get the idea.” You mused as you snapped your fingers, making a tea pot appear and refill your cup. Sipping it with grace and a small smile. “It’s my dream to be killed by a serial killer, you see, but none gave me that spark like Alastor. Honestly,” You lowered your tea, staring into the surface of the liquid to see your own reflection, you don’t understand what ‘look in your eye’ you got like Alastor does, “I’m forever grateful that Alastor made the first move to confess. Else I’d never have such a fulfilling life!”

Angel gave you a disgusted look, “That’s messed up on so many levels.”

Static came as pressure built in the room, while you sat comfortably in your seat, drinking your tea. The shadows twisted and rose to form your darling husbands enraged with radio dials for eyes and voodoo symbols around him. “Dear Angel, what did you say about my darling wife’s words?”

Angel hide behind Charlie and Vaggie as he peeked his head out, looking into your direction as if to beg for your help. 

You smiled, “He means messed up in a good way. You need to keep up with the modern terms, love.”

Alastor snapped to you, his demonic aura all gone as he took your hand and kissed it like it would break with the slightest force. “And forget the wonderful time when we met? Never.”

Note: Hehe, added a bit of more formal writing for the ending. That's what I usually write in, this bullet-point format is new to me but very fast to write everything I want with limited time~ (⚈ᴥ⚈)

Circe Y.

MASTERLIST

Taglist: (the people who wanted a part 2 for this)

@suya-x-syx

@speedycoffeedelight

@just-here-reading

#Darkest Confession #alastor imagine #alastor x reader #alastor x y/n #alastor x you #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor headcanons #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor #hazbin hotel oneshots #Circe's Nighty Writings

[hsllfirescoopsreblogs]

Fic Recs (steve harrington)

just some of my favorite one-shots or series i’ve read on ao3 and few from tumblr. all works ranging from 1.5k to 30k+ i believe. 18+ readers!

some have a tumblr that i tagged, but others i couldn’t find . i am doing this on mobile which is a bit difficult haha! i read these all (except 2) on ao3 so the links will be ao3. i know some are here on tumblr but i didn’t realize till after reading and making this! <3

steve harrington

come home by @stevie-petey <3💕

-"come home to me, okay?"

"always," steve promises

in between saving will, then hawkins, then somehow the world, you fall in love with steve harrington.

(a stranger things rewrite).

dancing with our hands tied by @andvys

-You and Steve have never seen eye to eye, and it never changed, not even when you were pulled into a world of monsters and risked your life to save him. But tension had always been between you both, something that neither of you ever wanted to admit -- but how much longer can you take it when the pull between you gets stronger and stronger each second you spend by each others side?

paint me red by eddiemunsons ao3

-You're one of Vickie's best friends. Her girlfriend, Robin, is in need of a distraction for her best friend, Steve Harrington, who you vaguely remember from school. Which is where you come in.

i’m your idiot by thebestandworstdayofjune ao3 @thebestandworstdayofjune

-Steve Harrington has a way of worming himself into your heart, and social situations you had done your best to exclude him from.

small hands, big heart by finalgirlharrington ao3 @sexybabystevie

-Steve Harrington has a massive crush on you, but his recent lack of luck in the romantic sense has him stuck on how to make a move. Plus, something about you makes him nervous in a way he's never been – in a way he likes. His simplest solution? Flirting via the old 'comparing hand sizes' method.

promise by Harley_Honey_Quinn ao3

-Reader learns about Steve's feelings thanks to some Russian truth serum.

kiss me by @corrodedseraphine

-Your friend is desperately trying to find a person who will give him something more. Wanting to feel what it's like to be loved again and after many failed dates he gets the idea that it's time to go back to King Steve's famous tactics. Telling him that it's not the best idea gets you involved in a deal where you have to help him get another girl. Will helping the boy you're in love with turn out to be a good idea? Probably not.

every rose has its thorn by @corrodedseraphine

-Christmas is coming to Hawkins. It is a time of joy and forgiveness. It turns out that your sister's best friend is looking for a new place to live, and you happen to have a spare room in the apartment. It wouldn't be a problem if that friend wasn't Steve Harrington. A man whom the more you try to avoid even more often comes back like a boomerang.

hearts on the telephone line by t_lostinworlds ao3 @t-lostinworlds

-You thought Steve was okay dealing with a long-distance relationship after you moved for an exciting internship in New York. But you were proven so wrong when your boyfriend finally poured his feelings over the phone. Because distance wasn't making his heart grow fonder, it was breaking it.

competitively stupid by t_lostinworlds ao3 @t-lostinworlds

-It was stupid, jumping off a cliff just to prove that you were better than Steve fucking Harrington. But you were competitive. You were not losing to him. But you know what was stupider? For it to take a near-death situation for you both to confess what you truly feel for each other.

perfect blend by Your_Writer ao3

-No one likes their summer job. Working at a coffee shop was sticky, exhausting, and overall boring. In fact, the highlight of your day was the charming, gentle eyed sailor scooping USS Butterscotch just across the way.

the things we don’t say by rdrickheffley ao3

-Steve Harrington once was the bane of Y/n's existence. He had always been an arrogant asshole and a terrible kisser. She never understood how others fell for the boy's eye-roll worthy charm. Now it seems like he will do anything to prove her wrong about anything.

next time? by rdrickheffley ao3

-Three instances where Steve and reader find themselves in intimate situations.

candyfloss and confessions by ACourtofSnakesandStars ao3

-You’ve been in love with Steve Harrington for years, like every cliche come to life. You’ve battled monsters, found friends within kids with superpowers, and you even managed to graduate. Yet the one thing you’ve never been able to do, is tell Steve how you feel. But maybe you don’t need to wait any longer.

a night to remember by RaeWrites94 ao3

-Steve has to attend his 10 year high school reunion and somehow manages to convince you to go as his date and his fake girlfriend. You've had feelings for him for a long time, but figure, why not? You could probably survive an evening of pretending he liked you back and come out unscathed. Right?

with bated breath by brianmay ao3

-Rumors fly after you attend Steve Harrington’s party one weekend in September. Thinking they were his doing, you do everything in your power to avoid him, which proves easier said than done.

cross my heart (and hope to die) by @talesofesther

-Every time Steve gets hurt, you're there to help pick up the pieces; you just weren't expecting him to fall for you in the process.

tales of a love between the lines by @talesofesther

-Sometimes the thing we want most is right in front of us, and Steve might be just that for you; all you have to do is see what he’s been showing you for a long time.

love is easy by seidenbros ao3

-The day you wrote I love you on a post-it note before you'd said the words out loud, and it's the best note Steve ever got.

everything means nothing if i can’t have you by iridescentpetrichor ao3

-Steve and Y/N go on a double date to impress the other one, but it's only so long until the tension between the two breaks.

you’re not by frostandflames ao3 @frostandflamesfanfic

-The year is 1985, you're on a school field trip to cheer on Hawkins High at the championship game before spring break. When the game doesn't pan out as expected, you're even more surprised to discover the one and only Steve Harrington in only his underwear at your hotel room after being locked out by his teammates. What happens when the two of you have a little heart to heart?

last christmas by frostandflames ao3 @frostandflamesfanfic

-You and Steve had always been childhood friends-and remained that way. As Steve ping-pongs around in his relationship status, you have a hard time keeping your feelings to himself as Nancy surrounds his entire world. What Steve doesn't know is his relationship to Nancy may end your own with Steve.

the scoundrel and the princess by @mrshipsmcgee

-after an awkward run in with Tommy Hagan, Steve Harrington is invited to an awful party where he meets a beautiful stranger.

also have a ton under the (steve harrington x reader) on my blog! credit to the maker of the gif from pinterest!

#fic rec #fic recommendations #stranger things #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #x reader #one shot #imagine #f!reader #series #smut #fluff #angst #enemies to lovers #ao3 #stranger things rewrite #stranger things au #gn reader #stranger things x reader #steve harrington fic rec #steve harrington fic recommendations #joe keery

[angelmatthew]

hihi! I've read your guidelines <3 how about flirty banter between gunwook and reader? except the reader is more bold and flirty compared to gunwook so she gets him fumbling on his words and flustered 🤭

i'm in my christmas feels right now so i took some creative liberties with this one! i hope this is still up to your expectations anon ♡ also, this not proofread, i apologize for any mistakes!

↬gunwook x fem!reader ↬631 words ↬fluff, one shot ↬tw: none

the air carries the sweet scent of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts, a chilly breeze offset by the warmth of gunwook's hand holding yours. bundled up in a cozy beanie and knitted scarf, he looks irresistibly snug. his cheeks wearing a natural blush, and dark strands of hair delicately framing his face.

as both of you stood beneath the mesmerizing glow of colorful christmas lights, he seemed entranced by the festive atmosphere. little did he know, your fascination is directed entirely toward him.

"i know you're staring," he blurts out, catching you off guard. his attention shifts to you, and his lips curve into his signature pout-like smile.

you blink, momentarily taken aback by his remark. a playful glint sparkles in gunwook's eyes as he continues, "but, you know, i don't mind it. it's kind of nice being someone's captivating view."

you lightly hit his arm to which he responds with a chuckle but before you could retaliate, the couple standing in front of you in line for the hot chocolate stall finally got their drinks, gunwook steps forward to order for you both. he doesn't need to ask for your order, he knows it by heart already; a hot chocolate with a holiday blend sirup, topped with thick foam and cinammon.

the vendor hands you your drinks in adorable red cups adorned with a delicate snowflake pattern. your boyfriend seizes the moment, snapping a quick picture of the beverages.

"wow, that looks delicious," you comment, and gunwook nods before blowing on his hot drink to take a sip.

curiosity getting the better of you, you take a sip yourself. your eyes automatically widen, sparkling with delight, drawing a proud smile from your boyfriend.

"i told you this place is good, they have the best hot chocolate out of the whole christmas market," he emphasizes.

"this entire market is amazing, actually," you continue sipping on the beverage, your gaze shifting to the little gingerbread houses displayed on the stall in front of you. without a word, gunwook deftly relieves you of the small shopping bags you were holding with one hand.

you voice your concern sincerely, "wook, you're already carrying everything. i won't break my arm carrying lush bags." your insistence on helping is endearing, and he can't help but smile every single time. despite your persistent offer to carry the shopping bags, gunwook consistently declines. the princess treatment is a non-negotiable for him.

"seriously, the bags are not heavy at all!" you insist, attempting to take a few from his hands. however, he effortlessly raises his arms, holding them just out of your reach. a frustrated huff escapes you. unbeknownst to you, a foam mustache had formed on your upper lip while you were sipping on your hot chocolate, eliciting a warm chuckle from gunwook.

“what ?” your eyebrows furrow in concern, you know that mischievous look. you quickly look at your reflection in a nearby shop window.

your eyes meet gunwook's gaze, and he can't resist a playful tease, "I think you’ve got something your lips"

you feign innocence, batting your eyelashes. "oh, do I? maybe, you'd like to help me clean it up."

gunwook feels like he might melt on the spot like the marshmallows topping his drink, but he tries to hide it "i could lend a hand," he says, he sighs leaning in with a teasing glint in his eyes.

but you are a step ahead. with a swift, daring move, you close the distance between you and steal a quick kiss, savoring the taste of hot chocolate foam on his lips. it leaves gunwook momentarily stunned, his eyes widening in surprise.

he blinks a few times, attempting to recover from the unexpected kiss. "uh… well played," he admits, his words tumbling out in an incomprehensible mumble, his cheeks now even rosier than before. it's a rare sight, watching gunwook—usually the debate team maestro—at a loss for words, and only you seem to have that power over him.

you grin in satisfaction, holding up your cup. "i guess the foam mustache is contagious."

gunwook chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. he doesn't know how you do it; you always manage to fluster him in the most random moments, "i'll have to get used to it if it means more of those unexpected kisses."

"speaking of getting used to things, I'll take those bags back now!"

#ꔫ˚｡angel ˚｡ꔫ writes #gunwook x reader #gunwook x reader fluff #zb1 drabbbles #zb1 #zb1 x reader #zb1 imagines #park gunwook #zhang hao #seok matthew #kim jiwoong #sung hanbin #kim gyuvin #fluff #kpop imagines #zerobaseone x reader #zerobaseone

[rwrbficrecs]

The last of our monthly recs for 2023 ❤️ Every Day’s a Holiday (When I’m Near to You) by bleedingballroomfloor (book-verse)

@dot524: I loved every bit of this road trip fic. Henry has a crush on Alex and impulsively decides to join him on a road trip to Texas, which turns out to be longer than expected. The delicious yearning, only-one-bed situations, and funny road-trip pit stops made this a great story. I didn’t want to stop reading.

@heybuddy-drabbles: this ticked all my boxes honestly. The pinning, the yearning. The friendship they build while falling in love. And then the love, wild and unstoppable and so free. It was just perfect.

I love you, ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard? by dollarstoreannabethchase (book-verse)

@dot524: A deliciously angsty Henry POV of key events in the book - lake house & storming of Kensington Palace. Broke my heart and put it back together again. The description of his depression and pain made me want to give Henry a hug.

Last Christmas by @celaestis1 (book-verse)

@suseagull04: Enemies to lovers meets Christmas feels and found family. The establishment of every relationship, both romantic and platonic, in this fic is fantastic too!

Never Did Run Smooth by @clottedcreamfudge (book-verse)

@dot524: What a delightful ride! I loved the unique reality-show setup and the roommates/best friends to lovers pining from Henry’s POV. It had a few fun plot turns that kept me guessing and many scenes that made me grin like an idiot (e.g. a cake-baking contest and partner yoga with someone else). This isn’t exactly an undiscovered gem based on the number of comments and kudos — but I hadn’t read it, so I wanted to spread the word for those new to the fandom!

No Consequences by @anchoredarchangel (book-verse)

@thesleepyskipper: In this AU where Henry is still the Prince but Alex is a civil rights lawyer who works with Pez, the author has given us an incredible meet cute!! Alex pulls an Alex and shoots his shot for a selfie that turns out pretty well for him in the end. 😏 The author’s writing of Alex here is absolutely spot on AND hilarious. I still can’t believe this is their first published fic!!!

@zwiazdziarka: this fic has everything one could ask for: it's funny, it's cute, it's awkward, it's hot and addictive. I can't stop thinking about this version of Alex and Henry and their characterisation is absolutely perfect!

Made For Love by @candyspandemonium (book-verse)

@zwiazdziarka: AU where Henry and June are ice dancing champions and Alex has a lot of feelings about some guy stealing his sister. There are just so many good things in this fic - emotions, Alex being totally unhinged and not realising what it means, Henry as perfect fantasy, dealing with media and public opinion - and all that in nice scenery of ice rinks. Can't recommend it enough!

(Secret) Santa Baby by @indomitable-love (book-verse)

@dot524: Such a sweet AU about office romance between Alex and Henry and how a Secret Santa gift & being paired together on a project leads to something more. Heartwarming and made me smile… this writer’s characterization of Alex & Henry is always spot-on for me, no matter the universe.

The Royal Magician and the Ravens of the Tower of London by @bluflamingo (book-verse)

@suseagull04: The world-building in this fic is phenomenal! It's the perfect blend of magical realms and the real world, mystery and magic AU, and I love it!

could it be mad love? by @duchessdepolignaca03 (book/movie-verse)

@zwiazdziarka: actors AU, but also Henry is Alex's biggest fan and his awkward celebrity crush adds all new flavour to their relationship once they meet. The range of emotions fit in this story is truely amazing. There's so much tension and every moment feels like the one where it all can turn into a dissaster or something absolutely wonderful.

where every wish comes true by @hypnostheory (book-verse)

@heybuddy-drabbles: Neighbors!au + fuck buddies. Alex locks himself out of his apartment in a filthy costume and his neighbor and fuck buddie Henry takes him in. It's very funny and sexy!!

#monthly faves #rwrb fic recs #firstprince #firstprince fic recs

[ginnsbaker]

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (21/23)

Chapter summary: Christmas Eve; A person from Wanda's past prompts another bout of jealousy in you; Wanda surprises you with a Christmas present; You and Pietro talk it out after the festivities

Chapter word count: 7.5k+ | Tags: Mild Angst, Healing, Comfort | Ship: Wanda x Female Reader

Author's note: The second part of Christmas in LA. We continue wrapping up some relationships. Enjoy! :)

AO3 | Masterlist 

Next part: Twenty-two

--

Twenty-One

Christmas Eve

The ride with Shannon begins in an uneasy silence. With the only sound being the hum of the car and the occasional directions from the GPS, the quietness feels heavy, making your palms sweat against the leather steering wheel. 

“We need to pick up groceries first, then dry cleaning, and oh, there's a new shop selling artisanal cheese I've been dying to try,” she reels off her list of errands, her tone light and almost jovial, easing some of the tension in the car.

However, as the silence descends once again, there's a question that's been burning on your tongue since you stepped into her house, and it seems like the perfect opportunity to ask it.

“Shannon,” you start, your voice sounding unusually loud in the quiet car, “This might be a strange question, but...did you recognize me when I walked into your office for that interview at Stark Industries?”

There's a momentary pause, and you worry you've crossed some invisible line. But then Shannon chuckles, a light, easy sound, that oddly enough, puts you at ease.

“Well, I was wondering when you would ask,” she admits with a smirk. “Yes, I recognized you. But I didn't want to make things awkward by bringing it up.”

As you reach the grocery store and park the car, Shannon turns to you, offering a grateful smile. “Thanks for helping out, Y/N. It's been quite hectic with the preparations and all.”

On the way back, you spot a small coffee shop nestled between a bookstore and a flower shop. The sign in the window catches your eye–'Single Origin Beans' it reads, and you remember your conversation with Wanda on the plane.

“Shannon," you blurt out without taking your eyes off the signage. “Would you mind if we stop by that coffee store over there? I'd love to check out some of their beans."

She looks over to where you're pointing, and her face lights up in approval. “Oh, I've heard fantastic things about this place. Let's go.”

As you pull over, you can't help but think about Wanda and her upcoming competition, hoping that this little detour might just be the secret ingredient she needs to make her mark at the Cup-off.

As you and Shannon step into the shop, you are immediately enveloped by a blend of heady aromas–nutty, smoky, and unmistakably coffee. The smell is intoxicating, and you can't help but breathe it in deeply. 

A world map on one wall is dotted with markers showing where their beans are sourced–Ethiopia, Colombia, Kenya, Indonesia, Guatemala, and more.

Shannon seems equally impressed, her eyes taking in the array of beans displayed in glass jars behind the counter, each labeled with its country of origin and tasting notes. She glances back at you, her gaze curious.

“You're into coffee as well?” she asks, opening a particular jar to sniff at its contents.

“Well, I love it. I’m the original coffee drinker between the two of us,” you clarify. “But I’m looking mainly for Wanda. She's the enthusiast. I'm... more of the support crew.”

“So Wanda only started drinking coffee because of you?”

“I suppose you could say that,” you say, your mind drifting back to an amusing memory of one of your early dates with Wanda. She had attempted to impress you by ordering your favorite drink, not realizing it was a bold concoction of three shots of espresso and nothing else. “Although I don’t think she enjoys drinking it as much as I do. It's more of a part of her daily routine now.”

A smile spreads across Shannon's face as she shakes her head. You give her a funny look and ask, “What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Shannon shrugs off your question. “That girl is so head over heels for you.”

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Why would you say that?”

“She's taken something she's passionate about and turned it into something impactful. Something enjoyed by everyday people,” Shannon explains.

“I wouldn't exactly say coffee is her passion, though–”

“It's you, Y/N,” Shannon interjects, rolling her eyes playfully. “You are her passion. She excelled in coffee-making because it's something you love. And it's a beautiful thing, to shape a passion around someone you care about so deeply.”

“But it's rather strange, isn't it?” Shannon adds a while later. She digs her hand inside a bag of beans and takes a handful, then leans in to inhale its scent. 

“What do you mean?” you ask. 

“Well,” Shannon continues, “Considering how much she adores you, must be one of the universe’ greatest mysteries as to why she would ever cheat on you.”

You find yourself taken aback, unsure if you should feel insulted or if you should just brush it off. Her remark is quite out of the blue, and she doesn't seem to grasp how inappropriate it is. It seems that Shannon may be the sort of person who speaks without considering the impact of her words. 

But, in her candid, albeit tactless, comment, you get a glimpse of another side of her–one that's less reserved and more carefree than you had initially perceived. 

Before you can think of something to reply, a voice cuts in, causing you and Shannon to jerk your heads towards the source.

“Welcome! Can I help you find something particular?”

The voice belongs to the shopkeeper, an elderly gentleman sporting a smile as warming as a hot cup of chocolate. You return his smile with a slightly sheepish one, confessing, “I actually have no idea. My wif–my, uh, partner joined this annual coffee competition in NYC. I thought I might surprise her with some unique beans to experiment with.”

“Sounds like a wonderful gift!” he exclaims, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. He hobbles over to a nearby shelf filled with an array of coffee bags. “Well, if she's in a competition, I'd suggest trying a couple of different single-origin beans to get a variety of flavors.”

He reaches up to a shelf and pulls down a bag of coffee. “This here is a single-origin bean from Ethiopia. Known for its bright and fruity flavors, it's a favorite among many coffee connoisseurs.”

Setting that bag down, he moves over to another shelf. “And over here we have a single-origin bean from Colombia. This one has a richer, more full-bodied profile with notes of dark chocolate and a nutty finish.”

He hands both bags to you, his aged yet firm hands transferring the beans with a sense of reverence. “I think these two could provide some interesting flavors for her to experiment with. What do you think?”

A thoughtful hum escapes you as you consider the shopkeeper's recommendations. The Ethiopian and Colombian beans definitely sound like a good place to start, but you want to give Wanda something a little more... unexpected.

“Do you have anything else?” you ask. “Maybe something more unconventional? A wildcard, if you will.”

The shopkeeper looks at you for a moment, as if sizing up your level of coffee knowledge and daring. Then a slow smile spreads across his face. “Well, I do have something rather special,” he admits, leading you to the far corner of the shop.

He reaches behind a stack of bags, pulling out a smaller, unassuming bag. “This here is a single-origin bean from a tiny town in the northernmost region of Japan. It's not widely known for its coffee cultivation, but I have a friend there who has been growing these beans using a unique method. He's a former whiskey brewer and has applied some of the techniques from brewing to coffee cultivation.”

He hands over the bag and you take it, intrigued by the origin and backstory. The beans look slightly lighter than the other two bags, and you can almost smell the promise of a unique flavor profile.

“This is a real wildcard,” the shopkeeper adds with a wink. “It's unlike anything else you'll find. But tell your partner to be careful. These beans require a bit more finesse to fully bring out their complex flavors.”

You can't help but smile. This is exactly the kind of thing you were hoping to find. Something different and exciting for Wanda to work with, that would also show your support and faith in her skills. A perfect blend, in more ways than one.

“Seeing you so lovesick over your ex makes me want to gag,” Shannon comments, once you've finished your transaction with the shopkeeper.

You turn to her, eyebrow arched, “Are you always this tactless?”

She just laughs, the sound echoing in the quiet of the shop, and then completely ignores your question. “You know what? Now I see why you and Wanda are so perfect for each other.”

“And why is that?” you blink at her, intrigued despite yourself.

She shrugs, her smile knowing. “Because despite everything, you still do this shit like she’s the best thing that's ever happened to you. And I bet she’s the same.”

With those words, she heads out of the shop, leaving you standing there awkwardly, still processing her words. Her straightforwardness was unexpected but kind of refreshing. You shake your head, smiling to yourself as you follow her out. 

“...Wh-Where was I?” Your words hitch as Wanda tenderly grazes her teeth over your jugular.

“You were saying that Shannon is kind of a bitch,” Wanda whispers, continuing her assault.

You chuckle lightly but it quickly transforms into a low moan. “Well, she is, but I think that's just her way of dealing with things.”

Wanda hums against your skin, a small laugh escaping her lips. “She certainly seems to have a unique perspective,” she concedes, withdrawing slightly to look you in the eyes. “But she's right about one thing.”

“And what would that be?” you ask breathlessly as you feel Wanda’s fingers trail their way up your stomach, under your shirt.

She gives you a teasing grin, the irises of her eyes pitch black as she playfully declares, “That you're smitten with me.”

You blink in surprise. “Wait, what? She said that?”

You feel Wanda’s smile against your skin before her tongue slips out to lick the sweat that has gathered under your ear. “Yes, she did. Told me right when you two got back home earlier.”

“Well, can't argue with that,” you concede, pulling her closer. The conversation drifts, forgotten, drowned in Wanda’s lips against yours and her hand squeezing your tit as she finally pushes her tongue inside your mouth.

“W-Wands,” you whine as your ex-wife’s other hand moves to cup you over your leggings. Wanda ignores you, rubbing your clit achingly slow as her tongue flickers in and out of your mouth, teasing you relentlessly. 

“Wands,” you try again.

“What?” she husks out, her tone dripping with impatience and arousal.

“Is this a good idea? I mean… We… oh god,” you groan against her cheek when she slips her hand inside your underwear and zeroes in on your opening, collecting the wetness there before spreading them upwards towards your clit. 

“Try saying that again, love?” Wanda murmurs with a smirk.

“Uh, w-we scheduled an appointment with–”

Your words fail you at this point when Wanda inserts a finger into your pussy, burying it two knuckles deep at once. 

“Fuck–” 

Wanda swallows your scream with a kiss, and she smiles as she feels the vibrations of your moans as she starts thrusting her finger in and out of your hole.

“I love it when you’re so loud, baby,” Wanda whispers into your ear before biting your lobe. “But we need to keep quiet. Can you do that, sweetheart?”

She senses your nod, but just as she's about to introduce another finger, your laptop interrupts with its ringing sound. 

It’s a video call request from none other than your therapist.

You immediately extricate yourself from Wanda's grasp, causing her to groan in frustration at the untimely interruption. Your skin bears a heated flush and you hurriedly straighten your disheveled hair, trying to ignore how wet your inner thighs have gotten as you hit the accept button on the incoming video call. 

There’s a satisfying grin on Wanda’s face as she observes the way you press your legs together, trying to relieve some of the tension she caused there.

“Y/N? Wanda? Can you hear me?” Calliope’s voice breaks through the speakers. The video is still loading and you can’t see her on the screen yet.

Understanding that the call includes her as well, Wanda quickly composes herself, matching your effort to regain decency. Both of you adjust your clothing, smooth down your hair, and take a deep breath. 

“Am I disturbing anything?” Calliope inquires, an undercurrent of amusement lacing her tone. Your face turns a deeper shade of red at the hint of her insinuation, and you quickly shake your head in denial.

“With Christmas looming so near, I'd totally understand if you two prefer to reschedule–”

“No, it's okay,” you interject hastily. “Wanda and I are ready for this.”

The sound of Wanda's soft chuckle resonates beside you, and in a playful retort, you nudge her rib with your elbow. She responds with a firm, “Yes, we certainly are.” 

Simultaneously, she reaches for your hand, weaving your fingers together in a comforting interlock, resting them gently on her lap. You smile inwardly, feeling more giddy about the intimate nature of this small action than the sex that almost happened.

Without further ado, Calliope delves directly into the agenda of this, your third session. She invites you and Wanda to share what your married life was like prior to the indiscretion, and you find yourself taking the lead.

“Honestly, it felt like we had a perfect marriage,” you start off. “Not just the marriage, but our entire life seemed idyllic. My career was progressing as planned. Wanda... She was my pillar, always there, always supportive.” You look at Wanda adoringly and in return, she offers a shy, hesitant smile, her eyes momentarily flickering away before meeting yours again. You don’t notice, but there’s something else there. Her demeanor has shifted ever since Calliope brought up the session’s main topic.

Her fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours as you continue, recounting the times when you both laughed together, celebrated successes, and held each other through tougher days.

“And it wasn't just that she was supportive,” you add, your voice catching slightly. “She was, and still is, my best friend. We shared everything.”

Wanda's quiet during your monologue. The room is silent except for the low hum of the laptop and the occasional soft exhale from Wanda. After a moment, Calliope's calm voice pierces the quiet.

“Thank you for sharing that,” she says. “Wanda, would you like to share your perspective now?”

Wanda nods and lets go of your hand, her eyes filled with a somber resolve, her voice quieter when she finally speaks.

“Over the course of our five-year marriage, I was mostly content–happy. However, I often found myself feeling like a shadow, rather than an…equal partner.”

You whip your head towards Wanda, but her eyes stay stuck on the laptop screen. It takes a few seconds longer before she finally turns her gaze towards you and says, “For the last few months before I–before what happened–it felt like I was just trailing behind you, almost constantly. But it's not your fault.

“I was grappling with feelings of inadequacy when I... made that mistake,” she continues, her voice faltering slightly as she alludes to her infidelity. “I was in a state of confusion, and despite your joy and accomplishments, I was unable to share in that same level of happiness,” Wanda finishes.

Just when you believe you're set for an easygoing session, life throws you a curveball. It seems each encounter with Calliope pops the cozy bubble you've created with Wanda. Each time you're certain you've navigated the thickest of storms, another one brews on the horizon, causing your heart to question–yet again–the durability of this second shot at a relationship with your ex-wife.

Wanda swallows hard, before adding, “And then there was the struggle to start a family. You were the one who wanted children, but when it got tough... I felt like I was in it far deeper than you were. You were supportive, yes, but it felt like I was alone in the intensity of wanting it, needing it.”

“What made you feel like I wasn't with you through this?" you ask, a tinge of frustration seeping in your tone.

She takes a moment before responding, “When I couldn't get pregnant, you seemed so quick to dismiss our failure... it made me feel even more isolated.”

You shake your head. She couldn’t be further from how it really was for you, but you can’t blame her if that was how she felt during those times.

“I'm sorry if it seemed like I was dismissive,” you whisper as memories play back in your mind, each one revealing nuances you hadn't recognized at the time. “It wasn't my intention to belittle our struggle. I guess... I just didn't want to see you in more pain than you were already in. I thought being optimistic and pushing forward would help us cope, but I see now how that might have come across as indifference.”

“Weren't you upset with me?” Wanda asks, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We invested so much for me to conceive and... and I failed. Do you... do you resent me for that?”

“Wanda,” you say, your voice choked with emotion, “I never cared about the money. And you didn't fail. It's a process, and sometimes it's a tough one. But I don't resent you, not for a moment. My disappointment was never with you, but with the situation. I felt...helpless.”

“Helpless,” you reiterate, your eyes steadfastly meeting Wanda's. “Because I was at a loss on how to support you... how to alleviate your pain.”

Your voice, once steady, falters slightly as you confess, “Each doctor's appointment, every unsuccessful attempt... It felt like I was failing you, like I couldn't provide the comfort or solution you needed.”

You draw a shaky breath before adding, “And in my helplessness, I pushed for us to move forward right away. But now I realize...it might have felt to you like I was dismissing your pain, dismissing our shared struggle. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Wanda murmurs, her voice heavy with regret. There's a softness in her gaze as she looks at you. “I’m sorry for not telling you what I was feeling.”

Just as you're about to respond, Calliope cuts in. “The reason I asked you both to share your perspectives on your marriage before is to gauge the level of openness and communication between you two. Communication is one of the key bridges to trust. If we understand where we each stood before, we can better see clearly where we want to go.”

With this new revelation, you can't help but wonder about other instances where your and Wanda's perspectives may have diverged significantly.

It makes you wonder, what other moments had been experienced so differently by the two of you? How many times have you found yourselves adrift on separate pages of the same story?

A cold shiver of uncertainty sweeps through you. You're not sure you're ready to dive deep into the past, to unpack five years of the life you had shared with Wanda. 

The thought of your dissolved marriage possibly being built on illusion rather than truth feels scary, like realizing a favorite story might not be as real as you once thought.

The topic left untouched so far is how this disconnect relates to Wanda's act of infidelity. Despite your discomfort, the question lingers in your mind: If you were to misunderstand her feelings once more, would it drive Wanda away again? 

You hold your tongue for the time being. Maybe there'll be a moment later to wrestle with this thought... or perhaps, you find yourself wishing, it might simply fade away with time.

A couple of hours later, you and Wanda find yourselves working together in the kitchen. The session with Calliope has ended on a less intense note (thankfully) with an anecdote about her cat after Wanda made a request for Calliope to share something about herself for a change.

Afterwards, Calliope, not one to shy away from uncomfortable questions, had boldly asked about your and Wanda's physical intimacy. In response to your surprised silence, she suggested a temporary pause on sexual activities. Her reasoning was that sex, while a key component in a relationship, could sometimes blur the perception of the emotional state of the partnership and hinder the process of rebuilding trust.

In place of physical intimacy, Calliope suggested an exercise known as “Eye Gazing”. The idea was simple: sit across from each other in a quiet room, looking into each other's eyes without speaking. It's an exercise designed to foster emotional connection and understanding, without the distraction of words.

As you stir the simmering soup and Wanda deftly slices the vegetables, the appetizing smell of your evening meal fills the room. The intensity of the session's discussions seems to recede, replaced by the cheer that Christmas Eve unfailingly brings as it approaches.

“Mom's home!” Pietro yells from outside, his voice bubbling with excitement over the Taylor Swift songs that Shannon has playing in the kitchen. Shannon's taken charge of directing the preparation of the prime rib and turkey, even though she's doing little more than calling the shots. It's almost as if she's forgotten that there's a seasoned cook in the house–someone who actually runs their own food and beverage business.

Wanda freezes at Pietro’s announcement and you put a hand on the small of her back and lean in to ask, “Are you okay?”

She nods and assures you further with a smile. 

A few seconds later, the arrival of the twins’ mother is heralded by her appreciative comment about the tantalizing aroma wafting from the kitchen. You've only seen Iryna twice. The first time was when you drove Wanda to her hometown for a visit, and the last time was at a hospital, following a drug overdose just before you and Wanda tied the knot–an incident that was the final push for Wanda to sever all ties with her.

She appears significantly healthier compared to the grim memory etched in your mind. Her skin has a renewed vitality to it, and she's gained enough weight to fill out the hollow cheeks that you recall. Without the traces of addiction evident on her physique, she’s a dead ringer for Wanda.

You stop what you're doing, curious to see the reunion that would unfold.

Pietro’s arm is slung over Iryna’s shoulders as she laughs at something her son said. Wanda appears small and uneasy in the corner, waiting for her mother's recognition, uncertain whether she should be the one to make the first move. 

“Wanda, dear!” Iryna calls out to Wanda with a wide smile, but as she makes her way to her daughter, she is intercepted by Shannon who greets her with a kiss on the cheek and engages her briefly in small talk. Wanda looks on, the corners of her lips downturned, and you can almost see the conflict of emotions in her wide, green eyes. 

Finally, Pietro pulls his pregnant wife aside so that Iryna can have her moment with Wanda. 

“Iryna,” Wanda murmurs, her voice choked with emotion. As her mother comes to a stop in front of her, Wanda can't help but notice how the years have softened her features.

“Hello, Dove,” Iryna's voice is tender, brimming with an affection Wanda had almost forgotten. Without another word, Iryna wraps her arms around Wanda, pulling her into a hug that feels like home.

Wanda stiffens momentarily, the walls she's built over the years making her hesitate. But as her mother's familiar scent fills her senses, she can't help but let go, letting the warmth of the hug thaw her frozen heart. Her hands tentatively rise, resting on her mother's back.

Tears prick at her eyes, tears she stubbornly fights back. She'd told herself countless times she never wanted to see her mother again, that she could live without her. But standing here, enveloped in her, she realizes just how much she had missed Iryna. At the same time, this woman feels like a new person, and she realizes she’s more than willing to embrace this opportunity to get to know her.

“Hey, where should I put this?”

All heads swivel toward the door where a man stands, holding a case of beer and sporting a friendly smile. With his chiseled features and confident posture, he could easily be mistaken for a model straight out of a Men's Health magazine. Around your age and undeniably attractive, your eyes quickly dart to Wanda, trying to read her reaction.

Wanda looks genuinely surprised, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in the newcomer. 

And there it is again, that constricting feeling in your chest, the sudden, inexplicable need to claim Wanda as yours and yours alone. You're unable to shake off the feeling, even as you remind yourself that Wanda's reaction is likely just a response to an unexpected guest. 

You should trust her, after all.

Pietro is the first to recover from the surprise, a grin breaking across his face. “Tom!” he exclaims, laughing as he moves to take the beer from him. “Kitchen counter's fine.”

You wrack your brain to place this “Tom,” mentally sifting through the countless Maximoff family photos you've seen, but come up empty.

But then, as he strides towards Wanda with a familiarity that tugs at a memory, it suddenly clicks.

Yes, Tom. Wanda and Pietro's childhood friend, and also Wanda's ex-boyfriend. 

“I forgot to mention,” Pietro starts, turning to the rest of the room with an apologetic grin, “Tom, our friend from back home, recently moved to town. He's new here and doesn't really know anyone yet, so I thought he could join us for tonight's dinner.” 

 A casual round of handshakes and friendly smiles makes its way to Tom, each person sharing a word or two of welcome.

When the introductions circle back to you, you accept his handshake, offering your name and a casual, “Merry Christmas,” before excusing yourself to grab a beer from the fridge. 

A second later, Wanda is at your side, her fingers finding yours. She leans close to your ear and murmurs, “I've told you about Tom, right?”

“Your ex-boyfriend?” You keep your tone neutral. “Yeah, you did.”

“Yup, that's him,” she confirms, nodding in his direction, her eyes searching yours for any signs of distress.

Finding your gaze locked onto Tom, you can't help but analyze him in every way. It's not your nature to be the jealous type, but after Wanda's affair, insecurity has a way of creeping into your thoughts every now and then. Perhaps Calliope hit the nail on the head; having sex with Wanda frequently might have lulled you into a false sense of security.

Meanwhile, Wanda's eyes are trained on you, her attention riveted to your reactions. Her indifference to Tom's presence is obvious, but you miss this entirely, too occupied with quelling the unexpected stir of jealousy within you. 

She squeezes your fingers to get you to look at her, and when you do, you see nothing but total devotion in those green orbs.

“Why don't we get back to our cooking, huh?” she suggests with a small, warm smile.

It’s a reprieve from being helpless to your not entirely baseless worries. That’s Wanda for you–always able to draw you back, grounding you in moments like this.

Dinner is a massive success. Shannon revels in the praise, beaming with satisfaction. You and Wanda let her take all the credit, just happy to see everyone enjoy themselves.

Iryna keeps everyone entertained with funny stories from when Wanda and Pietro were kids, and the whole table is laughing. Tom joins in, too, sharing some memories and even shooting friendly smiles at you and Wanda. It still bothers you a little, but seeing Wanda enjoy herself helps you push it aside.

You can't help but watch Wanda throughout the evening. She's completely caught up in the Christmas cheer, her eyes lighting up like the twinkling lights around the room. Every once in a while, she looks your way, and when your eyes meet, you feel a warmth that's hard to describe. 

After eleven years together, you'd think the initial thrill would fade, the love might settle into something comfortable and familiar. But with Wanda, it's different. It's almost frightening how you keep falling for her harder as the years go by.

Fortunately, no one bothers to reminisce about Tom and Wanda’s dating history, and you’re grateful for everybody’s consideration and respect for you and Wanda’s attempts at a reconciliation. 

Still, a knot tightens in your stomach each time you notice Wanda and Tom sharing a knowing smile over Pietro's tales from their hometown. Your grip on your cutlery hardens as Tom attempts to engage Wanda in a casual chat or praises her culinary skills.

You find yourself imagining quite a few things, your mind drifting to their shared past and what they might have once been to each other. The more you think about it, the more you spiral into an unpleasant series of what-ifs and maybes.

Silently, you push your chair back and stand, excusing yourself. Except for Wanda, they don’t find anything amiss at your departure, their cheerful chatter resuming unimpeded. 

A minute or so later, Wanda takes her leave as well, seeking you out. She discovers you in the guest room, the one both of you have been sharing, standing on the balcony, staring off into the distance.

She joins you at the balcony, her hand instinctively finding yours. “Is everything okay?” she asks, her voice soft, threading with concern. 

In front of you, the landscape of Los Angeles stretches out, utterly unlike the steel jungle of New York you're used to. There are hills undulating in the distance, a patchwork of houses and greenery, the quiet echo of the ocean's waves caressing the shore, and an abundance of space that makes you feel both small and infinite at once.

Her thumb gently rubs soothing circles on the back of your hand. 

“Talk to me,” she gently urges.

You've always prided yourself on your level-headedness, your rational thinking. But jealousy... It is a powerful emotion, tearing at the edges of your pride.

“I don't know how to say this without sounding pathetic,” you sigh, your eyes dropping to where your fingers are entwined. “But watching you and Tom, laughing and sharing stories, it stirred up feelings I didn't expect. I felt... jealous. And I know it's ridiculous and irrational. I know you're not... you're not going to just... But I can't help how I feel.”

The confession leaves a sour taste in your mouth. You don't know what you're expecting Wanda to say. An apology, reassurance, a confession of her own perhaps. The silence stretches, heavy and awkward, but you can't find the courage to look at her.

“I get why you're feeling this way. It's because of me. Because of what I did… and I’m sorry for that,” Wanda’s voice comes out hoarse from laughing so many times at the dinner table.

It’s becoming a pattern: you being upset and Wanda apologizing over and over again. And it’s not even her fault this time.

“I can't control how you feel, and I don't want to pretend that I know what you're going through. But what I can do is keep showing up for you, keep proving that I'm all yours. That's all I can do, and that's what I promise,” she says. She moves closer, hugging you from behind, her arms encircling your waist. You feel her chin resting on your shoulder, and her warmth begins to envelop you. You let out a soft sigh.

Her honesty strikes a chord within you. You look at her, her eyes reflecting the moonlight, and in that moment, you want to believe her. 

You want and want and want. But when does the wanting transform into reality?

Still keeping her hold, she murmurs in your ear, “You know, I think now might be a good time for your Christmas gift.”

You turn to face her in surprise, the earlier heavy conversation momentarily forgotten. “A Christmas gift?” you echo, and she simply nods, her smile widening a touch.

“Yep, and I've been holding onto it for the right moment,” she explains, releasing you from her embrace to reach into her pocket. She retrieves a small box, its exterior adorned with intricate details and a shiny ribbon.

Her eyes find yours, alive with anticipation and a flicker of nervousness that is so uncharacteristic of her. She hands the box over to you, maintaining eye contact all the while.

"Go on, open it," she urges.

You look at her once more before directing your attention to the small package in your hands. Unraveling the ribbon and lifting the lid, you're met with a glint of silver catching the ambient light.

Inside the box lies a delicate silver chain, a pendant attached at its center. The pendant is a small compass, intricately detailed and with a vintage aura. What surprises you more is the small photo inside the compass. It's a picture of you and Wanda, the first one you took together as friends inside a photobooth.

Your breath catches in your throat as you carefully lift the necklace from its cushioned home. You can't take your eyes off the image. It's a snapshot of a time when you both were deeply in love but unaware of it, where everything was fresh and new and brimming with hope and ambition.

A memory of pure, undiluted happiness.

“Wanda…” you start, feeling an inexplicable lump in your throat.

“I know we can't go back in time,” she interrupts softly. “But this...this is my promise to you. I want to go forward, create more moments like these, and give you a reason to trust me again.”

You glance at the necklace in your hand, then at the one adorning Wanda's neck–the necklace that carries her wedding ring. An overwhelming desire washes over you to remove it from its chain and place it back where it truly belongs: on Wanda's finger. But you swiftly check yourself. You're moving too fast, allowing your hopes to get ahead of reality. You resolve to not act impulsively, to not assume anything.

You turn in Wanda’s arms to face her, a sheepish grin on your lips. “You know, I also got you a Christmas gift,” you confess, a bit hesitant. “Though it's nothing compared to this, and now I feel... a little embarrassed.”

Wanda's eyes sparkle with anticipation and a hint of amusement. She releases you and steps back, crossing her arms in front of her. “Oh, really? And here I thought you were going to outdo me,” she teases, chuckling at the red hue now spreading across your cheeks.

You let out a resigned sigh, knowing there's no way you can compete with the sentimentality of her gift. “Just... don't laugh, okay?” you warn her, but she's already grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Nervously, you reach into your suitcase, pulling out a box about the size of a shoebox, wrapped carefully in nondescript brown paper. As you hand it over to Wanda, your heartbeat escalates, thumping loudly in your ears.

“I just... I mean, it's nothing grand like yours,” you stutter, your cheeks flushing. “It feels a bit silly now, to be honest.”

Wanda merely smiles at you. “Stop it, I'm sure it's wonderful.”

Gently, she tears into the paper wrapping, unveiling a box. Inside it, three distinct bags of single-origin coffee beans sit.

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise as she takes in the contents of the box. “You got me coffee?” she echoes, an undertone of laughter coloring her voice.

Nodding bashfully, you say, “Yeah, I figured it could come in handy for the Cup-off.”

A chuckle escapes Wanda, and she lifts one of the bags to her nose, inhaling deeply. “These smell incredible,” she says, grinning at you. “This is such a thoughtful gift. Thank you. It’s just perfect.”

Your chest warms as you watch Wanda cradle the bags of coffee, a genuine smile lighting up her face.

“I’m sure this will help me make the best cup,” Wanda says.

You pull her in for a short but sweet kiss and say, “You already do.”

Much later, when everyone’s dozing off (Shannon) and catching up in small groups (Wanda and Iryna), Tom bids his goodbye to everyone, much to your relief. Your discomfort around him lingered in the background, even as you and Wanda returned to the living room to continue the celebrations and watch everyone else exchange Christmas presents.

Just as you're beginning to feel a bit more relaxed, Pietro approaches you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Hey, mind if I steal you for a second?” he asks, nodding towards the garden visible through the glass doors.

Puzzled, you glance at Wanda, but she’s in a deep and serious conversation with her mother. 

You shrug your shoulders and say, “Sure, Pietro, lead the way.”

He walks you out into the cool night; it’s completely quiet except for the serenade of crickets hiding in the backyard. 

Pietro settles onto a stone bench, and then gestures for you to join him.

As you take a seat, he fishes out a rolled blunt from his pocket. You merely raise an eyebrow and shake your head, waving away his offer.

His smirk broadens at your reaction. “Well, maybe it's worth a try. Might help you chill out a bit,” he suggests with a teasing note in his voice.

“No, thanks. I’m chill as it is,” you say.

“Really? Because I couldn't help but notice you weren't so 'chill' when Tom was around earlier.”

You hesitate, not expecting Pietro to call you out like this. “Was it that obvious?”

You sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. He then takes a generous puff of his blunt before exhaling slowly.

Suddenly, Pietro looks you in the eyes and asks, “Do you love Wanda?” 

The directness of the question catches you off guard, more so than his earlier suggestion to try a blunt. You’re slightly offended that he feels the need to ask you this.

When you remain quiet and withdrawn for a long time, Pietro speaks again. “It’s not a rhetorical question by the way. I do want to know if you love Wanda.”

Finally, you turn towards him, brow furrowed, a hint of indignation in your eyes. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one. Do you love my sister?”

Yes.

Always.

Nevertheless.

The answer has always been clear to you, but instead, you return the volley. “Why are you asking? What's this about?” You challenge, more skeptical now about his motives behind such a question than providing him with an answer.

He meets your gaze, an uncharacteristic intensity in his eyes. “Because if you really loved her, why did you let it come to this?” he asks pointedly. “Why did you let things fall apart? Why didn't you fight for your marriage? You hurt her, Y/N. You hurt my sister.”

He continues, “And I know the extent of how much you hurt her. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

“Wait, what?” You choke out, disbelieving.

Pietro simply shrugs. “It was me,” he repeats, his voice steady, unrepentant. “I was the one who sent you that photo of Wanda in the hospital. I wanted you to see. To know.”

The shock is enough to rob you of words. Shame wells up inside you. 

He smirks in satisfaction and mumbles to himself, “Yeah, that kinda felt good.”

The words seem to get stuck in your throat; they press in on you, making it hard to breathe.

Finally, you find your voice, though it comes out as more of a whisper, your eyes fixed on a nondescript point on the floor. “At that time... I was so deeply hurt. I believed, truly believed, that Wanda didn't love me anymore.” You swallow hard, your throat feeling painfully dry.

“And I didn't want to fight for our marriage because... I was scared. Scared to fail if I tried, scared to prolong the agony only to find out in the end that there’s nothing to save.” Your voice cracks slightly, as if the wound is still fresh despite the passage of time.

Even now, you can't say that you're a hundred percent confident that Wanda's love for you is certain. Perhaps nothing she does will ever completely assure you. Maybe this time, it's really up to you to have faith.

“I just wanted the pain to stop. So, I did the only thing I thought would help. I... I walked away,” you finish, staring into nothingness as the memory of your decision reverberates painfully within you.

Pietro falls silent, his eyes narrowing as he studies you, taking in what you've said. Then, with a penetrating look, he says, “Sounds more like you wanted to be the one to walk away first.”

You blink at him, taken aback. “What?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, but his eyes are sharp. “You just didn't want to be the one left behind.”

A part of you can't deny it–perhaps you did preemptively end things out of fear of being the one left behind. A self-preservation measure that's caused more harm than good. But admitting that to yourself is another thing entirely, let alone to Pietro.

“Maybe,” you concede after a moment. “But can you blame me for it? You’ve never been in my shoes. Have you ever paused to consider what it was like for your ex-wives? What it was like for Shannon?” Your voice rises with each question, frustration finally breaking free from its confines. 

Pietro looks at you, his expression inscrutable for a moment, before he gives you a curt nod. 

“Touché,” he admits grudgingly, and then attempts a chuckle. “We suck at celebrating this Christmas thing together, aren’t we?”

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitches up in a small, matching smile. But then it’s gone almost instantly because the topic of loving Wanda is something you’ve always taken seriously.

“I think things would’ve been worse if I didn’t walk away. I was in a really dark place. I only realized it when several months later, seeing the bastard she slept with sent me off the rails.

“If I hadn't stepped away, things would've gotten even worse,” you explain. “It felt like I was stuck in never-ending darkness, with no hope of seeing the dawn. It was really bad. I didn't know how much until I ran into that guy she cheated with, months later. I just completely lost it.”

“That... actually makes a lot of sense,” Pietro says, his tone softer than before. “It might not have been the best approach, but I get it. It's tough to see things clearly when you're caught in a storm, isn't it?”

You nod, grateful for his understanding. This empathy from Pietro, who usually comes across as nonchalant, helps ease some of the tightness in your chest.

“But then,” Pietro continues, locking eyes with you. “That still leaves my question unanswered. Despite everything that's happened... Do you love Wanda?” His tone is serious, almost challenging, making it clear that he expects an honest answer this time.

You give him your answer this time.

***

You and Wanda arrive back in Manhattan around noon the next day.

The plane touches down smoothly on the John F. Kennedy runway, marking the end of an unforgettable weekend. As you collect your belongings, you turn to Wanda, gratitude in your eyes.

“Thank you,” you say, sincerity lacing your voice. “This weekend... It was something special. Really.”

Her lips curl into a soft smile as she meets your eyes. “I'm glad you had a good time,” she says. “But now, it's back to work. The coffee showdown won't prep itself.”

“Need any help with that?” you ask, eager to stay close, not ready to say goodbye just yet. 

She looks at you, her eyes wide with surprise, then her face softens into a grateful smile. “You're probably worn out from the trip,” she says, “and honestly, it might take me all night to get it right.”

Undeterred, you reply, “Well, you need a test subject, right?”

She thinks about it some more.

“I promise I won't be biased. I won’t just say everything tastes delicious,” you add, trying to win her over.

Her laughter rings through the air as she finally nods, accepting your offer. “Alright, you're on.”

What follows is an all-night coffee marathon, filled with experimentation, flirty banter, and more cups of coffee than you can count. 

Despite the late hour and the caffeine jitters, you wouldn't have it any other way.

Taglist: @canvascoloredin | @justgotlizzied , @casquinhaa | @marvelwomen-simp | @sunsol-22 | @wandanatlov3r | @kyaraderuwez | @justyourwritter69 | @stanolsevans | @aliherreraaa | @diaryoflife| @justagurlwholikes | @lizziesplant | @cowxpoke | @sokovianbaby| @swiftie1-0-1| @scarlettbitchx | @tercerspirit-22

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #ifiss 2 #ilgoss #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff #agatha harkness #pietro maximoff

[emeritusemeritus]

Nice sweater. [Fred Weasley x Reader]

Image found on Pinterest.

Title: Nice Sweater

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader (established relationship)

Timeline: Non-specified. Set after Christmas break.

Summary: Draco tries to wind you up about your handmade sweater from Molly and gets firmly put in his place.

Warnings: Draco being antagonistic. Derogatory comments about wealth. Mentions of shagging. Brief mentions of physical abuse and scars.

It was the first week back after Christmas break and you were thankful that Saturday had eventually rolled around as the early morning starts, hard classes and already mounting homework had taken some re-adjusting to. You'd spent the two weeks of Christmas break at the Burrow with your boyfriend Fred and his family, just as you had for the previous two years and it was both fun and relaxing at the same time, a perfect break from your usual school routine.

"Morning y/n," Hermione says as she walks into the great hall, sitting down at the table in front of you as she fills her glass full of pumpkin juice. Your sleep schedule had been thoroughly thrown off by the holidays and you'd groaned as you shot awake way before you needed to this morning, not able to get back to sleep. You'd begrudgingly dragged yourself out of bed and gotten dressed in thick, warm layers before taking a small walk around the grounds as the sunrise bloomed over the hills, the sun waking up with you.

You'd been early to breakfast, arriving at the deserted hall even before breakfast had started and so you slipped away into the kitchens and had managed to acquire a cup of tea that one of the busy house elves had placed onto the Gryffindor table for you with an accommodating and very appreciated snap of their fingers. You'd pulled out your book and had read a few chapters whilst drinking your cup of tea before the breakfast had magically appeared on the tables promptly at 7am.

"Morning Hermione," you greeted with a tired smile, still feeling as if you were waking up slowly. You chatted for a while as you both ate breakfast before some of your other friends turned up. You were just about to leave and go back to your dorm when a familiar presence appeared behind you, placing a kiss to your head as he climbed onto the bench beside you, his identical twin slotting in directly across from him.

"Morning gorgeous," Fred says with a smile, already piling up his plate with golden toast with one hand as the other wraps loosely around your waist from behind.

You noticed he and George were both wearing their new sweaters that Molly had knitted them for Christmas and you had to smile as you looked at your own sweater which was also a christmas gift from Molly and Arthur. Yours didn't have your initial stitched on the front like the others did but rather it was a beautifully intricate design of blended colours in a fair isle style, with multiple geometric patterns running across in various orange, autumnal hues. You'd been so excited to receive a Molly crafted sweater and she had really outdone herself with this one. You always looked forward to her gifts, having received a beautiful scarf last year and a pair of mittens the year before that, both lovingly created by hand.

"Morning Freddie, morning Georgie," you smile as George greets you enthusiastically, much too awake for this time in a morning. You tiredly rest your head on Fred's shoulder as he eats and he responds by stroking your back soothingly as you talk quietly to each other, joining in with the larger group conversation but also running your own little chatter just between the both of you.

"Did you want to come to Hogsmeade with me and George later? Got to pick up some stuff from Zonkos," Fred says as he tucks into his sausages, a smirk on his face at the prospect. "Thought we could get a butter beer or a takeaway tea from Puddifoot's and maybe have a walk to the shrieking shack."

"How romantic," you say sarcastically as he chuckles, nodding his head.

Feeling a chill run over you, you pull the sleeves of your sweater down over your hands, trying to fight of the cold air that circulated around the room.

"Oi Weasel-bee, nice jumper," you heard Draco's whiny voice say from the table behind you, making you roll your eyes. You glanced up at Ron who looked immediately offended but was choosing to ignore him until he spoke up again, "I'm surprised your family could afford all that disgusting wool or does she reuse the same jumpers? That would make them what, fourth-hand at this point?"

"Shove off Malfoy," Ron says with a bite in his voice, turning abruptly back to the table as Harry tries to divert the conversation quickly away.  You can see George is looking angry across the table as he tries to calm himself and Fred beside you is stiff in his seat.

"Oh look, it seems the Weasley's have a new family member they can't afford!" He says, fixing his attention to you, looking at the jumper you were wearing.

"Nice jumper y/l/n," Draco says mockingly.

You simply look up at him with a fakest, most sarcastic smile and tone of voice you could muster and playfully said, "thanks Draco!"

He frowned briefly at your pleasantness before trying again to wind you up, not happy that he didn't get the reaction he wanted.

"So which one are you shagging again? Do their parents really hate you that much to give you that jumper?"

You feel Fred tense even more and you place your hand on his leg under the table to stop him from starting anything, knowing how cross Draco's words would have made him. You briefly catch George's eye, who looks furious, but you wordlessly tell him not to do anything with a subtle look before turning back to Draco.

"Are you deliberately thick?" You ask, raising your eyebrow at him as he blanched at your words, standing up and moving over to the table. "This jumper was a homemade gift from their parents, showing that I've got two sets of parents that love me and care enough to give a thoughtful gift, can you say the same? What did you get for Christmas from yours, more scars on your hand from your dad's stupid cane? Maybe another tailored black suit that shows how little personality you actually have?"

There's silence in the hall as everyone seems to watch your interaction. Draco, falling silent for a few seconds suddenly huffs and walks away muttering under his breath with Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy trailing behind him like faithful sheep.

Your friends all erupt in cheers at your little victory and you laugh at them as you take a sip of pumpkin juice.

"Which one am I shagging," you laugh, "that's a new one."

#emeritusemeritus #harry potter #emeritusemerituswrites #fred weasley #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley masterlist #draco malfoy #fred weasley drabble #Drabble

[andreafmn]

12 Days of Ficmas ✵BONUS✵

Request by @lillybearblog: I hope this is ok to ask for! Basically it's your first time with Carlisle! (Can be human or new vampire I don't mind!) It is your first time with everything even kissing, hickeys, org*sm etc. You are super nervous and Carlisle is the consent king. Hes super gentle and walks you through everything. Can add things like pinning against the wall 😉

Word Count: 3.5K

Story Description: (Y/N) has always worked tirelessly for the Heaven’s Care Foundation to provide orphaned children and at-risk youth with a safe place to be. But working in a nonprofit is hard, and trying to give hundreds of children a Christmas to remember even more. Unless an anonymous donor changes everything.

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI) read the request for everything else that's on here

Pairing: Carlisle Cullen x Female!Reader

A/N: i decided to use this request as a way to tie in the second part for the 12DoF one-shot for Carlisle. I really hope I did the request justice. I'm still very new to smut and it can be a bit hard for me to write it. Hope y'all like it!

Follow 😊 -> TikTok • Instagram • Business

<- Previous

Christmas Miracle Come in Attractive Packages | Part 2

When the gala was finally over, and everyone was gone, (Y/N) looked for Carlisle Cullen once more. They had spent the time she had free talking and getting to know one another. As tension built between them, all she could think was how the night would end if he did wait for her,

She was sure he would have gone home by now, bored after hours of a lot of bureaucratic performances she had to do for the people that helped fund the organization.

But as she finally exited the doors into the freezing winter of New York, there he stood in all his splendor. In the midst of the white snow, his body and clothes blended into the scenery. He was as picturesque as the city.

“You waited,” she smiled catching up to him. “Thought you’d be home by now. It’s freezing out here.”

“Some things are worth the wait,” Carlisle responded, a grin stretching on his face. “Now, I don’t mean to sound too forward, but would you like to come over to my place? It’s very cold and my apartment is close by.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.” (Y/N) tried her best to sound confident. But the reality was, she couldn’t help but let her fears get the best of her.

She was inexperienced in all matters of personal relations. When everyone around her was experimenting from high school all the way to college, she’d never done anything. Instead, she spent her time trying to finish her studies so she could get started on her dream – the foundation. Then when she started on it, she had no time for socializing outside of work.

So, her love life had been on the back burner her whole life. And now that a man had seemingly taken interest in her, she was not sure how to proceed. Thankfully, she was a quick study.

Before she could notice, Carlisle was parking the car in the car park of a luxury apartment complex. He guided them inside, hitting the last level in the elevator. Just who was this man? Doctors made money, but this amount of riches definitely did not come from the hospital.

“Welcome to my home,” Carlisle said as he opened the door to a beautiful apartment.

It was a modern build, with sleek line architecture, tall ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling windows that gave him one of the best views in New York. It was a glaring juxtaposition to where she lived and could not believe this was how some people lived.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed out, taking in the scenery. “Can’t believe this place is real.”

Carlisle turned on music, which startled (Y/N) around, her dress whooshing with her movement. Her clothing stood out amongst the white and black styling of the place, making her seem out of place and the perfect focal point in the space.

“I believe we never got a chance to dance,” he smiled, taking her arm and twirling her toward his body.

She collided against his chest, having to look up to meet his eyes. Carlisle led the dance, having them sway to a song that (Y/N) could barely register, too entranced by the man before him. She had never felt this drawn to anyone. Taking her time to know people was normally how she went about things, but something about Carlisle told her to jump headfirst into it.

As they gazed into each other’s eyes, they started to lean in, closing the small gap that was still between them.

“Wait,” (Y/N) stopped abruptly.

“Is everything alright?” Carlisle worried. “I don’t want to overstep.”

“Yes.. no… maybe,” she stammered nervously. “It’s just this is my first, uh, time…”

“What?” he chuckled. “First time going home with someone on the first date.”

“First time for everything actually,” she grimaced slightly. “I never had time nor interest in having a love life and before I knew it so much time had passed that I never had the chance to do… well, anything.”

“Well, that’s no problem.” He gave her a smile that instantly made her weak in the knees. “We won’t do anything you don’t feel comfortable doing.”

“That’s the thing,” she grinned. “Something about you makes me want to do… everything. I’m done putting my life on the back burner and I would love nothing more than to push forward with you.”

As they shared another smile, Carlisle place both of his hands gingerly on the side of her face and finally bent down, pressing a kiss on her lips.

That’s when she saw fireworks.

She could feel herself growing warm already, the knot in her stomach tightening promptly. (Y/N) knew the feeling perfectly. Just because she hadn’t done anything with another person didn’t mean she hadn’t explored that side on her own.

The kiss grew hungrier, with Carlisle taking the lead. He was gentle as his hands roamed down her body and settled onto her waist pulling her warm body flush to his ice-cold one. It had been a few years since he had engaged in any type of physical relations, and though he wasn’t inexperienced, he was ravenous.

He hadn’t planned to meet anyone in his time in Ithaca, much less a human. But (Y/N) had barreled into his life by pure chance. Had she not bumped into him whilst his brain was focused elsewhere, there was a big chance they would never have crossed paths.

Oh, but how glad he was that they did.

“Are you sure you want this?” Carlisle breathed, breaking the kiss first. “I want to make sure you are absolutely certain this is what you want.”

“It is, Carlisle,” she responded. “I’ve never been this sure of anything before.”

“Then, if at any moment you want to stop, just say the word and we’ll stop.”

“Take me, Carlisle,” she mewled in his ear. “I’m all yours.”

The words surprised (Y/N) as they came out, but they ignited something inside Carlisle. He brought his mouth to hers once more, taking his time to devour her mouth. She was bringing the animal in him that lay dormant. And though he normally hungered for blood, this night he was going to feast in something more primal. He was going to show (Y/N) what she had been missing.

Their movements were fluid, almost choreographed. Their hands ran across their clothed bodies, learning every corner with their hands.

When Carlisle felt satisfied with her mouth, his lips traveled down. He kissed her cheek, down her jaw, and started work on her neck. He kissed and kissed until he found a spot that made her moan loudly. With a grin growing on his lips, he nipped at the spot siphoning new sounds from (Y/N)’s mouth.

She could feel herself growing warmer, wetter. Her hands gripped onto his hair, pulling on the blond locks of his hair. This let out a growl from Carlisle’s throat, making him bite softly on the areas he was enjoying — never enough to draw blood, just hard enough that it was a temptation.

“That’s gonna leave a mark in the morning,” she chuckled, slightly out of breath.

“That’s the idea,” he grinned mischievously. “I want everyone to know what will happen here tonight.”

“Then, what’re we waiting for? Let’s move this to the bedroom.”

Carlisle’s eyes darkened, lust glazing them over. They fumbled backward together, connected through their lips and their hands not working fast enough to get their clothes off their bodies. They stumbled through every step, (Y/N)’s dress getting tangled between their feet and they walked the long hallways trying to not spend even a second apart.

“This isn’t working,” Carlisle chuckled. “Come here.”

Swiftly, he snaked one hand under her legs and the other on the small of her back. A gleeful shriek escaped her as she wrapped her arms around his neck. He wanted nothing more than to speed them over to the bedroom and get her on his bed so he could ravish her body as if it was his last meal. But he would scare her before he could do so. That meant he had to walk as fast as he could, and that’s what he did.

Carlisle pushed opened his bedroom door with his foot, crossing them through the threshold. He set her down gently as (Y/N) pushed the door closed after. He pressed her front softly against the door, his lips connecting to her skin, and he slid the zipper of her dress down.

As his hand pulled the zipper agonizingly slowly, he kissed from her neck to her shoulders, to her exposed shoulder blades. Every piece of skin he could find he would kiss or nip, smiling as he noted some start their process of bruising. Every mark was a testament to what he had done, of what she had allowed him to do.

The red fabric pooled at her feet, exposing her bare back and the black lace underwear she had chosen to wear. Instinctively, she covered her breasts. A red hue fell over her entire body in embarrassment. But Carlisle took her arms in his, turning her around and placing another kiss on her lips.

“Don’t hide yourself, (Y/N),” he whispered into her ear. “I want to see you. I want to see all of you.”

He looked at her with admiration and hunger, so much hunger. His eyes studied the curve of her breasts, the dip of her hips, the length of her legs — she was a sight to behold. Every single part of her body was perfect to him. From the freckles to the blemishes to the scars.

He had seen perfection in vampires, marble-like skin that could hold no flaw. Still, there was something about human beauty that he found precious. Immortal beauty would never compare to the transitional beauty of human beings. It was transcendental.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said as he looked her over. “Perfect.”

“Well,” she grinned. “I wouldn’t want you to feel left out, so how about we start with you?”

(Y/N) went for his tie first, pulling it until it joined her dress on the floor. Then she unbuttoned his shirt, ever so slowly, teasing him slightly. But it was backfiring. As she worked to build his desire, hers grew as well, along with desperation. His clothes could not be off him fast enough for her. She wanted him, and she wanted him now.

Once she reached the last button, she pushed the shirt and the blazer off his shoulders to reveal his bare chest. (Y/N) ran her hands through his pecs and down his arms, feeling the smooth valley of his skin. Not only did he look like a perfect marble statue, he felt like one. Carlisle was as smooth, cold, and as hard as stone — enchanting and beautiful. It took everything in her to not continue to gawk at his body. His mouth on hers helped.

Carlisle guided them to the bed, laying her gently onto the massive piece of furniture. The duvet felt cold against (Y/N)’s skin – nowhere as cold as Carlisle – and her body erupted in goosebumps. But the coldness was quickly replaced by the warm knot forming in the pit of her stomach as the man slid her panties off her body.

Never breaking eye contact, Carlisle pulled the piece of fabric down her thighs, her knees, her calves, her ankles, and finally her feet. In the shining light of the full moon that seeped through the windows, he could see her wetness glistening. She was drenched and he could smell her arousal since they had gotten to the apartment. Now that he had her right in front of him, he needed to devour her.

“Let me know if this gets too much, (Y/N),” Carlisle said, sucking in a breath. “Remember, if at any point...” 

“I promise I’ll let you know,” (Y/N) somehow managed to breathe out through her panting. “Just touch me please.”

Without a second thought, Carlisle’s tongue lapped her slit, running from her entrance and ending on the sensitive bud that lived at the top. This took (Y/N)’s breath out of her lungs. An overwhelming feeling of pleasure ransacked through her body, arching in tandem.

But that simple touch could not compare to when Carlisle started his ministrations on her clit. His tongue circled, his mouth sucked, and his throat vibrated. That was enough to have her nearing that so-awaited for peak that would have her clutching at the sheets. Yet, Carlisle introduced a finger into her wet entrance and that sent her onto another plane.

“Whatever you’re doing,” she moaned. “Don’t you dare stop.” 

“I wasn’t planning on it.” 

He responded pressed against her, his voice sending shock waves through her body. He was feasting, and like a good boy, he would devour his whole meal. It helped that it was so beautifully presented.

With a masterful tongue, Carlisle continued his attack on the needy mound as his fingers – two more already added for preparation – pistoned into her at an inhuman speed. But what had her moaning and writhing, was how he curled those fingers to press on her most sensitive spot from the inside.

She could feel the crescendo of her climax reaching its peak. Her walls clenched around Carlisle’s fingers, her body feeling fuller than it had ever been. There was only so much she could do with her own fingers. But this man somehow knew just how to coax out her orgasm better than she ever could. His mouth and his digits worked in perfect symphony until they had her yelling out his name.

(Y/N) was sure she was seeing stars. As her cunt wept in pleasure, her brain could barely process what had happened. Se believed she had been able to orgasm when she divulged in alone time, but it had never felt like this. Nothing (Y/N) had done to herself had her legs shaking or had her lungs devoid of oxygen. This experience was simply unparalleled.

As she recuperated from the assault, (Y/N) watched with newly growing warmth as Carlisle licked her arousal from his fingers, savoring it as if it was his last meal. It was just the thing to have her ready for the next round.

Carlisle towered above her, kissing her deeply. As his tongue explored her mouth, she explored her own taste on his tongue, making her wetness start pooling once more. Her hands traveled down his body, one of them landing on the button of his pants as the other palmed at his stone-hard bulge.

(Y/N) gawked as she finally freed his hard-on from his pants, astonished by the mere size of it. She was sure it would never fit – then again, how would she have ever known? But in her astonishment, (Y/N) found herself lowering her head, ready to at least make it fit in one entrance at a time.

Carlisle stopped her.

“Tonight is all about you,” he whispered. “We can delve into other things at a letter time. But right now, I need to be inside you.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?” (Y/N) purred with newfound confidence. “My cunt is begging to be filled.” 

The words surprised the woman as they rolled off her tongue. She had no idea where they were coming from or how she had the gall to say them. But it was how she was feeling and it was what her body was yearning for.

Carlisle’s smile contorted into a devilish grin as he lined himself with her entrance. He used the pool of her core to slather his shaft and pumped himself three times to get himself ready for her.

First, his head breached her, starting the stretch. It felt nothing like when he entered her with his fingers. And though it was just a tad painful, she was quickly growing to love the feeling. As his cock continued to slide into he, (Y/N) felt her breath leave her lungs. Once his hips hit hers, she felt completely full and stretched.  

“Are you okay?” Carlisle asked seemingly out of breath as well. “Let me know when you feel comfortable for me to move.”

“Just give me a sec,” she exhaled deeply. Growing used to the feeling did not take long. The stinging pain shifted quickly into yearning pleasure. At first, it was too much, but now it was not enough. “You can move now, please. I need you to move.”

He was slow at first, moving his hips softly into her. But he knew he could not last long. From her scent to her tightness, Carlisle felt himself nearing his end. Though restraint was something he excelled at, something about (Y/N) made his inhibitions fall. It made him feel like a newborn once more – the lowest level of self-control.

As his pace turned faster, (Y/N)’s voice could only make out moans, groans, and pants. It was a feeling like no other, and it was a great one. The knot that had formed at the pit of her stomach tightened as he continued his calculated attack.

“I-I’m close,” she mumbled out.

“So am I, darling.”

He pummeled into her even faster now. His tip hit her g-spot with every single stroke. As he did, (Y/N)’s grip on Carlisle’s hips tightened, pushing him into her deeper and deeper. She was chasing her second orgasm of the night in what she found was her favorite way.

Until he used his thumb to stimulate her clit. (Y/N) yelled out at the attack. Her eyes closed and her back arched off the bed. He rolled the small bud over and over, his fingers somehow matching the speed of his hips.

It was only a couple of thrusts more before they were both screaming out each other’s names. (Y/N) felt Carlisle’s release mixed with hers, coating her walls with his seed. It was reckless, but it felt right at that moment.

Carlisle slipped out of her and climbed beside her on the bed, cradling her body close to his as she panted. He could tell she was exhausted. (Y/N) slumped against him, too tired to do anything else.

Her mind was hazy from everything they did, and although she wanted more, her body was overcome with exhaustion. (Y/N) thought she would have built up stamina, that she would be able to go all night and enjoy this man for as much as she could. But she had not anticipated how much energy she would drain by getting two leg-shaking orgasms one right after the other.

“So,” Carlisle said into her hair. (Y/N)’s head was laid on his chest, his hand drawing shapes on her bare back. “How was your first time?”

(Y/N) stared at him through her lashes, transfixed at how the moonlight hit his perfect features. “It was more than I could have ever imagined,” she said. “You’re more than I had ever imagined.”

“What do you mean?” he chuckled. “Do not tell me you had not planned to have your first time with a man you barely know.”

“Obviously I didn’t,” she laughed. “But I wouldn’t trade this for the world. I, uh, I hope this wasn’t a one-off. I would like to see you again… and many times after that.”

“I could never let you go now. Not after all that,” Carlisle smiled down at her. “I would certainly enjoy continuing this wonderful adventure. In fact, if you’re up for it, why don’t we go out for breakfast in the morning?”

“I would love nothing more.”

Carlisle met her in another soft kiss. This one wasn’t hungry or ravenously passionate. It was full of promise, full of future expectations. It was a kiss that told her he wanted to know everything about her, to someday bring her into his life – although explaining his supernatural situation could prove rather tricky.

For her, it was a kiss that solidified her Christmas miracle. She was meant to meet this man. She was meant to go home with him. She was meant to be here, on his bed, in his arms. Carlisle was the miracle she had always waited for.

Taglist:  @agent-annana@banterbanner@alitav99@daniallh@catchmeupimgettingoutofhere@imaginetwilight2704@mauvette268@beefwhobarksandisalilmadalot@abelbai000@ridiculous-creature​ @mikariell95@gryffi-ndor@jules-bea2308@comic-book-overload@winter-soldier-101 @jessicasunderground @mxyee @hey-you-therexo @witchy-obeyme-freak  @xcastawayherosx @kortniec696 @slutforsainz @Blackbluerose666 @DyslexicCatterpillar @sunflowerleii@gypsymusiclover@byelannie@a-sifu-hotman@zheezs14 @minhaimaginação @bluebirbnamedJay @sirenheadenby@mushroomelephant @swidkid @skyesthebomb@user0ur0mom@nogitsune-the@cometstail@volturiwolf@locokoca@esposadomd@this-is-a-bad-idea @nocturnalherb16 @rosalie-whitlock @Nyctophilia710 @blueshoelaces@ems-alexandra@then-worship-at-my-altar @Six-Call @witchofhawkins @lovel-blog @sugajar@goodpeoplegotohellanyway @Yuki254 @avis15 @honeylovemoon@wonieeee @baebeepeach @catgirlpwr@krazyk99@klf1999@sl-ut@adaydreamaway08@cinffy23@toomanythoughts33@sugasthreedollarkookie @laylaskywalker @volturiwolf @fandomonetwo @fruitylilfuck @a-slut-for-Loki-Bucky @honeywxter @haroldpotterson @revnamjinn @justamessandahalf @come-on-darling-honey @dove-chan32931 @kaita11

#carlisle cullen #carlisle cullen smut #carlisle cullen imagine #carlisle cullen x reader #carlisle cullen fic #carlisle imagine #carlisle cullen fanfiction #twilight fanfiction #the twilight saga #twilight saga #twlight #twilight fan fiction #twilight #twilight imagine #twilight smut #female reader #reader insert #andreafmn #edward cullen #jasper hale #rosalie hale #alice cullen #bella swan #emmett cullen #esme cullen #smut

[tornrose24]

I’ve been rewatching The Ghost and Molly McGee and have concluded watching season 1. These are my thoughts and observations:

-I love how Scratch slowly warms up to Molly across the season and it is easier to catch when you watch the episodes in order. From going to a complete jerk, to valuing her friendship, to caring about how she views him, to not wanting to lose her.

-I also love how this show’s art style is like a storybook come to life in every shot.

-It makes even more sense as to why Scratch haunts Adia’s old home. Todd’s soul gravitated to the one place in Brighton that held happy memories for him, where life had yet to turn him into an anxious, fearful adult. It was a safe space for him, and he was mad when a family managed to move in and invade it. Especially Molly specifically moving into his personal room/the safest spot in the house for him.

-Molly and Scratch are BOTH horrible liars. It’s funny how similar they are in that detail, and it’s even funnier if they call each other out on it.

-Scratch is an absolute asshole to a lot of people and enjoys seeing them suffer during this season, but I think that partly stems from a ‘I was/am miserable so I like seeing others suffer.’

-I’d say Molly’s worst episode is the Snow Day episode (not listening to what everyone else wants to do) and Scratch’s worst episode is the Internship episode (taking advantage of an intern to do basic, unhelpful tasks and being a bigger asshole than usual).

-Molly nearly dies 4 times (the machine during ‘Friend off,’ was willing to catch hypothermia in order to have fun in the snow, was almost hit by the truck, and was nearly sliced in half by Jinx).

-Scratch, Mr. ‘So afraid of dying that I never lived a day’…. Gets trampled by animals, eats poison berries, gets hit by a tour bus, gets blended by the machine from ‘Friend off,’ and is sliced in half by Jinx among all the possible things that WOULD have killed him in this season if he hadn’t been a ghost at the time.

-In ‘Very Hungry Ghost’ Scratch doesn’t get to eat any of the food intended for the ghosts. Because he wasn’t fully a ghost, that feast was not meant to be eaten by him.

-I admit I have yet to catch Scratch’s ‘nervous habit of scratching his arm’ during these episodes.

-There’s a recurring theme of the adult characters regaining their passion for something they once loved in a few episodes.

-However I also appreciate showing very realistic struggles, like financial concerns and how you can’t magically restore your community and town to its glory days without some effort put into it.

-Libby’s mom can be seen as an early cameo during ‘The (Un)natural.’ Of course, she would be there for her daughter ^_^

-I’m not a huge fan of the Christmas episode (never rewatched it until now) but GOD do I love the pink sky they use against the Christmas decorations and snow.

-In Pete’s news article in ‘Twin Trouble’, it mentions that other city planners mysteriously disappeared. However, I don’t think the show EVER addressed that, because such a story fascinated me and made me wonder if there was more to Brighton than meets the eye.

-There was a wasted opportunity in not discussing who or WHAT The Chairman was. Was this mystery meant for season 3?

-Scratch mentioning that he is dead throughout the show hits differently now that we know its quite the opposite. So does seeing him having to do mandatory things for the ghost world that he technically shouldn’t NEED to be doing at that moment.

-So does his interactions with Geoff. Oh boy.

-Was Scratch specifically assigned to scare Brighton? What about the other ghosts from there, like the Tugbottom siblings? Howlin Harriet? Sonia? Why don’t we see them doing their job as much as Scratch has to?

-The sheer irony of Scratch believing that he didn’t have any fears in ‘Scaring is Caring’ only for fear to be the reason WHY he was a ghost to begin with. Once again, there’s a hell of a difference between ‘Scratch as a human being afraid of everything’ and ‘Scratch as a ghost being afraid of losing Molly and would do anything to save her.’

-No seriously, it gets to a point where Scratch risks his existence to save Molly in this season and in the next one-if he had been human, he would have been willing to die for her.

-‘All Night Plight’ is an episode I hadn’t rewatched until recently. And it hits a LOT differently this time around. Molly wanted to form a forever memory with Libby and Scratch by seeing that comet and she managed to win over Scratch who went above and beyond to ensure that was possible. While that memory is now somewhere hidden in Scratch’s mind as a living person, this episode likely was one of the events needed to push him into becoming someone who would take chances and embrace life upon coming back to life.

-Considering the number of times Molly almost dies, it would have been one thing if Scratch didn’t take it too well if he failed to save Molly. But if he learned that he was the one who had the chance to come back to life and not her? Yeah, that would have seriously wrecked his mental state.

-That moment when you realize that it was TWO souls hovering on the edge between life and death that changed everything in the Ghost World. Also I could be wrong, but I caught that Molly AND Scratch both have a brighter glow compared to most other ghosts in the Ghost World. Was this stealth foreshadowing, or just a coincidence?

-Scratch’s declaration that knowing Molly was the highlight of his afterlife. That moment when you realize Molly brought him joy after years of being miserable as both a ghost and as a human. This girl reached out to him and was able to get him to open up when no one else did. This girl who is showing him how to truly live once more. This girl who he openly declares to be his friend no matter what others will think.

-When I see Wraith!Molly hugging Libby and Scratch, I just wonder ‘WHY DOES MOLLY HAVE 3 ARMS?!’

-As good as this show is, a lot of folks who watch these Disney Channel shows are likely used to the more story-oriented shows. While the ‘slice of life’ style for TGAMM did pay off, the slow pace and length it took for the episodes to release likely worked against it and I could see why it didn’t attract more viewers at the time.

Stuff relating to Todd:

-Scratch possesses people a lot in this show, but especially in season 1. I’m reminded of someone who talked about the wraith theory on YouTube and he had this guess that Scratch might someday possess Todd and then realize something is different this time. I think that having Scratch use the possession trick so often was building up to that one moment in the last episode because it WAS a matter of time until he possessed Todd.

-As I said in a previous post, I caught Todd in the stands during The (Un)Natural, which was his ACTUAL debut episode. It was easy to miss the first time, but its a noticeable establishing character moment since he’s the only audience member who is visibly NOT happy despite that the team is winning.

-Molly stopping at Todd’s house during the song montage in the bandshell episode hits a lot differently now after the series finale. But then I laughed when she smacked him in the face with a flyer upon stopping by the house a second time in the same episode.

-We have confirmation that Scratch (as Todd) knew the mayor when they were kids and that is a tale I’m very curious about.

-I caught Todd in the audience during ‘Citizen McGee’ when the mayor bestows the honor of being mayor for a day to Molly. I admit a cynical side of me thinks that this is how he actually remembers her name in the last episode…. But at the same time he was so on auto-pilot during that time that he likely wouldn’t pay much attention or remember those events that well. (Plus, you can’t be expected to remember someone’s name once all the time). I refuse to believe that he remembered this event and that Scratch’s memories were what actually triggered the name.

-Todd’s actual lines are very limited (I don’t think he gets many in season 2 compared to this one). While Dana Snyder was voicing him, Snyder lowered his voice so much that it’s really hard to tell that he’s the one voicing Todd. I keep putting my ear to my computer to listen, but Todd barely sounds like Dana. I think they did this on purpose to avoid making it too obvious that Todd IS Scratch. (And that’s probably why he doesn’t talk as much in season 2…. Until the last episode of course).

-The Internship seems to double as foreshadowing, and not just because Todd appears or that his ‘junk’ held some very crucial clues. Molly believes that the pawnshop is where happy memories go to die while Weird Larry assures her that it’s where memories can be reborn into something new. So… is the pawnshop a metaphor for Scratch’s own depression causing his ‘death’ and how he’ll be resurrected into a happier person?

#the ghost and molly mcgee #the ghost and molly mcgee spoilers #i'll need a break before i rewatch all of season 2 #molly mcgee #scratch the ghost #todd mortenson

[morallyinept]

COWBOY CHRISTMAS - A Jack Daniels (Agent Whiskey) Christmas One Shot

Summary: Your husband Jack takes you out on a snowy Christmas Eve horse ride around the ranch, then helps you thaw out after.

Pairing: Husband!Jack Daniels x Wife!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 5k

Scoville Smut Rating: 🌶️🌶️🌶️ "You tell me I'm doing well, and then, you try to kill me."

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/triggers - Established relationship/unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering.

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

If this story isn't for you, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: Husband Jack hits differently and I'm here for it. Horsey speak researched because I'm not a horsey person. Neigh. I hope you enjoy spending Christmas with Jack. 🎄

Tagging @ladybess-a03 as Jack is her husband 🤠🖤

12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

Enjoy & Happy Holidays! 🎄🖤

“Now, you hold on tight to them reins there, sugar. Don’t want ol’ Thunder here gallopin’ off into the breach.” Jacks says to you with a wink. 

You watch as he buttons up his denim jacket; a woolly sheepskin lines the collar inside around his neck. “Hoo, it’s a chilly one this mornin’!” He exclaims in that Southern twang making sweet, unbashed love to his vocal chords.

“Remind me why I let you talk me into this?” You say, feeling the cold rake it’s sharp fingernails down your spine. 

“'Cause I can talk you into anythin'." He grins. "Besides, you’re gonna love it.” He assures. 

“I love our warm bed more.” You mutter, trying not to smirk. 

You grip tight on the leather reins with your gloved hands as the horse snuffles gently; the cool air wisps out of his large, wet nostrils in gossamer tendrils, floating into the air.

The snow is fresh and crisp on the ground; the Ranch is covered in billowy marshmallows heaped on the roof like someone let the powdered sugar pour overnight. The whole scene looks as though a snow globe has been shaken up and long since settled with the coarse glitter of it all glimmering under the pallor of the winter sun; a pale blue orb lingering in the sky.

A Christmas Eve morning horse ride with your husband Jack sounded appealing when he suggested it, but now that you’re the one in the driver’s seat so to speak, you're not so sure, as your stomach tosses about with the anxiousness of it all. 

It’s not that you’re not a keen rider, it’s just that Jack’s array of Appaloosas and Mustangs from the rodeo show - that’s been a lucrative business for you both, if not but a hectic one - can always seem to sense your trepidation, and do everything they can to keep you from venturing near them, let alone mounting them. 

But Jack’s a determined son of a gun to get you used to it, and a few lessons with a deep brown Lusitano named Thunder, seem to be paying off, as the two of you bond the more time you spend with the stallion.

Thunder stands at a regal sixteen hands, his physique a perfect blend of strength and elegance. His coat is a rich chestnut, gleaming under the dappled sunlight like polished mahogany. He's probably the most handsome thing you've ever laid eyes on, aside from your husband, of course.

Jack had assured you that Thunder’s physique, combined with his gentle demeanour and keen intelligence, made him not just a stunning horse, but also an ideal companion for you.

And that smooth talking cowboy hadn’t been wrong yet. 

Jack hoists himself up, grunting with a steely puff as he settles on the double saddle behind you. Not brave enough yet to go it alone in the snow, Jack rides tandem with you this morning.

The front of his Stetson knocks gently against the back of your head as he adjusts, and the horse pads his front hooves in anticipation to get going. 

“Easy, Thunder,” he soothes as he reaches around and checks the reins. “You good to go, sweet thing?” Jack asks you. 

“What are you going to hold on to?” You query as he lets go of the reins, turning to glance at him over your shoulder warily.

You’ve seen Jack ride plenty of times, to the point he trusts his stallions and mares implicitly. There's some magical fluidity between them as you watch from the sidelines of the paddock when they practise together.

Although each time he rides free and un-reined, you can’t help but grimace and worry, especially when he shows off in the rodeo ring.

“Why, your gorgeous self, of course!” You feel him pinch your hips playfully and then his arms wrap around your waist. He pats your belly softly. 

“I got you, nice n' tight.” The wetness of his lips are cold as they squish against your cheek where he kisses you affectionately. You giggle as his fuzzy moustache tickles against your skin.

“Now, you’re the one in control, remember. Just like I taught you. Pull back gently if you want him to slow down.”

“Okay.” You nod, taking in a deep breath and sounding much more confident than you actually feel. And Jack picks up on it and rubs your arms down. 

“You’ve got nothin’ to worry about, sugar. He’s infatuated with you.” Jack reassures. He holds you tighter and runs his nose against the side of your face. “And he ain’t the only one.” he murmurs. 

“You keep doing that and we’re never getting out of this damn paddock,” you groan as he nips against your lobe, tonguing it slyly.

Despite the cold, you suddenly feel the warmth creeping up under your jacket trying to strangle you. 

He chuckles and pulls back, sitting himself upright and placing his hands together around your waist again. 

“Let’s skedaddle.” He instructs.

You breathe out, clicking your tongue twice and squeeze your legs gently against the underside of Thunder. He immediately trots forward languidly.

“There you go, nice n' easy there. See, he ain’t so buck wild after all, is he now?” Jack says.  

“No, he’s a good boy,” you say, leaning forward and patting Thunder’s head as he strides forward out the paddock. “A good boy that’s going to go nice and slow, okay?” You whisper, imploring the horse. 

Thunder simply snorts in response.

You settle into it; a gentle trot across the acres of the Ranch on this wintery morning. You can feel the cold biting against your face as you tuck your chin into your scarf to ward off the nip.

The scene is magical; treetops covered in plumes of glittery white, and every sound seems more muted somehow, wrapped up in a bundle of snow that acts as a cosy insulator. 

The soft pads of Thunder’s hooves against the cold ground, and Jack's breathing just behind your ear, are the only sounds you can hear around the exquisite peace.

And you lose yourself to it, closing your eyes and resting back against Jack’s chest as you relax into the ride together. 

“You doin’ alright there?” Jack asks, and you feel his gloved hands rubbing back and forth against your stomach creating fluttery wings to beat and flap around inside of it. 

“Mmm,” you reply. “This is just beautiful.” You confirm feeling more taken with it all. “This was a great idea.” 

“I’m mighty glad you feel that way, darlin’. We gotta get you out ridin’ some more.” Jack suggests.

“I do plenty of riding, cowboy.” You toss a hot smirk at him over your shoulder.

“Christ. Ain��t that the truth.” He chuckles.

You feel his hands squeeze your hips again and his breaths are felt warming in the crook of your neck.

“Wanna kick it up a notch?”

“Go faster?” You peep with alarm. 

“Sure, you can handle it.”

“But the snow, isn’t that dangerous?”

Jack scoffs. “Snow’s fresh, darlin’. No ice.”

“But-”

“Gotta trust in your horse.”

You make an uncertain noise in the back of your throat.

“Ain’t gonna let anythin’ happen to you.” Jack reassures and your uncertainty begins to waver as you feel yourself melt in the sincerity of his eyes.

“Okay.” You nod, smiling. 

“That’s my girl. Go on, now. Squeeze your calves against him. That’s it, you’re doin’ real good.” Jack praises as Thunder ups his paces to a gentle canter, full of brio and a little faster than his previous meandering.

He bows and nods his large head, whinnying. 

“Oh see, he likes that. Our boy here was bred for speed.” Jack pats the back of the stallion’s neck and Thunder snuffles in response. 

You can feel your fingers gripping tighter on the reins, your body tensing up. 

“You trust me, sugar?” You hear Jack pollute in your ear.

You turn to look at him incredulously.

“He wants to run. Gotta give it to him.” 

“Oh God.” You wince. 

You steady yourself as Thunder nickers and snuffles again. Jack takes your hand and weaves it around Thunder’s mane. A trick he does himself whilst on the rodeo to be sure to stay on if the horse should suddenly veer off.

Your gloved fingers hold tightly through the silken hair whilst your other hand grips on the reins as tight as you can. 

“He’ll take care of you. We both will.” Jack takes a hold of the reins with you, his arms either side. “Hold on tight, darlin’.” 

You steady yourself, holding on tightly as he instructs and bracing yourself. 

“Hup! Hup!” You hear Jack instruct Thunder with a sharp command, and the horse bolts forward.

He attacks the gallop at full speed, like he's running for his life. Like he was born to do nothing else other then run.

“Shit, Jack!” You gasp, as he takes full control. 

The sounds of Thunder’s hooves are louder and feel like they crack and echo across the sky. Your body is forced into a galloping rhythm; your butt bashing up and down against the saddle as you try to find some comfort with it.

You rise up, remembering to anchor yourself in the stirrups, leaning forward like your body is floating as Thunder moves under you.

You can feel Jack’s body against yours, moving with you. He has both hands on the reins, but has manoeuvred so you're safe inside his arms too.

“See why I named him Thunder now?!” Jack muses as he bears down on the reins and the horse’s speed increases furthermore. 

You can feel Thunder’s muscles bunch and release. You can feel and hear his hooves hit the ground in heavy thuds that ricochet through your skeleton, and see the hypnotic, rhythmic motion of his head, which you’re following with your hands.

It’s exhilarating. 

The cold wind whips through your bones, despite the jacket and scarf’s protection. You hear Jack holler and chuckle behind you.

“Alright now!” He cheers triumphantly as Thunder takes a sharp turn, effortlessly, and you cling on for dear life grounding down on your teeth and steadying yourself with your stirrups. 

“Oh my God!” You wail as the exhilaration begins to twist that fear into utter elation. 

Your teeth feel the cold as you can’t contain the wild smile opening up your lips as you giggle and holler alongside Jack; his enthusiasm and passion for the ride infecting you.

The wind is blowing so hard that you really can’t see or hear very clearly and Thunder’s ears twitch up as you holler an enthusiastic woo! Into the air. It feels like you're flying as the wind streams tears from your eyes. 

Thunder’s hooves beat frantically against the snow and the ride through the acres soon comes to an end as Jack instructs you to slow Thunder to a steady trot once more.

You can sense Thunder’s reluctance, he would run forever if he could, but you pull on the reins and announce for him to slow and he does. 

“Woah, easy. Easy…” you soothe as he tries to resist, but eventually settles back into that steady canter as you all catch your collective breath.

You wipe your eyes with the back of your woolly hand and Jack smiles at you. 

“That was amazing,” you admit, your body shaking, not just from the cold now.

“I knew you’d love it.” He replies, grinning. “Your husband knows you better than you think.” 

“Sometimes,” you tease.

“Sometimes?” He scoffs and stamps another kiss on your cold cheek. 

Once in the paddock, Jack jumps off and helps you down. You lunge for him, planting a heavy kiss on his lips and slip your tongue into his hot, wet mouth. 

“What’s got you so hot n’ bothered, hmm?” He murmurs against your lips. 

“Adrenaline.” You shrug giggling, as you stroke the back of Jack's nape where his brown curls gather under his suede Stetson.   

His hands sweep through your hair, messy from being wind-whipped and he studies your face with chocolate mocha eyes. You shiver as he pulls you to him. 

“Fuck, sugar.” He groans as you press your mouth to his again; your kiss mutating into something desperate and untamed.

You both stumble backwards and Jack loses his footing and pulls you down with him in the muddy slush around the paddock.

“Ah shit,” he groans, chuckling. 

You squeal as you feel the cold and wet instantly soak into your jeans. Scrambling, you try to get up, but slip further into the mud as Jack gives up and howls loudly at your plight.

He’s rewarded with a glop of mud thrown at his chest.

“Need a hand there, darlin’?” Once he’s contained himself enough, he helps you up and you both head back to the Ranch to warm up. 

“Go on n’ get yourself inside. I’ll wrangle Thunder back into the stable. Reckon it might snow again soon.” He glances up at the sky, the sun long since besmirched by clouds of grey.

“Don’t take too long, handsome” you smirk.

“Lickety-split.” Jack breathes into your mouth as you kiss him again. 

You look at the state of you both, covered in freezing mud, and Jack has some splashed up on his forehead, and you can’t help but laugh at the state of you both, despite shivering.

“Why don’t you run us a bath?” Jack suggests with dark eyes, and you nod as if under a captive spell.

You leave your muddy boots on the porch and head inside. The warmth hits you immediately and you shimmy yourself out of your wet jacket, blowing into your hands that feel like icicles, despite the gloves. 

You pace up the stairs, wading somewhat as your jeans stick to you, to the bathroom and fill the large jacuzzi-style tub with hot water, stripping as you notice snowflakes starting to billow lightly outside. 

“Missed your calling as a weatherman, Jack.” You snicker to yourself.

You toss in a fragrant bath bomb and light some incense filling the bathroom with heady notes of sandalwood, patchouli, and exotic florals; the swirling tendrils evoking a sense of tranquillity as your skin starts to perspire.

You step into the sizzling, enveloping water that seems to wrap its arms around you with the inviting warmth as you succumb to it wholly.

You breathe out slowly, moaning in relief as you slide your shoulders under the water, the temperature burning you slightly and relishing the feel of it.

You swill the water around; lavishing yourself in the foamy remnants of the bath bomb. You eventually lay still in the water and breathe in and out a few times, keeping your eyes closed.

Your cold, aching muscles from the ride find some sedated bliss in those first few moments; like someone has slowly squeezed the angst and stress out of you like juicing an orange.

You close your eyes and relax, feeling the weight start to drop from you.

The invigorating peace is interrupted by the bathroom door slowly creaking open and footsteps pad in lightly on the tiled floor. 

You turn your head, smiling at Jack as he unbuttons his plaid shirt and drops it to his feet.

You sit up, watching him, and try not to obscenely salivate over your husband as he unbuckles his belt with a slow, deliberate simmer at you, but it's hard not to. He’ll always have that effect on you when he gets naked.

Your eyes roam over tan, sculpted arms, a svelte waist and long legs smattered with dark hairs, before you settle in on the thick, hardening cock between his legs. 

“Scooch on forward, sugar,” he says softly with a wink, standing at the side of the tub; that semi hard-on already taking shape and protruding out from his lean, muscular body.

He steps in and sits down in the water behind you; his long legs running parallel either side of you.

“Couldn’t resist,” you hum. 

“You gettin’ started without me, hmm?” Jack queries as he pulls you back into his chest, wrapping his arms over your stomach again.

You feel him plant kisses into your crown as you nuzzle into him. 

“Scrub my back for me?” You question coyly over your shoulder, and flutter your eyelashes at him.

The steam in the bathroom makes the mirror frost over with condensation and the air seems to vibrate around you both and stick to your clammy skin.

You sit upright; the water making your back glisten at him and he licks his lips as he regards you.

“Well, how can I resist such a tempting offer?” Jack smiles and reaches for the soap on the side of the bath behind him, lathering it up in his big hands. 

You feel his hands massaging into your shoulders; his fingers kneading away all the tension and the slippery feel of the soap foaming on your back, squelching through his thick digits.

“Mmm,” you sigh as he works his thumbs down either side of your spinal cord.

“That feel good, hmm?” Jack husks from behind you, squeezing and manipulating the muscles under your skin. He knows it’s good - knows it will drive you wild.

“Real good…” You utter, eyes closed and lost inside of his hypnotic rhythms and magic hands. 

You can hear him breathe in your ear and feel him plant lascivious kisses down the side of your damp face. The faint scratch of his shaven jaw runs prickly against your skin; the soft fuzz of his moustache counteracting it begins to tickle again.  

It begins to wake your nipples up; sending goosebumps to bloom around your areolas pulling them tight and tingly.

He runs his fingers down your back and up under your arms sitting forward himself, and slathers the soapy lather in his hands across your collarbone and down towards your breasts.

Your breath hitches as his roaming fingers tease your nipples, pulling and rolling them gently, and you sink back into his chest once more as he massages. He runs the open palms of his hands all over them; cupping, squeezing, fondling.

“That’s so nice,” you groan as he kisses the side of your temple. 

“I told you, I know you well.” You can hear him grin, a graze inside your ear.

His wet, soapy fingers continue to work their way down your torso, gliding across your navel before he gives it a gentle squeeze and strokes gently.

“What’re we gonna name this lil’ dill pickle in here, hmm?” Jack asks, and you glance down at your tummy, still flat, but in a few months time it’ll be swollen and rotund as the baby grows.

“Depends what he looks like when he comes out. Hopefully not like a dill pickle. I hate pickles.” You say, crinkling your nose.

You hear Jack snort behind you into your hair. “Hates pickles. I married me a mad one.”

“You knew what you were getting yourself into, cowboy.” You chuckle.

“Mmhm. He?” He queries.

“Feels like a he.” You say, placing your hands on top of Jack’s. The light of your wedding band shimmering in the wet. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Jack breathes in, his lips grazing your skin behind your ear “as long as it’s healthy, darlin’, it don’t matter. Gonna love it all the same.”

You smile, reaching up behind you to stroke his face. You feel him peck your fingers.  

“When he's out, I’ll put another one in there.” He confirms.

“Woah, hold your horses,” you say.

“You just try n’ stop me, sugar. Got yourself a virile man. Gonna have a whole bunch of lil’ rodeo riders gallopin’ about the joint.” Jack pinches your hips gently and you giggle when he hits a ticklish spot as he gruffs another chuckle in your ear.

He feels you flinch and the top of your buttocks push against his cock that has long since hardened completely under the water.

“Besides, I'm waitin’ for these to grow nice n’ big, too,” Jack smirks.

Jack kisses down the side of your face once more; his lips searching yours out and finally making contact with them as you twist yourself in the water to reach them.

His tongue darts into your mouth as he squeezes onto your right breast, and a satisfied grunt escapes into your mouth from him.

You splash water at him as he growls playfully into you, moaning as you kiss him again. 

It makes all the hairs of your body stand tall to order, hearing him moan like that - moan for you. Warming you as you inhale them in; oxygen to your lungs.

Filling you deep with sweet images of him teaching your child - or several of them - to ride horses and take care of them. The thought of Jack’s paternal instincts rile you up even further.

Although it doesn’t take much with the hormones either.

His kiss is hungry; swallowing you up and you raise your wet hands to finger inside of his hair, weaving through it gently at first, but becoming fiercer with tugs as he reacts to it.

You wonder what else it’ll be that you’ll crave this much as your pregnancy advances, because you're constantly craving your husband inside you, night and day it seems.

And neither of you are complaining about it.     

He follows the track of bubbles down your body with his hand, slides down over your torso and abdomen until his fingers reach forward and disappear between the middle of your legs inside the bubbly pool. 

You gasp, breaking the kiss as you feel them instantly finding your clit and shudder as he swipes across it with the pads of his tips. They tease between your soapy folds. His middle finger starts tapping and rubbing against your hub, making you gasp into his mouth.  

“Suck, darlin’... just like that.” 

His other hand grips gently around under your face, stroking your jawline as his digits run over your lips when he breaks the kiss.

Hooded brown eyes regard you before inserting his index and middle finger into your mouth.

You suck on them gently, and run your tongue over them as his other fingers thrum heavier on your clit under the water, causing it to swill around you as you fidget, grinding against his fingers as he slowly teases you with them.

He can still feel the viscous slickness of you around them, feeling silkier in the water. 

“You feel that, sugar? What you’re doin’ to me? Got my cock all big n' hard for you.” His fingers move off your clit and begin to take a walk inside of you, and you gasp again in delight.

Jack marvels with mud coloured eyes as you lap at his fingers, imagining they’re his cock. They taste slightly salty like it; rough and calloused skin being soothed by your tongue.

He groans into your ear nipping at your lobe, as you feel him pressing against your lower back and getting harder by the second. 

“Mmm, Jack…” His name escapes out of your mouth, dripping in honey and all things sweet.

The fingers you’ve been sucking on run across your throat and he kisses you more forcefully as he slides his digits in and out of your pussy, gaining momentum.

Your part your legs wider so he can delve in further to you, arching back up against him as the sensation of tingles flood outwards from your core all over your body and skin, crackling outwards like fuzzed lightning.

“Fuck!” You pant as he works you up and pushes you closer and closer to the edge until you finally leap off.

An electrifying sensation courses through you, sparking an intoxicating blend of satisfaction and euphoria as you gasp out.

“Jack!”

“Fuck, darlin’, that’s it.” Jack encourages as the heel of his palm grinds heavily against your clit as he fingers you through your pulsing orgasm.

Your thighs jolt and shudder as he strokes gentler now, teasing circles around your sensitive bud after withdrawing his slick soaked fingers.

You twist around in the bath completely to face him. You want him; want him hard and are going to take him - hard. 

“Fuck,” you moan, taking him in. 

He lays back in the tub, knees open wide with plumes of suds, and cock resting heavy and thick against his stomach.

It makes you salivate to see him like this; so fucking gorgeous and wet, and all yours. 

“See somethin’ you like?” He smirks. 

You run your drenched hands over his cock, nodding. Feeling how he pulses and the veins throb around your grip as you jerk him slowly.

“Show me again how well you can ride, sugar.” Jack challenges, as you grin.

You straddle him, sliding up and down against him; your lips teasing him as you rub against his hard, thick length. 

“Gimme that pussy, darlin’.” 

“You want it, cowboy?” You utter as you slip back and forth over him.

“Oh, you know I want it.” He hisses through his teeth as you rub your cunt up and down his length, groaning as it still tingles on your clit. “Always want this fuckin’ gorgeous pussy.” 

You sit down on his thick cock that’s poking out of the water at you, inviting you onto its swollen, wet head. The water sloshes around you both as he grabs at your hips and grinds you down onto his throbbing dick.

“Fuck,” he grits as he fills you. 

You balance your weight on your arms, holding onto the edges of the tub, sliding up and down him; bouncing that pussy of yours off of his cock. 

“C’mon, sugar. Ride me. Ride your cowboy.” Jack tempts. 

Jack thrusts his hips upwards to meet you halfway as you thud back down on him, making you both cry out.

“Fuck, like that!” He hollers, the water now splashing over the sides of the tub onto the floor with your intense determination to get off.

“That feel good, darlin'? Lemme see you. Eyes on me, sweet thing. Christ, look at you... So fuckin’ gorgeous on my dick. That's it now, work it... Like that. Aw, hell yeah, like that…” he croons, panting.

He can feel himself becoming more and more frantic with you and you love it. You grip onto his hands, anchoring yourself as he bucks underneath you; lifting his hips as you ride him deeper and faster.

“Jack! Fuck!”

You’re wailing as your head snaps back, suds flicking up the tiles, and the water in the tub is nothing more than a swirling whirlpool around you both.

You can feel the brewing of your orgasm; the tightening inside your stomach and the deep pull of your cunt cinching around him.

It’s a delicious feeling as you unwind yourself completely. The air in the bathroom carrying a heavy, languid heat, wrapping you in a heady cocoon of sensual bliss.

Jack gorges on the vision of you, sitting atop him; breasts shiny with the soapy water dripping down them, jiggling up and down. Panting and groaning for him as your body runs slick with water and bubbles. 

The blooming feeling, like a sunlit daydream, unfolds with gentle intensity that bathes you in a soft, golden glow as it builds from within.

A velvet touch of warmth that lingers dreamily through the marrow of your bones, leaving you submerged in a haze of dizzy serenity, where time slows and the world takes on a muted hue around the fuzzed edges of your vision, condensating your eyes as you enjoy the deep thrusting inside you. 

“Darlin’. Fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He groans. He can feel himself beginning to lose it, grunting and getting ready to fill you up.

You let go of his hands and slap them down on his chest, riding him ragged over the final hurdle; cunt tightening and pumping his cock.

He can just about bear it as your position means he’s gone that little bit further inside you still, and your walls are rubbing deliciously against him.

“Ah shee-it!” Jack curses out with a snarl pulled around his beautiful lips. “Gonna fill you up, sugar. You’re close now… I can feel it. Want you comin’ all over my cock as I fill you, okay?” He drawls in that thick, Kentucky squall.

Nodding, you go faster; twerking on his dick and feeling the build up inside you reach epic proportions - your own release imminent. You want this; crave this from him, as you let yourself let go. 

“Come for me, Jack!”

“Fuck, yeah!” 

He shudders against you, cursing out and biting his bottom lip as he begins exploding inside you. Veins in his neck twitching and bulging as he howls. 

You slump forward onto him, kissing his wet, smooth chest delicately. The water finally comes to a still as you lay in the hot suds with him. 

You combust around him; calling his name out over and over; your rocking takes on a slow and steady pace until its eventual stop as you both shiver and judder from the come down.

Your body tingles all over and legs feel like wobbly jelly.

“Fuck me...” Jack sighs contentedly, grabbing a hold of your ass and squeezing it gently between the wavy, foamy froth.

“I just did.” You titter and he chuckles. 

“And then some.” He tilts your chin up to him and plants a lingering sensual kiss on your lips. 

“Jesus Christ, I love you, darlin’.” He wraps you tightly in his drenched arms. “You n’ that lil' dill pickle in there.”

You smile contentedly. “We love you too, cowboy.”

A little while later, you’re both dressed in warm clothes by the fireplace, as Jack sips from a glass of honey coloured whiskey.

You’re both exchanging cosy, satisfied smiles as you both wrap the gifts in coordinated teamwork, that you’ve picked out together for the staff that work at the Ranch. 

You crease the folds of the metallic paper, and he tears off the tape strips holding them out to you on a lone finger. He holds the ribbon in place, whilst you tie it into a bow over his digits.

He writes out the cards in a messy scrawl, whilst you place some food down in front of him, and he leans up to kiss you, patting and rubbing your tummy gently.

He lifts up the chunky knit of your sweater to reveal your soft, clean skin. You run your hands through his deep chocolate locks as he beams up at you.

“Happy Christmas, sugar.”

“Happy Christmas, Jack.”

You watch, smiling fondly, as he then runs his nose against your belly, inhaling the perfume of you, and you giggle at the tickle of his moustache.

Jack gazes up at you before pressing his soft, pursed lips below your belly button. A lingering little smooch sinking into the layers of your skin. 

“Happy Christmas, lil' dill pickle.” Jack says.

12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal x reader #jack daniels x reader #agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey smut #agent jack whiskey daniels #agent whiskey kingsman #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #christmas stories #jett's writing

[iznsfw]

Give me your best minju femdom

just how much are you willing to give for a dream that big?

IZ Days of Christmas: Day 7 - Kim Minju

IZ*ONE's Kim Minju x Male Reader Smut

7,397 words

Categories | dominant_curator!Minju x aspiring_artist!you; mommy kink; MINJU LIKES BEING CALLED DADDY; degradation; #DomJu; femdom

Content warning | pegging, SLIGHT DUB-CON, harsh criticism/insults from Minju

You asked for it.

"I'll think about it."

Four words. Four words that are designed to make it seem that there's still a possibility lingering here, but actually pose a definite answer: no. And you would have believed in a potential answer of yes if it weren't for the curator's amused smile as you exhibit your artworks to her. There's no chance anymore; just by looking at her pink lips, you know what she actually means.

Your whole world falls apart. There's your hope, there's your lifelong dream, all cut into hopeless little fragments on the ground. And all you can think is: why? You've worked so hard for this. You've taken so many classes, so many days of coaching and endless painting. It's a difficult world out there, but you are certain that you deserve better than a " I'll think about it."

You deserve to have your painting in the country's biggest gallery. You deserve the recognition, the praise, everything. But the curator of this museum isn't quite convinced, and although she doesn't say it directly, her bored eyes say it all. To her, you're just another artist with a superiority complex, just another artist she can reject and move on without.

Even her quirked lips tell you that she's unimpressed. Probably even disgusted. How dare a niche artist like you demand to come to her personally and ask to have this... art—(if she can even call it that)—displayed?

Her heels clack on the marble museum floor as she runs her fingers along the frames of your paintings. "Honey," she says, testily, throwing you an amused glance, "this isn't even Picasso level talent. And, in case you don't know, Picasso was a pretty shit artist."

You're taken aback by plenty of factors in that condescending statement, because for one, Picasso was an excellent painter. He's your role model in the world of painting and the medium of art itself. You've visited museums in places you aren't even remotely interested in staying just to see his art in person. Hell, you took classes to be able to replicate his abstract style. How dare this woman speak of him as if he weren't one of the biggest names in art? How dare she? You bet that she probably doesn't know how to name any painting besides Starry Night.

"This one"—and then Minju reaches her bare arm, exposed by the loss of a sleeve attached to her black turtleneck top, to glaze her fingers across one of your pieces—"is probably my least favorite. It's rushed, it's not even colorful enough to attract attention. Not even gray enough to capture a sad mood."

How many pointed bullets has she shot at you this afternoon? You're losing count. "Well," you answer, quite shaken, "I don't believe in colors very much. It's the drawing that should matter. You see—"

"I don't want nor care enough to hear about your nerdy art bullshit."

The umpteenth bullet. It strikes your heart right through the core, and through the flat of your back. You take two steps backward for a reason you aren't sure of. It's a big museum, filled with towering sculptures created by lone artists many decades ago and paintings that take up two blocks, yet what intimidates you more than any of them is this woman:

Kim Minju, curator of the biggest art museum in Korea, and a professional asshole. You had to find that put the hard way the moment you started to crush on her. Who wouldn't? Her features—doe eyes, pointed nose, and thick pink lips—blend in together so perfectly, as if she were another masterpiece in the museum. But looks, you learn, are deceiving. Kim Minju is not as kind as she looks, nor are her words as pretty as her face.

Dress pants sway freely around her slim legs as she walks back to you. Her expressions never vary away from boredom, condescending, and angry. It's like those are the only emotions she is capable of having. She's such a complex person—you understand that although you've only been with her from eight o' clock today to three—but so, unbelievably uninteresting at the same time. You have no idea what to make of her yet, except for the fact that she can be pretty cruel.

Minju approaches you with crossed arms, then pauses when she's just another breath away from you. You try to meet her gaze, but it's too good at holding yours. Besides, the hate you have for the fact that she's taller than you doesn't help either. But you have to hold your ground. If you don't, there will be more pieces to pick up than your broken dreams.

"I'll give it to you straight," says Minju airily, "my museum doesn't have the time for your art."

That's another shot. One more and you're dead. Your cheeks already flush from embarrassment, but she drones on, clearly not caring about what you feel. Not that that's an unusual thing for her.

"I spent all day trying to listen to you talk about your credentials and art whatnot," she continues. "But I'm getting bored, and I don't like your tacky style or you. So I suggest you find another smaller place to start posting your art, like a kindergarten teacher's art class billboard."

You've died at least a hundred times with each word she spits. You're utterly humiliated; you've been through terrors of teachers but you have never received words from them as harsh as Minju's. Every syllable was fashioned to hit just the right spot, because yes, your art's first criticism is its tackiness from when you first started. Yes, it was a risk you took when the first place you decided to hang your art is the biggest museum in the country. But you're not like the other artists. You've improved so much over the years, and your art is nothing less than pleasing to the eyes now that you've found your own style.

You have to admit that they do slightly look out of place with all the other gorgeous paintings, but you can be as good as them. You just need a jumpstart, and you'll get to it. You swear on your own life.

"Miss Kim," you answer, not sure what to say, "I can be as good as Van Gogh, or whoever artist it is that you like. I just need a place to start, and I think your museum is a good place for that."

Minju laughs. "Van Gogh was as shitty as Picasso, dear thing. And your art is not good enough for this museum to be good. So please, take my advice and start at the nearest preschool. I'll hear from you when you've finally gotten into second grade."

Dear thing? Dear thing?! Oh, now she's royally pissed you off. Now, it's your turn to be cocky. Kim Minju is about to find out that two can play at this game.

"For your information, Minju," you reply, now with more confidence, "I'm not your dear thing. And I'm the best artist of my generation right now. You're going to be so sorry if you don't accept my art right now."

Minju nods condescendingly, as if she were listening to a small child rambling about dinosaurs. There's a laugh on her face, which makes you even more infuriated because she is just not getting the point. If she does, she doesn't believe in it. Oh, not in the slightest.

"'Best artist'? Let's not get ahead of ourselves right now. Your style is not unique. The topics you draw are not game-changing. Not even close."

"You just don't have the eyes for it," say you with gritting teeth. You hate how your lips are quivering. "You're, you're not even an artist yourself. You're just a curator."

"And a good one at that." She's just as assured in her own abilities as you are. Minju is unfazed by your amateur insults. She could hear better from a sixth grader. "You can drone on all you want, honey, but that won't change the fact that I'm not interested in taking you in. You can go or kill yourself in front of me. Either way, I won't care."

That's your breaking point. Your hands start to form trembling fists. You can't cope with all this right now, or with Minju. She's just another self-absorbed curator. What does she know about art?

But you've relied your dreams on her. If she doesn't give in, you're nothing. You'll never have a chance to make it big. Nobody cares about art nowadays, except for the classicals, making it even harder to make a name for yourself. You want to become so big in the world of craft that you're credited as inspirations centuries from now. You want to be the best that no one ever was. If Minju doesn't like you or what you make, you don't have a chance.

Gone is your oversaturated arrogance. Gone is the front you were trying to put up before Minju. Most importantly, your dreams are gone, snapped into pieces just like that by words. You're more than hurt; you're devastated. If you can't be a renowned artist—the only steady dream you've had your whole life—what are all your efforts worth now? They will remain fruitless if you don't put one foot forward.

Minju is your wall blocking the path to fame and recognition. A goddamned gorgeous wall who won't falter nor break for anyone, especially not you. No punch can break her foundation. No word from you can make her bricks detoriate.

Try to hold it back, but the tears are forming in your eyes. You're a mess, you truly are. You've been a fool for your dream, and you are just realizing now at the present that it was all for nothing.

"Please," you whisper. Break the staring contest with Minju and look at your shoes instead. Look at the marble floor no one would cross to see your works. Look at the ground where the pieces of your hopes and desires have broken.

"Please what?" Minju is clearly enjoying this. Her crossed arms quiver as she tries to hold back a laugh. Oh, she loves seeing pathetic men admit that they're nothing. It's what she feeds on. She can put their tears in a bowl and put cereal in it for breakfast.

"I'll—I'll do anything. Is that enough? I'll do anything for you to accept my works."

There's the smallest hope in you as you see that Minju is considering this. For a woman like her,and a man like you, she can make you do anything. She can make you mop the floors of the museum and yell "hakuna matata" on its roof and know that you would do all that just for her acceptance. That's what makes it so, utterly satisfying.

"That depends, to be honest," she says slowly.

Minju leans down a little and places a finger under your chin. Her nails are sharp, and they scratch your skin as she tilts your face upwards. Her smile is teasing; you hate that you like it so much. You hate that despite her clear description of how much she dislikes you as a person and you as an artist, your magnetic attraction to her remains.

"Just how much are you willing to give, boy toy, for a dream that big?"

She's degrading you again. It's strange how much it makes your skin tingle.

"Like I said," you sniffle, "anything. I'll give anything."

"Oh, you'll sooo regret saying that."

With a woman of her caliber? Of course you will. But you're a desperate person. It's your sheer need and your willingness to do whatever it takes to get it that get you to places. It's both an advantage and a disadvantage, a pro and con, light and dark. Chiaroscuro, if you will.

"W-what do I have to do?" you ask shakily.

"Simple." And she says this without any shame or sign of shame: "Call me mommy."

It takes a moment for you to register, and Minju uses your confusion as the perfect time to pin you to the wall, like you are a masterpiece, too. Not that she sees you in that light; you are too weak to be one. Too easy to be played with.

Minju is kissing your neck. Lipstick leaves fresh marks on your skin. And when she bites... oh, your knees do more than buckle. You almost collapse to the floor. Thank God (or not) for Minju's hands popping your shirt buttons; they keep you standing. They keep you knowing that all this is real.

She kisses you again, crudely. "What did I say?"

"Call you mommy..."

"Say it then."

She swiftly pulls off her black top, and in the bat of an eyelash, tangles your wrists in between its fabric behind your back. All the while, her kisses rampage your skin. She can't get enough of your pathetic submissiveness. She plays with you as if you were a toy, her toy.

Her mouth traces your torso like a pencil. Her teeth come out to play at times, specifically to see the alarm in your eyes. But nothing prepared you for her lips right above your jeans, or her daring eyes looking up at you and shooting glares into your soul.

"Say it."

"Mommy..."

That's the ticket. The zipper and button are undone by Minju's eager fingers. Your cock is easily fished out and taken into her mouth as if it were nothing. Your body tenses as your mouth falls open.

Although she is the one on her knees, Minju shows that it doesn't change that she's still in control. Her technique and pacing alternates between harsh, rough suckling to a snail's pace of blowing.She sucks you off not for your own pleasure, but for hers. Clearly, that is what she has put first most in this world.

"Fuck!" you can't help but cry out.

Minju spits on your cock and squeezes it tightly. Your hips jerk forward at the tightness and pain. "You're not allowed to talk unless I say so," she says firmly. She's serious about this, too; her eyes show clear and unbridled anger. "Is that clear?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, hnghh!" Your moan echoes in the wide museum. Her lips have rounded your head again and provide great suction. "Y-yes, mommy!"

Satisfied, Minju continues to suck you off. She's unlike any other girl you've had sex with. The others put on innocent faces to entice you whilst their lips worked on your cock, and picked up the pace if you pleased. They let out the prettiest of tears as they called you daddy, whimpered out the sexual title in the midst of the shoves of your cock down their throats.

But Minju... she's a woman with the unhinged desire to belittle you. Even in sex, she remains taunting—the licks at the sides of your dick and in the tiny slit you have are only done to make her laugh at your shivers. It's pleasurable, yes, but degrading, too. Degrading in the sense that she's simply doing it to see you break yourself into something more pathetic, into the writhing, needy mommy's boy that you aren't.

Or... ?

"This dick is so fucking small." Minju spits on the shaft with disgust. "I bet you can't even fuck me properly, not even if I guide you along."

"I—I can," you say, defensively. Minju's saliva coats your cock with more liquid than the continuous stream of pre-cum, which she licks off, of course.

Minju rises to her feet. It is only then that you admire her body. You would say that her face is the real deal, and it is, but you're still rendered shocked by her form. Her breasts are not the biggest, but they're still pretty eye candies. Their nipples are tiny pink things atop small handfuls of flesh. Her hips are what tempt you the most; they're so fucking wide, bringing more shape to her slim stomach.

"Show me," she says. She smiles again, marking a new challenge. "Put that cock inside me or you'll never make yourself recognized. I can fucking crush your dream with a snap of my fingers, baby, so I suggest you move fast."

You can't do anything. Besides the fear of never making it in the real world or as an artist bubbling inside of you, she's so tempting. Even with her all-black outfit: black heels, black sleeveless top, black dress pants, a style you are not fond of almost as much as you aren't fond of pineapple pizza, she attracts you. It's like there's invisible magnets taped to her skin that pulls your fingers to her hips, pulls down the long pants, and grabs her close.

Like magnets, you rub together. Your cock lodges in the hole between her legs. It's met with an immediate contraction, but Minju shows little appreciation on her face. Yes, her jaw drops and her eyes are suddenly round and wide, but she doesn't care to tell you how good it is. Your quick thrusts outnumber the fucks Minju gives about catering to your wants.

"Yes... fuck, yes, fuck that cock into me." Minju humps your entering and exiting shaft determinedly. "Suck on my tits, toy. Suck them until they're red and sore."

That's not something you're adamant to disobey. Like her lips lubricating the shape of your cock earlier, your mouth finds her nipples and captures it. You do as she says, sucking it cleanly and hardly. It feels amazing in your mouth. You knew it would even before it slipped in between your lips. Minju lets out sighs of gratification. That was the only thing it took for her to be louder. She would have to turn up the volume, though; the slaps of your cock into her cavern are starting to boom.

While her breasts are a beauty of their own degree, Minju's cunt is just perfect. It's wet, grasping onto your cock and covering it with a sheen of juices, just like she coated it with saliva during her blowjob earlier. Her mouth was considerably warmer though. But you aren't one to complain when you're clearly the toy in this situation.

Besides, the texture of her walls is a welcome addition to the stimulus on your shaft. Your cockhead repeatedly dips onto the patches of sensitivity, provoking a surefire reaction of the tender walls closing around it tighter. Jerk your hips forward; if you were only more powerful, you could reach her cervix and make it a finishing line. But no, your focus is on sucking the life out of Minju's boobs, just like she commanded.

Minju whispers soft curses under her breath. Arms wound around your neck, she silently tells you to go deeper. No, it's not just a matter of telling; it's a command, as brazen and firm as her earlier order to tell you to suck her tits. She expects you to comply, and if she is disappointed by you not doing so, she'll discard of you. Simple as that.

Release her nipple from your lips and prove that you're worthy. Prove it with more powerful thrusts of your hips into her tiny hips. You string together every might in your body, although most of it is being drained by Minju's humps on your shaft, into pushing your cock deeper. Minju cries out in pleasure. Continue the cycle and never break it. Eyes closed, head tilted to the sky, and arms almost choking your neck, you know you've proven your value to her. All you have to do now is to maintain that.

"Fuck, that's right!" Minju yells out. Even she can't handle your pounds. You're knocking he rinto oblivion. "Fuck mommy's cunt like that, slut! Fucking stretch her out!"

You're already stretching her out enough. It's hard to see since Minju is so adamant on fucking herself on you, but your girth is practically spreading her pussy lips apart. Wonder if she'll become tighter if you fill her up to the base of your cock.

Test it out. Cock stiff and a compelled mind in action, you shove yourself as hard and deep as you can.

"Oh fuck!" Minju's fully penetrated by you now. Your cockhead nudges the end of her tunnel and slams into it repeatedly. Minju's high on the pleasure. She's fucking herself onto you as if she were possessed by a succubus. She's sex-crazed, she's rabid, she's a feral fucking vixen who won't play around when it comes to what pleases her. And right now, what's giving her so much bliss is your dick. She's never letting it go.

But she thinks she wants something else to add to the mix.

"Finger my asshole," Minju says bluntly. Another command. She takes your hand, undoes it from its constraints, and guides it to her round bottom. "Do it."

"B-but..." You're not used to butt stuff, to put it cleanly. You've never touched or inserted yourself in any of your girlfriends' asses. It has always been purely excluded from sessions like these. "I'm, I'm not—"

Minju leans over conspiratorially and rasps in your ear: "Now."

Can you still continue proving yourself worthy? Even if you can't, you have no choice. Your chance at making it big is in Minju's hands. Besides, you're pretty curious yourself. Does it feel good there for her, too? How good, exactly?

Pat your finger on the tensing brown circle. Minju's breath hitches in response. Hide your uncertainty by meticulous teasing, rubbing your fingertips around her asshole and only slightly putting some inside. But Minju is becoming impatient. Whimpers still escape her lips, but she makes herself clear with the reverse of her ass into your hand. She knows what you're trying to do, and she's not letting you get away with it.

Hold your breath and plug one finger inside her. Turns out that's all you needed to do for Minju to put her all into hugging you with her walls, for her neck and head to throw back, for her to cry out a scream that sounds a little fox-like due to its pitch.

"Mommy's cumming, mommy's cumming, ffffuhh—! "

Her voice cracks. It's that momentary weakness that compels you to burst inside her like a popped balloon, except that instead of helium, you release hot strings of wet white cum. You don't have the mind nor the care for a few seconds to worry about impregnating her. The grasp of her walls and the push of her manicured nails into your skin are too mighty in turning your attention away from that.

However, to Minju, it doesn't matter if your cock is thick and big. She's paralyzed in shock. She can't believe you had the audacity to cum inside her.

"Fuck! What the fucking fuck did you do?" Her hands free themselves of their frozen to push you away roughly.

You only come to your senses after she slaps you. "I'm sorry, Minju," you say guiltily. Had you really lost all self-control after months without sex? Sex education literally revolves around protection! "Are you at least on the pill...?"

"Of course I am!"

The tension releases itself from your shoulders. At least God still has your back. "It isn't a problem then," you say. "We can—"

Minju pushes you again. This time, your back knocks hard into the wall. She grasps you by the neck tightly. There's true anger in her eyes now. None of it is an arrogant ploy anymore.

"Are you fucking stupid?" she asks, then rolls her eyes. "Oh, why did I even bother asking? Of course you are."

Ouch.

"The thing here, boy toy, is I don't want your cum in me! Clean me up!"

"D-do I get a tissue or...?"

"No. Lick it out of me."

You're stunned. What? Shake your head, bewildered. "No, I'm not gonna lick my cum out of your cunt, Minju!" you yell.

Her fingers grab your hair and pull it downwards. You fall to the floor in a heap. But you should get used to it. With the way she treats you like you're dust beneath her feet, you've always belonged here. It's only literal now.

You take a glance at her creampied pussy and cringe. It looks gorgeous; it's dripping out of her like a river. But now that you have to lick your own cum out of her, like you're some obedient little slave who can do nothing but obey and obey, it doesn't look so enticing at all.

Minju fires you another glare. It's a warning of the worse that's yet to come if you don't clean her up.

Oh, the things you do for your dreams. The things you do for money; for fame; for the tiniest bit of recognition...

How did you get to this point?

Fine, you'll lick.

At first, it's humiliating. Your ears burn red as Minju parts her legs and sits on your mouth, using you as a sex toy and chair. It's hard to support her weight on your face, even if she is light. It's easy to slip your tongue inside her though. You know it feels good when she moans softly.

"Come on," she pushes you on. Demanding, that's what Minju is. You wonder how she even became a curator with that kind of attitude. She slides herself up and down your tongue, which doesn't become flaccid in its licks due to the uncomfortableness of it all. "Clean mommy up. We still have a lot of things to do."

You take some of your cum from her creamed hole and drag your tip tantalizingly to her clit. Minju whimpers. Repeat the process for a few more seconds. You enjoy the shivers she does, and how tight she is around you. They make the experience much more bearable.

You haven't appreciated her thighs enough. She may be slim, but they are thick enough to choke the breath out of you. They encase the sides of your face tightly as she guides your tongue hotly. Her eyelids are fluttered lower than usual. Her breaths become more labored after the ones before them exit.

Glad that your hands have been freed from much earlier, you try to make this fun for you, too. Grab those honey thighs and push her down onto your mouth. Her gasp is satisfying. Her eyes flutter wide. They're all fun to watch: the shiver of her tight form, the expressions she makes, but pulling her down was a big mistake. Now you can't breathe at all. Your nose is nestled into her clit.

The muffled breaths you take end up pleasuring her cunt instead, much to your dismay. Minju doesn't mind; they make her more soaked than before. She sways her hips to and fro to get the feel of your nose swiping on her clitoris and your tongue entering and exiting her. The tip of your tongue excites her senses in the best way possible. She can't get enough of it. Hands on her nipples, she bounces herself on your pink appendage, overall satisfied with the work you've been doing.

"Such a good boy now," she remarks with a playful caress of your hair. "See how pathetic boys like you always end up in this position? Lick me faster."

The insults graze your pride because you know they are true. You became a whore for Minju. Her little boy toy. Weren't you just boasting about your own achievements a while ago? If so, why are you on your knees now? It's humiliating.

Close your eyes to stop the tears of embarrassment from flowing. The last of your dignity is gone. You can't give Minju the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

You increase the speed. Thrust your tongue inside her faster. Wiggle it around to hit the right spots. You discover that it isn't a matter of cleaning your cum up from inside her anymore. That was all a scam to get you to orally pleasure her. It shows in the way Minju refuses to let your tongue leave her hole, even to collect your semen. She's humping it too quickly for there to even be a chance of exiting her warm little hole. But it's too late to confront her about it now. You just have to wait until she climaxes again.

You have to admit: you do taste quite delicious. Turns out the girls whose mouths you pounded weren't pretending when they sucked off the semen from your tip. Your cheeks redden with the humiliation at that knowledge. However, there's a con in being aware of that. For example, it isn't so difficult anymore to lap at Minju's pussy. You willingly circle and dance your tongue inside her. It's fun to see her pleasured reactions.

When the opportunity presents itself, you pull your tongue out. Minju winces, but before she can voice out any frustration or order, you start to lick her labia back and forth. Her wide, shapely hips stutter. You have to take them in your hands and steady her to continue.

"Oh—mmmm! Fuck, such a good boy for mommy, eating her out so well!"

You would have been surprised at the compliment, but her silky voice never reaches your ears. Her thighs are compressing them too tightly for anything to be heard but wordless screams.

Her most erogenous part is her clitoris, clearly. She demandingly pushes that part of her center on your tongue. Twirl it at your tip, play with it, suckle it. Nibble at it to keep her on her toes. Show her how much you've tamed the brat in you, because once she did, it was apparent that there was no going back.

"Yes, that feels so good!" she cries. Her movements become more frantic and less graceful. It's like you're being waterboarded by a tsunami; she's a force of her own, a danger with the cleanest edge. "I'm gonna cum, baby boy! Mommy's gonna cum, she's gonna fucking cum all over your face---!"

When she does, it's like a sobering splash. Her screams symbolize the thunder, and the juices that squirt on your nose and mouth is the flood. There are no lifeboats anywhere to save you. Nor are there people that are going to. You just have to withstand the rain for a few more seconds

Close your eyes and wait for the storm to end. It takes a while to cease. You try to help yourself out by sticking out your tongue and catching her steady spray into your mouth, but you just choke on it. Minju finds her girl cum spilling down the sides of your lips and swirling in your throat amusing.

Through all that, her taste remains impeccable.

The stream stops. Minju's thighs are shaking. She slowly edges herself off your messy face. Her breasts heave with every heavy breath she takes. They're hypnotizing, but you file your eyes away from them. You have to remember that they belong to the cruel woman who told you to do away with yourself. This is still the same woman who used you. It doesn't matter if the only things you are appreciating in the moment are hr breasts; they still belong to her. She degraded and humiliated you in ways you never would have imagined.

Nudity is another form of art widely appreciated, for both aesthetic and gratification purposes. It returned and became popularized during the Renaissance and the Impressionism. Science was used to figure out how to create the right proportions for whoever is being sculpted, painted, or drawn. Mathematics was heavily involved, too. The golden ratio was used to present the figures in an ideal manner, whether the figures were of gods or historical icons.

You are glad it became popular through the years. You are glad at how normalized it has become for Minju's body looks exactly like another stunning sculpture. She may not have the golden ratio, but she has something even better than that. She's naturally curvy, naturally beautiful. Back in the day, they would have written sonnets about her.

She may be cruel, but she is quite stunning.

"We're not done yet."

The curator puts a stop to your daydreaming. Raised brows, fine creased lines on her forehead that scold you, Minju is flattered that you think this is over yet. It's quite entertaining to her, actually. You don't really think she's gonna give in after just a few sessions of fucking, do you?

Pocket your sore pride and face the challenge head-on. "What else is there to do?"

Her smile is haunting. "You're gonna find out soon. You might even like it."

-

The museum is closed today. There's a big sign outside with "CLOSED" plastered across the letters spelling "Now Open!". Minju had to shut its doors for the day due to your endless requests for a chance to have your works exhibited. Oh, if you knew what you had to do to get her to agree, you wouldn't believe it. You'd call it bullshit.

You and Minju clean yourselves up. There's no point in reusing her turtleneck; it's blotted with her squirt. And you have no business going out with a face drenched with the same liquid. So, while Minju gets into a change of clothes, you go to the bathroom and splash cold water into your face. You don't want to look in the mirror. You don't want to see the slut the man it reflects has become, because, if you were able to admit it to yourself, you'd say that you liked the way Minju treats you. You like the power she has over you that she achieved through such a short period of time.

But you can't say that. You refuse to.

Apparently, you were in the bathroom for too long. Minju's fist knocks three short sounds onto the door.

"You can't hide there all afternoon, babycakes!" she reminds you sweetly. She fires another five knocks. "Come out, come out!"

Roll your eyes with a tired huff. You weren't exactly planning to, but hey, that could work. She can't do anything about it but look stupid pounding onto the door like a maniac.

You get out. You find Minju dressed in a gray, sleeveless top with a jacket matching its color. She has undone her black hair and let it fall to her shoulders.

She gives you a wide, scheming smile. "Let's go?"

Minju does not wait for a reply. She simply takes hold of your wrist and pulls you through the swindling doors, colorful galleries, and parked cars. She leads you to her own vehicle. It's a modest black car that's been around for ages, but still works as if it were new. You can tell from the light rust on the knobs.

"Get in," Minju says. She already peeks at you from the rolled-down window. Gesturing to the empty passenger seat beside her with a tilt of her head, her brows rise and stay at their impatient height until you get into the car.

You only learn later that it's more than mandatory to have a seatbelt on when Minju is your driver.

There's that red light she easily breezes through. And another. Your eyes are wide. "What the fuck, Minju?" you yell. Your hands frantically fly to your seatbelt and fasten its buckle into place. Not without flying around, of course.

"What?" she asks, really not knowing what's wrong. "You need a water or something?"

Anddd a near miss with a bus. The honk of the horn is deafening. "Do you even have a license?"

"Ha, nope. This car isn't mine. It's my—hey, fuck you, too, you old shit!" Minju gives an angry driver who nearly collided with her sideview mirror the middle finger. When she turns back to you, she grins calmly. "Anyway, it was my brother's. He taught me to drive when I was eleven."

"Well, that explains it," you mutter to yourself sarcastically. And you'd think that since she learned from an early age, she'd drive better than most. That's her second deception of the day, and the twenty-third broken law.

The car swerves and spins into curved roads as if it were dancing. You're constantly on the edge of your seat. Minju, however, is unbothered. This isn't an out-of-place habit for her, breaking at least thirty traffic laws the moment the wheels of her car start rolling. Nor is it for the traffic guards in the middle of the roads, it seems. They yell at Minju with a a warning, but disregard it after a few seconds. How many almost-crashes did it take for them to realize there's no dealing with her?

You almost break into song of religious praise when Minju finally parks near her house. But it's too early to celebrate. God has fashioned this day unpredictably.

Her home is as large as a mansion. It's not exactly a mansion, of course, but the combination of paint and placing is satisfactory enough to pass as a modern house. It stands out in the suburban division like a sore thumb, if a sore thumb were fancier.

She throws open the door. The interior of her home is just as impressive as the exterior. Posters and drawings decorate the walls. The space in each room is wider than the first floor of your own home. You'd give in to jealousy if you weren't more surprised at the thing Minju is brandishing.

"Surprise, surprise," she says. She sticks it in your face for you to see it better, but it's too close for you to even understand what it is. It is only when she moves it back does it finally sink in.

A foretelling personification, really. It's a strap-on. Or is it a dildo? Oh, it's whatever you call a pink plastic shaped like dick. But your difficulty in naming what it is isn't the biggest problem you'll encounter this day. Oh, you have bigger fish to fry soon.

"What the fuck, Minju?" you ask in disbelief. Shake your head again and again, still not coming to terms with what she plans to do. "I'm not gay! I'm not getting fucked in the ass by—"

"I never said you were gay," Minju points out. She's good at that, finding Freudian slips in the middle of your sentences to turn against you."I just wanted to try fucking a guy's ass, that's all. And since I have you... I thought that today is the day."

"Minju!"

"Babycakes!" she says, with a grin that's a distorted mirroring of your worried frown. She grasps your chin and kisses you on the lips. "It'll be fine, I promise. You have nothing to worry about."

She really needs to stop calling you babycakes. It's annoying you already. But more than that, you don't trust her words. What if she's just using you again? What if she's lying to you, like she did when she said that she would think about taking your pieces in? When she's done, she'll surely throw you away like a trash bag, as if you were never really there, and replace you with a new and prettier one to dump everything she wants in.

But you find yourself walking to her bedroom. Slipping your jeans down. Putting them on the floor as Minju fastens the strap to her hips. Lying down on the bed and just waiting for it.

Wait, why the fuck is your dick hard?

There's a cold feeling on your asshole for a while. It's because of the lube Minju's lathering onto it, "for safety purposes," she says. "Damn, I'm pretty big! D'you think it'll be funny if I actually put a condom on the tip?"

But she doesn't, after an unamused roll of your eyes, and the pink tip penetrates your lubed hole. The intrusion is fought with the receiving hole's tightening. The sensation is weirder than anything you've felt before. Of course, you've never done this before, so you never could imagine what it felt like. But now, you discover that it's a sickly mix of pain and pleasure.

"Fuck, Min—"

"That's not the right word, honey," Minju corrects you. The drags of her cock in and out are slow. "Tonight, I'm not Kim Minju. I'm your daddy."

"Mmph! Please, Min— daddy," you whimper out. The word feels right when it slips past your mouth. "Daddy." Daddy, daddy, daddy. You're usually on the receiving side when your previous girls uttered it, but maybe it's actually fun to say it, too.

Minju's cock prods at your ass. It slips further inside as she giggles musically. "That's right. Open up for daddy, sweetheart~"

Even if, let's say, you refuse to, there's no other choice you can run to. You're on the bed, naked, with a woman whose hips wield a fastened dick. You can't escape.

Minju's strokes are almost loving. It's slow, sensual, and timed. She must have taken sympathy on you, for what might be the first time. Of course, her hand wraps around your own dick to provide an "everyday" stimulus, too. That, you enjoy, better than the pegging. You jerk into her hand with a clear need never spoken through words, but a series of helpless mewls.

"What a twitchy little cock," laughs Minju. She wraps her hand around it like a ribbon, and fastens it with quick, bold strokes. They're bolder than any step or curve you've drawn, any controversial piece you've made. "Your cock really likes daddy's dick, doesn't it? And her warm hand?"

You're leaning towards the latter as of now, but you nod anyway. What else can you do? Your virgin asshole can't do anything about it, your leaking cock can't do anything about it. Hell, your tears can't, either. But there's a secret joy formed inside of you at being under Minju's control, with nowhere to run or hide. It's sick, you know that, but you can't help what you feel.

Maybe you like being used and pegged by this harsh curator. Maybe you like her evil words, her tempting body, and her attitude that would make any grandmother die on the spot. Maybe you like the way she treats you like you're a particularly crude inconvenience in her way.

You're shaken by that realization. But what shocks you more is her hand slapping your ass cheeks hardly. You cry out, but the sound is quickly silenced by Minju's free fingers in your mouth.

"Shhh, quiet, baby," Minju coos softly. She leans over to kiss your back and neck. "I want to hear your cute cheeks slap together."

It's a sentence that can easily be used for comedic relief in a fucked-up sitcom. But to you, it's nothing but sexy. The way the words drip from her kissing lips just add to the hotness of her hand giving your ass a firm spank. Your bottom cringes, causing your legs to go weak. You've sunken onto the bed helplessly. At least it's a comfortable place to lie into. The bedsheets must be expensive. They have no other reason to be this silky and soft. Just how much is a curator paid? You might want to consider that career rather than go for being an artist.

Due to your fall, Minju takes your ass in a pronebone position. Sometimes, she isn't satisfied with your butt hole's gape, so she pries it apart with her own fingers. You squeal into the pillows. Pray the neighbors don't hear your scream when Minju takes matters into her own hands and slips a finger beside her strap.

Her strokes gain more strength as the present becomes soon. It's a sensation that you have no idea how to choose between liking and hating it. Your prostrate is constantly stimulated, and the brown walls of your butt are rubbed against, but there's the newness of it all. You aren't used to this. Part of you outright refuses to do it again, but the curious side of you is more than interested for another round. Maybe one or two more? You really wouldn't mind.

"P-please, please, daddy."

You start to beg of your own accord. Lewdly. Needily. You're starting to like this too much. With Minju corrupting your ass and her hand jerking you off, you accept your fate. Paintings don't matter anymore, just as long as it's Minju's cock lodged inside you.

#kpop smut #izone smut #kpop #smut #izone #kim minju #minju #izone minju #kim minju smut #minju smut #izone minju smut #male reader #reader insert #request #iz days of christmas #iz days of christmas day 7

[you-need-2-calm-down]

LOKI SEASON 2, EPISODE 4 SPOILERS

Okay... so that happened

Obviously they're not "dead". But since that all happened at the end, I'm somewhat convinced we'll finally get this scene from one of the season 1 trailers:

That's the Stark Tower, as this next photo shows from Endgame:

The decor matches and I'm guessing the elevator blends into the wall. The lamps are blurry in the gif but they're there. What if instead of dying from "spaghettification", they're all sent back to their original timelines?? Like with pruning, they don't die, they're sent to a place at the end of time. A fake death.

This Loki looks different. He doesn't have the gelled, Christmas tree hair, his armor doesn't have the gold plating, he looks like he has his hair from the series, and if you look closely in the reflection he has the scepter. What if when the loom exploded, Loki, and everyone else, was sent back to their OG timeline, or replaced the them that was already there, hence the different appearance. It's a long shot since the gif was from a season 1 trailer and their timelines were already pruned, but I'm kinda convinced since they obviously aren't dead because the series isn't over.

If this isn't the case, then I've got a fanfic in my drafts about this potential scenario lol

#loki #loki spoilers #loki season 2 #marvel #mcu #mcu loki #loki series

[trulybetty]

dec' x 22 - christmas tree

Prompt: christmas tree Pairing: sequins!joel x reader Word Count: 921 Warnings: mentions of alcohol, long-distance relationships and work Christmas parties. Summary: you're at your work Christmas party and you're missing your boyfriend Joel, who you'll be spending your first Christmas with soon enough. AO3: Linked

x. masterlist

The bar was crammed with christmas trees in every available space possible. As if somehow they would collectively mask the fact that the weather outside was far from festive. The smell of artificial pine filled the air and the rum and coke you were drinking was spiced enough to give it a festive flair. Settled into one of the soft leather armchairs in the corner, your work’s holiday party was in full swing around you.

However, your mind was elsewhere.

It was less than a week until you were to leave for Austin where you were about to spend your first Christmas with Joel.

This wasn’t just a fleeting visit, this was two whole weeks with him, his family, and his friends. It was a big step in a relationship that had for so long now been long distance. It was both exciting and laced with anxiety and your stomach had been in knots since the two of you had agreed to the plans.

It was Joel’s turn to have Sarah for the holidays - you’d met his daughter before. But they had been mostly brief encounters when your visits coincided with either her weeks with her mom or quick trips where it felt you were turning back around to the airport before you could even unpack.

This would be a true test of blending into Joel’s life, a sign that perhaps the long-distance chapter of your relationship was inching towards something far more serious. 

You were shaken from your thoughts when Adriana dropped down onto the vacant armchair beside you.

“Oops,” she giggled as she nearly tipped her drink not realizing how far down the seat was, “what are you doing over here? I looked around and you were gone.”

Adriana worked closely with you in the department over from yours, the two of you had become fast work friends, a friendship that had then quickly rolled into life outside the nine-to-five.

“I just needed a moment,” you said, “Lloyd in accounting was talking my ear off, I had to get away.”

Adriana wasn’t buying it, “You sure it’s just that?”

You sighed, there was no point hiding it, “It’s just that… this whole spending the holidays in Austin, it’s a big deal and the closer it gets, the more I’m starting to worry it’s the right thing.” you confided, the words falling a little more freely with the buzz of alcohol and the weight of the worry off your shoulders.

“Why’s that?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink.

“I’ve met Sarah plenty of times before, but this is more than just an afternoon together. It’s a whole two weeks of practically playing house. It’s real.”

Adriana reached across to grab your hand and gave it a squeeze, “It’s going to be amazing! You’re great with Sarah, she loves you and Joel is absolutely crazy about you! I saw the way he looked at you at the conference when he came out. This is just the next natural step.”

“He’s just too good for me, Addy, what if I mess all this up?” you confessed, which was met with a snort from your friend.

Adriana's eyebrows shot up in disbelief, “Come on, not this again, that’s bullshit and you know it. You’re an amazing woman and he is the lucky one.” she scoffed with a flick of her wrist, she knew plenty about your past dating history to make this claim.

You knew her words were meant to offer comfort, but they just further solidified the gravity of your upcoming trip. Joel’s text messages, once sparse and mostly practical due to his aversion to the act of texting, had become more frequent and filled with anticipation for your arrival.

You fumbled with your phone, fishing it out of your pocket with a triumphant ‘Aha!’ – Once you had it in hand, you proceeded to unlock it, your fingers a little unsteady from the alcohol. “Here, lemme show you,” you insisted, navigating to your text thread with Joel.

But only remembering last second to check for anything scandalous between the two of you – you’d made that mistake once ot twice before.

Finally, you held your phone up for Adriana to see his latest text to you, “I mean, look at this!”

‘Be safe tonight, call me later if you can. Say hi to everyone for me, can’t wait for you to be here - J’

Adriana leaned over to read, “Aw, that’s sweet.”

“I know,” you turned back the phone to read the text again, “you have to understand, this man doesn’t text. I send him a message needing a one-word answer and I get a phone call!”

Adriana placed a comforting hand on yours again, “It’s all going to be okay, nerves are normal. But this man here,” she pointed to the screen, “he obviously cares a lot about you, and you are head over heels with him. I’m positive this is going to be good for the two of you.”

As the evening wore on, you found yourself checking the same message again and texting Joel a simple ‘Miss you’ followed by a hasty, ‘Sorry, it’s late! Hope you had a good night with Tommy Speak to you tomorrow!’

It was a small reminder of the delicate balance you’d been learning to navigate with one another—being present in your own world there while preparing to immerse yourself in his, in a place where you’d be welcomed not just by Joel but by his daughter who meant the world to him.

#december x 500 #sequins!joel #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction

[ggomos-maribat]

Maribat and Other Crossovers Works Masterlist

One Shots

Damian Wayne, the Sy-on Boy | AO3

Pledge Myself to You | AO3

Remembrance | AO3

The Perfect Blend | AO3

Camellia japonica | AO3

Aime Trent | AO3

The Bird Who Cried Coffee | AO3

Fox DCW: The Birth of Inari | AO3

The Assistant Poser | AO3

Maid for Each Other | AO3

One True Three | AO3

Cloudburst | AO3

Reunions | AO3

Petals of You | AO3

Sketching Strangers

Menace | AO3

Secrets, Masks, and Family Gatherings | AO3

A Real One for Christmas | AO3

It's Just Me, You, and the Cosmos | AO3

The Apple Doesn't Fall Far | AO3

Double Lives | AO3

Chaptered Works

Fox DCW (Tumblr Only)

D-DAY | AO3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Rebirth (continuation of Remembrance) | AO3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Proximal Universe | AO3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Heirs Apparent (a DP x DC x MLB story) | AO3

Part I: A Message Has Arrived

Part II: Back in the Demon's Den

Part III: The Consequences of Her Visit

Part IV: Secrets, Thrice Divulged

Part V-1: Fight for the Throne: First Kill

Part V-2: Fight for the Throne: Obsession

Part V-3: Fight for the Throne: Dreams

Part V-4: Fight for the Throne: Battle

Part V-5: Fight for the Throne: Babysitting Bat

Part VI-1: Escapism: Overshadowing and Intangibility

No, Mr. Wayne, You Can't Adopt Me! | AO3

Part 1: in which Tim Drake tries to propose to the PA

Part 2: in which Damian Wayne wakes up to an odd breakfast

Part 3: in which Jason Todd is saved from a catfish

Part 4: in which a boy becomes jealous of his niece

Part 5: in which Marinette Dupain-Cheng is behind schedule

Part 6: in which he orders a strawberry lemonade and peach iced tea

Part 7: in which Marinette gets a new career: making Lex Luthor's life an absolute hell

Part 8: in which Bruce is not the only aspiring Marinette-adopter

Part 9: in which nights are spent, kisses are missed, secrets are laid out

Part 10: in which Marinette Dupain-Cheng submits her resignation

Marinette Dupain-Cheng is Dead | AO3

Part 1: a perfect day

Part 2: a girl named Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Part 3: the list

Part 4: about the Paris Mademoiselle

Part 5: on the sixteenth of April

Part 6: lost

Part 7: the heroes of Paris

Soul-Stitching: The Heir and the Guardian | AO3

Hey, if you like my works, you can support me on Ko-fi :3

#maribat #maribat marinette dupain cheng #maribat fanfic #dc x mlb #dc x miraculous #dp x dc x mlb #danny phantom x dc x miraculous

[annesoftheisland]

Anne's House of Dreams-

Chapter 16 New Year's Eve at the Light

The Green Gables folk went home after Christmas, Marilla under solemn covenant to return for a month in the spring. More snow came before New Year's, and the harbor froze over, but the gulf still was free, beyond the white, imprisoned fields. The last day of the old year was one of those bright, cold, dazzling winter days, which bombard us with their brilliancy, and command our admiration but never our love. The sky was sharp and blue; the snow diamonds sparkled insistently; the stark trees were bare and shameless, with a kind of brazen beauty; the hills shot assaulting lances of crystal. Even the shadows were sharp and stiff and clear-cut, as no proper shadows should be. Everything that was handsome seemed ten times handsomer and less attractive in the glaring splendor; and everything that was ugly seemed ten times uglier, and everything was either handsome or ugly. There was no soft blending, or kind obscurity, or elusive mistiness in that searching glitter. The only things that held their own individuality were the firs--for the fir is the tree of mystery and shadow, and yields never to the encroachments of crude radiance.

But finally the day began to realise that she was growing old. Then a certain pensiveness fell over her beauty which dimmed yet intensified it; sharp angles, glittering points, melted away into curves and enticing gleams. The white harbor put on soft grays and pinks; the far-away hills turned amethyst.

"The old year is going away beautifully," said Anne.

She and Leslie and Gilbert were on their way to the Four Winds Point, having plotted with Captain Jim to watch the New Year in at the light. The sun had set and in the southwestern sky hung Venus, glorious and golden, having drawn as near to her earth-sister as is possible for her. For the first time Anne and Gilbert saw the shadow cast by that brilliant star of evening, that faint, mysterious shadow, never seen save when there is white snow to reveal it, and then only with averted vision, vanishing when you gaze at it directly.

"It's like the spirit of a shadow, isn't it?" whispered Anne. "You can see it so plainly haunting your side when you look ahead; but when you turn and look at it--it's gone."

"I have heard that you can see the shadow of Venus only once in a lifetime, and that within a year of seeing it your life's most wonderful gift will come to you," said Leslie. But she spoke rather hardly; perhaps she thought that even the shadow of Venus could bring her no gift of life. Anne smiled in the soft twilight; she felt quite sure what the mystic shadow promised her.

They found Marshall Elliott at the lighthouse. At first Anne felt inclined to resent the intrusion of this long-haired, long-bearded eccentric into the familiar little circle. But Marshall Elliott soon proved his legitimate claim to membership in the household of Joseph. He was a witty, intelligent, well-read man, rivalling Captain Jim himself in the knack of telling a good story. They were all glad when he agreed to watch the old year out with them.

Captain Jim's small nephew Joe had come down to spend New Year's with his great-uncle, and had fallen asleep on the sofa with the First Mate curled up in a huge golden ball at his feet.

"Ain't he a dear little man?" said Captain Jim gloatingly. "I do love to watch a little child asleep, Mistress Blythe. It's the most beautiful sight in the world, I reckon. Joe does love to get down here for a night, because I have him sleep with me. At home he has to sleep with the other two boys, and he doesn't like it. "Why can't I sleep with father, Uncle Jim?" says he. `Everybody in the Bible slept with their fathers.' As for the questions he asks, the minister himself couldn't answer them. They fair swamp me. `Uncle Jim, if I wasn't me who'd I be?' and, `Uncle Jim, what would happen if God died?' He fired them two off at me tonight, afore he went to sleep. As for his imagination, it sails away from everything. He makes up the most remarkable yarns--and then his mother shuts him up in the closet for telling stories . And he sits down and makes up another one, and has it ready to relate to her when she lets him out. He had one for me when he come down tonight. `Uncle Jim,' says he, solemn as a tombstone, `I had a 'venture in the Glen today.' `Yes, what was it?' says I, expecting something quite startling, but nowise prepared for what I really got. `I met a wolf in the street,' says he, `a 'normous wolf with a big, red mouf and awful long teeth, Uncle Jim.' `I didn't know there was any wolves up at the Glen,' says I. `Oh, he comed there from far, far away,' says Joe, `and I fought he was going to eat me up, Uncle Jim.' `Were you scared?' says I. `No, 'cause I had a big gun,' says Joe, `and I shot the wolf dead, Uncle Jim,--solid dead--and then he went up to heaven and bit God,' says he. Well, I was fair staggered, Mistress Blythe."

The hours bloomed into mirth around the driftwood fire. Captain Jim told tales, and Marshall Elliott sang old Scotch ballads in a fine tenor voice; finally Captain Jim took down his old brown fiddle from the wall and began to play. He had a tolerable knack of fiddling, which all appreciated save the First Mate, who sprang from the sofa as if he had been shot, emitted a shriek of protest, and fled wildly up the stairs.

"Can't cultivate an ear for music in that cat nohow," said Captain Jim. "He won't stay long enough to learn to like it. When we got the organ up at the Glen church old Elder Richards bounced up from his seat the minute the organist began to play and scuttled down the aisle and out of the church at the rate of no-man's-business. It reminded me so strong of the First Mate tearing loose as soon as I begin to fiddle that I come nearer to laughing out loud in church than I ever did before or since."

There was something so infectious in the rollicking tunes which Captain Jim played that very soon Marshall Elliott's feet began to twitch. He had been a noted dancer in his youth. Presently he started up and held out his hands to Leslie. Instantly she responded. Round and round the firelit room they circled with a rhythmic grace that was wonderful. Leslie danced like one inspired; the wild, sweet abandon of the music seemed to have entered into and possessed her. Anne watched her in fascinated admiration. She had never seen her like this. All the innate richness and color and charm of her nature seemed to have broken loose and overflowed in crimson cheek and glowing eye and grace of motion. Even the aspect of Marshall Elliott, with his long beard and hair, could not spoil the picture. On the contrary, it seemed to enhance it. Marshall Elliott looked like a Viking of elder days, dancing with one of the blue-eyed, golden-haired daughters of the Northland.

"The purtiest dancing I ever saw, and I've seen some in my time," declared Captain Jim, when at last the bow fell from his tired hand. Leslie dropped into her chair, laughing, breathless.

"I love dancing," she said apart to Anne. "I haven't danced since I was sixteen--but I love it. The music seems to run through my veins like quicksilver and I forget everything--everything--except the delight of keeping time to it. There isn't any floor beneath me, or walls about me, or roof over me--I'm floating amid the stars."

Captain Jim hung his fiddle up in its place, beside a large frame enclosing several banknotes.

"Is there anybody else of your acquaintance who can afford to hang his walls with banknotes for pictures?" he asked. "There's twenty ten-dollar notes there, not worth the glass over them. They're old Bank of P. E. Island notes. Had them by me when the bank failed, and I had 'em framed and hung up, partly as a reminder not to put your trust in banks, and partly to give me a real luxurious, millionairy feeling. Hullo, Matey, don't be scared. You can come back now. The music and revelry is over for tonight. The old year has just another hour to stay with us. I've seen seventy-six New Years come in over that gulf yonder, Mistress Blythe."

"You'll see a hundred," said Marshall Elliott.

Captain Jim shook his head.

"No; and I don't want to--at least, I think I don't. Death grows friendlier as we grow older. Not that one of us really wants to die though, Marshall. Tennyson spoke truth when he said that. There's old Mrs. Wallace up at the Glen. She's had heaps of trouble all her life, poor soul, and she's lost almost everyone she cared about. She's always saying that she'll be glad when her time comes, and she doesn't want to sojourn any longer in this vale of tears. But when she takes a sick spell there's a fuss! Doctors from town, and a trained nurse, and enough medicine to kill a dog. Life may be a vale of tears, all right, but there are some folks who enjoy weeping, I reckon."

They spent the old year's last hour quietly around the fire. A few minutes before twelve Captain Jim rose and opened the door.

"We must let the New Year in," he said.

Outside was a fine blue night. A sparkling ribbon of moonlight garlanded the gulf. Inside the bar the harbor shone like a pavement of pearl. They stood before the door and waited--Captain Jim with his ripe, full experience, Marshall Elliott in his vigorous but empty middle life, Gilbert and Anne with their precious memories and exquisite hopes, Leslie with her record of starved years and her hopeless future. The clock on the little shelf above the fireplace struck twelve.

"Welcome, New Year," said Captain Jim, bowing low as the last stroke died away. "I wish you all the best year of your lives, mates. I reckon that whatever the New Year brings us will be the best the Great Captain has for us--and somehow or other we'll all make port in a good harbor."

#anne's house of dreams #anne of green gables #anne shirley #gilbert blythe #anne x gilbert #Captain Jim #new years #new year #Leslie Moore